The Devil Wears Black Leather: Chapter 12

David S. Grant is posting his latest fiction “The Devil Wears Black Leather” while he works on his latest book, the fourth and final installment that follows: Bliss | Bleach | Blackout. The working title is of course, Bleak. Why is he doing this? Because he loves you! (Note: Also, may be drunk, hence the third person intro.) For more information (or purchase/download) David’s books check out his Goodreads (Bleach 4.6 out of 5 rating; Bleach | Blackout 4.8 rating) or Amazon page.

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It’s Déjà Vu when I walk out of the 2/3 Times Square subway station, look up, and see the neon lettering: Applebee’s.  Lucy has once again beaten me and is looking me up and down as I approach her.  She looks good and cool as usual.  I feel a bead of sweat slide down my back.  I am wearing a T-shirt that reads MAINSTREAM with a blazer, tan pants, and Chuck Taylors.  Now slowly, she scans my ensemble and then laughs, says, “You’re a mess” and gets up and kisses me and gives me a big hug.  She ends the hug with a pinch of my ass which causes me to jump and almost cause a scene.  “Sorry”, I say as we sit down, “Still a little jumpy ever since I shot up insulin.”  Lucy shakes her head, “I still can’t believe you’ve never done that before.”

We both order cheeseburgers and Lucy talks about the “ups and downs” of life saying everything is about to begin moving faster.  She is talking about my career, but I can’t help thinking if my career equals career plus insulin or just writing?  She promises no more 40 degree days.  This sounds more like a reference to an anti-depressant drug addiction which at present time is welcomed over the alternative.  She asks me what I love and before I can answer she tells me she loves the Pacific Ocean and that is her dream: To live on the Pacific Ocean.  This is a very good answer, in fact it causes my brain to freeze and I don’t have an answer.

The party is for a new author named Juan Diego and the reception area is packed with people drinking Prosecco and eating string cheese.  Lucy points out different authors, agents, editors, and publishers.  Some look bored others too excited, and a few looking around for more string cheese.  Lucy pulls my arm over to an older, super large gentleman (may be considered a giant) in a white suit.  Lucy pulls on his arm to get him to turn around.  The man in the white suit has a gnarly mustache that he has oiled and twisted the ends.  The mustache man immediately grabs her, lifting her up as he bear hugs her, puts her down and then makes the needle motion with his hand followed by a loud, bellowing laugh.

We are introduced (his name is Pablo) and he immediately grabs my shoulder and does a side hug which seems incredibly inappropriate given we have just met, plus the side of his mustache almost touches my face and I think I might get sick.  A waiter with a tray of champagne comes by so I grab a flute and drink it down.

The next sixty minutes are spent listening to Pablo talk about old Hollywood and how no one tells good stories anymore.  “I’ve Googled you!”  He says which is creepy considering his age and also his size, how does he even fit behind a desk?  He tells me Lucy is working with him on a deal for an advance for Making it Rain and that I should get him the manuscript “pronto!”  I look over at Lucy and she just smiles and I begin sweating again so I drink more champagne.  On our way out I ask Lucy about the manuscript that I’ve only written three chapters so far and she tells me it is okay and that I will still get paid.  “They just want to tell people they acquired a hot a new book”, she smiles, “They don’t actually care if it’s done silly.”  I take a deep breath and then remember, “But what about his stories, and at the end, he said the word screenplay four times, but only novel once!”    Lucy grabs my arm, “Stop overreacting.  You are lucky someone wants to pay you to write”, and she is right.  I take another breath and calm down.  Lucy says, “Woman can always sell their bodies, but for men, it’s straight to the curb.  No money.  No honey”.  I am about to tell her I had the same thought the first time we met at Applebee’s , but then the night comes back to me and I remember the “5 Guys” question and anxiety overcomes me.  Lucy watches me and gives me a strange look, then begins talking about prostitutes again saying, “Sometimes you have to do something truly evil in order to be good.” Looking back, maybe she’s not talking about prostitutes.

I invite Lucy back to my place and we eat Fla-Vor-Ice, talk about my book and the ideas I have, smoke cigarettes, have insulin free sex, and then eat more Fla-Vor-Ice, and then she leaves because it is too hot in my apartment for her.

The next day I am checking for any comments on Facebook when Lucy calls and asks me what I’m doing.  I tell her I’m on Facebook and she begins laughing at me and choking so badly she has to get off the phone.  After five minutes she sends a text that reads: REALLY?  I log out of Facebook and go to Twitter to see how many followers I have.  So far @FREE_Cash and @DealOfTheDay are my followers, apparently big fans.

I open up a new message in Gmail and type: The Corn Grows Knee High/Mushroom Cloud/Total Destruction.  I sit back and count the syllables, unable to remember if a Haiku is 5-3-5 or if I have that wrong.  I’m also not exactly sure what the characteristics are that make up a Haiku.  I go to Dictionary.com, but get distracted by the vibration of a text message so I check my phone.   It’s from Jagger, his new horse; Alabama has won her first race.  I save the possible Haiku in my drafts folder and slide off my chair onto the floor.  I am on my back on the floor, staring at the ceiling.  I’m thinking about Lucy and where this is heading.  I feel like I know her, but don’t know her.  I stare for ten minutes and then decide that our range is somewhere between Sid and Nancy and Sam and Diane.  Either way, I know it will not end well.

Another text from Jagger or so I think when I read: 911 IZZY BLOOD.  I check my phone to see if this is an old text reappearing, but no, this is new.  This is happening again.  I call Jagger and he tells me to meet him out front of BITE in TriBeCa.  Jagger is waiting when I arrive fifteen minutes later.  He tells me Izzy called him and was crying.  We walk in and it’s darker than last time.  What were a few large rooms has now been sectioned off into smaller, more intimate rooms.  One by one we pull back the curtains, invading the lives of couples, drug users and threesomes.  Most naked, and most have the same vampire tattoo as Izzy.

We finish the first row and then are working our way back when we hear screams from behind a door.  Jagger opens the door and I follow him down another hallway of intimate spaces.  The only difference was the pitch of screams of horror coming from each cubby hole.  Quickly I pull back the curtains all the way to the back with only one left.  I pull it back and I see Izzy.  He is bent over naked and screaming while a masked man stands behind him.  I notice the needles and insulin on the table next to them.  Jagger kicks at the man and then misses with a punch. The man yells that Izzy paid him for this and Jagger backs off and looks at Izzy.   I grab Izzy and help him with his pants.  Jagger looks back at the masked man and this time knees him in the balls, dropping him to the floor.   I look back at the man in the black leather mask.  I don’t think my dream book is going to help get over the nightmares I’m going to have tonight.

The Vegas Diaries – The Elvis Hot Tub Story

When people ask have you ever been molested I don’t have a straight answer.  I mean no, I wasn’t Catholic priest molested, nor did a family member or relative invade my space; however, during my third trip to Vegas there was a situation that could have been avoided all together had I stood by my rule: No Hot Tubs!  Ever.  Period.  Of course I threw out my rule for whatever happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, but I don’t believe this applies to being molested by an Elvis impersonator.

The Hard Rock Hotel is just off the strip and is where all the strippers who fly in for the weekend to perform at O.G.’s, Crazy Horse Too, and Cheetah’s stay.  This leads to the pool turning into a sea of eye candy, and of course drug dealers.  There is the circle of life and then there is the Vegas circle of life that works this way.  Stripper show up at a hotel, drug dealers follow knowing strippers need drugs.  Strippers like to frequent the bar where bartenders are introducing the talent to the dealers.  Other’s sniff out the drug dealers and again, the bartender introduces and then once enough drugs are consumed will introduce the user to the stripper because once you ingest a lot of drugs you usually want to fuck.  All different, all knowing their roles, all with dark tans and oversized aviator sunglasses.  Because of this, other Vegas entertainment will also choose the Hard Rock hotel as their hangout of choice.  A few examples include Vince Neil, Carrot Top, and many of the Elvis on the strip impersonators.

After six drinks, a lot of sun, and two hits of Ecstasy Jagger and I get into the hot tub.  There are two large breasted strippers, two female escorts, and an Elvis impersonator who goes by Chico when he isn’t performing.  In between lines of cocaine the strippers and escorts were discussing their worse clients.  Each time they described someone Elvis would jump up and say, “I married that person once!”  and then sit back down.  Jagger and I were drinking Margaritas when the Ecstasy kicked in and Chico must have sensed it because he put his hand on my knee and started to move it up my thigh.  There was a slight tickle and then as he approached my crotch I jumped up and left.  I went back to my room showered, and fell asleep. 

The next morning I woke up and went to find coffee.  In the hallway I was about to bang on Jagger’s door to see if he wanted any coffee when the door opens and out walks Chico.  He grins and then looks down and walks toward the elevator.  Jagger is standing in the doorway wearing only a pair of boxers and aviator sunglasses and yells down the hall, “Thank you, Thank you very much!” Molested by association.

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The Writing of David S. Grant View all posts by Pulp Scribbler

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