| General Fiction posted April 3, 2021 | Chapters: |
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Zee has an unexpected encounter with an old memory.
A chapter in the book Bye Bye Biggie
Should Auld Acquaintances..
by zeezeewriter
The author has placed a warning on this post for violence.
The author has placed a warning on this post for language.
| Background Zee has a chance encounter with an old nemesis. Now she must decide how to repay his original sin. |
Q double-parked and ran into the coffee shop to fetch me a latte with a double shot of espresso. I waited in the back seat of my limo, puffing on a Marlboro, reading the latest issue of Hustler Magazine.
The girl in the centerfold posed with her ankles behind her ears. She looked young and nimble, glistening in fresh morning dew--all the things I am not.
In case you're wondering about the magazine, I write erotic stories for erudite porn enthusiasts; I turn to Hustler for the latest trend in sexual deviancy. Hey, it's research.
Regular smut novels are a dime a dozen--an easy write. I prefer to think of myself as the Earnest Hemingway of naughty novels. Or better put, the Oh Henry of Erotica. A fifteen-minute read for the twenty-minute-break crowd. Get it on, get it off, get back to work.
Anyway, while I'm highlighting a great story about a lonely janitor and his shop vac, a skinny white dude in a hospital gown jumps into the driver's seat. And, away we go.
In typical carjack fashion, said dude takes off like Andy Granatelli at the Indy 500. The only problem, my luxury automobile is Fleetwood not fleet-of-foot. Hairpin turns are problematic.
As a result, he cranked a hard right onto Michigan Avenue, skidded ten feet, and came to rest on a hydrant.
I righted myself off the floorboard as my faithful Q rounded the corner in full trot.
He pulled me from the backseat and parked me on a concrete bench covered in pigeon shit. Now would be an excellent time for a cigarette were it not for the geyser raining down on my head.
Q left my side and pulled the skinny carjacker from the front seat, and tossed him next to the bench where I sat. His hospital gown fell open, showcasing his tiny trio of manliness. Testicles the size of walnuts sought refuge in his nut sack. Had my knees not been doing the fandango, I would have slam-dunked a three-pointer with my foot.
Q paced about with his iPhone alerting the police and dispatching an ambulance.
"Got a smoke for an old friend, Zee?" The nut sack guy said, sitting up and covering his goods.
And, there, on the sidewalk next to me, sat Ike The Spike. The dude in the hospital gown. The jerk who'd rammed my limo into a Fire-hydrant. Ike, the fucking, Spike.
To be continued.
The girl in the centerfold posed with her ankles behind her ears. She looked young and nimble, glistening in fresh morning dew--all the things I am not.
In case you're wondering about the magazine, I write erotic stories for erudite porn enthusiasts; I turn to Hustler for the latest trend in sexual deviancy. Hey, it's research.
Regular smut novels are a dime a dozen--an easy write. I prefer to think of myself as the Earnest Hemingway of naughty novels. Or better put, the Oh Henry of Erotica. A fifteen-minute read for the twenty-minute-break crowd. Get it on, get it off, get back to work.
Anyway, while I'm highlighting a great story about a lonely janitor and his shop vac, a skinny white dude in a hospital gown jumps into the driver's seat. And, away we go.
In typical carjack fashion, said dude takes off like Andy Granatelli at the Indy 500. The only problem, my luxury automobile is Fleetwood not fleet-of-foot. Hairpin turns are problematic.
As a result, he cranked a hard right onto Michigan Avenue, skidded ten feet, and came to rest on a hydrant.
I righted myself off the floorboard as my faithful Q rounded the corner in full trot.
He pulled me from the backseat and parked me on a concrete bench covered in pigeon shit. Now would be an excellent time for a cigarette were it not for the geyser raining down on my head.
Q left my side and pulled the skinny carjacker from the front seat, and tossed him next to the bench where I sat. His hospital gown fell open, showcasing his tiny trio of manliness. Testicles the size of walnuts sought refuge in his nut sack. Had my knees not been doing the fandango, I would have slam-dunked a three-pointer with my foot.
Q paced about with his iPhone alerting the police and dispatching an ambulance.
"Got a smoke for an old friend, Zee?" The nut sack guy said, sitting up and covering his goods.
And, there, on the sidewalk next to me, sat Ike The Spike. The dude in the hospital gown. The jerk who'd rammed my limo into a Fire-hydrant. Ike, the fucking, Spike.
To be continued.
Zee: Author of cheap paperback novels. Rich, eccentric old cougar living in a condo in downtown Chicago.
Biggie: Filipino. Zees unofficially adopted daughter. Computer guru. Eighteen but diagnosed with arrested emotional development and speech dysphasia after suffering a brutal beating as a child.
Stella: Thirty-something housekeeper. She lives with Zee. She Drives a motorcycle. She moved from her grandparent's farm in Oklahoma to Chicago in search of her birth mother.
Q: Big, mean, and beautiful. He lives in a condo next to Zee. Occupation, bodyguard, chauffeur, cook, and anything else zee needs. Upper crust educated. African American.
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. Biggie: Filipino. Zees unofficially adopted daughter. Computer guru. Eighteen but diagnosed with arrested emotional development and speech dysphasia after suffering a brutal beating as a child.
Stella: Thirty-something housekeeper. She lives with Zee. She Drives a motorcycle. She moved from her grandparent's farm in Oklahoma to Chicago in search of her birth mother.
Q: Big, mean, and beautiful. He lives in a condo next to Zee. Occupation, bodyguard, chauffeur, cook, and anything else zee needs. Upper crust educated. African American.
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