Friday, August 27, 2010

Forget it Angie, it's Las Vegas!

Some weeks you just want to see end and this is one of them. I was hoping that last weekend would be a quiet one as well as a productive one. The white van had disappeared for a couple of days after I seemed to have scared its occupants off. I was becoming paranoid about it, thinking I might be under surveillance by the LVPD for my online sex site. Since my undercover assignment is extremely top secret for political reasons, no one in law enforcement is supposed to know what I'm up to. After I seemed to have scared the van off, I figured it might be something less threatening like burglars casing residences, although why they would want to rob Lucky's double-wide is beyond me. Anyway, the van was gone and I got back to focusing on my job.

I had been juggling several clients when I was informed by Washington that one of them, whose online name was Hommecornee, turned out to be a close associate of an arms dealer we've been targeting. Their intelligence indicated that Mr. Hommecornee scouts prostitutes for this arms dealer in places where he will soon be visiting. He was chatting me up lately and I was trying my best to lure him in. I knew Saturday night would be a critical encounter and I wanted to be on my A game. Then I looked out the window and saw the white van lurking in the shadows.

For the sake of the job, I temporarily blocked it out of my mind. The session with Mr. Hommecornee went well. He expressed interest in meeting me when he is in Vegas next month. Booo-yaaa! After signing off with him, I was ecstatic. I wanted to jump about the bedroom, but my excitement was tempered by the fact that that annoying van was still outside. So as not to scare them off a second time, I went through my normal routines as if I were going to bed. I turned the light on in the bathroom while I brushed my teeth, then turned it off again. I slipped on a black unitard in front of the window shade to give the appearance that I was putting on night clothes, then climbed into bed and turned out the light.

After a few minutes, I slid from the bed and headed for the hall, making sure to take my automatic from the dresser drawer. Crawling over to the window on the opposite side of the trailer, I slid out the window as stealthily as I could manage and worked my way toward a clump of bushes near the van. It was the same basic approach I had used a couple days earlier, but I was counting on the darkness to better hide my presence. It seemed to work because the van stayed put. Not wishing to blow my chance, I held my position for almost an hour, observing and looking for an opportunity. One finally came when the side door slid open and a hulking man lumbered out.

A scant fog of amber light emanating from the vehicle dimly revealed some of his features. From my vantage point, his face was oddly smooth and shiny, like a waxwork figure. He paced back and forth in an awkward gait, as if he had learned to walk only that morning. Given his less-than-prime condition and casual demeanor, I decided this was my opportunity to move in. Circling around the side of the van opposite the open door, I crouched down and practically tip-toed around the front. When I heard the man move near me, I leaped up and pinned him against the passenger side door by grabbing his neck. It felt more sinewy than any neck I had ever felt before, and his shiny face was thanks to a George W. Bush Halloween mask. With the man pinned firmly against the van, I leveled my Smith & Wesson at the door opening and peered in.

"Evening boys," I crowed, but was stood stuck dumb by what I saw inside.

Two other men, for lack of a better term, were hunched over consoles as if they were operating surveillance equipment. The whole scene would have appeared like something you would typically see in a cop show, except the men had lumpy orange heads covered in brown spots the size of my fist. Saucer-sized onyx eyes swiveled in multiple directions, and their noses and mouths looked like little more than lumps of clay stuck carelessly to their faces. They sat on what appeared to be mounds of glistening flesh and the "console" was similarly organic in construction. Slimy horns and protuberances glowed and wiggled on the console, and the men touched and turned them as if responding to their signals. The two men showed no emotion that I could discern, sitting motionless. In my stupefaction, I had momentarily relaxed my grip on the third man's neck. He reached around my waist and tossed me to the ground like a rag doll. By the time I had scrambled to my feet, the third man was in the van and the vehicle rolled out of the trailer park in a flurry of gravel.

It took me two days to report to The Colonel. I had encountered some odd things in my time on the job, but this made me question my faculties. Had I actually fallen asleep and merely dreamed it? The dust on the back of my unitard proved that I had definitely gone outside, but was I sleepwalking? No, I'm sure it had happened. When I finally spoke to my boss, he was surprisingly calm. He casually informed me that, if the van appears again, I was not to engage in any way. Basically, I was supposed to ignore it. Terrific.

The rest of the week has been dreary. My mom talks about Mr. Huggins with a lilt in her voice that I've heard before from girlfriends. She's really smitten and I suspect they have slept together. Although I want my mom to be happy, I'm really disturbed by the images rolling through my head. I fight them as much as I fight the lingering memories of the freaks in the van.

And Lucky is wearing on my nerves. The other day, he left a bottle of cologne perched precariously on a shelf in the linen closet. After taking a shower, I reached in to pull out a towel and knocked it on the floor. I had to do quite the dance in my bare feet to get out of the bathroom, not only to avoid cutting myself but to keep from tracking cologne through the trailer. It's smells passable on him, but poured on the floor in one big dose, it's really overwhelming. To make matters worse, I found a sparkling gold bra in the laundry. Lucky claims it must've gotten mixed in with his clothes when he got dressed at the theatre, but I can't help but wonder what might go on here when I leave for the gym. Why the hell am I living with this guy anyway?

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