“Can I see ya again, on Wed-nez-day Slash?” Trixie asked.
Slash slid his leather jacket on. He wasn’t in a hurry to answer her question. It was the same one she asked every Saturday night. He pulled a cigar out of the inside pocket, bit off the tip, and spat it out. He lit a match, the flame flickered playfully against the raw tip, and soon it was good to go. He inhaled deeply, taking in the full sweet taste of his own illegally rolled cigar, and stared out the window at his town.
“So, how ’bout it hun?” she asked all nice and sweet the way he liked it.
Slash never told her no outright. He kinda liked her asking all the time. But he knew he’d never agree to meet her outside the motel by the highway. I don’t mix business with pleasure, he would always tell her. But that night, he felt different. Things were changing. Big things.
“Not this week, Trixie,” he said, opening the hotel door. Slash pulled the usual ten carrots out of his pocket and left them on the dresser and added two more. “Left ya a little sumtin extra,” he said and walked out and closed the door behind him.
Slash stepped out into the moonlight and stretched his arms and scratched his balls. Trixie always treated him right, and tonight was no different. He kind of wished things were different, but a whore is a whore, and she knew her place. Mostly between his furry thighs, he smiled.
“Boss, we gotta head to the Garden,” Bugs said. “The Dom don’t like to be kept waiting.”
Slash flashed a warning stare at his Second but realized the dumb fuck was probably right. “Sure, sure,” he scratched his junk again. “Time for business. Let’s roll.”
They hopped down the decaying steps of the raunchy airport hotel, and Slash leaped onto his waiting late-model, luxury Harley. He pulled the stainless silver helmet over his long ears and revved the motor. The hog jolted to life between his flanks. Better than Trixie’s blow job, he thought and flexed his wrist to peel out onto Cabbage Boulevard.
Slash pulled into the Garden. It was a high-class strip club on the East side of town, owned by Dom Whiskers, one of the four heads of the families. He pulled into his personal parking spot and dismounted his Hog. He hopped up to the bouncer and said, “Anyone touches it, it’ll be your ass that gets a bunch of carrots shoved up it.”
The bouncer nodded his head nervously.
Bugs came bouncing up, his breathing labored.
“What the fuck took you so long?” Slash demanded.
“Sorry boss. I had to park next door on account the Garden seems to be rockin tonight.” Bugs pointed to the neon flashing sign above the door.
SPECIAL TONIGHT ONLY – BAMBI
“Mmhmm,” Slash said, rubbing his crotch. “My Saturday night keeps on gettin’ better.” To Slash there was no better tail than a doe. The bouncer opened the door for them as they strolled in.
The music was loud, the females moved fast, and the drinks were free. “Ah, Saturday night,” Slash said, staring all bug-eyed at the tits hopping by.
“Slash-y baby,” cooed Eden, the Garden’s manager. She was more like the joint’s Madam but no one, not even Slash, would dare to call her that. Things tended to get messy when anyone fucked with Eden. Slash smiled inwardly at his thoughts because he had, in fact, done just that, fucked her often and repeatedly and with fervor.
“Ms. Eden,” Slash bowed. “A pleasure as always.”
“The usual tonight, darling?”
Slash scanned the main room, full of youngsters chasing tail. His eyes landed on one of his favorite girls. “Sure, sure,” Slashed agreed. “Invite Tipsy to join me, would you?” He slipped Eden two large and made his way to the Thicket Suite in the back.
He took in the room, scanning for any potential dangers. When none surfaced, he rolled his shoulders and poured himself a C&C on the rocks. The taste of carrot and coke coated his throat as he heard Tipsy approach him from behind. Her soft padded paws stroked down his spine, scratching gently at the base of his tail. Fuck, the girl had all he needed from a chick, 8 pink nipples, and 10 pink nails. He turned to face her and gave himself the minutes his body required to take in the sight of her.
Slash finished three songs later. Two songs longer than usual. Tipsy wiped her chin clean, licked her fingers dry and left the Thicket Suite with a smile. He stood up and stretched. “The night’s been perfect,” he said aloud to no one. “Now, it’s time for business.”
Slash poked his head through the curtain. Standing outside the suite was one of Whiskers’ bodyguards. “Take me to The Dom.”
The guard nodded. “Yes sir,” he said to Slash and then spoke into a wireless carrot mic, “We’re heading up now.”
Slash winked his way through the dance floor. The bodyguard ushered him through a set of gold doors that led upstairs. Two flights later, Slash stood before a room with a door made of platinum. In the center was a big star that read THE DOM.
Outside the room, a bodyguard stood carrying a 9mm machine gun over his left shoulder. His face was hard and expressionless. With his right hand, he held the weapon, and with his other, he opened the door.
The Dom was sitting behind a cabbage desk. He coughed several times before putting his cigar down, then lumbered around the desk with open arms. “Slashy-boy.”
Slash hated anyone but the ladies calling him that.
“Dom,” Slash said and embraced his old friend. “How the hell you been, old man?”
“Right as rain, Slashy-boy, right as rain.”
Slash watched as the older bunny retreated behind the big desk. The don of the local syndicate was almost 30 pounds if he was an ounce. His usual attire featured an elaborate black, studded harness with a silver chain leash attached to some female pet. Today’s sub looked particularly pathetic and pliant. The hilarity of the situation was that the whole “dom” thing was once a joke. But now it was just a sad one, one that stopped being funny years ago. While the Dom’s choice in lifestyle might be questionable to some. His power over everyone in this flea-ridden town was absolute.
But things were going to change. Big things.
“Sit down, Slash,” the Dom ordered. “My girls treating you well?”
“As always.” Slash sat. “Quite a talent, that Tipsy.”
The Dom’s raspy laughter startled his lady pet, and she visibly flinched. “That Tipsy could suck spaghetti through a straw,” he laughed. Then he yanked the leash hard, and the mood shifted in an instant. Tension blanketed the room, and the pet trembled. “But what I want to know is where the FUCK is my parsley vodka?”
Slash had hoped the Dom wouldn’t bring that up. It was embarrassing.
“Well?” the Dom said, leaning forward. You could hardly notice, though with his belly pressed against the edge of the desk. “Cat got your tongue?” The fat bastard laughed hard at his own joke as he usually did.
“The warehouse got hit again,” Slash admitted. His junk was beginning to itch. He hoped he hadn’t caught another STD. His urine burned like a mother fucker for a month the last time that happened.
“Who was it?”
“Sneaky Pete’s gang.”
“You’re sure it was the foxes?” the Dom eased back in his seat and took a puff of his cigar.
Slash nodded. “We caught one. He told us who he was working with. Before we disposed of him.”
“Put him through the shredder?”
Slash nodded. It was his signature method for disposing of bodies. He was proud of how efficient and clean the process was. Never a trace of evidence left behind. The best part about it was he used the shredded body as the special ingredient for his limited Rolled Gold brand of cigars. Only Slash and his Second, Bugs knew about it.
“Good,” the Dom said, grinning. He tugged at his lady pet and nicked his triple chins at a nearby bottle of white corn whiskey. She poured him a glass and shrank behind the desk. He offered some to Slash, but he refused.
“I’m already feeling a bit off, tonight,” Slash said. “Might turn in early.”
“Rest up, Slashy-boy because tomorrow you got a big job to do.”
Slash leaned forward. “What is it?”
“We can’t let Pete get away with this. Tomorrow we go to war with the foxes.”