by Balls Malone
In the club still. The Purple Onion. Hedda was dancing with Lance and fellow model, Ariana. Rupert Cornelius, acclaimed glamour and fashion photographer, was hanging back in the cut taking pictures with his phone, watching them get frisky.
After some time, all four of them were together in the ladies bathroom’s handicapped stall. Rupert was sitting on the toilet, snorting cocaine off the back of his phone. Lance was leaning back against the wall. He had his shirt off, thrown over his shoulder, having wiped his sweaty body down with it, and was spooning cocaine into Hedda and Ariana. The models were kneeling in front of him, their faces upturned right in front of the enormous bulge in his Adidas short shorts. Lance knew for a fact that it would only be about a minute before Hedda pulled his cock out and presented it to Ariana to suck, so the bulge was getting bigger by the second.
Hedda was comfortable; in the zone. Her favorite zone. She knew Lance would perform just as she desired, and knew that Ariana would take it. Like any well trained mount, Lance moved as directed when handled correctly. There was nothing Hedda liked better than fucking other women with Lance.
The only unknown was how Rupert was going to react when Lance really started going to work on his girlfriend. All his signals of being down for voyeuristic cuckolding aside, there was no telling how he would deal with the reality of it.
Well, whatever Rupert’s reaction would be, they were about to find out. Sufficiently high for what was about to come, Hedda reached up and began stroking Lance’s cock though his shorts. Then, she reached down and gently took Ariana by the hand.
Some asshole started banging on the cubicle door.
“Occupied!” Lance yelled.
“Yo! Rupert! You fuckin punk! Don’t think we didn’t see you come in here, bitch! Get the fuck out here!” a man yelled, banging on the stall door again.
“Oh, fuck me,” muttered Rupert.
“Motherfucker! This is the ladies’ bathroom! Get the fuck outta here before I come out and show ya somethin you do not want to see!” Lance yelled.
The man started banging on the stall door again, and did not let up with a steady, rapid cadence like a jackhammer. Hedda and Ariana stood up and moved to the back corner of the stall as Lance squared up to the stall door. Rupert hurried up finishing his cocaine.
“Okay, motherfucker, you have my attention!” Lance said as he unlatched the door and swung it open.
Facing him were two gangbangers: one in his teens and the other his twenties. Both were serious and tough. Their eyes flared wide when they took Lance in, standing as he was in nothing but his pristine white tennis short shorts and shoes; his fuzzy wrist and headbands still in place. His full chest and stomach of prison gang tattoos matched his sleeves and left absolutely no doubt as to their origins and his affiliations.
“What?” Lance barked, when the gangbangers just stood there glaring at him silently.
“We need a word with our boy Rupert there. Hey, Rupert! What up, bitch? Ya got my fuckin money?”
“What’s the problem?” Lance asked calmly.
“The problem? The fuckin problem is that bitch is in here snorting shit with you when he owes me almost five grand! That’s the fuckin problem!”
“No, that’s not the fucking problem,” Lance said quietly. “That’s your fuckin problem. The problem is that yer fuckin up me getting my dick sucked in here. You can take your shit up with him another time. Are we clear?”
“What the fuck? Yer fuckin crew aint deep up in this bitch, motherfucker. You got one chance to get you and whatever bitch is with you outta here before I make his problem your fuckin problem. Right?” the lead gangbanger said.
As though of one mind, both the gangbangers stepped a little back and raised their shirts to show Lance the pistols in their waistbands. The lead banger simply flashed his piece; the younger one put his hand on his and looked imminently ready to use it.
“Okay, man. You hard, homie. You hard. I feel ya,” Lance said. He turned back into the stall and spoke to Hedda calmly. “Baby, you and Twinkie here are coming out with me. Rupert, sorry man, yer gonna have to fuckin deal with this yerself. Right?”
Lance turned back to the gangbangers. “Okay, back the fuck up so’s I can get the ladies outta here and I’ll get out of yer shit and leave ya to it. All right?”
“Oh, come on, man!” Rupert whined.
They assented, each taking a step back, but kept their mad dog glares on Lance the whole time. Lance stepped out into the bathroom, and Hedda led Ariana out of the stall after him. She pulled the bathroom door open and pushed Ariana out in front of her. Halfway through the door herself, Hedda paused, looking back at Lance to see what he was going to do next. She pulled the door tight against her to block anyone else’s view into the bathroom.
Lance winked at her. He raised his right foot up and set it on the edge of the sink. Stretching his legs out, Lance gave them all a glorious view of his bulging lower ends.
The lead gangbanger stepped up to Lance, almost bumping him with his chest. “Okay, get the fuck out now, bitch. I won’t tell ya again!”
“Hold on, man. Hold on! Just getting myself presentable. Gotta look good for the ladies! You players know how it is, right?” Lance said. He took his time pulling his sock all the way up his knee and then smoothed it down nicely.
Knowing what Lance kept in his right shoe, Hedda watched his hands carefully as he fiddled and fussed with its laces. She was just able to spot him palm the straight razor before dropping his foot down to the floor.
Lance’s T-shirt was still draped over his shoulder. He grabbed it by its collar with his left hand and snapped it like a towel, as though to shake it out. Both the gangbanger’s eyes followed the misdirection.
With a fluid sweep of his right hand, Lance cut the throat of the lead gangbanger. He cut the carotid artery and both jugular veins on the left side of the neck. This immediately sent a jet of blood spurting against the mirror and wall. Lance pivoted around the falling gangbanger, adroitly avoiding the blood that continued to pump out of him, and closed on the younger one.
The young gangbanger stepped back, away from Lance, pulling his pistol as he did. Lance lunged and slashed his wrist with a downward flick of the razor, and then came up across the face with a backhand. The gangbanger dropped the pistol and recoiled.
Lance kicked the back of the gangbanger’s knee, grabbed him behind the head, and kneed his face as he went down. Then Lance cut the lad’s tattooed throat from ear to ear. He kept steady eye contact with Hedda the whole time he performed the final act.
“Take her to the car, baby,” Lance said to Hedda calmly.
Hedda did just that. She took Ariana by the hand and led her out of the club, across the street, and over to Rupert’s parked car.
“What happened?” Ariana asked.
“Nothing, sweeties. They talk a little. We wait for our men.”
Some of the louts waiting around in line outside the Purple Onion looked like they were contemplating following Hedda and Ariana over to the car, but Lance and Rupert joined them quickly enough to disrupt that.
Lance had his shirt back on and looked the same as ever: all pristine white Adidas and bulging muscles. Rupert threw up beside the car. However, this meant his key fob was now close enough to the car that it could be unlocked, so while the acclaimed glamor and fashion photographer took care of his business, Lance opened the driver’s door and popped the trunk.
Hedda put Ariana in the back seat and got in beside her. Lance got his Adidas tennis bag out of the trunk and sat in the passenger seat with it. Then they all waited for Rupert to finish up.
Lance unzipped his bag and dug around in it for a bit. He then turned around and handed two capsules to Hedda.
“I guess you both are real upset about those two assholes back there, baby. Why don’t ya take a couple of these. They’ll help ya settle down.” He looked Hedda in the eye significantly and then flashed his gaze over to Ariana. “Maybe you aint that upset though, Hedda. But I think Twinkle here could definitely use something.”
Hedda nodded and got a water bottle organized to help Ariana take her medicine. Lance had not been wrong: she really was rather upset. Pliable to the end, Ariana took the capsules.
When Rupert finally joined them, Lance did not give him a chance to settle in.
“Here. Hold this,” Lance said. He produced a Glock pistol from his bag and set it in Rupert’s lap; the barrel pointed right into his crotch with the handle in easy reach for Lance. “Drive, bitch,” he instructed Rupert.
Rupert Cornelius, acclaimed glamour and fashion photographer, did as he was told.
Lance dug around some more in his bag and got out a big Ziplock bag. Then he arched his back, thrusting his crotch up towards the windshield to reach down into his shorts. He came out with a folded up stack of paper towels stained dark with what Hedda knew could only be blood. He stuck the wad into the Ziplock bag.
“Okay, bitch. Pull over,” He told Rupert.
Rupert complied, parking on the side of the road next to what looked to be an abandoned warehouse. Ariana was already dozing off next to Hedda in the back seat.
Lance pulled the bloody straight razor out of the Ziplock bag, carefully holding it inside one of the paper towels. He unfolded the blade and looked it over closely. Then he grabbed Rupert’s hand off the steering wheel and pressed his thumb down on the face of the razor’s blade. Rupert was so out of it, he did not even register what Lance had done until after he had finished.
Lance folded the razor away into the Ziplock bag which he then sealed and put away in his Adidas tennis bag.
“Okay, bitch, listen carefully now. Hey!” Lance gave Rupert a slap across the mouth to get him focused. “Listen, I said. There’s gonna be two DNA blood matches on that blade. I wiped the blade down before. Two bloods, one fingerprint now. Your fuckin fingerprint. Fuckin fingerprint in blood on a murder weapon. Slam dunk prosecution.”
“What?” Rupert asked.
“Well, cops start asking us questions, maybe you say one thing and I say another. Maybe Hedda says the same thing I say. How that plays out is anybody’s fuckin guess. But a fingerprint in blood on the murder weapon is another fuckin thing entirely. D’ye follow me now, bitch?”
Rupert looked like he was going to throw up. Another slap in the mouth got a nod and a very quiet, “yes,” out of him.
“Now, don’t worry, though. This is all just insurance for me. A little peace of mind. It aint gonna come to that. We’ll work something out. Now drive.”
Lance had Rupert drive them back to the Family Mart. There, Lance and Hedda helped Ariana out of the car and over into one of the lowriders.
“We’ll be in touch,” Lance said to Rupert. “When Hedda sends ya a message, you fuckin reply, right? Okay, fuck off now.”
Hedda watched Rupert’s Mercedes pull out of the parking lot, feeling even more optimistic about her career prospects than she had at the start of the evening. She just knew things were really going to take off for her now.
Having Rupert Cornelius, acclaimed glamour and fashion photographer, as a friend was going to be very good for her indeed.
When the Mercedes could no longer be seen, Hedda got into the lowrider with Lance so they could figure out where they were going to take Ariana for the next part of their night.
