When April first suggested the blindfold I simply thought she had something kinky in mind, but little did I know that she really meant that she had a surprise for me.
At this sooner point of our story I should clarify that my spontaneous trip to Sin City on Stan Peters’ Gulfstream V private jet was totaling fourteen days. Stan and myself remained captives of James Whiskey Peet III the handsome, wild, gun-toting cowboy who is apparently one of the richest men on the face of the earth. Dave The Jew, Whiskey Peet’s best friend, seemed to be suffering the same fate, at one point confiding in me that he hadn’t been to his own home in almost a year. Now considering Whiskey Peet’s domicile totals more than fifty thousand square feet we were hardly cramped for space but April the stripper that I had met at Seamless (our very first stop in Vegas) was after all a woman, all-be-it an incredibly sensual g-string clad creature that had stirred my libido to a boiling point which the surface of the sun itself could not equal, but a woman.
“Surprise!” said my April, pulling off my blindfold with her teeth, and then licking my face with her long, soft tongue from chin to forehead.
And there I stood in the living room of a very large and elegant home, by any standard other than Whiskey Peet’s. At the end of the living room were three twenty-foot panes of glass—floor to ceiling just on the other side of which was a waterfall that cascaded gently from the lip of an infinity pool. I turned to the right and saw Stan Peters, Dave The Jew, and Whiskey Peet staring at me. I wondered if the PCP laced joint Dave The Jew had convinced me to smoke with him earlier hadn’t worn off yet. “Why are they all smiling like jack o’ lanterns?” I asked myself. “And why is a jack o’ lantern symbolized by a pumpkin when sinful Jack carved a turnip into a lantern to be filled with an ember from hell—anyway?”
“What do you think?” April actually bounced on her toes like a young nymphet when she asked this.
“Nice,” I said thinking that any moment it would all become clear.
“I bought it for us with the money I won playing poker at Whiskey Peet’s!” she exclaimed continuing to bounce up and down as I envisioned her in one of those little plaid skirts that I find so enthralling to this day. “You promised to stay in Las Vegas with me—so I bought us a place!”
“Well shiiiiiit!!! aren’t you glad I lassoed that little calf for you now? I told you she was a good one.” If any of my beloved readers needs a refresher, Whiskey Peet carried the g-stringed clad April out of Seamless under his arm like a hog into his Rolls Royce Phantom stretch limousine with sterling silver steer horns for me when she offered to pay for the lap dances I had been the extremely grateful recipient of.
Stan, never missing an opportunity to upset me when sober added, “And it has a great study—so you can get away from the kids and keep writing scripts for me.”
Lucky for this writer April had jumped into my arms just as I fainted so nobody even noticed that I was unconscious as we hit the ground, and she disrobed me on the living room floor not able to control her tsunami of lust for my most lucky appendage. A few moments later I came to with April on top of me and the strange backdrop of Stan, Whiskey Peet, and Dave The Jew looking on.
“Dang gone it, this is better than the rodeo coming to town!” shouted Whiskey Peet apparently mistaking me for a very different kind of stallion.
“Just like that,” said Stan taking a picture with his iphone.
“So how much did you say you paid for this place?” asked Dave The Jew.
And like always, April’s dripping with sweat, that tastes like sweet honey, body collapsed into me…her breath and heartbeat in perfect synchronicity with my own.
“What’s the date today?” I asked, winded.
“Why?” panted the smoldering hot creature that had just bought us a multi-million- dollar house on my promise in the throws of ecstasy to never leave Las Vegas.
“Because if it’s the 8th of January I’m supposed to be doing a reading at Metropolis Books on Main Street—in Downtown Los Angeles. I’m kicking off the first Art Walk of the year!”
“Shiiiiiiiiit, we better gidiup on out of here.” Then smacking Stan with his cowboy hat. “Would you stop taking pictures of them like some kind of big city fagooooot and have your boys fire up the jet, we’re going to Los Angeleeees.”
“You promised!” sobbed April.
Putting on my clothes as quickly as possible. “I will be back—you have to believe me. Stay here and decorate the house. You still have some money left over, right?”
“Yeah. But why can’t I just come with you?” she asked causing me to for the first time in two weeks remember that I had a nineteen-year-old girlfriend named Misha who had once been kind enough to forgive me for sleeping with her supermodel mother. “I’m just going to tell you this straight out. As soon as I’m done with my reading I have to break up with my girlfriend and I just think it would be better if you weren’t there.”
“My boy, my boy! No wonder you suck at poker! You can’t be honest like that with a girl that just rode you like a brahma bull in front of all your friends.”
“I’m single,” quipped Dave The Jew.
“I met you, I forgot all about her, it was going nowhere, that’s probably why I was getting hammered at 7 Grand with Stan in the first place…”
“Okay! But you promise to give her the news and come back,” stated April not as a question.
“Absolutely,” I assured, looking at her pouty face that made me want to hit the living room floor and put on a late show for the guys.
Back in Los Angeles with Stan, Whiskey Peet, and Dave The Jew in tow I arrived just in time to the nice little bookstore on Main Street and the friendly crowd of bibliophiles that awaited a dramatic reading from my award-winning novel “Criminal”. At this point I should probably mention that Whiskey Peet was absolutely disgusted with the size, or lack there of, of Stan’s Rolls Royce Phantom. “What type of little fagooooot car is this? I shiiiiiiiit bigger than this!” And then there were his thoughts about the people attending Art Walk. “Would you look at all these freaks and fagooooots! And Negro’s everywhere!” Then there was the roach coach selling Korean Barbeque. “Hell, they’re not really going to eat that craaaaap! Shiiiiiiit, for good grilled dog you got shoot um fresh on the range.” And then the strangest thing happened. One of the “Negro’s” turned to Whiskey Peet and offered to share his food. “Yo Tex, try a stick of this.” The next thing you know they gave each other a half hug and we were all passing Whiskey Peet’s flask of the good stuff around. An artist chick took a liking to the six shooters. “Dude, the blood diamonds imbedded into the ivory handles of those instruments of death—that’s so deep. Man you really move me. You’ve definitely made the biggest statement of the Walk.” I of course was worried he might fire them off into the air as he is inclined to do. Finally, I was most impressed by the LAPD who paid no attention to Whiskey Peet being armed in a throng of twenty thousand people at all. That’s the kind of change we need.
“Hi everybody,” I said facing my audience. “Sorry I’m a little late, but I got into something in Vegas that took more time and energy than I thought it would.”
“What was her name?” someone in the crowd yelled out. “Probably Bert Green,” I thought to myself before it dawned on me that he was busy with a show at his own gallery.
“Clearly the room is filled with people that know my work.” Laughter. “Shall we begin?”
And with that I read:
“So begins the story of one man’s evil journey through life. A journey that gave birth to a crime organization that has never been truly understood by anyone until now. Some is fact. Some is fiction. It will be up to you to decide which is which—but even in lies there is truth.
“Sam Noah is not famous like Al Capone, John Gotti or Pablo Escobar. But for reasons known only to Sam Noah and his closest associates, the government of the United States of America gave him the only sentence of its kind in the history of the American judicial system. Convinced he was no longer a menace to society, the judge presiding over his case ordered Sam Noah and law enforcement to part ways for good. And so it has been ever since. Or so it seems.
“Sam Noah’s influence and ideas are everywhere. He lives a quiet and peaceful life now, his past seemingly forgotten by most. Yet the events of today are the result of his deeds long ago. Perhaps he feels some regret and sadness for what he has brought to the world. But isn’t evil just the opposite side of good? Sam Noah tossed the coin of fate, and let the world decide on which side it would land. Indeed, without the choice between good and evil, the world as we know it would not exist. It is important to understand that Sam Noah is not simply a criminal, but rather an artist. He creates within the realm of thought, seeing the potential in every moment and manipulating it in his own unique way.
“There is great pain in the perpetration of evil, pain that is not felt until the time of reflection. In every life comes a time to reflect, a time to face the truth about one’s self. Make no mistake about it, Sam Noah knows of right and wrong, but when he looks into people’s hearts, he sees darkness. And darkness is indeed evil’s magnet. In the darkness is where you’ll find him.”
Applause, a slight bow, and a walk down to the Nickel Diner, which I am happy to say, Whiskey Peet thought quite highly of because they served meat and he had been under the impression that, as he put it, “I thought liberal fagoooots only ate grass and leaves and shiiiiit!”
