Goof Proof (every BITCH for HIMSELF Chapter 3)

9 AM. Raquel Tequila arose from her bed with the sunlight streaming through her bedroom window, grabbing a pair of boxer shorts to cover her long slender nakedness, when an arm pulled her back down to the bed.

"Hey", Big Jason groaned, "where do you think you're going?"
"Going to make some coffee, Big Shot", she kissed him, ruffling his silver hair. "Do you mind?"
"Fuck yeah. Who turned on the spotlights?"
"It's morning in Hollywood. Are you still used to those gloomy Frisco mornings?"
"I guess", he blinked his eyes, trying to wake up, stretching his thick arms. "Are you going to the Las Palmas newsstand today? Can you front me a Chronicle?"
"Sure. You want to read about your criminal exploits?"
"Maybe...just want to make sure my face isn't spread all over town, because if it's news up there they're going to be looking for me down here".

"Then stay in bed. By the way, isn't this better than the sofa?" Raquel challenged with her hands on her hips, her tight, round. dark breasts gleaming against the sunlight.
"Yeah, but the sofa doesn't snore and fart at 3 AM. Come back to bed".
"Not after that last crack, asshole!"

10:15 AM. The Whitley Apartments, Hollywood. King Steve laid in his bed listening to Magazine playing "The Light Pours Out Of Me" and reading the latest New Musical Express with The Damned on the cover. This was a good issue, he thought, it had 999, X Ray Spex and The Adverts in it. He looked across the room at his new imported bondage trousers from Poseur and remembered the sales clerk telling him it was a Chelsea original.

King Steve's big dream was firmly within his grasp: once The Big Job was done he would have enough loot to move to England where everybody was cool and dressed punk and went to punk rock shows every night and cute punk chicks didn't look twice at a black boy with platinum blonde hair. His dream was about to come true, thanks to Big Jason and his friends.

"Where will I move to? Will it be Knightsbridge? Too snooty. Manchester? KInda poor. Chelsea? KInda touristy, trendy as fuck. Islington's kinda down home, not too fancy or run down. The Sex Pistols played that movie theatre there with The Clash and The Buzzcocks so there's some punk cred, yeah, Islington it is. Smaller and a little quieter than downtown London. Fuck yeah".

11:30 AM. The Villa Elaine Apartments, Hollywood. Robotman piled up an unholy heap of scrambled eggs, hash browns and sausage patties and then mashed them on his plate and proceeded to shovel the mess into his mouth. His girlfriend, Dahlia Doll looked on disgusted.

"Look at you, just look at you, Robot", Dahlia stared through her cigarette smoke. "Still eating like a four-year old. All that's missing are the Underoos. I thought I was getting a man but I got stuck with a messy little boy. And when was the last time you washed that sleeveless leopard spot shirt of yours? I can smell it from a mile away".

"Then smell this instead", Robotman stopped eating and ripped out a belch so loud and strong Dahlia smelled it clear across the table.
"OH! GROSS! ROBOT YOU FUCKIN' PIG! GAWDDIGGITY DAMMIT! I'm going to kick your smelly ass out!"
"I don't know what you're so pissed off about. I'm only the toughest bouncer on the Hollywood club scene".
"And the deadest dick and smelliest ass in town!"

"You know, Dahlia sometimes I think you don't deserve the best".
Dahlia frowned angrily. "Scoff all you want but I've got some fresh talent waiting in the wings for me. What's that boy's name, the one that works the door of the club? The cute red-headed boy?"
"That's my friend, you fuckin' bitch, don't you dare mess around-"
"Yeah well goodbye old news it's time for some fresh ink -"
"You wouldn't dare, Dahlia, DAMN IT!"
"Sure I would. I pay for everything around here. The apartment, it's in my name. The car, it's in my name. The phone, it's in my name. Don't bother shaping up cause you'll be shipping out soon".

"Alright...well, I didn't want to say anything about this too soon, but pretty soon we're going to be rich", Robotman nervously fidgeted, pushing his plate away. " Like really rich. Like so rich we're gonna run out of things to fight about".
"Bullshit, what a joke. You, rich?"
"So rich you'll never look at another guy again", he fidgeted.
"Unless you mugged a leprechaun you're just talking your usual Robotman shit. Just pack your shit and go".

"Just hear me out, okay? Me, Jason and some of the other guys are gonna do this job, a big one. We're gonna hit a big club in town. There's gonna be guns and it's gonna be quick and fast and I've got a nice cut of the action".
"Is this one of your jokes, Robert?" She called him "Robert" whenever she went into punishment mode.
"Fuck no. Franco's supplying the weapons and we have the whole plan laid out. Just be patient and once it's over we'll be totally fuckin' rich".

Dahlia stared at Robotman, the contempt gone. "Robert, I've never seen you this serious. I almost believe you're telling the truth".
"Bet your ass I am. I was sworn to secrecy. This job is a sure thing, it's goof proof".
"Jason's a pretty tough customer. You might just get lucky this time". She calmed down.
Robotman grabbed Dahlia in his arms, and grunted, "Kiss me, baby".

1 PM. Tiny Naylor's. Sunset and La Brea. Allen Wrench sat at the counter looking out at all the flashy cars parked in front getting parking lot service. He admired the sporty Porsche convertibles and the fully loaded Mercedes, sleek Corvettes and exotic Ferraris, wishing at least one of them could be driven by him.

"More coffee, hon?" the waitress smiled, filling his cup. Wrench scratched nervously. A long-haired guy with frosted hair in aviator shades and a handlebar moustache entered the restaurant. He had a satin bomber jacket with a roaring tiger on the back with the word "KOREA" stenciled under it. He slid into the chair next to him.

"Not so fast", he mumbled to Wrench, "where's the money?"
"I won't get paid till next week".
"Are you fuckin' kidding me? I don't deal dope on credit. I'm walking, punk". He got up.
"No! Wait. I swear to God I'll pay you everything in two weeks. Serious. I'm coming into some big money, man".

The dealer, whose name was simply Manning, hesitated quietly, then got up. "Fuck it, I don't sell on credit. You're making fun of me".
"No, I'm coming into some major scratch. I swear I'll pay double just front me the crystal".
"Just this time, douchebag", Manning pointed his finger at Wrench's face, trying not to arouse suspicion with the waitress walking around nearby. "Burn me and you're totally fucked. Remember, I've been to your house. I know where you live".

"Yeah, yeah, okay. We have a deal, now hand me the sparkle, man", Allen Wrench looked greedily.
"Here, put it away, don't stare at it or make a big noise, dick head. I'm so close to being through with you".
"I swear on my mother you're gonna get your fair share. Times ten".
"Yeah, right. Just scrape up the cash...pronto". Manning stormed out, thinking he should have demanded at least a watch or a ring as a deposit. The kid probably didn't have anything that could be hocked. Fuck it.

2:30 PM. Sunset and Heliotrope. Silver Lake. The Fireball Kid was being shown a huge warehouse with two tiny bathrooms set off in opposite corners. A real estate broker with long sideburns and polyester slacks walked around the space.

"Well, this it", the broker flipped on the light and walked around, "one big slab of property for you to do as you wish, which is?"
"Oh, uh, rehearsal studios for rock bands".
"Oh, yeah? How many units did you have in mind for this space?"
The Fireball Kid frowned and stuck out his lower lip, trying to look business like. "At least, say , four for a start".

The broker scratched his chin. "So you plan on installing some walls, doors, partitions, and of course, uh, sound proofing for the ceiling and the walls, as well, are you?"
Fireball froze at the mention of such provisions. "Yes, well, my, uh partner, my SILENT partner will be involved in all the construction aspects of the, uh rehearsal studio".
"I see", the broker smiled and thought, "Does this kid know what he's doing?"

The Fireball Kid tossed his bright red hair and thought how great it'll be when he gets his own rehearsal studio with every cool band in Hollywood playing night after night at his place. He'll get to enjoy listening to bands play and on top of it THEY'LL pay HIM for the privilege. And in addition they'll kick him down some dope and he can party with their girlfriends. It's a no-lose situation. For him.

4:00 PM. Back at the Villa Elaine Apartments, Vine Street and Fountain. With Robotman finally gone, Dahlia washed up, disgusted with the sweat he rubbed off on her after the make-up sex they had. She sprayed herself with some Nate and sprinkled talcum powder to sweeten herself some more.

Dahlia Doll picked up the bright red telephone and dialed carefully.
"Hello, Franco? It's me, yeah. No, he's off to the club. Listen, he's up to his tricks again. He's going to call you, no listen to me, he's going to call you about getting some of your guns for this "Big Job" him and his dumb punk buddies are going to be pulling off".
"How did you find out all this?" Franco hissed on the other end.
"What do you think? I had to fuck all the details out of him, yuck".

"I don't like you fucking my brother, baby. I'm man enough for you, how many times do I have to tell you that?"
"I know, stud. Find out everything you can about this job. We can make a lot of fuckin' cash from these idiots".
"Sure. I'll loan him my guns".
"Then you can rip off your stupid brother".
"Then I'll kill him. Slowly".
"And then we'll fuck like crazy on top of his dead body".
"It's a done deal. Signed, sealed and delivered with my big dick".
"It's goof proof". Click.

NEXT WEEK: Chapter Four - Wreck Creation, when Big Jason Gulliver and the boys spend a little down time before the big job and find themselves in even bigger trouble than before. Don't miss it!

(c) 2013, Andy Seven. All rights reserved.