CHAPTER ONE – the Best Laid Plans (MFF, drug, inter, oral, anal, con)
AUTEUR: Butch Rosser, aka B. Diddy, aka Captain Charisma
FEEDBACK: The e-mail address isn’t just a XFL joke stretched beyond the
breaking point, it’s a place to send compliments and/or constructive
criticism–keeping in mind the author at all times reserves the right to get
Ludacris and tell you to blow it out your ass…
NOTES: This is based off an idea from Zahir al-daoud, hence this opening.
There is no new Charlie’s Angels show for TV called Halos (at least
writing). There are a couple allusions to other stories, but they’re like
Simpsons jokes. You don’t HAVE to know, but if you do…
DISCLAIMER: It’s so not real. There’s no show, there’s no 686, there’s no
analingus, cunnlingus, or lingus of any kind. Well, except Metalingus, but
that’s a spoiler. These ideas exist only on this page and in my mind. This
would be in the fiction section of your local library. Am I getting
through? UNreal. Falsified. Incorrect. Not in conformity with objective
fact! All right? That’s it, that’s all, baby goes to sleep now.
SHOUTOUT TO MY PEEPS: To Jen for the technical advisor expertise, KMB, and
Hater for the warm reception to the prologue.
gailKIM as the Stunt Coordinator
kristannaLOKEN as Heather, the average ho-hum kickboxer/wet dream-next-door
laceyCHABERT as Meghan, the baby of the group trying to prove herself
aliLANDRY as Liz, the wild child with killer looks to match the killer right
Greg Doll as the money man
Michael Ramirez as the writer of the show
WHEN WE LAST LEFT YOU ON DIRTY HALOS: NBC, desperate for anything that draws
ratings in the post-Friends era, greenlighted young Michael Ramirez’s idea
to do a Charlie’s Angels remake. He & benefactor/co-producer Greg Doll cast
Lacey Chabert and Kristanna Loken, then Ali Landry sucked her way into
Michael’s heart and onto the show as the third Halo.
And now that you remember the past–let’s get to the present!
HOPEFULS SAY GOODBYE, NBC SAYS HALO
Peacock “Angels” redux gets 4
Ah, the things you miss when you zonk out for the better part of a day and a
After Ali Landry had earned her way on the show on her knees, he was out of
the lot by 1, asleep by 1:15, and outside of a brief rollover around
Letterman time, was up again at 9 the following morning. His cell phone
light blinked red as he tried to regain his bearings–missed messages of
some kind or another. The only other lights on in the room were his home
phone charging up when it wasn’t in use, and the computer.
After the pressure packed week of getting the auditions together, not being
able to sleep the two days before them, and the having of them (or, as he
thought absentmindedly, the fun part where the audtions had him), it’d
seemed like years since he’d sat down in the comfy ergonomic and done
something. His e-mail had probably piled up in his absence from the outside
world too. Everything they tried to tell him about school was true in the
new millennium world where everyone was themselves dot net: miss a day, miss
He could feel a rumble in his stomach and he knew he’d have to put something
in it to shut it up. His throat ached a bit in the back and he knew
something was going to have to go down there, preferably of the skim
variety. But the computer held sway over him, even as the sun was beginning
to shine off his forearms from through the blinds. And it wasn’t even the
Jamie Pressly background, it was just a little 2 x 2 icon.
Suddenly, he double-clicked it. He flipped his Verizon open, and began to
barrel through the text messages.
He could feel it now.
Today was going to be a good day.
Massive Attack blared through the speakers. In the middle of Los Angeles,
at 11 a.m., no less, the room was absolutely black. It was just her and the
music. It was the way she did things, and with the good luck of a new
(hopefully good) job Kristanna Loken wasn’t going to stop now. She’d
pushpinned the blinds together, put the laptop on sleep, and listened to
Mezzanine yet again. Her neck cracked audibly in the darkness, as her body
stretched itself out to a full frame.
The splits were quickly completed, and she sighed before rolling her head
around her shoulders. Based on what the guys in charge had told her, she
was going to have to use some of the kickboxing skills in her arsenal.
She was damn sure going to be ready.
Despite no formal training in the banjo or deep love of bluegrass music,
Michael was practically on the verge of screaming “I got blisters on me
fingers!”, flying along in front of the monitor. The texts had been mostly
unimportant drunken messages from his boys, the voicemails concerning the
show seperated into unimportant, major, and Terror Alert Red.
Most importantly, as he had the head asshole getting defenestrated via a
Heather counter thrust kick, he had another episode just about at the ready.
He’d never written an episode that fast before, and not even come close.
There was the plot of them almost losing to the bad guys because they
weren’t out as a unit yet, the subplot of the scientist working on the
cancer cure who was being threatened, and the spank factor of having two of
the girls be decoy lab assisstants. Slightly opened lab coats, coats just
long enough to provide the illusion of no pants, cleavage reaching for the
Pearly Gates. And glasses. Definitely glasses.
Easy like Sunday morning.
He was about to start taking a break (read: plow through the major
voicemails) when suddenly his doorbell rang. It always drove him nuts when
the doorbell rang in the middle of the day because it was usually enough to
wake him up and then it’d take him another 45 minutes to go back to sleep
after telling the intruders he’d found Jesus already, thanks, now go fuck
yourselves. Besides, it was never Salma Hayek and Penelope Cruz with a
broken-down limo on their way to the blowjob contest and could they use his
Regardless, he threw on his Bibby throwback over his white shirt and jeans
and prepared to answer the door. “Please be Salma and Penelope,” he said
quietly to the room. “God knows I don’t ask for much.” He undid the three
“Oh. Hey, Greg.”
Wiping some of the spiderweb off of his polo shirt, Greg walked into the
apartment. “Jesus, Michael, I hadn’t heard from you all day. I was
beginning to wonder if I was going to have to put an APB out on you.”
Greg looked around the living room, seeing nothing out of the ordinary
besides a large home system with a DVD tower next to it.
“Oh, it’s cool. I just finally got to sleep, that’s all.” Michael grinned
out of the corner of his mouth.
“That’s good and all, but could you let–”
“Would you like to see my office?” The smirk he had remembering what was
the catalyst for him getting to sleep was now broad enough so that Greg
could see it. Greg’s natural curiosity had him wondering what the kid had
in his collection, but he was here for the business end of the partnership
above all else.
“Show me to it,” he said. Michael walked him down the hall and around the
corner. “Sorry I didn’t offer you a drink, but I don’t know how to liquify
baking soda.” He kicked an ajar door open. “Here it is,” Ramirez
gestured as his voice rode the fine line between sarcasm and pride. “The
place where all the writing magic happens.”
The room, from Greg’s eyes, could be described as nothing but “young man
growing up in the 21st century”: posters of Jaws were fighting for space
with a massive poster of Michael Jordan in flight res, a closet that seemed
full of all sorts of sports jerseys next to an array of higher-end attire
with a giant tupperware in the bottom of the closet filled with T-shirts.
Bed in the corner, smaller TV at the head of that. Bookcase against the
wall, with Stephen King’s On Writing and Syd Field’s Screenplay sticking
out, and the big attention getter in the room besides what appeared to be a
blown-up photo of Michael next to a Playmate or someone of equal beuaty–a
monstrous monitor next to the printer.
“Is your monitor bigger than your fucking TV?” Greg said, bewildered and
“Damn right, 30″.” Michael beamed with pride as he sat down in the black
chair guarding his baby. Greg let out a long appreciative whistle. “Remind
me not to let the kids come. Anyway–” Greg looked around the room. “Uh,
where’m I sitting?”
Michael nodded his head and pointed to the closet. “It’s in there, next to
the Tupperware.” Greg moved to the closet and paused.
“That’s not only the first time I’ve heard that sentence come from someone
who wasn’tAnita, that’s the first time I’ve heard it in a bedroom.” He put
his head around the corner and pulled out a leopard-skinned bean bag that
seemed to be roughly the size of a 8-year-old boy. “This?”
Michael nodded as he clicked and clacked at the typewriter, suddenly
remembering something. “When I said my office, I meant it in a sarcastic
irony sort of way.” Greg pulled it out and set it down by Michael’s side.
“What do you do for company and whatnot?”
Ramirez just smiled at Doll. “Man, that’s why the bed’s in here.” He
laughed as Greg’s face contorted from confusion to understanding. “Ah.
Anyway, we need to talk about HOLY FUCK!”
Greg had just sat down in the beanbag chair. And the beanbag chair had
eaten him. If there’d been a male equivalent to “Calgon, take me away!”,
this monolith of a beanbag chair was it. “Damn, this is nice. Anyway,
obviously we have to talk about the show with filming starting next
“All right.” Michael pivoted as he turned to face Greg. “I got the
voicemail, and I know you want them out there starting to be seen together
before we start the filming. How do you think we should do it?”
Greg looked at the monitor as he began to think about it in his head.
“Well, I want them seen somewhere cool. And maybe a lunch. Is it going to
Michael opened his phone up and started looking in the memos section.
“Should be. I think other than meeting with Gail at some point before we
launch and memorizing the pilot they’ll be pretty free.” Michael reached
for a knob to turn up the music he’d been listening to as he’d blown through
the… “That reminds me, I got a script you might want to look over.”
Doll shook his head. “You’re being paranoid. The pilot’s fine.”
Michael smiled. “Ah, Greg of little faith–the NEW script I finished about
10 minutes before you came in all fresh to death.” Greg leaned forward a
little in surprise, then decided to continue giving in to the chair.
Michael fired up the print prompt. “You’ll love it. There’s international
intrigue, and science in it. Which means–”
“–short, open lab coats with their cleavage visible and them wearing
Ramirez smirked. “Damn, you’re good.” Michael leaned back in his chair in
thought. “We should get them out in public somewhere first. I mean for
something that isn’t the lunch. Lunch is boring. We need to see them doing
something fun, crazy, off the wall, out with us normies.” He looked at the
Italian loafers on his older colleague. “Well, at least I’M a normie still.
But we should–” Michael shook his head. “I can be a real stupid bastard
sometimes. Let me, as the kids say, call some people.”
Greg looked up. “You ARE the kids!”
Michael continued dialing. “Well, to YOU–you know how old 24 is in
Hollywood years? Not to mention Mexican years…”
As he dialed, the chorus of the song came back into Greg’s being.
On this day, I see clearly
Everything has come to life…
She hit the pause button on her DVD remote, and pushed off of the couch to
send the chair flying by the phone. Grabbing it, she put her feet up so as
to affect cool and not slam into the damn wall. Luckily for her, it worked
like a charm.
“This is Ali.”
“Ali, hey, it’s Michael from the show.”
She grinned broadly. “Hey, boss. What’s happening?”
Michael had never been more grateful for a slightly wrinkled old Caucasian
to be next to him, as in Greg’s absence he would’ve hurt the hell out of his
cock with how fast it would’ve jumped up and slammed into the underside of
his desk after hearing that accent again.
“I, uh…” Drawing back on his drama class, Michael went into a coughing
fit to take his attention off the fact he would’ve gladly forfeited two
years off of his life expectancy to have phone sex with Ali right now. The
Greg thing was becoming one of those pesky curses in disguise. “Listen,
when are you meeting with Gail?”
“The stunt coordinator.”
Ali swung the chair around again to where her phone is. “Oh, next week
between filming. I figured since next week was just us getting together in
the pilot I wouldn’t have to full-on kick anybody’s ass until the first ep,
On the other side of town, Michael nodded. “Cool. Listen, I’m talking with
the executive producer and now that we’ve got you guys–”
Ramirez rolled his eyes. “SOR-ry: you GIRLS, together–”
Ali laughed. “We figured we should add some heat to the publicity fire and
get you guys together a couple times before filming. Certainly couldn’t
hurt the camaraderie.”
Ali, her feet now up against her octogonal coffee table, lost herself in
thought. “You want us all to lunch out together or something?”
It was all the terrorists’ fault Michael’s mind replaced “lunch” with “dyke”
in two seconds flat. “Uh…we do, but we thought that was sort of boring
for a first meeting. Maybe you guys could have some fun together first.”
He barely contained the snicker as Greg pulled his headphones off of the top
of the printer and plugged into the song.
“Can you put this on repeat?”
Michael clicked the button before bringing the phone back up to his ear.
“Anyway, we didn’t have any ideas on what, specifically. Maybe you could
help us out in that regard.”
Ali looked over at her cell, grabbing it off of the table. “You know,
Michael, I have suddenly been struck by a case of Inspirado. Why don’t you
give me Ms. Loken and Ms. Chabert’s numbers and let your dirty cop take care
of the rest.” She played with the antenna, shoving it up and down. It was
odd, but somehow she felt he could feel her on the other end.
It wasn’t quite that bad, but she owned him enough to the point where it
would’ve been the next step in a natural progression. He filed off the
numbers like a stock ticker.
“Michael, I’d pay attention to the ‘net and the papers tomorrow. I’m going
to make you famous.”
Michael felt unsettled in a good way as he detached the cell. From there,
he looked at Greg. A beaming Greg, with headphones in hand.
“Congratulations, Michael. You just got us some theme music.”
The ex-Trojan looked at his erstwhile boss as if he’d grown a vagina in lieu
of a nose. “Theme music?”
“Is this Kristanna?”
It never failed, she thought to herself. She had already put her sweatpants
in a heap on the floor, and her bright idea to check her e-mail before she
got in the shower had backfired. Not to mention the boy shorts were
beginning to cramp her lifestyle, hanging on like Paris to attention.
“Yeah…” She wondered who this was from a number she hadn’t seen before,
but she usually answered the calls because they were usually wrong numbers
or business people calling from unaccustomed numbers.
“It’s Ali Landry, from the show.”
“Oh!” Kristanna hadn’t met Ali, and hadn’t even recalled seeing her at the
rehearsal. Then again, they had seperated them up by role so it was
entirely possible she’d just missed her. “How’re you?”
“Good, good. Listen, what’re you doing tonight?”
“Uhhhh–” In the back of her head, while she knew it was nothing, tomorrow
morning was supposed to be her first meeting with Gail over some of the
basics from the first episode. Sooo…
“I take it that’s nothing. What a shame! C’mon, what’re you going to do,
stay home and watch Lifetime all night?” Ali laughed on the other line,
making Kristanna give a feeble effort of her own.
“Me? No.” It was going to be Emeril, Rachael, and the Iron Chefs, she
thought sadly to herself.
“So come out with me & Lacey tonight! The bosses are putting us up for some
mandatory fun, I figured you’d much rather do that than watch a poor single
mother knit her way out of the ghettos of Ohio or whatever…”
Kristanna thought about it. If Lacey was coming, and Ali was obviously
going, then it would look really bad if she didn’t go along with them. So
she’d go, have a drink or two, out at 11, home by 11:30, asleep by midnight.
“Well, all right.” she relented. “But where are we going?”
“Don’t worry about that,” Ali said. “Just give me your address, I’ll pick
you up at 9, then we’ll swing by to get Lace, and then it’s away we shall
Another piece of the puzzle fell into place.
“I’m just saying, I want to do the little horn riff, and then lead into the
song chorus. Maybe use ‘I won’t look back, I’ll fight to remain’ first.”
Michael thought it over, and then realized he had all the requisite tools to
play poor man’s DJ. Opening his Winamp, he started off the Angels theme and
then started in on “Metalingus” where Greg had wanted it prompted.
The sound of the song filled the room, and both men looked on in pensive
silence that Michael eventually broke.
“You know, that could work.”
Greg clapped his hands. “So, what about the girls?”
Michael turned down the volume to a level where he could still hear it and
talk. “I think we’re all set. Ali’s calling them up right now.”
Greg undid the new note function on the Blackberry. “Well, do you think she
can talk them into it?”
The smile on Ramirez’s mouth walked the line between toothpaste commercial
and solar eclipse. “Greg, if there’s one thing I can say about Ali, it’s
that she can be extremely persuasive when it comes to getting her way.”
“Well, if everyone else is going–”
“Well, not EVERYONE else, Lacey. Just us Halos.” Ali laughed.
“You know, it’s the first time I’ve–”
“It sounds weird the first time you–”
“Oh, no, go ahead–”
“No, it was my fault–”
“The first time I’ve referred to us as the Halos before. It’s pretty
cool.” Ali smiled. “I hope we get to stay around a minute.”
Lacey nodded on the other end. “So, what should I wear for the
Ali pretended to think about it. “Something hot. Slinky.”
Lacey wondered if she had anything in the closet. “Oh, the hell with it.
I’ll just go shopping. So you’re coming by at 9:30?”
“Maybe sooner,” Ali said, and a good thing videophone technology hadn’t gone
mainstream because there was an undeniable smirk all over her face at this
point. “Around 9:30, though, yeah.”
“All right. I look forward to meeting you girls.” Lacey hung up, and
looked at the clock. Eight hours. “Time to get to the mall.”
On the other end of the line she’d just disconnected, she was still there.
Just on the TV.
“I mean, we should just totally STAB CAESAR!”
Ali pushed a second finger inside herself, completely unable to wait until
“She’s just so cute when she’s angry!”
For the better part of 18 months, Lacey Chabert had been keeping a secret.
A secret so deep, not even her own family knew about it yet.
Behind the good-girl facade, past the volunteer work with the homeless and
adoption of several puppies and kittens (which had met with varying degrees
of success), there was one thing that resided at the bottom of her heart
like fudge in a sundae, a thing that owned her that she couldn’t stop.
Didn’t want to stop.
Sweet lil’ Lacey was a gearhead.
And by all rights and means should’ve been downright giddy. Ali was behind
the wheel of a bullet-silver Mustang convertible. Even in the backseat it
purred and hummed. There was only one problem: Ali was behind the wheel,
and apparently had not gotten the global memo that there was no such thing
as the Los Angeles 500.
>From the front seat, a hand with thin fingers slipped into hers. She looked
up and saw Kristanna’s eyes turn black with acceptance.
“It was great to meet you, Lacey. I couldn’t think of a nicer person to die
“WE’RE ALMOST THERE!” yelled Ali, who suddenly turned up the volume to fill
the auto with ear-splitting AC/DC. Over the yell and scream that was Brian
Johnson, no one could hear Lacey’s whisper.
The Mustang flew through the air as Landry jumped the hill, and time stopped
as they traveled through the air. Every Halo screaming, two for one reason
and the defacto leader for the polar opposite.
The spill went right through the stoplight’s yellow off of the bounce, and
Ali continued roaring down the hill.
“Whooohooooooooohoohoo!” she screamed at the top of her lungs, as Lacey &
Kristanna exhaled for the first time since 2001. “Was that fun or what?!”
Ali dialed down the Earnhardt and kept the Mustang in the low 70s as she
rounded a corner.
“Ah, here it is!” Ali pulled over to the side, where a line was forming
down the block under the auspices of three giant black numbers with blue
neon around them: 686.
“Oh, wow.” said Lacey distractedly, looking around at the cars circling the
place, the spotlights calling a Batman that wasn’t coming, and that constant
thump-thump-thump a Hollywood nightclub tended to provide. Ever since its
opening seven months prior, it had grown into a hot spot and if this line
was any indication the buzz was still at high pitch. Suddenly, it felt like
a ghost had passed through her. It turned out the valet parker had slid
right past her blind side and was quickly approaching Ali as Kristanna got
out of the passenger side.
“Hey! Ms. Landry!” said the young man, sticking out his arms. Ali’s arms
opened up and she hugged him back.
“I know, I know–” Both of them, in unison. “–when you gone let me fuck
you, Ms. Landry?”
“I keep telling you, Simon, when it’s your birthday!” She shook her head to
let her hair spill down across her shoulders, and when Lacey noticed camera
flashes she sure didn’t have the ego or stupidity to think they were for
“And I keep telling you, it IS my birthday!” They both laughed
uproariously, obviously the last of the great vaudeville comedy teams. “You
want the normal spot?”
“You know it, baby. Right next to Roscoe’s Chicken and Waffles.” Ali gave
him a kiss on the lips, and then slipped him the keys. “I want it back by
Tuesday, you bastard!”
One last laugh, and Simon was off into the night. Ali stood amazed, as
Kristanna had put up her hair and sort of smirked her way through the
conversation in the background.
“Is that your boyfriend, Ali?” Lacey asked. Ali laughed for a good half
“Oh, Lace, please, that man’s seen more cock than I have.” She paused.
“Shame really.” She looked at Kristanna. “You ready?” The Terminatrix
Lacey didn’t know when Ali had made the decision to call her Lace, but she
felt a bit bolstered by it; kind of like they were sisters. You must have
our blood in you to ever fuck with us. She nodded.
“Let’s work, girls.” Ali stepped up onto the sidewalk and Lacey’s feelings
of goodwill faded a little bit. She felt again like the One Of The Things
That Didn’t Belong Here, as the old Sesame Street tune went. While she’d
gone out and bought a nice floral top and studded jeans, she didn’t really
feel sexy. She’d never say so, but every fan mail that talked about how
beautiful she was, she didn’t see it. She was just a simple country girl,
nothing special. Hell, she barely cleared the bar to ride the dangerous
rides when her and her family went to Magic Mountain!
She was lost in the Mobius strip of her mind again; inside a moment she was
looking at from the outside. A couple of guys had called out something that
sounded like Lacey, but both the other girls dwarfed her. And why not?
Kristanna was wearing a suit, in the loosest definitions of the term–the
black slacks were cut to show off plenty of leg, the jacket wasn’t anywhere
near buttoned, and no one had thought to wear a dark purple tube top instead
of a man’s shirt. Just speaking objectively, Kristanna’s outfit and hers
could be used as the Brown v. the Board of Education in the never-ending
trial between Hot and Cute.
And then there was Ali. Ali was wearing cargo shorts. Shorts that had
apparently been doing some cutbacks at the office due to the slumping
economy, because there wasn’t much of them left. Depressed at this turn of
events, they hung low off her pelvic region, showing a good deal of fabric
off of a black thong. Black in memoriam for the lost, no doubt. Lost like
most of what had once been a basketball jersey of some kind, red and black
with HEAT across the front. Her abs were on display, as was her name and
the #1. She was blowing kisses.
“Clearly,” said Lacey under her breath, “this is a woman that takes the work
of fun seriously.”
It was that comment that snapped Lacey back to reality. They were not in
line, they were being catcalled and picture-taken-ofed because they were
going past the line. She should’ve known beforehand because Ali was leading
the charge and had gotten them there with that much speed. She felt a
little guilty but soon enough there was a guy in a black suit apparently
supplementing his primary income of being on the Lakers by being a bouncer
for the club. They exchanged some more friendly banter as Kristanna waved
to a couple people, and then Ali screamed out.
“KEITH’S HERE TONIGHT!? YES!”
Lacey moved around Kristanna to get next to her. “Who’s Keith?”
“He’s a D.J.! He rocks, he spins a lot of old cuts and stuff.” Kristanna
checked her watch, seeing it nearing 10. Just 90 minutes, maybe a couple
When the elevator doors opened at 3, they found themselves at the extreme
back of the club. VIP. Beds. Waitresses and waiters coming around. It
was all very nice, and tonight Ali was completely ignoring it all.
Her head was bobbing, as she patted the DJ on the back as they went around
the corner down to the top level of the club.
“I find myself walking the streets, trying to find what’s really going on in
the streets!” Lacey was almost set to laugh as they came through the club,
any sort of pretense or cool NBC may’ve wanted their new girls to have being
completely abandoned because she was holding onto Kristanna’s arm and
Kristanna was holding onto Ali’s. They looked more like kindergardeners
crossing the street than some sort of new force of sexy coolness.
They were at the bar. He was cute, Lacey thought offhandedly, before
realizing having cute bartenders and waitresses is what kept a buzz on a
place. If he recognized them, he didn’t let it show.
“Ladies, what’ll you have?”
Ali looked behind him at the bar. Well, what the hell. “Bottle of Patron.”
The bartender turned around and picked out one of the bottles, as all three
women covertly looked at his ass while it was an option. He turned and
priced it. Ali put on the smile where butter wouldn’t melt in there.
“Oh, we’re not paying for it.” The bartender looked at her.
She turned to her right, and pointed to two guys–two guys who were actually
pretty decent-looking, she had to admit–looking out at the floor and them,
casually sipping some clear liquid in the white one’s hand, and the black
guy drinking freely from a Corona bottle.
“They said throw it on a tab.” She smiled, and waved at them.
“Dude, that hot brunette’s waving at us,” said the darker.
“Yeah,” Kent said, smirking and waving back. His friend squinted his eyes.
“Man, she looks really familiar from somewhere.”
“Brent, come on, it doesn’t matter.” She winked at him and he raised his
bottle. “I told you. WHAT did I tell you?” Brent rolled his eyes and had
“Don’t start with that shit—”
“You said the Axe didn’t work. Pssssssssh. Maybe it just don’t work for
“All right,” said the bartender.
Ali gave him an excessively breathy thank you, and slid him a 20 for his
troubles. “Rule #1 of Mandatory Fun Night: everybody christens the bottle!”
yelled Ali. Kristanna and Lacey had both had to lean in to hear over the
“Mandatory Fun Night has rules?” yelled Kristanna.
“Well, if fun is mandatory, rules should be too!” Ali responded.
“Makes sense to me!” screamed/stated Lacey. Ali popped the cap and threw it
off somewhere and took a chug. “Next! Whoa!” It burned in her chest, and
she smiled. She offered some to Lacey, who looked at it before putting her
bravest face forward and having a similar pull.
The girls cheered as Lacey handed it over to Kristanna. “How is it?” the
New Yorker asked.
Lacey was busy coughing. “Smooth. And full of alcohol.”
Kristanna had some, and then had some more, and then was encouraged by Ali
to keep going. Soon she put the bottle down. Had to make the hour and a
half count, didn’t you?
“OH!” The crowd responded in kind, as Ali took the bottle back in her hand
and smiled. “Missy! I love this song! C’mon!”
Lacey suddenly realized as the Patron was beginning to erase her memories of
third grade that she was going to be in for an interesting night.
“They all drank. You know what that means!” Kent put away the remnants of
“You sure? ‘Cause that blonde looks like the chick from T3, and I dunno—”
“Dude, c’mon, what was our New Year’s resolution?” Brent was straining to
hear his subordinate/running buddy over “I’m Really Hot”. But he knew it,
and Kent was saying it at the same time.
“If we get rejected, we get rejected by a better class of woman!” Brent put
away what was left of his vodka. Liquid courage.
“Well, if you want to do this–”
Kent was on the move already.
Lacey wondered, just for a second, if she looked up was she going to be
surrounded by people-like things with pig faces? It seemed whatever this
song was, she was the only one in the club who didn’t know it. Ali was
dancing, and as Kristanna took another sip of the tequila her knees at least
seemed to be moving in rhythm.
This wasn’t exactly her scene, but she felt a bit in debt to Ali & Kristanna
to at least try to have some fun. She could feel a few eyes on them, as
they were set up just to the southeast of the DJ booth so Ali could wave at
the DJ and apparently mouth requests (she assumed they were requests, but
being unable to hear a damn thing she could’ve been mouthing “While you
sleep I will remove your colon” for all she knew).
She felt weight lightly applied to her shoulder, and turned.
Kent wasn’t sure what was bulging more, his eyes or his pants. Brent merely
smirked, watching his friend squirm. But the moment passed, and he soon
continued after a visible gulp.
“You–you’re Lacey Chabert!” She gave him a smile, and briefly gave him a
once-over. Aside from the small amount of sweat on his bald head, he was
nattily clad. The face was cute enough, and the fact she had a fan sure
wasn’t going to get him any demerits. She barely noticed the scratching of
the horns into the song change to La Lopez.
“What’s your guys’ names?” she screamed out over the din of the beat and the
screams from right behind her.
“I’m Jay, and this is my hetero lifemate Silent Bob.”
“Oh, FUCK YOU.” the taller one said, punching his friend in the shoulder.
“I’m Brent, and the Smith fanboy is Kent, and I swear our names rhyming is
Kent smirked. “We’re brothers, but he’s adopted.” Lacey giggled and shook
“Would you STOP.” Brent rolled his eyes. Lacey leaned in closer to the
pair. “Can I tell you guys something?”
Both men had graduated prestigious colleges, read the Sunday paper from
cover to cover, and could cook if pressed. Yet the only thing going through
their mind was “threeway”.
“My friends just charged a bottle of the good stuff to you guys.” K & B
exchanged looks. “Well, then, who’re your frien–ye–ennnnohhhhhhh…”
So, this is what Kent is seeing. He’s seeing a girl he’s always thought was
pretty underrated in the former Party of Fiver looking cute, and he’s seeing
her jerk her thumb behind her, and then he’s seeing what appears to be the
Terminatrix pulling the Doritos girl’s hair as they grind against each other
to “Get Right”.
Brent stood next to him, mute with watching the scene transpire.
“I believe they just earned the right to charge whatever it is they’d like.”
Kent was still struggling with his grasp of English. “But ho–wha–d–g–”
Brent gave him a sarcastic pat on the head.
“Good thing he’s a writer, huh?”
“He’s a writer?” Lacey was surprised; for some reason she was always
expecting a big fedora with PRESS in it to identify them.
“We both are, except I’m his editor. They have us in town for the
convention and then we’re staying over to do a couple junkets for the new
“Hey! We’re in the new season!” A sudden look of understanding and
coherence recreated itself on Kent’s features. “What’re you guys doing?” he
said absent-mindedly, his head following the tennis match of Lacey’s convo
and Kristanna & Ali (THAT’S what their damn names were!) little show of
dancing and drinking.
“We’re doing the ‘Charlie’s Angels’ remake for NBC–listen, are you guys
sure us buying the bottle is all right? I mean, I can totally pay, I don’t
know why Ali–”
Brent put his arm on her shoulder. “Lacey, c’mon, this is a business trip.
I mean, what do you think of the future of print media–newspapers and the
like?” Lacey’s face angled as she thought it over. “Well, I do–”
“Congratulations, we just talked business. It’s an expense.” He grinned.
Lacey smiled back. It was sort of nice fading into the background–neither
one of them had overtly stared her in the valley.
“Well, since you guys are–”
The sounds of a long whistle cut her off in mid-thought. “Mmm, girl, that’s
what I’m talking about! You got enough meat to fire up the grill, now!”
Ali, arm over her shoulder, bottle in hand with Kristanna right behind her.
“You guys got names?”
Kent smirked, because the other option was facial paralysis. “Are we going
to need them?” Ali laughed. “We’ll see. We’ll see.” She smiled,
offering the bottle to the duo. “You want some of your drink?”
Grasping the bottle, he looked down. “Patron? Wow. Well, sure.” He
chugged it down and Ali cheered him on. “C’mon, what about your cuter
friend there?” Kent winced as Brent looked away from Lacey for the first
time all night.
“It sounded like you said cuter, you know.”
Kent sighed. “Greatness is never appreciated in its own time.”
Horn sample gave way to horn sample, and when “Crazy In Love” started the
conversation part of the evening was effectively brought to a halt.
“C’mon,” said Ali, and in the next instant she grabbed Brent by the forearm
and lead him back towards the center of the floor. Kent looked frustrated
until Kristanna walked up, casting a slight shadow over him. Going back to
his best friend’s sister he had a particular weakness for tall, athetic
blondes. Negro kryptonite. He swallowed pride, alcohol, and tilted his
“You want to dance?” Miss Loken just smiled, and lead him towards the
floor. “Lacey, you coming?!”
Lacey gesticulated towards the bathroom, and Kristanna nodded. It took her
a couple more songs to get off of the floor, but surprisingly very little
time to amble downstairs and hail a cab.
“You want another club?” the driver said.
Lacey shook her head. “Nah, I’m calling it an evening before things get too
But that doesn’t make for good copy.
Having starlets bump and grind on you for a couple hours while you get drunk
on the company’s dime? See, there’s a little firestarter at the
watercooler. “So we went to L.A. The weather was all right. Say, did you
know the girl from T3 is so tall when she bends over and touches her toes
she’s almost at a 90 degree angle? No? Just me, then? Ah.”
“Oh, you know how it is. Steve from the Cincy Post said what up. The hotel
was pretty nice, though. Oh, and the girl from the Doritos girl opened up
my shirt on the dance floor and sucked on my nipple. Yeah. I think it’s
the new styling gel, chicks pick up on the little things like that, y’know?”
Between the expert ministrations of the DJ, the second bottle of bought
Patron, Kent’s dancing ability, the go-go dancers, and the X tablet Ali was
on, it was getting quite hot in therre whether or not Nelly was coming
through the speakers.
As it came the last half-hour of the club, the rapid tempo of the music
fell. It was like Keith’s personal Quiet Storm, and the pairing off was
beginning to happen the second he dropped “Red Light Special”. Actually,
given the song it was quite the achievement no pair or tripleing or moreling
had violated the fire code by just whipping off their clothes and getting
down to brass tacks.
Which is where Kent was, in some sort of hellish limbo. Being a single man
he had once said to an ex-girlfriend he was still chummy with, was like
trying to walk a tightrope drunk: didn’t want to appear desperate. Still
had to put forth an effort to show you were interested. But one woman’s PDA
is another one’s smother, and as such it’s like trying to walk the tightrope
without a net drunk while people throw toasters at your head.
He was into Kristanna. And in related news, that Gates fellow has some
cash. But he didn’t know if she was into him or just a gregarious drunk.
He was trying to remember his vow to throw caution to the wind but foremost
in his mind was footage he’d seen of her on some VH1 special treating a
punching bag like she’d just caught it fucking her sister. It was going to
do him no good to be on a fine woman like this for hours straight if at the
end of the evening she superkicked his head off into the Pacific. His body
kept moving while in his mind he kept weighing the pros and cons of moving
PRO: Alcohol. Sweet, nourishing alcohol.
CON: She might be able to kill you.
PRO: Hot. So very hot. You couldn’t get a girl like this by conventional
CON: She? Somebody? You? NOOOOOOBODY.
PRO: Runs with highly-charged hotties, could be one too.
CON: Runs with highly-charged hotties, could be the nice one in the group.
“Holy shit, it’s 2:20?!” Suddenly, Loken’s voice broke up the one-man
five-voice Congress in his head. “I was supposed to go home hours ago! I
Everybody in favor of Move All In Now?
Unanimous, then? Approved.
“Wait! You can’t go yet, I don’t have your number!” She stopped and ran
back to him, looking at him in the face. Oh, she was sucked in; with his
expressive brown eyes he looked like a puppy at the pound. Suddenly, her
mouth was on his. Their tongues were in the arena swordfighting each other
as she took a pen out of her pocket and grabbed his arm off from her ass.
“Mmm.” She shook her head, and then left.
“I still don’t have it!” he cried out.
“Look at your hand!”
She was gone. He looked down at the inside of his right wrist. Ten
numbers. And a warning: GIVE OUT I KILL YOU. He looked at it, smiling.
“I did it. I actually did it. Hey, Brent, did you see me just–Brent?
Brent?” He looked around. It was like he went back to Ohio, but his city
was gone. No Brent, no Doritos girl. Indian-flavored music filled his
“Oh, NOW they play “React”!” He shook his head and decided he was going to
try and meet his boy downstairs. He hoped he was doing all right.
TWENTY SIX MINUTES PREVIOUSLY…
“Ah, hell, it’s almost 2!” Ali wiped some of the sweat from her cheek.
“They’re going to–Brent?” She looked around, and there was her catch.
Goofy smile, doing the Running Man or the Roger Rabbit or one of those old
dances to “Poison”. She looked at her watch, and went over to catch his
ear, her face saying it all.
“C’mon, I want to go!”
“But it’s the Roger Rabbit!” (Ah.) “And everybody loves me!” True, a “Go
White Boy Go White Boy Go” chant had started up, but Ali pulled him in by
the collar and whispered in his ear.
“Show’s over, everybody!”
With a smirk on her face, Ali hooked his arm in hers and started heading out
the back. Keith smiled at Ali as she blew him a kiss, and gave Brent a head
nod as they went for the VIP elevator. He’d effectively forgotten his boy,
his mind, and the schedule that had him hitting meetings at 8 a.m. It
wasn’t that he didn’t love being an editor, it’s just that the New York
Times Guidebook to Style and Grammar was an absolutely horrible lay. This,
on the other hand, would leave him with bragging rights for the next…well,
fuck it, let’s just say forever.
“We’ve been stopped for a while, haven’t we?” He scratched his head as Ali
stood next to him. The possibilty of celebrity poonani was starting to kill
off his brain cells. As long as they didn’t get the pelvis.
“Yeah.” Ali shook her head. “It’s usually so fast…I don’t know why it’s
all held up…”
With the mandatory ding!, the doors opened. They were shortly followed by
Brent’s mouth. In the elevator, there was a white bikini top and a pair of
shorts that were so tiny he half expected them to break into lesson-learning
song while Willy Wonka smiled benevolently at him. And because he once was
forced to break a vacation to interview a certain baseball player who had
then proceeded to no-show three interviews, the owner of said “clothing
items” was a possesor of dimples. And dark-skinned, incongrouously. And
with a $1,000,00 smile and a $2,500,000 body.
Before he could even think the missive to God–
“MARI! I thought that was you up there tonight!” Around 11, they’d put up
a couple of circular podiums on top which a couple hired girls danced around
and generally reaffirmed everybody’s belief that the people not lucky enough
to get elbow room in 686 were poor, sad bastards who could look forward to
stories ending “You shoulda hung out, man!” for the next two weeks. This
Mari was apparently was one of them. Had to be cool. Just say the exact
right thing and you too can be James Bond. Easy. The exact perfect thing.
Except it won’t come when your brain is all consonants. About the only
thing that might be coming is you and no thought of Chewbacca taking a shit
is going to provide panacea at this point.
“Where you going?” The conversation is going on without you.
“Man, girl, I’m all worked up. Steve came in again.” Ali rolled her eyes.
“You said you wouldn’t!”
“I know what I said, but I know what I want.” She chuckles, Mari does, and
looks at Ali appreciatively. “And who are you to talk, you seem like you’re
about to take this guy out for four on the floor…”
“His name’s Brent.”
“Hi, Brent.” Suddenly eyes opened up, realizing she was talking to him.
All he had to do is say hi. Just say hi. Two letters. It barely even
constitutes a word, for Christ’s sake!
“SWEET MYSTERY OF LOVE AT LAST I FOUND YOUUUUUUUUUUUUU…”
Two distinct laughs echoed in the lobby as they hit the street. Brent
cringed. He’d done it again, his lips had moved as he thought. Ali looked
to her left, and looked to her right. Ever since Mari had started at 686
about four months prior she’d had quite the archive of fantasies of bedding
the 22-year-old in all manner of ways; actually, in her mind once she had
been playing the Michael to Mari’s black-collared cop. It was all she
could do to keep from groaning out loud. Just the idea of this guy’s cock
filling her mouth while Mari licked her out…
…the brave get to be brave when fortune shines in their favor.
“Hey, Mari, can we crash at your place right quick? I think I need to sober
up before I try driving a Big Wheel, let alone a car.”
Mari lead them around a corner. “It’s not a problem.”
They entered their second elevator in the past 15 minutes, with Mari on the
far left, Ali in the middle, Brent on the far right and his unit in the
front. Ali was talking to Mari, but the back of her hand would every so
often graze against the front of Brent’s pants. That was some good
craftsmanship done by someone because by all rules and physics they
should’ve had a giant hole punched in them by now.
“What floor are you on?”
“25. Great view of the city from up there.” Mari leaned back against the
The last part of his old life Brent would remember was Ali’s eyebrow
brushing up against her hairline. She turned left, and pressed her lips
against Mari’s. He could see the dancer’s eyes bulge out as Ali leaned in
further, putting her against the back wall of the elevator. He couldn’t
hear anything except his heart beating quadruple-time. He felt dizzy and
put a hand on the wall closest to him to stay upright.
It was awesome, to win the Underestimation Olympics.
Ali pulled off. Mari was gasping for air.
“For the billionth time, forget Steve. I’ve got my mouth, and a cock
that’ll jump when I look at it. I’ve wanted you since the first time I saw
you move in that Catholic schoolgirl outfit–”
Brent groaned, audibly. Mari shook her head, trying to force the carbon
dioxide in quicker than it was coming.
Brent cringed. He recognized that tone of voice from women, and thanks to
his stints with Kent had taken to calling it the Biz Markie voice despite
the fact it was usually in-key. She was going to say she was just a friend.
“We could’ve been doing this weeks ago.”
“Oh, shit!” was the apex of what he wanted to say, but it was all he could
The elevator dinged. 25. The million dollar smile went all in and doubled
up to two mil. Mari looked at the Cajun beauty and the follically
challenged paper editor.
“Let’s go.” Mari grabbed Ali by the hand, and she grabbed Brent by the
hand. They went running down the hall, at least to the point where Brent
fell on his ass. Ali kept dragging him, though, even though he wanted to
protest. He could hear the familiar jingle of keys, then heels stepping
Tonight’s headline story: I Am Less A Man THAN A GOD.
Back home in her apartment, the silence closed in her like Pepe Le Pew.
Falling backfirst into her bed after changing into pajama bottoms and her
old high school gym shirt, Lacey began to close her eyes.
As usual, the voice chose that second to worm her way into her subconscious.
“If you didn’t belong tonight…
…what makes you think you belong on the show?”
Her eyes opened wide, and then the darkness had her.
He was the last one in, and as such he locked the door behind the lot of
them. Three’s a crowd and four’s for the golf course. Ali was taller by a
couple inches and she leaned into as Mari was up as far as she could stretch
herself length-wise. They kissed as though nothing could fall, though Ali’s
force as she opened her mouth and their tongues playfully slapped at one
another happened as she took them both over the edge of and onto the couch.
Brent stepped down slowly. He felt like a voice-over guy for National
Geographic, and one false move by the crew would send the animals outof the
brush and scurrying for their natural habitat. Mari let out a moan as Ali
began to knead her right breast, before her mouth was quickly subsumed by a
The girls continued to mash against each other, as Ali pulled down Mari’s
top enough to get her nipples out into the room. Brent’s eyes widened at
this–the legends were true! Two Hershey’s kisses for nipples. He began to
get closer, but still hadn’t breached the couch as the NBC employee began to
suck on her left breast. Mari’s raspy “Yeah…” echoed off the walls.
Brent being struck mute with the all-you-can-eat pussy buffet in front of
him left only the low hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen and the noise
of Ali sucking away eagerly, alternating breasts. Her tongue dipped and
darted, covering ground like Santana Moss running an out route. Mari
cradled the back of her head, before pulling her strands up. They slammed
their tongues into each other’s mouth.
As he thought about moving over before he spontaneously combusted, he could
see Ali’s lips move. The rapid hearbeat had dominated his ear drums for the
past couple seconds, though.
“Well…” She played with Mari’s nipples and rubbed the titflesh as she
looked into him, through him. “Are you just expecting to watch the show, or
do you have something–” A devilish grin crossed her face as she looked at
the sizeable bulge in his pants. “–to contribute?”
His feet were in motion before her index finger could fully even crook. It
was almost as if she’d hypnotized him. A latch in the front came undone,
then a button, and suddenly his pants were a thing of the past.
He was a member of a select club in Ali’s mind: ever since the divorce she
had seen plenty of cock. But only about 5% of guys, based on her rough math
and in-the-field study, had a perfect cock.
Brent was one. Seven inches and moving up to eight, with the bonus being he
appeared to be three inches round. He could stretch a girl like taffy with
a thing like that. He could stretch HER like taffy with a thing like that.
She began to get moist as she smiled and said, “Put it in her mouth.”
He leaned forward as Mari took him in like a hotel reservation. She could
barely contain herself between the width and length, and for one
horrifyingly humorous second she wondered if his tip was going to come out
of her ear. Mari tried to express something, but he was too big–itcame out
a twelve-letter word with no vowels in it, a small Czechlosovakian town with
a dick for a mayor. She would take him in up to the head, and then a little
further, and then a little less. The alternating techinques kept him hard
and she began to wrap her hand around his unit. Brent had what could only
qualify as an embarrased-like smile on his face.
The shirt Kent had got him for his birthday–Finish Your Pussy, There Are
Virgins Starving In Cameroon–had chosen this moment to come to mind. He
kept it swirling around the Holy SHIT Mobius strip already in place, to
prolong the magic.
As she kissed all over Mari’s chest, Ali decided to form a game plan for how
this was going to go. She was in charge, after all. With a sigh she shook
herself off of the dancer, and let her hair spill onto her shoulders before
she dropped the cargo shorts and threw them across the room. Brent’s head
turned, the one that was supposed to do the thinking as opposed to the one
that actually did, and he drew out a satisfied moan as he looked at her pear
shaped ass. The only thing between him and celebrity pussy was a thin layer
“All right, get out of her mouth.”
Brent looked at her as if she had suggested the only way for Americans to
achieve true economic equality amongst each other was to trick all the old
people onto the same catapult and then fire the lot of them into the South
“C’mon, since when have I steered you wrong?” Well, she had him dead to
rights there. “You fuck her, which solves her problems, and then she fucks
us. Everybody dances. Everybody wins.”
They said something along those lines to him back in rec league flag
football, but this time he believed it. He pulled out of Mari’s mouth, and
she got her breath back.
“Because that’s what you want, isn’t it?” Ali smiled like a Cheshire as she
hooked her hands around Mari’s waist, grabbing the sides of her boy shorts.
Mari nodded, biting her lip in anticipation.
“Oh, yeah. I was touching myself in the elevator.” Brent and Ali looked at
her, as the latter undid the former’s shirt. “Before I kissed you?”
“No, in the club. I was so–”
“Is that why we couldn’t get downstairs?!” Ali looked at her incredulously,
tossing his shirt at Mari and watching her swipe it away before starting to
tug on her nipples. She laughed sheepishly.
Ali looked at Brent. “You’re gonna split her down the middle like a Siamese
twin. NOW.” Brent hesitated; with that wide-doe-eyed look on her face,
Mari looked like an innocent. Except the part where she was topless, her
dark hair hanging over the edge of the couch, and tugging her nipples to
full mast. He didn’t feel entirely sure until Ali told him to. He got the
feeling she’d told a lot of guys who wavered on the fence about something
onto one side or another.
So it was he slowly entered all the way into her, drawing an emphatic “OH!”
as the bullet train pulled into the stop. He really didn’t want to think
about nutting, but given the circumstances of the past few hours he was
either going to have to come soon or his heart was going to explode.
And if his heart exploded doing what he was doing–WHO he was doing–the
closed-casket option was right out.
Ali snaked his way around his body, and he gave an extra zing to that thrust
as Ali crawled on top of Mari. Her eyes blazed as she slapped away Mari’s
“I’ll take care of that. Horny slut.”
Mari sort of laughed, quasi-moaned, and put her hands behind Ali’s head as
Miss Landry’s head dipped lower to suckle at her.
“C’mon. Work your tongue all over my titties.”
“Goddamn it, goddamn it, goddamn it!” muttered Brent, cocking his hips at a
different angle to continue to work Mari over. The feedback was highly
positive before Mari tugged on Ali’s hair and forced up to her mouth, their
tongues dueling in their mouth.
“Yeah,” Ali moaned, arching her head up. Mari couldn’t live without a pound
of flesh and began kissing Ali’s neck. “Oh, baby, right there! Yes!”
“Ohhh GOD…” Brent should’ve gotten a Purple Heart for his valiance in the
face of insurmountable odds. But the facts were the facts. He was about to
suffer a severe dip in his protein levels. Ali looked back at him, and got
a mischevious grin on her face. It was going to be fun turning him into a
quivering sack of jelly that had been a walking thesaurus once.
“Aww! Poor baby hasn’t come yet?” If he wasn’t so blinded by more pressing
matters, Brent would’ve shot her a defiant look. As things currently stood,
between the former spokesmodel running traffic, and Mari responding to his
pelvic skips with mostly “mmm”, “ahh”, and “oh”, he knew it wasn’t the time
to be taking a moral stand. Ali grabbed Mari by the face and sloppily
kissed her, their tongues roaming all over each other’s mouths. When they
seperated, Brent could see a little bit of drool come from Mari’s lip to
Ali’s tongue before she put it back in and started talking to him.
“Why haven’t you yet?” She pouted. His knees were beginning to weaken.
Mari was clamping down on him like curfew. “Are we not hot enough for you?”
The dancer was just a receptacle to him now. Ali’s eyes had hold of him.
She wouldn’t need to much longer. Just a little bit more to get what she
wanted. “Don’t you like Mari’s sweet tits? Taste so good…” Leaning
down again, she ran her tongue across Mari’s nipple, playing with it before
giving it a playful tug with her teeth. “You’re just a guy. You love
tits.” She fixed a stare on him. “Is this going to make you come?”
She grabbed the tank top and whipped it off of her head. It occured to
Brent at some point tomorrow afternoon/in a few hours he was going to buy
some lucky optometrist a Lexus. Ali grabbed him by the head as she moved
closer to him. Mari contorted her body and began whimpering as Ali had them
both by the back of the head and forced them into her chest.
“SUCK Mommy’s titties!” hissed Ali, her face scrunching up as Mari began to
finger her underneath the thong, the only piece of clothing still remaining
on the four-headed monster on the couch. Brent lapped her up, and then
began to kiss her feverishly. Mari’s face set wide-eyed, and then she
clamped down on him further to replicate the feeling.
“Fuck me with that big dick!” Brent angled, rubbing some more of the tip
against her clit. She howled into the Los Angeles night, grabbing at Ali’s
breasts before falling back on the couch. Ali pressed against Brent’s neck,
whispering devilry into his ear.
“That’s it! You make this fucking whore wet! Soak that pussy in cum so I
can lick it all out!” Ali bit and tugged his earlobe as the corners of his
mouth began to spread out. There was no better bliss than the moment of
impact. Except when it came with director’s commentary.
“Oh, fuck, look at it.” His dick was beginning to shine in the light of the
living room no one had bothered to turn off since they were otherwise
occupied. “I’m gonna lick your jizz right out of that slutty pussy. Mmm,
gonna be face deep, sucking her clit into my mouth, tasting your cum and her
cum together.” His back stiffened, and he began to let the fire hose spray.
“Oh, fuck! FUCK! YES!” Mari wet two fingers and began pushing her button
as much as handspeed would allow, knowing there was more to come. Sweat
stuck a ribbon of black hair over her forehead and covered her eye, but that
didn’t matter. She had wanted a fucking tonight, and to say she was
“Face deep in that cunt…”
“Oh, Brent, fucking CUM in my pussy! Oh, shit!”
“…juice all over my face…”
“God! FUCK! Oh, yes! YES! You bastard, fill me up with your cum!”
“…on all fours…” She was kissing against him, rubbing his nipples.
“…ass out, waiting for you to shove that dick in me…”
“…yeah, you’re coming now, aren’t you…”
He let loose with a torrent of fluid that in the right building’s canisters
could’ve made him a millionaire. Mari’s head fell back against the edge of
the couch, and she pulled her fingers out of Ali and sucked them, content to
babble. His heart raced as he finished, and when he did, he pulled out
noisily and fell to his knees on the floor. Mari knew some tricks, or had
taken a seminar or something. She had held him in to the hilt, and now he
knew it was going to be a bit before he could go around again.
Ali looked down at him with a cocky grin. She wiped the little bit of
sweat that’d congregated under her eyes, and looked down at Mari.
“You still thinking about what’s-his-name?”
There was a grin on Mari’s face, and she shook her head west-east.
“I didn’t think so.” Firmly in charge of the situation to the shock
of…well, there’s got to be somebody out there…Ali leaned in and gave
Mari a liplock. Mari began to kiss down her neck, before hefting up her
right breast and beginning to kiss and suck it. Mari’d dabbled a little bit
in college like most girls her age, but to actually be fucking a known
actress and some strange guy appealed to her most depraved neurons and
impulses. After all, it would be only that part of her that could feel his
eyes on her back as she began to lazily stroke some of Ali’s clit with her
thumb before putting it in Landry’s mouth for her to suck on, right? Sure.
Ali moaned dreamily as she felt teeth nip at her. And she was just
expecting to hump this Brent guy and bounce! This was just a drizzle of
chocolate syrup on the sundae. Mmm…drizzling chocolate syrup…well,
clearly, that would have to probably wait for another time. But even so,
she could still put something dark and sweet in her mouth to hold her over
until such a time came.
“Mari, turn over, baby.” she said quietly. “Mmm-mmm.”. Mari objected as
much as she could with her mouth full of tit, before giving her nipple a
last lapping up. She crawled across the lap onto the edge of the couch
closest to the door, where the man had repositioned himself. He just sat
there with a smile on his lips, his palms resting safely on his thighs as he
watched. No manual work was going to be necessary to get him warmed up
Ali bit her lip as she looked at the young dancer bent over, waiting for
what was to come up next. Every time Ali fucked with a college-aged girl,
she wondered why she ever decided to not just lock in on that demographic
exclusively; with Mari’s glutes in her hands, firm with a little give, she
found herself getting hooked again.
It was enough to make a girl want to sing, but Ali just opted to quote.
“Ah…brown sugar. Why do you taste so good?” The girls laughed, but
Mari’s laugh turned into a moan as Ali licked up one of her lips and found
what she was looking for: two cums for the price of one. Mari was a little
spicy, Brent’s load like a melted salt lick, and they were two great tastes
that tasted great together. Ali licked up the other lip and grabbed onto
Mari’s ass with both hands and pulled up. “Mmm…that’s what I like, a nice
little cum shake before bed.” Ali laughed and looked at Mari’s ass.
Suddenly, she dipped her head and began to kiss all over her ass, everywhere
she saw a dimple.
“You know what the only thing that’s stopping me from being addicted to your
sweet ass is?” Ali said, the question hanging in the air for a couple
seconds before being filled with another wetly enthusiastic kiss.
“It’s way too close to that filled-up pussy!” Bam, she was in. Without
hesitation she shoved her tongue inside of Mari, letting the spunk and cum
slide down her throat. The young girl arched her back and her breasts came
off the cushions in glee.
“Oh, fuck, lick that pussy!” Ali tried to talk to say something in
response, but the object of her desire over her face had unvoweled any words
she could’ve spit out. And spitting out wasn’t part of the plan. So
instead, she sunk her fingernails into Mari’s ass flesh to get her
“Ow!” The dirtiest Halo stopped the torture, and began to rub Mari’s cheeks
before giving them an emphatic slap. “No more digs–just rub it,
pleaseeee…” Mari’s protest was somewhat cut off at the knees as Ali
sucked on her clit. But she was amenable, and just settled for eating her
out accompanied by the occassional caress or smack of the rump.
Brent was now recovered from the load he blew into Mari, and found himself
somewhat stunned and floored by watching her grind her pussy against Ali’s
face back and forth as if she was riding a cock. He’d never seen girls go
after each other in real life, and was finding the experience enlightening
to say the least. He was flashing back to Mari sucking his dick. He knew
he wanted a piece of Ali, to be sure, but Mari’s fellatio should’ve gotten
her a commendation, a medal, or a raise.
Assuming it hadn’t already.
With a grin, he picked himself up off of the floor and stood up at the
couch. Mari opened her eyes for the first time in a while and saw him. A
girlish, devilish grin spread across her face and she waved him over.
Already in virtual heat over the tongue ministrations of Ali, she decided
that while receiving she should be charitable and give too. Their mouths
greeted each other warmly while Mari’s body continued to steadily rock back
and forth. Her knees were going to have couch burn on them tomorrow, she
thought a little sadly. She rubbed his nipples and then swallowed him
again, the meat of an oral sandwich.
His dick thrust aggressively into her mouth, slipping out at times. Perhaps
he sensed he had one last colossal bang in him before his alarm woke up, but
Mari worked as hard as she could to pacify him with her well-versed tongue
“Busy boy!” she exclaimed mischievously between sucks. “It’s..whoo…it’s
like you…like you’ve never seen two girls dyke out before…” Brent let
out a short laugh as Mari trapped the tip between her lips and sucked some
more pre-cum off of his weight.
Her spit and his warmup covered the first three inches of his dependent, and
they shone between licks in the stoplight outside of the window. “So
eager.” Ali continued to carees and fondle Mari’s ass, almost as if she was
trying to draw her enter pelvis into her mouth. While Ali was her receiving
port, Mari was beginning to feel sorry for the guy. As good as she was at
giving head (and as good as she thought she was given the usual one-on-one),
it was getting repetitive. She had to mix it up.
Her arm pushed Brent forward a half-step. Just enough for her to wrap her
34Bs around his cock. His posture straightened emphatically, and she put
her palms on the sides to push them together and fully envelop him with her
What he thought but wouldn’t say in a million years: Wow. It’s like a Spice
“Fuck my titties…” Mari threw her head back and continued to grind against
Ali’s face, a face that was eager to see this titfucking but more concerned
with finding Mari’s release mechanism. The same way only more beer fixed
hangovers, only cum got that orgasmy taste out of her mouth. Ali was
beginning to cum a little bit herself just from having the experience of
going down on one of her “real life” crushes.
And through it all, Brent continued to thrust happily away. Mari’s thoughts
of her ex were lightyears away as her breasts continued to pummel away at
his dick, before she decided that someone else’s gratitude would be repayed
Mari began to jack off Brent in her hands, double-pumping him as she slowly
rotated her body 180 degrees. She had wanted Ali to stop for a couple of
seconds but getting Ali to stop was going to be like trying to make sense of
Jay Leno’s popularity, so she just made Ali move in concert a couple seconds
after she moved, Brent’s hips still thrusting even though she had downgraded
him to a standard jerking off.
“I want it, Ali. Give me your cunt.”
Just hearing the word cunt in that context swept a delightful chill through
Brent and Mari looked at him and nodded her head before she mouthed two
words. Ali was still–still!–finding little bits of cum inside of Mari.
Brent shook his head, which seemed ridiculous given what had happened
before, but Mari just smiled and gave him the puppy dog eyes. She could’ve
gotten bin Laden to surrender with those.
Ali came up for air and swallowed some down like she’d just ripped off a
scuba mask. With a smile, she ignored the sweat coming down her breasts or
the strands of hair that had gotten stuck to her forehead in her fervent
efforts to provide the finest pussy eating on the West Coast. As she swung
her legs around, Mari felt Ali’s chest press into her stomach.
Pretty soon, she wouldn’t be thinking about that.
The girls quickly locked into a 69 as Brent debated whether or not to go for
his cameraphone. If he hadn’t been ready to explode, it probably would’ve
gone down that way. But as it was, he was standing above two hot girls
whose bodies were rubbing against each other as they ate each other out like
they were having a relapse from a diet.
“So this is what it’s like to be God…” he whispered quietly. They didn’t
hear him, of course–they were moaning into each other far too loud for
that. And Mari was thinking of what she’d mouthed. Brent looked,
It wasn’t the 69, though his first live one was some sort of blessing. He
could focus on about 34 of it though.
Ali Landry’s ass was north-southing in front of him, and he could see juice
drip onto Mari’s face. For hours on the dance floor, the ass had taunted
him. Made him hard, had given him the courage to get bombed out of his mind
and dream that he, too, could fly like the birds in the sky and one-night
stand one of the hottest women in the States. And Mari’s words. And her
He had all the tools.
She was fucking a girl.
He hadn’t gotten a piece of her yet.
She was getting her ass slapped.
His heartbeat was slowing down.
Mari was even holding her open a bit.
There you are, a girl tripping on X and having fun eating pussy and getting
your pussy eaten. The next, a forearm masquerading itself as a dick shoves
its way into your most closed of openings.
Is there really any other response in the world to sum up that jarring
sensation better than the catch-all “Holy SHIT!”
What was beyond her screaming it over the invasion was the fact that he was
second to follow it up. Ali Landry’s ass was literally tight in addition to
figuratively; an ass so tight it kept a pound of coupons and didn’t go see
movies in the theaters anymore. Tight.
Brent knew he was about to die. His heart was racing too fast. It was all
too improbable. But if this is how he was to go, he would go living it up.
As Ali shot back, he grabbed her by the hair.
“Hollywood slut!” he screamed in epiphanitic glee.
Ali opened her mouth to make the protest, but it was too late for that.
Mari sucked her clit into her mouth full-blast.
“Oh, Christ! Cum! Cum! Cum!” Ali was gone. Usually the few times before
she had DPed it had been a planned event and they’d all involved two guys.
But this time the three of them were just having that time they would refer
to as “their wild times” when they got older. Ali’s eyes began to glaze
over and she looked back at Brent.
“You dirty bastard! Fuck me! Fuck my ass, you son of a bitch! Fill it up
with your load! Give it to me!”
Well, was he wrong?
Her lips glistened in the light when she wasn’t putting the tip of her
tongue on them. She looked as if she was about to hit the floor.
Her face contorted in absolute bliss as Mari continued to finish her off,
and that’s what happened to set Brent off.
Her bottom lip, and the little bit of Mari that dripped onto her right
Brent let out a lengthy growl, and Ali felt a tear in her eye as she came
into Mari. He was beginning to come in her ass. Filthy. Dirty. Nasty.
Cum all over her legs and chest. Interracial bisexual threeway.
“BRENT! Oh, my GOD!”
She would’ve cared about morals if she hadn’t felt so alive. She smiled and
recieved him as he grabbed around her waist and unleashed the second flood
of the evening, and almost filled her like he was at the pump. When he
pulled out, his head listed to one side. Mari moved Ali off of her face and
buried her face in Ali’s ass to eat it all up. Ali protested she was sore,
that it hurt, to leave it alone. But if Mari had listened to her, she
wouldn’t’ve come again. Mari came from eating the come out of her ass.
Brent’s eyelids suddenly felt heavy and his vision blurred. He took in the
sight one last time. He’d peaked at 28. It happens that way sometimes.
The girls, completely drained, hung off of either end of the couch like
“Can…you believe…he’s passed out already?” gasped Mari.
Ali shook her head, wondering if her heart was about to implode.
“G–g—guys.” She wiped the sweat off of her forehead, and leaned in to
“We should do this again sometime.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Mari agreed, dipping her tongue in Ali’s mouth one more time.
“Brent, this is Kent. C’mon, man, pick up. Pick up!”
“OOH, baby, do you know what that’s worth? OOH, heaven is a place on
Michael’s head snapped back to consciousness. If anything was sure to jolt
someone awake at–6:27 in the morning?!–Belinda Carlisle would do it.
“They say in heaven, love comes first–we’ll make heaven a place on
As his brain slowly gurgled to life, for the first time Michael regretted
being flip and glib about his choice of ringtone for Greg.
“Mrrrghftpgngh…” Michael grumbled, Early Morning for “Where the FUCK did I
put the cell?!”
“Ooh, heaven is a place on Earth…” The charger! He pushed off the wall,
but without his usual library of facilities sent himself flying backwards.
“OW!” He would soon remember this as the good part, for the chair came down
with him and slammed abruptly into his breadbasket. “And DOUBLE ow! Shit!”
What an inauspicious start to the day. Shoving the chair off himself with
more force than was strictly necessary, he scrambled to the Verizon and
looked in the front display window. 1 Voicemail.
He flipped it open and dialed it up, the ex-Trojan’s free hand checking his
“Believe it or not/Mike isn’t free now…” beep boop beep beep
“Michael, Greg. Check your e-mail. ASAP. I don’t know how you did it, but
congrats.” Michael’s face squelched up in confusion. “Holy shit, by the
way…” That was it. Killing off the message, he righted the chair and
dialed up the browser. It was just bueno suerte he’d left the comp on
before sleeping and it hadn’t eaten his “Back To Catholic School” episode.
Part of him knew they were going to hold it back for sweeps, but fuck it.
Greg’s e-mail was an echo of his voicemail, with a link.
LOKEN BACK ON THE PROWL?
He was having another Tyler Durden moment before he even scrolled down the
page. He knew what the rest of the story was.
There had to have been about 40 pictures of she & Ali together, bumping and
grinding against each other. There was a mild sinking feeling in his craw
of “I could’ve provided the meat for the finest sandwich bread in the world”
but as he looked he shoved that feeling down as far as it would go. It
became easy after about the fifth pic, watching Kristanna wrap her legs
around Ali, or Ali leaning over a bent-over Kristanna to bite her earlobe.
He might’ve made a mental note of Lacey’s absence if his brain hadn’t
stopped working after the series of body shot pictures.
Just because his brain wasn’t really working didn’t mean the simpler
thoughts of the head had come to a standstill. Quietly, he reached behind
his speakers for the cherry-almond Jergans and put two squirts in his hand.
Stealthily, his hand reached all the way into his pants.
Sleep aid, he thought in the illogical corner of his mind. It’s just a
11:04. Gail Kim paced inside her apartment on the mat that she’d laid out
for the training exercises. She’d called Kristanna a couple of times. No
She was on her way, probably, and didn’t want to pick up the phone and talk
while trying to drive. That was probably it.
Gail did the splits and stretched out, feeling her back loosen up and
release tension. Just some light stuff today, a few basic kickboxing things
that she probably knew already. Kim’s 5’4″ frame stretched and contorted.
It was important to be ready for the training.
One opportunity. She wasn’t going to blow it.
In Burbank, a mass of blonde hair, long legs and ass wouldn’t wake up until
Michael wondered if he would ever get normal sleep again. He was beginning
to wager the apartment on no.
Three hours after he’d nodded off he was back awake, a half hour after that
inside the confines of the shower singing “I Want To Be Sedated” at the top
of his lungs. This was 35 minutes ago, as he was now speeding towards a
lunch meeting with Lacey.
“..new new new music…Jimmy Eat World, “Futures”…”
“Nice!” In anticipation, Ramirez turned up the dial on 97.2 as “Southern
California’s favorite mutt, KWBR” played careening guitar riffs. Mike
didn’t exactly know why Lacey had asked to meet with him, and figured it was
probably just a progress report to keep him aware and abreast of how she was
coming along with the script. As he drove through the overly congested
streets he daydreamed idily about the fame and fortune that was sure to come
as a result of the show, if for no better reason than to no longer be the
only straight man within the county line that tooled around in a Saturn.
Pulling up to the ubiquitious Starbucks, he noticed a rather flash Cavalier
in the lot. Usually those words went together like heterosexuality and
Jeter, but this was exception that proved rule: a baby white little girl
ride with some undecidely little girl flames down the side. Hitting the
alarm security (as if someone would abscond with his joke of a ride), he
entered and looked around; Lacey was in a corner.
As she waved him over, he was again struck by howbeautiful she looked at
even her most dressed down–tiny little black Chuck Taylors, with little
white socks that both looked cartoonish in comparison to their normal-sized
counterparts, a pair of jeans, and a black hoodie, open, over a plain white
shirt. Yet again Michael felt the tug between wanting to protect her like a
brother and wanting to plow her like a brother in Arkansas as she smiled,
briefly, and waved him over to the table where she was.
Taking a seat and looking around, he hoped she would forgive her for his
relatively shabby jean shorts that were beginning to fray at the edges and
his Cobra Kai shirt. He realized as she hugged him hello she had a salad in
front of her with walnuts, but probably hadn’t gotten to it yet with his
“Nice shirt. You always root for evil?” She sat up straighter in her chair,
looking at him.
“More often than I don’t. Where’d you get the salad?” Lacey stared at him.
“What?” His right hand went up to his nose.
“I got it here. Wow, you act like you’ve never been in a Starbucks before.”
She giggled as Michael’s eyes went west to east and back again.
“Oh, yeah. Act like. I’m witty, you know.” He reached to his side and put
something on the table. “There’s my cell, so you see I’m taking this
seriously, I’ve put Angelina on silent.”
“You did who in the what now?”
“That’s another story entirely.” He looked sheepish. “I named my phone
Angelina.” Lacey’s eyebrows raised but she kept her face passive and
soothing. “I know, it’s weird. Anyway, you’ve got me here. So, what’s
Lacey looked away and raised her head, then pressed her nose with her index
finger and thumb. “Well, Mike–can I call you Mike?”
He didn’t really like it, but then again… “Sure.”
“Mike. I’m thinking of leaving the show.”
A train leaves Montecito at 10 a.m., doing 150 miles an hour. A man is
crossing the train tracks oblivious at 11 a.m. 150 miles down the road. If
these numbers are constants, how far will they find pieces of the poor
bastard and how many of the king’s horses and the king’s men will it take to
put Humpty together again? Michael looked around the conglomerate offshoot,
and as he did a smile slowly moved across his face. “Wait a second…I know
what this is!” His head angled around. “I’m on PUNK’D! Good one. Let’s
fuck with the new guy…a CLASSIC!” Lacey looked at him as he began
standing up on his chair, sort of a lion on the Serengeti ready to pick off
a wounded zebra. “Oooh, you got me!” he exclaimed jovially. “Ashton, you
fuckface, get out here!”
Lacey did what the average person did in this set of circumstances; she
lowered her head and tried to see if anyone was looking at them without
making it overt that she was engaging in double reverse peeping. When she
said “Michael.” it was double-ply soft.
“I mean, if I were you, I’d have more productive things to do with my
“DEMI, to name one or two or fifty…”
“…but it’s all good. I’m honored, really…”
“MICHAEL!” Lacey shot her right arm out, effectively knocking Ramirez out
of his crouch and into a seated position like before. After a couple of
moment of silence so people could get their staring out of their systems,
Lacey sighed and continued. “You’re not being PUNK’D. I just don’t know if
I have what it takes to be a Halo.”
The writer’s face collapsed in on itself like a condemned house getting the
first taste of a wrecking ball. He leaned back before putting his elbows on
the table. “I just don’t get it. The last time we talked you seemed
enthused! You…” He was desperately reaching for words. “…you…you
s…you just can’t 180 like this out of nowhere. What happened?”
“Well, I went out with the other girls last night.” Lacey’s feet dragged
under the seat of the chair, but before she could continue–
“I didn’t see you with them in the pictures.” Chabert’s mouth opened, then
suddenly realized something had just thrown her off her train of thought.
“Pictures? What pictures?”
“From the club last night.” Seeing the shocked look on Lacey’s face,
Michael continued, “It’s 2005, and all the horniest guys get the best
technology first.” She shook her head, and her hair spilled across her
“That’s exactly it. I’m not in the pictures. I wouldn’t’ve been even if I
hadn’t ducked out early. It’s nothing against Ali & Kristanna, it’s
just…” Her arms moved in front of her doing everything and going nowhere.
Michael shook his head in a no.
“I’m the third wheel. I’m the bronze. You don’t need me. I’d just drag
down the show. I mean, when people see them next to me, it’s going to be
obvious I don’t belong there. They’re so beautiful, and they…they just
have this grace about them. They’re sexy, Michael. That’s not me. I’m not
a big club girl, I’m not some sort of pinup…” She looked down at the
floor, and brought her fingertops to the table.
Michael had also been looking down, but only so she couldn’t see how far
open his mouth truly was. “You’re right. You’re not a pinup.”
He looked at her. “You are so much more than that, Lacey. You’re a
talented actress. You’re the best one on the show. I stay at home, and you
know what I do? I write the show with you in the center. The whole season
outline I whipped up is about Meghan’s evolution. About you taking center
stage. About you learning the ropes, getting over your fears, and taking
names in the morning and breaking hearts in the evening.”
“NO. I’m not.” Michael wondered if he should say it, then did. “If I was
going to allow myself to date anybody on the show…it’d be you. I’ve
wanted you since you were Claudia, Lacey. Years now. And it’s only my
decency and wishes that this thing work that keep me from diving over this
table and taking your body, or trying, at least.” He bit his lip as Lacey
looked at him. She could see into his eyes; guileless.
“You don’t want to hit the clubs, don’t. But don’t let
anything–anything!–convince you you’re not sexy, or you don’t belong, or
any of the rest of it. You stay, Lace. You should stay. By the end of the
year, I promise…” He took her hand in his and clenched it, staring into
“…I promise on everything holy we’ll have America wanting you the way I
want you. Even now.” She kept looking for a sign he was acting. No
flinches. No blinks, or not many of them. She could feel his pulse race as
his hand stayed in hers. “But you can’t leave because paparazzi have no
taste and you don’t make hot copy. Don’t leave. PLEASE.”
It looked, to the unknowing observer, as if a boyfriend was pleading for a
last chance. Silence reigned. Then got overthrown.
“You’re really writing the show around me?”
“Were you writing it around me before I told you I was going to leave?”
He nodded. “Since auditions.”
Something in her gut rumbled. The last time it had, she’d left 686. Her
gut was a second brain. The same gut that’d told her to go in for the
audition to growup on the screen, to quit being cute. The gut was almost
“Michael…if I found out you’re lying to me…”
“I’m not!” He lowered his voice. “I’m not.”
“I will leave you for dead.”
“But you’re back in?”
She sighed, and nodded. A look of pure glee played upon his face.
“So…what do you have me up to this season?”
“Well, if you thought you weren’t going to be sexy enough?” He felt
confident enough to joke again. “I got news for you on that front.”
As Michael loaded into his car, he smiled and watched Lacey drive the
souped-up Cavalier off the lot. So, everything was going all right now.
Everybody still on board, keeping on task…he’d have to plan that lunch at
some point…and continue writing scripts…and meet with the NBC group,
especially the censors…
His stomach lurched and he reached for the brown paper bag under his
passenger side seat. The cap came off and he gulped down eagerly. The
Pepto soothed his rumbles and his nausea. Bad kung pao, he thought to
himself. Can’t be getting an ulcer already. Winners get rocked. Losers
crumble. He finished and stowed the capped bottle back in its place and got
in his car.
Up came the radio.
“It’s my life! Don’t you forget! Caught in the crowd, it never ends!”
Michael’s head bobbed in recognition.
“Preach on, Sister Gwen. Preach on.”
The Saturn drove off into the blinding yellow light.
And the Halos were about to get off the ground.