Dirty Halos – Chapter 1: The Best Laid Plans


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
of this

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!



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

a lot.

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

be doable?”

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.

“Another script?”

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–”

“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.

Extremely doable.

“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.

“I’m scared.”

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.

“Light! LIGHT!”

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?!”

“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

nodded. “Lace?”

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.


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.

“What? Really?”

“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

a sip.

“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

his Corona.

“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.


“Hiooooooooooooooly shit.”

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

her head.

“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

head up.

“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


“Smart thinking.”


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

gotta go!”

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.



“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!


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.

“Oh, Ali.”

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

onto hardwood.

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

third kiss.

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

of cotton.

“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

getting it…

“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

and lips.

“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

Channel Oreo!

“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

about now.

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

knob job.

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.

Is he?


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

kiss Mari.

“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.


…club 686…

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

sleep aid.


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


One opportunity.



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


“Hey, you–”

“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.

“…you know?”

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.”

“You’re just–”

“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

her eyes.

“…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

never wrong.

“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.

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