Dirty Halos – The Prologue

DIRTY HALOS (MF, oral, cons, inter, AU)

the PROLOGUE

AUTEUR: B. Diddy (godhateme79@hotmail.com)

FEEDBACK: Could you GIVE ME SOME?! Is that too much to ask, you dirty

bastards? Could you? Suggestions, constructive criticism, I’ll settle for

a belch for Alba’s sake…

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).

DISCLAIMER: To quote Bubba Sparxxx, how else can I say it, I don’t speak no

other languages: THIS AIN’T REAL. I done made this all
up. The famous

people are used for their bodies as I write in personality and almost

nymphomatic behaviour. All right? Said famous people should note this is

merely parody and as such is not legally actionable, unless of course you

want to find me and give me in-person post-production notes on how you

actually would have sex, in which case use the e-mail…

THE CAST:

Gail Kim as the Stunt Coordinator

kristannaLOKEN as Heather, the average ho-hum kickboxer/wet dream-next-door

type

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

hooks

Greg Doll as the money man

Michael Ramirez as the writer of the pilot

***

It was the halfway point of a decade, and yet something was missing. Like a

missing tooth in the back, the gap was noticable but seemingly accepted with

time.

To think it had all started with Mary Tyler Moore. Her Capris ushered in

however slowly the dawn of a sex life on television. After that, things

steadily progressed and peaked seemingly (appropriately?) with the Clinton

administration. But ever since the Y2K bug had been squashed, nothing had

taken the place “Baywatch” once held.

And for one fifty-two-year old multimillionaire, it was never going to be

“Charlie’s Angels”. First loves are always the hardest to let go of, if

one can really let them go at all. In his youth Greg had grown up watching

Farrah, Jacklyn, & Kate. Sure, his boys had Eva and Nicolette and Teri, but

it wasn’t really the same. Wasn’t everything on TV recyclable anyway? What

was “Yes, Dear” but a fifth-rate “Honeymooners”? “Bernie Mac”, “the

Jeffersons”, “PUNK’D”, “Candid Camera”, Letterman, Carson, “ER”, “Marcus

Welby”, so on and so on and la da di da. It was worth doing, giving a shot.

Giving the gents what the “Housewives” almost gave them.

As he read the proposed pilot, a low chuckle emerged in his throat.

Now HE was going to have to pick three young girls, take them away from all

that, and they were going to have to work for him.

Everything’s recyclable.

***

Money people only saw the big picture. Things needed to be fleshed out

beyond the basic premise. Not by much, but as it turned out, the extra

work would pay off.

Speaking of the extra work, what better publicity for the New Age Angels

Title Subject To Change than being able to do most of their own stunts? Oh,

sure, the really dangerous things like wallclimbing, getting thrown through

windows and all manner of life-threateners and face-ruiners would be done by

stuntwomen, but having the basic knowledge to throw attacks, kick, and yet

look f a b o l o u s while doing so required an exact eye and keen smarts.

***

With the networks fighting publicly over who would get the show, the stunt

coordinator flew in right under the radar of all the big names.

It had been her first major project, though in some ways she’d been building

up to the moment for the entirety of her life.

Months ago, she had been a cog for a major corporation. From the outside

others sang her praises, and yet that hadn’t stopped them from bringing some

inferior new talent at a markup before nudging her towards the door. It

still rankled her a bit, sure. But now all the time perfecting her craft

wasn’t just dust int he wind. The idle summer days she’d spent throwing

ninja stars at trees in the park, the endless weeks of learning to fall,

then hit…now it was all coming together for her and at a perfect time.

She smiled as she gunned the motorcycle towards the lot and the set of the

show. A smirk was all over her face as palm trees flew by in her periphery

and sun added more color to the parts of her not covered by the leather top.

Yeah, she thought to herself whistling down the pavement, Vince McMahon was

about to be damn sorry he ever fired lil’ miss Gail Kim.

***

Sometimes in life, things (and well, people) snowball. Something that

seemed minor turns out in retrospect to be the building block to something

colossal. Sometimes it is a colossal success–ask the Sawx about that.

Sometimes it turns out to be an epic Hindenburg job–and the Yankees knew

that.

The moment the scuttlebutt whispers amplified to sentences said quietly in

bistros in the hopes no one would steal this juicy nugget of informaton from

them happened shortly after Aaron Spelling failed to close off the possible

production. In fact, he had given them full go-ahead and Greg quickly

signed him as an advisor who’d get into the end credits. Greg had to tip

his hat to Michael on that one; the idea built on a whim was starting to

twitch into life.

But when the audition advertisements went out 10 days beforehand on a sleepy

three-day weekend (for the normies), the monster that began twitching to

life broke free of the table’s restraints and started moving sluggishly into

town with a eye on the residents.

In a good way, though.

Greg & Michael sat back and tweaked all the minor things. They began

hashing out with Gail the stunt coordinator some of the things they wanted

to do in the pilot to come. They had another meeting with Aaron. In

increasingly bigger ads they counted down from 10.

Basically, as they waited out the full-page 1, they sat back and relaxed.

Who knew how long things would last? But at least, for now, it was probable

they could get a few warm bodies to show up for the audition and begin

casting their Halos.

***

In a ludicrously nice house on the hill, Greg’s children woke him up with

tandem jumps onto his stomach 10 minutes after he set his alarm.

Instinctively, he knew it had to be 6:10; he had quit using the snooze

button back in 1993.

On the other side of town three blocks from USC, Michael had no such problem

as a single barely-ex-Trojan. No wife, no fiancee, no girl–well, no steady

girl. His problem lay with his eyes. Sure, they saw everything fine.

They also hadn’t closed for nearly 40 hours.

He’d tried everything. NyQuil had merely made him woozy. He played a

marathon poker game with his roomate and some friends, but when everybody

crapped out at 2 he tried again to get sleep. By 3 he was at Krispy Kreme

getting them fresh out the oven and then he’d spent the rest of the time

staring at the script. He wanted so desperately to trash the whole shit and

try and write something better. He was also piss-scared about changing

anything down to the tiniest semicolon.

Only looking at the clock to his right got him moving. This was the day.

Pretty soon was going to be the time. No pressure. Succeed, and become the

Next Big Thing. Fail, and sleep in the street giving handjobs for crack.

Yuuuuuuuuup.

No pressure whatsoever.

***

It was either Confucious, JFK, or Shawn Carter who once famously stated ‘I

got 99 problems…’

By 9:15 on Lot F, it was apparent between Michael’s insomnia and both men’s

general king-sized butterflies that the problems may have numbered in the

low hundreds but for damn sure a bitch wasn’t going to be one. Or three, in

this case.

Every archetype was there: the unknowns fresh off the Greyhound hoping to

catapult to stardom, the ones who scraped for years and saw this as a

catalyst, and the ones who were “Hollywood old” trying to fend off the

plastic surgeon for a couple more years.

That was just the unknowns. If Michael couldn’t physically do it, he

would’ve sworn he was dreaming. Besides the feeling of “I know her from

SOMEWHERE…” he’d had about 20 times already, he could see that little

hottie from Alias Sarah Shahi. His friends all thought he was crazy he

thought she was hotter than Garner, but well, they were working and he was

surrounded by the kingdom of heaven. Fuck ’em. All. In the ass. With a

bear. Diagnosed with SARS.

That was the aunt from the O.C., yes, that was Katherine Heigl, Roselyn

Sanchez, Sofia Vergara–

–Michael for a fleeting second wanted to cast the latter pair, kidnap Salma

Hayek, and shunt the whole production to Ciudad Juarez and throw it up on

Telemundo–

–the Miller Lite girls, and the list just kept ejac–coming. He shook his

head and leaned over to Greg.

“Can you make the big speech?” Greg nodded, looking sadly at his driving

force.

“You okay?”

“Other than the insomnia, the rapid heartbeat, and trying to fight off an

erection? Can’t complain.” Greg patted him twice on the back.

“We’ll get through this. At least the first two parts, you’re on your own

with that last.” And with that Greg Doll stood up and faced the assemblage

of GodDAMN.

“Ladies, welcome. As you probably guessed, you’re here for the casting of

How To Lose A Guy In 20 Days.”

A titter went up from the girls. Greg’s face scrunched.

“Obviously, I’m kidding.”

The girls laughed nervously as Doll looked to Ramirez. “I thought that was

a good one,” he pouted.

“I thought it was funny,” said Michael as he adjusted in his seat, “but I’ve

been up for the past 41½ hours, so…”

The girls were then given a state of the show address, the speech Greg was

to originally give. This was, in fact, the casting of Halos as advertised,

and a couple of girls ran down to Lot H as they were supposed to be. Greg

was the cash, Michael was the brains so far. Mr. Spelling is not here as of

right now but yes, might be coming later. They had just signed Donal Logue

as Bosley, that was true. The original Angels would not be playing their

mothers, false.

For today, it was their fervent hope they would in fact have the full deck

of Halos by the end of the day. They would read with Greg, and Michael once

he was ready to do it. The readings would be of the pilot Michael wrote as

the (re)introduction of the new girls. They would start off reading

Heathers, Meghans and closing out with the Lizzies. Lunch would come in

there somewhere, based on progress.

The girls seperated into archtypes and ordered themselves in the numbers

pinned to their blouses and shirts.

Greg smiled as they went to the setup room. Michael still looked a little

out of it.

“You feeling any better?”

“A little.”

“Attaboy.” Greg gave him another clap on the back. It was at this point

Michael Ramirez realized something he should’ve learned earlier in his

youth: chicken and waffles, good. Chicken and waffles and Krispy Kreme,

bad. So. Very bad.

Michael Ramirez’s first impression to the ladies was a young, jangled nerve

ending perpetually twitching. The second impression was a shockingly dark

spray of vomit all over the ground. Greg had luckily moved at the last

second. He sighed.

“All right–we’re going to take five, have this cleaned, and then…we’ll be

ready to start the casting.”

***

It started with Heather. Heather was behind a desk for the SFPD in the

story because her brother had recently passed in the line of duty. And

while they wanted to protect their baby, Heather still wanted to get out on

the street and mix it up.

And despite her good looks, the only time she had been able to get on top of

a guy and use handcuffs had all been on duty.

Empires were built on less.

The problem was you had to find someone who could switch off between being a

girl next door and a sexpot all in one. Someone you could hide behind

glasses and sweaters until the big reveal right after the first commerical

break and then oops pow surprise, where did THIS little gift from the gods

come from?

And so it began. Tide shifted as the interviews went on. Kim Smith had a

particularly strong showing, and Marne Patterson was right in her range.

The tide would switch one more time right around quarter to 11, and this

time when it changed it stayed changed.

You can’t get away from your past. Sometimes, this can be a good thing.

And when Kristanna Loken walked into the room, all Greg could think of was

how he’d met his wife at the sophomore mixer. The T3 star was dressed in a

somewhat low-cut red dress that showed off her long legs, and she was a

taller presence than both Michael & Greg by a few inches on both accounts.

As they talked about her background of growing up on a farm and she read her

scene, Greg managed somehow not to focus on her body. Her eyes were

stealing the show for him. Intense and green, they sold the lines as much

as her voice and posture; flickering from anger to vulnerability and still

managing to draw your attention even when her status was just playing off

what she was being fed.

After she read, Greg went to Michael.

“I think we have ourselves a Heather.” Greg smiled confidently at his

younger charge.

“Really?” Michael looked at Kristanna out of the corner of his eye, trying

not to overplay the hand Greg was trying to deal him. “Isn’t she sort

of…hot for our girl-next-door?”

Greg smiled at Michael. “Mike, come ‘ere.”

Mike did.

Palm to the forehead.

“It’s TV. We’re in HOLLLLLLLYWOOOOOOD. You have to draw upward! I think

we’re sitting on a gold mine here!”

So Michael sat back and thought about it, as he rubbed the throbbing part of

his forehead. “You know, the hitting me–that was really unnecessary.”

Greg gave a sheepish grin. “She does have a background with kickboxing,

though, I did like that. Not enough of the others had any sort of

background with a fighting style. It’ll make things easier for–uh–”

Doll looked at his primer index card. “Gail.”

“–right, Gail to work with her if she’s already had some training.”

Michael nodded, thinking quietly to himself.

“I mean, she grew up on a farm. I know it’s not exactly next door, but

honestly, a girl like that growing up on a farm? You kidding me?” Greg

reached into his pocket for a Nicorette and popped it in. “Gold mine, gold

mine, gold mine.”

Michael was thinking on the fly on how he would adjust the character if he

were to cast her. She did have phenomenal legs that were well-trained; it

would serve both the overhanging arcs of the show via the girl power

ass-whomping and the break out the lotion for the guys to tune in. Her last

big exposure was the T3 movie, so it wasn’t like she was adverse to taking

punishment, either…his neck cracked and he smiled.

“You know what? Yeah.”

Greg beamed the smile that had gotten him so far in life. “Yeah?”

Michael nodded. “So go tell her.” Greg sat up from his chair and took a

step forward.

“Say, Greg?” Doll looked over the kid. “No jokes.”

Greg shrugged and soon an happy scream echoed through the room. Michael

pulled out his notepad and began to jot a few things from the interview to

put in the show.

As an afterthought, he pulled out his red pen and crossed Heather out.

***

Now, it’s time to play the Pyramid.

Ann Coulter.

Hamburgers with buns.

Letterman being funnier than Leno.

The direction East.

I’m sorry, that’s time. We were looking for “things that are always right”.

Meghan was supposed to be the “lesser” member of the group, though Michael

was still figuring out some of the kinks as to how this was to be

accomplished. In the script that the actressess got, it was due to her

being new to the force and while having great respect for the institution of

law enforcement, not really going out in public and being able to live up to

what she envisioned in her mind and in practice. Maybe it was

psychological; maybe just physical.

They’d alloted two hours for the Meghan slot just as they had for the other

roles; as it turned out, an hour and thirty-five minutes of that time would

go unused.

Because when Lacey Chabert walked through the door, it became quickly

apparent the second piece of the day’s puzzle had fallen into place. She

didn’t seem to be playing a part and closer to the truth seemed to be Meghan

rather than becoming her. At one point, after a few lines had been read,

Michael had suddenly come out with “She’s SO Meghan!”, which drew a giggle

that only seemed to lend itself to Meghanhood.

He could change on the fly. All right, maybe she was still the “weakest”

link. But it wouldn’t be because of a lack of police knowledge. She felt

overshadowed by the other Halos who, being older, had put in more time and

been up against it–especially in Heather’s case with the death in her

family. In fact, they could stretch the overshadowed thing out. Apply

another bombshell for the last part, and make her tall as well. They

probably weren’t going to get anyone else Kristanna’s height unless the WNBA

had a sudden strike, but someone up there. So, she felt threatened

professionally. And she felt like a middle child because maybe the other

Halos got more attention from the guys than she did? Made sense, Michael

spitballed in his head. She was a cute girl, of that there was no question.

But she was more a lit student hot, a library assistant hot. Kristanna

made guys say “DAMN!” and imagine a no-holds-barred two-person orgy

involving dessert toppings and handcuffs; Lacey generated more of a “Aww!”,

basic missionary and cuddling followed by waffles for breakfast hot.

You know, if she slowly gotover it and found herself loving a sexier

image…just in time for sweeps…

…how the hell did people FAIL out here? It all seemed so simple if you

didn’t allow your brain to be clouded by the piles of Tony Montana. She

gets sexier as the year goes on. Maybe a romantic interest towards the end

of the year.

Somebody call Brinks and tell them to get real familiar with my address,

Michael thought to himself.

Lacey finished the reading. Michael put on his best pensive face and tried

to flatten out his voice.

“Greg? A word?’

Greg’s eyebrow raised but he asked Lacey to excuse him while he talked to

his partner. He’d barely gotten out a question when Michael launched into

an oratory:

“We’ve got to get her to do it. She’s perfect in every way. Look at her

face! You telling me someone won’t want to raise hell when some thug smacks

her around and then roars as she beats him into a paste? I’m talking a

full arc for the year as she becomes more accepting of her sexuality, just

in time to give us our best ratings of the year for sweeps. Her experience

doesn’t belie the fact she’s one of the youngest ones we’ve seen today, and

nobody else her age has even gotten within the same time zone of her

accolade–”

“If I say ‘fine’, will you remember to breathe?” Greg scratched the

exterior of his nose as Michael slammed his sentence shut.

“Oh, come on, Greg! You don’t see this? In the immortal words of some

philosopher who’s name escapes me, I think we’re sitting on a goldmine

here.”

“Well…” Greg explained that while Michael had brought up some great

points there were a couple of scores of more women out there to interview.

The youngster looked crestfallen. Greg fixed Michael with a stare. “I

still have some misgivings about this. To make a flash hire for one of our

major roles…” He shook his head and let the sentence taper off. “There’s

a big gulf between faux innocence & the real deal, is all I’m saying.”

Michael smiled thinly at the wall and spoke through his teeth. “Like, say,

calling one’s agent versus playing with a man’s Slinky when she thinks no

one is looking?”

While playing with a man’s Slinky when she thinks no one is looking to get a

producer’s attention was a Hollywood tradition first originated by Mae West

in 1846, in the case Lacey was literally playing with Greg’s actual Slinky

that he batted around in times of stress. She was making it climb the wall,

and Greg looked over where the rattling of the child’s toy (given to him by

his sons, actually) originated. It took him turning the full 180° and Lacey

suddenly looked over to see the producers looking at her. Quickly, she took

it down off of the wall with a sheepish grin and put it on the desk.

It being a Slinky, it promptly fell off the desk. Lacey leaned over, put it

straight, and then quickly looked away with a nervous laugh.

Even without the surrepitious poke in the ribs from the younger, Greg could

tell that the young Southerner in the men’s shirt, teal top and jeans did

seem to have all the aspects they were hoping to bring to the role.

“Well, you let me pick Kristanna. So I think fair’s fair, and you have this

to even things up between us, if you will.” Michael’s eyebrows raised up

until they receded his hairline.

Michael got the fun part of going over to Lacey and breaking the news. She

smiled and shook his hand, and was more than willing to work with the new

stunt coordinator to help make the character better. She thanked Greg as

she got up to leave, admitting she thought she’d blown her chances with the

Slinky Incident. Both men got hugs, and then she quickly walked out of the

door into the California skies.

Greg made the announcement that another Halo was down, to the groans of

many. Lunch would be stretched out and then they would go about finding a

Liz to complete the trifecta. So it was that Greg went off to Dmitri’s

thinking about the wild card he’d let the kid throw into the deck.

Michael thought a little bit about Lacey Chabert as well, but it was much

more confidence-filled than his partner’s. Deciding he was going to try

yet again to get some sleep, Michael headed off for his Kia to achieve this

goal. The memories of a few short hours ago made the concept of food still

off-putting to him.

But getting Lacey Chabert? There was a coup, he thought, as he stretched

his frame into the backseat.

Of course, he had no idea the audition for Lacey wasn’t going to be his last

taste of Southern hospitality for the day.

***

About twenty minutes had passed, and Michael was no closer to sleep than he

had been when he’d originally entered the car.

The words of Saint Cobain rang in his head, as they had been for a while

when there wasn’t poonani to scope out: I’m so tired, I can’t sleep. Maybe

he’d inadvertantly stumbled onto something here. Maybe some music would

ease him into catching shuteye. Maybe a little Unplugged in New York would

scratch him where he itched. He knew there was a Nirvana CD in his case and

his hands went through the garbage cluttering the floor as he tried to find

the case–ah, here it was! He flipped through, going past his comps,

through his hip-hop, and into the rock section…

“Fuck!” In Utero, not Unplugged, and while “Frances Farmer Will Have Her

Revenge On Seattle” was one of Michael’s favorite songs of all-time it

didn’t exxactly lend itself well to the Land of Nod. He kept flipping

through the portable portion of his catalogue.

“Hmm…”

Californication from the Peppers. It wasn’t what he’d had in mind, but it

would do in a pinch. He turned on his tuner set to KWBR and briefly

wondered if that was really Ben Folds singing a cover of “Careless Whisper”

before sliding the disc into the slot and hoping for something less funky.

“How long, how loooooooooooonnnnnnnnng will I slide?”

Now this is what the Katherine Heigl ordered. A yawn distorted Ramirez’s

features and he could feel his eyelids fluttering. All the effort they were

making to get away from each other was bringing them closer, bringing

himself closer to finally some sembalance of relief from the past two days

and the self-imposed Sword of Damocles hanging above his neck.

He yawned, and his eyes shut, and that was it.

Clink clink clink. Clink clink clink.

That wasn’t it. Michael let out a frustrated whimper as he rolled over and

looked up out of the window. A large nightstick knocking on the window,

with a policewoman right behind it. Perfect. Juuuust perfect.

“Sir?”

Michael pushed his iris open as much as circumstance would allow, the

sunlight briefly warping his perception before she stepped into the shadow.

“Uh, hi. I–”

“Is this your car, sir?”

“Yes, it is.” Was that a smirk? He couldn’t tell, her hat was low so all

he could see were red lips and a little bit of glitter bouncing off of them

as he tried to draw himself up in the backseat.

“Well, that’s some bad luck for you, because you’re parked in a space

reserved for the production company.”

Michael shook his head as the day turned clearer into view. Blue shirt,

black heels, black skirt, red lips good and fat. For a second he thought of

Rancid’s “Time Bomb” before pushing that thought out of his head and back on

the officer.

“No, I’m with the production company. We’re doing auditions. I…I just

came in to get a nap…”

“If you’re really with the company, I’m going to need to see some form of

identification, sir.”

Michael sighed and bit his bottom lip. Who the hell was this rent-a-cop?

If she was a man he would’ve accused her of waving a badge in lieu of a

barely noticeable penis. The lack of sleep, the constant near boners, and

the pressure were starting to form a steel pipe beatdown on his senses.

“Fucking pigs…” To wit.

“Excuse ME, sir, but there’s no reason for you to be hostile–”

“The hell there isn’t! You wouldn’t even be hassling me if I was white! I

mean, it’s not even noon yet, I thought you guys didn’t start hassling

Mexicans until well after four o’clock!”

The officer gasped. “Oh, that is *it*, you son of a bitch. You want to

turn this into something? Guess what, Cesar Chavez? You’re under arrest!”

Suddenly, her arms shot forward, unlocking the door and flinging it open.

Michael began to move, but her arms quickly wrapped him up. Usually, being

pressed against a firm pair of breasts would’ve made Michael happy but this

just seemed to be the piss cherry on top of the shit sundae that’d made up

his past handful of days.

“No way! Get the fuck off me!” Michael struggled but the familiar clink of

metal snapped shut around his wrists. The officer merely nudged him in the

back with her knee, sending him sprawling on his ass to the backseat again.

“You can’t do this to me! I’m a producer for a new show! I’ve got

rights, fuckdamnit!”

Her head tilted at an angle, the police woman smirked at him. “You’re right

on that count, son.” Her lips widened, revealing a wolf-like grin.

“You have the right to remain silent. But you won’t need it, because I’m

going to make you scream like a horror movie trilogy.” At this point, she

removed the hat and–incongruous as this seemed–pushed her chest out a

little bit. And the killer thing was, Michael was getting a dim feeling of

recognition looking at her. But he couldn’t quite…

“Anything you say may be used against you to get what I want later on,” and

with a flip of her right wrist the skirt and the attached nightstick

suddenly lay in a pool at her heels. Michael groaned in surprise and

arousal seeing a black piece of fabric barely covering what it needed to

cover and a pair of grade-A legs. She slowly turned around, and that made

him gasp again. Thongage. She gave him the over-the-shoulder smoldering

gaze that would’ve flipped Harvey Feinstein’s switch as she slowly caressed

her ass, before slapping the meat of her cheeks.

“You like that?” Michael nodded, mute, wandering into a land where all

thought was its most basic animalistic form.

“Well, I’m not done reading you your rights, Mr. Big Shot. Most

importantly, you have the right to consult an attorney–because what I’m

about to do to you ought to be illegal, son.” Fingers made fists. Fists

sunk into the fabric of the shirt. Shirt ripped open. No bra, and unless

Michael had missed his guess a button had ricocheted off a window inside of

the car. Her dark nipples seemed to strain to brush up against the

California air and her breasts jiggled slightly as she fell down to her

knees at the open door.

“Suspect seems to be packing. Moving in.” She let out an evil, gleeful

laugh as she unzipped his pants. Seven inches of length greeted her

enthusiastically and she had to angle her head from putting her eye out.

She tilted her head and he went right into her mouth. Holding him up with

the left hand, she sucked him to the halfway point, then the quarter, then

went all the way down for a couple of seconds before pulling up with a noisy

pop.

She looked up at him with a glint in her eye before going back down on him.

Her left arm was no longer passive and suddenly in Michael’s mind her

echoing slurp was spreading throughout the parking lot. His eyes began to

echo a clarity.

“Doritos girl…you’re the doritos girl…” She looked up at him and smiled

broadly. “Ali Landry. Pleased to meet you, Mike.”

“I would’ve thought of itoooooooohhhhhhh…” He should’ve figured out the

way she was eating him alive she had experience with putting tasty things in

her mouth. And he should’ve expected this to happen at some point in the

auditions. He’d heard stories, expected light flirting, but this was beyond

the realm of fantasy and even trying to tell this story to his buddies

would’ve gotten beer dumped on his head. Her cold saliva ran down his cock

like a river into an ocean. He kept his eyes forward at all times, looking

for nothing and everything: the look on her face, the key to the handcuffs

so he could brush some of her hair to the side and see more of her face, the

very real possibility of actual police, apparently.

But where as Michael had minor tangenial concerns, Ali knew none of that.

Her head dipped lower and she brought her left leg up onto the doorway to

give her some better leverage. Full length Michael was a solid nine give or

take, and she was working hard to make sure he got the attention he wanted.

Once he got his, she would get hers. She was on her knees in broad

daylight, sucking off a guy she wouldn’t’ve known if she hadn’t been

Google-stalking him the past 3 days in the tattered remains of a rented

police woman outfit.

It was at a moment like this she had a minor relapse and remembered the

Prayer of St. Augustine.

Oh, Lord, make me chaste…but not quite yet.

Precum began to erupt from Mt. Ramirez and she ran the length of her tongue

on the underside of his shaft, devouring any potential escapees. With a

contented moan, she leaned forward and again began sucking off the

youngster. She pulled away from him, and saw the look of complete

subservience in his eyes. God, men were easy.

Her index finger played with the right corner of her mouth as she made sure

she saw him swallow it down. “You got hard pretty fast, mister.” Michael

just nodded dumbly. “You know, to make things fair between you and me,

maybe I shouldn’t use my hands for a while.” Ali put her hands behind her

back as if she too had been handcuffed and then proceeded to create a pocket

with her tongue as she continued what she had been doing.

Michael sat up as Ali continued to blow him, trying to get free of the

handcuffs. But it was no use, he was just going to have to “Holy FUCK!”

Ali’s tongue went in circles around his balls as she nuzzled against his

cock like a warm blanket in a winter night. In a stirring display of

inspirado she balanced the bulk of him on her forehead for a few brief

seconds before she licked him from balls to head and back down again.

Michael immediately knew he was in trouble. Baseball. War atrocities.

Simon Cowell. Joy Behar…

…EW, Joy Behar. That’d probably bought him a couple more minutes.

“I would’ve done this anyway,” Ali said to Michael and no one in particular.

“But the fact that you’re actually attractive–well!” Back to the

sucking. Her right knee rose up to land on the door as well, and she

quasi-headbutted Michael further backwards in the backseat to make some

room. Michael hadn’t gotten a degree for nothing and despite having no use

of his arms desperately shoved his body back full force.

“OW!”

And smacked his head against the back passenger-side door. Ali laughed, the

taste of the sweat off his balls still laying in her mouth.

“You going to call police brutality on me, son?” she said with a low laugh.

Suddenly the latest of obscene images played in her head, and her right arm

subconsciously flexed and unflexed before it quit pawing at her breast and

traveled down her body. Soon it would leave her flesh behind entirely.

“Maybe it gets you off, police brutality? You could barely put up a fight

when I jumped you. Your cuffs are still on.” Her hand clenched around the

solid object that had gone clattering to the pavement a while ago. “I think

I’m right. I think police brutality does get you off,” she purred, letting

spit drop from her mouth onto the bulb, mingling with the precum wall that

had formed.

“But if police brutality is going to get you off,” she continued, jerking

his cock a little more on the last three words of the sentence as a sort of

physical representation of italics, “what’s going to get me off?”

Michael began making noises that suggested a cat giving birth, but through

his haze he suddenly saw the sunlight reflect of what her right hand brought

up to her chest while her left hand was slowly bringing him to release.

The nightstick.

Ali twirled it in her hand, and then shoved it in herself without any

further theatrics.

As the plastic tore through her, she let loose with a low “Ohhhh!”. The

sight of her body leaning a little forward as she shut her eyes and began to

ride it was another borderline fraying of Michael’s optic nerves. Moaning

and grunting, her head began moving back at a diagonal pace.

When people thought of the Los Angeles Police Department and dirty cops,

this was about a 180 of held perspective. She pulled back from his piece

and the cockhead glistened under the work she’d done to it in the midday

sun, almost reflecting. Quietly drawing attention to a fine “only in

Hollywood” moment that was occuring. The corneas of Michael’s eyes began to

push themselves upwards again as Ali continued to work herself and him over

at the same time. He wasn’t cumming yet, and his body seemingly had gone

rigid. For a couple of awkward seconds, she wondered if she had killed him.

But finally, he said something. It sounded as if he was drowning and

fighting for air.

Just like he planned.

“Dirty…slut…”

This was a subtle change of character for Michael, who was caught off guard

by the whole thing himself. In his romantic liasions he had been more

vanilla than he would like to have admitted, but there was something so

sexual about this encounter and he was so helpless that he clearly was

dealing with something well out of his normal jurisdiction. Ali’s left hand

groped at her chest as she continued to fellate him and suddenly a thought

danced in her hand.

“I get dirtier, you know…”

She let the phrase hang in the air for a second and looked up at him. When

she saw the reaction play out in his eyes, she leaned forward and surrounded

his dick with her breasts, then began to deliver an emphatic tittyfucking.

It meant leaving behind the nightstick for a while. Michael jumped up

despite the physical restraints on his arms and almost smacked his head on

the ceiling on the way. Things had progressed beyond the point where Joy

Behar could’ve saved him; the question now wasn’t “if” but “when”.

“You like fucking my titties, Michael?”

And that voice! Lacey had a small Southern accent but to hear one roaring

full blast saying dirty things to him…maybe he had actually fallen asleep

at some point. Maybe this was all a dream. But if this was all a dream,

then he could control it as long as he was cognizant of it.

But if it was a dream, wouldn’t he have felt some sembalance of control?

He choked out a yes, and a little bit of semen appeared on her chest.

Alongside the saliva she was rubbing off, the inside of her breasts appeared

to be slicked down and dotted with small patches of himself. It appealed

wildly to his ego.

“Good boy!” Ali said, with a small bit of mom in her voice. He began

groaning. There was no chance in blue hell he was going to live another

minute without orgasm now.

“You want to come all over my tits? Is that what you want, Michael?”

“Oh, God….”

“I need an answer, Michael, otherwise how am I–”

“YES. PLEASE.”

Checkmate. The grin played itself out over her face.

“What’s my name?”

Suddenly, his brain function screeched to a stop. The left side of the

brain looked at the right side and said, ‘Y’know, it’s dark in here. And we

may die.'” She was still bringing him off with her chest but she had

noticeably slowed the pace down.

“Do–Ali! It’s Ali!” He seemed quite pleased with himself, as if he was a

fighter managing to answer the bell for the 15th. She looked at him and

her brown eyes locked on his own. She stopped.

“It’s not Ali. Not today. It’s Liz.”

The brain function that had stopped already had gone into reverse. What the

hell was going on?

“No, I remembered it! It’s Ali! I don’t even know any Liz–well, except

the one on the show we have to ca–” At this moment, one of his favorite

movie lines burned into his conscious being.

“It’s called a changeover. The movie goes on, and nobody in the audience

has any idea.”

He looked into her eyes and everything crystallized. Sometimes in

mid-seventies chess the mere act alone of Bobby Fischer sitting down to play

beat an opponent. This was one of those cases, and he realize he had been

rooked before like a pawn by a queen.

“No.”

“You got it, Mikey.” She gripped him, and returned the stare. “What more

proof do you need I can make a convincing police officer? Hm? Or a sexy

girl? Or how bad I want this part? So, yes, yes, a thousand times yes.

You give me the part, Mike. Or I leave you here in the middle of the day,

handcuffed, pants down, 100 feet away from being out in public, and with a

hard-on the size of an baguette.”

In the mind of the clouded, the quickest escape to daylight is release.

“If I–will you…”

“I’ll do it so well you’re going to have to die to forget about it.” One

last seductive purr. The post-game post-checkmate.

“Yes.”

The next 40 seconds were a blur. Her mouth busied herself with his balls as

she grabbed him with both hands and ran amok, and he could feel the soft

touch of her fingernails intermingle with the devil-may-care jerkoff she

expertly performed on him with both hands. His eyes collapsed in on

themselves and he tore through the dry skin on his bottom lip in order to

keep from screaming out. She emptied her mouth of his sac and prepared to

face the firing squad she had brought on her own head.

She ran her tongue over the top one more time and sealed her contract with a

wink. With that, the inmates broke free, and the corner of her mouth and

tongue felt a slight addition of weight. He turned “fuck” into a

fourteen-syllable word, but he was still cumming. The next three shots

also spread their way across the longitude of her mouth but she would still

be swimming in him; her bottom lip was not up to the challenge of handling

it all quite yet and it began to drip onto her heaving bosom, practically

sizzling off of the body heat she had generated for herself. He leaned back,

completed the last two syllables, and delivered a final shot that landed

right on her upper lip. She licked it off. And laughed.

Then she reached for her skirt, and grabbed something.

“There’s the key. See you at the office party, boss.”

The skirt and shirt went on in short order. She was gone before he could

even compose himself. He wondered again if he’d dreamed it all. But the

fact he had to uncuff himself to get his pants up again proved he was living

a reality. And as he leaned forward in the car, he saw it glimmer in the

sun.

The nightstick.

He picked it up, and smelled it briefly. He threw it in the backseat, and

got on his cell phone.

“Greg? Yeah, hi, listen. We got a third Halo. It doesn’t matter how. Ali

Landry. Yeah, the Doritos girl. Her people came and talked to me, we

hashed it out. I don’t care. I don’t care. You figure it out, old-timer,

because I suddenly feel some sleep coming on. Get their info. Sorry. I

have to.”

***

Michael got home safely, and proceeded to sleep with a wan smile on his face

for the better part of 20 hours.

***

“It’s just masturbation, where’s the harm in it? Where’s the harm in it, I

ask you? *I* masturbate! I masturbate like I think if I keep doing it, I’m

gonna win something. That’s the way I do it. One shot, one kill. There

can be only one Highlander.”

–Dave Attell

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