Just My Personal Opinion, Of Course...

I’m easily amused. Lake circled the rental car around Palms Garden Cemetery. A spiked, wrought iron fence kept the dead in, otherwise, who knew? They might run out and vote. I didn’t say that to Lake for fear of an unappreciative groan.  At the white stone gates, at intervals , the uniformed cop held up a hand to allow other boulevard traffic to flow past the line of bikes and cars waiting to enter the city of the  dead. My skin started to hum. The voltage in the atmosphere was amped to the max despite the fanning palms doing their damndest to make this day a  celebration of the dead. “Don’t anyone light a match,” Lake said. Riley "Big Red" O'Rourke We weaved and shouldered our way through throngs of bikers, some startled at seeing three people not wearing cut, sleeveless denim, or leather, or visible tattoos— until they caught the badges. They growled and spit, then went back to their conversations. Lots of fucks and fuckers bein

8:10 p.m., the Sydarian Embassy, Washington, DC:  “Did you get the package?” The words, calm and quiet, displayed none of the seething tension Ambassador Jamar Farahani held inside. He hated working with scum like this--dirty, violent. Uneducated. But that was the only kind of man who would undertake this type of job. “Yeah, we got her,” replied the rough voice on the other end of the line.  “When are you coming to pick her up?” “Tomorrow. Maybe. It depends on the weather. Right now, they will not let any planes take off from the airport. Not even private jets.” Jamar’s hand tightened on the phone as he watched the snowstorm outside his windows. “There is supposed to be a break in the morning. So hopefully, I can get out then.” “If that’s the best you can do, I’ll just have to sit on her for a while. But get here as soon as you can. My guys are getting restless.”  “Just make sure nothing happens to her, Johnson.” Jamar’s voice turned cold and hard. “If she is raped, beaten, or

There is a jingle as the young couple exits the shop. He reaches the “literature” section, passes by what he doesn’t want, Hustler, Genesis, Club , and the like—fluffy crap and then rounds the aisle and finds what he is looking for: the vintage stuff . Stalked, Captured , and Fettered . He waits for the familiar flutter in his stomach, the tingle in his limbs, at the sight of the buxom young women on the covers shackled,  gagged, staring pleadingly out at the reader. The colors are supersaturated, the lighting stark and procedural. The images pop in a highly detailed way. His reaction to the covers has hardly waned over the years. He gathers up a few issues he doesn’t already own and goes to the register to pay. While the clerk makes change of his fifty-dollar bill, his hand goes into his pocket and his fingers slide around the smooth souvenir there. It was white once, years ago, but has aged down from exposure to air and his touch. He used to carry the piece every day, though no