Jesus freaks out in the street
Handing tickets out for God
Handing tickets out for God
Christmas. What a ridiculous holiday, thought Louise Crowne as she weaved through hordes of people on their way to do some late gift shopping. People tortured themselves for weeks, sometimes even months in advance, trying to come up with that perfect gift for everyone they knew. Expensive, fake-sweet family photos were taken professionally just to be pasted on dozens of Christmas cards and sent to people the whole family hated anyway, just to keep up appearances. Worst of all, it was a financial disaster for everyone but the suppliers of whichever items made the most suitable gifts. Not that Louise lost any sleep over regular, Average Joe taxpayers blowing all their hard-earned money. That was their perogative, and heaven knows she didn't exactly give all her extra cash to charity. Unless drug dealers paying suppliers in Asia counted, although it was doubtful that even those little Asian men who Louise supposed tended to the fields of opium poppies got to see much of the money. No, the real problem with this frivolous spending that America got caught up in every year was that there was none left in their wallets for Louise to steal. Sure, there were the frantic last-minute shoppers, but just because they were doing all their Christmas shopping right then didn't mean they were carrying around wads of cash to do it with, and contrary to popular belief, they were even more difficult to bump into than people who had been smart enough to hit the stores weeks before.At the moment, though, none of this mattered. It was still on Louise's mind, of course -- necessity had incited in her the habit of considering all negative possibilities and mentally keeping tabs on her funds (what each dollar would go to, and how to save as much as possible) at any given time, even during sex -- but not as crucial as it should have been, given the time of day. You see, someone had just come along and given Louise some damn good news: she had a daytime commisson. She'd have to change clothes, lump on far too much make-up, and have passionate sex with a man she wasn't attracted to in the least, but she'd get something green and extremely useful for it. It had been almost a day since Louise had last scored thanks to the price of a new box of birth control; the bills she was going to receive might as well have been emeralds rather than paper with government designs on it. This appointment could last all day. It was a miracle, albeit a rather small one compared to what was coming.
Anxious to get to the meeting spot specified by her customer, Louise picked up the pace, stepping lightly to move more quickly. Her destination? The Black Dragon Coffeehouse. Despite its somewhat unusual name, the Dragon, as it was called by its regulars, was a good place to get a "cuppa joe," relax, even make new acquaintances. If you were a hippie, a poet, a musician, or Louise, that is. Experience had taught Louise that it was good to have as many connections as possible in as many fields of work as possible and never miss an opportunity to do one of said connections a favour, and she operated upon this creed. Thus, the majority of the Dragon's staff was friendly with her. In cases such as the one she was now in, they were perfectly willing to let her use the cleaner, larger employee bathroom to get prepared. They, mainly the males, were also fascinated by the spectacular transformation that went on in there. The girl that went in and the girl that came out appeared to be entirely different people. Uttering a mellow greeting, but clearly excited about something, the girl who went into the bathroom would be difficult to pinpoint in a crowd. Or a line-up, for that matter. Mussed, boy-cut blonde hair seemed to be embroiled in war with itself, albeit a war so unimportant that you didn't generally notice it unless you were looking. Her eyes, a seemingly endless blue, were stunning, yes, but also nearly half-closed and not brought out at all by the clothes she wore: a slightly baggy, dim grey t-shirt, a plain black coat, and a pair of size three levis. This Louise was next to invisible in a flock of people, and therefore excellent for pickpocketing.
Within ten minutes, a stranger emerged from the bathroom. No one had seen her enter the establishment, but they sure as hell were watching as she exited. Her lips were vibrant and looked as though some renowned painter had shaped them. Her eyes grabbed your attention and dragged you in, leaving you with more questions than answers in the way that art should and eyes should not. Her hair swished as she walked; it was slightly upstaged by the way her a** did the same thing, squeezed as it was into a charcoal grey miniskirt with swirling blue designs on the bottom, clinging to her thighs. A form-fitting, sleeveless v-neck shirt in a subdued, relaxing pine green colour matching that of the strappy wedges that cradled her feet and boosted her height hid the existence of the strapless water-bra from Frederick's that was not only enhancing the apparent size of her breasts, but lifted and repositioned them, causing severe cleavage. This woman was not dressed to be unnoticeable, and did not plan on not being noticed. She was obviously a whore.
After walking in this fresh pair of shoes for mere minutes, Louise was immediately thankful that the client would be picking her up rather than making her walk to the hotel he was staying at. Her legs were already sore enough from withdrawals; walking on stilts wasn't helping. Besides, she didn't like the way the Hilton people raised their pretentious eyebrows at her when she walked in on her own to see someone, even if the man in question had informed them that she would be coming. Just a block and a half away, a sleek, black Mercedes Benz glided up to the curb next to her. The driver was a middle-aged man with greying hair and an apathetic face. He didn't open the door for her, leaving his employer to do so himself. Louise reached it first, however, letting herself in before the business executive's hand was even on the door handle. She wasn't in the mood to be wasting time on those calf-defining but rather painful shoes over traditional niceties, and she knew for sure that this was a client who wouldn't mind.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Trouveau," she said smoothly. Just the right impression, even for a customer such as he was. What kind of customer is that, you ask? Richard Trouveau was what Louise would call a "cling-on" client, and an out-of-state one at that. Whenever he traveled, he would find a prostitute for some recreational vacation fun. If he liked her, he would become amoral and attached to her, locating her again every time he went to that particular place. Louise just happened to be his girl there. He had been a steady cling-on for a while, and she suspected him of being near solidifying their whore/cling-on relationship. He was going to begin declaring undying love for her and promising to leave his wife (which, of course, he wouldn't even if she had wanted him to). If there was one thing Louise hated in her line of business (besides the fat, ugly guys that were bound to show up), it was cling-ons doing that. When they were just being nice and buying her things and giving her more money than she deserved, she didn't mind them, naturally, but when they decided they were in love with her, they got unbearable. Occasionally in earlier meetings, Richard would shyly confess strong feelings for her, but, like all cling-ons, time had been slowly making him bolder.
As expected, Trouveau mumbled something resembling a request to call him by his first name, the driver's presence making him nervous. Apparently, the driver didn't approve of his employer soliciting a prostitute, especially when he already had a wife at home, although Louise didn't think Richard should have cared what his driver thought. With a man as powerful as Richard Trouveau, that driver could be so much ash the next day if he misstepped. Of course, Trouveau would never have anyone assassinated, but it wouldn't hurt if he made his staff comprehend their place in the relationship. As she was considering this, Louise also formulated a plan for when they got into the hotel room. Sex would have to come first, that was a given. Afterwards, she would ask charmingly if they could order room service, before he got the chance to begin his love proclamations and proposals. He would be unable to refuse. Her contact in the Hilton would bring up a light meal, including a side dish of China White. Only the best for guests at the Hilton, after all. She could use the decorative scarf around her neck -- blue to match her eyes and the designs on her skirt -- to find a vein, and all her troublesome sneezing and chills and hot flashes and aching limbs would end.
This plan was put into action immediately. Louise called room service not a moment too soon; she felt as though she were about to vomit, and she hadn't met a man in her career who thought stomach acid and regurgitated food were attractive. Everything still seemed to be dragging along: the walk across Richard's enormous suite to the phone, the codes to keep everyone out of trouble -- "You want lines?" "You want to chase the dragon?" "No, no. Just plain boy. I've got everything I need." Worst of all, though, was the wait, in which she had to sit on the bed and be stroked and sweet-talked while trying to hold off on being sick. If only Richard hadn't been hungry. The food she ordered was easy and quick to cook, thus minimizing the time it took to be delivered. Needless to say, his was not. So there she was, phasing out her client's sappy drivel about Christmas and love and how he had to leave the next morning to spend the holidays with his wife. Louise entertained herself with daydreams of finding out that she was adopted and her real parents were billionaires who were so desperate to be reunited with her and share their fortune that they had put her in their will before they even met her.
Turning back, she just laughs
The boulevard is not that bad
The boulevard is not that bad
