Friday, August 5, 2016

Angels (Part 11)

     Being the energetic girl she was, Terry decided to leap right in to the amateur target competitions at the Gun Range.  She immediately began disturbing people: five foot six of foul-mouthed scooter tramp on a Harley, carrying a Colt under one arm, and went through her first two competitions firing with one of the Gun Range's rental pieces.  Not only a rental gun, but a Beretta 92.  Compared to what the other target shooters used, Terry may as well have been firing a bazooka.

     After her second contest (and winning second place), some kind soul took her aside and explained that she was approaching the sport in the wrong way.  The other competitors used sleek, long-barreled .22 caliber Remingtons, Ruger MK IIs, and Colt Woodsmans, highly accurate pistols with
Ruger MKII
no kick and notch sights.  The sights on the pistols the benefactor showed her threw Terry, she was used to three-dot sights, like on any police or combat pistol.  You know, what she was used to firing.  The light weight of these guns also threw her.  "Damn, this thing doesn't weigh shit," she said of the Woodsman she was trying out.  "I'm used to firing a fuckin' Colt 1911 when I'm training, and a good old Beretta 92 when I'm going for points.  I know it's only .22 ammo, but one of these isn't about to blow up on me, right? It feels flimsy."
     Terry went through a couple clips with the Ruger and the Colt, trying to adjust to the notch sights.  Her benefactor was astounded she got the points she did with a rented cannon, using three-dot sights.  Terry shrugged it off.  "It's what the fuck I learned with, you know?  Hey, I'm a hundred bucks richer, wanna go grab a beer at Dirty Dan's?  It's a Wednesday, it'll be pretty quiet."
     The benefactor (named Gerald) said, "Well....  Okay, one beer.  I'll have to follow you, I'm not sure where this place is.  Here, try another clip through the Ruger again.  You're getting a feeling for the sights, I think."
     Terry took her time and got ninety-two points with ten shots.  "Still all over the fuckin' place," she muttered.
     Gerald laughed and said, "Were you really hoping for a century using a gun you've never fired and with sights you're not used to?"
     "Well....  That's the fuckin' idea, right?  Get 'em all in the center.  Okay, these things are damn easy to shoot, and I'm wrapping my head around using those big-ass sights, maybe I'll pick one up, see how I do.  Come on, let's blow this ping pong pit."
     Gerald followed Terry in his Dodge Omni.  He was disturbed to step inside and find himself in a strip club.  He was grateful Terry grabbed a seat in the back.  He was a man who understood firearms extremely well, to the neglect of half the species.
     "So, I must ask about why you wear a shoulder holster...." Gerald said.
     Terry snorted.  "Aw shit.  I was working today, and I didn't have a chance to get home and drop my iron before coming to the shootout."
     "Um....  What do you do?"
     "I'm a bodyguard.  I look after Becky fuckin' Page about four times a week."  She caught Gerald's confused look.  "You know who Becky Page is, right?"
     "I think I've heard the name...." he said.
     "C'mon, you gotta know Becky Page!" laughed Terry.  "The porn star!  Her and her husband keep putting out these awesome movies.  You gotta have seen 'Bewitched.'  Or 'Dangerous Desires.'  Or their new one, 'Succubus.'  That fucker got reviewed in People.  Anyway, her and me are tight, and she hired me on as a part-time bodyguard.  She don't need nobody living with her, but she likes to feel protected when she goes out without her husband Lenny.  Shit, sometimes him and me are both  there.  Today she felt like riding her putt into La Jolla and window shopping, so I came along.  I keep motherfuckers off of her.  She's cool with meeting fans, I just watch for motherfuckers."
     "I, uh, I'll guess I'll have to look her up.  So does the job pay well?"
     "$500 a day and meals.  It's a pretty sweet gig.  I work for her four days a week, and two days a week I fluff at her studio."
     "You do what?" asked Gerald.
     "I'm a fluff girl," explained Terry.  "It's kind of a weird job.  Okay, it's like the dudes at a porn studio are kinda blasé about being around hot naked chicks, right?  But they gotta get their dicks hard somehow.  So basically, before they start shooting I suck the dude's dick, just long enough to get him hard.  There, that's a minute or two.  Later on, if there's a delay in shooting and he starts to drop, I get him back up again.  Really, I'm getting $500 a day to sit around a video sound stage and read, and occasionally suck a little dick.  I only actually work for a maximum of fifteen minutes per day.  It's worth it to the studio for me to be there, though.  Shit, I get paid far more than the gaffer, and he's way busier than me."
     Gerald would have looked pale, had there been sufficient light in the room.  He knocked back a good chunk of his Coors and said, "I have never heard of such a thing in my life."
     "Hey, neither had I, until I was offered the job.  I figure, what the fuck, I like suckin' dick, shit yeah I'll do it for that sort of money.  Between the two gigs I'm pulling down three grand a week before taxes, and I still got enough leisure time to have fun.  Hitting the range, going for a cruise, whatever.  I'll go shopping for one of those Colts or Rugers on Saturday.  Any suggestions as to where I should go?"
     Finally feeling as though the conversation was on more comfortable ground, Gerald said, "Just go back to the Gun Range.  If they don't have what you want in stock, they can order it.  The Ruger Mark II is a popular target pistol, though, they should have them."
     Terry smacked herself in the forehead and said, "Yeah, I guess they would.  Fuckin' duh."
     "So how long have you been shooting?"
     "About four weeks now.  Becky and Lenny turned me on to it.  They both carry, and figured if I was gonna be Becky's bodyguard, I should too.  Fuckin' Colt Defender only holds eight in the belly, but it's compact, it's light, and it's accurate.  If I ever see action with it, I'm not worried about hitting what I want.  I work out with it to keep it familiar, but I'd never compete with it.  I got my big-ass Colt, that's a .45, and I work out with that for discipline and wrist strength.  For points I like the Beretta 92, any series, I ain't picky.  You really think the Beretta is too big for target work?"
     "Well...." Gerald started.  "It's an....  Unusual choice for target work, outside a military range.  You only want to put holes in the target, not annihilate it.  I truly believe that you will be happier, and get better points, with a long .22.  If you're used to the weight of a Colt 1911 or Beretta 92, then I'm sure my three target pistols do feel light to you, but just like the sights, you would adjust.  Given the points you made tonight in competition, I can easily see you making centuries with a good target pistol."
     Terry asked, "Hey, does Beretta make a target pistol?"
     "They do.  It's called the 87 Target.  It's a .22 long like the others.  If I remember what I've read about it, you would be happy with the weight, it's comparatively heavy for a competition pistol.  I know it will also be priced like a Beretta, so consider your options."
     Waving her hand, Terry said, "Fuckin' money is no issue with me these days, and I know I like Berettas.  Shit, you saw what I can do with one.  So where did you place tonight?"
     "I was fourth," said Gerald.  "Wait one minute.  How long did you say you've been shooting for?"
     "Maybe a month.  Becky and Lenny turned me on to it, both for practical reasons and as a hobby.  What the fuck, it's fun, and with my newfound wealth shooting is viable as a hobby for me.  I'm gonna track down one of them 87 Targets...."
     "You get the points you do, with a Beretta 92, and you've only been shooting a month?  That's amazing."
     Terry smiled.  "Yeah, Lenny and Becky say I'm a dead-eye.  They were amazed too when they first took me to the range.  All I know is that it's fun, and I guess I got the knack."
     "Hey Terry!"
     This was boomed from the entrance.  Terry and Gerald both looked over to see four Hell's Angels walking towards them: Roach, Fatso, Big Ugly, and Short Nick.  Roach walked up to Terry, bent down, and gave her a hug.  When he did, Gerald got a glimpse of the colors and his heart shot into his throat.  Not only was this prodigy of a female marksman a biker chick, she was friends with known criminals.  Fatso and Short Nick dragged another table up to the one Terry and Gerald were sitting at, and everyone took a seat.  Terry waved vigorously for the waitress.
     "Terry the Terror!" said Big Ugly.  "What brings you by here tonight?"
     "There was a target competition at my range.  I placed second, and me and this dude got to talking guns.  Turns out I've been doing shit wrong for target work.  I been using one of the rental Berettas from the range, a 92 like Lenny's, and everybody else are using these fancy-ass long-barrelled .22s.  Gerald here let me try out a couple of his.  Shit, I won a hundred bucks, so I'm buyin' him a couple fuckin' beers and picking his brains.  Anyway, Gerald, this is Big Ugly, Fatso, Short Nick, and Fucker."
     Gerald tried to lock his face into a pleasant unassuming grin.  He ended up looking like he had rictus.  Hands were shaken.  The waitress came over and took drink orders.  Terry ordered another Coors for Gerald without a thought.  He felt too fearful to argue.
     "So, uh, how do you all know each other?" he asked.
     Roach responded, "Terry and I work together.  She's also friends with a girl we both work with, Becky Page.  Becky likes drinking at our bar down in National City, because she can relax there, nobody fanboys out on her, she gets left alone.  So Becky, Terry, Lenny, and Jane come down to the Hi-Lo once or twice a week to hang out, shoot some nine ball. Yeah, Becky Page relaxes by hanging around with us criminals."  Everyone but Gerald burst into laughter.
     Terry elaborated, "Okay, you can guess why Big Ugly is called that.  How he ended up with his hot girlfriend is a complete fuckin' mystery to everyone...."
     Big Ugly replied, "Hey, I got my charms.  I know how to treat a lady."
     "Oh, is Fucker tutoring you?" laughed Terry.  "Fucker, also known as Roach, is our local Romeo.  Not only does he fuck hot women for a living, he has them eating out of his hand.  All the women at the studio love him.  Here too, I'll bet.  How many dancer's phone numbers have you collected, Roach?"
     Roach rolled his eyes and grinned.  "Um, three.  I didn't keep them.  You know I'm in love with Dawn, I was just being friendly with those girls and they got the wrong idea.  You know me, I love women.  But I'm devoted to my girlfriend."
     Whacking Gerald on the shoulder, Big Ugly cackled, "Not only does this bastard fuck porn stars for a living during the day, at night he's got fuckin' strippers giving him their phone numbers....  And he throws them away!  The fucker is neck-deep in pussy, and acts like it's no big thing!"
     "And at the opposite end of the spectrum, we got this perverted leprechaun named Short Nick," continued Terry.  "Oh, Nick?  If you continue trying to hit on Jane, and I hear about it, I'm throwing you up on the fuckin' roof of the bar and leaving you there for the seagulls to eat."
     Fatso scowled and said, "Jesus Christ Nick, she's seventeen.  She's still a kid.  You, on the other hand, are thirty-one.  What's the matter, you intimidated by women, so you gotta go after girls?  Leave Jane the fuck alone."
     "You got three people just at this table giving you the same warning," said Roach.  "Jane is off limits.  Aim your dick somewhere else."
     "Pfft.  All right, all right," said Short Nick.  "Hey Fatso, she always seems to want to hang out with you at the bar.  What do you got that I ain't?  Yeah, you're taller, but your skinny ass is old enough to be her dad, and then some."
     Fatso grinned and said, "Tell me Nick, what is the last book you read?"
     "Um, I think it was called 'Cheerleader Vixens in Chains.'  Why?"
     "Ever read any Hemingway?  Or Steinbeck?  Or Tom Wolfe?  Or even Louis L'Amour?"
     Short Nick frowned down at his beer.  "Izzat what you two gab about?  Books?  So even with her blue hair, that little chick is a brainiac like you, huh?  I thought she used a lot of big words when she talked.  Shit, glad I know now, before anything happened between us.  I ain't got time for no brainy broads."
     Terry said to Gerald, "As you can see, Fatso was named out of sarcasm.  He's also one smart son of a bitch.  You got some college, right?"
     Faso laughed.  "Sort of.  I was in Susanville for five years, and they had the option of earning college credits while you were in, I guess to make you more employable after you're out.  I managed to get an associate's degree in English while I was there.  Studying beat the shit out of fighting or making pruno, so far as I was concerned."
     "Why were you there?" asked Roach.
     "Cooking dope.  Asshole I was working with got drunk in a bar one night and wrecked his car with two pounds of shit in the trunk.  He rolled over on everybody, got thirty months in Soledad for being so fucking cooperative.  Funny thing, he wasn't out a week before somebody kneecapped him with a tire iron, now he walks with braces on both legs.  I have no clue who would have done such a thing to him."
     "Goodness me, what a shame," chuckled Big Ugly.
     Roach waved at the waitress.  She saw who it was and came over flashing a big smile.  "Hi, Fucker!" she said.  "Gonna watch the show tonight?  I'm doing a few turns later."
     "I wouldn't miss it, Trish.  How are you tonight?" asked Roach with his charming smile on.  He and the waitress chatted briefly, the waitress resting her hand on Roach's shoulder and neck and arm while they talked.  He finally told her to bring the same again for everyone.  When she returned with the beer, she gave Roach a kiss on the cheek before departing.
     "Makes me puke," said Short Nick to Gerald.  "This goddamn pizza-faced kid --- a kid --- has hot broads hanging all over him.  He gets paid to fuck porno bitches, his girlfriend Pint Size is a little cutie, he's got Terry here suckin' his dick, and he's got strippers wanting to get all friendly.  Shit, who died and made him the king of pussy, anyway?"
     Terry whacked Short Nick in the arm and said, "We told you why I'm sucking his dick.  I'm just getting him hard so he can perform, it don't mean nothing, it's just part of the job."
     "Well, I want his job.  I don't think the little fucker appreciates what he does.  Hey Fucker, how much money do you make for screwing them porno broads?"
     "$300 per scene," replied Roach.  "I made good money from doing the movie 'Succubus,' I got nine grand for those three and a half weeks out in the desert, plus the owner of the studio has given me a couple bonuses, 'job well done' money.  Those helped a lot, I paid off the putt I bought from Surfer weeks early and I'm sitting on savings to go shopping for my own putt."
     "How much were the bonuses?" asked Fatso.
     Roach looked a little embarrassed.  "Um, one for $15,000 and one for $20,000.  The movie is selling like crazy, and I was the male lead.  I don't even want to know what sort of bonuses my boss or my director get.  And remember, I gotta pay taxes on that bread."
     Short Nick sighed and said, "Okay, so you basically got $44,000 for making a fuck flick.  You said you get three bills for doing a scene.  How much do you work?"
     "I do four or five scenes a week.  I work at the dismantling yard in the mornings, ride up to the studios in La Costa, shower and change clothes, have lunch with Pint Size, then do a scene in the afternoon.  I'm on set for four hours when we shoot, usually.  So before taxes I make between $1200 and $1500 per week as a performer.  Compared to what the girls make, it's a pittance.  They start off at $750 and only go up from there, like if they do anal, it's a thousand for a scene.  Lenny pays a $200 cash bounty to any girl taking a facial.  The girls can basically work twelve to fifteen hours a week and be damn comfortable, just three mornings or afternoons every week.  I'm still stripping cars just so I can live well and still have some savings, and take Pint Size out to nice places for dinner."
     Terry threw in, "At our studio, women are paid a little better than industry average.  The men are paid way above average, like double.  But we also ask a lot more of both men and women.  Shit, Fatso, I know you've seen 'Succubus,' you gotta admit, Fucker can really act, right?  Lenny and Angel pay people well so they'll stick around, so they're not in a constant cycle of hiring.  I'm paid well above average for fluffing, and I sure as shit don't feel like going anywhere, or fucking up the job.  Nick, Big Ugly, you've gotta have seen some of Inana's other movies.  Have you seen the new one yet?"
     Both shook their heads.
     Fatso said, "I was very impressed.  Fucker is quite the talented thespian."
     "Huh?" said Short Nick.
     "He's a good actor.  Everyone in all their movies are talented.  If Becky and her husband are getting rich doing what they do, more power to them, personally.  They make good movies.  And Fucker deserves every penny he gets from making 'Succubus.'"
     "So all the more reason I wanna do what he does!  I bet I can act fine!  And the bread would make it worth my while.  And I'd actually enjoy myself, unlike this asshole, playing it so cool all the time.  'Oh, no big deal, I just fuck sexy broads for a living, what a hard life I live.'  Fucker, I want your job."
     Terry gave Short Nick an evil grin and said, "Hey, no problem.  You're packing eight inches, right?"
     "Eight and a quarter!" laughed Big Ugly.
     "How do you know that?" asked Short Nick.
     "Shit, I know you've heard that story.  Peewee and Cisco were at the studio, and the question of how big Fucker's dick is came up.  So Becky fuckin' Page has Fucker whip it out, gets him hard, and measures his dick, right in front of them!  Her husband was there, too.  And Fucker and Becky and her husband acted like it was no big thing, just something that needed to be taken care of, like they'd asked Fucker to order a pizza or something.  Yeah, eight and a quarter inches is Fucker's official Becky Page-confirmed dick size."
     Fatso grinned and said, "Fucker, I'm guessing there is a certain amount of professional objectivity that goes along with your job?"
     Roach replied, "Yeah.  In fact, that's what we were trying to demonstrate to Cisco and Peewee.  Okay, I've got Becky Page playing with my dick....  But we were at work, we were in professional mode, it didn't mean anything, and neither of us was taking any great pleasure out of it.  We had an objective goal, and we achieved it.  When I'm at work, my dick is just a tool.  Back me up on this, Terry, you like to suck dick, but you're not really getting off on what you do when you fluff, right?"
     "Oh fuck no," said Terry.  "At this point, I know the different techniques to use on the different guys to get them hard as possible in the shortest amount of time.  Like you, long slow deep strokes.  With Dale, work the head.  With Vince, suck like I'm trying to suck a golf ball through a garden hose.  All you dudes are different, and I've learned what works best on each of you.  But I ain't getting off.  Like you said, it's totally objective, just part of the job."
     Fatso said, "Nick, I get the impression that you would be trying to extract too much joy out of the job, which I'm certain would not work.  Even if you are hung, you heard Fucker say you'd be in action for four hours at a time.  I'll freely admit I can't do that, no matter what drugs I take.  Can you keep your dick hard for four hours and not come?"
     Roach added, "It's closer to two and a half to three hours, but still....  Yeah, you're not allowed to come until you're told to.  If you're prone to blue balls, it's the wrong job for you.  And....  Dude, there's no avoiding another problem.  You're, what, five foot three?  In boots?  We've got one girl who you'd match up with height-wise.  Feather is five two.  The only other short girl there is Pint Size, and they're not going to make her a performer just so you have someone to work with.  Becky is five foot eight, well above you.  Dude, it just wouldn't work.  Maybe if we had some Asian chicks around, but until that happens, sorry.  And by the way, I love my job.  I love the activity, I love the camaraderie, and I love all the women I work with.  I'm one of the luckiest people in the world: I look forward to work every day."
     Short Nick glowered at Roach and hopped off his chair.  He said, "Tell them to hire more short bitches at your studio.  I gotta take a piss."  He walked off.
     Everyone watched him go.  Roach said, "That's another thing.  If Lenny heard him refer to any woman at Inana as a bitch, he'd be working his last day.  Lenny would take him off the board, remove him from the blood test roster, and tell him he'd better enjoy commuting to Los Angeles for shit pay.  It's a requirement that all the women at Inana are treated very respectfully.  He can call the women bitches in LA, but not at Inana."
     Big Ugly suddenly laughed and pointed at Gerald.  "I just realized, we're probably embarrassing the shit out of this guy!"
     Gerald gave a nervous smile and shrug, fiddling with his beer bottle.  Trish the waitress slid up to Roach and asked how things were, another round?
     "Yes, same again, please.  Thank you, gorgeous," Roach replied.
     "I'm on in about half an hour," said Trish.  "Are you gonna come up and watch?"
     "I'm looking forward to it, wouldn't miss it for the world."
     Trish got a crafty look.  "Hey, how would you like to help me warm up?"
     "Doing what?" asked Roach.
     "Let me give you a quick lap dance.  You tell me how I'm doing.  Remember, you have to keep your hands to yourself, though.  Slide out your chair...."
     Roach smiled, slid his chair backwards, and clasped his hands behind his back.  Trish positioned herself in his lap and began squirming and grinding.  Short Nick returned from the bathroom, saw what was going on, and said, "What the fuck is this?"
    "He's helping me warm up for when I work the floor in a little while....  And it feels like I'm getting him warmed up, too.  Goodness."  Trish stood up, then looked down at Roach's crotch.  What she had wrought was very obvious.  "Oh my God...." she exclaimed.
     "If he ain't told you before, he works in porn," chuckled Terry.
     "He does?  I can see why.  Oh wow...."
     Short Nick said, "Hey baby, I'll help you warm up too."
     Trish was big-eyed and pink-cheeked.  She said, "No, I'm feeling very warm at the moment.  Um, let me go get your beers, I'll be right back."
     When she returned, Trish distributed beers and dropped a slip of paper in front of Roach.  "Don't lose that," she said, and gave him another kiss on the cheek.  "Please come watch me dance, 'kay?"
     "Absolutely," Roach smiled.  Trish gathered up empties and scurried off.
     "What have we here?" asked Fatso, snatching up the slip of paper.  "Well.  It has the name 'Trish,' and a phone number.  Imagine that."  He gave the slip back to Roach.
     "What the fuck," groused Short Nick.  "Fucker, do you use a deodorant called 'Pussy Magnet' or something?  You've got bitches lining up for a piece of you.  How do you do it?"
     Roach shrugged.  "I dunno, I just like women, and I guess it shows."
     "I noticed, he's, like, really confident around women," said Big Ugly.  "He's got this smile that they really seem to love, too."
     "He also doesn't refer to them as bitches, either," commented Fatso.  "Unless one really is."
     "Doesn't hurt he's six foot tall with a big dick," grumbled Short Nick.
     Terry said, "Hey, Paul Williams was short, and women loved him.  Of course, Paul Williams probably didn't act like a horny little troll, either."
     "Dammit, I'm getting a lap dance from that bitch.  What are they, twenty bucks?  Whatever, I'm getting that ass in my lap and my hands on those tits."
     "You can't touch the dancers," said Roach.  "And Trish is a nice girl, I like her.  I'll have to remind her about Pint Size, though.  But Nick, don't give any shit to Trish.  If you do, I will stuff you into your own gas tank."
     "Whatever, Valentino.  Let's finish this round and move up front.  I got some ones I feel like stuffing in tight spaces."
     Gerald decided to make as graceful an exit as he could, where it wouldn't look like he was bolting.  The specter of three Hell's Angels, drunk on beer, around strippers....  Things could turn ugly very fast.  He didn't want to be a statistic, an emergency room customer, or a witness.  All three could happen if he stuck around.  He considered asking Terry if she wanted to make an escape, but realized with both horror and fascination that these were her people.  Bikers.  Outlaws.  Criminals.
     "Hey Terry, I've got things to do in the morning, I'm gonna get going, okay?" Gerald said casually.
     "No problem dude, gimme a hug," Terry replied.  As they hugged, she said, "I'm gonna try to track down one of those Beretta Target 87s over the next week.  You gonna be at the shootout again?"
     "Yes, I will.  Are you going to compete again?"
     "Oh fuck yeah.  Even if I'm using my fuckin' 1911, I wanna try and place.  It's fun."
     As they broke apart, Terry kissed him.  On the lips.  He racked his brain, trying to remember the last time a woman had kissed him on the mouth, besides his mother.  He said a general goodbye to the Hell's Angels and scurried out.  He was desperately trying to suppress a hard-on.  A woman who was dangerous but beautiful had hugged and kissed him.  And she liked guns, was a better shot than him.  To him, there was no more attractive woman on the planet than Terry.  Please let her be at the target competition next week, he prayed.  She indicated that she liked to hang around the Gun Range, maybe he should start spending more time in the evenings there.
     He hadn't felt such a strong urge to hurry home and jerk off since he was a teenager.  Cleaning the guns could wait until morning.

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