Chapter 7
Mahogany cock strutted in the crotch of Buckminster's jet-black streetpunk moonwalker android pegged pants. He swore as he inadvertently smeared the still-wet transfer tattoo on his bicep. Didn't show up too well given his complexion anyhow.
Morrigana snickered as she saw him bend into the mirror and fasten a clasp about his earlobe. "Why don't you just get your ear pierced, Buck?"
Morrigana said. "That way you wouldn't have to wear those funky clip-ons."
"I like them."
"Bullshit. Just like I loved eating that rich cunt's lemony snatch."
"Goes with the territory."
"And you had her fistruck me, you black prick."
"She's your client originally."
"If I ever get close to Miss Mercedes Mania again, I'm going to eat her alive."
"Well, Morrigana, you just might get that opportunity if we play our cards right tonight. If you make the right impression."
"Like you?"
"I simply have to blend into the crowd. Tonight I'm just another anonymous smartass jig art groupie among the smart set. Nobody should look twice. Not at these hair spikes. Not at these Mohawk dreadlocks."
"And me?"
"You're the honey."
"For L.L. Jebal's fly."
"Looking sharp, Morrigana."
"You call this clothing?"
Morrigana stuck a long, muscled leg forward. Raised it up in an arc.
The folds of lace draped just right. Showing some skin, concealing some more.
Morrigana dropped her hands from her bosom.
Her ivory tits were stylish within a stiff, stitched bustier cut nearly to her pink nipples.
"I call it underwear," Buckminster said.
"Lingerie, please," Morrigana said.
"Mercedes says it's fashion," he said. "You want to know how much that get-up costs?"
"Spare me."
"Well, don't spare L.L. Jebal."
"I know. Goes with the territory. I feel like I should have a map."
"You fresh on the strategy? Tactics."
"I think not."
"You get Hood all hot and diverted. Meanwhile I make time with his newest fiancee."
"You got a gander at her."
"I think I know her. The type."
"Big fat white dyke?"
"A bit voluptuous in a pleasing way-if you're not totally addicted to hardbody highs. And she doubtless goes both ways. Fashionable for whitechicks these days."
"You know your strategy, Buck. How about an update on the tactics?"
"Tactile ones?"
"They're the most fun."
Buckminster lifted Morrigana's lingerie. Bit into white thighs.
Sucked along the rise of her Venus Mount. Pussylips pouted.
Darkling dingdong sprouted.
Monrigana looked at the crowd of peopledressed to the teeth, dressed to kill or be killedwaiting in the heavy post-midnight rain hoping for admission to the celestial pleasure dome known as Club Disque au Go-Go.
A mick mobster in a monkey suit yanked open the door to Morrigana's long white coach. A second dago doorman-bouncer packing a big piece in the armpit of his custom-tailored tux extended a thick forearm and escorted her inside through the private doorway around the corner in side alley.
He had seen her stretch limo, of course. Therefore, he saw no need to inspect her invitation, one that Mercedes had supplied to allow Morrigana inside L.L. Jebal Hood's current after-dark hotspot.
The interior was done up in a fruitcake designer's impression of decadent decor-fixtures done in an autoerotic assemblage of pop art, op art, art deco, art nouveau, grafitti art-and 1950s kitsch-all mingled together as if in expression of a single aesthetic.
Guys dressed up as hombo dudes, commandos, white rockers like Beatles, Stones, Elvis. So did some of the girls.
Although some of them might have been guys.
Morrigana looked across the dancefloor at the gyrating bodies. One couple stood out, wearing gaucho and gauchita costumes grinding groins in the same two tango steps over and over.
An old biscuitboy greaseball jitterbugged with a sprightly young black bimbette. In her eyes was all the distance in the universe.
Morrigana figured the airhead California jigstresse gash got blasted on drugs to forget about gamy pecker eating up the inside of her haunch day in and day out. Iced down her consciousness to minimal senselessness to fucksuckrut constantly with a minimum of pain.
It was good to be here, after all, Morrigana thought. Sometimes she forgot about what hell other people's lives were.
Being a female private dick wasn't so bad after all. At least you only had to pretend you were slime all the time.
Wasn't that it? she asked herself.
She hoped she was still pretending.
A spic queer in a red brassiere sneered as he passed by Morrigana. A tall dude with his hair cut into a chichi cameo asked to buy Morrigana a drink. She looked right through him and walked toward the center of the dancefloor.
"First I'm gonna stick my tongue down your throat," she heard a voice say out of the corner of her ear. "Then I'm gonna twirl it around up your ass-hole." Morrigana still couldn't tell if it was a male or female voice, or whether it addressed a male or female. "Then I'll strangle you with my scarf until you gag up my come."
Morrigana smelled the sex in the air. It crackled like burnt electrical wires.
The dance music pulsed through the floorboards. Sweat flew like squalls of hot tropical drizzle. The dance number segued into something else, a new song Morrigana did not recognize.
She scanned the upper deck, looking for the disk jockey's control booth.
"See 'em?" Buckminster's voice wandered through the cacophony. "Those two. Up there."
Morrigana clenched her teeth as she spoke. "I don't think it's a good idea for us to be seen talking, Buck."
"When they see us," he said, "they don't see Buckminster Black-and that's a fact." She turned her head over her shoulder. "Shee-it," she said.
"Another wig," he grinned. "Like me as a blonde? The jacket's reversible. How do I look in scarlet leather? Wanna dance?"
"Why not?"
Buckminster began a mambo step on the shaking floor to the synthesizer rap-bop bleating from immense speakers.
"Spied L.L. Jebal Hood?" Morrigana said.
"Look up there."
"Where?"
"The deejay booth."
"Jason Motherfuck Fuckingchrist."
"You know what she's wearing."
"Looks like a birdcage."
"Viking helmet. Kind Valkyries wore when they rode over the battlefields-"
"In those operas-omigawd, Buck. You think that's her? Anne Marie?"
"What do you think they're doing?"
"That chick does look kind of fat."
"She's just got some good meat on her. See? She's got her miniskirt hiked up so that it looks like a cummerbund."
"Yeah, I dig it. What's she doing now? Oh! Her tube top's rolled down."
"Tits by Goodyear."
"I'll say."
"Has she got four hands or what?"
"Ha ha. There's a dude dressed all in black, of course, wearing a leather helmet or hood, it looks like-right behind her feeling her up."
"Twist them titties and shout."
"He's got her pressed up against the railing."
"Oh, slime me down. The hot white bitch is drooling onto the dancefloor."
"And it looks like he's humping her hiney."
"Maybe fucking her cunt from behind."
"Want to go up and ask them which it is?"
"Probably both-sooner or later."
"What kind of place is this?"
"Your ordinary postmodern nightlife. Highbrows getting their lowbrow kinks. Same old story-you can read all about it in the Bible."
"Jesus Fuck Christ."
"Huh?"
"Her pudgy cunt's dripping juice over the railing. Maybe it's that guy's sperm. Or they spilled their drinks."
"I think that guy's pissing her down."
"You would think that. Maybe I should throw a drink in your face for trying to pick me up like that. I'm no floozy."
"Save it for the bigshots upstairs."
Buckminster turned, walked like an android toward the bar. He put his arm out and snagged a slumming deb-type dudesse about the waist. She squirmed away, eyes bugged out, as her two preppy trollop girlfriends giggled.
Morrigana shot her eyes up to the railing. The plump bitch was bent over, her dugs hanging, swinging pendulously.
Her voluptuous flesh had reddened to a sleek gloss. Her nipples were tight and, it would seem, painful in the grip of the hooded one's black leather gloves.
She was fucked and fucking for sure.
Gored and more.
Her eyes werepinched into tiny knots. Her mouth hung open.
She chewed her own tongue and lips to the movement of prick about her innards.
Her boobs bounced, bobbled and shook. Her pussy was pressed again and again between the metal bars of the railing overlooking the dance area.
In the darkness, Morrigana couldn't see it clearly. But she imagined the long purple-black dong slipping and sliding deep inside.
Sensed the jungle sperm boiling up.
Almost felt the balls begin to roll.
Snippets of the white woman's quimjuice spat from her pussylips. Droplets of cuntoils caught up darts of laser beams from the light show and refracted them about the swirling dancefloor.
The guy in black was taking a whack at her cool white fanny with his pecker.
He held it out straight-Morrigana saw it was shiny and black-the man aimed the dark dick at the woman's crack.
Squirted off scum in spasmic spurts.
Drips of semen drifted over the balcony and out into the haze of light and smoke.
Morrigana made her way up the gilt-embossed escalator to the VIP gallery. A couple security hoods attempted to size her up without looking at her boobs through her lace titsling.
She made the proper impression and they let her pass through their barricade without a word.
"The gallery, huh?" she said.
"Some show," the male voice said.
Morrigana turned her head. A man dressed in black with a leather hood over his head showed his teeth through the mouth opening.
"Don't believe we've been introduced," she said.
"Call me Hood."
"Call me later," she said.
"That's good."
"This is an art show? Where's the art."
"All around you. The world may well be a stage, but I say you are what you art."
"Real intellectual."
Hood pointed a black-gloved finger toward the ceiling. He waved it around in a circle.
"Look-the dome is a map of the northern skies. Lit up with constellations and shooting stars."
"El cheapo planetarium."
"You're a tough one. If you look ciosely, in and among the dancers are sculptures dressed in robes by one of your favorite female designers."
"I'm supposed to know her?"
"You're wearing one of her dresses."
"Oh. Let's take a look at those statues, Hood."
"The people are art. Don't snot your nose like that. Your outfit is plenty self-conscious. If you didn't intend to compete with the art, why didn't you just wear a jogging outfit or jeans?"
"They wouldn't have let me in."
"You're part of the scene, babes. You even make up part of the scene. You're as responsible for the hypocrisy you decry as much as anyone else here. You suck up to it. You want it."
"Awfully presumptuous, aren't you?"
"So are you, if you came here thinking everyone was going to look at you. There's some stiff competition here, from Hollywood and the music world, as well as the sports arena."
"You're the one who was fucking that white blimp up over the railing out there, aren't you."
"That was no white blimp. That was my wife."
"Where is she now?"
"Out filing for divorce, for all I care."
Morrigana caught a glimpse of Buckminster in his punk disguise. His mouth was working as if he were chewing tit or clit.
His face closed in on that of an ultra-white lightly tanned woman with a soulful, world-weary expression that belied her youth but fit in well with her olive-drab cotton military blouse and long camouflage stole slung over one shoulder in the manner of an ancient noblewoman.
"Now, there's my real wife," Hood said.
"I lied."
"I might have guessed."
"I lie a lot."
"Tell me some more, then."
"Take my arm and stroll along with me."
They sauntered arm in arm toward Buckminster and the other woman.
"Cassandra," Hood drooled out. "Who's your new boyfriend? Aren't you going to introduce your new black buck to your old hombo husband?"