Life Is Like Shit - Not Chocolate

I held Danny in my arms. He felt so good nestled against me. The dreamless sleep of sexual exhaustion relaxed his body, and I felt the tension in his muscles go limp for a few hours.

Mine, however, was a mixture of uneasy sleep and dwelled upon the thoughts of what was going on down the road. It must now be a melee of FBI and local cops down at the safehouse trying to figure out what happened. No way in hell was the agent in charge going to admit a single, sword-wielding girl overpowered three trained Feds and got away with a whispered mixture of Spanish and English to the cowering cartel witness. Added to that embarrassment, she was missing her service weapon and credentials. Try and explain that to your supervisor! You may think that cruel of me, but, hey, the bitch tried to put two bullets into me!

The best I could hope for, at this point, as I had struck fear into 'the rat' and he would remember my threats if he didn't tell the truth at his deposition. The rat knew I had his number -- I saw the fear in his eyes as he gazed into my cold-as-hell sloe-eyes. He was smart enough to know that if I could get to him in an undisclosed Federal safehouse, I could find him in the witness protection program and complete what I threatened. I wanted him to wake up in the middle of a cold-sweat nightmare, grabbing for his balls and feeling a cold-steel blade pressing against them, night after night for a good long while.

I used Danny twice more before sunrise. Slower now than the times before. Each time helped salve some of the angst of near-death experiences. He didn't say no -- I guess he needed it as much as I did. At dawn, he couldn't get it up -- men -- so I rode his face for one more cream-lipped orgasm. That one was significantly prolonged and felt like riding a stallion at full gallop until I came. My gasping, satisfied body rolled off Danny and snuggled against his warm, soft skin. He held me tight. He kissed my lips and eyes and whispered, "Good night." I dropped off into that dreamless sleep of sexual exhaustion until mid-morning.

It was cute how he looked into my eyes as I woke up in his bed after the torrential storm. His fingertip just glided across my nose to awaken me. The cooing of doves outside sounded so peaceful -- as though all the cares in the world had been suspended in time.

Then, with his hand in the hollow of my spine and my naked body pressed against his, he whispered ...

"Jackie, I think I love you!" spilled softly out of my lips before I could pull the thought back into my ramshackle mind.

Her face lit up with a wicked smile at my declaration, "Then, for sure, I have to get a toothpick and leave your body in bed for your mother to find!"

Last night's wry humor re-ignited in that smile this morning. It still seemed to tickle her fancy again.

"I could make coffee for us before you 'off' me?"

"I like mine straight out of the pot - no sugar - no cream," she growled playfully as she rolled on top of me. She spread her legs, letting her knees come rest on either side of my hips. I felt the softness of her mons glide up and down over my shaft, slowly, barely moving. It was enough -- my cock got the idea, stiffened, then eased inside of her, matching her rhythmic movements. She had that Cheshire cat smile going on as she watched my face lit up as her take-charge attitude emerged.

"But coffee can wait fifteen minutes, sugar, while I 'off' you again," she declared with enthusiasm.

'Larry, my personal bartender, might be right. I might just get used to living with the smell of Rita's shit I was in - if I could keep 'The Fixer' in my life. Then, perhaps, life might not be so bad!

I needed that fifteen minutes of sex before breakfast coffee --wide awake and in control. I needed more of riding Danny to wash away the latent fears of yesterday's brushes with death! I thought about what Danny professed, 'about being in love with me.' I knew it was just a rebound sensation from enjoying sex without an attachment after being screwed over by Rita. It was merely a cathartic release for both of us. Mine for psychological healing; his to vanquish the trauma from divorce.

His momma was right, though -- Danny was easily pussy whipped! Had I stayed for very long and then disappeared, I could tell he would be back in that bucket of shit feeling he morosely spent his time with for the past few months. My job didn't allow for personal feelings to mix with business. A one-night stand was the best thing for both of us at this moment. I couldn't give Danny any more than that. To do so would have been so selfish.

Jesus! What a nightmare that safehouse breech had been! The Fixer Solution was supposed to be a simple design. Target Sabatino Marquez 'The Rat' Sanchez and give him a vile warning that he could be had anytime, anywhere. Just spark a fear that pierced his soul like a red-hot glowing nail going into his eyeball, one he would remember when he got on the witness stand to testify. All he had to remember was to tell the absolute truth, not the 'truth' he conned the Feds into believing.

He garnered a witness protection plan out of them as his reward. The Feds thought they had flipped him, but they were dead wrong. The rat spun them a tale of Gloria Moreno as a shadowy operator of a drug gang out of Juarez. He gave her up. She denied it. Yet he had a lot of dirt on her -- all fingers pointed to Gloria. The mountain of fake evidence indicated she was the boss. It was made-up crap 'The Rat' fed the Bureau. Gloria was the innocent -- held by the rat for five years. He used her, abused her body, and made Gloria Moreno into a patsy to cover his tracks. He held her family's life over her head as leverage, typical syndicate manipulative crap. He even taped photos of her family over his bed as he stripped her and took her as a reminder that she was his to do with as he wanted. Gloria was a courier crossing the border between the cartel and Sabatino Marquez Sanchez. That cunning coyote used her to his advantage.

I planned to hide my Maserati in a nearby garage for a fast escape. Jack and I had previously scouted the place, the lay of the land, the neighbor's backgrounds, and their coming and goings. I stashed my car in the garage of a couple going away on a cruise to the Caribbean, so that was no problem.

The problems started with the damn weather!

Traversing the ravine was difficult. As I made my way across the slippery caliche on the steep walls of the ravine, the furious winds drove rain straight up the jean shorts I had on and right up the crack of my butt. If there were fish in that stream, the gale force winds would have driven them straight up my crack too! The rain created a torrent of water and was nearly impossible to cross. As it was, I lost my footing, and my go-bag with the tie straps and flashbang grenades was carried downstream. I was lucky to hang onto my sword strapped over my shoulder and down around my back as I clawed my way up the embankment in the torrential downpour.

All I had to do was traverse the ravine behind the safehouse and gain entrance. Disable the three Fed agents. Menacingly tickle Sabatino Marquez 'The Rat' Sanchez's testicles. The ones he is so proud of, with my short-blade sword. Deliver the message that I could get his balls anytime and anyplace I wanted. More precisely,'Tell them the truth, or I will cut your nuts off!'

That was all I had to do! Simple plan. He loved his nuts! No way in hell was he going to risk being tracked down and lose his precious manhood!

The Feds had been playing rummy with 'the rat' when I tossed a wrought-iron chair through the patio window. At first, no one reached for a weapon. The surprise was written all over their faces as I bolted in right as the chair crashed into the kitchen table. One, two-and-a-half, three-and-a-half, and they were down, stunned. The first Fed went down quickly with a fist to the throat. For the second one, I spun up and over my head, slamming him onto the table, back first, knocking the wind out of him. The third, I swept her off her feet with a kick-spinning motion at the knees. The rat was the last, stunned by a sharp left jab to his nuts as I slid across the floor and nailed him.

'Improvise!' Jack had drummed into my head in such situations. Ripping cords from the blinds, I tied up the Feds as quickly as a rodeo calf roper could manage. Then turned my sword's attention to the groaning and moaning, balls-holding rat curled up on the floor. It put the fear of God into him as I spun the sword around and snapped it still, barely an inch from his nut sack. I had confidence, and lots of practice, so I wasn't worried about leaving a mark.

"¡Diles la verdad o te cortaré los cajones! Or I'll find you, I swear to God, no matter where you hide, and I'll cut them off! ..." was as far as I got when, suddenly, the lights went out as the storm railed against the safehouse walls.

A split second later, a muzzle flash lit up the room. The lady Fed had managed to get loose and was firing blindly toward the sound of my voice. At the same instant, 'the rat' jerked in a reflex action. I moved instinctively, spinning around as well. It was unfortunate for 'the rat' as I heard him squeal in some pain. Guess he got a little too close to the blade under the circumstances; not sorry about it, however. I rolled toward the Fed's voice as she shouted for her team to stay down. They were still well-hog-tied, unlike the wily-female escape artist. I knew she was intent on unloading the mag into anything that moved -- and I was moving!

'Close the distance, always!' came my trainer's voice as my fist furiously landed a blow mating with the Fed's cunt. She folded, dropping her weapon. I owned her gun now, took her credentials as well, and sheathed my sword, slipping out amidst streaks of lightning flashing around the safe house. The Fed lay doubled over in pain. Served her right, I'd had only tied her up - not tried to kill her, but she didn't return the favor. I grabbed an old bike leaning against the wall and headed down the driveway at a furious pace, silently into the blinding rainstorm. A trail of gun parts lay behind me as I peddled away while disassembling the Glock 47 and discarding pieces like gum wrappers on a New York City street. I kept the credentials; if I needed a new cover, they were worth their weight in gold.

"Danny, 'Fixer Solutions' are designed to be simple," I explained. "The less complicated the plan, the fewer snags are likely to be encountered. Yours isn't that easy. It does require your buy-in and your participation. It also requires your silence.

My boss doesn't make allowances for the last requirement - you remain silent, or he calls you out to his place for the last supper before you part ways. Understand?"

"Holy Shit! Holy, Big Bucket of Shit!"

I was muttering, holding my head with both hands as I stood at an old icehouse on the far east side of El Paso. One with no cameras, few customers, and filling a red metal, two-gallon gas can. Like the plastic one I knew, one was still sitting next to my lawn mower in my not-yet-paid-for house. Jackie remained behind the wheel of her Maserati, her hair pulled back and wearing dark-shaded sunglasses, as I set the container back into her trunk.

I agreed to this, but I still couldn't believe I agreed - so eagerly!

Yes, I wanted Rita out of my life, but this was so damn crazy!

Jackie had outlined her plan at brunch the day after the storm. With all the rain, there was no construction that day. So it unrolled quickly. I drove her down to her parent's house. That was an eye-popping trip. She wore my robe home. As I sat in the truck, she hoisted the garage door with one hand. Staring me in the face was a damn bright-red Maserati GranTurismo. Who the fuck drives a $200,000 customized car?

Jackie Wilson watched my jaw drop as she stood beside it. That smile, the Cheshire cat's grin, spread across her face again. Then she just shucked my old terrycloth bathrobe and stood stark naked in the middle of the garage as if everybody does that! She popped the trunk, pulled out fresh clothes, and dressed quickly, right there in the middle of the damn garage, tossing her old garb and my bathrobe into the trunk.

I drove old Rusty Bucket '67 to Mamma's house, and Jackie's sports car followed. A nice ride, far better than Rita's new gold Cadillac! We set out to execute Jackie's plan as she drove quickly past an old house down the road full of cop cars.

"Drug bust?" I hazarded a guess.

" Not likely, probably just a domestic disturbance. Your neighbors don't seem to be the type to run drugs, do they?" Jackie casually tossed in her two cents worth on the situation as she shifted to manual mode and hit the accelerator, picking up speed and virtually flying past the parked police cars -- she was definitely In a hurry!

I contacted my life insurance company and had them make the 70-10-20 survivor changes Jackie dictated. I drove over and signed the papers, dropping a copy off at my lawyer's office with instructions to forward a copy to fucking Rita's lawyer. The next step, mail a same-day delivery copy to 'her' home at the post office.

'Glad to piss on Rita's day that way.'

A call to the vet, and they were only too happy to let Rita know that Humpy needed his vaccinations. When she said she didn't have time to take care of that, the receptionist told her I had volunteered to stop by and take Humpy for his shots. I would have liked to have been a fly on the wall when Rita got that call, but I wasn't. However, Rita did leave me a message to come and get my sorry-ass-licking dog for his shots and have him back before 6:00. I recorded that call per Jackie's instructions! Humpy was so damn glad to see me that he peed on her brand-new rug when I knocked!

Jackie had tailed Rita to a beauty salon. That was going to be a long day for sure. She also tracked her new live-in boyfriend to his job. He was a damn gym trainer, a 'master' of aerial yoga of all things. I guess that's where the hanging from the ceiling setup came from!

With the house empty, Jackie must have sprung into action. I guessed -- since I didn't meet up with her again after she dropped me off at Mamma's place to take on my assignments, and she hers.

Binoculars in hand, Jackie Wilson leaned her shapely butt against her red Maserati GranTurismo. It was backed into an isolated blind spot behind a city refuse pickup point near the interstate cloverleaf back off El Paso International Airport. She was standing overwatch at the forthcoming crime scene from her vantage point. This petite stick of dynamite coolly waited for the first plume of smoke to curl up from cracks in the closed garage door at 6969 Happiness Lane.

At the first sign of smoke, she bounded into her Maserati and hightailed it off the bridge, hitting the highway back to the center of town. The pending explosion would blow out the garage doors and send spectacular flames to the rooflines. There was no further need to stick around -- she wasn't intent on getting caught in some freak, chance social media recording by gawkers stopping to see the show.

Danny's problems with Rita, his Ex, were about to end. Jackie planned to catch the rest of the details on the evening news. Her anonymous tip on an incendiary-type house fire to a go-getter-gal from the local television station would be sure to make the afternoon breaking-news hour.

"Fortunately," the on-site reporter would declare to her followers, "the residents were not at home when fire consumed the entire structure."

The Fixer's adrenaline was pumping. Jackie's internal dialog cautioned her to keep a light foot on the gas pedal while weaving the flame-red Maserati through traffic. She wheeled into a one-stop-service copy place. Printing copies of the images she'd captured from that same bridge just under an hour ago, she sealed them into an 8x11 envelope. She addressed it to the hot babe down on the road doing her best to sound like an authority on fire control. Anyone listening to the news hour recognized the broadcaster's intense demeanor as she commanded the camera crew like a drill sergeant.

"Jackie," my trainer said, "always pick the youngest reporter! They're eager to please and will get the job done. They want the credit and always hunger for that next level of promotion."

I decided'Miss Turner fit the hungry-reporter type!' and slipped the envelope across the table to the smiling, cute, and flirty redhead on the other side of the photocopy counter. She had her eye on me from the moment I entered the establishment. It was a girl's interest in another girl's type of eye movement.

"Sugar," I gave her a wink and friendly grin, "get this off in today's mail, please!"

From my first day on the job, I always found Jack Wilson's instructions meticulously dead on. He was damn good at what he did! He trained me to be the same -- "The Fixer" is what he nicknamed me, and to this day, the title has stuck to me like 'stink on shit.' Most folks might say it was like 'white on rice,' but being Asian-American, I'm not fond of the latter colloquialism. That sounds so wrong out of my mouth and given my skin tone!

It had been more than twenty-four hours since I checked in with my boss. Too long. Out of protocol, I knew he would be looking into that.

But I needed the time to set up Rita and Terrance in my sting. This was an off-the-books operation to help Danny -- not Jack Wilson's sanction. Had it gone wrong, he would have burned my ass with a blow torch for a non-sanctioned operation. It's not like he could fire me, however. Technically, I wasn't an employee, just a girl collecting on independent-contractor work.

Although, I suppose he could have taken me to the desert and had me dig a grave with a shovel. But then, too, he knew what I could do and had done with a shovel in the past. Jackie Wilson only needed a short-blade sword -- or - a toothpick to work her magic. But if that weren't available, my hand-to-hand combat training would suffice. Those were my thoughts as I drove into town looking for a photocopy place. A few errant thoughts of my first job interview with Jack Wilson slipped into the cracks of my thoughts as I drove.

Jack Wilson had laughed at me when we first met for what I thought was a job interview for a security agency. I told him straight up that I had washed out of the Navy Seals training program after eight weeks. He tried his best not to laugh. I knew why. It was a ridiculous requirement that a hundred-and-three-pound woman carries that much crap on a mission. Fuck'n Seal go-bags weighs more than I do!

"Got any other skill sets?" he asked, falling back into his professional, non-snickering mode.

"How 'bout four years at the New York Renzo Gracie Academy under John Danaher and Renzo Gracie? Both trained me in hand-to-hand combat using Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu and Submission Grappling," I smiled as I answered. I could kick ass if I had to!