Lock, Croc and Two Smoking Barrels

"Not so loud." Peter protested, his hand pawing into the shopping bag. There was a styrofoam box with a greasy drive-thru breakfast. Only styrofoam was sturdy enough to keep this grease off the backseat of the beemer. There was also a gel ice-pack, a bottle of Advil, a cup of black iced coffee, and appropriately enough... lots of Gatorade.

Pete dropped an unsettling amount of the Advil afloat in his iced coffee, removed the lid and sat up long enough to drink the whole thing. Michael shrank in his seat. Would Pete open his squinted, crust-infused eyes long enough to recognize him?

Salty Pete returned to his reclining position. "What's the cold thing for?"

"That's to put over your eyes." Michael offered. "It always helps me when I have a headache."

"That's a good idea..." Salty Pete slurred, plopping the cold pack onto his eyes. It was also good to keep Peter's eyes covered so he had no change to recognize him.

"You keep that on your eyes, sir, and you'll feel better in no time."

"What's your name, lad?" Salty Pete asked.

A pause, too long of a pause. He couldn't say Michael, because he kicked Michael out for fraternizing with Odile. No, wait, he knew the shirt was stolen, so maybe he wouldn't think it was him. Honestly, he was still thrown off that this guy's name was actually Peter, like his buddy Pistol Pete from the gang. How many Peters did he know?

"Dave, sir." He said, passing a sign that promised he was leaving Davie, Florida. The sign should come with an apology.

"Yer a good lad, Dave boy. I won't forget this." Salty Peter huffed.

The rest of the drive was thankfully uneventful. He pulled into the employee parking lot and helped Salty Peter to his feet. He was feeling better, but "Dave" insisted Peter keep his head down so the sun wouldn't hurt his eyes. "Dave" brought him to the kitchen, where he helped himself to some dark liquor, to help complete his hangover cure.

Michael tried to duck out of the galley, but he was stopped by a humongous man in a chef costume. Well, perhaps it was an outfit rather than a 'costume.' If he wasn't a chef, he was definitely an expert eater.

"Where you going? You work here, right?"

"Sure, why the fuck not?" Michael mumbled.

"What was that?"

"I said, 'Yes, chef.' What can I do for you?"

The giant chef pushed a cart with a silver cloche and platter atop it. "Take this to room 212."

Michael walked behind the cart and pushed it along, searching for the elevator. He rode up to the second floor and located 212. He knocked on the door.

"Room service." He announced through the door. Was that what people said when they delivered room service? He'd never had the chance to do it, either giving or receiving, certainly not at the roach motel he stayed at last night.

"It's open." Called a woman's voice. He opened the door, holding it open with his foot and he pushed the tray in. Real hotel workers probably learned that maneuver in training.

Sitting at the end of the first of the two beds was a woman in a short bathrobe that stopped at her hips. She had her legs crossed, her dyed-blonde hair teased, her eyelashes long and her lips painted red. Her beauty could stagger at a distance. At this range, it might be lethal.

"Thank you, darling." She said, her voice husky.

Michael wheeled the tray between the beds and removed the cloche. Inside were a dozen oysters plated in a circle. The woman took two of them and slurped them up, gently licking her lip.

"I've heard that these are an aphrodisiac." The woman growled as she ate two more. "Actually, I know they are. I've done lots of research."

"Maybe you've had enough."

"You can have some, if you like." She passed her hand over them.

"No thanks." After a week of no ejaculation, an aphrodisiac was the last thing he needed in his system. The woman methodically went through the last eight oysters and ate them all as Michael watched. She set them down one atop the next in a tower of discarded shell.

She licked her lips again, even though he was pretty sure nothing got on her lips. On the other hand, that was a sturdy brand of lipstick she was wearing, refusing to smear no matter how she tried. She looked down to the shells with a bit of fake shame. "Oh, I'm such a pig." She pouted.

"If everything's all set, I'll take this out of your way." He backed up the tray.

"My sink's broken." She said, standing and putting her foot in front of the cart, almost causing him to run over her foot.

"I'm not a plumber, miss."

"No need to be so formal, tiger." She purred. "What's your name?"

"Michael."

"I'm Missy." She smiled her pearly-white teeth at him.

"Nice to meet you." He said. "Can I call you 'miss' for short?"

"If you like, tiger."

"I'm still not a plumber."

"Would you at least take a look?" She stepped forward and placed her hand on his bicep, giving it a gentle, admiring squeeze.

"All right, I'll take a look." She led him into the bathroom and got down on her knees, bending over to open the cabinet under the sink... but somehow never got to it. The stupidly short hem of her robe slipped up to her waist, revealing her bare backside to him.

He had resisted it up until now, but that did it; Michael was hard as hell. Missy folded her arms under her head, ass in the air like Bambi on ice, as if she expected him to start without a word.

Michael reached past her and turned on the hot water. It seemed to get hot quickly, though not as quickly as her, evidently. "Looks fine to me." He said, turning away from her. She jumped up and stood between him and the door.

"Can you fix the TV?" She begged.

"Are you asking me to fix the cable?" Michael asked, turning back to the TV. "Maybe I should have brought a pizza." He went to the remote, and the TV wouldn't turn on. He tapped the batteries out into his palm and turned them around. He pressed the power button and the TV turned on.

"Batteries were in backwards."

"You're so smart." She pushed him down to the bed with a finger. He stood, slightly stronger than her finger, and wheeled the cart to the door.

"If that will be all, I'll be off." He pulled the doorknob down until it clicked.

"Wait." She said, and Michael turned back to her. She stood a few feet from him and threw her arms back, her robe thrown to he floor behind her. Her body was flawless, unless one wasn't a fan of really big breasts, in which case, she could probably persuade one to become one.

Michael nodded his head involuntarily. "Nice." He said, not knowing what else to say.

"I know you're not gay, so... what's wrong?" She said, dropping the velvety, sexy voice and speaking more plainly. It was weird seeing a gorgeous naked woman stand there casually, rather than seductively. "You don't have a ring, either. What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I just don't have sex with people I just met."

"This isn't a trick, I swear." Missy said. "I'm not married, I'm not in a relationship. There's no hidden camera. I'm perfectly healthy. I don't want money; I've got plenty. I'm just a real-life card-carrying nymphomaniac."

Michael doubted she had the card on her at this moment. "Have you talked to a doctor, or did you come to this conclusion yourself?"

"I talked to two psychiatrists. I had sex with them both, and they agreed."

"I don't think 'nymphomania' is actually used as a medical diagnosis anymore."

"No, you're right, but it's so much more fun to say than 'hypersexuality,' which is what the doctors called it. I like to think I'm the nymph, and it's everyone else who's got the mania."

"Can't believe we're still talking while you're standing there naked."

"These are real, by the way. I know most people think they're fake, but they're not." She put her hands under her breasts and shook them gently, giving them a natural fatty jiggle.

"Is that supposed to change my mind, the fact that they're not implants? Fake or not, those are super awesome."

"Thank you." She smiled. "The boobs, I can't really take credit for. That's just good genes from my mom. But I work hard on everything else."

"You really won't take 'no' for an answer."

"I will. I just almost never hear it." Missy said. "So... why not?"

Michael looked her up and down. She was beautiful, intensely so. Once she dropped her seductive persona, he was far less suspicious this was some sort of entrapment. The obvious sultry character she played was so phony, it was dissonant. As she was, he could imagine having sex with her... if he wasn't afraid this succubus would devour his wiener the second he freed it from his fly.

That thought led to one of Odile, sweet Odile, hopefully not chained up somewhere else, but still lost. Missy's body was similar to Odile's: Missy was shorter, with breasts were only slightly larger than Odile's. And hair.

When Missy was bent over, presenting her rump like a mandrill, there was something missing. The tail, that majestic appendage that swung in a way that you could tell her mood just by watching it, if you knew the signs.

He had his answer. "Because I'm already in love."

Missy laughed gently, her breasts shaking as she did in what he was sure wasn't entirely involuntary movement. She stepped forward and hugged him. He put his arms around her, feeling her warm, soft flesh squish gently in his hands and against his torso.

Soft flesh... after so much contact with his carapaced lover... this felt weird.

He pulled himself away from her and lowered the handle on the doorknob. He released it and turned back to her. "Let's say... I changed my mind... would you still be down?"

"Of course." Missy said. "I'm not holding a grudge. A few people have turned me down and called me a 'slut' or something, and yeah, they burned that bridge, if they were ever going to try to come back. Don't sweat it, kiddo."

"I'm pretty sure we're about the same age."

"Age is just a number." Missy said. Michael finally excused himself from the room, holding the cart close to his groin to keep his erection hidden until it subsided... whenever that would be.

Age is just a number. Like 212. Or 38E.

***

Michael returned to the kitchen where he apparently worked now. Getting a real job was as easy as his father used to say; just walk in and do the job. The humongous chef, more a giant teapot than a man, was in the process of crumbling his chef toque in his fingers, pitching it to the ground and stomping on it. How often he did this, only the other workers could know.

"What's wrong, chef?" Michael asked.

The chef looked at him, and then pointed to a burger with a bite taken out of it. "Would you eat that?" He bellowed, as if Michael was responsible.

Michael abandoned his cart like a careless shopper and inspected the burger. It looked like a crescent moon, such a big bite was taken out of it. The inside was red, the lower bun soggy with the red juices inside, be they blood or whatever. He peeled the bun off the top and found the outside was barely browned by the cooking process.

"That's awful rare for me, sir." Michael said.

"She said it wasn't rare enough!" The chef howled. "I've never made a rarer burger in my life!"

The chef continued on a tirade on how she was probably just trying to get sick from the burger being too undercooked, and she would try to sue us, and bla bla bla... Michael tuned him out. The shape of that bite in the burger reminded Michael of something... and the chef did say it was ordered by a 'she...'

He gasped in realization. "I think I know what she's looking for." Michael hustled into the kitchen to wash his hands.

"Dude, do you have a boner?" Asked one chef assistant, stirring a sauce about with a whisk as he investigated Michael's member.

Michael quickly washed his hands in the dishwashing sink, wiped them on some paper towels, and looked the assistant dead in his eyes. "What can I say? I love food."

Asking to be directed to a portion of raw ground beef, he scooped out a generous handful, sculpted into a meatball, depressed the ball into a puck, sprinked it on both sides with salt and pepper...

And placed it on a new bun without cooking it. He placed a single leaf of lettuce atop it like the fig leaf over Adam's genitals before placing the bun on top.

"You can't be serious." The chef said.

"Can you get any rarer than this?" Michael asked pointedly. Nobody else seemed to have an answer to it. "Not unless the cow's still breathing, you can't." He plated the burger and picked it up. "What room is she in?"

"She's in 116, all the way down the hall." Someone answered from the back.

Michael passed the confused chef and whispered, "If you're stressed out, go to Room 212 for a while. Trust me."

The chef looked at him, perplexed, as Michael dashed off with a tray and the special extra-rare burger. He reached the end of the hall, 116 on his left. He knocked three times, very politely.

A few seconds of waiting, and the door opened just a crack. "Yes?" Said a familiar voice, with an unmistakable hiss beneath it.

"Room service." He squeaked. The door opened the rest of the way, and revealed Odile, standing there in a white bathrobe.

"Michael!" She smiled, pouncing on him and almost knocking him over. They kissed for a few seconds before he coaxed her back into her room. Salty Peter was hopefully asleep somewhere, but he couldn't afford to be see with Odile and get banned from the Cove of Fun for TWO weeks.

With grandiose presentation, Michael lowered the tray in front of Odile, who had returned to the bed. "Lunch is served."

Odile picked up the burger in her clawed fingers, looked at it, and took a bite. She swallowed it, and nodded. "OK, this is good." She made the burger vanish in three more bites. Michael had always been attracted to women who could put it away. "I don't know why the others ones were so bad. I couldn't eat them."

"They were cooked."

"What?"

"Never mind." It was like they'd never been separated at all. He hopped into the bed, taking off his boots before bringing them up on the bedsheet. "This... is much nicer than the animal pen."

"It certainly is." Odile said, watching the ceiling fan turn slowly above her. "When Salty Peter found out I could actually talk, we agreed I shouldn't be in with the animals. All I had to do was promise not to hurt anyone."

"Wow." Michael put his arm around hers. "I feel kind of stupid now. I had this idea of me rescuing you from here. I had a plan to get a truck and drive through the back of the building and break down the wall of the animal cages, or maybe smuggling you out in the cover of night. I even got this special wrench that I think would open up that collar. But I realize now that... you're no damsel in distress. You don't need me to save you."

"I may be strong, but..." Odile looked out into the distance. "I could've escaped when they caught me... if I had killed someone. But you've told me not to do that. And I don't think I would have got out of that cage because I wouldn't have said anything."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"I don't know. I was angry. I didn't want to give them the satisfaction."

"Speaking of satisfaction..." Michael brought his body on top of Odile's. "Do you think we could finish what we started last night?"

She chuckled deep in her throat, and they kissed for a bit. She sighed. "I don't know if I should. I'm tired, and if I'm tired and you do that, I think I'll fall asleep and miss the show."

Michael sighed. This was a bit of a far conclusion to leap to after he'd given her only two orgasms. Nevertheless, better safe than sorry. "I guess you're right. Maybe we'll do it after."

"That's a long time from now. What should we do?"

"Let's watch some TV."

"Is that what that thing is?" Odile asked. "I thought it was some sort of opaque fish tank."

Michael turned the TV on and found the programming guide. He flipped through the list, trying to find something to watch. He read out a few titles as he sat there. One caught Odile's ear.

"Lake Placid?" She looked to him, gently drumming her claws against his chest. "What's that about?"

"Oh..." He shook his head, scrolling it off the screen. "You wouldn't like it."

Chapter 15: Croc the Kasbah

Michael waited in Odile's room for the performance to finish. He didn't think it'd be a good idea to be seen in the audience, just in case someone else recognized him as the guy who got flashed by Odile in that unusual moment of less-than-family-friendly fun. After all... he was banned for six more days.

Besides, he just saw the show yesterday. What did people do here for a whole week? Then again, he spent a week in a one-room hut. That demonstrated how important good company could be.

Michael started out of a doze when he heard someone rattle the doorknob repeatedly. He opened it without looking to see who it was, knowing it was Odile.

"I'm sorry, I locked the door." He apologized, letting Odile back into the room. She was in her new swimsuit, a green one-piece suit that the director of the park, whichever salty person they were, evidently found more appropriate than the small pink bikini. Of course, Odile stepped out of the swimsuit once she was inside, slipping it off her shoulders and gently pulling it down her scales. Someone had thoughtfully cut a hole in the back for her tail, but this just made getting free of it even more difficult. Maybe she could argue for a less revealing two-piece bathing suit to make this transition easier.

Odile freed herself from the polyester and spandex shackles, waving her hands gently on her flesh, shivering a bit as her skin dried. She moved back over to the bed and slipped under the covers.

Michael joined her, cuddling next to her, the only light in the room being the news broadcast on the television. "How was it?"

"Better than the first time."

"Did people like you?"

"I guess so."

"See? When you get down to it, you're not so scary. Anything interesting happen?"

"There was a guy who was forced to leave."

"Why? What did he do?" Michael imagined whatever brought it on, it wasn't what got him thrown out yesterday.

"He was holding something like this." She made her hands into a rectangle. It was the shape of someone watching or recording something with their phone.

"Someone was trying to record the show, maybe?" He proposed. At least they had the decency to turn their phone sideways and not record vertically like an uncivilized Saxon. "I don't think they let you take pictures during the show."

"He was weird-looking. He had these pictures on his arms."

"Tattoos?" He asked. "Did he have blond hair?"

"Yeah."

That description matched the man trying to pick the lock to the animal cages, though it probably matched lots of other Floridians with criminal records.

"He also fed me something out of a metal thing like the soda water you drink. It tasted weird."

"The guy in the audience?"

"No, Salty Greg."

"Was it a sardine?"

"I think that's what he said. It wasn't the fish that was weird. It was what the fish was coated in."

"They sell sardines in olive oil, I think. I've never had them myself."

"What's olive oil?"

"It's oil they make out of olives."

A long pause. "OK. What's an olive?"

"It's a tiny fruit they make olive oil out of."

Another long pause. The meteorologist tried to make the weather of southern Florida sound remotely interesting. "That doesn't tell me anything."

"I'm sorry, Odile. I don't really know anything about olives."

"I guess I'll have to get used to city folk food, then." Odile shifted a bit. "I was eating better when they thought I was an animal."

"If you ask for an uncooked steak, I'm sure they'll give it to you."

"I guess. I hope that's in my contract." Odile said.

Michael looked down at her. "Contract?" He asked. "You signed a contract?"

"Salty Greg gave me this thing to sign. I don't know how to write, so he said an X was fine."