Chapter 14

This was the look she had on her face before she was found dead and abandoned in the deserted hotel room. She had long dark drown hair, large ice blue eyes, pale ivory skin, and filled-up and healthy cheekbones. I have the picture they found of her after she was deceased and lifeless somewhere about in my room, and to be honest and upright with you, it not only scares and shakes the hell out of me, but also breaks and smashes and shatters my heart up. In those appalling and spine-chilling photographs, Tawny Sliwinski, my very own blood mother and parent, had her eyes puffed and swollen out while tears of blood oozed and seeped out from them, and she what's more had awful and chilling cuts noticeable and seeable all over her entire body. Yes. Her killer was not only preternatural; he was ruthless and bloodthirsty too. And who could he be?

It is about time. I am getting myself ready for work. I am a prostitute—I prowl and walk the silent and dark streets out there at night, and by the break of dawn, I should have at least lured one fine-looking and filthy rich pocketed gentleman to bed, leaving him all still and motionless there in his tasteless sleep of death. What I do at night ... it is horrible and appalling to describe and relate to you. Truly!

This is what I am going to be fine and comfortable in tonight. Netted stockings and a bum-low mini dress and a fancy and sparkling golden-colored necklace that flickers and shines whenever I step into an embodiment of light and brilliance, and snug and tight gloves that shape and pattern my hands well and nicely, plus a belt with a symbol of a human skull on it, and black and elevated stilettos that clink and clank against the floor with a sharp and ear-piercing sound. Yes. This will do for tonight only!

Evette Dawson is my best friend. Like me, she is a prostitute and a street bitch too. She does all the things that I do when it is night. But unlike me, she is yellow blond and olive skinned and very tall and slender-built. I think she is more pretty and beautiful than me, though she promises and lets me know that we look much equally the same. After all, we are both bitches and we have got the blood of lust and disaster flowing and running in our veins. When I step into the living room, I see her seated and ensconced down there on our large sofa, and she is chatting and conversing with an unknown man on the telephone. Could it be her client, or her father? Is she is not making any arrangements with her clients on the phone, then she probably and definitely is spending time with her dearest and beloved father. Almost always!

As I walk out of the house, I wave goodbye at her kindly and she waves back smilingly and gleefully. I go on my way, thinking about how cold it will be tonight and yet I don't bother to pull and carry any jacket with me. Just what the hell is wrong with me? Elle?

Tonight, I will be hunting my latest fetch at Neaves Night Club. It is the most slutty dirtiest and congested night club here in Kent, Nevada. There are people of all races and backgrounds and origins. People here have sex and fuck each other in toilets and dark corners and even on the very crowded dance floor itself. Women strip and undress to the music like the guys are not watching and being attentive to them at all. Men shell and yield out money to whores and mongers and bitch tramps like they have won the best grand lottery in all of America and the world itself. Prostitutes have to book a week beforehand as as to get access to the club and its moneyed clienteles themselves. The asking price is just a hundred dollars, and this is what I paid solely six days ago. If I hadn't carried my ticket here with me, the guards at the gate would not have allowed me in.

The music is heavy and loud in here. All I can overhear in my ears are the giant speakers as they thunder and boom and vibrate and quake. The lights are changing in color and brilliance every now and then and constantly; from red to green to blue to yellow to white to purple. The floor beneath is all polished and granite-tiled, but it is heavily crowded by bitches and dancers who are madly swaying this side and that other, all in harmony and conformity to the booming and thundering music.

As I pass through the pressing and squeezing crowd, I observe and note that some women have even stripped naked and they are letting bunches and gangs of men touch and pet and stroke them as they feel like. Some are being tapped and hit on the buttocks, some are being fingered and stroked in their very vaginas and pussies themselves, some are enjoying having their breasts caressed and stroked, and some are bent and bowed down so as to have men jab their fingers and tongues deep into their anuses. Is this the rightful place for me to be? I honestly don't know...

I work my way to the counter, and once I am seated here, I sigh and breathe out heavily before I eventually stare up at the waiter and tell him, "A glass of cold water, please."

"Would you also like beer on top of that, madam?" He asks me coolly and composedly.

I raise high up my hand and then beat and lash it down—a sign that only a glass of water will be fine and okay. He goes on to bring me what I have asked him to. And just when I look besides me, I note this man; handsome; strong-built and dingy-haired; peering and staring right straight at me. He looks like he is from Mexico—that Spanish-resembling and curly-twisted style done-up hair of his, arranged and arrayed in a way that Spaniards are only known to love and relish.

"Hi, I am Brad Wilson," he tells and makes known to me. I am wrong then. He must be from England ... or even Australia.

"Mr. Wilson, what can I do for you?" I ask him seriously and gravely, sniffing and smelling him. His scent hits straight into my nostrils and...

He is right there, standing upright in a labor ward, next to a blond woman who is smiling and grinning kindly and mercifully back at him. In his hands, he is carrying and holding a weighty and large baby, and when he checks and investigates out, he sees and notices that the baby has got a thick penis and two big, lumpy-like scrotums. Yes; it is a boy! And his own child too! The baby cries and shrieks out following this.

... I am back to my senses and reality; a little bit disappointed and embarrassed. How long will this hunt take me to finish and wrap it up executively? How long really?

"Your beauty is dazzling, miss, have I made this known to you?" Brad asks me politely and straightly, keeping his eyes fixed and immovable on me. I look away from him for a little bit while. It turns out a grouping of five men are looking and peering right straight at us, quiet and hushed as they do so. Well, if they are chancing and aiming to book me for a one-night gang-bang stance, they are already late. And by the look of it, they are perfectly and entirely human. I don't want to sleep with humans. I prefer to sleep and have sex with aliens and non-humans. That is my job.

"What if I tell you that I don't look the way you see me to be?" I pose this to Brad, serious and stern faced. And this is just the exact truth! I don't naturally and normally look the way I now do. This is just a camouflage. I copied and replicated exactly what my mother looked like. I myself have light brown hair and dark gold skin and velvety black eyes and thick and full eyelashes. My mother wasn't all this. Not that much really.