What Happens in Carcosa...
Caution: This Action/Adventure Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Romantic, Coercion, Blackmail, Horror, Mystery, Zombies, Slut Wife, Cuckold, BDSM, Rough, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Food, Water Sports, Voyeurism, Slow, Violent,
Desc: Action/Adventure Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Yellow Neon Lights - Part One. A resourceful Vegas Casino IT Manager discovers what his crime boss employer and family have been up to and loses his taste for voyeurism - and nearly his life! Mobsters, Morbid Mysteries and Mormon Death Squads, oh my! Grizzly revenge and the costs of loyalty lead to his hope for redemption, however unlikely in Lovett, Texas. This is a long slow developing story that is the start for several extremely critical Lovett County tales. Some sex later in the story.
Off of the top of my head, I can easily think of ten or twenty reasons why someone would want to take a shot at me. Not one of those reasons would include a 'Mormon Hit Squad' up here in one of the most ass-backwards, isolated and forgotten mountain ranges in the entire State of Nevada. Since when did the Mormons even have 'Death Squads' anyway? Sure, the Jesuit's or Opus Dei might run those kinds of operations, as might some fringe Southern Baptist cult ... but the Mormons? You learn something new every day!
It didn't much matter I suppose. Frankly for a moment or two I was even glad to see them, until they decided that they didn't want any witnesses and they mentally added me to their butcher's bill. I can respect that, they probably had their orders to follow — and a man needs to do what a man needs to do ... but they can't blame me for wanting to stay alive either.
From the early looks of things, they'd had their quick surprise chance to take me out and they'd blown it. Now, I could just manage to stay alive for a little while longer the odds were going to turn well into my favor. One thing was definitely for sure ... regardless of how things turned out I wouldn't be likely to return back here again! Or was I?
Now, 'What the hell is going on?' you might be asking? Frankly, I'm not at all sure I have an answer for you and for my story to even remotely make any sort of sense at all I need to back up quite a bit, probably the further back the better. So bear with me ... It's a long story, but I'll get to all of the bloodletting and mayhem soon enough.
Back in the hoary days of my early youth, my parents moved to Vegas from the State of Maine. My father had terrible back problems and swore that another New England winter would be the death of him so he wanted to move to a place that was nice and warm. Instead, he found a heart-attack waiting for him working in the 110 degree Nevada desert sun one July afternoon. He was an electrician and a good one, his specialty being neon sign lighting.
He had been a good Union man all of his life but being relatively new to the area hadn't made a lot of political contacts yet. My mother got a little bit of a widow's pension from them but frankly it wasn't a whole lot of money for us to live on. She had to file for a Social Security survivors benefit for us as well for there to be enough income to keep a roof over our heads.
The fifth or sixth of each month, when the Social Security checks arrived was just like Christmas, the one day of the month when there was plenty. The rest of the month we survived on an extremely tight budget. She knew to the penny where every cent of our income went and we got to be geniuses at calculating exactly how much our expense would be on any visit to the grocery store. If we could spend only $25 dollars that week, then we never left the store with more than $24.63 cents worth of items.
I hope I don't need to elaborate on what its like to go do a week's grocery shopping on less than the amount two people could easily spend going out to dinner. My mother was an excellent cook and knew how to make frugal New England style meals last. Sunday was always a soup or chowder that could be stretched out with milk for at least another two days. She baked her own bread and made everything from scratch. I don't think there was ever a box mix or 'convenience item' in the entire house. A treat was a box of discount store brand ice milk — real ice cream was way out of our budget.
In addition, she soon found a part-time job working at an old repertory movie theater that played a popular circuit of old repertoire black & white and early color cinema classics, back in the days before Cable TV and TCM. They didn't pay much, but it was all 'under the table' and tax free, plus eliminated the need to pay for a babysitter. Old movies became my free babysitter, much like today's parents that often use cartoons on the TV. I think I got the better education even though I was never good with books.
It seems like I grew up in that movie theater and I must have seen literally thousands of vintage films over the years. Some weeks it was comedies, the next week film noire, the next Busby Berkley, and even my favorite films, the old silent pictures of Chaplin, Harold Lloyd and Buster Keaton made a regular appearance. Old 'B' Westerns, science fiction and horror (complete with vintage 1950's serials) were played every Saturday afternoon to near sell out crowds. I loved them all, but the movies of the silent film era really grabbed me for some reason.
I certainly never missed a showing for a good many years, until I began to work for the legendary and infamous Mr. Adriano DeLuca at his famous casino on the Strip in the early-mid 1970's when I was still barely a teenager.
No one ever called him Adrian or even Adriano to his face; he was either Mr. DeLuca or just 'Sir' to his face and when we employees spoke privately amongst ourselves he was always referred to as "The Boss", and always with sincere respect. He had come to Vegas in the late 1940's on the heels of Bugsy Siegel with some New Jersey 'family' money and had carved himself out a nice little empire of his own, with a noted casino and hotel right on the heart of the strip.
I could mention the name of the casino and chances are you'd have heard of it. For purposes of my narration and to protect the very few innocent and the many very guilty folks, I will refer to the place simply as the Casino.
Sinatra or others of his rat pack performed there for years, along with everyone who was anyone in show business. Mr. DeLuca liked good entertainment and wasn't afraid to pay top money to bring in a premiere name or three to put up on his colossal marquee neon sign out in front. My father had worked (and died) on that very sign, as I found out later!
Big names brought customers into his hotel, clubs and restaurants and meant more money spent at his gaming tables. He liked having his photo taken with all of the famous and infamous and saw to it that his club (and his photo) constantly appeared in newspapers and magazines. He was very much of the 'there is no such thing as bad publicity' school.
"Never be afraid to spend some money to make even more money" was one of his legendary sayings. Unfortunately, his descendents in the modern corporate age have embraced the opposite, namely 'cut all expenses to the bone so we can show a bigger profit'. Sure it works for awhile, but it's very bad for the long term and extremely bad on employee loyalty.
He may not have earned every dollar honestly, but Mr. DeLuca was a man of a great many principles, the foremost being repaying debts of loyalty.
It was probably one of the hottest days of the year on that August early afternoon, when I was fourteen and just hanging out in the rear parking lot near the main parking garage of the Casino. Truth be told, I was bored out of my wits and had contemplated doing some 'dumpster diving' to find something of either interest or resale value in their trash today. It's amazing the odd assortment of stuff that you can find in any hotel dumpster. Basically, anything left behind by a guest that 'Lost and Found' can't be bothered to deal with, which covers a lot of stuff.
Finding a discarded jacket sounds pretty meaningless in Vegas when it's over 100 degrees outside but that doesn't mean I can't get a dollar even five for a nice one when taken to a local consignment resale shop. Considering my allowance was just $5 a month, making an extra $10-20 from selling stuff to consignment and pawnshops made a huge difference in my personal finances.
Still, I didn't like to be blatant about my second hand excursions of acquisition and was trying to look 'cool' and casual when an older very well dressed gentleman came out of the underground part of the parking garage and marched right up to me. He looked vaguely familiar and I thought I might have seen the old fellow over at the movie theater a few times. At first, I thought he was just some well-dressed security gunsel coming to run me off the property but instead he had a unusual proposition for me.
"Hey kid, what's your name and are you doing anything right now. Wanna make $20 bucks? The garage manager's short on help today and needs some cars washed all afternoon. You game?"
Sure I was! Absolutely. I'd wash cars all day in the hot sun for $20, I thought and I replied back instantly with my snappiest, "Yes Sir! My name is Jonny Peters and I'd very much to help you, Sir. Thank You Very Much, Sir!" and ran down into the basement of the garage to find the boss. I might have been a poor kid without two dimes to rub together but I'd had a proper 'New England' upbringing and knew how to be polite when speaking to older gentlemen and ladies.
Naturally, the garage manager didn't know a thing about my newly pending employment and had pretty much brushed me off entirely until I described the elderly fancy dressed gent to him and his attitude then suddenly changed a full 180 degrees. Two minutes later I was joining four or five other fellows washing and cleaning hundreds of cars for the next four and half hours until everything was done and I was told to go home. By then however, the Garage Manager "Rusty" was 'elsewhere' and I couldn't find anyone who could give me my promised twenty dollars, so I resolved (soaked wet to the skin and all) to find this 'Boss" and get my money directly from him!
Heaven must protect fools because an hour later I had actually found his executive office and was standing (slightly dryer) in front of his humongous desk and I was annoying the great man in person. His secretary seemed to have left momentarily but that didn't stop me from knocking on his large double doors and letting myself in. Undoubtedly she would have been horrified seeing a grungy ill-dressed young kid dripping water and sweat all over The Bosses priceless antique oriental rugs.
"Sir, I'm sorry to bother and interrupt you but I've completed the chore you asked me to do and I can't seem to find anyone that can pay me. That is, regarding the $20 you promised earlier, Sir." I then gave my best smile at him and tried hard to stand up straight and look 'earnest'. He in return blinked at me a few times and regarded me with some slight interest.
"So ... I owe you some money then son?"
"Ummm, Yes Sir. My name is Jon Peters. You spoke with me earlier this afternoon about washing some cars. Ummm ... I suppose the garage manager should be paying me Sir, but I can't quite find him at the moment. Sorry, Sir."
Again, I may not have been the brightest or best dressed kid on the block but my mother had raised me to be very, very polite. Usually this just got my ass kicked on the playground (I was a bit small for my age) but it played extremely well with grownups. Today I was at my best.
"Oh ... very well then." He said matter of factly and pulled out a $20 bill from his own wallet, for which I profusely thanked him and started to back my way out of his office while my luck still held. My better judgment and sense of self-preservation left me when I reached the door however and I stopped to ask, "One quick question Sir, should I come back again tomorrow, will he need my help again Sir?"
"Probably. See him in the morning — not me and shut the door behind you on your way out please."
I ran all of the way home and must have told and retold the story of the day's events to my mom five or six times. The twenty dollars became a splurge and I used it to pay for a feast of pizza delivery for us — a treat we could almost never afford. My mother was sometimes fairly reserved and rather a bit distant (her own strict New England upbringing) but we loved each other very much and I'm proud to say I caused her very few problems and little grief. We were always extremely poor but we had a lot of good times together.
Yes, there was work for me the next day and regularly afterwards but the garage manager laid down the ground rules, number one of which was "Never bother the Boss again".
Technically, being just fourteen, I was underage and couldn't be legally put on the payroll for awhile. However since 'The Boss' had taken an interest in me, I could work for 4 hours a day until school started. After that only 2 hours per day during the week plus four hours on Saturdays, for which I'd get paid $40 a week, cash out of pocket.
This was a small fortune to me, and twice what any other job would have paid a kid not yet in high school, but there was one catch. My school work was to come first. I had to promise to never miss a day of school (even if I was sick) and bring in my report cards for regular review. Frankly, I was a pretty dumb kid with book stuff and I struggled to make even 'C's normally and was I was just god-awful with math. I tried to work extra hard for Rusty, the Garage Manager, to show him that I was hard working and dependable and it seemed that I was earning his respect until my first Fall report cards came in. I had a 'B' in History, 'C's in everything else except Math, which was a 'D'.
This was "unacceptable' to Rusty, who had no patience for excuses of any kind.
"Kid, that just won't do around here ... you're going to get me in big trouble with 'The Boss', and that's something you don't ever want to have happen around here. No work for you until those grades come up. You can hang out here in my office and do your homework or study any afternoon you want to come by, but you're not going to clean another car here for awhile."
The matter was settled and I did end up doing a lot of studying in Rusty's office, especially after I noticed that he'd occasionally give me five or ten dollars out of his own pocket on the side. It helped make up for losing the money that I had been making previously. I didn't try to complain about it 'not being fair'. They were paying me out of pocket because I was a hard-working and likeable kid and they'd been straight with me about the rules upfront. The fault was all mine. I resolved to work at my studies harder.
It wasn't easy, but my grades did go up slowly and on my next report card I received an 'A' in History, a 'B+" in English and even squeezed my mortal enemy Math into a respectable 'C'.
I was allowed to go back to 'work' for the Spring semester but warned not to let my grades slip and I did ok enough during those months that I was allowed to work nearly as much as I wanted during the next summer and I tried to sock the money away. I was only just fifteen by then and couldn't get my driving learners permit for another full year but I wanted to save up for both a nice car and to help my mother with expenses. The Social Security and small Union pension really didn't provide for much beyond our basic minimum needs.
I thought with the start of High School that fall that I'd be pretty well set, but I ran into a slight problem. Algebra. We didn't get along at all and my first test scores hinted that soon things could get really ugly. Before long, I had accomplished the unthinkable and had actually failed my Algebra class and would have to take it again all over in the spring, plus now I'd have to take the following B part of the class in summer school just to stay on schedule.
To say that Rusty was 'disappointed' was an extreme understatement. Then when I heard that 'The Boss' also wanted to speak with me, it just made it countless times worse. I was going to be 'fired' for sure and was positive that I would hear even louder yelling from the top man.
Actually, it was far worse than yelling ... he just kept sadly looking at me and telling me 'what a disappointment' I had been to him. By the time he was through with me I would have gladly put a bullet into my own head out of shame if someone had offered me a gun.
I wasn't quite fired but neither was I going to be welcomed around there for a good long while. Worse, he was going to see that I received tutoring and he would be receiving weekly reports on my progress, which was expected to be prompt and significant. The hints as to what fate would befall me if I ever disappointed him again were left largely to my very fertile imagination and accordingly were far too terrible to ever contemplate. I vowed never to disappoint him for a third time.
As I've mentioned before, I was never a 'book smart' kid, but I had at least my share of 'street smarts' and can think pretty fast when on my feet. On first impression some folks might think that I'm a little 'slow', but I'm not stupid. I just tend to think at least twice before opening my mouth to speak. By now I already had a pretty good idea about what happened to folks that pissed off 'The Boss' or tried to cheat him in a business deal, and I resolved that I never, ever wanted to get on his bad side.
He was true to his word; a paid tutor came to my house three evenings a week from 7 p.m. to 8:30 p.m. and worked math problems with me. She was a dancer with the stage name of 'Joanne' at one of the Casino shows but she was a very smart lady and was going to college on the side to get a degree in Education. When she hung up her sequined g-string, pasties and feathered hat she was planning on teaching school for her 'retirement'. I learned later that 'The Boss' specifically asked her for this favor and in return paid her entire college tuition for this semester. For some very strange reason 'The Boss' was taking a very personal interest in my affairs.
Joanne was my first big female crush, but she was all business and dressed for our tutoring sessions extremely conservatively. I snuck in backstage during one of her shows a few months later and discovered that she was hiding an awful lot of nice tit flesh underneath her lose fitting blouses and jackets. It was very educational indeed for a young lad just discovering exactly what he liked about women. I think this is when I first started to discover that I was a bit of a voyeur and like to watch what others were doing.
I never grew to enjoy Algebra or even like it very much but I learned to do it well enough to pass my class the second time around with the minimum needed 'C'. Summer school was a pain and it took up my mornings for that entire summer but at least I was allowed to work part time now for Rusty, just two hours per day. Still it was better than nothing.
My Algebra II classes that next year were even worse, but I squeaked through with a C- at the end, thanks entirely to my tutor (I'd have never passed without Joanne's help). With hard work, a little else other than old movies to occupy my time, I had scored at least all 'B+'s or better now in all of my other classes. Still my grades were watched like a hawk all Spring for any further signs of slippage until the next summer break, when I was allowed to work nearly full-time from then on.
Now that I was sixteen I could be added to the books as a legal employee. Actually this unfortunately meant a cut in take-home pay. Now I discovered the joys of 'working for a living' with federal/state and social security withholding enough from my check to cut my previous out of pocket earnings by a good third. I did get a slight raise, but not enough to make up the difference.
No matter, I was working nearly full time now and saving up money slowly for my first car. It ended up being a 1969 Pontiac Firebird with a hardtop and a bright gold paint job that radiated the sunlight in the Nevada heat like it was on fire. It was constantly in need of a tune-up and the exhaust system was a nightmare that no amount of repairs or muffler replacements could fix. I also don't even want to think about how much money I spent on buying auto paste wax to keep her shining like the blazing sun. But it had unbelievable acceleration and was both a sweet smooth ride and chick magnet for my junior and senior years of High School ... when the sucky Quadrajet carburetor wasn't leaking gas and starting engine fires, or the oil pressure gauge wasn't leaking oil under the dashboard all over my girlfriend's skirts. Some of those gals were amused ... but most weren't.
I sold it some years afterwards and I've never quite forgiven myself since for doing it. I keep promising myself that I'll someday buy some 100% fully restored and cherry 1967 Firebird convertible with a much better behaved engine and a Holley four-barrel carburetor and other custom performance parts (including a working exhaust system). Undoubtedly for a LOT more money than I sold mine off for. Sometimes your first kiss remains your fondest.
That Firebird also had a huge trunk big enough to put a body into, but that's another story.