Chapter 29

The Welcome Yacht party was ... well ... It was one hell of a party. The party planner from the hotel did an amazing job, and even managed to get us a big name band, who happened to be playing nearby and had a couple of down days. She called late in the afternoon, the day before the party, and asked me if I wanted to drop another fifty thousand on entertainment and have the band play in the grand salon.

"Are you kidding me? I asked. "OF COURSE! Do you need me to do anything, sign something, come and bring you a cashier's check, or something?"

If anything would cement our innocence in the eyes of the terrorists, it would be dropping that kind of money on a one-hour concert, for seventy people. It was a marvelous idea, and I almost told Julianne that I owed her a kiss. But then I remembered she was extremely plain, very, very, lesbian, and didn't really smell very good, so I passed. Discretion being the better part of valor, and all that...

You know.

Our guests were a mixed bag, but definitely a rich mixed bag. When our surprise came out to play, the throng cheered like we were at an NFL game, and it gave me a good feeling to know how perfectly the night was coming together.

The band's girl backup singer was a dead ringer for Jewel, and she somehow decided that I was going to be the next notch on her girl-belt. The only problem with that was Winnie. She decided that anorexic, bleach blonde, Jewel lookalikes that have a tendency to forget to use enough makeup to cover their track marks, are less than desirable bedmates for their boyfriends.

Backup girl caught up with me as I walked behind the temporary stage, heading for my stateroom bathroom. She was fully blitzed, higher than kite, and orbiting somewhere between Saturn's seventh moon and Jupiter. When she made her move, Winnie must have thought she was going to hit me instead of hit on me, and that got the excitement going.

Basically, Winnie beat her three out of three throws and never broke a sweat or a nail. The entire performance was captured in living color, for perpetuity, on our Grand Salon monitors. We watched it several times before heading for bed and a romp that rocked the entire ship, if not the one next to us, too.

You could say that the Euro-trash, heroin shooting, Jewel looking, skanky broad, who sang quite well, got our motors running at peak efficiency.

... or you just shut up, and let it die.

Which do you think we chose?

Colleen woke us far too early, wanting to know all about the party ... By the time Winnie got to the part where she imitated Hulk Hogan, I could hear Colleen laughing all the way from home. It did me good to hear laughter from someone other than the phonies we'd entertained the night before. Those people have no idea. NONE. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Not. A. Clue.

If I had to listen to one more person brag about their all natural diet, high colonic lifestyle, and plastic surgery obsession, I would have killed myself - and them. It was that serious.

The rest of our day was remarkably, remarkable...

Our new friends, Massoud and Hussein, paid us an impromptu visit to talk about some business they were involved in, that I 'might' have a strong interest in joining. They were neither smooth, nor particularly good liars, but I had to give them points for style and determination.

The Judge had had a long talk with me earlier, and I understood a lot more about the three after he put me totally in the picture.

Hussein was the bastard son of an obscenely rich Arab Oil Sheik. His father lavished money, expensive big-boy toys, and attention on the son from his favorite mistress. Hussein had a big blind spot for little girls and liked to 'open' young virgins. Their innocent blood sent him on power trips unheard of, and he often had perceived enemies murdered within hours of ruining a particularly virtuous young girl. If the girl happened to have white skin, seeing her blood triggered paroxysms of tortured pleasure.

Hussein suffered for his obsession. Every time he 'accidentally' killed a young girl, he went into a tailspin of guilt, despair, and self-loathing that lasted until his next killing spree. He used hordes of money to cause financial injury to American business interests in the Middle East, and he moonlighted as a torturer of anyone he lost trust in, feared, or who he thought had bested him in some way.

His sick, violent ways were covered in a veneer of suave sophistication and perfect manners. Hussein could hold his own at an Emily Post style dinner without making a single error. His courtly manners and smooth style, made both unattached and attached women give it up to him in one of the many suites he owned in exclusive and expensive playgrounds for the rich.

Massoud was much simpler.

He loved loose women, single malt scotch, and a good wager, in that order. His personal equipment was somewhat legendary, as scores of wives of the jet set crowd could testify, but his staying power left MUCH to be desired. The trail of unfulfilled bedmates stretched all the way back to Saudi Arabia, where his father lived in splendor, choosing to give untold millions to his illegitimate son to keep him away and out of sight, but never far from mind.

Massoud loved to double his enjoyment by taking on two married women at once, thus soiling other men's wives, while enjoying their charms until they bored him. Sometimes Massoud arranged for digital video of their encounter to be delivered to the families of the women he took to his bed. Other times he used the video for nefarious purposes and killed two birds with one stone.

Blackmail can be so useful...

Massoud was doing Allah's work, as far as his father was concerned. When a man is brilliant of mind enough to manipulate currency to ruin wealthy Americans who dare to trod on his homeland, their destruction is met with glee and celebration. Massoud's father lavished gifts on his bastard each time one of his schemes succeeded and financed his every wish.

As for their faith ... those who do Allah's work cannot be constrained by the religious police, as their success depends on getting close to those they wish to destroy, and that is impossible unless they can 'play in the same sand.' Religious adherence is very 'fluid' when one considers the achievements of his child, so looking the other way is much more gratifying than holding one's son to the letter of Allah's word.