Chapter 149
Raspberry Gardens
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The car accident that will kill Tom Atari is still days away.
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It was the goddamn sun that caught Tom Atari sleeping, in a stranger’s bed, dress shirt torn and knotted bedsheets in a bunch: unsolvable. The blonde beside him- dreaming of the day’s first cigarette- turning underwater, all slumber and scowl. It was the cursed sun that made it’s way through the cloud bank, beaming down on Sick City, splitting finite to infinity with another idle day. The cityscape was putting on it’s makeup- pink and purple shadows from the valley, glowing pastels peering through panes of glass, golden rays from Heaven, soaring optimistic through the blue sky, only to burn themselves out in the shadows of Tom Atari’s matted chest hair. It was enough to make you smile. Almost.
The girl unconscious was Russian, and although her name was Tatiana Tom kept calling her Olga, over and over and forever again. It was a bad link in his head, a crossed wire, and the harder he tried to remember Tatiana the more he called her Olga. It was one of those things he couldn’t change. Olga/Tatiana had been a voracious tiger: demure until the vodka helped her find her heart & soul and- surprise- it turned out to be between her legs. She had ridden him hard: saddled him proper and led the charge on a city-wide milk run. Drops of sweat down her armpits sweet: Tom was collecting.
She slept like she fucked: loud & hard and just now Tom heard her spasm, directing traffic, before she fell back into a sleep deep enough for Franz Ferdinand, and Tom knew he'd call her Olga once more- no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much of a detour he rigged for the thought process- and as his eyes adjusted to the gleaming sunlight he was already writing a joke of apology, already spotting her forced smile & wrinkled nose, already sorry for testing her patience. This man’s morning: Could he apologize in time to get her to the waffle house for a good cup of coffee?
Last night was Olga/Tatiana’s apology. She had hired him for security a couple year’s back- to protect her from the Mayor- but that was a story from another file. Since then she had promised to thank him with her lover’s lips- a nice offer if nothing else. He had written it off but two New Year’s ago Tom ran into her at a nightclub and decided to bang her in the coatroom. He remembered her laughing, equally sloshed... her round ass against the wall, her hopeless blue eyes looking up at him, afraid and loving it. Tom remembered slipping a belt out of a trench coat and using it to tie her wrists- if you know Russian women you understand. Little did he know her chain-smoking auctioneer husband had seen them slip away and decided to storm them both before Tom could get it wet. Olga/Tatiana spent a week in the hospital with a broken collarbone, and Tom greeted 1956 alone, black-eyed & blue-balled.
Had she been worth the wait? The answer was yes and no, but at that moment two pigeons on the fire escape came out of hiding with a sudden sticky flipping of their wings, like somebody shuffling a deck of marked cards. Tom sat up: the birds were up and out- evicted easy- off into an indifferent sunrise, feathers lingering in the white light. The source of their fear was soon clear, as a hat appeared on the fire escape. The hat, climbing up the ladder beside the building, and Tom recognized it right off, an oily fedora, the pudgy man packed inside ascending, bouncing in his brown suit, single-minded in purpose and only lightly winded.
Step by step, rung by rung, revolver clutched openly in his hand, Bagger Salz did rise, inevitable as the chorus, focused as a projector, heavy lips and squinted eyes fixed in formation. He rounded the fire escape beneath Olga’s story, and Tom- awake now- had to grin: so the fat man had a memory, not always a good thing, and he was coming back on this Spring morning to finish the job sloppy.
Tom saw this man, death in his dilated pupils, and only had to ask himself would he get out of this in time for waffles.
Someone had sold Bagger Salz an Invisibility Potion- a good one. It was too bad that it had worn off & that Bagger didn’t seem to know it. He hustled up the staircase clear as day- obvious as child abuse- bold to all but the blindest. Tom took minutes to watch him reach Olga's terrace, look down over the ledge- the view!- and double-check the chamber in his gun before bursting inside the bedroom, catching his ankle on the window ledge and licking his lips and mustache, ready for poetic revenge.
"TOM!” he shouted, and Olga bolted upright. Tom grabbed her tit with his left hand and shoved her back down while firing at Bagger with his right. A new hole emerged in the hog's head- oval- and maybe some blood dripping too, and Bagger grinned and stood on tip-toes like he had to tell a massive story or take a great shit.
Tom almost smiled back but this was real life you filthy cocksucker...
Bagger obeyed gravity by buckling at the knees, collapsing convenient onto the floor of Olga's bedroom.
Now this blond looked at Tom only slightly upset- her sore breast more upsetting than the dead body: both going purple. She was a quick learner- one of the things that had drawn Tom inside- and she seemed to understand that this man had come to kill Tom and so Tom had had to kill him first. There were no questions for her to ask. The other tenants of Raspberry Gardens hadn’t heard a sound: they were sound asleep and believing in the President.
Tom saw this man, death in his dilated pupils, and only had to ask himself would he get out of this in time for waffles.
Someone had sold Bagger Salz an Invisibility Potion- a good one. It was too bad that it had worn off & that Bagger didn’t seem to know it. He hustled up the staircase clear as day- obvious as child abuse- bold to all but the blindest. Tom took minutes to watch him reach Olga's terrace, look down over the ledge- the view!- and double-check the chamber in his gun before bursting inside the bedroom, catching his ankle on the window ledge and licking his lips and mustache, ready for poetic revenge.
"TOM!” he shouted, and Olga bolted upright. Tom grabbed her tit with his left hand and shoved her back down while firing at Bagger with his right. A new hole emerged in the hog's head- oval- and maybe some blood dripping too, and Bagger grinned and stood on tip-toes like he had to tell a massive story or take a great shit.
Tom almost smiled back but this was real life you filthy cocksucker...
Bagger obeyed gravity by buckling at the knees, collapsing convenient onto the floor of Olga's bedroom.
Now this blond looked at Tom only slightly upset- her sore breast more upsetting than the dead body: both going purple. She was a quick learner- one of the things that had drawn Tom inside- and she seemed to understand that this man had come to kill Tom and so Tom had had to kill him first. There were no questions for her to ask. The other tenants of Raspberry Gardens hadn’t heard a sound: they were sound asleep and believing in the President.
Dead Bagger spouted blood from his head wound, the final geyser in the short life of a grunt bagman. Olga licked her lips, “Let's go to the waffle house," she said, slipping out of bed.
"Not yet." Tom pulled her back to the bed by her hair. "I need some pussy for those waffles."
She let her heavy body hammer hard on him, wide, swollen hips and shank strong...
"Gimme that pussy, Olga..."
And her legs unraveled, spiderlike, as only Russian women can do, collecting him beneath her, around her, inside her. She straddled him, and Tom's cock was warm and wet before he felt the barrel of his own gun against his temple. He knew he was dead, knew he had trusted too much, taken too much for granted, and for once he was ready. He was ready to turn & face his music.
He couldn't figure out who she was working for, or why, but it didn't matter anymore... he looked her in the eye and tried to be a gentleman, tried to cum before she pulled the trigger.
"My name..." her tongue came out involuntarily, like a snake on a solo mission, licking her upper lip and lingering as she slowly used her hips to start the ride.
"Not yet." Tom pulled her back to the bed by her hair. "I need some pussy for those waffles."
She let her heavy body hammer hard on him, wide, swollen hips and shank strong...
"Gimme that pussy, Olga..."
And her legs unraveled, spiderlike, as only Russian women can do, collecting him beneath her, around her, inside her. She straddled him, and Tom's cock was warm and wet before he felt the barrel of his own gun against his temple. He knew he was dead, knew he had trusted too much, taken too much for granted, and for once he was ready. He was ready to turn & face his music.
He couldn't figure out who she was working for, or why, but it didn't matter anymore... he looked her in the eye and tried to be a gentleman, tried to cum before she pulled the trigger.
"My name..." her tongue came out involuntarily, like a snake on a solo mission, licking her upper lip and lingering as she slowly used her hips to start the ride.
Then, in whispered prayer- staccato- through involuntary contraction of the vaginal muscles, Tom did hear his salvation.
"My... name... is... Tatiana..."
She let go of the weapon, having taught him his lesson, and bunched her blonde hair above her head as she brought the car into the garage. The gun fell off the bed silent- into the soft folds of Tatiana’s pink bathrobe.
"My... name... is... Tatiana..."
She let go of the weapon, having taught him his lesson, and bunched her blonde hair above her head as she brought the car into the garage. The gun fell off the bed silent- into the soft folds of Tatiana’s pink bathrobe.
This time he would remember her name.
.
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