Rockstar Joel: A Tale of International Intrigue

June 13, 2009 at 8:02 AM | Posted in Humor | Leave a comment

(…continued from “Port Land (Portal To Hell) Part 2”)

Because I was a little mean before, and this one inspired too epic a scenario, here’s a very special final ad:

Sweetest lion, I don’t want our suitcases sitting in the hall from all the trips we never took, I don’t want to remember you. Lets put our fingerprints back on and put all the trouble behind us.”

    He’s a suave European. He introduces himself. “Joel. Rockstar Joel.” Their eyes lock in an obscene orgy of vision. She swoons and knocks the baccarat table. The dealer asks her to leave.
    “Let me buy you a drink,” he says, thick accent dripping from his words and slowly down to the casino floor. “Miss…?” He tilts his head impossibly low to look up at her through his eyebrows, though she is a foot shorter than him.
    “Connie Lingus,” replies the woman. “Baroness.”
    He takes her hand. “My Lady.”

    Later, in his hotel room. “Oh, Joel… Joel…” He caresses her lithe form. She moves his fingers to her mouth… pauses. “Where… where are your fingerprints?” she begs with wonder.
    He withdraws, eyes shifting to the side in hesitation.
    Suddenly, the door crashes as a size-nine chukka boot kicks it into the room. Past the shattered door frame, a squat little man in a funny hat narrows his beady eyes through the settling dust, peering into the would-be seducer.
    “Inspector Parisol!” cries Joel.
    The Inspector levels his gun, but too late. The silver champagne tray flung by Joel’s steady hand is already upon him, compressing his gut and knocking him to the far wall across the hallway. He is dazed, gun thudding to the carpet. Joel turns to the window, grabbing the rope from the velvet curtains.
    “Rockstar!” pines Connie. “Don’t leave me!”
    He takes her shoulders. “Do you trust me?” he asks.
    “With my suitcase,” she declares. He whispers something in her ear.
    The Inspector comes to, his eyes regaining their focus only to see Joel crashing through the hotel window, expertly whipping the rope around a phone line and sliding safely down to the building on the other side of the street.
    “Ocelot!” yells Parisol, running to the window. But he is gone.

    Two nights following, on the roof of the British Embassy, the shuffle of a footstep turns Connie’s head as she shivers in the evening’s chill. Joel emerges from a shadow. But he is not Joel. Not the Joel she was about to pork in the Napoleon Suite. “I know what you are,” she said.
    “Do you now?” Rockstar eyed her coyly.
    “I know you have a large crown, with a very precious pearl at its peak.” They moved closer.
    “Mhm,” he breathed, raising an eyebrow.
    “I even know of the family jewels in your pocket at this very moment.” Her hand brushed his slacks.
    She stopped him. “No. Whatever your excuse… I won’t hear it. I know what you are. Take me with you. I want to be with… The Ocelot.”
    He turned to the ledge, eyes fixed on the distant horizon. “The Inspector will never leave me be. He is my constant shadow. He let you go once. Ignorance won’t defend you a second time.”
    Her hand stretched around to his front. He awaited the embrace. There was none. Looking down, he saw the gleam of the embossed lighter in her hand. The silver lion’s head caught the light, its open mouth roaring. His lighter. He spun to face her.
    “You little minx,” growled the Ocelot.
    “I know what life awaits,” she said with conviction. She slid back her hands, flicking the lighter open, and placed the cold box in his grasp. The warm flame licked the night. She lifted her arms to his eyes, palms down, digits spread. “Take… take my fingerprints!”
    He stared at her turned head, tightly shut eyelids, the crinkled lip bit in anticipation. He snapped the lighter shut and holstered it in his pocket in one motion. It clinked against his jewels. Without pause, another motion had Connie’s arms pinned at her sides. Her eyes stood big as saucers of milk.
    They made love on the roof to the constant rumble of her monogrammed luxury suitcase.

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