Satisfaction: a revision

The amazing Paul Laska, author of Four Years has issued another writing challenge.  500+ words.  One week.

I posted this one already, but I didn't like the ending.  So, here is a new version.

A person is sitting outside at a cafe.  Two men in matching khaki shorts and polo shirts approach him/her; one is holding a package and the other has his hands behind his back.  What happens next?  Noir style.

My response- I call it:  Satisfaction.

WARNING- this piece gets DARK and is for mature readers.

Pic:  http://miyanlevenson.com/news.html

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A dump like this shouldn't have an outdoor cafe, especially in this part of town.  Not that it’s much- a few rusty black painted tables with matching chairs, all chained to the wall.  This table has a big umbrella, but my skirt is still getting rained on.  Yet, here I am.  What does it say about me?  I’m a woman of a “certain age”- two divorces and a dead husband behind me.  

Dark foggy night, misting rain.  Miserable night.

And do you wanna know the kicker? 

I’m dying too. 

Goddamn second husband liked sleeping around all the time, caught some kind of infection and didn’t know it.  Gave it to me.  Sure, I divorced his ass years ago and married again.  My late husband, Lenny- he was a saint.  God rest his soul. 

But he’s gone now.

Left me lots of money.  So, I know I’m dying, and I just can’t help but think about all those men who I loved and trusted, but who betrayed me.

My first husband I met in college.  Paul was a real stud.  Football team, best fraternity on campus, rich parents.  A Man’s man.  It took a while to land him, but let’s just say I can be VERY persuasive.  At least I thought I was.  When he found out I couldn’t have kids, he told me he’d never stopped sleeping around.  “Man’s gotta keep his options open.  Too many gals; too little time!”  He divorced ME because he wanted kids.  His parents got him a fancy high priced lawyer.  I got nothing.

Second husband.  Oh, that one!  I should’ve known from the start when he said he was “Brad Big and Bad!”  And he WAS big!  Knew how to use it too.  Had the funniest birthmark there as well- like a clover.  But he slept around too.  It wasn’t like I wasn’t doing my part- God knows- but the guy was a godddamn machine!  When I found him in bed with my best friend, that’s when I divorced him.  Found out later he did some porn movies too. 

Then I met Lenny.  He was such a good man!  God rest his soul.

But he’s gone now.  Left me LOTS of money.

That’s when a friend of mine told me about his cousin.  No name- calls himself “Timber.”  Says that he “fixes things.”  No questions asked- cash up front.  Satisfaction guaranteed.  Set me up with a meeting.

So I tell Timber what I want.  He gives me a number- six figures.  I say half up front, all cash.  He agrees.  We set up a second meeting. And so, here I sit, on a miserable Tuesday night, nursing a warm beer, waiting in front of a gay "fetish" bar in the rain.

At exactly 11:30, I hear footsteps splashing through puddles; coming toward me.  I turn to my left, and see two men emerge from the misty night.  Both wear khaki shorts and black polo shirts. The one is my first husband, Paul.  He’s gained some weight and lost some hair.  His eyes are swollen and caked dried blood hangs from his broken nose.  His arms are zip tied behind him.  Around his neck is a leather collar attached to a leash.

The leash is held by a little man, maybe four feet tall with black hair, a Fu-Manchu moustache, and a big black Stetson cowboy hat.  Stuck under his belt is a pistol.  Glock, I think.  He smiles. Timber.  In Timber’s leather gloved right hand is the leash, and in the left is a cardboard box.  Something is dripping from the bottom.

“See?  Look at us!  We’s twins!  Right, studmuffin?”

Paul looks down at him and whines “Sir yes sir.”

“Good boy.  He’s really quite tame after you ride him around the corral a bit.”  Timber places the box on the table.  “Would madam care to examine what she’s purchased?”

I smile at him and open the box. 

Inside is a large severed penis with the clover birthmark.  I’d know it anywhere.  Next to it was what looks like… yes, that would be Brad’s tongue.  Just like I’d asked. 

I smile at Timber and reach into my purse.  I pull out a thick envelope full of bills- all hundreds.  I hand it to Timber, who smiles wider.

“Thank you again, madam!  So what do you want me to do with Studmuffin here?”

“Oh, I have plans for him.”  I turn towards the door of the bar.  “Hey Rocco!”

Out comes my friend, Rocco.  Rocco used to play pro-football, where he had to hide who he really was.  Now, he provides… entertainment… to closeted high rollers with particular desires.  Rocco is dressed in a leather vest and leather chaps and boots.  He smiles and looks down at Timber.

“Timber,” he says. 

“Cousin Rocco!” Timber says, and then laughs.  “Oh, you’re cruel, madam.  Delicious!  I like you!”

Rocco hands me an envelope.  Inside is a check to my favorite charity- AIDS research.  Five figures.  Just like we agreed.  I gesture to Timber to give the leash to Rocco.  Rocco pulls Paul close.

“Yes, yes, he’ll do nicely,” Rocco says. 

Paul realizes what’s happening and opens his mouth, just to grunt when Rocco punches him in the left kidney. 

“Ok Studmuffin, for you there IS no safety word.  You have lots of work to do!” Rocco growls.  He then jerks the leash, and pulls Paul inside the bar.  The door closes.

All I can hear is the soft rain.

Timber chuckles to himself as I stand up, my skirt soaked by the rain. I pick up the bloody box and look at it.  

A gunshot!  Two!

I fall to the wet pavement.  I can't breathe.  My blood pumps into the grime of the street.

Standing above me, Timber smiles, pistol in hand.

As the world goes dark, I hear his voice: "Sorry Madam, but Studmuffin pays pretty well too..."