Chapter 1

Vox

“What the hell are you doing down there?” The sentence was spoken twice, each word assaulting my skull like a demented woodpecker.

“Vox. Hey, shithead. Why are you spooning naked with the toilet?”

Peck, peck, peck.

“It’s almost noon, and you’re gonna be late for your appointment.”

Peck, peck, peck.

With great effort, I opened my eyelids a sliver to identify the annoyance so I could rise and kill it. In hellish happenstance, my head lay positioned precisely where the bathroom window intercepted the Tampa Bay sun, amplifying it into a death star. I bellowed like a crocodile-ambushed wildebeest as photon torpedoes incinerated my eyes.

There would be no rising to kill anything. At least not anytime soon. My mind meekly flitted to a memory from long ago, to when I’d gotten shit-faced on tequila for the first time as a teenager, resulting in a declaration as earnest as it was ludicrous that I’d never get drunk again. A vow I promptly violated the next day… and uncountable times since.

And what was this babbling about an appoi—Aphrodite’s Tits! My frayed mind vaguely recalled a noon meeting with Lester.

The intruding voice rang familiar now, and I fully opened my eyes to confirm its identity. Yep, sure enough, it wasn’t a woodpecker at all. The Goat peered down at me, shaking his head in pity.

The Goat is the answer to the riddle of what abomination would be spawned if Tom Petty knocked up an actual goat. At least that’s exactly what he looks like. His real name is Robbie, but I can’t remember ever calling him that.

“You look like holy hell, Vox. Did you get into the red wine last night?”

“Several bottles got into me.”

“Well, unless you’re gonna have wake-up sex with that toilet, I’d suggest you call Lester and reschedule. You’d mentioned you were going over to his house today.”

I pressed my aching forehead against the cool surface of the bowl. Sometimes it’s the simple pleasures that get us through the day. “No can do, Goat,” I groggily mumbled. “This appointment is no doubt the highlight of Lester’s week. The joy of yelling at me is the only thing keeping that fossil alive.”

“Any idea why you don’t have any clothes on?”

I attempted to think. “No clue. Maybe I didn’t quite make it to the shower, or I looked at this naked toilet and got horny. Either scenario is a possibility.”

“That toilet obviously ain’t Valentina. But, hey, if you can’t bone the one you love, then bone the one you’re with. I ain’t judging. There’s no shame. You two need to finish up fast, though, ’cause I gotta take a shit.”

“Go over to your own damn house, then. If you recall, I installed a brand-new toilet for you last week.”

“This is my house, Vox, and that cuddle buddy of yours is my toilet.”

What the fuck? I probed back into the dense fog of last night’s memories, trying to remember how I’d ended up at the Goat’s. Nothing came. “So why am I here?”

“The reason for this horrifying sight is exactly what I’m trying to figure out. Didn’t anybody ever tell you that getting wasted drunk yesterday is stealing happiness from today?”

This was beyond pathetic, even for me. I’d reached a new low. Tilting my ass up in the Goat’s direction, I jettisoned a volcanic fart, redolent of garlic and cumin, causing him to yell in disgust and jump back into the hallway.

“Give us five more minutes, bro,” I muttered, closing my eyes and flirting with the temptation of falling back asleep. Standing wouldn’t be pleasant, and I needed every spare second of delay. “Call Lester and tell him I’ll be there in an hour. Possum ate my phone. Pink pterodactyl crash-landed and backed up traffic. Whatever sounds best.”

“Let’s start by getting a vat of coffee in you.” His voice trailed off as he walked into the kitchen. “And don’t throw up on my rug and make me beat your ass.”

\* \* \*

The grizzled, old bastard stood before me, quivering with rage. Everything was clenched tight—jaw, fists, brow, and butt cheeks—every sinew and muscle taut and ready to snap. The former Marine was locked and loaded, ready for combat.

“You dirty, dadgum Hurricane! They shoulda shut down yer corrupt program when they had the chance! Bunch of convicts, clowns, and closet-shitters!”

Each word dripped with venom. Drool and mucus soaked Lester’s beard, and a vein bulged in the middle of his forehead. The rabid werewolf I’d scuffled with on Halloween had been less surly.

I forgot about my hangover and wagged a finger at him while digging my boot heels into the ground. “Listen, you inbred Gator. That closet-shitting was alleged. And stop living in the Dark Ages. Nobody can compete with the University of Florida when it comes to arrests. They had to expand the jail in that shithole called Gainesville just to accommodate the football team.”

A PVC fitting whistled towards me. I ducked just in time.

“The only pitiful fools livin’ in the Dark Ages are University of Miami fans. Y’all love to bring up those national championships ya won when Abraham Lincoln was in office. Welcome to modern football, yearlin’. You can’t spell scum without U-M.”

“You would reminisce about the Civil War era, you petrified log of mule shit. I guess you’re too stupid to remember our championship years since there are so many.” I counted them off, slowly enunciating to make the cumulative effect seem greater. “1983, 1987, 1989, 1991, 2001… and 2002, which we clearly won but were ripped off by the refs. It’s all about the U.”

I “threw up the U,” the signature Hurricanes gesture formed by vertical, outward-facing palms joined by horizontal thumbs.

“Aww, shut yer dicksucker. You pussies are still whinin’ about that Fiesta Bowl? The only U that U have to be worried about is that U can suck my hairy balls if U think I’m gonna pay $5,025. On top of tryin’ to rip me off, yer outlaw employee ratfucked my plumbin’, tracked mud on my carpet, and raided my fridge. Vox, what kind of monster steals another man’s milk?!”

“Damn, Lester, I thought the two of you would get along. He’s a lizard too.”

He violently shook his head. “You think ye’re smart, don’t ya? Oh, I saw the italic F on his hat and started quizzin’ him. The hillbilly had never even heard of Two Bits. If the rotten teeth are any indication, I suspect he’s a Florida State fan. You gave him that hat to wear, Vox. I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“Clearly. Judging by all the wrinkles, you were probably cribmates with Jesus.” I steepled my hands in supplication. “How can I make your world right? You won’t be seeing Ernie again. He no-called/no-showed for the second time, so I had to fire him.” I exhaled my disappointment. “Granted, he wasn’t much to look at and had that blinking issue, but I’d been getting decent reports from his customers.”

“Not much to look at is an understatement. He was so buck-toothed that he coulda ate corn on the cob through a chainlink fence.”

Lester let fly a river of tobacco juice off to the side and slid a gnarled, cupped hand down his grey mustache and beard, wringing out the accumulated gobs of snot and spit before wiping it across the front of his royal blue overalls. The triangle of a pristine, unblemished orange hankie—purely for show—peeked out of his chest pocket, its emblazoned Gator logo staring at me malevolently.

Since the spit wasn’t aimed at my face, I counted it as a sign he’d vented enough anger and insolence to get down to the price negotiation stage.

“I’m keenly aware of the fact I need a durn repipe. However, this price is insane. I don’t mind helpin’ to send any orphaned runts ya may have sired to college. I just don’t wanna be the sole, poor motherfucker footin’ the bill.”

“I already charge you rock-bottom rates since you’re a longtime customer. How low can I possibly go before it doesn’t make sense to do the job? Also, vans aren’t pulled by horses like in your day. They require gas and gas ain’t cheap. How much did he quote you again?”

With a withered claw, he reached into his back pocket, produced a furled copy of the estimate, and thrust it forward for me to take. I hesitated… for good reason. The relic had taken swings at me in the past. Though Lester owns the hand speed of a sloth, one jab had somehow snuck through the year before, catching me on the chin during a price battle to pump his septic tank. It had required every ounce of my willpower to keep from pushing him into the open tank, replacing the concrete lid, and driving off to Harpo’s Bar to properly commemorate the day with a frosty mug of Cigar City Lager. Sadly, killing cantankerous customers is still frowned upon by the state plumbing licensing board.

I guardedly reached for the paper, aware that Lester sports other weapons in his arsenal. He’s gifted with deadlier aim than a spitting cobra, and the stream is so powerful it’ll knock off your sunglasses. Grabbing the quote, I immediately retreated. Thankfully, it was relatively free of slime.

Sure, Lester’s bodily fluids are nauseating, but Lord knows I’ve dealt with a lot worse in my years of plumbing. For me, raw sewage is a part of life. Plumbers are constantly on their hands and knees in the vilest substances the human body excretes. Pus, ooze, snot, vomit, bile, sweat, piss, and, of course, the emperor who reigns supreme on his vitreous china throne—Almighty Shit in all his wondrous manifestations.

The list doesn’t end there. Welcome to the world of the restaurant grease trap, the reek of which has no competition. Coagulated animal blood, fish guts, grease, sludge, and the stray decomposed rodent. When that toxic stew permeates your skin, infusing and marinating you with its wretched stench, a single shower—no matter how hot and soapy—is nowhere near enough. You’re even stinkier than if you’d hotboxed dog farts.

And people have the audacity to bitch that plumbing prices are too high. Let ’em do it themselves, then. Hot on the left, cold on the right, shit runs downhill. Easy enough, right? One customer even commented that plumbers charge more than some doctors. “We should,” I countered. “ We still make house calls.”

Ernie’s estimate was $5,025, a very reasonable price for a three-bed, two-bath repipe with block exterior walls and tight attic space. If anything, it was slightly underbid. Where he’d foolishly gone wrong, and what I would’ve lambasted him for if I hadn’t canned him already, was breaking the price point in the wrong direction. Keeping it slightly less than $5k sounds better to the buyer and is more likely to sell the job. Psychological claptrap, to be sure, but nonetheless a fundamental factor in closing the sale.

It wouldn’t have mattered in this case, though, because Lester is too crafty to succumb to pricing gamesmanship. He just needs to hear himself bitch and moan. He simply wants to feel alive, to prove he’s still in the Game of Life, to convince himself a reason exists to wake up yet another day.

His wife kicked the bucket long ago, and his children and grandchildren send their love via Christmas cards. His only real pleasure comes from watching the Gators. Hundreds of University of Florida figurines, statues, banners, pillows, posters, pictures, and other paraphernalia infest his house. It wouldn’t surprise me if he owns a Gator butt plug autographed by Tim Tebow. I gag every time I’m forced to go inside, which is at least once a month.

Nobody knows loneliness like a man who breaks his plumbing on purpose, then calls in for service. We both know his dirty little secret: that statistically there’s no chance in hell all of his plumbing problems are purely bad luck. It’s a “don’t ask/don’t tell” policy neither of us dares violate.

Along with a few crusty geezers he plays shuffleboard with over in Zephyrhills, I’m sure Lester counts me as a friend. Truth be told, I feel the same way and drink a beer with him from time to time. Just the week before, we’d shared a six-pack of Mookie’s Malt Liquor, his preferred swill of choice, after I’d fixed a hose bibb that had mysteriously broken.

“Lester, this bid is not too high. I maybe could wiggle around fifty dollars or so, but it isn’t a crazy price. You could always call around for other quotes if you don’t think it’s fair.”

Pouring a pail of diarrhea over his head wouldn’t have elicited a more shocked reaction. I’ve never seen anyone more aghast. Trying to form a sentence, his mouth instead gasped for air like a suffocating salmon.

“You f-f-filthy ch-ch-chode yodeler,” he finally stammered. “You’ve sunk to new l-lows, even fer a Cane. I’ve been loyal to yer sorry ass fer years, even followed ya when ya started yer own company. This… this is how ya repay my loyalty, by tellin’ me to take my bidness elsewhere?”

Rather than livid with rage like earlier, he looked hurt and betrayed, stabbed deep in his core. He reached down as if to pick up a stone and sling it at me but instead dropped to his knees and bowed his head, thoroughly defeated.

Dammit, I felt like a dickhead now, but how could I have predicted these ridiculous theatrics? For years, we’d exchanged the most insulting barbs imaginable, hurled lightning bolts of cruel sarcasm and heinous vitriol, told the other to fuck off countless times in brilliantly innovative ways.

“Easy, Lester. C’mon, man. I just meant that if you questioned the fairness of the price, you could verify it through alternate channels.” I gingerly walked closer until I was only two feet away, aware I was risking life and limb. Who knew how he would react in this state of mind? “Don’t take it personally. It was just a misunderstanding. I’m sorry, dude. Listen, I’ll knock off two hundred dollars to show good faith.”

The surrounding air was pregnant with the funk of his insidious overalls. I prayed I wouldn’t be forced to pat him on the shoulder. Or, God forbid, grasp him under his arms to help him stand. As much as I value a repeat customer and as accustomed as I am to foul smells, touching clothes that had never been washed would’ve been too much to endure.

Lester remained with his head bowed low for another five full minutes, wringing every last ounce out of his sulk as I tried to coax him back from the edge. Finally, he peered up, gauging the sincerity of my plea for forgiveness. “Ya sure ya ain’t tryin’ to git rid of me, Vox?”

“Only if you were a Semen-hole,” I casually replied. It was the perfect quip, exquisitely delivered. He chuckled at our pet term for an FSU Seminole fan.

You see, that is the beauty and wonder of college football. While I despise your unholy fan allegiance to my team’s evil rival with every fiber of my being, I can’t help but respect it. Yes, I want to bash your face in, yet I’d be offended if you didn’t want to bash mine in as well.

Lester and I, for all of our vast differences, both detest Florida State with extreme malice. The synergy and camaraderie of our shared hatred is much richer and more fulfilling than any individual hatred could ever be. Knowing that our kinship is fleeting doesn’t matter in the least. With a nod of reverence to Lao Tzu, we live squarely in the moment every time our mutual ire is directed at the Noles, drinking lustily of the sublime, heady brew.

“Thank the heavens fer that,” Lester said with a serene grin, arthritic legs struggling to bring him upright. “I’d sooner eat a skunk’s asshole than cheer fer those Trailer-hassee hoodlums.”

That matter-of-factly, he was back from the abyss, acting as if his meltdown had never occurred. If nothing else, the old coot was resilient.

“Amen, brother. So, you’re okay with $4,825?”

He mulled it over, pursing his lips. “It’s still pricey.” Another moment passed. Pride prevented him from giving in right away. “I reckon that’ll do. On one condition. I’ve got a hankerin’ for ya to do the Gator Chomp out by the road where everyone can see. Make that happen and we’ll call her a deal.” He punctuated the absurd demand with a loud cackle.

The fucker can be funny on occasion, and I permitted a half-smile to escape. “Don’t push your luck, Mr. Watts. Since your house backs up to a swamp, I might yet dump you out there to crawl around with your own kind.” I threw up the U again and walked back to my van.

“We’ll see about that. U better bring yer Hurricane Army along. And don’t send any more of yer worthless plumber wannabes around here unless ya want ’em back castrated. Fuck U, Miami scumbag,” he called, waving merrily goodbye. “Tell that purdy Puerto Rican of yers ol’ Lester sends his regards. Let that gal know I have a medicine cabinet full of Viagra when she decides to kick ya to the curb.”

“Fuck you too, Florida Goiter. Take care of yourself.” With my middle finger held high out the window as a parting salute, I navigated the potholes of his long, dirt driveway. Turning right onto Gunn Highway, I eased into afternoon traffic and headed to Lola’s Goodtime Emporium for some much needed hair of the dog.

Chapter 2

Most people don’t realize the parallels between plumbers and strippers. I admit it might not be apparent, but think about it. Both are on the front lines battling the most abominable forces in the universe. You think bodily waste is odious? Strippers have to contend with something even more hazardous: the male sex drive.

Take away the seven-inch heels and sparkly costumes, and strippers are really just working folks punching the clock, hoping the bouncers don’t have to punch any patrons who get too handsy. And exotic dancers are nearly as indispensable as plumbers are to the public good. Society desperately needs their services. The nation’s homicide rate would at least double if those talented ladies didn’t graciously shed their garments and provide an outlet to help quell the urges of heterosexual men. After all, plumbers lay pipe, and strippers create the fantasy of laying pipe by twirling on a pole. I could go on and on.

By the time I reached Lola’s Goodtime Emporium, it was still shy of three o’clock in the afternoon, and the beers would be 2-for-1 for over two more hours. Plenty of time to get a sizable buzz going without throat punching my precariously low bank account. I still needed to collect the $3,937 Mrs. McGillicuddy owed from the previous week when I’d installed a tankless water heater and replaced a shower pan. In retrospect, a price too low since I’d had to contend with the lunatic parrot she gives free rein of the house to—a devil bird that, besides plumbers, also delights in terrorizing the lady’s PTSD-addled Yorkshire terriers.

The Emporium is like a second home to me. I’ve been going there since I moved to Tampa. The beers are cold and the daytime girls’ hearts are warm. At night it’s a meat market and the chicks are all about making maximum bank. You certainly can’t blame them; they’re businesswomen after all.

However, during the day you can relax and just sit around the bar talking about life. It’s a place where everybody knows your name. Kind of like the old TV show Cheers, except that Diane and Carla are tattooed and wearing thongs with glitter sprinkled on their tits.

As is my custom, I nodded to the twin gargoyle statues guarding the front door before entering. Like always, I was struck by the transition between the world out there—a nonsensical place of honking horns and bill collectors—and the comforting darkness in here, a fantasy realm of protocols I could understand and shadows I could temporarily hide in.

“Everybody Dance Now” by C+C Music Factory pumped from hidden speakers, smoke swirled among the ceiling beams, and the rotating can lights and disco mirror balls pierced the darkness with a bombardment of rainbow rays—each exposing a strip of naked flesh for a tantalizing moment before winking out.

“Did you bring the ransom money?” a voice demanded from an elevated disc jockey platform several feet off to the left. My eyes hadn’t yet adjusted, but it could only belong to one person: Tony Keyes, Tampa’s finest strip club DJ. I usually divide my time between drinking Guinness with him up in his perch and over at the bar chatting with my favorite girls. Tony has a syrupy baritone that wraps you up in a teddy bear hug. If you’re not careful, it’ll also hypnotically convince you to spend every buck in your pocket. I’ve seen dudes on payday empty their entire wallets into garter belts in less than an hour when he’s on the mic. Unsurprisingly, all the girls love him.

We’re good friends, and I’ve been coming in so long that I remember the dinosaur days when Tony had to lug in his entire collection of songs each shift, stacked cases of CDs he’d wheeled around with a hand truck. Back before computers totally took over the world. So long ago that one of the girls from back then is not only a lithe, late-thirties mom still climbing the pole, but her daughter—a precocious, long-legged vixen with buttery smooth skin—is stripping to pay her own way through college.

Kandi is the daughter’s dance handle, and she’d just stepped onto the small, circular stage fronting the bar for the first of a three-song set. She’d only been at it a few weeks and was still working on her routine. You can always identify the rookies because they all dance too fast, like they’re out clubbing. That’s what’s so comical about Demi Moore’s character in Striptease. Way too aggressive. She was stomping and gyrating around the stage like a triceratops on crack. Awful technique. A true professional—a stripping craftswoman—knows that a sinuous, slow grind is far more captivating and, thus, far more profitable.

“Tony, my main man. What’s the word of the day?”

He reached down and we fist bumped. “Goldschläger,” he said, setting a bottle on the ledge.

His sly smile told me he’d already enjoyed several shots of the gold-flecked cinnamon liqueur. He usually drinks beer when he’s working, but when Queen Goldy whispers in his ear that it’s time to play, Tony succumbs to her siren song. When that happens, no matter what subject you’re on, he’ll find a way to turn the conversation back to an ex-girlfriend of his we all call Fire Crotch—a red-headed dancer who two years ago broke his heart by running off with a bouncer and getting married in Vegas.

I laughed. “She’s a beauty. Remember, though, all that glitters is not gold. I might catch up with you later, but I have an interview with a potential new trainee.”

He shook his head in sympathy. “Damn, man. Seems like you’re interviewing every week.”

“Nearly so. The hiring pool for plumbers’ helpers is a dumpster fire of pain and despair.”

Which was true. It’d been a revolving door of one slacker after another looking to get paid but with little interest in putting in an honest day’s labor. And the few guys not scared of work had displayed life management skills even more pitiful than my own.

“Welp, good luck, amigo. I’m working a double.” He held Goldy up high in a salute. “The Queen and I will be fucking each other’s brains out the rest of the night, and she’s got friends if you’re in the mood for an orgy.”

Jesus, the poor guy was so bad off today he wasn’t even using a shot glass. Fortunately, Tony has the highest alcohol tolerance in the known universe.

“I might take you up on that, T,” I said and headed over to the stage to tip Kandi.

“Hey, Kandi Cane. I do believe you’re a prodigy.” I took out my money clip and slipped a five-dollar bill in her garter, letting the back of my fingers linger an extra second on her astonishingly soft skin.

Kandi flipped her platinum blonde hair and launched a megawatt smile at my defenseless eyes, making my dick do a jig in my pants. “Thanks, Vox. A girl tries.”

Feloni and CashMoney were sitting over on the right side of the bar. I snuck up behind like a great white stalking unsuspecting seals and attacked, popping my head between them.

“GRRR!”

They both squealed and jumped a fathom.

Feloni: “Shitsicle!”

CashMoney: “Knob Gobbler!”

I kissed each of them on the cheek. “Ahh, I love it when you classy broads talk dirty. Anybody tipping today?”

Feloni laughed. “CashMoney had a twenty-one-year-old kid fall head over heels in love with her. Girly got him to buy two bottles of Dom and eight dances in the back.”

“Ouch,” I said. “That’s gonna sting when he sobers up tomorrow. You two forgot more about hustling than the rest of the dancers out there will ever know.” They agreed with a “hell yeah” and a dainty high-five of matching bright orange, squared-off fingernails.

“Hey, Kim,” Feloni said to the daytime bartender, who was just finishing up at the other side of the bar. “Can you please get Voxy Man a Guinness?”

I placed a hand at the nape of her neck and started massaging as I countered the request. “Hold up on that for now, Kim. I’ve got an interview to do in the back first.”

Feloni relaxed back into her seat like a contented cat. CashMoney looked at me admiringly through dark lashes. “No wonder Valentina keeps you around with those talented hands.”

I gave her my finest wink. “You can tell your third musketeer personally. She’s swinging by soon.” Glancing at my watch confirmed I had to get my ass moving. Time to see if the interviewee had shown up.

“Duty calls, ladies. I shall return.” I gave Feloni one last squeeze and turned to leave, prompting a mock pout from her.

“Hurry back,” CashMoney said. “Feloni and I are gonna get nasty together on stage in less than half an hour. We’d hate for you to miss out.”

“Missing those shenanigans ain’t gonna happen,” I assured them, breaking into a brisk walk towards the back of the club with fingers crossed.

\* \* \*

Back in the bowels of the Emporium, past the bathrooms, offices, and storage rooms, a narrow hallway doglegs to the right. It ends at a door that reads “KEEP OUT – EXTREME DANGER” in wicked, red letters. I placed my hand in the center of the door, closed my eyes, and mentally searched for the chimes which would signal something had messed with my guard-spell.

Pissed off customers, psychotic parrots, and disgruntled ex-employees are bad enough, but for kahunas—the self-appointed peacekeepers of the supernatural world—there’s always the chance something with magical powers is gunning for us. Good, no chimes. “Vuna vima quai mox,” I whisper-chanted, disabling my security system.

I unlocked the door, entered, and flipped on the lights, checking my eyes in the mirror to make sure they weren’t overly bloodshot from last night’s drunken escapade. My hangover still nagged at me but wasn’t as bad as I’d feared. After crossing to the other door in the room, I turned the deadbolt and pushed out. Sunlight streamed inside. Amazingly, there the applicant stood, right on time. A skinny, hipster-looking guy in his twenties, sporting a handlebar mustache, a navy blue Peaky Blinders flat cap, and a surprised expression.

“Is this Kahuna Plumbing?” he warily asked.

I stepped out onto the blacktop, giving the exterior letters a quick glance. “Yep, still there. Thank God. You had me worried flying raccoons might’ve nibbled off the letters in the night. Congratulations, Bart. You’ve successfully arrived at Kahuna Plumbing. After you.” I pointed at a rickety folding chair.

The offered chair was dwarfed by an enormous Gothic desk—hand-carved from a single block of redwood—that I purchased years ago and have been lugging around ever since. The sides are swooping wings. It perches upon monstrous talons, and thrusting out of the front at crotch level is a screaming, demonic eagle’s head. The nightmare weighs over eight hundred pounds and takes up nearly half the room. He uneasily sat.

I squeezed behind the desk into an equally bombastic, hand-stitched and brass-riveted leather chair, the backrest of which had been designed extra tall to accommodate the stuffed lion’s head roaring down from the top. Setting out my tatted, muscled forearms on display, I stoically examined him and went as still as a barnacle.

His eyes darting around the room, Bart looked afraid of being devoured. Which was exactly my intention. It’s best to establish your tone from the outset. Frame control is key.

“Are you nervous, Bart?”

“No, it’s just that, um, I thought this building was a strip club,” he said, twisting a tip of his mustache.

“An interesting observation. Do you often spend your time in strip clubs?”

He sat bolt upright. “Um, no, sir. I’m not interested in strip clubs. I’ve never been in one.”

“Do you not like looking at naked women, Bart?”

“No, sir… I mean yessir. I, uh, very much do like looking at them. I just don’t have much money either.”

I sat back and smiled, letting him off the hook. “To each his own, young man. But staying out of strip clubs is a wise decision. They’ll rot your brain. You showed up on time, which is a helluva positive start, so we’ve got that going for us. Did you bring your resumé?”

From the manilla folder in his hand, he produced a single sheet of paper and stretched it out to me, careful not to get any closer to the hungry wooden beak inches from his cock.

I quickly skimmed over it. “Hmm. Your only plumbing experience is that you worked with your dad one summer who, at the time, was a plumber’s helper? I guess that made you a plumber’s helper’s helper?”

“Exactly.”

“Interesting. I’ve never heard of such a thing, but I guess conceptually it’s not out of the realm of possibility. Time for a short rapid-fire. Name two materials sewer pipes are made of.”

He pondered for a mere second. “Cast iron and Orangeburg.”

“Ah, Orangeburg,” I noted with appreciation. “Bonus points for that. Do you know what a ballcock is?”

“Yes, sir. It brings water into the toilet.”

“Which way do you turn a handle to shut off incoming water?”

“Righty-tighty, lefty-loosey,” he answered without missing a beat.

“Name two materials other than PVC that water lines are made of.”

Bart searched his brain. “Copper and, uh, CVP… I mean, CPVC.”

“Cinnamon Toast Crunch or Golden Grahams?”

“Cinnamon Toast Crunch,” he said with a grin.

I nodded and folded my arms approvingly. “All correct, Bart. Except for the last question, of course. Overall, a great job. Especially for the helper of a helper. You might have some potential.”

Although I wasn’t sure I could stomach being subjected to his mustache on a consistent basis, I was desperate and he knew some plumbing basics. I absently looked up to the left at a spider’s web in the far corner of the ceiling. In all honesty, my gut told me he was the best candidate to walk through the door in a long time.

“Alright, man. Here’s the thing. I’ve run your background and it’s straight. I need a helper I can depend on. How does twenty dollars an hour sound to start? If you show up when and where you should, steadily learn, and become more and more of an asset to me, your pay goes up. If you fail to do any of those, I’ll allow my eagle unfettered access to your ballsack.”

I stood and extended my hand. “Sound reasonable?”

Bart visibly relaxed and gave a relieved chuckle. “Deal, sir,” he said, getting up and completing the shake. “Uh, I was wondering if there was any way you’d allow me to wear my hats. I’ve got several colors. They bring me luck.”

“Only if you add a pinstriped suit so customers think a 1920s gangster came to rob them.” It took a second for me to realize he was serious. “Oh… sure. Why not? I’m not one to turn down an added measure of luck.”

I reached into a desk drawer and plopped a handful of shirts on the desk. “Hawaiian shirts are kinda our trademark here at Kahuna Plumbing. I even had company patches sewn on.”

Frowning, he held one up. “What size is this?”

“Not sure. I got ’em on sale at TJ Maxx.”

He inspected the tags. “All of them are XXLs. I’m a medium.”

“Hmm. Yeah, I see what you mean. But better to have roomy freedom of movement instead of being too tight.”

“Maybe they’ll shrink after a few hours in the dryer,” he said with a shrug. “Also, that might get the wrinkles out.”

“That’s the spirit. I love the can-do attitude. If that doesn’t work, you could try putting them in the oven. We’ll do your new-hire paperwork on the jobsite tomorrow. And call me Vox. I’ll text you the address. Be there at 10:00 a.m. sharp.”

“Will do, Vox.” He flashed a peace sign and turned for the door.

“One more thing, Bart.”

He stopped, his hand on the handle, and looked back.

“For real, though. Stay out of strip clubs. Plumbers plus strippers equals combustion.”

Chapter 3

After he left, I went back out the door leading to the club proper and reactivated the guard-spell. For the foolish soul who trips it—whether they come through a door, down through the ceiling, tunnel in from underground, or materialize into the room—their time on Earth will soon be at an end. Any illicit intrusion morphs the gargoyles out front from stony statues into killing machines.

On my way back, I saw that Slim, the men’s bathroom attendant, was now on duty. He’s an old, black guy who’s been at the club forever. He keeps the urinals full of ice (to minimize the odor), gives you a fresh towel after you wash your hands, and has an assortment of colognes and other toiletries to prepare you for re-entry into the erotic jungle. Slim’s always ready with a kind word and is so unfailingly happy that I wouldn’t be surprised if he smiles when he sleeps. His services are definitely worthy of a buck tip.

“Slimmaculate, what’s the word of the day?”

“Puuussyyy,” he slowly drawled, then belly laughed, his body shaking like a paint mixer.

As his laughter subsided, Tony’s unmistakable voice growled from the speakers. “And nowww, direct your attention to the main stage where two of the most prestigious members of the Big Titty Committee are going to enjoy each other for your viewing delight and their carnal pleasure. They’re gorgeous, they’re talented, and they’re hotter than Hades: I give you… Feloni and CashMoneyyy! Gentlemen, get your asses up to the stage, have your stacks ready, and… Make. It. Rain.”

Only Tony could’ve delivered such a compelling introduction. Although we were at opposite ends of the dimly lit club, I could see him tilt Goldy up and swig like she was a quart of beer. If he wasn’t careful, even with his legendary tolerance, he’d be falling down drunk before the night was over. Fire Crotch’s betrayal must’ve been feeding on him like a moray eel.

Feloni and CashMoney sashayed onto the raised stage in their platform heels to an intro of Motley Crue’s “Girls, Girls, Girls.” Valentina, already seated at a table, spotted me coming and waved. I couldn’t help gasping. Ay Dios mío. What a prototypical example of prime femininity in the Latina form—jet black hair, café con leche skin, hoop earrings the size of Saturn’s rings. Looking into her brown doe eyes for too long is as dangerous as challenging the sun to a staring contest.

“Hey, señorita loca,” I said, stretching out in the chair beside her. “Qué pasa, mi amor?”

She leaned over to give me a peck on the cheek. “Hola, Papi Vox.”

Valentina can be a feisty thing, and I’m no stranger to doing stupid shit, so perhaps it was a foregone conclusion our relationship has been occasionally rocky. But tonight the forecast was puppies and petunias. She looked to be in a particularly affectionate mood, and I was ready to celebrate since it appeared I might have a new helper who didn’t suck.

I flagged down the cocktail girl, GiGi, a tiny wisp with thick glasses and adorable pigtails. She was still learning how to walk in heels and had already gone down twice during her brief employment. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who held their breath when she tottered around with a full tray of drinks.

“GiGi, darling girl. Could we please have a bottle of Rumple Minz and five shot glasses?”

She chewed her bottom lip while meticulously writing the order on her notepad. “You got it, Vox. Be back soon. Wish me luck.”

“One step at a time,” I called after her.

“Five?” Valentina asked with raised, neatly manicured eyebrows.

“Yep. The splendiferous Johnny Domingo should be walking in any minute.”

She clapped her hands together in delight. “I forgot he was flying in today. Feloni is hella thrilled. I’ve seldom seen new love burn for so long. Six months in and each can still do no wrong in the other’s eyes.”

Tony shut down the primary lighting, plunging the club into darkness for a moment before dramatically switching on a spotlight zeroed in on the girls. They now faced each other and held hands at center stage. “Black Velvet” by Alannah Myles started up.

Females learn early on that almost all heterosexual men enjoy watching them together. Even if a chick isn’t bisexual, she’s rewarded by acting as if she is. For dancers, monetarily speaking, there’s a distinct advantage in performing with other women. Nothing opens up billfolds faster.

When both dancers are as beautiful as Feloni and CashMoney, it’s a mandatory must-see spectacle. I guarantee everyone huddled around the stage at that moment would’ve chosen to be there rather than anywhere else in the world. They were two divinely talented artists, at the height of their powers, about to craft a masterpiece.

CashMoney played the aggressor and reached around to cup the back of Feloni’s head, bringing their mouths ever closer. The entire club held its breath in anticipation. Finally, CashMoney’s tongue slipped out and joined her friend’s in a long, luxurious kiss, causing Feloni to emit a small moan in the back of her throat.

Every movement was slow and smooth yet seething with barely restrained power. Each woman’s hands squeezed the other’s ass as they leaned deeper into the kiss. The air pulsed with raw estrogen. Tops were removed and they caressed each other’s heavy breasts.

Down to the floor they descended. Inch by inch. Each lost in the other. Feloni laid on her back, her dirty blonde hair fanned out. CashMoney, her signature dollar-sign tramp stamp ablaze in neon green, gracefully spun around on top until they were in a classic sixty-nine position.

Normally, they wouldn’t have gone much further. Hillsborough County and city ordinances are very clear that overt sex acts in strip clubs are illegal. The club would be fined upon a confirmed violation. But that day there was no doubt in anyone’s mind what would happen next. The women were too far gone. Even the daytime manager, Conway, was leaning over the stage railing—his eyes as big as Feloni’s areolas—mentally urging them on.

Once Feloni felt CashMoney slip her thong aside and go down on her, she returned the favor in kind. The crowd, already surging with the ferocity of caged rhinos, exploded in cheers, creating a transcendent energy which fueled each woman to explore the other even more intensely. Their hips rhythmically pumped to the music, allowing probing tongues to spear molten loins.

Valentina reached under the table and grabbed my cock, which was as hard as an Applied Quantum Mechanics course at MIT. Utterly spellbound, she stared at her two friends while taking shallow breaths and kneading me through my pants.

By this time, around two dozen guys leaned over the railing, each with a thick payload. Their hands blurred as they blazed through their stacks, rocketing greenbacks into orbit one by one. In another dimension, the ghost of George Washington smiled. You could barely see the chicks anymore because the air was so choked with bills floating down atop them. In all my years of going to strip clubs, I’ve never seen such a torrential rainstorm.

The song neared its end. Feloni was the first to cum, shouting her pleasure loud enough for half of Tampa Bay to hear. A few seconds later, CashMoney followed suit, arching her back like a shuddering she-beast and repeatedly moaning Feloni’s name.

As Valentina desperately tried to free my dick, GiGi showed back up with the bottle of liqueur and shot glasses miraculously intact on her tray. Against all odds, despite the commotion and with virtually no lighting by which to see, she’d somehow made it back unscathed… and in remarkably prompt time.

I was a reamed-out husk, barely able to talk. Valentina, her eyes glazed over, visibly panted. GiGi set everything on the table and smiled sweetly, patiently waiting for me to settle up.

“Just put it on my tab, GiGi, and give yourself five dollars,” I croaked. “And please put another bottle on ice for us.”

“Thanks, Vox.” She beamed and carefully shuffled away.

Feloni and CashMoney began collecting all the bills carpeting the floor. They were so plentiful that the women were stuffing them into Home Depot five-gallon buckets.

I felt a hand squeeze my shoulder and looked up to see Johnny Domingo shaking his mocha-complected, bald head back and forth at Valentina and me, his amusement at our condition evidenced by his knowing grin. “Aloha, Johnny,” I managed breathlessly. “What’s the word of the day?”

“Downpour,” he laughed in his precisely enunciated, contraction-free, Barbadian accent. “Obviously one of biblical proportions, my kahuna brother.” He glanced over at the women gathering their money. “I am not sure what I missed, but I know a dawdling Uber driver who will find himself at the bottom of the bay if I ever see him again.”

\* \* \*

Not long after the deluge, the major record company exec who Valentina was scheduled to meet with the next day called and said he had to unexpectedly jet out to L.A. on a red-eye. Her only chance to talk with him before he left town would be at an airport lounge before his flight boarded. With the fickleness of the music business, she might never get an opportunity like that again.

We all understood and were excited for her. Reluctantly, she left. But not before reminding me to exercise some maturity: “Don’t go hog-wild on the Rumple Minz, bae.” Her comment wasn’t without merit. In the past, I’d made questionable decisions when drinking too much of the peppermint-flavored hundred-proof howitzer.

I nodded agreeably at her indisputable words of wisdom and then immediately forgot about them after she left. By the time we vanquished the first bottle, the remaining four of us—Johnny, Feloni, CashMoney, and I—were on the path to getting plastered.

GiGi stopped by to inquire if we were ready for the second bottle, which turned out to be Johnny’s cue. “Mr. Montague, it is time for my lady love and I to enjoy some alone time. Then tomorrow I am off to visit my sister in Crystal River for a couple of days. I will let you know when I resurface.”

Even though Johnny and I had important matters to attend to during his visit to Tampa, his most urgent order of business, quite understandably, was to take Feloni on a trip between the sheets to Pound Town.

As they got up to leave, Feloni smiled and wagged a finger at us. “Be careful now. You two are too much alike for your own good. Both of you get home safely.”

“Don’t worry about us,” I scoffed. “You just make sure your sex jaguar doesn’t accidentally break you in half.”

The women hugged goodbye while Johnny and I opted for a forearm thwack. Now only two warriors remained in the battle against the enemy of sobriety.

As they walked away, I turned to CashMoney. “What do you think? Do we succumb to cowardice and give up the fight, or do we move on to bottle number two?”

The corners of her mouth curled into a Grinch smile. “Número dos,” she purred.

\* \* \*

Between the span of opening the second bottle of Rumple Minz and waking up the next morning, I remember only two episodes. Each lasted barely more than a minute.

In the first, I became aware of lying on soft sheets. My head was slumped to the side, and a thin rivulet of drool pooled on my shoulder. The lights were on. What time was it? Hoping I’d made it back to my house, I groggily tried to spot my Sebastian the Ibis alarm clock on the nightstand. Ah, there it was. 943943943 o’clock. What the hell? I was so drunk that I was seeing triple. Feeling motion above, I looked up to witness three CashMoneys straddling me, wrestling with the clasps of their bras.

Hmm, how had this interesting development transpired? Finally, they succeeded and six magnificent breasts spilled out. Of course, I’d always fantasized about fucking her. I mean, who hadn’t? Even though I couldn’t remember how we’d gotten back to my house or why she was in my bed, it seemed a shame not to find out what those orbs of perfection felt like. I reached up and took the middle ones in my hands, giving them a squeeze. Apollonia’s Udders! They were even more divine than I’d anticipated.

What Valentina tried earlier, CashMoney accomplished: my dick was firmly in her grasp. Against all odds, my stalwart soldier saluted, ready for duty. The fragment of my brain still able to think rationally knew this wasn’t a wise decision, but it was too overmatched to put a halt to the festivities.

She lifted up to impale herself on Lil Vox but looked more and more unsteady by the second. Right then, the Rumple Minz battering ram circled around again, head-butting me back into the void. My last memory before going under the waves was CashMoney falling forward and a titty plugging my open mouth like a cork.

\* \* \*

My second memory was a mass of jangling keys jerking me back from the depths of unconsciousness so quickly that I was momentarily overtaken by the bends. Keys can be a signal which smacks your primitive brain in the mouth. Mayday! Mayday! Wake up, moron! A mental database query to check who I’d given a key to returned zero results.

Unfortunately, CashMoney was still passed out on top of me. Though probably only weighing a hundred and twenty pounds at most, in my feeble state she felt like a hundred and twenty tons. Spitting out my breast pacifier, I strained to rise but could get nowhere. Sooo heaaavy.

Without warning, time down-shifted into slow motion. Turning as if in cold honey, I eventually found the clock and could see clearly. 11:08. It took even longer to move my eyes to the window. No light came from between the blinds, so it was still nighttime.

The keys fell to the ground. A feminine voice expressed mild annoyance. “Coño carajo.” Its accent was Puerto Rican. I nearly died from panic. With the speed of a lobotomized snail, I again tried to extricate myself but was backhanded with fatigue for my effort. “CashMoney, SOS,” I tried to say, though what came out is anybody’s guess. She didn’t respond.

Long ago, I strategically set up a multiple mirror system so I could enjoy the aquarium in the living room while lounging in bed. Since I hadn’t closed my bedroom door, CashMoney and I would be on full display. I had just enough remaining oomph to cast my eyes in the direction of the full-length mirror positioned outside my room.

Slow motion further down-shifted into park. Now I couldn’t move a muscle. Once more I tried to rouse CashMoney but found I couldn’t utter so much as a peep. I was completely immobilized, trapped with no possibility of escape. Like a torture victim with toothpicks holding open his eyelids, all I could do was helplessly stare.

The keys jangled again and I heard the door open. After a few steps of heels on tile, Valentina came into view. Her chocolate brown eyes scanned as her full lips parted. “Vo-ox,” she called, turning my name into two playful syllables. “It’s time to celebrate. Mamacita’s gonna ride you like Secretariat. We’re gonna win the Triple Cr—”

Our eyes met in the mirror. Mi princesa’s expression was quizzical. She couldn’t comprehend what she was seeing. The poor thing was in shock. And I wasn’t the only one looking at her. The succulent ass and neon dollar-sign tat of CashMoney, one of her best friends since elementary school, had their gazes locked on Valentina as well.

Realization set in. Fury overwhelmed mi corazón. Her eyes flared with hatred. “You fucking cunts,” she hissed. “Burn in hell.”

With a heave that would’ve made Ryan Crouser envious, she picked up and shot-putted a bulky brass seahorse clear across the room at the mirror outside my bedroom. Her aim was dead on. The glass shattered with such force that shards nearly reached the bed. The heavy frame crashed to the floor.

After a promise to cut my cock off in the near future, Valentina slammed the front door behind her. With my frozen eyes still glued to the now-bare wall, I heard her BMW’s door receive her wrath, followed by the car’s tires as she left most of their rubber on the driveway as a parting gift. Through it all, CashMoney never stirred. I returned to oblivion within seconds, serenaded by my bed buddy’s soft snoring.

Chapter 4

The bizarre thing about Rumple Minz is, even though I suffer blackouts and it hammers the piss out of me when I don’t imbibe responsibly, I’m not hungover in the slightest the next morning. My theory is that by not walloping me with physical pain, it hopes I’ll return to its fiendish embrace that much sooner.

So as I turned north on Dale Mabry Highway near the Bucs stadium to meet up with Bart at the first plumbing call of the day, my head was fine. It was the rest of me in tatters.

What a back-alley abortion of events. Valentina was convinced I’d fucked one of her besties, and yet I’d barely even indulged in a titty squeeze. While CashMoney and I had never come close to doing anything in the past, I’d always suspected she’d fit me as tight as an O.J. glove. Not only was I still as clueless as ever about that, both of us would now get blamed as if we’d banged all night.

Damn you to hell, Fräulein Minz, you traitorous whore.

When I awoke, CashMoney had already left; most likely she’d called an Uber. Although I’d texted her a message about what had happened, she’d probably figured it out. The trail of destruction left by Tropical Storm Valentina wasn’t hard to decipher.

Valentina and I have a unique relationship in that our problems aren’t about me occasionally straying. She tolerates it and knows I love only her.

Her rules are:

• I won’t go looking, but I better never hear about it.
• Don’t get another woman pregnant.
• If you give me a disease, I will literally kill you.
• Never mess around with one of my friends.

Coolest chick ever, right? And I’d turned belly-up to my demons like the coward I am, shitting all over an ideal situation. In the end, I had no one to blame except myself. While I hadn’t set out to get CashMoney in the sack, she’d ended up there nevertheless.

Of course, my romantic dilemmas had nothing to do with paying my bills, while doing jobs this week most certainly did. In addition, if I fiscally collapsed, I could neither eat nor fulfill my obligations as the Kahuna of Florida West. Financial survival is what I needed to focus on at the moment. That and getting at least some control over my drunkardly ways.

After passing the Bucs stadium, I turned onto Himes Ave and prayed with a reverence rivaling that of the most pious monk, “Please, Holy Creator, let Bart be waiting at the house.”

I hung a right across the street from Al Lopez Park and—lo and behold, thank the heavens, hallelujah, and praise the Lord—there he was, leaning against a beat-up Subaru Outback, eating a donut, and twirling on his mustache. His company shirt engulfed him like an old lady’s house dress.

I pulled up behind him, jumped out, and joyfully hugged the confused lad. Maybe the day wouldn’t be a disaster after all.

\* \* \*

The first call went swimmingly well. I was a little leery at first because when I asked the customer what his issues were, he just mumbled incoherently, pointed, and then shuffled behind us with his head slightly upturned and his mouth agape—like a basking shark skimming for plankton.

However, he turned out to be reasonably sane, which often isn’t the case with customers. Bart and I ended up installing a shower valve, relieving a laundry line blockage, and replacing two shut-off valves for $1,299. Cha-ching. On top of that, Bart passed his first test.

On a trainee’s first day, I always ask the same question: “You know what a pipe stretcher is, correct?” For those foolish enough to say yes, I send them out to my van to retrieve one. There’s no such tool. Think about it. How the hell are you gonna stretch a pipe? I’ve had dudes rooting around out there for the better part of an hour, tearing their hair out with frustration.

Bart cool-headedly thought about it for a scant few seconds before proclaiming that he was sure pipe stretchers didn’t exist. That made me feel warm all over. More and more, my new employee was proving himself to be capable.

After we finished that job, it was time to refuel our bellies. If we’d been on the other side of town, I would’ve chosen Mott & Hester for lunch. True, the owner is a Gator, but he’s a nice guy and has some of the best deli eats in Tampa. Since we were up north, Bart followed me to a Raising Cane’s on the way to our next call. We enjoyed a delicious, early lunch of chicken fingers, Cane’s sauce, crinkle-cut fries, and coleslaw—all washed down with Arnold Palmers. After gorging ourselves, the plan was to leave his car at the restaurant. He’d ride with me for the rest of the day.

Though I’d given the cab a once-over to hide my degenerate ways, an empty can of Dos Equis had materialized from God-knows-where and was waiting patiently on the recessed step for Bart. When he opened up the passenger door, it fell at his feet in greeting. Ouch. It’s not an auspicious start to your employment when evidence of your boss’s drinking and driving says hello. He just placed it on the floorboard as if nothing had happened, and neither of us spoke further of the incident.

Another small but profitable job followed, Bart continued to shine, and a day that started like a sinking Titanic had somehow righted itself. The wind now blew from our backs, and we sailed along smoothly on calm waters, under clear skies, with no icebergs in sight.

The last scheduled call of the day was an especially easy one. I had already pre-sold it over the phone for three hundred and fifty dollars. We just had to replace a customer-provided toilet. Barely any parts cost meant another nice chunk of change in my bank account. Beep, beep, beep. Back up the money truck.

I even let Bart take command of the job. Knock on the door, establish rapport, fill out the invoice. Bing, bang, boom. Yesterday his handlebar mustache annoyed me; today I realized it was actually endearing.

Since he claimed to have replaced a toilet before, I just sat on the edge of the tub watching. While my mind ostensibly supervised, every few minutes it revisited last night—alternating between still shots of Valentina’s stunned expression and CashMoney’s extraordinary tits.

As often happens, the bolts securing the toilet bowl to the floor were rusted on and couldn’t be unscrewed. Which is why Bart had a Dremel tool plugged in to cut off the frozen nuts. He would just use brand-new nuts and bolts instead of the existing ones. I admired the steadiness of his hands.

The shut-off valve, though it appeared to be structurally sound, had started leaking a tad. Happens a lot. It wasn’t completely shutting off, and water slowly dripped from the end of the supply line onto the floor. Nothing major but enough to form a gradually growing puddle. The Dremel’s cord was slightly frayed. As we all know, water and electricity don’t make compatible bedfellows.

I’d just returned from another replay-loop and immediately grasped the situation. I was about to instruct Bart to tweak the valve a hair more to stop the drip and towel up the water. He’d also noticed the potential issue and was proceeding to do that very thing.

He lightly grasped the football-shaped handle of the valve and nudged it clockwise. The leak stopped. An instant after he gave himself a fist clench of approval, the shut-off valve flew across the room, slamming into my shinbone. I howled like a werewolf caught in a bear trap.

Hell hath no fury like an open pipe at full pressure. Like a firehose, water blasted from the pipe, instantly beginning to flood the bathroom. It was a jailbreak and every water molecule sprinted towards freedom. The rest of the house, including the hardwood floors just a few feet away in the hallway, would be rapidly flooded too.

Bart, who was on his hands and knees, tried to scramble to his feet. He almost succeeded but slipped, buckled an ankle, and fell to the tile with a yelp of pain.

Despite my shin, the rapidly worsening water situation was unequivocally the top priority. Floods can be a company-killer. Besides a fire, nothing can fuck up a house quicker or more destructively than rampaging water with menace on its mind.

I extended my hands towards the pipe and—in a sort of Karate Kid “wax on/wax off” manner—rotated them in small, circular motions. “Veena tom bok kwai,” I whisper-chanted. The water spewing out of the pipe stopped. Not a drop more ventured past the lip.

Next, I brought my hands to waist level, palms facing up, and rapidly fluttered them. “Zeely con zub kwai.” The water on the floor beaded and awaited further instructions. Raising my still vibrating hands to my shoulders, the droplets humbly floated into the air. The water merged into a liquid rope as I brought my palms together. I thrust my hands towards the tub and the rope instantly obeyed, funneling over the edge and into the drain. The floor was now bone-dry.

I looked over at Bart. He’d struggled to a sitting position with his back against the wall and couldn’t have been more baffled than if I’d shape-shifted into a walrus and begun singing the chorus of “Let It Go.” His right eye and cheek twitched.

“Listen carefully,” I said in a voice of confident authority. “The homeowner is probably coming through that door at any moment. Don’t say a word. There’s no telling where she was in the house and how much she heard.”

Sure enough, the sounds of her slippers shuffled our way shortly thereafter. The door opened and she stuck her head in. White Shoulders perfume filled the air. “Would you boys like an egg salad sandwich? I don’t put relish in mine. Nothing’s worse than egg salad that tastes like you’re eating dessert.”

Staring at the tub, Bart just kept twitching.

“No thanks, Mrs. Hankerson,” I said. “We’re fine. Just taking a little break.”

“Well, how about a glass of water?”

“We’ve had all the water we can handle. You’re too kind. Don’t worry about us.”

“Okie-dokie,” she said, closing the door and shuffling back from whence she came.

\* \* \*

My shin throbbed like a bitch, but Bart was worse off. His ankle was already swelling, and he couldn’t put any weight on it. After finding Mrs. Hankerson absorbed in her crocheting in the Florida room, I carried my helper out to the van and propped his foot on the dashboard. I grabbed some ice out of the cooler, stuffed it into a trash bag, and wrapped it around his ankle with duct tape. All the while, not a single word was spoken about my demonstration of water powers. It was possible he was in complete denial and had already locked the memory away in a vault, then pitched it over the side into the Mariana Trench of his subconscious. Better that than a blown mind.

“I’m so sorry, dude. I’m so sorry,” he said over and over. With his burgundy cap askew and eyes vacant, both hands twirled his mustache in overdrive. I wondered how much more his handlebars could take.

“No hay problema, jefe. You sit tight. And keep your foot elevated.” I turned on the radio to what I usually listen to while driving between calls: the Bubba the Love Sponge Show. “I’ll finish up inside and be back soon. Guaranteed Bubba’s up to something amusing. It’ll take your mind off the pain.”

Within twenty minutes, we were driving west on State Road 54, returning to Tampa from Wesley Chapel. Bart had regained some composure. His twirling was down to one hand, his hat was righted, the twitch was mostly gone, and he wasn’t constantly apologizing anymore. All positive signs. He clutched his bucket of tools in his lap as if they were a favorite stuffed animal.

“You think we might need to run by a clinic?” I asked. “Maybe that’s a break instead of a sprain.”

“Nah, my sister will take a look at it. All I want to know is how you did it, Vox.” His voice was laced with the profound curiosity of someone trying to figure out a Shin Lim card trick.

“What?”

“I know it was another test for me. I just can’t figure out how you pulled it off. That was super dope. We were on a TV prank show, weren’t we? Unbelievable. You’re a certified genius. Seriously, quit plumbing and take that show to Vegas, man. You’ll make millions.”

Lamentably, he hadn’t thrown the memory overboard.

“First of all, Bart, what happened back there wasn’t your fault. In fact, your performance all day has been top-notch.” I’d decided coming clean was the best option. He’d seen everything up close and personal. I mean, there was no logical way to explain this away, and—given enough distance and perspective—he’d come to that conclusion. The kid wasn’t an idiot, he was just in shock. And it wasn’t like I had to kill him and drop him down a well or anything. As supernatural peacekeepers, it’s impossible to keep all kahuna-related activities entirely under wraps. We just want them on the down-low as much as possible.

“You remember how disappointed you were growing up when you discovered Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny were imaginary?” He nodded. “Well, today you got some payback on the world. You discovered some outlandish shit actually exists. That valve breaking off was a freak occurrence. However, it one hundred percent happened. What I did also one hundred percent happened. No tricks. No TV series. No tests. Have you seen The Matrix?” He nodded again. “You’re plunging down the hare hole as we speak.”

Pausing for a second to let it all sink in, I turned back south onto Dale Mabry. So far, so good. He hadn’t jumped out of the van in terror and splattered himself all over the road, which I counted as a win.

“I’m part of a race of beings possessing certain magical powers. We call ourselves kahunas. One of our abilities is the manipulation of water. Generally speaking, we can make it do what we want. You bore witness to that today. Does that make any sense?”

He slowly shook his head in wonderment. “You’re serious, aren’t you? Wow! I’m in, brah. Sign me up. How much would you charge to teach me that awesomeness? Can you swim as fast as a dolphin? Can you breathe underwater? Who would win if you and a giant squid got into a fight? Is the Loch Ness monster real? How about mermaids?” His eyes had gone from lifeless to Nicholas-Cage-guzzling-a-case-of-Red-Bull-manic-mode.

It was impossible not to get caught up in his enthusiasm. “Sadly, my friend, it doesn’t work quite like that,” I said with a laugh. “It’s not a club you can join. You must be born into it. We get this thing called the Compulsion as young adults and travel to a far-off land to be trained.” Raising Cane’s came into view, and I got in the turning lane.

He just kept shaking his head. “Stupid cool. Can I at least be like an assistant or something? You know, maybe a liaison between us mere mortals and your world?”

“I assure you we’re mortal. Last week I almost got eaten by an alligator on the seventeenth green of Plantation Palms.” I pulled into the restaurant and parked in the space closest to his Subaru. “However, that’s a conversation for another time. Right now, we need to get you healed up as soon as possible. How does that ankle feel?”

“Honestly, I can’t even feel the pain anymore, man. You’ve obviously got some mega healing powers. I feel better than ever.”

I held up a finger to correct him, but he’d already opened his door and was on his way out. Like a man ready to conquer the world, Bart hopped down from the elevated seat with his tool bucket in hand, unafraid and with his full weight behind him.

From the driver’s seat, I couldn’t see much of the resulting mayhem, but sounds told the story. A hideous pop kicked off the show. Followed by a scream that would’ve woken any nearby dead. He disappeared completely out of sight, thudded to the pavement, and his tools—and possibly his head—banged into the Mercedes G-Wagon parked in the next space.

Chapter 5

Tampa Bay is primarily made up of two major population areas separated by a sizable body of water bearing the same name. To the east is Hillsborough County and the county seat of Tampa. To the west lies Pinellas County—composed of St. Petersburg, Clearwater, Largo, and a bunch of little municipalities sprinkled in between. Even though three different bridges serve to efficiently connect the counties, the demarcation of the bay makes them seem farther apart, and more distinct, than they really are.

Rush hour traffic on the Courtney Campbell Causeway, the northernmost bridge, crawled a tad faster than usual, and I was making semi-reasonable time returning to Tampa from Clearwater after handing over the beleaguered Bart to his sister, Brandi. Gordon Lightfoot’s “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” played in the background.

The sun, its shortened winter workday nearing the end, headed home as well. Still, plenty of light remained to watch the hunting pelicans. They floated on bay breezes, scanning the surface below. Upon spotting dinner, they folded their wings tightly to their sides and dove like bombs upon unsuspecting prey swimming below, scooping up the unlucky bastards in their basket beaks. With the last twenty-four hours I’d endured, I knew exactly how those fish felt.

After Bart had plummeted out of the van—demolishing himself, the G-Wagon’s door, and my insurance rates—I’d helped him back into the passenger’s seat and then went into the restaurant. It turned out the general manager, Chuck, was the owner of the injured Mercedes. Up to that point, he’d been a friend of mine and a customer. Not only did he take the news much better than expected, he gave me a to-go box of fingers and sauce to “help ease your pain, brother.” Unbelievably nice. It’s only a matter of time before a restaurant needs plumbing service, and his next call was going to be on the house.

We’d left the Subaru with a promise from Chuck that it wouldn’t be towed. Bart was in even worse “I’m so sorry, dude” form than before, begging me to end his pain with a water bazooka. He’d droned on so much that, if I could’ve conjured one up right then, I might’ve been tempted to put us both out of our miseries. I’d given him the to-go box, telling him eating would help speed his healing. If nothing else, I figured a full mouth would reduce his yammering.

I guess it’s hard to blame the guy, though. I mean, what would you do if you saw a kahuna weaving his hands together like Mr. Miyagi, chanting some arcane incantations and defying the laws of fluid mechanics? Mind-bending stuff. Where he went wrong was erroneously assuming my magical powers include the ability to heal. Lesson learned and one I’m sure his ankle would never forget.

Now I was without a helper again. However, I did like the kid. And, until the calamity, his performance had been exemplary. Long term, I decided to hold the spot open for him. Furthermore, he was adamant that plumbing was the career he wanted. With a lot of work on both our parts, I sensed he could be a valuable employee.

In the meantime, there was a chance I could wrangle some help from the Goat, a mobile auto mechanic who makes his own hours. Ever since I’ve known him, we’ve traded favors. Maybe he could finagle his schedule around to assist here and there while Bart healed.

In a teaspoon of serendipity, Bart’s sister was nearing the end of med school at Nova Southeastern University and would soon begin her residency in orthopedics. She could supervise his rehab, and he’d give her somebody to practice on.

Around a mile from land, traffic smoothed out. Less than ten minutes later, I rolled down the windows and turned into Bearded Oaks Mobile Home Park, built on a secluded, twenty-acre plot of paradise snuggled up against the bay. Grand oaks stud the property throughout, and flowing clusters of grey Spanish moss hang from each tree like Gandalf’s beard. The park is a perfect example of what Sunshine State residents like to call “Old Florida.”

The meticulously maintained gravel road crunched as I slowly rolled through the park (8 MPH, please). The air was redolent with orange blossoms from a small grove near the entrance. I’m a junkie for their scent and inhaled lungfuls to get my fix. As I approached the first mobile on the right, I saw two signs that Jimmy the Jamaican rocked back and forth in the shadows of his front porch: the smoldering tip of a gargantuan blunt and the shockingly white teeth of his Cheshire Cat smile.

“Hello, Voxy Mon,” he crooned in his singsong accent. “I got plenty of this sweet smelly if you’re of a mind to partake.” I’m not sure how he’d pulled it off, but besides a medical marijuana waiver allowing him unrestricted usage, Jimmy actually has a state license to grow and sell the stuff. A massive, state-of-the-art hydroponic unit takes up all of one bedroom. He refers to his prized custom strain as Half-Hit-Shit, meaning most people only need a partial puff to get stoned. Unless you’re a toking pro, a full hit will turn you into a baked potato. Jimmy smokes all throughout the day and most of the night. I get a contact buzz every time I drive by.

I braked to a stop. “JJ, my good friend. Your ganja scares the hell out of me, mon. If you recall, the last time we burned, I was convinced you were a prehistoric sabre-toothed capybara. After I got home, I ate a family-sized package of Double Stuf Oreos, two rotisserie chickens, and a jar of pickles. Then I slept for three days.”

His deep laughter rumbled like a Robbie Shakespeare bass line.

The park has only one road, and it takes its time meandering around the namesake oaks, as well as dense clusters of palmetto bushes, pines, and cypresses. The tree canopy is so thick that much of the park is hidden from aerial view.

Everybody else looked to be already tucked in—except for Samantha, a senior citizen triathlete who crushes all the other ladies in her age group. Her burnt orange training swimsuit with matching cap meant that she was returning from a swim in the bay. Probably had just butterflied to Texas and back for a light workout and was headed inside for a spirulina & reishi IV. In fact, she hails from Austin and attended the University of Texas as a lass. I flashed her a Hook ’em Horns sign, and she acknowledged by throwing up the U for me. I have no beef with the Longhorns. Last time we played was the 1991 Cotton Bowl when we blew them out 46-3, so they’re fine by me.

After her place, the road wiggles a final time through a short stretch of undeveloped land before ending at a roundabout. Most of the bay frontage of the park is a recreation area—with picnic tables, charcoal grills, a sand volleyball court, and a basketball hoop. Only a few plots are directly on the water. Mine’s one of them. But it’s not like the others and doesn’t even technically belong to the park. My property is actually a four-acre island, connected to the mainland by a fifty-five-foot bridge.

On the mainland side of the bridge, a ten-foot wide, double-swinging gate stands guard. It’s book-ended by a pair of tall, fearsome tiki totems. Free-standing tiki torches both light the gate and are evenly spaced along the length of the bridge. Centered in the middle of the gate is an ornately carved medallion eighteen inches in diameter. Vertically split, the two sides are made whole when the gate’s closed. It’s called a juskara and is the ancient talisman of the kahunas.

I didn’t think my shin was fractured, but it still ached like hell and had stiffened up. After pulling up to the gate, I delicately got out and limped over to the totem pole bordering its left side. On the totem, about chest high, I placed my hand on a sea turtle with a shallow depression embedded in its shell.

Similar to my office, the lack of chimes meant there hadn’t been any supernatties—creatures of magic—sniffing around the joint. “Vuna vima quai mox.” An energy field, which domes over and protects the island from intrusion, hummed for an instant, went silent, and the gate began to open outwards.

I’d re-engage the energy field once I reached the house. The field is attuned to all the known frequencies emitted by magic. For my supernattie “inner circle” of Valentina, Johnny, Feloni, and Maria—Valentina’s maternal grandmother—I had a sensor installed which automatically detects their unique magical signatures and disables the field once they punch “80085” into a keypad below.

The field is useless against uninvited natties. Provided they’re able to scale the gate or traverse the water, I have other ways to deal with them. Especially process servers and bill collectors.

I had turned and taken a step back towards the van when a sound stopped me.

Meow.

It was so soft and high-pitched that I figured the kitten couldn’t be much older than a newborn. I searched left, then right. Nothing at all. Behind me? Nope. Under the van? Nada. I was running out of places it could be.

Meow.

This time I looked up. A house cat sat atop the totem. An exceedingly large cat, about twice the size of an ordinary one. Way too big for that tiny meow. I chided myself for sensing nothing of the beast upon my approach. Sure, my shin stole some attention, but that kind of sloppiness could easily be the death of me.

The totems are twelve-foot high—genuine Takanga totems—with wood so hard and sides so burnished that I didn’t see how anything other than a gecko could scale them. Maybe not even that. But, unless it had wings, the cat must’ve somehow climbed up. Impressive. With those pole skills, it might have a future as a stripper.

Meow.

This pain-in-the-ass turn of events further delayed my urgent meeting with a cold beer. “Jackass,” I grumbled. A classic case of immediate gratification gone awry. This clown had given zero fucks about how to get back down, leaving someone else with the responsibility of rescuing it.

The extension ladder on my van wasn’t suitable for the task. Leaning it against the slippery surface of the totem was the kind of idea that would land me on an episode of Ridiculousness. I’d have to use the stepladder from the house. Hopefully, I could reach up and save the fool without breaking my neck. But who could predict how it would react? Anything stupid enough to intentionally get up there might decide clawing its rescuer made sense.

Meow.

“Yeah, yeah. I’d appreciate the courtesy of a little patience while I fix this mess you made.” I swore in Slovenian as I hobbled to the van.

Meow.

I drove up to the house and retrieved the ladder from the shed attached to the carport. As I spread the legs and locked its braces, I was still bitching. This could go very badly, trying to save an overgrown cat who made poor life choices. I gingerly put my foot on the first step, glanced up, and… the cat was gone.

WTF? I did a 360 look-around. No cat anywhere. I felt like Bart from earlier in the day when he thought he was on a reality TV show. “Unbelievable,” I groused, shaking my head. It was either a remarkable athlete or truly did have wings. “Thanks for wasting my time. Appreciate it, buddy.”

I’ve been working on letting go of the past. By the time I drove back across the bridge, put the ladder away, and turned the corner to the front door, my mind had restored order and swatted the cat to the recesses of my memories, replacing it with the imagery of refreshing alcohol glugging jovially down my throat.

Meow.

I screeched like a barn owl, reflexively jumped back, tripped off the edge of the elevated teak walkway, and toppled into a rosebush. Several thorns penetrated my arms and shoulders. Pathetically groaning, I pushed myself to a sitting position, receiving an additional puncture and a blaze of pain in my palm. The cat enjoyed the show from a front-row seat by the van. With piercing blue eyes, the animal briefly gazed into my soul, then focused on a more important task—grooming its mohawk with a polydactyl paw.

\* \* \*

Not long after, I lounged back in the clammy on my screened-in back porch—the bubbling water remedying tired, aching muscles and also healing the shin hematoma, thorn damage, and various other bumps and bruises I’d recently accumulated.

In contrast to the vast majority of supernatties, kahunas are no more impervious to harm than regular natties. True, our innate rejuvenation capabilities are better than non-magical folks but only modestly so. Which is a problem thanks to both the hazardous nature of a kahuna’s work and my unique ability to fuck myself up.

To aid our healing, we have hot tubs made from the half shells of Colossaclams, cousins of Gigas clams but even deeper-bellied and with edges less dramatically fluted. Mine is a whopping seven feet in diameter and perfect for all occasions, whether you need some alone time or have an orgy coming up. For us, to hell with milk. Nothing compares with a clammy in doing a body good.

A clammy works because of its effect on makana, which is the life force of kahunas. Meaning “gift” in Hawaiian, makana is our go-juice—our version of chi, ki, or prana—and permeates all our cells. If a kahuna’s makana is lower than normal, which can happen due to injury or sickness, his or her natural healing powers will suffer. Clammies help to quickly restore our default levels.

However, a clammy’s most significant benefit is its capacity to amplify the actual healing nature of makana. As it was explained to me, “makana still effectuates the actual restoration, but in the healing submatrix of the space-time continuum, healing time is folded upon itself.” When you figure out what that means, let me know.

While the shells alone work wonders, adding concentrated Colassaclam meat to a soak kicks up your rehab even more. Refined and extracted into a powder called meatboost, you just dissolve a handful in the clammy and your healing time gets folded more times than an Akira Yoshizawa origami peacock.

My healing aside, the feline had now reasserted dominance over my thoughts. Up close at ground level, I could see just how enormous the fucker was compared to other house cats. And it wasn’t fat. This creature had impressive muscle bulges under its fur.

The trespasser wore an ornately crafted collar of leather and silver. It definitely wasn’t something you could buy at the local pet store. Three strange, interlocking circular symbols dominated the front, with “Achilles” etched into the center one. Though you never know with names these days, I’d assume the cat was male until proven otherwise. I’d never tried to determine the sex of a cat before and wasn’t about to start with this enigma. Unlike dogs, who are as shameless as trench coat flashers, it’s not obvious what felines are packing.

Occasionally, strays show up around the park, so I keep a bag of food on hand to make life a smidgen easier for them. After all, everybody appreciates a snack and a kind word, right? Almost everybody. Thus far, only the water had been touched. While it’s not easy to read a cat’s expression, when he looked at the bowl of store-brand kibble and then back at me, I’m positive that his mouth curled in disdain.

Notwithstanding the mystery of how the cat came to be sitting on the totem, a more perplexing question was how he’d gotten down and over to my house without me noticing. His unusually long tail and stealth made me think he might be a legendary ninja cat from Japan. However, all the stories agreed they only came in black.

This one’s coat was golden. And the more I watched it, when viewed from various angles and under different lighting, its shadings subtly changed as well—making him gleam, almost as if his coat was created from actual gold.

Coloring aside, another reason for my fascination was his striking beauty. Absolutely gorgeous. I’m talking supermodel looks. I’m sure all the ladies loved his mohawk, which was longer and more stylish than punk. Rate the most handsome cat you’ve ever seen and then move the decimal point over a couple places to the right.

Besides the puzzle of what he was, why was he here? Just passing through? He didn’t look like any stray I’d ever seen. All signs indicated this cat had been exquisitely cared for.

I thought about it for another few minutes while the cat, well, just acted like a typical cat. At present, he was on the adjoining outdoor patio violating the laws of physics by somehow stuffing himself into an empty cardboard case of Moosehead Lager.

Soon, hunger got the best of me—those chicken fingers had gone as far as they could—and I clambered out of the clammy and headed inside to the living room. After locking the double sliding glass doors behind me, I trailed my fingers along the immense, thirty-foot long aquarium tank that takes up most of the interior wall of that side of the house. The aquarium is almost entirely self-sustaining, requiring very little upkeep. It’s a miniature Great Barrier Reef of corals, seagrasses, anemones, sponges, urchins, starfish, lobsters, conch, eels, clownfish, leafy seadragons, and a small catshark.

All of which serve as a playground for twenty of the rarest fish in the world: kahunafish. They are a riot of stunningly vivid colors that force-feed your soul, pumping pure joy down your throat like you’re a foie gras goose. That is, if you happen to be a kahuna.

Everybody I know who’s fortunate enough to lay eyes on k-fish is captivated. Even the catshark, who wouldn’t dare eat them. But kahunafish and kahunas have a special symbiotic relationship—based on the fact they’re the only other life forms besides us that have concentrated makana.

When a kahuna and at least one of our fishy cousins are near each other, we stimulate a gland in the other called a makanacrine, which is located near the base of the brain. Besides our two species, no other creatures have them. As the name suggests, a makanacrine secretes makana. The presence of the gland is the primary, and most important, separator between a kahuna—who technically is a supernattie humanoid—and a human.

While this mutual stimulation between kahunas and k-fish results in our own respective makanacrines squirting out more makana, it feels like we’re actually exchanging it with each other, like it’s ping-ponging back and forth between us. Which is why we refer to the experience as “makana swaps,” even though that isn’t what’s really happening. The phenomenon doesn’t occur between kahunafish alone, nor between multiple kahunas. It’s only possible when kahunas and k-fish are together.

Regardless of the science, there’s no denying it feels glorious while you’re swapping… and for a short time afterwards. As far as I know, swaps are the only way to increase makana in a kahuna’s body above its regular levels. The kahunafish enjoy it too. Talk about a win-win situation.

Even when we’re not swapping, other fun is to be had. Each fish is an underwater light show, constantly changing its color. I can sit for hours basking in their presence and enjoying the flashes, pulses, and pops of pinks, purples, blues, greens, yellows, and oranges. Nearly every color combination but pure red. Kahunafish never phase in pure red.

As for the dwelling itself, the custom house is constructed of a subspecies of ironwood known as wampiloa, an extremely rare tree only found on an archipelago somewhere in the Pacific. Rot-proof, fire-proof, water-proof, incredibly strong, and resistant to almost all magic, laser saws are the only feasible way to work with wampiloa—unless you’re a kahuna shaman-engineer with vectorized magic. Otherwise, it takes a regular diamond-tipped saw blade at least five minutes to cut through a two-by-four, leaving the blade all but destroyed. Besides the house, the bridge, gate, totems, and tiki torches are all made of wampiloa too.

The windows, sliding glass door, and aquarium are manufactured of a special composite called telaʻikoa, which is as close to unbreakable as you can get and made of a particular black sand rumored to be from an island beach near Fiji. The locations of neither wampiloa nor the sand are known to anybody except the holier-than-thou elite who sit on the Kahuna Council.

Of course, a house like that is of incalculable value, especially when sitting on an island. Definitely way above my pay grade. I’m just a tenant. For many years, the only neighbors were the trees. Then the powers that be sold the mainland acreage to a developer. Soon, Bearded Oaks had sprouted up. But all that was before my time, back when Willard Hucklebee, the house’s former occupant, was still alive.

Willard was the first kahuna stationed in Florida. He’d been born shortly before the Civil War and had kahuna’d in various postings throughout the Northeast for decades. In the Roaring ’20s, the Council decided Florida had grown enough to warrant representation and gave him the job. A chief can live anywhere in their assigned territory, and he chose Tampa Bay as his home base. As the state’s population increased over the years, it was subdivided into two zones—Florida West and Florida East—and the left half of the state became his. Willard passed on fifteen years ago. Up until that point, I’d been apprenticing in Toronto for almost ten years. I got promoted, packed up my shit, and headed south.

I went into the kitchen, crossing my fingers that Yesterday Vox had shown the decency to leave Today Vox a decent-sized piece of standing rib roast. The Rumple Minz blackout made my recollection a little fuzzy on whether I’d even eaten yesterday, and this morning I’d been running behind and left without breakfast.

With a grateful sigh, I saw that a thick slice awaited me. I’m an unapologetic foodie and would watch the Food Channel all day if I had the time and gorge on gourmet every meal if I had the money. Unfortunately, my tastes far exceed my budget. Not only do I spend too much on drinking and tipping strippers, being a kahuna isn’t cheap. As for the roast, it’d been on sale last week at Publix and I’d splurged.

I prepared a blackened prime rib sandwich and paired it with a big scoop of homemade dill potato salad. My herb garden on the back porch contributed the dill. The roll also came from Publix. I know Philly folks go apeshit over their beloved Amoroso rolls—and to be fair, they’re good eats—but Publix Bakeries are the Kings of Carbs in this state. Though the six-pack of Reef Donkey Pale Ale still waited impatiently in my beer fridge, I’d changed my mind and decided there’d be no alcohol tonight. The cat situation had put me on semi-alert. Instead, I opted for a Stewart’s orange cream soda.

After a shower, I realized how tired I was. It’d been an exhausting day and a half. But, before turning in, I wanted to see if my furry new acquaintance was still around. Upon entering the living room, I picked up on sounds of ravenous gluttony coming from outside. Something aggressively feasted, ripping flesh from bone. And punctuated with what sounded like… moans?

In addition to the door off the back porch that leads to the outdoor patio, you can get there via a door on the other side of the aquarium as well. I tiptoed over to it. Like all exterior doors, I keep a mini barrel of water beside it in case I have to use my water powers against one of the aforementioned nattie intruders. While it won’t kill them, a gusher of water to the face or gonads isn’t pleasant.

As silently as a starfish, I slowly turned the knob and nudged the door open. My other hand swirled above the barrel, readying it for action. I slipped my head out and peered around the corner. The overhead light illuminated a distinct circle on the concrete floor, reminding me of CashMoney and Feloni from the afternoon before.

In the center of it was the cat, oblivious to everything but the matter at hand—tearing into what looked to be a yellowmouth grouper weighing at least thirty pounds. The barbarian was in a full-on frenzy and made such rapturous noises that I couldn’t be sure he wasn’t fucking his dinner at the same time he ate it. And I thought I enjoyed food.

Yet another cat mystery, even more stupefying than the other ones he presented. Although huge for his species, it wasn’t like he could just reach over the side of the seawall and casually land a grouper of that size. It was far too much to contemplate and I quietly eased the door shut. At present, I needed sleep more than feline answers.

I climbed into my waterbed and promptly nodded off. My last thought was the relief of today being financially successful enough that I could at least take tomorrow morning off.

Chapter 6

CashMoney

I led the trailing donkey by his tie into the club’s private dance area. My other hand gripped a bottle of Cristal and two plastic champagne cups. Through a thick, black velvet curtain, we entered a dimly lit, square room with a small L-shaped couch and round cocktail table in each corner. Though partitions sectioned off four individual areas and provided some concealment for the sinning, a platinum blonde ponytail caught my attention through an opening. It bobbed up and down like an oil well. You didn’t have to be a genius to figure out what was going on. Despite being suspended the month before for whoring herself out, Vacuum Vicki was back sucking more dick. Over the music, I could hear her customer grunting like a fornicating panda. I love nature documentaries and imagined Sir David Attenborough narrating the action.

“While you were on your mandatory vacation, they put cameras in here, Vicki. The police are probably minutes away.” It wasn’t true and I shouldn’t have said it, but the skank is a nasty ho who’s infamous for trying to steal the regulars of other dancers. Also, she has a weird sauerkraut stank to her that makes me gag. Probably crotch rot.

She gasped in alarm and he yowled in pain. Vicki must have nicked some foreskin during her hasty tuck-and-zip. At the same time we slipped into our section, Vicki and her panda hurried out of theirs.

Biting my lower lip like a naughty schoolgirl, I looked off to the side while facing him. “You ready, stud?” I cooed. People tell me I look like the girl from that ’80s group, the Bangles, and I’ll admit to using her “Walk Like An Egyptian” side-eye and adding it to my bag of tricks. Borrowing from the greats of the past makes perfect sense as long as you bring your own style and make it yours.

To me, not only are all customers simps, they’re donkeys too. Usually not in the physical sense, though. This long-faced, big-eared guy was so barnyard that I literally wouldn’t have been shocked if he started “EE-AWing.” He answered my question with a goofy smile, revealing two shockingly large front teeth. I wasn’t expecting that and could feel a giggle trying to slip out. Thankfully, I was able to slam the lid down on it and keep myself together. Nothing kills the mood—and your tip—like laughing at a customer.

The tip is why I continued working him now. He’d already paid upfront for the dances, and I would receive fifty percent of that. In addition, I’d get a commission from the champagne I’d convinced him we needed. A lot of dancers would’ve been content there. Not me. I wanted a big tip on top. I crawled out of the womb a born hustler. We’re all adults here. If you think you’re man enough to come into my neighborhood looking for a fantasy, then don’t be surprised when you leave with your pockets a lot lighter than you intended.

Tonight, Antoine was on the mic. Whenever he sees me leading my pack animal to its doom, he knows to fire up “Locked Out of Heaven” by Bruno Mars as long as another girl isn’t on the main stage. The song preferences of whoever is up there always take precedence. However, it was already 2:30 in the morning and the stage was empty. Only three or four dancers still hung around.

The hypnotic beat started. I slid the light cocktail table out of the way to give myself plenty of room, pushed Donkey Boy against the back of the couch, then spread his legs apart so he knew who the boss bitch was.

Over time, every dancer develops her own unique routine. Not only do you practice endlessly and learn from other girls, but there are certain ways your body just naturally likes to move. Your muscle memory gets grooved, and your routine eventually gets so established that it’d be almost impossible to change, even if you wanted to. Once you perfect your craft, you can pretty much put the whole thing on autopilot. You just have to program yourself to smile now and then, and the donkey will have no idea your mind is a thousand miles away.

I always start a private dance with my back to guys, both because men like to see ass and because the more I’m facing away, the less time I have to spend looking at their faces. I felt his hands go to my hips, which is in my allowable range of actions. No boob touching or within six inches of my coochie. Most everything else I’ll put up with. Within reason. I switched on the machine. A small part of me monitored my body, but the rest relived yesterday.

Vox had filled me in on Valentina walking in on us. But, with the smashed mirror and burn-out on his driveway, I knew. How could I be so stupid? What’s wrong with me? Yeah, Vox is cute, but he’s even more fucked up than I am. And I’ve been making a strong effort in the past few months to date more mature guys.

Most importantly, of course, he belongs to Valentina! One of my two BFFs. I’d blocked it out most of the day since I didn’t have the courage to face it, but now the memory nibbled on me like a rat.

I hadn’t yet mustered the guts to call her to apologize and was still fine-tuning my script. On her end, she’d been freezing me out all day. Complete silence. Probably was convinced I was the worst friend in the world, which is exactly what I’d proven myself to be. I deserved to have Valentina make a CashMoney voodoo doll and fill me with pins.

It was no excuse that Vox wanted to fuck me. Though he’d never tried, he secretly lusted. Then again, when you’re a hot chick, all heterosexual males want to have sex with you. Every female knows that.

I checked in on things. The second song of the set was playing, and my boobs were inches from his face. At Lola’s, we wear a thong but strip down topless. Glancing down, I saw a tent pitched in his pants. Which was to be expected. We’re all just animals. I don’t mind guys having fun as long as they’re respectful.

Knowing Feloni, who was off for a day or two with Johnny and might not even be aware of what happened, she’d be even madder at my betrayal than Valentina was. Maybe deep down I’m jealous of both their romances. I just don’t understand why I can’t find a guy who isn’t a piece of garbage or boring as hell. As volatile as Valentina and Vox sometimes are, their relationship is still better than any I’ve ever had. My regret and self-disgust were the most awful of my life, and I zoned out for a bit as uneasy thoughts and images continued to parade through my mind.

A warning signal went off in my head, and I returned to the present. I’d been facing away from the donkey and turned to see what had triggered my alarm. Unbelievably, this fool had his dick out and was tenderizing it like a two-dollar steak. His eyes pulsated out of their sockets as he stared at my crotch. I’d given a thousand dances to one idiot after another, and no donkey had ever had the audacity and disrespect to whack off in front of me.

By the way he was huffing and the engorgement level of his mushroom head, I knew I’d better put a stop to this shit fast or he was going to shoot his disgustingness everywhere. There was no time to run out and shout for the bouncer, so I took control of the situation. When you’re a petite girl without any self-defense training and are dressed in almost nothing, it might appear you don’t have any weapons. Ordinarily, that might be true. Not so for dancers.

I took a small step forward to gauge the distance, reared back, and fired my foot like a missile. That in itself would have been painful. But attached to my foot was stripper footwear. A seven-inch stiletto heel and three inches of heavy plastic sole zeroing in on what looked like around, oh, five-and-a-half inches of dick. There was no doubt who the victor would be.

My shoe met his crotch and something crunched. Probably his shaft got pulverized. Or maybe his balls popped. Whichever, it wasn’t pleasant for him. He screamed louder and higher than girl scouts who get surprised by a tarantula. It was more horrific than a movie scream queen’s best effort. I had no idea a man could make that sound.

I don’t know how he kept from keeling over, but he got to his feet with both hands over his junk and ran towards the curtain. Unluckily for him, the curtain was the same color as the wall, and he misjudged and ran smack into it. Amazingly, he didn’t fall that time either. Just bounced back a couple feet like he’d been stunned with a cattle prod.

He sprinted through the curtain without opening it, somehow catching a piece and tearing the whole assembly off the frame. Through the club he squealed, running without using his arms, the curtain and rod trailing after him. Another dancer jumped out of the maniac donkey’s path as he rampaged out the front door.

Once the hubbub died down and everyone made sure I was okay, I put the table back in place and gathered the champagne and cups. I half expected to see a piece of the donkey laying around, but he’d managed to get all of himself out of the club. You never know what you’re gonna run into in this line of work. Though I’d encountered even more outrageous things before, this misadventure would surely become part of club lore and be retold over and over. I sat down and laughed, which then turned into a long sob.

Since I’d been working at the club for several years, Lola decided to occasionally have me close, which basically means I’m the last one to leave and have to set the alarm and lock the doors. I don’t mind since, unlike a lot of girls, I never go home before the end of a shift. Always hustling.

She pays me fifty dollars cash each time, and that’s not a bad little bonus for hardly any extra work. In the morning, a cleanup crew would scour the club from top to bottom, and the daytime manager would deal with tonight’s paperwork and money. I just had to slip the receipts and cash into the safe’s slot.

My plan was to write a note about how sorry I was and how I was gonna go to therapy to straighten out my shit. I’d put it in Feloni’s locker with instructions to read it and pass it on to Valentina. In this situation, a text just felt so cold, so inadequate. Hopefully Feloni wouldn’t extend her mini-vacay.

I scrounged up some paper, tracked down a pen, and poured my heart out to my besties. After four crumpled sheets, I was as close as I was going to get to the apology I wanted. By the time I finished, it was almost 3:15, everybody else was long gone, and I was dragging ass tired. The past twenty-four hours had been exhausting. I kissed the note and squeezed it through the door opening into Feloni’s locker. I’ve got OCD, so I checked a couple times to make sure the paper was fully inserted and a little piece didn’t still hang out.

As I entered the office to set the alarm, the sound of my Feloni ringtone pierced the silence, scaring the shit out of me. I took my phone out of my pocket and looked down. Fuck, I wasn’t expecting this now. Conversations I’d practiced in my head all day were nowhere to be found. The phone continued to ring. Dammit. Should I answer? I almost let it go to voicemail but at the last second picked up.

Before she had a chance to say a word, I started blurting. “I’m so sorry, Feloni. I’m so stupid. We were so drunk, but nothing really happened. I’m going to therapy. Please forgive me. I’m such a bitch.” I almost paused to let her talk but couldn’t bear to hear what she had to say. “Um, I’m just about to lock up. I’ll call when I get in my car. Okay, girl?” That would at least give me a little time to regroup and get my head straight.

“Okay. Talk soon,” she said and hung up .

Was I imagining it, or did she sound less irate than I thought she’d be? I replayed the short conversation. You know what? Thank God for her call. Let’s get this out in the open right now. Feloni first. And hopefully Valentina tomorrow. One step at a time. I said a prayer. Maybe there was a glimmer of hope. I slung my purse over my shoulder and grabbed my duffel bag, which was heavier than usual because the unopened Cristal was coming home with me. After activating the alarm, I was out the back door.

Unlike a lot of strip clubs, Lola’s is in a nice area of town. And because I always park as close as I can, my car wasn’t far. After removing my key from the door, I started walking fast with a can of special stuff Vox gave to all of us dancers that’s supposed to be like fifty times more powerful than bear mace.

A strange wind appeared from nowhere, blowing with such force that I almost lost my balance. That was weir—Something was next to me, so close it was a part of me. Hot breath caressed my neck and a seductive voice whispered, “So fucking hot.”

My head was tilted to the side. There was nothing I could do. I didn’t know what was happening, only that I was powerless to get away. I didn’t even know if I wanted to. The stars looked down on me with sympathy, but the moon was huge and judging. My neck felt wet. I heard the whisper again. This time it liquified and was injected into me. It didn’t burn. There was no pain. It just took over. I let go completely. Whatever strength I had left seeped out of me. The stars watched helplessly while the moon smirked. I wondered how long it was going to be until Feloni found my n—

Chapter 7

Vox

“It’s okay. I blame CashMoney, not you. She’s always had a thing for you and took advantage of the situation.”

Mi Latina’s ponytail swayed side-to-side as the rest of her bounced up and down. Her flawless skin was flushed with equal parts forgiveness and desire. A tiny bead of sweat glistened on her upper lip. “I worship you, my love cobra. Just lay back and relax so mami can finish milking your throbbing fang.”

As I gazed into her eyes, drunk with joy, Valentina’s neck swallowed her face. Like a balloon, another face blew back up to replace it. Gilligan from the old TV show Gilligan’s Island, wearing a nose ring and red lipstick, flicked his forked tongue at me and launched into song about the fateful trip of the tiny ship. His tongue morphed into an eel’s head, its jaws snapping at the air. “Papi Vox!” it roared, slithering towards me.

An icy spike plunged down my spine and I awoke in terror. My bowels turned to water and I shit myself. On the nightstand, my phone glowed and vibrated. The show’s theme song launched into its second verse.

I sat up and leaned over, dumbly staring at the screen. After my ringtone continued for another line or two, the fog began to clear. It was just a dream. A fucking nightmare, to be precise. And someone was calling me at… 3:56 in the morning? Picking up the phone, I squinted at the blurry name. My mind still hadn’t completely roused itself. After another second, it came into focus. Feloni? What the hell did she want at this ungodly hour?

I robotically answered. “Hello,” I heard myself say.

She garbled so fast that I couldn’t comprehend a thing.

Instantly, I forgot my nightmare. Lucidity returned.

“Feloni,” I soothed. “Slow down and breathe for a second. Then tell me what’s wrong.”

She let out a wail before partially getting hold of herself.

“C-c-come to the Emporium as fast as you can,” she managed to say coherently enough for me to understand. “CashMoney has been attacked by a vampyre. And it looks really bad, Vox.”

Her last two sentences hit me like a club to the face. “Call Maria and get CashMoney over to her house as fast as you can,” I directed. I’m sure Feloni knew what to do but was so frazzled by what she’d seen that she needed guidance.

“Don’t be reckless, though. Hands-free talking, please. You getting into a wreck won’t help the situation. I’ll meet you there. Call Valentina too. She’s probably got my number blocked. Phone me back after you’ve talked to them. I need details.”

I hung up, allowed myself a brief fit of enraged cussing, then flipped on the bedroom light. My Albert Pujols-autographed baseball bat beckoned to me from a corner. It knew I wanted to break shit. I started that way, but sanity whistled me to a stop. Time was of the essence; people needed me. While Florida is well known for hurricanes, I had a seriously bad feeling a different kind of Category 5 trouble was barreling towards Tampa Bay.

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