Friday, August 6, 2010
Enema Of The State
Happy Friday, crime motherfuckers! It's once again time to cut to the chase. Time to take a little trip to the dark side, where the chicks are hot ... and the action hotter, at the coolest crime joint in cyberspace ... at That Killing Feeling.
In Chapter 9 of FULL BODY, we return to The International, DC's most exclusive 'gentleman's spa,' where we learn the true identity of Asian-fox receptionist Reynolds Tan. Meanwhile, newbie Summer Donovan gets a perverted shock to the system when she begins her session with former vice president Cameron Bisby. We then travel to the airport, where we meet the mysterious Mavra Vlaovic, Yuri's wife and Etya's mother ... back from the dead ...
INT. THE INTERNATIONAL - RECEPTION AREA - NIGHT
The room is empty. Reynolds speaks in to her headset.
Boss? I’m going to take five for a smoke.
EXT. THE INTERNATIONAL - BACK ALLEY - AT THAT MOMENT
Reynolds lights up a super-long Capri.
Fingers a number on her cell phone. Listens.
Reynolds Tan for Detective Nassour.
Ali? It’s me, Reynolds.
Watching her like a hawk.
Are you ready with the sting?
Well, if you’ll pardon the expression, sir,
could you please hurry it the fuck up?
It’s been over a year now,
and I’m losing a layer of skin
from scrubbing off the sleaze every night.
Hold on tight? Hold on TIGHT?
What the fuck do you think I --
Hello? Ali -- ?
Goddamn fucking Verizon.
Roaming my ass.
INT. BLACK MASSAGE SUITE - AT THAT MOMENT
Nouvelle Vague’s sultry French-femme bossa nova cover
of Public Image’s THIS IS NOT A LOVE SONG over --
Cammy. Decked out in a black mask,
studded harness and buckled bondage boots.
Or, ready for Halloween.
Summer trembles in a
tiny rubber French maid outfit.
Holds a feather duster like a wand.
Bites her lower lip.
How do you feel?
Uh -- exposed?
Master. Exposed, master.
You call me master.
When I ask you a question,
you answer ‘master.’
Yes -- master.
Good. Now get down on your knees.
But I thought I was going to --
Do it! NOW.
On your KNEES.
Or you will be punished.
Y-yes, sir -- master.
She awkwardly gets down. Kneels.
Now put the riding crop in your mouth.
Summer does. Face turns red.
Good girl. Yes. She’s humiliated.
Lovely. I believe I see a small tear.
Okay. Massage time.
EXT. DC INTERNATIONAL AIPORT - TARMAC - AT THAT MOMENT
The swirling, ominous Soviet-block new wave bleat of
Lene Lovich’s HOME roils a dark cloud over --
An airplane pulling up to the passenger chute.
IN THE WAITING AREA
a line of Eastern-Europeans silently file in. Exhausted.
A WOMAN IN BLACK (late 40’s) leads the pack.
Red lips curled with self-satisfaction. Striking.
Despite the shades and hat,
we sense the Chanel-clad lioness is a real stunner.
Meet MAVRA VLAOVIC.
Striding purposely. On a mission.
Black vinyl thigh-high boots
stop short of her micro-mini.
ON THE MOVING SIDEWALK
she glides by. Imperious.
Men look. Double take.
There’s that smile again.
Damn. She knows it.
A GREY SUIT
approaches her. Offers his card.
She WHACKS it away, regal. Laughs.
He shrinks away.
Struck down. Humiliated.
AT THE CUSTOMS WINDOW
A SURLY AGENT appraises her.
You haff anything to declare?
I do not.
(lowers shades, eyes glinting)
The agent’s eyes flicker. Wow.
Welcome to America, Ms. Vlaovic.
Miss Vlaovic, dahling.
She pulls out a cigarette case.
Slides out a red Sherman.
I’m sorry, but there’s no smoking.
Mavra lights up. Eyes taunting.
Well, then yoo better point way
to my limousine
before I become enema of state.