Page 13 of Bears Not Included

Large sofa-like chairs are arranged around a stage in the middle of the room, an obvious addition to what was once a real gentleman’s room. What is it with this guy and stages?

We humor this nitwit only because we’d like to know who his informant is in our organization. How does he know about our interest in The Tulip Group? The snitch, whoever it is, is a dead man. Callen will have to take care of it since well, Deacon and I have shit going on now.

“My gentleman’s room, eh? More to your… taste, da?” Yenin says. He wavers from perfectly unaccented English to heavily Russian-accented English. He thinks his Russian accent makes him fearsome.

He prompts us to take our seats, and he hasn’t relinquished hold of his gun.

“What do you want, Yenin?” Deacon asks, his patience low.

“I want in. I want in on everything. My father was content to be the small fry. I want everything. A place on the Global Underground Six.”

This fucker.

“Your father was a respected man,” Callen says reasonably. “He knew his place.”

“My father is a dead man. He had no power. He was too scared. I am not.”

“Who’s your informant, Yenin?” I ask quietly.

“I will tell you the name. See, I understand how this works. I give you the bastard’s name, you get your men to kill him, slate clean, we do business. Real business. But first, let’s drink. Fuck some cunts. Do some snow. Be merry. Eh?”

He claps his hands, and an array of waitresses wearing nothing but pearl necklaces and loin fur cloths arrive to serve us drinks, food, and more fucking cocaine, which we haven’t touched the first six times he offered it to us. Our bodies are temples, and we’re very fucking careful about what we put inside them and where our cocks go.

I offer him a side glance. The man is eating cubes of pineapple as if someone told him his jizz tastes rotten and he wants to rectify it.

It’s a fucking hindrance that Boris Yenin died when he did, and we’re stuck with his moron of a son. A dangerous moron, but a moron, nonetheless.

He’s pretty proud of his private room. The man has a statue of Michaelangelo’s David, probably uprooted from the garden outside, in his private room. He’s made a water feature out of it by putting the statue in a pool of water where a group of dazed girls are giggling for no reason and rubbing each other off. But that’s not all he’s done.

He’s drilled a hole in the statue’s cock, sawed off the back, then lets us know who exactly has stood behind the statue, stuck their dick into the statue, fucked the statue essentially, and then had the girls suck up their cum from the hole in the statue’s cock.

“You get to feel like David, how’s that? Genius, yeah?”

We decline his offer to fuck his statue.

Does he really think we want to stick our cocks into the same piece of ceramic crap that other celebrities and billionaires and princes have?

Also, we don’t need to fuck a statue to feel like David.

I want to laugh, though. I don’t because it doesn’t go with our aesthetic right now, but fuck, I want to laugh until my sides rip.

He shrugs off our disinterest, then claps his hands again, and three other women, completely naked this time, emerge from the curtains. They come to him, drugged out of their minds.

He pulls one of them toward him.

“You know who this girl is? I’ll tell you. She’s a fucking lady. Who are you, bitch? Tell them who you are and who’s your master.”

He pulls her hair harder. She growls and licks her lips, salivating at the speck of white dust that hangs onto Yenin’s nose.

“I’m Lady Anna Dustfield,” she says. “And you’re my master.”

“Do the thing where you bow down to me,” Yenin instructs her. Without letting go of her hair, she tries to curtsy. It’s terrible to watch.

“Good girl, now go and suck Mr. Deacon’s cock, like a good fucking girl. Anna here can take your whole dick in her mouth.”

If Yenin is measuring her skill with his own dick, well...

Deacon doesn’t even look at her before he waves her aside.

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