Page 56 of All You Want
The other guys are jerks, but they’ll be roaring drunk before the end of the night. Typical small-town losers. Drink too much, drive too fast, hate their jobs, and hard up for pussy and hoping for a freebie.
The only man he has to worry about is cowboy Chad Colson. He’s the sheriff’s brother, and he’s one mean motherfucker. He works on the ranch, breaks in their father’s horses, and hauls giant fieldstones around to build walls. Luckily, he’s beneath Chad’s notice and hasn’t done anything to attract his ire.
He circles the hotel and nods to the deputies. Some are directing traffic while others stand around shooting the breeze. They like to impress the women, and there are a lot of party girls from that fancy college Princess Puffbutt went to.
Dripping with jewels. Fake as saccharine. Boob jobs and plastic smiles. Sipping wine and swirling the glasses like they’re at some fancy tasting in a Napa Valley wine cave.
Pffft. Would be so much fun to terrify them. Would serve them right, too. Isn’t that what they paid for? To be scared shitless?
He rubs the nightstick he was given to enforce the law while his real enforcer stick hardens inside his pants. High society chicks scream the loudest. He’ll make a note of the rooms they’re assigned to, and he’ll have to save them for later.
He crosses through the parking area and unlatches the gate to the service area where deliveries and trash are dropped off and picked up.
The dumpsters are empty, for now, and he tries the door to the storeroom. It’s locked, but he knows the kitchen staff will prop it open later on to throw out the trash.
The aroma of roasted meats fills the air near the open windows of the kitchen, and a curl of wood smoke ascends from the chimney. He closes in near the dining room window and listens.
The tinkling of silverware and drone of conversation mingle with laughter and the clink of glasses.
They’re having a grand ol’ time in there, he thinks. But they won’t be laughing when the spooks begin.
He’d lurked around often enough to be friendly with the workers. They’d shown him the contraptions they were building, and he’d tested some of the flying objects and reset the targets for them.
He moves behind a bush and peers into the lighted dining room.
There she is.
Princess Powder Butt dressed as Madam Goldilocks.
Her blond hair is piled high like a beehive underneath a monstrous hat, and her bounteous bosom is barely covered by the gaudy ruffles of her whorish dress.
How dare she impersonate Madam Goldilocks, as if she were the rightful heiress of the Bee Sting Bordello?
He pounds his fist into the thick stone wall and grunts, his eyes narrowing at the beastlike creature sitting next to her.
Tami’s date drapes a fur-covered arm over her chair, and his face is covered with a gorilla-like mask dripping with long and tangled hair. He’s wearing a vest with a fake sheriff’s star and a pair of raggedy breeches, but his feet are encased in huge plastic shoes that look like big bare feet.
Who is he, and where did Princess Pussyfoot find Bigfoot?
He hopes Tami’s date is as stupid as he looks. Probably one of those degenerate one-percenters, a fraternity douchebag she met at the fancy university.
He moves away from the dining room and circles the back of the Bee Sting. Most of the guest rooms are dark, but a few have shadows of their occupants. Madam Goldilocks’s Boudoir is dark.
Eh, heh, heh.
He laughs evilly, as tests the window, prying the pane with a knife.
It doesn’t budge.
“Hey, what are you doing out here?” a male voice snaps from behind the beam of a flashlight.
“I’m one of the deputies,” he replies easily. “What are you doing?”
“Same thing. Quite a party they have going in there, eh?” The voice is one of the old guys.
“You seen the sheriff around?” He’s glad he’s undercover, literally, and he’s good at disguising his voice.
“Nope,” the old guy says. “Heard he’s at the town square. We’re the ones in charge here.”
