The Smooth: Addicted

August 22, 2014: Catwoman comes to Rant's rescue, but not before Dackleman's thugs deliver a crippling blow in their efforts to extort her talents.

Red Hook - Gotham City

<Location Description>



  • Frank 'Cracklin' Smith
  • Andy 'Dobbs' Finn
  • Various Dackleman thugs
  • Darklings

Mood Music:
"Polly" by Nirvana

3:15 AM.

Red Hook. The perfect place from which to stage the next piece of their little operation. It's been a long journey from New York to Gotham by car, but Richard Dackleman's hitmen didn't seem to mind. Besides, the amount of smooth they've got pumped into Melody Kenway will keep her flying for a very long time. What they don't yet realize is that Melody managed to get a message off, in a manner neither of them could have possibly expected.

A message, with GPS tracking, to Selina Kyle.

Melody will find herself in a large warehouse, the contents of which are nondescript at best. Barrels, some empty crates, shipping flats. She's strapped to a chair in the middle of it all, conveniently beneath one of the warehouse's dangling lights. It all carries that typical, 'you're being interrogated in a mob spot' flair, which has Frank 'Cracklin' Smith feeling particularly proud of himself.

The other hitman, Andy 'Dobbs' Finn, is just finishing with wrapping band upon band of duct tape around Melody's left ankle, attaching it to the leg of her chair. She'll find that both ankles, both wrists, and her torso have all been wrapped in duct tape, fixing her to the chair in an intentionally rough manner. Only then does Dobbs rip the gag from her mouth. He walks away with lazy strides, retrieving a cigarette and lighting it with a zippo.

"Hey, Mel." Cracklin' walks over, bending down from above her. He taps at her forehead three times, beady eyes glaring at her in a dangerous way that doesn't at all line up with the lazy manner in which he grins. "Hey, you lucid enough to hear me?" He glances Dobbs' way. "Andrew, don't tell me you did all that blow you got from Buzy Fingas. Might need some to perk up little miss Melody here."

"Yeah, I got it," answers Andy, though he doesn't seem that interested in doing anything but smoking.


Talk about being taken on a wild ride. It was sad because she slept it off, or more so, her body shut down to at least attempt to preserve some sort of function to the nanites within her blood stream so that her brain cells could be repaired by the tiny little monsters. Lets see how that would work. She slowly roused herself every now and then, lights and darkness seen behind half lidded eyes, until the tap to her head snaps eyes open to glance towards the light hung above. She hisses, head dropping again to shield herself from the light, a deep breath taken and held..

'I feel dizzy..'

Those words didn't come from her.

'Why isn't my mouth moving?'

If the men were paying attention, the sound of her voice would echo from the phones within their pockets. The panic that she felt in that moment caused the lights around them to flicker as well as the dermal light show that erractically fires off colors beneath her skin. Her eyes remain planted towards the ground as she tries to will herself to move her lips.

'I'm going to kill you guys!'

Cute, right?


Selena received the transmission, and although she was still quite raging at Rant this was not normal, the fact that she did not return to the club in 24 hours, is not normal. She had half a mind to ignore it, let her sit and stew, but that little thing called a conscience Selena has, has her gearing up. From a show along the runway of Tin Roof to behind the curtains.

Metal teeth collide as she seals up the reinforced body suit, lowering her goggles and slipping out of the back door. Rooftop ease, every gliding swing landed with precision, the only time she pauses is to ensure she is at the right place, her tracker withdrawn, frozen on the screen where Rant's last location fed from.

Dropping down Catwoman lands upon a ledge on booted toes, lowering to a crouch to lean forward and inspect as the lights danced in a flickering surge within, a strobe effect showing her the situation, down to right where Rant is taped to.

Let's try and do this nicely.

… Then there was the sound of rapping, tapping at that warehouse door.


Cracklin' stands upright, looking about as the lights flicker. Then, he looks down to the phone in his pocket, retrieving it and frowning at it. When he puts a few things together, his eyebrows rise up and his lips part a few moments before… "Shit."

He throws the phone onto the cement floor and crushes it with his boot. One, two, three stomps, followed by a grinding of his heel to make damned sure those circuits are shattered. "Andrew!"

Dobbs does the same, only he crushes the phone just by stepping on it and pushing. Some cracks and pops are heard as the phone is put out of its misery.

"We better hold off on that coke, Dobbs."

"Mm hmm," agrees the smoking hitman. All it takes is a meaningful nod of Cracklin's head, and Dobbs is leaving.

Cracklin' walks off, snatching up another chair. He carries it across the way, plopping it down right in front of Melody, and grins at her. "You know," he points out, "usually this is the part where I go on some long-assed diatribe, tellin' you all kinds of shit to fuck with you. I got a thing for monologues, you see, it's a good way to psyche a nigga' out before you 'bout to pop him one in the skull. But." He gestures to the busted phone, and sighs heavily. "You've been bad, so, you don't get one. 'Sides, I ain't planin' on killin' ya. You too beautiful to fuck up too much."

Meanwhile, Dobbs is off in the hallways of the warehouse, talking with some of Dackleman's hired muscle. These thuggish looking dudes have been here all along, awaiting the arrival of the hitmen and their package, keeping a lookout for cops. Or worse, SRD. There isn't an obscene amount of crime in Red Hook, which made it… helpful. Regardless, the rapping uponthe door earns Dobbs' attention, and with a gun tucked behind his back, he approaches.

"Here's how this goes, Mel." Cracklin' stares at her with those beady eyes of his. "My boss moved into Gotham, oh, few weeks ago. He's already made some friends here, but see, our business requires a bit more. Its like this, we got an investment to make, the return will blow your fucking mind, and we got plenty of money and plenty of manpower. What we don't have… is infrastructure." He wiggles his hand around in the air, mimicking a series of roads, trains, bus routes, whatever. It gets the point across. "I hear you're good at this sort of thing, so we gonna play it out and see if you're as smart as everyone says you are."

Dobbs, meanwhile, is opening the warehouse door. It doesn't lead directly into the large room where Rant is being held, but it's not much of a journey from point A to point B, unless you take into effect the muscle that's lined up in the shadows, waiting to jump out with weapons drawn if necessary. All Selina will see, however, when Dobbs opens the door… is the hitman himself, cigarette perched between his lips, hand behind his back. "After hours," he starts to say, "we're closed for…"

He finally actually looks at who is standing outside, and goes suddenly quiet.


Her only method of communication is foiled. There wasn't much she could do lest she give away her own phone that was tucked awayin her back pocket. So she kept quiet, smartly so. As one man leaves and the other scoots a chair in close, her eyes slowly shift up in attempts to focus in upon him and what he was saying. Muddled brain and all of that. "Wuh.." Is the only sound that came from her mouth, aside from quiet hisses of her breathing and a loll of her head, she wasn't doing much strapped to the chair as she was.

Lips purse as she lets out grunt, her body jerking as the lights begin to flicker as well. If that wasn't a sign that Mel was in the building, then someone needed to hire a liscensed contractor to fix the goddamned place properly. Hello, bring it up to cold for fucks sake. "Why."

Those words were spit out slowly.


"Ask. All. You. Had. To. Do."

So simple right? Forcing her way past that nanite programming was not, for she twitches and shudders, her head rolling and lolling back and forth in attempts to focus herself. "All you had to do was ask. You just have to ask. All you have to do was a-a-a-ask..ask..asks.." Her head jerks slightly to the side then lowers, her lips pursing tightly as she begins to quietly cry. "You just had to ask.. you didn't have to do this to me.. I can't.. I can't…"

She was coming down from her extreme high, her body was already aching for more of what they gave her.


The door opens and reveals the outline of a woman in that suit, her head lowered inspecting the silver hooks that rotrude from fingertips, her other arm propped high on the door frame as if she is simply waiting and biding her time in an old school black and white picture.

Blue eyes look through tinted lenses of goggles, narrowed with the smile on red lips as she looks upon the man that opens the door, now moving the hand that was being inspected to a small finger rippling wave just before she steps over the threshold, not asking permission in that sway, nor the press of her splayed palm and fingers upon the mans chest, leaning in as she is attempting to push him back almost like a tangoing dance.

"You look open to me." The words purred forth with a smile that bears forbodance.


"It ain't that simple, Mel." Cracklin' seems nonplussed, even disappointed. "We needed collateral. You know, that shit rollin' all up in you, made you feel funny, now it's startin' to make you feel real bad? It's called The Smooth, and you've got the best hookup right here." He smiles winningly; you can almost see the cartoonish graphic that forms around his head, with the words 'The Hookup' scrawled beneath.

"You work for us, you get paid. Handsomely. And you get as much smooth as you need. Clean, quality shit. And Mel…" Now gone is the charming nature. Cracklin' let's his heartless nature show, eyes boring into Melody's with a nature that tells a hundred words, all of them dangerous. "You're gonna need lots of it."

Meanwhile, Dobbs simply… stands back. His eyes go wide, and he stares at the woman who just walked in. Some of the thugs move out as if to intercept, but they as well seem momentarily stunned by Woman In Leather Catsuit (tm).

"Is it starting to make sense now?" asks Cracklin'. "Don't matter who you called with that little trick of yours." No, Cracklin's no idiot. There's a reason he crushed his phone, even though it's undoubtedly too late. "You're ours, now."

Abruptly, the hitman stands. "You'll come up with a game plan that will make Richard Dackleman the most well connected man in the Gotham underworld. I even want him respected in The Narrows. It's an easy job, and I'll give you every resource you need."

The cigarette perched between Dobbs' lips finally falls to the floor. It is this moment when he realizes that he's just made a big mistake. "HEY!" he suddenly shouts, and pulls the gun from behind his back, taking aim at Catwoman's back.


"It was simple!" She bit back. She was all for the money and doing what needed to do because of it. Her past bumbles with Selina told of that. She bounces a little in her seat, attempting to lurch her body forward to snap at him with whatever she could get at him, but she was too weak and restless to do anything, it was just a little nudge in his direction.

It was clear that she was already addicted to The Smooth; it told the story in her breathing, the slow sweat that begins to bead at the top of her head, the hazy look to her eyes despite the apparent redness from her crying. Despite all this, she tried her best to hold out for the rescue that she hoped would come, but by the minute, she was craving more and more to the point her throat was dry.

"You can't lay claim.." She couldn't even finish her sentence, she was becoming more frazzled and unable to stay in her chair. "I.. I gotta get out. Just let me go…" She didn't want to commit to anything just yet, even though the temptation was there right at her bound finger tips.


If Dobbs is moving out ofher way catwoman is moving down the hall, unwavering in each swaying step, steps that make the small leather straps falling from around her waist tap like raindrops upon the curve of her hip like pendulums, ticking off the seconds and every step that draws her closer, deeper.

"Is this a party? For me? She did not tell me to expect playthings." Her hand comes to her chest in overexaggerated expression, sighing deeply. "I am touched. She does so much for me."

In passing Dobbs gets a small brush of gloved finger beneath his chin, pausing to press in against him and attempt to pin him against the wall with her own body. "So entertainment it is. Where's the music?!" So misleading in her words and actions, but that final sentence is said loud and with a light enthusiasm, hoping it is heard beyond…


Heartlessly, Cracklin' doesn't respond to any of Melody's words. He merely walks around behind her chair and out of view, sounds suggesting that he's sorting through something. "You'll need needles. Clean ones, so you don't get some disgusting disease. Cotton balls, bottled water, a lighter, and a spoon. You watch enough TV, you'll know what to do next." When he reappears, he's got a sizable bag full of the stuff, a brownish powder with flecks of scaly, luminescent blue. It's enough to last her about five days. This bag is tossed right into her lap; another, bearing $16,000 in Franklins, is tossed at her feet. "Here's your advance, kid. Don't be stupid with it—-"

Theme music change!

The gun is forgotten. Dobbs nearly allows it to fall, his breath utterly caught in his throat.

One of those meaty thugs, however, finally snaps out of it. "Back off him, bitch!" Out comes a switchblade, and the large man comes lunging at Catwoman, the knife moving at her with lethal speed.

In the warehouse proper, Cracklin' curses. "Dobbs, you dumb son of a bitch!" He's immediately on the move, headed for the back door. There's always a back door, and he's more than made his point with poor Melody here. The ball is now in his court, and Dobbs is gonna get whatever comes to him.


The commotion gets her attention, and while it seems as if she was coming right on to Cracklin's sway, it was the voice that washeard in the backdrop that sent her heart a flutter. There was relief in hidden, tortured features, even as the blue goodness was dropped into her lap, her hands reaching to try to grapple it and she was left.. frustrated.

Her head leans back as she splits herself apart, music was the request of the night and she needed Selina to find her. Her chest heaves deeply as she draws in to fill her lungs, and out releases a hellish scream filled with distortion that only the best digital music masters could make. She phased herself out.

She split herself in two.


And she was gone. Riding the waves.

The lights flicker, bulbs exploding throughout the warehouse proper.


"Welcome to your life. There's no turning back…"

Cellular phones play the backdrop to Catwoman's game, the sultry, soulful vixen's voice echoing through the darkness; a slow tempo to an old song.

Even while we sleep.. we will find you.."


Catwoman is not concerned with the gun, it is not quite her thing, a last resort, and her sights are set…

Dobbs appears to be the only object of her attention. As the song emits on the eave of a scream and a breaking apart mind that leather clad inner thigh is sweeping up on Dobbs' outer thigh, a slow tango turning rather risque until everything around them begins to split off as well.

Her other hand is braced on the wallbeside Dobbs' face, lips barely over his in their stoic focus, but she is not oblivious. Her ruse of the nights entertainment failed, and she was not going to make it last long anyway. That leg trailing along his side now hooks her foot behind and between, pivoting like a ballet dancer as the other lunges for her. That hand that had once been on the wall is now anchoring claws into the mans shoulder, shoving him at the meaty guard with the blade while her free hand slides that whip free with a sudden …


"I'm here to collect what's mine." And in a sweeping motion that whip lashes out, any other thugs in her path meet the cattailed ends bearing metallic slivers, skin rent apart with that sharp impact borne on the sound of lightning.


Dobbs finds himself stabbed in the back, a look of shock on his face as he staggers aside, blood soaking his shirt and dripping on the floor.

The other thugs move in, most of them brandishing knives and sidearms. When the lights go out, however, they find themselves at a disadvantage. The technological lullaby provided by Rant is soon joined by a macabre chorus of supporting melody, sung in a Mixolydian maimed minor with a gnashing undercurrent of angry shouts.

Soon, the opera is joined by the percussive staccato of gunfire. Mostly the crack of pistols, with the diddling rudiments given by the popping of an AK. The strobes provide an eerie note to the manner in which the thugs try to kill their would-be entertainment.

It all serves to move Cracklin' faster still. Out the door he goes, leaping into the old Cadillac that brought him here with his bounty. Tires scream as the Caddy tears off into the night.


Sparks provide illumination dead ahead of where Catwoman and the boys played. Little embers fall to the ground to burn out, which should be a slight clue as to where Rant was held. Here's to hoping, that she didn't route her into a different direction all together since she was still falling hard from her high.

A shrill breath is taken as she pulls herself back into her own body, her chest heaving quickly as she lurches forward and back, forward and back again to try to rock herself to the ground. She wasn't trying to get free. No. She was at least trying to spill that crap onto the floor so she could inhale the goodness to get it flowing through her system again.

She caved and broke.


Lights flicker and pop, some blow, and then leave darkness that only sparks to life by gunfire, a strobe effect once again, different sparks of light leaving only certain things seen.

A knife splits the black body suit just at her side, pale flesh [ainted red as the leather forms a gaping maw.

There then gone.

A whip around a wrist, the body lifted into the air. Catwoman descends on the other end, her legs wrapping around a thugs neck, perched in a seat upon his shoulders.

Gunfire cracks out and her body bends backwards, the grip of the one man stil held as she enters into a gymnastic level back bend, hands planting on the ground while legs kick up and over, flipping the man into the ones opening fire on her.

The hanged man starts to slow in his struggles, but just before he ceases to breathe he falls, released into another that is taking aim at Catwoman.


The whip recoils, the pile of bodies left in the hall turned to peer upon over her shoulder, her hand rising to paint red fingertip trails of blood along the warehouse wall, alit by the falling sparks of the hanging fixture just before she enters the room and stares upon Rant.

If Cracklin' stood between her and her /friend/ it would not have been a peaceful meet, but the only thing that will pose as a blockade for a longer haul is whatever the fuck Melody is on. "Time to go." Stated with a low growl in her tenor as those hooked claws set to trying to cut her loose.


Its truly a tragedy, how a clever mind can weave together a trap. It's true; Dackleman could have simply sent someone to ask. Instead, Melody topples over and the bag spills open, spewing a quarter of her supply into the air. Easily inhaled.

The hallway is left a tattered mess of bodies, blood, weapons and bullet casings, with a red claw marking the territory.

Melody's bonds are easily cut. Flecks of scaly blue serve a telltale sign of the dusting, falling to the floor as Selina gets to work. In her state, Melody is bound not to have noticed, but there, on a table behind her, are a few items of note. Two burner phones; one Android model, one a primitive flip phone. A small address book containing addresses and phone numbers; mostly Gotham and New York City's surrounding Burroughs, but there are others. Chicago, Illinois. Alliance, Ohio. A trailer park south of Tampa on the Tamiami Trail Highway. Portland, Oregon, and Paris, France. Lastly, a handgun. Glock.

… a bag of cotton balls.

A case filled with clean, hypodermic needles.

A package of cheap, IKEA spoons.

These fuckers are cold.



She hits the floor easily, and as the blue dust sprays through the air she quickly inhales as much as she could. "No! Stop! Wait!" She growls out, her body struggling against the binds as they're easily freed by way of claw of cat. Her hands lash out to grab a heaping help of the 'goodness', practically smashing her nose into her face as eyes close and flutter, body shivering with delight.

Perhaps it was the wrong way to do it, but it was done, she was ready to overdose right then and there if Selina hadn't stopped her, but yet.. she remembered that one thing. The thing to get it directly into her blood stream for possibly a longer, lasting effect.




If Selina didn't have her, she'd already try her best to scramble towards the table, knees pounding against the ground with an outstretched hand, determined to get her hands upon the instruments left behind. Just one good shot, it was all she needed. She could kick the habit soon after because where Mels is concerned?

There's an app for that.


It does not take long for Catwoman to see what is going on and put it all together. She 'owns' East end, keeps a keen eye and ear out on her streets and her girls. The reflective surface of the googles shows double time the desparate and needy scramble of her /partner/ and her eyes behind narrow, her upper lip recoiling in a sign similar to what Melody has seen before. Melody looked like a child that had gotten into the baking supplies and was wearing the confection of evidence on her face in a lightly sparkling display as she crawl/shuffled her way to the table. Despite the blood that seeped from her opened side and down along that leather she does not slow in her movement to ttempt to grab Melody and jerk her back by a fist full of her clothing.

"We're leaving…" Though as catwoman tries to drag her towards the exit Cracklin' had escaped from prior she lifts the address books and phones from the table, the rest is of no concern of hers, even if it does make her 'catsuit' look even more shiny.

By now, Cracklin' has put quite a bit of distance between hisCaddy and the warehouse. He's eyed a couple of pay phones, tempted to pull over and use one, but onward he goes, knowing not what lurks in the shadows of Gotham City…


The sound of urination is probably the first clue that one of the shadows has developed a mind of its own. A stunted gremlin somewhere around four feet tall with unnatural, growing green eyes pisses a voluminous stream of shadowy yellow onto one of the dead men— then a second. The little malcontent is dressed in a gauche hawaiian shirt, oversized shades, and a large, floppy hat that looks alarmingly like it was made from the skin of something killed on the highway. Midway through relieving himself, there's a few measures of a jaunty drinking song whistled out between lips the toothy little monster doesn't seem to have, those eyes turning towards the ladies.

"Oy!" He sounds more than a little pissed off; and very cockney. "Well I guess you lot 'ave got it alllll worked out already, don't you?" The little hooligan scampers into the darker recesses of the warehouse, and in anticipation of a less than happy welcome, pops back out from the other wall, a coalescent pool of shadow barely visible around him. "Don't even need us. Ride out with the boyz for nothin'. Come all this way for nothin'. Bloody perfect. Bloody shittin' fuckin' sommat perfect shit." He takes the initiative to, apparently, literally eat the heart out of the nearest man; and quickly, voraciously. There's more than one way to gather surveillance data.

Outside, the night sky is full of batlike wings, but not those the Gothamites might be more used to— it's likely a mark in the favor of one's sanity that none of the more malevolent constructs are presently visible, screeching their own demonic distress wordlessly into the darkness overhead. There's no one left to kill. No one, at least, except the lieutenant fleeing the scene in his shiny car. He hasn't put enough distance between himself and the warehouse, not the way he squealed out of there like a man on the mission.

The cadillac's roof is shorn off by steel-rending talons, hurled aside even as he skids into a panicked tailspin— it's likely cold comfort indeed that one of those green-eyed, jagged-toothed gargoyles lifts him in those nightmarish claws, along with half the driver's seat, in the instants before the Caddy flips end over end… Cracklin's screams are gagged swiftly as he's carried upwards, into the night.


The grab was enough to draw her to her feet, she had a little bit of resistence there to lift up and lean and reach for the IKEA spoon and needle, but yet no dice. She didn't get what she wanted, and yet through her high state, she remembered just what the crack of the whip felt like that split her back open and spilled blood her upon the dance floor.




There was a smidgeon of resistance however, a slight wail of a cry that soon devolved into sharp scream as a little.. demon thing in a hawaiian shirt began to cuss.

Hold up.


Melody was officially too high for this shit.


Catwoman is walking, minding /her/ business (because yes, Melody is her business too!) and the sight is something that draws nostrils to flare and her chin to rise so as not to totally reveal the fact that the sight of the almost-midget(?) is desecrating the bodies and proceeding to eat them, repulses her.

You know that feeling, that mouth watering sensation just before you take a bite of the burger you've been hungering for all day? Well, make that the mouth watering just before vomit and this is what Catwoman's throat is tensing to swallow back. Dinner's cancelled.

Much like the kindred nod of predatorto predator Catwoman does not turn her back on the dining creature, she remains facing him as she jerks Melody closer to her. Did she accidentally inhale the crap too?





Crunch. Crunch. Chew. Spit. There's a skittering of bone and discarded sinew at the culmination of the darkling's cheerful feast, and the green-eyed gremlin looks up rather surprised to still be, well, whole. Which doesn't speak highly of the creature's sense of self preservation, but hey— something like this can't quite be bound by the natural laws and orders of things, can it? "What? I got somethin' in my teeth?" He asks the gawking thieves, smiling a grisly, not-at-all-white grin as if they might point it out for him.

The capricious critter's completely superfluous spectacles are adjusted on his jagged little nose before he leaps with a monkeylike grace to swing back and forth from one of the decimated light fixtures, launching himself straight into the ceiling… and disappearing into a pool of living shadow. For a moment, one who stared into that pool might find hundreds— perhaps thousands— of eyes staring back, pinpricks of green that glimmer like fire, arrayed in compound structures like an insect's. With the closing of that dark portal, there is only the dull shadow of the ceiling; the groaning whine of that swinging light.



Smart right? This is the girl that can push a rare and lost historical diamond through the cracks and into the hands of a Cat. The girl who can hotwire a car after looking at an engine for but a second, and can code an elaborate program that probably could make a mutherfucker fly, and all she could really come up with was.. 'Humma humma'?

Yep. She's high. Gone. Done. Tore the bloody hell up. Cause as soon as that scream let out and Catwoman tugged her close she was already slipping an arm around the womans waist to use her as a meatshield if things were about to go tits up.

No honor. Right?

But really, screw that noise, screw backing up and taking the tip-toed way out. She lets go of Catwoman all together and ran out of there screaming. It was the eyes that did it.


"Right behind the incis—-" Catwoman was pointing to where he had a visceral string looking like a rearview mirror ornament, her own lip pulling back as she gestured…

And he was gone…

And so was Rant.

"I'm bleeding and I have to go chase down a crack head. Some nights.."

Mutter mutter botch bitch, at least she had both her shoes, right? Right.



"Should have heard from him by now."

"You're right."

"Bad news. It's not like Frank to leave us hanging like this."

Richard Dackleman waves the tiny glass of scotch in a carefree motion. To either side of him are beautifully crafted arms and legs, draped over his body and belonging to a pair ofdames. "Frank's dead. If Frank's dead, means Andy's gone, too."

"Then she's more dangerous than we thought."

"Or…" Dackleman gently lifts a finely crafted leg, if only so he might refill his glass of scotch. The leg, heel and all, is placed back where it belongs, with the red leather between his legs. "She's got help."

Meadows scowls a bit. "I'm heading to Alliance," he declares. "Make sure shit's still moving over there."

"You do that." Dackleman looks to the women at either side, smirking. "Ladies, ladies. You're not having near enough fun." He slides a mirror across the table, upon which are cut numerous lines of cocaine. "It's on the house. Indulge yourselves."

While the legs and arms untwine so that the girls and party, Richard Dackleman downs the scotch with one gulp. "Meadows… one day you're going to learn something."

"What's that, boss?"

The mob boss looks directly into his right hand man's face. Gone is any resemblance of humor; the look in his eyes chilling.

"I'm unstoppable."

Across the room, a man sits gagged. By the look of him, a scientist or physician of some sort. He's absolutely terrified, tied up to a chair and gagged.

"Ladies. Ladies!" Dackleman gestures across the way. "Doctor Falzoni here is our guest. Show him a good time. Give him some good memories."

The coked out models do their thing, teaching one Dr. Pablo Falzoni the finer arts of fetishism, while Dackleman looks on with sick pleasure.

"Gonna need those good memories, Doc."

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