| Subject: Chapter 249 - Part 1 (16 and above) |
Author:
KatherineG.
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Date Posted: Monday, July 24, 06:38:49am
In reply to:
KatherineG.
's message, "Dreams in the Dark" on Monday, May 01, 06:55:47am
Extra warning: This part is rated 16 and Above for bad language and very ugly thoughts. Sorry it's so disgusting. This character is just like that.
Dreams in the Dark (249/?)
by Katherine Gilbert
Oh, yeah--everything was good today. He had just gotten rid of one, bothersome bitch and had another, far more useful one, on the way. His deal with the chilly Madeline was already in progress, as well, would be sure to bear fruit, eventually; his smile broadened. Pretty soon, the whore he had just ordered would be here on her knees in front of him, as all his plans lined up nicely. Oh yeah. This was turning out to be a pretty good holiday, after all.
It was Christmas Eve in Los Angeles, not a flake of real snow in sight. Still, no doubt the film studios had produced enough of the fake stuff to jazz up the scenes of whatever holiday tear-jerkers they had produced, making up for Mother Nature's usual oversight. Perry Bauer snorted, a glass of whiskey in his hand. There was yet another broad who was good at screwing things up.
It was thoughts of the movies which made his mind move, his memories of the other night happy ones. Mostly for the moment, though, he pondered Madeline's odd choice of film to release--or, rather, her odd time to release it. It was Christmas, and she was giving the world dark detective dramas? Strange. He shook his head. But there was no accounting for the ways that women thought.
He was swigging a fair amount of his current drink of choice, was happy enough with his life as it was--not needing to know any of the real events which had led to the choice, the tutor's selection of films rather limited by her own, earlier miscalculations; neither did he question at all who the real power behind Premier was. Ever since a couple of days ago, life had definitely been on the upswing; the smile grew, his thoughts turning to other women once more. Getting rid of the boring ones always made his day.
The producer's choice of removal methods wasn't exactly the normal one, but he--fortunately--wasn't exactly a normal guy. While most men were happy enough to tell a woman to get lost, after he had grown bored with her body, Bauer was a bit more possessive than that. He wanted a woman to remember him, wanted to make damn sure he wasn't just one of a hundred in her past. If he wasn't exactly interesting enough to make an impact otherwise--a fact of which no acknowledgment existed anywhere within his consciousness--then he would do it through violence. But, in this city, a guy had to get pretty rough, if he hoped a dame would remember him at all.
This fact was long established--the kid gloves already off, if any broad were "that sort of woman." The ones you didn't marry were always fair game for anything. It wasn't like anyone gave a damn what happened to them.
This truth made the producer happy, once again, the world a pretty nice place for a sensible man like himself. And Sand-- . . . Sondr-- . . . whatever the hell the bitch's name had been--had been a prime example of why it was great to be a man.
This hadn't been true so much of the woman herself or her body--both of them pretty standard-issue, if you asked him, and he knew what he was talking about. No, it had been more the course of his relationship with her which had been so great. She had been the perfect, wide-eyed innocent--or so she had appeared. Once you got her in the bedroom, it was clear enough what she wanted, all that playacting to the contrary just put on to make him hot. Every woman fought; that was what made sex interesting. If some dame just begged you to take her--or simply lay there, barely noticing--it would all be too boring to bother with at all.
It was partly this supposed reluctance which had made the stand-in enticing, for awhile--the little bitch definitely understanding that game. But it wasn't like she was ever going to be a lengthy sort of project; one look could tell you that. Unlike most of the ones who made it, she just didn't have that "It" factor, that certain something that made you watch her. You could be with her and easily still scope out at least a hundred other women in the room--most of them at least as intriguing. And it was only the most intriguing type any man would consider staying with for long.
It was this truth which had predetermined the length of his relationship with the girl--what's-her-name long overstaying her welcome, as it was. But at least he had gotten something out of the deal, her disposal not only another one for his buddy Formitz--who tended to get antsy, if he were made to wait too long--but a growing business relationship with La Quinn, as well. He smiled. It was definitely the best things had gotten for him for awhile.
He hated to think about it, tended to shift off any thoughts which put him in a bad light, but he knew his life had been in a downturn for a few years. Still, the last few months were bringing him back--the past now forgotten. It no longer mattered that he had nearly been brought into a scandal with that fool Pavel, when the director had accidentally gotten rid of the producer's wife. That part wasn't so bad, of course--Stephanie getting pretty boring, after a couple of years. Loaning her out had been about the most interesting she got. But being able to put her away made things much better for everyone.
It hadn't been the disposal of his wife which had nearly been his downfall, then--was, instead, the scandal which had brewed somewhere in the backrooms of the town's gossips, when Pavel's drunken accident had turned her into a permanent vegetable. Multiply that with the diagnosis he had gotten around that same time and things had seemed to be on a serious downward slope. He was only lucky that they were finally turning around.
He sighed, taking another swig of his drink--not accustomed to thinking back. Self-analysis wasn't any better understood by him, either. If he had ever thought for even a second about the fact that he passed his syphilis around pretty liberally to the girls--and, occasionally, the boys--of this town, it had only been to tell himself that they deserved it. It wasn't like any of them would exactly be missed.
He was just pleased by where his life was going, then--at all that he would soon be privy to. While he, fortunately, wouldn't be sealing his deals with Madeline in the same ways he normally did with women, he also wouldn't be crying over that. She was a scary bitch. Besides, women who pretended to be so almightily powerful made his balls shrivel; he shook his head, finishing off the whiskey. The only reason he could imagine that Wolfe went for her was that he was too doddering an old fool to notice the difference.
This was the conclusion he had come to, the few times he had ever thought that far--all of his deals with the tutor alone. He had barely so much as talked to Wolfe once at a party. He could only imagine--if the mogul let a woman do his plotting for him--that he must be pretty impotent himself.
This was as far as his thoughts on the fool went, happy enough with his bargains with Premier's real power. And, even if he should just be glad that Quinn hadn't done something far worse to him, after finding him with the dead stand-in--the girl's death taking him by surprise--he only felt proud over the deal he had wrought. It seemed he was a pretty shrewd negotiator, if he did say so himself.
He didn't see that he was simply being used by Madeline, couldn't come up with a realistic enough self-image to support it. Instead, he marveled over his skills in giving her the drugs she needed. And, even if he didn't know the exact details, he could imagine exactly how they would be used.
There were, as with the rest of his life, no compunctions within him about these plans, the possible benefits too obvious. Perhaps he had been robbed of the opportunity to get acquainted with Samuelle's wife before--when something or other went wrong with the tutor's earlier plans, Hillinger's sudden disappearance the only clear outcome there. But this time would be different. Michael would be gone; his grin deepened, glass lifted to his lips. And that was all that it would take to make certain that he got his hands on little Kitty at last.
It was only when he was taking another swig that he realized his glass was empty--that fact alone probably showing how many drinks there had been before it; he set it down disgruntledly, getting up to pour another for himself far too much trouble. He focused on the future, instead. While it was true that he bore a bit of a grudge at the actress for not being able to have her before, that would all work itself out--Madeline's plan clear. First, the tutor would take care of Kitty's baby--which was as it should be, anyway. Why attractive women bothered to get themselves knocked up was beyond him. That should be left to the ugly ones. There were far too many uses for the pretty ones to waste their bodies with bearing some brat.
He had always thought this way, never understood why women bothered with pregnancy. Even more, why did men put up with it? His head shook. All he could guess was that they were just wimps, incapable of holding their own. Any real man--like him--would definitely take matters into his own hands.
He had always thought this, continued to now. It wasn't like he hadn't been accused by many a whore of being the father of her child; the thought made him laugh. But what was even more amusing was how they thought that--even if it were true--he actually bore some responsibility for that fact. They really didn't get it. Any woman who put herself out there like the ones in this town lost every right to get all shrewish about a man's duty to "support" her. If she didn't want children, why didn't she just sew it up--or at least keep her damn legs closed? He looked toward the liquor cabinet, almost wishing that the drink would pour itself. Any woman who would get herself in that sort of situation bore all the responsibility for whatever happened next.
He shrugged a little, leaning his head back on the couch, resigning himself to the fact that he wouldn't be getting the drink--his ugly thoughts moving on. If he actually bothered to remember back to the beginning, he would see that the first time he had ever used Formitz had been in a situation like that, with some woman yapping about how he was somehow at fault or something, about how he was supposed to "do right" by her; he snorted. What she hadn't seen was that he had already done right by her by giving her what she wanted to begin with. If she didn't like the possible results, tough. It was her damn responsibility to fix it.
He had an ugly look on his face--or, at least, uglier than usual--as he remembered the woman, and a few others. He really hated girls like that, didn't see where they got off accusing someone else for their own mistakes. A real woman knew how to take it with a smile; his look changed, the possibilities blossoming. And he knew one in particular he couldn't wait to teach that to.
He was already having visions of what he would do with Kitty, once he got her; she would be a lot of fun, he was sure. Where Michael got off thinking he had the right to keep her to himself, he had no idea. A sort of growl echoed in the back of his throat. It was guys like him that gave these broads these stupid sort of ideas--and all the rest of them a very bad name.
He had no patience for these wimps--never had--for these weak-willed sissies who pretended they were men. They might as well bleed once a month, for all the manliness they knew about; there was a snort. How anyone had ever let Michael get a hold of a sweet piece like Kitty, he had no idea at all.
He was a little angry about this now, had been for sometime--remembering one of his first few conversations with the actress. How any man who would be with her would let her get all stuck-up like that was beyond him; he shook his head. A real man knew how to keep his woman in her place. He almost growled again. But he supposed that was something he was going to have to do himself.
The significance of the fact that he was waiting until the woman's husband was gone to try to force her towards him didn't entirely occur to him--Bauer still wholly convinced of his own power and courage. But it had never once crossed his mind to actually challenge Michael, or any other man. He had to work by shadow and subterfuge--or not at all. But it was impossible to make a man such as he rethink the truth of who he was.
He could only happily imagine the future, then, all that would come so good. First, the prissy boy would go off to fight whatever meaningless little battle he thought he had to; next, his wife would "miscarry"--and then he alone would be there to pick up the pieces.
It wasn't that he was quite delusional enough to imagine that Kitty would come to him on her own; there were limits, even to a psychosis as wide-ranging as his. No, it was more what he would be threatening to tell the fan magazines and gossips the story about her supposed abortion which would win her over; Madeline had already told him that she didn't mind, would help provide him with "evidence," if he needed it. The tutor was clearly no more desperate to keep the woman than anybody else; he smiled. It was perfect. All the producer had to do after that was see that his other connections came through.
It was his link to one of these that he was waiting for now--well, that and the prostitute he had ordered. But the whores in this town were notoriously tardy--at least in his experience. It never occurred to him that there might be some reason why.
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