Chapter 2

There's a bar on the very next corner from where John drops me off. I walk as straight as I can manage right to it. The best thing about all the sleazy neighborhoods of the world is that nobody even cares when a scantily clad underage girl walks into a bar and orders a triple whiskey straight. I drink it down as though it’s soda pop then order another. 


I’m not the only one having troubles today. At one end of the bar is a guy who looks like he’s passed out right on his bar stool. At the other end of the bar is a good looking guy with a few days beard who’s so zonked he can’t manage his cell phone. 


The knocked out guy raises his head and looks straight at me. It is not a friendly look. I ignore him. Phone guys looking at me too. The good thing about, once nice, places like this is all the gilded mirrors everywhere. I can look around without anyone knowing I’m doing it. There’s a Norwegian looking guy by the door also eyeing me. And a black guy dressed like Prince at a table just behind me. And a huge son of a bitch near the juke box. Too many people are too interested in me. This is not good.


Somethings wrong. Check your note book. I casually open my bag and pull it out. Right there in big letters, “Don’t go to the Bar. You’re being hunted.” Fuck. They suspect, but don’t know it’s me yet. It doesn’t matter. If they suspect you, then the hunters kill you. They worry about mistakes later on. It’s coming back. The asshole from the other day noticed me. He saw me in this bar — this bar. Damn. There’s too many of them. I’m not at the top of my game, either. Think it through. Think in through. I quietly check each of them out. Not reading minds but seeing what I can from body language, clothing, anything that might be useful. The Prince guy is human. I can tell. So is the big guy by the Juke box, and they’re together. These two are very different hunters. 


Loudly to the bartender I ask, “Has Cindy been here?”




“Yeah, the tall red head I usually hang with.”


“I haven’t seen her, sorry.” 


Which isn’t too surprising, since to the best of knowledge, there isn’t any Cindy.


“She’s supposed to get me a room and I’m so beat.” I’m sounding pathetic, but then that’s what I’m going for. With just a hint of desperate. “Well If you see her — shoot. I guess I’ll just hang out if that’s ok.”


“Yeah, sure.”


“Thanks,” and I smile for him as though letting me stay at a bar and order drinks is a great favor he’d done me.


I got Prince’s attention. 


“Oh how much do I owe you?” Prince is shaking his head. I see it in the mirror. He’s indicating to the bartender, the bills on him.


“Guy’s got it,” says bartender pointing to Prince at the table behind me.


I turn and smile, “Thanks a lot,” I say. He really does look a lot like Prince. He’s even wearing purple.


Shakes his head, without a word saying, “not a problem.” But then looks as though he suddenly decides something and gestures to the seat across the table from him. He’s really good at that. I smile and walk over. 


I catch a glimpse of phone guy. He looks confused. Good. 


“Your friend stood you up?”


“I don’t know. She get’s distracted. A good looking guy usually does it.”


Prince laughs.


“A pretty girl like you, should never have to worry about whether she has a place to sleep.”


He’s shockingly good at this. I smile.


“There’s three other girls at my place. Nice girls. They’d like you.”




“Why don’t you come. Check it out?”


“I don’t know.”


“No pressure. It’s safe. Jimbo’s there,” he says indicating the big guy by the jukebox. 


This last bit sorta blows it. Jimbo don’t make me feel safe.


“Tell me honestly,” he goes on, “would you mess with someone he’s looking after?”


I laugh, and I say, “No I don’t suppose I would.” Never mind, he did that well too.


“And nobody knows by looking, but he’s just a big sweet teddy bear.”


I laugh again. 


“They call me T,” he says.


“I’m Andrea.”


“Nice name. The Girl’s call me Daddy, actually. It’s cute, and most of the girls I take in don’t have much of real father, so I don’t mind. I look after them, so why not. I just make sure they got a place, and no one messes with them either. Why don’t you come and check it out. If you don’t like it, you can always meet up with your friend later on. And who knows, sounds like your friend might need a place herself. Maybe it will be you finding her a place this time.”


“Well, I guess it wont hurt to take a look.” 


“It’s a nice place, a good place,” he says.


He’s very slick, actually. I can’t read his mind, here. The hunters might notice. Probably not — but I’m not gonna risk it. I don’t need to. These two guys I got: classic Pimp and Muscle. “It wont hurt to take a look,” my ass — literally. Well, everyone else who hears that line is stuck with this guy and probably for as long as he wants you to be. Not me, thank god. I’ll have to put up with him for a few days — two weeks if I have to take them both out, and I probably will. 


I’m a bit worried about this arrangement actually. Before the mess up with the woman-hater-nut-job I was already late for an appointment. I’m meeting a friend in Vancouver. Now I’m gonna be even later — that can’t be helped, not now. 


I’m really thinking, I’ll never be able to get away from this guy and his Muscle, without sucking them dry. I’ll simply have to kill them both. Killing a Pimp won’t bother my conscience any. To begin I don’t have a conscience, and I really don’t like Pimps. They beat you. They steal your money. They make you crawl. To be honest, I’m more worried about the mechanics of getting rid of both of them then any qualms about taking their lives. And of course feeding so soon is gonna be an issue. That’s gonna mess with me, nothing compared to how it’s gonna mess them up. And, of course, the hunters will feel it and be out hunting again. That’s ok they won’t be that close on my tail. 


I’m not worried about the dead bodies either. No one cares when a Pimp has a heart attack. “They call me Daddy.” Jeez. Yeah, and I’m gonna have to take out Jimbo too. They’ll just call it an overdose — bad shit. It wont be that far off at that. I can smell the crack on them. 


For the Norwegian guy at the door I send out, “he seems really nice,” thoughts as we pass. He reads them, gives off a quick, “just another stupid whore,” vibe and begins scanning the rest of the patrons at the bar. And yes I can send off fake thoughts to my kind when they try to read my mind. Normally I wouldn’t be able to read his mind unless he let me in, but this guys telegraphing. Well, at least, I’m safe from the hunters for now. I give my new Pimp, my sweetest most innocent smile. Yuck.