King of the Perverts

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Hearing the words coming out of my own mouth confirms that I have slipped into some alternate reality.

Up is down. Black is white. Peter Venkman’s voice echoes in my head. Cats and dogs and mass hysteria, all that jazz.

Before me stands, quite possibly, the hottest chick I have ever been in the same room with. She is five-alarm. Tall, dark hair, voluptuously rounded, and best of all, wearing nothing but a sheer lace thong. You really can’t classify them as underwear, more like the rumor of underwear. Like the eerie outline left on the ground following a nuclear blast. Saran wrap covers more skin than these babies.

And I am asking this woman to pee on me.

Her head jerks back like I had connected with a right hook to her jaw. “You want me to do what?”

Fuck me. Do I really have to say it again? Somewhere in the bathroom, my Albanian cretin cohort Mongo has planted at least one camera and quite possibly two or three to get different angles of this big moment. I swear I can hear him in the next room, on the other side of the paper-thin wall of this shithole motel he has found, stifling his laughter. I say a quick prayer, asking that he might choke on that laughter and die, slowly, and in agonizing pain.

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