Smythe at Large
George Lee
When I told the old man my rates he almost gagged. He was nearly as tall as myself but had gone to fat in every direction. I prided myself that at 44, from the rear, I looked like a young man. It was just my stomach that had gone out of control. He had a face devoid of an attractive line, not helped any by the way it quivered with horror.
We were in his office in one of those crumbling Covent Garden workhouses. The kind of place that housed a myriad of small businesses. Everything from diamond cutters to rice merchants. The only thing they had in common was that they rejoiced in low overheads. Except for the large security guards and barred windows.
My reluctant patron sat at the top of the six storey building, an ascent that had left me dangerously short of breath for about fifteen minutes.
He had wanted to meet at my place, but there wasn’t a chance of that. I liked to suss out potential clients in their own habitat. Where and how someone worked could tell you a lot. It was also always nice to know that there was actually somewhere substantial to send the bills.
Some clients had turned out even more dubious than myself! Besides, with four ex-wives demanding maintenance the nearest I could come to a regular office was an answering service. Even then it was the kind of business centre that liked to change its address every six months.
The whole building had an air of dilapidation that was matched by the shabby suit the client wore. Neither looked like they had been paid much attention in the last two decades. That didn’t deceive me. I could smell big money.
Money horded away just for the sake of it. I hated the waste of that kind of life. I always spent every last penny, and more besides, that came my way. I didn’t have much choice, it was either that or the ex-wives would grab hold of it. I decided I wanted some of his stash.
I had multiplied my normal rate by ten, figuring that we could bargain down to about five times what I usually charged. He looked the kind of character who would be reluctant to buy a postage stamp without asking for the wholesale rate. I just knew that he drove around in some ancient, ubiquitous British car. I was surprised, then, to find myself saying, somewhat gruffly,
“You know I did a good job for the Waltzburghs. Word gets around. To help you I have to drop something else. That costs. You can’t afford it, let’s forget it.”
In fact, until he had mentioned it I had forgotten all about the Waltzburghs. It had taken me a while to recall the details, whilst he had gone on at length about how well his daughter was doing at school until she did her disappearing act.
I needed something to keep me from dropping off. It had been a hard day and it was only eleven in the morning. Out of habit I’d spent half an hour looking for a working phone box to call in. I was thrown out of my usual lethargy by an urgent summons by a potential client.
I was house-sitting for an acquaintance who had a short term contract in Saudi. His suit would have fitted me perfectly had it not been for my waistline. Unbuttoned, it looked passable. People didn’t expect private detectives to look like bankers. That was what I kept telling myself.
The Waltzburgh case had been the perfect use of my talents. I had spent a week going from Soho dive to Soho dive looking for their runaway daughter. I’d made a killing on the expenses and enjoyed some energetic pussy every night. There was always at least one girl in those dives who knew what to do with her body.
I had spent the last thirty years picking up the clues that revealed such creatures. I had got it down to a 90% certainty that the woman would turn out to have a hot cunt. The wild ones were rarely the ones you’d think from a first glance.
The last thing you do in those kind of places is to shove a picture of a missing girl under the noses of the hookers. That was just a quick way to enjoy a knuckle sandwich at worst. At best it would make the girl do a rapid runner.
It wasn’t as if I looked like a cop. If I had I would have got some false ID made up and solved most of my problems. I’d probably be rich by now. Apart from wandering from club to club I’d occasionally ask for the girl by name, dropping a few hints about her appearance. Making like I had enjoyed a few hot nights with her and wouldn’t mind repeating them.
I eventually caught up with her in a strip bar, where she was doing strange and, many might think, terrible things with bananas. We had gotten along fine. I rationalised the hundred quid on drinks as a way of keeping her out of the hands of predatory pensioners for a while.
One of the bouncers seemed to have lured a bunch of ancient northern tourists down into the den of iniquity. They were fed strong whisky instead of the more usual watered down stuff. Inebriated they would be an easy touch. They probably wouldn’t even mind. Returning to their nursing home with tales of Shit City, the envy of their friends.
I took her back to my apartment that night, had what I figured would be a quick tumble, but went on for hours, and then locked her in the bedroom. The parents didn’t live far away. They were so happy to see their daughter again, the old man bunged me a five hundred quid tip, despite the fact he had been questioning each and every expense I’d claimed with the kind of rigour that would give a tax inspector a hard-on.
She was supposed to be 16 but made with her body like she had been in the game for a few years, if not decades. I could do anything I wanted as long as I was willing to pay lots of money for it. So I did everything I wanted, which after having four wives with different sexual demands was quite a lot. I often got in a deal of trouble when I forgot which wife I was with and did something that would send one into sexual ecstasy but left the others in a deranged rage. Women!
It had needed some creative thinking about how to write up her £300 charges as expenses. But I was pretty good at that, had spent the last four years perfecting it. How she felt about getting her parents to pay for my wild indulgences I never did find out. Which was a pity. She had the kind of body that kept disturbing my mind, not to mention my cock, every time I woke up for about a week afterwards...
The old man banged his hand down so hard on the table that I felt the twinge of pain in my own wrist. His face had turned so ugly it was almost a caricature of repulsiveness. He spluttered,
“That is not the way I do business. I will pay you two weeks up front, but no expenses. I can not write an open cheque like that. Antwerp is not so far, hotels there are inexpensive and you should be able to live cheaply. It is a deal?”
It was tempting. I had quoted him £500 a day, which meant seven thousand quid. A few lies about some vague contact with the girl would probably get me another two weeks. I should easily clear ten grand for a month’s work. Something I barely managed in a year.
With the Inland Revenue making silly noises about six years back tax and the four wives ganging up to demand regular payments, a period out of the country was not to be sneezed at. I chose my words carefully,
“Okay, but it has to be cash.”
For a moment he looked at me as if I was a complete idiot. He seemed to ponder whether or not he had made the right choice, then growled,
“Cash, of course - what else is there? I shall get it now.”
While he was gone I considered the case. There was nothing else to do, the room had dirty white walls and steel furniture. As inspiring as a seventies Japanese car. Why was he willing to pay so much to find his sixteen year old daughter, Sam, last heard of in Antwerp?
The picture he’d handed me was interesting. Very interesting. She didn’t bear the least resemblance to her father. She was the kind of sultry blond that needed servicing three times a day just to keep her ticking over. Just looking at the photo had got me hard. I decided I’d better speak to the wife.
He came back with a nice wad of dirty fifties which I packed into my ancient briefcase. The notes looked like he spent his evenings fingering them. He wasn’t too keen on my calling on his wife. As I’d locked away his money in my briefcase and got it stashed between my feet, he hadn’t much choice.
“Look, sometimes the wife knows things about the daughter that she won’t tell the father. That’s the way it works. I’m not just going off to Belgium without any idea of how the kid thinks. I know how she thinks I can figure out where she’s going to be. Like ABC. And I need some better pictures, some knowledge of the clothes she’s going to be wearing and any friends she might be writing to.”
“Okay, okay. Now I can not take you. Come tonight at about nine to my house in Hampstead.”
“No way, I can’t waste the whole afternoon. I can get out to there in about an hour. Phone your wife to let her know that I am coming.”
This insolence at least shut him up. His face went from parchment white, to bright purple and then settled on beetroot red. When he had regained his composure, he screamed,
“Get out. Go to Belgium tomorrow. Phone in twice every day. Here is my home address. Be very careful not to mess with me! Now get out of my sight.”
There was some kind of monster in a traffic warden’s uniform attacking my car. She was huge, with a tiny head and pig eyes. Looked like she couldn’t go for ten minutes without slurping on steroids. The car was an ancient Mini with a hot engine. The perfect street sleeper for Shit City. I drove it like it was a dodgem car, in Wop pimp mode - on the throttle and horn.
Parking being difficult, I’d sneaked into a narrow gap with the bonnet up on the pavement, leaving the back end just level with the outer sides of the other cars.
The monster was frantically trying to dig off a few years worth of mud that obscured the numberplate. I never bothered locking the door, which often helped in making a rapid escape. Usually from one of the venomous witches. Frighteningly, each of my wives had evolved into identical bitchery. Prolonged exposure to the Smythe psyche appeared to lead to mean-mindedness, greed and maximum ugliness. It was pretty much why, these days, I stuck with the hookers.
I had the seat in the Mini pushed all the way back, but it was still a tight squeeze. My stomach wobbled between my knees, only the tiny diameter of the steering wheel saved me from serious problems. I hit the starter with the engine already in reverse, giving the traffic pig a dose of exhaust fumes.
She barely had time to reel out of the way, as I Iet out the clutch, spun the wheel and hit the horn. After a perfect reverse 90 degree turn, I floored the accelerator, revelling in the motor’s whine and the harsh acceleration in the ultra low reverse gear.
Still on the horn, I spun out of the side street into the main traffic flow, causing total chaos, judging by the cadence of the horns and raised voices. I stamped on the brakes, forced the box into first and took off so hard I left a layer of rubber behind.
Horn, throttle and steering wheel were used to carve a path through the normally impenetrable traffic. Even the psychopaths in the black cabs were forced to give way when I played chicken with them. The only thing I feared was the motorcycle cops who could use the narrowness of their bikes to thread through gaps that even the Mini couldn’t handle.
Still, I made pretty good time up to Hampstead. Once away from Central London the traffic had eased enough to let me think about what the wife was going to be like. My cock was having trouble restraining itself, if she looked half as good as the daughter I’d probably come in my pants. My prick had become irrepressible of late, trying to leap out of my trousers when any half decent, half clad femme walked by. I put it down to the feral summer heat.
There is Hampstead and there is Hampstead. The house situated in the kind of area where they had probably already called the police just on sighting the Mini. I waddled out of the car, pulled in my stomach and adjusted my trousers.
I maintained a semblance of respectability, at least from a distance, as I hit the bell. It played the kind of tune that had shotguns been readily available would have caused any half sane human to blast the mechanism to a trillion pieces.
I didn’t try to hide my irritation from the ancient floosie who came to the door. I assumed she was the cleaner.
“What kind of moron buys a bell that makes that kind of f...ing noise?”
Halfway through this sentence it dawned on me that cleaners don’t usually go around at lunch-time in black stockings and a see-through negligee. The face might be wasted by an overindulgence in gin, but the huge breasts were in remarkable shape, all but thrusting through the lace. She didn’t seem to mind my lack of respect, gurgling close to laughter.
“So, you’re the private dick,” another dose of laughter. “My husband warned me you’d be along. He told me to give you anything you need.”
Whilst talking, she had grabbed hold of my arm and yanked me into the house. Her body seemed to tremble with its close proximity to the Smythe frame.
“Follow me, I’ll show you where the little brat hung out. I’m her step-mother and we didn’t exactly get along. To tell the truth, I’d be quite happy if she never comes back. Having this place to myself during the day is a great tonic. God knows I need a little relaxation. All that runt of a husband thinks about is his bloody money.”
I grunted something non-committal. Climbing up yet more flights of stairs wasn’t putting me in the best of moods. The negligee had ridden up as she ascended the stairs in front of me, revealing massive buttocks that quivered hideously. A huge bush of pubic hair gave off a rather rancid smell.
When she stopped suddenly to catch her breath, I unexpectedly found my face plunged into her bum. She smelt like she had just dropped a load. Her whole body quivered and gurgled.
“Slow down, big man, plenty of time for that when we reach the bedroom.”
After another flight of stairs, so vertical, I felt my heart pounding wildly, we finally reached the daughter’s part of the house.
“The little bitch had the whole top floor of the house to do as she pleased. Some of the young men she used to bring up here were so hot I had to go change my knickers as soon as I saw them. It’s just not a fair world. The Runt can only get it up once a month, and then only if he’s made a huge profit. The bastard’s got a tiny little cock and comes in seconds. The only thing that stops me going insane is a twelve inch vibrator I’ve got hidden away.”
The whole top floor had been opened up, with a vaulted ceiling and lots of windows it was a class act. The daughter’s taste matched her looks. I wondered what happened to the real mother. The step-mother had stepped out of her minimal nightwear and thrust her breasts in my direction before handing me a photo album.
“You just look through this whilst I get to work on you.” The album contained dozens of photos of the daughter, all fairly recent. The one with her wearing a minimal bikini made me so hard that even when the old dame took out her teeth my cock was still trying to go vertical. She looked about a 110 but I closed my mind to the apparition and flipped through the album whilst she worked on my trousers.
It took her a while to untangle my member from my underwear, but she pounced on it straight away. Feeling her hard gums run up and down my cock was a new sensation. She seemed to savour every inch. Her throat took the full length as if it was something she did each and every day. I had a vision of her practising on her massive vibrator.
I am no skinny young thing, so was rather surprised when the old bitch rose to her full height and gave me a vicious shove backwards. I landed with a roar, legs and arms splayed wide, the floorboards bouncing wildly.
She screamed something unintelligible, coherence not helped any by the lack of teeth. Then she threw herself on top of me before I had a chance to roll out of her path. Before I had time to react she had clamped her pussy on to my cock, starting to grunt like a pig in seventh heaven.
This was all very flattering, I suppose, but without the stimulation of the photo album, which had been cast far across the room in my tumble, I felt myself losing the erection. Despite the way she leapt around on top of me, her pussy was one of those huge jobs that I’ve occasionally come across. She could lose an army of well endowed Negroes in there and still have room for her vibrator.
I tried running my hands over her breasts but they seemed impossibly hard and cool, nothing responded. I guessed they were more silicone than flesh. Everything else about the old dame was so utterly ugly that the huge mammaries were more of a sick joke than a centre of erotic enticement.
As soon as she felt me go soft she turned nasty. She flipped herself off me with surprising agility and struggled to get her teeth back in before going into her tirade.
“You macho men are all the same. No balls. No imagination. Why don’t you stick with the young boys? Don’t grin at me like that, you bastard. I’ll cut your balls off! Get out of my house. I’ve a good mind to call the police and tell them you tried to rape me, you sicko pervert. Get Out. Get Out...”
I hoped the walls were thick enough to stop the neighbours from being alarmed and calling the pigs. Jesus, the husband might demand his money back. What did the stupid woman expect with a face like hers? True Love And Romance? I bet she threw herself on each and every man who crossed the threshold. No wonder the husband spent his evenings counting his stash. It had to be more stimulating than humping the hag.
I’d pulled up my trousers and edged away from her. Sexual frustration could do weird things to the feminine psyche. There was no telling how she would react. With a semblance of professionalism I picked up the photo album, which got her going again.
“You bastard, I bet you’re going home to drool over the photos of that little slut. I’ve had more cocks than she’s had hot dinners. I know how to pleasure a real man. You, you’re the same as that horror of a husband of mine. All talk but you can’t keep it up inside a real women. You child molester, you’re not fit for decent society. Get out! Get out...”
As a juvenile the Smythe frame was pretty good at running. I decided that it was time to relive that part of my youth. I made for the stairs like there was no tomorrow. Going down stairs is always easier than struggling up them.
The whole house reverberated to the mad cackling of the old biddy. My last sight of her, brandishing a huge plastic penis which had appeared out of nowhere. At least I thought it was plastic. She looked so vindictive that it could easily have been cut off some old lover and stuffed for posterity. I felt outrageously free the moment I stepped out through the front door.
The day was turning seriously weird. I’d stopped at the first pub I’d come to. Full of worried looking banker types. They were downing hard liquor as if psyching themselves up for ending it all. I’d had about six pints of some gassy piss which had quickly brought on a bout of flatulence. Some harridan in a business suit had started getting outraged. But I soon shut her up by letting loose a massive detonation. Left her gagging on her drink.
I wasn’t so drunk that I forgot to keep the briefcase clasped between my legs. After the harrowing experience with the client’s wife I felt I’d earned a couple of glasses of beer. I decided the best thing to do was to get to Antwerp before the client had second thoughts or the wife informed him about our abortive tryst. I could always blame telephone interference if he demanded my immediate return.
I don’t normally drink and drive. My frame is so large that I can sink six pints with hardly any discernible effect. My idea of driving whilst under the influence was more than ten pints The only thing I didn’t like about taking on a bit of drink was that it inhibited the normally reckless way I drove the Mini. I had to exhibit a semblance of sobriety so as not to be drawn to the attention of the breathalyser totting pigs.
God knows there were enough of them loitering around Shit City. Never mind that houses were robbed, innocent citizens mugged and young women raped by the hundreds
The journey back across the city to Bayswater was thus terrible in its slowness. I was in a foul mood when I pulled up at the house, a three storey structure that had been converted into six small flats.
The inside of the car had turned into a blast furnace under the heavy heat and lack of breeze in the stalled traffic. The engine so hot it sounded like the mains were rumbling and the gearbox had gone to pot.
The wives, either singularly or en masse, had a certain psychic ability to turn up whenever I’d scored a bit of dosh. Had they put the same enterprise and energy into work they would be rich by now. I was not that surprised to find all four witches perched on the narrow stairway inside the house.
As mentioned, their physical appearance had begun to merge... I often found it difficult to recall which was which. It took all my effort not to clasp the bulging briefcase to my chest. Antwerp suddenly looked the most appealing place in the world.
“Well, look what’s turned up. Nice suit, must have cost a lot. And here we are struggling on social security. Pity about the belly, though. Must be gorging on the food again. Another emotional trauma, I suppose...”
It took a little while to filter out the rather shrill voice. I had long perfected the art of giving non-committal shrugs and falling asleep with my eyes open. In the dimly lit hallway it was hard to discern if it was the first or third wife who was doing the screaming. It didn’t really matter. After a while they would all join in.
I knew the form only too well. I should have turned and done a runner the moment I crossed the threshold. It was too late for that. Sarah, the second in line, had positioned herself to block off my escape route. She carried a large handbag that she could wield with Ninja-like dexterity. The one time she had whacked me in the head it felt like there was a brick inside.
When there was a lull in the tirade, which had been loud enough to bring neighbours to their doors, I tried to placate them.
“Come along ladies. Let’s talk about this inside. I’m a bit behind on the payments. Can I help it if there is a massive recession? This is the new depression. No work coming in, no money going out. That’s called logic. Like ABC. This suit is borrowed. I went to see a new client. It looks promising, I may have a small amount of money coming in by the end of the week. My stomach is slightly larger than normal because the only food I can afford is junk food. The car I drive is a wreck. You have each taken the homes I’ve tried to buy. This rabbit hutch belongs to my friend. My bank account is in the red. Your solicitors have seen the records. I don’t even own the clothes I stand up in.”
“You lying bastard. We heard stories about you spending hundreds in Soho, whilst we are juggling pennies for your children...”
At the mention of the kids, the fires stoked up, all four joining in again. The tiny apartment felt like it was about 100 degrees. There were so many children that I invariably sent them presents on the wrong day. They had been so brainwashed by the wives’ rhetoric that they were reluctant to stay in the same room as myself. Which I did not really mind, as I’d never had much affection for the brats. Not one of the bitches had delivered me a daughter. They could not believe my disinterest in my sons. During another momentary lull, I waded in again,
“Yes, I spent a few nights in Soho. That was work. Finding some poor chap’s daughter and saving her from a life of whoring. Understand, work not play?”
“Like hell, it wouldn’t surprise me if you were pimping for those girls. We want some proper money for once, not your endless promises. What’s in that briefcase? It looks like it’s bulging with cash to me. Open it up now!”
I had tried to hide the damn case under the table, with little success. Could you imagine a worse interrogation than by the people with whom you’ve lived and loved for the past couple of decades. Women who could spot a lie coming before I’d even thought about it. If the witches knew how much was there they would've torn both myself and themselves apart in their haste to get their hands on it.
“Files! Files for the new case. An insurance investigation into some burnt buildings. Completely confidential. Couldn’t even let you see the folders. More than my life’s worth. If I do well on this one I could be set for life. Regular work coming in every week. I want to start straight away. Got to show them I’m keen. If you come back at the end of the week I’ll have a bit of loot for you. Cash of course, you wouldn’t want to lose your SS payments, would you?”
The only way to play the bitches to appeal to their greed. I knew at least two of them had rich boyfriends who helped out with the bills. The SS paid for their basics. But that wasn’t enough. They would only be happy if they saw me scrambling around in poverty whilst handing over every penny I made to help support them through the hard days of the recession.
There was a lot of shrill muttering at this offer. They glared sullenly at me. I upended my wallet to show all I had was a couple of fivers. The first wife snatched these up, claiming it would pay for the taxis.
The third, who had turned into a religious fanatic, snatched a bible from her handbag and told me to swear on the good book that I would not do a runner and have some money for them in three days time. It took a huge effort to stop myself from grinning but I acquiesced.
“You run out on us and we’re going to the solicitors again. No way you’re getting away with whoring around London when we are down to bread and water. We mean it, it’s time you took things seriously and got yourself a proper job with a proper salary. You’re not some young kid with no responsibilities, free to run around London enjoying yourself. You’re past enjoying yourself. The next ten years are going to be devoted to paying for your past mistakes. We mean business. Is that clear?”
The last was an animal snarl from the twisted and bitter mouth of the second wife. When she’d blown up to three times her original size after dropping the third boy I had found it impossible to make love with her. It was like being atop a giant blancmange, with our stomachs flopping against each other in a most unnerving manner.
She had dragged me along to the marriage counsellor, who proved to be so young and attractive that I sat through each session nursing a massive erection. As soon as I was alone with the wife again it did a runner. The fatter she became the shriller her voice got until I couldn’t stand to be in the same room.
I could see they were not really satisfied with the outcome. I guessed they were pondering some other manoeuvre that would ensure I was kept in their sights. Once before they had set up a rota in which at least one, if not two of the women, always stayed with me. They only relented when I had cashed a cheque that had finally arrived.
Dividing out the money between them had almost caused a riot as they had an argument about how it should be cut. Equally or by the number of children that had to be supported. Only the huge grin I’d sported brought them to their senses and stopped them tearing each other apart. Whenever they found I might be enjoying myself they went wild with indignation.
“Look, I’ll write each of you a cheque for 500 notes. If I do a runner you can cash the cheques. I know there’s no guarantee but at least you can take them along to your solicitor. He can go running to the cops and get me charged with fraud. I’ve a reputation to keep up and can’t afford trouble with the pigs...”
“You disgusting pervert.” This the religious fanatic who had found my pile of Hustler magazines. The fourth wife, taking one look at the cover, gave me a large back-handed slap across the face.
“Let’s cut the fat fraud’s cock off.” This the first wife, who was a sweet little virgin when I first met her. I screamed, “Ladies!” Waved my cheque book in the air which brought back some calmness to the proceedings. In fact, I’d closed down that account but forgotten to give the cheque book back.
After clasping their cheques, they reluctantly left the apartment, muttering obscenities all the way out. I felt light-headed with relief and jumped with joy around the room.
Dover was dead by the time I got there. The Mini’s gearbox had decided to stick in third for twenty miles before freeing up again. The odour of burnt clutch plates filled the car. Slow speed work the kind of series of jerks that would convince any loitering cop that I was drunk out of my head.
Even in the middle of the night the heat still intense. The interior of the car could’ve passed muster as a sauna. I’d munched through a couple of six-packs en route, just to ensure I kept up with the loss of body fluids. I had a couple of hours to kill but the whole town looked closed down for the night. And it wasn’t even midnight yet.
I was convinced that someone was following me when I’d left the apartment. A red Fiesta had hung tenaciously on my tail for a mile or so. I was impressed with the driver’s skill. I had only lost him after running through two sets of red lights and doing a sharp right turn across oncoming traffic, rewarded with a wild cacophony of horns for my troubles.
On the motorway I’d kept seeing Fiestas in the mirrors but none appeared to tail me in a consistent manner. It would be just like the witches to hire someone to keep an eye on my movements.
After staggering around Dover for fifteen minutes I decided to head for the ferry, the whole place did a passable imitation of a ghost town. It was the worst time of the year to travel. Mindless tourists were heading in their millions out of the country and a large majority were in the queue. I didn’t have a ticket but figured twenty quid in the right hands would solve the problem. It didn’t, it cost fifty. The expenses were already threatening to go right out of control.
I’d sneaked the Mini in front of a huge Volvo that was having great difficulty reversing into the space which I’d taken. A massive creature wobbled out just as I’d managed to wedge myself out of the Mini. He grabbed me by the arm and tried to swing me off balance. His face had so many chins that it was doubtful if he ever saw below his neck.
He grunted some words at me but he sounded more like a gorilla on speed than a fellow member of the human race. His eyes were so deeply set that I had to take a second look to make sure he was for real and not some drunken apparition.
I was in a hurry to get to the bar, so I shrugged him off, tried to make a clean escape. He grabbed hold of my arm again, with enough force to convince me he was trying to break it off. I almost laughed out loud at the way he was leaping up and down, his whole frame quivering like it was on the edge of exploding.
I hadn’t been a private-eye for more than four years without developing some self-preservation techniques. I considered some form of physical retribution that would render him helpless, but such thoughts only lasted for a few moments. I screamed, “Help!” at the top of my voice, a desperate bellow that reverberated through the hull of the boat.
My attacker was so shaken by this outburst that he let go of my arm, allowing me to stagger a few feet away from him by the time some burly deck-hands turned up.
They were not too amused to find the Volvo blocking the path of about twenty other vehicles, misusing the English language to excellent effect on its owner who seemed to glower under beetle brows. The excess fat on his frame quivered in frustration as he shook his fist at me. I gave him my most smarmy smile, climbed my weary way up to the bar.
Even before the boat had moved off this was taken over by hordes of Skinheads, off to watch some vile game of football on the Continent. Or perhaps they were just going to Belgium to attack foreigners. There was so much ugliness that I found it difficult to keep the lager down.
There was something sickening about having hundreds of identically scalped and dressed youths in the same area. I had forced myself into a corner within shouting distance of the bar, determined to spend the four hour journey in a drunken stupor; close proximity to just one wife was mind numbing but all four simultaneously screaming...
I came out of a half sleep when someone started howling. The Skinheads had hoisted up a youth on to the bar; about eighteen with a huge wedge of orange hair. I knew it wasn’t his natural colour because he’d had his clothes torn off, a large bush of black pubic hair all but obscuring the small bit of flesh that hung between his legs.
He was screaming because a particularly ugly Skinhead was waving a knife under his balls, whilst the whole room reverberated with a chant, which no-one could understand as English but whose meaning was pretty clear. They were further urging on the Neanderthal with the knife by stamping on the floor with pairs of identical boots that looked large enough to break an ankle just with the weight of lifting them.
If I had a machine gun I would’ve done the world a favour by taking out every brute in the room. I didn’t, so I made my way through the wild crowd before they decided I might make a suitable victim when they grew bored with the punk.
Some pensioners stood on their seats at the back of the room, eyes all but popping out of their heads as they urged the youngsters on, their false teeth threatening to leap out of their mouths What was the f..king world coming to?
By the time I had worked my way out of the bar, the screams of the petrified youth had filled the whole ship, some uniformed types belatedly rushing down the gangway. Judging by the way the chants had reached a crescendo they were too late and the punk might be able to find new work opportunities in an Arab harem or an opera.
Either I was drunker than I suspected or the ship had started moving about wildly. I had to keep hold of a rail running the length of the corridor to stop myself falling flat on my face. My stomach began to feel queasy with the sudden lack of alcoholic intake.
Eventually, I found another bar. This proved a mistake, the monster from the Volvo appeared from nowhere. He was as drunk as myself, his attempt at throttling me ended with us both rolling around on the floor. When our bodies thumped down on the deck the whole ship seemed to rumble.
He gained the upper hand, his weight holding me down on the floor whilst he punched my head at his leisure. The pain was intense and the taste of blood in my mouth did not fill me full of love for fellow humanity. From some hidden depths of subconscious survival, I managed to poke two fingers into his eyes. I don’t know which of us was more surprised with the speed and effectiveness of this act.
His howling even more intense than that of the castrated punk. All the fight drained out of him as he clutched his eyes and I threw him off with absurd ease.
The crowd of spectators let me through as I headed for the toilet, trying to stem the blood flowing from my nose. The damage looked pretty intense in the mirror, his huge ring had torn off rivers of flesh. After about five minutes, the nose bleed stopped and I was able to clean off the worst of the damage.
With a rumbled suit splattered with blood and a ruined face I looked a dead ringer for a tramp on the last of his loose change. I wondered how the Belgian customs would react.
Back in the bar, I found my assailant had not been blinded, glowering at me from across the room as I sunk a pint of lager in one go. His body exploded in fat in every direction, must’ve weighed at least twice my own mass. There was no way he would ever be able to fit into the Mini.
Either the fight had sobered me up or the boat had stopped rolling crazily. I was never a great expert in staring other people down, my eyes tended to go watery after a while. I only won this time as my assailant decided to shuffle out of the room.
Three hours had passed somehow, just another sixty minutes until we turned up in Ostend, then a two, three hour drive to Antwerp. I felt impelled to make good progress to impress my employer with my keenness. It was the only way I was going to extract another pile of dosh out of him.
I knew absolutely nothing about Belgium, save that it was the butt of jokes about being boring. That didn’t impress me too much, I knew that such jokes were often misplaced, that they concealed beneath the surface a splendid opportunity for amusement and enjoyment.
If for nothing else, the Continent had a much more open attitude towards sex and even if Antwerp turned out boring Amsterdam was only two hours away. A city where I had spent many an enjoyable evening wandering around the red light district. The women displayed themselves in shop windows, usually clad in suspenders and stockings but not much else. They ranged from about sixteen to sixty in age, from beautiful to ugly, from black to white...
Recalling those nights of lust I had to turn in towards the bar to hide the huge bulge in my trousers. The erection soon dissipated, the barmaid was a dead ringer for the second wife in her most ugly moments.
For a drunken second I actually thought it was the venomous witch, but this one had blackened teeth and a huge mole on one side of her mouth. I turned away before I threw up. I noticed that my hands were shaking and my vision had become a little blurred. It was just as well I’d never made any claims to being a top notch private-eye.
I don’t know how old the girl was. Her naked body could have belonged to an eighteen year old but her face was so hard she could have passed for twice that. Going through customs was enough to tell me that Belgium was going to be okay. Despite the state of my face, and the way the Mini was grumbling like the engine was about to fall out, I had been waved through most nonchalantly.
There was, after all, little that anyone would want to smuggle out of the UK into the Continent. Belgium even had an open border with Holland, Amsterdam the drug capital of Europe.
The Mini had threatened to stall on the ramp going off the ferry. The way the car lurched forward in a series of hops had almost caused a couple of accidents. The Volvo owner had watched me drive off with a self-satisfied smirk written large on his face. Once clear of the customs and hordes of tourists, at six o’clock in the morning, there was little traffic. My first impression in the half light before dawn was that the city was as dead and tired out as Dover.
Hustling the Mini westwards from the dock I had spotted the neon glow to the left. Old quayside buildings had a couple of lit windows and singular neon tubes outside advertising their nature, flickering halfheartedly red or pink.
I had immediately parked the Mini, feeling the heat pulse through my crotch. The car had come to a halt with a terminal lurch and refused to turn over when I flicked the ignition key. I needed a woman more than I needed to find out the problem.
There were a couple of bars hidden away amongst the buildings. Apart from one whiskered sailor lurching along the wall, I was the only other citizen wandering around the area. Full of visions of the women who displayed themselves in Amsterdam I was soon filled with horror.
The first two women turned out to be ancient with even fatter stomachs than myself. They looked to me as if they were supplementing their pensions, surely into their seventieth year.
The clearness of the early morning atmosphere heightened the effect of too much alcohol. I found it difficult to walk rather than stagger between the worn facades of the buildings. My stomach rumbling again, whether at a lack of alcohol or because it had received no food for about twelve hours an open question. Had not my cock been pulsing in my underpants I would probably have given up on the whole endeavour.
The third window contained a frail in black lingerie, with the kind of body that threatened to make my cock shoot out of my trousers. I took a good look at her before responding to her hand signals to go inside. She spoke enough English to demand fifty euro's but was satisfied with twenty quid. I had to hand the money over before she’d let me inside.
The room set up with a small bar and a single bed tucked away in one corner, that didn’t look wide enough to contain the Smythe frame. I wasn’t offered a drink, the hooker didn’t waste any time on the niceties of social intercourse. By the time I had removed my shoes she was naked on the bed. Her body looked less alluring in the clearer light of the room, the disposal of the lingerie revealing stretch marks on her stomach and an excess of flesh on her upper thighs. I concentrated on her breasts, whose nipples were erect and pointed slightly upwards in the early morning chill of the room.
Judging by the odour of the place she had been there all night, a bin full of spent condoms testament to her industry. The older hookers on the block must’ve cursed her; her relative attractiveness probably kept her much more active than the other women. Although there was no accounting for taste. When in Amsterdam I had seen young boys visiting hookers old enough to be their grandmothers.
She kept muttering something under her breath in a guttural language I took to be Flemish. Probably telling me to get a move on. She sat on the edge of the bed with her legs far enough apart to reveal a great bush of pubic hair and just a hint of the slit between her thighs.
The expression on her face revealed that she was not in the least bit impressed with the Smythe body. Money, money, money was all she wanted.
My erection had done a runner by the time I’d stripped off. She poked at my cock with one hand, the other holding a condom in readiness. She tugged on my reluctant member a few times, sending a harsh pain through my groin. Her face all scrunched up in disgust.
When I tried to put a hand on one of her breasts she jumped about a foot, shaking her head. She came back, tried a few gentle caresses which got me half erect then plopped on the Durex with practised ease.
I still wasn’t hard enough to get inside her so she took the tip of my cock in her mouth. I was standing above her, the angle of my vision doing good things for the lines of her face. Watching her try to suck my cock off made me forget the tawdry surroundings.
At first she seemed not to know what she was doing but after a few minutes I went rock hard and she started taking the head of my cock down her throat, a lovely sensation running the length of my member.
I was surprised that the condom seemed to add to the pleasure. Perhaps her throat was so practised that had my member been bare I would have shot into her quickly. The hairs on my back began to stand up after about five minutes of this, my cock feeling huge against the pressure of her throat. I looked down to find her eyes full of hatred, I had probably already used up my twenty quid’s worth of time.
The pressure from her hands on my hips grew. She increased the pace with which she was bobbing her head, gulping down the whole length. I could feel my cock jerking spasmodically, the only way I could stop myself coming was by conjuring a vision of the witches in full retributive mode. When she started rubbing a finger into my butt I exploded into her, the release nearly taking the top of my head off.
She flipped her head off so fast she left teeth marks on my cock. I was still pumping out semen and she took a dose over her face which did nothing to obscure the fear running through her eyes - the condom had broken, her mouth and throat full of my juices. AIDS such a huge problem amongst whores that they lived in fear of broken condoms, even though sucking cocks was not a quick way to become infected.
She rushed to the wash-basin, put a finger down her throat, spewing up my fluid and her dinner. The grunting noises were not very feminine, cancelling any ideas I might’ve had about second helpings. Bent over the basin revealed her buttocks for the first time, not a pretty sight with an excess of flesh wobbling. The harsh glare of the light revealed her whole back mottled with red blisters that in places had puss running out of them.
I pulled the ragged condom off, thankful that it had burst at the last moment, giving me reasonable protection from any possible infection. If it had happened whilst I was in her pussy I would’ve been thrown into full tilt paranoia mode.
My cock had a mind of its own, having just enjoyed itself was reluctant to lose its hardness. The force of its strength was so great that only the bulk of my stomach in its way stopped it going wholly vertical. Only with great difficulty did I get my trouser zip done up.
By the time I was fully dressed, the whore had stopped spewing up, finished downing half a dozen glasses of water and had stopped clutching the cross around her neck. I decided she was much nearer forty than twenty. If looks could kill I would have dropped dead on the spot.
I didn’t fancy pointing out to her that she had rivers of come on her face or that her eyes were shot full of blood. Even from a few yards away she stunk of dead fish. I gave her a cheery sort of smile and got out of there before she went into retributive mode. Whores lost all logic in such circumstances and almost invariably had hidden conveniently a huge knife to wield when the going got tough.
Lighted windows were dotted haphazardly through a whole block of crumbling buildings. I thought I might as well start work by checking them out. It was a pretty futile exercise, at that time of the day most of the women were dross, ancient old hookers who wouldn’t get a look in come the prime evening hours. Even if they paid me, I wouldn’t have had sex with most of them. Diligently I moved through the streets careful not to let my scorn for the women show on my face.
It took a good fifteen minutes to survey the whole area, by then the dawn had come and it was difficult to see clearly into windows. I was peering into one room when the door opened and a huge Negress came out, naked as the day her mother dropped her out of the womb.
I had to move quickly to avoid her lunge at the Smythe frame. She had the most hideous breasts I’d ever seen, long cylindrical protuberances that hung down towards her bulging waist. I did a 100 yard sprint that burned a hole in my throat but got me clear of the wretched woman. Her nakedness was the only thing that stopped her giving chase.
When I bounced on the off-side wing I found out the problem with the Mini, as it collapsed into the gutter. The demise of the car so sudden that I was thrown into the road, almost mown down by a huge artic off the ferry. Road gravel and dust were mixed with the blood already on the suit.
The engine had fallen out, disengaged itself from the front of the car, causing the wheels to collapse into their arches. I could only guess that rust had finally eaten through the chassis or the Volvo owner had sabotaged the car in revenge whilst I had been recovering from the fight by downing a few lagers. Not being much of a mechanic I had no idea how easily such an act could be achieved.
There wasn’t a hope in hell of pushing it just a yard. We were old friends but all I could do was abandon the auto and head back to the ferry where I’d seen signs for the railway station. There was no time to hang around trying to get a repair effected or the car safely stashed away - I knew, anyway, that the motor was on its last legs.
I dug out my briefcase from where I’d hidden it under the front seat. One of the advantages of travelling with a briefcase full of money, there was no need to take any clothes. Not that I had any left that were worth taking. I was travelling so light I was almost airborne.
I felt sure that my friend would not mind my permanent hijacking of his best suit, although after the tribulations of the ferry and the road Oxfam would have second thoughts about taking it for resale.
I staggered to the station, short of breath by the time I got there, even though there were no hills to fight my weary way up. The sea didn’t smell very refined to my right, to my left were blocks of solid flats and a red Fiesta.
I gave the car a hard look, it had UK plates but was empty. I was tempted to let down its tyres but knowing that I was going to use the train stopped me. If someone was following me they would have to abandon the car. The ticket seller at the station was happy enough to exchange a couple of hundred pounds into euro's as well as sell me a one-way ticket to Antwerp.
Not paying enough attention to what I was doing, I ended up on the slow train which juddered to a halt at each and every minor station between Ostend and Antwerp. The land was flat, the buildings mostly postwar, only one or two storeys high. I could see what they meant by calling Belgium boring.
Every time I managed to doze off, I was thrown out of the seat as the train lurched to a stop. The train was the kind of old heap that not even British Rail would’ve tolerated on their most obscure line.
Before the sun rose, Ostend had an almost exhilarating chill after the permanent heat of London but that dissipated rapidly. An hour into the journey I was down to my tee-shirt, losing gallons of water, the lack of a bar on the train doing nothing to help my frail state of mind. My body had become so used to alcohol that lack of intake started my hands shaking, especially under the stress of an investigation. God knows, work turned up rarely enough.
Between two stations a screaming bunch of school girls strayed into my carriage. They wore flimsy, short skirts that rode up to their waists as they pissed around in high spirits. I had to quickly put my briefcase on my lap to cover the raging erection with which I was afflicted.
They all looked well fed, shining with health and vigour. They were somewhere in the 14 to 18 age range, impossible to tell accurately as all the Belgians I’d seen had been well built. I could see that by the time they reached 25 they would mostly be Teutonic pigs but that was a very long time off.
One of the frails ended up spread-eagled on the floor, legs running all the way up to her waist, the cheeks of her arse only marginally obscured by a minor piece of lingerie. Her legs wide apart, I could see the outline of her vagina through the flimsy material.
Took all my restraint to stop myself leaping on top of her. If they had stayed on for much longer I would probably have come in my pants. The erection lasted for at least thirty minutes after they left, my cock throbbing painfully.
It was gone noon when we finally rolled up at Antwerp’s dingy station. My nostrils were assaulted by a fetid animal smell that I later found out came from the adjacent zoo. As I stepped off the train I was suddenly aware that someone was following me.
Years of practice in the game had honed my survival instincts to a surprising degree. The only thing I had to go on was a sudden prickling sensation running up my back. I turned around rapidly to lock eyes with a dubious looking character. My about face so rapid that he had no time to take his eyes off me, allowing me to catch a hint of panic before he pulled himself together.
He wasn’t my idea of an ideal shadow. He stood out in the crowd too much for that. A huge head perched precariously on a short, stocky body with a beer belly that almost matched my own. Dark skinned enough to pass for a native of France or Italy, a permanent growth of stubble making him look more like a child molester or terrorist than anything else.
His eyes a curious mixture of brown and green, he shuffled away from me, pretended to adjust his bag but seemed to have no intention of moving off before I did.
I walked off rapidly, heading for the surging crowd in the concourse. I didn’t look behind, but as soon as I put a massive pillar between us ran as fast as my feet would take me. Headed down wide steps to an underground passageway.
Turning a corner there was a choice of exits, I took the nearest which wove out to a small shopping centre on several levels. I was thankful for the escalator that took me up to the second floor; by then I was panting like I’d run a mile in four minutes and a red hot, searing pain attacked my throat.
It was only when I reached the top of the escalator that I looked around. No sign of the hoodlum. If he was working in a group he’d have got someone else to follow me, but the people coming up the escalator were either school kids out for lunch or pensioners wasting time.
The centre was full of shops selling expensive clothes but I soon tracked down the bar. I found a spot where it would be hard to see me from outside but gave me a clear view of all the entrances.
The barmaid was sleek but fat around the arse. I had no idea about Belgian beers but saw a sign advertising De Konnick. This dark brew was delivered in what looked like a large brandy glass but turned out to be so delicious that after the first sip I downed it in one.
I waved the glass at the barmaid who pretended to ignore me for five minutes but eventually gave in to my persistence. After five beers I was in a much better frame of mind.
It was a professional move to stay hidden in the bar for an hour or so. Long enough to flush out my assailant if he was hanging around hoping I might turn up.
I was somewhat distracted by the other barmaid who was a hag except for a massive pair of bazookas which were but barely covered by a skimpy tee-shirt. The huge nipples appeared permanently erect.
Everyone sat around the bar followed her languid progress, nursing erections out of sight but not mind. Every time I wanted a refill I had to wave my glass in the air for a long time. I noticed that the more disreputable customers received the same treatment. I made a mental note to buy some clothes as soon as possible.
I was almost bouncing on my feet as I left the bar. A long traffic jam leading into the centre of town. Glares from the Belgians as I walked out into the traffic whilst they waited on the pavement for permission from the crossing’s lights. Police in a Volkswagen van stuck in the traffic gave me nasty looks but I pretended they did not exist.
Lots of cafes and bars filled with people. I tried the first hotel I came to, a narrow building opposite the station. Knowing my luck the hoodlum would be staying there too. They had a room but I had to pay up front for it.
The room they gave me had a toilet tucked away in one corner and a shower so small in another alcove that it was probable that I’d end up wedged in it if I ever managed to enter the stall in the first place. The single bed looked just wide enough to take my frame.
I hadn’t slept for what seemed like days, the growth of stubble on my face making me look like a particularly desperate tramp.
There wasn’t a phone so I had to stagger downstairs. I had to hand over 20 euro's before they would let me anywhere near the instrument. The client wasn’t in but I left a message that I was in Antwerp and the hotel’s phone number. I felt the speed of my arrival was bound to make a good impression.
I knew that the kind of nightlife I was interested in wouldn’t start until gone ten o’clock in the evening. I might be new in town but the game was the same the world over. The cadence of the twilight hours gave a certain legitimacy to the dubious elements who haunted the nightlife of each and every major city.
There was nothing to do except catch up on some sleep. I wedged the chair under the door-knob, made sure the windows were secured and flopped down on the bed. Every time I breathed the springs creaked alarmingly but I was so far gone that I fell asleep to their tune.
I dreamt of humping one of the school girls I’d seen on the train. I was pounding away on top of her like there was no tomorrow. I was full of the vivid sensation of the tightness of her pussy and the wild wetness there. The strange screaming noises she made suddenly turned into a huge detonation. I half awoke to find myself shooting out sperm on to the collapsed bed.
Someone knocking persistently on the door. My mind went blank, full of blind panic. Like a schoolboy caught out. I rolled off the sodden mattress, checked myself over for damage, making sure my cock was still in one piece.
The collapse of the mattress had taken out a small cabinet. The room looked like it had been turned over by a squad of crazed police looking for drugs. I opened the door a crack, still as naked as the day I was born.
For a moment I thought it was the client’s wife but the old hag had a strong German accent.
“You vill stop that noise. Now! For von hour the bed is creaking.”
She screamed this at the top of her voice with a disturbing finality. I felt sure that if I had opened the door to give her a glance at my throbbing cock she would’ve had a different outlook. I ran my eyes down her body trying to find some point of sexual stimulation but failed dismally.
Gobs of come still leapt out of the end of my erect cock. Despite depositing a load on the bed and the earlier encounter with the Ostend whore, I was still full of lust. Even if I put a bag over her head I doubted that I would be able to maintain my erection on entering her.
I had too much experience with ugly women in the past to trust my luck on this one. She didn’t even have the decency to respond to my forced smile as I closed the door on her.
A trail of wasted semen ran across the room, a huge patch on the bedsheet. The odour was already turning to that of rotten fish. My sexual urges were rapidly running out of control. I had gone back in time to when I was 18, 19, when whole days were devoted to keeping up with the willingness of my cock to spring into action.
In a teenager it was forgivable, even understandable, in someone approaching middle-age it was ridiculous. Even that thought didn’t take the disgustingly large grin off my face.
I shaved, washed down as best I could and dropped a load into the precarious toilet. The jacket was beyond repair but the shirt cleaned up okay and in the relative darkness of a bar the trousers would pass muster.
In a rare moment of professional propriety I dug out a photo of the missing waif. It was the one with her in a bikini, causing my cock to try to shoot out of my trousers. I was tempted to give myself a hand job but managed to restrain the urge. Hoped the Antwerp nightlife would help me out.
I had no intention of using the photo, though. I decided I would use the first week to suss out the place. There was no point finding the girl until I had taken a second wedge off my employer. I stashed the briefcase on top of the wardrobe, which was high enough to require me to stand on a chair if I wanted to retrieve it.
The centre of Antwerp at ten o’clock was crowded with a mixture of smart tourists and dissolute youths in clothes even more desperate than my own. Looked like a pick-pocketer’s melee to me. Yards from the hotel were small bars packed out with people, looking like there was no room for the Smythe frame inside. They appeared far too innocent for my purposes but I fancied some beer so went into the first I came to.
I was the oldest there, mostly teenagers with the air of being willing to do almost anything for money. I had seen their type before on the fringes of Soho and in Piccadilly Circus. A babble of languages made thought difficult.
A lot of the youths looking very wan, more than likely refugees from Eastern Europe. I heard some very harsh accents from those who tried to speak English as I made my way to the bar. I used my weight to furrow a path through the pulsing crowd.
I had to settle for a Stella Artois as they had no De Konnick. It was a poor substitute but I managed to drink a couple of small glasses. A fat Asian woman made an approach. She was bloated in all possible directions but her eyes were full of the certainty that she had a lot to offer.
I felt so sorry for her delusions of grandeur that I offered to buy her a drink but rapidly changed my mind when she said it would cost 20 euro's. It soon became clear that what I thought was an innocent bar was in fact some kind of pick-up joint.
There were small clusters of women surrounding sleek looking men, all flash suits and brash smiles. I could tell they were pimps from a hundred yards. Most of the girls looked like they were in the advanced throes of AIDS or heroin addiction. Probably both.
Another girl slid up to me, demanded to know if I was from England. Following my admission she insisted that I hand over a 100 euro's. She became very indignant when I showed some reluctance, as I could see no reason why I should be relieved of my hard won dosh.
She stormed off when I refused this strange request, swearing under her breath. After the third Stella I became aware that one of the pimps was glaring at me in a most hostile way. Seemed like it was time to leave.
I was tempted by a sex shop advertising hard-core magazines and crude videos. The somewhat effete creature stationed on the door rather put me off. It was almost passable as a woman, the only give-away being the bulge in the pink tights and a hint of an Adam’s apple. I wasn’t sure if the breasts that thrust out from the blouse were entirely false or the work of a particularly talented plastic surgeon. The transvestite’s age as indeterminate as the nature of its sexuality. I was a bit unnerved by the way the creature smiled in my direction; even more so by the pulse of energy that hit my crotch!
The next bar I tried full of young Filipino men and a couple of honed out Oriental women. Long and narrow, there were enough dark corners for just about anything to go down. The men were knocking back the whisky at a ferocious rate. The women eyed me with disdain whilst screaming at each other at a pace that would confuse a troupe of baboons. They were all dressed in an identical fashion, far gone enough to make a Soho hooker blush!
A tiny white dog unfurled on its leash as it rushed across the room for my ankle. I wasn’t sure what breed it was, too ferocious in the face to be a poodle with bloodshot eyes that seemed to leap out of its head as it neared the Smythe frame.
Dogs hate me as much as I dislike them. It had nothing to do with fear. I once walked past a plate-glass window oblivious of the Dobberman hidden on the other side. The beast had bust every blood vessel in its body trying to throw itself through the glass to get at the meaty meal constituted by the Smythe frame.
The canine horror that was fast getting within biting distance was frothing at the mouth. Visions of dying a horrible death from rabies ran through my head, the Continentals renown for there placid attitude to this awful disease. I swerved to my left and kicked the fiend amidships. Its arc through the air would’ve received much praise from the Welsh rugby coach. It landed back from whence it came, amid the hookers who screamed either in horror or abuse.
Its owner wore a skirt so short that I could not see the point of it. Her legs were all flab, a huge rash of pubic hair poking out from her somewhat ragged knickers. Before she could make it over to me, she was hauled back into her seat by a couple of the men.
So far gone on whisky that they all collapsed into a heap, causing the table and their drinks to fall over. They all found this hilariously funny and took a long time to regain their senses.
I had found a corner to lounge against and was on my third Stella when the police arrived. The old whores were still giving me evil looks, but I was pretty much used to that kind of nonsense. You don’t survive four wives without developing a thick skin.
I was not tempted by Oriental women. A friend had married a young Thai girl, only to have a complete nervous breakdown after six months. By the time he had recovered he found his bank accounts empty and the girl long gone back to the myriad delights of Bangkok.
The cops all young chaps, buzzing with so much energy that they were barely able to restrain themselves from using the yard long batons they carried. The Belgian plod also armed with evil looking guns. They ignored me, intent on pulling out a Filipino guy, who tried to squirm his way out of their grasp. By the time they had got him outside a riot seemed to be brewing amongst the remaining drinkers. Much raising of fists and voices in anger.
Through the front window there was a clear view of one of the pigs battering a protesting Filipino over the head with his baton. About a dozen police looked like they were hoping there’d be an excuse to join in.
The only way out through the front door which was now blocked by about twenty drunken Filipinos who wanted to get in on the act. Looked to me that I would soon find myself in the middle of a very bloody riot. Belgium looked like it was going to be anything but boring.
Before the place was reduced to a wreck, a fat mamasan fought her way through the crowd, shrilly ordering the Filipinos back to their seats. Her fearsome aspect so impressive that it brooked no argument. The Philippine’s finest young men were reduced to cringing, frightened rabbits and the police allowed to cart off the miscreant.
She did have a heart, though, allowing free drinks all round to help dissipate the angst. I downed mine in one gulp, deciding it was time to leave. As the only European there I was a prime target for revenge and retribution.
Midnight had come and gone without my noticing it. The density of the crowd and traffic much lower. Across a main junction I could see the flashing signs of nightclubs. I was almost run down by a tram that came from nowhere out of an unexpected direction. It rattled on its rails, gave me a thundering blast that saved my life. My heart missed several beats.
The mild lager I had been drinking in gay abundance had suddenly had an effect on my ability to walk in a straight line. Passing what seemed to be ubiquitous plod in Volkswagen vans, I had to use all my physical and mental ability to maintain a semblance of sobriety.
The doorman of the first bar I approached was a near dwarf but despite the lack of height emanated a certain hardness. He didn’t try to bar me from the premises so he must’ve been all heart. The bar wasn’t wide but ran all the way back into the block of buildings.
At the far end there was a stage, along one side a bar and on the other tables and seats in alcoves. As usual I chose a seat at the bar, far enough from the stage not to be a victim of the woman who was preforming a striptease. I had seen enough acts to know that any vulnerable looking punter was fair game.
I had no desire to have a strange pussy thrust into my face or be forced to suckle on huge nipples, at least not in public. My timing excellent, she was down to her stockings, suspender belt, knickers and bra. All black and minimal in nature.
She wasn’t young but not so old, nor dropped so many babies, that she had lost her figure. Dark enough to be South American, the lines of her face were just short of beautiful.
A small glass of beer 10 euro's, which given Soho prices was a bargain. I slurped on Stella again, having rapidly adapted to its taste. I didn’t like to mix beers, let alone types of alcohol. Invariably, either my stomach or head would turn rotten by the time I woke up the next day.
By the time I’d finished the first drink I was approached by a well honed out hooker with an accent so thick I had trouble comprehending what she was saying. She blocked my view just as the frail on the stage threw her bra into a braying bunch of what I presumed were Belgian yuppies.
The whore turned out to be from Paraguay, having married a Belgian and dropped a few kids. She seemed to think it would be a good idea to buy her a bottle of champagne at 100 euro's. I disabused her of this notion by letting lose a massive burp in her face. The foulness of my breath lingered in the air until I finished my second drink.
By the time she moved off, with a disgusted scowl on her haggard face, the new gal on the stage was down to her stockings and suspenders. She turned her back on the audience, bent over and thrust out her bum. A series of grinding motions followed that had my poor old cock so erect that it hurt.
This was no amateur. The way the skin on her buttocks was sucked in every time she clenched her pussy indicated that anyone lucky enough to find their cock inside her would rapidly be thrown into ecstasy. The music reached a crescendo and she rushed off the stage to maximum applause.
The yuppies had half a dozen empty bottles of champagne on their table and as many girls cuddling up to them. There was nothing worse than being in a bar where all the attractive women were taken by a bunch of rich yobs.
I didn't take too well to the next old working girl who tried a line of chatter on me. She caressed my still erect cock as she asked the usual questions - where I came from, what I did, how old I was... my replies were all lies. Her accent hard to place, turned out she was Turkish. Claimed to be a movie star in her youth, which was at least twenty years in the past, though she reckoned to be only 32. Before she could demand a drink it was her turn to do an act.
She came out in a sequined bikini, went into a belly dancer’s routine with something like enthusiasm. I had to admit her body was still in great shape despite her age. The Turkish babble that passed for music nearly made me throw up but I got control of myself.
There were a hell of a lot of women lounging against the bar, occasionally giving me the eye but there wasn’t anyone who came close to the waif in the photograph I was carrying. She would have movie star status in such a dubious dive.
When the Turkish girl threw off her bikini top, huge breasts bounced out, erect nipples