The Lion and The Mouse

[H0ll0wM4n]

My name is Angel...Angel Cielo. My mother named me, and died shortly after giving birth to me. My father was a different story. He was a...troubled man. An alcoholic, a fiend, and an abuser of his only son and every woman he'd ever been with. He was in and out of jail several times, before he finally decided to play it smart and lay low under the radar. The longest span of time I ever spent with him was from the age of nine to eleven, when he was on parole. He feigned rehabilitation to his parole officer and prison counselors, even his AA sponsors. But he was still the same man he'd always been. He left scars on me, both physical and mental, that would never heal. Never go away.


　


But he also helped me to realize what I am today.


　


To describe being me...would be a difficult task. I live by a set of principles, a code, that keep me from both being discovered as well as becoming like the people I put on my table. I made this code entirely on my own, shortly after I left my father behind and began the life I was meant to live. To be me, is to experience life in gray. I stand, teetering, on the edge of madness and clarity. All in one instance I feel the desire to commit suicide everywhere I go from the sheer depression, and simultaneously feel a great warmth for all of the people that I have protected and served. Though all my co-workers would call me a good liutenant and a good friend, I can not say the same for any of them, as kind as they are. After all, how can you be friends with someone whom you've never truly met?


　


It's only in these moments, as I ride back towards the docks from disposing of my latest prey, that I feel any sense of lucidity. That I have purpose; that I am real. I am hailed as a good person wherever I go, as a good detective, but no one knows just what it is that lurks beneath the surface. I'm a monster...and I bear that fact with as much remorse as I do repulsion. I am disgusted with myself, and I am content. There are no longer any surprises in my life, no longer any flairs of emotion. Everything that i say and do is orchestrated from beginning to end, carefully, cautiously. There are no surprises...or at least I thought so.


　


Until I heard a man groaning from the docks.


　


My trained eyes flicked over to the pair, and they were acknowledged. Prostitution...a respectable occupation. Many may frown on call girls and their duties, but truly is it so bad? For one thing they're probably keeping the less-desirable portion of men away from the 'upstanding' women. Not only that, but as far as doing whatever it takes to make ends meet, whatever path involves the harming of oneself opposed to others is always the admirable one. But that wasn't the issue here, in any case. The issue here...was that the call girl was looking this way. Looking at my boat.


　


Looking at me.


　


I pulled up to the docks in time to see her standing there, sopping wet. I stepped out of my vehicle, aptly named 'The Good Guy,' and secured it to the dock. Once all was said and done I began a calm and casual walk in her direction, drawing my phone to check it and then my keys to sort through them. Casual actions of a casual man. As a detective I've seen every method of people trying to hide what they really are; and as a murderer I've seen them as their true selves. I looked up from my phone and saw her, and came to a stop just a foot or so away. I looked after the van that had driven off, and flicked my chin in its direction.


　


"That your john?"


　


I tapped my phone against my palm, and slid it into my pocket. I then drew my wallet, and flipped it open to reveal the golden badge within. 'Homicide,' it read plainly on the front.


　


"I'm detective Cielo with the NYPD. Shitty luck, I know...but uh...what's say you and me cut a little deal, eh? You show me a little love, and I'll show you a little leniency. Waddaya say? If you want to try running you can, or you could just say no. Either of those options will probably land you in jail. So what's it going to be?"


　


I played the part perfectly. Corrupt cop. Plus, I wasn't too bad to look at either. Took good care of myself, maintained a healthy routine. Stayed in good shape, I had to, with my line of work. All I needed was for her to agree to come to the car with me, and then I could figure out what to do from there. She doesn't meet the requirements for me to kill her, or this would be much easier to handle. No...I'll have to be delicate about this one. I've -never- been spotted before. All thanks to some horny drunk who wanted some of this young girl. Fucking perverts....


Always had to give us nice guys a bad name.

 

[Illuminate]

I've been told that many people would like to get inside the minds of those of us who chose this career. We- a conglomerate label of street whores. Or bag brides, depending on who you ask, and what we like. What many don't realize is that we're all different. Our stories vary greatly, with only a single string of similarity that connects us to each other; we are alone. And because of this, we turn to chemicals that numb the pain so we can keep working. It's a vicious cycle. One that, without help, cannot be broken. If we're under the direction of a cathouse, or have a pimp, we don't have to worry about funding our habits. Our Pimps take care of that, knowing that without it, we'd probably gain what little amount of sense we had, and either run away, or sink into a swallowing depression that would soon end in our own self-imposed deaths. All they want is money, and as long as they keep us lucid enough to perform our duties and meet our daily quotas, they were happy to supply whatever fix we need. It is often their method of control- Don't bring in the quota, don't get your fix.


Some of us, the lucky few, are free of overlording pimps, and don't have to deal with the violence and control that is often associated in a relationship such as that.


I am not one of them.


I have a Pimp; or "Daddy" as he demands my slut sisters and I call him, and I've been with him for over a year now. He's a violent man, with a love for money that supersedes any relationship he has. I've seen him turn on some of his closest friends. That's when I knew that there was no such thing as a true friend here. We are only pawns in a game, and we are disposable. It was then that I knew I was truly alone. But I had chosen this life by a series of bad decisions, and I wouldn't be getting out any time soon.


I've met some within my line of work who didn't choose this lifestyle. They were forced; and they are bitter, and shattered as individuals. They live their lives with the glossy coat of cocaine, or heroine, and stay detached at all costs. The living dead really do exist, and they are closer to those suburban doors than many upright citizens like to think.


Still there are others, like myself, who ran from their homes and families while they were still young and innocent, and incredibly naive; got involved in the wrong crowd,--- …and it only takes a single paying customer to set you on this road. Innocence does not exist here. Prostitution is, in its own way, a drug, with a noose tied to your neck. Only a few ever realize the noose is there. Others are still blinded by this faulty idea of glamour.


I go by many names, depending on what circuit, or street corner I stand on, and who you talk to. My real name is Sammy, or Samantha WyCliff, but nobody has called me by that name in years. I go by "Diamond", or "Jewel", and all of the usual degrading names also apply: Slut, B**ch, Bag bride, Call Girl, Street Whore, Cum Bucket… It seems there's always a new name to add to the list every few months.


If someone had asked me what I saw myself doing at this age, while I was still at home, I would never have imagined this. I come from a good family. I had parents who loved me, despite their overpowering and suffocating rules. If I could do things over again, I'd probably stay home and forego running away. Strict expectations are nothing compared to this. But the saying rings true; Hindsight is twenty-twenty, and I can't go back. I'm stuck here and I have to make a living, so this this what I do.


I stood on the dock patiently waiting for the boat to come in, preparing for, possibly, my second client of the night. I still had a quota to meet, and if it wasn't this guy then I'd go back to the bar where I had picked up the first John. By the looks of him and his boat, money was not an issue, and so I gauged my price accordingly. Though, my curiosity as to why he was out on the water this late, and for such a short time, was still a nagging inquisition in the back of my mind. The only people that often went out at night were night-fishers, and they had long been out on the water since sundown. He parked, and got out, bent to tie his boat securely and then meandered toward me lackadaisically. As if this was just another encounter, and he did this all the time.


I curled the tapered corners of full rosen petals into an enticing smile as he approached, and I took a step forward. Drenched, dark curls cascaded down the planes of my back, and licked at the curve of my ass, and lithe towers faded into the sway of hips as I pulled closer to him, with full intent on seducing him into an hour of pleasure.


"What're you doing out here all alone, handsome?"


My voice slurred slightly with intoxication. I nodded toward the van that pulled away, in response to his inquiry.


"Yeah, that's one of 'em, what's it to you?"


My plans were jolted to a halt when he flipped open his wallet, revealing the golden badge of his trade. My eyes grew slightly wider, and my heart thrummed maddeningly. We were always getting arrested. Prostitution was highly frowned upon here, as was the illegal drug use, and should we get thrown into jail for a night or two, our pimps made sure we paid them back. We would often be turned out for days at a time, having to work to earn back the income he had lost during our stay in jail, plus our daily quota, and if he had posted our bail, we owed him that as well.


I hardened immediately, the smile on my face melting into something of indifference. He was a cop, admittedly, and I didn't feel like working my tail off for a week to earn back Daddy's money should I be thrown in a cell for the weekend. The only thing that irked me was the deal he proffered. Cops didn't make deals with us, unless it was to give some witness to a crime that occurred on our corner. But that wasn't the case this time, or he'd have said so from the get-go. Regardless, to fraternize with a known cop meant a sure beating by Daddy, and I didn't want to risk that either. It came down to the lesser of two evils, the latter I preferred over the first.


"Looks like I don't got a choice, do I? Better not get me in trouble with my Pimp." My eyes narrowed, and then my smile returned with carnal intent. "What's your price, mister? Around the world? A Bee-Jay?"


And it occurred to me that all in an instant the tables had been turned. It wasn't me controlling the dice, or price anymore, it was him.