King of the Perverts by Steve Lowe Page B

good.
    She pulls back and touches my face just below the bandage, mindful not to hurt me. “Please be careful,” she says. “I’ll talk to you soon.”
    Before I can respond, Tricia turns and walks out of the café. I watch her go, mesmerized by the movement of her body even underneath those modest scrub pants. I wonder if she’s wearing that thong again. I wonder if she’s wearing anything at all under those scrubs. My mind reels at the possibilities. I stand there watching until she’s out of sight. Then I slowly return to the world around me.
    That’s when I finally notice Mongo, sitting two tables away.
    Something snaps in me when I see him. A sea of boiling anger, at him, at myself for what I’m doing, at everything about what is happening in my life right now, it just explodes. I stomp over to his table and stand much closer to him than I probably should, but I don’t care because I’ve already decided that if he makes one move at me, I’m smashing in his stupid, fat, Slovakian face.
    “What the fuck are you doing here?” I’m hovering over him, trying my best to be menacing, which basically consists of clenched fists and a snarl. I realize the bandage on my head and the hospital bracelet around my wrist don’t make me look very tough. Probably more like I’ve just escaped from a mental facility.
    Mongo looks over his shoulder, in the direction that Tricia went, and returns my snarl with his trademark molester smile. “Is lovely little lady you are talking to. She looks very familiar to me.”
    It takes everything I have in me not to kick his teeth in. “Fuck you, Mongo. You stay the hell away from her.”
    Mongo points at the seat opposite him. “Why not have seat and talk like civilized person.” It’s not a suggestion. I hesitate before sliding into the chair, never taking my eyes off him.
    “How is superstar?” he says. “Head is feeling better, yes?”
    “I repeat, fuck you, Mongo. Why did you dump me off and split? What the hell happened last night?”
    “You are not remembering Misty girl and the sanchez ?”
    “What happened to my head, dude?”
    “Ah, well, you took tumble down steps outside. Was a wonderful session, was very funny. Your dirty sanchez was perfect. Finger insertion was deep in anus, lip swipe was perfectly placed, shit mustache came out beautifully. But you were very drunk and stumbled out of room and down steps to ground. Not a pretty sight. I think you are dead, so I take you to hospital. I don’t stay and hold your hand because I can’t have police asking me questions, especially if you end up as corpse. That, and you smell like shit.”
    The anger swells in me at the thought of the dirty sanchez, of me wiping that poor, unsuspecting Misty girl’s own feces across her upper lip. The fury kicks up stomach bile which lingers in the back of my throat and I feel like I’m going to puke again. “That’s it, Mongo. This is over.”
    Mongo’s smile dissolves. “What are you talking about?”
    “This, you dickhead. Everything. The show, the girls, these stupid fucking challenges. I’m done with it all and I’m going home.”
    Mongo’s voice drops to just above a whisper and there’s acid in his words. “Nothing is over, little homosexual asshole. We are winning contest, and you are giving me half of money. Be grateful I don’t make you give me all.”
    I guess the head injury has given me some unknown fount of courage because I lean over the table and hiss right back at the Russian bear. “Fuck you, Commie. I’m not giving you shit. You can take this contest and that money and shove it all up your ass.”
    Mongo’s upper lip quivers ever so slightly and his eyes burn with murder. Then he smiles and leans back and looks like we’re having just the most pleasant conversation. He pulls his cell phone from his coat pocket and sets it on the table.
    “I knew you were pussy,” he says. “This was anticipated. I try to think of motivation for you when you