Jacky’s Prince of Dreams

Author: Andre Michael Pietroschek

Jacky’s Prince Of Dreams
© Andre Michael Pietroscheck

Prostitutes come and go. So do teenagers, students, unemployed, or even a fat bummer like the author of this text. Living in a former psychiatric recovery home turned apartment housing kinda money-mill, I was blessed with witnessing a lot, and occasionally risking to be drawn into, or target of, violent crimes. Life in the disease-ridden underclasses. That old punchline once sounded merely another derogatory statement from mainstream folks. These days I know better, streetwise simply does not help to make dying more fun.

So, young women often think they are ready for the reality of it, playing it tough, being played only to make the next best prince charming learn that SHE already knew this and profits more from it than he ever managed. Seriously, sometimes it is rightful retaliation from a female fighting back. Sometimes, not each time.

Jacqueline Jacky Makumba was not new, and by what I could observe she had managed to elude police for years. She also kept her competition at the proverbial bay aka away from her and her money. Her choice of drugs was dangerous substance abuse, and I have always been wary of that outdated opium-spawn called heroine. Well, who cares, what old bummers think about anything, eh?

Three years of watching the show had taught me that Jacky had her little crew of criminal enforcers aka buddies, and also that Jacky had a habit of associating with a lesbian partner in crime aka girlfriend when she had to get rid of her brutes gone against her.

For many watching that young adult corruption spree would have been better than anything on TV. Not to me though, as I had found my wonder. Telltale Thrill, where the most beloved female storyteller of the planet unleashed her so much more enticing and so much more wonderful tales that I even felt tempted to forgive God. Dangerously fascinating. I guess all fans are like that. Back to Jacky’s show.

Normally the only contact I ever had with those independent prostitutes was meeting them on the stairway, or in the elevator. I shun elevators since that devil movie though, and because fat people using the stairs stay in better shape.

Jacky. Through all the ups and downs she held herself against quite some odds. For the most part, her lesbian partners left in a typical period of a fortnight up to a maximum of three months. Just like last time.

But in real life luck does not last, and I named her Jacky, not Lucky.

Her crew had vanished, and no street contact knew beep about it. Even, when Jacky was generous on the money offered for the info.

I had my suspicions. Based on observations I was not supposed to be capable of. The kind from beyond survivor’s guilt.

Days later I met the last suicide blonde of my life.

Jacky’s rarity. The one Lesbian not pissing me off, before finding out why life pushed us towards each other.

Long awkward made short: With no good looks embodied, and poor, bankrupt, and sexist, the ONLY reason from her perspective was that I knew something she needed, or would be of use to her.

Competing against prince dreamland does not go too well? asked I.

Instead of answering she just watched at my fingers making the money bill gesture, and challenged me to read her body language and mimics to get her reply.

I got 50 bucks out of her and told her where she can find me, pointing at the level and door number on the corridor.

Some days later I received her visit.

Dressed to kill, or perhaps simply coming straight from work, she looked like everything a sexist WANTS to see in a woman. Admittedly, I knew I had to watch my manners and I knew that we won’t even mention sex, let alone have some with each other.

Still, mother nature has her decree built into male brains, and any experienced prostitutes know what her gear of choice is supposed to trigger in supposed customers. I once heard it is one of many tricks, which separates the psychos from the horny.

I indoctrinated her, told her what she needed to know about our next and final meeting. The one yesterday evening.

Once more queen gorgeous appeared both, sex-bomb and unsuspicious casual in one. I had told her to come prepared to leave this city forever.

She had her talk with Jacky, and Jacky was still on it when the Prince of Dreams was a topic. Also, her inquiries about her vanished crew were still a dead end.

A while after 10 PM it began. Lucky us, so far it could not work out better.

I made her hide when I raised the curtain and extinguished the majority of lights. I took a smoke, making sure time passed for real, not just in our imagination.

Then I used the fact that my body mass could hide her with ease, and brought her into position. Sitting on the end of my bed, with a slim woman kneeling straight behind me, made it impossible to see her until she made a mistake.

The feeling was still there, and people already asleep would probably have their dreamy meeting with whatever their brain made of it. Some called it sensitive, some say empathetic, some say spiritual. I don’t know.

As agreed upon and as I was paid for, I waited till the feeling, which Jacky so enjoyed, was going for another high, another climax. The climax is the mental version of orgasm.

That moment I stopped playing nice mode and focused all my hatred and rage on that feeling swirling through the house. Ready to kill and enjoy it.

The woman, who so far only had pressed her boobs to my back because physics did not allow not to, tensed.

For, just as I had seen it so many times before, the moment the dreamy feeling, so harmless and tempting, met with anything resembling a threat, it was not the feeling, but a hooded dude on the other side of the streets reacting to it. Agile, swiftly but stealthily moving away. Be it to flee or to call reinforcements, that part I never investigated due to lack of involvement.

But the smartest Lesbian suicide blonde of my life had seen it with her own eyes now, and she fully understood that criminal competition of that caliber, what I call psycho-active mugger types, was a real menace. A menace easily explaining, who had transformed Jacky’s brutes into lucrative victims.

It also explained, why I thought Missus suicide blonde better leaves the city before that stalker and observer returns.

I don’t know, if she did, or stopped that cab aka taxi the next street corner. I never saw her again, as I awaited the return of my dreams, knowing that old me against a young and formidable criminal, hellbent on revenge for my supposed betrayal, might be my last fight ever…

THE END

NOTE: All similarities between my fictional Telltale Thrill and real-world Thriller Teller are coincidental and for entertainment purposes only. All positive mentions of Telltale Thrill resembling real-world Thriller Teller are understatements, as I am still just another fan, after all. 😉 The ONLY website with a legal submission of this story is: w w w dot thrillerteller dot com!

Author: Andre Michael Pietroschek


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