Red, compact fishnet stockings lie flat on the brown shag carpet of a once-nice, 1970's style hotel room floor. On the tan sheets of a contemporary King-sized mattress sleeps a male, half-naked forty-something with the only thing keeping him from complete indecency--although, it's probably a little late for that--a white, yellow-stained undershirt.
"Hey. Hey! Get the fuck up. GET. THE. FUCK. UP! Come on, let's go!"
Elin, a tall, young black haired blue-eyed Russian wearing nothing but a red bra and matching panties bursts out of the adjacent bathroom with no fucks left to give. The mess of a man on the bed is still struggling to move quicker than a Dead Sea snail.
"Hey!!" Elin yells again. This time she stomps to the bed and shoots her lips to his ear. She starts with a whisper.
"The fuck out of here right now. THE FUCK OUT OF HERE RIGHT NOW!"
The listless man finally gets up and sits at the foot of the bed. He smirks.
"What's with all the yellin', sweetheart? Got somewhere to be?"
"YUP!"
Done with his lack of energy, Elin grabs his pants, his socks, his shoes, and chucks them out the door. She then comes back to him, grabs him by the back collar of his black button-up shirt that he just managed to get on, drags him out of the hotel room, and releases him over his shit. Before he's able to let out more than a "Hey!" she slams the door at his face.
"Shit. Wait." After taking just a few steps back towards the bed, Elin turns back towards the door. She opens it, walks over the bore, picks up his pants, pulls out his wallet, takes the money that he owes her, and throws the wallet back at him.
"See ya later, baby," she says, this time with soft sexiness, and shuts the door one last time.
A vixen? No. A depraved woman on the last leg of her life? Fuck no. Late? Well...always. She is a voluptuous sex worker by night and the Captain of the LVPD by day. The only fucks she gives are during her night shifts, and even then it's all for the money. Behind the lights and charisma of the Vegas strip, it's a tough town, and sometimes the only way to beat it is to be it.
Jim, Elin's twenty something male secretary was waiting patiently at his desk in the station until he decided to shoot his boss a quick call. He sported a short beard, but the personality didn't fit. With brown hair and kind, blue eyes Jim didn't exactly present as a walking threatopotamus.
"What is it, James?"
"Per usual: coffee's on the desk, Cam is already bitching about something, and Mayor Ken is doing a press conference at 10am."
"10am!?!?"
"Yeah, remember? Dead woman tethered to..."
"...the flagpole. Yeah. Right. Fuck. He's doing the conference at the station, right? Figure out a way to stall! I'll be there in 5."
She would not be there in 5. Or 10. But 15 minutes later, a disarranged Elin spilled into the police station where, as if only to be an eye-roll personified, Jim, waiting patiently by the door, held an outstretched cup of coffee in his left hand.
"I couldn't stall him that long. In fact, I think he's...just getting done."
"Did you even stall...at all?"
"Define 'stall.'"
Elin sighed loud enough for moonlings to hear.
"Look, I realize I get paid to basically cover for you, but I can't help you suck less at your actual job." Jim was done. He enjoyed having Elin as a boss, because he knew he could be straight with her just like a friend would be in trying situations. The problem was that Jim would either receive the short end of the stick in the form of colleague backlash or Elin backlash. This time, he needed Elin to know that today she can kindly fuck off.
"Are you telling me to fuck off?" Elin sarcastically inquired.
"Kindly, yes."
"Fair enough. Now get out of my face."
As Jim returned to his desk, Elin meandered to her office while handling glares from the rest of the station.
END OF PART 1
