The agency! It was the agency after me. No wonder they didn't shoot up the place. Fuckers are always too worried about hiding their tracks from the 'good American people'. But goddam, why are they after me?
Goupil put down his (unattached) long range scope and settled back into his hiding spot in the hedge, his head spinning a million miles per hour. The federal car he'd spotted with its telltale five inch antenna surveilling his (now blown) childhood home was as obvious a sign as neon in the night.
No wonder they found my house, it's the fucking government. I knew I hadn't blown this location! It's starting to make sense now. But why? Why?? Does this all lead back to the botched Russian job? The whole Viktor Bout thing has been resolved. It's a done deal...
International arms dealer Viktor Bout, aka the Merchant Of Death, had been arrested, properly vilified, and convicted for all the world to see. But what Goupil knew from his aborted job for the Russian mob was the secret dirty deeds Bout had done for the Western powers. When he found out his target was a visiting American Senator as part of a Russian cover-up, Goupil knew he'd be Oswald-ed after the fact. No wonder the scumbag Russians took him in when no one else would...
Is that it? Am I a loose end to be cleaned up? Just doesn't make any sense. True, the guilty mind sees danger where there is none...or maybe my former employers are getting the government to do their job for them...God knows what lies they told the Feds. I ended up sabotaging that Senator's deal so what proof could I even offer...or maybe that wasn't the only deal...shit! shit!
Russian gesture meaning, "In your dreams you're mine"
Goupil hated being in the dark. Proper intel is the key to any job, whether it's killing or staying alive. If only his pursuers knew Goupil's own reasons for wanting to deny any and all facts of his time in Russia. That cesspool of a nation had stained him, he barely getting out with his soul. Truth was, part of him was still back there, eating him alive and confronting that was the last thing he wanted to do.
Even now, hiding in the sunshine of his boyhood neighborhood, the Ukrainian Woman whispered in his hear. She who knew more than all the men in the world combined. She could start a war or stop one with her ancient, smoky eyes that pierced even the most unspoken of hidden dreams. She could turn husbands into adulterers, family men into orphans and lonely men into slaves. And God knows she did all three.
Goupil had survived her test - but not without lingering wounds that could kill him yet. That face! A face he'd always known but never seen, she a dormant fantasy awakened from his birth. Pure desire. Whatever secret cages keep you from living she holds the key. Her soul was penetrating, needing no explanations. She just knew. And you, you give your hand in helpless surrender to be pulled from the raging fires.
Goupil's keen sense of danger immediately alerted him in the techno light hell of the Russian bar. "She's reading my mind!" Like most lives, his was fantasy parched, rotting in denial. She was the chance to rectify that forever. Not caring if it was a trap, he followed when her siren voice simply commanded, "Come."
He followed her to a back room, metallic and graffiti'd, the music of the main room reduced to pounding bass beats. Following them both was a large, strapping young man matching her in age. Goupil pegged him as a sexual creature too - the pair an elite two of a kind. But he knew whatever he got to do with her he would do regardless of who was in the room. Chances to step out of hell are few and far between. By the time they had reached their rendezvous, Goupil was a heaving mound of desire.
Then she spoke.
"Alex, go ahead and take it out for him."
Her male friend undid his leather pants to reveal a thick, taut penis - an obvious, happy friend of hers. She looked back at Goupil.
"You want to please me, yes? This is what I want. Can you give me what I want?"
She wanted him on his knees, servicing that cock as she watched with approving eyes. Many men had not hesitated, eagerly performing for her - and the hidden camera. Some verbally refused only to later surrender, some stayed silent like Goupil. None had outright left. She picked her clients too well.
"Please, I wish it." And with the promise of her exquisite curves, she lifted up her leg on a chair to reveal that to touch her was to change your life. She ordered in a whisper, "Do this for me." And Goupil's loins stirred.
Back, way back, and backwards further his soul traveled. Before the Lockhart Plot (his previous time in Russia, as Reilly), the Napoleonic Wars, the centuries in rising Japan, the Dark Age nightmare forests of the Ardennes, the sunshine of the Christ, the magic of the prophets, the awakening of the Exodus, the unrestrained looseness of Sodom and Gomorrah or the finding of the Great Truth by Abraham, the first and greatest scientist. There was the time of Eden, when anything was possible. She too had rare consciousness of the timeless Inner Dream Of Man - and she used that power for her own ends.
Goupil shivered as she placed her hands upon his head, moving him closer. "Just lick it," she purred. All he had to do was give in just this once. He'd done such an awful job running his life, why not let her do it? To climb those legs to her mountain of joy! She knows I'm dying, I must be set free. Fuck her, fuck me, fuck life, fuck everything. He knew there had to be a better way of living. Maybe this was the alchemist's answer of lust into love.
But it wasn't. Abraham gave into Love, not to the world's most tempting seductress. So yes, give in, but not now, not like this. His continuing hesitation drew her ire.
"Awk, you are afraid man! I am too much woman for you. You think you won't be man anymore you don't suck that cock? Real man not care. He suck cock and still be a man. Why are you waiting?"
Instinctively, Goupil knew that to speak was to die. She'd wrap his words around him and he'd have no choice but to submit as she took the reins. Yes, she was an old soul. But Goupil was even older, here not just from this age but from times before, knowing the songs of the Spirit Beings. Only by that slim margin did he survive her. Later, when he found out her connection to the Russian mob, her spell lessened. They used her for blackmail mostly, but also to weaken the minds of those they did business with - like Goupil.
Still, she had shamed him in his hesitation. She knew the achings in the souls of the assassins, politicians (the most eager cocksuckers by far) and other low-lifes who paraded through that bar yearning for excitement. And sometimes still in his pain, he'd give in to her in his imagination, just for the chance to safely feel her. Yes, Goupil would dearly pay to rid himself of the memories of his time in Russia, a depraved country revealing his own depravity. How to start over? How far from home was he?
Boisterous voices startled Goupil deeper into the prickly hedge. Ah, only a pair of teenage girls rushing out into their backyard to play in the sprinkler. Through the fence he could see their barely worn bikinis on their lithe bodies, unaware of the power they held. The girls' innocent sexuality was too much for the pressurized man on the run. Goupil unbuckled himself in high fever, damning all consequences, silently pleading to the girls.
Help me. Please help me...help me...please help me...
After he climaxed his survival instincts kicked back in, berating himself as he slid his way back to his anonymous white car. If you'd been caught just then you'd be arrested and branded a sexual predator for life. They show no mercy when hiding their lies!! You know that! But Goupil had always had a need for danger and of exposing his sorrowful state. He sped away in blind fear never knowing the girls' father masturbated at night to hardcore porn and taught Sunday School to their classmates to make up for it - a true sexual predator.
Goupil questioned the wisdom of continuing on. Maybe he'd dug his hole too deep. With all the tracking resources of the Feds, that's a hard hand to beat. A home - in any sense of the word - he did not have. He'd failed in love before. What was left? Previously, he'd always had The Job to give him direction - or more accurately, to distract him. Now he didn't even have that. Just emptiness. Vast, endless swaths of emptiness stretching out for eternity.
What treasures in life had he refused now lost forever?
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