My brother Abel was given a camera on the day of his 15th birthday, and boy, did he ever love that thing. The only reason he took a job at the pharmacy was because of the discount he got on the Kodak films. One day, a customer who shared the same passion told him he should always write something on the back of his pictures as to not forget the where, the when, the who, and sometimes, even the why. I moved out in the city when I was 21. Abel often visited, I liked to think it was because he missed me, but truth be told, he loved walking around the city to take pictures of old cars and streetlights. As for me, I had found a job in a bar on 86th and Main. As I was getting ready for work one night, my brother took a picture of my ass right as I was pulling up my underwear. I had no idea. He probably did it as a joke or even out of boredom. Who knows? That was the last time Abel ever took a picture. He was diagnosed with a rare blood disease the very next day, and died a few weeks after that. He still managed to develop the last film, the one containing a full shot of my ass. This story is about that very picture and how, 15 years later, it changed my fucking life… 

Chapter I

I walked into a club called Soho where most of the men were alike. They dressed, drank and even danced the same way. I took a seat at the bar and inspected my surroundings, hoping to find even more reasons to hate this place. As if it was possible.

• Can I get you anything? 

• Hi, can I have a drink that is neither blue nor served on a flashlight?

• Sure, how about a glass of water?

• Funny. Can I have a beer, or is that too old-fashioned for this place?

• Hey, nobody’s forcing you to be here!

• You’re right. I’m sorry, can I have an ordinary, every day, plain fucking beer? No fruits, no straws. Just a beer. Please. Thank you. 

Alright, I’m not always like that, but I was in some kind of mood that evening. The man turned away for a second, opened a fridge, picked up a beer, wrapped it around a napkin, threw a coaster in front of me and put down an aluminum bottle of regular-ass Budweiser.

• That’s $12.

• You have got to be shitting me!

• I knew you’d say that.

• Have you ever seen someone rich enough to get drunk in your bar? I bet that’s the best way to pick up chicks around here. Act drunk, they’ll think you’re rich.

• This is a nice place!

• I’m sorry, what was that? I wasn’t paying attention, busy wiring money from my Swiss bank account to pay for the fucking thing.

• You’re an unpleasant human being. Do you know that?

• You know what? You’re right! I’m sorry.

I paid for the drink and even left a decent tip, drank a few sips and looked around to see if my date had arrived. A few minutes later, the barman came back.

• I’m scared to ask if you want another one.

• Yeah, I thought about it, but I figured I’d rather open a trust fund. 

He chuckled. The very second I took the last swig, the hostess showed up. 

• Hi, sorry, mam. Do you mind giving up your seat for these clients?

• Where am I gonna sit?

• Well, you finished your drink, and you’re not buying another one, so...

• Holy hell. I thought I was paying half the rent when he told me the price, doesn’t that give me the right to stay for a while?

• Mam, you’re very hostile, I’m gonna ask you to leave, do we need to ask the bouncer to help you?

• Shit for 12 dollars, I demand an escort.

The bartender liked that one. I turned away and started walking out. As I was about to exit the bar, I ran into my date.

• Elizabeth.

• Victor!  Listen, I think we have to go somewhere else.

• Really?

• Yeah, but don’t worry, there has got to be at least half a million Sohos in the world, what’s being banned from one of them?

• Banned? What happened? Didn’t you just get here?

We stepped outside. The sun had already set behind the mountains, but the air was still warm.  I dragged Victor down a small road, where I had heard live music earlier.

• You wanna check it out?

• I know this place. Good vibes.

Victor opened the door for me. A live-band was playing on a small stage while a dozen clients chatted over candlelights, an old-fashioned bar made of iron and wood stood in the middle of the room, jazz records were hung on the walls and a blackboard proudly informed the clientele of their 5 dollar pints. Perfection. We sat at the counter and enjoyed the music for a while. This guy was actually nice. He wore one of those cool leather jackets with a hoodie underneath. He ordered a pint of IPA. I liked that about him. His eyes were green, and his beard grew long and curly. I liked that even more. I had met him randomly at a library on Brooks and King. He  had sparked up a conversation and I thought he was pretty smooth, so when he offered his phone number, I accepted without too much reluctance. I called him up a few days later and here we were. He obviously had the hots for me. It was easy to tell. 

• Why didn’t we come here in the first place?, I asked. 

• I don’t know. I wanted to impress you with the other stupid bar, but you’re right, this place is miles better.

• I used to work in a club like Soho. You believe that?

He seemed uneasy for a quick second.

• Around here?

• Yeah, it was ages ago. Saladego’s was the name.

• I know the place, they used to brag about having the hottest waitresses in the city. 

• I was possibly one of them… 15 years ago.

• Let me ask you, April. Are you a whiskey girl or a tequila girl?

• Usually whiskey, but I think tonight calls for tequila.

Before he could say anything, I ordered two tequilas. After the bartender laid them in front of us, we cheered and took the shots. I paid attention to his reaction as he laid his glass on the counter. This one night, at Saladego’s, I overheard this guy warning his buddy not to make a disgusted face after taking shots, that it looked weak. Whatever that meant. In any case, my date passed the test with flying colors. We had a few more beers and a few more shots before Victor laid a hand on my thigh and leaned over.

• I have to use the bathroom.

When he came back, I kissed him before he could sit on the stool, and holy hell did he kiss me back. He pushed me gently against the bar and moved his hand up to my head, then slightly pulled my hair. He softly grabbed my neck and pushed the tip of his tongue inside my mouth as he kissed me. The kissing stopped, he looked at me with a half smile.

• You want another beer, April?

• Here?

• Here or anywhere. I live around the block.

• Around the block sounds nice.

I told him I could take care of the bill, but his money was already out. Outside on the street, the wind blew easy, and for some reason it reminded me of the last days of school before summer. His apartment was on 83rd and Brooks. He opened the door and let me in first.

• You can use the bathroom if you want. 

He had read my mind. 

• It’s over there, he said, I’ll wait outside.

I walked out of the bathroom and joined him on the balcony. The view was spellbinding. The moonbeams pierced through some of the thinnest clouds and painted the city blue. The contrast with the orange candle burning on the table was appeasing. He opened my beer with a lighter and handed it over. Victor bit the inside of his cheeks, I was dying to kiss him again. I took a couple of sips from my drink and winked at him. He laid down the bottle, stood up, grabbed my hand and led me inside his apartment. He got a hold of my ass and picked me up, only to put me down on the kitchen counter. His lips moved from my mouth to my neck. He kneeled in front of me and stuck his head under my skirt. He spread my legs and softly bit the inside of my thigh. Jazz and tequila were good, but that was even better. I grabbed his hair and pushed his face closer against my body. He rubbed his nose against my underwear and kept kissing my legs. He lifted me up from the counter and took me to his bedroom, but not before turning off the lights, and letting the darkness take over. The night was short, but the hours were sweet.

Chapter II

I woke up the next day with a quiet smile and a headache. Victor was already in the kitchen.

• I had a dream I was drinking ice-cold Kool-Aid from a waterfall. 

• Is coffee ok?

He walked over and handed a cup. He sat on his bed and placed a lock of rebel hair behind my ear.

• I’m gonna hit the shower. 

He walked over to the bathroom and I heard the water pouring down. I took a sip from my mug and placed it on his bedside table. I spilled  some coffee doing so, which formed a puddle that ran inside the drawer. When I opened it up to prevent the mess from spilling all over my new friend’s belongings, I noticed a book resting on the bottom of the drawer. The Giving Tree from Shel Silverstein, I recognized the cover even though it was written in Mandarin for some strange reason. I grabbed it and as soon as I opened it, a picture fell face down on the sheets. Something was written on the back in cursive letters. My sister’s ass. A strange sensation of anxiety awoke inside me. I flipped the picture around, and an even stranger feeling of unwelcomed familiarity overtook me entirely as I stared and confirmed the source of my angst. As sure as the sun rises in the East, it was me that was depicted on that picture. It was taken in my bedroom, over a decade ago. I remember everything, the disposition of the furniture, the color of the walls, everything. I even remember the day it was taken. It was the last time Abel ever came to visit before he died. He was surely the one who took it. He snapped it right as I was  trying to pull up my underwear over my ass. I’m saying trying because damn, that fucking ass is thick, still is. Fucking shit. That angle made it seem twice as fucking big. Don’t get me wrong, and I’m not much for bragging, but the picture was very flattering, that kid had some fucking talent. The fabric of the underwear was stuck under the crease of my ass cheek, and my hands, resting on my hips, mushed my ass together. I was wearing the shirt from Saladego’s, I noticed the logo on the back. It wasn’t pulled all the way down, probably still over my tits because I could see the strap of my bra around my back. Now, the real fucking question was how the fuck did this fucking asshole get a fucking hold of this fucking thing. I had my back turned to the camera, so there was no way Victor could have recognized me. Clearly, he had devoted some efforts in finding me. This also meant, our encounter at the library wasn’t serendipitous. Speaking of which, Victor walked out of the bathroom in his boxers.

• Hey Victor.

• Hey you.

• Ever been to China?

• Yeah, why?

He seemed intrigued.

• You speak Chinese?

• I get by. Why do you ask? Did you find something written in Chinese in my… Oh, fuck.

• Yeah! Damn right, oh, fuck. What the fucking hell?

I threw the book in his general direction as I held the picture in front of me.

• I’m so sorry, April.

• How did you find this, how did you find me? You’re some kind of fucking psycho?

As I waited for his response, I put on my skirt and blouse. 

• Listen, I’m sorry, I should have told you. My boss had the picture, I took it from him. 

• So how the fuck did you fucking get it?

• It’s a long story.

• My dead brother took this picture fifteen years ago, I’ve never seen it before, and now I find it in the drawer of a guy I just spent the night with, so yeah, I don’t mind a long story, matter of fact, I demand a long story. 

• Alright. Here it is. A few months ago, I started a new job at Franklin and Co. My uncle knew an associate there and pulled some strings to hook me up with this gig. On my very first day, I met the top dog at the firm, a man called Hershey Rose. Now, Rose never wanted to hire me, he had someone else in mind, but the associates refused his candidate. Apparently, it was a pretty young girl with no experience. Hershey was very disappointed when he first saw me. A male candidate in his thirties with nothing to offer him sexually, I wasn’t what he had in mind. My M.B.A and resume obviously didn’t impress him all that much. The guy hated me from the very start, and I have to say the feeling was very mutual, but things took a turn for the worse when he summoned me to his office one particular day. He wanted to give me an ear full about a loan I had approved for a client whose house was located in a flood zone. I was just about to explain my reasons, but the phone rang. Without skipping a beat, Rose picked it up to show how little interest he felt about what I had to say. Problem is that he put the call on speaker, a mistake he regretted instantly. A man with a small voice introduced himself. He said his name was something Wherman and that he called from a collection company, on behalf of Ledger Toyota. Something about late payments on his Lexus. Rose turned off the speaker in panic, told the man he was mistaken, and hung up. I knew right there and then that I would pay dearly for having witnessed this embarrassing moment. 

• Ok, so what happened then?

• Alright, a few weeks went by and Rose double downed on his resolution to make my life miserable. Some guys noticed and invited me to a bar for a couple of drinks. A few beers had them talking about our thankless, piece of shit boss and eventually, they broached the subject of the picture. They said, every time he was drunk, he would brag about it.

• Rose would brag about this picture when he was drunk?

As I said that, I shook the picture in my hand. 

• Yeah, they said he told an associate that he always carried it around, it was like a lucky charm, he said he jerked off to it, twice a day, every single day and if he ever found the girl on the picture he would… You know.

• No, I don’t know, tell me.

• He said he would jam his cock so far up that fat fucking ass, the tip of his dick could hear her thoughts.

• How graphic.

• Yeah. Apparently, it became a part of him. Some said he drew some powerful confidence from it. Anyway, after the incident with the collector from the agency, Rose wanted to set the record straight with me about his success, so he kept making wise cracks about my car, and my clothing. He said I couldn’t afford nice things because I was too busy fucking around all the time. It was unbearable.

• Fuck is wrong with this guy?

• I know right. I got so fucking sick of hearing the sound of his voice, I took the habit of going to the bathroom on the sixth floor just to take a break from him.

• Why there?

• Some big shot lawyer has his offices there. The building is old and when his business picked up some 20 years ago, he didn’t want to move to a better location but still wanted a nicer office, the landlord didn’t want to pay to have the bathrooms redone, so having no intention to leave his lucky spot, he paid for the renovations himself. That fucking place is nicer than my office.

• That’s sad.

• Maybe so, but the most amazing possible fucking thing happened to me because of that. 

• Really?

• Absolutely. An event of such wonder, it made me believe in God again.

• Then fucking tell me!

• After a pretty shitty exchange with Hershey, I took the elevator to the sixth floor. Just to sit in my favorite stall and fuck around on my phone. That was until I heard someone entering the bathroom, which was very rare, so I sat up straight without making a noise, I even stopped breathing. The person spoke aloud and asked if anyone was present. I had no idea if I was even allowed in there, so I kept quiet. The tone was soft, but not soft enough for me not to recognize the obnoxious voice of Hershey Rose. He waited a couple of seconds and took a few steps towards the sink. I saw him through the cracks of the stall. He was trying to find out if anyone was in there. I had a feeling about what was coming next, so I lifted my knees and hoped to God nothing would screech as I made my move on the toilet. I raised my legs so that my feet would be over the open space at the bottom of the stall. Sure enough, that mother fucking Hershey Rose dropped to the floor and looked to find a pair of legs in one of the stalls. Mine remained lifted above the door line, giving Rose the impression he was alone. He luckily opened the door next to mine and sat down. I thought he was about to shit the fucking corn he had for lunch or something, but holy hell was I wrong.

• What?

• He unzipped his pants, and instead of hearing the sound of the shit shooting out of his ass, I heard nothing. At first, that is… Then some fucking rubbing. 

• Get the fuck out!

• He was jerking off, I swear to God. That fucking pig even spat on his dick and at one point, he even started talking.

• What was he saying?

• Normal shit at first, like fuck yeah, fuck yeah, bitch. Shit like that, you know. But then…

• Then what?

• It got weirder, he said stuff like, let me try that ass, let me get in that ass, let me push that shit right back up in you.

My face changed as I knew what was coming. 

• The pace got faster, I knew he was about to come, and then it happened. 

• What fucking happened?

• He dropped it.

• Dropped what?

• The picture… It fell on the floor. Under the adjoining wall. It was then that I saw it for the very first time. I saw that ass. That perfect ass. It was the sexiest, most erotic picture I had ever seen. Something overcame me. All my attention was focused on that picture. It was fucking mesmerizing. My boss was almost screaming at that point, fuck yeah, bitch, get some of that shit, right in your ass, I couldn’t fucking care. I had to steal it from him and I knew no man with his fucking pants to his ankles, while jerking off, would start running after anyone, so I pulled my sleeve over my tattoo as to not be recognized and snatched the picture right from the fucking floor, then ran out the door, took the stairs, rushed to my office and tried very hard not to look like a guy who had just witnessed his boss jerking his shit inches away from him. I waited for the clock to strike 5, like a good fucking American, and went home to process this whole fucking thing.

• What the fuck…

• I know.

• How did you find me?

• I knew my boss probably thought it was a clothing brand, but I recognized the logo from Saladego’s. I went there, asked about you, pretended to be an old friend, and a manager told me you hung around the library on Brooks. The third time I went there, I recognized you. Well, recognized you in those jeans…

• Where did Rose get that fucking picture?

• He won it at a poker game, that’s all the boys told me. I’m sorry, April. I’m really sorry.

• Yeah, everyone’s sorry. Let me tell you something, Victor. If you ever tell anyone about this, anyone, especially your colleagues, I will file charges for sexual harassment, stalking, and rape. Do you understand?

• I do.

I stepped into my shoes and walked out, even slammed the door behind me, to make it seem like I was upset, but truth be told, I wasn’t. Not even a little. It was obvious I had to go down this rabbit hole, see where this picture was going to take me. Honestly, I was fucking thrilled that finally something exciting was happening to me. 

Chapter III

I parked beneath the bridge, right in front of the offices of Franklin and Co. The rain was pouring down, but the bridge above me protected my car from the rainstorm. A lot of people were running in and out of the building. Now, I had never seen Hershey Rose, but a simple Google search helped me put a face on the person I was desperately hoping to see walk out of that building and sure enough, Rose finally came out holding a black umbrella above his head, he crossed the road and hopped into a dark sedan that was parked only a few cars away from mine. Today was the perfect day to follow him, given he sure as shit wasn’t the type to kindly go home to his wife and kids on a Friday evening.

I kicked my car into first and pulled out of the parking behind him. I was trying to remember the basic strategies of stalking someone from old spy movies, until I remembered there was no way this asshole even considered someone was tailing him. We made a few turns, and finally stopped in front of the Barnett building on Cameron and Main. I parked a few yards down and watched him give his keys to a valet that drove off with his car. Rose disappeared in the building that had over 40 stories. Shit. This complicated things, no way I could know where he was going after that. 

The Barnett building stood proudly in the city skyline, it was one of the tallest and most prestigious monument of the financial district. I walked in and headed straight to the reception with a made-up concerned look on my face.

• Hi, I started as an intern at Franklin and Co a few days ago, and I’m supposed to meet Mister Rose. I’m just not sure where, I know he hates it when we're late.

• I don’t know any Mister Rose, but if Franklin and Co. is an investing bank, then all the guys from the West End usually have drinks at The Singapore on the 23rd floor.

• Oh, thank you. 

I stepped in the elevator and was about to select the button that would get me to the bar, but a man pushed it first. He turned to me and I immediately recognized Rose. Holy shit! My guts wrenched and the hair on my arms arose. I had to remind myself that he had no idea who I was.

• I’m sorry, he said, which floor?

• Same, 23rd.

• Are you going to the Singapore?

The motion of the lift surprisingly untangled my guts and allowed me to speak again.

• Yeah.

Rose was more handsome than on his pictures.

• Are you meeting someone?

• I know a waitress that works there. 

Not bad, I was doing pretty well at this improvisation business. Hope he doesn’t ask for the name. 

• Maybe I can buy you a drink later.

Before I could say anything, the doors opened, and he stepped out. He moved right in and headed for a table where two men had already sat. I kindly smiled at the hostess and walked straight to the bar. The plan was simple : have a few drinks, and wait for this fucking pervert to come back to me. Then, I would mindfuck him into talking about the picture and how he got a hold of it.

The mirror behind the bar gave me the perfect viewpoint for my snooping operation. Rose was easy to surveil. I even noted the brand of bourbon on their table. The men seemed to enjoy the needless pomp of this place and the vanity that it was exhibiting. I ordered a scotch and soda of my own and drank it with haste.

A few drinks had me longing for a toilet in order to expel the piss in my bladder out of my vagina. The bathrooms were on the other side of the restaurant, though, thankfully. My mark would surely notice my move and maybe even subconsciously recognize my fat fucking ass from the picture and be drawn to it the same way a fly is drawn to dog shit.

I got up from my stool and started my epic journey to the bathroom. I crossed the dining hall, I even noticed a few men glanced up from their oysters and caviar as I passed. Very flattering. Rose finally raised his head, so I looked dead into his eyes. He maintained the gaze and slowly brought his glass to his lips as I disappeared in the hallway. The bathrooms smelled of lavender, which is nice, but I refused to inhale deeply, just in case I accidentally filled my lungs with some dude’s covered-up turd vapors.

I walked over to the last stall and sat on the toilet seat without washing it or covering it up with toilet paper. You know why? Because, I don’t care, it’s my fucking ass. Urine immediately came pouring out of my pussy like the rains in Africa. You know the song. The door was pushed open, and I heard the sound of expensive shoes walking in my direction, shoes that finally stopped right on the other side of the stall door.

• Hi!

I recognized Hershey’s voice from earlier. 

• Yeah, hi!

• You’re the girl from the elevator.

• You, sir, are mistaken, I was the girl from the elevator, now I’m the girl with shit coming out of her ass. How can I help you?

• You’re not taking a shit. Come on!

• How do you know?

• It smells like lavender and I heard the tinkle when I walked in. 

• Right…

• I was just wondering if you would like to snort some cocaine withe me.

• That is a very good question.

• To which the answer is…

• I’m not sure.

• Why not? You don’t like cocaine?

• Are you crazy? I absolutely love cocaine, I mean, who doesn’t?

• So what’s the problem then?

• The problem is that I don’t fucking know you, stranger danger. 

Hershey’s hand came from under the door. Inside which there was a sachet containing a white powder and a metal straw. I took both and looked at it.

• You do the drugs on your side of the door, and I do drugs on my side of the door. Deal?

I inserted the tube in the powder and pinched the bag as to not snort the whole thing. The cocaine flew through my nose and directly into my throat. I did it once more, then looked at the bag.

• I think I did a lot.

• That’s fine, you can keep that one.

• What’s your name?

• Hershey.

• Hershey, like the chocolate?

• Sure, Hershey like the chocolate.

• I’m April, nice to meet you.

• Likewise, April.

Hershey stuck his hand under the door once again, but this time it was open and empty. I shook it gladly. So far, so good. I’ll have this guy singing like a canary in no time, I thought. I just had to find a clever way to ease into the subject.

• You must be pretty confident I’m not taking a shit, cause I still haven’t washed my hands.

• That’s cute, but I don’t really care about that. Weren’t you supposed to meet someone here tonight? You said something about a waitress.

That was my way in.

• Yeah, she’s not here, but that’s ok. I got what I wanted. 

• Meaning?

• Last time I came here, I had lobster, I accidentally dipped my hand in the lemon garlic butter sauce, so I took my ring off to wash my hands and forgot to put it back on.

• I bet it was worth it, that sauce is something else.

Never having been here before, I took a chance with the lobster, but I figured most high-end restaurant serve lobster.

• Tell me about it. Anyway, I left the ring on the table. When I called the next day, some waitress picked up and said they had found it, she told me I could swing by anytime to have it back. She was supposed to be working tonight, but she isn’t.

• So, did you get your ring?

This time it was me that sent my hand on the other side of the door. 

• She left it at the bar for me. My mom gave me that ring, I never would have forgiven myself if I had lost it. You know what I mean?

• Sure.

• Yeah? I feel it’s just not the same for guys. You don’t value these things like we do. Do you mind if I do another hit?

• You can do the whole bag if you want. All yours.

I stuck the straw back in the bag and snorted again.

• I just feel that for men, the intensity of the grief caused by the loss of something dear is 100% correlated to its money value. The cheaper it is, the easier it is to get over it.

• I think you’re right, but I don’t think it’s always the case.

Now for the kill.

• Then tell me! What have you ever lost that was precious to you, but had no monetary value?

Please bite. Please bite. Hershey took a deep breath.

• A picture.

Got you, you sleazy motherfucker!

• A picture?

• Yeah, a picture, a fucking picture.

• Tell me about it.

• It was this very erotic picture that I absolutely loved. I won it at a poker game.

• Erotic?

• Yeah, there was a girl on it, a girl pulling her pants over this big fat beautiful ass.

I couldn’t help but smile. He was talking about me. 

• Why was it so precious to you?

• At first, it was because I hated the guy I took it from, but then it became more. I became fucking obsessed with it. It was something else. It gave me this weird energy, this weird power. Listen, I never had problems applying rigorous discipline to my life. I’m very organized and somewhat successful, but even then I always wanted more, and I knew very well that rising to the top required uncompromised dedication, and it seemed like I always lacked the tiny little fucking extra that would send me to the fucking stratosphere… But not with that picture. It gave it all. It gave me the strength I needed to shoot for the top and passed the mediocre. 

• Big dick energy?

• Exactly! Big dick energy! I have problems like everyone else, problems at work, problems at home, money problems, man, some fucking asshole wanted to take my car the other day, you believe that?

• No way!

• Yeah, but as long as I had that picture. I could not give a fuck. It was perfect, and some fucking asshole took it from me.

• Who?

• I have no fucking clue. Some fucking low-life pissant took it from me while I was taking a shit, and I’ll never get it back.

Remember when your parents said there was always two sides to a story. Victor made it seem like Hershey was the asshole of the century, the worst boss to ever walk the face of the Earth, but the more I thought about it, the more I felt for Rose. He was honest about the picture, what it gave him, what it meant to him, and he even acquired it somewhat lawfully. Victor, on the other hand, had stolen the picture, lied to me and even fucked me doing so.

• The guy you took it from, who is he?

• A guy called Champion Wilde. He’s a piece of shit drug dealer, but he organizes the best poker games in the city. High-end, high rolls.

• Do you think he’s stolen the picture back from you?

I knew very well it wasn’t the case. The picture was secured in my bookshelf. 

• Almost impossible. I dropped the picture in the bathroom and someone ran off with it.

• Right.

Rose still wasn’t lying.

• But I could very well imagine him hiring someone to follow me around and wait for the perfect moment to take it from me. I’m telling you, that picture was truly amazing. It even had a whole backstory to it, kind of like a legend.  

• What do you mean?

• Apparently, it’s the girl’s brother that took the picture. He wanted to become a photographer, but the poor kid died a few days after. You believe that? In my book, he’s still probably the best fucking photographer there ever was. He sure as hell beats these fancy fucks who take pictures of homeless people or flowers in the desert and call it art.

I closed my eyes and tears ran down my cheeks. Abel was my brother and boy, did I miss him. There wasn’t a single day that went by that I did not have a thought that spelled his name. Though very frail, I thank God for that thin wall separating me from Rose. Not only did it hid my sudden reaction from him, but also gave me a chance to silently mourn, if only for a moment, my little brother’s death.

• Are you ok, April?

I faked an upbeat tone.

• Yeah, yeah. Why don’t you go back there and try to grill him a bit?

• I’m not allowed back there. He won’t let me play. He hid it well, but he was furious when I left that night. I’m still not sure how he even let me leave with the fucking thing.

• What if I went, would it be difficult to get him to talk about it?

• Do you play poker?

• Yeah. I’m not great, but I can hold my own. 

• Then yeah, fuck yeah. You wouldn’t even have to be clever about it. He’d openly brag about stealing it. He knows that even if I find out he has it, there’s not much I can do about it, given the guy is a real gangster. But why would you do that for me?

• If he has it and I win it back, I’ll sell it to you. Just organize my being there. 

• Sure!

• One last thing…

• Anything. 

• This time I really do have to take a shit. Can you leave?

Chapter IV

Not that I had the habit of waking up early to watch the sunrise or anything, but apparently, the daybreak in our city was worth your while. The sun rose between the mountains, and the light of dawn shone on the white rapids that meandered to the west. To tell you the truth, though, I’m more of a sunset kind of girl. I find them more promising. Tonight was Friday. Friday is the night where normal people go out. A night where I have to share my favorite bars with the functional part of society, and I don’t get along with this faction all that much. 

Thankfully, I was attending a poker game at Champion’s downtown. I was getting ready for the party in my bedroom as the night overtook the evening. I pulled my skirt over my ass and thought of the picture and the strange series of events it had caused. 

Hershey had pulled some strings and Champion accepted my attendance at his game. How he made it happen or what he said to make it happen was unbeknownst to me. Must have been something because Champion sent a limo to pick me up. I poured myself a glass of white wine and noticed a chauffeur leaning against his hood through my front window. The dichotomy between my neighborhood and the luxurious car had been noticed by a passerby. I ditched the wine, put on a light jacket and walked out. The driver smiled and walked around the vehicle to open the door for me. I thanked him and sat inside.

A few meters down the road, the window between the two sections of the car came down. The driver informed me of the refreshments hidden underneath the armrest. Shit was like a James Bond movie. A cold bottle of Veuve Cliquot was already opened. I poured a glass to compensate for the one I threw in the sink back home. We drove through the city. I took out a small mirror and fixed my makeup.

The man dropped me in front of a complex building called Aquablue. Certainly the most luxurious residence in this fair city. He told me to advise the concierge I was attending a party at "Studio 54". I assumed our host had a sense of humor. A woman walked in at the same time and beat me to counter. I heard her using the same phrase the driver had instructed me to use. She turned around when she heard me say I was attending the same party. She smiled.

• My name is Penelope, I’m glad to meet you.

• April.

• People call me Penny.

She winked.

The man walked us to the elevator. After the doors opened, he swiped his card over a scanner, pressed a floor button and walked out, leaving me alone with my new friend. Considering Penny a friend was perhaps premature and ill-advised, but I liked her style. I felt the weightless sensation in my gut that one can feel as an elevator starts to move up. Penelope was absolutely beautiful. At a distance, she looked powerful, a woman who seemed to use her intelligence as a weapon and her looks at her advantage, her clothes were sleek but didn’t draw attention. Her whole demeanor did. Feeling somewhat intimidated by her presence, I tried to imitate her posture. Surely she noticed.

• April, I was at a restaurant the other day, the Singapore. You know the place?

• Funny you ask, yes, I do.

It had only been a week since I was investigating the provenance of the picture, and already it had brought me to places of importance.

• A man approached me at the bar, maybe he thought I looked good in my skirt, and maybe I did, but do you know what he asked me?

The story amused me, she told it so nonchalantly.

• Tell me.

• "Do you come here often?"

• Yikes! A swing and a miss. 

• Yes. 

• The lack of originality is unforgivable.

• Well, I was secretly hoping that it was forgivable. 

• Why is that?

• Because I was counting on asking you the same thing.

I chuckled. 

• Ask away, Penny.

• Do you come here often, April?

• It’s my first time. Hershey Rose was kind enough to vouch for me.

• Hershey… I bet we won’t see him tonight. I’m guessing that’s how you know the Singapore.

• That’s right. Do you play poker here often?

• Oh, I’m just here for the narcotics!

• Really!?

• No, that was a joke and a warning, this is probably the nicest loft in the city, but it’s a fucking pharmacy for degenerates.

I once heard that swearing serves as a social lubricant. It was meant to show that there was no rigid etiquette and that the atmosphere was sheltered from strong restrictions.

• Are you a decent poker player?

• Horrible, but the entourage here is very good for business.

• What business is that, Penny?

• The business of knowing… 

As the elevator ascended to the last floors of the building, I felt a strange sensation. As if the air became charged with electricity, exclusivity and opportunity. The doors slid open on the top floor. Penny was standing in front of me and momentarily obscured my field of view. Hence, the first sensation that surprised me was not the sight but the smell. A scent that combined rich tobacco and oiled-leather foretold the makings of the evening. It was only after Penny stepped out that I could fully process the extent of luxury that was deployed in this loft. The floors, made of black marble, displayed a pattern of unique artistic carvings that gave the entire apartment a sense of power and ambition. The walls, the ramps and the staircases were made of glass. Inside those walls were long dark markings that meandered throughout the whole rooms. They reminded me of tentacles and perhaps oddly symbolized the ties and reach of the men and women participating in these happenings. Paced lounge music with a strong base echoed perfectly between these glass walls. A large fireplace towered from the floor to the ceiling and clashed elegantly with the modern style, just as the orange and yellow flames on the hearth clashed with the cold rain that was streaking down the glass of the windows. A strong image advocating for gratefulness. I saw the fireplace as a symbol of tradition in a contemporary environment. I secretly hoped the owner of this home offered the same complexity. 

Obviously, I was out of my element, but thankfully, God saw fit to bestow upon my noble existence two peculiar gifts : a witty brain and a fat fucking ass and because I believe God has a sense of humor he thought it would be hilarious to have me use the combination of these attributes in a cocaine fueled-party to understand the birth and the life of a picture famous for that very same ass. An ass for an ass. Jesus.

Penny had already disappeared. A tall woman wearing a waiter’s uniform stood behind a counter. I approached the desk.

• Hi and good evening!

• Hi.

• Would you be kind enough as to give me your name?

• April Rose.

The lady typed my name on her laptop.

• April Rose, $10,000.

• $10 000! I’m at the wrong fucking party, lady, I’ll tell you this much, I got these shoes at the fucking Koreans’.

She leaned over the counter.

• Oh! On 23rd and Main.

• Yeah, that’s the place.

• I’m terribly sorry for the confusion. I should have been more precise. Please forgive me. I have $10,000 in poker chips for you. It has been paid already.

As she spoke, she placed what must have been twenty chips on the counter because the one on the top of the pile read $500. 

• Would you like a box to carry them? 

• Can I put them in my purse?

• You can do with them as you please.

• Really?

• Yes. Of course. Then have one!

I took the first gaming chip on the pile and deposited it in the pocket of her vest. 

A beautiful smile formed on her face. I didn’t know her or anything, but she had a familiar face.

Speaking of familiar, I noticed a bar on the other side of the loft, in the corner backed by the windows. Around forty people had already arrived. They were spread in small groups all throughout the giant open floor. Penny’s voice vibrated in the background. I sat at the bar next to a small man smoking a long cigarette. He summoned the bartender’s attention by hitting his lighter twice on the bar. When he walked up to him, he asked for something I had never heard before in my four years of working at Saladega’s.

• I believe I would care for one of your frivolous vodcaine, dear sir.

• Certainly, the man answered.

The barman turned away, grabbed a bottle of vodka from am ice tank, and poured an ounce into a shot glass with a silver rim.  He placed the shot on a beautiful wooden tray. The small plate had two grooves carved in the wood. In one of the groove there was a metal straw and in the other one there was fair amount of cocaine lined up. The tray was placed in front of the small man who picked up the straw, snorted the whole pile of cocaine, took a drag of his cigarette, downed the shot and blew the smoke. Yummy. I couldn’t help but utter a subtle comment.

• Yee-fucking-ha!  

He turned to me.

• I like to party.

• I see that, I replied.

• I snort cocaine with my nose.

• Yet another undeniable truth. That should be marked in stone.

• Would you like your own vodcaine, lady, they are very trendy amongst rich people?

I don’t do a lot of drugs. Never did. A lot, that is. Never bought it for myself, but very rarely refused it from others. Since this whole ballgame started, I did notice an increasing tendency, but I figured it was just the price to pay in order to slowly integrate the degenerate world of depraved men who devoutly worshiped a picture of my ass. 

The man behind the bar was already preparing the famous cocktail, and I certainly didn’t want his admirable efforts to go to waste, so I accepted the proposition with grace. The concoction was placed in front of me. I placed the straw in my nose, blocked a nostril and just ran it through the trench in the wood. The white powder disappeared in my nose. The drug was stuck between my nose and my throat. I took the shot of vodka and as I swallowed it, the cocaine just breezed through my esophagus. 

The man gave me a cigarette and lit a brass lighter in front me.

• Welcome to Champion’s, he said as the lighting changed.

A famous Russian writer once said that all happy families were alike. For my part, I think that a lot of rich people are alike. They believe they deserve to be rich, and surely some of them do. Poor people also cultivate the same bias. They believe they deserve to be poor, and, again, I believe some of them do. Members of both factions share the belief they deserve their favorable or unfavorable condition. The difference is that one of those acceptances is humbling, and the other one is not. 

That’s exactly the thought process that went through my mind when I first laid eyes on Champion Wilde. The music kicked up, the lights flashed, and this fucking guy appeared at the top of a glass staircase wearing a royal mantle, holding a fucking scepter in one hand and his fucking nut sack in the other. You believe that shit? Everyone laughed heartily as they saw him, but I’m not really sure if this was a joke.

He walked down the stairs under the applause of the crowd. A waiter came and took his cape and staff away. Champion looked around and addressed his guests.

• Ni fucking Hao, bitches. For the few unfortunate individuals that don’t know me, my name is Champion Wilde. This is my poker game and here are some rules. If you're bothered by the cigarette smoke or the drug use, then I am bothered by your presence. Let it be known that my home is the opposite of a safe space for feminists, communists and woke bitches. I have no problem with homosexuality as long as it is between men, blue-haired lesbians annoy the fuck out of me… 

I noticed a few disconcerted looks in the crowd. Champion spoke very slowly and as he did, he carefully watched the faces of the guests in his audience. He was looking for reactions. My bet is he was eager to identify and hone in on the people he was willingly offending. 

• That was a joke. Lighten up people. Lying is encouraged, cheating as well, but only on your significant other, not at the game of poker, especially if you regard self-preservation. 

And there we have it, party people. One of the most important ingredients of amusement. Danger. Is playing poker without the threat of physical violence even worth the effort?

• Feel free to explore my luxurious home, but remember, locked doors are locked for a reason. Ladies and gentlemen, my warmest welcome.

As the last word came out of his mouth, a dozen waiters wearing the same outfit as the girl from the counter came from both sides of the fireplace with their hands full. In their left hand, a plateau filled with what looked like caviar, oysters all mixed in with various drugs such as pills and white powder, and, in their right, a lantern filled with a miniature world of lush greenery, flowers and a glow of fireflies. They placed both items on each table, the lights from the lantern were enchanting, it gave the atmosphere a magical twist. 

I put out my cigarette in an ashtray, asked for a glass of champagne and turned to admire the scenery. Not everyone immediately sat down to play, even though some immediately did. The poker almost seemed secondary, to my great relief. 

The distractions were certainly many in this bordello, so I had to remind myself regularly of my primary objective; unravel the history of the photography. Having already gone through Victor and Hershey, it was now time to subtly seek Champion’s explanation for owning the picture.

Champion was talking in the middle of a circle of guests, Penny was one of them. I noticed she was not paying much attention to the host who, in return, was too self-absorbed to notice a spectator was not listening. Penny’s eyes were seemingly stuck on the man who offered a vodcaine when I first came in. 

I had seen a few guests stray upstairs and decided to walk up the stairs and wander there myself. A mezzanine framed the entire loft. From above, I watched the party. I’d say that half the tables were occupied by players, and the waiters were now serving as card dealers.

Hoping to attract Champion’s attention, I grabbed a poker chip from my purse, and purposefully dropped it on the marble flooring. The sound was crisp and bounced shortly through the entire place as the plastic coin settled on the floor. I waited for my prey to look up and when he did, I looked right back at him with a convincing shameful smile, turned around, bent over to expose my ass to anyone who deigned to glimpse. Hopefully, Champion would be one of them, and he’d consider joining me for a little chat.

Straight ahead was a big living room with black leather couches. I walked in and immediately noted the enormous mural. Absolutely beautiful. It was dark, and only used shades of blue and gray. The painting placed the observer looking down a busy urban boulevard, at the end of which a storm that had already destroyed part of the city was moving forward. I know, paintings don’t move, but that’s exactly how it felt. I noticed the details and spotted a short poem on the left side. 

When the dust twirl in the breeze

And the birds sing a song of peace

I know the storm is coming

When the night rocks the ocean to sleep

And the road ahead is easy to see

Then I know it’s still coming

And when all is right

I’ll always wonder why

I beg for the storm to rise

• What do you think, ass girl, do you like it?

I recognized the voice and the irresistible desire to provoke from the welcoming speech, but decided not to turn to my interlocutor.

• I’m not much of an art critic and I can’t tell the difference between Manet and Monet, but I find this here so fucking absorbing.

He walked up next to me.

• You know why I bought it, ass girl?

• The poem?

• It was the poem. Do you know why I like this poem?

Champion did not look at me as he asked his questions. He was trying to test my strength, and from what I gathered from his speech, he did not appreciate weakness, so I tried to show him his disrespect was ineffective, that my nickname meant nothing to me.

• No idea. I know why I like it, though.

• Tell me.

• It changes the whole perspective on the painting. The event depicted is no longer a tragedy, but perhaps a blessing. Maybe the author sees the world as dull, tedious and uneventful. Maybe this is the chaos he has been waiting for his entire life. Who knows?

Champion didn’t want to show it, but I could tell he was pleased with my answer.

• Do you share this view of the world, ass girl?

• Sometimes I do.

• Tell me.

• I don’t remember much from my childhood today, but I do remember one thing. I remember laying in the grass and staring at the sky. I’d watch the planes come in and out of the clouds, and I just recall feeling very upset.

Maybe by opening up to him, he would be just as willing to open up to me, plus, the painting and the poem truly had a hold on me. 

 

• Upset?

• Yeah, some kind of sadness.

• Why?

• I couldn’t understand why the sky was so big and my world so small. I promised myself that one day my life would be exciting, and I would be the one flying through the sky.

• And, did you?

• No… No. My world is still just as small, and the sky is still just as big, and I never did anything to change that, and that’s my fault. I don’t blame anyone but myself. 

I paused for a second, but even Champion knew I wasn’t quite done explaining myself.

• In a way, I’m waiting for my own storm to rise. Still today, when I see planes soaring, sometimes I have to look away. They remind me all too well. 

• Ever thought of provoking instead of waiting, ass girl?

• I have, and I think that’s why I’m here tonight. When Hershey told me about these happenings, I thought it was a good place to start.  

• Hershey. Ass girl is April! I was told about you.

Alright, enough with my heartaches, let’s get to work.

• Yeah, I met him at the Singapore. He told me about your parties, and I asked him if I could attend. He wanted to help me.

• He also probably wanted to penetrate your asshole with his penis, young stupid one.

• That too, but he quickly revealed his true selfish motive. He did ask me to ask you something face to face.  

• How interesting, ass girl. Do tell. 

Champion sat on the couch, laid his drink in front of him and lit a cigarette. 

• He wanted to know about a picture.

The question must have really surprised him, as Champion displayed his first facial reaction of the night. The surprise slowly gave way to what looked like hidden rage.

• What about it, ass girl? What about the picture?

• He wants to know if you stole it back from him.

• He lost it? Surely, you’re mistaken. 

• I don’t know much about this picture. I’ll tell you exactly what he told me if you’re interested.

• If I’m interested… That’s funny. Yes, I am.

• He said someone stole it from him as he was taking a shit.

• Taking a shit? I bet he was probably masturbating his tiny penis.

• Is masturbating more embarrassing than taking a shit.

• Not for me, but for most people.

• Either way, he said he dropped it on the floor, and someone took it. He was wondering if that someone was you.

I took a moment to enjoy the sheer satisfaction of possessing all the information and meticulously giving it away only to benefit myself. 

• Sadly, it was not. Sadly indeed.

Champion was pensive. 

• How can I know this is not a ruse? A ruse to throw me off, to make me think he doesn’t have the picture anymore.

• Oh, I don’t know. I have no way to prove that. It could very well be. But, I can assure you that if I am used as a tool in his elaborate design, it is against my knowledge.

The voices from the mezzanine distracted Champion for a second. 

• Why do you care so much about this picture? Hershey said there was a hot girl with a fat ass on it. Who gives a fucking fuck? Just google fat ass bitch and you’re all set. 

• No, stupid girl.

• Why the fuck not?

• This picture was different.

• Tell me.

It was my turn to make him talk. 

• The secret to a great erotic picture resides in its amateur quality. You understand, ass girl? When you look at it, you want to feel as if you captured a fragment of a person’s intimacy. Not that a professional photographer took a perfect picture at the perfect moment under the perfect lighting for the whole world to see. I don’t want those, I don’t want to see pictures from Google images, I want to see the blurry picture of a girl’s ass stamped on the car window as she’s blowing a dude.

Champion sat on the couch. As he sat, I noticed he had an enormous erection. 

• This picture was the ultimate nude. It made my dick hard, just thinking about it, from dusk until dawn. I dumped my stupid girlfriend because of that picture. That fat ass, that round ass, the crease of those fat cheeks.

The man closed his eyes, I wasn’t there anymore, it was like I had vanished. He slowly unzipped his pants and let a gigantic erected penis out of his boxers and, oh my fucking God, started stroking it. 

• When I close my eyes, I can still see it. I swear I can still smell it. Her fat fucking ass, I could see myself grabbing her waist and just sliding my big cock in between her but cheeks. Like a hot dog in a bun. 

A few guests walked past the door and noticed Champion stroking his enormous penis. Some laughed, others were a bit shocked.

• I’d push the tip of my dick in her ass, and slowly, just push it all the way in. I’d pull all the way out slowly and just slowly fuck that nasty fucking ass. Slowly fuck it harder, fuck that big fat ass even harder, fuck that nasty fucking ass, faster and faster and just blow my shit right up her fucking ass. Jam my fucking cock right up that ass and just nut in that fucking ass.

Penny walked in just as Champion blew a huge load on the couch, a smaller but still impressive load on the marble floor, and a couple of drops on the glass table in front of him. She tried to understand what was going on, but when she saw my face, she realized as was just as confused as she was. I looked at her, and made her read, I don’t know, on my lips as Champion was still squeezing out the last sperm drops from his softening penis.