VILLAIN INTO VALENTINE: VIRGIL'S TORRID TRANSFORMATION
By Quillon42
It didn't feel miles away to Miss Whitman in this world, the carnation convertible which pulled away from her suite at the Safari. No…as she looked through sheeny shades at what, and especially who, she encountered here, she felt sure of a sudden that she would be in for quite a stay.
There on the other side of the room, looking back at the loudly-dressed lady with a stare ever so unwavering, was a rather demure gentleman in a brown suit, he brandishing something very long and powerful, which would produce an effect of shock and surprise setting her heart to racing.
Waiting for the woman who went by all accounts as Alabama, here, was a man set out to take his target down…but in a manner markedly different than what his master would have him do. Smitten with Whitman, and scarred by what he'd dreamed a couple of hours back, in his motel chair…Virgil's propensity for murder had yielded of late to a predilection for amour.
In this reality, at least, the Virgil who pursued the sordid living that he did…the man got through here more by nepotism than by nefariousness. More particularly, here he was the nephew of one Vincent Cocotti, that vicious, callous mob maestro who sought to vindicate himself and his crew of what was filched from them in the filth of prostitute procurer Drexl's slovenly brothel. Because Virgil was derived more directly from the mafia dignitary in this universe, he could get away with a bit less bloodletting in the day to day deadly drudgery he undertook for his uncle.
The tales that he spun, of offing droves of dames? All of it fantastic fabrication, designed only to dupe those less mentally dexterous than he. Eventually Virge became so versed in his fables of violence that even Uncle Vincent, with all his knowledge of the seventeen pantomimes of male liars and all that crap, couldn't figure out when the younger gangster was fibbing.
Fact was, in truth, here in this reality anyway, he ain't never cut no one off from the mortal coil. Never sliced open anyone's palm with a knife, as he might have in another universe with a certain Worley, Senior; hell, Virgil wasn't even there in the trailer that day, as he was too busy skipping out and engaging in ventures of romance truer than any follies followed through by cockamamie comic book store employees defecting from Detroit.
But see, even this Virgil, he ain't never encountered anyone like Miss Alabama Whitman—nor the nightmares he'd had, in that very motel chair, waiting for her to arrive alongside her beau from Motor City.
At Uncle Vincent's insistence, the younger mobster was to cut his teeth here on the human extermination business with both Clarence and his comely bride. Upon gaining early entry to their suite at the Safari, through cunning and not carnage, mind you, Virgil found he was hours away from their expected arrival…and he allowed himself a short siesta before the loose cannon lovers were to bound on in.
Perhaps it was the Strega he'd pounded down the evening previous, but the horrors he'd seen…one, all too familiar with those who knew this world generally, which involved corkscrews and shampoo and toilet lids and far, far worse…after that several more scenarios completely different, in each of which the boomstick stayed in his control, and with it making pate of the Worley woman, as well as many of Drexl's other call maidens…but not before stabbing and blinding and bludgeoning and slashing and immolating them all, the lighter and aerosol used here before and after the instants of expiration, the implements used later to burn away any evidence of the incidents…
The shock derived from the violence in these vivid whimsies, in the gestalt anyway, all made the man go from goon to gentleman overnight. And in each of the alternatives of this aggregate of his unconscious…there was that vision, that vixen, that cream-haired celestial platinymph whom he wanted more than masses of money, whom he craved more than the most cogent of cocaine.
And now, as said celestial slipped into the suite, she found the shocking surprise of a sorrel-suited sir brandishing something long and powerful, capable of emitting something from its end that could veritably blow the fuck out of someone.
Indeed, the shot of scent from the six cardinal roses Virgil wielded in his two hands…they were sure-fire to floor Alabama within a minute of her meandering into the room. For real it was all the Sunshine State seductress could do to keep her feet this very moment.
"H…hi," she managed, as the babe in blue and pink plunked her bag down upon entry.
"Well, hello there."
A tense instant or three, as the lady didn't ken him from Adam, this trespasser upon her incumbent bliss. And yet…there was something…irresistible about the intruder, be it his bronzed skin, so much more suave than Clarence's pale complexion…or his imposing frame, the mook much more a man than the comic book brat who heretofore was the Mister to her Missus Worley, her world.
Nervously the young woman strutted further into the suite, she opposite the lovestruck Lothario comfortable in his chair, Alabama eying the other warily through her shimmering shades. "Those're some really nahhce flowers…you waytin' for a date?"
"I think she just jaunted on in, to be honest."
He measured her, Virgil clocking the comeliness of her lady's face more than anything, here the man never allowing his eyes to travel anywhere else directly upon her figure, but rather only noting her beauty otherwise from peripherals.
Bama, on the other hand, let her bespectacled gaze linger on various effects of the incomer which gave her pause. The roses were ravishing in their red color and their redolent odor, to be sure…but what else was this stranger packing?
A pause weighty in its intimate rigidity, as the two maintained eye contact for a rather protracted set of seconds, neither of them speaking. Then, Mistress Worley, once more:
"You know, I think you might have the wrong room. I'm here with my husband, and…"
Ignoring this, the other occupant of that steamy suite set aside his scented six-gauge, that half dozen of the most decadently-bloomed stems, and stood to meet, then shadow over the shape of the siren who just graced her way into his personal space, as he dreamed, as he nightmared only in the last hour or so.
The pseudo-assassin assessing the other from arm's length: "You are…incredibly cute."
Unflinchingly lame was the line, but from this man it came off as somewhat at least remotely endearing.
"Do me a favor…could you…could you just…turn around…for me…"
At this request the cagey call girl only lent a look of utter, artificially-grinning uncertainty. Within Miss Whitman, while she whirled in ever-so-slowmo, a war was waged between terror at the man's sheer stature, and whether he was going to entrap her in a way she could not desire, in any context…and titillation at what he radiated from his enamoring presence, and or whether he was going to entice her in a manner she could not resist, under any condition.
It was just as Alabama was about to come full circle to complete her flourishing twirl that Virgil moved in abruptly, shunting down onto her face with a part of him which would feel unwelcome upon the woman when wielded by most.
But with this one particular man, with the way he warped in of a sudden with both his lips coming in, crushing in down upon hers, the manner in which he took her, tamped down upon her by surprise, trundled in somewhat awkwardly, somewhat authoritatively and commandeered her into his embrace.
An instant later, when the Safari succubus realized she was kissing a man, a real mountain of a man for the first time in so many months…she buckled, relented, returned the kiss with even more fervor, even more fever than that which this latent suitor had foisted upon her.
What then ensued was a clumsy cha-cha of incidental violence between the two in this impromptu tryst. Bama barged forward, hurling herself all the more at her amorous attacker, she pushing the man passionately against a wall glazed over with garish, they tripping in part and treading over a lamp as they tumbled, still kissing all the while. Gathering himself up a moment following, Virgil vaulted forward, he thrusting ahead and propelling himself and his leopard-printed-pantsed lady across the room anew and onto the lavish bed near its center.
Through the next several minutes they continued their intimate tussle, each having at the other upon that tackiest of mattresses and finding a release in this furious foreplay that neither had known for such a spell. That faux-superhero whom the Detroit damsel had known, he was but a cipher in the balancing of her biological black book now.
Upon settling between the sheets, each still clothed in his or her respective apparel and aphrodisia, Alabama undulated for a second, she slinking back into the arms of this appetent assassin while he was all too eager to gather herself into his embrace.
"You know…it just feels so good to be able to drop the whole act, in here."
An uncomprehending countenance from her partner in passion. "What act?"
The lady of the maize mane fixed her sapphire eyes flirtingly upon her new fellow. "The accent I've been perpetrating upon that poor fool I came out here with."
"Who…Clarence?"
Bama chuffed a laugh. "Yayup!" she drawled sarcastically. "…Ahh.
"My real name's Alicia, in all actuality. I just took on the Alabama alias as a sort of…persona of pleasure, if you will."
Virgil fixed a sardonic look of his own upon this mistress who would take him away from the mob. "…Huh.
"Maybe I could use a change'a personhood, myself."
"I could see it, my man." She smiled a mile wide at the sudden thought. "…I got it. From now on, in honor of my own hometown, you'll be my Tallahassee Tony."
The massively-mellowed hitlessman said nothing at this but, only grinning by now, hushed his lady into his arms, holding her softly, suavely.
After another concourse of coitus between the two, the eased-up enforcer excused himself to use the restroom a second.
A few meandering minutes later, Virgil emerging again into the boudoir, he thumbing back at the loo and shaking his head.
"Can you believe this shit? They have a lighter and an aerosol can, just sitting there on the counter. Like, shit; it's all like, 'Honey, I'm sure what we're supposed to do with this road flare and barrel of fuckin' petroleum near to the sink in the bat'room n' all, but…!'"
His perky paramour laughed heartily at this, neither anywhere near knowing the unspeakable atrocities that might have gone down in another universe. "Oh, my mob of a man, you are just too much!"
After yet another phase of fornication, upon simmering down…
"So, uh…Alabama…
"Is there anything you, ah…don't do?"
The horniest hitman hazarded a glance down to his lap shortly after saying this last. In turn, his lady looked upon him long and knowingly.
"Welllll…" said the canny call girl, whipping her wheaty hair around, "I can be one to have…cannoli from time to time…
"…but I'm 'fraid that first…you, sir, are gonna hafta to eat a lotta pie."
As the most carnal of consumptions had commenced in that cornily-contrived chamber, a certain individual who was most entirely inundated with illegal inebriation had initiated the use of an invention which he had hoped would bring world peace in the most druggingly disarming kind of way.
"Gonna bring a fuckin' bender to the whole West Coast all at once!"
With that, the cannabis choked fool known as Floyd cranked a lever, causing clusters upon clusters of chronic to churn out of what he had christened the Weedmill.
(Well, the lazing lout had to be doing something with his time, apart from stoning himself, all these years!)
As clouds of cheeba not assuming the name Sonny had conglomerated into the ether, infiltrating the otherwise addled air of California, certain individuals slowed in their manic motions.
Cocotti and his Sicilian associates all inhaled the errant herb, and found that they didn't entirely mind that their limousine driver had dozed off and deposited their entire party into a drainage ditch off some byway in the midst of the City of Angels. Their minds had migrated from managgia to mangia, as they staved off their vendetta against the wayward dregs from Detroit to fixate instead on where they could score some good biscotti for a midday binge.
Clarence went from chase to cruise control speed in his chintzy convertible, he discovering an unavoidable distraction in the containers of ice cream he was bringing back to the Inn for Alabama. Pulling over a few miles later, the crazed comics cashier reached frantically for his frozen treats, he devouring the desserts in a dilated-eyed daze.
Even the craven, debased Balki that was now Eliot Blitzer slowed down ever so drastically in his drug run, he still stopped by the cops but the latter discovering nothing on the former by the time they reached him, as in his own reefer-fueled hunger he had chugged his entire cocaine bag down before he even came to a complete stop.
By the time the haze of hashish had slithered over to the Safari, both Bama and her new stud from Sicily were slathering each other over with saliva once more, though this time in a much cozier corner of the suite.
HSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS went the showerhead's steamy emission as it rained down over this most unlikely Romeo and Juliet and they jostled against one another.
"TallaVirgil…we're washing up with our clothes on!"
The formerly solitary assassin could only shrug in their drugged-up daze.
"Yeah, well…I figured this was only our first date and everything, so…"
As it so happened, their lust was not exactly overtly consummated once more in the bath…yet both still made strides as they grinded under the running rush, his lurid suit pants hard against her leopardskin.
On emerging from the slovenly lavatory a stint later, Virge and Bama were both so baked that not only was the frau from Florida launching into loads of her patented cartwheels…her besotted beau too was flipping all around also, as best he could, the bastard barreling into the most bumbling tumblesauces which mostly resulted in his wrecking the place in a most incidental, accidental way.
Eventually the lovers collided into one another, around the center of the suite. By now each was exhausted to the point that he and she alike could pass out in one another's arms.
So had matters settled between Bama and her new bambino. What transpired toe to toe betwixt them in another reality was nowhere near the tender torridity that took place in this instance.
As in that mainstream rendition, however, here too it befell the geek who gazed at a ton of graphic novels too many to happen onto the scene now, he creeping in with his minuscule pistol and peeping in with superb stupefaction at what went on here.
Clarence was, in any case, too concussed at his core to be able to act out in any overly aggressive way. He could only stand alongside and cringe at the couple before him as they uncuddled and uncoupled before him, each other recover his or her personal effects before taking leave of the Safari entirely.
"Baah…Baah…" was all the mewling manling could make out, sheepishly in more ways than one, the wussy Worley unable to make out his wife's name in full as that dream mistress of millet hair faded into becoming a milky mirage before him. By this point, both Ala nor Talla were so high—on one another more than any depressant drug—that they regarded the dinky Detroiter as nothing more than a mere annoyance.
Finally, though, as the trysting twosome was halfway to Virgil's classy, snazzy sedan:
"Hhh…but Bama! I stole for you! Killed for you!
"Worst of all and most drastically, gave up my swinging bachelorhood for you!"
Spinning around with pity in her pixie's pupils, Alicia looked sadly at the spiky-haired sucker. "Yes, ah know, Clairince, and thayt was aww so swaate…" she crooned, playing up her Southern schtick to eleven.
"But ahh jes' have a new engayggement ahh have to tind to…"
And with that, as well as a hand of hers clamping down her wedding band softly into the schmuck's open palm, Alabama went back from Worley to Whitman.
She looked back dolefully upon Clarence, just before her new man cleared out the parking lot.
"Yeau kin at leest eatcher vanilla ahhce cream and pretind it's mah aysss…"
…
In the end, the girl was gracious enough to leave a few bags of blow for the bobo to liquidate all on his own.
As the new most prurient pair pulled off into the sunset, Virgil to his vixen:
"You know, your ass really tastes more like…Rocky fuckin' Road."
A beat; then from the blonde:
"Well, your ass tastes like…like…
"Like ass."
Alabama had the impulse a second to say "like eggplant," but although she was cognizant of the scandalous Sicilian lore that Clarence's father knew, she refrained from responding in this manner out of decency as well as political correctness, which just popped up just around this time anyway.
"Wow. That was really inspired."
Flicking a smarmy look across at her lover for his comment, Alabama once more:
"You're all cannoli and caramel, my man. That's your sweet bits, and what they taste like. Cannoli, and your ass is all caramel."
It would turn out that beyond that illuminating evening, whereupon Alabama and Virgil had each found the most feverish love of his or her life heretofore, the two would continue to burn for one another…for all of about another month. Then they found too many differences had come between them. But through and through it all, the only form of fighting from one to the other was via words alone; the violence was only spoken and never slugged out, it all in actuality being played out entirely through methods more verbal than Keyser Soze. (Nevermind.)
By this juncture, at any rate, the pair had pooled resources to be able to escape the reach of everyone from government men to gangster mofos to geeky morons like Clarence. Because comic books…what brainless imbeciles read those anyway?
(Be sure, by the way, to catch this author's final few X-Men fan stories which he will be most enthusiastically be posting between now and June 2015!)
In any case, Alabama and Virgil, Alicia and Tallahassee, the couple closed out all accounts with one another in a dalliance of days. In the end, they managed to score a slew of money for the cocaine they carried, and out of pure gentlemanliness the Sicilian swain allowed his lady to come away with seventy percent to his thirty. After a graceful goodbye from one to the other, Virge veered on to another town, in the jurisdiction of Altmania, where he assumed the alias Walter and by incredible coincidence won the acquaintance, then the amatory favor, of a woman named Lilly who would have been Bama's very own sister in another universe. This affair also was short lived, as here the man endured more punishing treatment through tremendously terrible dialogue than the physical terrors he would have undergone if he had aggressed against Alabama back at the Safari.
Ultimately the Sicilian squire rode away from this town as well, and found a new and lasting home in the grand old Garden State. Out of nostalgia for that bountiful blonde with whom he trysted so tempestuously, the tough guy who was once Tallahassee decided on Tony for his new handle. And even the choice of his new signora of saffron locks was influenced by his misadventures through the City of Angels, as this new lady's name too would always make him think of what Alicia said a certain comfy section of him had tasted like.