John - Transmogrifying
(Rated PG-13)
The bar wasn't that crowded when he arrived. But now the music was thumping and he could scarcely see across the room, let alone to the end of the bar. He had come here to find himself again. Who knew that 9 months undercover would make him lose himself so much?
To look at him, one would never guess him to be a spy. He was too young looking; people usually guessed him to be in his early 20's. It was all the product of good genes that he was almost 31 and still could pass as a college student. He was very good looking, had dark wavy hair with the most startling blue eyes, which helped him pick up just about any girl he wanted.
Tonight he wasn't planning on finding company; he was finding himself. He wanted to remember how good American beer tasted. He wanted a greasy hamburger with all of the fixings and a plate of French fries with ketchup. He wanted to smoke a pack of Camels and eat with his forked turned up. He wanted to be American.
He'd had plenty of ice-cold vodka and Turkish cigarettes. He'd had too much heavy dark bread and borscht. He'd had enough of diesel fumes, snow, and bitter cold to last him a lifetime.
Nine months posing as a grad student in Russia had taken a toll on Carl Hemphell. He was completely ready to shed to skin of Maxim Vatolosk, physics student at the University of Moscow, studying fusion theory under the famed Professor Milenkev. He didn't want to be Carl the Spy, smuggling scientific advancements out of Russia for the benefit of the CIA. He wanted to be Carl tonight, just Carl from St. Paul, with an older brother Tom and two younger sisters, Mandy and Amelia.
So he had come here, to the Plantation in Richmond, VA, after his debriefing, to find himself. He had his thick cheeseburger and platter of fries, and it had tasted wonderful. He was on his third or fourth beer, cold and golden and foamy, and it was better than he remembered. The music was seeping into his skin and he was amazed that he understood the lyrics without translation. His mastery of the Russian language was impressive, especially for the short time he had studied it, but he found that he had the most trouble when listening to music. The words just didn't make sense and went by too quickly for him to understand them in Russian.
He appreciated the scenery around him, everyone in jeans, dancing and having a good time. It was so comfortable and normal and he relished it. And he planned on sitting on the bar stool all night.
Then she walked in.
And every male in the place took notice. She exuded confidence and sex and looked the part, strawberry blonde hair that almost reached her waist, a denim skirt that was barely legal, legs that reached to heaven. She walked like a model, a defined sway of the hips, shoulders back and her black shirt unbuttoned low enough to see hints of her fire engine red bra. She strode up to the bar, grabbed his pack of Camels, took one and the light he offered and headed straight into the middle of the dance floor. Only then did Carl realize that she had arrived by herself.
He tried to avoid looking at her, but she seemed to be dancing for just him, despite the number of potential partners that flocked around her. She maintained eye contact and smiled a small, knowing smile.
He gulped down his beer and signaled for another as she danced. His jeans were becoming tighter just watching her.
He turned away and proceeded to smoke three cigarettes in a row, between gulps of beer. He got up to use the men's room, leaving a half finished beer and his cigarettes in his spot, hoping that was enough to signal that the stool was taken. The bartender, Jake, gave a nod that he would keep the seat open for him.
He wove back through the crowd toward the bar, only to find his stool occupied by her.
"I was keeping your seat warm for you," she drawled. Her southern accent was not deep but just added to her sexiness. She started to get up from the stool, but he motioned her to stay. The guy to the right got up and headed for the dance floor and Carl took his stool instead.
"Thank you," he paused hoping she would fill in her name.
"Catherine, but you can call me Catie," she offered as she took another of his cigarettes.
"Can I get you a drink?" he asked.
"Whiskey, with a beer chaser."
"You got it." He motioned Jake over and placed an order for both of them. The drinks arrived and he lifted his whiskey in salute, clinked her glass and watched in amazement as she downed the shot in one swallow. She didn't even shudder as most girls would, or immediately reach for the beer.
"My name is Carl," he offered as he lit another cigarette for her.
"You're not from around here," Catie stated, "You sound like a Yankee."
"I am. Born and raised in St. Paul, Minnesota."
"What are you doing in Richmond?"
"Here on business." He finished his beer and signaled for another. Then he felt her hand on his and she leaned over and commanded, "Dance with me."
The music had slowed and she pulled him to the dance floor. She draped herself on him like a new shirt, and they stood on the floor, barely moving. Carl had never been more turned on. He leaned in to kiss her and was met ferociously. She tasted of sin, like cigarettes, whiskey, and beer, and her lips devoured his as he pulled her closer with a groan. She moved against him like a cat and matched his passion. They finally realized that the slow song had ended after being bounced about by dancers moving to the new beat.
They moved back to the bar and he ordered up another couple of beers. She excused herself to the ladies room and he couldn't help but watch as she swayed toward the restroom. He hoped that she would return and not skip out.
She did return and they managed to carry on a conversation for another hour or so until last call. By the time the bar closed they could barely keep their hands off of one another, and she suggested they return to her apartment, which was close by.
He agreed, hazy with beer and sex. She led him up to her third floor apartment. They were barely inside the door when they attacked each other again. Clothes were removed as they headed to the bedroom. She excused herself to the bathroom; he figured she was going to get birth control. He pulled a condom out of his wallet and proceeded to finish getting undressed. Catie immerged from the bathroom wearing only her red bra and matching panties.
She moved to the bed and straddled his lap, pushing him against the headboard. She leaned in and kissed him deeply.
The police found him three days later, propped up against the headboard with a bullet wound to the temple.
(Rated PG-13)
The bar wasn't that crowded when he arrived. But now the music was thumping and he could scarcely see across the room, let alone to the end of the bar. He had come here to find himself again. Who knew that 9 months undercover would make him lose himself so much?
To look at him, one would never guess him to be a spy. He was too young looking; people usually guessed him to be in his early 20's. It was all the product of good genes that he was almost 31 and still could pass as a college student. He was very good looking, had dark wavy hair with the most startling blue eyes, which helped him pick up just about any girl he wanted.
Tonight he wasn't planning on finding company; he was finding himself. He wanted to remember how good American beer tasted. He wanted a greasy hamburger with all of the fixings and a plate of French fries with ketchup. He wanted to smoke a pack of Camels and eat with his forked turned up. He wanted to be American.
He'd had plenty of ice-cold vodka and Turkish cigarettes. He'd had too much heavy dark bread and borscht. He'd had enough of diesel fumes, snow, and bitter cold to last him a lifetime.
Nine months posing as a grad student in Russia had taken a toll on Carl Hemphell. He was completely ready to shed to skin of Maxim Vatolosk, physics student at the University of Moscow, studying fusion theory under the famed Professor Milenkev. He didn't want to be Carl the Spy, smuggling scientific advancements out of Russia for the benefit of the CIA. He wanted to be Carl tonight, just Carl from St. Paul, with an older brother Tom and two younger sisters, Mandy and Amelia.
So he had come here, to the Plantation in Richmond, VA, after his debriefing, to find himself. He had his thick cheeseburger and platter of fries, and it had tasted wonderful. He was on his third or fourth beer, cold and golden and foamy, and it was better than he remembered. The music was seeping into his skin and he was amazed that he understood the lyrics without translation. His mastery of the Russian language was impressive, especially for the short time he had studied it, but he found that he had the most trouble when listening to music. The words just didn't make sense and went by too quickly for him to understand them in Russian.
He appreciated the scenery around him, everyone in jeans, dancing and having a good time. It was so comfortable and normal and he relished it. And he planned on sitting on the bar stool all night.
Then she walked in.
And every male in the place took notice. She exuded confidence and sex and looked the part, strawberry blonde hair that almost reached her waist, a denim skirt that was barely legal, legs that reached to heaven. She walked like a model, a defined sway of the hips, shoulders back and her black shirt unbuttoned low enough to see hints of her fire engine red bra. She strode up to the bar, grabbed his pack of Camels, took one and the light he offered and headed straight into the middle of the dance floor. Only then did Carl realize that she had arrived by herself.
He tried to avoid looking at her, but she seemed to be dancing for just him, despite the number of potential partners that flocked around her. She maintained eye contact and smiled a small, knowing smile.
He gulped down his beer and signaled for another as she danced. His jeans were becoming tighter just watching her.
He turned away and proceeded to smoke three cigarettes in a row, between gulps of beer. He got up to use the men's room, leaving a half finished beer and his cigarettes in his spot, hoping that was enough to signal that the stool was taken. The bartender, Jake, gave a nod that he would keep the seat open for him.
He wove back through the crowd toward the bar, only to find his stool occupied by her.
"I was keeping your seat warm for you," she drawled. Her southern accent was not deep but just added to her sexiness. She started to get up from the stool, but he motioned her to stay. The guy to the right got up and headed for the dance floor and Carl took his stool instead.
"Thank you," he paused hoping she would fill in her name.
"Catherine, but you can call me Catie," she offered as she took another of his cigarettes.
"Can I get you a drink?" he asked.
"Whiskey, with a beer chaser."
"You got it." He motioned Jake over and placed an order for both of them. The drinks arrived and he lifted his whiskey in salute, clinked her glass and watched in amazement as she downed the shot in one swallow. She didn't even shudder as most girls would, or immediately reach for the beer.
"My name is Carl," he offered as he lit another cigarette for her.
"You're not from around here," Catie stated, "You sound like a Yankee."
"I am. Born and raised in St. Paul, Minnesota."
"What are you doing in Richmond?"
"Here on business." He finished his beer and signaled for another. Then he felt her hand on his and she leaned over and commanded, "Dance with me."
The music had slowed and she pulled him to the dance floor. She draped herself on him like a new shirt, and they stood on the floor, barely moving. Carl had never been more turned on. He leaned in to kiss her and was met ferociously. She tasted of sin, like cigarettes, whiskey, and beer, and her lips devoured his as he pulled her closer with a groan. She moved against him like a cat and matched his passion. They finally realized that the slow song had ended after being bounced about by dancers moving to the new beat.
They moved back to the bar and he ordered up another couple of beers. She excused herself to the ladies room and he couldn't help but watch as she swayed toward the restroom. He hoped that she would return and not skip out.
She did return and they managed to carry on a conversation for another hour or so until last call. By the time the bar closed they could barely keep their hands off of one another, and she suggested they return to her apartment, which was close by.
He agreed, hazy with beer and sex. She led him up to her third floor apartment. They were barely inside the door when they attacked each other again. Clothes were removed as they headed to the bedroom. She excused herself to the bathroom; he figured she was going to get birth control. He pulled a condom out of his wallet and proceeded to finish getting undressed. Catie immerged from the bathroom wearing only her red bra and matching panties.
She moved to the bed and straddled his lap, pushing him against the headboard. She leaned in and kissed him deeply.
The police found him three days later, propped up against the headboard with a bullet wound to the temple.