The Winner: Part Six

I am laying naked on a bed with three-hundred threadcount sheets in the presidential suite of the Marriott. There is a bottle of White Zinfindel sitting on the nightstand, which I am drinking out of one of the glass tumblers that came in the room daintly wrapped up in tissue paper with breath mints next to them. My dick is shriveling its way out of a condom filled with my own spunk. I'll take it off my crotch and toss it into the toilet in a moment. Right now the bathroom is occupied by some blonde Romanian girl who says her name is Helena, who is busy getting dressed. Her friend, who says her name is Jenna, sits naked at the foot of the bed, watching "A Charlie Brown Christmas" on the television.

"Poor Charlie Brown," Jenna says to me in a heavy Eastern Bloc accent. "He get no respect from Lucy! A woman should be respectful of man at all times."

"I agree," I say, sipping more White Zinfindel which tastes sweeter than wine probably should taste. A commercial starts and Jenna hops up and starts putting her panties back on and I take one last look at the most perfect ass that has ever sat on my face. These past three hours with Jenna and Helena, I have done things that I thought only happened to Rocco Siffredi. These two girls are without a doubt the best lays I've ever had. They fucked me in ways I never dreamed of, not to mention that they both suck dick like they had a gun to their head. Before tonight, I hadn't had sex (with a woman) in almost a year. This was a hell of a way to break a streak.

Helena comes out of the bathroom and she is now fully dressed. Jenna is too almost. "It is very nice introduced to you Mr. Poopy," Helena says. "Us have fun time tonight. Do again sometime, yes?"

"Sure," I say between sips of wine. "I've got the card from the agency." Helena and Jenna still stand there looking at me expectantly. "Oh yes," I say, as I reach down to my pants that are laying next to the bed and get out my money clip. I hand them each a thousand dollars and they give me a coy smile as they take it.

"Thank you very much, Poopy," they say as they head for the door. "We do again sometime. Bye bye."

"'Bye," I say after them, but the door has already closed behind them. I am now alone in my suite that costs seven hundred dollars a night, half buzzed off of bad wine with a used rubber on my crotch watching "A Charlie Brown Christmas". And although I have just had what is probably the best sex of my short life surrounded in opulence, a desperate thought crawls into my brain.

Is this it? Is this all there really is?

If anything, this is a result of the fact that the last two weeks of my life have flashed by so quickly I haven't had barely any time to collect my thoughts. The next day after I claimed my prize in the lottery, there was the usual press conference where I shook the lottery commissioner's hand and accepted one of those giant prop-checks for three-million dollars. Then I had to field the boring questions from the reporters like "How does it feel to win?" "What do you plan to do with money?" etc. etc. I gave them a couple un-eloquent responses and I was afraid that one of them would ask me about my time in jail. None of them did. Most of the reporters were gone before the cameras stopped shooting.

As soon as the press conference was over, the lottery people took their three-million dollar check back and had me fill out paperwork and such. See, it turns out that when you win three-million dollars, you don't really win three-million dollars. After all the taxes are taken out, I really only received about 1.6 million dollars. It could have been 1.8 if I'd opted for an annuitized pay-out when I bought the ticket, but I wasn't going to sweat it. It was still more money than I'd ever seen in my life, and if I invested it right, it might last me the rest of my life.

Right after I was done with the press conference, I went to the nearest payphone and called my boss, Sergei, and told him what I'd won and that I quit and that I was never stepping foot in his shitty drug motel again. Instead of cussing me out in Russian, Sergei acted understanding. In fact he was apologetic about the way he'd treated me while I worked there and wondered if we could talk some business now, as equals. Yes, money is the great equalizer, and I now had more of it than him. Besides, Sergei has ties to the Russian mob. Maybe they had something interesting for me, so I offered to meet up with him later in the week.

It turns out, one of Sergei's mob buddies was selling stolen luxury cars, complete with forged titles and everything. "You don't want Lexus," Sergei's cigar chomping buddy told me. "Lexus is for peasants! Here, Mercedes-Benz is for you; S-Class. Fine automobile. You like?"

For fifteen grand off the sticker price, yes, I liked.

The three of us sealed the deal with a shot vodka which they claimed was "Russia's finest" but it tasted like embalming fluid to me. Sergei then slipped me a business card for the escort service I am using tonight "In case you have any other need to be taken care of. These girls are the finest, very obedient." I thanked him, then left the garage, driving my new Mercedes up and down the freeway for an hour until the thrill of owning a car again wore off. I was driving the car home when I realized that leaving the my new car parked in front of my house in beaner-town probably wasn't the wisest idea. I found a garage that would let me park overnight, then ended up taking the bus back home. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

I spent the next week looking for a new place to stay and trying to arrange the gastric bypass operation for my mother. The new pad was no problem. I didn't so much have to find a real estate agent as bat them away once word of my lottery winnings became public. I am in the process of buying a four bedroom loft downtown that I will be able to move into next week after the current owners clear their stuff out. Finding a place to do the surgery for my mom was more of a problem...

I made an appointment with a doctor to consult with my mother about gastric bypass surgery. Her history of alcohol abuse had weakened her stomach lining, making her ineligible for the treatment. She cried as I drove her home in my new car, her weight causing the passenger side to sag (Christ, I hope that bitch didn't fuck up the shocks...) and I tried to explain to her there were other options. Unfortunately, I had no idea what those options were.

She sat around on the couch the next few days, doing nothing but stuff her face with box after box of Godiva chocolates and watch TV (which I upgraded to a 72" plasma with digital cable and a PS3 so I can watch Blu-Ray discs). I looked online for doctors that might be able to overlook her years of alcohol abuse when finally, I stumbled across the site of this place in Argentina called The Body Eternal Medical Spa and Resort. The site was kind of vague; you had to go through screen after screen of the company's "philosophy" which was basically that technology had made the natural state of the body and will obsolete, blah, blah, blah, but apparently the place was popular with many Hollywood celebrities whose quotes were all over the page. I typed my address into their site and in two days they DHL'd me a packet outlining their services. The plan they had was pricey (coming out to a quarter million dollars) but all inclusive, covering liposuction, plastic surgery, skin removal, skeletal sculpting, implants, anything and everything one could want to change with their body.

I showed the information to my mother and she immediately snapped out of her depressive funk. "That's exactly what I'm looking for, Poopy! But it's so expensive...would you really do it for me?"

"Of course, Mom," I said. "Nothing is too good for you." At the very least, it would get me out of my hair for a month so I could party it up with my new found money.

The clinic had spots open within a week, so I overnighted the paperwork and a certified check to the resort. I spent another fifteen thousand on an expidited passport and plane tickets to Argentina (it was so expensive because, due to my mother's size, I had to purchase two first class seats for her). I drove her to the airport on Friday and walked with her up to the security checkpoint.

"Just think," she said. "When you see me again, I'll be a whole new me!" She started giggling and dropped the three Left Behind books she was taking with her to read on the plane. Since I could do it much faster, I bent over and picked them up for her.

"Yes," I said. "A whole new you. For the money I shelled out, this place better be everything the fucking pamphlets made it out to be."

"Don't swear, praise be."

I waved a valet and arranged for a motorized cart to take her from the security checkpoint to her gate, since just the walk from the parking garage pretty much had her winded. "I'm so nervous flying on a plane. I haven't done it since I was a little girl. You don't think it will crash, do you?"
"Statistically, you're safer in a plane than on the highway. We should head over to the checkpoint before the line gets too long."

She nervously fiddled with her oxygen pack. "They won't think this is a bomb, will they? What if they think I'm one of those heathen Muslim terrorists?"

"Relax, mom. I'm sure they've seen those things before and no one is going to mistake you for a terrorist. Now let's get going."

I'd nearly nudged her along to the line when she stops again. "Poopy, won't you be lonely for Christmas?"

"Don't worry about me," I said. "I'll be fine for Christmas. Now hurry or you'll miss your flight. I love you."

"I love you too, Poopy," she said as I got her in the line and ran off before she could stop me again. "Praise be," I heard her call out to me as I walked away.

For the first couple days, it was nice to have the house to myself. I'm trying to love my mom again after hating her for so many years, but I have to admit, she's annoying to have around all the time. I just sat around and watched movies on my new TV, happy to have some space to myself for a change.

But she was right. Being all by myself, I was feeling lonely.

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I check out of the hotel shortly after the whores leave. Sure, I suppose I could rent the suite out for the rest of the week until I close on the loft, but there is still something about the familiarity of home that comforts me. I'd been trying all this time to leave that place, and now I feel nostalgic for it. Go figure.

The valet pulls up with my Mercedes and I tip him twenty bucks. I drive out of downtown and start heading down Harper Road, which is the fastest way to my house. Over the space of a few blocks, you can practically see the socio-economic demographics shift just by the business signs. It fades from Starbucks, Chipotle, and Panera Bread to E-Z Pawn and Shawanda's Braids & Pagers. Home sweet home.

I pass Friday's Gentleman's Club, which I haven't been to since I won the lottery. I haven't even thought of poor, homely Apple for the past two weeks, but I haven't forgotten her either. Thinking of her now floods my mind with melancholy thoughts. Well, what else was I going to do? I do an illegal U-turn (and get honked at by several people in the process) and drive back to Friday's. I figured I'd just go in for a second to see if Apple is there.

I pay fifteen dollars to the same Greek who was working the door the last time I stopped in. His eyes widen as I peel another one-hundred dollar bill off my roll. "Can you change this for me?"

"Sure," he says. "Whaddya want? Ones or five?"

"Fives," I say. He reaches into his register, counts out twenty of them, and pushes them across the counter to me. I push three back to him, "Keep it."

"Thank you, sir," he says.

I scoop up the rest and head into the club. Since it's not a holiday, there are more, ahem, gentlemen (most of them look like Mexican construction workers) than there were the last time, as well as more dancers. I find an empty table and scan the room, looking for my beloved Apple.

"What would you like to drink?" I look up and it's the same fucking waitress from the last time I was here. She's smirking. She must remember me from last time I was here.

"Coca-Cola," I say, sneering. I wasn't gonna let this bitch get the upper hand this time.

She flutters her eyes and shuffles off to get my overpriced soda. I keep looking around the room for Apple, but I don't see her. Some Chinese stripper comes up to me and asks in (barely) English if I want a lapdance. I shoo her off; I'm not interested in these other girls. My dick is so drained from workout given to me by those two hookers that it's probably impossible for me to get an erection.

The waitress bitch comes back with my soda. "Five dollars, please."

I pull out my roll of fives and count out four of them. I put one on her tray, "This is for the drink," I lay another one down. "This is for my second drink," I lay another one out. "This is for you," then I put the last one down. "And this is to insure I don't have to see your ugly ass again the rest of the night."

"You know, I can have you thrown out of here for being rude to me..."

"Go ahead," I sneer. "Throw me out."

The waitress goes up to one of the huge black bouncers and starts pointing at me and yelling something I can't hear over the Franz Ferdinand they're blasting. He comes over to the table, his face looking grave. "Sir, could you please come with me?"

"Don't worry, I'm no trouble at all," I peel another Ben Franklin off my roll and hand it to him. "What's your name?"

His grave expression gave way to a shocked one. "Muh name is...Barry, sir."

"Well Barry, if you could do me a favor and make sure she doesn't bother me the rest of the night, I'd much appreciate it."

"Yes sir. Absolutely sir. You don't have to worry 'bout dat."

"Oh, and is there a girl named Apple working here tonight?"

"Yep, she workin'," Barry says. "She gettin' off soon, but I think she's gonna do one more rotation."

"Thank you very much, Barry," I say. I sit back down and watch with pleasure as Barry goes back to the waitress and explains there's no way he's throwing me out of the club after I hooked him up with a hundred bucks. His explanation doesn't seem to placate her much. She walks away red in the face to go and whine about the situation with her co-workers. This, of course, will work to my advantage. When they find out I'm tossing hundred dollar bills around like they're singles, I'll be sure to get the five star treatment. It only takes a trip to titty bar to learn how much power money gives you.

I sat down at my table, sip my Coca-Cola and shoo off three strippers trying to hit me up for lapdances. I guess word gets around this place fast. After a few minutes of watching girls gyrate on the stages from afar, I feel a hand touch my shoulder. I look up and its Apple. She's wearing a very short miniskirt, heels that are way too small for her feet (her toes hang over the end of her shoes) and a black bikini top that does nothing to cover the stretchmarks on her belly.

"Hiii," she says warmly. "I heard you wanted to see me."

"Yes, I do," I say. I push the other chair at the table out with my shoe. "Sit down."

Apple sits down and sets her tiny purse on the table. I frown a bit when she pulls out a pack of cigarettes and pops one in between her lips, but I'm not about to complain. "So, why did you ask to see little ole me out of this whole place?"

"I...I just...I like you," I say, suddenly getting flummoxed. I guess all my money doesn't keep me from getting my tongue twisted up. "I liked you a lot the last time I was in here. Do you remember me at all?"

"Sure I do," she says, smiling between drags on her cigarette. Her smoke is making my eyes water. "Your the fella who had the funny name. Your Snoopy, right?"

"Poopy," I correct her, then I get really self-conscious. "What's so funny about my name?"

"Nothin'," Apple says. "Its just not a name that much people have. So, did you want a lapdance, Poopy?"

"No. I just want to talk with you," I say. Apple looks disappointed she didn't make a sale, so I pull a hundred dollar bill out of my pocket and hand it to her to make talking with me worth her time.

"Thank you," she says, smiling demurely as she folds the crisp bill into her purse. "I haven't made that much money tonight. This will help."

"No problem," I say. "A beautiful girl like you should be making all the money in this place."

"That's a nice thing to say," she says, puffing some more on her cigarette. "Thing is, I really need the money. The doctor at the free clinic says my little baby Kevin has an ear infection, and I got to buy him some medicine or he might not be hear right when he gets grown. And that stuff is so expensive..."

Watching Apple from across the table, I want to do nothing more than devour her. I want to be inside her. I want her to be inside me. This was beyond love and lust. I wanted to own Apple's soul.
That said, when she started mentioning "sick babies" and all that crap, I realized she was starting the whole stripper's hustle and I wasn't gonna fall for it. I needed to show her I was different from all the other guys in this place. I had to get her away from work somehow. I shouldn't forget, this is nothing but a job to her.

"So, Barry over there says you're about to go home. Would you like me to give you a ride?"

She shakes her head. "Sorry sweetie, but the club calls me a cab to take me home. But thank you."

"How about we just hang out some place?" I say. "I really like you."

"Sorry, I have to go home and take care of my babies. They've been home alone all day," she says.

I'm getting desperate. "What if I paid you a thousand dollars? Could you leave them alone for just a little bit longer?"

"I...I can't," she says, though I can see in her eyes she's considering it. "It's against the club's rules to see a customer away from work. I could get fired..."

"I'm not gonna tell them," I say. "What about two-thousand dollars? You could buy your baby his ear medicine for months with that."

Her eyes get wide and I can practically hear the words "two-thousand dollars" rattling around her head like marbles. "You seriously want to give me that much money?" she says, bewildered.

I nod my head. "More than anything."

Apple finally snuffs her nasty cigarette out in the ashtray. "All right. I'll do it."