The presidential suite at the Swankforth Hotel in Manhattan had been comped, the manager having realized that whenever Disco Werewolf spent the night, booking rates throughout the rest of the building doubled, as tourists were willing to pay top dollar in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the furry beast with the happenin’ feet.
The room was luxurious, with wide, spacious sitting areas, alcoves filled with priceless works of art, and soft, white couches. At the moment, it was also filled with women. Women on the furniture. Women on the floor. Sleepy women who were in the process of catching a few extra winks. Wide awake women who watched television. Virtuous women who chatted about the possibility of marrying Disco Werewolf and moving to the suburbs. Golddigging women who feasted on free room service and loaded their purses with complimentary shrimp puffs. Women who were too old to be there, middle aged women who had most likely told their husbands they were somewhere else, and young women in the prime of their lives, who tended to be Old DW’s favorite. Fully clothed women, scantily clad women, women who had called first dibs on the free bathrobes. Women who were so exquisite they were not embarrassed to strut about in their altogether. Women of all shapes, sizes and colors. Blondes, brunettes, redheads, white, black, Asian, and every other color of the rainbow.
By 4 a.m., Disco Werewolf’s private bedroom was filled with the crème de la crème of women. Supermodels, bikini team members, aspiring starlets, and hot babes galore. Those who came late to the party found spots on the floor. The ones who considered themselves lucky filled the large, stately bed to capacity. Some laid over the covers, some under. Some snuggled together. Others preferred their space.
Disco Werewolf was long gone. In the center of the action laid a scrawny, goofy looking, pencil-necked dweeb with unkempt black hair. The teen was a couple inches under six feet, barely had a single muscle to his name, and his ribs could be played like a xylophone. Even worse, he had a cowlick that, try as he might, never stayed down, no matter how much spit he applied.
On either side, he was snuggled by a couple of blondes with copious bosoms. Even better, the aforementioned bosoms had been allowed to go free range. Mitch stared at the ceiling, trying his best to etch the intricate details of the carnal experiences that he, or rather, Disco Werewolf, had experienced that evening.
Soon enough though, he came to his senses and realized that all of these women would never have anything to do with a dweeb like him without large sums of money having been exchanged and even then it was questionable. He got out of bed, being careful not to step on any of the women on the floor, and made his way to the closet, where he pulled out a full laundry bag. He was about to rummage through it when a female voice startled him.
“What are YOU doing here?”
Mitch dropped the bag and turned around, but not before cupping his hands over his man business. There was little he could do about his cheeks, so he allowed them to flap in the breeze.
He found himself staring a pair of double-d breasts, but after realizing that was rude, he looked up to acknowledge their owner, a woman who was wearing nothing but a headdress fashioned out of golden beads, similar to what Cleopatra would have worn in the days of Ancient Egypt.
Oh, and her bush was so lush that one required a weedwacker to navigate through it, but she wasn’t alone in that regard. It was the seventies, after all, and that was the prevailing style at the time.
The lady held out her hand. Mitch didn’t have any recollection of Disco Werewolf engaging in a tryst with her, but then again, the night was just a blur of boobs and butts and assorted private parts, more than an eighteen-year-old lad should have been exposed too, though technically, it was DW who did the exposing.
Mitch wasn’t as suave or sophisticated as his furry counterpart, which was odd, really, because they were one and the same. However, confidence is everything when dealing with women of great beauty. Mitch had known and it showed. Boy, did it show. He removed one hand from his Johnson, shook the lady’s hand, then returned it to his crotch.
“Were you born in a barn?” the lady asked.
“Oh,” Mitch said as he kissed the lady’s hand. “Sorry.”
“It’s quite alright,” the lady said. “Juniper Dew, legendary star of the adult film industry. Highlights include Aporkher Tits Now, Creamer vs. Creamer, One Flew Into the Cuckold’s Breasts, A Cockwork Menage, The French Erection, All the President’s Sluts, Annie Hole, Taxi-Drive-Her, Close Encounters of the Third Behind, Doggiestyle Day After-Poon and last but not least, everyone’s favorite underdog story, Cocky. And you are?”
Mitch had been in situations like this before and had a fake name in mind already. “Mulligan. Brett Mulligan. Esquire.”
“Charmed, I’m sure, Mr. Mulligan,” Juniper said as she looked the lad over. “Hmm, I had heard that Disco Werewolf was into some rather exotic kinks but I had no idea that men were on the menu, and rather bizarre looking ones at that.”
“Huh?” Mitch asked.
“Disco Werewolf’s a bisexual!” Juniper said. “Oh, but don’t worry. His secret’s safe with me. I know he has a reputation as a ladies’ man to uphold. I just wish I hadn’t come so late to the party. I surely would have enjoyed getting my hands on that fur. Have you seen him?”
“You, uh, just missed him,” Mitch said.
Juniper pouted. “Drat! Oh well, if our paths and genitalia are meant to collide, then I’m sure they will. I suppose I’ll go out and mingle so my excursion here won’t be a total waist. Ta ta, darling, the pleasure was all yours.”
Mitch watched one of the most delectable keisters he had ever seen as it and its owner left the bedroom. “Yes,” the kid said. “Yes, it was.”
He was about to leave as well, when he noticed an envelope on the night stand. He picked it up. “DW” was scrawled on the side. Inside, there was three thousand dollars and a note. It read:
DW Baby,
Too many eyes snooping around the club, so I’m going to leave your cheese in your room from now on. More where this came from as long as you keep stopping by. Don’t wear yourself out on the ladies. You need your strength for the dance floor.
Catch you on the flip side,
Sweet Johnny
It was a thousand more than usual. Mitch took this as a sign that Sweet Johnny was trying to make sure he had Disco Werewolf’s undivided attention and as far as Mitch was concerned, he did.
Mitch returned to the laundry bag, removed a bell hop uniform he had previously pilfered, complete with the little hat, and put it on. He tucked the envelope full of cash into his pocket, then pulled out Disco Werewolf’s iconic white suit, pants, and black shirt. He folded the extra-large pieces of clothing neatly, then draped them over his arm. He looked around and, convinced that none of the other ladies had seen him, left the bedroom.
Out in the suite, the party was underway and showed no signs of stopping. Women in their underwear held no-holds barred pillow fights, while three unwashed hippy chicks in tie dyed shirts painted flowers on one of the walls. Disco Werewolf’s parties inevitably left the presidential suite trashed and Mitch usually felt bad for whoever the sap was who had to clean up after them, but not enough to leave a tip, naturally. He figured one of the babes would just grab any and all unattended greenbacks anyway.
Across the room, three women sat on a couch. They went unnoticed by Mitch, but they noticed him.
“I’ve had eyes on that room all night and I never saw a bell hop go in,” Ruby said.
“Me neither,” Diamond said.
“Ditto,” Emerald added, rather unnecessarily.
“That’s got to be him,” Ruby said.
“Damn,” Diamond said. “Disco Werewolf’s human side is ugly.”
“He couldn’t get beaver if he went to Canada,” Emerald noted.
“Isn’t that always the way?” Ruby asked.
“Sure is,” Diamond said.
“The ones who get it the least become insatiable whenever they get a little power,” Emerald said.
“Mmm hmm,” Ruby said.
“Tale older than time itself,” Diamond said.
Mitch strolled across the room, admiring all the babes that had turned out in the hopes of getting a piece of Disco Werewolf, trying his best to remember who had and who hadn’t. As he became preoccupied with two lesbians who were making out furiously in the breakfast nook, he neglected to watch where he was going and crashed into someone with a familiar face. In doing so, a glass full of red wine was spilled all over Disco Werewolf’s duds.
“Oh my God,” the young lady said as she tried in vain to wipe the stain out of the jacket with her hands, the glass having already fallen to the floor. “I am so sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Mitch said.
“No,” the female said. “I should have been more careful and…”
She looked up at the faux bellhop’s face. “Mitch?”
“Wendy?” Mitch asked.
“Hi,” Wendy said as she noticed the uniform. “You work here?”
“No,” Mitch said. “Sometimes I just like to walk around in a bellhop’s uniform because I find them to be so fashionable. They’re all the rage in Paris.”
Wendy laughed, then frowned when she remembered the stain. “Oh, no. Am I going to get you in trouble?”
“Not at all,” Mitch said.
Wendy snapped open a clutch and searched for her money. “You have to let me pay for that.”
“That’s…really, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it. It was dirty anyway. I was, uh, just picking it up so I uh, could send it out to be cleaned, so, yeah.”
Wendy took a closer look at the jacket. The size sunk in. “No way! Are you kidding me?”
“Huh?” Mitch asked.
“I’m dying,” Wendy said. “I’m absolutely dying. Is that Disco Werewolf’s suit?”
“What?” Mitch said. “This old thing? Uh, yeah, I suppose it is.”
Wendy flashed a devilish grin. “Can I smell it?”
Mitch chuckled. “Oh, I don’t know if that would be such a good idea.”
Too late. The young beauty, who just so happened to be the most popular girl in Mitch’s class, had already lowered herself far enough to shove her nose into the fabric.
“Mmm,” Wendy said. “Smells like wet dog…and sex. And just a hint of vermouth. Interesting.”
“Right,” Mitch said. “Well, it was nice to see you.”
The girl grabbed Mitch’s arm. “Mitch! Do you know him?”
“Who?”
“Disco Werewolf! Duh!”
“Know him?” Mitch asked. “Uh, no, not really. Just in a, uh, you know, a professional capacity.”
In his mind, Mitch cursed his inability to be cool around the fairer sex. He just wasn’t able to string a sentence together around them without sounding like a tongue-tied imbecile.
“Can you get me his number?” Wendy asked.
“His number?” Mitch asked.
“I’ve got to meet that werewolf, Mitch,” Wendy said. “He picked me and like a dozen other girls out of a rope line last night but I’m pretty sure he picked them just to be nice and he was really focused on me.
At this point, it dawned on him that this interaction was the most communication that had ever transpired between Wendy and himself in the twelve years that they had attended Seacaucus public schools together. It saddened him that none of it had to do with him and all of it had to do with Disco Werewolf.
“I don’t have it,” Mitch said. “Sorry.”
Wendy shook her head. “Darn it. OK, bye Mitch.”
“Bye Wendy.”
“Oh, and Mitch?”
“Yeah?”
“If you ever happen to get his number…”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks. You’re a doll.”
Mitch smiled and walked out into the hallway. Across the room, Ruby, Diamond and Emerald rose to their feet. They each placed a pair of shades over their eyes, then snapped their fingers in unison.
“Let’s roll,” Ruby said.
“Yes,” Diamond said.
“Let’s,” Emerald said.
Ruby pulled a walkie-talkie out of her purse, turned it on, then pushed the call button. “Hunka Hershey to Big Daddy. Hunka Hershey to Big Daddy. Come in, Big Daddy, over.”
A few seconds passed. All the women in the room were too busy with their own escapades to notice or care that someone was using a communications radio.
The walkie-talkie squawked. A squeaky, high pitched voice answered. “Big Daddy, here. Proceed, bitch. Over.”
“The package is on the move,” Ruby said. “Repeat, the package is on the move.”
Squawk. “10-4, bitch. What’s your location? Over.”
“Swankforth,” Ruby said. “We’re in pursuit with no time to waste. Over.”
Squawk. “Expect an extraction in T-Minus five minutes, bitches. Until then, don’t let the package out of your sight, you dig? Over.”
“Mission dug, Daddy,” Ruby said. “Over and out.”
Bookshelf Battle 