Somewhere in Spain…
Cloistered community convent, white cal walls stained dark by shadows and the sins of a bygone era. A sparse room, one bed, a large wooden crucifix nailed to the wall.
Buttocks flashing white as they pump between the legs of a suntanned beauty, heaving breast atop a head of black hair as he motorboats her. She wears the habit of a nun pulled over her shoulders. This is no Bronte novel. He comes, she fakes – they arrive at their contractual goal.
There’s a faint scream outside the room.
“Go – dey vill kill you!” said the prostitute.
“I’m here to help you get out,” said the journalist, snapping on his underpants with his thumbs.
“Are youse stupid? Do I look like a Ukrainian sex worker?” Her ascent changes from quasi-eastern bloc, broken English, to scouse.
“Actually, yes I’m remembering the whole – they have my passport and child hostage in Odesa thing.”
“Fucksake lar, why the ‘ell would I want to leave ‘ere. I’m ten grand from buying a fucking house,” said the prostitute.
“You’re an oxymoron,” said the journalist, incredulously.
“I’m an artist, now come ‘ed.”
“Con artist, luring unsuspecting, vulnerable old men into saving you from sex slavery with their pensions and nest eggs.”
“Boo hoo,” said the prostitute.
A flourish like some street magician she produces a taser, swipes at him. The journalist blocks it and pushes her onto the bed. He backs off, pulls on his hassock and opens the window, dithers, turns and spears her a look of self-righteous indignation, snatches up the cash he had left on top of a cupboard. He lurches in a leap of faith.
The door burst open. Two, no-neck, gangsters rush to grab him.
“Bastardo!”
The journalist, Mat Sharkey, lands, forward roles and runs across the manicured lawn of this ancient monastery.
He's got handsome but doesn't let that hold him back from not giving a shit. He will do whatever it takes to grab a scoop, but things don’t always go to plan.
Mat ties his hassock stopping himself from spilling out as a black Wrangler Jeep pulls up and swings open the passenger door. A town called malice, by The Jam, pumped through the radio.
He jumps in.
“Gun it baby!” said Mat.
The driver, an Iberian beauty, his sidekick, her name is Charlie, but she is no angel. She sniffs up.
“I can smell vagina emmm… I though jew are on a crusade to save the oppressed, trafficked, enslaved,” said Charlie.
He offers a baleful look.
“I'm...”
“Weak and pathetic,” said Charlie.
“Drink, bar,” said Mat.
“It’s...”
“Not early enough,” he pauses and sees she is just wearing a bra and sarong. Off his look...
“Work we were in the middle of a costume change.”
“What you playing this time?” said Mat.
“I’m tied to the mast and aboard the hero swings, saves me from the lusty pirates.”
“Sounds erotic. I've got a touch on,” he said, holding his groin.
“It’s a kids' theme park show jew perv, joder! Anyway, I can use your Jeep for the rest of the day?”
“Sure.”
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