Erica came out of the bathroom, vigorously drying her hair. She had Rex's spare "when someone stays overnight" bathrobe on, and not much else. Rex was sitting on the couch in his boxer shorts, and not much else.
"Come and sit down Erica, and we shall talk about the first thing that pops up," Rex remarked coyly, while patting the space next to him on the rawhide couch.
"Don't be soooo juvenile, Rex," Erica retorted in mild disgust.
"My apologies, Erica. You look tense, come and sit, relax, have a drink."
Erica went into the kitchen and mixed herself a quadruple black Russian. She then sculled it, burped, mixed another and brought it with her as she sat down next to Rex, sinking deep into the lounge. Rex started to gently massage Erica's shoulders. After all of the excitement of the last few days, Erica gave in and relaxed under Rex's grip.
"I'm going to be famous Erica."
"Everyone is going to watch my show."
"I will get my own corner office with a view."
Rex's hands had worked down past the shoulders, slipping under Erica's arms to rest lighlty over each of Erica's breasts. Erica jumped a little, startled, and then flipped over to face Rex.
"Will you want a secretary, Rexy?"
"She won't be called a secretary, Erica, she will be my personal assistant."
Erica kissed Rex, gently biting his lower lip. Rex responded by fully opening Erica's bathrobe and starting to explore the wonders inside.
"Take me, Rex." Erica whispered into his ear.
Not sure whether she meant the job, or the current activities, Rex decided on the latter and reached down to gently massage Erica's quivering sweet spot.
Erica, moaning softly, reached down and relieved Rex's very tanned and now quite motivated love missile from the burden of its enclosure within his boxer shorts.
"I want it, Rex. I want it. "
Still unsure what Erica was referring to, Rex breathily replied
A dilapitated pier. Inner Harbour, Sydney.
Patrick was whistling a merry tune as he strolled over to talk to the Finnish gangster. The rock that he had scored from the Pink Pussycat had nicely re-wired his brain. Everything was good today.
"Hello Mr Anttilanien," Patrick said in a tone of mock respect.
" Good evening Patrick. Where is Van Slooten?"
"Ahh, well you see Mr Anttilanien, he was rather too fond of his product. He died . . . of an overdose early this morning."
"Acch, well that is too bad. Now, do you have the necessary funds, to complete this transaction?"
" Yeah, Antti baby." This shit had him firing on all cylinders. "In the transport."
Patrick thumbed toward the Subaru Liberty WRX parked at the end of the pier. The benefits from being a middleman in an international drug cartel were many and varied.
"I'll just go and get it." Patrick had rushed over to the car, popped the boot, rescued the briefcase, and ran back to where Anttilanien was standing, all before you could say "sustained substance abuse".
"Here you go man." Patrick handed over the briefcase.
"Thank you Patrick. Now in return . . " From the deep pockets in his long winter coat, Anttilanien withdrew a compact Uzi 9mm sub-machine gun and pointed it straight at Patrick.
"Hey, what the fuck?" Patrick blurted in surprise.
"Again, thank you Patrick".
Anttilanien smiled as he emptied the entire 30 round magazine into Patrick's torso. Once Patrick's corpse stopped writhing, Anttilanien tossed the gun into the murky harbour water, and strolled off into the encroaching fog.