Post by Amy Jo Smyth on Feb 24, 2018 18:19:37 GMT -5
The man slowly walks toward us, a curious and intrigued look in his brown eyes. Scientific studies have proved time and time again that people are more likely to aid attractive people, women especially, and these same people considered beautiful are seen as healthier, more trustworthy, likable, and by the grace of their good looks, more successful in their endeavours. There are even studies that show facial symmetry and so-called average looking faces are linked to our primitive reproductive needs to find a mate with strong genetics and avoid those with chromosomal defects. Our faces really do give us away.
Not to toot my own horn here, but both Guyon and myself are particularly attractive women. Guyon is a healthy, tattooed raven-haired beauty with large breasts, sparkling white teeth and slicing blue eyes and myself, while, I’m an exceptionally fit, athletic woman with blonde hair, white teeth, and a smirk that draws in more than her fair share of mates. My only drawback are these small titties. Even still, there are plenty of men who aren’t so interested in large breasts - ass men as they are called. My partner and I know this fact and we’re going to exploit this. We are also going to play into the fact that we are lesbians. There is almost no man in this world who isn’t turned on by the sheer idea of two women together and would do nearly anything if the mere suggestion that he might become the meat in a girl-on-girl sandwich were presented.
Sure, it’s a low-level form of manipulation, but shit, the first rule is to take advantage of the tools given to you. It’s also by no means our fault men are fueled heavily by testosterone, the internal chemical in both genders that feed our sex drives. It’s not their fault either, but it doesn’t mean that we can’t use it. Again, take advantage of the tools you’ve been given.
I give the man a good once over. He isn’t anything exceptional and only in the loosest terms, considered attractive. I may be gay, but I still know what an attractive man looks like. At least he cares about himself enough to put on decent, clean clothes; jeans that fit him correctly and a nice tan short-sleeved button up - something a cowboy might wear on a trip into town to ask for a small business loan from the local banker he knows from high school, William Oates, even though just about everyone in these parts still call him Billy-O because his dear dead daddy was known better as William Oates. I half except our target to be wearing his nice pair of cowboy boots but he’s just wearing sneakers and it kills the whole illusion for me.
“Si?” he says gruffly, smirking, stopping just inches away from our table. He pushes out his chest and I swear he might even be flexing. Such vanity. Pretty women bring on the thought of sex and the thought of sex are no match for the male brain. He takes ahold of his belt buckle and leans back. A classic, unconscious move to draw our eyes to his dick. Little triggers to help us think about sex and make himself appear as a good mate. If his fingernails weren’t absolutely disgusting, he’d have a chance. Get a goddamn nail brush and file on those things. A woman does not want nasty fingernails shoved up inside her. See, this is why I don’t shake hands - I don’t know where these fuckers have been and this is the perfect example of this.
“Can you help us?” Theresa asks in a much stronger French accent than I’ve ever heard her use before while pushing the map out toward him. “How do you get to the - the Angel of Mexico?”
His head slowly turns to the side showing his confusion and inability to understand. It’s unlikely that it’s the English - which seems unlikely given that most residents of Mexico City, a tourist mecca, speak at least some level of English by mere economic necessity, Even if they hate Americans, they still love their money and to get their money, they’ve got to be able to understand them and appease them. Understanding English can mean the difference between a green bill with a dead United States president on it being shoved into your hand and an empty hand. It’s most likely her accent.
“El Ángel,” I say. “Cuál es la mejor manera de El Ángel de México?” Asking this way, in such a flat, rehearsed manner as if memorized from a English to Spanish dictionary, keeps the act alive. I speak perfectly good Spanish but he doesn’t need to know that. People, targets especially, don’t need to know anything more than what’s going to help you in the end. To this target we are little more than pretty female tourists who need directions from a native citizen.
He nods. “Ah, si, si,” he says. His dirty finger points to a spot on the map - the location of the Angel of Independence - and drags that dirty fingernail that makes me secretly cringe inside around the laminated paper. I’m gonna need a sanitizing wipe to clean it down when he’s done. Within a few seconds, he’s giving us both verbal and visual directions from this coffee shop to the Angel and city center. He goes so far as to add directions to a nice place to eat, other sights to see, and places to avoid, specifically for a “guera” as “maravillosa” as me.
Truth is only, I only half listen to what he’s saying. I’m too busy staring at and analyzing the tattoo on his hand to really pay attention to directions that I already know and if I didn’t know, I could easily look up on my phone. The carefully crafted tattoo isn’t heavily detailed given the small space, but it still gets the point across. A black two head serpent that curls into three humps. Known to the Aztecs as coatl, a powerful symbol amongst the people. So meaningful, in fact, that their entire creation story is based on the a snake giving birth the world and universe and on of their most prestigious Gods, Huitzilopochtli, was said to have been birthed by a snake Goddess. Warriors, when killed in battle, were sent to his palace in the south to serve him. Other devoted and brave warriors were turned into hummingbirds and travelled alongside Huitzilopochtli. There are more Gods and Goddesses that are represented by snakes and serpents but I don’t know them offhand.
I saw this same tattoo on the hand of the man who attacked me in the apartment. I saw it on the hand of one of the men that came storming into the apartment building. They’ve got some kind of meaning and they all link these men together. Much like gangs all over the world since the dawn of time, members mark their skin with certain symbols and marks to communicate with others about their membership, rank, position, role, and the things they’ve done or been through. Russian mobs mark their easily seen hands with all kind of coded tattoos that are only meaningful to their peers and law enforcement. This ink can tell the world how much time they’ve spent in prison and for what, their religious and political beliefs, their particular method of killing, and their nicknames.
The Yakuza are known for their tattoos and the particular way they are done and how these beautiful designs take over their entire bodies. Unlike the crude and home-done tattoos of the Russians, the Yakuza endure the long, traditional process of needling and come away with colorful, meaningful works of art. White supremacists use traditional Nazi symbols like the double lightning bolts, celtic crosses, skulls, viking runes, and crossed hammers - things that look relatively innocent to normal people but have incredible meaning to those who share the same beliefs. Every gang has its own symbolism that is permanently marked upon the skin.
Law enforcement training and common sense has taught me to put two and two together - I’m dealing with something very similar to a gang or organization of like-minded men and possibly women. The rest of this involves figuring their belief system, what their dealings are, how they work out their dealings, and what their main goal is. Easier said than done. Even with the CIA and their seemingly endless well of knowledge.
“Mucho gracias, senor,” I say slowly, continuing the performance.
“Da nada,” he answers. “Buena suerte. Viajes seguros.” He moves to walk away from us but suddenly stops, turns around, returning to us. “You two in town long?” he asks in a weak, tangled Englished. “I will buy you drinks.”
“That would be lovely,” Theresa says.
His cell phone appears in his hand and they exchange numbers. This is some serious luck. His name is Jay - which I’m sure is short for something else and nobody even is asking for full names and social security numbers here - and he lives just down the street. Our hotel is suddenly just a few blocks up. Theresa had better fucking remember all this shit. If she wants to weave a story, she has the responsibility to retain the details and share them with me. All I can hope is that she doesn’t go too far with it.
“Adios,” he says, waving his hand just a bit.
“Adios,” I say.
“Bye-bye,” Theresa says with filtration and a wink.
I know where this is going. Some agents use their smarts or strength or knack for lying, others, like Theresa, use their charm and sex appeal. Female agents of the KGB and the SOE were notorious for using their feminine charm to gather the information they needed. The classic honey trap. Get that bear, baby.
The door jingles and he’s gone, heading southward on the street the cafe sits on.
I sharply turn my head and glare at Theresa. “What is wrong with you? What are you doing?”
“My job,” she answers with a bit of pride in her voice and then pops a piece of pastry into her mouth. She’s proud of herself. Hopefully there is no fall after all this pride. Within seconds, I’m messaging Birdie with the phone number, a description of the tattoos I’ve seen, a request for more information on the Aztec culture, and the progress of the mission. He answers me with, “Aztecs… weird, but okay.”
Theresa gets close to me, snuggles up against me, and sips her coffee. I just run everything through my brain, trying to link old information and learned knowledge with the new things that I’ve gathered to make some kind of hypothesis or create something that might get us that much closer to the truth. It’s like building a bridge brick by brick and on the other side is the solution. If you place the wrong brick, the whole thing might crumble and you have to start from the beginning all over again.
That’s anything but fun.
*************
Why not jump into the world of tag team competition? Seems like a good way to pass the time and still earn a paycheck. With Kate Steele no less. Something to do. Then again, Kate Steele and I have some serious history. I made a cake explode into her face - which she is still salty as fuck about. She tried to blind me with hair dye and I’m over it. I guess that’s how you form tag teams now. We will just figure it out as we go along.
Gonna be a learning curve for the both of us in our first match against The Dynasty - Kayla and Christy Winters. Aren’t they just adorable? Two sisters, a wrestling dynasty! See what I did there? That’s about clever as still saying ‘rachet’. Pretty sure that word is dead and properly buried with no hopes of rising from the grave. It’s about as clever as this booking lately - psstt, nothing here makes any fucking sense! - and how this place treats record breaking champions. But whatever, the people get what they want and I’m no one to tell them otherwise. Let them enjoy it. I got my own thing going on and I’m moderately happy doing it. We’re gonna see how well this thing with Steele goes and go from there. Just flying by the seat of my pants here, much like the rest of the production staff here does.
Now, as far as The Winters Sisters goes…
They are what they are. A solid enough tag team and I’ll give credit where credit is due - they are one in the same and have a great working relationship. By default, mind you. You grow up with someone and of course you’re going to know all kinds of minute details about them. Steele and I don’t have that and we will most likely never have that. Please, the best Steele and I have in common is that we have a knack for the submissions. Or at least Steele likes to think she does. Girl has a lot of learn, though, and I’ll be all too happy to aid her in her that quest. She’s young enough that I can train her to be better. For now, though, she’ll be good enough to beat The Winters Sisters.
I know I’m good enough to defeat the Winters family connection.
It’s on them to prove their metal, not Steele and myself. We already did that. We’re both former LAW Champions. I think Steele is all twinged with gold in LAW, too. She set some kind of record - won most of the titles up for grabs here. I think she needs the tag gold to complete the grand slam. And she got me to carry her to it. I’ll have fun doing it, too, so I’m not upset about it. We should call ourselves the Fireman’s Carry - with me being the fireman who carries Steel to her title.
Is that how this works?
Ha.
In all seriousness, though… I actually don’t have a clue where I was going with this or what I wanted to be all serious about. I’m serious about wrestling - that hasn’t changed from the millions of other times I’ve gotten into the ring - but that’s about it. I’m just gonna have some fun, do my thing, and make people take notice. Title or no title around my waist, good or bad, they’re going to pay attention to me ad they’re not going to two flying fucks about the LAW Champion.
Sorry ‘bout it.
So Winters 1 and Winters 2. Y’all can figure out who wants to one and who wants to be two. I really don’t care. I only care that you show up and take your ass kicking like you should.
I’ll see you there,
Not to toot my own horn here, but both Guyon and myself are particularly attractive women. Guyon is a healthy, tattooed raven-haired beauty with large breasts, sparkling white teeth and slicing blue eyes and myself, while, I’m an exceptionally fit, athletic woman with blonde hair, white teeth, and a smirk that draws in more than her fair share of mates. My only drawback are these small titties. Even still, there are plenty of men who aren’t so interested in large breasts - ass men as they are called. My partner and I know this fact and we’re going to exploit this. We are also going to play into the fact that we are lesbians. There is almost no man in this world who isn’t turned on by the sheer idea of two women together and would do nearly anything if the mere suggestion that he might become the meat in a girl-on-girl sandwich were presented.
Sure, it’s a low-level form of manipulation, but shit, the first rule is to take advantage of the tools given to you. It’s also by no means our fault men are fueled heavily by testosterone, the internal chemical in both genders that feed our sex drives. It’s not their fault either, but it doesn’t mean that we can’t use it. Again, take advantage of the tools you’ve been given.
I give the man a good once over. He isn’t anything exceptional and only in the loosest terms, considered attractive. I may be gay, but I still know what an attractive man looks like. At least he cares about himself enough to put on decent, clean clothes; jeans that fit him correctly and a nice tan short-sleeved button up - something a cowboy might wear on a trip into town to ask for a small business loan from the local banker he knows from high school, William Oates, even though just about everyone in these parts still call him Billy-O because his dear dead daddy was known better as William Oates. I half except our target to be wearing his nice pair of cowboy boots but he’s just wearing sneakers and it kills the whole illusion for me.
“Si?” he says gruffly, smirking, stopping just inches away from our table. He pushes out his chest and I swear he might even be flexing. Such vanity. Pretty women bring on the thought of sex and the thought of sex are no match for the male brain. He takes ahold of his belt buckle and leans back. A classic, unconscious move to draw our eyes to his dick. Little triggers to help us think about sex and make himself appear as a good mate. If his fingernails weren’t absolutely disgusting, he’d have a chance. Get a goddamn nail brush and file on those things. A woman does not want nasty fingernails shoved up inside her. See, this is why I don’t shake hands - I don’t know where these fuckers have been and this is the perfect example of this.
“Can you help us?” Theresa asks in a much stronger French accent than I’ve ever heard her use before while pushing the map out toward him. “How do you get to the - the Angel of Mexico?”
His head slowly turns to the side showing his confusion and inability to understand. It’s unlikely that it’s the English - which seems unlikely given that most residents of Mexico City, a tourist mecca, speak at least some level of English by mere economic necessity, Even if they hate Americans, they still love their money and to get their money, they’ve got to be able to understand them and appease them. Understanding English can mean the difference between a green bill with a dead United States president on it being shoved into your hand and an empty hand. It’s most likely her accent.
“El Ángel,” I say. “Cuál es la mejor manera de El Ángel de México?” Asking this way, in such a flat, rehearsed manner as if memorized from a English to Spanish dictionary, keeps the act alive. I speak perfectly good Spanish but he doesn’t need to know that. People, targets especially, don’t need to know anything more than what’s going to help you in the end. To this target we are little more than pretty female tourists who need directions from a native citizen.
He nods. “Ah, si, si,” he says. His dirty finger points to a spot on the map - the location of the Angel of Independence - and drags that dirty fingernail that makes me secretly cringe inside around the laminated paper. I’m gonna need a sanitizing wipe to clean it down when he’s done. Within a few seconds, he’s giving us both verbal and visual directions from this coffee shop to the Angel and city center. He goes so far as to add directions to a nice place to eat, other sights to see, and places to avoid, specifically for a “guera” as “maravillosa” as me.
Truth is only, I only half listen to what he’s saying. I’m too busy staring at and analyzing the tattoo on his hand to really pay attention to directions that I already know and if I didn’t know, I could easily look up on my phone. The carefully crafted tattoo isn’t heavily detailed given the small space, but it still gets the point across. A black two head serpent that curls into three humps. Known to the Aztecs as coatl, a powerful symbol amongst the people. So meaningful, in fact, that their entire creation story is based on the a snake giving birth the world and universe and on of their most prestigious Gods, Huitzilopochtli, was said to have been birthed by a snake Goddess. Warriors, when killed in battle, were sent to his palace in the south to serve him. Other devoted and brave warriors were turned into hummingbirds and travelled alongside Huitzilopochtli. There are more Gods and Goddesses that are represented by snakes and serpents but I don’t know them offhand.
I saw this same tattoo on the hand of the man who attacked me in the apartment. I saw it on the hand of one of the men that came storming into the apartment building. They’ve got some kind of meaning and they all link these men together. Much like gangs all over the world since the dawn of time, members mark their skin with certain symbols and marks to communicate with others about their membership, rank, position, role, and the things they’ve done or been through. Russian mobs mark their easily seen hands with all kind of coded tattoos that are only meaningful to their peers and law enforcement. This ink can tell the world how much time they’ve spent in prison and for what, their religious and political beliefs, their particular method of killing, and their nicknames.
The Yakuza are known for their tattoos and the particular way they are done and how these beautiful designs take over their entire bodies. Unlike the crude and home-done tattoos of the Russians, the Yakuza endure the long, traditional process of needling and come away with colorful, meaningful works of art. White supremacists use traditional Nazi symbols like the double lightning bolts, celtic crosses, skulls, viking runes, and crossed hammers - things that look relatively innocent to normal people but have incredible meaning to those who share the same beliefs. Every gang has its own symbolism that is permanently marked upon the skin.
Law enforcement training and common sense has taught me to put two and two together - I’m dealing with something very similar to a gang or organization of like-minded men and possibly women. The rest of this involves figuring their belief system, what their dealings are, how they work out their dealings, and what their main goal is. Easier said than done. Even with the CIA and their seemingly endless well of knowledge.
“Mucho gracias, senor,” I say slowly, continuing the performance.
“Da nada,” he answers. “Buena suerte. Viajes seguros.” He moves to walk away from us but suddenly stops, turns around, returning to us. “You two in town long?” he asks in a weak, tangled Englished. “I will buy you drinks.”
“That would be lovely,” Theresa says.
His cell phone appears in his hand and they exchange numbers. This is some serious luck. His name is Jay - which I’m sure is short for something else and nobody even is asking for full names and social security numbers here - and he lives just down the street. Our hotel is suddenly just a few blocks up. Theresa had better fucking remember all this shit. If she wants to weave a story, she has the responsibility to retain the details and share them with me. All I can hope is that she doesn’t go too far with it.
“Adios,” he says, waving his hand just a bit.
“Adios,” I say.
“Bye-bye,” Theresa says with filtration and a wink.
I know where this is going. Some agents use their smarts or strength or knack for lying, others, like Theresa, use their charm and sex appeal. Female agents of the KGB and the SOE were notorious for using their feminine charm to gather the information they needed. The classic honey trap. Get that bear, baby.
The door jingles and he’s gone, heading southward on the street the cafe sits on.
I sharply turn my head and glare at Theresa. “What is wrong with you? What are you doing?”
“My job,” she answers with a bit of pride in her voice and then pops a piece of pastry into her mouth. She’s proud of herself. Hopefully there is no fall after all this pride. Within seconds, I’m messaging Birdie with the phone number, a description of the tattoos I’ve seen, a request for more information on the Aztec culture, and the progress of the mission. He answers me with, “Aztecs… weird, but okay.”
Theresa gets close to me, snuggles up against me, and sips her coffee. I just run everything through my brain, trying to link old information and learned knowledge with the new things that I’ve gathered to make some kind of hypothesis or create something that might get us that much closer to the truth. It’s like building a bridge brick by brick and on the other side is the solution. If you place the wrong brick, the whole thing might crumble and you have to start from the beginning all over again.
That’s anything but fun.
*************
Why not jump into the world of tag team competition? Seems like a good way to pass the time and still earn a paycheck. With Kate Steele no less. Something to do. Then again, Kate Steele and I have some serious history. I made a cake explode into her face - which she is still salty as fuck about. She tried to blind me with hair dye and I’m over it. I guess that’s how you form tag teams now. We will just figure it out as we go along.
Gonna be a learning curve for the both of us in our first match against The Dynasty - Kayla and Christy Winters. Aren’t they just adorable? Two sisters, a wrestling dynasty! See what I did there? That’s about clever as still saying ‘rachet’. Pretty sure that word is dead and properly buried with no hopes of rising from the grave. It’s about as clever as this booking lately - psstt, nothing here makes any fucking sense! - and how this place treats record breaking champions. But whatever, the people get what they want and I’m no one to tell them otherwise. Let them enjoy it. I got my own thing going on and I’m moderately happy doing it. We’re gonna see how well this thing with Steele goes and go from there. Just flying by the seat of my pants here, much like the rest of the production staff here does.
Now, as far as The Winters Sisters goes…
They are what they are. A solid enough tag team and I’ll give credit where credit is due - they are one in the same and have a great working relationship. By default, mind you. You grow up with someone and of course you’re going to know all kinds of minute details about them. Steele and I don’t have that and we will most likely never have that. Please, the best Steele and I have in common is that we have a knack for the submissions. Or at least Steele likes to think she does. Girl has a lot of learn, though, and I’ll be all too happy to aid her in her that quest. She’s young enough that I can train her to be better. For now, though, she’ll be good enough to beat The Winters Sisters.
I know I’m good enough to defeat the Winters family connection.
It’s on them to prove their metal, not Steele and myself. We already did that. We’re both former LAW Champions. I think Steele is all twinged with gold in LAW, too. She set some kind of record - won most of the titles up for grabs here. I think she needs the tag gold to complete the grand slam. And she got me to carry her to it. I’ll have fun doing it, too, so I’m not upset about it. We should call ourselves the Fireman’s Carry - with me being the fireman who carries Steel to her title.
Is that how this works?
Ha.
In all seriousness, though… I actually don’t have a clue where I was going with this or what I wanted to be all serious about. I’m serious about wrestling - that hasn’t changed from the millions of other times I’ve gotten into the ring - but that’s about it. I’m just gonna have some fun, do my thing, and make people take notice. Title or no title around my waist, good or bad, they’re going to pay attention to me ad they’re not going to two flying fucks about the LAW Champion.
Sorry ‘bout it.
So Winters 1 and Winters 2. Y’all can figure out who wants to one and who wants to be two. I really don’t care. I only care that you show up and take your ass kicking like you should.
I’ll see you there,