The Night J. Edgar Hoover Raided the Hangout (a suspense-writing thread)

[shereads]

Shereads was closest to the window. She saw the blockade forming in the street downstairs: a dozen or so unmarked cars, a small army of Dick Tracy types muttering into their wrist radios, and FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover. Hoover was surprisingly spritely for a man of his years, deceased, and wearing pencil-thin high heels that were clearly not designed for a man of his bulk.

Manolo Blahnik would be devastated if the press got a shot of the late Director's feet spilling out of those aubergine suede pumps from the Spring 2005 line. More importantly, the threatened crack-down on internet porn was happening after all - and the Feds had chosen to make an example of the Authors' Hangout!

There were people here with families at stake, or careers in the Church. At least one stood to lose a position in the interim government of Iraq; in a sense, democracy itself was threatened.

Shereads had to warn the others. But how to do it without creating a panic?

First, a quick trip to the buffet. The caterers had just put out a bowl of iced cocktail shrimp, and there was a wedge of triple-creme brie that would be past ripe ten minutes from now.

She took her time filling two ziplock baggies.

must appear calm...do nothing to cause a fatal stampede for the exits...at least not until I'm out the door

The sound of running footsteps echoed in the stairwell. Shit! Could Hoover move like that in heels?

Time to panic. Shereads shouted to the milling crowd of horses, bimbos, disguised evangelists and assorted pornographers: "Cheese it! The cops! It's a porn raid!"

But her warning was drowned out by Richard Harris' climactic high note in MacArthur Park:

Oh Noooooooooooo

Dammit, Dr. M! Of all the nights to play that one back-to-back.

She could see Cantdog trying to wrestle the stereo remote away from Zoot. The rest of the group's attention was elsewhere. One of the hooved animals had "had an accident" on the dance floor, and tempers were flaring...

What to do? Except for Gauche, she could get their attention by posting a poll, but she'd be in handcuffs by the time she'd even thought of a theme.

"See ya, pornographers." She grabbed a fistful of canapes and headed for the service exit, silently wishing them luck.


~ ~ ~


Where were you?

 

[BlackShanglan]

I was over by the punch bowl, ignoring the annoyed looks of passersby. Thank goodness someone had thought to put some horse-sized glassware on the tables. I was just finishing a long cool drink when I saw her.

That dame. The one who'd been doing the fandango with a long-haired Yiddish-speaking bacchinalian and a table lamp. She was making for the exit with a sly look and a bag of canapes the size of a steamer trunk. I cut past the melee on the dance floor - damnit, whose idea was it to invite entire cast of "Blossom"? - and cut her off near the exit.

"Just where do you think you're going?" I asked in my best Sam Spade imitation.

"Neigh!" she said. Damned humans. Can't get a word of sense out of them. She stuffed a cocktail shrimp in my mouth and tried to cut past me to the exit, but I wasn't having any of it. I blocked her - then looked over her shoulder.

Oh dear God.

It was Amicus.

With the OED.

Three hundred and eighty pounds of argumentation hinging around the eighty-seventh definition of a word that hasn't been used since 1647.

"Out of my way, sweetheart," I growled, and shoved past her to the door.

But what was that?

 

[Guest]

Where were you?

 

[TheEarl]

The Earl leaned back against the wall, idly peeling the label from his beer bottle as he surveyed the crowd. Music was blaring out of the speakers and the couples of the Author's Hangout were shaking their stuff on the dancefloor.

He cast his eye over the room, watching the happy smiling Literotica literati grinding against each other, noting who had paired up that night and which of his friends were still throwing themselves around like lunatics. And who, strangely, was not dancing.

Shereads was staring intently out of a window, oblivious to the somewhat boisterous party that was erupting around her. The Earl's brow crinkled as he studied her, watching her lounge languidly against the wall. What had she seen?

A look of consternation crossed She's face and she straightened sharply, her eyes darting around the room. The Earl watched as she started stalking across the room, intent on the hors d'oeuvres and his frown deepened as she raided the cheese snacks. Something was wrong.

He lifted himself from his leaning post and started walking towards her, watching as she frantically grabbed handful after handful of canapes. Shereads was preparing for a quick exit and The Earl wanted to know why.

Suddenly, Tatelou lurched into his path, impelled by an overly enthusiastic tango manouevre and The Earl caught her by reflex before she hit the floor. He placed her back on her feet again and looked for Shereads.

Her space by the buffet was empty and he cast his eyes around the room trying to see where she'd gone. A menagerie of jiving quadrupeds and bearded gentlemen of questionable morals jigged around him. Shereads could've gone anywhere by now.

The crowd parted for a brief second and The Earl could see Shereads poised in the doorway of the service exit, hands full of crustless sandwiches as she gave the crowd one last lingering look. Then she was gone.

The Earl pushed his way through the throng, trying to ignore the fight that was breaking out behind him. Why would Shereads leave this early? More crucially, why would she leave a free bar at all? He slammed open the service exit only to hear faint footsteps clanging down the metal stairway.

"She! Wait up!" he yelled, but to no avail.

A thunderous crash cut through the cacophony of the party and The Earl turned to see the door broken in two and dozens of Hugo Weaving wannabes flooding through the room. It was a raid.

There was no time to help anyone else. For now, it was every pornographer for himself. The Earl tried to think of a concise and cogent argument to leave on, but words wouldn't come.

Instead he settled for a muttered "The Earl," grabbed a handful of cheese crackers and threw himself through the service exit after She.

The Earl

 

[shereads]

Shereads was only seconds from the secret exit when it hit her: she needed the ladies' room, asap. There just might be time to get back upstairs, powder her nose and make a clean getaway - assuming that J. Edgar Hoover was no more comfortable than she was, running on stairs in 4-inch heels...She'd have to chance it.

She turned to head back up the stairwell, and almost collided with Shanglan and The Earl. Summoning everything she knew about women's gymnastics from watching literally minutes of the summer Olympic games, Shereads cleared them both with a hand-vault and was halfway to the top floor before the French judge could calculate a score low enough to shatter her chance at the Gold.

In a twinkling, then, she was back at the service entrace to the Hangout. There was a commotion inside. The door swung outward. Shereads heard it hit her head before she felt it:

BUMP.

 

[Guest]

BUMP.

my arse!nut

 

[oggbashan]

Og was being noisy in a corner of the room. As the G-men entered he slipped seamlessly into one of his alter egos and blew smoke into the nearest G-man's face before kicking J Edgar Hoover in the nuts.

So what if J Edgar is dead? So is Og and has been a lot longer. If it takes a dead man to kick a dead man, Og has what it takes, even if he is pretending to be Fag-Ash_Lil.

Grabbing a loose packet of cigarettes, Og exited, this time as the ghost of one of his creations, stole a G-man's wheels and left in a cloud of dust...

 

[shereads]

my arse!nut.

Meanwhile, a crack team of Special Forces weekend reservists arrived, armed with bootleg rotgut, martini olives, a drop-net and tranquilizer dart-guns. Their mission: locate an escapee from Our Lady of Perpetual Confusion Hospital for the Criminally Insane, who had infiltrated Literotica and was giving stew-bums a bad name. Terminate with extreme prejudice.

 

[shereads]

Og was being noisy in a corner of the room. As the G-men entered he slipped seamlessly into one of his alter egos and blew smoke into the nearest G-man's face before kicking J Edgar Hoover in the nuts.

So what if J Edgar is dead? So is Og and has been a lot longer. If it takes a dead man to kick a dead man, Og has what it takes, even if he is pretending to be Fag-Ash_Lil.

Grabbing a loose packet of cigarettes, Og exited, this time as the ghost of one of his creations, stole a G-man's wheels and left in a cloud of dust...

What Og had failed to consider is that dead men feel no pain. At any rate, Hoover's nuts hadn't been in play since the early 1950s, when he'd become accustomed to wearing a snug-fitting Maidenform girdle beneath cocktail attire. The Director quickly got to his feet, adjusted his clothing and went back to work. What were one man's testicles when the civilized world was falling under the influence of dirty stories?

 

[LadyJeanne]

The bump and grind on the dance floor had raised the temperature in the room to near sauna proportions. Lady Jeanne struggled through the gyrating mass of bodies to emerge near the bar where she scooped up a Grey Goose and tonic and sighed in relief as the first sip of icy smooth vodka slipped down her throat.

Flinging open a nearby window, Lady Jeanne surreptitiously lit a cigarette and settled in to watch the dancers. She had just taken another cool sip when she heard the crash at the door. Turning quickly, her glass slipped from her fingers as the room was overrun with men in black.

Hoover's men immediately encircled the the dancing pornographers who had fallen into a tangled heap on the floor when The Earl flung Lou directly into the conga line. Lady Jeanne saw that they'd soon have everyone in cuffs unless someone did something, fast.

Looking around desperately, she spotted the smoke alarm near the ceiling. She took a long drag from her cigarette and blew it out directly into the smoke detector. Damn. Nothing. Puffing frantically, she blew again and again until the piercing shriek of the fire alarm filled the room. Three seconds later, the sprinklers kicked in.

 

[Joe Wordsworth]

The case had been thin, thinner than half of Hollywood and twice as pointless--but it was a personal project. Projects like this come along once, maybe twice in a lifetime--and if you're part of the organization long enough, you come to recognize the next train leaving the station well before it gets a full head of steam.

Joe looked up from the streetcorner, taking a drag and dragging his take behind him in a thick and dusty suitcase. Years later, it'd be asked of him how he could have done it... how could you sleep at night?

"On a mattress full of cash.", was his reply.

He moved in closer for a look, figuring that if you bought a ticket, you might as well see the show.

 

[EarthquakeMan]

It seemed like an easy gig. That morning Quake had gotten a note from a Miss Reads asking for proof that John Ashcroft was the love child of J. Edgar Hoover and Clyde Tolson. As if it wasn’t obvious.

A simple case. Tail the Hoover corpse as he busted the plucky band of pornographers, gather DNA off his girdle, and match it to the small farm animal Ashcroft had most recently inseminated. Miss Reads would get her proof, Ashcroft would suddenly resign to spend more time with his family, The Spirit of Justice statue could go topless again, and Janet Jackson’s hideous nipple would be reduced to a tawdry footnote in the nation’s inexorable march to moral decay. Everyone wins.

But next thing Quake knew he was flat on his back in the Author’s Hangout. Just as he’d stuck his nose up Hoover’s skirt some reprobate named Og had punted for a Hoover-nut field goal.

 

[Lucifer_Carroll]

Lucifer_Carroll was sitting in the black FBI car with a half-grin on his face. He pulled down his shades revealing his gray soulless eyes for an AV shot and then went back to staring out of the squad car window. He had seen shereads noticing the raid, but she seemed to not notice him. This was critical. She had a passion for revolution that such duplicity would break. She had already suffered so much since her failed work for the Revolutionary Cadre during the last unelection of Fuhrer Cheney. Besides he had nothing against her personally.

Hoover and his government goons had been so utterly useful. Give the man a pair of red high heels and a group of lefties and liberals to suppress and he rushed in without question. Lucifer hadn't even needed to resort to telling him how many cross-dressing stories the Hangout had hidden in the Transgender section.

And Joe was set up, with his pack of orders. Would the FBI notice that the noir looking guy was taking down the evidence of their downfall? Probably not. Plus, an extra cool million insured that he would bump thngs into following the script if anything f-ed up. Lucifer trusted him. He wasn't the type of guy you drank with, but he got the job done and efficiently.

Still, it was all so easy. Humans were such simple creatures. A basic double cross and the Necromancy and Counter Revolutionary Section of the FBI would be exposed and ruined. He had already placed cronies to take over whatever poorly disguised Freedom Division that came after them. And the FBI was no match for the AH's Chaotic Weapons and Sexual Energy nor for the surprise forces he had amassed inside. Belegon's Scottish baseball attack was as deadly as ever and EL's secret ninja powers were optimal for her to hang over the door in preparation.

Still, he was incomplete. He felt that all the challenges were gone. That even his phD in Goat Cheese Metaphysics wasn't enough to fill his empty chasm of a soul.

"You alright, Boss," a mewing voice near him muttered as she hugged his arm gently. It was Luc's favorite succubus, vella_ms. She was naked from head to toe in the standard hell uniform and was mewing because of the ministrations of her angelic girlfriend Lucky-E-leven. Lucky had been a surprise. No demon had ever managed to seduce an angel since Agent Crowley had gotten the archangel Michael drunk after the Spanish Inquisition. And that had only been a one-night stand.

"Yes," he replied rubbing her head affectionately. "I was merely thinking all the challenges had gone."

"We could release the amicus," she purred malevolently.

The amicus. Yes, such a creature would aid the poor Feds chances somewhat and add spice to the festivities. Sure, it would ruin the mood and weaken the Sexual Energy, but if it got to be too much, a round of unfortunate butt sex would be all that was needed to lure him back into his pen lined with the ramblings of Demon Propaganda Agent Ayn Rand.

"Aye, I think that would be satisfactory."

"I thought so, Boss," she said stopping briefly to orgasm. "I sent it up about an hour ago. Don't know if anyone's spotted it though."

"Doesn't matter," Luc said with an uncharacteristic smile. "I trust the Infernal Camera has been set up for our enjoyment?"

"Naturally," vella muttered before flipping over her girlfriend to return the favor. She quickly snapped her fingers to turn it on.

"Let the fun begin," Lucifer stated as the Feds crashed into the room and the Brawl began. Already dead man Ogg had nutted Hoover and Belegon had been whacking Feds like Braveheart with his golden bat. The amicus had wondered off after Black Shangalan, apparently the horse's mighty member was far too much for it. Still, it was enjoyable in its own way. And knowing the AH, there would be far more surprises before the night was through.

 

[shereads]

The outwardly-swinging door hit Shereads for a second time with a dull

BUMP

 

[Kassiana]

It was quiet. Too quiet.

Well, okay. It was slightly quieter without the wild neighing of the damned drunken horse, Kass thought to herself as she drank her cup of tea and smiled as yet another married man swung into the Hangout and headed straight for the women with naked tit avatars.

Typical. Kass couldn't get hit on in a room of pornography writers.

Of course, Kass had to be honest with herself. Damned self-help books. Kass didn't want to be hit on by a lot of them, either, and she was sure a lot of them didn't want her filling out their dance cards.

Boy, that sure was an old, outdated thing. Dance cards. Gone the way the milkman was going.

Curious, she looked around to see if anyone was wearing a picture of a milkman on his name tag when a hoarse, garlic scented voice breathed hard into her ear. "Hi, babe," the voice said as a hand grabbed and cuffed her right wrist. She relaxed a moment, then realized her husband hadn't been invited and this must be something bad.

"I didn't say I'd sub for you ..." she began, as her other wrist was clanked into the other cuff and a whistle blew.

"RAID!"

The other Literoticans began panicking and running for the doors. And windows. And walls. Kass decided to do the only thing she could...pretend to faint and hope her body weight was too much for the nefarious garlic-eater who had captured her.

As she slumped to the floor, Kass also hoped her readers were smart enough to pick up on the fact that the above sentence was a description of her attacker and not a racial slur, and that they wouldn't give her 1's because her post had no sex in it.

 

[shereads]

The BUMPS on her noggin had Shereads seeing double. This post in particular:

It seemed like an easy gig. That morning Quake had gotten a note from a Miss Reads asking for proof that John Ashcroft was the love child of J. Edgar Hoover and Clyde Tolson. As if it wasn’t obvious.

<snip>

But next thing Quake knew he was flat on his back in the Author’s Hangout. Just as he’d stuck his nose up Hoover’s skirt some reprobate named Og had punted for a Hoover-nut field goal.

 

[EarthquakeMan]

The BUMPS on her noggin had Shereads seeing double. This post in particular:

Quake shook off the cobwebs and saw Don Ho doing his stylish ukulele rendition of Shock the Monkey. Then he spied a drunken horse eating shrimp and LadyJeanne attempting to J. Edgar Hoover a smoke detector.

These were not your garden variety pornographers.

He elbowed his way past Kassiana’s sexless post, flipped her a 1, then beat cleats for the exit. The Author’s Hangout raid wasn’t his business. Quake was a recovering Playgrounder, one day at a time. And as for the debauchery, Quake had hedged his bets by footing Falwell’s NMBLA dues, so was guaranteed to get raptured into candyland. The G-men could arrest every G-spot in town for all he cared, or America could continue it’s heathen downward spiral. Either way, Quake came out on top. His only job was to deliver the girdle to his mysterious client, Shereads.

He blew through the exit and tripped over the thread starter with swell-looking bumps.

“You Read?” Quake asked.

“No,” she lied. “I’m here for the Amateur Pic Forum.”

But she couldn’t fool Quake. It was Shereads. And a leggy piece of homework she was, dressed in a AV that could pucker the paint off a ’64 Buick.

 

[shereads]

He blew through the exit and tripped over the thread starter with swell-looking bumps.

Bumps?

 

[kamuikamui]

Bumps?

 

[Guest]

my arse!nut

Thank you sher, for adding the period.

 

[shereads]

"We could release the amicus," she purred malevolently.

The amicus. Yes, such a creature would aid the poor Feds chances somewhat and add spice to the festivities. Sure, it would ruin the mood and weaken the Sexual Energy, but if it got to be too much, a round of unfortunate butt sex would be all that was needed to lure him back into his pen lined with the ramblings of Demon Propaganda Agent Ayn Rand.

"Aye, I think that would be satisfactory."

"I thought so, Boss," she said stopping briefly to orgasm. "I sent it up about an hour ago. Don't know if anyone's spotted it though."

The smell of sulpher was too faint to be noticeable, but even in the mayhem of an FBI raid led by the late J. Edgar Hoover, it's hard to ignore the sudden presence of the Vice President of the United States standing at the buffet table, helping himself to goose liver paté and holding a signed first edition of Atlas Shrugged beneath his arm.

"That's odd," Shereads muttered, ducking. She was conscious but not fully upright after a thread-bump to the head, and pornographers were stepping over her to reach the service exit. "There was no goose liver paté on the buffet tonight." And what was Dick Cheney doing here?

The sprinkler system had come on and the Hangout was in a panic. Distracted by a flash of hooves and the pungent aroma of wet alpaca, Shereads lost sight of the Vice President.

When she looked again, Cheney wasn't alone.

Amicus...and Lucifer! The three of them looked awfully chummy together. Not only that, they were - omigod - they were double dipping.

The bastards!