Fenny sat on the couch in the rather miserable room, fiddling with her hands and trying not to think too much. The carpeting, tatty curtains and disintegrating wallpaper smelled of stale tobacco smoke, and the upholstery held a faint aroma of various forms of alcohol and bodily functions she didn’t want to begin to name. One of the clips from the garter belt was digging into her thigh and she adjusted it, trying not to look at the way she was dressed. She pulled her feet up under her, heedless of the cold leather on her practically bare legs, and cocooned herself in the fur coat.

Absently twisting her wedding ring around her finger, she wondered just what was expected of her. They’d been less than clear, but she knew she wasn’t going to like it. This was certainly an experience that would give the therapist she was thinking of obtaining once she got home something to think about.

Fenny blew out a frustrated breath. Here she was, an unwilling and highly unlikely prostitute, god only knew what her friends were being forced to do if this was the position she was thrust into. She envisioned Gina selling drugs again, Paul probably expertly rolling joints in the background, Fenny thought with a smirk. Brad was probably being used to smuggle drugs across borders, while Greg was digging their own graves….

The door swept open and a man stepped in, carefully shutting it behind him. Fenny regarded him cautiously as he approached, smiling to himself, and felt her body jerk at the sound of the door locking.

The man sat on the edge of the bed, smiling at Fenny as she perched warily across the bedsit and they sized each other up. He had thinning hair, wrinkles drawn into his skin in a matter completely contradictory to the strained smile that was slipping into an appreciative stare. This was the type of man that would sneak out of the “adults” section of the video store, trying to hide the blank cases between a Schwarzenegger flick and an artsy biopic. Probably had a perfectly wonderful wife at home, couple kids, a cocker spaniel and an intense desire to be perverse, getting a cheap thrill out of doing dirty things to strangers in squalid hotels. And she was here to help him fulfill that need.

Fenny jumped off the couch, careful to keep the coat wrapped tightly around herself. “Look, I don’t know if you know what’s going on here, but I could really use some help,” she said softly.

The man crawled across the bed and sat up on his knees, looking at her, talking in a soothing, completely unintelligible voice all the while.

“Fuck,” Fenny snapped. “Why can’t I get kidnapped in an English speaking country for a change, huh?”

“What do we do now?” Paul asked, feeling pleasantly buzzed and properly numbed as he and Gina sat in the grass along the side of the road, joint finished and waiting for the taxi to arrive.

“We save Fen,” Gina shrugged.

“So, just go into Amsterdam and find a prostitute? Should be easy enough.”

“Yeah, but how many prostitutes are like Fen, huh? She’s gotta stick out like a sore toe. No, thumb. Thumb?”

“You’re stupid when you’re high,” Paul giggled.

“You’re stupid when you’re not,” Gina countered. He reached into his pocket, raised an eyebrow at her, and she broke into a smothered fit of laughter. “What’s that?” she asked as he turned a small box over in his hands.

“Ammo,” he shrugged. “Picked it up at the windmill before Amy picked me up.”

Gina nodded at him. “Get anything else?”

Leaning back in the grass, Paul reached into his front pocket and pulled out a small notebook. “Stuffed it in my pocket when I heard her open the door, don’t know what it is.”

Gina grabbed it from him and flipped through it. “You lucky bastard,” she breathed, seeming to sober as Paul leapt up at the sight of the approaching taxi.

“What, what’d I do?” he gasped. Gina said nothing as the car pulled to a stop and she pushed Paul into the back seat.

“We need to go here,” she declared, thrusting the notebook at the driver, who nodded and grunted what she hoped was affirmatively.

Paul snatched back the notebook as Gina settled back in her seat and the car turned back towards the city. In a flowery, nearly undecipherable scrawl was written ‘McIver’s “brothel” ’ with a phone number and address, a few names and dates scribbled beneath. The fact that Fenny was now associated with something considered to be a brothel pulled Paul reluctantly out of the haze he’d been enjoying, back into the severity of their situation. “How long?” he asked, leaning towards the driver.

“Eh?”

“How long, how long? Till we get to this place?”

The driver shrugged and muttered something in Dutch while Paul muttered a few choice obscenities and Gina hoped that Danny and Ritza were doing alright and that Fen wasn’t in too much trouble yet.

“You know, you can stop pointing the gun at me, I get the point, and it’s not like I’m gonna jump out of a moving vehicle, they’d only run me over and at this speed, I’d rather you had both hands on the wheel,” Greg grumbled, rubbing the sore spot on his forehead as he continued to glare at the gun that was half aimed at him.

“Shut the fuck up or I kill you,” Amy hissed.

“You didn’t really need to kick me like that,” he pouted.

“You would’ve let me drive away with you, huh?”

“Well, maybe if you’d asked nicely.”

“Don’t give up your day job, man,” Amy half chuckled, “kidnapping isn’t your bag. I guess you and your friend weren’t boy scouts? Couldn’t tie a decent knot to save your life.”

“Well some of us have actual talents without resorting to the whole following orders from psychotic Scots to get our jollies.”

“I’m not taking orders from him,” Amy huffed. “I think of it as freelancing.”

“Do you even know what he wants from us?”

“He wants you dead,” she sneered.

“Sure, but why?” Greg countered, trying not to think about his own mortality.

“I couldn’t care less.”

“Because me and my friends beat him at his own game, that’s why.”

“Are you trying to make a point?”

He shrugged. “Thought you might want to know what you’re up against and why.”

“Let’s review then,” Amy chirped. “You met up with Don, ‘beat him at his own game,’ which I guess means you did something to make him pretty damn desperate to get revenge, and now you’re stuck in a car with me, who’s been given orders to kill you, while a couple of your friends follow us like a couple of lemmings. And I’m the one who should be worried? What the fuck are you on?”

Greg leaned sideways to get a better look in the side mirror, watching as Danny drove, Ritza on a cell phone. “This coming from power trip woman,” Greg mumbled.

“Shut up,” Amy growled, pushing the gun a bit closer to him.

“Oh come on, you’re not gonna shoot me. I’m the only thing keeping those two from pumping you full of holes. And trust me, she’ll do it. She’s killed people before, and I don’t think she’s worked through the issues, she’s just waiting to snap.”

“And if you keep talking I’m gonna snap,” Amy said menacingly.

“Spoilsport,” Greg sighed, folded his arms across his chest, and wondered what the hell Danny and Ritza were waiting for. Granted he hadn’t been too helpful. He winced at the memory; as he’d watched the goings on outside the car, Amy had twisted around and kicked him in the forehead, sending him reeling with pain, and before he knew it she’d grabbed his gun and crawled into the driver’s seat, still wriggling out of the knots he and Paul had tried so gallantly to make secure. So much for his reputation as a superhero. He leaned back in his seat and watched in the mirror as Ritza nodded into the phone before dropping it back to her lap. He didn’t know what she was up to, but he hoped to god it worked.

Brad hummed absently to himself as he fiddled with the cards. With a smile, he realized he was winning. Things were looking up.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Brad’s head snapped up to see Franco glaring menacingly at him. “Sorry,” Brad shrugged. “I told you I’m no good at this gambling thing, got distracted.”

“Well playing fucking Solitaire while I’m trying to teach you isn’t gonna do shit, is it?” Franco shrieked.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to just find someone who knows what they’re doing than teach a helpless case like me?” Brad argued.

“We’re using you because you’re disposable. You get caught and arrested, no skin off my nose. You win and get caught cheating and get shot, no problem for me. You lose, we kill you. It’s all pretty simple.”

“Yeah, thanks for the boost in self-esteem, buddy,” Brad smirked.

“Shuffle the cards,” Franco snapped. One of the heavies nudged the back of Brad’s head in encouragement and he reluctantly gathered together his game of Solitaire and began shuffling. “Christ, he even shuffles like a woman.”

“Hey, the chicks dig the dainty fingers,” Brad declared resolutely. “What are we playing? Crazy Eights? Old Maid?”

“Deal five cards,” Franco said, his voice barely a whisper, his face so contorted with frustration he was beginning to look like some kind of demented gargoyle. Brad shrugged and did as he was told, dealing out hands for himself and the other three at the table. “Ante,” Franco reminded him.

“Right,” Brad nodded. “Which of these bills do I use again?”

“This one,” one of the heavies seated next to him offered, pulling a bill from Brad’s pile.

“Sorry, I can’t get used to this whole different sized pieces of paper thing. How do you keep this stuff in your wallet?”

“I’ll take two,” Franco sighed, placing two cards on the table, watching as Brad slid two cards over to him.

“Two,” the next man said.

“Three cards,” the third said.

“Can I just deal myself a new hand if this one is crap?” Brad asked.

“No,” everyone in the room said with a roll of their eyes.

“And dealer takes four,” Brad announced, pulling four cards from his hand, leaving the ace he’d been dealt. “Uno,” Brad chimed.

Franco jumped up from his seat, took two strides towards Brad and stopped himself. “Someone get him out of here and beat some sense into him before I lose my temper and put a bullet through his skull.”

“Alright you, up,” a heavy growled, grabbing Brad by the elbow.

“Oh, hey Beven,” he chimed as he was dragged into an adjoining room. Beven paid him no attention and locked the door behind him. “Oh, and I thought we’d made such progress earlier,” Brad pouted. “I don’t let just anybody watch me piss on a first date. My wife won’t even watch me piss. Did I mention I have a wife? A little girl, too, if that helps.”

Beven rolled his eyes, the corner of his mouth curling into what could almost be described a smile as he picked up a chair. “If you’re not gonna work with us, we’ll just have to beat you into submission,” he growled, taking the chair and smashing it against the wall about three feet from Brad’s head.

“What the hell?” he gasped.

“You could help yourself out some by making some noise too, y’know,” Beven said softly, winking at him.

“Oh,” Brad nodded in understanding. “Oof, ow, dammit!”

“Fuckin’ Yank,” Beven grumbled, kicking the wall a couple times.

Brad let out a long, pained moan. “Thanks man,” he whispered.

They carried on for another couple minutes, scattering things across the floor of the disused storeroom, Brad practicing a limp and clutching his side like he’d just been kicked in the kidneys.

“You’d make a good actor,” Beven mused. “Had enough yet?” he huffed in conclusion, loud enough for those outside to hear.

Brad let out a whimper and allowed himself to be dragged back into the room and tossed back into his seat at the poker table. “Will he behave himself now?” Franco hissed, noting that they’d have to do something about the prisoner’s mussed hair sooner or later.

“I hope so,” Beven huffed, but Brad picked up on the bit of sincerity and warning that came through in his voice. He nodded to himself and drew the four cards he owed himself, deciding maybe it was time to play nicely.

Gina and Paul leapt from the taxi, Paul letting out a swear as the driver screamed at them, and he reluctantly dashed back to pay for the ride. “We’re here,” Gina declared, looking up at the decidedly seedy building. “What was the room number?”

Paul pulled the notebook from his pocket. “Four D or Four E, that’s what this says anyway.”

“Fourth floor it is then,” Gina nodded and wandered inside, heading up the stairs followed closely by Paul, who was fingering the gun tucked in the waistband of his pants, ready to pull it out and aim it at the heavies that were probably surrounding the place. A floorboard creaked as they reached the fourth floor landing and Paul whipped out his gun.

“Paul,” Gina hissed through clenched teeth. “Shooting off your own foot isn’t gonna help anybody, so behave.”

“Forgot about the whole pot making your paranoid bit,” he snickered.

“Well when someone hears us and takes it out on Fen, you can explain to Brad,” Gina huffed over her shoulder.

“And you can tell Dan what an idiot I am, hey?”

“Shut up and check that room,” she demanded, pointing across the hall to a room labeled 4D while she turned to 4E. Gina tried the handle, found that it was locked and was prepared to hurl a tirade of abuse at the door until she noticed it was locked from the outside, and quickly unbolted it. She gently pushed the door open until it met resistance – a fur coat tossed on the floor. A nervous glance at the bed revealed a woman dressed up like a streetwalker in a bad movie with an ugly man on top of her, face buried in her cleavage and hand groping her thigh, working on her pantyhose. Gina sneered in disgust and slowly backed out again, until she heard a very familiar stifled sob.

“Fen!” she shrieked and leapt into the room. The man quickly rolled off Fenny and turned a happily surprised glance at Gina, obviously figuring he was getting a service he hadn’t paid for. “God, Fen, are you okay?”

“Does it look like I’m okay?” Fenny snapped.

“What’s with him?” Gina asked, gesturing to the man who was hurriedly undressing himself.

“Dutch pervert,” Fenny shrugged.

“Help me tie him up.”

“That’s just what he wants,” Fenny sneered as Gina pulled the telephone cord from the heavy’s hotel room out of her pocket and smiled lecherously at the man. He willingly crawled onto the bed in nothing but his shorts and the two women made quick work of attaching him to the headboard.

Paul wandered into the room after finding the other empty, only to see his wife and a scantily clad woman tying some strange man to the bed. “Gina, what’re you—Fen!”

Fenny crawled off the bed as her would-be-client began to get worried at the inclusion of a man into his equation of kinkiness. “Say one word and I remove your scrotum with my newly manicured fingernails.”

“You know, when you threaten a man’s genitals while wearing a corset, it’s only gonna be taken as a come on,” Paul mused, watching as she reattached her stockings to her garter belt.

“I’d tell you to get fucked, but I don’t think that would help any. Gimme my coat.”

“I rather like this look on you Fen, especially the lace tho—OW! No need for brutality,” Paul pouted, rubbing his smacked shoulder as Fenny glared at him, wrapping herself up in her coat again.

“I get the feeling I’ll never live this down.”

“Your friend’s starting to panic,” Gina declared, stuffing a sock into the bound man’s mouth. “Maybe we should be thinking about getting out of here?”

“Right. Where’s your specs?” Paul asked.

“Claudia has them. They’ve been planning this for a while, they got me contacts, god knows how they managed to get hold of my prescription. I miss my glasses though, I feel naked without them.”

“I think the glasses are the least of your nudity problems, Fen,” Gina smirked as she pulled back the curtains, revealing a fire escape and a view from the opened window of the city below, idly wondering how long it would take to hail a cab.

“Shit,” Paul hissed from the door where he was poised to open it and make their escape down the hall. “Someone’s coming, quick, out the window, go.”

Without hesitation, Gina hoisted herself out the window, Fenny cautiously trying to maneuver the metal grating of the fire escape in her infuriating heeled boots. Paul leapt through the window, but let out a startled squeak when the back of his shirt was grabbed and he was yanked back into the room backwards, hitting his head on the window on the way in.

“Paul!” Gina shrieked, pausing and turning to find him. A gunshot rang off the railing and Fenny yelped, crouching down in fear.

“Go,” Paul yelled back. “Get the fuck off me you barbaric landmass—”

Fenny continued down the stairs, running directly into Gina who’d pulled out her gun and seemed to have no idea what to do with it. “You’ll only hit Paul, let’s go, let’s go,” Fenny pleaded, “we can deal with it later, he’s gonna shoot us!”

Another gunshot and Gina obediently continued down the fire escape, both women stumbling on just about every other step out of clumsiness, awkward shoes, and petrifying fear as they tried not to listen to the sounds of struggle fading into the distance as they reached the pavement.

“What was all that phone business about?” Danny asked as he continued barreling down the road after the other car.

“I’ve got friends around that owe me a favor or two,” Ritza mused.

“Like what kind of friends?” he asked warily. He’d heard enough stories of her past for a word like “friends” to intimidate him a bit.

“Just a little further and you’ll see.”

“Right,” Danny nodded, devoting his attention to the task of driving again. They’d gone a few more miles and were nearing the city again, when a moving van pulled into the center of the road and stopped. Amy slammed on the brakes and tried to swerve around it, but there was really nowhere to go and she ended up skidding on the loose pavement, coming to a stop with the driver’s side pinned against the side of the van.

Ritza leapt out of the car as soon as Danny stopped it and ran to the other car as Greg crawled out, gun in hand, which Ritza snatched from him. “Out of the car,” she snapped, leaning in to see Amy leaning her head against the window. “Now.”

With a stream of insults and threats, Amy crawled over the gear shift and out the passenger door as Ritza wrenched her arms around her back and threw her against the side of the car.

“Looks like the start of a bad porno,” Greg breathed, trying to hide the fact his fingers were trembling.

The driver slipped out of the moving van, a small aging man with a kindly smile and glasses that were significantly too large for his face. “Friend of yours?” Danny breathed, watching as he opened the back of the van and pulled out a length of twine. He and Greg tied Amy’s hands together again.

“Mafia psycho-bitch knots this time, huh Proops?” Ritza said sardonically.

“You shouldn’t leave me and McDermott to do this stuff, we’ve always been on the wrong end to know how to do it right.”

“You’re not fucking gonna get away with this shit, you’re a dead man Proops, you and your friends, don’t even think this is over—”

The van driver was waiting for Ritza to toss ranting Amy into the back, and when she did so, he swiftly closed it and padlocked it from the outside. “Thanks again, Ken,” Ritza smiled, reaching out to shake his hand. “Don’t know what we’d have done without you.”

“You would’ve thought of something,” Ken grinned, “you always do. Nice to be of help again. Anytime you need me to help transport anything for you, I’m here for you.”

“And you thought there weren’t any perks to being a heartless bitch,” Ritza smirked at Greg.

“I’m just glad you’re on our side for a change,” Greg grinned, taking a deep breath.

“I think I need to sit down,” Danny announced, sitting heavily in the grass and wondering how hard it would be to write a screenplay, as this was a story that could win him international acclaim in the movie industry. That or a straight jacket and padded walls, which was beginning to sound just as appealing.