Apartment 8 Has A Golden Challenge

A Sequel to Apartment 7 Has A Golden Ticket and Apartment 8 Has A Golden Ticket

*****

Wednesday night at the Fawns Over Foxes Ladies Club

Johnny B Good2night stepped through the curtain to the small backstage "launch pad". Breathing as if he had just ran a mile, he fanned himself with his call sheet, his shirt beneath his glittery velvet vest drenched in an uncomely layer of sweat. His ears were ringing, the screeches and screams of the crowd on the other side of the curtain sounding like a klaxon in his skull.

"Amateur Night," he grumbled. The ladies were always voracious on Amateur Night.

Johnny sucked on a bottle of water then patted his large, shiny forehead with a kerchief. He looked up at the next slab of meat: a tall, rugged fellow that the ladies were sure to flay and rend apart with their eyes and lusty catcalls. He nodded and asked, "Hey, you ready?"

Looking through a thin Mardi Gras mask covering his blue eyes, Vasily tried to peer between the curtains. Only a sliver of harsh light slipped through, though.

He said flatly, "Those women... they are like wild boars."

Johnny smirked. "Yeah? Well trust me, pal, if they hate you, they're gonna trample you under their hooves," he remarked. He thought for a moment, grinned sheepishly and continued, "Come to think of it, that's what they'd do if they love you as well!"

Vasily frowned and heaved a long sigh. He shifted on his feet and pulled at his costume. "This is very tight. It clings," he said.

Johnny eyed him and shrugged. "You have about twenty pounds and three inches on the guy who originally wore it... and I'm not just talking about your dick. Hey-yo!" he replied. He nodded and added, "Don't worry about it, though. It looks good on you stretched out and with the chest popping through the collar and all that. Gives a nice preview of your package, too."

Vasily wasn't sure if he enjoyed hearing another man remark with admiration about his package. He grimaced and continued to shift uneasily like an athlete before a big game.

Johnny checked his notes. "So, is it okay if I say you're from Moscow?"

"I am not Russian," Vasily grunted, "I am from Zaporizhia."

Johnny winced. "Zapo-wha-hah? Sounds like a cough lozenge!" He shook his head. "Look, friend, no one knows where Zapo-whatever or Zippy-dee-doo-da is. No one out there has heard of it and I sure as hell can't pronounce it."

Vasily grimaced like a fly had landed on his nose.

"Let's just keep it simple, okay?" Johnny coached, "I go out and introduce you from wherever... it doesn't really matter where, to be honest. They ain't gonna get on their phones to Google it. You come out, you strip, you grind your loins in their faces, you get some wet panties thrown at you, then exit with most of your pride intact if possible. Boom-boom-boom... Yeah?"

Staring over Johnny's gel-slathered hairline, Vasily, for all intents and purposes, was a statue. He didn't like the guy, the way he talked faster than his flubbery lips and cheeks seemed capable of doing, but that was not his concern at the moment. He was more concerned with the thong he wore wedged between his crack, organically welding its way into his orifice. Any deeper and a proctologist would have to be called for extraction.

The M.C. slapped him on his stomach. "Hey easy, right? Oh, before I forget. You willing to free the cobra tonight?"

Vasily pinched his eye towards Johnny,

"Full Monty," Johnny elaborated, "You know, show off the goods? Flick your dick? If you're gonna do it, just give me a signal. Tip your cap or something."

That wasn't happening, Vasily determined.

"Well, it's up to you. Just don't slip and fall into the crowd," Johnny said, elbowing him lightly in the gut. "Remember... wild boars."

Vasily nodded once. That he understood.

"Good," Johnny replied. "Here's your bat."

Taking the rubber prop -a purple bat molded at the end like a giant penis tip- Vasily watched as Johnny slipped through the curtains. He pulled the lid of his baseball cap low over his eyes, shading them, then gripped the bat tightly in his fists as he listened to the scuzzy M.C. work the crowd on the other side of the curtains.

"Hey, hey, ladies and ladies! My, oh my, what a shark tank we have going on tonight, eh?"

There was a crescendo of yells and screams. Some deep-voiced woman bellowed, "Get the next piece of ass out here!"

Vasily suddenly felt very thirsty.

"Next on the menu, hailing all the way from the streets of Moscow... "

Vasily grimaced and sighed as he listened to some mock booing amidst the cheers.

"He's brought his big, red, Rooskie rocket to declare World War III on all your sweet asses," Johnny declared, whipping the throngs into a higher frenzy. "Not only can he 'Putin' but he can definitely 'Put-out' ALL... NIGHT... LONG!"

More screaming.

"He may speak softly, but he carries a big, long, thick, swinging stick!"

The screams blended together into one shrill, chaotic crescendo. It nearly blew the curtain back.

"Get ready for some meaty ground balls to be shanked into your faces!" Johnny announced, "Give it up for... Borrr-ris Bat-enough!"

The curtain drew apart and suddenly a bright white light splashed against Vasily. Not only was he already deaf from the screeching and whistles, now he was momentarily blind as well. He stood frozen on the launch pad, but flinched when pipe-organ music suddenly bellowed a swanky version of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" through the overhead speakers.

Vasily inhaled, the buttons on his undersized jersey ready to burst against the pressure of his puffed-up chest. For a half-second, he was able to shut everything out, the noise, the lights. In that moment, one existential question transcended all.

"Why am I here?"

He squinted through the small holes of his mask, past the spotlights, through the discombobulating crowd of crazed females, and focused on the silhouetted image of one particular audience member seated on the second level, sipping what was probably a Long Island iced tea through a straw. In his mind's eye he could see her there, that sharp left brow of hers popped up, a diving, toothy smile clenched upon her straw. His mind's eye saw that shattered glass smile that must have been wedged upon her lips.

Oh yes... because of her.

*****

The previous Saturday afternoon...

Carie always had a way with balls. Ever since she was a child playing her very first game of jacks, to setting the class record for the number of knock-outs during dodgeball at school, to leading her field hockey team in high school and college, she had a knack for the spheres. No matter the size, she always handled them with confidence.

It was to no one's surprise then that, despite her somewhat lithe and petite figure, she was an ace pitcher when it came to softball. Starting with a firm, yet almost flirtatious, stare toward the plate, then bending forward and cocking her arm straight back, to propelling herself forward a step, whirling the her arm, and launching the ball from her hip, she always managed to fire it in with surprising power and precision.

The immediate sound that typically followed of a bat whiffing through the air and the orb slapping into the catcher's glove with a crisp, leathery "pop", always sent a delicious ping of satisfaction that coursed through her skull like a drug. If she could loop that sensation in her head before she slept at night, she was sure she would have many pleasant dreams.

Today, she was doing particularly well on the field. This mixed-gender house league had done wonders to inspire her game. The satisfaction she got from striking out guys as well as women could almost be described as... well, a little orgasmic.

She tugged the lid of her cap down over her eyes as she peered at the next victim standing in front of her at the plate: a burly guy with a slight gut and puffy cheeks that made him look a bit like Popeye in Oakley's. With a fluid sweeping motion, she stepped back, leaned down, sprung forward and rotated her arm like a whirlwind.

Woosh!

Thup!

"Strike one!"

Her tidy lips slanted to the side. The smirk remained there as she repeated the drill two more times.

"Strike three! Yer out!"

Carie sprung up on her toes and slapped her glove. "Yes!" she whooped. "Sit your ass down, bitch!"

'Popeye' glared at her as he dragged his bat back to the bench. She was damn competitive, as well. The big guy gave her a what-the-hell sort of glare. Like she gave a fuck.

Her team clapped and cheered her on. Only one more out to go and the game was over.

Carie wasn't really thinking about the score, not the one scrawled in chalk on the scoreboard anyway. Her thoughts were focused solely on the next batter. Now she cracked a sharp, toothy smile as she watched him come off the bench and approach the plate.

Vasily walked towards the batter's box holding and looking at his bat as if it were the Singing Sword. Five games into the season and he was still not sold on the sport. Hockey, that was his thing. Fast, non-stop action, constant banging and checking, and slapping frozen slabs of rubber at other human beings, that's what he liked. "Softball"... what kind of feeble name for a sport was that?

Fielding was awkward for him, standing out there in centerfield, waiting for a ball to come near him maybe three or four times per game. He usually did his business accounts in his head for most of the time. Batting was significantly more interesting and he was good at it -he had been dubbed "The Ball Buster" by game three- but it happened too infrequently during a game.

It was a slow sport, period. If he had his way, the pitchers would just have a tub of balls beside them and they would simply lob them in non-stop with batters standing in a line taking swings in succession. They would also get to keep their bats with them when they ran the bases. That wouldn't be a problem for the fielders, though; they would also have bats. The field would be replaced with ice and home plate would be a net. Full-contact softball. It would sweep the country.

"Hey, Boris," Carie shouted at him, "stop day-dreaming and get your butt up to the plate already! Don't worry, you'll be sitting back down in a couple of seconds, anyway!"

Vasily grimaced as he stepped into the box and planted his feet. It was because of that woman that he even joined the league, yet she had insisted he be on another team. Perhaps it was because her team was comprised of all her Chinese and Asian friends. More likely, it was because she got off by facing him on the field.

Carie took off her cap and dropped it in her glove, allowing the sunlight to brighten up her shiny, smooth face accented by a teasing grin. Tucking her glove under her arm, she reached back and undid her ponytail, shaking out her hair which, in spite of the dust and dampness, still looked enticingly dark and shiny. As she took her time to tie it back up, she stretched her back, flattening her tummy forward and exposing her belly button sneaking out from under her cut-off jersey. At the same time, she stretched out her long, toned leg, toeing the grass in front of her nonchalantly.

Not only did softball bring out her competitive side, it drew out her flirtatious, teasing nymph tendencies as well.

"Throw ball," Vasily grunted impatiently as she went through her extended preening ritual.

"Say please!" She beamed him a smile. She could see the little puffs of smoke come out of his ears.

"Throw ball!"

"Ooh, I love it when you're grammatically incorrect!"

"Will the pitcher throw the damn ball already?" the ump called to her, exasperated. "Please?"

Carie giggled, winded up, then threw the ball.

Woosh! Thwup!

"Strike one!"

Woosh! Thwup!

"Strike two!"

TUNG!

"Ooh," the players chimed.

"Foul ball!"

"Ohh..."

Woosh! Thwup!

"Strike three! Yer out!"

The ump called the game. "Final score: The Dim Sum Warriors 4 and The Vodka Violators 1. Game over. Thank God." He shook his head and sighed. Why the organizers of the league had not only allowed the teams to form along ethnic lines, but also allowed them to choose their own names, was way beyond him. Between these two jokers and other teams like Los Puerco Hermanos, The Spaghetti Westerners and Chocolate Reign, he wasn't sure if he was umping softball games or managing a politically incorrect kitchen.

Though the score was 4-1, for all intents and purposes, the only score that mattered was the one Carie and Vasily kept in their heads which was 2-1, still in her favour.

After celebrating with her team on the field, Carie pranced over to Vasily who was still standing at home plate. Skipping around the heavy hitter, she proclaimed, "Just another victim."

He was too preoccupied to notice her at the moment. He was contemplating a way to lay blame on the inanimate length of pipe he wielded in his hands for this impotent plate appearance. There must have been a magic hole in it somewhere.

"Hey!" Carie jumped up and slapped him on the back of his head with her glove. "Give a girl the satisfaction of gloating, would you?"

Vasily eyed her as she hopped away from him backwards. She was sweet, sexy and annoying as all hell all at once. He felt the urge to either carry her to the bleachers to engage in some serious, post-competitive coital relations, or to dump a bucket of water over her chirpy, taunting head.

"We settle up at the pub," she said, winking and pointing her finger at him like a pistol. "Your ass is mine, Boris!" She turned and skipped away, her tight little butt wiggling to and fro.

The bucket of water and then the bleachers, Vasily decided.

*****

It had all started that night in Number Seven, on the floor of Vasily's apartment, when Carie, her short kimono robe, and a bottle of tequila had managed to rope him into joining her softball league. Even though he had lost track of how many shots he had knocked back, he was still aware enough to know that he would regret his decision. Yet, the heady combination of Mexican alcohol pumping through his veins and the vision of Carie's silky skirt hiking further and further up her smooth, white thighs managed to subvert his better judgement.

Carie, of course, was ecstatic that he had yielded to her insistence and endless jabs of her finger. And once she got her way, Carie, of course, wanted more.

"Bet?" Vasily grumbled.

"Yes," Carie said, wobbling as she sat on the floor, "Let's spice up the stakes, shall we?"

He swatted his hand dismissively. "I am not hungry," he mumbled. Just the thought of eating almost made him want to puke.

Carie paused and eyed him -or perhaps her lid was just droopy from the alcohol- then laughed, "'Stakes! Not steaks, you... you Bolshevik! Stakes! Stakes!"

Vasily frowned. What the hell was she talking about? He attempted to grab the bottle of tequila from her clutches and earned a slap on his wrist for it.

Carie, her cheeks in full bloom, wagged a finger at him. "Listen, listen. Shut up and listen," she slurred, "I'll put my pitching hand up against your bat."

Her hand? His bat? Was she talking about jerking him off?

"Outs versus hits," she continued, "That'll be how we keep score against each other. Fuck the game. Everytime I get you out against everytime you get a hit off of me, okay?"

Vasily didn't know if that was okay. He still wasn't sure what she was talking about, to be honest. He just wished she would simply stop talking, period. He nodded his head like it was a kettlebell tethered to his shoulders. "Okay," he burped.

Carie smiled. The smile stayed frozen on her face as she turned and crawled-dragged herself across the floor to the table. She grabbed a pen and a pad of post-it notes and then crawled-dragged herself back to Vasily.

He watched her as she took a moment to scrawl something down, her little pink tongue sticking out of her mouth off to the side. Finally, she handed it to him like a parking ticket.

"There!" she declared. "Read that."

Vasily's blue eyes squinted, then widened, then squinted again upon the yellow slip of paper. He read aloud, "Apartment Seven hereby accepts Apartment Eight's Golden Softball Challenge."

"'Soft-bull Chill-enge,'" Carie mimicked his thick, Euro-dude accent and chuckled.

Vasily continued, "If Carie puts Vasily out more times than he gets hits, she wins... "

"Go on," she insisted.

"... she wins and he agrees to be... " he paused and sighed heavily, "... her bitch for a night."

Carie nodded, proud of her penmanship.

Vasily flipped the paper over and back. He looked at her and asked, "If I win?"

She fluttered her lips, sputtering spit while doing so. "Yeah, like that'll happen."

Vasily's brick jaw locked into place.

Carie rolled her eyes and sighed, "Look, there's not enough room to write all that down. Let's just presume that it says either of us can win the bet, okay?"

He frowned as if he were solving a calculus problem.

Carie took that as acceptance. She poured a couple more shots of tequila and thrust the glass into his fingers. She clinked her glass against his, then held it up and announced, "Let's seal the deal in blood, baby!"

They tossed the fiery liquid back down their throats.

The two of them stared at one another for a long, silent moment. A playful smile stretched leisurely across Carie's red, glossy lips. Despite her sometimes aggravating ways, Vasily felt the sudden urge to kiss her. He leaned forward towards her... then watched as her eyes rolled into her head and she slumped down onto the floor like a buckwheat pillow. She passed out with a smile plastered on her lips and a grizzled snore emanating from her nose.

Vasily gazed at her for a few seconds, grumbling softly. Finally, he pulled the blanket off the sofa and covered her with it. He then stood as if rising from a tub of molasses, stepped over her prone body, and then staggered to his bedroom, closing the door behind him.

*****

"Two to one," Carie declared as she sat perched on her bar stool after the game. She held up two fingers, pointed them at her eyes, then turned one finger towards Vasily. "Two outs to one hit."

Vasily appeared a little cross-eyed, glaring at her finger pointing so close to his nose, yet he remained passive otherwise. He gave her a "yes, get on with it" look.

Carie absorbed a hard chug from her bottle of beer and then reached into her purse. She pulled out the post-it note, the contract for their little side-bet, and slapped it down on the hardwood bar. She sat back with a smug look on her face and took another swig from her beer, her second bottle.

Arms crossed, Vasily remained numb to her theatrics. His lips barely parted as he nodded curtly and said, "I lost bet. I am your bitch."

Carie's sharp, black eyebrows twitched and then she burst into laughter. Oh lord, he was adorable. Her towering, stoned-face, brooding neighbour was so... fucking... adorable.

She took a deep breath and sighed languidly. She called to the bartender, "Miss? Do you have a piece of paper and a pen?"

Behind the counter, a young woman with frizzy peach-coloured hair smiled and walked over to where they were seated. She pulled a pad of paper and pen from the back pocket of her cut-off shorts. As she handed them to Carie, she shifted her eyes none too discretely over towards Vasily. The smile on her ruby lips edged much sharper, her green eyes fluttering at the man.

"I like your ink," the bartender said, nodding at Vasily's tattoos. She turned around a little and pulled at the sleeve of her top, exposing a large dragonfly etched around the back of her shoulder. "This is my little piece of art."

Vasily tilted his head. It was hard to tell, but he looked appreciative.

"You can take a closer look if you'd like," the bartender said. She leaned over the counter, her ample cleavage hoisted on the hardwood.