It was the usual busy week, couple of day trips along with the mandatory crise du jour, except this was really more of a crise du semaine as the diesel stocks started dwindling. But Charlotte was out taking care of Aunt Peg, and Katie was passing through town on her way back to Korea after doing another Red Flag at Nellis. She stopped in long enough to borrow the car to go see her grandfather and spend time talking with their hands demonstrating how to dog fight. She was assigned the 8th FW, and he had flown with the 8th TFW during Vietnam. She recently qualified as flight lead, and so there was lots to talk about, even if her F-16 could things that would break his F-4D in half.
The Colonel was none too pleased when his daughter married a loadmaster and then even less when the only grandchild was a girl---it's a generational thing. But then she went to the Academy and even better, became a fighter pilot. So all was forgiven for the most part. I mean he still calls me Sergeant, and I of course call him Colonel.
Anyway, she had spent the day with him taking him to Beale for a med check, shopping, and lunch. I had been home about 15 minutes when she blew through the door and headed to "her" room. She hollered as she went past me at the island, "Hey Dad, the Colonel is fine, I'm going out with Becca and Rachel, will Mom kill me if I borrow 'the Shoes'?
"Good to hear, have fun, and yes, I have no doubt that she will," I assured her.
15 minutes later she is back in the kitchen, drops her purse on the counter, and presents herself. She indeed has on the five inch patent pumps, one of my white shirts and a skirt that is mostly hidden under my shirt.
"Three things," I say. "First, can you guarantee nothing happens to those Shoes; second, are you trolling for Bandits, and three, regardless, will you be safe?"
"In that order, nothing will happen to the shoes; after wearing the green bag for the last three weeks, I wanted to do the Shania Twain thing; and I will be safe, I'm not a teenager anymore," she replied.
"Fair enough, but let's confirm the safety thing. Things have changed since you've been in Korea. Do you want to take the Glock?" I asked.
"Tempting," she said. "But if some policeman takes offense to its presence, then down goes my career."
A car horn sounded.
"That's them; I'm off," she said followed by a quick hug.
"Check 6, Captain," I waved.
"Roger that," and she was gone.
********
I had checked in with Charlotte on the way home, and we said our good-nights. She would be back Sunday to take Katie to catch her hop back to the ROK. The pizza was on its way, so all that was left to do was to pick a movie and settle in.
One medium veggie pizza later, I was watching Tom Cruise and Emily Blunt try to convince a General to open his safe, sipping on some Cuarenta y Tres, and calculating how many miles this would cost me in the morning. My cell chimed, jerking me off auto-pilot.
It was Katie. A drink got spilled on her, and she was coming home to change, so "don't shoot -- thumbs up". "10-4," I replied.
I got up, unlocked the door and turned on the lights. Pouring another shot, I went back to movie and waited for the whirl-wind to arrive. A moment later, lights in the driveway, followed by car doors shutting and the door opening.
"Dad!!," came the call as the door flew open. "It's me....and the guy who drove me here." A guy? Not expected, but not unexpected either. I headed to the door.
She stood there at the door, huge red stain down the front and arm, gesturing to the fellow outside to step in.
"Come on in--he doesn't bite---it's OK," she encouraged. The fellow stood back, smiled sort of shyly and said, "Sorry, the owner of the house needs to invite me in; it's a custom in my family."
Never the loss for words, she fired back, "What---is Miss Manners your matriarch?"
He shrugged. So she pivoted and said, "Sorry about the shirt, but it's his fault, I am going to change."
So I'm now holding the door open. The fellow shrugs again. Looking him over, he was not the type that she attracted but barely tolerated---the alpha male, ego-centric type. She spent 16 hours a day with those folks. This fellow was more young professional looking--collared shirt, khakis, neat hair---with a Keanu Reeves type reticence.
"I apologize for my daughter; she's a bit of a take charge and follow me type. I'm Charles Rone, and you are?"
"Viktor Halasz--it's Hungarian," he said, not moving.
"Well Viktor, it's indeed refreshing to meet someone who doesn't work for me and is polite and respectful," I paused and grinned. "That was little over the top, wasn't it?"
He gave slight nod and hint of a smile.
"Yeah, I guess it was. Sorry. But anyway, please come in." I said stepping to the side. "Family room is over there." I lead the way with him just off my shoulder. Gesturing to a chair, I said, "We might as well sit. She won't be long most likely, but you never know. And, no offense, but since you're the driver, I can only offer you something soft."
He settled into the chair as I took my spot on the couch. "So what happened; she said it was your fault?" I asked.
"I was told this place---Esparza's is it -- was a good place to meet people, so I went," he began.
I nodded, "it's one of our favorites, the Margaritas are borderline lethal. They have fairly strict rule of no more than two unless you are eating."
"Not much of a Tequila fan," he said. "What are you drinking there?"
"43, a Friday night habit," I replied.
"I think I've tried it before. Citrusy, goes down easy, no bite?"
"Exactly," I said. "And so?"
"So I'm just in town for the weekend, and it was recommended to me. I got a goblet of Sangria and was walking around, saw your daughter and her friends at the bar and went over to talk to them."
"And someone jarred your arm and the rest is history?" I asked taking a sip.
"Not exactly," he said. "I spilled it on her on purpose so I could distract and agitate her at which point I would then get inside her head so to speak and take control. Then we'd go outside where I would have her suck my cock. She looked like the type who gives great head."
I came out of the chair like it was an ejection seat. I hadn't gone hands-on with anyone since 1972, but I had 30 pounds and four inches on this turd, and we were going out if not through the front door.
My rage increased as did my volume as I bounded at him, "You Filthy Degenerate Piece of Sh------------."
And then I stopped. Like I hit a wall of Jell-O. I just slowed and then was suspended. I could breathe, but I could not speak.
He remained seated, looking up at me----studying me for a moment.
Looking slightly bemused, he said, "Of course, you'll do just as nicely. Frankly I prefer a male catch; maybe I just saw your daughter as a challenge. That'll teach me to fish in the wrong pond.
I was willing myself to move, but no use.
He stood and walked over. "Don't try to resist; you'll only pull a muscle. Besides, my control over you just slowly builds and build and builds until you have no will; just submissive obedience. At which point you'll be only too glad to do whatever I want."
Pausing for a moment, he continued, "If you knew Hungarian you might appreciate what's going on here. It means fisherman, which is how my kind feeds. Not on fish of course but on your emotions. We distract the "fish" (damn asshole made air quotes) with a lure that generates a surge of emotion. While distracted, I set the hook and reel you in."
