Morris / the Dangerous Jade

Morris Micklewhite and The Dangerous Jade

A Fanfiction

Based on the character Jade Dragon

created by Battlestrength

Part One

by The Preve

The Author wishes to express his thanks to Battlestrength for his permission in writing this story, and to Destodes 777 for his edit.

Hi.

My name is Morris Micklewhite and my life sucks. Really sucks. Like it sucks dirty, sweaty, smelly ass. My life sucks for lots of different reasons.

First: my name is Morris Micklewhite. Morris fucking Micklewhite. Not Morris Williams, Morris Johnson, or something a little cooler, like Morris James; Micklewhite.

Second: my family. They suck. Mom and Dad divorced when I turned ten. They remarried a dick and a bitch respectively. Neither side wanted me. Mom thought I looked too much like Dad. Dad was too busy being rich to be a father.

I got tossed between them like kids playing football. Plus, my stepdad's a martinet and my stepmom's evil.

Mom has another son now. He's okay I guess. My stepmom came with a daughter. She's older than me, and bitchier than stepmom.

My life shouldn't be suckass. It's not as if I'm poor. Dad's upper management at a big tech company. Mom's from some old money upper East Coast family.

My stepdad's old money too. One of those old family New York, Exeter and Yale-educated fucks who wind up in the state department or some secret squirrel agency, usually known by its initials, with words like "department," "agency," "security," or "intelligence," in it's title. He's in one of the latter but intelligent doesn't describe the level of his brain power.

My stepmom and her daughter are from Georgia, by way of Malibu. Old South plantation types who fell into southern California life. Dad's her fourth husband. She didn't marry him for money. She's got her own fashion boutique. Dad has connections though, and she's looking to expand. I was an inconvenience, but she thought I could be a distraction for her daughter.

Right, some distraction. More like her daughter's shitrag. What was she thinking? Fanny, aka Stepbitch, was two years older than me. I was a freshman when Dad married her mother. Stepbitch was a junior. She hated me on sight.

It got better when she went to college but just barely. I wasn't surprised she got in Harvard. I heard stepmom paid a lawyer, who paid off a college admission official, and a volleyball coach. I still had Stepasshole to live with for half a year, then a quiet month or two, and then Stepbitch comes home from college, and I'm her amusement for the summer break.

I couldn't wait 'til I turned eighteen and got out of high school, and then I'd be clear of all of them.

Then I did.

And Stepbitch had a final humiliation.

And things got really fucked after that.

I'll make this part quick 'cause the fucked part afterward takes longer. The shitshow which started it was fucked up in itself, but nowhere near what came later.

It was a stupid bet really. Stepbitch (she has to earn my respect to call her Fanny), was in her usual form, ragging on me with her equally bitchy friends: old high school BFFs, plus some jocks from college.

A lot of it had to do with my red hair and freckles. That crap washed over me, mostly. I lost count how many times I got called Opie, Archie, or Richie in my short life. Next she went on about my size. I'm not short, but I'm not tall either, and Stepbitch is 5'10" to my 5'6". She ended with my body. I'm skinny, but not a stick. I'm slender. Stepbitch likes them pumped up like her jock asshole boyfriends so she exaggerates.

Then one of the girls made some comment about my geek cred. I clapped back something about them being spoiled, vapid bimbos who wouldn't know Call of Duty from their twats.

I meant it as a casual snipe. I was sick of their shit and getting ready to leave anyway. Stepbitch saw it differently.

"Oooo, a challenge."

I didn't mean it as a challenge.

Before I knew it, I was in a Call of Duty match up against Stepbitch.

"Loser has to be the other's bitch for the next week," she grinned, "Everything the winner says, the loser does."

What could I say? I couldn't resist. Stepbitch was cruel, materialistic. She never struck me as a gamer. At least she never played around the house. I ate, shit, and breathed Call of Duty. Beating her would even the tab a little.

"Deal."

I lost. Who'd a thought.

"You know, Red? Call of Duty's a good way to let off steam at college," she smirked. "I also like to do it at my friends' houses, but you wouldn't know that."

Stepbitch waited a few days, savoring every moment of my torture, waiting for the weekend. Early Wednesday, she roused me from bed, at six in the morning, with ice cold water.

"Yow! What the fuck?!"

"Up and at 'em, Red. I gotta get your ass ready for Saturday."

"Fuck off! I'm trying to sleep."

"Get up or you welch, and be my bitch for the month rather than the week."

The terms of the deal. I couldn't back out. She'd set one of her jock pals on me, like a loan shark.

She took me on a two hour ride in her pink bubblegum 'Vette (I hated the thing). I knew about the place we arrived at, I'd just never been there. Stepmom's best friend ran it, and the best friend's daughter was one of Stepbitch's followers. She was the one who quipped about my geek cred.

Blue Rose Spa and Salon.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me!"

"We're spending the day here, Red, so suck it up."

We went through the entrance into reception.

"Fanny Price and Morris Micklewhite," Stepbitch said, placing emphasis on Micklewhite.

The receptionist smiled, signed us in, and directed us down the hall. "Locker rooms and showers are to the right."

We met attendants who followed us to the locker room. Turns out they wash our clothes as a complement, while we showered and got ready for whatever torture Stepbitch paid to inflict on us.

We stood there, dressed only in bathrobes and sandals. Stepmom's best friend was in the lounge herself to greet us.

"Welcome back Fanny," she smiled, "Chrissie asked me to thank you for your help with the Miss Malibu pageant."

"Always glad to pitch in Mrs. Venetti."

I rolled my eyes.

"So, the usual for you?"

"Yes, and remember, full treatment for him."

"Full treatment?" I asked, "What do you mean by that?"

Mrs. Venetti's smile was sweet as poison. Stepbitch was the one who bared her teeth.

"You'll find out."

And that was how I found myself splayed flat on a bench, naked, screaming in agony, as a giant, psychobitch Nurse Ratched/Annie Wilkes/Arnold Schwarzenegger hybrid waxed, lasered, and electrolysized every inch of skin below my hairline. She flipped me around like a pancake.

She got everything; under the arms, my pubs, my ass crack, my balls. She left me with my head hair, my eyebrows, and maybe some skin. I couldn't tell at the time. Everything else was gone, permanently.

I looked myself over in a mirror afterwards, trying to figure what I thought of this whole mess. Stepbitch did this to me for reasons I didn't want to think about.

Anyway, she came out of her session none the worse, all made up and flawless, and in a bathrobe. They didn't give me one. Stepbitch wanted to see me naked.

She came, she saw, she smirked.

"Turn around, Red."

I grit my teeth and did as she said. I should tell you my face was red as my hair.

"Perfect," she said, "You know, Red, your body's kind of nice-looking, especially your ass. Now get dressed."

She left me with a dropped jaw.

What the fuck she just say?

On the way home she laid it out.

"I'm giving a party, Saturday, while the parents are in Catalina. You're going to be the waiter, and the entertainment."

"Fine, what stupid costume do you want me to wear?"

"The same stupid costume I just saw you in."

It took a second for my brain to catch up to what she said.

"What?! Why?!"

"'Cause it's going to be fun, and I like to show my winnings off, and you're it."

My stepsister was a sociopath.

The Saturday party was just as bad as expected. I was only allowed to wear sandals. I had to serve hors d'oeuvres. Reactions varied. Most laughed. Some were sympathetic, but didn't call Stepbitch out on it.

Some said I was cute. Some said I had a nice ass, echoing Stepbitch. I got some remarks on my cock which, like me, wasn't big but not small either. Some got handsy. I had to do some dodging. Several felt me up. A few of the girls made me offers. So did a few of the guys. I didn't take them up. I was too embarrassed to think, and the offers could have been set ups. Besides, I was a virgin.

This was the shit I had to endure for almost twelve hours. I didn't think it could get any worse than Saturday.

It got worse. Much, much worse.

You see, Stepbitch neglected to tell her friends to leave their phones at home. You can guess the rest; by Sunday morning every inch of my bare ass naked body was smeared across the social network, everywhere. I was fucked.

I got some satisfaction: so was Stepbitch.

Turns out, if you have affluent, publicity conscious parents trying to make deals with high class business prospects, having a naked son trending is not good for impressions. Stepbitch actually fucked up for a change.

Dad and Stepmom had to cut their trip short to clean up the shit storm.

They couldn't wipe my ass off the internet, so they did the next closest thing.

Stepbitch was packed off to relations in Virginia. A little threat to her college tuition made her compliant. Mom didn't want me. Her old money eastern elite sensibilities were shocked, "Shocked," by my "Irresponsible behavior." She didn't care about my side of the story. Stepasshole pushed for military school, or the Army.

I was eighteen, just out of school, with good grades behind me. My sights were set on Caltech after my gap year. I didn't know if they'd take me after this shitfest though.

Dad's solution was to pack me off to my uncle Harry, his brother, in Key West. The literal bottom of the country. I didn't give a fuck really. I was done with everyone and everything.

If I'd known how moving in with Uncle Harry would fuck my life up, more thoroughly than any fuck up in fuck up history, I'd have begged Stepbitch to farm me out as a naked caterer to every snot-assed party in Southern California. As it stood, I'd show more of my body in the coming fuckfest than at any moment, from my birth to the Saturday party.

****

Let me tell you about my Uncle Harry. I don't know much about him. No one in the family really does, not even Dad. I do know he's as different from Dad as the Joker from Batman.

Dad's light-skinned with red hair. Uncle Harry's dark olive with black hair.

The difference came from our grandparents. My granddad was Archibald "Archie" Micklewhite, a vacuum cleaner salesman turned company exec from Southeast London. The red hair / light skin combo came from my Scottish great-grandmother.

My grandmother was Alexa Amira Kallistodapappoulous-Micklewhite. A Greek-Syrian from Cyprus. My great-grandmother on that side was half Ethiopian.

Archie and Alexa emigrated to the States sometime in the late sixties. Dad came in '75, Uncle Harry in '80. The genes split the difference. Dad took after Gramps, Uncle Harry after Gramma. I took after Dad.

It wasn't just the looks. Dad was the responsible, studious stick-in-the-mud. Uncle Harry was the wild rebel. Dad was the valedictorian. Uncle Harry, the delinquent.

The grandparents tried everything on Uncle Harry. The only things that took were martial arts and boxing classes. He did really good, I heard. Won many martial arts competitions, and achieved sixth degree in black belt.

Dad went straight from high school to Harvard business. Uncle Harry joined the Marines.

Dad transferred to Yale and joined the Skull and Bones. Uncle Harry did something heroic on his first deployment, straight out of boot camp, that got him a medal, and into Annapolis. No one knows what; it's a government secret apparently. It set a pattern.

Dad graduated, got into the rat race, and is now the chief operating officer of Plum Technologies, one of the largest, most powerful tech companies on the planet.

Uncle Harry graduated Annapolis, went into Marine Recon, and vanished. Not completely. He'd pop up from time to time. No one knew what he was up to between appearances.

The part where I said I didn't know much about him came from that. I knew about his younger years only 'cause of a class project I had to do about family histories.

Prior to Key West, I'd only seen him twice in my life. The first time, I was eight and the family had gathered around Grandpa's hospital bed. He'd suffered a heart attack.

Uncle Harry wasn't there long. He was dressed in a suit, like Vincent Vega from Pulp Fiction. He and Dad were arguing in the hallway outside Grandpa's hospital room. I don't know what they were saying. Their words were loud whispers and sounded harsh.

Dad broke off the conversation and stormed back into the room. Uncle Harry stood a few seconds, breathing hard. Then he noticed me.

"Who are you kid?" he had a kind of nasally voice with a heavy Brooklyn accent. Dad got rid of his accent before I was born. He speaks mid-Atlantic like my mother now.

"M-Morris."

The man scared the living shit out of me. He was about Dad's size, 5'11". His hair was a black mass of curls with brown and gray streaks. He wore a brown mustache, kind of old-fashioned, like out of a 70s TV cop show, and he had the deepest chin cleft I'd ever seen on any human face. Kirk Douglas could only hope to match Uncle Harry's cleft.

What terrified me most about Uncle Harry were his eyes: twin beams of blue-gray steel. They bore through me with such intensity, I almost wet my pants. It was like looking at Death itself.

"Arch's kid." Dad was Archie Jr. Uncle Harry looked at me thoughtfully. "Word of advice kid. Soon as you're able, get as far away from him as you can. He's shit."

These days I can't exactly disagree with him. I didn't know it at the time. I was just happy seeing him walk down the hall.

His next appearance was at my grandparents' funeral. They'd been murdered; shot in bed at point blank range, with a shotgun. I was sixteen.

It made news. They even caught a suspect. He was British, middle-aged, part of some long-standing firm from South London, Grandpa and Grandma's old home.

They couldn't get anything out of him except the words, "Old debts," or so I heard.

The funeral was the only time I saw Dad express something other than disapproval or disinterest. He might be no good as a father, but he cared for Grandpa and Grandma at least.

He glanced at Uncle Harry sometimes. Uncle Harry's face was hard, cold. He didn't look at Dad or anyone. Just the coffins. I wasn't as scared of him as when I was eight. He still gave me a shiver.

A month after we buried Grandpa and Grandma, CNN reported London police responded to reports of a shootout in a South London pub.

Cameras showed crowds of people milling around outside. The police found a couple dozen dead in the pub, and the offices upstairs. The pub was known to be the headquarters of the firm that employed my grandparents' murderer. All the dead were its members.

Most died from multiple gunshots, except for five identified as the top members. They all had multiple stab wounds, including two elderly brothers, leaders of the firm, with cut throats. Autopsy reports said the five did not die quickly. The only clue reported was a message, written in their blood on the wall. "Debts paid back with interest."

Grandpa and Grandma never talked about their lives before they emigrated. I wondered what they did in South London.

Uncle Harry rarely wrote but he did send an address a while back, where Dad could mail documents related to Grandpa's will.

So that's where Dad sent me.

The house was a bungalow in the New Town neighborhood, near the beach.

The taxi dropped me off. Dad hadn't given me any instructions. He just gave me the address, some money for the taxi, bundled me on the plane, turned around, and left without looking back.

I was in essence, thrown away; better than those, "I am so disappointed," variations he threw at me on the way to the airport.

I stood outside, wondering if I should let Uncle Harry know I was here. I could turn around, walk out of the neighborhood, and off whatever cliff would take me.

There was nothing left really back home for me. I hadn't much of a life, didn't have many friends, and wasn't welcome in most of the social cliques. Stepbitch's stunt destroyed the social life left to me.

But what could I do now? Everything I owned was in a duffel bag on my shoulder, and I only had on jeans, tennis shoes, and a black tee with a Wolverine picture on the front. So I rang the bell, waited, and rang again. The person who answered was not Uncle Harry.

She was about six feet, light blonde hair, done in a bun, deep blue eyes behind a pair of round wire rims, and dressed in a white tee and jeans. She was built like a brick shithouse. She was fucking hot.

The first words out of her mouth were, "We don't need any kid," and shut the door.

I was too stunned processing her to move at first. Then I blinked and rang the bell again. This time I heard Russian, or I thought it was Russian. She was cursing, it felt like. She threw the door open.

"Look kid, we don't need any raffle tickets, subscriptions, cookies, or whatever useless crap your scout troop's selling, so fuck off!"

Her accent was thick, and smoky.

"I'm not a boy scout. I'm Morris," I said, trying to stop her shutting the door.

"Morris? Who the fuck is Morris?"

"Harry's nephew. This is his house isn't it? Where is he?"

"He's at the store, and Harry didn't mention anything about a nephew! Who are you?!"

"I told you, I'm Morris."

What the hell was going on?

The lady looked past me, at the neighborhood, like she was scanning for something.

"Get in here kid!" She grabbed and pulled me in.

Before I knew it, she'd hustled me into the living room, and pushed me toward the couch.

"Strip," she said.

"Huh?"

"I said strip, and toss your clothes toward me as you do."

"What the hell are you talking about?! I'm not taking my clothes off!"

She reached behind her back and pulled out a gun.

"Strip."

I stripped.

Seconds later, I was in my Hanes, looking very pissed.

"All of it."

Off came the Hanes and, once again, I was bare assed naked in front of a woman.

She searched through my clothes while I stripped, emptied my bag and wallet on the floor.

"Turn around, bend over, and spread your cheeks."

"What?!"

"Do it."

I did it. She didn't give me a body cavity search at least.

"Go to the couch and sit."

"Can I have my clothes?"

"No."

So I sat naked on the couch.

What the fuck is going on?

I asked again.

The brick shithouse blonde sat in the chair opposite.

"Who are you really kid?"

"Morris."

"Your I.D says Morris Micklewhite."

"Yes."

"There's no Micklewhite here."

"Yes there is. Uncle Harry."

"There's only Harry Coal. No Micklewhite. Who sent you? Who are you, really?"

"Dad sent me, and I'm Morris."

She stared at me, ice cold. "Okay, 'Morris'. We're going to sit here and wait for Harry. When he gets home and confirms he has no nephew, I'm going to put a bullet in your head."

So, to summarize, within minutes of arriving in Key West, I'm sitting naked on a couch, with a crazy, hot, blonde woman pointing a gun at my head.

What the fuck did you get into Morris?