Exton

Okay, now that's just dumb.

Gotta give her credit for being ballsy, walking right in the front door like that. Still - Vanity, thy name is Morgan! If she'd come in looking like a little old lady, no one would've noticed - or at most, they would have wondered what a little old lady was doing in a happenin' joint like this - but no, she had to come in wearing the glamour glamour, from the cotton-candy blonde hair to the collagen-enhanced lips to the cleavage you could hide a bottle of Chivas Regal in. A painted-on mini, four-inch spikes and a vacant look in the big green eyes completes the ensemble - plus she's boosted the ooomph factor with enough pheromones to make you feel like the Bird of Paradise flew up your nose and built a nest in your cerebral cortex.

So now Drunk Jack is back... I ask Monty for a couple shots of his most potent potable and knock them back like Kool-Aid, saving some of the last to dribble down my shirt front.

Jack Stone, Method actor.

Then, like the compass needle to magnetic North, like the moth to the flame, I head straight for Morgan. She gets a pinched look around the eyes when she sees me coming and actually flinches when I yawn - though that might be the scent of the paint remover Monty favored me with. "Hi, gorgeous," I slur, leering drunkenly and speaking directly into her cleavage. "Wanna dansh?"

Looking trapped, she sends a quick look around the room, searching for a gallant to come to her rescue; but all the gallants, alas! are staring studiously into the middle distance, ignoring the golden goddess in their midst - and in that one unguarded moment, I slap a handcuff on her wrist and ratchet it tight.

A steel handcuff.

"Hi, Morgan," I say, dropping the act. I lift my hand to show a similar cuff encircling my wrist. "Come here often?"

She screams and wails and beats on me with her free hand and I smile, imperturbable, while the skin around the cuff goes shiny pink, then red and then breaks open into nasty weeping open sores - damn, that stuff works fast! "I have a gift for you," I say. "I've been saving it just for you, darling - just a way to show you how I feel." I dump the plastic sandwich bag, half-full of iron filings, right down her cleavage and the keening goes up a notch. She suddenly loses all interest in whaling on me and tries to scoop the stuff out - shoving some of it farther down and coating her other hand to the wrist. She howls and weeps and does the Macarena in place and the Cold Iron does what it does best.... Desperate, she bends a finger backward; there's a wet, meaty snap and she shrieks. She has to break two more fingers before she can force her hand through the unforgiving steel.