Her arse was working overtime as it pumped hypnotically up and down. Thought, well at least he will die happy. I had let myself into the great hero’s hotel room and the wild screams and sounds of the fox hunt drew me to the bedroom. I liked the guy under the pumping blond . A bald headed, former Tour De France winner. Even after he came clean and said he was sailing in drugs. The race he kept, because he was basically, a very good guy.
Now he was getting a different type of rush.
Blonde hair, head back, a large blue octopus tattoo burned into her back muscles , hands raised over her head as she screamed and squealed acquiesce to her gods, she rode the heroes hard tower of power. Thought, is this why our heroes cheat, then more poetically , what a way to pass over to the Elysian Fields. Where virtuous Tour De France souls should rest for all eternity.
The target was Lars Pedersen, former professional cycle rider and Tour De France winner.
World famous in Denmark and now managing a squeaky clean biking team of Danish/Americanos.
He was all over the Danish papers. Still looking ripped. His face scarred from a bad fall.
Still Hollywood bad boy handsome, bald as a the drug fuelled day he crossed the winning line, on the “Avenue des Champs–Élysées” in Paris, France, all those years ago.
Nicknamed the Stringy Eagle. Looking more like a Stringy Buzzard.
The Eagle was booked with his team into the super hip, green, energy saving, very expensive, La Green Plaza. But he also had his horizontal humping room in a very cheap hotel near the main railway station. Thurna-Key was the name and turn-a-key is what you got. No real service. Cheap clean rooms. Good for a quick in and out trip to Copenhagen. A favorite for economy driven businessmen,hit men and husbands in heat.
Rooms humped by the hour.
I adored Copenhagen. Loved the buzz. Small, compact, people tended to mind their own business. The general feeling was, you can do whatever you want, as long as you don’t hurt anybody. Which suited me fine.
Even though, I was about to break their rule number one, big time.
I moved quickly in step with her straddling, thrusting, sucking,very angry, hungry movements.
I punched a hand dart into her artistic, voluptuous dancing arse.
And then another into the great man’s leg muscles.
A very special thinned soup of etorphine hydrochloride.
Known in the trade as M99, normally used for knocking out elephants.
The result was instantaneous for the working blonde and our non flying Eagle.
I produced a clear plastic sheet that would complete this first act.
He was breathing but unconscious as I pressed the plastic over his face and pushed and waited until he stopped jerking. His face scar, courtesy of a peloton pile up on some wet forgotten Belgian cobblestones, glowed as his body consumed its last piece of oxygen.
I took my photo of the winner with my special Nokia 808 PureView and one of the octopus bimbo, just in case. I encrypted and sent it off to “London Road” as ordered.
Normally I’d have stiffed her as well but I was feeling in a good, don’t kill the working girl, type of cloud. In a hour, she would wake up with an almighty backburn and do a runner. When it eventually comes out that our Tour hero was sticking it to a paid by the hour Tattoo, just before he passed over. The wife and his adoring public would not be too impressed. But it would, as they say down in the deep deep south, create muddy waters and then just blow over.
I headed down the back stairs and then returned to the Tivoli German Biergarten.
My own career was in a state of flux. I had no pension plan and my retirement gold watch would be the usual statuary Trotsky ice-pick through the ear. But for now I drank my cold beer and soaked up the warm sunny evening in Copenhagen. And pondered Elysian Fields and very flawed Elephants and Eagles.