Shangri-La by Kirby

Shangri-La (My Pussy Venom Story by Kirby Deed)


It was my fifth year as an investigative reporter with the Tribune. I had researched, explored, and cracked every mystery, or myth, from razorblades in apples to inappropriate touch by airport security. Who needed law enforcement when a reporter could talk to anyone, anytime, and anywhere. The city was in a dull lull, and my hands were itchy for something exciting. Had this city lost it's appetite for sorrow and destruction? The chair moaned as I leaned back in a heavy sigh. My eyes closed. Perhaps a power nap was in order.

I felt the pencil tap on the sole of my leather loafer, and I sat up in attention. Was there something exciting on the horizon? A moment would tell. “Deed, I need you to take a look at this. There are reports of missing men all up and down the eastern shore. They vanish like in some jacked up Bermuda Triangle. The police say the trail is cold Deed. Get out there and find out something. Here is the file. Happy reading.” My boss dropped the thick files in a thud on top of my desk. The average guy my age might cringe of the thought of work, but I was hungry. I was still trying to prove myself, and it was a known assumption that this case was probably passed over by the more senior reporters. That inner voice said, “Suit up Deed.”, and I did.

I poured over every nuance inside the files. A short two year period, and more than a dozen men missing. There was no rhyme, or reason, to the selection. The men varied in age, nationality, and professions. No bodies had been discovered. No unusual violence reported. There was nothing special about these men. Their last known locations were full of potential witnesses, but no one remembered these men, or so they had said. My investigative instinct told me to go to the Nexus Lexus database and search anything that resembled this case. I needed to know if this was limited to just the East. The computer fired up like Old Faithful, and my fingers tap danced on the keyboard. The influx of information caused a severe arch in my eyebrows. “Well, I'll be damned...”, I mumbled. A click of the mouse, and my printer was wheezing out more pages than there was paper. I laid out a sinister spread on my desk, and there it was...the possible most recent victim: Eric Gunther. The research did not end there. Every bar that these men had disappeared from were known to cater to biker clubs. Eric Gunther was last seen at a rally in Springfield, Illinois. Was that the connection? It had to be. So simple to figure out, so surely the cops had gotten that far. I called information, and Eric was listed as a public number. The voice that answered the line was not too impressed when I introduced myself. I explained that I was investigating Eric's disappearance, and the woman identified herself as his wife. She was able to tell me the name of his motorcycle club, and the leader's name. I was thanking her for the information when she said “Hey, if you find him, don't bring him back.”. Click, and silence. I shook my head, and made travel plans to Springfield. I was going to find Jim of the Wild Hogs MC.

“That pussy got out rode by a bitch. You believe that shit? Fuckin' disgrace.”. The unkept man was kneeling by his bike mid-repair on something. I spoke, “Right, I get that he lost some sort of race, but what happened to him?”. Jim was barking at his lady friend to bring another beer. “Look, eh, I am sure his ole' lady don't want him back, and I ain't too certain what you want him for, but he is gone man. Gone in more than one way, you get me? Go check with them bitches. Dykes on bikes, or Pussy Poison, no no it was Pussy Venom. Go see them cows, and you might find that bitch. We don't want him back.”. Seemed that no one wanted this guy back, so why should I keep going after the story? At this point I was intrigued. I could feel that buzz in my blood when breaking open a story. This could be big, and dangerous.

Another night of research had passed. I had spent the night in some dive full of smokers, and pool sharks. The sneers were intimidating, but I held firm to my cause. Pussy Venom. The leather jackets adorned many different patches, but none were close to what I was looking for. I had waited around and spotted the drunkest man I could find. For a whiskey, and a pack of smokes, he spilled the details he knew. I had semi-coherent directions to the Pussy Venom clubhouse. Some joint just beyond the county line called Confessions Bar. The drunkard had told me that the rumor was the former leader named Karen was doing 20 on an assault charge down in Texas. The person I was looking for went by Summer. It didn't sound so scary to me. How bad could a woman named after a season be?

My rent-a-car pulled into the parking lot leaving a trail of dust behind it. The front of the large building had polished motorcycles lined up neatly like twin V soldiers. Each backed in for maybe a quick getaway. I checked my appearance in the rear view mirror, and straightened my tie. My loafers were foggy by dust, but still moved easily towards the front door. It was propped open, and I stepped inside.

“Who the fuck are you?”. The woman stepped towards me, and she did not look intimidating. I gave my ego a spit shine, and dressed my face with my best smile. “Hi, the name is Deed, and I am here on a story for my paper. I am looking for a woman named Summer.”. My eyes fell onto the woman's purple, leather jacket. The name patch said Nej, so this obviously was not her. My thoughts were confirmed when she hollered towards the back. “Hey, got some pretty boy here asking for Summer.”. She looked me over and said “Come on back. You can wait for her over there.”. I hesitated for a second, but made the move deeper into the clubhouse.

Nej returned to her place by the bar reading the newspaper. I found myself standing a bit front and center to the room. There were several ladies busying themselves with a wide variety of activities. A woman sitting in an overstuffed chair was peering over her glasses menacingly as she knitted something in their team colors. “Shine those pennies in your shoes yourself, or did they squeak out of that tight ass of yours, boy?”. I was taken aback by her words. The name on her jacket read Susannah, and I started to answer with a chuckle, “My ass?”. Her attention was already fixated back to her knitting. She didn't seem she could be bothered with my presence. I meandered over by a table occupied by two ladies having a drink. I would have assumed they had liquor, but as I got closer, it seemed they were engaged in conversation over hot tea. Their names were Fallen and Persephone. Beautiful, yet very intense expressions on their faces. I cleared my throat and parted my lips to introduce myself. My words did not get far before two sets of eyes were stabbing through me. “What the fuck, boy? Can you see this is a private conversation? Perse, this boy reckons himself as an equal I'd say.” The woman I had identified as Fallen was sneering at me. Persephone pursed her red lips, “Right, stop with the fuckery boy and assume the position. Come now, we don't have all day.”. What the hell was the position? Both ladies were moving to stand when I felt the hand grip my shirt collar from behind.

I had whipped around with some effort, and the woman had released me. My eyes were big as saucers. This was not normal. People, much less women, did not just freely put their hands on one another. I think I had found this Summer. “State your business quick, boy. This is not a circus act. Who are you, and why are you here?”. The stutter in my voice had me sputtering like an old Ford. “Kirby Deed is the name, and I am just a reporter from back East. I am investigating the disappearance of several men. The path has led me here.”. My eyes darted around the room that was now quite crowded with women. They were all standing, and I felt surrounded. I had at least a foot in height over them, but this was so intimidating. I wanted to back away, but there was a dangerous sense behind me. Suddenly I realized they were all laughing. Had I said something funny? Summer stepped towards me, and asked “Got a list, boy?”. My fingers fumbled nervously with my satchel and I produced my list of names to the leader. As she looked over the list, my arms clutched my satchel like a teddy bear. The natural instinct to close up around these women was taking it's course. Summer pulled a tube of lipstick from her back pocket and crossed out two names on the list before she handed it back to me. “Those two are not ours. Got your information. Now feel free to fuck off.”. She was mid turn to walk away when I spoke up. “Well, are they alive?”. She stopped and looked at me over her shoulder. “More alive then they have ever been in their pathetic existence. Portia, check him out.”. A woman moved quickly over with some space age contraption that she moved over my body in an inspection. I had no weapons. It dawned on me how foolish I had been for coming without protection.

Seemingly, I had passed the inspection and was invited...no perhaps led...through this back area that opened up wide into a quite serene courtyard. There were naked men in pink collars kneeling at the feet of several other women. Other men were involved in what appeared to be chores, exercise, and shuffling back and forth between orange mats and green mats. I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me when I saw Eric Gunther strapped to a wooden board and two women were tossing knives at him like a sideshow carnival act. Each knife came so close to hitting the man that it caused me to flinch and squint my eyes. The two women had there names clearly etched into their jackets. Summer went over and whispered into Eva's ear. The tall, super model like woman just looked as if she belonged in a castle. It only took three strides of those long legs to be right into my personal space. She was shoving some paper at me. “Those are the rules. Take a moment to read over them. Feel free to kneel as you do so. There are no gawker tags here, so make it snappy. Are you Italian? We all know how Italian's are with sauce stains, and hair gel. Maybe you need a bib, aye?”. Her words flew through me so quickly, I only had time to take the paper and stare down the front of my shirt looking for a stain. Damnit, there it was. She said to kneel, but that did not compute. The other woman Fresenius came over with an inviting smile and said, “I think I'll call you Gumdrop. Eva, just give him that visitor's badge and let him take the two hours to think about it.”. She seemed nice, but then she did roll her eyes over the think about it comment. Eva let out a disgruntled sigh and slapped a “Hello My Name Is” sticker right to my forehead. “Stand still!”, she barked out. She then proceeded to write on the sticker, and it would prove to drive me nuts wondering what she wrote the rest of the time I was there.

I saw so many things that day. My fingers kept pinching at my skin until I bruised myself. What planet had I landed on? Raffila was cooking a turkey while also training some boys to be ponies. A kind voice, and a matriarchal air about her. Mo, and Eshi, taking photos on a mock runway and yelling at boys in dresses through megaphones. Crissy was demanding peak performance from the boys in the form of pullups and situps. Wycked and Sweet were taking inventory of the club's branding irons, tattoo guns, and needles. I could not get the symphony of evil laughter that came from that room. Clarissa was working a desk fielding inquires, and entering the gang into more rallies. It seemed she also doubled as legal counsel for the club. My guess was that she stayed very busy. Dalia and Coco were teaching classes at the Pussy Venom Montessori School for Boys. They strolled casually in their stockings and heels, and I did make note of the riding crop they carried too. Every woman was involved in something that supported the club, or they were relaxing in leisure. There was one thing that really stood out. All of the boys, no matter the position, had a look of peace and contentment that made me jealous. How could this dominion be Shangri-la?  There was much animosity thrown my way by the women, but it was evident that I was disturbing their daily routines and schedules. I was a representation of all they rejected, but I would have to mull over exactly what I was representing. I was not permitted to speak to the men, and I was sent on my way. Before I left, Summer told me, “You would probably make a good boy with some training. If you come back, don't come with that sticker. Come for keeps.”. The isolation of my car was a welcomed relief, and I looked at myself in the rear view to see the sticker on my forehead. It read, “Hello My Name is...Gumdrop.”. I smiled and left the sticker in place the entire long, introspective, drive to my hotel.

I wrote my investigative story. Work days were plagued with a restless feeling. My boss was suggesting a few days off. I would go home at night and fall into my bed thinking “Pussy Venom...have I been bitten?”. I woke every morning to see that sticker now stuck to my bathroom mirror so strategically, that it still looked like it was on my forehead. On the 10th day, I packed a bag, and went into work early. My desk was clean and neat, and that is where I wrote my resignation letter.

“Effective today...Shangri-la. Kirby Deed”.

I walked up to the door of that clubhouse, and knocked. When the door opened, the Lady had to look down, because I had indeed found my knees. “Hello Miss, I'm ready.”


THE END!