Our Only Hope

by The Technician

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© Copyright 2019 - The Technician - Used by permission

Storycodes: Solo-M; lapdance; strip; dance; cons; X

Continues from

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The search for the Monty brothers leads W to Davenport Iowa.

This is Chapter Five of a book. Because it is a book, some of the chapters are more exciting than others, and some situations do not complete until the next chapter. This first chapter is primarily setup, but has some very interesting parts. For later chapters, the characters and situation will be more understandable if the previous chapters have been read. I could have run this through my regular publisher and made a couple hundred dollars, but I am posting it instead because many more people read my posts than buy my books.

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WARNING! All of my writing is intended for adults over the age of 18 ONLY. Stories may contain strong or even extreme sexual content. All people and events depicted are fictional and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Actions, situations, and responses are fictional ONLY and should not be attempted in real life.

All characters involved in sexual activity in this story are over the age of 18. If you are under the age or 18 or do not understand the difference between fantasy and reality or if you reside in any state, province, nation, or tribal territory that prohibits the reading of acts depicted in these stories, please stop reading immediately and move to somewhere that exists in the twenty-first century.

Archiving and reposting of this story is permitted, but only if acknowledgment of copyright and statement of limitation of use is included with the article. This story is copyright © 2019 by The Technician ([email protected]).

Individual readers may archive and/or print single copies of this story for personal, non-commercial use.

Production of multiple copies of this story on paper, disk, or other fixed format is expressly forbidden.

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Chapter Five

Colonel Boogie’s

Davenport, Iowa, was an eighteen-hour drive. A flight would have been faster, but getting the arsenal I was carrying through airport security would have been impossible. The guns were all legal and registered, but the paperwork necessary to allow me to take them aboard a plane, even in a secure container in the baggage compartment, would have been a longer delay than just getting in a car and driving the 1200 miles to Iowa and then the 1800 miles to Los Angeles. The other specialized equipment I was carrying would have taken a lot more than just a firearms waiver. I’m not sure all of it is legal, but the components that Boris put together are all openly available from Amazon.

Normally, I would have preferred to start with the older brother at LAX since that was where the hostages probably were, but since I was driving, and since Davenport was more or less between Shangri-la 3 and Los Angeles, we decided to take care of little brother first. I checked with Master Randolph through a secure link Boris had set up and he assured me that he could– and would– have a plane waiting for me at a small, private airport with proper personnel ready to fly Wyatt Monty to join his brothers.

I had to delay leaving while waiting for a couple of pieces of equipment to arrive. Amazon doesn’t deliver to abandoned mine shacks, but they do deliver to a small house in a nearby town that I own and rent out to a very nice retired couple. They know me as their landlord and, in return for very reasonable rent and a local manager who responds to their occasional problems, have agreed to accept packages addressed to me. Actually, the packages are addressed to Mr. Arnold Bachman. Anything that comes in for that name is put in the “back garage” by the couple.

There is an alley that divides the block. The garage is an overly-long, double-wide garage which is attached to the house at the back corner so you can enter the kitchen– or take a package into the garage– without going outside. It is actually two garages, with one double-wide garage door facing the street, and two individual doors, facing the alley. The arrangement isn’t all that unusual. Several of the garages in the area originally faced the alley and were modernized to face the street somewhere along the line. That modernization often meant just building another garage facing the street in front of the old one facing the alley. In this case, the front garage was an extension of the older garage rather than a separate building. There is an inside door between the front and back garages, so no one notices when packages are moved back there.

Even with expedited delivery, it took the packages two days to arrive. Boris and Natasha spent those two days scouring the web for more information on the Monty brothers. I spent them familiarizing myself with the layout of a seedy club by the name of Colonel Boogie’s that was located on the north edge of Davenport. Colonel Boogie’s advertized on the open web as a “gentlemen’s club catering to exotic tastes.” The website didn’t say exactly what it meant by exotic tastes. It also didn’t give an address. Instead it just said, “On the north side of the Quad Cities across from Daisy Dooks.”

For reasons known only to bureaucrats and politicians, Interstate 80 splits as it reaches the western edge of Illinois and forms a giant box around what the locals refer to as the Quad Cities. The lower portion, which runs alongside the Rock River below the Illinois towns of Moline and Rock Island is officially I-280 until it turns northwest to cross the Mississippi River into Iowa and then north until it rejoins I-80. If you are westbound from Chicago, like I was, you have to exit and go north to remain on I-80 until it also turns northwest to cross the Mississippi and then continues west around the Iowa towns of Davenport and Bettendorf. I’ve been in– or actually through– Davenport several times and I always have a hard time getting my head around going north to cross the Mississippi River. Despite being a long north to south river on a map of the United States, the Mississippi actually runs from east to west in the Quad Cities as it curves around the bottom of that bump of Iowa which creates that distinctive shape at the top of the Illinois-Iowa border.

Up on the top of the square, about three-quarters around on the western edge, old US highway 130 exits off to the north. The entire area near there and especially the area just above the Interstate is primarily truck dealers, tire shops catering to semis, diesel repair shops, and two full-nudity strip clubs. Daisy Dooks– which the ad for Colonel Boogie’s used to give their location– and Colonel Boogie’s. Clubs like these skirt the edge of the laws in several states and stay legal by not serving alcohol or food. Food, and in some cases, alcohol vendors often operate next door or from a truck in the parking lot, but the clubs themselves are strictly Bring Your Own Everything, thus avoiding strict liquor laws and possible harassment through food service inspectors. 

According to both clubs’ websites, in addition to full frontal strip tease, the girls offer their services for private dances with a menu ranging from titillating to full nudity, depending on how much you are willing to pay. I was surprised at the notation of “one-way” and “two-way” lap dances. Normally, to avoid prostitution charges, regardless of the price, it is look only. No contact is permitted between the customers and the dancers. Fondling– or at least hand contact of some sort– was evidently legal in Iowa.

Using the street view of Google Maps, I almost couldn’t find Daisy Dooks because it fit in so well with the general ambiance of the area. It was a non-descript brick building with a flat roof that could have been any sort of small industrial business. A small awning covered the simple opening on the front. Unless you had really good eyes, you probably have to already be in the parking lot to read the small sign next to the door which reads simply, “Daisy Dooks.”

Colonel Boogie’s, on the other hand, stood out like a sore thumb. It was a run-down pole barn style building that looked like it might have been a big rig repair shop at one time in its life. At least, there were two oversized garage doors on one end of the long building. A large, faded sign painted on one of its sheet metal sides showed a couple dancing. The girl’s skirt was flipped high above her waist showing her barely-covered ass. Beneath the couple it said, “Colonel Boogie’s Private Dance Club. Public Welcome.” According to the tax records of Scott County, the club’s owner was one Wyatt Monty.

I didn’t want to go into the club blind, but I didn’t have much time to reconnoiter. Besides, I didn’t want to tip Wyatt off that I was in town. I got in around three in the morning and got a room at a Super Eight near the exit. I was driving one of those new bastardized Jeeps that look like someone welded a pickup bed on the back of a Wrangler. From the front... or even from the back at a distance... it looks like a regular Jeep so it blends in readily in a parking lot, but no one who saw me drive past would be able to remember my face. All they would remember was the weird-looking pickup I was driving. I chose a Jeep because I wanted a good four-wheel drive vehicle with adequate ground clearance in case I had to go off road to capture or avoid capture. I went with the pricey pickup style because I needed the open bed of a pickup truck for our plan to work.

I slept until noon and then drove out to get a look at Colonel Boogie’s. There were no cars in the lot, so I pulled in and drove slowly past the front door. There was a hand-written sign taped on the front door that said, “Doors open 6:00 pm. Last dance at midnight.” After what I had seen in Rio, I wondered if there were a special dance later... perhaps at 2:00 am. While I was driving, I went across the street and drove through the parking lot of Daisy Dooks. There were no hours posted, but the website had said that they opened at 5:00 and were open until 4:00 am. Not serving alcohol allowed them to set their own hours.

I followed the highway back across the interstate. The industrial-trucking area soon gave way to residential streets with restaurants and gas stations along the highway itself. I stopped at a place called The Machine Shed and had a very leisurely late lunch– or perhaps an early dinner. In any case, the menu was typical Midwest comfort food. I ordered something called a Haybalers Top Sirloin that was surprisingly good and properly prepared. Then I went back to the motel to wait for the sun to go down.

While I was lazing around the motel room, I had an inspiration. Women in the same line of work often keep an eye on the competition. Perhaps one of the dancers at Dooks could tell me something about Boogie’s. A little after five, I entered Daisy Dooks front door.

The cover charge was very reasonable. BYOB meant that there was no two-drink minimum to sit at one of the tables and watch the dancers on the three-tiered stage. The man behind the counter asked if I had been there before. When I said, “No,” he quickly rattled off the same menu that was printed on the wall behind him and added almost machine-like, “The restroom attendant expects a one-dollar tip each time you use the facility. The girls are dancers, not hookers, so do not bother asking for sex. Rough stuff or disrespecting the girls will get you kicked out.”

“Can I select which girl I want for a private dance?” I asked when he was finished with his litany.

“If she’s available,” he replied with a shrug, “sure.”

“I’m looking for a girl with dark brown eyes and light brown skin,” I answered. I tried to not sound creepy as I added, “I really like brown eyes and dark brown nipples.”

The doorman’s face remained expressionless as he replied, “Then you want Juanita.” He nodded toward a small counter that evidently served soft drinks and said, “Pay Fred over at the bar.”

I paid Fred $60.00 for a three-song full nude, two-way dance, resisting his push to get me to sign up for a VIP room. He gave me a ticket with Daisy Dooks printed on both sides of it and directed me to room 5.

The room was small and Spartan with a single faux-leather chair. There was a small table alongside it with a plastic tray that said, “Leave ticket and tips here.” Behind the chair, near the ceiling, there was a camera mounted in the corner. When Juanita entered the room, she was wearing a short white gown that barely covered her ass.

She was exactly as I had specified... and much more. She was in her late twenties and beautiful... really beautiful. Her dark brown eyes were framed by wavy brown-black hair that had a luster to it that you couldn’t get out of a bottle. Her breasts were full, but not sagging, and her nipples, which were a deep chocolate brown, stood up stiffly in the cool air of the back room. She had the long, well-shaped legs of a dancer and I had no trouble imagining her spinning effortlessly around a brass pole. The only negative was the dancer’s face with its plastic smile that she put on as soon as she entered the room.

When a private dancer is this beautiful, it means one of two things. Either she can’t dance for shit or she was in the country illegally. Her lithe movements as she entered the room told me she could probably dance.

She walked over to the small table, picked up the ticket, held it up to the camera, and then placed it in the pocket of the gown. She nodded to the camera and music began playing. Her fake smile widened as she looked down at me and started swaying with the tune. While she danced, she moved closer to me and let the robe drop completely open. “Are you interested in any extras?” she asked. Her voice had a heavy Hispanic overlay but somehow was convincingly sultry. That sexy overtone to her voice was most likely natural... or she could fake it very, very well.

I held up a fifty and said, “Only conversation.” 

“The rules say I dance,” she answered.

“Then how about I talk to you while you dance?” I said.

She nodded toward the table and said, “In the tray.”

I placed the fifty in the tray. She picked it up, held it up for that camera, and slipped it part way into her pocket. Then she took off the robe and carefully dropped it on my lap such that the pocket, with the fifty sticking slightly out of it, was on top.

“Conversation can be expensive,” she said as she brushed her hips against my side. 

I noticed that she waited until she was faced away from the camera to say that, and took the hint. The house must get a cut of everything that goes through the tray, but what the camera couldn’t see... I held two more fifties close to my body and slipped them into the pocket, making sure that she saw them as I pushed them– and the original fifty– all the way in.

Juanita danced over and began rubbing her tits against my shoulders. “What do you want to talk about?” she said as she danced.

“Wyatt Monty,” I began, “or whatever he calls himself here, is the owner of Colonel Boogie’s.” The name of the club caused a reaction from her. She lost a step and something flared in her eyes for just a moment before being covered by her dancer’s face and smile that now looked even more artificial. “He and his dirtbag brothers have kidnapped some very close friends of mine,” I continued, “and I am trying to get them back. I’m going over to the club tonight to... well... to talk to Mister Monty, and I don’t want to walk into something I’m not expecting. I was hoping that... as you dance... you could tell me something useful about Colonel Boogie’s and Wyatt Monty.”

As I spoke, I pushed two more fifties into the pocket on her robe. Juanita– or whatever her true name was– stopped dancing and made a hand signal at the camera in the corner. The signal was a long vertical motion followed by a shorter sideways motion. It almost looked like the motions a priest would use to bless a congregation. I smiled slightly as the image of her standing naked at the front of a church after one of her dances flashed through my mind. Sometimes a visual memory and visual mind can be very entertaining.

The music stopped and she stood in front of me. Her face was now totally blank and her body had lost the poise of a dancer on stage. “Mister Wyatt,” she began. I wasn’t totally sure if she said “Mister” or “Master.” In any case, she paused after saying the name and looked like she wanted to spit on the floor. “Mister Wyatt,” she repeated, “only comes to the closed show on Friday nights. You can’t get in there without an invitation. He does despicable things to women he has brought into the building inside the trucks. The men– and the ugly ones– he lets go... if they have paid him everything. If not, he sells them to the pendejos who provide illegal labor for the farms and factories.”

She stopped to swallow hard as if bile had come up into her throat. “But the pretty ones... like my sister... he keeps until he has used them up and then dumps them on the street.”

I pushed a final fifty into her robe and held it up to her. “Thank you, Juanita,” I said as I started to leave.

She stopped me in the doorway and stepped slightly in front of me so that she could look me in the eyes. “Por favor?” she said.

“Yes?” I replied. The dancer’s face and smile had now totally disappeared and there was a fire burning in the depths of her eyes.

“Kill him slowly,” she said. She drew out the word slowly, holding onto the ‘oh’ sound as if she were tasting the word as she said it. She then turned and walked down the hallway back to the main room. I was hoping it wouldn’t come to that. If Boris’ and Natasha’s plan worked there would be no bloodshed, but Boris’ warning about these being violent men still applied. Just because I didn’t want to go all Rambo on them didn’t mean that they wouldn’t pull out the heavy artillery when things got real.

I went back to the hotel and contacted Boris. He said he needed to test communications, so I spent the next hour out at the Jeep verifying that what he was reading was actually happening. He did have me move one of the cellphone hotspots from the inside of the truckbed to the outside. After a few minutes, he had me move the other three hotspots. Two were now on the outside of the truck bed, held in place with strong, industrial magnets. The other two were on the hood. Boris had suggested putting them on the fenders until I pointed out that the fender flares were plastic of some sort. After the tests, I shut off the hotspots and took them inside to make sure they were fully charged. One thing I absolutely didn’t need was a communications failure.

I left the hotspots charging and went over to Colonel Boogie’s. There were now several cars and what looked like a food truck parked near the door. Darkness didn’t improve the looks of the place.

The inside wasn’t in much better shape than the outside. A doorman stood in almost darkness behind a decrepit hostess station. A poorly hand-written sign on the wall behind him gave the prices. The only thing clearly visible on the sign was the cover charge, which was five dollars more than across the street. As my eyes adjusted to the dimness of the club, it became possible to read the rest of the “menu.” Surprisingly, almost everything was more expensive than at Dooks.

After I paid the cover, I asked, “Any rules I should know?”

The doorman looked at me a moment and then answered gruffly, “No bottles.” I assumed that the “They are dancers not prostitutes” warning didn’t apply on this side of the street.

I wandered over to the soft drink bar. “Mixers only,” the man behind the bar said, “but you can take them outside and get whatever extra you want put in it before coming back in. Or you can pay one of the waitresses to go out for you.” I told him I was fine and went to sit at one of the tables. 

The interior of the club was dark with spotlights creating two large stage areas. Both stage areas were level with the floor and had three poles mounted equally-spaced around the outer edge of the circle of light. Several rows of chairs formed circles farther out around the lighted stage area.

I was sitting in the second row of one of those circles. A tall, thin, blonde came into the light and began undulating in time to the music as she stripped. She was one of those extremely pale Nordic types with almost truly white skin. Her eyes were a very pale shade of blue that looked almost gray. She had a long, pink feather boa held in her hands that she slid around her neck or across her body or through the air in front of herself in time with the music. I could tell that two of the men watching her were very carefully following that fuzzy snake, especially when she would pull it between her legs.

She wasn’t that great of a dancer, but she was a great showman... or should I say show woman. She kept the audience enthralled as she very, very slowly shed her clothing. It took her two songs to lose her skirt and blouse. The bra lasted through another song. The interesting thing was that with all her hand movements, you couldn’t really tell when she was undoing the buttons or flaps or whatever it was that was holding the stage clothing together. One minute she was waving the boa in the air, and the next she was holding her skirt... or blouse... or bra... or whatever.

Finally she was down to just a pair of white, very high-cut panties. They weren’t exactly a thong, but there was almost nothing covering her ass when she rotated around to face the other tables. The song had a beat that enabled her to dance-walk along the front row, shaking her ass in the customers’ faces, trolling for tips. She left the stage and made a dancing, walking loop through the second row of tables. I pushed a five into her waistband and gave her a smile. Strippers normally weren’t my thing, but I needed to look like a regular, gullible John. I was the last stop on her stroll through the tables so she returned to the stage.

I had to hand it to her, she had her timing exact. She had just returned to the center of the stage when the music ended with a flourish. As with the other articles of clothing, the panties suddenly disappeared at the end of the song. Bills fluttered to the floor, but she still wasn’t naked. There was a tight, flesh-colored G-string under the panties.

A good old-fashioned bump and grind song started blaring and the dancer’s graceful undulations changed to almost violent ass kicks and crotch grinds in time with the music. The dancer on the other stage, stopped and stood watching as the thin Viking leapt around the stage waving her ass at every customer in her circle of tables. She also made sure to give a good strong pelvic thrust toward each of those tables.

A couple of the men threw additional money onto the stage, and I could see several heads bobbing in time with the music waiting for that last piece of clothing to suddenly disappear. As the song neared its end, she kept bringing her hands down to her crotch and the flinging them wide apart above her head. The result was that the center portion of the boa was flapping and swinging almost in a circle in front of her. She seemed to be centering in on one truck driver who was sitting at a front row table. She was bouncing closer and closer to him with each snap of her boa. Then on the last beat of the song, she let go of the boa with one hand so it flipped around almost like a whip that had been cracked. As she flung her hands wide above her head, it was obvious her G-string was gone. It was also obvious that there was a completely shaved prick and balls between her legs.

The lights on stage went out immediately. You could hear drinks dropping to the tables throughout the club. The truck driver let out a loud, “What... the... hellllll!” and everyone began laughing.

The lights faded back up and the dancer was standing coyly on stage with the feather boa around her neck, but hanging down so that it covered the surprise in her crotch. She smacked her ass and said loudly, “Admit it, boys, every one of you has wondered what it would be like.” She stuck out her ass and said, “From that side we’re all the same.” After laughing and then swaying across the stage, she leaned down and made exaggerated smacking movements with her lips at the truck driver. “We’re all the same from this end, too, honey.” She dance-skipped around the stage picking up her clothes. Once she had everything picked up, she gave an exaggerated wink and said, “Ask for a special VIP room and say you want Rexie. I guarantee you an experience you will tell NO ONE about.” Still laughing and skip-dancing, she left the stage and melded into the darkness.

I walked back over to the soft drink bar. There were no signs and there wasn’t a separate station for private dance tickets, so I asked the man behind the counter, “You sell the private dance tickets?”

“Just pay the girls,” he answered curtly. Apparently, customer relations was not a prime goal here.

“What if I want the special show?” I replied. “I was told the owner does a special show after hours on Friday nights, but you need an invite.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” he answered calmly. His demeanor had become very quiet.

“Miss,” I called out to one of the half-naked women who were acting as waitresses and bringing food and drinks in from the truck outside, “could you come here for just a moment?”

She walked up and stood in front of me. “What can I get you?” she asked brightly.

“Hopefully, an invitation to the special show,” I replied and held up a twenty. Then I said calmly, “I need to grab your breast to prove to this nice man that I’m not a cop.”

“That won’t do it,” she said with slight laugh as she grabbed the bill. “You’ve got to kiss the nipple.”

I bent over and put my mouth over her nipple. I closed my lips, but I didn’t suckle. Then I stood up and said to the man, “Is that enough? Or do I have to pull my prick and balls out of my pants?”

“OK, OK,” he said making a stop motion with his hands. “You ain’t a cop. Who sent you?”

“A half-drunk idiot over at Daisy Dooks who said I could see a real show here after hours,” I answered.

“What’s his name?” he asked gruffly.

I waved my hand out at the customers in the club. “Do any of the men in here have names?”

“Good point,” he said as he leaned in closer to me. “But it will cost you. Cover is two hundred, payable now.”

“Is it worth it?” I asked, pretending to be anxiously interested.

“Worth every dime,” he answered, holding out his hand.

I put four fifties on his palm and he reached under the bar and then slammed something into my open hand. The something was a familiar, large, black poker chip with a strange-looking devil face on one side of it. I turned it over. The other side was blank, but it looked like something had been painted over. I knew what was under the paint. It was the address of Master Rodriguez’s club in Rio. 

“Come back at two am,” the barman said firmly. “Give this to the doorman. And don’t bring anyone else or you don’t get in.” He paused and then said gruffly, “Got it?!”

“Got it,” I replied and walked out of the club. I had to stop and take a deep breath once I was outside. Step one of our plan was now in place.


Continues in

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Wayne Mitchell “The Technician”

[email protected]

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