TUCK – Farewell Statement
*Tuck was eliminated in Round 5
Within five minutes, Coco Chanel had gone down on her knees and was humming prayers in worship of Frank’s godhood. Finally he pushed her head away. “That’s enough,” he growled. “I didn’t fly into this Middle Eastern hellhole to catch anything I have to declare at customs.”
“Nyet please Mister Frank I not has reel man in to many years. Me too much horney. Me love you long time.”
Frank chuckled. Goddamn slatterns. Once you seen one you seen them all. Coco butted her forehead against his palm, whinnying like a horse for its sugar cube.
“I hate to do this, sugar,” Frank said, slapping her across the face with his free hand, “but it’s for your own good. I’m not here for funny business. Tell me what I need to know and I’ll give you what you need.”
“Marry me please you will?” she asked, rubbing her cheek.
Frank grabbed her chin and examined her up and down. “You’re a nice piece,” he said, stroking her chin, “and I like your lips. You deserve better than these Cyprusian mutts.” He pushed her away. “I’d consider it,” he said, heading for the door.
Coco clutched Frank’s shoulder. “What do you need to know?” she cried. “Tell me?”
Frank looked down at her hand on his shoulder. She jerked it away. “Do they serve White Russians at your whorehouse?” She nodded. “Good, then I’ll be having two when I come.” She laughed without understanding the joke.
That night as he propped his cocktail up on her lower back she understood. After he finished both of the White Russians (and tipped her with one of his own), he dragged her to the pimp and tossed him a banded stack of bills. “That should cover her for a few days,” Frank said gruffly. The pimp grunted something about seaweed in speechless amazement.
“This way,” he told Coco. She grabbed her purse and followed him out. “Take me to your apartment.”
“Again!” Coco cried with delight. “What man!”
“I do research, not pleasure,” Frank said. “You think I was enjoying myself in there? I was buying time to size up your pal Christoff.”
Coco dropped her purse in amazement. “How you know his name?”
“Shut up and take me to your apartment,” he said dryly. “Frank does what he does. No questions asked.”
Frank silently opened the apartment door. Inside were two more ringleaders: Jodina, the brothel overseer, and Danno, the scout. They had their backs to the door and were discussing a home video of one of the hookers getting rear-ended. A little star hung sensitively from the ceiling. “Who’s the broad in the movie?” Frank murmured.
“Trish. She specialize in the zhopa.”
Frank snorted. “Love these whorehouse pseudonyms… Let me guess, they’re watching to give her advice on her technique.”
“How you know?” Coco said in awe.
Frank sighed and shook his head. Then he pulled his pistol out and walked in. “Game over, kids,” he announced.
The terrorist ring that Frank busted led deeper than Blackjack5555. It led all the way to the narcissistic unrenowned writer Fourth Night who, in his bitterness about his failed online projects, turned his venomous self-hate upon the great American nation.
Frank intervened to make sure two of the conspirators got amnesty: the call girl Annabones and the peacenik Eros. The former was a zesty little number who stuck her tongue out at him when he walked by her in the station. He could tell she liked what she did and he didn’t want to deprive deserving men like Auggie and Tetra from enjoying her. As for Eros, he had just gotten mixed up with the wrong crowd. Plus, he figured it didn’t hurt to have some love around. Frank needed something to fight against.
Every newspaper and journalist worth his salt tried to find out how Frank had single handedly preempted such an insidiously complex international plot. Too bad for them. He never showed anyone how he rolled.
The president invited Frank to the so-called Whitehouse to thank him over a phony Bud Light and to present him with the Distinguished Intelligence Cross. Frank had his secretary, Coco, reply that he was busy. The grass wasn’t going to mow itself.