The Hammer of God

“Yeah, microwave, right,” was the rumble from the living room. He was in for the night; Saturday night no less.

As Angela drove down the Van Wyck Expressway, she felt excited, young even, feeling the warm flush of impending sex. It would go just like the other times. She’d wait in the motel parking lot inside her car, wearing her sunglasses in spite of the night. He’d pull up, go in, get the room key, and then come out and escort her inside.

Harvey Edelstein, DDS was a good lover and didn’t mind the oral thing. Her husband, on the other hand, thought it was beneath his manhood to please a woman that way. His loss.

She arrived at the Starlight Motor Inn at 8:25. Even had she not been lost in her sweaty reverie, she would have never noticed the dark sedan that entered the lot with her, parked, and killed its lights.

A few minutes later, Harvey’s BMW pulled in. He parked next to her, and came round and gave her a peck on the cheek through her driver’s side window.

“Be right back. Oooo, you smell good,” DDS Edelstein said. It was that kind of comment — noticing the little things — that made her want to fuck his brains out.

?§?

“Short stay as usual?” the night manager behind the bulletproof glass asked the face he’d seen a few times in the last month or so.

“Yes. Something on the ground floor, around back.”

“No can do, chief. Got a big block of rooms signed out. All I got left is 108 out front to the left.” The manager was telling a half-truth as he slid the registration card under the glass with a pen. Dr. Edelstein signed as Josh Cohen, after a schmuck he hated in college, He used this alias whenever he didn’t want anyone to know his real name. He laid $45 in cash into the little tray slot below the bulletproof glass and didn’t ask for a receipt.

?§?

From the sedan, Wallace watched the doctor — whose picture he’d shown to the clown behind the front desk along with a new crisp $100 dollar bill — collect his girlfriend and go to room 108. Wallace made the deal sweeter for the guy at the desk by also booking that room for the entire night for $129. That meant the clerk could keep the short stay fee for the doc’s three hours of humping. Having the room from 4:00 until noon the next day, Wallace was able to wire it up and could retrieve his valuable equipment in no rush after they left. He’d also get some semen samples, hair, and whatever else might be of use to his client.

If Wallace had not been so focused watching the video feeds on his laptop, he would have noticed the unusual number of men going into room 107.

One thing about Angela, she has a great rack, Wallace thought as he watched her peel off her top as the doctor threw her down on the bed. It was amazing. He’d done this kind of surveillance hundreds of times and everybody started on the bedspread. Some never got to the sheets at all. The sick thing was that the bedspread was never changed in these joints. So this doctor, who probably uses a mask when he drills teeth not to catch aids or some shit, is slamming his genitals all over a bedspread that’s got more spunk, junk, and crud on it than a toilet seat at the Port Authority. That alone should be reason enough for his client, the doctor’s wife, to be granted her divorce, her kids, the house and every penny this dentist fuck had.

As Wallace focused on his LCD screens and Angela’s magnificent breasts rocking as she got pounded, he missed a man entering the room next door with a large case of cold cream.

When the main event was over, the two lay in silence. Wallace’s equipment started picking up sounds from the next room, some kind of chanting or prayer. He turned up the gain on his microphone. Yes, it was some kind of chant or prayer…BRUMP… BRUMP… BRUMP. Suddenly the sound was interrupted by a thumping noise, which at this level of audio gain obliterated the sound with every thump. Then he heard a very distorted, “Angela! You fucking whore,” as the sound ripped into Wallace’s headphones. The three shots that followed almost punctured his eardrums before he could get the phones off. What he couldn’t get off was his eyes from his LCD screen — and one seething, snarling, angry motherfucker firing a.38 and blowing the top half of Angela’s head clear off before pumping two into the doctor. The blood spray and brain matter redecorated the sleazy room in an instant. All of it was caught in glorious digital color, in two angles, with stereophonic 48K sound.

Alzir El Benhan uttered a curse in the middle of his interrupted prayer. The 24 other men in the room on the floor in prostate looked up to see his right shoulder bleeding and the hole in the thin sheet rock wall of room 107. They had heard the shots next door but thought it was only a loud, American TV program. The 24 jars sat in the center of the room and next to them syringes. Holding his shoulder, Alzir groaned, “Take the jars! Leave now!” Then he momentarily blacked out.