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Subtitle- THE BLUE HAIRED LADY AND THE HIT MAN
Crime Story: Among other vices, the Hit Man makes husband watch as he performs anal on the willing wife but the hubby might have a chance for the last laugh.
INTRODUCTION- WHO IS MR. BLUE?
Mr. J or Sami Jibrony, aka Mr.Blue are all the same person. He is a large man, over six foot four. He is a lifelong criminal, a Mafioso of sorts. Cruel, nasty, violent and with a prodigious sexual appetite, he literally carves up women for desert, treats them with no respect, and is an extreme chauvinist. He is a murder suspect and rape is not out of the question. Because he intimidates and at the same time excites women, it rarely looks like rape, especially when their mouths are open begging for an encore and their vaginas are drooling like a Saint Bernard in the summertime. Bur Mr. Blue has his issues, he’s partially disfigured, but nothing stops him. He’s all man with a big cock, but is not above fucking you in the ass if you screw up.
Blue’s own mother was a common whore, a street walker on Times Square. He’s liberated her but he won’t liberate you. His sexual needs take first place to whatever needs you may have. If you need him, he is there so you can pay your gambling debts, loans or blackmail and when it comes time to pay you’d better be on time.
Say ‘Hello’ to Mr. Blue…………
On 46th St, on the Westside of New York City, right off of 9th Avenue, there is a small bar currently called “Blue’s Place.” No doubt the bar’s name has changed from time to time. It’s been there for at least a hundred years. You can tell its age by the large brass hinges on the front door, they were hammered by some long forgotten smithy, not cast in a modern factory.
Inside the lights are so dim that you wonder where the light is coming from. The bar curves around the front of the room, then takes a sharp right turn and ties up close to the wall. There are a few tables towards the back but most of the people sit on stools or stand up at the bar.
The barkeeper is forever wiping the slick wooden bar surface clean with a greying cotton towel, but the surface texture always remains a little sticky as if someone leaked seminal fluid on top, all the better to hold the money or tips from blowing away when a customer pushes open the heavy door accompanied by a fierce wind. But it makes you wonder, how often was someone fucked right there on top of the bar?
A big burly black guy that Mr. Blue calls, “Joe Fats,” sits guard outside the heavy door, keeping out nosey tourists or youngsters and any other troublemakers.
On a late moonless night in April, Mr. Blue pushed the door open a bit and spoke to the ersatz door man.
“Hey Mr. Blue, what’s new?”
“I’m concentrating just on the old shit, Fats, the new stuff is too dangerous to repeat.”
Fats, looks up knowingly and says,
“Go on in.”
I sure as hell don’t need his permission but I don’t say anything, but at least I know the coast is clear. I push the heavy metal door open enough to get inside and I pass by him. As the years have added up I’ve picked up a little extra girth, I shoulder the door a little wider. But there is still plenty of muscle under my coat and guys who know me step aside.
Wiley is the one-eyed bartender. He used to be a shooter but he lost his right eye to a scattergun back during the Sicilian gang wars. Now he can’t shoot for shit. Instead, he’s pouring shots. Wiley knows what I drink, even before I step to the bar, there’s a Powers Irish Whisky waiting for me with a sidecar of Ginger Ale. I don’t believe in mixing drinks, I slowly sip the Irish from a small snifter, not a shot glass, and for a moment I think I’m back in Dublin on that vacation I took many years ago when I had to get out of town during a Giuliani investigation.
I’m daydreaming at this moment that I’m taking in a play at the Strand Theater in Dublin where everyone is gold spit and polish. Everyone stands as the tall red headed girl with the big tits walks onto center stage and sings the Irish anthem. I waited until the play was over, found the red head back stage and invited her out for a late dinner. We ended up back at my hotel for a one night stand but she stayed three nights. Then I had to jet home. I’ve been dreaming of her big tits for twenty years.
I try to put the old memories out of my mind and clear my head. I think to myself, I’m back in New York. I look down, the whiskey glass is empty. I wash it down with the sweet-sour taste of Schweppes’ ginger ale.
Wiley is standing in front of me,
“How’s it going Mr.Blue?”
At this point I should introduce myself. My Name is Sami Jibrony, but everyone calls me Mr. Blue. I prefer it that way. Some of the ladies call me “Blue” but that’s for another reason. Some people spell Jibrony with an “a” and some change the “y” to an “i”, but “Jibrony” is my way.
Get used to it, in my place we do things my way! bahis firmaları
My mother was a Syrian refugee back in the 1980s who had been forced into sexual servitude by Sami, the Persian guy who brought her over here to America on a phony work visa. She was supposed to be some sort of domestic, but she was turned out by Sami as a prostitute. She was an innocent girl with a good pair of jugs and nice long legs, from a small village near Aleppo, but she didn’t stay a virgin very long.
They passed her from one gang member to another until her spirit and vagina were worn out and broken. When they had no fear she would flee, she was given an upstairs room at the corner of Times Square, over a tourist’s luggage store run by the gangsters. If she didn’t take in five tricks a night she was beaten.
Birth control devices were far from perfect back then and most Turkish customers won’t use condoms, they say it is against their religion. There was a Turkish restaurant there on the square that drew sailors from the docks and from the quarter of the city where Turks lived back then. When Mom got pregnant no one knew who my father was. The pimp she worked for was often called “Jibrony” by angry customers who wanted more time with my mom then he would permit them.
“Jibrony,” is not a nice word in Farsi. The word became popular due to wrestlers. The “Iron Sheik” and later “The Rock” (aka Dwayne Johnson) both use it frequently. I don’t think the word’s origin is from the Italian, more likely from the Persian . The “jibron” (??????? ) was the guy who cleaned the toilets on ancient sailing vessels. Somehow it worked its way into wrestling lingo in the early 1900s, meaning a wrestler who threw a match. Like a lot of pejorative words, the real meaning is lost in time and it becomes a catch-all phrase.
Believe me, it ain’t no compliment.
When Sami, her pimp, came to pick my mom up at the midwife house, the mob didn’t believe in hospitals, Mom didn’t speak any English except what she needed to peddle her ass as a whore. Sami filled out the birth papers and gave me the name Sami Jibrony, which was kind of a joke. His first name was Sami but believe me Jibrony was not his last name. I never knew if he was my father but he was a big guy like me. So I came into the world as Sami Jibrony.
Mr. Blue to the rest of you.
Once she was over her pregnancy, her fuck quota went up to eight tricks a night to pay for the birthing expenses. Now that I was there, if she didn’t make quota, I was beaten. Beatings were a rare event due to Mom’s skills at seduction. Afterwards they put her on the pill, that worked like a charm, with the exception of occasional STD’s which obviously occurred off and on.
Whoever my father was, he must have been a big son of a bitch because I grew into a formidable physical specimen. I would have been a football player in high school but they pulled me out of school at 12. As a young man I was 6’4 and a tower of muscle.I haven’t shrunk, but time has a way of inserting fat into the spaces between the muscles. I’ve got that annoying Ottoman’s’ bald spot on the back of my head. It grows a little every year. I cover it with a hat but that’s about all I’m going to do about it.
I worked for the boss from the time I was a kid, stealing customers wallets and selling illicit drugs, delivering porno, some petty burglaries, car and truck jackings and arsons. When I was 19, I had a short fling as a Marine. I was trained as a sniper and got a sharpshooter medal for accuracy at 200 yards. I’m still kind of proud of that medal, I keep it in my bank vault with some cash and other keepsakes.
I decided to retired my mom from working as a street walker when I was 23 years old. I had gone to Sami to discuss that issue. He took off his hat, that was when I realized he had the same bald spot I have now. He said he’d cut me “a half price whore exit bargain.”
I said, “Mr. Sami, please don’t call my Mom a whore.”
He nodded his head and let my impertinent remark pass. He said he had special feelings about the both of us, whatever that meant.
I have a distant memory of coming home myself from kindergarten, opening the bedroom door that stunk of whiskey and sweat and seeing my Mom on her knees giving him and some other thug a blow job. Sami took me by the hand and escorted me out. I could hear the other guy laughing, they weren’t finished. Sami dug into his pocket and gave me a dollar and said,
“Go get some candy or an ice cream kid, this guy still wants to fuck. Come back in a half hour.”
I didn’t know what that meant but I knew it wasn’t good.
Buying my Mom out of the trade cost me $25,000, a lot of coin back then. That was most of my take from the Newark Airport robbery. Why so much? Sami said my mom was a big earner, even at the age of 38. She still looked pretty good. Sometimes when I was a teenager, when she’d show up after a hard night’s work, she being all made up and perfumed and with her tits hanging out, I’d get an erection kaçak iddaa myself, till I realize it was my Mom.
Now she is a lady. Mom lives in upstate New York, out in the country, in a little house with her sister who I brought over from the old country to keep her company. I speak to Mom on the phone frequently but I’m too busy to make the three hour drive to visit her except once a year around Easter. Then at least it’s not snowing.
Once I had retired Mom, I was given mostly heavy work by the boss. You don’t know what heavy work is? It’s beating up guys who haven’t paid their weekly, busting kneecaps, breaking arms. Sometimes beating up their kids or raping their wives or a girlfriend, just to show them we meant business, that weren’t jerking around and they better not be jerking us around .Sometimes I was surprised at how cooperative these guy’s wives were. They’d say,
“I know why you’re here, don’t hurt me. I’ll do whatever you want.”
And they did.
But it didn’t always end well, one gal’s husband, known as “Ice Pick Slim,” walked in as I was fucking his wife and as I turned my head I took an ice pick to the face. Just missed my eye but it hit a nerve. My right cheek just hangs, kind of slack, some people call me “Poker face” behind my back. That wasn’t my only mishap. Once, during a drug robbery I caught a bullet in the hip that still causes pain, especially if I’m fucking too hard. Maybe God is telling me something?
What happened to the “Ice Pick?” I don’t know exactly. I never saw him again. Sami took care of it and he said to me back then,
“Sami, If you go out to the World’s Fair in Flushing Meadows and stop at the concrete walkway in front of the Vatican Pavilion, you can say hello.”
I did to see “Ice Pick’s” wife, often. She had to go to work for Sami to cover her husband’s debt. She didn’t have any choice. That’s the way it used to be. She’d be there in Times Square after midnight, on cold nights shivering half frozen in a skimpy outfit with her milk jugs hanging out, hustling the tourists or sailors. Sometimes if she didn’t have any customers around her I’d take her for a coffee or a hot bowl of soup, and slip her a fifty so she could quit early. She’d kiss me on the cheek and say how sorry she was for my injury, but it wasn’t her fault
On one occasion I had to “extract” a rival gang that thought they could move into our turf. I used a long distance rapid fire sniper rifle to take out a few guys and their boss while they were standing around smoking in front of “La Traviata Restaurant.” Their boss owned the place out in Brooklyn. They never knew what hit them.
I laid up high in the back of a delivery van with a hole cut in the back door. I always smoked the end of the automatic rifle barrel as well as the silencer so there wasn’t a glint of light. These were headshots and it got pretty messy with the notched bullets, but it wasn’t my job to clean up. I think they had to cancel lunch that day. Someone in our syndicate took the place over. I was invited out there to eat recently, the food was fine.
Nowadays, whores are so easy to recruit, we have a new system of collection. My boss would tell the wife of a guy who owed us on big time gambling money, to buy her husband a life insurance policy. The boss would pay for the policy and then it was my job to make an easy “take-out,” usually a hit and run so it looked innocent. Sometimes I was forced to kill by strangulation. In that case, I’d stuff a sausage or what ever was handy into his mouth so it looked legit.
After the guy was dead and buried, it would take 30 to 90 days for the insurance to pay. I’d have to collect the insurance money from the widow. Women are such sluts, you wouldn’t believe how many of the grieving widows were thinking they could keep the insurance money if they spread for me—no way. You gotta fuck’n pay, both ways. If they didn’t understand, I’d flip them over on their clean sheets and butt fuck’em. Afterwards I’d tell em,
“If this was the old days you’d be whoring to pay your bozo hubby’s vig. You don’t know how lucky you are we don’t turn you out to pay us back with your pussy.”
Of course by now we are running 50-60 whores in mid-town so we don’t need no amateur cock suckers. The whores bring in their sisters, friends, in-laws and even their moms to play for pay, sometimes their tranny brothers. The deal is simple, they get 50% and we give em protection. We send in “spotters” to make sure they pay up for every fuck or suck. One or two screw ups and even a plastic surgeon ain’t gonna help put em back together.
Oh yeah, I mentioned I was in the US Marines, but after one year I was given a dishonorable discharge —they wanted to charge that I raped the Sergeant Major’s wife, but they couldn’t prove it. At the deposition she said she didn’t recognize me, but in the end they drummed me out anyway. Why? Rigged justice, just like they say. The Sarge had it coming to him, what a bastard. He had marched me and two of my buddies into the roaring kaçak bahis surf that summer, each with a 60 pound backpack. I was the only one to survive.
To even the score, I’d gotten his wife drunk and taken to her to a fleabag hotel. I didn’t have to rape her. She was as ripe as a stink cheese. That gal had vag lips so large they looked like they were made of silly putty, they resembled a star fish. They had a life of their own. When I fucked her, they I could feel them reached around my cock and squeeze.
Just about the time she’d finished blowing me and I’d finished fucking her, she’d passed out from the booze. Too much sex and too much whiskey. That was when I snipped off most of her pubic hair and gave them out in little plastic bags as souvenirs to the jar heads in the corp. “Jar heads” is slang for Marines. Some of the guys took to wearing the little bags of pubic hair on a string around their necks. It ain’t mutilation, it’s just a closer shave.
I figured, every time her hubby looked at his wife’s naked cunt he’d know I got even. Shit, he just had to look at all her curly black cunt hair hanging from the enlisted guy’s necks to know that. I heard the Sergeant Major shot himself a few months later but no one knows why. I mean, accidents with firearms are more common than you might think, at least that’s what I’m told. I wonder if he lived long enough to fuck his hairless wife’s cunt one last time. I should have asked him that.
Do you know why Marines prefer a woman with a big bush? Why, it’s so they can use it to wipe off their cocks after fucking?
So anyway, to get back to what I was saying before I got into this diatribe. I’d said, I had just winked into the bar on 46th St. I had a part ownership in the place with two other guys. We’d taken a high interest loan from the previous owner and if you are curious as to who he was just come into the place, the liquor license is right up there on the wall behind the bar.
It is signed Joey McClintock, the original owner, whom no one has seen for 10 years. But when the inspector arrives, we just say,
“Sure inspector, Joey’s just stepped out for a moment, can we help ya?”
A hundred rolled up in the palm when you shake hands with the inspector and all is right.
As I was saying, I’d just walked in when the one-eyed barman asked me how I was doing.
“Ok, Wiley, I can’t complain. You wanna hear some complaints?”
Wiley shook his head.
“Mr. Blue, you see the blue haired lady seated at the table in the back? She asked for you. Said she was waiting to meet you here.”
I walked back to her table. When you say blue haired you think of them old ladies who blue their grey hair. This broad wasn’t one of those. Her hair was Electra glide blue, Hollywood blue, blue as the flag or bluer, blue as the big vein that runs a circle around my cock. In fact, when the Sergeant Major asked his wife who she had sex with, all that bitch could utter in her drunken state was “Blue Cock.”
Yeah, this lady with the blue hair was what we call a “looker,” she coulda’ got herself a job on Fox News in a New York minute. Those TV guys woulda been all lined up to get a piece of her. She coulda made millions. She had full cheeks, full lips, full breasts and she wasn’t hiding them. She was seated so I could not get a clean glance at her hips or waist but from what I could see her ass looked very promising.
She was a strange racial mix; tan skin, high oriental cheekbones, a well formed small nose but the way the plastic guys fuck with the noses who knew if it was natural or a Fifth Avenue bob. But the blue hair? By the time I got to her table, just a few steps away, I was getting used to it,
I introduced myself,
“You were asking for me little lady? I’m Sami Jibrony. I don’t think I know you. Tell me what’s up?”
“Can we talk here? It sure is quiet in here.”
“We like the bar quiet. We ripped out the jukebox years ago. If customers are talking too loud we tell them to leave.”
“But you seem to allow smoking here, how do you get that approved?”
“Well, to tell the truth, they don’t allow smoking in a New York bar but we don’t give a fuck. If I want to light up a stogie that’s my business and if the smoke bothers someone, we suggest they get the fuck out while the getting is good. So as I said before, what’s up?'”
“Well, Mr. Jibrony I was told by a mutual friend that you were the man to see for a special job.”
“What’s your name sweetheart?”
“Well, it’s a nice name honey, Belinda,” I said it aloud. “Yeah I like it.”
“Now what did you want to see me about, doll?”
“I’d like you to kill my husband.”
“Just like that?”
“Yes, just like that.”
“How do you know I’m not a cop?”
“Our mutual friend assured me you weren’t.”
“How do I know that you, honey, that you are not a cop?”
“I’m not a cop, Mr. Jibrony.”
“You can stop with the ‘Jibrony,’ call me Mr. Blue.”
“Ok, Mr. Blue. Well, I’ll ask our mutual friend to call you to assure you I’m on the up and up.”
“Ok, you do that. Have him call me by Saturday. I’ll meet you here on Monday night, can you do that?”
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