Hearts Desire

Heart's Desire

By: T Nicholas Tucker

“I saw her today at the reception…”

The room was massive, requiring a dozen chandeliers just to cast a subdued light over the proceedings below. Of course, to the occupants of the ballroom floor, the lighting was just fine.

The Gold Coast glitterati were out in full force tonight, Prada bags and Armani suits being highlighted quite nicely by the dim glow. Botox lines and stretchmarks were finding the low lighting an easy place to hide. Anyone who was anyone was here, all coming out in a show of support for the man of the hour. All hoping somehow to find themselves invited into the inner circle of handshakes and photo ops with the one man who had single-handedly brought Hollywood back to life.

Anthony Brightblood, the undeniable heartthrob, the actor extraordinaire, the savior of romance and of course, God's blessing to women everywhere. His last movie had not only broken the opening and single day box office records, it had shattered them, making so much money that one producer who had worked on the film had been heard to quip, "now I can by that small country that I've always wanted."

The "Great Man", "Bright" to his friends, "Tony" or "Mr. Brightblood" to all others depending on their status, was holding forth in a far corner of the room, stentorian voice mesmerizing the dozens of reporters, sycophants, hustlers and small- time producers who surrounded him. All jostling for the best position. Using feet, knees and elbows generously and sometimes even viciously, creating an ever-shifting pattern of bow ties, blouses and body parts.

"Yeah, that was back in 19, ages ago. As I recall, the producer, whose name I won’t mention, (knowing winks, nods and snickers all around), actually suggested that my accent needed a bit more work. Can you imagine? Well, 150 million and an academy award later and that guy has spent the last two years somewhere in Burundi, producing a documentary on the mating practices of the local species of water buffalo. Ha!" Everyone giggles and guffaws at the story despite some of them having heard it many times before. To Bright however, the laughter was no more or less than expected. An homage to his greatness, partial payment for the graces that he bestowed upon them with his presence.

As he looked away disinterestedly, taking a healthy swig from his glass, the people around him began babbling again, as they always did the moment he stopped talking. This one had the next greatest screenplay, and could he please read it? That one is willing to invest his life savings if only he could get the inside scoop as to which production is going to be the next big blockbuster. But Bright wasn't listening. That's what he had his cadre of assistants for, all trained personally by himself to mine through the dross and find him the occasional nugget of information or circumstance that might later be acted upon to further his illustrious career.

In truth, it might be said that the assistants had had every bit as much to do with him having that career, as he did, because the dark and hidden truth was, Anthony Brightblood was a fraud. At least, that was what he himself had always believed. He just hid it very carefully and very well, marveling again and again at how blind all of these people were, how desperate, how petty, how cruel and selfish. In spite of all of his accolades and achievements, he still felt like a loser amongst losers. He had attained the highest order of fame in the Hollywood world, that of celluloid immortality, a God of the screen, but dammit, it just wasn't enough! He craved real immortality! The "Alexander the Great" kind, the "Genghis Khan" kind, the "Hitler" kind. But that was like chasing the wind. Bright knew all too well that within a mere 50 to 75 years of his death, no-one would even remember who he had been, nor would they care.

"Ah well.", he thought, raising his glass. Such thoughts always dropped him into a deep black emptiness, with heavy boozing and floozies to follow in a futile attempt to fill it.

As he was about to retake control of the myriad conversations going on around him, wondering if he had told the one about that dumb-assed producer, he glanced up at the grand stairway and felt his eyes attempt to bulge from his face. At that moment he thought that he could actually feel his heart stop.

Little did he know...it was a sign of things to come.

"A glass of wine in her hand..."

Yekatarina Strigoi was a vampire. But not only was she a vampire, she was by far the oldest and most powerful vampire alive amidst a still living history of such “mythical” creatures.

She had come to the "Americas" long before anyone here had referred to the region as such, during a time when in Europe vampires were being actively hunted down and destroyed. She had lost many friends and supporters then. So many that her life had truly been in danger, a thing that she had scarcely been able to believe at the time. Yet the evidence had been all around her, hideous and indisputable.

Vampires beheaded and burnt to ash, others reduced to brittle bones with filmy shreds of skin attached, stakes jutting from places where proud chests had once been covered in regal attire, long since turned to dust. She had fled her homeland then, the only thing that she had been able to do. Stowed away aboard one of those ships of conquest that were leaving from European ports more and more during that time. A ship of destiny that would bring thousands of human souls, in some ways far more dangerous than herself, to the New World and who would eventually cause the death of entire cultures. Cultures that had survived for eons. In retrospect, she had probably been the very least of the plagues to be deposited on those distant shores. Shores that rimmed what would become the richest feeding ground that she had ever known.

She had thrived then, growing strong, fearless and indomitable.

Yet much had now changed. Technology, forensics, 911. The danger had come full circle and once again extreme care had to be taken lest it be revealed that the very creatures who had been the subject of so many B movies in this town, truly did exist. She chuckled at the thought of that. The delicious irony of it. It was one of the reasons that she was here, why she had stayed here so long when normally she would have left years ago, moving on to newer, safer places. Everyone here knew all about Vampires, but no-one believed in them.

This was L.A., land of the freaks, oasis of the dreamers, last stop for the lost, and eternal home of "Hollyweird", where anything goes. So many unfortunates passed through this city every day, tattered bags in hand, even more tattered dreams in heart, that it was child's play to keep herself and the few that she had gifted with her "kiss" alive. All she had to do was pick a shadowy place, an underpass, a darkened lobby, an abandoned car, and someone would inevitably show up, looking to do a deal, swap some sweat, or simply close their eyes without having to worry about being murdered in their sleep. A pity that last, since when Kat decided to reveal herself, murder is exactly what happened. She was death incarnate.

As she descended the stairway she detected a faint scent, growing stronger with every step she took. It was a scent so indescribably delicious in her nostrils that she almost lost her footing and tumbled down the stairs!

No! That most certainly would not do! But what was that mouthwatering scent? No! Whose was that scent?

Yekatarina, "Kat" to the few remaining vampires of powerful standing and "Mistress" to her supplicants, knew high quality blood when she smelled it. In fact, it could be argued that she was the world's foremost authority on blood, having studied it thoroughly throughout the many centuries, both in an academic capacity and in the far more enjoyably practical sense, savoring each drop that she drank as if were a fine vintage wine similar to the wine which, in that moment of blood swooning imbalance, had sloshed over the top of the glass that she was holding.

But this...this was something different!

She paused a few steps above the floor, scanning the crowd, allowing her nose to move her head this way and that until finally, it settled on an area directly to her left, in a corner of the room where about fifty people milled around a central figure.

Kat smiled when she recognized who that figure was. Anthony Brightblood. The very man for which this reception had been arranged. Of course, she knew who he was. Having made Los Angeles her home for the last 60 years, she was very well versed in the Hollywood lifestyle and had known many of the city’s brightest stars. Still, Kat wasn't one to attend parties. Not these days. But that damned Jenna, one of her "hopefuls", a slip of a girl (and if Kat were to be completely honest, so very attractive!) that worked as a big-time talent agent and could be so very persuasive! If Kat hadn't known better, she would have sworn that the girl was already a Vamp! She had allowed Jenna to talk her into coming here, to showing her face in public, in the hope that Kat might find another to replace her latest "favorite".

Jenna was excellent at reading people, alive, and apparently, undead as well and it had seemed to her that the Mistress had just not been herself since losing her last favorite. Well, not so much "losing" as 'torturing' and 'beheading'. The man had been vivisected, although perhaps that wasn't the correct term since technically, he wasn't truly alive.

Pyotr had been his name and the Mistress had granted him her kiss several years ago and had made him her plaything. Unfortunately for him, he had been unable to control his appetites and had been sloppy and indiscreet with his feeding habits despite numerous warnings from the Mistress. Finally, Kat had had too much, easily subduing the man and then chaining him to the floor, where he reluctantly began to understand the true majesty and might of the creature that he had defied.

She had invited some 'friends' over and commanded all of her supplicants to enter the chamber where he was bound wanting to make a party of it in an attempt to take her mind off of the fact that she would miss him...somewhat. Then she commenced to "open" him, punctuating each bit of butchery with a dissertation about organs and their functions specifically, and why what she was doing was oh so necessary in general, all in a voice that would have done even the most tenured professor proud. By the time all of his insides had been laid out, he was begging for the stake, a mercy that she had afforded him with one powerful downward stroke of a headman's axe that she had acquired sometime in the misted past.

After that, any desire that Jenna had had to perhaps become the next favorite herself was quickly vomited out. So instead, she had talked the Mistress into going to the Gala, knowing that there would be the best and brightest that Hollywood had to offer in attendance. But she was still very much hoping to receive what she thought she wanted, the "Kiss of the Mistress", the kiss that would grant her eternal life.

"Well, if the blood scent coming off of this man is a true indication of what he has to offer, then maybe little Jenna will get her wish as a "reward”, Kat thought, as she completed her descent of the stairs and headed in the direction of Brightblood and his group of flunkies. Just as some people’s blood seemed to be irresistible to mosquitoes, who will pass up everyone else just for the chance to drink themselves to death on the chosen one, so too did Kat feel completely and utterly drawn to this man. She could not stop herself now if she tried. She would have him.

"She was waiting to meet with her connection..."

"She's coming my way!", he thought. She was easily the most beautiful woman he had ever seen! Who was she? Why wasn't the world on its knees before her, begging for the slightest acknowledgement, the smallest word of recognition from her of its presence?

Bright felt a compulsion unlike any he had ever felt in his life. He had to move! He began pushing and shoving his way through the crowd, rudely spilling drinks and hors d'oeuvres as he pummeled those unfortunate enough to be in his way, at one point actually knocking to the floor one reporter who had divined what Bright's destination was and had attempted to intercept him in order to ask a question. As he made his way passed the last indignant follower, he noticed that the woman on the stairs had stopped momentarily before continuing her descent. Indeed, it seemed that the whole room and everyone in it had stopped in rapt admiration of the incredible vision of loveliness that was floating downward, as if from the very heavens themselves, to stand within their midst.

She was a tall woman. At least six feet tall he judged. In her heels, more like six two. He had always felt a bit clumsy in his 6’6” frame but right now he was glad of his height. She wore an elegant evening gown of extremely conservative cut, blood red and immaculately well made yet completely out of place within the sea of sheer dresses that were the norm for the type of women that generally attended these events. Dresses cut low on top and high on the bottom, exposing more flesh than fabric. Even so, the voluptuous curves of her body and the raw sexuality that seemed to drip from her simply could not be hidden. Not by an entire wardrobe of clothes.

She was royal in her demeanor, haughty and aloof, as if she were inviolate, an eternal rock standing unchanged despite the constant crashing of the puny tides around her. And yet the physical presence that she exuded was at once senses stealing and will withering. For a man who was used to people always doing his bidding, he could not begin to imagine saying no to anything this woman might ask of him. And she was watching him, a slight smile on her face which made him feel as if he were the only human being alive on the planet besides herself. He was wrong on both counts. She herself was keenly aware of every heartbeat in the room, pulsing blood through veins quickened by drink and excitement. And of course, she wasn't human.

Bright realized that he was practically running across the floor now, so he slowed to what he considered to be a casual pace, something that still managed to resemble the gait of a panicked schoolboy who has come to the unfortunate conclusion that he had badly miscalculated the distance to the nearest restroom. He skidded to halt in front of her and affected his best multi-million dollar, three Oscar winning smile only to observe her expression remain unchanged. "Wow", he thought, "they're usually halfway to the floor in a faint by now. Who the hell is this chick and why has she never been brought to me before?"

"She was practice at the art of deception...".

"Anthony Brightblood", he said extending his hand. "My friends call me Bright." He laughed nervously, wondering if she would appreciate the rightness of his nickname. "Brightblood" she said, looking down at his hand but making no move to take it. "How...appropriate. Are we to be friends then...Bright?”

“I would like nothing more", he said, letting his hand fall to his side.

Nothing strange or insulting about that. Plenty of people didn't shake these days, worried about one infectious disease or another. "But tell me, what is your name? And how can someone so devastatingly beautiful be completely unknown in this town. Did you just arrive?" Now the look on her face did change. She stared at him intently for what was quickly becoming an awkward moment, seemingly in internal debate over which, or whether to answer his questions at all. Abruptly she said, "I can give you what you want."

"Excuse me?"

"I can give you all that you want. Immortality beyond your wildest dreams, beyond that attained by the greatest of legends. True immortality. Isn't that your heart's desire?"

"How did you...?

If Bright had felt like a schoolboy before, now he felt as if he had just been told that he was actually an orphan, and his real parents were both fishmongers from Kiev. Totally confused! Flabbergasted!

"It's quite simple really", she said., "I just looked into your mind."

"Oh, okay", said Bright, relieved now, thinking that this woman must be one of the many "psychics" that frequented the city, illuminating the darkness of those wretched souls that come with tearful requests for any information about their newly deceased loved ones, the husband, the wife, the French poodle.

"She must have read one of the thousands of articles written about me or maybe she saw a taped interview where I had made some mention of wanting to be immortal", he thought. He was just a bit disappointed. The way this woman looked, the way she held herself, the raven black hair that seemed to glow as if it had a light of its own, the incredible shape of her body, even all covered up as it was, she should be more than just another two-bit charlatan! There had to be more!

Not one to hesitate where women were concerned, Bright made up his mind that he would find out about her, one way or another. He said "It's kinda noisy in here. The owner of this building keeps one of the upstairs suites at my disposal. Why don't we go up and you can tell me more about yourself. I have so many questions." Kat looked up at him, that knowing smile back on her face. "Really? Am I to be so easily impressed? With a... what do they say these days? With a “line” that you have obviously used many times before, with many other women? "

Now Bright was confused again. Who was this woman? Instead of jumping at the chance to get him alone, just like all the others, she was playing coy. Well, she didn't seem particularly offended by his...line, even though what she had said was true. If anything, she seemed quite amused by it, so he pressed on.

"Well, uh, it's just that...I really didn't mean it the way it sounded. Not this time. I really would like to know about you. I mean, just look around. There isn't a man in this room, single or otherwise, who wouldn't kill me where I stand, in order to stand in my place right now."

Yekatarina laughed. A deep-throated, richly toned laugh that seem wholly at odds with the woman that stood before him. "Half of these 'men', who are really not men at all, don't truly know what they want, and the other half would quickly lose it if they did, not recognizing it for what it was. Which type are you?", she said, inwardly chuckling at the unintended pun. She was far more interested in his blood type, than in the type of man he was.

Now it was Bright's turn to laugh, though it was a sharp and cynical thing compared to hers. "Have you ever heard of the song 'You can't always get what you want' by the Rolling Stones?"

Of course, she had. It was one of her favorite jokes to say that those petrified corpses, the “Rolling Bones” as she laughingly referred to them, who were more dead than some of her minions, had been walking the earth almost as long as she had.

"Yes. I know the song."

"Well, that's my theme song cause I'm the kinda guy who always gets exactly what he wants."

"How fortunate for you", she said, as if praising a ten-year-old mentally challenged child who had just managed to tie his first shoelace. "But I seem to recall the lyrics to that song mentioning something about not always getting what you want but only trying to get what you need."

"Need, want, it's all the same to me. In the end, I end up with it all."

"That isn't quite true, is it? There is still your desire for immortality."

"Yeah, but that's the kind of dream that is untouchable. I may be the biggest narcissist in the world, but I know that my fame and fortune all exist within a very small circle. A circle that hundreds of millions of people have no access to or have no care for. I'm an actor. A fake character. A put-on personality. The greats like Constantine, Confucius, even the Apostle Paul, everyone knows who they are, no matter how much time has passed." He said this last with the same sickening feeling in his stomach that he always got when he contemplated the eventual sum total of his life. Where the hell was the waiter with his next Scotch?

Now Kat did reach out and take his hand. She looked at him with an earnestness so disconcerting that it made his knees go weak. "You must believe me", she said. "You must trust me. I can give you what you want. An immortality that can stand the greatest test of time. An everlasting life that will allow you to witness centuries unfold. You will be a god on earth. Powerful, persuasive and deadly."

"Deadly? Yeah, I like the sound of that. Too many assholes trying to push me around lately. New blood at the studios who are not interested in what I've done, but what I'm gonna do for them. Tell me more."

"All in good time. But first, you are right. It is too crowded in here."

"Fine. Let's go upstairs."

"No. Not upstairs. It is too obvious. Too many eyes will be on us."

"Well hell, I don't mind that, gorgeous woman such as yourself. Besides, all eyes are upon us anyway. I say you and I…, wait...I still don't even know your name."

"You can call me Katarina. And I know of a place nearby that we can go where we will have all the privacy that we need."

"Katarina. I like it! But Katarina, I can't just walk out on the party. After all, these people are here to see me." After a moment’s pause, he said "How far away is it?"

"Actually, it's right in this building. Come, I'll show you."

Kat was as familiar with this building as the people who had built it some 50 years ago. It was one of the reasons that had influenced her decision to attend this party. In fact, as she recalled she had made a meal of several of the laborers during the initial construction. Then later, after it had opened, originally as an opera house, she had "dined" quite nicely amidst the presence of such Hollywood greats as Tyrone Power, Fred Astair and the incomparable Grace Kelly, whom Kat had actually envied for her exquisite beauty, elegance and poise.

It was her intimate knowledge of this place that had allowed her entry from an upper floor, thus avoiding all of those pathetic wannabees who had gathered outside in the ridiculous hope that this time, just maybe this time, someone would take notice of them and ask them to come in and be a part of the only world that really mattered in Hollywood.

And it was also how she knew of the small utility room, hidden behind a tapestry which hung on the wall of one of the outer hallways. An exquisitely made tapestry that had been there for seemingly as long as the building had been in existence. A tapestry that always made Kat smile.

No-one today knew where it had come from or who had hung it. Well almost no-one, but it had been so exceedingly well made, the subject it depicted of such incredible beauty, that it had been left in place, surviving the many changes that had occurred since its original placement. And just like with all things replaced, the room behind the tapestry had been used less and less, cleaning supplies and tools having been moved to a different location on the far side of the hall. Eventually, the very existence of the room had been forgotten.

As Bright fell into step behind Katarina he became aware of two things. The first was the whispers which were growing in volume as the two made their way out of the room and the second was the feel of her hand in his. Her fingers felt like steel bolts wrapped in the thinnest skin, hard and so very cold. His mind was too consumed however, with what might happen next for the oddity of it to register with him. He still thought that she was just another ambitious woman, hoping to use her considerable "talents" to get what she wanted from him. The idea of seeing this woman unclothed...He hurried along after her.

"In her cup was a bleeding man..."

"In here? You can't be serious!"

They were standing inside a small utility closet, dusty mops and cracked buckets strewn about, various cleaning supplies in outdated bottles stacked on shelves that stretched across a side and back wall.

Bright thought back to some of the things he had had to do in order to get his start. The dirty motel rooms, the seedy bars. He had vowed then that when he finally made it big, he would never again demean himself in such a fashion.

Gathering his drink bolstered courage he said "Lady, you may indeed be the most luscious woman I have ever seen, dreamed of or imagined, but Anthony Brightblood does not conduct his business in a freakin’ broom closet with some star struck pseudo-psychic whack job that no-one's ever heard of!"

Kat simply reached up and grabbed his head between her hands. Her grip was like a vise, and he found that he could not move. Once again, she looked at him with an expression so shockingly open that he would have immediately looked away if he had been able to. But her eyes commanded his, held them as if they had never been his to control at all.

"Think of immortality Bright. Think of strength and life and eternal youth. Think of the power to persuade the most influential of men and women. Think of me and the delights we can share. Think, and I will show you what it is that you want..."

Suddenly, a flood of images exploded into his mind. At first, they were just hazy, ethereal things. Flits and flutters of faces, places and times. Strong men and even stronger women in fantastic costumes the shapes and colors of which no modern-day tailor could ever hope to duplicate. Gay lights and melodies that he had never heard before. And laughter. Everyone was laughing! And as they continued it began to seem as if they were all laughing at him and yet he found that he didn't mind. It was chaotic, mad cap, erotically charged and so damn attractive! And overall, there was this sense of extreme power, frightening ability and an unwholesome feeling of "knowing", as if these people knew the secrets of the very fabric of existence itself.

Despite the manic pace of the visions, Bright felt himself begin to relax as scene after scene played out in his head. There were dances and dinners, kings and coronations, weddings and wild exotic parties. Tumblers and clowns and masked figures who cavorted to and fro in a mad liturgy of total orgiastic abandon. They were all having so much fun! Merriment filled every corner of his consciousness until he felt that he must either laugh out loud until he felt the vocal cords shred in his throat or expand outward until he exploded from the mounting pressure.

Yet just as these phantasms began to reach a fluid draining crescendo, they started to change. Where there had been light and color, now came a slow darkness, the music and gaiety dissolving into a growing dusk. Soon all mirth and mayhem were reduced to a murmur, replaced then by stillness opening into a void until, with an abruptness that took Bright's breath away new images ripped into the blackness of his mind.

There were faces here too, so many faces, streaming by him one by one, all stopping right before him for a brief moment. Long enough for him to see them clearly. They were hideous! Distorted, disfigured and mangled. There were foreheads stretched out of all proportion, with strange bony protrusions that had torn through the flesh like the horns of some devil beast. There were eyes that were far too large to be human set above cheeks that had been peeled back, exposing blood and bone. The eyes held a sadness that could drown the world as they looked out over noses that had been mashed to a fine pulp of skin and cartilage. And mouths that were stinking putrid gashes which were opened wide and shrieking maniacally, and which caused the foul ichors of slime rotted teeth to splash thickly against the walls of Bright's brain. And every face wore clots of blood. Not blood as if freshly dripping, but blood that had congealed into a red pasty pudding which clumped in grotesque knots like tumors that had been exposed for all to see.

Bright became more and more horrified as each face passed, so sickened by the sights that he beheld that he felt as if he stood on the very brink of madness, his one lifeline of sanity, his incredible ego, urging him to scream for help for as long and as loudly as he felt his life was worth. And of course, being Bright, that worth was of high value indeed. He began to draw breath as he had never drawn it before, taking in as much air as his lungs could possibly hold, preparing to give the ear shattering performance of a lifetime...

"I could tell by her blood-stained hands..."

It was what Katerina had been waiting for. With his mouth agape and lungs bursting to capacity, his heart beating wildly, and fear creating tremendous stress in his body, the carotid artery, that sweet hemo-globular highway that runs along the side of the neck, began to push forward from beneath Bright's skin, expanding and enlarging with a rush of freshly over-oxygenated blood.

"This is what you want Bright. This is the life I will give to you and together we will see eternity die."

"No!" He screamed in his mind, a prelude to the eruption of sound that he was hoping to generate when the real screaming began. "No! No! No! Please! This is not what I wanted, not what I wanted!

Just as the air began to vibrate in his throat Kat struck, and rather than creating a wall smashing shriek, instead, the last line, delivered in the last living role of Anthony Brightblood came out all at once as nothing more than a soft "whoosh" which barely made a sound at all.

"A man who looked pretty ill..."

The needle tipped fangs in the mouth of the extraordinary face of death which belonged to Yekatarina Strigoi, an Empress amongst vampires, sank effortlessly through the skin of her victim. A man who had thought that he wanted "true immortality" but found out too late that sometimes, what we want is not what we want at all.

The deadly daggers continued on to penetrate deep into the carotid artery. The only eruption now that of the bright red blood which surged outward, as if seeking to join a host body of more worthy capacity. Kat began to feed greedily and with absolutely no fear at all of being discovered.

"So good", she thought. "So very very good..."

"You can't always get what you want..."

An inebriated reveler was passing through an outer hallway, humming an old Rolling Stones tune to himself in an effort to ease his mind over the fact that he had just struck out for the third time that evening. As he was walking past a tapestry that hung on the wall to his left it seemed to flutter, moving as if caught by a slight breeze. Feeling no breeze himself, he paused to consider it.

She was beautifully depicted, the woman whose eyes peered down at him from above, looking out over an aquiline nose, insistent and demanding in the coldness of her stance. She seemed at any moment capable of stepping out of the fabric which held her and confronting him about his right to be at that party, in that passage, indeed, about his very right to live. She was a woman with jet black hair that glowed with a light of its own, and a look in her eye which suggested that she alone bore ownership of the world.

As he took in her lush and regal form, he became agitated, the words to the that song now seeming an irritant to him. "Damn all of these high-class women and Hollywood whores, with their bloated opinions of themselves and even higher expectations.", he said out loud. "What? I'm not good enough for them?" He gave the tapestry and the extraordinary woman on it a look of both disgust and avarice at the same time, then made a gesture of defiance as he turned to leave. Yet as he stepped away, he thought he heard a whooshing sound, and then a series of rude slurping noises, very faint, but coming from somewhere nearby.

Mistaking the last mortal sounds of Anthony Brightblood, a man whose heart's desire was being fulfilled in a most gruesome way, for something lewd and lascivious, the man bolstered up his determination and decided that he would not stop trying to hook up with one of those bimbos until he got what he wanted too. He just hoped that he could find one as beautiful as the one on the wall.

He grinned from ear to ear and continued down the hallway, humming as he went, "when you try sometimes, you just might find, that you get what you need...."