Harold gave her his serpent that night, and for the first time Eden understood what Mama had meant when she spoke of pleasures as gratifying as a rattlesnake bite. Eden surrendered to those pleasures, and it was not at all like it had been with the other men.
Harold said it was the same for him. No woman had ever taken him to the places he visited with Eden. He promised that he would never again sell her to another man.
“I have another plan,” he said. “A way we can make a lot of money.”
“I’ll do anything,” Eden said, “as long as I can do it with you.”
Eden knew it was wrong. Mama and Daddy would not approve. The lone desire that coursed through her veins went against the laws of nature and the drives of the flesh and the teachings of the Dark Lord.
One man and one woman. . together. . forever.
It was horrible.
Eden was in love.
EIGHT
The baddest man on the planet stood on a terra-cotta patio outside a palatial mansion. A scarlet towel was wrapped around his trim middle, as was the heavyweight championship belt once owned by Evander Holyfield, Mike Tyson, Larry Holmes, and Muhammad Ali.
The champ’s name was Tony Katt, but he always thought of himself as the Tiger. In fact, he often referred to himself as such when speaking with the press. “The Tiger trained for this fight with unparalleled ferocity,” he’d say, or “The Tiger sprang upon his opponent in an effort to devour the motherfucker like a jungle beast.”
While incarcerated in Corcoran State Prison, the Tiger’s favorite book had been Roget’s Thesaurus. That coupled with his habit of speaking about himself in the third person made Tony Katt a great hit with the sportswriters.
The Tiger didn’t know about any third person, though. After all, he was just one guy.
The champ eased a pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses high on his nose and checked out the action on the neighboring golf course. The ninth tee was approximately a hundred yards from the Tiger’s outdoor Jacuzzi. A group of duffers approached the tee in little white carts while the Tiger studied them with the unbridled intensity of a starved predator.
The golfers tottered out of the carts-a cackle of old chicks, scurrying about, busying themselves with clubs and balls and other accouterments of pasture pool. Four of them, dressed in sprightly outfits that spoke of eternal spring.
These were gold card predators. The Tiger despised them and their kind. Country clubs habitues, they had suckled too long upon the teat of indulgence and grown weak.
No, not weak. Puny. That was a better word. They had suckled too long upon the teat of indulgence and grown puny.
One of the women noticed the Tiger’s presence. Whispers were exchanged. The Tiger relished such attention. Fingers dared not point in his direction as the women examined him with furtive glances and puny disapproving peeps that registered awestruck disapproval.
To the Tiger, this was the natural order of things. For what more could be expected of mere mortals when confronted by a presence so magnificent as his?
And the Tiger’s presence was indeed magnificent- exalted, great, majestic-for he was no longer an ordinary man. He was something more.
He was a man enhanced, augmented, redoubled. .
The afternoon sunshine painted the Tiger’s bronze skin. His muscles rippled and his tattoos danced, gleaming beneath a brilliant sheen of sweat. The fingers of his left hand stroked the great bronze shield on the front of the heavyweight championship belt, the image of a muscular boxer holding a globe aloft with gloved hands.
Sunlight gleamed against bronze. The Tiger straightened to his full height of six feet two inches, gripping the belt and aiming the shining trophy like a mirror. A slashing beam of reflected light blinded one of the gawking duffers. She shielded her eyes and continued to stare, as if she were braver than all the others who had come before her.
But the Tiger knew that this woman was not brave. She was a fool. She may as well have looked into the eyes of Medusa.
The Tiger smiled his baddest-man-on-the-planet smile.
If she wanted to stare, he’d give her something to stare at.
Dramatically, the way a great artist unveils a masterpiece, the heavyweight champion of the world pulled the scarlet towel from around his waist.
The woman fainted. Her companions, squealing in astonishment, barely managed to collect their friend’s supine body as they piled into the golf carts and dispersed as quickly as a herd of startled antelopes, leaving behind nothing save a lone white ball balanced on a tee.
The Tiger stared down-below the gleaming shield that girded his belly, below the nest of dark pubic hair-and smiled.
The operation had been a complete success.
Truly, he was King of the Jungle.
The heavyweight champion’s augmented penis bobbed in the hot tub, buffeted by a steady stream of jetting Jacuzzi bubbles.
The champion settled back, uttering a satisfied sigh. It was funny how things worked out sometimes.
First there’s the accident, and of course it’s frightening but you’re treated by the finest surgeon in Vegas, and he refers you to the best cosmetic surgeon, who provides you with a discreet informational video that you watch in the privacy of your own home. . and before you know it- snip, snip, pull, pull, stitch, stitch-you end up with. . this.
“Oh my God. . every time I see it. “ Porschia marveled, searching for words. “Gosh, Tony, it’s like a big old barge or something.”
“The Tiger sincerely hopes that you brought your tugboat, my dear.”
Porschia laughed. She stood at water’s edge, wearing a thong bikini bottom and a Tony “The Tiger” Katt T-shirt that was knotted beneath her pert, upturned breasts. Statuesque and strawberry blond, she was a budding star in her own right. Porschia Keyes, understudy to the lead dancer in the big review at the hotel that was sponsoring the Tiger’s first championship defense.
Of course, Tony viewed their relationship in completely realistic terms. Cut beneath the hearts and flowers and Porschia was just another perk from hotel management, no different than the big house or the private gymnasium. That didn’t mean the Tiger was uncomfortable with the arrangement. Perks like this he could definitely live with.
Tony modulated his voice at a low, sexy growl. “How about fixing us a drink, darling? The Tiger will have a kamikaze. You have whatever you like. We’ll spend the whole afternoon together.”
“Don’t you have to train?”
“The Tiger ran four miles before breakfast. He ate his Wheaties. He hasn’t had a cigarette in a month. The fight is not for another three weeks. A day off will do the Tiger a world of good. It will keep him from getting stale.”
Porschia thought it over. “Okay. I’ll phone the hotel and bag my afternoon rehearsal. But you have to help me come up with an excuse.”
“Tell them you tangled with a tiger.”
“Yeah.”
“Tell them you were mauled.”
“Yeah.”
“Because you’re gonna be.”
“Yeah.”
“So hurry back.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And then we’ll luxuriate."
Porschia flushed. “God, Tony, I just love it when you talk smart.”
The Tiger offed the Jacuzzi jets and was enveloped by the afternoon silence of a wealthy neighborhood.
A year ago Tony Katt was holed up in a crackerbox apartment in Fresno. Sure the apartment was a step up from the slams, but not much of a step. Then he had that fight on ESPN. Not even a main event. Just a ten round prelim. But Caligula Tate-the guy who promoted the heavyweight champion of the world-watched that fight, salivating over the big white boy covered over with jailhouse Aryan Brotherhood tattoos. When he turned off his television, Tate knew he’d found a pug that would bring in the long green when matched with Alexis Shabazz.