Mr L.K.J. Portland was in shock. He couldn’t put his finger of what he’d done wrong. Well, to be truthful, he had done wrong—he’d taken an illegal turn and collided with an old car driven by a young woman. A nobody. That was what troubled Mr. Portland. The nobody was but a fly yet she stood her ground when he swatted her. Who did this Akeela Banks think she was?
L.K.J. Portland or Port as he was popularly known to the rich who dwelled above the law knew this little incident seemed to be getting out of hand.
Miss Banks had challenged the accuracy of the accident report given by the police which transferred the fault from Mr Portland to Miss Banks—from the affluent to the working class. The absence of a lawyer at her side was further cause for Port’s disgust. He felt that his credentials deserved much better. In the past had he not won in the face of greater odds? Port knew he did.
He had his lawyers mail his demand for repair costs to his top model car but the nobody Akeela Banks insisted that it was he who must repair her car because he was at fault in every respect. The next thing that angered Port was a call from the magistrate who asked in a feminine but assertive voice him to drop the case. The magistrate, in her off-the-record conversation, knew that Port was using the law as a ship to satisfy his ego. What does this bitch know? though Port.
When the case was called the second time, L.K.J. Portland’s Attorney got wind of the heavy gun who would be representing nobody Akeela Banks and advised his client to drop the case. Port was so mad at his attorney for making him lose face that he threatened to take his business someplace else.
“Come on, Port, you win some you lose some. Let me make it up to you. Let me take you to a place where only the initiated in the deepest of mysteries are allowed.”
“I’m a Mason of the highest ranks, I’m privy to many mysteries,” Portland boasted.
“Not this one, my friend,” the attorney assured.
At ten that night, he picked up Port and drove him into the sleazy, run down section of the city and drove to a house shrouded in darkness. The attorney rapped on the door and identified himself. The door opened unto soft, seductive music and dim mauve lighting and the smell of jasmine.
“Welcome to the Dog House,” said the attorney huskily.
Port didn’t grasp the significance of it all until he was steered by tiny, shadowy hands into an air conditioned inner room draped with heavy curtains and wall-to-wall carpet that reached the ankles.
“Wait,” the voices instructed.
“Is this some type of whore house here?” A shaded hostess stood before them with two glasses filled with whiskey. Port and his attorney took sipped and waited.
About the hour of eleven, women of all ages, shapes, race, complexion and social status began to trickle in. By eleven, the carpet was alive with women naked and doing all manner of tricks to each other. dragging one another to the brink of madness with sensual pleasure.
Goggle-eyed, erect, Portland drooled. Then his eyes focused on a familiar face…
“Jesus Gawd! Is that the magistrate?” He rubbed his eyes, confused.
“You’re seeing right.” His attorney confirmed. “And the woman on top of her is our girl Akeela, her special somebody.”