Ten hours before having sex with the “Black Russian” (See the preceding chapter for details.), Lance Mannon walked into the Washington headquarters of S.H.E.L.L. Of course, on the outside it looked nothing like the headquarters of the world’s most secret spy agency. Which of course is a good thing, seeing as how they were really secret and wanted to keep it that way.
Mannon opened the door to the Chairman’s office. His secretary, Karen Bedwell, looked up and smiled at him. “You’re late; he’s waiting for you inside.” She pushed a button and the light above the big door behind her changed from red to green with a buzz. Lance gave her a wink and moved toward the door. Miss Bedwell watched him walk by, never noticing the wink. This was the problem with a man who wears an eye patch, was it a wink? Or was it a blink? Who the hell could tell?
On the other side of the door, the Chairman sat behind a large wooden desk; he wore an all white suit and his bald head reflected the desk lamp. He appeared not to notice Lance Mannon, his best agent enter the room. Lance waited for him to look up. The Chairman closed the folder he was looking at and slid it across the desk toward Lance. “Ben Turnankoff.”
“Pardon me sir?”
“Dr. Benjamin Turnankoff, scientist.”
Mannon opened the folder and looked at the picture clipped to the top page. It was a man in his mid fifties with a gray mustache and glasses. He appeared to be playing beer pong with several young coeds at a “Girls Gone Wild” shoot.
The Chairman continued, “He was working for a European company called Walmex. Apparently he has gone missing, along with the only samples of “White Heart”, a virus that he had engineered.” He slid another file across the gigantic desk. “Everyone is looking for him and, more importantly, the “White Heart” virus. Your job is to find out what happened to Turnankoff and the virus. Did someone take him? Is he trying to sell it? We need to know.” He pointed at the second file. “Every agency in the world is going after this one. CIA, MI-6, U.N.C.L.E., IMF, T.H.R.U.S.H., IBS, ED, VH, JFK, LBJ and anyone else using a random string of letters in their name. Walmex did quite a bit of business with the Russians, so your best lead may be your toughest competition. Have you ever met the Black Russian?”
Lance had heard of the Russians top agent, but had never seen a picture of her. Inside the folder, he did see a picture of her. The Black Russian was just that, a black Russian. Mannon’s eye scanned the dossier. It contained the usual information, military experience, martial arts training, small arms expertise, spoke six languages and had two semesters of accounting classes under her belt from St. Petersburg community College. “Do you really think she knows where Turnankoff is sir?”
“Before he went missing, the Russians had him under surveillance. So I would say they have a better idea where he might be than anyone else at this point.” The Chairman removed a cigar from the box on his desk.
“How do you want me to handle this sir?”
“I want you to pump her for information of course.” He leaned back in his chair as he clipped the end of the cigar and put it in his mouth.
“You mean pump her full of drugs to interrogate her? Or find out what she knows and pump her full of lead? Or do you want me to pump her, like, you know, really pump her?”
“Whatever gets the job done Mannon.”
“Well sir… It’s just that I have never… gone… you know… “
“Afraid you won’t come back? Don’t worry son, if you find the grass to be that much sweeter on the other side, then you’ll have found that sweet, sweet grass in the service of your country!”
Lance left it at that. Something about the exchange between the two men had made him feel guilty and mildly racist.
“Your plane leaves in an hour.” He lit the cigar and took a puff. “Miss Bedwell has all of your paperwork” Lance rose from the chair he had gotten so many mission briefings in. He had quite an ass groove going in that chair. As he turned away from his boss he heard him say, “Good hunting Mannon.” Lance returned his gaze to the desk to see the Chairman giving him the thumbs up, with both hands no less. Mannon returned the gesture, and walked out of the office. He had a plane to catch.
And a black Russian to pump.


Lance had sex with the “Black Russian”.



     The gun in its holster caressed his underarm like a well worn stick of deodorant. The feeling was a comforting one to Lance Mannon. No one else of course could see the weapon he wore under his tuxedo as he entered the casino. It was his little secret. He was a secretive man. A quality that was of course helpful, being that Lance Mannon was the worlds greatest gentleman secret agent. "Secret" being the key word of that whole thing. Lance Mannon was six foot two with brown hair that fell down over his left eyebrow. He had rugged good looks, made even more rugged by the eyepatch he wore over his right eye. The story of theat patch was one that Lance did not often tell, and is better left for another time.
     His eye scanned the casino floor from the top of the stairs. His gaze came to rest on the roulette table near the large windows on the right side of the room and a statuesque woman in a low cut white dress that was open down the left side. Her ebony skin glistened in stark contrast to the light colored material of the dress. Mannon recognised her from the photo in the dossier he had reciever earlier that day. Being that she was the only black person in the casino had made identifying her that much easier too. Lance had been sent here to intercept this beautiful woman. He loved these assignments, a whole lot of the spy game took place in casinos, dealt with exotic beautiful women, and all the free sex, more often than not from the aforementioned exotic women, was a big plus too.
     He moved down the stairs and across the casino floor. Lance Mannon glided down the steps like a Slinky, a real metal Slinky, not one of those plastic piece of crap ones that always gets tangled and broken. Mannon moved like a cat, fluid and sure. As he hit the casino floor, his eye swept the room. Looking for anything out of place. When he reached the roulette table he pulled out a cigarette and lit it. As he did he soaked in the black woman across from him. She had the most beautiful face he had ever seen that night. He also realized with a start that what he had mistaken from across the room as the topiary behind her was in fact, one of the largest afro's he had ever seen, making her a good six inches taller than she really was. Her bare arms showed off the muscle tone of a woman who was active, not in that freakish woman body builder way like a female Herman Munster, but feminine and attractive.
     Lance Mannon leaned forward and placed a stack of chips on black. "I'm betting my balls fall on black tonight." he said loudly. Several heads at the table turned to look at him. The woman to his left took two steps away.
     The black woman across the table spoke, "Where your balls land tonight, depends on how long your luck can last." The reply came with a thick Russian accent. This confirmed what Lance Mannon already knew, that this indeed was the infamous "Black Russian". Everyone's heads turned to the woman across the table from Lance.
     "With me," Lance said, "luck can last all night long." Like a tennis match, heads returned their gaze to Lance. One couple left the table.
     "With luck that long, a man should bet on black and let it ride." She arched her eyebrow as she looked him up and down, then continued, "Let it ride, all night. Mister...?"
     "The name is Mannon... Lance Mannon. Miss...?"
     "Titoff... Yanka Titoff."
     At this point, all activity at the table had stopped and everyone, including the dealer, was watching intently the scene playing out in front of them. Most faces were a combination of bewilderment and mild disgust. Three more people backed away from the table and nonchalantly moved to other areas of the casino, so as not to feel like the voyeurs they had inadvertently become. Only the swarthy little bald man at the far end of the table seemed to be enjoying himself. He had a toothy grin from ear to ear as his eyes darted between the two hormonally charged gamblers.
     "Well Miss Titoff, this evening I bet my balls on black. Dealer?" Lance turned to the dealer, who was staring at him slack jawed. "The wheel please."
     "The.. what? Oh.. yes sir the wheel." The dealer shook himself back to reality, then spun the wheel. The silver ball raced around the edge. After a moment the wheel began to slow and the ball rattled it's way through the numbers jumping from one to another. The tiny ball came to rest on black 13. The swarthy man at the end of the table clapped delightedly.
     "It seems your shiny ball has indeed fallen into a black hole this night Mr. Mannon."
     There was an audible "eww." from someone in the crowd.
     "As I am sure many balls do in your company Miss Titoff." Lance knew this really didn't make much sense, but at this point he was pretty sure they were talking about sex and thought it sounded provocative. "If you will please forgive me I have to be going. I have some business to attend to this evening." This was in fact the only business Lance Mannon had planned for the evening, but he wanted to play hard to get. He gathered his winnings and turned towards the door. Mannon was playing a dangerous game here, what if she didn't follow? The whole mission would be blown if she didn't. He was also a bit apprehensive about what might happen later in the hotel room if she did follow. Even with the amount of women Lance had been with, he had never "gone black" so to speak. His job often required sex with women, good guys and bad. How would his future job performance be affected if he did "go black" and then in fact could not "go back" as they say?
     "You move like big pussy."
     The words were said with a thick Russian accent. Mannon turned and faced Yanka Titoff. "Come again?"
     "If I am lucky, yes." She smiled. "I said you move like pussy cat. Move like big cat! RRoww! RRoww!" Her hands clawed the air. "You move like man who can take care of self and others. You know, move like tiger!" She leaned in close, her afro brushing against his temple, even though she was still four inches away. "Does big pussy cat man really have to go so soon? Just as things were getting interesting."
     Yes they were, Lance thought.
     Yes they were.




I am sorry I have been away for so long. I am working on the new issue, and will have updates soon. But to tide you over you can have a look at my other art at my "real" site. Follow the link here---PARNELLART.COM