Early in 2001, two things happened. My expose on the Selvadoradan artifact trade was published, and a week later, so was Omiscan Blood, the book I had been preparing to put out at the same time, telling the same story, but in much more detail. I took some time off, which I mostly spent getting high and downloading porn online.

 

 

I noticed that porn seemed to be moving away from professionals and towards amateurs, filming themselves at home. I guess that was possible now that video equipment was so affordable, and more and more people were getting access to high-speed internet. I was a big fan of someone who went by the name BustyGrace. She seemed to have gotten into the homemade porn thing right at the beginning, and from the looks of it, she was making a killing off it.

 

 

I wasn't just following her to facilitate self-pleasure, you know. I was thinking her story, and the story of homemade porn in general, might make for a good story for me to tell.

 

Of course, my writings on Selvadorada got an acquaintance a little mad at me. Mr. Rock Hardin called me up shortly after the book went public, asking me to meet him in Windenburg. I felt I owed it to him, and to myself, to face up to what he had to say, even if I told myself that he had no reason to complain. After all, I had anonymized him, his girls, and all his business practices in both my article and my book. To be fair, that wasn't my choice. My publishers thought it legally safer.

 

He wasted no time letting me know how upset he was.

 

 

I tried to explain to him that he had no reason to worry. I had exposed the existence of the trade publicly, and described it in some detail, because that's good journalism. But he was still insulated. No one could pin anything on him. But my pleadings fell on deaf ears, and out of nowhere, he took a swing at me.

 

 

I'm not the most athletic man in the world, but apparently, neither is he, because he missed wildly. Something I learned during my travels and was stored deeply in the animal part of my brain kicked in, and I fought back with a knee right to his jaw.

 

 

There may have been a bit more after that, too, but pretty quickly it was clear that his physical threats meant nothing, and I left quickly.

 

 

I felt bad that several of his girls were there to see it. Especially since this meant I'd never get to fuck them.

 

 

Again, I'm not that athletic. I wouldn't bet on myself in a fight. I probably got lucky, to be honest. Or maybe Hardin had confused all the time he spent lifting weights with actual training, and wrote a check he was woefully unable to cash. Either way, I left Windenburg on an adrenaline high, which turned out to work in my favor. It led me to another potential story, and a very pleasant evening.

 

During my travels down in Selvadorada, I had met this man named Pedro, who I knew was involved in the drug trade. I didn't really care about writing on the drug trade, but I certainly did like doing drugs, so knowing a man like that was helpful. I learned he was based in Newcrest, and owned a strip club there named Picante. And it just so happened that my flight back from Windenburg included a layover in Newcrest. So I decided to check it out.

 

I walked in, and it was a pretty well-kept joint. I sat down with a stripper named Maya, and mentioned to her that it seemed they had some kind of uniform system. Girls were all wearing essentially the same outfit, but in different colors. Half in green, half in red. And one girl was in gold. Maya explained to me:

 

"We are Pedro's Chiles. The Green Chiles are regular dancers. They'll get on stage, give you a lap dance. Even tend bar once in a while. Nice girls, but no touching."

 

 

"The Red Chiles work for Pedro in a different way. For the right price, you can get whatever kind of touching you want."

 

 

"And that chick in the gold. She's not really a Chile at all, I guess. She's a contract player. Pedro put her up as a favor to some Russian he's in business with. So the gold means Pedro doesn't keep all the money, because she's got to kick back to Vlad or whatever the fuck his name is. But it also means you can put it in her ass for a few rubles."

 

 

"That's a clever system," I said, and then laid out the lamest pickup of a hooker you can imagine, "I see you're a Red Chile."

 

 

Which, of course, she was, which means, lame or not, I got to go upstairs with her, and work out some of this high voltage energy my trip to Windenburg had left with me.

 

 

After I was fully sated, I headed back to the airport in time to catch the flight back to Strangerville. I did feel guilty about what I'd put Hardin through, but I assumed his girls - again, I cannot stress enough how disappointed I was that I probably ruined the chance to fuck any more of them - were taking good care of him.

 

 

And with multiple new leads, I was ready to end my sabbatical and go back to work.