The Fixer

To the reader: Any resemblance to any location, to any specific event or series of events, or to any person, living or dead, is coincidental. The opinions expressed below do not necessarily reflect the opinions of the members, administrators, or owners of this website, and they man not coincide with my own opinions, or indeed, those of any right-minded individual.

This story was started quite a while ago in answer to a writer’s challenge. The idea was to write about “women for hire.” That didn’t necessarily mean prostitutes. People wrote about all kinds of women who use their sweat and their skills to earn a living. I went political. Since we’re bombarded with hype about the up-coming U.S. elections, I decided to finish and post my tale now.

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I’m known as The Fixer. I’m the head of a clandestine power brokerage agency. Our detractors say we’re in the political “dirty tricks” business. I prefer to think of us as people who seek the truth.

Everyone sees the results of some of our work. If a person in power has no conscience, we help the media provide one.

Leaked sex tapes of the rich and famous? My predecessor invented them. Infidelity by someone influential? We’re the ones who provide pictures of them and the slut to news networks. The people who pay well don’t like you, Congressman? Prepare to see your career, reputation, and marriage crash and burn on the internet.

In some cases, our mark unwittingly provides all the incriminating evidence we need, meaning that all we have to do is observe and record. In others, we do a little creative manipulation of events. A few marks have claimed they’ve been the victims of entrapment, but the public doesn’t care if the evidence is damning enough.

Not all of our work is displayed publicly. Some of our targets are smart enough to bow to the wishes of our clients. The dumb ones stonewall. A few, when confronted with the evidence we gather, try to buy us off, which is fine. They’re digging their graves deeper.

My assistant and housemate is a brilliant and beautiful auburn-haired vixen. Her code name is Monica. She excels in the talents of her Clinton Presidency namesake, and will do whatever is required to successfully complete an assignment. You may have seen her in photos our favorite paparazzi sold to one of the British tabloids. That was her in the mask, with the black leather corset and boots, putting nipple clips on a Member of Parliament several years ago.

Me? Even Monica only knows me as The Fixer. That’s all anyone needs to know.

We had a new assignment. The target was a vocal pro-life (anti-abortion) activist, Reverend John Doe. This televangelist was ready to come out in support of former governor Smith, a candidate for an important Senate seat. His backers were afraid that Smith’s personal life wouldn’t survive scrutiny if family values and choice/life debates became important in the campaign. They wanted to silence the flamboyant activist so Smith could distance himself from the man and his mission.

Doe was scheduled to speak at a large anti-abortion rally the following month on a university campus. Smith’s people knew from sources inside Doe’s camp that Doe was planning to endorse their man as a pro-life candidate, which was the last thing Smith needed. A pre-emptive strike was required.

I had the perfect operative to put up against this mark – Madame Butterfly. She’s the granddaughter of a decorated Viet Nam war-era U.S. Army colonel and his war bride. Their son married a Swedish girl, and they gave the world the young woman I work with. MB, as we call her, has enough Asian blood in her veins to look exotic to political candidates, judges, and the occasional swing-vote holding corporate board member. She can look elegant enough to put on a designer suit and pick up her mark in a cigar-and-cognac lounge or innocent enough to be a convincing schoolgirl.

I phoned her, even though she was in the next office. “Are you horny?” I asked when she answered.

“Off your meds again, Fixer? You must be to ask such a crazy question,” she giggled.

“Get your cute ass over here, sweetie,” I said. “I have an assignment for you.”

“Should I leave my panties here?”

“Since when did you start wearing underwear to the office?”

My door opened, and a pair of frilly black boy shorts landed on my desk. Warm ones.

“A woman never knows when she might want to at least pretend she’s a lady,” I heard her say, both on the phone and through the door.

“Come in, close the door, and sit down. I need you to do something for me.”

MB model-strutted over to my desk. “Do you really want me to sit? Shouldn’t I kneel?”

“We’ll get to that, but right now, I need to discuss a new case with you.”

“All right, boss,” she said, adjusting her skirt to sit primly in the chair on the other side of my desk. “Who’s the mark?”

“This guy,” I said, pushing a set of photos over to her. “I’ll send you the files when we’re done in here.”

“With the mane of white hair and the Armani suit, this has to be that fire-and-brimstone televangelist, John Doe,” she said. “Colonel Sanders with a Bible.”

“The Most Righteous Reverend John Paul Doe himself. ‘The Rev’ or ‘John’ to people who claim to like him,” I said. “He’s creating a problem.”

“Do I need to know what it is?” MB asked, still studying the pictures.

“It’s all in the file. He’s holding a big rally next month where he’s slated to publicly link his ministry to former Governor Smith’s Senatorial campaign. Reverend John must be put in an embarrassing situation before that. Smith has things to hide, like they all do, and the thinking is that Doe has to go.”

“What’s my cover? Or should I come up with one myself?”

“You’re a University student/political activist/pro-life groupie. The good Reverend apparently does private counseling with morally-troubled young girls.”

“Are we going for pics of inappropriate cuddling? Or do we need the money shot?” she asked.

“The client is willing to pay for the deluxe package. Go see The Medic this afternoon and get a tune-up on your ear implant. We’re going to want to be able to talk to you.”

“Same acknowledgment as before when I turn my mike off? I’ll scratch my nose to let you know I heard you?” she asked.

“That seemed to work well before,” I said.

“Okay, boss. May I have my panties back?”

“You’re going to have to work for them.”

“I plan to,” she said. She got up, walked over to me, hiked her skirt up to display her cute little pussy, and climbed on top of me on my chair. “I was horny anyway. I think maybe I want you to cum in my ass this time,” she said as she took off my tie.

The next day, a young woman who called herself Mary “Cho-cho” Bennett went to her first revival meeting conducted by the good Reverend. Cho-cho, as the name tag stuck to her university logo t-shirt said, spent the afternoon working her way through the crowd, and was caught by one of Doe’s crew cameras, her hands in the air and a rapturous smile on her pretty face. Whoever was manning the camera got a number of pictures of young girls that day, but zoomed in on Cho-cho’s cute little belly button piercing and her uplifted breasts in her tight shirt. He also got some video of her ass in her “skinny jeans” as the crowd was starting to leave.

The trap was baited.

Reverend Doe was airing a commercial on late-night TV pre-selling his “Spring Victory Tour” DVD boxed set, which promised to contain “highlights of Reverend John’s most inspiring sermons” and “the faces of real people like you and me whose lives are changing because of The Word.” It was implied that only “three easy payments of just $19.95 (plus shipping and handling)” would bring you nearly as close to Salvation as listening to The Great Man speak live.

Apparently, Reverend John screened his own raw video footage, because he gave Cho-cho a grin of recognition when he spotted her in the same place in front of the stage two nights later at another gathering. The next night, it was a broad smile.

After that show, she waited for him near the entrance to the secure lot where his limo and driver were. The cameras and mikes in MB’s bag and clothing worked perfectly, just like the equipment we had hidden nearby. “Silver Sinner is coming. Going to passive audio,” MB said.

“Hello, child,” the televangelist said as he got closer. He looked quite pleased to see her.

“Reverend John, may I speak with you?”

He waved his staff away. “Of course, my dear. Is something troubling you?”

“Not so much any more. I’ve been to a few of your sermons, and you’ve really helped. I feel better about some things I never heard anyone talk about in church back home or in any of my college religion classes.”

“The Word and the Light have helped. I’ve just shown them to you in a new way. I’ve seen you at some meetings. You stand out from the crowd.”

“Really? Why?”

“I don’t get many Asians at my sermons. Especially not as beautiful as you. You’ve been blessed, my dear,” Doe crooned.

She grinned broadly. “I’m so thrilled to meet you. You’re going to be speaking at my University next month. I’ve been asking around, and it doesn’t sound like they’re really doing much in terms of providing you with a campus guide, so I thought I’d volunteer. I’m Mary Bennett. My friends call me ‘Cho-cho’.”

He took her offered hand in both his meaty paws. “Like the character Cio-Cio San in Madame Butterfly?”

“Yes!” MB giggled.

“Well, Cho-cho, that’s a very generous offer. I accept.”

“Really? I’ll do whatever I can to make you and your wife feel welcome,” she said with girlish enthusiasm.

“My wife doesn’t come with me on the road much anymore. With the ministry growing, someone needs to stay home and mind the shop.”

“You must get lonely doing all these speaking engagements.”

“You’re never alone if you keep the Lord with you, and my work brings me the sleep of the blessed, so I’m okay. But thank you for your concern. Sometimes I do wish I had a like-minded mortal person in the room with me to talk to.”

“I could talk to you. In fact, I’d love to talk with you. I think I could learn a lot.”

“Would you like to get some coffee?”

“Sure! Where?”

“My driver can take us anywhere,” Doe said.

Our team was able to follow them easily, since she talked the entire time they were in the limo. We had a surveillance van in the back parking lot of the store next door by the time Doe and Cho-cho got to the coffee shop. We also got three different camera angles of the good reverend’s hand brushing her ass as they walked back to his car.

“Shall I take you back to where you parked?” Doe said when they were settled inside.

“I think I’d like to talk some more. I have some questions about morality.”

“I’ll try to answer any questions you might have, my dear,” Doe said.

“Can we go someplace to talk? I drove here from school, so I’m like an hour from campus.”

“We can go to my suite. I have research materials there that might help you.”

We already had a team staking out his hotel. Our equipment was in place everywhere in The Rev’s rooms. This was going to be easy.

It was surprising to see how blatant Doe’s sexual moves were. We might have been able to make him squirm with the surveillance pics we already had. No one watching the elevator video would be able to deny that he brushed his hand against her breast twice.

Once inside the suite, he excused himself to “freshen up,” inviting Cho-cho to do the same in the guest powder room. She spoke to the team from there. “How far do you want me to go with this creep, Fixer? How much do we need?”

“What’s your comfort limit?” I asked.

“I’m surprised you have to ask me that. You’re the director of this little skit, so direct me.”

“He’s got a lot of money behind him. We need enough so that he knows he can’t buy his way out of this.”

“Done deal,” she said, as we heard the toilet flush. The indicator for active transmission went off on her voice feed. We were in voyeur mode again.

The Rev came out of his room in a blood red dressing gown, and, it appeared, nothing else.

“Reverend!” MB exclaimed, “I’ve never seen you in anything but the white suits you wear.”

“You’ve never seen my video sermons at my ranch?