A NOTE REGARDING THIS STORY.

The violence in this chapter is intended to illustrate the viciousness of Vladimir, this is not the focus of the chapter.

This is a fictional chronicle of a normal hardworking guy named Jack. The federal government made him an offer he couldn't refuse. All they asked was for Jack to go undercover to help the U.S. Government ensnare a terrorist.

Any resemblance of the characters depicted in the story to actual individuals is coincidental. All events are the sole responsibility of the author. None of the scenes in this story depict minors engaged in any sexual encounter.

This story has been previously posted on other sites. It is being posted here with a strong rewrite; some new chapters have been added. I had my BFF Monica Rose edit the material so it should be more readable. Marina

Marina: [email protected]

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Chapter 8 – Battle between Good and Evil

"...true evil needs no reason to exist, it simply is and feeds upon itself." E.A. Bucchianeri

The room was momentarily quiet except for the drumming of a strong tattoo of rain on the roof of the abandoned warehouse. Jess Falk sat unconscious, lost in a wonderful dream. He was wrestling with his 10-year-old son in their front yard. Then the pain started again. Being tied securely to the metal chair, there was nothing Jess could do but scream uselessly into his gag. Vladimir delighted in the man's suffering as he extinguished his lighted cigarette into the captive's left nipple.

The muscle-bound henchman asked, "Comrade, do you want me to take the gag out so he can talk?"

"No Boris," Vladimir began, "He has already given us everything he's got. I am convinced he acted out of bureaucratic conscientiousness, not because he recognized Dmitry's connection with me."

"We must come to an arrangement with our contacts in the motherland's FAPSI. They are not as professional as the FBI, and are still full of officials that are susceptible to manipulation. We need to get Dmitry's criminal record to disappear so this won't happen again. Have our intermediaries arrange for the payments. It is sad, but payoffs are an unavoidable cost of doing business in Russia today."

The hapless captive moaned annoyingly.

"Boris, he really pissed me off. He shouldn't have turned down Dmitry's request for an extension on his visa. I bet the next government agent thinks twice before he defies one of my people. The fool should never have threatened to report us when we offered him a 'gift.' Then he insulted me, when he called our 'Blat' a bribe, it was only a small tribute to grease the wheels. These Americans are so naive about the ways of the world."

Vladimir stared down at the bloody stumps of what were Falk's fingers and said, "I tell you Boris, these Americans are not men, I pull out two or three fingernails and they bawl like a baby. A Russian would never beg for his life like this guy."

Vladimir seemed to enjoy the process so much that he often scared Boris. Boris took a step back from the growing blood pool and thought, 'The level of violence used against this poor guy was totally unnecessary. He was singing like a canary almost from the start. We knew everything about him, but his hat size within 15 minutes.'

"Boris, call our attorney to fight Dmitry's deportation order. Negotiations for this operation are at a critical stage and we can't afford to replace Dmitry. He is my primary handler for all of our sleeper agents that we are activating for those bastard Arabs."

Boris nodded in agreement. It wasn't wise to disagree with the boss Vladimir.

"Boss, do I understand right, they want to bring down the bridge in Frisco?"

"Da, Arab men are under too much scrutiny by the police. So using nondescript Americans for this project seems ideal. Dmitry has had our people scouting the targets for weeks. The difficult part will be to coordinate the west coast attack with a simultaneous assault on the Brooklyn Bridge. Unfortunately it means we will lose our people as they will unwittingly 'volunteer' to become martyrs."

Boris wanted nothing to do with becoming a martyr so he changed the subject, "You want me to finish the job?"

"Da, kill the stupid durak and put him out of his misery. Then clean up this mess and dispose of the body."

"Dump him out at sea again?"

"Nyet! Dump the body where it will be found. I want to send a very clear message, that I am to be taken seriously. The next government agent that crosses me will really suffer before he dies."

Boris strode over to the unlucky captive avoiding the puddles of blood. With a pair of massive hands he grabbed what was left of Jess Falk in a choke hold. The whites of Jess's eyes were completely red due to hemorrhaging, his nose bled due to the pressure. He gasped and his eyes got wide... wide with fear and small ragged gasps escaped his throat. Boris could sense him drifting away to a peaceful place. Then the hapless victim, committed the ultimate indignity, he pissed and shitted himself. As Vlad watched with a grin, that even Boris could only describe as evil, Boris finally applied sufficient force to break the hyoid bone of his neck.

Boris thought back to what Vladimir was capable of doing. Boris never wanted to get on Vlad the Impaler's wrong side. Boris knew he was not above culling the herd when the whim hit him. Vlad once had Alexei, Boris's best friend, killed when he had screwdrivers driven through both ears because Vladimir thought Alexei had eavesdropped on a private conversation.

@ @ @ @

It was lunch time at the HLS Miami office. Steve and Fred were on their way to a corner coffee shop for a quick snack when the phone rang. Fred picked it up and listened for 15 seconds. He hung up without saying a word and relayed, "Steve, the director wants to see us both immediately."

The two agents knocked on the door and anxiously awaited their summons. Finally they heard through the closed door, "Get in here!"

The twosome marched in and found Bill lost in thought as he read some report. The two started to sit in the office chairs. Bill stopped them with, "Don't bother, you won't be here that long."

Steve and Fred looked at each other dumbfounded.

Holding up the folder Bill continued, "These are police and autopsy reports. The local cops have found a mutilated body discarded in the dumpster behind the Pink Pussycat Club. The poor guy was tortured before being strangled. The Chief Medical Examiner's office found the victim had all his fingernails pulled out and suffered extensive cigarette burns to his torso. There were multiple blunt and sharp force injuries to the head, and neck. His injuries also included sever rectal tearing and internal hemorrhaging from an instrument driven up through his scrotum into his abdomen.

Preliminary results from what are left of the victim's fingers ID this guy as one of our own."

A shell shocked Steve enquired, "Another of our agents?"

"No, not this time. The guy was Jess Falk, an agent for Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE). A quick check of his active case files revealed that one of Vladimir's henchmen, a Dmitry Putin was his last interview. The locals want to pick up Dmitry for questioning. I told them to back off. Since the victim was a federal agent, this is our jurisdiction."

Steve had the nerve to say, "Boss, it seems to me that the FBI is better able to handle a murder investigation."

Bill gave Steve a stare intended to intimidate. "Listen numbnuts, this isn't about solving a murder case, it's about bringing down an entire terrorist organization. I'll not let them grab the glory for bringing down Vladimir. We'll take over the investigation. This changes everything. I want you two to go down to that bar and nose around."

Steve felt a chill go through him like he was standing on the fantail of the Titanic about to be dumped into the icy Atlantic and reflected, 'By We he means Me. Here goes another harebrained reckless plan. Who is going to die this time?'

Steve felt compelled to protest, "But boss, we might be recognized. We need to be hyper vigilant about Vladimir. Our Über-nerds, say they are convinced Vladimir has access to the latest commercial version of facial recognition. It is not 100% effective but compares favorably what we, the FBI, or ICE has available."

"Steve, you idiot. I have a plan so that won't happen. Since your plan is taking so long, I want you on the lead. You two are going undercover in disguise. Get down to wardrobe right now. They're waiting for you two."

Steve immediately smelled a rat, but the eager beaver Fred headed for the door. Steve stood his ground and asked, "Mr. Hampton, what kind of disguise do you envision?"

Bill displaying his famous supercilious smile explained, "Since this is a transvestite bar, you two are going on a girl's night out. There is only one question. What is your bra size?"

Fred froze in mid stride and squeaked out, "Oh, come on boss, two drag queens asking questions will still raise a red flag."

"That's right, that's why you won't ask anything. I want you two to just hangout. Keep your ears and eyes open and your mouths shut. If Vladimir shows up, stay away from him. Steve, you know the drill. Now you ladies have fun."

Steve's shoulders slumped as he accepted the inevitability of the dubious assignment. Five hours later, Steve and Fred, AKA 'Stephanie and Frederica' awkwardly hauled themselves from the cab in front of the Pink Pussycat Club.

Steve purred, in a very realistic facsimile of a woman's voice, "Frederica, pay the man, I left my wallet in my other purse."

Fred threw twenty dollars at the driver and slung his purse over his shoulder and said, "I want my change and a receipt."

In response, the cabbie muttered "fucking faggots," put the car in gear and drove off.

A very self-conscious Fred brushed the long blond hair out of his face and minced toward the sidewalk taking extremely small steps. He tried to pull his knee length denim skirt down to cover more of his exposed legs thus not paying attention. He tripped over the curb, and did a great imitation of Bambi on ice, arms and legs flailing everywhere.

As Steve watched in amusement, Fred landed hard on his chest.

More embarrassed than hurt, Fred laid face down on the sidewalk and thought, 'At least these personal airbags came in handy.'

Steve helped Fred to his feet, picked up his purse and held his arm to steady his partner.

Steve patted Fred's bottom patronizingly and said, "It takes time to get comfortable walking in stilettos, but you'll learn. Now giddy up girl, let's get going."

Fred gave Steve a withering stare as Steve led off and walked to the entrance.

The club façade was utterly understated, being simply a neon sign with the name 'Pink Pussycat Club' on it. The front window had professionally produced sign advertising, '17 flat screen plasma televisions. We show all sports year around: baseball, football, NASCAR, to extreme fighting.' A hand written message was scribbled under the printed advertisement, 'Over 30 TV's available nightly.'

"Damn it, Steve, how come you get the pony tail, and I have to fight with this long blonde Farrah Fawcett hair all night?"

"Shut up you idiot, remember to call me Stephanie. You got that wig because you are the natural blond.

Steve, in his gray ruffled chiffon maxi dress and black tights wore sensible slip-on ankle boots. He gaily led the way to the club entrance. He walked with a degree of panache that surprised Fred.

Steve had decided to accessorize by wearing a ton of cheap jewelry including showgirl rhinestone earrings with a full 6-inch drop. As Steve purposely strolled on the sidewalk he unabashedly announced to Fred, "I love the way these earrings brush my neck when I walk. It makes me feel so in character."

Fred was as nervous as a virgin on her honeymoon. He knew he was about to get fucked. He just wasn't sure how. Fred asked, "Why did I have to be the one in five-inch heels?"

"Those were selected for you because I elected to wear three-inch pumps. This way we are the same height and no one will stick out."

To relieve the tension, Fred mocked his friend, "Stephanie, you strut like a stripper."

Steve looked over his shoulder and glared at his associate and continued to the front door. He really worked the sway of his hips, and said in a salutary voice. "Thanks Ms. Frederica, you can really be suave and debonair when you try." Steve turned and held one final inspection of his colleague. Steve adjusted Fred's long pearl necklace so it hung between his breast forms.

Standing outside the doorway, Steve leaned into Fred and warned, "Just be careful, this bar attracts mostly the scum of the earth. They are likely to take great glee in disparaging all us Sissies."

Fred took affront at the pejorative term of Sissy, and then he glanced down between his large D cup breast forms to his pink fingernails. He sighed in resignation and continued on to his journey into never-never land.

"If we see Vladimir," Steve began, "Don't make eye contact with him. We will leave immediately. Understood?"

Fred nodded in agreement which set his prodigious boobs oscillating. He reached up and cupped them to settle things down.

"If someone gives you a really hard time, don't get mad, and none of your macho Marine bullshit. Pout, stick your lip out, stare at the floor, and cry if you're able. They will crumble I guarantee it."

In self-deprecating style and with an acid tongue, Fred sarcastically answered, "Yes mother, I promise no catfights tonight. I'll be a good girl."

Upon entering the club the agents were hit with a crescendo of the timeless classic rendition of Helen Reddy's tune, 'I Am Woman Hear Me Roar'. As trained observers, both did a quick situational assessment. It was a typical sports bar, every wall covered in plasma televisions. The only clue to the idiosyncrasy of the club was the pictorial display of famous drag queens that hung behind the main bar. The room was filled with a boisterous crowd, divided into small clusters, some talking and others watching a baseball game between Miami and Chicago. The room was clean, in a public bathroom kind of way. It contained a dozen large booths, two pool tables, a dart board and fifteen four person tables. Two of which had chess boards set up, waiting for contestants.

They closed the front door and were greeted by an employee. A 'woman' with dramatic makeup and prom hair, she wore a vinyl dominatrix outfit that was so tight Fred swore he could read the size tag on her thong panties. She introduced herself as Georgette and spoke with a sickeningly sweet southern drawl, albeit in a husky voice. But she moved without a trace of self-consciousness despite the fact she was dressed in such outlandish attire.

After they explained this was their first time…at the club, a 'girl' named Libby, with a voice as deep as a Saint Bernard and the figure of a fashion model, handed each of them a bar menu and a flyer advertising $2 beers all night. She then proceeded to usher them to their seats. With an effeminate swagger, she led the nervous newbies to the main bar area.

Steve reached out and held Fred's hand to assist him in the 200-foot stroll across the room. Midway through their promenade, Steve put his arm around Fred's waist, pulled him in close and spoke above Shania Twain's recording of 'I Feel like a Woman.' "Fred, you need to relax. Camp it up, exaggerate everything and keep your chest out. Flaunt your sexuality. Now, most important of all, you've got to smile, big and bright and act friendly!"

Upon reaching the bar area, the new arrivals were immediately surrounded by a group of drunk patrons. The leader spoke up first, "Ladies, you look familiar, haven't we met before?"

Steve took control and responded, "Yes, I think you're right. You do look familiar; we both work as receptionists at the local VD clinic. That must be where we have seen you and your friends."

Most of the guys took the hint and proceeded to slink away, but the leader persisted. Ignoring Steve, he cut Fred out of the crowd with the skill of a sheep dog, "Hey cutie, how 'bout you and I get out of here and go someplace private?"

Fred was appalled at the guy's audacity and lame pickup line. Fred took a step forward and invaded the man's private space. He looked him up and down and responded in a confident manner, "Sorry mate, I make it a rule not to date outside my species."

Some guys just won't take a hint though. "Don't be like that, baby. What do I have to give you, to get a kiss?"

"Chloroform is the only that comes to mind. Now buzz off."

Steve watched in amused silence and thought he might have underestimated his partner. He grabbed 'her' hand and the two struggled to perch atop the closest bar stools.

Steve ordered for both agents, "Two cosmopolitans please, and don't skimp on the vodka."

The bartender was someone who introduced herself as Donna. In a parody of a drag queen, he/she wore bright red sissy colored lipstick with garish blue eye shadow outlined in heavy black eyeliner. Worst of all, he followed the creed 'more is better,' eschewing the fundamental rule in applying makeup. He seemed to have put his makeup on with a trowel, his beard showed despite a foundation layer that was so thick it had fissures in it. He dressed, in the most outlandish fashion and came across somewhere between pathetic and whimsical. He had stuffed his bra with two overinflated water balloons. He wore a hip hugging red mini-dress and a diaphanous lace blouse, fishnet stockings and 4-inch stilettos. He walked and stood with his legs wide open and knees bent like he had just dismounted a steed.

Like most bartenders, Donna was a great conversationalist. When Steve tried to steer the conversation to the body found in the alley, all he got was, "I know nothin' about nothin'." He/she freely gossiped about everything including how he got into this predicament. He willingly told the new girls his story. In his past life, he was a tenured college English professor. Because of a brief liaison with a student, he was forced by his wife to quit that job, and is now serving out a 6- month sentence as a waitress, bartender, and cleaning lady for the club.

While Steve was momentarily distracted, Fred fended off another Romeo. "Come on Sweetheart, help me out. My penis just died and I would love to bury it in your ass."

Fred retorted with, "Sorry I'm not your type, I'm not inflatable."

Steve laughed at that one. Now convinced that Fred was capable of taking care of himself, he turned his full attention to Donna, assured he was someone who was worth cultivating as a source. For the remainder of the night, Steve went out of his way to cozy up to Donna.

Steve found out that Donnas' wife demanded that he live and work at the club as punishment for cheating on her with a student. His wife insinuated this was the only way he had of 'maybe' saving their marriage. She insisted he never try to appear as a woman, rather he was required to go out of his way to humiliate himself. Steve marveled at the openness of this man.

Caught up in Donnas' story, Steve almost missed the auburn haired beauty that sat next to him. She was a little tall for a woman, with legs that didn't quit. Her long legs were encased in black nylon, with seams in the back that seemed to invite the looker to follow them up, to the mysteries hidden by the dress. Her body was incredibly curvaceous; she wore a gold lamé sheath dress with a beaded keyhole collar that hugged her body like a wet coat of paint. She crossed her long legs, showing off her feet that were covered by 5" heels that came to a point at the toe.

Her breasts were huge and out of proportion to her body. To Steve, this was a first clue that it wasn't all natural. She took a deep breath, her chest expanded enticingly and held out a hand and said, "Hi, My name's Trixie."

"An aroused Steve daintily shook hands with this striking individual and introduced himself as Steffi. Then asked, "May I buy you a drink?"

She looked up at him batted her eyelashes and smiled, "Thank you, it is refreshing to find a gentleman these days.

Staring into her face, Steve found dark almond shaped eyes exotically attractive. He was getting lost in those lovely pools of brown chocolate. His heart was racing; Steve had to force himself to look away. Despite her beauty, Steve discerned a subtle but noticeable sharpness to her facial features, and just the hint of a widow's peak showing at her hairline. She was attractive but he thought that perhaps she wasn't quite what she seemed. Being a trained professional, Steve came to the realization he was dealing with a transsexual.

Using his peripheral vision, Steve detected a guy staring at them from across the room. He was a big guy wearing a short sleeved purple dress shirt, white Dockers and sporting lots of gold on his hands and neck. He had a weightlifter's frame and Popeye arms. He took a slow sip of his drink and smiled at Steve over the rim of his glass.

Steve speculated that he'd stumbled upon a tranny escort. This mountain of a man was probably her pimp. Steve returned his attention to this beautiful creature and thought, 'It's a pity she's a hooker…Damn now I'm really pissed I forgot my wallet. I wonder what she charges.'

Steve glanced back at the pimp and thought that this was a place he really didn't want to go. So he pointed to a pool game just breaking up and said, "Sorry Trixie, but it's my game next."

Steve got up to leave. "See you around," Steve said and lifted his glass in salute.

"Going so soon?" she asked as she fluttered her sexy long false lashes at Steve.

"Afraid so Trixie," Steve replied and gulped down the last of his drink in one swallow. "Maybe another time."

"Don't wait too long Steffi. I have an expiration date. I turn back into a pumpkin at midnight."

As Steve walked to the pool table, he wondered about her. She was the first transsexual he'd ever met, that he knew of. He'd certainly never expected to find one so pretty and convincing and thought it was a pity she was a pro. The more he thought about her, the more he was fascinated by her. Fingering his wedding ring, he mentally slapped himself for losing focus.

Sure there must be lots of transsexuals who work as waitresses, hairdressers, receptionists, and many other occupations, whom we may meet unknowingly every day, without questioning whether they might have once been male in their past. Trixie didn't quite completely pass as a woman but perhaps she wasn't intended to.

Steve coyly threw his game of pool to a rank amateur as he intentionally scratched the first opportunity he got. Steffi congratulated the winner with a kiss on the cheek, and sashayed his way back to Fred, just in time to hear another moron embarrass himself by saying, "Hey cupcake, you want to know how you make a fairy moan? You tinker his bell."

At that point the PA system blared Lady Gaga's hit tune, 'Born this way'. The upbeat music rang through the bar like a giant bell through the halls of a church, you could feel the music.

The entire club responded as one, everyone stood and sang.

"Don't be a drag, just be a queen. Whether you're broke or evergreen.
You're black, white, beige, chola descent.
You're Lebanese, you're orient.
Whether life's disabilities left you outcast, bullied or teased.
Rejoice and love yourself today 'Cause baby, you were born this way.
No matter gay, straight or bi Lesbian, transgendered life I'm on the right track, baby I was born to survive.
No matter black, white or beige or orient made I'm on the right track, baby I was born to be brave.
I'm beautiful in my way 'Cause God makes no mistakes I'm on the right track, baby I was born this way."

Steve, caught up in the moment, found himself standing, swaying and clapping to the music. As the tune ended, Steve pushed the guy standing next to him aside and again wiggled his ass up to the bar stool, crossed his legs and observed. Both girls sat, smiled and drank way too much. Over the course of the night, they managed to consume three bottles of Chablis, a half dozen glasses of Champagne, and four mixed drinks while they became acquainted with most of the other patrons and staff. Steve noted for his report that the staff was a most eclectic mix. Some of the 'girls' appeared to be tranny-whores. While the majority of employees were transvestites living out their dreams, dressing to 'pass,' there were a minority that seemed to be full-fledged transsexuals.

The patrons, like most neighborhood sports bars, were mostly guys and what appeared to be a few authentic females sprinkled in among the obvious transvestites. In Steve's opinion, most of the men were masquerading as macho homophobic straight family men when in reality they were probably misogynistic closeted gays.

Fred was impressed that the girls tried to look out for each other. One waitress, named Candy, stood out to Fred. She was a real peach, possessed of the sweetest Texas drawl. It was Howdy Y'alls all over the place. She was especially helpful. One customer was really harassing Fred and tried to wrestle him off his stool. Candy snuck up behind the jerk and stuck her tongue in his ear, then started sucking on his earlobe. The bastard never had a chance. Candy just took charge of the situation. She had him eating out of her hand, as she led him into a backroom.

About two hours into their visit, Fred made a major concession and admitted he had to use the powder room, inviting Stephanie along for support. After he did his business, Fred stood and wiped. He didn't want his boy bits to show so he tucked his junk. He pulled up his vintage Lycra panties to hold everything in place and ensure he had a good feminine front. Meanwhile, Steffi was at the mirror and ran a brush through his hair one last time. Then he selected a tiny bottle from his purse. He strategically applied a dab behind each ear, and then offered the bottle to Fred, who adamantly declined. Steve then helped Fred touch up his lipstick. Then arm-in-arm, the duo headed back to their observation posts.

Stephanie and Frederica spent an eventful evening drinking, socializing and observing the club. Steve was amused at how Fred seemed to be a natural flirt and unconsciously spent the night flipping his hair and playing with his large hoop earrings. The men were drawn to Fred like flies to shit, and every one of them kept adding to the pile of manure in an attempt to impress the flirtatious Fred with their witty repartee and pathetic pickup lines.

At closing time, Steve and Fred headed for the door. Steve put his hand in the middle of Fred's back and guided him to the exit. At the door, the agents ran into a logjam of customers. Everyone was crushed together. Some jerk took the opportunity to grab Fred by his ass and said "Baby, you got yourself a beautifully, bodacious, bubble butt there. But your booty would look a lot better bouncing on the end of my prick."

Fred spun around and was surprised that his instinct was to slap this asshole, rather than punch him. Luckily, Steve was right there and held Fred's wrist in an iron grip. He whispered, "Frederica, take a deep breath and let it go. We don't want to start anything." To shield his girlfriend, Steve stepped between the two. Then as he turned to leave, Steffi 'accidently' stepped on the instep of the asshole with the spike of his high heeled boot.

As the guy yelped and hopped around on one foot. Steffi sweetly said, "Sorry baby, my bad."

Buoyed by the confidence only alcohol can bring, Steve was feeling a little frisky and decided to have a little fun at his partner's expense. His hand casually rested south of the middle of Fred's back, Steffi maneuvered Frederica through the crowd to their waiting cab. Once ensconced in the seclusion of the backseat, an inebriated Steve became quite the cuddle kitten and snuggled up to an uncomfortable Fred the whole way home.

@ @ @ @

The next morning Fred arrived dressed in his usual dark suit, starched white shirt and expensive tie. He was rubbing his left ear and limped in, his toes still suffered from an evening in 5-inch stilettos. "God damn it, Steve. That was bullshit last night. Why did I have to get my ears pierced, for just one night?"

Steve sat at his desk, his fingers steepled under his chin and smirked at his partner. "Fred, stop the whining, you sound like a petulant child. We were trying to sell our cover. The holes will close up again in a few days. No self-respecting TV wears clip-on earrings. By the way, for someone who claims to be a transvestite neophyte, you did amazingly well. You were simply a-w-e-s-o-m-e."

An indignant Fred gave Steve a stare that would drill through concrete. "Thanks for the compliment, but yesterday was the longest day of my life. We spent over three hours getting dressed and an additional four hours parading around like two tricked out whores and never got a single clue.

"It took me hours to get all the makeup off last night and forever to get that waist cincher off. My God with all of its straps, panels, hooks, zippers and ties, it must be a leftover from the Spanish Inquisition. Why did you double knot it in back?"

Steve ignored Fred's yammering.

"All that effort, and we didn't hear a single thing about the murder or a dead body. How is that going to help?"

"Fred, no information, is still information. Think about it, a body is found feet away from where you work and not one waitress, or patron said a single word. Just fill in your report and let the Intel guys do their thing."

Fred still suffered from the indignity of his first undercover assignment. With an ashen pall on his face, he glared at Steve, looked around to make sure no one could overhear him and said, "All right, but when you walked me to my door, what the hell was that goodnight kiss for?"

"Sorry, sweetie, you were just so cute and after 6 or 7 drinks I couldn't help myself."

"Damn you, my neighbor saw two women necking at my doorstep and called my girlfriend. Lucy has left me 10 messages already."

"Hey, don't blame me you are the one who reached up and grabbed me by my head in a moment of passion."

"Fuck you Steve, I already told you. You caught me off guard. In those stilts I stumbled, and just instinctively seized your head to keep from falling. Let me warn you. You try that again and the next Sunday, you will be singing soprano in the church choir. What am I going to say to Lucy? I can't tell her why we were in drag. Even if I can come up with some reasonable explanation for the dress, there is no justification for the kiss."

"I don't know. Be creative. Skip the whole drag thing. Make her jealous; tell her you had a little three-way action last night."

"Yeah, that's brilliant, since I told her we were working together last night. What will you say to your wife when Lucy calls Phyllis?"

Steve smiled because he knew exactly what Phyllis would say. Contrary to the rules he had shown her a dozen pictures from his cell phone.

"Calm down, just finish your statement. Don't forget to file your expense report."

"All right Steve, I'll get right on it. Good buddy, rest assured, I'll get you for that lame line. 'I left my wallet in my other purse trick.' You bastard, I had to pay for the whole night. How do I explain the undercover expenses to accounting, since I paid in cash I didn't get any receipts? You spent nothing while I spent over $70."

"Cool it, if that hot to trot lezzy hadn't paid our last bar bill. It would've been a lot more. That says a lot about the success of your disguise. Butt ugly gals pay their own way. You were so sexy and inviting, you had admirers fighting over you all night. If you would have taken a few of those offers from the tranny chasers the entire night would have been free."

"Just list everything as 'Incidentals.' I'll submit a supporting statement, with your expense report."

Steve smiled and patted his coat pocket to ensure the $200, he had been issued from the discretionary fund was still there. Maybe someday he'd tell Fred about it, but for now it was time to shop. A return trip back to the club was warranted to work on Donna and he needed a new outfit. If he was really lucky maybe Trixie will be there again. Steve daydreamed; 'I bet I could pump her…for information.'

"By the way Frederica, with your constant flirting, you attracted a lot more attention than I thought was appropriate. I told you to be friendly not to troll for a boyfriend. We might have overdone things with your feminization."

"Do you think? Hell Steve, I had no idea how much ass grabbing, pinching, and propositioning there would be. By the way, my butt is black and blue from being pinched and groped. I had at least 10 guys and two women; at least I think they were women, proposition me and ask for my phone number. One guy offered to pay me $100 for a pole dance and he promised to provide the pole. That was Eww, disgusting, like I would touch his filthy rod! Those pickup lines, I never realized how cheesy they are. Last night was a real eye opener for me."

At that moment, Bill stuck his head in the door, and asked, "Well boys how was your night at the fruit stand?"

In unison both agents answered, "Not as bad as I imagined."

"Finish your written reports and come debrief me personally."

@ @ @ @