A Kingdom For My Balls
by Doug

It was a scorcher, that was for damn sure. All the beautiful women in the world couldn’t change that fact.

Riggs wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of one sleeve as he squinted against the bright California sunlight. “Fuck me!” he hissed angrily. “Why do we always draw these shit assignments?”

“Kwitcher bitchin’, Riggs,” Roger exclaimed as he knocked at the backstage door a third time. Finally, a fat, burly guard opened the door halfway and pulled the smoldering cigar out of his mouth.

“Yeah?”

“Sgt. Murtaugh, LAPD.” Roger showed the guard his badge, then thrust a thumb in Martin’s direction. “This is my partner, Sgt. Riggs.”

“Yeah?”

“What the fuck you mean, ‘Yeah?’, fatass?” Riggs shouldered his way past Roger and stood nose-to-nose with the guard. “Step aside.”

The guard scowled, but lumbered aside and spat on the ground as the officers strode past him.

“Stupid rent-a-cops,” Martin mumbled as they made their way to the backstage offices.

“What’s got your nuts in a bunch, Riggs? Why you wanna be so damn testy all the time?”

“Nuts… testy… cute Rog,” Martin said sassily. “I’m just fuckin’ sick and tired of Murphy passing us these shitass assignments.”

“Well, the next time you want to go and do something jackass-stupid, THINK first!” Roger stopped in front of the door marked ‘STAGE MANAGER’ and lifted his fist to knock. He looked sideways at his partner. “Now smile, dammit! And try and remember why we’re here.”

“To serve and protect…”

“That’s right, serve and protect. Not blow up and kill, okay?”

“Okay,” Riggs pasted on a fake smile and did a quick side-shuffle. “Ta- da, see… I’m smiling.”

“Good,” Roger answered as he knocked. “Keep it that way.”

“Come.” The female voice on the other side of the door barked out the command.

Martin and Roger exchanged a weary glance as Roger turned the knob.

“Hurry up and close the door,” the woman ordered officiously from behind her big metal desk. “I don’t want to lose the cool.”

Riggs sighed in relief. The window air conditioner hummed loudly, pouring frigid air out into the small office. Man, oh man, was it cool!

“Who are you and what do you want?”

“I’m Sgt. Murtaugh, and this sweaty guy here is Sgt. Riggs, LAPD, ma’am. We were told you had requested a police escort for one of your actresses. A Miss…” Rog consulted his notepad, “Carlene Gray?”

“Yes,” she pointed to the chairs in the corner, “have a seat. I’ll see that the guard fetches her.” She reached over and picked up the phone, punched in the number that summoned the guard. “Bert? This is Gretta. Can you go over to dressing room 2 and escort Miss Gray to my office? Thank you.” She looked up and smiled at them as she hung up. “She’ll be right with you.”

“Why does she need a police escort? I mean, don’t you guys hire security for this shi… er, stuff?” Martin asked from the chair. “Not that I mind the wait, because this beats the beat… if you know what I mean.”

She looked at him over her wire-rimmed glasses. “Yes, I’m quite sure it does, officer.” A sharp rap on the door brought them all to their feet.

The door opened, and the most perfect set of legs that Martin had ever seen walked into the room. These legs carried the greatest torso, upon which set the most ripe set of tits that he’d seen in a long time. The long neck, which sloped up under a high pony-tail of chestnut hair, was unadorned. She turned her emerald-green eyes toward him, smiled, and he almost melted into a pool of police goo on the spot. And then she spoke.

“Aire yeh the ones ta be lookin’ after me now, lads? A foine set of protectors this city ha’ sent to me.”

“Oh shit, I’m gone,” Martin thought as he smiled and swallowed. “Hello. Are you Irish?”

“Carly,” the manager took over the moment, “this is Sgt. Murtaugh and Sgt. Riggs…”

“Martin,” Riggs sputtered, “oh… and um, Roger… heh.”

“Ahem.” The stage manager obviously hated being interrupted. “These two officers will be watching over you during rehearsals and performances, as well as on your off hours. I expect you to give them your full cooperation. Do you understand me, Carly?”

“Aye, that I do Ms. Heinschtoffer.” She turned to Martin and smiled that pixie smile once more. “Pleased ta make yer acquaintance Sgt. Myuretaw, was it?”

“M-u-r-taugh,” Roger enunciated more clearly for her benefit.

She blushed, and shook his hand. “Tis a foine old Irish name, Murtaugh.” She turned to Martin. “And it’s Martin, now is it? Moind if I call ya Marty?”

“Not a bit, ma’am.” He shook her hand and squeezed before she withdrew it.

“Well then,” Ms. Heinschtoffer said, looking purposefully at her wristwatch, “if there’s nothing else, I’m sure Miss Gray can fill you in on the particulars.” It was obvious that they were dismissed.

“This way, if ya please,” Carly said as they entered the hall and turned to the left. “I’m in dressing room two - the one w’oot tha window - due to the fact that those bastards blew out the window in dressing room one.”

“Did what?” Roger asked from behind her shoulder.

“Somebody blew out your window?”

“Damn prots!” She stopped in front of her door. “I’m Irish, a Catholic patriot, ‘strue. And someone has ought against that fact, it would seem.”

“Did you call the police?” Roger looked at Martin and rolled his eyes in reaction to Martin’s love-struck grin.

“No,” she shook her head as she unlocked the door. “Gretta tha Goon didn’t want tha bad pooblicity.”

She opened the door and stepped aside to let them enter first.

It wasn’t a bad room, as dressing rooms go. It had a small kitchenette counter, where an electric teakettle simmered, a small refrigerator, a sink, and some cupboard space for dishes. In the opposite corner was a dressmaker’s dummy which wore an elaborate costume, a hat rack, a louver-doored closet, and a full-length, oval, oak bentwood mirror.

In the middle of the room, arranged around a Persian rug which was laid directly under the ceiling-fan, was an antique chaise, and two overstuffed chairs. An ornate oval coffee table sat in the center of the group, with a matching occasional table between the chairs.

“Sit down, now, and take a load off’n yer feet” Carly said almost impatiently. “Would you gentlemen like a cup o’ tea? The water’s hot.”

“Hot tea? In the middle of a fuckin’ heat wave?” Martin thought, though he smiled politely and answered, “Tea would be just lovely, thanks.”

“None for me, ma’am,” Roger answered, shaking his head at his partner’s sudden change of mood.

“Sweet? And shall I moo in it?” Carly called over to Riggs.

“Moo in it?”

“Will you be wantin’ milk, Marty? Moo?” She looked at him playfully, then putting her hands on her hips, she scolded, “For tha love of God, don’t be tellin’ me ya’ve ne’re heard milk called ‘moo juice’.”

“Well,” he chuckled, as she handed him his cup and saucer. “I guess there’s a fierst toime fer evrathing,” he mimicked teasingly.

“Well, Marty. I hope ya have moore balls than blarney, because these bastards are a roight nasty boonch.”

Riggs choked on his tea, surprised at her straightforwardness. “Balls?”

“I’ve gone and embarrassed ya now.” She blushed, and sipped at her tea.

“No… I… it’s just…” he stammered, and looked to Roger for an assist.

“He has big balls, ma’am,” Roger smiled evilly, enjoying Martin’s discomfort. “Huge ones… bigger than any other man I know. In fact, I’m surprised he can walk…”

“Roger!” Martin’s voice fairly squeaked as he set his saucer down on the coffee table.

Riggs looked at Carly and found she was staring at him over her cup, a twinkle of mischief in her emerald eyes. “Is that so, Sgt. Murtaugh?” She turned with a stone-poker-face to Roger, and asked, “And just how often do you foind yerself eye ta eye, so ta speak, wi oother’ men’s proyvet parts?”

“Sheeee….” Roger chuckled, “you’re one straight talkin’ lady, Miss Gray.”

“I am what I am. Which, right now, means I am under yer care and keepin’,” she replied with a nod. “I’ll be tellin’ you me story now, if you’ll be listenin’.”

“Oh, please,” Martin said, lifting his cup to his lips, “do tell.”



~~~end of part one~~~