Episode Eleven: Nightlife

‘We have to get you in there.’ Rohelio told Don.

‘Are you sure? I can’t exactly go in there under cover. Not unless their walls are painted sunburnt pink.’ Don replied.

‘Well, do you want to us to raid it?’ Rohelio nodded to the two other police cars, filled with local cops eager to get involved.

‘No. No. It would defeat the purpose. If I can’t get in, we need the blue teeth to come out...’ Don mused, before turning to Rohelio with a manic smile. ‘We need to open a window.’

‘Why? We didn’t bring any dogs with us.’ Rohelio pointed out.

‘No. They are in the ballroom. We are outside. The walls are too thick so the blue teeth can’t escape. But if we open a window and I stand beneath it, the blue teeth can escape and my phone can catch them.’ Don explained, wide eyed at his own cleverness.

‘Mister Don, that is genius!’ Rohelio exclaimed, realising what Don was clumsily suggesting. ‘But how are we going to do that?’

Don had the answer. ‘Call Roberta.’

One phone call later, Don snuck off, phone in hand, earpods in place, and headed as quickly, and as inconspicuously, as he could for the Heritage Hotel.

As inconspicuous as a tall, wiry white man carrying an expensive mobile phone and a set of earpods possibly could be in a city mostly considered to be off the tourist trail.

He stood in the shade at the Bonifacio Street side of the hotel, close to an aircon unit, but away from their power transformer to avoid interference. He checked his Bluetooth on his phone. Lots of devices. No sign of the pendant or earrings.

‘Come on! Come on!’ he encouraged his own plan. ‘This has to work.’

A passer-by holding a large pink umbrella to shield her from the sun heard his urgent mutterings. ‘You should go to Cellworks. They will fix your phone for you.’ she helpfully told Don.

‘Salamat!’ he thanked her half-heartedly. Mostly so she would go away.

Verity was now being ushered inside. She scanned the ballroom. The seats at the tables were already filling up with Filipinas whose clothes were skimpier than their culture would normally allow, even on the beach, some of them looking distinctly uncomfortable and fiddling with short skirts and tops to avoid showing too much flesh.

Good, she thought. I'm not the only one.

Scattered around the room were some men, absolutely as gay as they could be, wearing too-tight bright tops to show off their build, trousers that clung closely to their legs, or skimpy shorts, and no socks with their overly-expensive shoes.

It was like the weirdest family party ever.

‘Don, I’m in.’ she whispered surreptitiously.

No reply. No wisecrack. No snarky comment.

‘Don, are you there?’

Silence.

Verity’s heart sank like a stone.

She was alone. Really, really alone.

Alone in the belly of the beast.

Unperceived by anyone – least of all Shiloh Stalker Valdez, who was in a hotel room gargling honey water and checking their make-up – a hotel worker snuck around the left side of the ballroom. No-one saw what he did. Anyway, it would have seemed so ordinary.

Except it wasn’t. Not in an air conditioned room.

He made his way to a window, away from the power transformer, facing onto Bonifacio Street.

There, while no-one was watching, not one single person, he opened the window. Just a little. But enough.

Don’s phone pinged.

‘Ya beauty!’ he exclaimed, startling a nearby old lady with shopping bags and causing a sleeping infant in her mother’s arms to awaken and cry, much to the mother's annoyance.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to this year’s Miss World pageant live from the Heritage Hotel in Ormoc City. We could hold a swimsuit round, but if we did then our contestants would have to put on more clothes.’ Don quipped into his earpod.

Verity chuckled. A few nervous participants turned round and stared at her. Her face was suddenly serious and concentrated. They turned away to focus on their own nerves

‘Don’t make me laugh. This is serious.’ she whispered sharply.

‘Oh, I made you laugh, did I? Got to remember how I did that.’ Don joked. ‘Touch your pendant if you’re okay.’

Don heard a rustling sound, as she ran her fingers over the pendant.

‘Okay, if you get into difficulty and can’t get out, do that. Back-up is available now. They’re just outside Lorenzo’s. They can be here in a few minutes. Okay? Stay strong, hen. You can do this.’ he persuaded her. ‘I’ll turn up the microphone range and start recording and broadcasting now.’

He poked around on his phone. Within seconds, he had patched Rohelio in, who was listening too.

‘Receiving loud and clear.’ Rohelio confirmed.

‘It’s game time!’ Don grinned manically.

Carefully ensconced in a top floor suite in the Carlosta Hotel, two male Filipino-American (Fil-Am for short) CIA agents sat on chairs, eating chips from two huge bags and staring intently at large, curved UHD computer monitors. One held a joystick in his firm, assured grip, remotely controlling a drone, while the other watched the images it produced with deep concentration.

‘You see anything?’ the drone pilot asked through a mouthful of half-ruminated paprika flavoured potato.

‘Nah, man. It got way less interesting after those chicks went into the hotel.’ his analyst friend told him. ‘I mean, there was that black SUV. It was really shifting.’

The pilot shook his head with bored disinterest. ‘That’ll be the Mayor. She’s always in a hurry. Keep watching. They have to be somewhere.’

The black SUV drew to a steady halt outside Residencia Abad, pulled through the security gates without a hitch and soon passed through the spacious grounds to the house on the hill at the centre.

Joy Abad’s uniformed chauffeur got out of her seat, opened her door and made her way round to her mistress’ door, which she opened as usual.

Only this time, Joy told her, ‘Wait nalang, palihug.’ And then she closed the door.

She turned around to the passengers behind her. ‘Okay, ladies, that was a whole lot of fun, but before we go any further, can one of you please explain to me what is going on?’

The nameless assistant – Maja Estrella Hernandez – picked up her tablet and rose from her seat. The crowd noticed her immediately. The incessant feverously nervous chatter fell silent.

‘Hope you’re getting this, Don.’ Verity whispered.

‘I will if you shut up.’ Don replied.

‘Charming!’ she retorted.

One of the hotel staff gave Maja a microphone. She tapped on it to check it was working and then began her speech. ‘Congratulations to one and all on reaching the second stage in our recruitment.’

The audience burst out in spontaneous, nervous, and over-enthusiastic applause.

Which quickly fell silent as soon as Maja raised her hand.

She continued. ‘Allow me to tell you what will happen next. Some of you will be offered a position with Pink Boy Media.’

The audience gasped in amazement and excitedly applauded once more.

Maja silenced them again.

‘Your positions will be well paid – better than you can imagine. We have multiple locations in the Philippines: Makati, Quezon, Boracay, Puerto Princesa, El Nido, Surigao and Siargao. We had one in Cebu, in Mambaling, but unfortunately it ran into permit issues...’

‘Yeah, like we did not permit them to keep existing.’ Rohelio chuckled wryly.

‘I consulted on that raid. It was textbook. Twenty women rescued.’ Don commented.

‘...but we are hoping to open another really soon.’ Maja stated.

‘Over my dead body.’ Don snapped.

Maja’s announcement was, naturally, met with over-excited applause and whooping and hollering.

‘Do these people have any understanding of what they are applauding?’ Rohelio asked rhetorically.

‘Hope. Even if it’s the devil himself offering it.’ Don remarked.

Maja continued her introductory speech. ‘Today, some of you will be chosen by our glorious leader to work in our entertainment complexes across the world. Some of you will be offered positions here in the Philippines. Some of you may not make it any further. We will ask you to come forward table by table. You should head to the back of the ballroom, parade up the catwalk and then take your positions in front of us. Our glorious leader will then choose you for either domestic or international. Should you be selected for international positions, you will be also presented to our partners tomorrow, who may have further positions available to you. So without further ado, let me present our founder and glorious leader, Ma’am Shiloh Stalker Valdez!’

Shiloh made their grand entrance in a bright pink, ankle-length ball gown, slit so high that it verged on indecent, a fuchsia fur stole and a pair of neon kitten heels, their pink wig held in place by a pink and sparkly tiara. They were accompanied by loud, rhythmic dance music. They strutted down the catwalk like a peacock, stopping every so often to blow kisses and run their hand under the chin of gay men on either side. All the way, the audience whooped, hollered, applauded, yelled their name and did their best to attract Shiloh’s attention with their exaggerated devotion.

‘Man, it’s like a queer North Korea in here.’ Verity whispered.

‘You sure? Just sounds like an average night out in Brighton.’ Don quipped.

'And how would you know?' Verity snapped back under her breath.

'I hear things.' Don retorted.

Shiloh reached the end of the catwalk, turned around to face the crowd, waved, and sat down so abruptly in the throne that they successfully flashed everyone in the room.

‘And that is how you do it.’ they smiled smugly, through artificially plumped and over made-up lips.

They motioned. The crowd and the music immediately fell silent. Their sovereign was about to speak. ‘This day can be the first day of the rest of your lives. Today your fate could be completely and utterly changed. I can’t promise you that you will become rich and meet lots of famous people – except me, of course. That I can promise absolutely.’

The whole room laughed, as if on command. And stopped laughing, just as abruptly. Even if it wasn't at all funny.

Shiloh continued. ‘But what I can promise some of you is that your lives will never be the same again. They say Ormoc is the City of Beautiful People. It has to be. I’m from here. But let’s see what else this city has to offer.’

Shiloh made a regal, grandiose and completely exaggerated gesture with their right hand. Maja took the entirely unsubtle hint. ‘Table One, it’s time for your procession.’ she announced.

Joy turned away from her guests and stared aimlessly out of the windscreen. She bit her lip to stop herself from crying, tried hard to compose herself and turned to face them again. ‘So, what you are telling me is that a major international people trafficking ring is holding an event right now, in our beautiful city, to exploit poor, needy women and sell them for profit like slaves?’

Roberta nodded. ‘Yes, Ma’am.’

‘In one of our most famous hotels?’

Roberta and Charlotte both nodded.

‘Right under our noses? And I have allowed it?’

‘Ma’am Joy, there is no way you could have known. This... person... is a social media personality and queer rights activist who is outrageously popular and is careful to project a clean image. But yes, they are involved in people trafficking.’ Roberta told her gently.

Joy was enraged. ‘This cannot be allowed to happen. Not in my city. Not anywhere.’ she snapped. ‘It must be stopped. I have to stop it.’

‘Ma’am, we have the finest police personnel on duty right now, gathering intelligence at the event. If we stop it now, we could jeopardise a police operation that could destroy their network for good.’ Roberta tried to explain.

Joy looked far from convinced. ‘I have to do something. I can’t just sit here.’

It was then that Charlotte suddenly had a truly inspired thought. ‘Ma’am Joy, excuse me. I’m not really from round here at all. But tomorrow’s a big day in Ormoc, right? The Piña Festival?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’ Joy confirmed.

Charlotte continued. ‘And I'm sure that you will be holding a civic reception.’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘Here or in the City Hall?’

‘Lunch here for the most special guests; snacks later at City Hall before the Parade of Lights.’ Joy told her, not quite knowing where she was going with this.

Charlotte smiled. ‘What if you had room for a few extra guests?’

Table One got out of their seats as if struck by lightning, eager to show off what they had, and made their way to the back of the ballroom. And then, as thumping dance music began to give everyone present a dose of tinnitus, they swayed, sashayed and strutted to the front of the ballroom, playing the audience as if it was their own, encouraging whoops and hollers and cat-calls and wolf-whistles.

They each took their places, an even distance apart, on the red carpet in front of Shiloh. The music stopped abruptly. Shiloh slipped off their throne onto their kitten heels, stood erect and strutted to the left hand side of the line-up.

They reached the first candidate: a young, slim woman who had not finished school and was desperate for her first paying job.

Shiloh eyed her up as if she was a steak in a steakhouse and pronounced his verdict. ‘Hmm. No totoy. No lobot. This one could play “Hide and Seek” behind a lamp-post. Looks? I’d say five out of ten. Maybe six with make-up.’

‘But I have great personality.’ she argued.

‘This is a visual industry, honey. Men don’t bed women for their personality. Anyone who says otherwise is a liar. Sorry, you’re out.’ Shiloh told her callously. One of their employees tapped her on the shoulders. She acquiesced, turned around, and was led, in a fit of tears, towards the ballroom exit.

‘Woah! That’s harsh!’ Verity whispered.

‘There’s no such thing as a woman for men like him.’ Don told her. ‘All he sees are dollar bills.’

Shiloh looked at the next woman. She was the opposite: a larger woman in height and girth. They sashayed over to her, singing softly, ‘I like them big, I like them plumpy, I like them big, I like them chunky...’

The woman smiled. This was looking promising.

‘Well, you have it going on in all sorts of directions, huh?’ Shiloh told her. ‘I mean, wow! Freddie Mercury liked fat bottomed girls. You could have been his muse. In fact, you could have mused the whole band, because there would be enough of you to go around. But it is a little unfair. I mean, if you could have shared some of you with that other woman, who resembled a stick, then maybe I could have accepted both of you. As it is, I cannot pay for reinforced beds and extra seats on planes. I’m all for diversity, but you are way too diverse, girl. Lay off the rice and come back to me in five years, and then we’ll talk.’

‘But Freddie Mercury!’ she pleaded.

‘Freddie Mercury was gay. Do you know what made him gay? Probably doing his thang with fat bottomed girls! Sorry, girl. You are out – all of you.’ they fired back.

She too was led out of the ballroom in fits of tears, yelling angry invective towards Shiloh.

Unflinching at the insults, Shiloh told the other candidates, ‘I guess some people just can’t take it. She needs to have thick skin. Everything else is thick so her skin should be too. Anyway, on to our next beautiful person.’

In front of them was a woman in her early twenties who stood out like a cosplayer at a funeral because, unlike everyone else in that ballroom, she was not dressed up to her nines in either minimal or over the top (or both) clothing. She was demurely dressed in sensible shoes, a knee-length skirt, a black camisole top and a pastel yellow cardigan. Her hair was tied back neatly. Her make-up was very minimal.

Shiloh cast their beady eyes over her. ‘Hmm. Interesting tactic. Nice figure concealed with office chic. Tell me: what made you dress like this?’ he asked her, shoving an unforgiving microphone in her direction.

With great nerves, she told them, ‘I cannot afford to dress any other way. This is the best I have.’

Shiloh pointed the microphone back at their own mouth. ‘The Widow’s Mite approach? Well, this is a temple and I am your god, but I ain’t no Jesus. I am, however, going to let you show me what you have. Literally. I want you to strip for me, and all these lovely people here.’

Fear spread through the woman’s face like wildfire. ‘You want me to... take off my clothes? All of them?’ she stammered.

‘Yes. All of them. I want you to show me some skin, honey.’ They then turned away from the terrified woman and called out, ‘Alexa, play my stripper jam.’

A soulless female-sounding voice echoed throughout the ballroom. ‘Playing your stripper jam now, your highness.’

Within a second, the one-handed, heavy drumbeat and distinctive guitar lick of Def Leppard’s ‘Pour Some Sugar On Me’ boomed out over the sound system. The other candidates stood on their feet, clapped their hands and punched the air along with the beat, and egged her on to remove her clothes.

‘Go on! Do it!’ Shiloh commanded her.

‘I don’t like this. We have to stop it.’ Verity spoke into her locket microphone, above the din.

‘What? And lose all this intelligence?’ Don replied.

The woman was slowly unbuttoning her cardigan, tearfully, and deeply shame-facedly. There was no rhythm, no smoothness of movement.

Just absolute terror.

‘Surely we have female liaisons nearby.’ Verity enquired.

‘We do, but one of them is sobbing in the hotel toilet, contemplating her life choices.’ Don told her.

‘This is just awful.’ Verity gulped.

‘Hold the line, soldier. Do not advance.’ Don ordered her.

While the audience whooped and hollered their encouragement, and the music pounded out like the drums of some primitive, savage tribe, the woman struggled, shaking like a leaf in a typhoon, to remove her clothing. And then, tears streaking down her face from her smashed and broken spirit, she stood there, buck naked as the day she was born, shivering from deep, deep shame and air conditioned cold.

And the audience cheered raucously.

Shiloh slit their hand across their throat. The music was cut. The baying wolves in the audience fell silent.

Shiloh’s heels clipped on the wooden floor as they sashayed around their poor, weeping victim, who sniffed back tears and stood there, robbed of every ounce of dignity. Shiloh eyed their victim up and down. ‘All natural. Good. No signs of plastic surgery or visible scars. No tattoos. Should be popular with pervs who like that sort of boring, plain-Jane shtick. But hold on, what are these?’

Shiloh poked the poor woman’s breasts harshly with their expensively moisturised and manicured index fingers. She yelped with pain. ‘Saggy. No bounce. Like two fried eggs. And it is quite cold in here. Even mine are standing to attention and they’re mostly silicone. I think something has been feeding on these. Maybe an infant or two.’

‘Yes, I have children.’ the woman snapped angrily. ‘I am not ashamed of it.’

‘Darling, if you want to get into this industry, you need to bottle-feed the little critters. Breast feeding might be good for them, but it’s bad for the pervs who watch you. Anyway, no family ties! I was very specific about that. Fire the agent who took her details!’

‘I lied.’ the naked woman sobbed.

‘Dishonesty? A truly admirable quality. But why?’ Shiloh asked her.

‘Because my children are poor. They cannot attend school because I am too ashamed. I need the money. We need the money.’ she sniffed.

Shiloh scoffed. ‘You expect me to pay for that? Look: cis men only like the plain-Jane act if the woman is a whore in the bedroom. You were halfway there. You were a “who”?’

A frightened chuckle broke out in the room, but was suppressed by equally terrified glares.

Shiloh continued. ‘I cannot sell you. Not to anyone. Go home, get a good phone and sell yourself on a webcam site. Better still, include the kids in the act. The pervs love that.’

She stood there, paralysed with fear.

Shiloh was not one for wasting time. ‘On you go! Go!’ They dismissed her with a flick of their limp wrist.

She grabbed her clothes and shoes and fled the scene, naked and in deep, deep distress.

The whole audience gaped open-mouthed in terror and shock at what they had just seen. The ballroom was silent – painfully so.

Outside the ballroom, a female police officer, ordered by Rohelio, ran from the hotel washroom to the lobby and caught the naked woman as she fled, holding her tightly in a deeply concerned embrace. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.’ The officer wept with her. ‘He’s gonna pay dearly for this. We’ll make sure of it. Let’s get you dressed.’

Shiloh knew they had to do something. They clacked their way through the silence to the middle of the red carpet in front of the crowd. ‘Maybe you think I am heartless.’ They began. ‘Maybe you wonder how I could do something like that. Let me tell you, I did that woman...’ they turned to their assistant, whose name they always forgot, and said in an aside, ‘What was her name?’

Maja read stoically from her tablet, pushing down again the awful treatment Shiloh had inflicted on another human being. ‘Reyna Ocampo.’ she told him in a dull, controlled monotone.

Shiloh continued. ‘I did Reyna Ocampo a huge favour. This industry is heartless. This industry is soulless. This industry is ruthless. You sell yourself every which way you possibly can, give everything you have and more, just to please and make money from some pathetically lonely marks for whom you are their ultimate fantasy. You think you will live a life dominated by riches and fame, but do you know what? Do you know what? You will spend a small fortune on producing more product and more product and more product. And then on medical tests to keep you safe, and security to stop the pervs from harming you, and surgical procedures to hold back the ravages of time for long enough, just long enough, to keep you in your old age. Because for this industry you are not a person. No, you are an object. An object of desire. An object that produces pleasure. But that pleasure is very short-lived, as is your shelf-life. Your admirers will treat you like a drug. They will get a buzz from you, but when that buzz wears off, they will demand more and more and more from you until you don’t know who you are or what you are doing. Some of you will self-medicate the pain, which, one day, will damage the product. Others of you will live a shallow life of no substance, pretending everything is okay, but feeling the brokenness and despair and the emptiness of this life each time you show up on camera, or hook up with another perverted mark.’

Shiloh took a breath and then continued. ‘Do you think I did wrong by her when I made her strip like that? Really? Let me tell you: the internet knows no forgiveness. You might strip here in front of tens of people and feel shame. But you do it on the internet and countless millions can see it and remember. Oh, you might think you’re doing a private show for a paying customer who respects you and your “art”. But that scumbag will likely have free software on his computer that can record every movement you make and he will sell that show, that show that you poured your heart and soul into, for his own personal gain. “So what?”, you might say? What do you think will happen when you try to leave this industry and get a “normal” job? Do you not think everywhere you go everyone will know what you did?’

The whole audience looked stunned. This was not what they had come here for. This was hardly a sales pitch. More than a few looked furtively around to see if they could find a way out.

But Shiloh wasn’t done. ‘So yes, there is money to be made: life-changing, fate-altering money. You will never be the same again. But it is not easy money. It never is. So, who is with me for a journey that will change your life?’

As soon as Shiloh said those words, half the applicants of every table got up and, in a state of barely repressed fear and alarm, bolted for the exit.

‘Look at the losers run.’ Shiloh mocked. ‘Consigning themselves to poverty and anonymity and the trashcan of life. Well, those of you who remain, shall we get back to business?’

The remaining applicants cheered loudly, as if to compensate for those who had abandoned ship.

Verity was way more apprehensive now than ever.

‘Rohelio, we need people in there, stat, in case this gets out of hand.’ Don stated, agitation plain in his voice.

‘I agree, but I think it’s gone past that already.’ Rohelio replied, signalling a few of his men to make their way towards the hotel.

In her beautifully manicured home, in her beautifully manicured subdivision a perfect distance from Makati, far from the stresses of work, but too close to the stress of a family life on the brink of collapse, Norma Jones was resting at home on her sofa, in her dressing gown, a glass of expensive imported wine in hand, watching a BBC TV show over an illegal VPN, when her phone beeped. She picked it up, read the title of an email, paused the TV show and opened it to read more.

‘Well, isn’t that nice?’ she told herself. ‘I’m being invited to a party in Ormoc City, and at the home of a movie star! Private plane too! Well, one has to make sacrifices for one’s country...’

Shiloh resumed their heartless culling of the hopes of those who had been foolish enough to apply for jobs with his media company. A gay man was thrown out for using toilet roll to boost the size of his pecs and his manhood.

A teenage woman was rejected after Shiloh started to name her acne spots after famous Filipino volcanoes.

Another was rejected for being too tall.

Another was too short.

A trans woman was rejected because ‘Imitation is only the best form of flattery when it’s good.’

Another woman, who clearly had a lot of experience in this game because she had been on the game since she was a first year student, was rejected because, ‘Men get their clothes second hand from okay-okay, but not their women.’

Soon the first table was all gone, discarded like yesterday’s trash. ‘Come on, City of Beautiful People!’ Shiloh mocked them. ‘You can do better than this!’

Table Two was next. Their catwalk parade to the front was stiff with fear, not exuberant or joyful. They looked more like animals performing on their way to the slaughterhouse than people excitedly auditioning for a new role that could 'change their life'.

And then the cull began.

A tattooed woman: ‘Darling, you are the work of art. Why did you let some lowlife scribble on you? Unless that lowlife is me, of course!’

A woman whose proportions were natural, but a little top-heavy for Shiloh: ‘Darling, we are attracting sad and lonely men, not starving infants.’

A gay man in a provocative uniform he’d stolen from a nearby police station : ‘I am not recruiting for the Village People. Go find a club and dance for horny middle-aged women!’

But then the potential started coming.

A tall, dark-haired woman who had clearly spent a borrowed fortune on long, plastic nails, an exaggerated hair-do and fake fashionable clothes: ‘You’ll do, darling, but for the Domestic market, where they think “Dolche and Gobanna” is a real Italian brand.’ they snarked.

An air stewardess next, whose refined looks were clear in her short skirt and crop top: ‘Oh, come fly with me, darling. You are definitely business class. Not first class yet, you understand. Still more Cebu Pacific than Emirates. But we can work with that. International for this one!’

The room exploded in over-enthusiastic applause.

‘See, Ormoc, you can do it!’ Shiloh encouraged them.

Next came an experienced bar girl: ‘Stick to the night job, darling. Or turn a few tricks on camera. I don’t care.’ Shiloh swatted her away.

Last, but not least, an amateur stripper, who thought nothing of starting a routine to show Shiloh what she could do. ‘Stop it right there, darling!’ they called out as she made it down to her bra and panties. ‘I’ve seen enough. International!’ he called out, much to the rabid delight of the audience.

Table Three next. Heartened by seeing a few people succeed, their strut had much more attitude.

‘Work it, but not too hard.’ Don advised Verity. ‘Remember our code, and keep control of yourself. You can do this.’ He encouraged her.

Table Three lined up at the front.

A gay waiter with an immaculate body, honed in regular visits to the gym between shifts: ‘Oh, you can serve me anytime. International!’

The crowd went wild.

A gay children’s basketball coach: ‘You are not ready for the big league, darling. Keep playing with the kids, but send me some videos of you doing it. I'd like to see you score.’

‘Urgh! That man makes me sick! He’s vile!’ Don spat in disgust.

A female shopkeeper in a local sari-sari store: ‘Sorry, darling, I ain’t buying what you are selling. You’re out.’

A local YouTuber, with over ten thousand followers for his channel: ‘Local appeal, huh? Not for this local? No like from me. You’re out!’

Verity’s pulse was racing. Her heart was thumping. She felt like the ground could swallow her up and eat her whole.

She was next.

Shiloh clacked over to her. ‘And what do we have here?’ he perved. ‘My minions were quite excited by you. I can see why. Very nice figure. Got that ‘do-able, but not been done’ thing about you. The pervs love that. You're fit, in lots of ways. British passport too. Travel will be easy. Except in Europe, thanks to Brexit, but we can fix that. Hmm... I like what I see. International. Definitely International. No doubt. But before you go, I want to do what hasn’t been done to you. I’ll be seeing you tomorrow, darling. A lot more of you, I hope.’

The audience applauded. Maja handed her a card with the details of the sale the next day.

Verity sighed a deep sigh of relief.

Her ordeal was over.

‘Well done, kid. You did it. Now get out of there!’ Don told her.

Shiloh’s belittling and demeaning of those who didn’t make his grade continued, except for a high schooler who was clearly under-age, who made the cut, much to the chagrin of the audience, disguised by plastic applause.

The three who made it returned to their table. Verity made the excuse that she needed to go to the washroom and got out of there. Fast. As fast as she could in strappy sandals.

Don sped around the corner and caught up with her.

‘You got it. Please tell me you got it.’ She bulletted.

‘Oh, I got it. And he’s going to get it, don’t you worry.’ Don snarled.

‘Good, because I think I need to vomit.’ she told him, before running to a nearby bush, out of sight of the hotel, and emptying her stomach into it.