#tagged as mini skip bins

[hireskipbinadelaide-blog]

What Sizes of Skip Bins Are Available For Different Projects?

Projects that generate garbage can be of different sizes, and they can cause waste in different amounts as well. We all know that when we hire skip bins, we are in the best position to control the garbage and keep it completely managed until it is picked up. The problem is that we have no or very little idea of what is the ideal size of a skip bin for a particular project, and this confusion is covered in this post.

What Are The Features Of A Two Cubic Meter Skip Bin Hired By You?

These skip bins come without doors and are the smallest option available when you hire a skip bin in Adelaide. It can carry any waste, including soil and most waste management companies and skip bin rental companies don't charge extra for overweight skip bins. They are perfect for small projects like garbage cleaning or small backyard cleaning.

What Do We Get From 3 Cubic Metre Skip Bins?

These bins are also tagged as mini skip bins with a walk-in door available when you hire skip bins. It is ideal for projects where the transportation of heavy waste material like concrete or earth is required. You can also use a three cubic meter skip bin in a small garage or house clean-up. These skip bins will be incredibly useful even during bathroom and kitchen renovation.

4 Cubic Metres Skip Bin

This is the most used size in terms of skip bin hire solutions. Most vendors offer no weight limit, and there will be no extra charges for your extra tonnage.

How Beneficial Are 6 Cubic Metre Skip Bins?

These skip bins are the favourite of construction contractors, builders and home renovators. The reason is that most of the garbage can be accommodated easily in 6 cubic metres skip bins hired by them. These professionals have an estimate of the garbage generated from the projects that they engage in, and hence, they mostly order six cubic meter skip bins without any fear of over or underfilling.

8 Cubic Metres Skip Bins

When you hire skip bins, ensure you're hiring this one during home renovation or moving to a new house. A big garage is there to clean, or a house, in this situation, eight cubic metre marrel skip bins are ideal. They can withstand different kinds of garbage and carry heavy waste such as concrete, brick, soil and debris generated from building renovation and landscaping projects.

[travellvogue]

“Mummy! Daddy! Santa came!”- Trent Alexander-Arnold

12 Days of Christmas- Day 12:

You weren’t even shocked that the digital alarm clock at the side of your bed shone a bright, red, 5:34am into the room. When you have three kids under the age of five this was always bound to happen, it was Christmas day after all. 

Your little boy came bounding into the room, clutching his favourite toy- a bunny you’d given him the day he was born that had now, quite frankly, seen better days. His mini dressing gown tied messily around his waist and his curls sticking up in every direction. In that moment he was the epitome of cute. Skipping with excitement and climbing onto the edge of your bed, a chubby finger poked the two of you awake. Trent groans at the early rise, it was still dark outside, the fog still dancing around the grass of the garden, a stray dog toy that had been left out there now damp with the morning dew. He’d never been an early risen, ever since the two of you first met, remembering how he’d groan at you to come back to bed when you woke up at eight o’clock on a Sunday. But you could think of worse ways to wake up right now, to see your little Cairo beyond excited for Christmas made the 5am wake up worth it. 

“Hi buddy” Trent yawns, letting him sit in the bend between his groin and knees, stroking his fingers through his messy curls- just like you did to him. “Where’s ya brother?” he asks lazily, mid-yawn, admittedly it’d be great if Jackson was still in bed, at least then Trent could stay in the warmth of the covers for a little longer. 

“Mummy! Daddy! Santa came!” Trent’s question is answered by an excitable squeal from your middle child, at the age of three he hadn’t learnt that the kids would open their stockings on your bed and then head downstairs for the grand reveal of their main presents once the room was covered in small bits of wrapping paper and foil from the chocolate coins already devoured.

“He’s not meant to be down there!” you hiss at Trent who nervously holds his hands up, not wanting to take the blame for your curious toddler. 

The two of you had been up until two in the morning setting up all the presents, laying glitter around T’s feet so you could tell the kids they were Santa’s footsteps, fake snow dusted around every surface it could hold to. Even trying to hold in a giggle when Trent gagged dramatically as he took a bite of the mince pie, only the run to the bin and spit it out. ‘The things I do for these kids’ he’d mumbled under his breath, leaving the other half of the pie and the half chewed carrots on the plate by the fireplace. 

Luckily, Sophia was too young to walk yet, so there was only one kid to scoop up off the staircase. “You’ve been good all year, don’t start being naughty now mister” you tickle Jackson’s belly, his pyjama top wet around the collar from his habit of chewing it during the night. Stroking his chubby cheeks whilst carrying him back upstairs and heading into the nursery where your little girl had woken from the commotion of her brothers. Her hands desperately gripping at the sides of her cot to help her legs support her own weight. 

Watching her coo at you, bouncing her bum at the exciting sight of mummy made you wonder if having another baby would be the perfect finish to your family. They just seem to grow up so fast.

Stockings were quickly ripped open, a pile of wrapping paper rapidly amounting in the corner of your bedroom. A choir of ‘thank you mumma, thank you dadda’ from your two boys, their wide smiles warming your heart as they compare colouring books, sparkly pens, and toy trains. Soph was still too young to understand what was going on, but despite that she was still having fun sitting on Trent’s lap ripping at the leftover wrapping paper whilst he tried to explain the pair of tiny bunny slippers he’d opened for her.

Still, she doesn’t grasp the idea of unwrapping her presents, even when you’re downstairs and Trent tries to tempt her to peel a corner off the box for her toy pram for her dolls. Instead a loud giggle or a blubbered ‘dadda’ does the job instead. Cairo and Jackson, were quick to help her with the unwrapping whilst she watched on, completely bewildered by the concept. Luckily the boys had a far more animated response, screaming the house down when they noticed Rudolph had enjoyed the carrots they left out… if only they knew. 

It’s safe to say the wooden train track was by far the boy’s favourite gift, a track set up across the floor of the living room, snacking into the hallway and threatening to spill into the kitchen. The noises and animations coming from them making you giggle continuously. Soph was sat at Trent’s feet, the dogs sniffing at the Sylvanian Families in her hand, taking keen interest in the mummy rabbit one. Despite being a clean freak, the mess of the living room didn’t bother you one bit, in fact it added to the atmosphere, everything was a bit chaotic and hectic- but when was it not in the Alexander-Arnold household with three kids running riot?

“Merry Christmas, baby” you whisper to Trent, resting your head on his shoulder and watching your boys try an attempt to put a train in Sophia’s hand and onto the wooden train track, so far it wasn’t going very well, instead the Sylvanian Families resting on top of the wooden trains was a far better idea according to Soph.

“Merry Christmas sweetheart, I’m so lucky” he says gently, rubbing his hand on your thigh, watching the kids with the same admiration as you did. “Y’know..” he hums, “Three’s an odd number, I think four sounds much better” you let out a breathy chuckle against his shoulder, gently fiddling with the gold band of his wedding ring. 

“I think so too” you smile. 

tags: @footballdaydream @footballerimaginess @prettylittletrent @evie-pr @hnrfc

[angsty-nerd]

Fictober 21

#21. “Change is annoyingly difficult.”

Roswell, NM fanfic

Max & Arturo, Isobel, Mr. & Mrs. Evans.

Just as a mini note... this one is also the (rough) start to one of my bunnies hopping around in my head, so it might pop back up at some point in the future as Ch 1 of a multi-part fic.

Again, below the cut for a bit of length...

Year 1

There was a slight bounce in his step when he entered the kitchen that morning, and it was enough to draw his entire family's attention.

"Well look who is up and moving early this morning," his father greeted him dryly. "Got plans to do something with your life today, Max?"

Isobel snickered, so Max shot her a glare as he dropped into his seat at the table and poured himself a bowl of cereal.

"Cut him some slack," his mother protested on his behalf. "It's been rough for him lately. And I think it's nice to see you doing better, Max."

"Thanks, Mom." He replied with a grateful smile. It was a fairly typical family exchange. His father would criticize him for his lack of drive; for not being at college or having a full time job. Max would usually protest that he was working on his novel, or that tutoring students from the Military Academy was a real job, but his father would hear none of it until his mother shut the conversation down.

At least, that's how it would go on the days that Max left his room at all. Some days he had trouble even facing the outside world. Sometimes he couldn't even get out of bed, held prisoner by the crushing weight of his guilt in a queen-sized bed.

"Oh dear," his mother suddenly sighed with a shake of her head. She and his father were reading the newspaper over breakfast like they did most days, trading sections back and forth between the two of them as they ate.

"What is it?" His father glanced up from the sports section curiously.

"Oh, it's the anniversary of that accident last year where those poor girls were killed."

"Tragedy," his father mumbled with a shake of his head, as his eyes went back to the baseball box scores.

"The Daily Record has a memorial on the front page today for the two girls who were in the car. And an expose on that Ortecho girl that was driving. It says that her autopsy showed that she was drunk and high at the time of the accident. And she was known around town for being both a vandal and a drug dealer."

Max just kept his eyes trained on his cereal bowl. He didn't want to look at Isobel. He didn't want to know what was going through her head listening to their mom talk about the worst day of their lives.

Thankfully, he heard the newspaper pages rustling as his mom moved on to a different page. "Such a shame that she had to take two innocent girls with her when she decided to go."

He winced at her words, wanting to defend Rosa, who had no say in the matter, but knowing that he couldn't. After all, she was drunk and high that night. He saw her.

Needing to escape, Max shoved the last few bites in his mouth, and then rinsed his bowl, calling out a goodbye to his family as he hurried out the door.

It was a big day, after all. It was a day a year in the making, and he had plans.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

He went straight to the Crashdown.

One year ago today, Liz Ortecho's sister had died. A few days later, she abruptly skipped town without saying goodbye and essentially broke his heart in the process. Since that day, he had spent twelve months fighting depression and trying desperately to write his feelings out, all while missing and longing for Liz.

His father wasn't wrong when he complained of Max having no direction in life. He had two plans at the end of high school. One involved following Liz on her road trip and falling in love and just allowing her life to take him along on her adventure. The other involved traveling Europe with Michael and writing his first novel. Both dreams burned to ashes in that blue car alongside the bodies of Rosa, Kate, and Jasmine.

But now a year had passed. And Max was heading to the Crashdown with a single minded purpose: to see Liz Ortecho again. After all, she would want to be with her father today of all days, wouldn't she?

As Max drove his Jeep into the town square, he slowed, startled at the sight of a number of sheriff's department vehicles parked haphazardly in front of the Crashdown, lights flashing.

He pulled into a parking space about a block away and sat there, watching and worrying. He could see Sheriff Valenti speaking with Liz's father, while his deputies seemed to be cataloguing evidence from a crime. Arturo Ortecho looked stressed out. He was talking with animation, his anxiety clearly high.

Suddenly the sheriff stopped writing notes, placed a hand on Arturo's shoulder and seemed to ask him a question. Arturo nodded firmly.

Just like that, Valenti ordered his men to pack it up and call it a day.

"No crime to report here," he announced, loud enough that even Max could hear.

Within a few minutes, the police presence was gone, and Arturo was alone with a broom, sweeping up the broken glass on the sidewalk all on his own.

Angry and determined to help, Max stepped from his Jeep and crossed the street to speak with Liz's father.

"Mr. Ortecho." Max greeted him. "Can I ask, what happened?"

Arturo nodded at him. "Max Evans, right?" Max nodded. "Liz always liked you." He said thoughtfully as he swept.

"I always liked her." Max replied, trying to not laugh at what an understatement it was coming from him. "We were friends. How is she doing? Is she here?"

"Oh, no," Arturo dismissed, with a long emphasis on the denial. "No, she's working hard, summer classes and a research internship. My little genius. No time to come home to her Papi. It's good though. Better for her this way."

Max nodded, because as he surveyed the scene he actually did understand what Arturo was saying. Broken glass littered the sidewalk in front of the restaurant, and it looked like both the door and the windows along the square had been busted in.

"Can I help you clean up, Mr Ortecho? It's a hard enough day for you and I don't have anywhere to be."

"Oh, I…"

"It's the least I can do for Liz." Max insisted, and it seemed to be the right thing to say. Arturo swallowed his protest and nodded.

"I can handle this mess just fine, but there's plenty more inside. There's another broom and more cleaning supplies in the break room closet."

"Got it."

Max stepped through the frame of the door into the restaurant and froze, surveying the scene in front of him. Liz's father wasn't exaggerating when he said there was more of a mess inside. It looked like there had been an earthquake, tornado, or some other natural disaster. The floor was covered with broken glass, broken plates, mugs, bowls…anything breakable had been strewn around the room and destroyed. Even all of the restaurant's cutlery was tossed all over the floor.

It also looked like there had been a food fight. Clearly the intruders had gotten into the store room as well, and made as big of a mess of the place as possible. Gobs of ketchup dotted the tables, melted ice cream was dripping down the long front counter, and chunks of chocolate cake were sticking to the walls in a number of places.

But the mess wasn't the worst part. The worst part was the bright red paint on the wall screaming, "MURDERERS, GO BACK TO MEXICO".

Max's heart started pounding and he suddenly felt like he was losing his breath. He braced himself against the wall beside him and tried to force himself to take long, even breaths, but it quickly became harder, as he started crying and gasping for air.

We did this. He kept thinking. I did this. Because of me, Rosa was named a murderer and Arturo is a target.

Guilt flooded through him, overtaking the initial panic that he felt at the sight of the disaster in front of him. He forced himself to pull it together, surveyed the room, and got to work.

I did this. I will fix this. He decided.

He went to the back closet and grabbed a broom and a dustpan. He prepped a trash can for himself, and finally snagged a few of the plastic tubs from the bussing station. Slowly and carefully, he started sweeping up the debris, dumping a dustpan full at a time into one plastic bin so that he could fish out any silverware or anything else salvageable, before dumping the rest in the trash.

He had worked through about a dozen loads when Liz's father joined him from outside. Working together went much faster than alone, and soon the floor was clear and they shifted their focus to cleaning the booths, and then the countertops.

It was mid-afternoon, when Arturo emerged from the store room with a bottle of solution and a tag. "Since youve been so kind to help me, I will ask one last thing...can I please take advantage of your height and ask you to clean that for me." He gestured distastefully to the painted walls.

"Of course," Max agreed, and immediately went to work trying to wash away the stain of racism that the town had left behind.

"Oh no!" Max exclaimed sadly when he realized the paint thinner was cutting straight through the mural beneath as well. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Ortecho."

"There's nothing to be done," Arturo said sadly with a shrug. "At least it is only the one wall. I'll have Maria come over to see if she can fix it when you're done. She isn't quite as talented as Rosa, but she's the next best option."

After he was done with the wall, Arturo offered to make Max a burger, but Max refused. "No, you take care of yourself, Mr, Ortecho. I'm good. I have something else I need to do anyway."

"Okay," Arturo replied, and he grasped Max's hands in his own. "Thank you for your help today."

"I'm glad I was here." Max started to leave, but as he reached the door, he paused and turned back. "Mr. Ortecho? Please don't tell Liz about this...me helping with the cleanup I mean. She doesn't need to know."

Arturo just nodded in agreement, and then Max was out the door and gone. He passed the window repair guy, who was just arriving to replace the windows. Max smiled and waved as he crossed the street and hopped back into the Jeep.

One year ago his entire life had changed for the worse, and for the last year he'd been lost, treading water, despondent. But today, a year later, he was going to change his life again. Because he knew after spending the day with Arturo exactly what he wanted to do with himself.

So Max drove straight to the Chavez County Sheriff's Department office in Roswell and enquired about the process to sign up for their academy program. He filled out the paperwork on the spot, and by sunset his future was no longer this nebulous unknown thing that he feared.

He walked into the house that evening and flopped onto the couch next to his sister, feeling lighter than he had in days, and it showed.

"What's with you?" Isobel asked curiously. "Did Liz come home like you dreamed she would?"

"No, actually, she didn't. I just finally figured out what I want today."

"Oh yeah, and what's that?"

"I...I want to help people, Iz. I want to feel like I'm standing up for what's right. I don't want being a bad person to define me for the rest of my life. I guess...I want to make up for my mistakes. So I signed up for the Sheriff's Academy."

"You what?" Isobel gaped. She stared at him for a long moment and then finally nodded. "No, actually, I can see it. You've always been a pain in my ass, brother. Now you can focus all of that 'do the right thing' energy on other people instead of me."

"Hey now!"

"Seriously, though. Change is annoyingly difficult, Max, and so far you've kinda sucked at it. I'm glad that you found some direction. I hope that this is good for you."

"Thanks, Iz."

Two months later, the next freshman class initiated their training program at the Academy, and Max was sworn into civil service. That day, while standing in his freshly pressed uniform in front of the U.S. and Zia flags, he officially became Deputy-in-Training Evans. When the oath was over, they handed him a white cowboy hat, which Max held in his hands for a long time, before carefully placing it on his head and following his training officer to his first assignment.

[ven-paca-y-chantame-un-beso-ctm]

Strategies For Powerful Skip Hire!

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[viewittoronto]

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[felicezhukov]

:: Dear Nicolas Jaar ::

Its one of those days, I’ve just spilled my second pint of water, the first was earlier when I was waking up, lowering myself back into bed to write this letter to you, I called myself a stupid bitch when it happened in lieu of the fact my ex wasn’t there to do it, no shouting resounded or escalation occurred, I was alone. I’m clumsy, I break stuff, knock things over, get caught on women’s scarves on buses, or stuck in my ear phone wires at Tesco’s counters, laugh so loud sometimes that people look at me in shock, a couple of days ago my ex said this to me regarding my angel: “You haven’t scared her off have you? The monies still there?” The final countdown before my exodus has started, its less than a week till I move, less than a week till I, probably, throw the majority of my possessions in the bin. I guess when I mentioned the week had been extraordinary in my Friday letter it might not seem to the typical observer that anything particularly special has taken place but my soul and my state of mind have undergone transformative journeys, spiralling left, right, up and down, through anxiety, heavy almost flabby contentment, absolute jubilation, scuttling fearful tremors, in the gaps between these ferocious states I find myself crying, it’s overwhelming. I filmed a performance on Sunday night that seems to encapsulate my current state, which I’ll go in to more detail about a little later, it charts this emotional instability, despite that not being the plan, within it I am every facet of myself, hopefully it’ll be online by the end of this mammoth admin session I’m undertaking today. 

As a performance artist I think thats my schtick, my performances aren’t really so much dedicated enactments but instead just me, raw, frank, channeling all my elements, now I’ve poured over my past in detail to put it all online I notice it’s been the theme throughout my oeuvre. 

Right now I’m paralysed, I can’t do anything I normally do, no dressing up, no reading, no flaneurism. I keep getting the bus, I feel a resistance to my usual routes through the city, there’s something painful in the prospect of walking through Victoria or Haggerston park at the moment, I see shadows in the tree’s of these cherished spaces. Shadows of anticipation, shadow’s of love and savagery, shadows of loss. Give me a week and this should all be a memory, a shadow in its own right, at least I hope so.

It need’s to, and will, change dramatically, last time I moved away from my ex things dipped though and my fear is this will happen again. I’m going to have to start balancing my finance’s, something that takes a lot of discipline for me, I have this issue with money, it causes a violent reaction in me when I have it, a physical repulsion, a need to expunge and rid myself of it, like I’ve been overcome by a demon that needs to be exorcised. The concept of accumulating this hateful element fills me with dread and desire, which must somehow in part explain why I’m so useless at selling what I create and pushing my wares on people. 

There’s this absurd sense of nobility coursing through my veins, I see it in my father as well, I find it the whole concept of marketing myself and pushing myself on others scandalous, I’d much prefer people come to me of their own free will, heart and soul aligned. In a society where the normality is to be the sum of our buying power I feel a sense of pride in this, so much is being sold to us on various levels of our consciousness, cookies, buses swathed in posters, soundcloud adverts, asos emails, suggested everything, marketing is the very air we breath, especially in a metropolis where the eyeline is never not inundated with messages of potential happiness, just a tap away.

But thats not to say I’m not happy to share, that must already be clear in these letters, all my insides are out and on display in various walled gardens across the internet. This sale is just causing me a lot of internal bleeding, now I’ve catalogued the 190+ items it incorporates and uploaded them, I’m drowning, how do I rid myself of these objects in a diligent and respectful way? The restful mornings of self guided education have been replaced by incessant letters to you (these are important for giving this whole thing a soul), answering messages, nagging, tagging, planning, photographing, uploading, editing, despairing, the saving grace of this upward struggle is that I’m allowing myself to do yoga and categorise it by writing everything to you, I need soul food right now. 

As an example this is my to do list today:

* make 6x animations / 6x written pieces / 6x mini videos from pre recorded footage to upload on to instagram (this has been on the list for days, it keeps getting pushed back)

* go to studio, take more detail shots of items I want to put on ebay as this will increase their chances of being sold, items on list include my wedding ring, larger paintings, designer clothes then come home, pay my ebay fee’s so my access is unrestricted and upload everything including necessary details – then post this to my social media accounts

*promote my sale on facebook by linking from twitter and poss instagram, adding to community groups, messaging friends

* pay rent to my studio’s then email them to ask about my move and if I will need to hire a skip

* type up this letter, post to facebook and screenshot, post to twitter, tag you

*answer and correspond with all the beautiful people that are messaging me about the sale, answer questions, like comments and reply

* edit the film I made on Sunday, render, upload to youtube, share on social media platforms, post on my site

* eat? drink?

* do yoga

* wash hair?

* put together synopsis and brief for arts programme I am curating for a meeting tomorrow, consolidate the idea

This is the bare bones of my itinerary, I’ve done 2 of the tasks so far, I know its not unusual for a Londoner to be so busy and I bet your schedule looks like this sometimes, but really I’d just like to crawl in to bed and read and write a little and then fall asleep. This is probably the apex of my project now and there will be a brief reprieve, but before I cast everything asunder I have to do my life some justice so I’m not cursing myself in future years, and I’m working for the next 4 days, 12 hour shifts nearly daily so its the last push before the major haul the beginning of next week.

Relentlessness. 

So then…. Part 3 // Sunday

On Sunday night I filmed myself performing for 6 hours plus, by all rights is was as demanding as the mermaid descent, but it was impromptu, I wasn’t naked, covered in paint, fucking 2 cucumbers, so it didn’t quite have the same edge.

I came to on the studio of my floor rolled up in a blanket on a duvet cover I use as a rug of sorts, thick white make up and glitter caked in my eyes, permanent wine coloured lip stick still reverberating over my lips. I’d passed out re-watching the footage I’d taken of myself staging 7 scene’s, dressed in variously important pieces from my wardrobe, singing some of the my most treasured songs, or stumbling over them in the case of witness the fitness by roots manuva. In the background the sonic landscape was shaped by various mixes of yours I’ve found on soundcloud, bleating from my i phone speakers.

Firstly I crawled around the central space in a turquoise swimming costume, shooting myself coming towards the camera from various angles, trying to make creative use of the runway like black borders which are the echoes of the descent installation. Then I shimmied and pulsated in terracotta sequins, attempting to channel my inner seductress, envisaging jessica rabbit, whilst adorning myself in the bloodletting costume pieces. Following that I hit things with ping pong bats and comically attempted to mc, stumbling over gorgeous lyrics and twerking in my adidas, I was with the mermaids for this and I’m sure they were silently mocking me. Next the black lipstick and adventure time sweatshirt were paraded around, as a backdrop to me turning myself into a human display case, though the actual performance was probably the best. I then threw on my big white shirt (not the alexander wang, but the one I wore to my little brothers wedding), I hugged the unicorn, blew bubbles and sang behind acrylic glass. The penultimate scene saw me dress in preppy tan vintage adidas shorts and a pink silk bomber, clumsily adorning myself in all my jewellery and gratingly bursting through lyrics. Finally at 2am I somehow managed to strap myself in to my wedding dress, read a harrowing letter from my teenage self and blurrily cry through the lyrics of one of the most potent songs I’ve ever met. But I didn’t pass out in my wedding dress, though that’d be a more aesthetic turn. 

The film is as if you’re watching a young girl raid her mums jewellery and clothes collection and film herself in her bedroom, except this girl has the weight of adulthood clearly marked on her shoulders. The developed pains of experience, etched on her face. Having your mixes as a background noise wasn’t intended that night, and in a way it really detracts from my singing, but I was all alone in my studio building and having your music on made me feel less scared. 

It might be that I could of made better use of my time on a more organised aspect of this project, but these performances are the legacy of my life thus far, I’m manically creating them as documentation, because very soon it will all be gone.  I want proof for myself that it did all really exist, and it was beautiful. 

That video should be uploaded later today.

I hope you have something like yoga in your life to centre you when things are chaos. 

[darwinism00]

Chapter two

CHAPTER TWO VICTORIA PART 1 His loud slurping and sucking were distracting and fucking annoying. I bite down on my lip and slide my trained hands carefully across the silk sheets and grab for both white feather filled pillows to cover my ears, trying to focus my energy into the job that he wasn't getting done. He had dark long hair that fell in little greasy curls on my inner thighs. He wore a white tight tank top that stretched over his much too large muscles exposing his sleeves of tattoos up and down his arms and up his neck. The tattoos were covered with a white button up shirt when I first eyed him in the hotel lobby. He had his hair pulled back in a tight slicked back pony. He still wore his chunky gold jewelry on every fat knuckle while necklaces’ dangled from his neck. There are too many to count. The word corny flashed into my mind the first time I saw them but I let my eyes sparkle with awe instead of disinterest when he caught me eyeing them. He had big clumsy lips that he took the time to give a quick lick to when talking to the ladies as if that was a turn on of some sorts; to have wet lips. His goatee was well groomed like the rest of his body. Most woman would find him perfect but I just could not stop from staring at that crooked nose. His dark eyes burned with perversion. He just played it all wrong. Like a boy who got what he wanted not because he was good at it but because his daddy had money to throw at it. As he moved his big wet lips towards me I quickly put him back to work gripping his hair and shoving him back down. So much for an Italian stallion I thought while rolling my eyes and thrusting my hips to encourage him. He starts to kiss up my belly again and I shove him back down more aggressive than before keeping my grasp on his head firm. “You need to clean your plate!” I demand, showing him who's boss here in this bed. I grab my firm breast that was bulging out of my leather top and pull the skirt up higher, releasing his head to give him more access. This was starting to get me pissed off with frustration but as I glanced at the vintage round clock on the wall I realized the time was drawing near and I was starting to finally get aroused. I push the back of his head at the thought and thrust my hips almost smothering him which gets me closer. A moan escapes my lips as I think about the hooker I had him call and how she will be here soon. Right as the thought escaped my mind I heard a knock on the door. My grip re-tightens its hold on my pet's hair and I yank his head up so that his soaked face and dark penetrating eyes look to me for direction. “Tell her to wait five minutes and then come in. I just need to finish” I pause and smerk. “My first round.” I say this between clenched teeth; arched up, pulling his hair so tight that his veins in his thick neck bulge. He grins a perverse smile, no doubt enjoying this role play and speaks Italian and says exactly what I tell him to. “Good boy.” I say as I shove his head back where it belongs and thrust forward tilting my head back and closing my eyes in long awaited pleasure. I can feel my black straight hair from my wig fall from my shoulder to the white slick sheets under me. With the thought of what was to come I easily climax, tightening my legs around his neck and finishing riding my orgasm out like my hips were on a wave. He struggles for air when I don't let him up just for a few moments before I feel the crack of his neck between my legs and his face lays limp in between my folds. Not much of a difference I muse to myself. I can't let him make too much commotion. Hes a large man and I, being a small woman know he could easily throw me if given the chance. Much like any animal. I kick him to the floor, trying not to stab him with my heel. Satisfied, I skip to grab my purse. I turn and look at the man laying awkwardly. His head lay sideways on the ground and the rest of his body lay slinked over the end of the enormous bed facing up with a huge erection. I tilt my head and think that maybe he should of lead with that thing. Maybe he had more to him. Too bad I don't give a shit. I laugh to myself nonchalantly and stretch my tight leather mini down right below my crotch line; right above my clips from my garter belt that are attached to my stockings and continue to the balcony. I take a deep breath of the night’s crisp air and take a quick moment to appreciate the busy New Vegas streets below. It's surreal to be up so high above all the busy bright lights. The zip lines are the only lights close to this floor thats nearly at the top of the skyscraper about 200 floors up. I look down at all the hybrid plants decorating the balcony for air support. They were exsotic bright colors that glowed in the dark doubling as night lights in the dark sky. As soon as I put a Zig in my mouth and mumbled out the word “fucking rich people” I hear the door handle jiggle at the front of the suite and I take a quick look around to make sure no one is watching. Even this high up people are always looking down. The city is memorizing and the perfect distraction. I throw my purse to the other balcony beside me and quietly make a flip to my suite. I take a drag from my zig, close my eyes, lean against the wall and hear a female scream and get wet all over again. I tilt my head to the side and crack a smile as I head inside my room. I remove my wig and toss it into the metal container bin in the bathroom and then make a B-line to lay on the bed. I could go with the digital spread for my disguise but anything digital is traceable by anyone with enough money and this boy’s daddy has got more than enough. I slightly shake my head feeling a euphoric type high from the kill. The only thing that makes me feel much of anything anymore. People have become so obsessed with technology that doing anything the old fashioned way becomes the easiest way to actually get away with anything these days. I take a deep relieving breath and think God it feels good to be a woman and to get paid for it. Two birds; one stone. I get my burner phone out and send out the text. (Destination reached) and hit send. Once the confirmation of the money transfer is sent I can dispose the phone and get some sleep. Until then I lay on the bed and listen to the voice of a frantic woman in the next room making a panicked phone call. “Yes!” She says too loud with a Latin accent. “It looks like he fell off the bed and broke his neck. I don't know if he's alive or not I don't want to touch him!” Her voice shakes and hitches and then her words turn to spanish gibberish and I stop listening feeling already bored with the night. I hear a ding on my phone and smile. It reads (Money transfer confirmed.) I smash the phone and throw it in the metal bin in the bathroom to join my disposed of black wig. Then joining the items I threw in my clothes, shoes, eyelashes, fake press on nails, and fake jewelry. I'm about to light the fire with a quick flame chip until I pause to flip over the package and read the disclaimer on the box. Quick flame is a extremely flammable substance introduced to you in the form of a chip. Once activated by flipping the easy to use pull tag please place in Quick flames special mete container within 10 seconds to dispose of your waste with ease while creating a energy charge to the space around you for little to no smoke for a safer and healthier environment. I laugh a little; thinking about how hard I tried to make this into a throwing weapon of some sort when this first came out, but the fucking geniuses that designed it made it so the metal container and clear lid activates the chip somehow. I flip it back over, pull the switch and throw the rest of the evidence in the container. I bet they weren't thinking how easy they made my job when mandating these things to every house for landfill control and energy supply. I flip the fan on for good measure. Oh shit! I yell in my head. I can't forget about the fingerprints too. I peel the skin like prints from my fingertips and throw them in the top of the contraption that then feeds them to the flames. The fire is pure blue and I am memorized as I watch everything melt through the see through top. The energy gage for the room at the top of the front door goes from half full to full after the container is done burning its contents. That is proof something was disposed of but not what was disposed. I shrug my shoulders and look at my naked form in the mirror. It's been ten years, 3 months, 1 week and 1 day and I haven't aged a bit. I feel my inner wall start to shake and shrug the feelings off as I turn the water on and take a thorough scolding hot shower. When I am done I lay in the gigantic bed I have all to myself wearing a very expensive fluffy white bath towel with a matching wrap for my head, though my real hair is only about an inch long and bleached blonde. This would make most people feel lonely having a huge bed to themselves; but I'm not most people and I feel like a Queen, as it should be. Babies don't sleep this good was the last thought I had before I drifted off