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The Storm-Fiction by Sean O'Keefe
Claire Morgan's Key to Happiness-Fiction by Roy Dorman
Badass Ted's Christmas Adventure-Fiction by Kenneth James Crist
As Good on Him as on a Dead Man-Fiction by Jeff Esterholm
Using Your Kit-Fiction by Andrew J. Hogan
The Apathetic Tide-Fiction by Alan Edward Small
Christmas Karma-Fiction by Cindy Rosmus
Salt Lake City Slaughterhouse-Fiction by J. Brooke
Mean Mama-Fiction by Tom Barker
All You Can Drink $5.00-Fiction by D. L. Shirey
Shell Shocked-Fiction by M. A. De Neve
The Present-Mark Joseph Kevlock
Red Christmas-Flash Fiction by Morgan Boyd
Samurai Santa-Flash Fiction by BAM
Guns and Rose-Flash Fiction by Paul Beckman
Christmas Eve Blow and Doll Houses-Flash Fiction by Luke Walters
Holly, Jolly-Flash Fiction by Mandi Rose
Pineapple-Poem by Cindy Rosmus
Life is Weird-Poem by Meg Baird
Appendages-Poem by Samuel Cardinale
The Means of Production-Poem by Robert Beveridge
Suicide of Living-Poem by John D. Robinson
It's On My List-Poem by Judith Partin-Nielsen
Hoarding Life-Poem by Michael Keshigian
Homeless in NYC-Poem by Michael Keshigian
Death Speaks-Poem by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
Time Stops-Poem by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
House of Un-Reality-Poem by Dr. Mel Waldman
The Ghosts of Borges-Poem by Dr. Mel Waldman
The Bitchers-Poem by David Spicer
Voltaire and the Literary Guerillas-Poem by David Spicer
Cartoons by Cartwright
Hail, Tiger!
Angel of Manslaughter
The Gazing Ball
Strange Gardens
Gutter Balls
Calpurnia's Window
No Place Like Home
ALAT
Dark Tales from Gent's Pens

slcslaughterartistzero.jpg
Art by Artist Zero 2018

SALT LAKE CITY SLAUGHTERHOUSE

J brooke

 

What the fuck are ya gonna do?

You’re a stunning, tall, aqua-eyed, 15-year old, razor-thin blonde goddess, stuck with an OCD, bi-polar, manic, crazy solar-high IQ. Your father is a Canadian General, mom, a socialite fuck-wad, white pearls, gone to fat, and both of them are terrified of you.

They then off load you to the nuns, Saint Mary’s, private girl’s crib, drugs on the way. Ritalin, lithium, uppers, downers, mind-altering drugs, to terrorize the genius out of you.  A convenient prison, where the rich off-load their daughters, you know, so they stop watching porn and sucking off the guys from the lacrosse team.

What ya gonna do?

You run.

Mandal, an hour after her parents had begged the Popes biatches to fix her, she had loaded her back pack, .38, and had charged out. She had stuck her elfin thumb out to the road, hooked up with an eighteen-wheeler, fucked a guy named Earl, danced nude, stripped, conned, grifted, lied and had screwed her way across the country for years, ended up in New Jersey.

Almost ten years later, she had failed in everything she had ever tried. She had become a fuck-doll of a New Jersey Mobster, Fat Tony Uruguay.

After busting his balls for three years, running a train on his money, patience and love of the monster homicidal killer who adored his pixie blond darling, she ran one night, with almost a Mil of his money.

Fat Tony forgot the one truth about hookers.

“Never trust the whore biatches, they will fuck you every time.”

It all ended when she broke down in a shit-box Texas desert compound, called Inferno Flats, run by the maniacal, violent Cox Clan.

Mava was Ma, the brains of the crew. Billy was a James Dean look-alike, with a 5th grade education. And his homicidal brother Arvan, well, he was completely insane.

They owned a broke-down motel, a juke box in a bar, a junk yard, and had more money than George Bush. They ran a massive Meth syndicate, fueled on violence, greed and the white powder. They were all killers, yet, no matter how many people you murder, burn alive, or cut their dicks off, there is always an alpha predator, more dangerous than you, more violent than you.

Especially when they show up in a broken-down old caddy, and look like Charlize Theron’s prettier, sexier younger sister, with guns.

      Lots of fucking guns.

      Mandal, use what a grifter has.

      She had out brained them. Out sexed them. Out seduced the brothers. She had lined them out perfect. When Fat Tony’s hit men outfit would show, to murder her, both brothers were ready to die for her.

      And they did.

      In the end, Mandal, C-4 involved, had murdered every one of the killers, been beaten senseless, but had escaped, with her adopted puppy Angel, 4 Mil of Mava’s stash, jettisoned the dead girl in her trunk, and had zoomed to Vegas a new girl, a better girl, a beat-to-hell angel with burnt wings.

       Every whore needs a second chance in life.

      She took hers, reinvented herself, settled into a lonely life, a self-loathing life, her ticket to heaven, saving a golden pooch that in the end saved her life too with a nip at one of Tony’s killer’s ankle, giving her time to grab her ankle walk- around .38 and put a bullet into Bobby Ugo’s forehead, the last man standing.

      Some fairy tales do indeed have happy endings.

      

         MANDAL pulled her tan sedan up to the guard booth of the walled Golden Tabernacle Estates. Completely in form now, she knew she had to become hard. She stared out the window at the young, smiling blond guard in his blue uniform and private security hat.

          “Good afternoon, Ma’am. How can I help you?”

     Taking her gold cop badge-wallet, she flashed the real stolen badge and laminated ID at the kid, then growled.

     “Police officer, Sgt Carol Willis. I have police business. Let me through.”

     The kid furrowed his brow, for nothing ever before like he was experiencing had prepared him for what he was now facing.

      The cop looked like fucking Kate Moss, she was so slender, blonde and stunning.

     “Aaah…Ma’am…Officer, do you have an appointment?”

      Mandal threw the door open and almost glowing she was so irate, she pushed the badge and ID within inches of the kids terrified face, as she seethed.

     “Listen, asshole. I’m a cop and I don’t need a fucking appointment. I’m here to see Doctor Smith…Hit the button. Thomas. CLEAR?”

     Allowing her black jacket to swing open, so the guard could see her shoulder holster and gun, the kid jumped back, leered at her bullet-casing blue eyes that were drilling holes into his skull.

      “Well? What are you fucking waiting for?”

      “Ye..ye…Yes ma’am…Ahhh, officer…Right away.”

      The barber pole rose. She placed the sedan in gear, drove into the compound. Once past his booth, he exhaled deeply, thought for a moment, picked up the phone. In her rearview mirror, she watched, as the Guard talked into a telephone.

      “No matter.” She whispered. One way or another they would soon know her well enough.    

       Everywhere she looked, there were white kids running and laughing and playing along manicured lawns and riding bicycles and skateboards. She pressed past winding driveways where legions of brown-skinned gardeners, uniformed nannies tended to children. She noticed that they were tending white children, pushing strollers, or watching the young, as white mothers stood idling nearby, chatting, sipping drinks, all very white; all very odd to her eyes.

      “Is this why you have stolen my girl?”

      Moving right along, she was beginning to understand a world so elitist and weird, that it simply said made sense to her. If people had the wealth and power to isolate themselves from the real world, and within doing so, create a fantasy island of safety and nurturing within a globe going mad from abuse, then why not do it?     

       AVENGING murder of her star bartender of her private club Jason’s, 22- year-old Claire, a 5ft 3, English waif, was multi-step process.

     Identifying her grey, dead body that looked like a hundred and two pounds of dead, cordite-colored lead, had devastated her. Remembering the Murder Board photographs at the N. Las Vegas Metro Homicide with her pal, Lieutenant Victor Garcia and seeing the vivid images of the Doctor Smiths and their golden medallions on Morti Goldberg’s computers, all of it, every bit of it began to fall into place—a puzzle that was so repulsive, she had vomited.

      It had taken her, with Morti Goldberg’s help, who owned Vegas Camera/Digital and was a member at Jason’s, Mandal private club, less than three hours to piece everything together. Of course, it had been the Mason’s Masonic gold medallion, clutched in one of the dead husband’s fists, after his pregnant wife had been abducted on Garcia’s-Murder-Boards to be the key.

       Lieutenant Garcia guided Mandal along the ghastly serial murders crime.

      Three young Christian families, mid-twenties, solid citizens, had been home invaded. The husband had been murdered, and the blond, pregnant, blue- eyed wife had been abducted. Claire had fit the profile, her being so blonde, blue- eyed stunning.

       BLING, back to the moment.

      Stalling in front of an English Tudor Mansion, she stopped at the driveway entrance. She knew she had to calm the rage brokering through her nerve endings. She turned left and began to move up the winding, brick driveway.

      She parked, felt her Beretta under her coat, the .38 in her back waist band. She twisted the key, simply sat as the engine died.

      Fearless, manic, she walked towards the great oak door, not knowing as she did, that perhaps soon, very soon, that blue sky might be splattered with blood, her blood.

    

      JUST AROUND 5 PM, ATLANTIC CITY TIME, 1st Grade Detective Carrol Willis, AKA, one Mandal Beckwith stood before the massive oak door. She pressed the brass doorbell button.

      The lock clicked as the door swung open. An ash blond, looking washed out and wearing a garish rainbow sweater and an ankle length skirt, with Westminster dog-runner shoes on her feet stood. She had a strand of white pearls around her neck. The woman had insipid gray eyes, paste-colored skin and in her work boots, Mandal towered over her.

      Mandal had seen her before on the family photo on Morti Goldberg’s computer.

      Mandal shoved her leather wallet with the gold badge and ID into the woman’s face.

     She snarled.  “Police officer, Detective Willis. Here to see Doctor Smith.”

      Dr. Adam Smith’s wife Sarah’s jaw dropped. Not waiting for an invitation, officer Mandal walked right past her, roughly banging the woman’s shoulder with her own. Slapping her badge case shut, she slid it into her jacket. She faced off the gawking woman.

      “Well…What the fuck are you waiting for?”

      Mrs. Smith gasped. Mandal could see her shoulders begin to shake. The woman began to stutter.

      “I…I…Aahh…Yes…Aaah…Doctor Smith is…is…in the study…he…he is waiting for you.”

      Mandal ground her jaw and appreciated that she now knew that the guard had already called.

       Mandal jerked her head once. “Well…Come on, giddy up.”

      Mrs. Smith’s teeth chattered, her lips trembled, for she simply hated anything vulgar in the world, including her own insipid image in the mirror.

      “Ye…yes…Ple…Please, this way…The…The doctor is waiting.”

      As Mandal followed the timid woman, she wanted to draw her 9-millimeter and begin blasting away. In her mind all the ducks were in a row, why wait.

      At the end of the hallway, the woman stopped in front of an oak door, backed away from it as if it scared her.

      “Please, officer…Doctor Smith waits.”

      “Do the world a fucking favor. Ditch the pearls.”

       Sarah gasped.

      Wanting to pistol whip her, Mandal smirked, twisted the door knob, moved inside the room, slamming the door behind her.

      Her back to the door, Mandal looked across the library-slash-office, study, and saw a smiling, blue eyed, tall blond man, in a pinstripe suit, rising from a high back office chair. He extended his white hand.   

      “Hello…Hello…You’re a police officer, correct.”

      About three inches taller than her, he pushed his hand to hers, which was solid against her side.  Pulling up, he, in a “Geeze, I’m glad you’re here” gesture, pumped her hand. Inwardly his heart thumped, seeing the gorgeous, blond cop’s blue eyes, which had no blink in them, nor fear. She flashed the badge, pushed it into his face, allowed him to absorb it. 

      “Yeah. Sergeant, Detective, Carol Willis, Atlantic City, PD.”

      She swept her jacket back, so he could see the Beretta and her shoulder holster.

      “Let’s talk, doc.”

      Again, he swallowed hard.

      “Yes of course, detective…Please, let’s sit. Come this way.”

      Releasing her grip, he still felt its warmth and its power as he led her to a set of leather chairs in front of his teak desk. He was simply mesmerized by her face. About to pull a chair out for her, he did not, for she shot him a gunshot glance, as she roughly pulled out one of the chairs and sat.

       He sat in his high back, black leather chair, simply stared at her. She had no blink and he was mesmerized by her short, white hair and tan face, which had many unusual, faded white scars trailing along it

      If she were not the most beautiful Nordic woman he had ever seen, then he knew none other.  He was almost positive that she was not a detective, for if anything, she had to be at least some movie star or a fashion model pretending to be a cop.

      “Now, Detective, ahh, Willis, is it? How can I help you? Perhaps, some tea, or coffee?”

      “No thanks.”

      “How can I help you?”

      “We’re looking for a missing girl. We’ve been led to believe that you might know something about her.”

      He did not like the word, “we’re” nor did he like the words “Missing girl.”

      “A missing girl. I’m sorry, I don’t understand. No missing girls here.”

       “She’s a runaway, East Coast. Showed up dead, in Vegas. She was pregnant. Kid ripped outta her body. Your name came up on a computer check, well, concerning your clinic.”

      She saw his cheek tick, just once.

      “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would ya Doctor? Missing girls? Their kids ripped outta their guts?”     

      The fact that he kept swallowing and he kept flexing his fingers that were pressed against his desk top, told her legions.

      “My goodness, detective. That is horrible…Guts?…Computers…

My…My…We’re a well-respected Fertilization Clinic…We help young women…No…No…I…am shocked…A missing dead girl?…No, of course nothing like that could ever happen here…A missing dead, girl?…My, my, oh my.”

      Reaching into her pocket, Mandal found Claire’s photograph, slapped it on to the teak desk. Pushing it across the mirror, she twisted it, so now it was facing Doctor Smith. Barely able to peek at it, he took it in his fingers.

      “Maybe that will help your memory, Doctor. You know this girl?”

       Pursing his lips, his brow wrinkled, as he saw the girl that he had butchered, not dead then, not with an empty womb then, sometime before he had gotten his hands on her. In the picture, she was different, smiling and seemed to be laughing. He could not remember that laughter before he had sliced her open and murdered her baby just before he had murdered her.

       “No…No…Certainly I would have remembered such a pretty girl…I’m sorry…Ahhh…No, I’m sorry…Ahhh…My goodness, what a horrible thing…Aaa…Aaah…Did you say you are a detective…Might I see your ID again…” He smiled. “Please.”

      There were just a few ticks of the clock left now for her, yet still she was so fascinated with him, that she wanted just a little bit more, just to be certain. She handed it to him. As he opened it, and began to scrutinize it, she then saw it, and that was it for her; she was now ready. On the desk was a double-framed photograph. Placed in the slot was a color photograph, and it showed the two, twin brothers standing in wonderful black suits, their arms woven around each other’s waists.

      “Tick, Tick, Tick”

       PULSE HAMMERING.

       Her eyes clicked at the gold medallions that fell on tiny gold chains from their suit vests.

      “Tick, Tick, Tick.”

      PULSE THUNDERING

       Her eyes flipped back and forth from the photograph, to Doctor Smith staring at her Cop ID, then, back at the men in the photograph.

       “Tick, Tick, TICK.”

        PULSE AN INFERNO.

        Slowly, her eyes moved to his suit vest, and there was no gold chain nor was there a gold medallion hanging from the vest pocket. Doctor Smith closed her wallet, instantly became cold, as his lips tightened. He smiled eerily at her.

      “You’re not a police officer, are you, Miss whoever you are?”

      “Tick, Tick, Tick.”

        HER PULSE DETONATING

       She smiled as her hand began to slip inside and up beneath her jacket and she began to rise. 

         “No…I’m not…And you’re not a fucking doctor. You’re a fucking butcher and now, I’m going to kill you.”

      Instead of showing fear, he smiled as she stood. Her hand on her 9 millimeter’s handle, he gazed past her shoulders and whispered.

      “Boys.”

      “Tick, Tick, Tick.”

       HER PULSE FROZE.

      Time froze, as she began to withdraw her hand gun and then she twisted around. Two, tall, muscled blond young men, twins, dressed in Docker tan pants, and golf shirts and tennis shoes, were just feet behind her.

      The Beretta half way out of its holster, she backed away, but she was a micro-second too late.

       Both boys leaped at her, and in unison pressed the steel nubs of their stun guns against her neck and cheek. Electricity and sparks sizzled and sparked against her skin. She shrieked as her body shook wildly, and as her hand whipped out, her gun flew across the room. Her teeth chattered violently as she fell to the floor. Once there it vibrated out of control, and then her vision went black and she saw no more.

      Standing, Doctor Smith looked at his brother’s twin sons, who seemed petrified of what they had just done. Staring down at just one more Icelandic blond pure woman, who was again another unexpected prize and one that would sire creatures just like she in the future, once, that is, after they lobotomized her and impregnated her, he smiled.

      “Take her to the room, make sure she has no weapons, we will deal with her after Ethan returns.”

       Rubbing his jaw, he looked at her beauty and her glorious white hair. His eyes went oval in delight as he whispered. “Ethan will be so very pleased. Take her.”

        The edgy blond Vikings nodded, bent, and turned her over. They frisked her, found the .38 in her waistband, showed it to their uncle, found the knife in her boot, which got a wry little smile in return from him.

      “So violent, so perfect. So magnificent…A perfect breeding vehicle. Move.”

       The boys easily lifted her. With her boots trailing behind her, they dragged her out of the office, through the door and then they were gone.

      Elated that pure, blond beautiful girls were seemingly dropping out of the evolutionary gene pool, he came back to reality. The word “we’re” kept funneling through his head, so he quickly returned to his desk, and opened the girls cop wallet.

      Picking up the phone, he got an operator, found the area code for Atlantic City, asked for the phone number of the Precinct typed on her laminated ID, scribbled it down on a yellow pad, hung up the receiver. He punched in the numbers, waited.

      “Detective, Sgt. Carrol Willis, please.”

      Listening, he nodded his head up and down and back and forth.

      “You’re sure…Retired, ten years ago…No…Thank you…My mistake. Bye.” He began to giggle.

      Wondering just who she was, he would, after the twins got her settled in her holding room, adjacent to the babies’ nursery he would have them check out her vehicle. He was just so curious, wondering who and what and above all, where she had come from.

      Seeing her Beretta off to the side of the room, he walked over, picked it up, stared at the silencer. He smiled, liking the feeling of the handgun in his hand. He walked happily to his desk, where once there, he laid the Beretta alongside the mysterious girls, .38.

      “Uuuuh. Another thief, I bet.”

     Shrugging his shoulders, he walked out the door, not knowing that he was close in his assumption, except for one little thing.

      She was not a thief, though she had been one once, a long time ago. What in fact she was, was a level of justice, a cold-blooded murderer of evil.

      The evil of men.

 

       PERHAPS MUCH like some kind of human, exotic and graceful Bird of Paradise waking to the first glints of sunlight, Mandal sat up from her bed, and stretched her long arms above her head.

      She arched her back and elongated, glanced at her tan toes. She wiggled them for a moment, giggling as she did. After a moment, she allowed her eyes to rise, drift to the window of the door and once there, she saw the twins leering at her.

      She sweetly smiled at the boys, and got two smiles in return.

      She took a deep breath, exhaled through pouted lips as she printed her smile along the boy’s faces. Wetting her full lips with her pink tongue, she shyly and seductively lowered her eyes. The room was sound-proof, but she was positive she could hear the young, twin blonde’s kinetic energy pass through the heavy door as they whispered back and forth to each other.

      She puckered a small kiss towards them. She smiled gaily, her mouth parted, she ran her tongue along her swollen lips.

      The boys blinked, and she saw them and in a jilted manner, talking back and forth to one another. Slowly, very slowly she began to unbutton each snap of her white cotton tunic. As it parted partially, showing her small breasts, her evident rib cage and her flat brown tummy, she saw the boys’ blue eyes widen.

      Seduction, when practiced by a master tactician, is always better slow, so she lingered there for a moment, her knees parted as her tan feet pressed against the white tiles of the floor and her tunic unbuttoned to her small hips. Closing her eyes, she arched her back, exposing a little more skin from beneath her cotton tunic. She ran her fingers through her short, white hair, lowered her face, and seemed to shudder.

      A few more moments passed, a she simply pulled the tunic off of her upper torso, laughed to herself like a crazy nymph, let it, in stages, pillow to the tiles.

       Her eyes closed. She jerked her head, arched her back, threw her head back and laughed gaily at the ceiling.

       The boys, aroused beyond anything they had ever witnessed before, outside of porn videos they secretly watched whenever they could, leered at her strident ribs and tiny breasts.  Her pajama bottoms were slung low on her hips, and each muscle leading down below her waist, was cut.

       Her lips parted and pouted as an obvious, sexual tremble rumbled through her body. She laughed, shook her head back and forth like a wild gypsy. She slowly stood, her lips parted, her tongue traced along her luscious lips.

      Mimicking every tawdry seduction scene she had ever seen in any ridiculous Hollywood flick ever produced, she simply flicked at the draw string on her white pajamas with her finger tips.

      “Ooops.” She laughed, as the white PJ’s fell down her long legs and fell into a pool at her feet.

      Standing naked and barefoot she went pigeon toed, as her eyes lifted and she looked at her fans gawking at her from the door’s window.

      She stretched her arms back, arched her back, and stretched to her full height.

      Not a single golden hair below her eyelashes, she looked like a golden dolphin. Her skin was bronze and she could hear the boys’ reaction as they whispered back and forth frantically to each other.

      She began to casually pace back and forth, sometimes laughing, other times pouting. She ran her hands along her stomach and breasts. She crouched to her bent knees, her eyes blazed. She placed her fingers between her parted legs. She clutched her lasered cunt. She touched her wet fingers to her lips. She groaned. Eyes closed, she heard the door rattling and she started to laugh.

      She parted her lips. She trailed her fingers along her vagina. Back and forth, in and out, all around, she began to drool. Her teeth began to chatter. She fell to her knees. Clutching her cunt, her body shuddered in climax. She turned her pleading eyes to the boys. Then, as if a small, shy little girl, she gave them a smile so inviting, that she almost wept having done so.

      Blushing, a tear fell from her eyes. She lifted her eyes to the boys and shrugging her shoulders, she peeked at her finger tips, and almost embarrassed, she smiled. Slowly, she lowered her fingers from her lips, stood, stretched her arms as she moved to the side of the bed, and sat. Planting her feet onto the tiles, she spread her knees, so a full frontal view of her tan body faced the boys.

      She gripped her cunt with both hands, threw her head back and laughed. An expert at mood swings, she halted her gaiety, lowered her face, pouted again and again, and now drooling and her eyes never leaving their stares, she began to masturbate herself with her fingers.

     Thinking that she heard the lock spring, she slowed. Seeing Jeb, she assumed that was his name, peeking at her through the now partially opened door, she stopped, shuddered.

      “Jeb is it?”

       He nodded. She could see an erection growing in his tan Dockers and his breathing was somewhat discombobulated, so she winked coyly at him.

      “No last wish for a bad little girl, handsome?”

      Testosterone wracked his body, he glanced at his brother, then back at a creature he simply thought could not really be doing what she was doing. Living a life in sexual denial, and often after off-loading that curse through his only outlet, pornography and now suddenly being confronted with every seedy sexual desire he had ever dreamed of, he began to stutter.

      “Yo…Yo…You better stop that…It’s…Its… a sin…I…I…Just st…Stop it.”

      Tilting her head, she ran her fingers along her clitoris, winced, as she smiled, then purred out each selected word, as they dripped like pure sex out of her lips.

      “Why, Jeb…I’m just a girl…I have needs, too…You don’t like me?…You don’t think me pretty?..I need it, Jeb…I need it bad before I die…Please. Fuck me”

      Feeling his dick bulge, his eyes swept her slender body. She was licking drool off her lips again with her pink tongue. His brain began to spark, for their connectors were coming apart.

      “Ne…need…need what…Pre…Pretty…Yes…needs…what needs?…

Aaah…It’s a sin.”

      “A sin, Jeb…Why is it a sin…Me desiring you…Didn’t Adam and Eve fuck too?”

      She smiled, as his body jerked.

      “Why is that so bad…I just want it, one last time…Please Jeb…Please. What’s so sinful about that?”

      Pushing his stun gun back and forth between his fists, Jeb leered at his twin as he uttered.

      “Yo…You sho…shouldn’t talk like that. Our fathers will be back in a few hours from the airport, they will be mad.”

      Spreading her legs, she gave him a full shot of her welcoming vagina. She lowered her fingers to it, spread it a little further open, shuddered.

     “Where’s Dad?

      “Ge…Getting Ethan, his wife and the new Swedish babies at the jet.”

      “So what’s the problema sweetie pie?…What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, now will it? Please, Jeb, just one last wish. Just one last fuck before I die.”

      Gawking, he lifted his eyes back and forth from between her legs to her wet lips and then back to her fired, welcoming blue eyes. Releasing her vagina, she lifted her arms, and put them before her, as she purred.

      “Come here, baby. Let me show you what Paradise is really like.”

      Jeb felt his brother standing half way through the door behind him. He jerked his head to his brother, then at the brazen Jezebel, as depicted in the Bible, then back at his brother Simon, then at the naked peep show the girl was offering him, with her spread apart knees.

      “Do it, Bro…Do it, Bro.” Simon said.

       “What about Simon?”

         Mandal spread her legs a little more apart. She grasped her vagina with both hands, trembled all over, as she seethed.

      “After you baby, I’ll do your bro.”

      Her body shuddered as she whispered, and a drop of saliva fell from her lips, down her breasts.

      “Promise. Double team me baby, pleeeease.”

      Jeb jerked his face to his brother, who was bobbing his head up and down like a Dodger bobble head.

      “Do it Jeb…They’ll never find out…Do it, bro. You know you’re going to after they Lob her, anyways.”

      Stretching her hands into the air again, and as her rib cage tightened, exposing every one of her ribs, she pursed her lips, moaned.

      “Come here baby, be sweet to me. That’s my last wish. I just want you to be sweet to me. Let me suck that big Mormon dick of yours.”

      Sex has always superseded religion, thus the reason for so many virgins sacrificed by those of the Good Book to the various Gods that demanded such things from the faithful. Like some kind of naked, super-conducting magnet, Jeb felt her I-Beam as it pulled him towards her. Once standing before her, he gripped his stun gun, showed it to her.

      “I have a stun gun…I…I’ll use it.”

      Tilting her head up from her sitting position, she smiled, as she reached for his zipper.

      “Sure, honey…You use that if I’m a bad girl.”

      She touched the bulge in his chinos.       

      “My goodness, what do we have here?” She swallowed, seemingly a little scared at what she was looking at. “So big…Wow…Ooooh.”

      With every neuron going ‘Whack’ in his body, she batted her eyelashes as she looked up at Ned’s cranked-out face, and then allowed another drool of saliva to spill from her trembling lips.

      Three, two, one, blastoff.

      She dug his cock out of his pants, smiled.

      Simon at the door almost had a conniption fit, as his eyes gawked at his lucky brother, (the co-captain of their football team) as Jeb’s entire body began to tremble as his blond head jerked from the Biblical whore’s touch.

      Without hesitation, the ex-whore from Atlantic City, inserted Jeb’s substantial penis into her mouth. A low groan escaped from Jeb’s lips. His body went taut as she began giving him a blow job. Simon, partly in and out of the door watched, simply stunned to his boat shoes at what he was seeing. Mandal felt the blood expanding in his penis. Not wanting him to orgasm, she slipped her lying lips from his penis. She held it in her hand, as she tilted her blue eyes to Jeb, who was leering at her.

      “Not yet, sweetie…Come here…Give me my last wish…Fuck me, please. Please, Jeb, right here on the bed. Please.”

      She took his hand, laid him on the bed. She adjusted his blond head on the pillow, made sure his legs were prone, and glancing at Simon, she threw him a playful air kiss. With his own erection throbbing, Simon felt the heat of the air as the kiss whizzed past his face.

      Mandal took his hand, the one with the stun gun, and laid it neatly along his side as she whispered.

      “Hold tight, honey bunny. I’ll be good.” She kissed him. “Promise.”

      Jeb watched as the exotic Praying Mantis crawled on top of him, and then straddling his waist, wrapped both hands around his dick.

      “You’re such a sweetheart.” She purred.

      She lifted her tiny hips and guided him inside of her and in the same fell swoop, lowered herself so he was completely inside of her. Jeb groaned. Mandal groaned. Simon Groaned.

      Lot’s O’ groaning.

       Like a whirly bird, she rotated her arms above her head as she ground down and all around Jeb’s encapsulated penis.

      Laughing and groaning, Jeb stared in disbelief up at her small breasts, striated ribs and heaving tummy as she lowered her eyes at him, made contact, smiled at him, as she touched his shaking lips.

      “You like, Baby?”

      “Ye…ye…Yes…Oh, God yes.”

      Because of his naughty and sinful masturbatory habits, Jeb had once fucked a Jell-O mold. He groaned away as he knew that heaven had arrived, for nothing he had felt to the moment, could compare with the warmth he was now feeling.

      Mandal smiled, ground down a little harder on his throbbing penis. She raised her arms into the air, entangled her fingers into a balled fist. She shrieked, as she slashed the balled fists down. With pure hatred and fury, unmatched by any evil the Book of Mormon ever depicted, her balled fists exploded into the bridge of his nose.

      Instantly Jeb tried to scream, but so much blood erupted out of his nose and mouth, it was just a gurgle. Covered in blood, shrieking, screaming, Mandal lifted her double fists into the air. Howling, she hurtled her fist savagely over and over and over again until his teeth shattered and his face, a bloody pulp emulsified. Drowning in his own blood, his hands and feet began vibrating on the bed.

      Mandal, her eyes rabid, covered in red blood and pulp and shattered teeth and bone of his face, wailed. Turning, she, still on her hands and knees, leered across the room at Simon, who was now just recognizing what had happened. With her white hair satiated with blood, and more blood and tissue covering her face, breasts and stomach, she whipped around, licked her lips and tasted the blood.

      A black belt in Judo, she then crushed his wind wipe with a savage blow from her wedged fist.

      He died instantly.

      She slashed from the bed.

      Simon was through the door. Taking two steps, he halted, for the naked, blood-covered monster was now facing him. The look in her eyes terrified him, as well as her blood-soaked body. Mandal threw her head back and screamed. She ran across the room, leaped, and wrapping her bare legs around Simon’s waist, she gripped his waist as her fingers clawed up, digging into his eyes.

      From the force of the impact, he went flying backwards, as his hand held his stun gun, and his thumb kept trying to ignite it.

      Backwards they moved, muscled legs, like a Boa, increasing the tension along his waist. And then Simon screamed, as he felt one of his eyeballs being ripped from his eye socket. He exploded against the wall, as Mandal screamed again. Simon, being attacked so ruthlessly, then tangled his feet. He dipped backwards. Mandal hanging on with her legs and claws digging at his eyes, landed on top of him.

      His head sprung backwards, hitting the floor hard. His hand released the stun gun. It slid just to the left of him.  Mandal screamed again, as she ripped at his face, which, minus one eyeball leered at her. He exploded, shrieked at her as his hands flew to her face, and he raked it with his fingernails, leaving just more bloodied scars of a long line of scars on her face.

      Her eyes went insane, as she lowered her mouth to his nose and then chewed his nose off with her teeth. He shrieked, raking her face, as her peripheral vision saw the stun gun on the floor. Digging her fingers into the other eye, Simon screamed, followed by a primeval wail from Mandal. She spit his nose out, shrieked.

Insane, she grabbed a tuft of hair, and smashed the back of his head against the concrete floor, screaming as she did. Her hand fell to the stun gun. She leered at the steel nubs, ignited it with her thumb. Reaching behind her, she slashed the steel nubs into his testicles.

      What was left of Simon bellowed as the high voltage ruptured his testicles. Seeing his bloodied eyeball, laying on the floor, she stuffed it in his mouth, withdrew the stun gun. As Simon’s last remaining orb glared at her, he screamed again as she ripped the stun gun into his mouth. With a wild grin on her face, she ignited it.

      Sparks, fire and smoke blasted out of his mouth, stifling the last screams from his throat.

      Pressing the steel nubs deeper into his throat, she had still not blinked to the moment. Feeling his entire body vibrating, she threw her head back and began to bellow uncontrollably.

      After a moment, she stopped her screaming, and lowering her head, she saw that Simon was still not dead. Seeing the smoke swirling out of his mouth and his one eye numb and opaque, she threw her head back and screamed again. Throwing her hands into the air, her entire body undulated, completely out of control as she screamed one last time.

      She twisted to the floor, straddled his torso, and with her forearm wrapped it around his throat. Grinning, and as she strangled him to death, she whispered.

  “For Claire, asshole.”

      Her brow crinkled as she came back from her madness. She stared at the spool of smoke trailing out of Simon’s mouth. Taking the stun gun in her bloodied fingers, she jerked her head at the door, remembered further and stood.

      Out the door, she turned left towards the pregnancy rooms. She powered into the vast, white, neon lit room. There she was, the caretaker, the wife who was a part of such horror, and having heard the screams, she was standing next to the last bed, the empty bed, the one meant for the crazed, naked, blood-soaked demon staring at her.

      Cowering, her hands pressed against her Christmas sweater, as she, Ethan Smith’s wife Sarah, they were all named Sarah in one way or another, cringed as the naked, blood-soaked woman moved before her. The devil, simply grinning, gawked at her.

      Pressing her back against the wall, she whispered. “Pl…Pl…Pl….Please…

Do…Don’t hurt me…Please. I pray you do not harm me.”

      Mandal grinned, as she felt bile gathering in her throat. Eyes like fired lug bolts, she touched the deep scratches on her cheek, touched her bleeding lips with her own blood, as she whispered.

      “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to kill you, you fucking bitch.”

      Leaping at Mrs. Smith, the woman yelped as Mandal dug her fingers into the back of her sandy hair, ripped her skull back so the woman’s shaking lips were open in pleas of remorse and hopefully forgiveness. Mandal lifted the stun gun and having it level with her bulging eyes, Mandal racked the nubs into her mouth, lit her up, seethed.

      “Pray on this, you bitch.”

      Fire and electricity pulsed through her mouth. Her body vibrated through her screams. Holding her by the back of her hair, Mandal watched as the woman’s feet bounced up and down on the floor.

      Seeing the woman’s eyeballs roll to the back of her head, Mandal pulled the gun from her smoking mouth, and in one action, ripped her face into a solid table, set next to the empty bed, her bed, one…two…three times.

      Hearing the bones of her nose crunch, seeing her teeth scatter to the floor, the woman moaned. Mandal lifted her face backward, scrutinized it. Staring at her shattered nose and broken teeth and the blood gushing down her face, she savagely slashed her face once, twice, and a third time against the solid oak table.

      Reaching down to a stainless steel table, she took a scalpel, leered into her eyes and then cut her throat. Mandal released her, allowing her in sections to slump to the floor. She lifted her foot into the air, and with the ball of her heel, she crashed it into her temple, double tap killing her instantly.

      “Bitch.” She whispered.

      She began to feel the adrenaline draining from her body. Blinking twice, she looked back at her holding cell.

      She ran her fingers through her blood-soaked hair, brought her hands down to her face. Staring at the blood, she crinkled her brow. She remembered that she had just murdered three people, thought about it for a second, shrugged her shoulders, and meekly whispered.

“Geeze.”

      Her eyes glanced at the young Holtzman girl laying in the hospital bed, silent now, no laughter, future, never to smile again, no redemption in her life now. Glancing at the tubes in her nose and arms and as she listened to the heart monitor go “Beep…beep…beep” she stared at the comatose girl, who would never have a life now.  

      Walking over to the girl, Mandal wiped her left hand on the sheet, semi clean of blood. Tenderly and lovingly she petted the girl’s blond hair. She felt a tear gathering in her eyes.

      Touching her cheek, she winced as she saw the girl’s eyes turn to her. For a moment she thought she saw recognition within them. But they were like dead lead balls. After a moment, the girl turned back to seeing nothing and feeling nothing.

     A tear fell down Mandal’s cheek.

      Looking down the row, she saw the three other lobotomized and pregnant young blonde women. 

      She bent and vomited.

      It cleared her thought process.

       Biting her lower lip until it drew blood, she exhaled as she turned and began to walk.

      Preparing now, there was more work that needed to be done and as her brain sizzled, she seethed to herself.

      “Sleep my lovelies, I’ll take care of it all now.”

      And then she was around a corner and gone.

     

      DOCTOR Ethan Smith stared at the tan Caprice, then his brother. He glanced at his wife Ruth, who was holding the two blonde babies in white, soft cotton blankets in her arms.

      Not wanting any roaming eyes within the house, Doctor Ethan Smith turned to the chauffeur, and politely said. “Thank you, Jeffery. Have a good day.”

     Doctor Ethan Smith, seemingly a bit annoyed, stared at the tan sedan, then at Adam, his brother.

      “Her car.”

      His brother swallowed hard, nodded.

      “Yes, Ethan…It is.”

      Rubbing his jaw, he thought for a moment. “Okay, let’s see this woman. Take the children into the sanctuary. Come.”

      Everyone on edge, Adam Smith and with his brother’s wife carrying the two children from Stockholm and Ethan Smith following, they all walked through the door. As they entered the vast living room his brother turned to him and whispered.

      “Wife, take the babies to the nursery. Brother, my office. Let us see who this woman had pretended to be.”

      Both men walked across the living room. Ethan Smith stalled out in front of his office door, turning to his brother as he did.

     “Where are the boys? Where is Sarah?

      Simon shrugged his shoulders, glanced at his watch, whispered with no concern what so ever in his voice.

      “It is late, Ethan. They sleep, perhaps.”

      That made sense to the tall blond twin dressed so wonderfully in his black suit. He nodded, walked into his most fabulous office.

      “Hey, you’re back. Great, come on in boys.”

      The female voice jolted them to a stop. A single light off into a corner illuminated the study, throwing a yellow glow on the figure sitting behind the great teak desk on the high back office chair. Within a micro second, both men thought it was Sarah, but quickly that changed as the figure, dressed entirely in black rose from the chair. Her height instantly told them that this was not anyone’s wife, but something very, very different indeed.

      She had showered, found her clothes, black gloves and her guns on the desk right where she had last seen them. Pointing her silenced Beretta 9 MIL at the two stunned doctors, she grinned as she moved a few steps towards them.

      “Surprised, gentlemen? If you move, just a little, I will kill you.”

      The twins exchanged horrified and stunned glances. Mandal could see that the look on Ethan Smith’s face seemed so filled with disbelief and then hatred, she tensed the grip of the pistol, for he looked at the moment like he would attack her.

      She saw his blue eyes tick across the room at the gun case, which was filled with rifles and two, old and etched metal, over/under barrel shotguns. She saw that he was contemplating them. She grinned. Raising the automatic so it pointed to his white, striated face, she giggled, mimicking Dirty Harry. “Go on, Doctor. Make my day.”

      Getting her gist, Ethan Smith calculated the odds and, then chilled out.

      “Ho…Ho…H?…Wha…What in God’s name have you done?…Ho…

How.”

 Simon Smith stuttered, as his brother Ethan stared at the most beautiful, blond Goddess he had ever seen.

      She was a no-nonsense kinda gal and maybe in the movies they exchange all kinds of lip service, but in her world, that was nonsense. She walked to Simon Smith, and rearing back, she racked him in the temple with the Beretta’s barrel, sending him down with a “yip” to the floor.

      Glancing at Ethan Smith, she pointed the barrel tip at his temple. She smiled, as the doctor, seemingly constructed of ice, simply glared at her through his blue eyes.

      “This not in God’s master plan, Ethan…That’s your name, isn’t it?”

      She stared at Adam, who with a bloody, serrated left eye was groaning as he struggled to his feet. She glanced back at a smiling Doctor Ethan Smith.

      “You’re making a mistake, miss…I am afraid you do not understand what we are doing here. Do you know that you could be a part of something so grand, that it would equal the glory of our Savior’s work. I’m sorry, your name?”

      Mandal peeked at Adam Smith, then back to the smiling and confident brother.

      “Oh, I’m sorry, Doctor. Mandal…And the only mistake that’s been made, is that you murdered my girl.”

      Far off in the house, a scream echoed somewhere. Both men jerked their heads to the open door. The sound of shoe soles could be heard and, then crashing through the door, Ruth Smith, her face painted in tears and panic appeared.

      “OH ETHAN…OH MY GOD, Ethan…Th…The boys…Sarah…Dead…all dead…ETHAN….AAAAH.”

      She swallowed her words in her throat. Tear-strained eyes lifted and she saw the blond devil casually swinging a gun towards her. In an instant, her gray eyes locked with the demons. Her face bleached in terror as the blonde demon smiled at her:

       “Pssst, Pssst, Pssst” whistled through the air.

      The three bullets hit her in her Christmas sweater, centered into her chest. Her body bucked and violently hurled back through the doorway. Slamming back against the wall of the hallway, she fell, her face slumping against her chest.  Simon Smith’s eyes bulged out of his head, as he went back and forth, back and forth from the dead woman, to the blond who now was eerily smiling at him and was pointing the gun at him now.

      Ethan Smith simply stared in awe, for an emotionless killer himself, he simply was fascinated and felt a rush in his body, watching something so surgically clean, so DNA and genetically perfect, as the warrior woman, who understood as he did, that to take life, is to give life.

      Doctor Adam Smith, blood and tears streaming down his face, turned to Mandal and stuttered. “Yo…Yo…Your insane…My wife…my…my wife…Our sons. You’ve killed her…You’re Satan…Satan…oh…ooooh, Saaaara.” He cried in real time pain.

      Mandal smiled. Ethan Smith turned and viciously slapped his brother in the face, as he seethed. “Shut up. You are so weak. Do you not see who she is?”

      Adam Smith fell to his knees. Crushing his face into his hands, he began to weep. Ethan Smith turned, smiled. Mandal saw utmost respect in his blue eyes for her and within that moment, both of them knew that they were from the same tribe.

      There had forever been in the Bible, if one took it literally, never any benevolence from God. Disbelieve me or worship any other God, then I will murder you, your family and your entire village. Ethan Smith knew this. He believed in that credo, as well as understanding it better than any man on the planet.

      He knew well, that the weak would never inherit the Earth.

      “What do you think, Ethan? Am I insane? The Devil? Is that what you see? Is it?”

      His ego now nuclear, it began to mushroom in a fireball of wonder, for within that moment of destiny, he now knew that he had found his queen. She was a violent queen of such purity and sanity that his mind raced from the possibilities of what she and he together could do within his universe of beauty and racial perfection.

      “No…Not insane…You are remarkable…Please, I do not fear you…I understand you…Think…Think of what I am doing and now, how you, through Gods wisdom, perhaps might have come to help me accomplish things only other men dare dream of…Do you understand, my queen? How pure it all is?”

      She blinked, and he saw it, and he saw her thinking and that pleased him, for her eyes held such intelligence. He felt stunned by their magnificence. Mesmerized now, he thought that she was beginning to comprehend his greatness. He was certain that she had been sent by God to help him rule his universe.

      “I see…I see now, that you understand.” He glanced at his kneeling, weeping brother, showed disgust.

      Gazing deeply into her blue eyes, white hair and her remarkable length and height and then at the handgun she gripped in her black gloves, he whispered, as if he were praying.

      “You and I…The possibilities are endless. Do you see…It is fate that God has brought you to me.”

      Waving his hand at his brother, he now was confident that she understood him, he whispered again. “They are so weak. Yet, you, like the Angel Michael…Part woman, part man, a warrior sent to me to fight the black-skinned hoards, to purify the world. You and me…It is a miracle.”

      Mandal stared at him for the longest of moments. Crinkling her brow in thought, she nodded. Showing clarity in understanding his words, she whispered, almost reverently.

      “You and me, Ethan, together, fighting the dark hordes together. Is that what you are saying, Ethan. Is it?”

      Nodding his head, he saw a realization and a softness descending along her face and excited now, and feeling sexual for her, he smiled.

      “Yes…Yes, I see you understand. Only you could be my queen.” Raising his hands to her, palms up, he smiled at her and said.

      “Come…I will love you…It will be you and me, now, forever. What a pairing. Come now, my queen, you are home.”

      Mandal smiled, lowered the handgun and looked at his up-turned palms. For a moment the look on her face was so compassionate, that Ethan Smith now knew that he had found his warrior queen, finally and at last.

      “You and me, Ethan? Is that what you are saying?” She said, hopefully, almost gratefully.

      “Yes…yes my Queen…You and me.”

      Mandal smiled, and as Ethan Smith took one step, he halted in his tracks. Suddenly his brow crinkled, for the smile from her full lips had transformed into a gritted, tight rip of a smirk and then she did smile again as she raised the 9 mm, and leveled the tip of it at his forehead.

      “You’re out of your fucking mind. Toodles, asshole.”

        She laughed, as her finger aligned along the trigger tensed and began to squeeze.

      The gun bucked and the air reverberated with a “Psssst, pssst, pssst.”

      He actually saw the bullets flashing out of the barrel tip towards his forehead and as the bullets impacted, he knew that his brother had been correct within his words. Indeed, she was Satan, and she had come from the depths of hell to steal his soul.

       Small holes appeared in his forehead. His head jerked back, exploded as did his tall body, and as he crumpled to the floor, she saw in his eyes disbelief, and that pleased her so.

      Simon Smith screamed, racked his eyes at his dead brother. He screamed again as Mandal moved to his dead brother and casually shot him twice in the chest.

      Straightening, so his behind was resting on his shoe heels, Adam Smith splayed his shaking hands in front of him.

      “Pl…Please…Do…Do…Don’t kill me…Please. Money…I…I…have money.”

      Pressing the barrel tip of the silencer to his forehead, she whispered.

      “Kill you…I wouldn’t think of it…The CD, doctor…Where is it.”

      “C…CD…Wh…What CD.”

      “The one Claire brought. I couldn’t find it…Get it, NOW.” She tapped his forehead with the barrel tip again, smiled.

       “I…If I give I…it to you, will you let me go….Pleeeease?”

      “Of course…I won’t kill you. She crossed herself. “Cross my heart and hope to die…Please, the CD.”

      “Then…Thank you.” He whimpered, as he struggled to his feet.

      Mandal smiled as he staggered to his desk. He slumped into the high back leather chair. Meekly staring at her, he reached under a leather and cardboard ink blotter, from which he withdrew a small, gold key.

      His hands trembling, he showed it to her. She smiled.  Finding a secret little lock, hidden under the desk, inserted the key. A small drawer opened. He withdrew the CD, swallowed and handed it to her. Taking the CD from his vibrating hand, she looked at it, smiled, placed it into her jacket pocket.

      “There’s that rascal.” She joked.

      Seeing that her mood had lightened, he whispered. “Can I go now?”

      She lowered the Beretta to her side. Her hand moved behind her back and seemed for the longest time to stay there.

      “You’ve been very bad, Adam.”

      In slow motion he watched as her hand materialized from behind her back. His eyebrows furrowed as he saw a small, black iron .38 in her hands.

      “I…I…Thought you said you weren’t going to kill me?”

      Taking a single step, she raised the .38, cocked it with her thumb, and as he yipped, she placed the snub barrel against his temple.

      “I’m a lying bitch…I’m not going to kill you. You’re going to kill you…Have a good trip to Nephi.”

      “KABOOM.”

 

      The gun barked as the side of his head erupted out of his temple. His body jerked to the right and then he slumped to his desk, sleeping now for eternity.

      Her work almost completed, she now had to finalize her plan. Reaching forward, she took Adam Smith’s dead hand, placed the non-traceable 9 millimeter into it, stuck his forefinger into the trigger, leaned down and pointed it at the corpse of his brother.

      With her gloved finger, she aimed for a moment, squeezed off a round. She smiled as she saw the lead pellet thump into the lifeless body of his brother.

      If nothing else, she was thorough. She now knew that there were powder burns on Adam Smith’s hands. Dropping his hand back to the desk, she pried the 9 mm from his grip and placed her .38 in his hand, making sure his forefinger had pressed nicely against the trigger mechanism.

      With that done, she took the 9mm, of course a very untraceable handgun from his hand, laid it on the desk and stared at her handiwork.

      She fought giggling, as she whispered. “Fucking Mormons, let ‘em figure that one out.”

      Knowing she still had a phone call to make and one last piece of business to take care of, she walked to the gun case. She scrutinized the various hunting rifles and shotguns the holy felt so comfortable with whenever they obliterated everything that ran or flew within their glorious world.

      She was an expert at weapons, they had always fascinated her. She reached forward and gripping the hand checkered, maple stock and metal etched designed shotgun from the case, she held it in her hands and admired it.

      It was Manlicher/Gamba Edinburgh, over/under, 12 Gauge, one of the finest handmade scatter-guns ever crafted. It had chrome-lined barrels, was double ribbed, had auto injectors and it was the pride and joy of the maker, one radical dude, named Renalto Gamba.

      She took a fistful of shells and after click, click, click, click, she finished funneling the red and brass shells into the magazine. With one gloved hand, she racked the shotgun, ratcheted a shell into the chamber.

       Digging the vibe of the shotgun, she turned, and without looking at the dead, walked to the door, and out of it, leaving it open behind her.

      She walked out the door, and then feeling the light snow, she turned her slashed and cut face to the gray, winter sky, smiled as she felt the snow flakes dissolve against her skin. The fact that she was alive, beyond all odds, pleased her.     

      “Okay.” She whispered.

      She moved to her tan cop sedan, placed her shotgun on the passenger seat. She placed her gloved fingers on the key, and twisted it. The car came to life. She gave it some gas and she drove along the curved driveway, until she came to the end of it.

      Pulling up to the barber pole, she grabbed her shotgun, stepped out of the car and with both hands holding it to her side, she walked past the striped barrier.

      She saw the young, blond man standing. As his face smudged in recognition and she saw his brow wrinkled in curiosity and worry, she smiled, and pulled both triggers of the Manlicher.

      “KABOOM. KABOOM”

      The lead shot ripped through the guard booth, shattering the guard’s body to shreds. He blasted back into the back of the booth.  Moving to the booth, she glanced at him, shrugged her shoulders, saw the small button, leaned down and pressed it. Bending to a recoding player, she relieved a DVD, then two others from a shelf.

       She slowly drove past the guard gate. Retracing her original journey, and before she hit the Interstate off in the distance, she saw a culvert filled with muddy water.

      Grabbing her shotgun, she moved to a fence post, and holding the gun barrel in her gloved hands, she whacked the shotgun several times. It shattered in several pieces.

      Looking around to see if she had awoken anyone, she heard again silence. She gathered up the pieces of the gun, scattered them along the murky water of the culvert.

      Back on the main road, she began to move forward once again.

      Forty-five minutes later, she was back in Salt Lake City.

      Re-tracking her original route on her I Pad, she found the three-story parking complex where her truck was parked. She took a ticket from the machine, moved up the ramp, and on the second floor, she found a free space. She parked the sedan.

      Reaching into the back seat, she found a baseball cap, and slotted it deep over her blond hair. Adding sun glasses, she was all good.

      Leaving the key in the ignition, she grabbed the pack, hefted it on her shoulder, exited the sedan, and began to walk.

      Jumping into her pickup’s cab, she threw her backpack on the seat, fired the truck up, backed out. She slowed along a young, blond, white boy, sitting in a booth.

      With no reason in the world to think anything odd about anything, the boy handed her change, pushed the button, allowing the gate to swing up and open.

        Outside of the city, she pulled over and parked.

        She clicked in a telephone number, on her pay-as-you-go Walmart cell.          

        After a moment of phone moaning, a tired “Hello” came over the wire, and then it all began.

       Without hesitation, she told her best friend, one Lieutenant Victor Garcia everything, every fucking detail of what she had just done.  

      AFTER MANY minutes of terror-driven scribbling on a yellow pad, Lieutenant Victor Garcia told her to get her ass back to Vegas ASAP and be fucking careful in doing so.

      Stunned to the bottom of his cop shoes, he simply glared like a lunatic at the phone as he finally hung it up. His hands were shaking, and as her clever and quite beneficial plan coursed through his brain, he, after a moment, actually smiled. The fact that he was actually going to do nothing about involving her in multiple homicides, shook him to his cop’s core.

       Actually respecting her now more than ever before, he stood, and grabbing a yellow pad and a pen, he raced through the door of his office, knowing, “That yes, indeed, he could live with it.”

      He moved to the wall, where the Task Force information for the missing woman, and their butchered husbands were still set on The Murder Boards against the wall.

      “No fucking way.”

       His eyes ablaze in astonishment, he felt his body temperature rising, as he drew lines connecting this and that of various pieces of information on to his yellow pad.

      “Well I’ll be a son of a bitch.”

      He smiled.

      “Dammit, he would do it.”

      Picking up the telephone, he hit a speed dial button, and after a moment, a sleepy male voice filtered over the ear piece back over the wire into his ear. “Hello, Homicide. It better be fucking good”

      “Tom, Victor. You’re not going to fucking believe this. I solved it”

      Weeks later, he got his Captain bars, the key to the city, kissed tons of babies, got a lot of bundt cakes and thus:

       A legend of the Las Vegas Police department was born.





j brooke is a writer with over 100 credits, and never lists them. It's simple for j, for it’s never what you have already written, but what you are going to write next. Contact info: jbrooke2001@yahoo.com




Artist Zero lives in an underground bunker somewhere in Colorado or someplace else with Promise, a rescue Australian Shepherd with an appetite for corn-on-the-cob and peanut butter.

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