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suicidequeen.jpg
Art by Paul Dick © 2011

The Suicide Queen

 

j. brooke



New York, night, Canal Street in Little Italy. D'Angelos's, a jewel of an Italian eatery, the diamond beveled into the center strand of pearls of other bars and eateries was shimmering; it was notoriously chic, even for Gumba Ville. The boys loved it, Made or otherwise. The spaghetti La Daviola was primo, the lasagna thick, house wine rich, great for the pallet and the veal white and never overdone.

It was midnight, another hour to go, and the crowd was sparse, few suits finishing up, weapons checked at the door, lots of laughter still. The teak and leather bar glistened from racked crystal on the racks above it, Sambuca, Grey Goose, Anisette, the usual suspects, tantalizing liquors glowing from a blue-back lit neon. Rest of the place sparkling, mahogany colored leather booths, white table cloths, real silver, English bone-white china, world class stuff. Mario D'Angelo had spared no dimes tricking the haunt out.

Mr. D'Angelo, ahhh, 50ish, 6ft 2, slender, black shock of hair, graying at the temples, hawk nose, delicate chin, blue eyes that forever sparkled, the mandatory tan, black suit, white shirt, red tie was a class act, as far as Little Italy went. He ran whores, numbers, hits when called for it, extortion whenever it showed. He was a Made Man, no one ever fucked with him.

Sitting at his usual slot at the end of the bar, he glanced at Mikey, his barkeep, then at his maître d', William, tuxed out, grey hair, sophisticated, standing at the door, talking up some wop pug, who had thiefed enough to afford a meal at his bistro.

Off at a booth, two slabs of sausage, massive man, Mario's men, linguine set right before them, chests like kegs of beer, sat eating, chatting, eyes never far from Mario, he being the sole reason for the continuation of their breathing on the planet.

Mario smoked, sipped at a Sambuca, thought of a trailer full of slag furs his crew had hijacked the night before. His girlfriend, Ginger, blonde, aerobics to death, bought tits, Brighton Beach idiot, could suck the tiles offa one of Mario's johns, if ya asked her, was lofted up in a slick condo he owned in Midtown. Mario knew she would love one of the furry delights, as would his wife, who was just leaving for Rome for a couple of weeks of family, with his daughter, both of which he adored.

All that changed of course when she walked through the fucking door. Gasping, Mario's blues flicked, blinked, he wasn't really quite sure his stunned eyes were seeing what he thought they were seeing.

She was smiling, white teeth, tall, unbelievably elegant, thin blonde, super short hair, tiny nose, sharp jaw, heartbreak legs, blink-blink, that's how white her skin was. She owned blue eyes, seemed almost invisible they were so clear cut. She was poured into a slit-at-the-side white skirt, white blazer, white silk camisole, white Manolo stilettos, which must have made her 6ft 1, at least, was smiling and chatting up William at the door.

Mario snuffed his Galouise out in an ashtray, adjusted his tie, fiddled at his diamond pinkie ring, watched as William, bowing, scraping, led the spindle blonde across the room to the end of the bar. Once there, she sat, crossed bare legs, which a stealth bomber could have landed on they were so thin and long. Peeling off her white silk jacket, she laid it off to William, who did more bowing, scraping, then backed off, saying hosannas as he did.

"Fuck,” Mario whispered, as his eyes bolted out of his head. Now the princess was in a sleeveless, white silk body shirt, small breasts, wide shoulders, collarbones like carved white ivory pressing through her sheer skin, so thin Mario could see each and every one of her ribs silhouetted against the white shirt. Simply said, he had never seen anything so exotic and beautiful in his life.

Instantly, Mikey the barkeep flicked eyes at Mario, he nodded, messed with the shirt cuffs, watched as his Mikey walked over, smiled, began the chitchat with the doll. She was friendly, a gorgeous twist, smiled a smile that could have lit the Twin Towers, that is, if those fucking Arabs hadn't knocked the fucking things down, Mario thought.

Lips no bitch should ever have, no lipstick, the color of wheat, full and pouting, Mario felt dazed. Then the erection, he was a stud, the girl, seemingly very down-to-earth, chatted up Mikey, went back and forth, then decided on a Grey Goose martini, like Bond, shaken not stirred, Mario was a goner.

Like Achilles, beauty was his weakness, so as Mikey lit her cigarette, no filter, Gauloise like Mario, man’s smoke and the haze pearled out from those casaba lips, Mario zeroed in, a U-boat, torpedoes armed, ready to blitz the blonde.

Sidling down the bar, hellos, introductions, I am Mimi, no attitude, invites fluttered from her lips, Mario accepted the sit-down. Mario slotted a bar stool, then she spoke perfect Italian, fucked up Mario's mind, he answered in dago, she smiled, laughed, Mario was a dead man, he was in love. Fucking Italians, go figure.

Time flapped away like her blonde eyelashes, one Grey Goose, two, three is better. Yes, they both loved London, yet, to have the true European experience, Paris was a must for food, fashion, Milan a close second, Cannes for play, though in winter nothing could surpass Gastaad. Yes, she was just stalling out, the limo outside, Kennedy at dawn, Zurich, then Neuchatel, skiing, had heard of D'Angelos, more laughs, it was as elegant as her driver had said. Touches on Mario's arm, more smoke like a guillotine flowing past her white teeth and yes, one must live in Italy, for it was the complete package of ambiance, no passion, no life without Italy, they both agreed, as the martinis flowed like platinum dreams.

Mario was hypnotized, fucking mesmerized, she, down-to-earth, slit at the side, bare legs getting more naked by the moment, more touches, smiles could melt mercury. Let’s make a deal. He suggested his mansion on Long Island, just for drinks, you know, a nice place, kickback, chill a little, just until the jet whacked off from Kennedy in the morning.

No problem, she was open, a dazzler, she seemed to adore everything about him, erection superceding his mind, a few lies, why not. No need for her to know, wife gone, just left, Rome and then on to Naples, real Gumba stuff, old women moaning in black, Guapa, just like the movies, lets do it, and they did.

Fluffing of his muscle, two guys with no necks, handguns bulging against barrel chests, agreements were bartered, absolutely, her limo was fine, they could hardly wait to mate, and out the door they went.

Standing naked, the white strand of ribbon stood, water-blue eyes, almost translucent, she was so ocular. Mario, nude, engorged cock, eyes dazed, laid on the down, big bed. Massive room, rare art on the walls, happy, unable to break the mark. The fucking queen in white from tip to tiny toes looked like a virgin princess, painfully thin, no form to her body, no fake tits, like a snow-blind memory. Mario can't break the gaze, she smiles, more white, she moves to the bed, takes a look at his penis, pouts, twists a small smile, she looks happy. Her tiny tummy is swelling, Mario blushes, he feels like a fucking kid again, testosterone unlimited, fuck until his eyes bleed.

Slinking over, slow, seductive, like some kind of albino constrictor, she sits on the bed, reaches fingers so elegant out, wraps the tendrils around his penis, squeezes, smiles, swallows. Mario wants to bitch weep, he is so happy. Increased breathing, Mario, blood jerking off in his brain, crazed, thinking about a divorce lawyer, one his gangster friends had used to jettison his own wife. His brain begins to leak madness like a kid with a new popgun, staring at a bird on the front lawn.

She smiles, just a little, parts those lips, pouts, a look like a lioness, a hungry one, then she lowers her lips, kisses his tip, Mario winces, then lower, and then lower still, fuck, no fucking way. Jilting strikes of thought, his penis is down her goddess throat, up and down, tongue playing some kind of melody. Around and around she goes, don't stop, don't leave, test pattern thoughts, bitch has no gag reflex, throat swelling each push down, Mario now knows the face of Satan, he's a fucking woman.

She sucks out, straightens, on her knees now, straddles him, holds his penis with awe. She’s ghostly pale, blue veins leading from her stomach into her cunt, smiling again, Mario is a child again. He is stunned, paralyzed, blood pumping his cock up, hands now, on her tiny breasts, pink nipples, her evident ribs, the glowing tummy, her arms raised to the canister of the four- poster bed, swaying, humming, dreamy-like, steamy-like, heat emanating from her skin. Up a little that tiny ass, now a guide, his penis, large, prominent, a "Made Man’s Dick,” inside her. Mario drugged, winces, feeling her cunt burning, nothing like it before, she’s a fucking extraterrestrial, he's sure of it.

What was the name of that wop divorce guy, fuck it, later.  She moves, up, down, a strider of perfection, moans, Mario and her, in unison, pressed white fingers on his lips, cunt like one of those atom smashers over at JPL, vagina shaved, everything blended like the sun. Hands, his hands, touching that skin, her no tits, no form to her body, up, down, her breathing gasping, lips tight, bared, teeth showing like that lioness again, flow and ebb, up, then down, time moves right along. She hops up, smiles through gritted teeth, guides his cock to the entry of her anus. He can't believe any of it, as she rams his cock into her ass.

Mario gasps, she screams, racks her head back and forth, bangs his chest with her fists. She goes nuts. Mario's eyes bolted open, nothing he has ever felt has ever felt like his cock buried into her velvet ass. Time passes, still Mario hasn't blinked for a fucking hour and then she shrieks, body shaking, shuddering, eyes twitching, and then Mario explodes, semen filling her, matching flames for flames, as he groans, tenses as she falls along his body. She is shuddering, weeping, as his arms wrap around her nothingness. Skin pressed against skin, tears mingling with sweat as she whispers through saline water drops. "Amore, sei magnifica. Adoro solo te."

Brokenhearted, fucked up and knowing it, holding the child in his man’s arms, Mario touched her spine, her tiny rump, feels her tears on his neck, then whispered back.  “Sí, amore, ti amo anch’io. Ti prego di non lasciarmi mai." Yes, my love, I love you, too, please never leave me alone, never."

Magic moments, surreal for Mario, fucking romance made in Hollywood, maybe cement stilettos for the wife, why not, he's done worse. Then the brave little girl finally gets right, leans up, hovers over him, and then smiles, a child really, simply precious in his Old World-romanced mind. Mario smiles, her fingertips to her own lips, then pressed against his, lies shared, promises sworn to, an encore pursed from her lips, just a moment, the bathroom, giggles, girl stuff. "Please, daddy, you can spank me if I'm bad, even if I'm good." More giggles. Mario loves her, she dances away, small feet getting air, a tilt back, a purr, a smile, and air kiss sent COD. Mario grabs it in the ozone, knows he will never let it go, Tiffany’s in the morning.

Bathroom, purse, naked, leering into the mirror, seeing nothing, feeling nothing, truly the white spirit, fiddles in the bag, finds her stuff, no pulse beat, cold skin like white Pieta Marble. Black ice in her hand, wondering, goofing, what’s that in the mirror, can't look, vomit images, then finished, click, hands behind her back, soft again, warm and fuzzy, sexpot, god or goddess, more like Satan, out the door she goes. Standing, swaying, smiling at smiles, hands behind her back, surprises, gifts, as a child, she loved them, no memory of ever being a child ever racks her brain any longer, that she is certain of. Mandal, not Mimi now, no, not the weeper, frail and so needy, different eyeballs screwed into that angelic face, smiling, fading now, Mario doesn't get it, he will. She takes a barefoot step, remembering that God takes everything so indiscriminately for the simple reason that he can.

That death, like "Damocles’s Sword," gives life such a special meaning, for without its finality, lives, careless, vapid with no thoughts of reparation within in it, were meaningless. Hands swung from the small curvature of her spine, hands by her side, Mario in Love, frozen icicles dripping from her eyes, “Click”, chambering one of thirteen 22's into the Beretta, ready now. Mario blinking, naked, waiting for his angel, not expecting the Angel of Death as brief moments of no recognition crinkle his brow, suspicion, not registered yet, can’t be, no fucking way, lovers don’t hold handguns, especially his white/blonde with eyebrows that have suddenly melded into blood-colored eyes. She lifts her arm, no words; the moment is frozen in time.

Eyes, his, hers, locked, clarity as if watching a single drop of blood dripping from an open neck wound. Slow motion now, frame by celluloid frame, finger pressure. Mario protests, she smiles.

"Pssst." Hollow-point racing across time, marked, centered, impacting in Mario's forehead as blood splatters, brains, skull fragments too, patterned against white pillows, then maybe dead, more incredulous as she tilts her head, eyes on eyes. Curious girl, efficient girl, bloodcurdling violent girl and then.

"Pssst . . . Pssst . . . Pssst." Three in the heart. Mario D'Angelo has had a visit from the white Suicide Queen and she was not carrying in her hands white roses.

Humming, naked, a matrix restructured, coming apart as chips of ice from a bullet’s thump, knowing that she has relieved another good Catholic of his life as God so often did, regularly. She feels nothing, numb as always, it is her job, a church could have fucking fallen on him just as easily. They often do to the faithful, mostly in the Philippines, Jupiter cold in her throat thinking that.

Something then moved, she thought it was her heart imploding, but no, behind her, she turns, Beretta in her hand, naked, leering. Standing there is a fortyish woman, gawking, shaking, pressed against her leg a seven-year-old girl, chin trembling, staring at the blood-soaked corpse, and then the dynamic white creature gazing back at her.

Two valises, behind them, bad weather and a flight cancellation, bad time, bad luck, wrong destiny, bad for them, a maze full circled back to death. Mandal, morphed, rewired, curious, blue eyes wondering, constructed of pure evil, not
clear where she is, remembering and then lifting the silenced handgun, feeling a finger against the trigger mechanism, aiming, mother’s forehead centered within the bead. The wife bends to knees, taking her cowering daughter and hugging her to her side, as the naked woman's bare feet plant to the floor.

Two steps forward, one lifetime back, an outstretched arm of bone. Pistol welded to a white grip, blue-steel ice eyes unblinking, no waver, eyes, pleading from a mother protecting her daughter, tears falling, fear, searing fear, tip of a hand gun barrel pressed against her forehead. Then, the bone- colored woman blinks, tilts eyes to the girl, an ego- driven power broker staring at the innocence of virginity, blink again, something so familiar in her child new blue orbs, now tears cascading down pristine youth, then she remembers. "If one is to evolve to be a god, then one must do as God does."

Thumb on the hammer, "Click,” pressure on the trigger mechanism, then a single word. "Mommy."

Mandal looks, tilts her head, there is something wrong, God kills the merciful, the good and the saintly, does she? So this is who she is, no matter, work, safety, her vile ways, then resolve and benediction as the mother closes her eyes and whispers. "Please, take me but not my daughter. . . . Please, I beg you."

Recognition, more eyeballs ticking, closed, open, she bends to one knee, placing her eyes so close to the little girl’s. She is in the subterranean seas of the girl’s windows to her soul. Her brow crinkles, she is in awe, she is the little girl before, before what, before she had evolved, made the metamorphosis from human to monster, pistol tip, pressed against the mother’s forehead. Mandal touches the girl’s face, her blonde curls, remembers, leans in, kisses her on the cheek, stands, lowers the handgun, cocks her neck, furrows her brow, looks at the automatic in her hand, it feels hot, almost too hot to touch, and then, "Mommy I'm scared."

In a moment she regains something, perhaps partially, a small piece of her soul.

Hatred, then anger, savages her mind as she feels her naked body might erupt into a fireball of flames and ash.  Snarling now, teeth bared, she hacks the gun at the dead man, then back at the mother and daughter, she grits out the words.

"I have set you free. Do you see him, he who dishonors you?" Turning, she fires off a silenced bullet. "Psssst." The gun bucks, the smell of cordite fills the room, as the lead pellet impacts Mario D'Angelo in the chest. Then back, leering, almost rabid, she growls like a starved animal.

"He is a pig and you deserve better. Go, both of you. Make a new life.” And then she roared, "Before I fucking kill you both."

The wife, still holding beauty, no more than a concubine for a lying, cheating pig her entire life, she knows, has always known. The sluts, the whores, she had turned eyes away, bags still packed, so many reasons to live, stands, is silent, shares eyes with The White Executioner, savior, benefactor. She nods, shares understanding, woman to woman and then hand in hand walks from the room with her daughter and the new life that has been given as a gift from the nexus of
darkness, somehow transformed into a woman of benediction.

Perhaps as a great bird, ridding itself of its rotting plumage, Mandal falls to her knees, gun on the floor, shattered, evolution not a billion years, only a matter of seconds now. She falls to her back, eyes leering at the frescos of Tuscany layered along the domed ceiling, yellow-washed villas, sweeping fields of amber, red, blue flowers, it softens her, she remembers rejuvenation, a journey so long ago along a road from a Montreal's Girls School to killer, to here. Now she knows, is clear, that it must stop here, terminate, or she will lose herself never to return to being human again.

She begins to sob, tears falling down her cheeks, dripping down her sharp chin, pooling in the clefts of her collarbones. She is now certain that she must escape Anthony Uruguay, the sociopath mobster that had turned her out, owned her, bought her, and eventually had made her into a monster whore capable of killing a mother and a small child.

With bags of his money in tow, and in less than a week, she would be gone, and again as was her MO, a trail of death, pain, and sadistic grief would follow her, leaving the only man she ever loved dead.

A genius of languages, art, music, cultures and deviance, she stands, feels disorientated, and then straps her new life to her naked skin, turns, and begins to move. She would not look back, the run had begun and she would barely get out alive.
 


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Rock the Earth

by

j. brooke

 

Stevie Ray Vaughn knows, what you ask, that women are fucking troubled twists and just no damn good. Flap those bat wing lids, Lo La, Lo Lo Lo La la Lo la, right man, I promise my dick won’t flop, sit right here on my lap, my love, like a whirling dervish candy cane spinning top. Lie to me, promise me, beg me, fuck you, I am not buying that game no more. Why, because I want to wake up in the morning and find I still got a set of chrome ball bearings between my weak fuck legs. Retract that statement. I just seen your eyes, connected to your demonic angel face, and I'm a fucking goner.

I will die for you, live for you, chew my arm off for you, just to touch those sweet damn lips, with my lips. Whiskey bottle, ashtrays dying with dead butts, Absinthe, L’illusion verte, green smoke from the white flake, late nights, ten in the clip-hand gun, cribs set on fire, a Kansas wheat thresher fighting a forest fire of demons. Loaded blues, sick and elated, delirium tremors, vomiting on the curb. Why, baby, do you rock my fucking world?

Shake that ass, hook it up, roller derby in those three-inch heels, rove and dance and twirl around this garbage dump I call a home. Roam, rake it in, you’re a damaged slut, a ruthless rock starved I-Pod-power-Player kid. Raised on acid rock, The Jersey Shore and MTV, sucking off the football team, and now you’re zeroed in on me. So you want to be a rock and roll star, and a sweet mademoiselle, why hit me up? I'm a last-ditch artist running with the shit of the earth. I saw you in that micro skirt, day glow green tank top, drooping eyes, beehive, heels, cheap shoes, raccoon eyes, all the sex bells and whistles, a tight bod that can rock the Wurlitzer world.

Okay, let’s go there, feeling kinda good tonight. Right buzz, right choice, right bling, cool high, let’s fly. Let's get down, maybe hip hop dance, hop all around, oooh baby, stoned, rule, so cool. Maybe we can score a gram of the white dream, boil it up, bubbles on a silver spoon, white powder percolating in the last ditch moments before we nod out, right after we forget to fuck. Is that what you want? Is that what you need? Is my blood, soul, brain and heart enough to satiate your ego-driven self-absorbed needs? Hop hip-hippity hop over here, set that small ass right down here.

59 Buick gassed, chrome grill, top down, engine tuned, let’s take a little drive down highway 40, see what’s at the end of that honeypot of a gold cunt you have attached between those sweating, long legs. We'll find Vegas, gamble, get stoned, get high, I got the suite, I got all the drugs and paraphernalia we will ever need, right there, in the trunk. Summer night, I can’t take my eyes off of your flaxen hair, billowing out past the Buick's retro tail fins. Here, take a toke of this. Sip here, sweet doll, at the J Walker Black, with those go-go girl lips. That should tide us over until we hit Sin City, get down, get crazy, wild, hit on the strippers, party like its 1974, go all in, and then, begin the madness spiral downhill into sex, and finally get into the important things.

There they are, see that neon on a needle point, those glimmering lights, on the tip of the world, she’s waiting for us baby, Vegas. Man are we going to tear it up, probably barely get out alive, have some fun, and in the end if our bodies and brains fry, at least we went out like bizarro savages just before we die. Banshee shrieks, wails, fucking each other until our eyes melt, burning alive in one another’s arms, sweat, saliva, semen and your hair drenched like rusted chains, falling down that face, ring a ding, ring a ding ling, do ya hear the bell, round one doll in screams of flaming flames, bodies burning, getting ready for our retro rocket entry into the depths of a hook-up hell.

Cool, huh? You ready, sweetie pie? I know I am. Let’s rock, throw it down, no time like now.  So, let’s roll, my sweet-tasting and ever so delicious baby doll?  

 

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Art by Paul Dick © 2012

Soldier King

 

by j. brooke



     He is a soldier, a Major, a hero, a Marine, and he is my man and he is near death. Ramadi, Fallujah, now Kabul and Taliban tribe guys, you see, fulminated from Biblical beginnings, an eye for an eye, as it was said in the great book.

 

     Anesthetized kids in vest bombs, micro switches, body parts, Predator Drones, gangbangers, IED's amid suicide bombers, and every one wanting to be the man. Afghanistan and the egocentric, cannibalistic cabalism of a President mesmerized with a Jezebel vision of a Jehovah witnessed-thought, a cataclysmic calling that he is directly connected to God, a real God to so many, yet distorted by the seismic ego of a drunk zealot who could never see his beauty, only his ugliness.

 

     I can see the heart monitor, the green blip-blip-blip of the tenuous, fragile spider web of his life.

_____~_____~_____~_____~_____~_____~_____~_____~_____~

     Blip, blip, blip, a hesitation, a moment, it is a heart monitor metronome of everything that I am. I am a doctor, too, but there is nothing that I can do. His hand is warm, not because the blood is healing, but because the doctors, the nurses are angels, caring, and every tick of the clock allows me to live. Does he know I am here, whispering to his bandaged brain, his ripped and torn body? I do not know, but I will be here until his eyes open, or till the monitor flatlines, which my life will mimic if it does so.

    What was I before him?  Nothing.  A vapid illusion of a woman and yes, it sounds vacuous, empty, as if I was obvious, a transient of a beautiful female abused, used as a vessel of sperm for ignorant males that use ejaculation as a psalm of their horrid manhood, brains desensitized from porn, stripper icons of lust and no respect for women whatsoever. I was beautiful, a power broker, lost and left along the roadside of life, torrid, enraged, ugly before he entered my world and mind and he changed for me everything forever that I ever was.

 

_____~_____~_____~_____~_____~_____~_____~_____~______~_____~

    He is a man, a soldier.  Valiant, brave, tough, sweet and kind as a moth shying away from the burning torch that I was, that had always incinerated every man that dare to near it.  But not him, he is a soldier, you see. He is warrior, hard, and he saw me, held me, and heard my weeping and my fears and my words. His penis entered me, sweetly, like the armor of his pride, as a man, not like a dog or a peacock of vanity, but as a partner, that never feared me.  Wiped my tears away, and kissed every lie away from lips that had only ever held illusion within the trembling words that had forever only fallen from them, and then he forgave me for who I once was.

    I felt his penis in my mouth, tasted the semen. It was beautiful, saline as the sea where all life began, warm and pungent like him, a memory of his past and his present, between my lips, and I saw his fear and pain, for he was not egocentric, yet so human, so fragile. Bravery came in so many different Crayola color pallets of his mind. I remember, I must remember the moment that I placed my small hips along his muscled loins, I wept, for he was not ever a hurried man, and I entered him, deep, slow and lovely and it was a time we shared, of skin, destiny and our memories of love, which for me was the first time.

    We made love, I felt, as did he, and his body, so lean and muscled, corded, shredded, as did I, and it was real, and it is real, and at moments he was a cruel man, but it was done with love, orchestrated of fantasy and my own delights, and on my knees, he behind, lunging, piercing, so a man of passions hurt me, delighted me, and exposed my sex and my wants and I loved him so, for doing so.

    I remember days and endless nights, no words, no thoughts, holding in an embrace of desire and knowing as the rain fell, we were one, really a singular rain drop of such a fusion of souls, that we felt if there was no other moment that we could choose from to dream our orgasms, we would deny such a moment. This is the truth of what we are and what I wish we will be again, if only the monitor, the horrid scale of this moment, does not flame out as I am here still entwining my fingers within his own, please, do not take him away from me.

 

_____~_____~_____~_____~_____~_____~_____~_____~_____~_____~_____~

 

    Blip, blip, blip, a hesitation, a breath and another blip, and then, I move, take his penis in my hand, I know no other thing to do, under the sheets, near his life. I want him to know I am present and I hold it, pray to it, will do anything for one more breath of his life, for what will I do, oh, what will I do if the only man, the only human man, he, is no longer there to shepherd me away from the life I only ever knew before him.

    Tears, so filled with salt, acrid, demobilized and moving from my soul, what am I going to do? “Blip, blip, blip . . .”  Please GOD, I have never asked for anything before, please, I beg, do not take him from me. This is enough, a soldier wounded within a lie, and here, now, I will spend an eternity if this is all there is, for how can I survive without his touch, his breath, his life inside of me?  Oh, please, do not abandon me, this time, this moment, this last time.

______~______~_______________________________________

    The machine screams, drones, my eyes panic, search, scream. The sound, nail gunned in my heart, nurses, doctors, their lovely, they move, I can feel the blood draining from his fingertips, and the sound, a shrill, a meter of grief and then, finality, a screaming drone telling me all life has now died.

____________________________________________________


    Flatline, dead time, no time. I plunge to his heart, place my ear to the medals he will never see, as I vaporize and deteriorate.

   And now, a plunged needle, adrenaline, panic, and hoodlumism and maniacal madness, and then, nods, tears, words of solace and in an instant I have died with my soldier.

  Within that thread of time, I am dead, numb, and because of the zealotry of an ignorant politician zealot Biblical King, my life is over, as I lay my face to his corpse, weep, shudder, shake apart.

    I know now that theirs is a secret that finally is exposed, and of course it has been exposed before in this America Land, for charlatans are forever stripped naked of their bigotry and lies and that secret is, that theirs is a God—this I finally understand—and he has taken my warrior to a warrior’s home.

    It is a secret place where soldiers are uniformed in garments of white feathers, and he will finally find a universe of peace, where once bivouacked to, there will no longer be red blood spilled along a battlefield of tears, and thus for one soldier, there will never be another memory of another senseless war again.

 

 

 

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Art by Paul Dick © 2012

 

Scandalous for the Doll

by j brooke

 

She’s a scandalous doll, a harlot, a torrid, twisted, tipsy-turvy top girl totally jettisoned of any social conscience. She’s one of those bartered bitches: big doll- mascara eyes, hair so thick it’s been a net trapping men's hearts since she first took her first fucking breath, a true slut in the image of Madonna. And those lips, like a Cuisinart, you know: cutting, chewing, biting, kissing, making men crazed from the pouts that lick from that pink tongue that is just as sweet as a candy cane.

She’s Jane or something, some bitch name that just fuels the sex machine and she’s no damn good.  Oh, yes, she is, not set for sainthood, and I fucking adore her, but what the fuck do I know about water goddesses that are so sexed-up beautiful they shoulda been taken down like a mad dog long time ago? She’s a fucking train wreck, wrecking havoc with the weak fuck men who thought they could run with her, play with her, mate with her, sex with her, love with her, then were destroyed by her.

Why?  Because they were just pretenders, wannabe men, that tried to fool her with a bullshit bravado walk they saw on some trumped-up reality TV show that was a dream to begin with. Then, after she melted their nuts off, they wept like the little fucking boys they always were and always were going to be.

What is she? I tolja, she’s a babe, a cunt, a trick, a Stephen Hawking-brain genie, her idol, a virgin in her own twisted mind. She’s a tragic reminder that if a bitch has one of those cunts like a diamond cut, she can jack up the fella’s, get what she wants, because she’s just too atomically beautiful for her own fucking good 24/7—including holidays—for she’s on all the time.

She’s a weeper, weeping, purring, demanding. She’s a prima donna street whore begging, twisting the truth.  Disguised as a gift, she’s lying, creaming, bending skills of the male kind, grim reaping the whole magilla, all of it, and why? Because she’s intoxicating and genuine and real and lie-less, and moral-less and has the ethics of a Buddhist Monk and the sex drive of a fucking Alabama cheerleader.

Men and man-boys melt when she smiles, wince when she ejects them, rejects them, when she breaks their blood-soaked hearts. They would walk on their tongues five fucking miles if they thought they could fuck that sapphire-faceted there, just between her legs, and all of it is because she is the REAL, FUCKING DEAL.

           That's right, she knows it. I know it, most men think they know it, but don't, but of fucking course I know her: the thoughts, the rage, the fury, the tears, the banshee wails for some fuckhead to finally see her, throw her down, slap those beautiful legs out to the rivets of the bed, rack her up, line her up, slam that cue ball deep, make it fucking hurt, make her body shudder, shake, rattle and roll, make her scream and rack her fists against the bed rails, and make her plead for it to stop, make her lie for it to stop, make her mind break apart, make her beg for it to never end.

Someone, something, is better than nada. Anyone.  Scatter, spark, connect it all, slap her in the face, make those lips bleed, rip her hair back. Look into those blazing, crazed, retro-rocket eyes. 

Focus, my man, on those wild eyes, my wild eyes, watching the sweat splashing down her face. Hair tangles, lips pulsating, vibrating, frantic girl, desperate girl, my girl, crazy girl, the only fucking girl. Filthy, dirty, sweat, cum, what the fuck ever, splice the wires from her brain down that tummy to her cunt, smash the plunger detonating her into an orgasm that rocks her world, over and over and over again until she finally, once and for all, begs a man for forgiveness of what she is. For finally, she’s gone too far in a journey that never had too fars, and baby doll has finally arrived. Thank you fat Buddha head, I'd give you a blow job if I could, last words from the whore’s mouth just before she passes out.

Fuck, she knows pain. Look at all the bobbleheads she’s lopped off: men heads, girly-girl heads, ’cause they thought they could boogie down with her, jive the jive, do the tumble, do the dick-cunt dance.  But what, they fucking disappointed her, broke her heart, made her wish for a gang rape, ’cause why, ’cause they didn't know what to do with a goddamn sex goddess wearing white angel wings when they finally got their hands on the bitch.

Fuck them, ten ways to Sunday, for how can they recognize sexual wonder, sexual splendor, a demented angel with a soul made of gold and peacock feathers gracing as eyebrows and scales and fins and legs?  And how many fucking times does she have to beg to get hammered, break out the pool cue, to get fucked like the demonic princess she is, how many times? Well, for fucking forever, that’s how many times and all of that shit makes her sad.

That's why she’s pissed, has an attitude, has a memory, ’cause she can out- fuck every one of the posers and they know it, and she knows it, and I know it, and fuck, the world knows it.  So break out the dildo, electric motor time, it’s all she’s got left.

So what? This ocean girl, this head-trip girl, this acid-trip girl, this devil girl, this angel girl, this friend girl, this demented and honest girl. Fuck, man, I love this girl.  That’s why I went down to my knees, popped the white rock and begged her to marry me. The sweetheart bitch said, “YES.”

 

 

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My World

by j brooke

 

I had died once, but still I appeared to be alive, much like a dead star, a solar corpse, lost within the blackness of the mass void of Taurus, the child Aries, the Virgin queen Virgo, glimmering to earth, appearing to be alive, but so long dead of life, just appearing to be of breath to those that might take a chance glance to the stars. A goddess appeared from the grief and pain that was my life. She was a secular, solitary, seeking female that knew no greed, nor want, did not understand a selfish thought, and she took me to her home, and offered me love and protection I had never known. I was a charlatan, stranger, but that did not matter to her, no, for her heart, her great heart saw in me a man of lies, a pretender of life, yet she forgave me for the man I once was. Thus, she gave me a bed of white sheets, warmth, food and love, and she did it because she held not a selfish thought in her gifted and gentle mind. She had loved me unconditionally on a rumor, a mystic idea that I was worth saving, and only I knew the lie, that I was never worth saving, until she had, and then I was.

There was a lunar eclipse, a slivered moon, and bathed in moonlight and down she whispered to me that she was a woman of dreams, and her dreams were elusive as my life had been to me. We talked within the night-light of new and many things, a glow I saw came directly from her soul filled me with kindness, and gentleness. I was a soldier once, and I had seen death’s smile, inhaled the essence of the rotting and bloated corpses of the genocide in Africa and I felt those memories were the final words of an epitaph chiseled into my headstone.

I was a white paper whore until she saw me, understood me, realized that what I did, the woven and tangled words I created, might be the answer to her dreams, my dreams. After an odd lifetime of delusion, I saw clarity, as did she, and we realized that our destinies had been crocheted into one mind, one heart, one vision, and we became one as lovers, searchers, partners we never had, all woven along a single tapestry, called love.

Man has always been a mistake, for the Peacock surely is more beautiful, the Dolphin more elegant, The Cheetah faster, the great Elephant more powerful, the King Lion more stately and then what is to become of man, unless a woman finds his heart and soul and mind and holds it in the down of her gentleness.

She is a gay woman, filled with laughter, smiles and pain, and of course I see every nuance of who she is, sometimes pretends to be, and I love her for her greatness, her generosity and especially her fragility, and her way with me, a lost vacuous vagabond that never had a home, was never safe, was never nurtured, until she choose to love me, an enigma that only a dreamer could ever comprehend.

We are at the beginning of our journey, my sister, friend, lover and I, a mad man and a serene, savant female that is the rudder of our ship, and I will drain my blood for her. I will peel my skin, the chameleon skin I have forever lived with for her, as she will give me every ounce of her passion so we might see together, through the fog and the trawler clouds of our lives, finally the golden sun we both know has forever been a wayward child, bare feet, moss and rivulets of running water, running, wandering just at the tip of our fingertips.

I dream now, not of sorrow or pain or the burnt flowers that I have always known, for she, my dearest, gave me that gift: the gift of hope and life and to see the dream, filled no longer with my screams, and she has become the cerebral axis of my life and her name if you must know it is the earth child, the cloud mistress, a star gatherer or more simply said, she is my friend, my benefactor, my blood, a simple name, she is, my wife.

 

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Naughty Niña

by j brooke

 

Medellin, Colombia

 

Early 1990s

 

Niña

 

 

She was a stone-cold stunner, a paradoxical creature of violence, nut brown, tall, thin, no tits, boy hips, a mahogany shoelace stood on end, a small head, and a massive neuron count all Vogued-out with those green Pisces eyes, “fragged” out in silk skin, covering blood and bone. She was one of those deep impact bitches, so fucking exotic, beautiful, you know, step off a plane in Cannes, no money, no clothes, zilch, a tricked-out twist, then gold bangles on her wrists, diamonds, caviar, vodka-silver screams, Benzes, Beamers, Côte d'Azur, rides in motor boats.

 

 

 She had opted out of the bling, had other things on her twisted mind. She was an enigma, Columbiana, wrong time, wrong place, it was as if God had, in one of His trick moods, almost as if a failed abortion, had strung her out, jettisoned her, created her, into what, what, a violent and injured child, that was what. She had become an oracle of bad news, and none of it was any damn good.

 

     Blood soaked nineties had arrived, The Colombian Government, maxed out, fucked up, pushing blood out of its dying corpse like a neck wound, no more resources, no way back, no hope, a fucking monster had come, Pablo Escobar. A massive paramilitary, Medellin Cartel, power provocateurs, cocaine, money, ware houses of it, bitches, whores, guns, lots of guns, C-4, Centex, oxidized body parts, street tombs, cop jackets, vermin, thugs, death squads, car bombs, a war, a war Colombia knew they could not win, nor ever win.

 

       Desperate times, black nights, blood running in the streets, the odor of cordite, they needed it stopped, drug terrorists, terrorizing the weak, hook up, turned to the Shadow World of the USA military, CIA, DEA, super covert Delta Force, NSA, for help.

 

        The US cowboy-ed up, the posse arrived, ghosts, maniacs, berserk zealots, Bible in one hand, knife, gun, axe in the other. “The war on Drugs” fighting the last war, changes were needed. A new American policy was implemented, let’s rage, and they did, their new fetus “Target Assassination.” Cool name, juke and jive, would be the final nail in a long over-due casket lid for Pablo Escobar.

 

     CIA, DEA, backed up by thugs, the Delta Force Rangers, prowled the skies, night stalkers, vampire bats, thus, “Centra Spike” was born.  Linguists, spooks, state of the art radios, telemetry eavesdropping devices, electronic wizardry, tricked out, triangulation and high frequency radios, probing, seeking and destroying. A paramilitary outfit: covert, plainclothes police, soldiers, grooved with anonymity, murdering anyone, wives, children, lawyers, bankers, everything else remotely associated with “The Medellin Cartel.” Cats, dogs, goldfish: they killed them, too.

 

    Primeval ooze of war, evolution, piano wire garrotes, nail gunned nurturing, torture, blowtorches, bolt cutters, lost finger digits, dicks, balls. Men talked, screamed, gave up their mothers, died, no mercy, no survivors, kill them all, more Darwin and, then another odd creature materialized.

 

THIS IS HER STORY.

 

 

       The driver was a dangerous man, a violent man, 9-Millimeter Glock slotted in his waistband, eyes agitated, mouth tics, for he felt fear, not for himself, but for the girl in the back seat of the black Mercedes.

 

     She sat silent, tinted windows, black Mercedes on the prowl, down the stylish Avenue Calle, upscale Poblado section of the city, Medellin. Thoughts, test patterns, lots of them, trying to suss it all out, who, when, what was she? The usual suspects, nada, praying, no more God, no more dreams, try to forget it all, can’t, a tattoo, blood tines stitched into her eighteen-year- old mind, heart. She was fucked, everyone knew it but her.

     She was known as Niña, “The Child”: exquisite, graceful, ocular, beautiful, fragile, remarkable. She gave the appearance of a delicate young girl, yet Niña was not her name.

 

     Back of the Benz, peering out of the tinted bullet proof window, pretty neon, boutiques, shops as well as dead bodies bloated, left as garbage in the alleyways. A hundred meters, glistening lights, the grand whore, The Hotel Intercontinental, it was her destination for the evening. Dangerous men were waiting, circling sharks, protectors of one man, an important man. He wore “The white hat;” she was about to fuck him. He waited; he never waited, but for her, he did.

 

     As always, it sickened her, this trick, he was grotesque, so was she, whatever. Prostitution was her thing, no other choice, ply it as she always had, play it out, maybe a handgun tip in her mouth. Later, arterial spray on the walls in the morning.

 

     She fought vomiting, kick in the stomach, as the driver: shaved head, black leather coat, her protection, fondling the Glock, jacked into the driveway, parked.

 

    Two men, black men, ferret bright, Tec Nines, locked, loaded, ready, open door, they see her, relax, recognition, knowing who she was, why she was there. Exchanged glances as she whispered in an educated soft Spanish dialect. “Sit Carlos, I shall return soon.”

 

     She wore white—no virgin, this angel—skintight skirt, cut high, way high, clinging silk blouse, slender arms, wide shoulders, strident collarbones, nothing like her now or ever before. Three-inch stiletto heels, calf muscles exposed, long legs appear even longer, guards’ eyes like blood rivets on her torso. Draped over her wrist: an expensive, black leather valise. Both men ignored it.

 

     Blink, blink, blink, her white smile blinding, perfect, they wanted to fuck her, not now, maybe one day, chew yourself through the corpse maze of the Cartel, dreams, men have them, why not, everything is possible when a man has a gun.

 

     Nods, grins came, returned and, then many holas, Niña, megaton girl smile in return. In the door, business at hand, Manolo heels click, click, click across the stylish lobby of the Hotel.

 

     The Hotel InterContinental’s foyer was stylish. Stares, leers, gawks, as she moved to the bank of elevators at the far wall of the lobby. Once there, she paused before a burly man, traditional black leather coat, scarred face, shaved head, hand under his jacket, skin like his coat, black like being buried alive.

 

      Face was covered by old scars, broad African nose, he looked as if it had been broken by some other loco hombre’s fist. He was mute, bloodshot eyes, backed by cocaine, alcohol yellow. He leered at the whore as she stood before him.

 

     “¿Que estas?” He growled in street Spanish, jerked his head at the valise on her wrist.

 

     No hesitation, she smiled, unsnapped the hinge, opened it, tilted it at him, waited. His breath reeked of bad rum and cigarettes; she didn’t mind.

 

     Diligently, he nudged his thick fingers inside, checked out various implements of sexual trade: lingerie, odd pieces of clothing, a large black dildo, which embarrassed him. He was a man of honor, Hispanic. She smiled again, he wanted to kill her, maybe later.

 

      Swallowing his shame, he dropped the dildo in the valise, pressed a button on the wall. “Ca-ching” the door opened as he growled, Pasale, puta.”

 

     Smiling, he had called her a whore, no problema, she was. Into the elevator, door closed, his hand into his black leather jacket, past his .45, found a small walkie-talkie, growled to someone high above that the whore was on her way. Later, a hit of coke, rum, lots of rum, some street bitch. Life was perfect for he was a man of respect.

 

     The elevator whizzed, whined, moved up towards the top floor of the hotel, eyes cemented shut, pulse flatlining, mind a mercury switch, ready to click to life. Moments gone, time moved, eyes opened, stared as if in a trance, reflection, wall mirror, images, of who? The creature, who is it, now staring back at her, she had no clue.

        Life ravaged, shredded, everyone dead now, last survivor, no lifeboat, dead heart, soul, and now, what? Disgusting act, practice makes perfect, a semen shower, vile was good, it felt natural to her. She needed it, wanted it, it was something she now knew she was destined to do. Peddle a girl’s ass, soon the mind and soul follow, whatever.

     Time passed, quickly, she supposed, yet it was really something she was never able to control. Elevator, ring-a-ling-ding, jerked off, it was, what it was. Play it, dress up, pretend, little girls love pretend, games, white pearls, no memory of ever being a little girl left, so the fuck what? Life ain’t perfect; deal with it.

Out-a-the elevator, at the end of the corridor were two more bodyguards, black leather coats, slabs of beef, standing vigil to her client’s room. They looked like a casting call for a Tijuana firing squad.

 

First look, the two men tensed, then seeing her, a beautiful swatch of teak silk strolling towards them, they relaxed, postured, grabbed their balls, their theeng, machismo, men from south of a burning border.

 

Low on the totem pole of such delights, they were the legions, bodyguards for one of Pablo Escobar’s most important lawyers, Bernard Munoz, a jefe the whore had fucked before. Seduction, smiles, that walk, all of it, an important tool of her trade. She glanced at their handguns, silencers pinched on the barrels, smiled more, that always worked before, purred, “Hola gigantes, Senor Bernard listo?”

 

     The men, posing, loving being referred to as “giants,” shot back grins, spoke to her as if they adored her, assured her that Senor Bernard was indeed ready. They opened the door, almost drooled as she click-clacked into the room.

 

     Door closed, she hesitated, for in the foyer was another brown man: dire, hard, dressed in a black suit, white shirt, red tie, holding a pistol with a silencer stitched to the barrel. She stalled, as the obviously powerful man rippled toward her, looked her up and down, then at her valise. “Open it,” he seethed in Spanish.

 

     Her heart began to pound, his bullet eyes seemed to rape through and into her brain.

 

     Rummaging around the contents, he swallowed in disgust at the sight of the dildo. Boss had a proclivity for depravity, young girls, prostitutes, as he pushed around a pair of black boots, other garments and, then roughly shoved the valise back into her hands.

 

     “Go, puta. He waits,” he said, wishing he could kill the whore, as well as the deviant waiting for her in the bedroom.

 

     Coy, little girl sweet smiles, she took her valise, walked to the door, hesitated, did the twist, stared at the silenced nine-millimeter, inventory time.

 

 Inside the room, she stalled, peered around at its opulence.

 

     Nudged against a massive bulletproof window, a view of the dying glimmering city behind it, was a massive bed. Next to the bed was a silver tureen on chrome legs, nice touch, a bottle of fine champagne, Crystal, chilling in ice within it.

 

     The suite was decadent: green suede couches, loungers; stylish art decorated the walls, no Tijuana velvet paintings anywhere. On an English oak desk lay stacks of money, rubber bands, mostly Benjamins, a laptop computer, various pens, pencils, papers, leather valises, a gold lighter, a can of hair spray, brush, comb, and a chrome-colored .44 Colt Python. Americans, they made them right.

 

     Taking inventory of everything while the shower ran, she smiled as a joyous voice filtered out of the bathroom off to her left. “Una momento, Niña,” the happy voice said.

 

     She dropped her bag, snapped it open, leered at its contents, dreamed for a ticktock of time, turned, wandered to the expansive window, gazed at the beautiful city lights down below. Girls like pretty light, police sirens, she wondered how many innocent civilians were being shot, bombed, and shoved into wood chippers this night.

 

     Hearing the shower stop, she turned, and there he was: horribly obese, short man, dyed-black hair, paste-white skin, big gut, hiding his dick, walking from the shower naked, towel in his pudgy hands, drying his dyed hair as he did.

 

     Smiling, the lawyer walked over to her, leaned in, Don Juan now, kissed her on the cheek, backed away a half step, allowed his fingers to trail down her porcelain face, her small breasts. Money buys gold slag, penthouse suites, cars, a dick in an angel’s ass, he was one happy guy.

 

     His lips were thick, bulbous, his eyes small, she thought, like rats. Folds of skin dropped over his lascivious eyes; he was a walking, breathing pig, so what?

 

     Strutting, standing still, he said in Spanish, “My Niña, you are lovelier then ever before. So childlike. So beautiful. A blonde, tonight. I approve. I am truly blessed.”

 

     Lowering her eyes like some Asian courtesan, she lifted them, touched his sweating face and, then whispered, “Senor Bernard, you honor me. It is I who am the lucky girl tonight. Thank you.”

 

     Drinking in her impossible elegance, beauty, fragility, he smirked, smiled as the light glinted off several of his gold teeth. “No, Niña, it is I who am honored.”

 

     Kissing her on the lips tenderly, he lit up, snapped his fingers, turned to the bottle of bubbly iced in the tureen.

 

     “Where are my manners? Champagne, darling, for an angel.”

 

     He was her daddy, he liked it like that. Old men, vampire hearts. She pouted, smiled sweetly, nodded in approval to his wonderful suggestion. She’d drink a glass of piss if he had asked her to.

 

     Showtime, daddy’s surprises for his little senorita, erection poking from under the folds of his enormous belly; he could still get it up, barely. He felt playful, sexual, winked at her, turned to the champagne, scrutinized it, looked back at her and, then began to unlock the wire mesh from around the cork.

 

In Italy, he would have been a made man, but he wasn’t. He was though the most important lawyer of one of the most powerful drug cartel corporations the world had ever known. 

 

Humming to himself, rat eyes taking a peek, she was unbelievable, thoughts of love, back to business, poured champagne, crystal flutes, Tony Montana stuff.

 

She slipped off her high heels, allowed her skirt to billow to the floor, then her body shirt, she stood before him naked, her back to him.

 

Barely able to control himself, he kept peek-a-booing at her, marveled how God could have placed such a delicate creature on his earth, one he felt he owned.

 

As he struggled to control his shaking hands, the ones holding the tulip glasses, she casually edged a half step to the desk, looked at the various implements on it, ignored the .44, took two objects from it, then turned just feet away from him, her muscled and slender back facing him.

 

Sexual wiring spark plugging, stared at her so thin, perfect body.

 

  “My God, Niña . . . My. . . My . . . God. Are you ready now, my angel?”

 

 Moments passed, her body hummed, she was silent, remembered everything, every instant of her life. She whispered, “Yes, Senor Bernard, I am ready.”

 

He smiled, perfect world, perfect girl. And at that moment, as she had been trained, she turned, a different girl now: odd eyes, black bee-bees, and with a fury and hatred unmatched by any creature on earth, she swung her muscled arm out, lifted the can of hair spray, ignited the lighter, and exploded the flames into his mouth.

      

      Suspended times, smoke, flames, lawyer’s gawking eyes, his naked angel standing before him, a look on her face he had never seen before. No stutter steps in her eyes, his lips, tongue, mouth melting like dripping plastic. She smiled as the fire and heat stifled the screams he tried to force from his throat.

 

After his nose melted, she smiled, dropped the hair spray to the floor. His brain, still functioning, he gawked at her odd smile, and with smoke pouring from his mouth and nostrils, he tried to scream again.

 

Instantly, she moved to him, she could see through the smoke that his brain was still working, for his eyes were stark naked, mad in pain and terror. Placing her lips to his ear she whispered, “My name is Pilar. You murdered my family and now I have murdered you.”

 

Knowing no Angels of Death named Pilar, his eyes jerked off, he tried to say something, vocal cords incinerated, parts of his brain were wasted, gone bye-bye by the pain that serrated that piece of filth. As his body crumbled, Pilar guided him to the bed, laid his twitching body on the sheets, watched now as his central nervous system flamed out.

 

Eyes closed, happy girl, efficient girl, humming girl, she stood motionless. Then she opened her eyes again to stare at the pile of suet on the bed: his body pulsing, his melted lips trying to say something, yet failing, for though he was not dead yet, his brain, like cheap wiring in a Coney Island tenement flop, was still lit.

 

Moving to the bed, she pulled the sheet and duvets back, stuffed his legs and torso under them and placed the sheets and blankets just so under his obese jowls, right under his chinny-chin-chin.

 

She stripped off the blonde wig, untied her black hair, and allowed it to fall down her back. Quickly, she tied her hair into a convenient knot, moved to her valise, opened it, reached in, and relieved the black plastic dildo from it.

 

Scrutinizing it, she smiled, quickly unscrewed the tip, withdrew a six-inch ice pick, more like a stiletto, from it.

 

Turning, she walked over to the man who had smoke stacking out of his mouth and nostrils, bent, crawled upon him, pinched his melted cheeks between her fingers, lowered her flawless face and stared into his dilating pupils. She thought she saw some life in his eyes.

 

Smiling at him, she took the ice pick, inserted it into his eye socket and, then slowly, filled with pay back, pushed the blade past his eyeball and into his brain until he twitched once. His body bucked, then it stopped, and she supposed that he was dead.

 

Still naked, for she used every weapon at her disposal, she gathered her senses, calmed, lowered her pulse, crawled off the dead attorney, and barefoot—she had such tiny feet—she moved to the bedroom door.

 

Ice pick firmly in her hand—girls liked presents—she placed it along the small of her back, opened the door, and stood naked before the bodyguard.

 

Hard hombre, disciplined soldier, every man has a moment of weakness for a real sweetheart, found it hard to resist such a beautiful, naked girl; after all, he was human. Fragile, available, alluring, smiling at the huge man, she purred in lovely Spanish, “He wants you.”

 

Like a Jap Geisha, she blushed as he scrutinized her, fondling the 9-millimeter with the silencer in his hand as he did. Nodding, completely disarmed by the naked whore, he must have thought for a moment his boss was going to share the puta with him. Looks of desire, the handgun dangling along his side, he walked past her into the bedroom.

 

Acrid smell, smoke, what the fuck, fucking on his mind, he hesitated, staring at the boss resting under the sheets.

 

His nostrils flared from the acrid odor and smoke. Nothing smells like burning flesh, and his brow crinkled as without hesitation, Pilar/Niña moved behind him, placed her hand along his forehead, which for a moment, for he was still fantasizing fucking her, he thought was a term of endearment.

 

Strengthening her grip like she’d learned from her Delta Force Ranger buddies, she placed the ice pick just above his spinal cord, and slowly shoved it into his brain.

 

Surprise, surprise, no pretty ribbon on this gift, he tensed, his eyes flicked everywhere, Kinko time, she held him strong, whispered into his ear so he could hear one last thing before he flatlined. “I am Pilar, not a whore.”

 

He slumped, and she guided him silently to the floor. Quickly, she moved to the door and closed it.

 

Looks: calm, serene, totally deranged. Dead bodyguard on the floor, pool of blood, she took his nine millimeter, gave the silencer a tug. She popped the clip out, saw it was full of friends, rammed it back in, chambered a bullet into the slot.

 

Turning, she skipped to the lawyer still breathing, twitching on the bed. Crawling on top of him, she straddled him, placed her forefinger and thumb on his cheeks, leveled his eyes to hers.

 

Whether he could fathom what was happening to him, she neither cared nor knew. Placing the silencer in his mouth, she saw some movement in his agitated eyes. Umm, so something is going on in there, she thought.

 

Enjoying herself far too much, she realized she was on the clock, smiled into the lawyer’s eyes, thought she saw a tick of recognition, raised her eyebrows in curiosity, pulled the trigger, and the gun went, “Psssst.” Red, like paint, the fat man’s brains and blood exploded against the white cotton pillow.

 

Pursing her lips, humming, brow crinkled, stark raving loco, yet in control, she crawled off the lawyer, gun buck, two in the chest, moved naked to the bodyguard, shot him in the forehead—always plan ahead—and she had to scoot.

 

      Adrenaline streaming away, she sat on the green suede couch, pulled out a pair of black trousers, slipped them on, added a black T-shirt, a pair of white socks.  On her small feet, she laced up a pair of heavy black boots.

 

Spent, like a used cartridge shell, she placed her face in her hands, begun to hum, something that always allowed her to calm and focus. After a moment of humming, inventory again. She moved to the desk, took the forty-four, spun the cylinder, saw it was loaded, and deciding just in case—because a girl never knew when she would need more star power—she laced it along her back into her waistband.

 

She moved back to her valise, grabbed it, and returned to the desk. She emptied the valise onto the floor, and because she was a Loyalist, she packed the bag with the stacks of hundreds, the laptop, and various documents.

 

In the pile of sex props, she found what she was looking for, and walked back to the dead man on the bed. With extreme prejudice she placed the sign on the man’s bullet-ridden chest. It simply read: LOS PEPES.

 

On autopilot, eye tics around the room: no one left to kill.  She decided there were no more men to murder, picked up her valise, turned and walked from the bedroom, closing the door behind her.

 

At the blue door, entrance to the room, she hesitated, trying to calm her racing mind. Silenced pistol braced against her back, she whispered, "uno, dos, tres." She opened the door and now an onyx-haired beauty, she whispered sweetly to the two remaining body guards, “Hola, Gigantes. Senor Tyson. Queren Ustedes, por favor.”

 

Loving her to death, they both smiled at her playful way, and thinking nothing of her hair or clothes change, for they had seen other versions of her, they entered the room, hesitated for a moment, turned to their princess, asked.

 

A Donde, Niña?”

 

Nodding at the bedroom, she smiled; the men smiled back, began to walk towards the closed door.

 

No blink, pulse like a canary’s heartbeat, she lifted the silenced automatic, it went Pssst twice as she drilled both men in the backs of their skulls, a single bullet for each.

 

Dead before they hit the floor, both had forgotten the oldest lesson in the whore handbook: “Never trust a fucking whore, no matter how fucking sweet she is.”

 

Hardly giving the men a glance, through the door she cruised, carefully peeked down in the direction of the elevator banks, saw nothing, turned right and made her way down the hall.

 

Moving to the fire stairs, she opened the door, entered, and like the athlete she once was, took three steps at a time until she was on the ground floor of the Hotel. Covered with sweat, she opened the heavy fire door, peeked out into the night, edged outside.

 

Carlos stood in the dark alley next to the Benz. He held a .45 caliber handgun, silenced, he saw her, finally breathed as he saw her. Pilar walked up to him, looked up into his eyes. As their gaze locked, she whispered, “It is done.”

 

Words dripped from her full lips, no more power or strength, spent like the copper shell caps back at the room, she began to slump, adrenaline sucked out, completely exhausted. Carlos wrapped his powerful arms around her waist, enough garbage in her life, no alley filth now, she was done, at least for the moment.

 

She trembled. As he had done before, he felt respect and pride that he knew her, but as always, pity and love, pure and simple. That she was incapable of loving anyone or anything any longer, was legendary, and broke the hearts of hardened men. He held her, she pushed away from him, handed him both guns—she seldom gave gifts, no one to give them too—simply bowed her head, whispered, “So tired, Just so tired. Please, can we not go?”

 

Nodding, Carlos opened the Benz’s back door. She moved into the back seat, slumped, eyes closed, thinking whatever assassins think when they are done with a night’s work.

                                                               

      Carlos slapped his gun into his shoulder holster, black leather jacket furrowing in the wind. He opened the front door, slid in, peeked at his silent passenger in his rearview mirror. With bile in his throat, spike in his heart, ignited the Benz, slotted it in drive and drove off down the alley.

 

       The cleaners would take care of the refuse, mops, buckets, hacksaws, no worry, no looking back. He found Avenue Calle, began to cruise down the festively-lit street.

 

      She had been a privileged child from a wealthy military and political family. At twelve she had been a gymnast, a swimmer. She’d studied the piano, languages, music, culture, and her life at one moment had held such promise.

 

First, her father: a judge, a man of bravery; ethics; and morals, had been incinerated by a car bomb directly in front of her grand house near the beautiful area of the El Tesero District.

 

She had heard his screams and saw him literally burned alive. At fourteen, she lost her beloved uncle, Louie Galand, a Presidential candidate, from the bullets of several of Pablo Escobar’s assassins. After that, two cousins and another uncle had been brutally murdered in the Avianca Jet blast, along a burning mountaintop. Her mother and sister were murdered, as well as so many other innocents entombed along a mountainside outside of Medellin.

 

Strangled with grief, she went insane, showed up within the jungle camps of “The Colombian National Army” and their lethal offshoot, “Search Block.”

 

It was not uncommon for females—fierce, crazed loyalists—to be within this cadre of soldiers trying to wrench their country back from the violence of the Medellin Cartel. Yet, what was she? So beautiful, so apparently frail, yet still so young, barely fifteen and from such a prominent family, she was searching, what for? Revenge, of course, at all costs. Beginnings . . . where does a girl start, go?  An orphan? Get a gun, learn, understand, become a savage.

 

      At first, deception, illusion—what did she want?—and confused by her beauty, physical elegance—they were men after all, men who still judged beauty by definable standards—they didn’t get her.

 

But there were dudes that got it, got her, dug her vibe, and it had taken the resourceful men from the CIA and Delta Force to see just how valuable she might be. Under the wings of their knowledge, tutelage, they processed her, a new product, into a new and unique education. She was perfect for Black Opts and they knew it.

 

It would be a remarkable journey—she was raw clay, malleable, eager to please—that would make her many things, especially a cold-blooded killer.

 

     The Delta Force guys adored her, respected her and, then feared her. They beat her, pushed her, prodded her beyond all borders of human endurance, she gritting her bloody teeth through all of it.

 

     “Is that all you have?” she asked. More, she always wanted fucking more.

 

The trainers dug her groove and besides knife, poison, gun, coat hangers, and of course something as common as a can of hair spray, taught her how to kill with everything imaginable and in every way possible. A gift from heaven.

 

Great future for her, everyone agreed, “Black Covert Ops,” a night stalker, octopus suckers vacuuming in information, a very disturbed young woman, perfect, they liked them that way. Whisked her off to Langley, summer camp for her: disassemble an AK-47, blindfolded; pressure car seat cavity bombs; Ricin- tipped stilettos; poisons; bullets; knives; hands; hatchets; tennis racquets; electronic gizmos; computers, all of it. Camp counselors were awed; they gave her a merit badge.

 

The Agency became part of her young life as a new prom dress is to other girls of her age. She graduated; no prom, no pimple-faced kid with a corsage for her wrist. Her graduation present: a cheap, gold-plated locket with a cyanide tablet in it, just in case, just because sometimes bad shit happened.

 

Ready, Betty to go, zoom-zoom-zoom, ready to climb the dead body ladder of success, two years more with “The Agency,” moving in and out of places such as Serbia, Lebanon, Damascus, Bogota, cities in The Middle East. Dark skin, black obsidian eyes, she could pass in those cultures, that’s where the bad guys were

 

Then, time to abort, go rogue, a night finally came, she packed her various documents, passports, and toys. She turned the key in her lock, moving now from her world into another. Vanishing would be simple, and it was, no one ever missed her when she was gone, no one was ever glad to see her when she arrived. When she did visit, standard last question out of man’s mouth was “Am I dead?”

 

Magic trick, no face on the milk carton, people don’t mourn when a hoodlum vanishes. Then swoosh, gone into an ecosystem of criminals, intrigue, death, special talents (Few had them).  For almost the next decade, she would be paid generously, as well as appreciated so very much by men who understood such unique talents.

 

Then, the assassin was gone, not knowing that ten years later, she would fall in love with another cold-blooded female killer named Mandal.

 

     “Everybody needs somebody to love them.” Old Blue Eyes sang that. Fucking go figure.

 

 

j brooke is a writer, that’s it. Any comments will be graciously received @ jbrooke2001@yahoo.com

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