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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.

 

 


bloodbath2.jpg
Art by L. A. Barlow © 2017

Bloodbath in a Vegas Firestorm

J. Brooke

ONE more fucking cigarette in an eternal white filtered head trip of tobacco surreal dreams that is what I am. A genius ex glamour girl, a gay girl, my IQ is frightening, hovering around 160, real cyber link interfaced brain politics, Stephen Hawking like. The gimp psycho cerebral wanderer is my idol as well as violence, my hero, and pain, as much as I can get it whenever I can get it.

My brain is either-furious or weeping, happy or irate, stoned down, or amped up and I revel in the ghetto life. My moniker is Jane and what kind of glam girl game name is that? A penny for your thought's, lets rock baby, I am so fucking ready, bring on the rain?

Graduated from a platinum spoon UV, Dartmouth, MBA at 26, Wharton, business freaks and hit man killers rumbling on Wall Street. You know Bond Traders raping pension funds from pensioners, widows and orphans eating baby food. Retirees in plaid pants, cringing along golf course tombs, preconceived death squad communities, just before they die, wasted away data banks of rotting trash, battle field earth, a golf ball and par their last pathetic living annuities before they go.

Now me, I'm 28, once a bi-sexual ginger girl, switcherooed, some time ago, only girls now, it was in my DNA, I have light white scars on my white face. I like to rumble with the boys, pretty girls to. I use my beauty as a tool, what great looking girl doesn’t, I'm just being honest. I never took what I was born with seriously, beauty is so destructive, so evil, so shallow, vapid. I can’t take responsibility for my look’s, just use them like I use my guns, knives and steel toed boots to get the job done, here in degenerate Vegas.

Put me in a wheel chair in front of my computer with a pencil in my mouth, that’s what would make me complete.

I choose Vegas as my sex-capture the bad guys patrol, for I am cognizant, know exactly what I want, who I am. I by choice became a hard edged backhoe of the trash of this human garbage disposal city. One might call me a PI, a bounty hunter, I work for pay, but that’s just how fucking Hollywood depicts it. Because I'm smart and have all the bells and whistles, I decided to opt for fun, danger, so that’s why I got my PI license, my gun license too. Work for the casinos; find runaways, bail jumpers, sometimes sneak around catching cheating lovers. You know the whole litany of sordid stuff people do when they cross over the edge.

Many of my true friends are cops, love cops, where would we be without them.

I opted for the hard life, pimps, whores, degenerates, gamblers, bail jumpers, wife beaters, dog fuckers; kids stuffed in to the micro waves, drunks, junkies, strippers, perverts, pedophiles, priests and bent dolphin trainers, all with a price on their heads. Though money means nothing to me, I'm a thrill girl, a violent girl, a genius girl.

I'm an anemic thug, twine thin, purged in the toilet once, vomit blues, no longer though, 5-10, 118, blonde, razor sharp, close to my scalp, blue eyes, game over, small face, sharp chin, ripped up and full lips, my hormones are boiling inside of my like chicken soup.

I’m a whippet street fighter, blond hair cut butch short, leather because I am very aware of the roll I'm in, image baby, cut arms, long and lean. We live in a society that cherishes the emptiness of beauty. For me it’s all about who you are, what is in your heart and soul, brains turn me on. Again, I have no ego about my looks, they just are, they mean nothing to me.

I have a coupla black belts in Tai Kwando, Judo, Kaaaaa-raaate, choices you see. I'm hard core, tough, sweet, any bad boy, wayward girl wants to fuck with me they better bring their A game. It has to be real for me, no bullshit, just honesty

All right, let's crack it, let’s get real. I’m a lucky bitch, my society parents were vaporized in a car accident over there near the South Hamptons. Their death shattered me, but made me realize how fragile love is.

After, I became a mistress of about fifteen or so million bucks. I got these Merle Lynch vampires making me rich day by day and I had to choose, a life of hanging along the cat walk during Fashion Week, watching misplaced bulimic train wrecks, waltzing down the Cosmo world, eating disorders old and young, or choosing this brutal life, of bullets, hand cuffs, kicked down doors and a criminal world. It was a no brainer for me, because I was born a silver slut, it’s in my DNA.

I’m not selfish and I really do care, and have a soul. Most of the interest from my money, about a million bucks a year goes to Doctors with out Borders, The World Wild Life Fund, and those valiant Hebrews at Green Peace. Save the animals, wipe out the human’s that is what I would do if it were up to me.

“Click, click, click”, I'm loading my Old School 357 Smith & Wesson Python Magnum, cause that's the kind of girl I am. Don't like progress or new stuff, so that’s why I opted for a six in the chamber, hollow point hand gun and girl pouts, kisses drenched and wet, craven, lethal, I'm a dreamer, a stylist, a hopeless romantic. I like the feel of copper and lead between my finger tips, as I like some girls tongue stuffed between my pouting bitch guava lips.

I slot the iron whore into my Velcro shoulder holster, it feels good. I hear Bono in my IPod, U-2 is just the best. I check my twelve-gauge Mossberg, over and under, its loaded, lead pellets, red cartridges, copper caps, fuck the Swiss make great scatter guns.  

I can be ruthless, manic, cranked, connived of stumbled truth at times, weep every time I see Breakfast at Tiffany’s, as I make sure my gun license is in my sleeveless black leather vest. I make sure my black savage leather hip hop baby crushers are layered tight along my narrow hips. Plopping my Boston Socks ball cap on my head, into roll play now I whisper, lets stroll as I purr, I am so demur, I’m ready to create pure and unequivocal havoc.

I'm looking for a bad girl named Tina Flicks, a muscled criminal, of Boston trash, migrated to Vegas, dangerous, vile, ultra butch, a real piece of twisted, violent work. She's a sweetheart heart breaker of 3 dimensional murder, pushing dope, a hard biker chic and seek and destroy car jacks, whores and girls of a last resort. She's just a blip, a 6ft,1, muscled, bout 175 lbs, filthy blond, tattooed, homicidal chic, sexy in that street crew way.  

I'm such a thug as I take two steps by three's down the stairs. I live on the top floor of a Chinese laundry, real film noir PI stuff, all by choice of course, image remember. Great digs, it's really an artist’s loft conversion I built myself of grief stricken blues.

N. Vegas, It's a bad part of town, and I'm street wise as I slide into my 59, 308 V-8 Buick car, turquoise and white, tail fins and big chrome bumpers, leather seats, I love this ride.

I check my extra 38 stitched inside the glove box; slap my hands onto the big round Plexiglas steering wheel, smile and, then twist the key. The Richard Petty carbs fire up and then the rumbling Detroit engine of real steel and iron and an American dream of ex real freedom rumbles in a throaty purr, she's my RPM machine. She was made in a time when a gal could cruise across a nation that still had a heart, wasn't run by computers, a time when a girl could be a free bird.

It was a time when smoke belching out twin chrome pipes meant prosperity. It was a bullet-hole moment in time when the USA was an amazing nation. Was no political correct corporate palace of a tripped out country that has lost it cool as it is now from K-Street lobbyists. I dawn my black leather knee coat, pet my handgun, I am ready to drive, which in this lovely machine it is, real driving.

It's time to get down to business.

Serious is serious, Tina Flicks has killed some men, some girls too so goes her cop jacket, she is dangerous and I have to be smart. As I cruise down Las Vegas Blvd in my old convertible Buick the summer wind feels good on my pale skin, chattering along my buzz cut, making me happy that I am alive, so I began to laugh.

"Wake up Maggie, I think I'm falling in love with you." Old School Rod Stewart is ripping an octave from his soul, meandering down the wires from my Apple music machine, into my elfin ears. I kick a work boot on the dash, slink a little, time for a cigarette. So I slap a Marlboro between my lips, flick my chrome Zippo, fire it up, inhale and like I've seen in all of those movies, I mentioned I'm into Image, let it pearl out of the holes in my Christy Turlington nose.

I'm heading for the "Bent Club" N. Vegas, tough turf, graffiti, paint and blood on the stucco walls, Hispanic men of respect, MS-13's out of Managua City, black bangers, Asians motor cycle gangs run down here. Even the cops try to avoid it, not me, I love it. None of those folks at the "Bent", no not there, it's a private club. It has a completely different clientele, odd and strange and wonderful, if anything is left wonderful in this twisted and depraved city.

It's also a Blood Bar, people reserving dark corners, drinking each others blood, everybody has their thing. I don't judge, though it's not something I participate in. It's one of those rare places where nobody ever makes judgment on me for sucking down some young show girls cum, live and let live, that’s what I say. What happens at the club, like Vegas says, "stays at the club" including your semen, blood and your life if your not careful. You better be reborn hard to hang there or some dude or gal will skull fuck you dead.

The Bent Club is filled with queers, dykes, bi-sexual youngin's, freaks, transvestites, murderers, thieves, dopers, druggies, queen doctors, sissy lawyers, and dominatrix’s, submissive and girly men. There are straight power player violent men, society women hitting on young, stupid platinum body strippers, goofers, stick up guys, and girls like me, though there is only one of me. It is where I'm hoping to hook up Tina Flicks. Once she jumped bail, well the sex there, and the smell of sex there, well she is a hard girl after all, her nick name is Tina “Dildo” Flicks, in her belt, all the time, like a car tie rod, the girls at least say. The bouncer there, a mountain black dude named Mike, who I layer from time to time a C-note, whistled up my cell phone, telling me she's been hangin' there, and I love that place. It's one of the few places on the planet I feel at home in.

I park the whale, tilt my head, check my face in the mirror, I'm so vain. I wear no make up, don't need any, ruffle my short cut, smile, teeth white as chalk, eyebrows feint. I feel pretty, what a messed up human being I am. Yet a girl likes to look good just before homicide, or fucking, or what ever, maybe a good beating, if she’s lucky. They got guys and gals at The Bent that excel in such things.

I never know what mood will travel down my spine and "a go for the gusto kinda a slut girl" I feel kinda excited, cunt beginning to sewer up.

I walk down the alley, see Mike at the door, smack a hundred in his catcher’s mitt of a paw, and get a Kong sexy handsome smile from him, a kiss on the cheek in return. He's so huge, 6ft 6, I feel like a noodle just anywhere near him. Man, I can't help but wonder about his magnificent dick, that will have to wait for another night, a better night, I am a curious kinda girl, would even opt for Mike, just to you know, see what that was all about.

Through the iron door I go.

One A.M. just beginning to fire up, quite an elegant place, Private Club, I think I mentioned that. No tourists here, just regulars, kids tired from pumping up the casinos with their life blood. The place is decked out in all leather, rich woods, chrome and smoked glass, amazing crystal hanging from the bar racks, back blue lit neon bar, best of everything here. It's a respite for the loco loyalist locals, love this place, let’s go.

Lots a black Vegas Cops hang here, super duper well styled out in kick back money Armani suits, check their badges and Glocks and attitudes with Glenda at the coat check cubicle, I do the same. Layering off my black trench, my shoulder holster, handgun, I slip them to Glenda. She doesn’t blink, nothing fazes her, what can, she’s seen it all.

She's a Goth Girl, white skin, black everywhere, mascara, tattoos, arms, breasts, neck, stomach, inside her cunt I imagine. She's topless, black mini skirt, gold rings in her nose, ears, nipples, studs driven into her forehead, she loves me, whispers of fucking me, eating me, were tangoing around that idea. I stuff a hundred into her hip hugging waist band. She kisses me, smiles, two diamonds are inlaid into her teeth, she’s so young, so Betty Boop stunning, I almost forget why I'm here. I nudge my memory, remember, wink at her, later for that sweet little sugar cube. I turn and walk into the neon club.

I make sure my hip huggers are low, just above my lasered cunt, every girl likes a little attention. I'm looking good, skin tight black crew, bare arms, my black heavy stitched work boots on my small feet. I have gold hoops on my ears, a thin gold chain with a gold cross falling down my flat chest. I don't believe in God but I love the Latina image of it all.

No Tattoos, avoided that, though I would have dug the needle tine of pain. Just sorta of lolly lagging around as I look to my left, a small dark room, people in the shadows, a private place, that’s where the blood suckers are, nice people. I don't go there, doesn’t give me the creeps though, everybody needs somebody to love them, Sinatra crooned that. I have all of his CD's, I have eclectic tastes in music.

Its early, the booths have a few debutants sitting around. Well dressed women flirting with semi clad, semi naked vixens constructed of perfect young skin, pouting lips and nothing between the ears. Everybody is drinking champagne in flutes, martinis in crystal dishes with long stems, smoking pot, Xing, coking, smiling and laughing as the con is going down, bargains of cunts and dicks being auctioned off to the highest bidder. Lots a rich looking older men, expensive suits, hanging with gay boys decked in leather, road bump abs. Their like the hunnies, perfect bodies, nothing in their brains, the kinda sweet kids older men adore, pay for, fuck in the ass and then jettison in the morning before they return back home to the burbs and the wife and 3 kids waiting for them at their suburban cribs.

The parquet dance floor is semi jumping, Ludicrous on the speakers. A stump of a butch dyke, maybe 250 lbs, crew cut, Donna Karen black suit, black tie ups, white shirt and red tie, very stylish, holding a skinny brunette semi naked play toy, maybe 20 or so. The sweetie pie is tatted, pierced from head to toe, naked except a green g-sting, really a postage stamp covering her shaved cunt. No body has hair below their eyebrows anymore, including me, I like that.

The young twist has those small baby girl tits dykes love, tats everywhere, a Chinese dragon stenciled down her arms, Japanese calligraphy on her stomach and breasts, three inch stiletto heels, towering over her Lesbos protector. The girls are in love, love is a wonderful thing.

As I sidle over to the classic bar, I lean in. Sparse crowd, check out two 18 year old strippers, silicone tits, blonds from a bottle, perfect hard bodies, gym rats I suppose, dancers from the Spearmint Rhino or one of her cousins I suppose, pressed against each other, swaying to the bongo drums, kissing, more love at The Bent. It's always that way. Imagine their runaways, find always, incest survivors, uneducated temporary bleeders of beauty, until that runs it gamut, then slashers of hash at Denny’s. It's usually like that, unless an overdose kicks in, and peace finds their once golden bods, putting them out of their misery finally, once and forever. There completely naked, except for gold rings stabbed into nipples, ears, noses, belly buttons, cunt lips, studs in pink tongues. There slender white frags of skin fabric, high heels on the dance floor, two bull dykes at the bar checking them out, respectful though, it’s a respectful type of place.

Two politicos, older men, graying temples, well dressed, gold and expensive togs, are dancing with two leather clad boys. Bare chests, muscles on muscles, slow dancing, mind dancing, kissing, holding, money buys everything in Vegas, love, sex, an old mans dick in some young studs ass, or the other way around. Sex and love dispels denial, makes people happy, as well as miserable. I see no misery with the boys, girls and men and women here. I just see honesty, happiness, lots a lip playing, eye dancing, lies whispered, promises broken and kept. Of course all that is usually jettisoned within the first motel curtain piercing of the morning sun.

Stitched along the black smoked glass and chrome bar are the usual suspects of decadence and mirth. Semi nude girls, lots a stiletto heels, piercings, their all bullet proof, leather clad boys too, a few older men, and I'm getting whispers from two dykes, decked out in men’s threads. I like the attention, for like I said I’m an ego driven glamour girl. I smile, then Jerry, my buddy bartender slopes over, asking me how I am. I purr that I'm cool and how are you? He winks, tells me he's all good, a Grey Goose up easy I say, no olive would be fine. He winks, turns, racks a stem on the bar top, gets busy mixing up my silver dream. I feel it now, that wet tinkle, tinkle in my cunt, the buzz starting to over come me, which means either sex or violence will soon begin.

My moon beam vodka scream is delivered. I smile, sip as Jimmy turns, flirts down the bar and chats it up with two naked waifish blonds, as my eyes roam everywhere around the stylish haunt. Everyone is having a good time as moments pass and I am ready to drop the dime.

An hour passes one martini, two, kids and whores and hitters boogying on the dance floor. Then through the door Tina Flicks noodles in the club, built like a 6ft 1 car cylinder of iron, black leather coat, white t-shirt, no make up, dirty blond pony tail, she’s a kinda pretty broad, black jeans, she looks like a VEE, rock abs, set above Levi hip huggers.

She's got those gym small hips, muscles rippling through her black tank top shirt, sharp cheek bones, about 35, blue, hard cool eyes, WOW; I'm a lucky slutty frivolous and serious gal. She looks, like she could be lots a fun. I don’t know her all up close and personal and such, but I, got her pic right next to my leather wallet with my PI card in my jacket pocketetes. I giggle thinking how Gollum asked Bilbo. "What’s the nasty Hobbit's gots in its pocketeses." My brain works that way; I wish I could just give it a rest. I look at Tina Flicks winding across the club, moving towards me. I am kinda like a human sex magnet for dykes. She doesn’t know me, but I am excited that she soon will.

I lean against the bar, both elbow’s welded against it, work boots planted to the floor at the end of my mile long legs, stretched out long and lean, that’s what I am, I laugh, a tall drink of water born of acid rain. I'm sipping my martini and counting the ceiling tiles, a little aloof. She walks up, peeks at my face, smiles; my she's a handsome boy. She doesn’t know it yet, but she's mine, whenever and how ever I choose the moment to take her down.

I smile back, that always works. She edges in, clicks a nod a Jerry, who sidles down the bar, gang shakes her iron fist as they chat it up. On her hip is a leather scabbard, and there IT is, a foot long dildo, and that baby is thick, I begin to dream. I listen to her street chat to Jerry, you know, yeah, all is good, how about you man. Tina Flicks nods, assures him shit couldn't be better, orders what ever the blond doll is having next to her and one for her.

She smiles at me, slips off a hundred dollar bill from a folded bevy of them, flicks it on the bar making sure I've seen her big money roll. I raise my white eyebrows, pretending to be impressed. Finishing my Grey Goose, I thank her and then the mating dance begins.

"Where ya from Doll, ai'nt seen ya here before" you know the usual crap from a street player. I have to admit she's damn good looking, weathered face, some eye brow scars, all of it oozing sex appeal in that street raw filth way and as far as boiler hoods goes, she's a sharp kid, I assume a panic under the sheets. I can smell the violence exuding from her skin. She offers me a smoke, I accept, and then slow like, I like the effect, pour it between my full lips, pout a little, end her life with my blue eyes.

She flicks her lighter to flame. I inhale, let the smoke all woozy and so drift across my face. Perfect effect, I'm waiting for her dick to explode out of her Levi pants. Every time she speaks I giggle or laugh, or nod and purr. I'm an actress, a player like her, as I giggle like a school girl at some nonsense she babbles, you know to impress me, crap she says, to make me want to fuck her. I touch a lot, her muscled arm, then her face. You know, coy teasing stuff bimbos see Brittany do on MTV as my IQ engulfs her limited brain matter. She's so easy I almost start to laugh, at nothing at all.

Blah, Blah, Blah, back and forth we go. I doubt she's ever read a book; I'm really not interested at the moment in her I.Q. My adrenalines burning off the Vodka as fast as I consume it. My eyes and brain are focusing, for though this is fun, I am a pro and know exactly how dangerous this Tina Flicks is. This is not a time to get confused sex thoughts rampaging through my brain, though my eyes are pin balling all around that huge dildo strapped to her hip. So, I know, we both know, or she thinks she knows what is going down here. So, we mate standing there, as I lean in, grab a swatch of her Blond thick hair, kiss her lips real soft like, back away, almost go Mae West on her, you know. "Why don't you come up and see me sometime big girl". I almost giggle, there's that brain again. 

But I don't as her hand moves between my legs, I don't complain. I'm hoping I'm not leaking through my leather pants. I know I'm wet, I can't help myself, been some time since a Genie Girl has rubbed this lamp. Then a new plan short circuits my mind. I lean in and whisper that maybe we should hit the road, and see what happens. You know, cunt girl meets cock girl, wrapped in skin and dildos and pussies anywhere but here.

She offer's me a little coke, I decline, say maybe later mister man, I have other things on my mind. She nods, says she’s got to scoot, you know doll, just a little pick me up, a bathroom toot, be right back. I smile, squeeze her knee, she grins, turns and walks across the dance floor towards the rest room.

Perfect. I flip a c-note on the bar, smoke a kiss towards Jerry at the end of the bar. He winks and flies an air kiss back to me, perfect again. Now, I can get to Glenda, maybe kiss or two, get my coat and concealed handgun before stud fella returns.

Glenda is looking good, real good and I almost strike a time of girl romance later, but remember business is at hand, as I feel my magnum pressed against my ribs, very edgy and dangerous stuff. So I sharpen up for here come’s Tina Flicks. She’s licking her lips, grinding her jaw from the coke, man I can see that she's totally amped up from the spook look in those azure dilated eyes. I smile as she gleams her black leather jacket from Glenda, pushes a twenty into her tattooed hand, she looks a little jealous. I wrap my arm around her waist as if it always belonged there and before you know it were out the door, hoping Glenda understands.

I exchange cautious see ya laters with Mike at the door. He knows me and what I'm all about, I see caution in his eyes, no matter. I slip him another hundred dollar bill, get a "be careful little girl" from his eyes. Turning with my stud fella, I walk down the alley, just for a little bit.

I seldom mix business with pleasure, but I'm really feeling it. Like I said, I haven’t been laid in dog years, so as we walk through the filth of the alley, we reach another off shoot of a dumpster world. I pull her in to the semi darkness, under the single light bulb struck into the mortar of the bricks.

Slamming her against the red squares of the alley wall, I crush into her, feel her dildo pressed against my cunt, she’s quick, it’s now conveniently strapped around her hips. My, I was right, that is a huge one, lucky me. I stitch my fingers into her blond shock of hair, rip her head back and drive my lips into hers as well as my tongue down her throat.

Her pincher vice hands are slapped against my tiny no ass, as we detonate kisses, grinding bods together, tearing at each other, sucking down each others saliva like two dogs in heat. Me, being the bitch pooch that I am, I need fucking so bad, I forget for a sec what I am doing and where I am.

This bad ass never heard of Viagra, tee hee, she’s built like an iron coffin. Street toughs are like that, girl testosterone replaces blood in their brains. She could fuck all day and all night no matter where she was, no matter what she was doing, probably while eating breakfast at IHOP, or even sleeping. Man, she's strung hard and tight.

I'm heated up, decide to mix it up. You know, business and girl pleasure, any mistakes I make getting off, well I can fix those later, I hope. So I drop to my knees, frantically wrap my thin fingers around her silicone dick, huge, thick, the girl whispers were right. I’m crazed, an actress, Emmy later, pretend to suck her off, you know just to get her amped up and me to get in the mood.

She’s got both cable hands around the back of my head. My cheeks are expanding, I have a small mouth as I plunge my mouth over her dick, lips expanding, cheeks puffing, eyes watering, feeling the tip of her pretend dick banging against my tonsils as I roam up and down her foot long cock. I’m enjoying myself, never doubted that I would.

I'm hoping she has a smidgen of reality in that good looking skull, and then cause she's a rough boy, she tightens her grip on my short blond hair, then rams her cock down my throat. Gurgle, gurgle, gurgle, as her hips whip out and in, each time that huge knob going PAALUMP as it smacks down my throat and I don't want her to stop, for I still need fucking, badly. So I stand, grab her hair with one hand, smack her against the bricks, hold her cock in the other. I can multi task, and then smash my lips against hers.

Were not really kissing, more like lip and tongue’s smacking down, as we chew at each other like were both red meat and were caged lions in that Zoo over in N. Las Vegas. The one where they got those frustrated big fucking cats pacing back and forth on edge, ready to eat some poor mother fucker who turns his eyes away from them for a sec.

She does not like being controlled, especially by some skinny pencil of a bitch blond. She's a control dude; I like that, as then she violently twists me around and slams me against the wall, my cheek and forehead violently banging the bricks. I boohoo and get weepy for real, for I like rough play, and she is my man, and I’m usually the fella, but just for pretend being the girly girl for the evening. I like the way she handles thin me as my breathing sweeps out of my lungs. I'm so turned on and needing it, I feel hot liquids splashing down the inside of my thighs, my cunt is ready and so am I.

My white unpolished fingernails scratch against the bricks, my back arches as I plant my heavy work boots on the alley concrete floor. I want to be ready, I want to be solid, I'm ready to mate with this turbo charged kid, grind us both into dust and she's not gentle. I didn't expect that she would be, as she rips the snap of my leather hip pants, slashes them down along my knees and still she hasn't focused on anything above my hips. That's good as I wave my tiny butt at her like the cute girl that I am, groan and moan for real. I don't want her just yet to know I am a girl with a gun.

I tweak a peek over my shoulder, see her jeans are spooling around her cowboy boots, they all wear them, though there isn't a fucking horse anywhere near Vegas for lot's a klicks. Then I feel the massive knob of his dildo at the lips of my cunt, her arm, like one a those geared "Come along's" you know those wire thingys truck drivers use to secure their flat bed loads is coiled around my naked tiny tummy. She smashes her thingy into me, not slow like, but violent like, as far as it can go, even farther. WOW, she's everything that I ever heard she was.

SWOOSH, a gust of air whacks out of my lungs, that banger she carries is bigger than I thought, but I can handle it. I feel the pain, gulp for air, moan like a bitch, feel more pain, Christ's it’s huge, it’s every thing I ever wanted, for this moment that is. She begins to cylinder my like a fucking jack hammer, me going haywire, moaning, ooohing and awing, groaning, using profanities. You know like, shit, fuck, oh baby, come on, fuck you, come on, don't stop, don't ever stop.

My back bends, my butt tilts up, I whip my head back and forth and then scream as I orgasm and then orgasm again. I rip at the brick with my hands, trying to claw my way through the wall, as suddenly I feel something pooling in my boots. I can't be that wet, can I? Expecting her to stop, she does not. I remember the crank she snorted in The Bent. I know my luck has held, as she kicks it up a notch.

My entire little 118 flails and shakes, whips back and forth as she pounds me relentlessly for fuck of a long time. I'm hoping my little head isn't going to revolve right off of my neck. I scream, grind my teeth, bite my lips, everything is a blur as again I feel fissures of orgasm slit my cunt. But then, she whispers that I am a bitch, how does she know. She's into it now, as she vacuums out of me, finds the entrance to my rectum, teases the knob against my asshole, as I gulp, smile and coo to myself, OK, why deny myself anything at this moment.

To make a long story short, and not going into the gory details, she sodomized me for those dog years I was jabbering about.  Swoosh, Swoosh, my breath explodes. I'm groaning, moaning, breathe bellowing, she's holding me hard, way hard. There will be lovely bruises tomorrow.

Finally, I throw my head back as I feel a ripping orgasm. I go rigid, throw my arms into the air, and then go limp, bend at the waist, my fingers touching the filthy alley floor. I sort of blacked out, and can only remember my forehead banging against my shins, you know, “Boing, Boing, Boing.”

I guess she used some kind of ESP, don’t know, and I guess finally got tired or bored, don’t know.

I'm a smart girl, so I stand remembering that just because she paid me once that doesn't mean she doesn’t have to pay me twice. I giggle thinking about that.

She has her palms on her knees. Somewhere in the fracas she managed to get her jeans back on, so I stand straight, wet my forefinger tip, and you know, do one of those eyebrow straightening gigs, still wanting to look casual, look pretty, for I am me. I want to make sure she knows how lucky she has been, especially after the bad stuff goes down.

Straightening, she stands. I imagine she doesn't want anything else to do with me, for she, as I am sure as is usually the case for her, gotten just what she wanted, gotten off, yet she is smiling at me. I'm hoping she's not one of the romantics that wants to take me to Denny’s and have breakfast after they fuck the light out of your cunt, igniting your eyes.

I chit chat her up a little. She seems relaxed, and wants to see if we can maybe hang some, and have an encore at her place later. I pout, smile, I'm a sweet bird, and I say just one more thing baby. I take her hands, press them against her back, then lean in and kiss her softly on her beautiful lips. My hand snakes under my coat. I withdraw my short snout 357, raise it, back away and then press it into her mouth, a very different look in my eyes now, as well as his.

She don't know if it's more sex play, or I'm something else. I whisper that she's under arrest, that’s what I do, as I dig in my jacket pocket, get the arrest warrant, hold it close to her bulging eyes, just above the black iron tit pressed into her denying mouth.

She's not happy. I'm sure she thinks this is a joke. I promise her it's not, and if she does not fuck up, I won't have to hurt her. "Click" my thump chambers back the hammer, as her eyes dance around my forefinger exerting pressure on the trigger mechanism.

I could of cuffed her, but where is the fun in that? I'm pretty sure she wants to make some move on me, which besides all of the sex play, is exactly what I want.

After the fucking, the sucking, like a great olive topping off a great martini, violence fixes me, primes me, satiates me, and satisfies me, what ever. Now her blues are ticking to my greens, the cocked hammer, the pressure on the trigger, my greens, my dripping cunt, the smell of the oil I use to clean my magnum. Because I'm a big brain, and she’s a little brain, I read her, and know exactly what she wants and how she sees it going down.

Never in my blue life would I be so close, but I of course want to test it, all of it, so I smile, Christ I'm just a slender girl, how can she loose. So I let her slap the magnum, and I go Oooops, geeeze. My hand purposely swings wide and I drop the black iron on the pavement, wide eyed now, as she leers at me, sadistic payback in her smiling eyes.

She knows, and I know that she really, really wants it slow now, lots a hurt, lots a pain, lots a madness for me. The way she is leering at me, smiling at me, tasting the blood from where my hand gun cut her gums, that it is in her mind and it is going to be fucking beautiful what she is now going to do to me. I am so thin, cute really, I am wondering if that is her thinking? Maybe she is considering murdering me as she fucks me, this time violently rapes me. You know a grocery store plastic bag ground along my head as she hammers me with her play dick. She has a limited IQ, and I almost laugh watching the thought ball bearings revolve around her head.

One second, two second, three potatoes three.

She lunges at me, which in a street fight is a no no, and because I know exactly what I am doing and what I have been trained to do and can feel the pressure of my white bunched fists, I do a little bunny hop to the left. Then, with as much violence that I can conger, and that’s a lot, I explode my heavy work boot into her knee.

“Pop, Crack, Poppity-pop.”

 A sickening sound echo's through the canyon of the alley. You know, when you’re the delivery girl of a well aimed kick, there goes the cartilage as she screams, twists around and because I'm a thorough girl, I swing my leg around in a Karate kick, screaming my boot along her cheek, mouth and teeth.

Bang, or something like that pops through the night. Her beautiful white teeth tumble on the felt like dice at a craps table, geeze I liked those pearly whites. Falling to her hands and knees, she's moaning, bleeding, swearing, wheezing, and then because she’s a tough character, she lunges out, grabs my legs, all most chewing at my feet.

Because I am a Judo Master, I bend, smile, want to kiss the blood from her mouth. I twirl her wrist; bend a little at the knees, then snap back, breaking her wrist away from her hand as she screams, a defeated girl. I never thought it would ever be any other way.

She's pinned, but I'm a smart gal, so I release, and with full force stint back, and then kick her in the gut with my steel toe boot. SWOOOSH, grief and woe, she falls to the alley floor. I kinda feel sorry, remembering the good time that she gave me.

I remember that rumor was is that she murdered two 16 year old runaways.

But heck, it's just a job, as I reach in my jacket pocket, find my chrome bracelets, slap the cuffs on her wrists, reach over and slap my magnum back into its cage, stand, think of other things.

It's really a pretty night, so I dig a smoke out, do one of those flip things, lucky tonight, my lips catch it in mid air. I spark my Zippo, light it up, inhale, Christ all Mighty, I love life, this life, my life.

I think of Glenda at the check booth stand and Mike at the door, and kinda excited I'm wondering which one tonight I might choose. Lots o adrenaline still, you know a tryst here and there. I'm never just happy, contented, I'm so railed up I'm ready for more, bingo, whamo, I am such a little whore.

Lets see, 2 AM, get Tina back to Hank at the bail bond place, fire up the whale, buy some cherry Chap Stick, just love Katy Perry, return to The Bent and see if Glenda is ready to go.

Just fucking perfect.





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

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Art by L. A. Barlow © 2017

Gun Buck Before Dawn

j. brooke

 

An Absinthe struck life, fucking Vegas, gun buck before dawn, another night boogying on the dark side, my side, jimmy the casket lid open, crack an amyl nitrite cap, drag the corpse of night out of the coffin, slap it on the floor, see what this twisted morning brings.

Summer, Vegas hot, it’s always fucking hot, like flames fluming out of the tip of a handgun barrel.

Doll Jane, PI here, have this NWA (Niggers With Attitude) RAP mix mastering in my head, all morning, you know, degenerate, stunning, violent, down with the truth, I guess that cop jackets me, I’m not going to fib about it. Most of the bent deviants in hard N. Vegas know me, well in the demonic dark side of Vegas that is.

I’m a blonde, carbon dated, misplaced in a modern world, twisted demur demon, with the preverbal whore’s heart of gold. I’m queer, love girl’s lips, skin, cunts, blah, blah, blah.

Coulda been a fashion model, but I detest beauty from birth. Beauty is a prison cell. You deserve no privilege ‘cause you were born beautiful. You don’t earn that booby prize, because you’ve done fucking nothing to deserve it. I work hard on my brain, my feelings, my emotions and try to be cognizant that I am lucky and most people aren’t.

I chose to be a Vegas PI/Bounty Hunter; a super-duper-sweeper-up of the human offal that populates N. Vegas. I love my two rescue pups, my two gold fish Stella and Stanley, menagerie of kittens, and my .44 Colt Defender as well as my 16-gauge Mossberg shotgun and the smell of gun powder after I take care of bidness slapping bad people in jail.

Dirty Harry had a .44, no mistakes with that baby.

Time to move, get that skinny frag body moving, a cup of Joe, maybe a smoke, work to be done, great night, great time, violence, sex, a beat down, the usual trifecta of glee that makes me phat. Stop bitch moaning, time to move.

Today’s a great day, I’m very excited, my Guns and Ammo magazine comes today. I’m a girl with a gun, lots of guns, can’t wait for tonight, I’m going to clean my .308, over and under Remington carbine.

My jacket, just to remind those that have forgotten my MO, gay, 5-10, 120, on a bad day, love thin, body dysmorphic disorder, among a host of nut-so mental illnesses. Nobody is perfect, don’t pretend to be. Love the image, alter boy hips, no tits, chain-sawed white hair, cripple, cripple greens, don’t do drugs, can’t afford to.

Drugs get a girl a one-way ticket to “Palooka Ville.”

IQ, like one a those cluster-fuck Quasars rumbling around in deep space, damn, Einstein is dead, the good ones die, we all die, no one gets out alive. And what replaced a genius, those jag-offs Kardashians. Like fucking vampires, those fuckers are going to live forever.

Life ain’t fair; no one ever said it was.

OK. Back to last night, beautiful, The Bent Club, N Vegas, and it was the usual wonder world, my world. I had a marvy time, doing my Styx around the stilettos, piercings, blood drinkers, rich-doctor gay men, bi-women, etc., looking for the usual suspects, some perfect girl or boy giving them a smile for an evening. It’s a shooter, slammer, “E” and melon ball world, then in the end, the Casino kids, after burning out, catch the next bus back to Kansas and never, never, never go back to Vegas again, for that terrifying berg could scare the white offa Count Vlad.

Anyhooo, had a contract from Hank at the bail bond place, me being a PI/bounty hunter and all. Hank always hangs me with the hard stuff ‘cause I’m a street-smart chameleon, gotta be street-smart, choices you see. I love to mix it up, love to test myself, combat, hand to hand, steel toed boots, always wear them. I’m an illusion, black belts Judo, Karate, I usually win the night. I need them all, just like last night, when I took down that real hard dyke named Tina (Dildo) Flicks, at The Bent, of course.

Won’t go into detail, but it was a blast, and fulfilled most of my “Special Needs” for the night. You know, the truck-axle felon had a dildo like a dick of one of those Cape mother fucking Wilder Beasts, like you see over there in Botswana on the Nat Geo show. Before I beat hell outta her, cuffed her, she hammered the moonlight outta my cunt out in the alley, very welcomed. I thought I would need a liver transplant afterwards. I like it rough, wild, maniacal, she fit the bill.

I always keep the takedowns fair, meaning I use my combat skills like other girls apply their lip gloss. I’m like that stud Tom Hardy in the amazing flick “The Drop.”

“They never see you coming, do they Tom?”

That’s me, they never see me coming.

MY BAD.

I, of course, kind of got off kicking shit out of the Flix kid, it was mano e mano, a fair fight, always is, could of gotten killed, never asked her to break the law.

Ya gotta pay the VIG; gosh, every gambler knows that.

She may a fucked my tonsils to oat meal, but I didn’t owe her nada, and come on, she was a criminal, a murderer and I was just sucking up the lint, that’s what I do. I’m sorta a violent white angel keeping the balance in this hell.

Fuck, I coulda given her a TOE TAG, but I didn’t, see I really am a sweet girl.

After, I dropped the kid off at Hank’s at the bail bond place over there in Henderson. Hank was grateful, glad to see me, most of the dudes are. All the hunters think I’m a crazy doll, a pretty gal, like that, what girl doesn’t like a compliment.

Got my 35 Gees, nice payday, though I don’t do it for the dough re me, but I like being a pro, appreciated. Later I will off load the cash at the Vegas Homeless Shelter, cool guy there, Father Bob, buy lots a cup a soups, maybe some Saltines, I hope. Hard times, bad times for a lot a folks, especially after Wall Street butt fucked them, stealing many of those good folks money, lives, futures in that fucking Sub Prime Mortgage grift, which fortunately my millions never went anywhere near.

My parents died, car accident, shattered me, left me millions, I try to do good with it when I can.

Needless to say, my adrenaline was pumping testosterone, way out of whack, like one a those Top Fuel rail cars over there at the San Berdoo race track. You know, those super duper, Ether sucking muscle car machines, with fire belching out of their ass holes as some maniac pushes the envelope at 400 MPH down the track, hoping the chute opens, so he doesn’t become a human deep fried pretzel if it didn’t.

After, had the top down on my beloved 59 turquoise, white custom tricked out Buick, loving the summer wind on my blond mop. Loved how the wind whistled past her tail fins, slouching on my tuck & roll seats I got done in Tijuana, I-pod cranked, boot on the dash, smoking, always smoke after sex, or violence, or getting my ass kicked, which are all and the same thing.

Speakers plugged in to my elfin ears, every thing is tiny about me, but my big brain, music ripping it up. “Trina” rapping, me singing along.

I love that bitch, un-manicured fingers tapping on the big Plexiglas steering wheel. Once, Detroit made them right, feeling ALL OF THAT in my black leather hip huggers, smoking, fucking life, perfect.

“Money over err, that’s my attitude, still the baddest bitch in the game, that’s my attitude, talk to ya man wen I get ready, that’s my attitude, have him blowing stacks, ain peti, that’s my attitude (yea) and I feel like im the shit, that’s my attitude (yea) that’s my attitude, that’s my attitude, I feel like I run this shit, that’s my attitude.”

Damn, Trina is the bump, she’s all dat, strong, positive, she’s my fucking girl, ghetto, love all of it. There are many different versions of me, not all good, but what the heckeroo. I’m always trying to be a better girl, what ever.

Oops, had finally found The Bent, parked, gave big black Mike at the door a cheek kiss, a c note; gave him two like their cousin uncle Benjamin earlier. He appreciated my classic style, got that huge smile, he is one sweet black man, entered, and wrangled up Glenda the coat check girl. I needed more, fuck I can be insatiable, go figure, and after all I did promise Glenda some girl action later, that’s how I roll.

So I scooped her up like the white cream cup cake that she is, held hands like BGFE, and we vacuumed out of the place, I always keep my promises. I’m the fella for the night. I can do the switcheroo, be passive at times, but not tonight, she being all girly Goth and all and so fucking young, so I am mister man for the evening. I can do that.

We drove, summer char in the air, she sat nice and close, Goth head on my shoulder, as I threw down some “Sade” “mood music”, smiled as the wind kissed her multiple tattoos, piercing, first dates are fun, we fit nice. Thought about buying the princess a chocolate malt, naw, Glenda is even thinner than me. So we whizzed back to my massive artist’s loft, the one stitched over Chang’s Chinese laundry. Fuck I love that movie China Town, “Jake, come on, it’s just China Town” and then we got down to girl stuff, the important stuff.

That’s Glenda there, white washed on my sheets, a white dollop of whip crème, raccoon eye make up, black hair like night, not a hair on her bod below her forehead, a lot like me.

Chreeeist, she’s stunning, a real bullet proof baby doll. I love her tattoos, Chinese dragons, the way they swirl down both arms, wrap around her back, all connected to that Japanese Calligraphy needle pointed into her small back, blending into that tiny butt. She’s got enough hardware pierced into her bod, ears, tongue, nose, nipples, belly button, clit, those little eye bolts in her forehead, enough chrome to open an Ace Hardware, and they’re sexy for now. But wait, ten years will whistle by.

“Can ya whistle, Nick?”

Then she will be serving the breakfast special at I-Hop, wondering what the fuck she was ever thinking about. Kids, they never think past the moment, go figure.

She spanked a hit of “E”, offered me some, I declined, respectfully, but didn’t mind, don’t do drugs, love reality, can’t afford not to. It kicked in, and then we were two naked girls, she burning, you know “E”, love everywhere, senses expanded, touchy feely. I could a been a bent backed Burundi Gorilla, didn’t matter, man I can still taste our first kiss, feel that little stud on her pink tongue, kissing my tongue. Like I said I’m insatiable, though my insides ache, hurt big time from the lynch fucking the Flicks kid had administered to me in the alley earlier.

I like pain, need pain, part of my cerebral makeup, don’t know why, lots a people do. Black and blue welts for some girls, dinner, box of popcorn, a movie for others, don’t ever judge, can’t afford that either.

I guess I needed some TLC, and Glenda was perfect, soft, sweet, wild and velvet skin, lots a kissing, touching, and I needed that. I am a girl after all, and glad, real glad she was enthusiastic, a bit frantic. You know when you’re a kid on Christmas Eve and you’ve been watching those presents for weeks under the tree. Bingo, its Xmas morning, and there’s the pop gun and I was feeling beautiful, for I was the present she had wanted to open up for a very long time. 

She was a real muncher, me on my back, breath break dancing out of my swollen lips, blood flow spilling down my blue blood veins, tummy swelling, hitting my spine, her finger nails, black paint like her mascara, on my thighs, me groaning, fingers entwined into her hair, feeling that tongue, that gold stud, roaming, chewing me up. Me, babbling like I got Turrette’s, I think. You know, oooh, aaah, fuck, real sex gibberish, winces of pain, delight, wonder, then one, two, three, orgasm, more than one, she doing all the work. “E” is like the Energizer Bunny, a girl can go on, on and on, thank goodness for the chemists at Eli Lilly.

I’m not a selfish girl, so I reciprocated, good manners are important when a girl has guests over. And, what the fuck are they putting in the water in Vegas? She tasted like burnt copper and bee honey, that tiny little cunt, a real miracle of engineering. Me peeking, leering over the edge of that lasered little mound, at her tummy, tattoos, little girl blues, watching her get off, squirm, dance, vibrate there on the white sheets, telling me that she loved me, that will never do.

All us dynamite bitches have heard that shit before, for you know. “Cuming” makes people engrave promises that they can’t keep, ever, and we’ve all heard that crap in the dead of night when the fucking is over. Geese, maybe doll, we can see each other again, ride the bumper cars, usual bull shit from some guy as he sneak thief’s out before the crack of dawn, only thing left, a salt deposit he pix axed into your cunt as a reminder that once again you didn’t get off.

Fuck, thank heavens I am a lesbian.

Don’t get me started.

Anyhooo, we went back and forth, around and around, up and down, dildos were involved, they sell them at Wal Mart with nifty little motors in them. It hurt like fucking hell, I needed that pain, cleared my mind, orgasm after orgasm, both of us.  Then, bubkus left, sapped, brain sparking fire like frayed wiring in a cheap Beth Stur tenement flop, those little white sparks in my head, you know when you stand too soon.

Glenda, a trooper, leered at me, sweat everywhere, me, her eyes rolled into the back of her head, muttered something in Swahili, then passed out. Down goes Frazier, down goes Frazier, she was out for the count, thank fucking god.

That was hours ago, and now I’m in my usual get up, black hip hugger jeans this time, no leather, got blood on them, Chang’s dry cleaners down below later, Mrs. Chang is a Zen master at getting blood outta my clothes. Lace my small feet, white gym socks, into my black work boots, black body shirt, shoulder holster, gun hanging on the bed post, can’t forget that. Don’t want Glenda messing with my gun, maybe put a hole in her ear.

I grab it, sleeveless arms, cut like copper cables, glances in the wall mirror. I groan, god, fucking vanity, I’m a slave to it, but have work to do, an early morning sit down.

Gal I know, daughter went missing; nothing new about that in Sin City, and so, I gotta scoot. Glad about Glenda snoozing, I’m not one of those gals who likes to hang around, you know breakfast, chit chat, reminiscing, holding hands, making promises I can’t keep. Fuck, it’s my guy traits; I can be very butch at times, I’m working on that.

Got my PI office on an off-shoot of this 4,000 sq ft loft, will leave Glenda the standard girl escape note. You know, fab, marvelouso, magnifico, let’s hook up next time, no mention of love, can’t get the words out of my throat. Presto chango, tip toes, coupla a c-notes too on her pillow, just in case the kid needs a Uber, she can find her own way out, I’m gone.

No sleep, no time to sleep, I feel pretty good, except ever step I take hurts, hurts a lot. I feel like I have a drill bit stabbed in my cunt, brings smiles to my face, proves I’m alive. I’m always willing to pay the VIG for a good time, which I had on multiple levels last night.

I stroll in to my PI office. Stylish place, twenty foot ceilings, sky lights, like the rest of my loft tattooed into the ceiling, pine floor, couple of old Persian rugs, two Kileems, a Bokhara, I love old stuff. I scavenged some old English pine antiques, desk, chair, comfy cushion for my tiny ass, thank god, armoires, tables, love Steuben, Dom Nancy lamps, got three of them, bright lights hurt my eyeballs. Place looks soft, bathed in morning mauve, low golden light bulbs, soothes my hectic mind.

I need coffee, bad, light up my Mr. Coffee machine, smells sweet, pour it in to my “Visit Las Vegas” mug, take a sip, the door bell buzzes down at the bottom of my private stair case.

I laugh looking at my little bamboo back scratcher I got in Thailand with the words stenciled on them saying. “Thanks for Visiting Thailand and fucking our twelve year old girls, come back real soon.” I had that thing custom made when I was in Bangkok.

I don’t wear a watch, keep breaking them on some mug’s teeth, digital feed on one of my two Apple machines says 8 AM. Perfect, Ginger is right on-time, I appreciate that.

Look at my monitors street video feeds, N. Vegas is a treacherous place, street people, drug addicts, gang bangers, a girl can’t be too careful. I see Ginger, good, smack the button, my security iron gate clicks, watch Ginger enter, time to go to work.

Talked to her on the phone, got some of it, her gorgeous thirteen year old daughter Missy, a waif, seemed like a real sweet kid, bad roll of the cubes, her ending up with Ginger. She’s gone missing, seen her once when I was peddling my bike around Vegas, a Shimono, love that ride.

Anyhoo, Ginger, I heard, had a bar maid gig over there at “Jasons”, the only other club in N. Vegas that is worth setting your boot heels in. Special, elegant, a real class place, private, very private, fabulous bar, kitchen, top chefs, booze, real silver, china, crystal, nice little cozy dance floor. It’s Cuban cool, locals only, run by one of the most stunning and spooky females on the planet.

Blond Bitches name is Mandel, a real stylilist, she owns the place, no tourists, ever, you only get in if she OK’s it, and I guess if she digs your vibe. This Mandel, well, she’s got a heart a gold, they say, lots a rumors, lots of echoes pinging of who she really is, rumor is she’s killed men, lots of men. Guess she hired Ginger because she’s got a big heart, lots of last chance broads show up there, most flaming out in the end.

Ginger walks in, I internally gasp, she looks ravaged, strung out, blue welt kissing one closing eye, lip cut, she’s about forty two, meaning she’s pressing a cold, hard sixty, in Vegas years. Youth evaporates real quick here, like one of those leaf mulchers eating tree limbs you see those Mexican gardeners using all the time on the street.

She’s thin, not like a healthy thin like moi, but more like a meth thin. You know, sunken eyes, black circles, dirty blond disheveled hair, once pretty white like mine, but not anymore. Her clothes don’t look right, blue jeans stained with something, flip flops, dirty feet, emaciated arms struck out of an old lime green tank top, hands noticeably shaking, eyes darting everywhere like some kind of lab rat. She pulls out a pack of smokes, generic, looks at me, I nod OK. She can barely find the tip of the smoke with her plastic Bic, smoke stacking out of her small nose. I nod at a chair, she sits; I don’t like any of it, any of it at all.

She is, of course, the poster girl for every young stunner that ever got off a Grey Hound Bus from Bangor, Biloxi or Fresno. You know, once tall, beautiful, stupid, having dreams of something, anything; anything better than being sodomized by a drunken uncle Chester, as then, her dreams turn into horrific night mares. They might as well give these hopeless girls play sheets when they abort the bus, you know. First comes a job as a show girl, if they have any talent at all, then the drugs, clubs, nude dancing, you know Rage, Tao, Badda Bing, Ghost Bar, Voodoo Lounge, and then the predators set in, and its all about the Voodoo, a black world that suddenly becomes these girl’s reality.

Rich men, older guys, clothes, gold chains, Benzes, Porsches, Beemers, goblets of dough, lies, bastards, palatial cribs over there in “The Lakes.” These ignorant, insane girls usually end up with these werewolves, if their lucky, most are not. 

It’s the fringe characters that eventually get IM.

Addicted gamblers, sweet talkers, road bump abs, drugs, booze, thugs and sketch artists of crime, pimps, real garbage, that’s what they do. Then, the girl’s burn out, turn out, next step stripping, then whoring, in call, then cocktailing, followed by corner rendezvous off of Fremont Street. Then, death or a bus ticket back home, dying locust, lives over, nothing left but bad memories of their one minute of fame. That is Ginger’s MO, so let’s crack it. I do not like those bruises on her face, but I’ve seen it all before, so I get to it.

“So, what’s sup? Something about Missy, talk to me?”

I can see she’s crawling out of her skin, jonesing, yellow stains on her fingers from letting too many dying butts burn down too low. She kills the smoke in my ash tray, mouth tics, eyes tics, she looks at me; I drill her straight with my eyes.

“Ayah, yeah, I ain’t seen her for three days. I been busy Jane, got in a little trouble, lost my job at Jason’s, you know Vegas, needed a little time, so I got Bobby to babysit her, ya know, he’s her dad, thought she’d be fine…fuck, I don’t know…”

“Fuck.” I murmur audibly.

Bobby O’Brien, a real dirt bag, a piece a filth, runs the night shift over there at that den of inequity “The Spearmint Rhino” a notorious strip club here in a bad part of N. Vegas. A true drug addict, runs in call whores, drugs, a habitual liar, criminal, runs numerous scams, addicted to the crap tables, a cop jacket as long as my arm, alright, time for the gruesome facts.

“You don’t know what?” Where the fuck is your daughter?” I bark, like the pissed off Doberman that I am.

My bark wakes her up, she lights another smoke, I want to shove it in her nose, and scream.

“WAKE UP BITCH, YOUR FUCKING DAUGHTER IS MISSING.” I don’t.

“Gees Jane, I fucking don’t know, aaah, uummm, seemed OK, when I done it…Fuck, Bobby said he lost her…Said she was playin’ with a doll or somethin’, she just was gone, he don’t know where…What am I gonna do, she’s my baby, I fucked up, please, can ya help me, I need her real bad.”

“Fuck” I groan again to myself, as she starts shaking, tears rolling down her savaged cheeks, mascara running everywhere, just making her look more hideous, smoke screaming out of her running nose, me knowing the truth. The darling kid could be on a fucking Jumbo Jet to Saudi Arabia, sittin on some Sheik’s lap, wearing gold bangles, eating humus cheese burgers between fucking all a the Emi’rs brothers, cousins and uncles 24/7.  

The white sheet set will pay a fortune for trafficked sweet young girls, top dollar. You know, suppress your own women, keep the boot to their necks, trick ‘em out in wool “Snuggies” eye slits, a hundred and ten degrees, servants, wash the dishes, pick up the camel poop in the sand, pump out the kids. Their virtual slaves, the men, sit around in the souk, sip mint tea, smoke hashish, fuck around all day, but I don’t think it went down that way; Bobby’s just not that bright, connected, though he can be a dangerous little weasel at times.

“He lost her, Ginger? You’re fucking kidding me. What is she, a set of keys? I’m assuming you didn’t call the cops, right?”

She’s ashamed, terrified, lying, I think, nods that I am indeed correct, and then stutters.

“Naw, Bobby said she’d turn up, stop moaning all the time, then he beat on me. I guess I deserved it, you know Jane, he’s been real good to Missy and me.”

I want to rip her lungs out of her chest, I don’t.

”Sniffle, sniffle, sniffle.”

I want to reach across the desk, and beat on her too, knock some daylight into her brain. Fuck, how many times have I heard this same story, in different versions, well, I can’t count the ways.

Suddenly, I feel gutted, the last forty or so hours, finally catching up. I pretty much know what I’m going to do, whether she gives me the green light or not. Two things I hate more than anything, guys who smack women, without permission of course, me being a permission girl when the mood is right, and some fuck-wad hurting an animal or a kid, who at the moment is probably disappeared into the cesspool Vegas is, and always will be. So I have to be coy, smart, because she loves this creep, and all it will take is bunch of dead red roses to turn her, even give up the kid, if it came to that. Drug addicts are like that.

“So, Ginger, you want me to ask around, look into it a little, you know discreet, Bobby doesn’t have to know, how’s that sound.” I ask, me taking inventory of what kind of weapons I will need when I visit Bobby O’Brien, hopefully in the next half hour.

“Aaah, yeah, Ok, I ain’t got no money Jane, can I pay ya later…ahh.”

“Sure doll, no problem.” I lie. “Now scoot, I’ll ring you up when I find something, OK.”

“Gees Jane, you’re the best, I can’t tha…”

“Scoot.” I seethe, trying to keep it together.

She sees it, the blood fury in my melting eyeballs, commits a homicide on her cigarette butt in my ash tray, stands, sways, looks at me one last time. She flip flops down the stairs, out the security iron bars and is gone, into what, I can only fucking imagine.

I know she’s lying, I know there’s something else, there’s always something else, and when I got the bit in my perfect teeth I can be a bit edgy, focused, like a Great White zeroing in on a seal. I need to make a call, get an update, news from my buddy over there at N. Vegas Metro, a homicide dick, a Lieutenant, one Victor Garcia.

Vic, a big roly-poly Hispanic cop, big smile, big personality and I go back a few years, met at Jason’s of all places, serial killer, killing the homeless. He figured the Mandel babe knew something, for she hung with this very hard, brilliant artist dude, named Mal. He has an old bakery he converted into an artist’s loft, just a couple a blocks from mine. Vic thought he was the killer, I didn’t think so, told him that. This Mal character is one handsome stud of stone; one of the few men that actually scares me.

Garcia knew my rep, asked me if I could snoop around, I did. Shit went down, Garcia got hurt, hurt bad, turned out the perp was some insane real estate mogul, bought up the slums, murdering the homeless, so property values would sky rocket, which they did, then they didn’t. It’s a long story Mandel, Mal, maybe a later day, maybe a better day for that story.

Needless to say I’m amped, pissed liquid mercury melting my brain, and no time like the present, time to roll, time to hit up LOU on the cell.

Speed dial, “ring a ding ling.”

“Hello” seeps out of the speaker. I get right to it, no small talk left in my mouth.

“Lou, it’s Jane, I need a little help, you offering?”

All cops call their Lieutenants Lou, love that.

“Hey Jane, some time, I miss ya. Yeah, sure, what’s up sweetness?”

“Young Girl, friend of mine, gone missing, I was wondering if you had any paper on her, any info.”

“Sure, no problem, what’s her name, how old, MO if you got it, let me have it.

Love Garcia, totally professional, right to the point, he knows me, digs me, DITTO to LOU.

“She’s a Missy Smith, thirteen, blond, pretty, daughter of a sick head case, Ginger Smith, I’m sure you got stats on her.”

“Just a sec, let me see if a she’s in the box.”

I wait, need a smoke, light up a Marlboro, puff, puff, I’m starting to act like Ginger, agitated, manic, except I’m enraged, nothing new about that.

“Got her, yeah, this Ginger, lots a busts, shoplifting, drugs, peddling her ass, usual stuff, a coupla weeks here and there in the clank, nothing serious, you want me to bring her in?”

“No Lou, it’s my thing. If you don’t mind, run her kid through the system, see if she pops up, ring my cell if there’s anything, do you mind?”

“Not at all Jane, what else, anything for you Jane, you know that.”

“I know that, I’ll send over a pink teddy bear for that doll daughter of yours, just to say thanks. Gotta scoot.”

“Jane.”

Yeah.”

“Good job with the Flicks take down, saved me and the boys a lot a grief, boys here have big shout outs too ya, we all love ya, ya know.”

“Love back at you, thanks Lou, my pleasure, more later.”

“Jane.”

“Yeah.”

“Be careful, ya hear.”

“Sure, real careful, later.”

I kill the cell, grateful for friends like Vic, stand, its all about “street creds.” Lou’s got ‘em, I got ‘em, so I move to my pine gun cabinet, spinaroo the dial on the heavy combination lock, open the door, smile; I always smile when I see my guns.

I love my guns, respect my guns, and glow looking at my AK-47, banana clip, a Saw hanging next to it, you know the kind those radical dudes in the Special Forces use killing bad guys in Afghanistan. I need something light today, ignore my Glock, Walther PP-K, my Smith & Wesson Viper and my lovely old school Colt 45, focus on one of two Berettas hanging on the hook. Still have my other Glock in my shoulder holster, but its Beretta time. So I grab it, fondle it, grab a thirteen in the clip bullet cage, slap her in the bitch, ratchet a slug into it. It’s the little things in life that make me happy. I then retrieve a black silencer, screw it on the tip, give it a tug, my baby is ready too.

I grab my 16 gauge Mossberg, over and under shot gun, a fist of shells, turn, grab my other Glock, put it to bed, close the door, spinaroo the lock, sit, and do one of my most fav things. I love the feeling of those red copper cap shells revolving in my fingers, they almost make me cum. I slot six in the scatter gun and now am ready to visit Bobby. He doesn’t know me that well, but he soon will.

“Click”, I check out my six inch switch blade with “Tampa Bay City” stenciled into the handle, love that too. “Click” back in the handle the blade goes, stab it into my boot, have one last caffeine hit, make sure my PI gun license is in my jeans pocket, turn, down the stairs I go.

POKER players often go “On Tilt” when shit goes bad, I don’t go there, but I am close as I cruise down Northern Ave, then pass MLK Blvd, check my GPS machine. It tells me to hang a left. I move down the block and moan. Tract houses, part of the new morgue Vegas has become, for sale signs everywhere, houses abandoned, garbage, lawns overgrown, fucking raccoons, coyotes, cougars prowling the street, almost. It’s tragic what’s happened to Vegas, but that’s evolution at work. Darwin, that brain wizard was right.

Wall Street fucked these people, with that subprime mortgage scam, and not one of the corrupt pukes went to jail. I should visit Goldman Sacs and put an air hole in that fuckwad Lloyd Blankfein’s forehead, he owns the whore house, and walked away with about a hundred million buckaroos.

Half way down the street, I see it, Bobbie’s dump, same deal, except his Caddy Escalade, black of course, is parked in the driveway, three houses on each side of his are vacant, perfect. I can use my Mossberg, no eyes, no worry; gun shots are a part of N. Vegas, as elevator music is to Trump Towers.

I rip the Buick into the drive, kill her dead, no open door, melt over the chassis, 16 gauge nestled in the cleft of my bare arm. I lift it, one hand ratchet a cap into it, love that action. I feel my shoulder holster holding my black Beretta, stiletto now in my hip hugger belt. My teeny tummy is sucking air, I’m amped, eyes like lug bolts, chrome and hard. I feel like I’m on acid, you know, you can see a pin at five hundred feet, move across the corpse of a lawn, get to the door, no time to hang around, truth time, time to move.

I’M  NOT one of those polite girls, you know, knock, knock, knock, lets have a conversation, that only ever works in the flicks, bad celluloid  and since a little angel’s life is at stake, I lift the Mossberg and “KABOOM.”

I blow a foot-square hole into the door knob, the plywood blasts open. I re shoulder the shot gun,  lift my Beretta, and cruise through the door, hallway, and then with my 9mm poking straight ahead, both hands, head into the living room.

The place looks like a poster for “Panic in Needles Park” one a my fav flicks, ripped up couch, over stuffed filthy lounges, torn up curtains, soiled clothes, old food cartons, Cheerios, Oreos, open packages of Little Debbie, the usual junkie foods scattered every where. Carpet ripped, burned, stained, I see empty bottles, looks like he’s a Dewar’s and Gordon’s freak. The smell of burnt eggs stinks up the place.  Junkies always revert back to eggs, it’s all they can handle when their done nodding out. My eyes are acute, scanners, miss nothing, can’t afford to. I see a .38 on a table, a user’s shoot up kit, dime glassine bag of heroin, a cell, some other shit, make note of it, important that.

I see him; he’s bare chested, sitting at a desk, what, he didn’t hear Mr. Mossberg? I see the ear phones, I-pod, on his ears, I get it. He’s a skinny dude, all sinew, barefoot, filthy Levis, computer monitor staked into it, thick red hair, freckles, he’s just about to take a snort from a pile of coke, could be meth, on a mirror on the desk, straw half way up his snout.

Surprise, surprise, he knows me, my rep, I hope. He sees my gun stabbed at him, he drops his straw, stands, takes a step towards his 38, I drop the hammer.

“Psssst, Psssst.” “Thump Thump.”

I drill two into the wall, about eight inches from his running nose. He freeze frames, mumbles

“What the fuck.”

 I’ll show him what the fuck.

He’s a human Flex straw, druggies you know, eyes like hub caps, all the usual face twitches. He moves towards me, this ain’t a home invasion, steps before his couch, fists bunched. I smile, pistol whip him in the cheek.

 “Crack. Crack”

 Sounds right, blood erupts, moan, moan, moan, and cause I’m in a bad mood, I whack him again, forehead time, just as he’s going down to the cushions. I do a little bunny hop, spread eagle ‘em, grab a tuft of hair, rip his bloody face to my stainless, hard eyes. I pry his bloody mouth open, stick my silencer tip down to his tonsils.

“Gurgle, gurgle, gurgle.”

 “Click” hammer back, he looks crazed, terrified, I guess he has a right to, as I seethe.

“Missy, where is she. Fuck with me, I’ll bury you in a junk yard in Barstow.”

He googly goops me, he’s a born loser, liar, doesn’t fit my mood, snot running down his lips, eyes spilling tears. I pull the silencer out of his mouth, pop one in the wall, then jab it back in his yap and ask this time, not nice like before.

“Where’s the fucking kid? It can be easy, or hard, you choose?’

His head, like one a those Dodger bobble head dolls over there at the ball park at Chavez Ravine bangs up and down as he sees I’m all serious and such, as he mumbles words I can’t understand. I want the kid, can’t afford to whack him yet, so I rip my baby from his mouth, stand, point it at one of his blue eyeballs; cock her. That “Click” usual brings the truth, as he touches the blood on his face, mouth, jerks eyeballs at his red fingers, and then glares at me, not so nice.

I can see the Kinko balls rotating in his head, measuring me. I am a shoelace after all, but I don’t think so, usual coward, whack some broad around, be a man, but he can see I’m a hard kind, different than other girls, as he mumbles some bull shit at me, which makes my hormones boil. I glance at my jeans. “Fuck” more blood, thank god for Chang’s dry cleaners.

Mrs. Chang is a genius with a bar a soap, always getting blood outta my clothes, like her for that. Drives me nutso though, always jabbering about her cousin Ming, a great guy. I think she said he raises rats to feed to pythons, a real success story, wants to hook me up.

I say, Naw, don’t have a snake, well I do have a pair of snake cowboy boots, don’t tell her that…WHAT EVER.

“Fuck Jane, you fucked me up, why ya gotta be that way, I don’t know what the fuck yer talkin’ bout.”

“Psssst, Psssst.”

I pour two into the pillows, dust, feathers fly, he jerks all around, bitch yelps, yips, fucking pathetic. I take a step, pistol whip him in the side of his head. He screams, moans, face in the hands, blood everywhere, bare feet jerking off like a motel quarter in a slot vibrator bed. I step back; he’s weeping, leers at me, my eyes, Beretta, as I seethe.

“Next one in the cabasa, amigo. Where’s Missy, now, not later.”

When will they ever learn? I like to think sometimes, but not really. He’s measuring me, but he’s a coward, as he spits out some words at me, so I listen, just praying to some Buddha head that he makes a play at me.

“Yeah, Ok. Jest don’t hit me no more. Fuck Jane, I ain’t feeling good, I need a hit, come on, just one, I’ll tell ya everything, please Jane, I feel sick, real sick.”

“Oh really.” Simonizes through my mind, knowing exactly what is going down.

I jerk my silencer at the crank on the desk, nod once, whisper, “Go.”

Why the fuck not, I got a lot of violence, like battery acid pumping through my arteries. Maybe I can get off, before he finally let’s go of the truth. Fuck, I’m selfish like that at times, can’t help it.

He stands, he’s right, he looks strung out, he’s got tracks on his arms. I can see he’s got the heebie jeebies; he doesn’t look that good, courtesy of Mrs. Beretta and the bitch at bat with her.

 He moves, all wobbly and such to his desk, eyes jerking over at his .38, his partially open drawer, then moi, then at the coke, and I figure he’s got a piece in the drawer; I’m hoping he goes there.

I have a plan, always think head, Bobby Fisher knew that, so I ask and I mean it this time.

“Where’s Missy. Last time I ask.”

“Fuck Jane, jest a sec, why ya gotta be so hard…Just a sec.”

He shoves the straw in his nose, hits the pile, I move to him, rip a tuft of red hair, lift his head, slam his face into the coke, breaking his nose as I do, white flake memories dozing in the air, straw protruding out of his nose, stuck somewhere up there. Those things are always a mystery to me when they happen.

He screams, bounces real good, falls back in his office chair, blood, coke, other shit splashed on his face, as he leers at me with terror in his eyes, then wails again, as I see his hand reflex into the drawer. I immediately kick it shut with my boot, shattering his hand, as he bellows. Fuck that had to hurt, twitches, jerks, weeps, balls all over; he’s totally fucked up; I never planned it any other way.

I get real close, put the silencer tit to his forehead, there’s that “Click” again as his eyeballs revolve to the back of his head, return to sender, and he gawks at me,  finally finds the mumbles I was looking for.

“Ok, ok, ok. Sheeeet, pleeeease, don’t hit on me no more…she’s good….The fucking VIG Jane, bookies…ahhhh my nose, fucking Kansas State, was a sure thing, missed the fucking spread…I’m sick…rented he…he…her out…gave her to this guy…she’s all good…I…I…”

I go Polar, feel like a sheet of stainless steel has plated my body, and then his words absorb. I straddle him, rip his head back, and this time not soft, like before, I break three of his teeth as I punch my heater into his mouth, and ROAR, wanting to pull the trigger, bad, real bad.

“YOU FUCKING RENTED HER…WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN?…RENTED HER TO WHO?”

I rip the silencer out of his mouth, he begins to babble, and I can smell, as well as hear his own urine drip, drip, dripping on the floor, telling me he’s on page, fucking finally.

“Yo…yooo…you know ‘em Jane…Sure…Sh…shes all good…Ed…eddi… Eddie Jett, gga…gave me three grand…sa…sid…said he’d treat her Ok…Yeah, she’s at Eddie’s cr…crib…jeese, I thin I…I’m dyin…I.”

EDDIE JETT, my brain hemorrhages, not that deviant, ex Rocker, has hit on me a zillion times, no way, so I pistol whip the words right out of his mouth, he whimpers, groans, as I stand, shaking all over. My blood, boiling like lighter fluid, I face him, hand shaking, I want to kill him, one more cockroach off the face of the earth won’t be missed, I don’t.

“You’re not dead yet. If you’re lying, if you pick up a phone, write a fucking post card, I will come back and FUCKING put a bullet in your ear, CLEAR?” I bellow, he nods.

I turn, take a step, and then stop from a single word.

“BIATCH.”

That’s always the magic word for me as my lips tick, I turn, find a smile, you know the kind, look at him, tilt my head, look more, smile more, perfect, Ooops-a-daisy, I can see he knows he’s made a boo boo. I am a biatch, and know this is the perfect time, for him to see just how big of a bitch I am.

I walk over to him, smile, then.

“Pissst, Pissst.”

I hammer two in his knee caps, he screams, blood, bone, sinew, splashed on the white walls behind him, he thumps to the floor.

No time to take out the garbage, I snarl. “You want more, I’ll be back.”

Arnold said that.

I turn, walk to the front door, don’t look back, move to my sweetie, hop the door, fire her up, lay two tracks of rubber out the drive, hit drive, mimic more rubber, I’m gone, a heat seeking, fire breathing Predator Drone on tract for one thing, and one thing only, Eddie Jett.

Everyone knows Eddie Jett, fifty eight, dyed black hair, gone to suet, an ex rocker star, like one of those Metallica, Dee Snyder, acid rock band guys. You know in the eighties, nineties, ripping it up, talent, drugs, groupies, power in their music, not my kind, but lots a kids went off on it. Then what, fame, stardom, two much booze, drugs, girls, everything gets twisted around, and they can’t get it up any longer.

They then make the leap, for the big Casino money, end up looking like Wayne Newton, Elvis, Liberace, burn outs, pretenders, ghosts of the past, two shows a day at the Bellagio, echoing their past hits by rote to a legion of semi comatose fans. You know, the plaid clothes, motor home set, broken down old broads with busted dreams, panties on the stage, you know the types, hitting the feed bag at the smorgasbord over there at Caesars Palace, one last orgy before the Celebrex and Lipitor Circuit kicks in and a concrete casket lid, which finally ends the pain.

Eddie Jett, well, he’s the worst of them, a real degenerate, leans towards the bubble gum set, that’s his MO, makes sense, Ginger’s kid now. He knows me, man he knows me really well. I see him at The Bent, and the Mandel babe’s joint, Jason’s and cause I’m a stick blond, a real beauty queen, he’s forever hitting on me. You know, come on doll, come for a visit, dinner, Crystal, some toot and a roll in the sack with a bag of sick, sagging skin, no thank you very much. I’d rather fuck a Zebra over there at the N. Vegas zoo.

I sorta have an open invitation to his crib, that’s good for my play, and have his number, am certain it will just a take a ring a ding ling to get an invite, which I’m going to do, right after I get a cup of black java, right there at Dunkin Doughnuts, just there.

But now I gotta chill, for just before I murder a man, I gotta get my heart beat down, my mind straight, so the top of my head doesn’t vaporize.

Let’s see, get a cup A JOE, a jelly doughnut, remember to get Lou’s kid that pink Teddy Bear I promised.

Fuck it, I can’t get past it, I got killing on my mind, Eddie Jett’s killing.

Time to roll.




icetombs.jpg
Art by L. A. Barlow © 2017

THE ICE TOMBS

j brooke


Come to Vegas baby, you’ve seen the pull, the tube ads, Madison Ave spin run amok, gym rat dudes, road bump abs, all the country club models dancing, stilettos, skin and mini-skirts, boogying the night away, strobe light neon, Long Island Ice teas, Margarita Ville, shots, hits and slammers, a hit of E, a line of coke, sniff a little H, fuck and suck the night away. Morning like a black dwarf dead star, crash at the casino swimming pool, tan, lithe bodies, banshee madness, it’s all there, just at the tip of a girl’s fake fingernails. Hit up the casinos, Bellagio, MGM, Paris, the green felt, stacks of black chips, Black Jack every time, hard eleven as the cubes dance on the green felt, zing, zing, zing, bells, whistles, jack pot, another fucking winner, why not you?

Why not you?

Because, it’s all hideous bull shit and all about the fucking Voodoo in the end.

Behind the hype, the pretty neon, Vegas is a fucking Warsaw Ghetto genocidal holocaust of pain, death, pulverized dreams, all fueled by perversion, deviance, decadence, seduction, addiction, gambling, sex, extortion, drugs and insidious big Wall Street money.

Oldest story ever told.

 Ya arrive in a 40 gees Benz with the rent money, your kids College dough, ya leave in a pool of blood and vomit in a 250 grand Greyhound bus, that’s if you fucking get out alive at all.

North Vegas is the worst, gangs, junkie whores, homeless, meth dealers, the end of the line, no pretty hype for that sewer. No posters. No TV, no U Tube, Face book ads, no pretty colored posters exposing that place. Just police chalk outlines on a slab of asphalt, red, blue, red, blue coroner lights, exposing some teenager’s last exposure after a life of pain.

They come like lemmings, 16-year-old runaway girls, gobbled up by the predator men as they get off the bus, Mickey Mouse back pack, cheap shoes, a crap Walmart leather jacket, as they escaped a drunken bourbon breath step-dad that sodomized them, out of Oklahoma City, or Bangor, or Tampa Bay City they come.

Their fucking award escaping nights of nightmares,  a life as a junkie, in-call whore, nude dancer, drunk, some young girl, turned out, raped, murdered, final  resting place, The Ice Tombs over there at North Vegas Metro Homicide.

I’m sitting here, all 5 ft-11, 120 pounds of me, in my tricked-out 59 turquoise and white convertible, flared tail-finned honey, big chrome smiling grill, Buick, at another Dunkin Donuts on the final journey searching for a 13-year-old abducted angel.

I am Jane, Vegas PI, bounty hunter and that’s what I do and I’m in a violent fucking mood.  

As of yet, I don’t have any blood on my black leather hip huggers, or my Nordic buzz cut cropped white hair, but I figure that’s gonna change at the drop of a peso. My eyes are blue/green, that turn purple in rage, like they are at this moment.

I’m on a case, have the scent and I’m just about to nail-gun a dart into the last question left, of where this little innocent princess has gone; gone missing from this tragic burning fucking planet.

Anyhow, I’m a queer girl, thank Jehovah, from the moment I sluiced outta the womb.

I love fucking, sucking, kissing girls, I’m so lucky, and there’s no shortage of these goddesses in Vegas, thank the folks at the K-Y Jelly factory for that.

I’m thin as a whippet, Mensa smart, once had eating disorders, no longer, not to mention moi being so bi-polar, so OCD struck, IQ solar, like a meteor’s flaming tail whizzing by the rings of Saturn.

I have these martial arts belts, which offset my expertise with guns, have tons of them, also knives, hatchets, and my fave, my steel-toed boots that I usually kick ass with. I love hand to hand combat, no matter how big some puke is.

I get my ass kicked, so what, it’s a part of the VIG

I’m considered beautiful, Nordic-like in feature, which means absolutely fucking nothing to me. Luck of the life dice, beauty, more of a curse if you let the bitch grab you by the balls, rule your life, not me.

If all you’ve ever been is pretty, well you’re fucked, cause that, like a vat of muriatic acid eating iron, changes in an eye-blink, and then what do ya have? Nada, zilch, just a fading photo of you when you thought you were ALL THAT, ya peek at, between serving the breakfast special at Denny’s.

Since my parents died almost ten years ago, drunk killed them and left me millions, well, I spent almost every waking moment educating myself, helping others, trying to be the savior of the poor, kids, girls and animals. I try to remember every day how lucky I am, and how so many millions of good people struggle everyday to keep the heat going, put some chow out for the kids, as the government continues to cut any food aid for the poorest people in America.

I work the homeless shelters, the food lines, do what I can and trust me, I’m no Joan of Arc, no poster girl for an average American PTA life, perfect, I ain’t, but I try and think I have a good heart and that’s why I became a Vegas PI/Bounty hunter.

I can’t save the world, but tonight, just maybe I can save a lost little girl, that’s why I’m here, at the donut place, sipping coffee, eating a donut, you know, the kind with a hole in the middle.

I’m chilling, earlier, had a meeting with this meth-addicted mom of the year in my office, Ginger was the bitch’s name, just fucking perfect, a sit down at my 5000 sq. ft. loft I built over Chang’s laundry.

She gave up her 13-year-old kid Missy to her drug and gambling-addicted father, a scum fuck named Bobby O’Brien, you know, just so she could get fucking high again.

I visited Bobby earlier, uninvited, shoved my silenced Beretta tip into his mouth, he tasted the gun oil, ya do that, a puke always digs the truth out of the stucco. After, I was in a bad mood, so I put two, psssst, psssst, Beretta caps into his knees.

He gave the kid up to a real deviant, to pay off a gambling debt. Apparently, he missed the spread on a B-ball Kansas State game. He gave his daughter to a heavy metal rocker child molester, Eddie Jett.

You know the type, once a power in acid rock, now a casino whore, going through the motions, a 60-year-old burn-out, dyed Elvis black-haired puke, turned to jump suits and suet, sucking up the big hotel casino money for screaming women, tossing their bras and panties on the stage, closer to the end now, than the beginning, one last conga line at the Caesar’s Palace smorgasbord, before they die on the golf course from a fucking heart attack.

My fucking blood is boiling like fulminated mercury.

I gotta cool down.

Anyhow, Eddie Jett knows me, I bump a rub into him sometimes when I’m out at the clubs, on Case, hunting, and mostly at this fab private club called Jason’s, owned by this stunning blond doll named Mandal. She’s the only woman I’ve ever feared, rumor is she’s killed before, like me, killed insidious men.

More on her later, another time, a better time.

I’m still waiting for a return ring-a-ding-ling from my best friend, Lieutenant Victor Garcia (Lou the cops call their lieutenants) from N. Vegas Metro Homicide.

He’s running paper on this Ginger over there at the precinct,

Most a my friends are cops, or hard and beautiful people, criminals, super thieves, like my friend King, a black super guy, who runs the biggest Gang in N. Vegas. All of us one-percenter’s have something in common. We never lie to each other and we see the world as it is, like it was washed in an acid bath. We have a bond of loyalty, speak to truth and know sometimes the truth comes from a bullet, when all else fails.

Anyhow, because I’m a stick blonde, actually kind of pre-pubescent type, Eddie Jett’s forever hitting on me.

‘Come on doll, come for a visit, my crib, some Dom, dinner, Crystal, some toot, I love ya Jane.’

I’d rather eat my own puke than roll in the sack with a bag of sick, sagging degenerate skin.

No thank you very much. I’d rather fuck a Zebra over there at the N. Vegas Zoo.

I never said that to him, kind of tortured him, always leaving the sex door open.

I sorta have an open invitation to his crib. That’s good for my play, and I have his cell number. I’m certain it will just a take a ring a ding ling to get an invite to a night of debauchery. Which is exactly what I am going to do, the phone thing that is, right after I get a cup of black java right there at Dunkin Donuts, just there.

“Blink, blink, blink.”

I pull into Dunkin Donuts, kill the 357 power house engine. I Check my lips in the side mirror, (vanity again) I find my cherry Chap Stick in that little pocket in my jeans. Slapping some on, I feel better. I then begin to move.

The neon hurts my blues, but gotta have some caffeine or my head’s going to boil off of my long neck. I hit the kid up for a jumbo, tip him 5 bucks, and get a smile filled with braces back. Out the door I go.

I’m about to leap the door, when I see two bulls from Vegas Metro, in a Blue and White. They’re eating the usual vitamin-enriched breakfast of donuts and coffee. I know them, smile at them and get waves, smiles back.

I so dig cops. They’re underpaid, no respect and misunderstood. Could you imagine a world without them? The fucking deviants would be lined up eight blocks long, at your house, raping your wife and daughters, even your dog and your fucking goldfish. Not my Gumbo, Stella though. There would be pure chaos without cops holding the Thin Blue Line.

Anyhooo, I sip some coffee out of that little hole in the Styrofoam lid. I am about to fire her up when my cell buzzes on the seat next to me.

I grab her, and see its Lieutenant Garcia. Good. I was hoping to get a shout out from him before I visited Eddie Jett.

“Hey Lou, what’s sup?”

I can hear something in his voice that sets anti-freeze in my veins, none of it in my tired brain is any good.

“Jane, sorry, can ya get to Metro quick like, meet you in the parking lot.”

“Sure Vic, be right there.” I shoot back at him.

No questions asked, none needed, as I read the dire meaning in his voice.

I know none of it is any good. I could tell just from the dark gravel spilling from his quivering, hard voice that bad news is coming.

It’s a tinsel steel world, Vegas. No one has to tell me that. Anything ever happens good in Vegas, is usually a mistake.

 As I drive into the bowels of N. Vegas, I feel like one of those dudes on Death Row, days, hours, minutes spitting away. Next stop an Alcatraz Electric Chair or a gurney with a needle. You get it, just before a last meal of pork chops and eggs.

Twenty minutes later, I pull into Metro. As promised, there is Lou, looking the usual tired and stressed out. He’s wearing his usual rumpled-paper-bag brown suit, which he probably slept in. Cops have long hours, desperate hours, hard lives and bent Id’s. That’s why so many eat their guns when they retire over there in that ex-cop grave yard, Coeur de Leane, Idaho.

I make the walk, face him off. He looks at me, and you know, that look when a cop shows up at your front door, is hesitant to tell a mark the bad news.

“You sure you want this, Jane?’

“Yeah, I want it.”

He sighs, nods and tilts his head at the precinct. We turn and begin to stroll. I follow him as we walk into the three-story building. I feel like I have an iceberg shoved up my ass.

We make our way through the various precinct rooms, Homicide, Gang Unit, Bunco, Fraud and Missing Persons. Everywhere there are guys, girls, plain clothes, gold badges, shoulder rigs, hip holsters, hand guns and blue uniforms. They’re doing what they do best. They’re trying to keep a tidal wave of vomit from breaking apart a city already on the edge of a moral-less abyss.

Neon everywhere, faded green walls, we move down the stairs, one floor, an open door and, then we move. We are silent as we walk along a cold hall, way past flickering neon, mimicking my dead, dying heart. We pass the CSI kids, geeks, smart, microscopes, telescopes, DNA, blood, semen, hair and fiber analysis machines humming. They’re mesmerized with electronic gizmos, computers, lots of computers, state of the art snoop machines.

These are the medical sleuth ghouls.

You murder someone, leave a toenail, a hair follicle, they will get YA. Normally, I’m fascinated by all of it, usually, but not now. I have a sweet little girl on my mind.

~     ~     ~

The ICE Tombs, Crypts, The Ice House, cops have a lot of cool names for the place at the END OF THE HALL.

Usually, I dig hip lingo, smart talk, but not today, not now, not this day. I hate smart, hip words at the moment. The innocent never deserve the big sleep along a stainless steel slab, especially some little bird that never had a bad tweet one day of her short life.

We stall out at a massive, stainless, hermetically sealed door. Garcia stalls out, looks at me, my head ticks as I seethe. “Do it.”

Nodding, he hits the big lever.

“Swoosh” the door opens.

I exhale and follow him into the other name the cops gave the morgue, Blue Moon Heaven, for the entire place is bathed in blue neon. I don’t know why. Maybe because blood looks blue under a full moon, don’t know.

We stall out.

I feel dizzy.

Why not?

I also feel like vomiting.

I peek across the room, center cut, see the Doc, know him a little, from Jason’s. Doc Reynolds is his name, Danny.

He’s a Jake guy, straight shooter, smart, coroner by trade. He’s decked out in blue too, neoprene gloves, space suit, booties, apron. He’s standing right next to a stainless bed that has a blue tarp on it. Blue seems to be the fucking color of the day. When I get home, I’m going to burn every piece of blue togs I own, including my Levi jeans.

We walk up, my eyes roam, I see a tiny toe tag on a miniature toe. Exactly like the one I’m going to put on Bobby O’Brien, most likely after I visit Eddie Jett and put one on him, too.

Lou looks at the doc, looks at me, I look at Reynolds. He nods, understands, says.

“Jane, some time, you a part of this?”

“Yeah Danny, I’m a part of this.”

“Guess you want to see her, yeah?”

“Yeah, I want to see my girl.”

Doc looks at Garcia, they exchange something. Lou nods. I exhale my grief. Off comes the tarp in one swoosh.

Iridium, Cobalt, Rhodium, they are the hardest elements on earth and at the moment, like me. But, there’s nothing tinsel hard about me, no. I’m a female looking at a dead angel.

She’s waif-like, blond hair, white, almost translucent and transparent skin. There are purple, blue autopsy scars, I think, in a “V” trailing from her larynx. Uninterrupted, they are running down to her sternum, ending up at her hips. The cuts are all sewn together by purple twine that matches the color of her lifeless lips. Right near where her womb would be, I see red catgut. I fight bile in my throat. The catgut looks odd, don’t know why. Hair is bristling on my arms. That’s my usual TELL, letting me know that something is out of whack here. Way out of whack.

I take a step back; want to vomit, fight it, fighting my tears. I am stunned as I stare at a little girl, ninety-five pounds of her and now a dead slab of white chalk as silence thunders through the room.

I begin to stutter, mumble, can’t get my mind right, wrapped around this mortal sin. My eyes are watering as Lou takes my arm, rears me in, whispers.

“What Jane, what did you say?”

I snort it back in to my nose, brain, jaw clenches, I’m coming back now, back to life. There is a:

 Can’t wait attitude blow torched in my mind now.

I turn to Garcia, whisper back at him. “Nothing Lou, nothing at all.”

“What happened here Doc? Talk to us, Danny.” Garcia asked.

 Really, in his heart, I knew he didn’t want to know.

 “Sure Lou, sure.”

We exchange glances, me and the doc. I nod. He nods back.

“Carol, you know, detective over there in homicide, found her under the underpass, over there by 6th and Northern. You know the place Lou, homeless, card board houses, drugs, the end of the road, for most, that is.”

Garcia nods, and tries to swallow his grief back into his stomach.

I know the sewer; don’t want to go there. I shut up, as Doc continues.

“We toxed her, CSI found a baggie on her, cocaine. Blood tox came up clean, stuff lasts for a month in the blood stream, still trying to figure that out.”

Garcia looks at me, I look at him. Doc is almost hesitant about continuing. The lieutenant nods for him to go on.

“You ain’t gonna like this, Lou.”

Garcia takes a deep breath, looks at me

 NADA.

He nods at doc to get on with it.

“Tox says she was pregnant. Figure from her uterus size, about seven months.”

“FUCK.” I jolt it out.

My teeth draw blood from my bottom lip, I don’t feel it.

 ABC’s now put together in my head. 

Mother fucker. They’ve been pimping the kid out for months. That’s what this is all about.

My mind bellows as Garcia twists me around, gets hard in my eyes, asks.

“What Jane, what?”

No mood for small talk, he sees it in my eyes. I feel it in my temples. I sorta snap at him, turn to Reynolds, and ask.

“Later Vic, you got more Danny, I’m guessing?”

“Yeah Jane, there’s more, all bad.”

“What.”

He nods, starts pointing that blue rubber finger, this way and that, up and down at the blue, purple ski trails stitching up my angel.

“That’s what killed her, Jane, Lou. Ya know the arteries pump bout 50 pints of blood a day. Hepatic arteries carry oxygenated blood to the liver. They missed that. Portal veins, big guys, feeding the fetus, also intestines to the liver, missed that too. What killed her, my opinion, we’ll know a little better later, was that whoever cut her, my guess was to snag the baby, hit the Umbilical arteries. Those lead along the umbilical cord to the baby’s heart. So, she bled out.”

Well that’s just fucking great. My brain seethes, as Reynolds scratches his head for a sec and continues.

“No baby at the crime scene, so they, though premature, I guess got the kid, seems that’s what they were after. It’s fucked up, LOU. Don’t know how much longer I can do this shit.”

Garcia groans, as I stay silent. All of it made sense now, way too much sense. All I’m doing is hoping I have enough bullets to take care of all of it after we’re done counting sutures here.

“That ain’t all. It gets sicker. We CAT-scanned her head. You see the blue around her swollen eye sockets and forehead, her eyeballs ruptured. We’ll know more once we get inside, but to me, it’s real clear. They cut her Thalamus away from her frontal lobes. They gave her a lobotomy.  Lou, my fucking God.”

“WHAT.” I roared.

I turned, moved to a stainless steel door, hiding another crypt, another victim in it. Smashing my fist into it, big dent. I felt nothing. I jerked back to Reynolds, leered at him like I wanted him dead.

“I’m just the messenger, Jane, just the messenger.”

Yeah, a fucking messenger of doom. What else is new in Vegas?

~     ~     ~

My brain felt like one of those fucked-up reactors in Japan, melting, and I tried to calm, but not really. It wasn’t Doc’s fault, as I calmed, for real, pulse down, mind blister clear.

I whispered to him to continue. “Go on.”

“Was quite the fad, turn of the century, later even. Old way was to cut the forehead, and snip, snip, snip, you’re a vegetable, well to some degrees anyways. Body stays alive, mind dead, guess they were makin’ a sex doll, don’t know. Any ways, later in the century they used an adrenaline solution, real, real primitive stuff. Who ever cut her, knew their stuff. They went through the eye socket, used a Lucoton, kinda sharp spoon gadget, and after a clip, you have a passive human being. They call it “Trans Orbital Inclusion, very technical. I see it going down this way.”

Eyes closed, imagining all of it, eyes open, looking at Garcia, Doc, he then pointed at two red dots on her small breasts.

“I figured they Tasered her, lobotomized her and then went for the baby with a simple C-Section. They botched that, hit an artery, she bled out. If he wasn’t a doctor, then close to it, lotsa deviant ex-doctors in Vegas. Real sick stuff, Jane, but what’s new about that.”

“Nothing Dan…Fucking nothing is never new.” Garcia, pain in his voice, whispered.

“Anything more Doc?” Lou asked.

I peruse her, time stops. I look at her blue painted finger nails, gasp inside. Fuck, she just wanted to be pretty. I see a missing nail, move to her, take her cold hand, look again, look back at Danny, ask.

“What about this, where’s her fucking fingernail?”

“Oh yeah, almost forgot. Kids at CSI saw that, no sign at the perp’s scene. Just guessing, maybe she fought before she died, just guesses.”

“Oh shit, I forgot one thing. When Detective Carol found her, she was still frozen stiff. Homicide thinks they kept her in a freezer for a while, don’t know, found ice in her tissue, blood, urine, that looks right to me.”

“Frozen, you mean like a popsicle.”

“Yeah Jane, like a Popsicle.”

I’m so deranged, I throw my head back, begin to laugh, maniacal, crazed.

I don’t know how many people are going to die tonight, but the list is growing.

 Finally, and mercifully, Garcia wraps his bear of an arm around me, draws me in close. Instantly I morph, begin to sob uncontrollably. Seconds pass, tear ducts Spackle up. Molten lava eats water, I move away, as Vic begins to pull me towards the door.

I jerk away, no more tears, there will be more later, as I leer at Doc, as my voice trembles, not a weak kind of sound, but that kind when you feel fury ripping apart every cell in your body.

“I need a moment with her, alone.”

Both cops get it, nod, walk to the door, scram out of it.

I jack the breath back in my nostrils, my head jilts. I look at the kid, walk over, and stare down at her. Her eyes were once blue, now they’re opaque, almost white, death, no one gets out alive in the end, but, not this. Not now.

I take her hand. It’s cold, as cold as mine. I don’t mind, and, then see her blue finger nail polish, the broken nail. My heart explodes. Tears, drip, drip, dripping on her finger tips, the ones she had painted, so she could be a pretty little girl. That’s all she wanted in life, was just a chance. One chance just to be a little kid, a child with a teddy bear.

I reach forward, close her eyes, they’re cold too. Draping the tarp over her naked body to her chin, I want to give her dignity back to her. I just want her to know someone loves her.

I feel sick, cheap, no glib, no smart remarks and no vanity in the revolver any more. I feel ashamed, more tears, bouncing off her dead skin, stretched like plastic over her lifeless corpse. I cut the tears right out of my face, for the moment. No more tears, not just yet. I lean down, close to her tiny ears, she smells like embalming fluid. My nose wrinkles, the odor clarifies my mind. My lips move close and then I whisper as softly as I have ever spoken any words in my life.

“Its okay baby…you rest now…the white angels are waiting for you, you did your best…it’s not your fault…” My throat constricts.

It feels like it has concrete packed in it. “There, there sweetie, you let Jane take care of it now…I’m going to make everything right. I love you doll…I really do.”

I straighten up, get right and look at her one last time. Pulling the tarp over her face, I smile, swallow and then look one last time at her. Moving to the crypts door, I look back, nod once and I’m gone.

~     ~     ~

“OH, POWERS from Hell, grant me Nero’s wish, that all women have but one head and that head belongs to the screw who tyrannizes me: then grant me the pleasure of chopping it off!”

Bastille, Paris, 1700’s, DeSade wrote that, in his own blood. It seems reasonable to me.

I’m in a head-chopping-off kind of mood.

Once I was out of The Tombs, Garcia cornered me. I could see stark concern on his brown, Pudge Rodriguez of a face. He knows me, and he also knows I sometimes can nudge my toes over the Blue Line, well, sometimes way over that line.

It sorta went like this.

Come on Jane, you know something. Naw Vic, it’s just the kid upset me. I know you Jane, let me and the boys help. Naw, it’s all good. Don’t fuck up Jane, blah, blah, blah, and blah, blah, blah, back and forth.

THEN I blew him off, not like me, I felt bad about it.

Lou understands, but I had other things on my mind, more important things.

I know where Eddie Jett lives, once went to a bash he had going down there. Like I told ya, he’s hit on me, more times than I can call up right now. I’m going to use that now. Yes, I am.

He’s entombed over there at The Lakes. You know, super-rich planned community, gated, keeping the poor at bay. It’s laid out with palatial mansions, man-made lake, oldsters whacking a white ball around and a boat marina.

 The Lakes Club is super private, exclusive, old widowed broads fucking the tennis pros over by the ball machines. You know, a living graveyard, a place to hang, just until they kick dirt in your mouth.

I’ve got everything I need. Mossberg in the trunk, loaded, my walk-around chrome 38 in the glove box and my Beretta, extra clips. I figured I might need those.

Stiletto still in my boot, a load of melting bb’s in my brain, dry mouth, lips, mood, dusk is coming, soon night following. I like night, that’s where this shadow girl works best, does her thing, a beautiful thing.

Cruising down Tropicana, could a taken I-15, no hurry, it’s building, death, blind fury, life, it’s really not about me. It’s about the kid.

MY KID.

I haven’t eaten really solid food for two days. I like that. I like the hungry wolf feeling, sharpens me, tightens me, an hour til midnight. Seeing a Winchell’s donut shop, smooth like, I drive in, park and sidle over the door. I need a cup of coffee, maybe a donut with some pink sprinkles on it. That should set everything strung tight. You know, like a cue ball melting the black eight into the corner pocket, game over. Except my game is just about to begin and it involves guns; lots of guns.

Donut time over and night time is here. I take the cell, scroll and hit the button.

Why make it hard, when it can be so easy?

I know the guy thinks with his dick, many invites to party with him. Let’s take him up on it. Man, I am so ready to fucking party with him.

“CLICK.”

“Hey baby doll, it’s Jane, what ya doin’? You been dreamin’ about me?”

M-7, Bingo.

He’s cranked, voice all a-stutter, molars grinding, coked out, loud music, voices, tinkle, tinkle of glasses, he’s real happy to hear my voice. We flirt back and forth, you know me. It goes like this.

“Been thinking about ya a lot, Eddie baby, heard you’re dropping them dead over there at The Venetian. What ya doin’ big boy?” Mae West, why the fuck not?

“I been thinkin’ about you, Jane,” I can hear his dick getting hard. “Geesh Jane, ya want to come over?”

“Sure, baby doll, in the neighborhood buying donuts, where are ya?”

“At the Voo Doo Lounge Jane, be home later. I’ll call the guard, at the gate, go on in, you know where my crib is, don’t ya?”

“Sure, sweetie, I’ll just make myself at home, till rock boy gets home to mama.”

 He bellows, I giggle, fight dry vomiting.

“OK mister rock star, see ya.”

CLICK.

The phone dies as I am certain that something else is going to die tonight. Maybe me, just don’t care.

That was easy. It’s always easy when cranked hormones battle testosterone. Every bitch worth their salt knows that.

Twenty minutes later, I cruise up to the guard gate, see a LVPD cop I know. He’s just one more cop working the night shift, trying to keep his kid in Kobe tennis sneakers. He grins, I smile back, we chit-chat back and forth. He got the message from Eddie, it’s all good.

The pylon red and white striped elevates. In my calm mind, I know it might be a good thing a cop’s at the wall, might need that later. I make a mental note of it. It’s the little things that can keep a girl from the silver table with a syringe duct taped to her arm.

Give my pal a wave, I drive through the gate and cruise past the last-ditch palaces of the elite. Blocks later, manicured lawns, opulence, Mexican guys with rakes, leaf blowers, lawn mowers have made the place pretty. You know the hard working campesinos these white folks detest and whose privileged lives would be totally fucked without them.

I hang a left, stall out before the gate. Eddie gave me the code and I stab the numbers into the little box. The gate swings open, up the long drive I go. See a black Bentley, ditto on the color Escalade parked in the circle drive. No Ferrari, guess he’s not home yet, that’s a good thing.

I’ve been thinking about all of this and I have a plan. I don’t think I will need the 16 Gauge, so I grab my .38 from the glove box, stuff it into my back waistband. Not needing my shoulder holster, I stuff my silenced Beretta into my front waist band, stiletto in my boot. I feel pretty good. I open the door, real lady-like. I’m practicing for later, step to the bricks and look at the moon. Umber yellow comes to mind. It’s full, and I’m feeling like I want to bay at it. Move along girl, I do the stroll in.

I stall out in the entry way, peek up, way up about thirty feet, nod, then look straight ahead. I’ve been here before, remember most of it. The whorehouse looks like you could land a B-17 in it, huge, a real mausoleum of bad taste. It’s obvious that some crazed Peyote strung-out interior decorator pulled out all the stops decorating it. You know, nothing personal, warm, everything expensive, no style and no heart. There are loungers, couches, tables, lamps, chairs, desks, nothing with a pulse to it, everything new and nothing old. The place makes me want to vomit, again.

I don’t figure he will be home for a while, so it’s time to snoop around, my favorite thing. I’ve got this one word in my head, blinking on and off like red neon, and that word is:

FROZEN.

For the obvious fucking reasons.

Since I had a donut for dinner, I’m not hungry. So, let’s see, where do people keep stuff frozen? It’s not like they got an ice house back there near the Jacuzzi. Oh yeah, the kitchen.

Duh…

Out comes my Beretta, I dangle it by my side. I sleuth to the edge of his vast living room and groan, for bad taste run amok is everywhere. Money can’t buy style, class or friends. It can only buy people that pretend to be your friends.

The place is huge, all kindsa crap as my eyes fly across the room. There’s an entertainment center, massive flat screens, two of them, CD, DVD players, gadgets, racks of CD’s, DVD’s, popcorn machine. I see bowls of nuts on the bar top, draft beer, bottles of booze everywhere. I’m not here to see a movie, but I might have a martini later if everything grifts out OK.

I move down the white tiles, find the kitchen, big chopping block and think of DeSade again. Good place to chop off a head, or some guy’s fingers, if that’s what gets ya off. The place looks sterile, bags of Doritos, Fritos, couple a bags of Ho Ho’s on the counter tops. The guy likes sweets. I see a big stainless steel fridge, freezer, GE I think. I got one too, though I can barely boil water. Cooking is not my thing.

I move to the fridge, pry open the door, usual suspects, beer and an apple.

An apple a day keeps the doctor away, but not this time. There’s Tupperware, old food, a couple of bottles of wine, red, white, pink, nothing there. So, I jack the freezer open, a few steaks, frozen TV dinners, too small of a place to freeze an angel in, never thought it would be. There’s got to be another freezer, I’m certain. So, I turn and walk into the pantry, sans utility room.

Stacked to the left, floor to ceiling, are these blue ceramic washer and dryer machines, GE again, and there’s that color blue again. It matches the color of the blood pumping, raging, screaming torrents of my own blood through my Sapphire, hard veins, directly into my head.

I glance left, there it is, I thought it would be. One of those floor freezers, eight feet long, four feet high, planted to the white tiles. I really don’t want to open it. I really don’t want that. What if there’s another kid in it? Don’t think I could handle that, would have to go berserk. That would never do, just not yet, that is.

Hard choices sometimes are easy, this one was not. I move to the freezer, lay my hand on the chrome, open it, take a step back, cold kissing my cheek, face, lips. It feels like a radiator, cooling down the burning nuclear reactor that I am.

Nothing.

It is empty, cold, like her hands. Going to close it, I see something in a corner, something:

 BLUE.

~     ~     ~

I’m hating the color indigo these days, so I bang my forehead with my silencers tip, just to stop from going completely nuts, my heart thumping. I calm, exhale, reach down, and pry my baby’s fingernail from the ice. Swallowing my own bile, I lift it to my eyes, focus and, then my bod begins to shudder, shake and vibrate out of its pinions. I go down in a crouch, whack my face in my hands, hyperventilating. I’m trying to get it together, for good times are coming. I am positive about that.

FROZEN ALIVE.

Hammers my brain.

Don’t have a watch, but I can hear the Tick, Tick, Tick of my violence clock. It’s counting down, thundering in my temples, throbbing in my neck that is so filled with blood, it just might detonate before I do.

REALITY TIME.

I could call Lou; tell him what’s what, and then what?

Lou, uniforms, homicide dicks, swat, crime scene kids, tweezers, hair, particle, fibers, DNA, Luminol, vacuum cleaners, maybe an eyelash left over from the kid. Maybe they would find traces of her blood, too, and a blue finger nail.

Bull horns blasting.

“EDDIE JETT, WE GOT THE PLACE SURROUNDED, COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP.”

Sure, right, OJ all over again.

Could ya see it, big money lawyers, graphs, charts, DNA guys and spin doctors pointing at charts with pointers.

Up is down. Down is up, pathologists and maybe get Alan Dershowitz, maybe that Jap guy again.

If the glove don’t fit, you can’t convict.

Yeah, she was just visitin’, sellin’ Girl Scout cookies, a dirty little whore. Tole me she was eighteen. Who me? She slipped on a banana peel. I bought her a ice cream cone. Weren’t my fault, drugs, never touch them, who me?

 And on and on it would go.

Nope, that’s not the way I see it going down, that is if I’m not violently snuffed tonight. Anything can happen, it usually does, there’s no delusion left in my life. I guess ya know why. It’s better for me to fight for the kid then to wimp out like a pussy, not doing my thing for her. I do know that.

I think I’ve figured out the Eddie Jett play, how it will go down. If it all goes down like I’m figuring, then I will send Lou a post card, you know.

“Dear Lou, on vacay, the lakes, been kayaking, eating donuts, having a great time, wish you were here, check the freezer out at Eddie Jetts, I think he left a blue popsicle for you, lotsa love, smooches, Janie.”

Yeah, I could do that, because I’m not gonna kill Eddie, I mean the hard way, the easy way. Why? Because I need to get the docs name, you know. I need to get the fucking savage who sluiced out my little sweetheart’s lobes like he needed them to make a pizza.

Anyways, that’s later, if there is a later.

So, I move, and a minute later, I’m in the living room, sneaking around, Beretta banging my knee. I’m hanging around the entertainment center, that’s what they call them over there at Wal Mart. All the guys have them. You know, flip flops, pizza, Tom Brady jerseys, big guts, case or two of Bud, NFL Sundays, with the guys. Ego-centric, done-nothing mucks, with massive snout egos, no lives, no futures, no reason to be anything.

That’s cause their mommy’s been telling them from the time they squirted outta the womb, that little Jimmy is fucking perfect.  Then they moan that no bitch will give them play, which one eventually will, because she’s stone cold desperate. That’s another tragic American story.

Because my brain is basically an OCD hard drive, I see stuff, in the margins. As me and my silencer move down the rack of DVD’s, CD’s my silencer click, click, clicking on them. I see he’s a porn guy, a Disney flick guy, too.

There’s Little Mermaid, Snow White, Dumbo, kid’s stuff, why am I not surprised. I fucking cringe, thinking about Missy.

Maybe he showed her a flick, just before, you know, he cut the fucking life outta her head hoping to make a human Barbie doll out of her.

Silencer tip stops, some custom CD’s, black marker scribbles on them, some kinda code on them. There’s a about a dozen or so. I get it. I get it real fast because that’s how my fucked-up brain works.

I see one, YSSIM, clever, know exactly what it is. My blood runs cold. I pull it out and it feels like a slab of ice as I violently inhale a hit of oxygen through my nose.

Kicking open the DVD machine, I slot it in, fire her up. Then, the big screen stutters to life. It’s shadowy in Eddie’s tomb, most of the lights dead in the room. I grab the remote, stab the button, step back, knowing some horror movie, don’t like them, is about to debut. It’s one I really don’t want anything to do with.

The movie comes on. It’s a home production. All I can feel is the flickering lights burning on my eyeballs, my face, lips twitching, as I watch, watch it all.

There she is, the kid, on his bed. Uncle Eddie is there too. She’s holding a doll, blond like her, you figure it all out. I can’t talk about it as I feel my donuts coming up.

I fall to my knees, vomit and dry vomit again and then, fingers pressed to my eyeballs, peeking through them. I see horror, pain, agony blow-torched to my screaming eyes.  Standing, I have to support myself against a sedan as then:

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?”

I blink, blink, blink again.

 Turning, there’s Eddie standing there, 6ft 2, faded jeans, all sinewy and such, cosmetic surgery run amok. He’s bare chested, bare foot, gut, dyed black hair, holding a plastic bag in his hand. Maybe he bought me some donuts, don’t know?

He looks like Keith Richards on a bad day, a very bad day. I reflex, just a little, still stunned, as my Beretta, on its own accord begins to lift and, then a PISSST” whistles through the room.

I literally can see the tiny wires as they rake towards me. The Taser darts, two of them spit into one of my breasts, two red dots appearing; Missy kinda dots.

I yelp, vibrate, shake, my eyes go static, my brain too, white lights, pain, lots of it and I fall, KO’ed, count of ten. Then, there is only darkness.

~     ~     ~

“When you wish upon a star, makes no difference who you are.

Anything your heart desires will come true.

If your heart is in your dreams, no request is too extreme.

When you wish upon a star as dreamers do.”

I CAN hear music, sounds familiar, like from that Pinocchio flick.

You know, that puppet stick kid with the long schnoz, had big dreams, you know like the kind Missy probably had. 

As a kid, I liked that fairy tale, I guess most kids do. Life lessons, we all need them. Lying gets you Zinc. I always try to tell the truth, learned that lesson long time ago.

I don’t feel that good and then my eyes blink open and take a sec to focus. The TV is on, a Disney film, liked most of them too when I was a youngling.

I try to move, zilch.

I’m sitting naked, in a chair, wrists, ankles duct taped to it. My bare feet are dancing a little. I’m already enraged, doesn’t take long for me, as I’m all coy and such, peek straight ahead through these little slits on my frosted eyes.

There’s Eddie, near the table, pacing back and forth like a lab rat. He’s edgy, completely cranked, mumbling to himself, my Beretta in his white knuckles, plastic bag on the table top. There’s my .38, stilletto, Taser pistol, a mound of coke, I think, on a mirror, a teaspoon is sitting next to some DVD’s. Guess we were going to watch a video later, kinda sweet that. You know, after he sodomized me, fucked the neon outta my eye sockets, could of been a hoot, I suppose.

I want to be prepared, so I spread my thighs, so he can see the star light exuding out of my cunt. That usually works, as I kinda clear my throat. He jerks his head to me, and I purr all demure and such.

“Hey baby, what’s up, sweetness?”

He stops pacing, bolts his eyes on me. His jaw is grinding, licking his lips, eyes stark, wild and wired. His eyes dance all around naked moi, especially that special place that a man spends nine months trying to get out of, and the rest of his fucking life trying to get back in.

“Ja..Ja…Jane…I…I…I…” He stutters.

“Hey Eddie, chill, what, you mad at me? Thought we were going to play some tonight, do some kissing, fucking. What you don’t like me no more?”

I can see he’s really confused, flipping back and forth between hatred, love, anger and a dick that in the end will make the final decision for him.

He walks over to me, leers at me, reaches back.

“Whamo.”

He viciously slaps me in the face, cutting my lip.

WOW.

My head whips to the side, I see stars and clarity. I whip it back, blood in my mouth. Grinning, I like the taste of it in my mouth. I need that taste and then purr again.

“Ooooh baby, now don’t go teasing a girl, handsome.”

He grins, real wide-like at me.

He likes my play.

He reaches back, slams my stomach with his fist.

WHOOOOOSH.

I feel two ribs break, I fight moaning, no one likes a moaner. I smile, wet my lips with my tongue, purr.

“Oh, you charmer, you.”

If I don’t get it right, he may beat me to death. So, I chuckle, just a little, tilt my head, then real cute-like, wink my right eye at him. You know, blink, blink, blink telling him that’s where I want it next.

“How about a little fist action, you big super star stud?”

He nods out several times, giggles. I know he thinks I’m a doll, then:

 “THUD.”

He fists me in the eye, no bone cracks, I’m glad about that. My head rams to the side, my chin falls to my tiny breasts, and I see red balloons, 4th of July fire works, sparklers and a blue finger nail in a floor freezer.

I can feel blood, it’s warm, straight out of the vein, spilling down my eye, cheek, melon ball time. I’ve had worse. I actually feel pretty good, but know I, even me, can’t take much more. So, I lift my chinny chin chin, give him my best blood stained smile and, then go to work.

“Wooo, I think I’m in love…Come on Eddie, I’ve been dreamin about this, you going to fuck me, or what? I thought you we’re The Candy Man? Come on, my cunt feels like it could bake a tray a chocolate chip cookies in it. I want it Eddie, I want it real bad. I think I love you.”

Zingo.

The magic word, the lie always gets the diamond ring, as his brow crinkles, and I see love in his cranked-out blues. I make sure my knees are spread wide, as he kneels, puts the Beretta next to my vibrating feet, leers into my eyes and touches some blood from my lips.

“Geeesh Jane...."I…I didn’t mean to hurt ya…Ahh…I’m sorry…Th…The TV…it…was an accident…We was playing, things got outta hand…You believe me don’t ya Jane. Bobby said, you was pissed…real pissed…You ain’t mad at me Jane…You really like me…I…I mean really.” He pathetically spiels me like Sally Field at the fucking Oscars.

“Sure baby, I’ve been dreamin’ about this, long time. I believe ya, I know, the little shit balls never shut their yaps, probably got what she deserved. No problema, are we going to party, or not?”

I want to vomit, but I’m close. Queen takes king every time, if a girl is clever.

“You’re not lying Jane, you really love me?

Blah, blah, blah.

The last thing on earth I told I loved were my fucking gold fishes Gumbo and Stella, and I force a tear from my eyeball. You know, just for effect. Guys are saps for weepers.

“Fucking A, I’m ready, shit happens. Hey baby, (I am so into talking street) you gonna Bogart that coke? Who’s a girl gotta fuck around here to get a toot?”

He brightens up, nods manically, slaps his thigh and kisses me on the blue bruise and blood on my balloon eye. He forgets my Beretta.

Fuck, I wish I could shoot it with my toes as he stands and says gaily, “Sheesh, where are my manners, be right back.”

“I’ll be waitin, sweetie.”

He skips over to the coke, stabs a teaspoon in it, takes a snort, punches his static finger into it and pushes it all around his gums. I watch as he seems to vibrate all over, leers at me, walks over and kneels.

He puts the powder to my nose as he shuts down my other nostril with a finger. I inhale, jolt, jolt, jolt, perfect, a little pick me up, I needed that. He does the other. I’m feeling better by the minute, let’s get it over. Falling on his bare heels, he lifts my Beretta, looks of a honey moon soon to come in his bleached eye balls.

“Come on, honey bunny, let’s do it. Let’s fuck. I gotta go see my sick sister at the trailer park over there in Barstow manana. I think she ate some bad donuts. You know Eddie, wash cloth on her forehead, hand holding, some chicken soup.”

I figure his brain and dick are warring, me knowing which will finally win. He looks at me long, hard, then grins.

“You ain’t lyin’ Jane, ya ain’t mad at me…Promise.”

I look at him in shock.

Moi lie, never. I’d tell him GWB was a fucking genius if that would get the goddamn duct tape off my purple feet and wrists.

“You Tarzan, me Jane.” I say real sweet. “Let’s party, mister man. Let’s fuck.”

He giggles.

“Come on Baby, if you cross your heart and hope to die and Boy Scout me you won’t pull the trigger, I’ll let you fuck my ass with that Beretta, maybe some plastic bag action too. Come on, let’s rough it up. You just tippy toe over there, get my knife, hit that little button, and let’s do it, pleeeeease, I’m melting here.” I whine, more tears as I start to pout.

Guys love that shit.

“Geeesh Jane, you’re just the best.”

I go all shucks on him, giggle and tilt my head at the table at my stiletto. He kisses me on the lips, I smooch back. He stands, moves to the table, picks up my stiletto, looks at me. I toss him an air kiss with my cut-to-shit lips. Simply adoring cute me, he catches it.

Fucking perfect.

Love will fuck you every time.

This sweetheart knows that rule so very well, as the tune Love is in the air, air conditions thru my cabasa.

Mating time is soon. I can hardly wait.

~     ~     ~

Though I hate coke, it was the right thing to do. For I have to remember, he is a man, sorta a big man, fueled by drugs, a hard dick, and I feel super duper alert. I smile, as he kneels before me and cuts the tape from my wrists and ankles that feel numb.

Fucking free at last, thank god, free at last. A great black dude once said that.

Now, he may be Dracula reincarnate, but he’s no dummy. So he stands, backs up, fondling my baby in his hand as I let the blood COD back into my feet and hands.

A moment or two pass and there, I’m set, ready.

I hope he remembers that I said I like it rough.

I give him the Full Monte, stretch real high and hands thrown above my head. I do a little spineroo so he can see the whole package. Facing him, I purse my lips. Little girl time, he likes it, a lot. 

I sluice over to him on my tip toes, press my package against his junk and touch his face and that hideous black painted hair. I then give him one of Jane’s blue light special kisses, which pretty much sets everything perfect.

His mouth tastes like ashes from a barbecue, don’t mind, a street fighter needs to know, as my fingers do a cop pat down checking out his muscle structure. I can feel his cock pressed against my cunt, as his free hand finds my bump of an ass. Men, girls just love it.

OK.

He’s a burnt-out bag of guts, good. I back up, just a bit, smile, blood on my teeth, cheeks and, then purr like the kitten I am.

“You read to party, mister rock star?”

I’m just so fucking adorable, like I mean what could possibly go wrong? He grins at me, and then wheezes, all happy now and such.

“Hell yes, Jane.”

I smile, rear my head back and skull fuck his nose with my forehead.

“CRACK.”

Kabooms everywhere, as he shrieks, throws his hand to his face, blood everywhere, slams back into the wall, moaning and weeping. Of course, I simply watch because I have a secret.

I’m in no hurry, for I’m a gal with a plan, a sweet plan. So, I wait for the weeping to stop. Dropping his bloody hands, he leers at me all rabid and so on. I look at the blood on his hand and I feel hurt, for all the love is gone from his face. He snarls at me, lifts the Beretta and points it at my nose and seethes.

“You fucking bitch, you broke my nose.” He evilly grins, payback in his face.

I smile and, then:

 “CLICK.”

“Fooled you.” I giggle, cause I have this little safety secret button on my Beretta.

You know, in case some kid like Glenda, a Goth girl friend of mine, is playing with my gun, don’t want her to blow a cute little toe off.

I can see he’s not happy. I just wish I had a little red flag sticking out of my Beretta’s snout, saying “Bang.” That woulda been perfect.

“I thought you said you liked it rough, honey bunny.” I chirp.

“CLICK, CLICK, CLICK.” I moan as he keeps pressing the trigger.

Now Judo is a beautiful thing. It’s all about pressure points, joints, and such. I have a third-degree black belt in Judo, and can take one of those NFL walruses down by bending his pinkie back.

Of course, Eddie doesn’t know that, not just yet anyhoooo. I haven’t erupted yet, because what I am about to do is going to take a long time. It is going to take a very long time.

So, I simply reach out, grab the silencer connected to my heater. His finger is still in the lock as I violently rip down, multiple fracturing his finger, taking him to the ground. He shrieks in very cool pain and, then begins to whimper like the bitch that he is.

I take my gun and head-bang him with the butt, very controlled. I don’t want him out. Not just yet. Splitting skull is fun as he shrieks again, yips and yelps, gawking at his finger that now looks like a pretzel.

Blood is everywhere. I intended that, mop time later. I do a little dance backwards and whirl with my hands thrown into the air, teeth grinding, eyes screaming, feeling wild and crazed. Facing him off as he finally stands, and I lift his head with my gun barrel tip.

My goodness, if looks could kill I would be a dead bitch, but they don’t, yet still my feelings are hurt.

I can see his eyes darting at my walk-around .38, then back at me.

Oh really.

I wag the silencer back and forth at him, reminding him not to be hasty. I figure decision making has never been his strong point. He gets it as I do one of those little backhand finger curl invites to him. I’m a stylist after all, can’t help myself. Drama, I love it. He snorts in his rage, blood too, remember I’m a pixie. I mean how hard could it be to choke the life out of a skinny fairy? I see it in his plate eyes.

I do the finger curl again, you know, Bruce Lee style, which enrages him. He screams, shrieks, and rips towards me, enraged.

Perfect.

He round-houses me and I do a little steparoo to the side. With controlled force, I fist him three times in the chest, once in the nose as I Judo chop him in the larynx. He instantly coughs, sputters, wails, or tries to as I grab his wrist, twist, break it in half and violently flip him up and around smashing his back into the plate glass of this nifty coffee table his interior decorator got him.

The glass explodes, shatters, as he bellows in pain. The throat shot was perfect. It always is, as he’s trying to suck O-2 in, wheezing, weeping, moaning, mumbling, wining about something again. I hate whiners.

Me, well I’m doing one of those The Rock WWF struts. You know, you see those Hulk Hogan dudes do in the ring, as I watch him hyperventilating, for my throat chop was controlled and perfect.

Heck, I coulda crushed his wind pipe, killing him instantly. But where would of been the fun in that?

Coke is a power-packed fuel, and I watch as he struggles out of the glass. There are bloody shards staked in his arms, chest, feet, forehead and I can see he’s not that happy with me.

Well, join the fucking list, buckaroo.

I smile, air kiss him again and feel sorta shunned. He doesn’t grab it this time, which hurts my feelings. He then roars, I mean it’s prime evil and there he goes again, bull-rushing me.

Oh, me oh my, I’m so scared, tee hee, hee.

He reaches me, arms extended, hands like claws, which I move between like a shadow. Feet planted, I take my palm, and ram it into his nose again. He screams, as I then, fingers pointed into a Judo wedge, give him a liver shot.

Not a pleasant thing, for if you’ve ever gotten one, well you know, it feels like a branding iron is melting your liver. Ask Oscar De LaHoya about that.

I hear lots of shrieking, spasms, screaming and moaning as he goes down. I straddle his arm, take his arm and snap it completely in half at the elbow, which blasts a bellow of pain from him. I step back, smiling as I do. So far, so good.

I figure he’s done, but I am surprised that he’s not. Maybe he’s been trippin’ on TCP. That would be an unexpected gift. I hope so.

My cop amigos have told me that they’ve put six into a guy’s bod usin’ TCP, just kept coming. They finally had to unleash the big artillery on the dude to finally put, lights out.

I don’t know how long it took for his liver to smile again, but he stood, looking really bad. He still looked angry with me, and in truth, I was getting a little bored with it all.

I had gotten something off the table, so I had to let it out. All of it.

Remembering the color blue, I then lost it, shrieked, as my heart, mind finally blew up.

I shrieked as then I ran completely insane at him, screaming as I leaped on him, wrapping my legs around his waist, glass digging into me. I didn’t mind that at all.

I head butted him again, just because I could and tried to eat his nose off his face with my teeth. He went down as my legs spread-eagled on his waist.

I instantly bellowed to the moon, wrapped the plastic bag around his head, snuck around to his back, wrapped my legs around his waist. I then slashed the plastic tight, real tight, as I calmed, and his body bucked. He flailed with his one good arm, slapping at the bag as I seethed into his ear.

“For that little girl, you fucking puke, for Missy.”

Lights out, like I said, I didn’t want him dead, just yet that is. Because I still needed a name, which I was certain when me and my pals were finished with him, he would give up.

So, after I duct taped him like a Xmas present, I took a shower.

“Ouch.”

My cut lips, body and eye hurt, a lot. But it was a good hurt. As I sat there on the teak bench, just letting the hot water soothe my aches, every ache in my body, except my mind, of course, ached.

My clothes and boots felt good, white gym socks, too, I like being naked, but only when I’m trysting between the sheets eating pussy with some gorgeous vixen.

I found a dolly in the garage, loaded Eddie onto it like a sack of turnips. I grabbed my stuff, and a few other things, loaded him into the Buick’s trunk. I lit up a smoke, ouch, my lip hurt, didn’t mind.

Hopping the door, I stared at some stars. They looked pretty.

Slotting my Boston Red Sox hat on, some shades, I fired up my “Betty.” I drove to the barber poles. I smiled at my cop buddy, he smiled back. Giving him a wave, I drove away a happy girl.

I was gone, my mission still not completed. Next stop, a little desert hideaway I know about, where a man’s secrets can and always are exposed.

Work for the night finally done, I felt pretty good about everything, except my dead girl sleeping in the Tombs, now and forever.

~     ~     ~

I DID send that post card to Lou, as well as a CD, and everything went down pretty much like I expected it too.

Lou and the bulls, CRIME SCENE too, swept down on Eddies crib, snooped around, picked up some of the kid’s hair, a drop of blood, too. They matched them to Eddie’s semen in her, had the CD, it was a real feather in Lou’s cap.

He got a merit badge for it, gold star on his cop jacket, too. You know, super cop of the year stuff.

Lou made a speech, kissed some babies, shook the mayor’s hand, and of course never let out a peep about moi.

I also sent along ten grand, fat envelop, c-notes for my cop buddy at the gate. Lou chatted him up, guy was glad to be mum. US cops stick together. Hope it kept his kids in sneakers for a long time. That’s the least I could do for the hard-working dicks in blue.

What about Eddie Jett?

Well, that’s another story, a better story, mostly involving a blow torch, tin snips, copper wire cutters, and a 6ft 6 black mountain of a man, a dude named Earl, my gangster friend, King’s number one as an enforcer, and it was fucking beautiful.

Stay frosty, over and out.

Jane, Vegas PI.




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

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