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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. Lets 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?


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.


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.”


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.






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 ticks, 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, Tech 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 and 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 .45 Smith & Wesson 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 .45, 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-five, popped the clip, 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; Rican- 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.







Bloodbath


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.






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.






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.





ARTERIAL SPRAY


j brooke


 


Me, Jane…Vegas PI Bounty Hunter, a queer-girl blonde, 5-10 or 11, thin like a stiletto, a wood-chipper kinda girl, and you, WTF ever, for sure not Tarzan.


I am forever caught in combat defending my LGBTQ soldiers, animals, girls and women, the weak, and disenfranchised who are forever being butt-fucked by an odious Corporate America that has been perverted by a new self-admitted deviant in the White House.


EG: ACCESS HOLLYWOOD Tape.


Don’t get me started, for I’ve been completely messed up from my last case, a 13-year-old little girl that was murdered by men, sexual perverts.


I’ve been feeling bent cold lately, like a rolled iron loop-de-loop bitch, you know, like a Coney Island roller coaster, curved in a leap of death, near the pier pilings, rotting, wasted away from the salt tear drops of an unrelenting army of a sea's vengeance, crewed by ocean soldiers, no memory, no pity, corroding soul killers as old as ancient time.  I’m a lost smart-Alec cunt, lately that is, feeling leaderless, no general to guide me. I’m usually very fucked up, in a good way, but not now, it feels bad this time and that’s about it. I’ve been feeling like that ever since I seen the kid, Cissy Smith, 13-year-old dead angel looking like a 98-pound dead, grey block of lead, over there at the stainless table, in The ICE Tombs, at N. Vegas Metro Homicide.


Normally I dig it here, the dumpster world, my massive loft, just above Chang’s laundry, levitating high above the gunshots that wrack this part of bad N. Las Vegas and the garbage-strewn alleyways where the dead bodies splinter, decomposing near the dumpsters, near the gang cribs, shoot-up houses, city block thug empires, held, fought and died for tooth and nail, for no other reason at all, except that's all they got and that's all they’re ever gonna get.


Fuck, I wouldn't live anywhere else.


I keep having these night terrors, you know, it’s summer, I’m on the boardwalk in Coney. I’m from the East Coast, originally, know it, you know, snow cones, blood as the neon that lights the coaster timbers, screeching iron wheels in the big dip, near the cotton candy vendors and the bumps of the bumper cars. I keep seeing this 13-year-old angel, white dress, white hair, showing up, then vanishing, crowds, Ferris wheel, throw a dime on a dish and win a blue moose: she’s there, then she’s not.


It’s a summer night filled with strolling Chechen's, Uzbek’s, Russian mob guys out of Perth Amboy, Brighton Beach, The Jersey Shore, ex-cannibals out of the savage gulags of Siberia, shooting the water pistols for a pink teddy bear for their screaming kids. It's a surreal world of death, life and pain, and normally I dig that kind of vibe, but I can’t wake, claw my way out of this nightmare thing, mostly cause a the kid keeps calling my name, you know.


“Jane, Jane, Janie girl, come find me if you can.”


I move through the crowds, filled with the usual suspects, ghetto gang- bangers, street hitters, kinda dudes that chat it up with zip guns, duct-taped pistol grips of Saturday Night Specials gone bad. The place is puissant with Wise Guys, Mick’s, Greeks, gangster wannabees, Haitians, Hispanics of every ilk and duck- tailed Puerto Rican pimps turning out their girlfriends for the street life, and the hard men and bitches that run with them.


I know I’m dreaming, can’t abort out, then I see those bare feet, a swish of a white smock, white hair moving by the carrousel, wooden horses, camels, elephants, kids on them, gold ring, if you’re quick, gangsters watching, proud, and there she is again, moving out, and I follow her. I can smell her scent, it smells like white cut roses, she’s still gaily calling me.


“Janie, Janie, come find me.”


She’d be a sweetie pie, if she wasn’t stone cold dead.


I track her, out of the amusement park, see a light flash of her. I move past the throngs strolling on the Board Walk, strollers, kids, dogs on leashes, tattoo parlors, places selling Coney dogs, foot longs, mustard jars, relish if you want it, kids are eating pink cotton candy, there she is, on the white sand, moving towards the decaying pier, I follow.


“Janie, Janie, come find me.”


I can feel the sand, quenching between my toes, zingo, she’s gone, underneath the pier, some guys dropping lines in the salt, above me, guess they don’t mind mackerel stuffed full of Mercury. I can smell her, there’s that flower scent again. It’s kinda dark under the pier, salt water on my toes, as I move into it.


Silhouette, little blond girl, in the shadows, don’t blame her, lights are bright in the Ice Tombs. I see her, I think, and then my mind goes bright, illuminating her, my eyes dead bolt open, as the light, that fucking light exposes her, the new her.


She’s smiling, and she’s white, dead paste white, naked, purple, red cat-gut holding her tiny womb together, her forehead is missing, brains spilling out like worms, stacked in her hands is a bouquet of burning black flowers. Why the fuck is she smiling at me, as I try to suck air into my thundering lungs, can’t stand, fall to my knees, salt water, not the sea, spilling down my cheeks. I raise my arms to her. I want to hold her, protect her and then she whispers to me, driving a bullet through my heart.


“Why Jane, why Jane couldn’t you protect me? Why did you let them do this to me?”


My lips mumble, tremor, body vibrating, I shriek, bend, pound the sand with my fists, then I wake, in my loft, the skylights high above, it is raining, eyes stark like bullet casings, hyperventilating, terrified, irate, slapping at my bruised face  with my hands, clawing at it, trying to rip her face out of my brain. My two zipper dogs stare at me, 3 cats too, Stella and Stanley my gold fish at the glass, hoping I don’t self-immolate in flames.


I stay alive because they love me and I love them.


The dead angel with burning wings was my last case. I couldn’t save her, but I’m already down the ABC’s of men and a woman that did this thing to her. Two I already put in a coffin, there are more, I’m working down the list.


Soon, evolution will come full circle, it always does.


Time moves, I calm, it’s a Zen thing, reach to an old pine table, love English antiques, next to my old iron rung bed, can barely get a Marlboro out a the pack, do, find my Zippo, tough girl stuff, my image, am so sick of image, light it up, shove it between my bruised lips, ribs, black swollen eye, broken nose. Eddie Jett the ex-rocker pervert that butchered the kid did that to me when I took him down. He left me beat to hell, but the real pain comes from the futility in my mind.


I wince, drag, watch the smoke filter thirty feet up to my skylights, rain banging on them, get it together, just a bit, throw the white down comforter back, then groan, seeing all the blue welts, black and blue, on my no breasts, tiny tummy, legs, arms, and the two red dot Taser dots on one small tit, just like the ones on Cissy over there at the cop’s morgue.


The nightmares, they mean something, I think they’re telling me I have to do something, something else with my crapped-up life. I love who I am, toe to toe with life, take no prisoners, rumble, mix it up, generous with the poor, I give, but maybe not enough. I screw the pooch, get a beat down, so what, but it’s a fucking honest life, my life.


I look around my five-thousand-foot loft, it’s filled with the stuff I love, pine floors, grooved, pegged, sanded, did it myself. English pine everywhere, armoire’s, tables, benches, over-stuffed couch, with leaf green cushions, Persian rugs on the floor, big bay windows showing the Vegas Strip, lights off in the distance. Antique lamps, one a Tiffany, a Dom Nancy, another a Handel, others from the twenties, strung beads falling down the base, blown colored glass, vases, flowers, got this sweet Hispanic doll of a cleaning lady, Armida. She brings flowers, puts water in the vases, makes my clothes clean, puts tulips in my old vases, makes the place nice, she even feeds Stella and Stanley, my gold fish, puts out the chow for my two dogs, three cats, probably the only thing I will allow myself to love, my animals.


Refuse to fall in love from the numerous girls I fuck, that’s how fucked up I am.


Lots a stuff about me, folks in Vegas don’t know.


I'm a white queer girl, was a vacuous beauty doll once, not really by choice, just to see what was what, you know, use what you have, still have pics of me when I was a young shallow thing. I glance at them sometimes, you know, just to remember when I could break a girl down from a single glance from my blues, still do of course, have an insatiable sex drive, try not to mix work with sex, fail sometimes. Am a pro, which is important.


Fuck, I love fucking girls, eating pussy, was a shallow free bird once, until I woke up, got out of the self-induced coma I was in.


Beauty is an ass-fuck thing, so what, so temporary, do fucking something with your life, except tweaking your eyebrows, doing your nails, mirror gazing, ya know, feel, hurt, help the disenfranchised, the poor, the homeless, that’s what I try to do.


Love someone besides yourself. I’m really, really trying to be that girl, I really am.


Lotsa Reallys. 


Anyhooo, time to kick it, avoiding my duty, my pleasure, to make things right for the dead kid.


I feel like Manny Pachio thumped on me all night, can barely peek-a-boo out of my swollen right eye, cuts all over me, every bone, 2 semi-cracked ribs, muscle, aches, really aches, every time I move, which turns me on, geez Jane, just get yourself committed.


Haven’t eaten in three days, thought of maybe a donut, maybe one with pink sprinkles on it, am down to 116, that’s even thin for 5-10 moi, secretly I love it, still fighting the eating disorder wars, once binged, purged, wanted my smile intact, gave it up, smart thing to do, teeth are important.


Cissy the dead kid got me thinking, why I can’t commit, why I can’t fall, you know in love, egads, it’s hard to get that word past my lips. You know, get something real in my life besides my beloved gold fish, my pooches, my meows, but I cringe thinking one day my gold fishes, flip on their sides, their bug eyes opaque, like Cissy’s.


I detest myself right now, self-pity, questioning who I am, needy, pathetic, and almost crippled, for my body feels like it got hit by an ice crème truck, aches everywhere, sore, inside and out.


I really could use some softness in my life, maybe a little love, gag thinking of that word. I feel girlish. Pleeeease, geessh I’m blubbering, maybe I need love, I don’t know, but something meaningful, TLC for real, man I hope this mood jets, like real soon.


But, I got to get out of this damn bed, didn’t sleep, checked for the pea under my mattress, no pea, so I move, wince, jeesh.


Bare feet on the floor, face in my hands, “Ow, ow, ow” I stand, weave, blink, “Ow” even that hurts, grab a smoke, fire her up with my guy Zippo, inhale. I’m smoking more lately, who cares, decide to skip the gym, riding my bike, move a few steps, my ankle hurts like fuck, look down, its swollen, when in the hell did that happen?


I limp to my armoire, full length mirror, groan looking at me, which mimics the white smoke trailing to the ceiling, thin, wispy-ish, cut short white hair, giant green eyes. I love making up words, wispy-ish, tee-hee, unconstructed of form, pale and pallid, this is as thin as I’ve been in a long time, fuck I look like a teenage boy, sans acne.


Geesh, I still get carded when I go to the liquor store.


SMILING INSIDE, not really bitching about that.


OK, little steps, I turn, limpidly dick click across my loft, move into the shower, bathroom, I built myself. Went to Home Depot, talked to this cool geek, love geeks, was one, still am, just hiding in this shallow eco-skeleton of gorgeous skin, sure does me a lot of fucking good. Which reminds me, I’ve promised ME, that I am going to work on my potty mouth, you know, make me a new girl, a better girl.


I know for sure that I’m going to fucking work on that.


OOOOPS.


Anyhooo, bought me some home improvement books, a tool belt, two actually, if you include my handy dandy sex tool belt.


Borrowed Chang’s pickup truck, love that dude, rustled up some Mexican honchos, love those folks, speak fluent Spanish, they appreciated that, I’m kind a proud of that. Loaded Chang’s banger, tiles, lumber, all the stuff, then had the Mexican guys drag it upstairs, gave them two hundred bucks in tips, got those white smiles, fuck where would America be without them?


When I was done, I looked like a frosted sugar donut, shit all over me, but look, she’s a beauty, huge stall, black tiles, grey tiles edging all of it, as well as two stripes of grey tiles, double brass nozzles, two teak benches, lots of room to wiggle my tiny toes.


I like to sit when I shower, masturbate, jerk off, (Jill off?) love the feeling of hot water after I’ve forgotten to bathe for a week, shave under my arms, it’s always a girl retreat for me, you know shave the legs, clean up down there, had that lasered, so that’s never a problem. Got a toothbrush, some shampoo, you know in those plastic squirt bottles, some soap on a rope, and now, MAN, that hot water feels just so fine.


I always love washing blood offa my body


Girls with good manners do that, I know I do.


Out of the shower, feel better, a little, ankle totally Whammoed, grab a black towel, have them layered in the black cabinet I made, black, grey, black, grey, looks cool.


Swish the steam from the mirror, lean in, groan, my eye looks like a black and blue mushroom cap, lips swollen, cut, eye brow too, Eddie Jett packed a punch, think of Eddie, wonderin’ how he’s getting along with his new coyote amigos in the desert wonderland I planted him in, don’t know, am sure it will all work out in the end.


Limp out of the bathroom, “Ow” my ankle, move to a pine armoire, avoid mirror gazing, grab a pair of cut at the ankle white dance leotards, Danskin, pull them on like a second skin, grab a white hoodie. I’m into white this morn, feel all virginish, all new and such.


Throw it on, exhale, hear the rain smacking the skylights, need coffee, it’s cold out this morning, limp to my kitchen, same deal, black, grey tiles, big pine chopping block, four gas burners set in it, cabinets, stainless steel sink.


I can’t cook for fuck, moi built all of it, there’s that horrible, horrible vanity again.


Move to my coffee machine, pop the lid, put one of those white things in, move to this stainless towering fridge, GE, I think I mentioned that, wizards there make great stuff, open it, groan. I see two ancient cartons of Chinese takeout, dim sum something, noodle zingo something, see the green kiss has arrived; groan again.


I grab a can of coffee, Brazilian, back to the coffee machina, that’s Mexican for machine, load her up, hit the button, lean against the chopping block, watch the drip, drip, drip of the golden-brown life-saving liquid as it fills the pot.


Grab my “JANE is RAD” coffee cup, had it made special at this little souvenir clinic over there, across the street from the Venetian, they do t-shirts too, you know like with “Shit Happens in Vegas” stenciled on them, boy does it ever.


Like I said, I’m in one of those chill moods, so I limp out of the kitchen, grab my smokes, Zippo, the one with the Jar Head insignia on it. I move to this set of double massive ceiling-to-edge bay windows, set into the chassis of the loft, facing the alley, and another artist’s loft, two-story affair just about a hundred feet from mine, alley separating both of us.


I open the windows, the cold feels good on my face, rain is sweet, rare in Vegas, set my tiny, sore ass on the stoop, bring my knees to my chin, light a smoke, sip my Joe, then take a peek-a-boo at a very magical place, the open window at this African-artist-goddess’s loft across the alley from me, more about her in a sec.


I glance left, look down the alley, no dead bodies, no crack whores, that’s good, then see the once-vacant lot, where a Mexican circus has staked their claim to a piece of Vegas sod. Showed up a coupla months ago, economy had tanked, and they somehow got a license, guess some commerce is better than nothing. They threw up the red, white tents, lots a games, booths, you know, throw a ring on a coke bottle, roll a softball, make tic, tac, toe, something only some grand yogi from Tibet could do, no harm, no foul.


They got this miniature Ferris wheel, lots of neon blinking, a loop de loop, kids puking, screaming, having a hoot, a pony ride, I think they’re ponies, not like the kind I see at the track. But, the kids like them, guess that’s what counts.


I moseyed over there one night, lots of Hispanic kids, parents, tios and tias, the Hispanic community is tight, God, religion, family, food, never can figure out what all the brew ha ha is about these fine people. They’re the backbone of this racist nation, won’t go into that now, though I can go off on the subject at the drop of a Peso.


Saw a blind elephant, that fucker could eat some peanuts, also a camel, two humps, not three, some sheep, goats, a llama, a donkey, in a pen, they call it a Kids Zoo, don’t know about that. They had a lion in a cage, he seemed like most of the residents in Vegas, pissed, stoned, wasn’t roaring, just kept pacing back and forth, leering through the bars, big yellow eyes, angry eyes. Thought of sneaking over there late at night, springing him, get him a one-way ticket back to Zimbabwe, make him happy, maybe fuck the other girl lions, something like that, but didn’t.


I got a thing for clowns, and it is not a good thing, they give me the spooks, you know, grown men, make up, sandals, wearing funny clothes, hangin’ with little boys and girls, making them laugh, touchy feely stuff.


Fuck, that’s it, I get it, that’s where all those defrocked Catholic Priests go, after they get bounced from the parish after they get caught with their frocks down around their ankles. Don’t know why I never put two and two together before, makes perfect sense to me. Anyway, back to the black artist Ghanian goddess across the alley.


No secret, I have this sexual current running non-stop through my blood veins, complicated as they are all trying to connect to my cunt, a screaming Mimi, hey, that's funny, fuck even that hurts when I  giggle, for I'm tired of jacking off lately in my new blue mood, where did I put my hand gun.


Gosh, I have to get out of this self-pity abyss.


Really though, there is only one woman I want to fuck me blind, well a few girl types, you know like Glenda the stunning young tattooed Goth check-stand doll at The Bent Club, but that didn’t count, because well, she was Glenda.


She could eat pussy like some kinda Belize jungle Jaguar that just chased down a Boa and that did go a long way with me. I did go nuts, when we rolled in the sheets a few days ago.


Of course, that's her, the artist across the way, over there in another two-story loft, top floor, Kiko, is that a cool name, a black sculptress, stone and granite, marble too, welder artist woman so obsidian black beautiful she melts my mind. She’s corded muscles, thin, shaved head, about 6ft 1, maybe 140, white teeth like the marble she blasts her chisel into. She has this tribal scarring on her face, back, fuck, I wet up just watching her, which I do every moment I get.


She showed up about a year and a half ago, which was a very good thing, voyeurs, god I’m ashamed to say I am, but I am, there said it, are sick girls. I mean I don’t sneak around looking in windows, you know like Chang down stairs at the launder mat.


I think I would die dead seeing Chang fucking Seshi, I know they do it, four kids to prove it, but some things are better left to my imagination, like what Kiko would look like totally naked.


It's not like the fucking God woman doesn't have a boat load of female beauty type girly-girls hanging around her cut, muscled bod. Christ I've seen them come and go, come and go, none of their tooth brushes ever stay the night, see the dawn.


I often lay in my bed at night, windows open, listening to Monk, Miles and Cole Porter creaming across the expanse from her loft, making the summer cool, bearable, nice for me. Christ, I love that black girl, really I do, cringe as that word again clanks like an anvil to the floor.


More on Kiko Later.


OK, finished my smoke, gotta snooze, more updates in a bit, will dream about Kiko tonight, YAWN, I’m out.


 


“Booo hoooo, boooohooo hooo”, just kidding.


“SHUUUUT UUUUUP.”


Time passes, it always does, hidy, Jane, been feeling pretty good lately, lots a reasons for that scenario.


Sitting here on my window stoop, again, big window doors slotted open above my alley, smoking a smoke, sipping a tulip of Burgundy, French of course. I’m feeling summer coming, you know, like that purgatory haunt, that place those bent catholic priests always told the kids they were going to burn in for weenie wackin’ after they watched that Paris Hilton porn tape, for the bizillionth time.


I’m a little sad, but not really, no Monk coming from Kiko’s loft, the place is locked down solid, you know like Mother Teresa’s womb. Like magnets, we hooked up one rainy night, she staring at me across the loft expanse, curling her finger at me.


She is so fly, I was helpless, obeyed, me figurin’ I’d be the good little passive girl for the moment.


Like an eager puppy, I hippity-hopped right over there, and even my body was bruised and beat to Sodom, we had sex for like, a week, and I may have fallen in love, a no no no for me.


At one moment we almost used one of those Amazon drone thingies to same day drop off a gallon of K-Y Jelly, but we made it through.


Then she got me off the hook, by exiting stage left.


She’s off to London, the trendy wharfs, to show off her statue at a private show of her bling, cool thing, one being gorgeous half women/dolphin holding a world globe on her head, stunning that. Then she skipped off to West Africa to see her kid brother. He’s another brilliant wedge of white teeth, black skin, and big brains. Helped her crate her thing up between volcanic sex and many dildos were involved.


We used a lot of bubble wrap, not for sex, though I did think of her wrapping it around my head as she fucked me, but to pack her art, love that stuff, can sit and pop ’em for hours, don’t know why.


Things been going swell with Kiko, for the last weeks or so. I guess we’re girlfriends, me still the girl, she being the fella, found some feminine traits I had lost, but it’s just role playing, me being still a hard doll, more like me every day, not in her arms though, it’s been a hoot.


The sex is nuclear, we throw the word love around, a bit, you know, cum, sweat, gritted teeth, torrid, banshee insane, lots of fist fucking and such, say anything when a gal is like that. But, we know it’s a kinda love, the only kind two super independent, genius savages can have, and that’s all good with us, no owner ship, lots a down time from each other.


Absence really does make the heart grow fonder, but I do miss her.


Anyhoo, I’m nursing my wounds, on down throttle, waiting to sew up this Cissy case. Meaning there still are men responsible for the little girl’s murder.


I will take care of that soon, big fucking time.


I got my new Smith & Wesson catalogue, that’s it right there next to my bare feet on the ledge. Sent me a calendar too, big sucker, put it up in my PI office, had this babilicious doll on it, g-string, huge tits, Dow Chemical made ‘em, lots a blond bottle hair, hard body. She had these two cartridge bandoliers, 9 MM slugs in it, I think, covering her tits.


She was holding a 50 caliber semiautomatic Saw, Seal rifle, near her collagen lips, a coded message there for the guys. You know, (buy this machine gun, this girl will suck your cock). It’s the most powerful weapon in the world, might get one, though the recoil could break my wrist; gotta ask my Seal buddy at the gun range about that.


I giggle again, cause my toes are sneaking out of my most fav faded Levis, broke my promise, didn’t get rid of them, even though they were blue, like Cissys dead fingernails. They’re just too comfy, am sure Cissy would understand. I think of her blue fingernail I found in the freezer of the guy who raped her, then murdered her.


I still have that, part of my plan for later.


They’ve got ripped up knees, gained two pounds, now 118, so they’re not falling off my stick hips, that’s good, feel warm, cozy in my black hoodie, no virgin white while my girlfriend is away, I’m saving that for her.


“No. No. No. NO…Geeesh, no girlfriends Jane, pleeeease.” I mumble to myself.


Been riding my Japanese mountain bike to Gold’s gym again, pumping iron, watching these young tricked-out show girls, boys too, running on treadmills, doing Pilates, a zillion crunches, lifting weights, trying to keep the grim reaper of age from killing them with his sythe, which of course fails, for he always gets YA in the end.


Last time I was there, I was forced to take care of a little bidness, you know for Sandy at the reception desk, a real looker, who I totally dig, and she digs me too, vanity again, eeeks, I love it, why not. The manager Todd there, a pal too, loves my mojo, geez, can’t help if everybody loves moi, I’m just loveable, can’t help it.


NOT


Todd’s a sweet stud, and runs a tight ship, and he’s put these signs up everywhere, that say, “Please don’t drop yer weights.”


Seemed reasonable to me, but there always has to be this GUY, you know the type you always see strutting around the gym like a cock-a-doddle doo rooster.


They’re always about a 5ft 5, or 6, pumped up on steroids to about 175 LBS, always decked out in the latest gym togs ya get over there at the Sports Authority, great place, got my tennies there. They’re always lifting big, black iron and such, grunting, screaming out shit, then slamming down the barbells on the black rubber mats, huge thuds, gym rattles, then they bang their chests, pose in the mirror.


What they’re looking at, but don’t know, is a real asshole.


Seen Todd talk him up, Sandy too, he blew them off, did a fuck you whatever thing, went back and did it again. I want to go over, kick him in the nuts, grab him buy the ear, slap him to the mat, get in his face, and say something like, “Fucking wake up, read the signs, try to be a decent fucking human being for the first time in yer life”, but I don’t, cause I respect Todd and Sandy.


Anyways, chit-chatted up Sandy last time, she said the dead beat was late on his rent, wish they could do something about it, but lawyers and such, everybody litigates for anything these days, said I got it, maybe I could help. She smiled, gave me the secret decoder Buck Rogers hand shake, we were on the same page.


So, I lit up my Apple machine, Photo Shopped up a picture of the gym, made this bogus card stock, and then wrote him this note.


“Listen you fucking ego maniacal little dwarf, (Nothing against dwarfs, there cool people too) get off the juice, grow your tiny dick back, stop dropping the weights, WAKE THE FUCK UP and get a life, or we’re going to bury ya under a cactus in the desert.”


I signed it the LVPD.


It was obviously bogus, so I covered my bud’s ass at the gym and well, me being real sneaky at times, slid it through the crack of his locker, went and straddled a stationary bicycle, peddled a little, then just waited.


“KABOOOOM.”


I immediately texted my cop buddies in the parking lot.


The human plant went off, went insane, came out of the locker wearing a white towel, dripping water, screaming at Todd, Sandy, threatened to kill them, everybody else in the gym, just as two plain clothes “Bulls” from N. Vegas Vice walked in the door.


My best friend is Lieutenant Victor Garcia, Las Vegas N. Metro. Cops call their lieutenants LOU.


I told him about my little situation at the gym, he said, no problema, Janie.


He had the Bulls parked outside, ready Betty to go.


They know me, I know them, they love my street creds.


Ditto theirs.


So, these two huge black cops, decked out in kickback Armani saw what was going down, tried to calm the fuckwad, he called them “Pigs” might a whispered the no-no word Nigger and you know, he’s got rights and such. Well, the cops kinda smiled, and then chopped him into kindling wood, real hard like.


Cops don’t like being called “Pigs”, don’t blame them.


They then levitated him, one on each arm, his towel fell off, and there were lots of giggles, for I was right, the guy’s dick looked like a licorice stick, the juice does that to a punk.


They called a blue and white, threw him behind the cage, cuffed him, got some hosannas from Sandy and Todd, went in to slaps on the back, lifted iron, seemed happy about everything, for once again they had set the rebalance back to life.


Of course, I got tons of gratitude from Sandy and Todd, said aw that ain’t nothing. Two days later Sandy told me the puke had about a million warrants out for his arrest, and I guess she and Todd got a gold star on their work sheets, that made me glow.


I gave both hard working kids envelopes with 500 bucks each, you know, just in case I had caused any problems.


I like it when good things happen to good people.


Anyhoooo, I’ve been thinking a lot about life lately, you know, what I do, why I do it, Cissy did that for me. I try to be a good person, don’t run red lights, litter, got these blue trash recycle containers, put cans, plastic bottles in some, card board in others, try to help the poor, which reminds me, got to take the fifteen grand Flick’s bounty, a monster Lesbian with a bounty on her head I took down the other night at The Bent Club over there to the homeless shelter, run by this stud, real good lookin’ priest named Father Bob. He’s a Jake guy, like him a lot, ditto, he likes me too, feel good about that.


I never lie, well almost never, you know, Chang’s wife down there at the laundry might ask me for an update on her new hair doo, that looks like she’s got a coven of crazed bats nesting in it. I smile, say something like, gee Seshi, (that’s Mandarin for totally fucking insane) ya look great, lost ten years, gotta give me your hair dresser’s name, which makes her feel pretty good, me too, nothing wrong with a little white lie, nothing wrong with that at all.


But what’s really got me wired, is the really ghastly men, women I take down, me being the fixer of such things and all, and why I do it, came to the decision, if I don’t, who in the fuck will. Figured it’s a Kafkaesque world now, spooky, eerie, lots of evil, up means down, vice-versa.


Orwell figured most of it out and everything is just too fucking politically correct, makes no common sense at all.


Some sick, perverted old degenerate, living in an Air Stream outside of Tulsa, eating beans out of a can, steals some sweet little kid, terrorizes them, brutalizes them, rapes them, then puts them to bed alive in a homemade coffin next to his double-wide.


He fucks up because he’s run out of crystal meth, the cops get him, he spills the beans, than fucking what? The system swoops down, they lawyer him up, get a bunch of psych heads, show ‘em some ink blots, have him touch his nose with his finger, ask him if his dog died when he was a kid, hold his fucking hand, cop an insanity plea bargain. Then, the puke goes to a fed lockup, gets three hots and a cot, hangs with other vermin, lifts weights, plays B-ball, watches Oprah, and has never been happier in his life.


But that don’t fix it, for who’s talking for the kid? Who’s holding the kid’s dead cold hand, like I did with Cissy’s? And, what about the parents, they don’t get an all included paid vacay to Danbury, they get a life of pain, tears, grief and nightmares, just ask John Walsh about that.


That’s why I took Eddie Jett down, like I did.


Yeah, it was violent, even gruesome, use that word, cause this doll I know, real bright light named Fawn, met her at some party one night, turned me on to it when I was pissed off about all those little girls wearing vest bombs over there in Iraq. You know, in a coma, pushed, prodded by the elders, then blowing themselves up in a fire ball of shame.


She didn’t quite get it. I was ranting, and she said, chill Jane, it’s a party, don’t be so gruesome. I went off because I figured someone should stand up for the kids, tell their story of pain, for what’s more gruesome than some little girl vaporizing herself for no reason at all, that’s another story, never a pretty story, to be told later.


I chide myself for going off, again, back to why I do what I do.


Yeah, I like it, I like fisticuffs, testing myself, mano e mano stuff, fucking dangerous, and do this thing cause someone has to stand up, like I did against Bobby O’Brien and Eddie Jet,t the deviants responsible for slicing up a 13-year-old girl.


Someone has to say enough is enough, and yeah, it’s ultra-violent, ugly, messy at times, but I don’t do it because I’m a sadist. I do it because if I don’t, who will, there.


It’s my fucking duty to do it.


ENOUGH SAID, there’s still more to report.


Anyhooo, after Eddie Jett, I was hurting, big time, then I was kickin’ it with Kiko. Hey Kickin it with Kiko. LOL, hey I like that, could be a rap song, you know.


“Kickin it with Kiko, in mah crib, she’s my Ho, she’s my Ho, she’s my Ho” sounds like the dudes, NWA (Nigger’s With Attitude) got all their CD’s, will roll with their sound later, can’t wait.


Back, moi, thoughts of pay-back and visitin’ the other doc, you know the guy who made an omelet out of my little girl’s frontal lobes. I wanted none of it, just because I was exhausted, enjoying the mud wrestling with my black godly stud woman. But time heals all wounds, or most of them, and after many days, me having my womb rearranged by Kiko and those powerful black fingers, and those lips, I’m swooning.


I felt it was time to roll, get it right with my little dead girl.


I then called Lieutenant Garcia, my best friend, turned out the murdered kid’s drug-addled dad and mom to him, Ginger and Bobby were their names.


Lieutenant Garcia was grateful for that, got a judge warrant, took the bulls, busted them bold, got Bobby out of the hospital. I had earlier put two psssst psssst Beretta rounds into his knee caps, as Garcia dragged him and Ginger to the white room. They blasted a bright light in their faces, yelled at them, a lot, got Ginger to roll over on Bobby, got the DA down there to slap a conspiracy Murder One on their deranged faces.


That worked out pretty good.


Lieutenant Garcia got another merit badge, an upgrade to head guy of his own division, looks like Captain next. Lou really owed me, but we never keep abacuses on that kinda stuff, we’re family, cops and me, don’t ever know when I will need a favor from Lou. He sent me a thank you note too, for the pink teddy bear for his kid I Fed Expressed to him, that’s the kinda guy Lou is.


It didn’t take long for me to sober up, had that itch, you know the kind, that you can’t get rid of, even if you got one of those Bangkok souvenir thingy’s at the airport, your know, a hand on a bamboo stick that says “Thanks for fuckin’ our twelve year old girls, come back soon” on it.


I finally had to rent Earl again, like a U-Haul from King, who wouldn’t take a Drachma.


Kings my other best friend, a super duper stud black gang king pin, who runs most of the turf in N. Vegas.


More on King later.


Earl was all grins for me, remembering how I had planted the fifteen Gee’s in his blood-soaked apron in the desert as he cut every limb and digit off of Eddie Jett, last to go were his dick and balls, with a hack saw, tin snips, etc. over weeks. All attended by this meth-ravaged doctor I know with a sewing machine, you know, to keep him alive, real slow and all and frankly, I was glad to roll with Earl again.


Doc 2, the guy who cut Cissys womb from her body, was a real degenerate, obviously, a real piece of work, all smoke and fractured mirrors. He lived in this mansion over near The Flamingo, off the Strip, a real pillar of society, you know, selling coke, oxycontin, steroids to the rich fucks of Vegas, a real semi-celebrity, a card-carrying, god-fearing member of the new racist, anti-LGBTQ, immigrant, woman, pro-Nazi and Klan Republican Party.


Those guys are so fucked up, I won’t go there.


Fucking Mike Pence wants to put millions of queers like me in fucking conversion camps, you know, to terrorize the gay out of us.


I’ve got a lot of stuff to do, but you can put the pieces of that fucked up puzzle together.


Just remember, it’s 2017 not 1917 any longer.


Anyhoooo, I didn’t want to kill the doc that cut Cissy’s womb outta her body, but I didn’t want him to scoota-roo on some cruise ship to Barbados.


So, Earl’s got this nifty 34-inch Louisville Slugger black baseball bat, a Rod Carew I think, and we cruised over there in his black SUV, tinted windows and such, havin’ a good time, all ghetto and such, grooving,’ be-boppin’, singin’, gettin’, it up with some Biggie Smalls rap, Mr. Notorious himself.


RIP.


“Neva trust nobody: your moms’ll set that ass up, properly gassed up-Hoodie to mask up, shit, for that fast buck: she be lyin’ in the bushes to light that ass up.”


Cool stuff and then found his fancy-dancy neighborhood he was slimed in. The street looked like a line of whore houses, rich, opulent, earth, an acre here and there, walled gates, the usual bullshit of wealth, hide and seek, peek-a-booing out of the venetian blinds before you get in the Bentley. You know, making sure some dark-skinned Mexican or black guy isn’t waitin’ fer ya with a piece a pipe, to high jack yer stuff, that you ripped off from the hard-working backs of a naïve American people.


Geesh Jane, lighten the fuck up, OK.


He had this black iron-barred jail ringing the “out house” about ten feet tall, but no problema for me amigo and moi.


We figured the gate was hard wired, an alarm and such, so holding a bouquet of red, blue and yellow helium balloons, you know that kind that makes yer voice sound like Wayne Newton’s, and wearing my black sex leather hip huggers, Chang got all the blood off a them, a skin tight red sleeveless body shirt, showin’ off the muscles in my arms again, I’m hopeless, I know. I scampered up on Earl’s aircraft carrier shoulders. I hopped the fence, landed on my steel-toed boots, smiled as Earl, like a fucking black Panther furrowed over the wall, landing right next to me, huge smile on his lips.


Did I mention Earl is six-foot-six or eight, shaved head, skin the color of an Ebonite bowling ball, bout 280 lbs, pure muscle, gold teeth, a true he-man in every sense.


Of course, I had a plan, having no dummy in me, and knowing that men think with their dicks first, and me being so cute, adorable and so irresistible and such, we moved through the park like setting, towards the front door of the fucking palace.


When we got near the front door, and pretty much knowing that there were CCTV cameras somewhere, we did some whispering. Earl got lucky, found a shrub big enough to hide behind, about six feet from the door. And me, well I stripped off my top, took a red ribbon from my pocketess, love The Lord of the Rings, tied it around my no tits, held the balloons real high like. I walked to the front door, played ultimate bimbo to the hilt, heard country music coming from the house, won’t go there, then hit that little button, and then smiled real slutty like, no problema.


I am slut, while the little bell went ding-a-ling, ding-a-ling ding.


Now what could go wrong, I’m me, cherub-looking, in a sexed-up way, a gorgeous twist, all skinny, semi naked and all, and I figured if I’m not on the camera, then he’s gonna be looking through the peep hole, seeing a knock-out blondie, holding party balloons, a red ribbon tied around her, probably a present from one of his degenerate show biz buddies. I also figured, he ain’t gonna question how I got here, cause the dick theory comes into play, always, which always supersedes any common sense any asshole has left in his brain.


“Bingo” the door cracks open, I am not surprised.


Usual 60-year-old Vegas degenerate. Body turned to suet, 6ft-2, flapping jowls on a burnt-brown face. Capped white teeth, dyed black Elvis hair as I see these sick vacuous eyes leering past this little door chain, which Earl could chew through, if he had an inkling to do so.


Now I think I mentioned I never fib, but this is one of those special occasions, so I did, and it went something like this.


“Who are you, I’m Jennifer, what a ya want, yer doc Phillips, right, yeah, well blue eyes, I’m yer party treat for the night, Wayne sent me, Wayne, yeah, you like balloons don’t ya, yeah, well what ya waitin’ for good looking, you want to fuck me, or not.”


I rolled the cubes, figured he knew Wayne Newton one way or the other, but it didn’t really matter, he was a goner at “Hello” and the cubes rolled good, on the green felt.


The chain moved, the door opened, and then he was surprised, not in that I’m a lucky guy way, but in a bad way. For, lurking there, patting a hand that looked like twenty pounds of Chorizo with a ball bat, was the biggest, baddest, frightening, scariest nigger he had ever seen, just like the kind he had built that prison wall to keep out of his fucked up, privileged life.


Anyhoo, with a continual loop of a DVD of the dead Cissy on the gurney running in my head and my manic state now red lining, well:


“KABOOM.”


It sounded like that, as I viciously skull-fucked doc’s nose with my forehead. I saw those little stars, a good thing, for I was irate, savage, to say the least. With blood spurting through his fingers, I smiled as he stumbled backwards into a wall, blood squirting out from between his out stretched fingers, gurgling about something.


Got Judo and Karate Black belts, did the stroll, then grabbed two fingers, leered at him like a fucking King Cobra and, then violently ripped his fingers down, breaking them in half like broken pretzels.


He screamed some bee-yotch response, me feeling his warm blood on my tits from the eruption from his bloody mouth.


I ripped a tuft of dyed hair back, leered into his screaming eyes and whispered through the smoke boiling past my lips.


“Ya fucked up Mengela, ya killed my girl.”


“Gurgle, gurgle, gurgle.” He said.


“SHUTUP.” I screamed, just barely hanging on.


He winced as his eyes looked like dinner plates, and I felt like my brain was melting, and unable to help myself, I brought my steel toed boot down on his arch, shattering it.


Lotsa screams, as I leered at him pretty much going now on rote, for it felt like Fulminated Mercury was eating my brain.


When I had seen Cissy’s dead body at the Police morgue, I whispered into her dead ear.


“You don’t worry sweetie, you let Janie take care of it now. I’ll make it right.”


 I always keep my promises.


Make it fucking right indeed.


So, I levitated him up by those two fingers, released them, then with a straight fist Karate punch, Bam, bam, bam, bammed his chest as I slammed him into the wall. He leered at me mumbling something, his eyes like eye bolts staring at his fingers.


“WHAAAAT.” I shrieked


I then viciously kicked him the nuts. He screamed, bent at the waist, just in time for me to bring up my knee, decimating his nose, AGAIN.


I heard a woosh, as more blood splattered on my face and bod, as he fell to the floor, groaning and weeping.


WHY, well I can’t tell ya.


I looked at Earl, who smiled at me. I smiled back.


Earl then, you know giving out the silent baseball signs, you know, grab yer balls, pull yer ear, blow yer nose, dragged doc by his shoe laces like a bag of turnips into the living room.


Feeling like my entire mind and body was incased in Napalm, I followed.


I then went to the plate, got no bunt sign, as Earl nodded at me to swing away. I straddled Doc, sat on his chest, and then went blood lust insane as I shrieked, my spittle splattering his face.


 “YA.” Boom, “MURDERED.” Boom, “MY.” Boom, “GIRL.” Boom,


Smashing his face with my fists, I then went completely manic, screamed and howled and the only thing that saved Doc, as I was covered in his blood, was Earl dragging me off a him, me howling like a she-wolf, my crazed eyes looking like fucking MUZZLE FLASHES.


It was fucking beautiful.


…………………………………………………………………………


Earl calmed me, which I was grateful for. Somewhere in the mayhem, we chatted to Doc, found he was the last link in the chain, that was good. Didn’t want more blood on my hands, then took a hot shower, felt better, put on a pair of black leather gloves, returned to the party.


I was tired of it, killers buyin’ lawyers, you know like OJ.


I also I mentioned this before, didn’t want doc DOA, because I had other plans, better plans for the deviant. I figured once we got the final poop on what he did to the kid, I mean did he have help slaughtering a 13-year-old girl, I’d call Lieutenant Garcia at N. Vegas Metro Homicide.


I figured once convicted and in a Fed Lockup, those Arian Brotherhood guys at the pen, with tattooed tears on their eyeballs, named Luther, Orvis, and Arvan, love guys who fuck up kids. I figured why snuff him, when he could get his ass blistered, reamed out for the rest of his life, probably drive an M-Rap in his asshole by the dudes in the Brotherhood.


 It was the right thing to do, I figured.


So, feeling all attritious and so benevolent, I guess, I had Earl duct-tape him to a chair, gag him. I was up, so I took the b-ball bat and KAPOWED him.


POP POP rang through the night, his screams too, both of his knee caps exploded, and by gosh I was right.


He gave up the truth, for the second time, two is always better than one, stories matched as he mumbled through his blood-soaked mouth, that didn’t look right, so a BOOMED him in his mouth with Rod’s bat, and like dice on the craps table green felt, his fake teeth tinkled, tinkled to the floor.


7, another winner.


I felt better after that.


We nosed around, found a couple of steamer trunks, lots of Louis Vuitton matching luggage, need a herd of African porters to get the stuff to the airport, a 1st class ticket to Rio, a pic of the doc, sitting on a 65ft Bertram Motor yacht, some brown-skinned Brazilian, stunning honey giving him a pink drink, little blue paper umbrella in it.


Doc looked happy, I kept the pic, liked the girl, would tack it to the wall of my PI office mas listo.


I like nice memories.


I can be sentimental that way.


Snooped around some more, found a Halliburton aluminum briefcase, had 100 thousand large in it, gave half to Earl, figured I’d add my half to the fifteen large I was gonna give to father Bob, well what could be better than that.


Earl hugged me out, almost broke my back, he was one happy God Man, couldn’t help thinkin' about his dick, how beautiful must that be.


Bad bad bad queer girl.


OK, back to good girl time now, benched that thought, snuck around some more, as doc moaned, groused, bitched something about needing a dentist in the living area.


Found a bunch of colored cardboard bank boots, red, blue, yellow like my balloons. Saw that doc had millions squirreled away, Swiss, Caymans, Panama, Bermuda, have some of my loot in the Caymans.


MY BAD.


Have a computer geek buddy of mine, works for the IRS, take him about five minutes, all the bank codes were there too, to wire the dough anywhere I want for a coupla grand of course. Rescued his teen-age daughter from a drug dealer, he was thankful for that.


 I’ll drop some serious coin on him, always do, love smart guys who bend the rules at times.


Big fan of those Whale Guys, keeping those bastard heathens in Japan from killing the most elegant and largest creatures to ever habitat the earth, “Sea Shepherds Society” that’s their name. Already sent them a hundred grand, got a nice TY note back, an invite for a sit down dinner on the boat. I declined, figured they didn’t need my skinny ass prancing around, me knowing what a distraction that can be, especially I figure for sailors, they being away from TRIM for so long, so far out to sea.


Good idea, I’ll send a mil of Doc’s slag over there, know Doc would have been proud of that, sprinkle, sprinkle the rest around to various charities, feel good about that.


Then I found this like, binder hidden in a shoe box in the closet. I didn’t want to open it, seeing my head felt like it had a hive of hornets in it, but I did.


Page after page of young girls, dead or not, gussied up like whores, plastic surgery run amok, the card of the day each had these fake huge silicone tits. Hand shaking, I turned the last page, my mind screamed, there was a naked Cissy, sitting on a bed, teddy bear in her hands, terror painted into her eyeballs, looking like she was staring at a fucking vampire.


I shook, felt vomit in my throat, screamed, impaled my fist into a wall mirror. I thought my heart exploded for a moment, but I held it together, as I threw it on the bed, knowing L. Garcia and his team of CSI crime team sleuths would find it once I gave up the doc.


Feeling tears streaming down my cheeks, I grinned, don’t know why, felt like some kind of Lioness, just before she attacks and devours a Caribou.


Anyhooo, Earl had duct-taped the Doc to a chair, gave him a “Boing” on the head with the bat, just because he could.


I viciously slapped him at least 4 times, womp, womp, womp, womp, why, well like Earl, cause I could.


I then remembered he was a doc. And what do Docs need to operate.


Fucking fingers and scalpels, of course.


I bent down, reached in my steel-toed boot, found my switchblade, with the name TAMPA BAY CITY stenciled on it.


I flicked the little button, the eight-inch blade flipped out.


Doc was gagged, as I smiled, touched his eye lid with the chrome tip.


“Eye, fer an eye Doc, would ya like that?”


He kept mumbling something, as tears rolled out of his eyes.


I think I was levitating by my still pent-up rage, don’t know.


“Ya like fingers doc? Ya know, usin’ scalpels and such on little girls?”


“Uuuug….Ugggg….Ugggg.”


WTF, is he speakin Chinese, I thought.


“Uuuug…Ugggg…Ugggg.”


I couldn’t understand a fuckin thing he was sayin’ as he shook his head back and forth in denial, as I took the blade, sliced three of his fingers off. He shrieked and his eyes like hubcaps leered at his hand that was duct taped to the chair arm.


Earl smiled as I asked him to get me a towel from the John.


A moment later he was back, and wrapped up the stumps real good-like and I guess we were done.


Unable to help myself, I viciously back handed his bloody face and, then put the blade to his eye ball and whispered.


“Ya killed my little girl, and now I’m gonna kill you.”


He looked real upset and like, as I reared back, shrieked, and plunged the knife down towards his chest.


At the last moment, I pulled up, tweaked his nose, ruffled his hair, smiled and said with a lot of mirth, “I ain’t gonna kill ya doc, but when the Aryan dudes get done with ya, yer gonna need an asshole transplant.”


I looked at Earl, I felt a blush seeing a look of admiration on Earl’s face, you know, for me being so street right and right on pitch, knowing it’s always better to do the right thing.


Anyhoo, in a festive mood, we cruised back to my loft, kisserooed cheeks, ooooh, a little lips like Kiko’s, tempted, but no, maybe later, not now, waved good bye, skipped to the loo to my office, fired up the cell, whistled up Lou Garcia, told him what was what.


I once saved Garcia’s life, that’s how we bonded, just so ya know.


Man, he’s smelling Captain, he thanked me, said don’t worry about anything, and then a bit later, after he nabbed the Doc Lou told me he was bitching about some crazed blonde, who looked like she was an eighteen-year-old UNLV cheerleader with a switchblade.


I’m blushing, tee hee, still got it.


Doc told Lou there was some behemoth that looked like King Kong that home invaded him, just stood there grinning like Kong as the blonde beat the shit out of him, then cut his fucking fingers off.


Lou pooh-poohed him.


Us Cops stick together, we promised to pow-wow soon.


I slapped the Cissy case shut, another job well done, knowing a good time was had by all, ‘cept doc of course, it didn’t go so nice for him.


So, the next day, I got another call from Lou, telling me how it went down.


Said, after about a thousand guys in Swat, Vice, Homicide, and of course CSI had decimated the gate, snooped around, found Cissy’s blue finger nail in a freezer, the one I found in Eddie Jett’s freezer as well as the death folder on the bed.


Then and with bull horns blaring, battering rams, multiple high ballistic weapons, they nabbed the Doc, threw him in the paddy wagon, zipped off with about fifty news vans tagging along, to document all of it.


Lou’s no fool, good press gets a good cop his gold bars, faster than arresting jay walkers, Lou knows that.


Lou did get those Captain bars and the keys to the city, God I love that man, finally some payback for thirty years on the Force.


Anyhow, case closed, but not really.


I’m hoping the nightmares end soon. Don’t know, but I’m hoping.


So there, over and signing out.


Jane, Vegas PI





VEGAS, NAPALM STRIKE…

j. brooke

It’s Sunday, and I’m beat to hell.

Last Case, missing 13-year-old girl, Missy, went all bad. Drug addicted mother, off-loaded her to her meth-ravaged daddy, he sold the kid to a deviant ex acid rocker, Eddie Jett. It all went down bad, the sweet angel was brutally murdered; that’s another story for another time.

I coulda burned down Eddie Jett, but I didn’t, cause death was too good for the fuck.

Anyhooo, that’s another story, a better story, but just a hint, a blow torch, tin snips, and wire cutters and desert coyotes were involved, and it was fucking beautiful.

Last on that.

I have the mother, the sick dad and the doc who butchered her on my CAN’T WAIT LIST.

I’m looking forward to that.

Got a butterfly stitch on my eye, a cut lip and multiple welts and bruises covering my bod, two broken ribs or close, was almost murdered.

So, I’m kicked back, comfy couch, PJ’s, feet on the coffee table, beer in the cooler, popcorn ready, my goldfish Stella and Stanley facing the huge LCD flat screen. Angel and Bijoux, my two golden zipper dogs, my four cats are pumped, Lebron and the Cavs are going mano-e-mano against the Kings, can’t wait.

I got a bidness thingy with King tomorrow night, and none of this thing tells me I will be alive after.

King, being one of my best amigos, a super-stud black guy, who runs the largest gang over here in the super-dangerous part of N. Las Vegas.

OH, MOI?

I’m Jane, a Vegas PI/Bounty hunter, Mensa smart, 28-year-old, 5-ft 11, 123 lbs, YEP, a few eating disorders, white buzz cut blonde, queer girl, hip hugger, steel boot savage, martial arts expert. I respect guns, their relevant friends, for they usually fix most problems with the insidious men I deal with, last wall against the bad guys that abuse women, kids and above all the animals, that make our lives bearable and beautiful.

Love kissing, fucking girls, satin skin, velvet cunts, multiple orgasms that make a girl’s toes curl. Though most of my friends are cops, and men, hard, real and unusual men, my MO is why fuck a baboon for five minutes, when you can spend hours with a dolphin girl, cum about a zillion times, then cuddle up, watch a flick, giggle up, do it all over again until a girl’s blue sapphire eyes, and all she dreams of, is in nirvana as she falls asleep in her girl friend’s silk-skinned arms.

I have the sex drive of a sixteen-year-old Mississippi Pom Pom girl.

MY BAD.

Anyhooo, My folks died in a car accident when I was 19, some drunk rich Hamptons kid over there on the east coast, fueled out on coke and E, vaporized them in a head on. I was left with millions, and a solar black hole in my heart, especially since this vapid, never-take-responsibility spoiled kid, rolled on the charge with probation, you know, cause the judge was a frat brother from Harvard with the puke’s billionaire father.

A few months later, I went to Boston, had a gun, my first, got all dolled up, hit the club, let the mother fucker pick me up. We went back to his crib, I stripped naked and, then with my new silenced Beretta, I shot him dead.

 Pssssst, psssst, psssst.

One down the gullet, two in the heart.

It was the first gun I had ever owned, and the first man of pure evil I had ever killed.

Neither would be the last.

After, tortured in so much pain, I moved around the world, Europe, The Middle East, Africa, Asia, fucking every girl I could find, doing every drug imaginable, trying to kill myself with sex and drugs in an orgy life.

I also educated myself every chance I got, learned languages, hit up museums, read hundreds of books, until one morning I woke ashamed.

I had so much, money, beauty, brains, opportunity and what in the fuck was I doing drowning in a self-imposed sewer of pity and woe is me.

The being beautiful thing, created a fury inside of me. Yeah, it was fun, but it is a fucking false narrative. Your birthed that way from a lotto pick of genetics. You did nothing to earn it, get it, and as evolution goes, it lasts an eye blink of time. A girl spends her life star gazing in the fucking mirror, eating men’s lives up like a Kansas Wheat threshing combine, self-absorbed, ya end up with zilch, including a dead heart and soul.

So, I WHAT’S SUP WITH THAT me.

I hit up Vegas, of all places, and got my PI license, gun permit, bought a 5,000 ft upstairs loft, ex-bakery over Chang’s laundry, they’re experts at getting blood out of my clothes.

I decided to become Jane, The Avenger, meaning I would fight blow torch and anvil for abused women, kids, animals and especially the poor, the ever- growing legions of the abused, mostly at the hands of men.

So, there it is, and trust me I’m no Mother Theresa, no Betty Crocker nice girl by any bullet shot in a wall or any kind of poster role-model girl. I like to think I have a great heart, I actually care in a lobotomized world of turned-away glances of the ills perpetrated against the weak.

So that’s who I am.

I’m always trying to be a better girl, a nicer girl, often fail, but I am trying.

Anyhow, back to King.

I got King legit, almost. He’s almost there.

In that run of the Tarot Cards, I found a mega-intelligent, dead-handsome stud with a great wit. He’s solid and a stand-up guy. Above all, a dude who gives his word, keeps it, is honorable, and would be there, if I ever needed some help, 24/7, which he has before.

I respect him, of course, for he’s never run whores, hurt kids, women, or dogs. He has this kinda loco honor system about broads.

OK, to make a long story short, never my strong pin point, I got him, like I said almost legal. We’re deep into The Market, Futures, Currencies, Derivatives and the fast food joints and also a laundromat here and there, other stuff I learned at Wharton.

Tonight, he’s got one last sit-down with some fucking killers from the Zeta drug cartel. None of it seems right to me, none of it at all.

I’m a little concerned and that’s got my Zen head worried, for he may a peaked a little too soon. Meaning I got the feeling he’s dream in’ a little too much about retiring. Why, because I don’t want King to be the main-ingredient in some plate of Carne Asada at some taco stand in Nuevo Laredo Mexico.

And Moi blowing bubbles and looking at some of Stella’s friends with a pair of concrete stilettos on my cute feet at the bottom of Lake Meade. Which is the whole point of me internalizing all this crap I have in my head, for It’s my job to always plan ahead.

I think I mentioned that before.

So, I had a sit down with King at a Starbuck’s he half owns, me owning the other half. Having a partner like King, well I don’t think a quarter has ever gone missing from the till. 

Real light-hearted and such he said it was his B-day. He also said. “It weren’t nothin’”, the little soirée we was going to because he’s dealt with these mooches before.

He casually mentioned there had never been a glitch before. Except, (I hate that word) they were a little late with the do, re me, meaning they still owed him a million in coin, since they reneged on the last shipment of coke.

What in the FUCK was he thinking?

They were going to weasel the slag through one of about a thousand tunnels they got going under the border fence. That always gets tons of chuckles from me.

Seems there had been a delay, another word I hate.  Because one of those fucking Predator Drones the guys at the DEA use was floating around the night they were going to use the choo-choo train they got down there below the border, to deliver the slag.

So, King, being in his festive mood, and with the promise, (that always works with homicidal drug maniacs) that they will refund his dough tonight, asked me if I could throw down some reservations, at some glitzy joint eatery on the Strip.

 Seeing I know everybody in Vegas, he wants me to dress to the nines and take Carlos, FUCKING PERFECT, and have some cocktails and vittles with him and King.

Make it a fancy evening, you know. Eat fine grub, maybe do a spin on the dance floor, you know at some vampire club like Plumb. Then later, have a nice sit down and get his money so he can sleep happily ever after in his new dream world.

Of course, all the rockets, flares and Hydrogen bombs detonating in my big brain, tell me that nothing is ever as it seems.

I then ask him. “Why not just take Earl?”

Earl being a real asset and the kinda guy that bullets look like they could bounce off of his gold teeth, might be just what the meeting needed.

He NAWS me, chirps. “Chill doll, it’s me B-day, let’s keep it easy, fun, light, it’s his birthday, just tying up this one last deal.”

Maybe, his last in my mind.

“But King, they’re fucking monst…”

“It’s all good, Janie.”

He says, if he brought 6ft 7, 300 lb Earl, well instantly the monolith, just by his very presence, might make some folks edgy, a bit un-comfy. He might bend everybody’s good juju.

So, because he wants these maniacs to have some eye-candy for the night, he asks me.

“Can ya Janie, look all dollish tonight? For me?”

King, no dummy, wants me there for another reason.

Janie, just be there. You know, with that secret you’s carry in yer rhinestone clutch, just in case.

I like none of it, but what’s a girl to do, he’s my bud, and well, I just can’t say no.

I reluctantly agree, feeling my tiny toes curl in my steel toed boots. I tell him not to dress just yet.

Over the years I’ve weaned him from the gangster togs, and now he’s gone all European, shirts, suits, shoes, and such, I’m not a fashionista diva for nothing and I have his B-Day gift in the Buick.

“Come on, I have something for you.” I kiss him on the lips, he likes that.

I’m creaming, just waiting to give it to him.

Earlier I skipped over to that massive indoor den of inequity mall thingy they got goin’ down over there at the Venetian. You know Cardin, Lauren, Baroni, Marc Jacobs, Dolce & Gabanna, Tiffany’s, etc, etc, etc a few days ago.

Then, I had copped him a black Baroni suit. Two gees baby.

Added on a Calvin Klein pure white linen shirt, a red Steven Land neck tie, the kind you can make a Contrast Knot with, very chic.

To put the cherry on top, I bought him a black pair of Crockett & Jones, English Half Brogue’s, tie-ups. I topped the Sunday off with a solid gold tie clasp, with a small 38 on it. I pre-ordered that from Tiffany’s.

Since I’m only good at tying knots into my boots, and pretty much nada else, I had the store folks put the stuff in boxes. They tied a lot of colored ribbons on them and they even made bows. I was grateful for that.

And, then, if you can believe it, they got this store there that does nothing else but sell cards, and stuff. They got ‘em for every occasion.

You know, birthdays, births, weddings, abortions and even had one for condolences.

You know when some insane kid gets jilted by a cheer leader from the pep squad and, then decimates about twenty of his class mates with an AK-47 at the local high school.

And that got me to thinkin’, me being the entrepreneur that I am. How about a card for fucking, you know.

“Dear June, great fuckin’ last night, just the best. A night to remember. You’re an awesome bitch, amazing piece a booty. Best and big love. Buster, and all the guys from the Lacrosse team.

Heck, you could do every sport. It seems like a swell idea. I will call Hallmark when I get home, see if they bite.

King was smiling as I slopped the presents right near the tail fins. I saw that my Mossberg over and under was there, a box of shot gun shells, resting right near my baseball bat and machete. That’s stuff that I usually have at hand just in case bad shit happens.

I make a time for the meet. I hop the door of the Buick, fire her up, plug in some Dr Dre, and hip hop all the way home.

So that brings me to Moi, always a very important thing, especially for tonight.

I jettisoned style, I mean that slavery to fashion thing dog years ago. But that don’t mean I still can’t get it up when I want to look like a super doll.

Which I can drop a dime on it at any time.

I need to go shopping, because as I mentioned before, a plan is paramount to a girl thing being a reality. Use what you have, so I need to get sexed out.

I mean really, really look solar, do some shopping for some super rags. Just, you know, props every pro gal with a gun needs at times to make a first impression stick like epoxy to some guy’s eyeballs.

I grab my PI, drivers and gun license and get my American Express Platinum Card. I turn and jet down the stairs, out the iron security door.

“CLANG.” It locks.

I’m pretty happy, and why not. Me Jane, and that’s a good thing.

 “YIIISH.” I’m fucking traumatized, as six hours later, I’m lugging all this stuff back, bags, and bags of the stuff into my loft.

The elite mall was packed with grazing herds of Japanese tourists, cameras everywhere, Chinese, Taiwanese and European tourists shopping.  There were tons of Saudi women, sans black sheets shopping, wearing makeup, jewels, clothes, high heels, lip paint, all the stuff that would get ‘em an ass-stoning back there in The Kingdom.

Back at the loft, I grab a bottle of Cuervo, sans salt, lime, I throw two shots down. Adding one more, I take the bottle, adrenaline main lining the alcohol out of my system as fast as I absorb it. Shopping has traumatized me.

I really don’t want to do this tonight, wanted to watch a game 2 Cleveland/Kings game, what with Lebron being such a stud and all.

 “GULP.” Tequila, being the great leveler, nerves bending back, calms me a little bit.

I have to cowboy up. Though it’s not Wednesday, I need a shower, shave the legs, pits, make sure my perfect teeth are white, my ragged mop looks nice.

So, I guess I’m going to wash it, blow it out, and make it all fuzzy and cute. I’m not in the best of moods, you know, the madness of shopping tied my brain in knots, but I am coping.

 I look over at Stella and Stanley swimming in the tank. They’re reading A Streetcar Named Desire, which I turn a page on every day.

I see Bijoux and Angel, my super pups lazing on the couch. I know they want a ride in my 59 convertible Buick, and I laugh, for I know when their cruising, and yapping their saying.

 “Look how phat I am. I got the ride, the dog collar, the license and the babe. She’s got a gun, so don’t fuck with us. Three squares a day, and a bitchin’ crib to live in, and to boot, two rad gold fish as my new buddies.

“Yelp, Yelp. Yelp.”

 That’s my girls. Gotta scoot, get ready, see ya in a few.

…………………………………………..

 “CARRYING a bouquet, and handkerchief and gloves, proud of her height as when she lived, she moves with all the careless and height-stepping grace, the extravagant courtesan’s face”….…

That’s right, that fucking maniac, drug addled, Absinth struck bad boy Baudelaire wrote that, and how does he know…”LOOK AT ME.”

Vanity, vanity, vanity.

But, I’m working on it, as I pirouette on my nifty, sexy, new 3 inch, zip on the side, black Marc Jacobs ankle boot heels.

Legs never looked better, long, lean, bod like a whisper. I like being nearly 6 ft, a real tower of power. I’m decked out in my eight-inch above the knee, little black Betsy Johnson cocktail dress. I read in Vogue, French edition that every gal should have one; A Little Black Dress.

 I also have my brand new Dolce & Gabbana black silk jacket on. Normally wouldn’t wear one but, I might need to conceal my extra Beretta clip. So always thinking ahead is Moi.

No jewelry, except my dress-up gold Latina-cross on a chain. I love that look. I don’t believe in god, there are so many, but working on that too.

Have a dynamite super friend, gun dealer, named Cindy R. Doll, is a brilliant writer, tough, sweet, passionate and she’s a God woman. I think about that all the time.

I figure if she likes me, maybe her God will like me too.

Don’t know.

Anyhoo, my hair kinda looks like Bijous, fluffy, soft, looks like I care.

I check out my makeup, which is kinda fun. Eyebrows, hair snow white, hate using clichés, but that’s them, heavy mascara, blue, black, tints of orange. I kinda look like a blonde Glenda. She’s a doll Goth girl over at my favorite hangout, The Bent Club.

See, I can still learn, looking at my mascara-silhouetted indigoes. I have wheat-colored lip stick on. I look ghostly, pale, eyes stark. I look almost invisible. Of course, no panties, thinking ahead, you know, might need a last sec distraction. The pink pearl always works.

OK, have to kick it.

I open my super duper slender Rebecca Minkoff, black satin clutch, the one with the real moonstones beveled everywhere around it. The perfect clutch, the one that just fits my Beretta, silenced of course to a tee.

OK, Katy Perry cherry Chap stick there, silencer, Beretta too. I don’t figure I’ll need an extra clip, but just in case I’m bringin’ one. I giggle, giggle, no extra make up, no brush, comb, no golden rings, just a loaded hand gun which is another of my favorite things.

Am thinking of getting my Mood Ring out of the card board box that holds my baseball card collection, but nix that idea.

I grab my Apple I-Pod, text King that I’m on my way.

I click, click, click, (love the sound of heels on pine) and move to the steps, take two at a time, then “Damn.” I forgot to do something, almost always do.

So, I click back up to the loft, hit it to the Aquamarine-colored water world of the aquarium. I do a tap, tap, tap on the glass with my paint less fingernail.

Stella and Stanley swim over, you know, with those little fluttering oars they got on their sides. I turn the page on Street Car, smile at them and give them the thumbs up. I smile, tap dance back to the stairs, feeling better. I hope Stella and Stanley are enjoying themselves, are happy. I sure know I am.

Signing off, JANE, VEGAS PI.

VEGAS, off of MLK, near the freeway underpasses, staked over a cardboard box world, black alleyways, a dying, dead universe, the red fluid pumping from severed arteries, urine and semen. Blood neon splintering off of the chrome of a needle point and desperate people, lost within an illusion, a lie, drug addicts, homeless, hopeless, it’s the new America, a tragic world, my world, Vegas Jane PI’s world. 

Dusk, onyx clouds, color of cordite, gun powder grey, last lightning strikes of the storm, mimicking flames fluming out of the tip of a hand gun barrel. I see the Vegas neon, a carrousel of colors off there, on the Strip, not far from King’s palatial crib now. I always make the cruise past the destruction of the human soul. It’s just a reminder, life nudges that I got it all, be grateful for it all and I am.

“My mama said, that yer life is a gift, and my mama said, there’s much weight you will lift. And my mama said, leave those bad boys alone. And my mama said, before the dawn. And my mama said, you can be rich or poor. But my mama said, you can be big or small. But I’m always on the run, always on the run, but I’m always on the run.”

Top down, Buick is running fine, three inch heels, ankle boots on the shot gun seat, I’m driving barefoot, toes on the gas-pedal. Lenny Kravitz is speakin’ the truth, exactly how I feel, moods, lots of moods, I have them all, music to fit every occasion.

I take peek-a-boo at the Space Needle casino.

It’s a tall fucker. Sometimes folks take the Big Louie off of the top, make the big splat on the asphalt of their busted-up lives. I can understand that, yes I can. Sometimes life is just too fucked up.

I’m not comfy at all with what is going to go down tonight. There is nothing I like at all about the night, nothing at all. I am wondering if I should have brought an extra clip? Nope, its either thirteen will do, or not.

Because if one clip doesn’t do it, no time to reload. That is if it comes to that. Which King assures me it will not.

Famous fucking last words.

“Don’t worry about those INJUNS, Colonel Custer. Indians, what Indians? Just kick back, have a good time.”

EXACTLY. That’s what I’m talking about.

“I’m just saying.”

Take anything for granted in this violent wonder world, and yer dead, case closed, story over.

No, thank you very fucking much.

I have too many loved ones depending on me. Bijou, Angel, Stella, Stanley, my meows, they need me. I need them.

Now Vegas is a shit hole, no doubt about it. But it is also an illusion and can be solid, glamorous at times. That is if you hit up the right folks, know them, like I know them.

That’s why I opted for eatery Olive over there at the Bellagio.

All the great eateries have landed in the grand hotel/casinos. They’re like a shadow secret world, service, food, ambience no different than their sisters, brothers in Berlin, Paris, Rome and London. But, you gotta know someone, which of course I do.

I know Mr. owner Todd English over there at Olive. I also know the cook, and one of my buddies is the super neat French matre de, Pierre over there.

He’s one of those guys. Sophisticated, classic, a real comfy pro and because I speak the lingo, and do the kiss thing on the cheek and am always approachable, (many beautiful bitches are not) well, he is always filled with smiles whenever Janie lights up his life, with that smile of hers.

I gave him a ring-a-ding-ling earlier, for some Rez’s.

“Jane dahling’, vas missing zee so, merci me amore, of course, nine tonight, vee are honored.”

I’m starving. I haven’t really eaten a decent meal in days.

So, let’s make it special times and anyhooo, I’m dying to be adored some more.

Why the fuck not, I almost died trying to save an already dead little angel.

DURING King’s Transformation from gangster to gentlemen/businessman, I, me being the center of the world, tee hee, dragged King out of the ghetto.

Why?

Because he needed some new digs, for we almost had him out. Because Vegas had been gutted by the depression, and prices had been halved, we wheeled and dealed, diddled and doodled on the 20,000 square foot Spanish Villa off of Desert Inn Dr.

The villa was one-point-three mil. It was two acres of primo earth, and we got the joint for five-fifty five, cash money, on the barrel head.

Now, because I am a Mensa member, I have this little off-shore account in the Caymans, which we funneled King’s dough through. It’s a nifty place of illusions, where his dirty cash came back like a clean whistle.

Anyhooo, my buddy at the IRS can fix any snafus, which I never expect. So, all of this is great, except like I said before, King might have lost that one percent edge that keeps a bullet hole from finding a dude’s ear.

It’s like the flick Prizzi’s Honor.

What the Prizzi’s have is forever the Prizzi’s, especially their coin. In my burning head, why would this Carlos monster ever give up one million large, when a brass cap can erase that debt, in a Scooby-Doo minute.

Chit-chatted King up earlier, just checkin’ facts. I had to groan. I couldn’t believe my ears. King wanted all of us to drive over there, Jamal, one of his lieutenants driving his bullet-proof black Caddie Escalade.

NOPE, SORRY.

I can already hear two 9 mil pssssts, pssssts and see the brain matter on the tinted windows.

Told King, rent a limo, tell Carlos we will meet up at Olive and he better be fucking alone.

King had foo-fooed me.

I held strong. He acquiesced. So tonight, its limo time and there it is, King’s Street.

I hang a left, pulse calm, temples throbbing, that Bangkok itch again. What’s wrong with this pictureroo?

Street, like I remembered it, elegant, stylish, old Vegas was you know, before the godless heathen corporations raped it, made a pyramid for the tourists to gawk at. 

Gate open, pull in, circle drive, cruise past the Yosemite Park that came with the crib. Park, there’s King’s Black Escalade, a Black 364 Beemer, black Hummer. Fuck, the color black.  Reminds me of the color when you are restin’ permanent in a lead coffin, for fucking ever.

Parked to the right is a black stretch, white guy in a black suit, smoking, wiping the windshield, ready to be our driver for the night. Would have preferred Rudy, or Jamal driving, but I didn’t figure bad stuff was gonna go down in transit.

I figure the shit will happen, if it does go down, at the payout, at the Mexican guy’s super sleek, expensive crib at the Tower Condos, where he has a million-dollar crib set.

Anyhooo, grab my Marc Jacobs ankle boots, slip them on, six-foot two, grab my gun clutch and open the door. Practicing being lady like, I step out, slip on my jacket, feeling beautiful, sexy, pretty, slutty, edgy, aware. I get a big smile from Jamal. He’s this tall, black dynamite looking kid, who is one of King’s main posse dudes. Jamal is one of King’s Lou’s.

Cops call their lieutenants Lou.

Jamal’s a trusted guy. He’s holding a tech nine, alert, now smiling. We’re buds, loves me too.

Gosh, love seems to be everywhere tonight.

Do the high heel stroll, eight inches of thigh staking out my turf, grab Jamal’s fist, gang hug him. He bangs his chest. I grin, conversation goes something like this.

“Jamal you are such a stud, lookin’ fine my man.”

“Back at you Janie, you lookin’ all THAT. You goin’ take care a him?”

“Yeah Jamal, you happy with what’s goin’ down?”

“NAW Janie, its fucked up, it’s what it is.”

“YEAH, it is.”

Like Lieutenant Vic Garcia, my cop buddy over there at N. Vegas Metro, Jamal and I both have hard street creds. Nobody has to drop a beaver on our heads, tellin’ us that bad shit happens to good people.

So, I get a nod, bang my chest with my fist, telling him. “No problem Jamal, nothin’ is gonna happen to our King tonight.”

I take a step, on the red bricks, stall out, there’s King, walking through the door, smiling that megaton smile of his, in MY suit. He’s looking like a younger, better-looking Wesley Snipes with a black fedora low on his forehead. I like that, a little ghetto for my tastes, but it works, a lot.

Were eye to eye, he takes my hands, does some stellar gazing from the tip of my pointed toe heels, then way, way up my legs. That’s a long way I assure you. I have my gold Latina cross on a thin chain as he looks at my new makeup styled-out face. Which I mentioned is so featureless, wheaten lips, except for my Glenda Goth eyes, heavy mascara, a little green, some oranges and black silhouetting my blues that are like cannon blasts, detonating straight out to the world to see.

We hug, do the cheek kiss. I am glad I never fucked him. That would have complicated stuff, big time. We exchange words, look at Jamal, he looks worried, me too, nods, he nods back, and then date night begins.

We walk to the limo, get the door-opening treatment from the guy, I sit, eight kilometers of skin, driver notices, vanity. Do I love the attention and adoration? You fucking bet I do. King sidles in, door closes, chauffer back in the cab, engine ignites. We make the turn and, then sluice out of the place, me wondering if I will ever see Jamal again, alive.

The drive is kinda silent, few words, I don’t want to wig out King.

Yer packin’ Jane?

“Yes, I fucking am.”

“Ya prob won’t need it.”

IS THAT RIGHT?

Trust is bantered around between King and I.

JUST FUCKING GREAT.

I will always trust some homicidal maniac named Carlos from Ciudad Juarez, who would butcher his mother with a garden hoe if it meant one more suit case of money, in a long line of suitcases of it.

Already gave Pierre a honk, told him about this Carlos. I can’t wait to see this piece of work. Pierre said, “No problem Mademoiselle Jane, zee friend of zee, is zee friend of moi.”

Great, there goes my reputation down the drain.

No problema, will go the distance for King and I am hoping he is right. I don’t know. Time will tell. It always does.

We swing into the Bellagio, circular drive with green-coated valets burning it up, everywhere and alerted. We are VIPS, so far so good. I see a bunch of plaid RV folks grazing all around. Casinos want their money; all of it.

They are the masses, probably good people, wouldn’t know a Kobe Beef Tartar from a Big Mac. That’s OK, I’m not judging, life is hard and all these folks want is a moment in the glitz. Anything is better than Biloxi, Trenton, Kansas City, anytime.

Lots of tourists and, then I imagine as if a space saucer just landed, and exiting are US, these bubble head aliens, oddly beautiful. You know, Avatar, nine-foot blue people.

As the driver springs the door, I step out, a zillion yards of legs, followed by King. A hush, along with jaw drops stun the tourists that are gawking at Moi, hopefully. I literally see cell phone flashes detonate all around us that make me tick my hand on my clutch, thinking they’re muzzle flashes.

No bullets whizzing, thumping, no odor of cordite, thank fucking god, and we have to be someone famous to these folks, especially ME. King again looks like either a Rap magnet, or a movie star, and then Pierre is there, smiling, two security guards with him.

I smile, THAT SMILE.

Pierre takes my hand, kisses it. I throw down some of those brush kisses on the cheek, do the intro of King and receive Hosannas from Pierre for me simply being ME.

In the door we go, my fanny burning, one because I’m wearing no panties and two I can feel the heat from all the fucking flashbulbs searing it.

No complaints from Moi. I am, for the moment, the axle that the world revolves on.

LOL. I’m such an idiot at times.

PLEASE, Jane, just get through the door and shut your brain down, for a sec.

 So, I get to it.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Feeling like Uma Thurmond’s prettier, younger sister, and with our phalange of guards, Pierre leading the way, King and I holding hands, we cruise through the Casino

And, then everything gets like, well you know, gets all slow motion and such. I kind of silence hits the place, you know, like in the flick Un-forgiven when William Mony walks through the bar doors to kill Little Bill.

 SILENCE almost, for King and I, well what can I tell you, right out of Show Biz tonight, which me being me, simply adore.

We get to Olive finally and enter to the sound of china, crystal, real silver tinkling and pinging. We drop the security at the door. The bistro is astonishingly elegant, old Milan world, as a hush falls over the Palace. Pierre leads us to the bar. Now, I’m either a fashion super model, a famous actress, or the most expensive hooker in the world.

Which of course are all and in the same thing.

We finally hit the bar, which is festooned with hanging glasses, chrome, teak, all the bells and whistles, backlit by blue neon, hate that color. The best, best booze on the planet is racked everywhere. I gasp, for there he is, Carlos.

And why am I not surprised.

I could have picked him out blindfolded at an Isis mass murderer line up, and in my mind he looks like the lead slicer at the N. Vegas MetroTombs.

I do the kiss-cheek thing with Pierre and tell him to hang for a sec. He bows. I love to be bowed at. I hand him my black blazer, and of course that cements every stare in the joint at me. I am not surprised, but I am Jane and don’t take it seriously. That’s not saying that I don’t dig it. I still love the fact that I can turn multiple eyeballs, just because I’m me.

Back to Carlos who’s about five-seven, obviously in his elevator black Cholo cowboy boots, that without he’d be five-five, on a good day. I can see his black eyes, back-dropped by shades of red, yellow and that he’d drop a kilo of pure crank on King, if he could fuck me, which is exactly what I want him to think.

Plan ahead, remember. Two plans are better than one, three is better than two. I could go on and on, but I am sure you get the idea.

Internally, I am groaning, for he’s got this Tony Montana white suit on, a black shirt and a white tie.

REALLY.

Is this how their dressing down there across the border? I think I could help him, like I did King. But, the guy has so many gold chains on his fat, sweating neck, and a thirty-grand solid gold Oyster Rolex on his wrist, well I stab that idea. He seems like a lost cause.

He’s got this stalk of black greasy hair, for Mexicans are blessed with DNA hair. His forehead is perspiring, and it looks like you could re-fry frijoles on his forehead.

And then because his eyes haven’t left my bod or my legs, and now my face and I want to be polite, I don’t mention it, as King makes the intros.

I smile.

Made YA blink, tee-hee.

He takes my hand, you know, seductive like, for I’m sure he’s a hit with the putas in the barrio. He grins at me like Ricardo Montalban. There are those Earl gold teeth gleaming at me.

Speaking of Earl, I wish he was fucking here, man do I ever, but he ain’t.

So, because seduction is my other weapon, use them all and may need them mas tarde, I smile all dollish and such, feeling his meat in my fingers.

I smile more and, then speak his lingo to him, which gets more gold, and we, as King watches, literally seduce each other. As he oils on, I ooooh and aaaah and call him jefe.

That is the word for big fucking shot in Mexican.

As the spud tells me what a big PLAYA he is, how phat he is with money I’m wonderin’ if I can get my tuna tartar down with him anywhere near me. I’m also thinking that King has lost his fucking mind, trusting one percent of this monster.

I know this dude, do I ever know him well, especially after King gave me a heads-up that he’s a player with the Zetas over there in that no-man’s-land, Nuevo Laredo.  

They’re a band of homicidal, sociopathic Mex-Tex maniacs, that have murdered in cold blood, at least thirty-five thousand of their fellow citizens, every year just across the border. You know the one that looks like a yellow ribbon of water.

He’s into everything, drug trafficking, thank God King is one step away from that hideous world. The muck moves weapons, pot, meth, ludes, X, dogs, cats, snakes and tweeters, everything that can make him a buck; especially young girls.

The campesino is into people moving, his people. He’s a coyote leading a hundred sweet, desperate Mexican folks to melting desert deaths. They’re hard working folks that just want a better life. Their moms, dads and kids that cross a burning hell of a desert, half dying of thirst, rattlesnake bites, just for better lives.  While their relatives get jobs as dish washers, gardeners, maids, that’s if every bone in their body isn’t broken, flying over the wall by catapults, if they live long enough to even do that.

Then about three make it because most are scooped up by the Border Patrol. Those that do make it, end up cleaning house for some fat fuck doctor for the rest of their lives. No gratitude, no kindness, no sweetness, as they break tensile steel backs for the rest of their lives doing work that no elitist Americano would ever touch.

I’ve had this conversation with Lou Garcia before, and I can make bet on the fact that this Carlos meat is into female human trafficking. That’s another grift the lieutenant told me about that just about broke my heart.

The drug lords, scour the interior, border too, and then find these fourteen year old Mexican stunning peasant girls. They lay a coupla thousand pesos on their dirt-poor farmer parents, make the scoot and, then take them to a cutter (Plastic Surgeon) usually along one of the border towns.

Then the doc pumps silicone bags into them. They get ‘em to the beauty parlor, cut their locks, pluck their eyebrows, blond them out, get ‘em in the gym, ride the bike, starve them down and stuff them into Tijuana brothels. With the really gorgeous ones, Lou said, they ship I’m out to The Middle East, COD, where they spend the rest of their lives living in a tent, sucking the dick of some degenerate wearing a white sheet.

The other girls, tricked out, stunners too, get pretty shoes, for the first time, tart whore clothes, then become border bar girls, fucking ten Americans a day. Most of the ignorant peasant girls have never been happier, because they’re getting three squares a day, don’t have to shear corn, milk a goat and live on a dirt floor. And, then when their youth is gone, they’re buried in the desert, fucking forever.

SO, anyways, after the fuck released my hand, I gave Pierre the nod. He chaperoned us through the glitz, all eyes on Moi, thank you very much.

He set us down in this leather booth, me not in the middle, I don’t like being in a cage. Carlos sat between King and me. I was waiting for the sop’s hand to fall on my naked knees. That didn’t happen, thank god, because I didn’t want to gun him down in Pierre’s place. It could ruin a good time had by all if I did that.

I, of course, was starving, been eating donuts while I was hunting down the missing girl, and a nervous tummy before what?

What? I do not know.

Then, and presto-chango, there’s a waiter and Pierre, like a hawk in his tux is standing at attention next to him. Next to Pierre there’s a silver tureen, ice chips, and a bottle of Crystal chilling in it. Something I wish I was doing at home watching the CAV game, with my animal family.

Out comes the crystal tulip flutes, bubbly is poured. I can hear its sizzle, hope I don’t sneeze, and then Carlos, kinda rude, asks Pierre for a Corona as I groan. 

I heard their peeing in it in Mexico, hope so. Pierre gives me the, are you fucking kidding me look.

I shrug, smile at Carlos, he grins back. His breath smells like a burning tire. Pierre turns, back to the bar, King and I wait, toast time coming. King seems oblivious to everything. I don’t get it, could he actually be enjoying this sit down?

Fucking MEN, I’ll never get it right.

Pierre returns with the yellow bottle and sets it down. Carlos lifts his brewsky, we clink. I sip, exhale, delicious, my head feeling like it’s got a nest of scorpions in it.

OK, the dinner went down like this, me trying to keep down what I did eat.

King and I shared a scrumptious duo of Pan Roasted Foi gras Steak.

YUMMY.

 It was decked out with spiced quince & apple chutney, caramelized shallots, brioche points, amaretto froth, seasoned with a sprinkle of Balsamic.

We were in a delicate beef mood, so we added an order of Beef Carpaccio, decorated in polenta, Roquefort crema, shaved parmesan, and of course these delicate little cipolin onions, which were out of this world.

I almost came eating all of it.

Carlos opted, for an order of fries, and a bottle of ketchup, which he wolfed down like the human-sow that he was. No one is perfect, and actually, Olive is famous for its fries.

BUT REALLY, is this what King wanted?

I couldn’t fucking believe it.

He seemed to be enjoying himself, so not wanting to put the screwy on HIS night I pretended that Carlos was Javier Bardin. I rodeoed up, and tried to enjoy my meal, that’s the least I could do for my black stud, me being such a special piece of arm candy for the night.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Still starving, we ordered some Tuscan Farm House flat breads. You know, looking like a Monet painting, shaved Smithfield ham, asparagus, provolone cheese, caramelized, which again King and I shared, me feeling the cum gathering it was so dreamy.

Carlos had a shrimp cocktail, and he being of good manners, diligently wiped the cocktail sauce off of his chin with a linen napkin, before it hit the collar of his ghastly white suit.

Because I have the smallest tummy on the planet, King and I shared a Pan roasted Chilean Sea Bass. Protein keeps the brain sharp, also a guy’s dick hard, which I was hoping King’s was, at least. The fish reminded me of a bigger, blacker, deader Stella, came with baby artichokes, seasoned vegetable ratatouille, garlic whipped potatoes, shaved fennel, sweetly graced with a citrus glaze. I think I might of cummed after the first bite.

Our guest, of course, had a Char Grilled Rib eye, with ash-roasted fingerling potatoes, sweet onion jam, Piquillo peppers, a port wine glaze, and of course set off perfectly with a garlicky broccolini. The last thing the pug needed was more garlic on his breath.

It was quite something seeing the guy chow down. He did use a knife and fork on the Rib eye, which I am sure many patrons around the restaurant were grateful for. Now, because I am a smart girl, I kept toasting him, making sure a new beer was there every five minutes, for the obvious reason. All the while I was pretend sipping at the Crystal, just to keep my brains clear. I wanted to stay Seal frosty, sharp, in a killing mode.

I never said much during the dinner, and King and he talked a lot, mostly about bidness.

Carlos’ black pea eyes kept darting at me all the time, to see if I was impressed, which I smiled that I was. That seemed to please him, a lot. His hand finally found my knee and I didn’t flick an eyelash, smiled and raised my white eyebrows. I shook my blond hair like a whore, laughed like a French Poodle, knowing if bad became badder down the line, he might just hesitate before murdering me. You know so he could rape me later, fist fuck me while he wrapped a plastic bag around my head.

Which I was sure was coming up next on that menu called life.

Anyhooo, I can’t help but not think that I am the main character in one of those Greek Tragedy thingies, you know like Homer’s Epos “Odyssey”.

Me of course being Odysseus.

The hero, cunning, a killer, warrior of the Trojan Wars and the oracles predicting that he would never see life, home again, thus sending him on a ten-year journey. A perilous trek through hostile lands, enemies, and I am hoping like Odysseus I will finally reach Ithaca, alive, intact, which is my beloved loft over Chang’s laundry. Once there, finding safe those there that love me, as I love them.

But not NOW, so I get bright, for the journey is not done. Not done by a fucking NY minute.

Focus. OK.

Sooo, the dinner, disguised as Hades, finally ended. I kept expecting King to abort the entire thing, for you know, what was he thinking? Those warning hairs on my arms were like a Springer-Spaniels and what the fuck was going on in his cabasa hit up my brain.

NADA. Obviously.

Of course, Pierre copped for the meal, all of it. You know.

“Jane daling’, zee money is no good here, you are zee moonlight of our simple eatery. Vee love zeee Jane.”

I of course blushed, hand kisses, cheek kisses, six C notes in his tux pocket, for him, waiters, solmolaires, from moi, smiles, gratitude, whispers, me embarrassed for bringing two hundred and fifty pounds of sweating sausage into his chateau.

But he understood, business was business and so we scooted.

King, I think it was King, wanted to go dancing at the Voo-Doo Lounge. I had bad Cissy memories from that name.

COME ON. Let’s get it done so I can get rid of the acid burning a sink hole in my tummy.

So, I did one of those backhand things to my forehead, sans white gloves, pretended I was a southern belle, instead of a gal with a heater in my clutch.

I promised much dancing, maybe fucking later and corralled them to the front door. Once there, I did not see anything that I liked; nothing at all, once out the door.

Parked in front of the joint, was our guy, the limousine, and behind that was a Black Cadillac Escalade. Loitering there we’re two six-foot, 250-pound thugs, obviously Zetas, wearing the standard mid-thigh, gangster black leather coats.

Three guesses what those chest bulges were? I needed only one, as I looked at King, who was laughing at something clever Carlos had just said, you know like,

I jeeest am going to keel all of you bendaho pinche white assholes, as soon as I can.

NOT.

King cruised up to me, still thinking of cocktails, dancing, and I guess showing me off, spinning on heels around the disco. I grinned in absolute terror, pretending all happy and such from a conversation that went like this. I said nothing as he spoke.

“Come on Janie, were kipping to Carlos’s crib.”

OH, REALLY KING?

Yeah doll, take care of bidness, get it done, my man wants to make it right.”

IS THAT SO?

“Yeah, finish up some bidness, so we can dance the night away. Come on, we’ll follow ‘em to the Towers Suites, won’t take a minute, let’s go.”

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME, I did not say, but the words were thundering in my head.

SO, in the limo we go, and I sit on my tiny ass, wonderin’ about that extra clip, King’s hand on my thigh, like buds, nothing sexual, me wondering what I can say, to advert this madness.

I decided to keep my yap shut, me staring at The Towers, super glitzy Condo sky-scraper just a klick away, me thinking it’s going to be our tombstone and hoping it’s not.

I gotta believe King knows what’s what. I mean he has too. He’s a little drunk, moi, feeling like I have a cattle prod shoved up my ass. I am amped up, alert and sipping at the bubbly.

Let’s get it over, one way or the other. One mil large, well its nothing, certainly my diamond bod isn’t worth that much, it is what it is. OK.

We prowl into the big circle, park in front of everything that is wrong in Vegas. Big glitz, sky scraper tower place, lots of empty cribs, 2007 inflated prices plummeted during that Sub Prime Mortgage Grift. It was the big bubble real estate float, movie stars, directors, high rollers, directors paid a mil for a couple of rooms. Great views of the Strip and street hookers, real estate prices tanked, twenty-cents on the buck, didn’t matter to thugs like Carlos.

They got money growing on Marijuana trees, mules lugging in crates of Cocaine. We park as the black limo parks behind us. I have a plan, a last plan, as I see those gold smiles.

All three of the Zetas have gold teeth.

WELL that’s just fucking SWELL.

 In a chorus of good will we hit it through the door, the doorman grinning, valets parking our rides, chauffer parked off to the side.

Fuck, I miss Earl, Jamal and Rudy too. Where’s the love?

It was supposed to be a simple sit down, easy, casual, Carlos, King, me being the stupid arm candy. Mexicanos like that in their slut women.

I keep peeking through my raccoon ringed eyes at the slabs of meat, King doesn’t seem laid back. Too laid back.

Up, up, up we go, elevator music, The Velvet Fog, little lights blinking floor levels. Each ping, ping, ping is drilling a bullet hole in my burning mind.

“CA-CHING.”

The door opens, down the hall we happy people go.

We enter the whore house, me last, of course.

It’s just as I imagined, a real rectum of bad taste, black leather couches, sofas, loungers, chrome everywhere. Slotted along the bar there are lots of crystal, bottle of booze, huge window facing the Strip lights, really dramatic, big screen TV, CD, DVDS, stuff, lots of DVDS. I think of Eddie Jett, wonderin’ if Carlos has a cool collection of SNUFF movies. I’m sure he’s into that too.

About two feet from the big plate glass, there’s a backless leather bench, a small coffee table, chrome, black leather, glass top, and there it is, a silver aluminum Halliburton brief case. There’s always a Halliburton briefcase that now is separating another comfy little black leather bench, rimmed in chrome. We take our seats, and everyone is smiling, which sends a forearm shiver into my cunt.

I am in a completely no-kinda-fuck-around mood.

I move to Carlos, squeeze his arm. He leaks a look up and up at me. I smile, squeeze a bit more, ask him about the powder room, you know like Holly Go Lightly, almost ask him for a fifty.

I’m giving him all the signs, you know, fucking, sucking and sodomy later if he’s a good boy. He gets it, gurgles out. “Jest there, me beautiful senorita.”

I grin and almost vomit.

I tell the boys not to start without me.

Wink, wink at the body guards. They like me a lot as I lift my boot to a couch arm, hike my little black dress to the hilt, exposing a hint of my tiny butt, and laser beamed cunt. That’s other naked little jewel men think that they cannot live without…

All eyes jerked, lascivious glares, I look at the guys, King’s amused. I seem to blush, straighten and with little clutch in hand, sway into the bathroom, close the door, slam my back against the door, hyperventilating.

Hands on my knees, breath blasting and me trying to force blood into my brain.

Moments pass, I move to the mirror, want to splash water on my face.

Wake up, get sharp. Get it fucking together, I berate myself.

Black mascara masking the fear in my eyes and opaque face, lips. I’m not afraid of death, never have been. No one gets out alive in the end, but not by these ghouls.

Not now, not yet, not never.

Flush the toilet, couldn’t pee if I wanted to.

Get ready doll, yep I am, hopin’ it ain’t so, so I do.

“CLICK.”

I prime my silenced Beretta, shove it into my back waistband and out the door I go

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Walk out into the grand living room, see the sit-down. Carlos is sitting on his bench, coat off, behind him, black leather thigh jackets, the evil giants on either side of him, Vegas neon twinkling innocently behind them. Thought it was going to be a fun evening, just an exchange, loot owed, why the muscle?

King is sitting on the bench in front of them. The Halliburton is on the plate glass, me knowing when that damn thing opens there maybe will be a tuna in it, or a phone book.

You know the kind the CIA used whacking those guys in Iraq with, after they water boarded them, which that ghoul Rumsfeld, his Dracula buddy Cheney said wasn’t torture. Unless of course, it was being done to you and, then it is horrific torture. 

Drowning really is a horrendous thing.

I twirl to the bench, light the room with my smile, sit, plant my three-inch stilettos, wide stance, teasing a hint of cunt, bare legs. There goes the skirt, eye ticks, the Zetas like us lean, us towering All American blonds.

King grins, loving the show this Vegas show girl always brings. He then chirps. “Let’s get it on, Carlos buddy, we have dancing to do.”

DANCING. REALLY?

All I can think of is they will be dancing on King’s grave, as then Carlos grins, that grin, and then the world falls to complete slow mo. I take a deep breath, as the grease ball’s hands lay on the aluminum, and two “CLICKS” reverberate through the room.

As the Halliburton lid rises, as planned, I uncross my legs, do a little attention drawing cough, as my heels plant harder on the floor, and my legs part, showing the solar, naked flare glowing out of my cunt.

Tick, tick, tick.

The clock moves as the thugs’ hands hesitate, moving into their coats, their eyes locked on moi, HER, that pretty golden bauble between my golden thighs.

Carlos distracted, leering too, as the briefcase slaps open to the glass, and there it is. It’s not a tuna, but lots and lots of newspapers, and everything is closed down, by my exposed cunt, Carlos’ hand moving behind his back.

“Tick, Tick, Tick.”

Time is dead, maybe for a sec as King looks at me. I look at him, everybody looking at my magic pussy

And then “Pssssst, Pssssst, Psssst Pssssst, Psssss,Pssssstt” sizzles through the room, me in a crouch holding my Beretta with one hand, prefer two, didn’t have time.

Zip, zip, zip, six bullet holes in their foreheads, chests, Carlos slammed back onto the floor, on his side, the lug nuts behind him dead before they hit the floor. The stunning view of the Vegas lights is now abolished by blood, brain matter, arterial spray from a throat shot and shards of skull as they paint the window opaque red.

King looks at me, I smile, blow the smoke from my silencer tip. Cute I am as I do an Annie Oakley twirl with my Beretta and stand. I look at King, with you know, my usual perfect, ego driven smile, saying silently.

I WAS FUCKING RIGHT! LOOK! 

Not wanting to rub it in, It’s King’s b-day after all, but a little mirth never hurts, as I purr.

“Well, who’s your daddy now, King?”

King grins, looks at me, smiles.

“I’m your bitch doll, you are the Bong, how’d ya know, Janie?”

I smile, say something like let’s gab later.

I call King over as I move to Carlos and hover over him, Beretta still ready. And absolutely not wanting any more blood on my hands, or my Marc Jacobs, we might go dancing later, still want to look pretty. I kick Carlos over.

The fucker groans, Psssst, Psssst, two in the forehead, som dude lotso killing.

Link smiles, I blush.

BINGO, just as I thought. There’s a 45, military US Marine issue, stuck in the back of his waistband. The Zetas love those gats.

I actually want to Boink King on the top of his noggin, just for gettin’ US into this mess.

But I don’t. Birthdays should be fun, as he whispers to me. “Geesh, they was goin’ to whack us.”

NO FUCKING KIDDING.

I nod to and move to The Muscle, flip their jackets open with the tip of my silencer, exposing silenced Glocks nesting in their Velcro cages.

King looks at me, I look at him. He leans in, grabs me, gang hugs me, a lot. I’m happy, as he whispers some respect, gratitude and love to me. Which as the bitch queen of the world that I am, I accept, for I love hosannas, especially after a job is well done.

I break away from him, and without any smug, I say.

“Get on the cell, get Jamal, Rudy, some cleaning guys, get ’em here pronto. You know, mops, buckets, hack saws, some plastic, some golf bags, come on, let’s snoop. Bet ya there’s some presents in the bedroom.”

I love presents.

King nods, I’m in charge, hits up his cell and gets the machine moving as I click into the bedroom, loving the sound of my stilettos on the faux paux pine floor.

As mentioned before, snooping around is one of my fav things.

Let’s see, where do gangsters keep their slag?

Duh, under the fucking bed of course.

OH MY GOD, no one would ever dream of looking under the bed, which now on my hands and knees I am about to do as King moseys in.

With my skirt hiked around my waist, bare ass shining to the world, I turn my head and see King staring at my ass. I am complimented, give him a wry stare. He smiles, shrugs his shoulders, me thinking, because I am so jacked up, I might give him a birthday fuck later. I will think on that, and there they are, two aluminum Halliburton brief cases.

Geeesh, I gotta check Halliburton’s stock on my online Schwab trading account.

 I pull them out, stand and slap them on the bed.

King sidles up alongside of me. I wish there were red ribbons on the briefcases, me remembering those folks at the mall, with the ribbons and cards and all.

 “Click, Click, Click, Click”

Both cases are opened, and my goodness that is a lot of hundred dollar bills.

I figure a million buckaroos, and OH MY GOODNESS, there must be about ten kilos of pure Colombian crank in the other, in sealed plastic bags. Just the kind I am sure Carlos and his buddies were going to wrap my face with as they gang raped me and, then murdered me.

King looks at the slag, me, the slag.

He places his muscled arm around my bare shoulders. We’re really good buds, and because he knows he’s breathin’ because of me, and I swear I see a tear. I realize that man it’s time for him to get out. I mean NOW.

I know he’s lost his edge as he whispers, “Shit Janie, I’m sorry, I fucked up, what was I thinkin’? Fuck baby, what can I say, thank you doll.”

I go to the fingers, hands clutched, extended, staring at my black beauty. I ditch the attitude, no one is perfect, were friends, more than that, bro and sis. I nod, smile and, then whisper, “Are you going to take me dancing, or what the fuck?”

I see real tears, as he smiles, nods, and roars in laughter.

“Your fucking ALL THAT, more, come on, lets scoot, I love ya, you know that, right Janie?”

“Ditto baby, lets boogie, I feel like dancing tonight.”

He grins. We slap the Halliburton’s closed. King takes the drugs, I take the money.

He doesn’t say a word, he knows I will do good with it.

We turn, move out of the bordello, to the door, peek back at the dead, know the world, MY world, KING’S world is back in balance.

We exit, scoot down the hall, smack the elevator button and see the hall security video cameras, not a worry in the world. For after King’s crew is done sawing, packing, sweeping, mopping up the trash, no one will ever know zip, about zip.

Which of course is how Moi saw it all going down from the get go.

For after all, I am Me, Jane, Vegas PI.








CASTING CALL FOR A TIJUANA FIRING SQUAD.

J Brooke

Tijuana, a shit box illusion, rock n’ roll, Mariachi bands, Carlos and Charlie’s, primo pot, meth, cocaine, what the fuck, that guy Juan at the bar has suitcases of it. Tijuana is a lead hollow point, a truth serum, and what’s behind the pretty neon façade, some cartel hombre with a hatchet, bolt cutters, lost balls, screams, shrieks, blood, lots a blood from a bullet in the fucking head.

What’s sup with that?

It’s like white flake percolating on a silver spoon, blue veins, needle spike, nod out, a crinoline blanket coating nerve endings, that’s TJ, baby cakes. Drift into dreams, abort life’s pain, wake, demons, wraiths, puke in the toilet, end up in a Tijuana whorehouse, horror story, the fucking most dangerous cesspool on a burning slab of earth.

She was an American girl, 18, Hispanic, Maria, bullet proof, stunning, straight-A student, promised mama no TJ for spring break.

Where’s the fun in that?

She lied.

Everybody from U of L Vegas was partying there, a rad place, you know, a coupla tokes, margaritas’, maybe a hit of “E.” What could go wrong? 

What could go wrong? A lot could go fucking wrong.

She was abducted, human traffickers, part of the Zeta Cartel, cocaine, pot, meth and young America beauties, top dollar, maybe jettisoned off to The Emirates, Damascus, Beirut, New York City. Those insidious mother-fuckers paid top dollar for Grade A beef-fed American girls.

The call went out.

The phone call was made…

Favors asked. Favors repaid.

Mal was a hard man, a fair man, a six-foot-two slab of muscled chrome. He had killed a lot of bad people, men, women too, none ever taking the leap to a coffin that hadn’t deserved the final pile of dirt stuffed into their mouths.

He had been a young man once.

His young Costa Rican wife had been murdered, butchered in Rio. They had murdered him too, but he had returned, a new man, a different man, a violent man and killed every one of the sons-of-bitches, the cops that had cut his wife’s head off in a botched robbery with a machete.

Decades passed, diamond smuggling out of Pretoria, arms dealing in Somalia, he had run a hashish empire out of Ketama, Morocco into the UK, that all ended in more death.

Time passed, it always did for killers, men of ethics; it did for him.

He had moved to Vegas, a man could disappear there, perhaps hide from a life of pain and death.

An artist of paint, gold, and weld, he wanted it over, his past.

“Everybody needs someone to love.”

Some bastard sang that, never knowing a man like Mal existed.

But there was someone and he fell in love with another killer, ex whore, thief, grifter, a stunner of a gal named Mandal.

She was a girl with a violent past mostly concerning guns, lots of fucking guns.

Birds of a feather flock together, and he thought a hideous past life of distorted images was over, he really thought that.

Well, if it was over, then why was he in fucking Tijuana, heavily armed, a sixteen-gauge nestled in his lap, Beretta in his waistband, hunting the abducted girl, Mandal’s Mexican housekeeper’s daughter, with another killer more dangerous than he was?

Her name was Pilar, a Colombian waif, a stunning teak-skinned girl. Beauty confuses, distorts men’s minds. A hard dick makes men forget beauty kills.

As a teenager, her entire family, mother, father, brothers and sisters, tios and tias all brutally murdered by the cocaine cartels. She went insane, wandered into the jungle, hooked up with the Colombian National Army, then the CIA and Delta Force dudes, one thing on her disturbed and brilliant mind: revenge.

CIA, Delta Force, dug her vibe immediately, her abilities at languages, violence, weapons, disguise, and ferocity to kill on demand. They knew a great asset when they saw one, signed her up, a perfect weapon holding no fear in her demented heart.

No blink. She signed on the dotted line with her own blood.

Whisked her off to Langley, languages, including Arabic, computers, guns, knives, hatchets, Ricin pellets, poisons, hands, teeth, and she used them all over the next few years.

When she graduated CIA U, her present was a cheap gold locket with a Cyanide tablet in it.

Having a maniacal beauty queen as a Contract Killer paid dividends as she moved in out of Bogota, Beirut, Mogadishu, Paris, Bremen, and other places, a stunning-young pixie killer could kill evil men.

Then one night she went rogue, vanished into the nether world of death, becoming a paid contract killer to the highest bidder.

The one question a man asked as she stepped out of the shadows was…

“Am I dead?”

And now, she was repaying a debt to a Mexican drug lord. He had pulled her out of Nogales, Mexico years ago, when a job went south.

She was honorable, and now this new man, this Mal, she had met earlier in the evening, he was something, special, lethal and she saw it immediately. Two people that had basically few if any friends had liked each other instantly.

Favor asked, a favor repaid and Mal had called the Mexican drug dealer, called in one of his own. 

Thus, the hook-up hours earlier in downtown TJ had been flawless. Both killers knew each other’s STREET CREDS were impeccable.  The Mexican Drug dealer’s word was sacrosanct, beyond reproach.

Earlier, Pilar, using state of the art computers, had with Mal moved into a Zeta owned nude club, a favorite haunt for campesino, illiterate abducted Mexican young flesh.

They flashed a photo to the bartender and then disappeared to Pilar’s safe house. Tapping into the world of the Zeta Cartel had been a snap. She eased in on the bartender’s call, nada, no problema.

Blood, bullets, arterial spray, carnage, death were always one phone call away.

Hasta la vista baby, they were ready to rumble.

They had found what they were looking for, at least the first drop of blood moving down the vein into tracking the girl Maria.

They were going to visit two of the Zetas’ lower tier street soldiers, corrupt cops and now, sharing a pizza, both Mal and Pilar were ready to roll hard and straight to the cop’s house.

Sitting in Pilar’s armored and tricked out old American sedan; both new buddies laughed, chatted and ate pizza.

Time passed slow, it always did for assassins.

Pilar’s plan was dead simple, death is always a simple plan.

They would cruise over to the corrupt Zeta cops, she would deliver a pizza, no one ever said no to her stunning beauty.

Through the door they would go, reach down the pukes’ throats and rip the truth out of their gullets.

Mal liked the plan, they were both armed to the teeth. Pilar smiled, broke Mal’s heart with that, hit the numbers on her key board ignition pad, the car rumbled to life.

The armored ‘89 Caprice, with multiple weapons in the trunk seemed to growl.

“Meant to ask you Pilar, that engine sounds radical, what ya got in there?

Beaming, for what hit woman doesn’t love a compliment from a handsome stud, she said, “Pilar do all work herself. 327, bored 409. Magnesium lifters, fuel injected all running on an Earnhart, custom aluminum block…Neat, yes?”

“You running Nascar, is that it?”

Can’t count a dead corpse as a friend, never having a friend in her life to share her genius, she blushed. Punching him in the shoulder, she blushed again.

“A girl thing. Sometime have to drive fast…You know…This business, funny at times.”

Nothing funny about their business to any normal human being, but they were who they were, and Mal smiled.

“Yeah, a hoot.”

Quite magically she felt happy for the first time in her life. Leaning her hand to the floorboard, she peeked at a CD case. Finding a piece of music she loved, she withdrew the CD, flashed it at Mal. He nodded his approval. 

She injected it into the player set into the dash board.

CD machine searching, first track and liking his reply, gloved palm on the gear shift, found first, gunned the engine because she liked its power and as she roared off she asked, “You like the pepperoni, Mal?

Laughing, he grinned with pure enjoyment. “Love it doll.”

She loved the doll remark, though once she had shot a man who killed women 12 times with her silenced Beretta for calling her a bitch, she smiled.

Coming to a curve, downshifted from 2nd, found 3rd, roar in their ears, she whispered. “Me too.”

Haunting music of The Calling fell into the car, almost mystically matching the moment of their lives. The words fell along their ears, as if prophetic while doing so.

“When I’m gone we make love to light the shadows on your face…Way up high or down low, I will go wherever you will go...If I could, then I would go wherever you will go… Maybe, I will find a way to make it back alive someday.”

And as the ghosts of their words mimicked what they were about to do, that was it.

Two lost killers existing in eco-systems that could never understand them were on their way munching pizza, just two new friends kickin’ it.

Two pals out on a night of the town, their murderous town.

They would live or die, the song told it all.

“Maybe, I will find a way to make it back alive someday.”

                                 *****************

THE AGUAS brothers, basically illiterate street mook field hands from Chiapas, had struck golden ore in Tijuana. Being low-rung foot soldiers in the Orta’s Cartel, it had been phat city for them.

They had a cool little house with hot water, a kitchen with a microwave, toaster, coffee maker, a machine that kept their beer cold, and even macinas to wash and get blood outta their clothes, as well as an indoor toilet and shower.

No more shitting in the fields for these dudes.

All of it blew their primal minds.

They also had a 56-inch LCD flat panel TV, a DVD and a cassette machine, a silver, paper thin CD player, and lots and lots of weapons. The latter was cool too, for they had needed Ruger’s, Tech-9’s, shotguns, knives and other sharp implements to continue to do their thing, hopefully rising along the Orta’s totem pole as they did.

When they weren’t raping and getting blow jobs from hopeless victims like the Hispanic American girl they had kidnapped from the Disco earlier they were pumping iron at Gold’s Gym.

They loved fucking gabacho Vin Diesel, cause he always got the senorita.

Bolted on racks of their pale green walls, were a Remington pump shot gun, two Tech-9’s, two AK-47’s with full banana clips stuck into their chambers, as well as two military 45-caliber handguns. Set against the wall below the guns, were two razor honed machetes.

They were WTF fab toys of the boys when they were in gnarly moods.

Life was sweet for the muscled puke two-hundred-pound slabs of chorizo.

Sitting on their nifty overstuffed red couch, they giggled to one another as they watched one of their fave flicks on their nifty Toshiba LCD TV, snorting a little crank as they did.

The flick Blow was, besides Scarface, one of their favorite drug movies and they could not help but chide each other with many jokes while watching it. The fact that drug guys always came to a bad end in the flicks, as Johnny Depp had in Blow, continued to make them loopy with laughter.

That they somehow had wrangled jobs as sergeants in the TJ Police Force, always amazed them. Nobody understood better than they, that Bad Guys and they were Bad Guys with a badge never got caught, fucking ever.

Earlier, after they had delivered the beautiful girl to Senor Maccas they had been awed that their generous Jefe had given them an unexpected bonus, five hundred C-notes for a job well done. 

Neither of the lads being rocket scientists, their chat with the bartender on the phone and the meeting with the cops over at Mexico Linda a little earlier had more annoyed them, then had confused them. They had boogied over to the motel where the tourists were, to murder them and find out “What’s Sup?”

No tourists, thus, no red flags had flared within their basic minds.

Then there was a knock at the door, and of course that didn’t cause them any worry. Nobody would ever fuck with the men of the Orta’s Crew, ever.

Pete looked at Johnny. Johnny looked at Pete. Pete grabbed the remote, the one sitting next to his automatic .45, clicked pause and mumbled, “What the fuck.”

Johnny shrugged his broad, bare shoulders as again they heard a fist knocking against their door. Tilting his head, Pete rose, ran his fingers through his thick black hair, turned and moved towards the door, .45 in hand.

Fucking destiny was like that.

Kickin’ it with your bro, watchin’ TV, feeling all good and such, could change in a bullet rapport as a new journey was about to jerk off the boys’ mojo.

Soon the Aguas brothers would learn, that all Hollywood drug movies were not filmed the same and that some of them indeed, involved the Bad Guys meeting bad Karma as the final credits rolled and the popcorn box was empty and blood rolled in the aisles and the directors of that movie were blood curdling homicidal maniacs.

…………………….

      PETE and Johnny Aguas wanted to be just like their gangster-rap heroes on MTV, they loved their hip-hop life style, they talked in broken English, gangsta style, most of the time.

That’s how they rolled.

Cause everything was so Phat in their lives, Pete, as he stared through the small, brass square hole in his door at the beautiful biatch, holding a pizza in her hand, smiling a twenty-megaton smile at him, he never even questioned it.

He thought the Pizza Gods had opened a door in heaven, sending some gorgeous slag with a pie for them, when they needed it most. Turning to his brother Johnny, who was spread eagled on the couch, he said in his broken, best gang banging voice. “Hey bro, you order a pizza? Some radical bitch got one out the door?”

    “Fuck no. Fuck, I’m starvin, man. Let her in.”

    “Right on, dude.”

Peeking out the square slot, he saw her smiling white teeth. Because everything was so sweet in his life, he smiled back at her, as he said. “Just a sec, beautiful.”

He opened the door, as a huge smile plastered across his face.

“What ya, got doll?”

“This.”

Instantly, a real tall guy with a shaved head, who didn’t look like any pizza delivery guy Pete had ever seen and holding a black shotgun in one hand and an iron gray automatic in the other hand, seemed to appear from nowhere.

With a force that rocked his world, the tall guy lifted a heavy work boot, exploded it into his chest. The force of it, for the guy was like a truck piston, sent him flying across the room. He crashed into a tall glass cabinet, shattering it.

Stunned, gasping for air and sitting on his ass under the racks that held his weapons, he watched as some kind of black shadow seemed to spin and crouch, and there seemed to be something clutched in her black fists.

 

Not the fastest thinker in the gene pool, Johnny, on the couch, squinted his heavy eyelids at the pizza girl. He began to rise, leaning towards his gun in its holster lying next to his gold badge on the glass coffee table.

In the movies, a guy carrying a scatter gun, not intent on using it, usually does some cinematic posturing, usually before he rams the butt of the shotgun into the guys forehead or gut, for that makes great drama, and great flicks too.

But as Johnny Aguas leaned closer to his weapon, the tall guy, who moved like some kinda Tiger he and his brother had seen hunting a deer on The Discovery Channel, wasting no unneeded motions, was on him. Outstretching the shotgun, he violently ripped the shotgun barrel’s iron tip into his forehead.

Instantly he felt the pain, saw stars as he rammed back into the cushions of his couch. Then the guy, who neither smiled nor said anything clever, like in the movies, pressed the barrel tip against his lips, and simply, very slightly, shook his head back and forth.

The look on the guy’s face was something Johnny had not remembered ever seeing before. It was emotionless, hard-pressed with a serious intent. The radical dude’s blue eyes never seemed to blink. That was a bad thing; that, he was sure of.

Regaining his composure, Pete Aguas got real mad. He focused his mind on the girl, who was crouching in some kind of Oriental Ninja pose. She wasn’t smiling either. Her eyes reminded him of a Cobra’s he had seen on Nat Geo Channel.

Because Pete was one dangerous Hombre, and because he was afraid of no biatch, he went to his knees, jerked his hand up towards his weapons, ready, very ready to rumble.

As his brown meaty hand crawled up the wall, the black wizard ninja seemed to twirl and came to her knees in a throwing stance. Something flashed out of her hand. He screamed as a six-inch, razor-honed knife split into back of his hand, impaling his open palm and fingers to the wall.

Screaming, he fell to his knees, his bloodied hand stuck into the wall, keeping him from falling back to his rump. His Bro moved towards his handgun on their beautiful smoked glass coffee table. That quickly faded into a bad idea.

With a pistol aimed at his withering brother, the tall guy poked his head with the shotgun barrel again, lowered it into his mouth, and whispered. “Tsk, tsk, tsk.”

Knowing it wise to be good now, he slumped back into the couch, felt his blood curdle, for the tall guy’s eyes scared the living shit out of him.

Pilar, on the other hand, knew it was time to get on with business.

She moved to a standing position, peeked at Mal, was appreciative of his solid ways. She looked at Pete Aguas, who now was literally weeping from pain from her skills with the throwing stiletto.

“Where is girl? Is she dead? You hurt her? Where she is?”

With snot and tears running down his face, Pete looked at her with stricken eyes, then at his bleeding, impaled hand, back at her as he wheezed.

“My fucking hand…Man, what girl…Who the fuck is you?”

Turning to Mal, she outstretched her hand. “Mal.”

Knowing exactly what she wanted, for they had already rehearsed how it was going to go down, Mal tucked his Sig Sauer and silencer under his arm. He with-drew the photograph of Maria Juarez from the pocket of his sweatshirt.

Without ever breaking his gaze on Johnny Aguas, nor moving the shotgun tip from his eyes, he outstretched his gloved hand. Pilar took it, moved in front of Pete Aguas and shoved the picture of Maria before his weeping eyes.

“This girl. Maria Juarez. She a friend of us…Where she is.?”

In disbelief, he gawked at the photograph, then at the beautiful demon standing before him, back at the photograph, back at the demon.

“I don’ knowed what you talkin about, bitch. You knowed who you fuckin with? I don’ knowed nothin’. Fuck you.”

Pilar blinked, smiled, glanced down at the floor where the machete was set below the impaled hand and gun racks. Not the kind of girl that suffers nonsense that well, she bent, picked up the machete and tightened her gloved fingers around it. She turned and, then slashed it into the wall, slicing all of Pete’s fingers off as she did.

Pete shrieked as his eyes bolted wide. His dipped as he stared in shock at his fingers rolling along the floor. He shrieked again.

His eyes darted at his brother, who was now paralyzed in terror, wondering just who these Pizza people really were. Smiling, Mal held nothing but pure admiration, for not only her creativity within the moment, but her diligence in expediting matters.

With Pete hung out to dry on the wall, and bent at the waist, Pilar moved the bloody machete’s blade under his chin. She lifted it slowly. Staring into his eyes, and as he blubbered about this and that, she whispered, pressed the photo before his eyes again.

“Now you remember, Girl? Where is girl? What you do to her?”

Weeping in pain and now knowing the face of the devil when he finally was presented with it, he began to blubber.

“Yeah…I knowed her…She…She ain’t dead…My fuckin fingers.” He wept again as he lowered his face, only to have it propped up again by his own machete.

“You rape girl…You lie, I know, do other hand.”

“Fuck…no…no…I ain’t lyin’…She gave us blow job…she liked it…Man, I…I don’ knowed where she is. Man, I’m bleedin’…real bad.”

Unhappy with his answer, and still holding her other knife, she leaned down, placed the tip of the other knife in her hand against his lower eyelid and pressed, just a little.

“Last chance. Tell where girl is, or I take eye.”

Pete’s eyes kept jerking off at the blade just a centimeter from his eyes. He leered at his fingers on the floor, back at the Pizza delivery girl, then back at the blade tip.

“Maccas got her…We just delivered…That’s all…Where she go from there…only Maccas knowed…I no lie…Please, I’m bleedin’.

Pilar saw a white T-shirt flopped along a chair’s arm. She reached for it, moved to the wall and unplugged her throwing knife from it as well as the now weeping Pete’s fingerless hand.

He flailed around on the floor as Mal casually watched Johnny and his brother as she wiped the blade clean of blood. She tossed the T-shirt to Johnny’s weeping brother.

“There, use that, stop blood. Address, place where girl is…Tell now or you die…”

After a moment, she tapped him on the back of his head with the machete.

“You, no fingers, no more time, talk.”

He didn’t like her voice or anything about her. Though extremely macho before with every girl he had ever dominated, he wasn’t in the mood for any more of her fucked-up attitude, so he rose on his knees and whimpered.

“562 Avenida Armistice…is condo…near airport…number 4…He there…maybe girl too…”

Turning to Mal, she smiled.

“Take Sig Sauer…Shoot big man in knee.”

Just as Johnny Aguas was going to protest that suggestion, Mal, without hesitation rotated the Sig Sauer away from brother Pete’s head, aimed at Johnny’s knee and pulled the trigger.

     “Pssssst,” whizzed through the room as well as a bullet. 

A howl shrieked from Johnny’s lips, he leered at the exploded bone, blood and cartilage of a once very fine kneecap.

Looking at Pilar, Mal waited for further instructions. He got a nice nod from her. He nodded back at her.

He returned the Sig Sauer on Johnny’s crouching brother Pete, turned, looked down the barrel of his Mossberg at the writhing Johnny, who was now on the couch in a fetal position, clutching his knee in his hands, crying and moaning. Johnny, crunched in a ball on the couch, kept crying and moaning and his brother was doing the same thing, which disgusted Pilar.

Reaching under her leather coat, she withdrew her 9-millimeter.

She took a black gloved hand and cranked the silencer tight, just making sure it was cozy snug on the barrel. Placing the tip under Pete’s chin, she lifted his contorted face, so he could leer directly into her lovely brown eyes.

     “Repeat address.”

     “Aaah…por favor…aaah…562 Avenida Armistice…big condo…the whole second floor…number 4…por favor…that’s it, man…please I have my fingers back…please.”

Stepping back, Pilar looked at Johnny who had his blood-soaked fingers wrapped around what was left of his knee.

She glanced at Mal, who’s shaved tan head was as dry as a bone, not a drop of sweat on it.  For the briefest of micro-moments, she wanted to walk over and affectionately run her hand over his head like he had done to her, for she totally dug his vibe. Getting back to business, for head rubbing could wait for later, she looked at the weeping Johnny, whose eyes were bleached wide open leering at her.

     “You big man. With bad knee. Repeat number.”

Sniffling and with fluids dripping out of his wide nostrils and his eyes crushed with tears, Johnny tried to remember, he really did. Seeing the man with the shaved head and a face that looked like it had been carved out of brass, he did remember.

     “Yeah…yeah…562 Armistice…yeah that’s it…Number 4…Please…I gotta see a doctor…Please lady.”

Grinding her teeth, Pilar seethed. “I no lady.”

Of course, that reply did nothing to calm the Aguas brothers. Johnny was now certain by the way the pizza delivery girl was staring at him that he’d probably never have a pizza again.

Turning to Pete Aguas and placing the tip of the silencer against his forehead, she whispered, “He have guards…How many…?”

“Yeah…no…maybe…yeah, lots, he’s Mister Maccas…sometime…nobody fuck with him…He with Orta’s…He got drivers…man who the fuck are you?”

Pilar, silencer still pressing against Pete’s quaking forehead, inhaled deeply, lowered the Beretta.

“I…just like girl you hurt…I…am girl who going to kill you.”

Lifting the Beretta, she leveled it off about two feet from his forehead, his eyes gawked, he began to plead.

She squeezed the trigger.

     “Pssssst,” sizzled through the air as well as Pete’s brains and the back of his head, which stippled the back wall with all of it. He crumpled to the floor, dead.

Turning to Mal, she said. “Use Sig Sauer, now. Kill man.”

Like his brother, Johnny Aguas wanted to say something. Mal lifted the silenced handgun, aimed it coldly at his forehead. Johnny’s tongue felt like a bale of cotton in his mouth and that was the last thing he ever felt.

“I…I don’ want ta die, man.”

Mal stared at him, growled. “We all die, no one gets out alive.”

“Pssssst,” Smoke plumed out of the barrel of Mal’s handgun.

The bullet produced a small hole in Johnny’s forehead as it exploded out of the back, painting the couch even redder than it was before.

Nodding, Pilar walked over to Mal. Standing next to him she laid her arm around his shoulder like good buddies often did.

“You best man Pilar ever know. Good work, we do well, yes Mal?”

He peeked his eyes a little lower and there it was again, her most amazing delicate and beautiful cinnamon face. It was a face that could not possibly belong to such a cold blooded killer, but did.

Reaching out, he touched her face with his gloved fingers and smiled.

“You’re remarkable. Simply remarkable.”

Blushing, she punched Mal in his arm.

“You make Pilar feel like young girl…Me like it.”

“Me too.” Mal giggled.

Remembering where she was and what they had just done and what still needed to be done, she escaped the moment.

“Maybe, we live still, we talk more. Now business still.”

Mal nodded. He was a simple combatant waiting for orders.

“Mal, you got money, still? Flash at club?”

“Yes.”

“Good give to me, all please.”

Mal dug into his pocket, pulled out the nine grand in hundred dollar bills he had in a nice fold, looked at it and handed it to her.

     “Nine Thousand.”

Raising her eyebrows, another notch of respect grew in her mind for the tall, muscled man with the lines in his face and the shaved head and the now, she was positive, very sexy smile. He was a no questions kinda a guy.

“Good. Better more, this for people I know.”

She moved to the smoked glass coffee table and tossed the money on top of the glass surface. She looked at Mal.

“Men come, cleaners, clean…for them.”

She swept up both cops’ leather cases and gold badges. She flipped them to him. Much like a cat, he caught both in his hand.

“May be good use, later.”

She found a small silver cell phone.

Flipping it open, her leather-clad thumb punched a button. As the phone buzzed, she smiled at him.

     “Pilar…Yes, you have number…Come clean…Thank you.”

Slapping the phone shut, Pilar pocketed it, rubbed her high cheekbones, looked at Mal.

     “I guess we ready. One hour, dead men never here. Okay, we go see now this Maccas.”

Mal looked at her for a moment.

“Cold work, yes.”

Looking deep into Mal eyes, she thought for a moment.

“Yes Mal, cold work. Men like these, like rabid jackal, hurt girl. Pilar never take work for girl or woman. We, Mal, just help these animals where they go anywhere, understand?”

“Yes, I understand.”

Needing no more words, Pilar turned and passed Mal, and as she did she allowed her gloved hand to trail along his broad shoulder.

“Come, handsome…Maybe, we finish this. Now.”

She playfully winked at him as she passed.

Feeling totally awed by her, he watched as she reached the door and exited. Shoving the Sig Sauer into his waistband, Mal gripped the Mossberg and looked at the two dead deviants.

As within all businesses, the Aguas brothers had been simply down sized after a corporate takeover.

As Mal reached the door, he looked back at the dead men.

He normally felt nothing, but he did feel something.

He thought of Mandal, and how she would love Pilar as he did.

Mal held no sexual desire for Pilar, Mandal was his woman, but he knew Pilar needed Mandal, her love, her compassion, and he thought they would be perfect together.

There was one problem.

Could he get her back to His and Mandal’s world alive?

He knew death was now waiting for them in the darkness of the night.

He was ready now as he nodded to himself, closed the door and walked into that darkness.

A darkness that could kill them both.






THOR’S ANVIL

J Brooke

Strap a man naked to a chair, cinch a copper cable around his dick and balls, run that copper to a Sears Die Hard, fire it up, watch the fire erupt, strike like roaring, fucking flames from the Hammer of Thor, blasting the anvil, ignore the screams, ignore the teeth cracking, that man will claw the truth out of the bricks with his bloody finger nails.

That is Most Men.

Not one Man.

Not Mal.

Mal endorsed the pain, reveled in it, for laying in a stifling ditch with the only woman he had ever loved outside of Rio, a young Costa Rican girl, her hands and feet severed from her body, by the cops, to get the gold, rotting, bloating in the Sun, well that changes a man.

Three years earlier he had not yet become Mal, for his first step into Mexico, then the drive to Rio, 3 years, so many deaths behind him had changed him. A pimp in a Panama casino had adopted him, thought the Crazy American Gringo was a radical dude, and after the dead man in the trunk, he had renamed Jamie Brooke, Mal.

The three cops had then recaptured him when they found out he was still alive, had taken him to a warehouse and had tortured him in a prison cell, for they wanted the money, from the Golden VW van, but of course a dead man tells no tales.

The cops fucked up, didn’t murder him, they set him free, forgetting that some men have dangerous, fucking ogres for friends, lethal, gabacho loyal maniacs, killer amigos that have a sense of loco honor, and don’t take it lightly when fucking cops hurt one of their friends.

Thus, the Panamanian gangster, Bobby Caton, and his enforcer, the 6 ft 8 enforcer the black Mako shark Lewis, had flown into Rio, kidnapped the cops, took them to a warehouse, and watched as the new Mal put bullets into their heads.

That was 25 years earlier, and Mal had killed more than his share of evil men and women and now settled in Vegas, where an Artist of unimaginable talent with a lethal past, could dissolve and he had thought all of that had been behind him. A lifetime diamond thief, hashish smuggler out of Ketama, Morocco, arms smuggler, killer, well that was behind him he supposed, but if it was, then he wondered what was he was doing in Tijuana, sitting in a armored ‘89 Caprice, with five pounds of C-4 in the trunk, Ak-47’s, shotguns and Ar-15’s, not to mention loads of automatic hand guns all owned by the most stunning and dangerous teak-skinned ex-CIA Contract Killer ever aborted out of The Agency, named Pilar.

     Like the women Mal loved in Vegas, Mandal, the gorgeous blond ex-whore, hit woman for the New Jersey mob, Pilar was a stunning teak-skinned waif ex- contract killer for the CIA.

The hookup in Tijuana had been clinical.

Mal’s woman, Mandal’s Hispanic housekeeper’s 18-year-old American daughter, had been abducted in TJ, by Zeta cartel human traffickers.

Help had been asked for.

Help had been given.

Mal called his ex-Panama gangster friend, now retired on a beach in La Paz Mexico and called in a favor.

All Bobby Caton had said to Mal was: “What the fuck bro, I thought you was done with the gabacho fucking shit life, you sure you want this?”

Mal has simply said. “Yes.”

Bobby told him to hang tight, he’s call back in ten.

The call came, Mal took down the info, fired up his dual prop King Air, loaded it with weapons, passports, a ton of cash and flew into Tijuana International airport.

Once there, he connected to one of Bobby’s friend, the head Mexican Immigration official, all smiles, waiting for him.

20 grand layered into his hand, he passed right through, weapons, cash, false Id’s and had, as instructed, hooked up with Pilar, the stunning, teak-skinned, assassin for the CIA, at a local club, whore house, highly stylized club, Live Lula.

Since they both spoke Arabic, they presented themselves as an Arab couple, looking for their lost friend. Mal flashed the photo of the abducted Maria to the bartender, gave him a grand, his motel room number across the street, then with Pilar in tow, vanished, knowing they had just set the gears in play to a world of death and homicide, perhaps their own.

Unique, lone wolf killers, Mal and Pilar fit that bill to a tee, had bonded together instantly. Great whites are solo hunters, but in each other, they saw valor, truth and above honor.

That honor told a story.

Sometimes a bullet in the head, or the threat of one, wakes a dude up, gets the truth out faster than all the courts on the planet.

First thing first.

Pilar had tapped into the Live Lula phones, found the two corrupt TJ cops’ home address. They had arrived, Pilar holding a Pizza, Mal a shotgun, a Walther PPK, silenced, down the door went, both Cops surprised, for Pizza delivery girls usually didn’t hold Berettas, and didn’t have an amigo that looked like a six-foot- two slice of granite, 16-gauge nestled in his arm.

Pilar and Mal were no-nonsense kinda killers. They went to work, got the info on Maria, where she had gone, on the food chain, they then shot the cops dead, shared a slice, and moved on.

Great Whites don’t linger after the kill, they cruise, going for the next meal and they had done their work, and now were sitting in Pilar’s armor-plated sedan, in an alley, next step, well, more death, maybe their own.

     Ten minutes earlier, they had cruised the condo, saw the armed cartel guards, Pilar had done some snooping, chatted them up, got what she needed. Mal and her were ready to roll.

     “Okay…Time now”

     She reached back, found her shoulder holsters and guns, slipped them on, secured them along her black body shirt. Finding her black, double-breasted, leather coat, she threw the blanket into the back seat, struggled into the coat. Back to normal, she looked down at the closed laptop that was lying on the console between them. Opening the laptop, she began to type as she whispered and pointed.

     “Alley in back of building. Quiet, good. Pilar talk to guards. Men, typico, Mexicano. Rooster chests, macho…Like Pilar, much. Brag they important men. Guard important jefe. Second floor. They talk tough, big ego…want to fuck me…I tell them meet me at Mexico Linda, later…Maybe yes, maybe no. Maybe they problem…I not worry…Here…we go in here.”

     Turning the laptop so Mal could look at the information glowing back from the web page on the screen that she just had called up, she pointed at the diagram of the Maccas Condominium as she whispered.

     “See…Tijuana Planning Commission…All building, blue prints must go through here. Mal, understand technical drawings?”

     Nodding, Mal slightly shook his head back and forth at her expertise, then said through a half smile, “Yes.”

     “Good. We go in, from rooftop. Down this.” She pointed to a ladder leading down a chute from the roof. “Open door, go down hall, very quiet…Enter Maccas place, have conversation, maybe find girl, if she not gone yet. But first we recon. See what inside Condo. Maybe more men, do not know. You ready Mal?”

     “Once again. Your work amazes me. Yes, I’m ready.”

     Smiling from his compliment, she extended her finger, punched the numbers into the key pad, then twisted the key.

     The engine rumbled to life as she placed the car in first and edged down the street. At the end of the avenida, she hung a left, moved down a half block, swung left into the alley. Once along-side the back of the condominium, she killed the engine, peeked up and down the alley, turned to her back seat.

     Digging around in her girl stuff, she retrieved a black cylinder canvas bag about a meter long. Handing it to Mal, she returned to the back seat, found a black backpack, and then turning, she glanced at the monitor of the laptop, printed the diagram in her head, closed it and then turned to Mal as she pulled her pack out of the back seat.

     “Bring Mossberg and Sig Sauer.”

      Nodding, Mal watched as she opened the door, and with her black backpack in hand, moved out of the car. Mal, opening the passenger door and carrying the cylinder bag, exited the car, and then moved along side of her. It was cold and Mal could see his breath fogging as well as Pilar’s. The alley stretched two blocks before them and had many plastic trash bags as well as dumpsters aligned along the asphalt. Mal could smell rotting garbage and it did nothing more than to intensify his senses.

     Like a cat, Pilar bent to her knees, and then extended her hand for Mal to give the cylindrical bag. Handing her the bag, she then unzipped it, pulled something out of it. Immediately, Mal saw that it was a very high-tech bow and arrow set up, which was folded in half at a hinge bolted in the middle of the black affair.

     Assembling it, she stood, showed it to Mal, smiled proudly. The carbon fiber bow, one used by Olympians, had high tensile wire and thin cables running across it to give it the proper tension, which was considerable. Bending, she retrieved an arrow ensemble, except where the arrow point was, there was a collapsible, four- pronged grappling hook attached to the tip and a black, knotted line attached to a hinge at the back of the arrow’s shaft.

     Turning to Mal, she again smiled, as she opened the small grappling hook, pointed with a gloved finger at one of the four-point ends on it. “Carbon fiber, rubber tip, with stainless steel point. Very quiet, strong, you see.”

     Before Mal could tell her that he loved her, at least in his own eclectic way, she peeled off her heavy, black leather coat, allowed it to fall to the asphalt. Adjusting both Berettas that were hanging under her arms by the shoulder holsters, she took Mal’s black backpack and then bent, unzipped it and shoved her coat into the pack.

     Rising, she turned to Mal and with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, she raised the bow, slotted the black arrow into the slot, reared back, raised the bow into the sky, and then aimed it.

     Mal’s eyes went wide, for her bare arms were cut with muscles and he could see her collarbones as they seemed to almost pop out of her body, and then he stared at her forearms popping as they melted into her powerful wrists and then her black leather gloves. Then, as if she were a female Robin Hood, she released the arrow and it went. “Swoooosh.”

     From the bow’s bag the black line smoked out of the case as loop after loop straightened as the arrow whizzed up and over the roof. Handing the bow to Mal, she then gripped the line in her black leather gloves and then began to retrieve the black, knotted rope. The grappling hooks seemed to catch on something on the roof, and feeling it, she gave the rope one last tug.

     Looking at Mal, she glanced at the shotgun in his hand, thought for a moment, then bent, unassembled the bow set, re-stashed it into its proper bag, then reached down, picked up the black backpack, shouldered it, winked at Mal, and whispered. “Mal wait for Pilar sign. Bring arrow bag, Mossberg, be right back.”

     He was about to say okay, but she was gone before he could do so.

     Like some kind of efficacious human Gibbon, she took the rope in her gloved hands, and straddling it, she monkey-walked up the side of the condominium like one of her Darwinian cousins, reached the top, and then disappeared from Mal’s sight.

     Once up there, Mal watched as the rope began to unspool out of a hole of the arrow bag he was holding in his hands. From nowhere, there appeared a black, exotic rope-like substance, attached to a rope ladder began to unravel higher towards the roof.

     Once the black rope ladder was set over the building’s lip, Mal smiled as Pilar’s face beamed over the edge, and as she smiled, her hand waved at him to begin climbing. Mal grinned to himself, for he had done a lot of dangerous and illegal stuff most of his life, including murder. He had been a drug and arms smuggler, he had even lived as a jewel fence once, but never had he enjoyed himself this much. In every thieve’s mind, cat burglar stuff is at the top of the list, and he had to admit he was having a blast.

     Shouldering the Mossberg and the arrow kit over the same shoulder, he shoved his handgun a little deeper into the belt of his jeans, grabbed the rungs of the ladder in his gloved fingers, and powered himself easily up the ladder and onto the roof.

     Instantly, Pilar, heavy double-breasted Leather jacket back on to shun the cold, leaned in and pulled the rope ladder back onto the roof. Taking the Arrow kit bag from Mal, she bent to a knee, unzipped it, and the placed the rope and the rope ladder back into it.

     As she did her thing, Mal turned his eyes to the horizon, where the bright city lights of Tijuana glistened like neon jewels everywhere. Finishing stowing her stuff, she straightened and turning to Mal, she giggled. “Fun, yes, Mal?”

     Chuckling, Mal said. “You’re like James Bond.”

     Reaching forward and allowing her wonderful sense of humor to be exposed for the first time, she pinched his cheek between her forefinger and thumb and said. “Bond, he not real. Pilar, she real.”

     They shared the fun moment together, then she released his face, and said. “Now, watch. We find out what going on inside.”

     Bending to her black backpack, she unzipped it and then began to pull stuff out of it. From the bag, she took what to Mal’s eyes seemed to be some kind of carbon fiber trapeze setup, which was attached to a black, electric motor and had a heavy clamp assembly attached to it. After she had the complete thingamajig laid out on the roof, she lifted the clamp and two-meter bar in her gloved hand, stood and then scrutinized it.

     Without hesitation, she extended the black bar, so it shot out over the open space of the building’s wall. Adjusting the stout clamps, she slotted them onto the building’s edge, and then tightened the two clamps to it. Attached to the two-meter bar was another bar and a phalange of black rope and again Mal thought it looked like something a trapeze artist might use within their high-flying act, at some odd circus somewhere in the world.

     Bending, she then withdrew a heavy black canvass harness assembly. Once again, she peeled off her double-breasted coat and her shoulder holsters, allowing them to fall to the rooftop. Mal saw tiny goose bumps appear on her bare arms and neck, and he hoped that she wasn’t going to catch a cold, or for that matter, a bullet before all was said and done. Placing the harness around her shoulders, she then stitched the heavy belt along her narrow waist, gave them both a tug, then to Mal’s amazement, she put one of her soft soled feet on the edge of the building, and then leapt off of the building edge.

     Once airborne, she fell a meter, caught the carbon fiber bar with both hands that were welded against her waist. Completely blown away, Mal gasped as she then did a spin on the bar, straightened, released the bar and landed softly onto the roof, flexing her knees as she did.

     Perhaps she was showing off for the only friend she had ever had in the world, perhaps not, but as she straightened, she smiled gaily at Mal, as she whispered. “Perfect. Pilar, once a gymnast, sometime use that talent.”

     Shaking his head back and forth, Mal grinned as he said in awe. “I guess so.”

     Giggling, Pilar said again through a mischievous smile. “You want to try, Mal?”

     “No…No, I think I’ll leave the hard stuff to you.”

     Giggling, she punched him in the arm, turned and bent to the pack again. As Mal watched, she withdrew a small remote control with two long black cables attached to it. On one of the shoulder straps of her harness was a Velcro patch, which she then connected the remote control to. Turning to the small, black motor connected to the winch ensemble, she plugged it in, spooled out some cable, then took the free cable and connected it by Velcro to her other shoulder harness strap.

     Looking like some half-human half-cyborg creature from the movie Matrix Reloaded, she bent back to the case, and then withdrew a small Digital Cam- Corder, which appeared to Mal’s eyes to have several tiny little tentacles, octopus suction cones attached to it. Handing it to Mal, she moved to the edge of the building, and then turned to him. “Give slack, as Pilar descend…Please.”

     Mal nodded, and then watched as she attached the Digital camera to more Velcro on her shoulder harness. Almost unable to believe his own eyes, he then watched as she extended her hand to the bar, unspooled the trapeze bar, and then allowed it to dangle in the night air, as she, in a crouch, leaped onto the building’s edge into a crouch. Her eyes swept up and down the alley, and then seeing all was well, she jumped forward, and as she had done before, she came to rest with her fists holding the bar, just at her waist.

     As she lowered her hands to the lower bar, and as she attached it by heavy rings to her waist harness, Mal ran his hand over his head, wondering if what he was seeing, was a reality. He had done a lot of nifty thieving in his life, but nothing remotely as cool as what the girl was doing.

He had seen all the movies, where guys unrealistically hung on ropes in museums and such, but this was not a movie, and as he scratched his unshaven jaw, he had to remind himself that the amazing girl was actually doing what she was doing.

     He then gasped, for instantly she released the bar, went vertical, and now hanging upside down, feet pressed directly into the night sky, he watched as her gloved finger came to the remote on her shoulder harness, and pressed a button. The electric motor began to whir on the roof edge as she descended down and down along the buildings wall.

     Moving to the precipice, Mal, almost laughing, watched as the girl moved down the wall like some kind of spider, the two cables trailing behind her. Then, once at the edge of a huge bay window, she stalled, her eyes just below the window’s edge. Looking down at her, he watched as she took the tiny camera, and then pressed it against the massive window, lens pointing, he assumed, at whatever or whomever was in the condo. The motor began to whir again, and he shook his head as he watched the winch spool the line and Pilar back to the roof.

     Once there, she grabbed the extended bar above her, unhinged her waist fasteners, pulled up, did a spin just for the heck of it, and with her upward momentum pushing her, she then landed silently on her boot soles back to the roof. Neither talking, nor looking at Mal, she bent, withdrew what looked like a small Blackberry from the pack, coupled it to the free cable, and then flicked it on.

     The screen went to life. She motioned Mal to look and as she pointed at it, she took a small joystick on the monitor, moved it around, then whispered. “There he is. He with woman, we watch for minute, see if other there.”

     Then she shuddered as her teeth began to chatter again and she gave the video monitor to Mal to hold. Bending, she grabbed her shoulder holster, re- shouldered it and then placed her heavy leather coat on, zipped it up, re-buttoned the double breasts, then turned and peeked at the monitor, as she whispered. “What you see, Mal?”

     “Yes, he’s partying. I see a girl, naked. They’re dancing…there you go, they like coke too. ” Then he giggled. “His outfit is a little suspect.”

     Looking at the video image, Pilar groaned. Maccas was about five-foot seven, brown skinned, about two hundred pounds, and seemed in a gregarious mood. He had a beach ball for a belly, which flopped over a red G-string, fashion disaster, mostly seen on the beaches of Colombia, Venezuela and other South American countries, where fat meant that a man was a man of importance and was a desirable thing, for he could feed himself.

 

No stranger to gluttonous men, for she had obliterated her fair share of them, Pilar then seethed, as she saw a most beautiful, white skinned, naked girl dancing to music, which obviously was sprinkling through the condo.  “Pilar no like this man. She see many just like him. Pilar angry, for if he hurt girl. He dead already, he just don’t know it.”

     Mal heard the growl in her voice, and once again he knew that perhaps her words were very bad news for Senor Maccas, who seemed to like dancing, for he was doing his share of it down in the garishly decorated condo below them. Growing silent, they watched for another few minutes, then Pilar switched off the video, and turned to Mal with a look he had not quite seen before within her brown eyes. “We go now, Mal. We talk to this, pig. No kill, talk first, okay?”

     “Yes, of course.”

     Bending to the bag, she dug around it, and then withdrew a fifty-thousand- volt Taser gun from it, showed it to Mal, then laced it into her jacket pocket.

     “We Taser him, then chat.”

     “I like it.”

     “Okay, leave bags on roof, maybe we get later, maybe not. Bring Mossberg and Sig Sauer, you ready, friend?”

     Nodding at her, Mal ground his jaw, bringing him back to the hard work at hand. Staring at his gun, he ejected the clip, found a full one in the pocket of his sweatshirt, and rammed it into the gun’s grip, chambered a bullet, and then whispered. “Ready, beauty.”

     Smiling at his words, she bent to the bag one last time, pulled something out of it, shoved it into her heavy coat, stood, turned and then crept along the roof top. Mal followed close behind her as she did.

     Moving across the roof, she then bent at a stout hatch door that was hinged to the roof, and was secured with a rusted padlock. As Mal crouched along side of her, she then whispered. “Just as I think.”

      Reaching into the pocket of her leather coat, she pulled out a small torch. Attached to the handle was a flint device, which she then took, and after adjusting the flow of gas, she clicked it. The flint sparked, the torch pooled out a small yellow/blue flame from its brass nozzle. Taking no more than thirty seconds, she easily cut through the lock, took her gloved fingers and after gingerly removing the lock from its clasp, quietly laid it on the rooftop.

      From another pocket, she took a small can of gear oil, applied it to the rusted hinges. She lifted the hatch, heard a small squeak, applied a little more gear oil, then repeated the procedure. Hearing no squeaks, she lifted the hatch, and again, careful not to make a peep, she laid it along the roof. From the bottom of the hatch, Mal could see lights and the rungs of an iron ladder leading down to the fourth floor. Turning, Pilar pressed her gloved forefinger to her lips, telling Mal to remain silent.

     In semi-awe, Mal watched as she then dug into her other pocket, and once there she retrieved a pair of stout goggles, that had a fiber optic cable plugged into the side of them. Hanging from them in a spool was about four meters of thin, black fiber optic cable. Pressing a button on the side of the goggles, Mal saw a tiny green light begin to strobe.

     Within a moment, she had the spool of flexible cable straightened into a line. Ever so carefully she spooled the fiber optic cable down past the iron ladder rungs, so the small optic lens at the tip of the cable was poking, just barely into the hallway.

    “Ahh, good. No surveillance camera, okay, we go.

     Pulling the cable out of the chute, she laid it, as well as the goggles onto the roof, turned to Mal and whispered. “Stuff, easy to replace. Life, not so easy. Okay, follow Pilar.”

     Feeling his adrenaline pumping and having basically a surreal experience, Mal watched as she climbed down the ladder. Once she was down, he slung the Mossberg along his shoulder, and followed her down the iron rungs to the hallway of the fourth floor.

     The fourth floor hallway was lightly lit, and Pilar had not hesitated after seeing that it was secure. Turning left, Mal followed her to a stairwell and after they had quietly moved down two sets of stairs they came to a heavy fire door, that was closed on the second floor, but was not locked.

     Opening the door, Pilar peeked her head out, stared down the light green carpeted hallway, turned to Mal, and as she pulled out her Taser in one gloved hand, she dug in her pocket and withdrew her silenced 9-milllimeter in the other. Looking at Mal, she whispered. “Okay, you ready, Mal?”

     Nodding, Mal slowly and quietly chambered a shotgun shell into the breech of the Mossberg. He then pulled his Sig Sauer out of his waistband, gripped it in his black gloved hands, and whispered. “Never more.”

     Pilar nodded at him, slipped through the door and with Mal following her they tiptoed down the hallway, until they were facing the door of Maccas’s condominium. Standing there, they could hear music and a woman laughing filtering through the door.

     Ever so slowly, Pilar tucked the Taser under her arm, wrapped her gloved hand around the doorknob, gave it a little twist, and then seeing that the door was not locked, she returned it to its original position “Good, not locked. He get lazy.”

     Mal, feeling his heart pumping and actually enjoying the moment, nodded to her words.

     “Okay…Three, we go…One, two three.”

     Pilar twisted the doorknob and quietly opened the door, and then slid through the door as Mal followed her inside.

     OUTSIDE IN front of the Condominium, the two burly guards, smoking and flapping their arms tying to stay warm in their heavy leather jackets, suddenly blinked their heavy-lidded eyes.

On their thick waists, just along the holsters that were carrying their handguns, two small cell phones began to buzz. Both Mexican men turned, stared at each other a little confused, and then in unison whispered. “Maccas.” Instantly they withdrew their military-issued .45-caliber handguns, turned and rushed through the door, banked hard at a stairwell and began to run towards their benefactor’s condominium, thus proving that sometimes even the most best-laid plans are just not planned well enough.

     Tito Maccas was a demi-God within himself. He was a bit cranky, for the Lear jet had been delayed, which would be delivering the trafficked girl to Mexico City, including the prize, the young American girl Maria, was late. Then he smiled, as the call came and the Jet was in flight, to land in TJ International within the moment, so his mind turned to fucking.

He thought about it further.

After the girls were delivered, Manuel Mata, who ran the Human Trafficking Division of the Orta’s diverse empire, would, mostly through his well-organized underlings, get the girls to Doctor Trinidad, a conjurer with a scalpel. Maccas assumed that the girls had already been sold and were on their way to the Middle East, most likely Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, or Qatar. Once there they would live the rest of their lives out as human sex slaves for men that appreciated such things.

      Feeling better, Maccas turned and, standing in his G-string, he glanced at his bedroom to his left, wondered what was keeping his whore, and then he stared out the massive window at the lights of Tijuana on the horizon. He felt the buzz from the cocaine and the tequila he had been sipping for the last two hours, and remembering the blow job he had gotten as a bonus from the terrified American girl, he felt almost giddy from those thoughts. Placing his hand on his huge belly, he felt it jiggle as he began to giggle, for he felt omnipotent, sexual and within his black beady eyes, he saw a bright future, one in which life was just getting better all the time.

     Moving a step, he bent to a smoked glass table, where a mirror and about an ounce of coke and a small straw was set.

     Of course, all that changed for him when suddenly his front door opened and some kind of phantom thing entered, crouched, sweeping her black, gloved hands that held pistols in them around the room. Everything had been happening so fast, he then looked confused as his heavy eyebrows furrowed, for right behind her was a tall, brown man with a shaved head, who to his thinking did not have a friendly expression on his face. In the guy’s gloved hand was a man-eating looking shotgun and in his other hand was what appeared to him to be an automatic handgun.

     Maccas was about to say something, when the girl, he now saw that she was a girl, and probably the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, extended her left arm, and pulled the trigger on her odd-looking handgun.

“PSSSSST.”

Instantly, sparks blistered out of the guns tip and almost as if in slow motion he saw the darts spitting at him and the tiny wires, attached from the gun’s barrel un-spooling behind them directly towards him.

     One moment a God, the next second a lit-up Christmas tree, the important man watched as the darts impacted into his sternum, just above his massive belly. His eyes exploded, as did his body as the powerful current pulsed though his fat torso. Instantly, body vibrating and out of control, his heavy knees buckled, and he, like a Jell-O mold, in undulating sections fell to his back, where once on the floor he simply laid there twitching.

     Watching, Mal, shotgun extended, Sig Sauer tensed in his hand and his eyes acting like a sonar pinging everywhere, he looked at her now standing body as she turned her head, looked at him, smiled, then playfully winked at him.

     Mal was about to smile, when both he and Pilar’s world fell into slow motion. Almost as if their lives were now film clips of some D W Griffith hand- cranked celluloid movie, everything began to unfold so slow, it was as if they were caught within suspended animation.

     Moving from the open bedroom door was a naked girl, and along her side was a black twelve-gauge shotgun.

     Pilar was facing the girl with the now-rising shotgun. She still had her silenced Beretta in her gloved right hand along her right side, and as she glanced at the girl, the front door opened and the two heavyset men in their black leather jackets entered.

     Now, things fell to silence and every clip of film seemed to crawl past them. Pilar’s eyes locked with Mal’s, and a micro-second passed, as Mal looked at the girl, who film-clip by film-clip was raising the twelve gauge.

     It then ground even slower as Mal and Pilar’s black eyes remained locked for another micro second, as Mal, hearing the door, turned in slow motion, and saw the men raising their own guns, in his direction. Pilar’s eyes jerked back and forth from the girl, who almost had the shotgun level at her chest now. Back to Mal, then the men, as she watched as Mal fell to a crouch, swung his arm around on the Mexican on his right. She heard the “Pssst” as Mal then squeezed off two rounds, which caught the man in the chest, sending him slashing into the wall behind him, and then to the floor.

     And now, as in any war, when two friends, comrades, soldiers are faced with the decision whether to save a buddy, or seek their own safety, Pilar choose the first. Seeing that the other man had his pistol barrel just an inch from being focused on her friend, she ignored the naked girl with the shotgun aimed directly at her chest. Mal thought he saw her eyes dart at him, but then Pilar, still facing the girl, simply raised her arm from her right side, pointing the Beretta at the man who was going to murder her friend.

     One more micro second passed, and Mal, knowing that he was dead now, watched to his astonishment as Pilar, ignoring the fire that now was exploding out of the shotgun barrel, squeezed off one round from her Beretta.

     Mal gasped, as the bullet caught the man in the forehead, sending him down. And then before he could turn, the lead pellets from the twelve-gauge blasted into Pilar’s chest, ripping her backwards across the room, where once against the wall, she fell to her rump, spread-eagled on the floor.

     With still a war to fight, Mal felt such fury in his chest, that within the moment of such pain, he could only hear the naked girl as she re-chambered another shell into the breech of the shotgun.

Instantly, Mal dropped his shotgun, went into a roll, and as he flew to his knees and began to focus his pistol barrel on the girl, another blast plumed from the barrel of the girl’s gun.

     Jerking right, Mal felt the left side of his shoulder, neck and face burn, as several of the lead pellets pierced his body, sending him to the floor, sprawled on his back. Blood began to seep into his eyes and he could smell the cordite and it was so silent in the room, he could hear every click as the girl pulled back the slide on the shotgun, and having reloaded, began to turn the shotgun in his direction.

     It was a race now, between him and the girl, life, death and a bullet, and of course, as in all matters of death, a pinpoint of time often determines who lives within such battles. Since handguns are just plain simpler to wield, Mal on his back, lifted both hands, tried to focus the gun on her, then because blood from a forehead wound was spilling into his eyes, he swiped his eyes with the back of his gloved hand.

     No time now, no time at all, and as he lifted to barrel of the Sig Sauer, the girl slipped, just little, and as she did, Mal fired, emptying his gun of his bullets as he did.

     The girl screamed as three bullets, like on a ladder’s rung hit her stomach, her sternum and then directly in her throat. The force of the bullets sent her flailing backwards, her arms thrown into the air. Back she went, until she hit the bed, where she flopped on her back, as her legs and feet vibrated over the edge of the bed and she died.

     Slowly Mal crawled to his knees, and because he was a soldier, he checked his wounds. His muscled shoulder had taken two pellets, yet though it hurt like hell, he knew he was all right there. Peeling off his gloves, he checked his throat and forehead, where three other pellets had grazed him. Looking at the blood on his hands, he swallowed his warlike nature, took a piece of his sweatshirt, and then wiped his face as best he could clean.

     Not wanting to do it, he turned to Pilar, who was slumped against the wall, her lovely chin bent against her chest. There was blood on the side of her cheek, as well as her neck, but not a lot of blood. The front of her black, double-breasted leather coat was shattered and ripped apart, and he could only guess what damage had been to her tiny torso under it.

     Hearing a moan, he glanced at Maccas who now was rolling around on the floor. Standing, he walked over to Pilar’s Taser, picked it up, squeezed the trigger, which sent another jolt of electricity along the wires. Maccas moaned in pain, his body twitched, jerked a couple of times and then he went silent.

     Turning back to Pilar, he moved to her, fell to his knees, and simply stared at her. She still clutched her Beretta in her right gloved hand, for combatants seldom go down without them. Ever so slowly, he extended his fingers, pushed some wayward hair from her face, and then he grew silent, as he pushed her face back off of her chest, and with so much sorrow, simply gazed at that cold, remarkable face. Blood was seeping from a pellet hole in her cheek and forehead, and it sickened him seeing her perfection marred so.

     Closing his eyes, he pushed the tears away, for he now knew that another friend had fallen in his life, and that friend was simply irreplaceable. As tears gathered in his eyes, he sat there hunched over for several moments, and then he felt something on his cheek foreign, and he thought it was more blood. His eyes opened, and there was Pilar’s fingers touching his face and she was smiling, as she whispered.

     “No sad, Mal. Pilar not dead…Look.”

      Grinning from ear to ear, he watched as she lifted the tip of the silencer, and almost comically opened the front of the tattered leather coat.

     “See…Special jacket…Kevlar, Second Chance. How I look.”

     Exhaling every ounce of grief he had, he looked at her minor wounds on her cheek and forehead, then reached forward, wrapped his arms around her, drew her in and hugged her furiously as he whispered in her ear.

“Beautiful…Just fucking beautiful.”

Smiling, and remembering the water that had been gathering in his eyes as she had stared at him crashing his soul just moments earlier, she felt his power and the hug and she could not remember being so happy.

”Thank you, Mal…” She whispered, as Mal released her and put her at arm’s length.

Gazing at her bloody and smiling face, Mal growled.

“You saved my life, Pilar. Why?”

Giggling and, then chuckling, she touched his wounds on his neck and face, glanced at the blood seeping from his shoulder through the sweatshirt, wiped a little blood from them with her gloved fingers, and said, “You only friend Pilar have. She love you, Mal.”

Within the moment and as another girl she had never met before once had, when that blond beauty had whispered those words to the most unusual man, she saw real pain sprawl across his rugged face.  Moments passed, and then as if two rare diamonds that now were set into bezels of fate, she watched as Mal found a smile somewhere in his huge spirit, and now, though she did not know it, her life, through him had changed, changed forever.

Touching her face, she saw his chipped teeth. He leaned in and kissed her gently on the lips. She felt her aching body shudder, for first times for girls being kissed by someone they truly respect and care for, can be so earth shaking, it can stun them to the tips of their handguns.

Breaking away from her, he pushed some more hair strands from her delicate face, and then Maccas groaned from over in the corner, and the moment was broken, as Mal said, “You honor me. Let’s finish this thing. There is a lot we need to talk, about…Okay?”

      Smiling, she nodded, glanced at the awakening Maccas, then said. “Yes, my friend. Let’s finish this.”

     Standing, Mal helped her to her feet, saw her weave once, then supporting her under her arm, he asked. “You okay? What’s the damage?”

     Allowing her heavy armored coat to fall to the floor, she touched her black body shirt, which was skintight against her small breasts.

“Ooooh.” She groaned.

Seeing that a stray lead pellet had grazed her bare, cut arm and that it was bleeding, Mal looked around, saw a T-shirt, moved to it, and bending, picked it up. From under the pants leg of his black jeans, he lifted his cuff, and withdrew his eight-inch hunting knife from the sheath stuck in his work boot. The knife was like a razor, and Pilar watched which much admiration, as Mal sliced the T-shirt into cotton bandages, moved to her, and wrapped her wound with the white cotton strip. Seeing blood seeping out of the sweatshirt along his shoulder, Pilar asked “You Mal…You are hurt…You okay?”

Nodding, he smiled. “I’m fine, you want to talk to this guy, now?”

“Yes, Mal…Now.”

Turning, she strolled over to Maccas, and as Mal picked up his Mossberg and reloaded the Sig Sauer with another clip, he stuffed it in his waistband, and moved along side of her.

Maccas looked like a beached whale, laying there in his party G-string, his enormous belly hanging over the skimpy underwear, which made Pilar even more edgy than before. Nudging him with her black boot toe, the man groaned once, and then his bulbous eyelids opened. Feeling a little blood seeping into her eyes, she wiped them with her bare forearm, glanced at the blood, and then sighed.

     Exposing his pellet eyes, Maccas gawked straight up at the obviously annoyed gorgeous girl. After a micro-moment, he recognized her and whispered.

     “You.”

     Pilar raised her eyebrows at him, coyly, winked at him. His eyes flicked at the tall man with the shotgun, who looked a little edgy himself and then back at the angel, who now was waving a Beretta in his face.

     “Get up, NOW.”

     The brown girl seethed and Maccas, still living out the delusion that he was impregnable, groaned in anger, as he struggled to his knees, facing her as he did.

     Nudging his heavy lips open, Pilar stuck the silencer barrel into his mouth, looked at Mal, then said. “Show picture, please, Mal.”

     As Mal began to dig into his pocket, Maccas began to mumble some kind of defiant nonsense, but quickly became silent, as Pilar, with her thumb, cocked the hammer back, and then having done so, simply turned her head, back and forth. His eyes darted from the girl’s ferret eyes to the gun in his mouth, back at her eyes, which told him it might behoove him to be obedient, for the beautiful ferret was looking at him like a King Snake. She wanted to eat.

     As Maccas gawked around his flat, which was littered with blood and his dead minions, he thought for a moment that perhaps, beyond his knowledge that the two killers were a part of the Castro Cartel. He had heard that the Castro’s and the Orta’s, much like at an Eli Lilly board meeting, had ironed out their differences, for how many hundreds of millions of dollars do fella’s need to be happy. But in his mind, one never knew, for violence was such an integral part of his business, well, one never really knew, did they?

     Mumbling something unintelligible, he then understood, as the tall guy with the scattergun pushed a color photograph in front of his face that these folks were not Castro’s people, but very different kind of animals indeed.

     “Where girl? Talk now.” Pilar said in Spanish, as she removed the silencer from his trembling lips.

     “How much do you want? How much? I don’t know any fucking girl. Do you know who I am?”

     Whacking him along side of his bean with her pistol barrel, she saw his head jerk, and with homicide in his eyes, he turned his face back to her as she seethed. “I know you dead man, if you no tell where girl is.”

     Looking back and forth from the photo to her eyes, he said. “I don’t know what the fuck you talking about.”

     Exhaling her annoyance, she thought for a moment, and tired of gun-play for the evening, she decided to be creative, for after all she was an artist of what she did so well.

     “Mal, put Mossberg on face.”

       Mal lifted the shotgun, nudged the tip against his heavy jowls.

      Placing her Beretta under her bare arm, and as Maccas’s eyes kept darting at the hard character the girl kept calling Mal, he watched as she dug into her front pocket, and from it she withdrew a small white, plastic vial. Opening the lid of the tiny vial, she withdrew a small glassine bag, which she laid on the palm of her gloved hand. Looking at Mal, she winked, got a wink in return, and ever so carefully, she opened the bag and tilting it, aimed the open lip to her palm. A small yellow pill fell into the center of her palm, as she smiled seeing it.

     Tilting her hand, she saw Maccas’s eyes leering at it, and then she glanced at Mal, who seemed mesmerized by the small yellow tablet, as Senor Maccas was terrified by it.

     “Senor Maccas, do you know what is this?”

      Not wanting to know, he shook his head back and forth.

      “Is Cyanide…Very bad for you.

      “Geeze, what a gal, is there no end to her magnificence.” Mal thought, as Maccas gulped and his eyes kept skipping over the yellow tablet in the horrible girl’s palm.

     “Now…Where is girl, I count to three. No tell. Very bad thing this…very bad. Tell.”

     “You…You don’t know who I am…Fuck you…I ain’t tellin’ you nothin’.”

     “Time up.” Pilar whispered, as she glanced at Mal.

     “Mal, please, grab back of head, pull back. Use Mossberg to open mouth.”

      Mal leaned forward, grabbed a tuft of the jefe’s thick black hair, ripped it back, dug the tip of the shotgun between Maccas’s sputtering lips, then pried it open.

      Maccas kept trying to tell her something, but it came out as stutters and disjointed babble-speak. Pilar moved her gloved hand over his open mouth and began to tilt the yellow pill. Maccas’s eyes bolted wide open, gawking at it.

     The pill took a small tumble and, then on the edge of her glove, it began to make one last roll, almost as if in slow motion. With sweat pouring down his obese brown face, Maccas began to stutter again. “Si…Si…Si…Yo Conosco…Yo Conosco.”

     The pill began to tumble off of the edge of her palm, and as it found air, she swept her other hand so fast, that Mal almost missed it. An inch from his bulbous lips, she caught it, brought her hand up and playfully looked at the pill in her glove, as she whispered, “Oooh, so close. No, it’s here…Now, where is girl?”

       Mal pulled the gun tip out of his mouth, released his grip on his hair and as he did he could see the man hyperventilating and his barrel chest heaving and a copious amount of perspiration raining down his face neck and chest.

     “Si…Girl at airport…no…Now…Jet just come…Han…Hangar 4…she go to Mexi….Mex…Mexico City…No kill…no…No kill me…por favor.”

     He bowed his head and began to weep as his breathing increased and his chest grew huge along his body and his face lifted and his eyes went stark.

     “Where…What kind of jet…Where she go…Who waiting for her…What they do to her…Talk.”

     Suddenly having problems breathing and talking, the panic-stricken man jutted out the words, as his eyeballs began to roll into the back of his head.

     “Ma…Mata…Man…Ma…Manuel. Mata…Clu…Cl…Club Mayan…All…I…I…Kn…Know…they cut…cut her…Doc…Doc…Doctoooor Trinidad…Le…Lear Jet…Ahhhh”

     Instantly, his entire body went rigid, as a massive gush of air exploded out of his chest. His eyes rolled back into the back of his head, as Pilar leaned forward, and grabbed the hair on the back of his head, and then whispered. “What name doctor?”

     With his last breath, and as he died of a massive heart attack, the obese man whispered…Do…Doctor…Tri…Trin…aaahhhhhh.”

      And then he was dead from a massive heart attack, and with no more breath in his body, and only being supported by Pilar’s muscled grip, she released him, thus allowing him to slump to the floor. Turning to Mal, they exchanged glances and then they heard police sirens not that far away, which brought Pilar back to the moment. She glanced out of the window at blue and red blinking lights flashing in their direction.

      “No time, Mal. We go airport. You have Bobby friend there, official, yes.”

       Glancing at his dive watch, which was splattered with blood, he whispered. “Yes, but it’s past 3 AM.”

      “No matter Mal, you have big money, yes. You call from car, he come, Pilar sure, help us get through airport, to hangar, maybe we not too late, okay.”

      “Yes, you’re right.”

       Turning her eyes to the front window again, she saw two blue and white Tijuana cop cars, lights blazing on their roofs, pull up in front of the Condo. As the police spilled out of the cars with their weapons drawn and began to run towards the front door, Pilar smiled.

      “Come, we go same way we come.”

     Just about to turn and flee, she then felt the yellow-pill in her hand. Looking at Mal, she winked at him, popped it into her beautiful mouth, swallowed it, looked at Mal, and smiled at his shocked expression.

      “Excedrin, for Pilar headache.”

       She giggled, as Mal shook his head back and forth in wonder.

       She then turned, walked over to her bullet proof vest coat, picked it up and then ran across the room, with Mal in tow.

     Now once again, they were moving into a war they thought once they would never know again and what they would find at the end of that move would be more carnage.

     More Bullets. More death, perhaps even their own.

     The war had begun again, and perhaps no one would get out alive.






RAIN

by j brooke



It shall be a world of reticent dreams, of alchemy, of the music, the octaves of the smiling of the cellos, the violas, and the violins; and the whisper of the gray translucent water spectrum's spilling from a sky of eternal soul wept tears.

There will be God; there will be streaks of silver shards in the night; globules of cold fire that within a magnificent moment will whisper her name; and it shall be called our mistress of beauty; and it shall be called life. For water is continuous and thus a miracle; miraculous, a glimmer, glistening in jeweled goblets; a falling, failing memory of pewter, of diamond light, of the love of the universe within all of its shadows.

It shall be gentleness; its silence; its rage; its elegance of mercurial sky moments; within the barges of coal steamers burdened with fog, laddered to the hulls, drenched, satiated of tears refracting every nuance of the sun, at times the moon. She is the mother of all life.

Her liquid tresses will transport such loveliness of moisture here; do you not see, not feel the wetness of the other universes; and how she, the child from the pathos of the darkness, calms our soul, graces our hearts with cold wept water strings that bead upon our skin; mix, bide time, blend, and soar with the swallows of wet white wings that fly and streak as tumultuous pearl rainbows towards the earth.

I do not know such things; but I pray I remember when the drips of platinum water drops fell from the sky in innocence; a drizzle; a deluge; shy, petulant, mercury mirrors of silver arrows; bows struck within gold, indigo, opal and moonstone; there, near the waterfalls screaming from the plateaus between Earth and Luna.
 

Torrents, life force, ponds, rivers, streams, allowing us a moment to be free from the heat of the world; free, a gift, a weeping orphan in singular multiple shards of dew, fog, washing away our sins. She is more powerful than fire, iron; for she, the goddess of the liquid world, eats iron, travels within rivulets where fire dies within, as on; and in the last moments before the forest sleeps, before night swallows the moon. She, they, it, is task; so little known, a sister of another world, felt and severed, as if a great blade has struck the very core of the water wheel from its pinions, spilling love to the turned-up faces of the morning sparrows.

Dance, ballet, cries, silent moans, butterflies soaring, winged, wind whisper warriors, these Gypsies of cylindrical ovals of a sun-lit glee; there, blended within the sky, within the darkness. Each white water drop illuminated as if a secular and singular promise from heaven, mimicking each, as a single opal.

She and those that echo her are our benefactor, our whore, our courtesan, our lover, a single sonnet of a cooling song on our faces; faces turned to God, as a reward, as a human and as beautiful and as soothing as moss that lives from this reward for our survival. She is, our cousin, our child, our sisters, she is the wet kiss on my cheek as I turn my eyes to the end of the universe.

She is the color tantrum welded of gray and opium white spectrum of shattered mirrors that touches, grazes and kisses my lips as the morning dew melts within the first hints of a mauve dawn. She is the source of all life, the beginning of time, the end of life, if she should chose to vanish from our lives; she is, she shall always be, simply said the great Queen of all life.

She is a rainbow translucent tear drop, the goddess to her sister THE RAIN.

 


SALT LAKE CITY SLAUGHTERHOUSE

J brooke

 

What the fuck are ya gonna do?

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

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

What ya gonna do?

You run.

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

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

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

Fat Tony forgot the one truth about hookers.

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

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

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

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

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

      Lots of fucking guns.

      Mandal, use what a grifter has.

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

      And they did.

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

       Every whore needs a second chance in life.

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

      Some fairy tales do indeed have happy endings.

      

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Well? What are you fucking waiting for?”

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

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

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

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

      “Is this why you have stolen my girl?”

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

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

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

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

       Lieutenant Garcia guided Mandal along the ghastly serial murders crime.

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

       BLING, back to the moment.

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

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

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

    

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Please, officer…Doctor Smith waits.”

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

       Sarah gasped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Let’s talk, doc.”

      Again, he swallowed hard.

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

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

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

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

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

      “No thanks.”

      “How can I help you?”

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

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

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

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

      She saw his cheek tick, just once.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Tick, Tick, Tick”

       PULSE HAMMERING.

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

      “Tick, Tick, Tick.”

      PULSE THUNDERING

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

       “Tick, Tick, TICK.”

        PULSE AN INFERNO.

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

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

      “Tick, Tick, Tick.”

        HER PULSE DETONATING

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

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

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

      “Boys.”

      “Tick, Tick, Tick.”

       HER PULSE FROZE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Detective, Sgt. Carrol Willis, please.”

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

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

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

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

      “Uuuuh. Another thief, I bet.”

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

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

      The evil of men.

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Jeb is it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aaah…It’s a sin.”

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

      She smiled, as his body jerked.

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

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

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

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

     “Where’s Dad?

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

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

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

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

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

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

       “What about Simon?”

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

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

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

      “Promise. Double team me baby, pleeeease.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      She touched the bulge in his chinos.       

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

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

      Three, two, one, blastoff.

      She dug his cock out of his pants, smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      Lot’s O’ groaning.

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

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

      “You like, Baby?”

      “Ye…ye…Yes…Oh, God yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

      He died instantly.

      She slashed from the bed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “For Claire, asshole.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Pray on this, you bitch.”

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

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

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

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

      “Bitch.” She whispered.

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

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

“Geeze.”

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

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

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

     A tear fell down Mandal’s cheek.

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

      She bent and vomited.

      It cleared her thought process.

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

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

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

      And then she was around a corner and gone.

     

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

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

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

      “Her car.”

      His brother swallowed hard, nodded.

      “Yes, Ethan…It is.”

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

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

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

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

     “Where are the boys? Where is Sarah?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Yes…yes my Queen…You and me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “C…CD…Wh…What CD.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “There’s that rascal.” She joked.

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

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

      “You’ve been very bad, Adam.”

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

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

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

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

      “KABOOM.”

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Okay.” She whispered.

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

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

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

      “KABOOM. KABOOM”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        Outside of the city, she pulled over and parked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “No fucking way.”

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

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

      He smiled.

      “Dammit, he would do it.”

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

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

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

       A legend of the Las Vegas Police department was born.






butterfliesofwar.jpg
Art by Artist Zero © 2019

THE BUTTERFLIES OF WAR


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 of life as the dead red planet Mars to those that might take a chance glance to the opalescent 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 woman of lies, a pretender of life, so numb, yet she forgave me for the woman I once was, and now was trying to become. Thus, she gave me a bed of white sheets, bathed in white orchids, warmth, food, cherry wine and loving care, 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, perhaps from the cryptic puzzle of my words, a mystic idea that I was worth saving, and only I knew the lie, why you ask because, that I was never worth saving, until she had and, then I was.


I thought at first I had been dreaming, and that she was a color tantrum of a Monarch butterfly, a winged, whisper, wandering warrior, colors of hair, eyes, skin, indefinable in beauty, in grace and flight of all poet tresses dreams, yet when I woke, I saw her trembling lips, a tear finding solace on my lips, as I kissed them away and found to my delight, she was not a creature of the sky, yet of earth, created of blood, skin and bone, tourmaline, topaz, jasper and amber, her skin holding hues of a color I might describe as paper white .


There was a lunar eclipse, a slivered moon, and bathed in moon light and down she whispered to me that she was a woman crushed of shattered dreams, and her dreams were elusive as my life had been to me. We talked within the night of candle light of new and many things, as I saw a glow as it came directly from her soul that filled me with kindness, and gentleness, and so was alike a red breasted sparrow’s fluttering wings. 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 head stone, and then I wept and cried, for I then remembered within the callousness of war, all the butterflies had died.


 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, and after an odd lifetime of delusion, I saw clarity, as did she, and we realized that our destinies had been perhaps crocheted into one mind, one heart, one vision, and we became one as lovers, searchers, partners, children of mirth and wit, a matter that only mystics ever understand, lore and tale, death and beauty, for it was all we  ever had dreamed of since our birth. Thus it all changed, all woven along a single tapestry, called respect, perhaps even the illusion of an illusionary love, never of the maze of lies that a world that saw everything beautiful in me, felt they must destroy it, not as now, as she nurtured the embryo of a child that I always was, as I became a woman, a black swan no longer, swaddled in her moonstone feathers as she held me in her smile and whispered to me to sleep, sleep my beauty, you are safe now, so very safe enraptured within  my arms, rest now, if only for a little while.


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, as evolution has marginalized them, made them benign and, then what? Where is love where is the tenderness, the passion, the touch of a girl’s fingertips on her lips, so ignored, until then, until a woman finds her courage, her heart and soul and mind and holds a waif’s soul in the down, of her gentleness and realizes the truth of love was there all along.


She is a warrior woman of mirth and fury and tears, 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, I can dream and I, a mad woman and a serene, savant female, a chalice of incense, a savage, yet innocent, and I shall endure as she 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, once though lost, her dreams, my dreams, can it be, as the mist of rain ceases and the world glows in the candlelight of a creature so beautiful, words cannot, or ever describe her to me.


 I dream now, not of sorrow or pain or the burnt flowers that I have always known, for she, my dearest friend 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 dream world, my benefactor, my blood, a simple name, her name, well that is a secret, but I know one thing, I shall always call her by the name I know her best, and that is, my sweetest friend.








matrixfinal.jpg
Art by Artist Zero © 2019

THE MATRIX OF LOVE

by j brooke

 

We all die; no one gets out alive.

The matrix is all that is between life and death; we must exist, live, love, hate, be in love and suffer when ecstasy dies, usually within the arms of a callous lover, who might have forgotten the color of her eyes, the aroma of our breaths, the feeling of the liquid melodic memory, most amazing feeling of sex, when she was desired, begged for, a single touch, a single kiss, as air, as oxygen to his soul.

Particle beam by particle beam, we lose souls that in a moment of time, our exact opposites simply could not live without, dying as if they were a millimeter away from our hearts; our bodies mixed as twin ice crystals of Saturn’s rings, tangled within the solar winds, which they blasted apart in the end, because he failed to remember that her love for him was a gift, not an annuity that he was entitled to.

How many broken hearts must fill the hollow globe of a planet evolving from perfection to imperfection, before love flows, and drowns, and dies, in a sea of remorseful pain? Must the grief and loss of love forever clutch their furtive fingers around our throats as an executioner’s song, a cruel network of copper wires and fiber optics entrapping us in a death knell puzzle stitched to our memories of love found, love lost, forever a reminder of our pure sorrows? Must each waking moment weigh as an accumulative reminder that every living creature found within the maze, their search for dignity within passionate screams, failed as we sought the most elusive question always, and seemingly forever, at the very tips of our begging souls and that is: how could he ever have forgotten the taste of a female’s lips?

Must the oceans be satiated with our salt tears and pleas for forgiveness, as storms thunder inside our sobs, and the light of lightning that shrieks across our hearts be simply enough to cripple us, we humans that gaze upon an uncertain wind as it breathes life into the very core of our dreams, and deeds, and passions, and the crushing weights of our tragic pasts?

Might the single gasp we take as we die be enough ransom to pay the godless toll for our sins, our hideous acts we were no more aware of enacting as the ocean waves that bring us such joy might have known, wreaking havoc to a child's sand drawing, set alone and along some long-lost beach of our distant romances, endings and memories?

There is, stitched into the core of rock, and captured within raindrops and encapsulated between earth and sky, simple sunsets and silent moon deaths that bring us matters of life and death, and love locked within jails of coal. For man loves her, as she adores him, and it is along the midnight hour, perfumed lips and silken skin, eyes wide, breathing intense, her hair like a golden silk sail trailing in the night wind, pressed against cotton sheets, purring, dreaming, heated and scalded of body heat; his skin, sweat, turmoil and want, that love begins, and then ignites.

Madness, breathing so intense, how could it ever change, swelling the pungent southern rain. Orchids weeping scents of tears and smiles they only ever understand; a story promised forever of never an end, forever and never anything but the touch of two lovers trapped within a vortex of immobilizing and carnal sin, until time warped, and he never remembered something so striking, so mesmerizing, something so special as her smile ever again; gathering his clothes as a thief of night, she sleeps, as the cat burglar clutching her love, her hope, her soul, slithers out the door in the morning hours.

When she wakes, touches the vacant valley of the empty sheets, he will be gone, and of course none of this will surprise her at all, for after all, he is a breed apart, he is a man.

 



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Art by Steve Cartwright © 2019

DEAD DRUNK IN GLASGOW

By j brooke

 


        
Dead fucking drunk in Glasgow, set ‘em up Joe, you hooligan bastard, a drink, the pause that refreshes, you know, something, anything to keep my hands from shaking, a hard, 100-proof nail gun to bang those neurons into my stem cells, preventing my rotating bobble head from shearing loose from it's moorings...Come on my brotha', a little liquid lovely libation to crank my nerve endings in, something distilled, a bitch libation to help bezel in the demons tonight, late night, every night.

Your fly, me mate, give it up ass hole, some wine, tequila, vodka, rubbing alcohol, lighter fluid, make some fiery shooters and shots and slammers and fuck it, I don't give a damn. Gimme some asbestos to re-coat my exposed 220 frying nerve wires that are smoking and sparking, flaming out like one of those Space NASA fuckers roaring, rupturing, belching jagged flames out of its asshole as the violent bitch blasts past the vomit of the atmosphere, into deep black space.

Come on, let’s roll, help me make those son-of-a-bitch yips leave me alone this full baying moon lonely evening, so much like everyone before it. Top her off buddy, a little ice, a rack of gin, make it neat, on the rocks and plain and the cool lingo, oh yeah bar keep, settled in tonight, sittin' at my favorite haunts watering hole, got my seat belt cinched here at my very own monogrammed bar stool.

Glasgow Baby, a Warsaw Ghetto of madness, pain and post card flashes before ya got the morning yips, knives, clubs, street brawls and thugs puking their guts out everywhere, ain't no jewel, same to a drunk as a Hell's Kitchen slum and ain't it cruel. Livin' the gutter life, an alley or a suite in a padded cell, sipping martini's right here next to the pubs lit and jeweled pretty Frankie Avalon juke box machine, hey my man, my last five quid, hold the rocks, keep it cool and lean.

Blue light special, DT's and Happy Hour, blood on the walls, falling to sawdust floors, caviar and Bentley Town Cars. Boooooze baby, main line it, taxi cab confessions in a paradise of vomit blues, sick, crazy this alcohol, so familiar and last ditch a mate along a wayside stop. Come on dude, neon on a needle point, a gram of H, a line of coke, just one more for the road, you know, just to get me through the night, to jack me right.

HEY, don't I know you my bonnie lass, flashing back, moments, memories, who can tell, sex giggles and all, didn't I ass fuck you last night?...Were we that drunk, that stoned, that fucking wasted?...HUH, memories, moments, misery and mysteries I will never have, you see, let me have my drug, a cocktail or three, two fingers up, sure man, make it EZ. I know you understand, were all members of the band, junkies stringing ourselves out for one last stand.

Bay-Bee, porque no, por favor, re-freshen my glass, fulfill my dreams, extend my nightmares, got it, fuck, were those my screams?...Make it cool and real, a brown paper bag holding Satan and Hell and a pub image of paradise reflecting from an empty bottle of Muscatel...Breath it's sweetness, it's bitterness, it's still early, you know, sure you do my friend, drunk wards and straight jackets and padded cells and I love U.

Drinks amigo, for all a my new pals...Set them hard, don't be remiss, shots and gimlets, highballs and low balls and very chic names. You know doll, Guinness, Tequila Sunrises, Manhattan Iced Teas, California Coolers and Sea Breeze, you tease...Johnny Walker Red you fool, Wild Turkey, Dewar’s will do too and don't forget my buddy Margarita Ville...It's all good, beautiful and just so, so fucking cool...Big glass, small glass, lick it off the floor, suck it off the bar and who the hell cares, fill her up bro, I got major wild men with spears to chase away, you comprende my tears, my hero?

Merlot, Cabernets, Burgundy's and Beaujolais and billboards flouting lies of young gorgeous drunks frolicking on beaches, discos, lithe bods pretty and tan, bullet proof beauties living false Cosmo lives, while the drunks are shrieking from nightmare boogie men. Pretty lost models screwing in iron lungs, all while the booze and cigarette men, joke and jive, seven deadly corporate goons before a Parliament dog and pony show of sin, hawking disposable people of busted dreams within their creative lies, where does the Conga line begin.

Coffins, corpses and pain left for hell, weeping kids within the underworld of deceit, morticians, Parliament pimps and the politico's, Dukes, Earls, and peers and The House of Lords, who will pay when the final bell tolls, they’re not paying, they’re too busy buggering young lads in the toilet stalls. The poor foot the bills for a nation’s woes, nada the elite who cruise on corporate jets above the flak, while the disenfranchised sick and addicted vaporize and welfare checks and everyone is on the dole paying the price of cancer wards and chemo creeds as one hundred million corpses line lobbyists pockets filled with greed.

Silk ties, tailored suits, shiny shoes, Lords, Sirs and politico pitchmen oiling the gears and cogs and secrets harbored within walls of gold, where are the goddamn firing squads?...Morticians, pretty white-wigged whores, where does the truth lie, these men, these hollow digital pimps, soiled in their own piss as victims are crippled and bent and broken, rotting at the end of an Alki's cell call. Strung-out skeletons lay naked in trash heaps on skid row ‘cause some crazed poet thought it romantic and swee,t being an alki on some MTV video...that in reality was more a visual Methadone blip gone wrong, than any other lost and forgotten sweets of the twisted anthem of their melodic song.

Big business, Seagram’s, Coors and Scottish stills and TV models with country club smiles...and what about Thunderbird and White Lightening turpentine blues, lets cruise, grin amused, as the assembly line cranks out distorted souls and massive profits for Wall Street Thrill Mills, my man chill, this Bud is for you.

But I don't fucking care no more, no more, cause I'm trippin' and dippin' and I'm boozin and I'm losin' my soul and tearing my broken heart apart and now as the drunken moon grins, oh well I say no more...Cause I got my bottle tonight, my fix, my liquid mix...And I dream drunken Dreams...And I smile drunken smiles...And I stumble drunken steps...And more than likely, I die tonight a drunken death.




The Hit Woman’s Hand Book

 

J Brooke

                                                                                         

                                                                                      

MONTREAL, CANADA

Montreal, winter, satiated with snow, brutish winds, icescapes of awe had come the day Mandel Beckwith’s new life had Vogued, thus changing forever.

Sunday, the streets were moving, French was spoken in cafes, churches were filled and Canada’s northern jewel was alive.

A Black limousine hit it out of the city, time moved, it always moved.  The limo was now on a rural road; there was white snow everywhere, brittle blue sky, countryside, sleet-tipped forests. It was nature at its wildest. Off in the distance, red brick buildings loomed, Gothic Cathedral, towers of St. Anne's Private School for privileged young girls.

There was quiet in the stretch, there was always numbness in these peoples lives. A Chauffeur was driving, handsome Carl, uniformed, knowing something, eyes peeking into the rearview mirror, at her. She was white, young like the snow, hair, skin, indigo eyes set along the crippling beauty of something God had made perfect. He could not help himself, he knew nothing was perfect, especially her, for she was magnificent, filled with demonic genius, run amok. He knew the dark secrets of her young life, and that repulsed him as well as terrifying him.

Behind her façade of beauty, wraiths dwelled, he knew that too.

Her Father, The General, medals, pressed uniform, ram rod back, patent leather black shoes, reflecting his daughter’s white blond hair, sat silent as he stared through the mirrors of his sun glasses.

Mandel sat, quiet, between her father, her mother wearing pearls, pearl earrings, diamonds on wrists, fingers, heavy woolen dress, cashmere white coat, white gloves on her matron mother’s hands. Mandel was a secret pressed between mother and her father The General no one knew. Her mother’s sweet perfume made Mandel want to vomit, as did their mere presence.

The limo slowed, began to drive up the winding brick driveway towards the ancient school. The Chauffeur’s eyes flicked back through the mirror at the girl’s titanium blue eyes. Her eyes locked, loaded on the mirror, flicked, seem to smile, perhaps passing a message back to him. His message was cryptic. "Be careful young lady, be very careful.”

The Limousine stopped, Nuns, old and wizened, black and white robes, withered skin, friends of some obscure God (what did that ever get anyone) moved along the red brick walkway of the school. Fundamentalists, Pentecostal head cases, no friend of Jesus, the true God.

There were girl’s eyes, faces peeking from windows, upstairs, down stairs, wondering who would be the latest victim at a brothel the rich off loaded their children at so they could continue to live trouble free, self absorbed lives.

Mother, General, daughter exited, as the chauffeur delivered matched bags to the snow-covered ground. Words passed back and forth between mother and Nuns, it was a banter Mandel had heard before. 

"Please Mother Superior, help us, wean her away from this writing, this reading, you are our last hope." Whatever. 

The penguin replied. "Not to worry, we are who we are; we are St. Anne's after all." Blah, blah, fucking blah, blah, blah as their words hurt Mandal’s elfin ears and her twisted savant brain.

More sonnets passed between parents and Nuns. Mandel stared at the red brick, fogged windows, and then at floor after floor of girls laughing, pointing, gawking.

Her mind held a crushing IQ, beyond genius, it flipped French, Italian, and now Greek passages within the cortex of her brain. She was tall, 5-9; string thin, she will be taller, thinner in the coming years, even more beautiful, if that was at all possible.

Her breath fogged, her face, sharp nose, full lips, watery eyes wide on her face, Pisces eyes, cheek bones, white eyebrows, all of it would be weapons in the future for her. There were no white trailing scars on her elegant face, but one day there would be. She was just barely sixteen years old, yet she held the pain and brilliance of a deviant seer, her brain, a straight jacketed psychiatric patient gone insane, banging around a padded cell. She now was so close to freedom from her jailers that she could literally taste it.

Looks, more secret stares shared by her and the stoic chauffeur, perhaps a conspiracy was in play. The conversation ended. Mandel in her white cashmere coat, black leather gloves, red scarf, and red knee socks cheek- kissed The General, her mother, nothing to be said now. Mother Superior, along with her second, Sister Anne, smiled at the darling tall child. She smiled back, they began to walk. Mother Superior held the fragile girl’s gloved hand as Carl followed the trio towards the great oak doors. He trailed behind, carrying luggage and also carrying a secret that he knew and would not miss. He would not miss that odious secret, and was bitch-slap glad he would have no part of it any longer.

Once inside, Mandel's eyes became illuminated.  She gazed at the rectory and then the work offices, the towering hallways, sky lights showing fluttering snow, floor to ceiling windows which all showed the great courtyard leading to the girl’s rooms.

They reminded her of Paris, in books she had read of a hundred years ago. The school was elegant, old, refined, and filled with whispering and walking girls, dressed in white blouses and blue skirts. All were toting books, back packs, secret porn, MTV brain crap in their brains. They all wore white stockings and black polished shoes. They were soiled virgins, living lies, and no one wanted to hear about it.

Through the double oak doors, Mother Superior leading, Mandel, mind on fire, close at her side, the Chauffeur lagging behind, watching, wondering, knowing and glad she would soon be gone.

The courtyard, Oaks, Willows, Elms bending from snow, red brick, fountains, iced breaths; summer will come and there will be flowers everywhere, not now though.

Through more double doors they passed. Slowly, they walked down a wood paneled hall, black tiles inlaid into the floor, polished, sheen on them, throwing up a reflection from the last remnants of the sun silhouetting off of her white skin and hair.

Inside the room, it was private, vast, white sheeted bed, small oak dresser, tall oak armoire, dressing mirror stuck into its doors.

There was an oak desk with a computer mounted on it. Mandel smiled at The Mother Superior. They passed kind banter back and forth. "Unpack my child, rest, wash if you must, come to registration when you are through, we shall chat."

White teeth, a virgin’s smile, a purr of words, lies.

"Yes Mother, thank you, so kind, I will see you in a moment, I am very happy, I am such a lucky girl.”

The bent back Nun moved to the door, hesitated. Her grey eyes stared at the Chauffeur, at Carl, who had laid the bags to the oak floor. She waited, her face cracked in wrinkles, as then the girl and man stared at one another. Moments passed, Carl peeked at the door, then at Mandel, he sighed, moved forward, hugged her slender body, stepped back, they locked eyes.

Something passed, no words needed here. He nodded, turned, walked to the door. Taking one last look at the girl with such translucent skin, he nodded, and with Mother Superior watching, he walked away.

Moving to the window, her face was expressionless, was like a slab of ice as she stared out of it. Sartre was in her mind, his words, his genius mixing with her gift, few could understand this; she did though. Time moved, then the Chauffeur was there leaving footprints in the snow. At the limousine he hesitated, exhaust fogging from the limo’s tailpipes. He looked to her window.

Inside, Mandel smiled, pressed her palm against the window. Carl nodded; both lovers knew that they would never see each other again.

Turning, she stripped her cashmere coat off and then let it spill to the floor. Stepping before the wall mirror, she stared at her naked body, except for her knee socks and patent leather school shoes. She was a white tendril of skin, muscle, sinew and bone. Her breasts were non-evident, her ribs accordion and stark, striking against her paper-thin skin. Her hips were like a child’s, they would always be that way; genetics was cruel for others that way.

To her, her body was a tool and a gift of wonder. The socks and shoes made her giggle. Kicking off shoes, socks follow as they were taken off of her tiny toes and small feet.

Barefoot, nude, she laughed, did a dance, twirled and then threw her arms up into the air; she was manic. She centered, stared at the miraculous image of the white, shaved diamond, set between her legs. She knew on the open market it was worth a fortune, and she was ready to peddle it to the highest bidder. She was a very bright girl.

She had read enough of the great writers to know a female always paid for their freedom or imprisonment one way or the other. It was always a trade off. Become a whore, get paid, respected, be a power provocateur and never give it up for free and always better than some dinner some guy paid for so he could fuck you after. Get married, peddled it for nada, white fence, house, cars, hope the muck you married wasn’t a lying puke and would never get tired of fucking you.

On the mercury slat of reflection now that was staked into the oak she saw herself and she was mesmerized as she jacked her finger between her legs. She wanted to masturbate, knew that she was on the clock, time for that later.

Her mind was bending again, thoughts of suicide, never far away, raked her brain. For a genius, it was a constant thought for her, one that would never leave her in a lifetime. She thought of a passage, from Rimbaud, it calmed her, his madness, his words.

She was going, anywhere, for her mind never stopped showing clips in Technicolor of what had happened to her.

The late-night visits from The General, the touching, the smell of Bourbon on his lips, the rapes, it began when she was eleven years old. All of it and so young, yet, she is a Genius, she knew what was happening, yet what could an ex-virgin do. Do, well she was doing it now, for there were other reasons for her great escape.

She had heard them talking, and she had been terrified by their words. Paxil, Neurotin, Zoloft. All of the ABC’s of drugs ice cold parents give gifted children to control them, to break them, to change them. She had read all of the books, Van Gogh, Rimbaud all dead in their thirties. Amadeus, Beethoven, all these men and gifted artists, mad, insane, prolific, and what if their parents would have drugged the beauty and creativity out of them?

She did not know what or who she was, for her gifted and troubled brain bled constant test patterns, mostly sparking in pain from her past, and what her future would be if she stayed. Saving her own life, she felt worthless, yet there was something out there she thought she would find, at any cost.

Her eyes blinked, blinked again, mood swing, they were always there, those horrendous manic personality changes. Her brain cleared, she was now someone else again, a happy maniac, a girl with a mission as insane as allowing her father to fuck her was.

Blinking, once, twice, she jerked her head, twisted around, threw her tiny ass out, and slapped it. She giggled, liked the pain, there would be more, it was apart of her makeup, it kept her sane, displacing mental pain with the physical.

Turning, she moved to her bed, flopped on it, and giggled. She kicked her legs into the air, shaking them wildly.

She calmed, thought, so much rapture in her head. Standing, she hefted a leather valise, plopped it on the bed, unzipped it. She plucked a pack of Marlboro's, took the filter from the pack with her full lips. From the bag, a chrome-Zippo, she revolved it in the palm of her hand. She allowed it to settle. Staring at it, she saw a military insignia, a red dragon welded to its chrome plate. It would be a lifetime companion to her, almost bringing her one day to a violent death. She did not know this, as she flicked it to flame, lit her cigarette, then exhaled through her nose. The transformation was beginning, she could hardly wait.

Bone-colored, like a filament of white smoke from her cigarette tip, she glanced into the mirror, watched the stranger, the new girl, the better girl staring back at her.

It was now time. She bent to the valise, retrieved a black, just below her thighs mini skirt, and donned it, no panties, nothing to constrict her from feeling alive. She whipped on a pair of blood red tights, then heavy black motorcycle boots and, then a skin-tight black tank. She snapped it between her wet legs, groaned, she was sexual, and that excited her too. From the valise she took a heavy black leather bomber jacket, spun before the mirror, legs apart, boots stuck to the floor, tough girl, new girl, adventure girl, she smoked more.

Lifting her skirt, she dropped her tights, leered at the sterling wedge between her legs, smiled, she was turned on. A brain genie, she was in the know, got it, knew this sole living organism, her bling would be a passport to her new life. Eager to use it, any way she could to get what she wanted, when she fucking wanted it, she smiled. She was a self-absorbed maniac on a roll.

No time to waste, she grabbed a small black leather backpack, stuffed it full of clothes. She hesitated as she pulled a black iron .38 from the pack, spun the chamber, giggled and then placed the snub barrel between her lips. It was her father’s, he would not miss it until it was too late; it was already too late. She could taste the acidic gun oil. She pulled the hammer back with her thumb and pulled the trigger. She thought of incest.

“CLICK.”

She giggled, slapped open the chamber, saw one copper cartridge cap, grinned, whacked it closed, fate was on her side. Grabbing a box of cartridges, she threw both handgun and bullets into the pack, zipped it, shouldered it, smoked more and, then crushed the butt dead on the floor with her boot heel.

No time like the present, she figured. Walking to the door, she turned, saw the last baggage of her old life, giggled, she was bullet proof, youth and its careless ways. The door snapped closed, she was gone.

Walking with attitude, she lit up another smoke, inhaled, and left a cloud behind her.

She cruised to the end of the hallway, two by two down the steps, a genius altruistic self-destructive lunatic, moving to her own tune. Confidence and new cigarette smoke leaking from cantaloupe lips she moved, adrenaline pumping, she busted a move through the door. In the courtyard now, girls gasped, pointed, she was laughing, mind fucked, fueled, a Titian pencil sketch roaring in her mind. Several excited, chattering, goofing schoolgirls tagged along behind her. She was their paramour.

Doors slammed opened, crash, bang, shudder, she was modeling down the hall, past the administrative buildings, Nuns, teachers gawking, more girls juking behind her, party time, for everyone but the Sisters.

There they were, the doors to freedom, her new life, a way cool and amazing life she was certain of. Not that far now, she was on the grift, a predator drone with software pre-programmed in one direction, a life of depravity, art, music, misery, what the fuck, as long as it was something beside being bored to death.

Mother Superior gathered up an army of one. Sister Anne, Mum, stood at the main entrance, shocked, frightened, something in black leather, red stockings, white hair and a face like one of Lucifer's fallen few was moving in on them. Party Girl approached, oh man was she flaming, resembled one of those parables out of Rushdie's Satanic Verses, one of her favorite books.

More girls trailing, buzzes of gossip, it can't be, no way, rad, finally someone was going to escape, gas the place, hop the wall, fucking tunnel out, whatever. The girls were building IDs into a frenzy as their new Pied Piper of cool trolled for their souls.

Chewing away on her Bubblicious, smoke stacking from her Bambi nose, hip hopping, Mandel strolled up to the Sisters of Mercy, looked at them, jived a bit, and then grew silent. Her blue eyes were melting their Catholic eyes, their wrinkled fingers gripping and re-gripping their crucifixes, the ones with Jesus stapled to them. If they messed with her, she would load her .38 and shoot them dead, way dead. She knew that no one gets out alive in the end. Fuck, everyone knew that. 

She mused, giggled, blew a bubble, popped it, and then plumed smoke into the freaks’ eyes. She giggled, thought, let God deal with the afterbirth, he was a stone-cold pro trash hauler of souls, and jest wait a sec, another Philippine church would fall on some crowd of true believers’ heads. She liked thinking slang and smut; that was who she was also.

Now, a standoff between the pimped-out geishas of the Papa in Rome and a hurricane of god’s savagery, beauty and decadence had begun. They no more got it, than if some priest had sodomized them, instead of some innocent altar boy, the usual suspect.

About fifty teenage cum guzzler cheer leaders, who thought fellatio with the football star was fine for a first date, buzzed behind her.

The sisters, scattered words, stuttered something like. "Miss...Ahhh, Miss Beckwith, wha...wha is the meaning of this...Wha...what is happening." Something like that.

Chewing away at pink bubble gum, she glanced back at her fan club, then back at the traumatized oldsters. To their horror, she stoked a smoke ring into their faces, violently racked her hands into their chests.

The gals flew back, hit the wall, fell on their butts and, then leered at the demon hovering over them.

Mandal smiled, and purred. "God is dead, you bitches. Get a life. I am so out of here."

They gasped. She flicked her cigarette butt at Mother Superiors tunic. Sparks and ashes ignited, the Nun slapped at them, beat at them, she was terrorized. Where was God when you really needed him? That selective miracle bullshit, and the answering of your prayers that never seemed to work. That is, unless you got lucky, and your prayers were answered and you sold your golf clubs at a white elephant sale.

Mandel, winked, looked back at the crowd, slashed through the door; her crowd of adoring adolescents followed her.

Across the snow and the promenade she cruised, a happy girl fast becoming the slut she had always dreamed that she would be. She hit the side of the road, one more vagrant lunatic on a mission, a thumb thrown out to the road. At the door, the girls gathered, as did the Nuns, gawking, staring as they clutched their hearts, quite literally just seconds from strokes.

A few minutes passed, and then an eighteen-wheeler roared up, spewing steam and diesel fuel from its chrome stacks, saw a white sugar cube hitchhiking along the curb, stalled out. A door flew open, she jumped in, and as the door smacked shut, time was suspended for a lick, a time click, the crowd hushed, why fucking not.

Brief moments vaporized as the Sisters prayed what they were witnessing was an illusion, as then the semi's window rolled down as Mandal’s MIDDLE FINGER raised to the sky, struck out at her fellow prisoners, her ex-jailers.

The Nuns clutched their hearts, several staff rushed to their assistance. One potato, two potatoes, three potatoes four, the entire team of girls erupted into an avalanche of roaring cheers.

Mother Superior fainted as the girls jumped up and down shaking their booties, screaming as the truck ground into gear, and then cranked down the road, over a hill and was gone.

Thus, was how Mandel had hip-hopped into her new life.

GANGSTA GIRL

by J. Brooke

 



          THE old whore’s mind was rightfully fucked up. She was screwed, she knew it, but just how bad, she had not a damn clue. She was envious, for her girl was getting out, alive, maybe. No one had ever aborted ‘The Pony Club’ unless a pair of stainless high heels encased in asphalt accompanied them at the bottom of the Coney Pier.

Red neon, the color of hemoglobin, washed over her sagging face. She sat in a corner, chewing at magenta fingernails. No way could she stop the bitch whore from making the biggest mistake of her life. Anthony (Tony) Uruguay could do more with a blow torch, wire snips, than a 30-year vet of Local 21, The NJ Electricians’ Union could. He was not a member, but he did control their pension fund.

Tony, all 300 obese pounds of him, had pimped her out once, age came, Onetta ended up his madam. It was a perfect world for the sociopath mobster. 

A pure sadist, he surrounded himself with emotionally crippled masochists, beat-down girls, runaways, incest girls, trailer trash girls. They sucked into his world like a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon did to any broad over forty. For him, it simply said, was gangster Nirvana.

The end bowel movement of a drugged-up Mommy, a raping, sex addicted, gambler Daddy, Onetta was a broken-down image of the end game for a stripper, a whore and then a madam of the insane.

She had made decisions, wrong ones, re: salvaged up a crapped up life, understood real good what her galactic blond whore was doing. Oh, she understood that scenario fucking all too well.

The usual fringe characters hung at The Pony. You know. No morals, no character, mobsters, hitters and sketch-artists of murder, theft, extortion, pimps, anything and everything. 

They lit there like maggots doing fly-bys over a pile of shit.


The Pony had the perfect young bods which lacked brains, showed up routinely like naked lemmings hurdling off a cliff to the nude club. Broadway, ‘The Pony Club’ was not. Broads were begging to work there. 

Go fucking figure.

In the case of the girls, they got the hell kicked out of them if they didn't deliver.

Once addicted, turned out, no going back was the norm. It was a great place if you were a player and if not, as the ‘Boys’ would sneeze. "Forget about it."

Big was good, bigger was better. Cadillacs, Hummers, Gas hog SUVS, Chrysler Town Cars, all rides of choice. Big diamonds, big gold, pinky rings, heavy chains, lots a crosses, pictures of mothers in calf-skinned wallets, wops kinda ruled the roost. Lots a beehive Jersey wives, make-up queens, worn and ravaged, ink blot eye liner, paste for skin, ragged women, kids, lots a kids, locked away along the Jersey shore. Italians, Micks, Greeks, Hebrews, black, brown criminals of every skin color. 

The ‘Pony’ was their club.

Outta Brighton Beach the ex-Soviet mob boys came. They lived large, for America was large.

"America, she is beautiful, no. Land of milk and honey, no." 

Vietnamese, Serbs, Latvians, nut head cases from Ukraine, Croatians, Chinese geeks addicted to gambling, ex Sandinistas, Khmer Rouge, Arab splinter groups, thugs, murderers made up the rest of the Acid trip of a violence group.

Therefore, it was a melting honey pot for skipped out and crazy girls; a crevice of hell where a gal could easily disappear. This was the way it was, when she and that magnetic, jeweled with diamond cunt had arrived years ago.

ONETTA smoked with no worry about lung cancer. Fuck, that would be a gift right about now. A bullet in the back of the head, a dumpster, something worse, turned out on the street, she was jacked up with those worries.

Like a rat in the corner, she gawks, watching the most beautiful, brain gifted, alluring, addicting (like Heroin denied to a junkie) and above all, scariest whore she had ever met.

The blond bitch, with the fading ski trail scars snow-boarding down her perfect white face, was loading stacks of hundred dollar bills into a black valise. The fucking money was not hers, and that worried Onetta too. It was the blond twists boy friend’s money, one Anthony Uruguay. And, that was a fucking death warrant she figured with her name spelled ONETTA on it any way she fucking looked at it. 

Mandal Beckwith, looking not a lot different than when she jettisoned a Montreal girl’s school over ten years earlier was more stunning than ever. Taller, leaner, no real tits yet, no hips, small ass, long neck, really a monster of a beauty queen, was ready again to split.

Taking a no filter Lucky Strike, she pops it between her lips, flicks her Zippo, Red Dragon insignia brazed to chrome, nods and lights up the smoke.

White haze, twirling out of her small, pointed nose, memories, like cancer eating her brain. The last ten years fucked her up, ate her up, maybe tough love, better days were ahead; maybe. 

What had she gotten for her ten-year brain trip, Nada? Bad roll of the dice, snake eyes, a dump site for most of the deviants on the East Coast, Fat Tony their Buddha Head, leading the way into the bottom of a pile of crap.

She had fucked the truck driver, first night, back of the cab, felt nothing. Morning, Interstate, threw out her velvet thumb, washed around the East Coast for awhile, screwed her way here and there. Her cunt got her anything she wanted. Lots a hard bars, neon lit motel rooms, where a quarter got her fifteen minutes of cable, which she was too zonked out to watch.

She danced naked a bit, was stoned more often than not, a career girl on the prowl. Totally insane and looking for career advancement, she mortgaged her body for a little upward mobility life advancement. Cash flow was good, men loved young, fearless sluts, especially with astonishing, mind fuck you attitudes, and a tear your cock apart beauty cunt.

Her eyes lift, she smokes, looks out the top floor room window where the girls’ dress down crib is slotted. She has a private crib. Down below, the alley, garbage, dumpsters, used shoot up kits, junkies, its 3 AM; sneak thief time. Glancing at the full-length mirror, she groans. Conservative dress, pumps, nylons, knee coat on her frame, black wig on the stand. She needs to be someone different soon, very soon. She is a fucking expert at that. 

None a the usual wails, screams, shouts, gun shots down in alley ville. That's a good thing. The Pony Club's plinking red lit sign, blink, blink, blink is throwing down hues of blood neon along her skin.

On a table, there’s a computer monitor, green haze casting a pall also on her delicate face. Lining the walls there are book cases, slopped with books, classics, great poets, writers, other mad women and men just like her. Also, racks of CD's, M&M, Chopin, Beethoven, NWA, Madonna, Katy, Taylor, Prince, Bruce and Sara, Isaac Perelman. Eclectic stuff, a lot like her, diverse, brilliant, wild, crazed, genius, troubled like her.

On the peg boards, lotsa rejection slips, writing failure evident, clear, she fucked up, flamed out, big time. Beauty gets a bitch just so far; talent helps. Angry smoke puffs out of her nose, she slashes a stack of typed paper to the floor.

Agitated, annoyed, edgy, a spoiled whore, her eyes began to water, nose twitches, ticks, she stubs to death her smoke into an ash tray, kicks the table sending everything to hell. 

In the beginning, she had been indestructible.

A decade later, she had failed in every aspect of her twisted up life. Ten years of fucking around, years pissing down the drain, a melting banana split of a life, no life, a fucking disaster. 

She had fucked more men for fewer reasons, lately women too who thought a grand laid on a table meant true love. Never felt anything, never an orgasm, never love, except when reading Tolstoy once.

Tricked out society bitches, Vermont, Connecticut, Manhattan too, lining catwalks like bulimic ghouls, loved her, craved her, adored her, she abhorred them. Wall Street con artful men, wanted her, lusted for her, all she could think about was shoving the tip, her 38 into her mouth, tasting the gun oil and flames, ending it all, all of it.

On the con and grift for an entire life, she wasn't pissed about that. In the end, because she was smart, real smart, needed protection, a power source, needed freedom to follow her passions she had sold out and had become The Fat Mans doll. She had found herself on her knees, head in the toilet, vomiting after the pig had screwed her the first time.

In the vortex now, life generating its own power, ready to make that leap of faith, maybe to death, she had decided no more fucking Tony. Nada, no more, she would die first. A 100% possibility if she fucked up, Tony got his sausage fingers around that neck, squeezing until his dick got hard, until her breath sucked back into her brain, brain dead. 

Hard decisions, hard times, maybe life, maybe death, dice cracking on her brain and whatever comes at least she'd feel pain before her last gasp, something she could not live without.

Chain smoking, Onetta fires up another smoke, flames drawing Mandals eyes, ticking at the old whore. In Mandals savant brain the beaten down old whore is an exact replica of herself down the road, if she hangs a moment longer; victim, is not a part of the deal.

Plume of smoke, Onetta's voice, nervous, static, vibrates from fear into her ears.

"You know you've been like a daughter to me, honey."

Jerked head, Mandal stares and wonders.

What kind of daughter was that? What kind of mom would let her daughter suck Tony Uruguay's fat cock; let him ram his dick into her daughter’s ass. Is that the kinda mother you’re chatting me up about?

Fuck, nobody forced her to become her.

She played her cards, raised and, then folded, unable to take the pressure, pay the VIG and take the heat of life. Mandel deflates, falls to her knees and lay’s her blond head on Onetta's lap. An actress now, a sick trembling puppy now, mood freak, lips quivering now, the falling apart old whore pets her hair, her girl’s lips quivering.

"He's a bad man, Honey. He'll find you. Hurt you bad. I'm scared honey...Real scared."

No breath, pain, grief, Mandal is broken, seemingly defeated, satiated in fatigue, what a fucking sweet kid. Tears, a shattered angels face, she rises, stares at Onetta, concern on Onetta's face, patriarchal old whore, mother, poor, poor, poor, beauty, as Mandal whispers. 

"I love you mother. I'm not going back. Please mother, remember, you knew nothing...Okay Mom?"

Jeeze what a darling Onetta thinks.

She knows her tricked out mind, feels more fear than any other time in her life. The stunning bitch is a killing machine, mostly of men’s dreams and souls. Her bone marrow freeze dries in her bones. Mandal, morphing, something else, easy, a chameleon with many skins, suddenly dire, a look of homicidal glee etched into her flawless face. The transformation from puppy to pit bull is mercurial, instant. Onetta sees it; feels like petrified wood by it.

Reaching up, Mandal roughly pinches Onetta's cheeks, hard, between fingers, thumbs, glares into her struck eyes, seethes. "You understand mother? Nothing, we’re clear on this, correct? Absolutely fucking nothing."

Words, like a wood chipper eating Onetta's head, harder cement glare cranks Onetta's fear. She can do nothing but nod her head up and down. Mandal, like a downer freak, scoring crank, smiles, kisses her on the cheek, releases her face. Onetta breathes and can barely get the words out.

"Yeah honey, sure. Just be careful, ahh, he's a very bad man."

Hearing nothing, feeling nothing, no fear, adrenalin pumping ether through her veins, the perfect doll stands, smirks, snaps. 

"Fuck him."

Baby girl stands, turns, walks to the bed, hefts stacks of twined hundred dollar bills, clicks them at Onetta's and, then grins.

"All those years, with that fucking pig." She waves the C-notes, smiles broader, "As far as I'm concerned were divorced."

Flipping the money into the valise, she grabs another stack, winks at Onetta and floats it into the bag.

"Seven hundred and fifty grand, my fucking alimony."

Onetta gawks, thinks, wishes, DAMN, why can’t the crazy genius bitch just have a drug problem like her other whores.

Mandal, conservative coat on now, fidgets with her black wig. Suddenly her caustic mind turns beautiful.

Music and a voice like cut octaves of sunlight opens a door and struts in. It is Leontine Price, the Diva, like her.

"To tu Piccolo Iddio," the haunting aria from Puccini's Madam Butterfly soars through her brain. Her eyes go dreamy; this is how her brain works. The moment lasts, ends, her eyes swivel in their socket, go stainless, she is back, reborn hard again; this is what she is also.

Onetta feeling her teeth chattering, watches, thinks.

Ten years of Shakespeare, Miller, art lessons, the horses at Tony's Jersey Estate, cats, dogs, ‘The Fat Man’ had spoiled her rotten, anything and everything she ever wanted, except her love. French, Italian, even Jap language lessons, poetry this, writers that, painters, dragged to museums, Europe, poor fucking Tony, the bitch broke his balls and his wallet. Then sculpturing tutors, music teachers, on and on and on about some freak named Proust. Onetta has had enough. Get the fuck out of here you crazy whore and never come back.

She wants to shriek, she does not.

She'd rather deal with The Fat Man. 

The fact that he will probably murder her, cut her tits off, her fingers and toes too, set Bobby Ugo and Dim Dim on her, she cringes thinking about those two monsters. At least Dim Dim keeps his yap shut; at least he's fucking predictable.

Mandal grifts through her grifter ABC play book. She checks everything twice.

She nods her head, reaches into a drawer, withdraws a short barrel Smith &Wesson .44 magnum handgun. Grabs a box of bullets, winks at Onetta again and slots them in the bag next to her snub nose, private Catholic girl 38.

Picking up a floppy hat, she dons sunglasses, leers into the floor mirror. She looks like a fucking Betty Crocker Homicidal killer just let loose from some freak show prime time soap. Nothing she can do can hide her astounding beauty, but it's an attempt, a good start. She's so manic her head seems to be boiling and in her mind she looks like she's a girl going on vacation.

She may be right, a one-way ticket to the jaws of a car compactor in an automobile grave yard in Perth Amboy, but she doesn't think like that.

She's just a smart kid again, flipping off the nuns, running away from a girl’s school again. What can be the harm in that?

Her brilliant bean is spinning, she is so ready. Grabbing her single black leather valise, she turns, winks at Onetta, purrs. "Goodbye Mother, later."

Two steps, three, four she is out the door.

Onetta fumbles with her cigarette with shaking hands. After a moment of pure willpower fueled by fear, she stands, weaves, moves to the window facing the alley down below. Time passes and her heart is pounding, entire body vibrating. She sees her girl, down in the alley now strolling past a dumpster. It makes her cringe. She is positive it will soon be her coffin, disguised as a dumpster.

At a “T” in the alley the pure predator hesitates, looks this way and that, lights a cigarette and, then is gone into the shadows.

Instantly Onetta crumbles to the floor, weeping, satiated by terror, she vomits. On hands, knees she gawks at the filth that she has only ever known. On a clock face of a life that is numberless, she stands, feels her legs buckle, and presses her hands against the window for support, feels hot urine spilling down her thighs.

Nothing to do now except to buckle up, return to her world of problem solver for some of the most fucked up girls in the world. Turning, she moves across the room, out the door, gingerly closing it behind her. She hopes that it is a seal from the eclectic dangerous girl, one she hopes will never be ripped open again.

Unfortunately for her, she forgets that some doors needed to be nail gunned shut. Especially when the gal who just walked through it was the ex-whore girlfriend of one of the most dangerous and horrible men on the planet.

                                                


RUN BABY RUN

 

By J. Brooke




"DECK THE HALLS WITH BOUGHS OF HOLLY, TRA LA LA LA LA, TRA LA LA LA."

SOME WHERE near mid-night, sleepy yawns, full moon, citrine moon beams mixing with her spinning Cadillac wheels. Satiated, exhausted, Mandal whips off the road, dust, parking lot awaiting her.

Hours out of Louisville, Christmas music was spilling out of her Caddy’s radio, putting Mandal’s mind to the joyous time of XMAS. Pulling into a war surplus store, she decided to do some Xmas shopping. She had bought three boxes of blue silicone-tipped hollow points for her .44 Magnum, which cops called "First kill" bullets, meaning no vest could stop them. Along with those, she bought a new Velcro light weight shoulder holster, four gallon cans of BULLS EYE, a substitute for gun powder, you know so the local possum hunters could reload their own cartridges as they hunted the varmints. Manic, in the XMAS spirit, she bought a Mossburg 16 Gauge shotgun and a hacksaw. Finding a dark alley, she had sawed the barrel off, loaded her XMAS present up with red cartridge caps, shoved it under the front seat. Finished XMAS shopping, she continued on, back roads, in her great escape.

Hours later, sleep deprived, she pulled into an alley and parked.

Better than nothing, she thinks.

Caddy motor chills, turned key, motor conks out, green neon, always neon from the motel's sign throbbing, on, off, on, off on her face like a skin eating virus.

So far so good. Old Caddy holding up.

Still almost a Mil in the back seat, her alimony after ripping off Tony (The Fat Man) Uruguay in Jersey, her ex-boyfriend/slave.

She had been his fuck doll, so be it.

Probably a bad idea, the in your face convertible Caddy and the fact she was so fucking blond gorgeous, well folks never forget a doll like her. It’s like she’s leaving flares behind her, you know like one of those wicked F-16 jets they use in Afghanistan, throwing off flares to detour Taliban shoulder-held rockets as the pilot zeros in with a laser guided rocket, interrupting a wedding ceremony of some tribal chief’s daughter and his closest fifty friends, turning the entire tribe into deep fried pretzels.

Great decision making wasn’t her strong point. But what the fuck, she had made it this far, like what could possibly go wrong.

GO WRONG.

Maybe Bobby Ugo the vicious number one psycho killer of Fat Tony’s Crew, not to mention his behemoth enforcer, the six-foot-seven three- hundred and fifty-pound helper Dim Dim, with the valise that carried a blow torch, bolt cutters, hack saws, pliers and other nifty stuff that Bobby wanted more than anything to use on Mandal. Bobby so wanted to see what kinda smart crap would come out of the blond whore’s yap, once he cut the tongue out of her mouth.

Never crossed her mind, so she took a deep breath, perused the graveyard parking lot.

Few cars in the motel parking slots, big rig out of Nogales City, too. Telling her desperation comes in every make of car along off -of an American dream and highways filled with life’s pot holes.

It is cold, leather bomber pressed against her long neck, cigarette dangling from her puissant lips, sand stars grinding in her eyes, quiet, a breeze rolling in off the swamps, maybe a river, she figures.

Shoulder holster on now, a gift from a War Surplus store, .44 jigged in deep, feels good, eight inch knife in her new steel-toed work boot, right next to her walk-around .38.

She is ready for war.

Voices, laughter, dull music on the wind, beaten down roadside house bar, social center for the locals stuck across the street, there’s that neon again. Orange, like fireflies, saying: JOKESTERS BAR, pimping out cold beer, shots, good food within, maybe a line-dance too.

Several pick-up trucks, gun racks, older Detroit cars, a jeep and some big rigs idling diesel, nothing flash. These are poor, hard, country folks, doing the best they can.

In the shadows she plucks out an image of something interesting. An Old Coup De Ville, looking like her baby’s twin, maybe a ‘74, ’75, her best guess. Rag top, faded blue, not green, but damn close. She's sitting all alone off to the side, busted up shed light bulb hanging like a hangman’s noose on a copper wire overhead.

Thinking, always the wrong thing to do, she grabs a ciggie, kick starts it to life, feels the warmth on her face from the flame. “CLICK,” the Zippo goes-dead, an idea is exhumed from the coffin in her brain.

Slink thief over, Slim Jim the locks, riffle the glove, get the registration, swap plates, skedaddle back, be a couple of hundred klicks down the road before anyone noticed the switcheroo, if they caught it at all.

Most likely she'd be in Vegas, jaw crushers eating her doll, recast into a can of dog food before anybody got wise.

Good idea, bad idea, her mind again, let’s do it.

She'd have to scoot, suck it up and drive all night, just in case. Manic is good when on the grift. Better denying a little sleep then looking up the wrong way from the bottom of some Jersey pier, a motor crank case chained to a gal’s pretty feet.

Liking the plan, a lot, she finishes her smoke, lets it slip down the door. It sparks to the asphalt. Madness and mania cozies in her blue eyes.

She giggles, thinking about Daphnia Water Fleas, out of The Science Journal, one of her fav mags.

The little bastards grew defensive, razor sharp spines through evolution, protection from predators.

If the little evolutionary cunts could do, it why not her?

More giggles, where do those thoughts come from, the shit even blows her mind as she feels her own spine grow some tines.

She twists the key, likes the sound of the engine, slots drive and moves slow and shadowy to the street ramp, looks left, right, and cruises across the road. She parks kitty corner in the dark just some meters from the other Cadillac.

Shuts her down, she sits and absorbs it all.

Piece a cake. She thinks


Some hillbilly music, laments, lost chances of love, jilted at the altar, sounds like Reba pukes out of the bar. Cow girl Mandal, flips thoughts, maybe mosey, likes that word now, kick it, maybe line dance with some country thug, have a rattle after in the motels bed and hit the road solid in the morning.

Common sense, reaps in, blink, blink, blink in her eyes. She moans, brain making all the wrong decisions. Petty theft is silly serious stuff, burglary an edgy gig, bad idea dancing in some Tennessee gin joint; very bad idea.

She gasps, sees a sign on the plates that says: TENNESSEE. How did she miss that? Fuck, she's spun some serious miles since Goines. Gotta pay attention, buck it up or some serious shit could fall on top of her blond head.
Scrounging through her girl/thief bag she had scored at a Kentucky County Store, she pushes aside a couple of specially cut eight inch tubes of lead pipe. Pipe bombs later, cool stuff, a girl never knew when she would need them.

Popular Mechanics is also one of her fav mags. Boxes of ammo, a carton of Marlboro's, a quart of Wild Turkey, a pint of Tequila, a switch blade, purple plastic handle reading: Kentucky, Home of Abe Lincoln on it. Wincing, she giggles. "My God, you are a fucking twisted piece of work."

She keeps looking for the stuff she will need for her little cat burglar grift.

Time to move, time to groove and a small pack stuffed with gear, long legs over the door, steel toed boots now planted on the asphalt. She turns and begins to move. To the back of her boat, Phillips Head, unscrews the license plate, same for the front, things are going swimmingly.

.38 in her boot, shoulder holster and .44 back in the doll, sleek, fast is better.

Phillips Head screwdriver, Slim Jim reopener jimmy in her boot too.

Winching in the yips, she wades up to the rear end of the Cadillac, looks around. Like the shadows, she blends into them. Seems zilch, she bends to a black jean knee and begins.

Quickly she unscrews the plate, replaces it with her own, revolves the screw nice, tight and repeats it with the front plate, screws snug she sneaks back to her car.

Déjà-vu all over again.

She replaces plates, leans against the Caddy, nothing. She’s always been a screw-head, messing with Tony's electricity, revamping CD players, fixing toasters, reprogramming TV's, Black Berry Queen of a fixer do-it-yourself world. Anything with motors, gadgets, many hobbies for this gal; the geeks at Home Depot adored her.

Balled fists, nailed to her small hips, accomplishment washing over her, she exhales, whispers. "One thing at a time."

Over the next few minutes she finishes the plate switcheroo, feels good about it.

The time is now. She slithers back over to the De Ville, peeks around, nothing still, music, some drunken guy retches out of the bar, bends, pukes his guts out on the parking lot asphalt. Seems he’s okay, back inside he goes. One more shot, one more shooter away from really feeling good, until the DT's slam his face in the morning. Mandal smiles, she has been there before.
Slim Jim slips down her sleeve, in the slot, a jerk and old cars are cool, easy to steal, back to work, girl thief work.

“POP”, too easy, door button pressed with a gloved finger, opens, interior light, “SMACK,” slim Jim shatters the bulb, darkness, full girl/burglar mode, pen light in her teeth. She slides in the passenger seat with a penlight in her full lips. She misses her Home Depot leather, low on the hips, gunfighter tool belt.

In a hurry now, V of a beam illuminating the glove, papers, a mess, mouth tobacco, Copenhagen, condoms, hunting knife, she steals that too; pack of Marlboros, she pockets them. There it is, the registration and even the guy’s pink slip. Gomer Henry, it reads.

She chuckles in disbelief, folds it, pockets it in her bomber jacket, snaps the glove shut, couldn't be happier. Another perfect crime, except there never is a perfect fucking crime.

"You rippin' me off, darlin?"

Southern accent, thick tongue, boozed up, a meat paw on her upper arm.

"OW." She yips.

He jerks her off her feet. She is violently twisted around as he slams her against the chassis of the Cadillac.

Ball cap on, face in the shadows, hard to make her MO, yet, still impossible not to see she is a slink dish, sexy is written all over her. Even a fat drunk can see that. Big man, fat man, long hair, straggling chin beard, blood coated eyes, weaving, pinchers on her arm. Her legs are spread open, steel toed boots planted on the asphalt, she's calm, excited, no fear; adrenalin orbiting around her cerebellum.

Eyes, defiant, fucking alive, eye blisters, waiting to be popped, she's manic and maybe some pain, his, hers, no matter. She was born for moments like these.

Limited brain matter, no gal looks at him like this cunt is. He reaches out, backhands her across the face. White dots of light, her face stings, very nice, whips back, blood on her lips, tongue tasting it; just an encore of things to come.

Wild, crazy in her eyes, now he sees she’s a beauty contest winner and he wants to rape her on the spot. He mumbles some kinda nonsense like, "You a pretty dolly, ain't ya, gonna teach ya now somethin' now…"

The old perv drunk wheezed.

He moves in, she grins, blood teeth, red lava on her brain.

"Do I know you, dolly?" He slangs back at her.

She grins, smiles and says. "You do now, darlin!"

"PARUMPH" a knee jerk in the balls.

"OH FUCK" he groans.

Solid caught knee cap in the balls. He slumps, Mandal nudges in, twists him, big belly man, lots a girth and racks him against the iron body of the Cadillac. In his face, she gets real near, rips his head back by his long hair and then bends. With her .38 she pistol-whips his face and then plunges the tip of her .38 past 3 broken and bloody teeth. He groans, eyes the size of the flopping tip of his dick, as she seethes.

"I like foreplay big fella, in a bit of a hurry though. Real slow now Gomer, your keys. Fuck up and I'll air you out."

"CLICK" hammer back echoes through the night.

Thumb on the hammer, big boy’s eyes doing the Mambo, dolls face, finger on the trigger, firing pin, baby face, bad intent in her polar ice blue oh so cold eyes.

"To the back, now Gomer."

She likes saying his name, she's a twist.

"Keys, now fuck-wad."

“Gobbley-gobbley” gook answer.

Thrombosis fingers dig in old Levi's. Real slow, southern like, he lifts them, dangle, dangle, cranked up eyes, watching the angel of death’s gloved finger pressing again the trigger mechanism.

"Go on, before I put a bullet into your fat head."

Nods, turns, her fingers ripping his pony tail, snout nose .38 pressed into the back of his head.

The journey from St. Anne’s in Montreal to Las Vegas continues.

At the trunk, key in the slot as the trunk rises like Lazarus from the tomb.

"Get in."

“WHAM.”

She cracks his skull with the teak handle of her Saturday Night Special even though it is Friday night.

He whoops, groans, his belly and face slap, crash against the carcass of his Cadillac. In sections he falls into the trunk. Leaning in, she “WHACK, WHACK, WHACKS” him.

Completely crazed, smelling blood, out of control like one of those big fucker Mako Sharks trolling for Tuna over there near the Island of Cozumel.
Up go his legs, flop, inside the trunk, she hyper-ventilating, lifts the .38, aims it at him. Jaw clenches, saliva and blood dripping down her chin, eyes stark raving mad, finger on the trigger. She wants to do it, really wants it, but then “CLICK.”

A thought wedges in. She shakes her head, blinks, rattles her brain again, remembers and tries to recall.

Murder, was that also on the menu in those past days?

Maybe so, the fat fuck is innocent. Nobody is fucking innocent, but maybe.
God forgives, so she can too.

Lowering the .38, her entire body shakes, time to jet, get it on. She slams the trunk, jilts her head, falls to her knees. Both hands wrapped around the .38, she shoves it in her mouth, detests herself, loves herself, presses on the trigger, love conquers all, not here, not now. She does not blow the back of her throat out.

Frankly said, she loves it all and doesn’t want to miss any future curtain calls.

Standing again, like nothing has gone down as she smiles, feeling it, feeling nice. Multiple personalities can be a hoot.

She skips back to the Deville, hops into the seat, slips down, fires her up, drive gear, cruises out of the parking lot as happy as she has ever been. In her mind there is no reason in the world that anyone could put together what she had just done or why she did it.

When a cell replicates, the DNA does not change, but merges within a blood world, hemoglobins saturate with memories of life, mixing, evolving and changing the makeup of a micro-biotic universe and a structure of a creation in the womb.

This is the remarkable process she is consumed in, if only Darwin was correct. If given time, as the dolphins’ skulls did, greater brain power through time, 50 million years of change, yet she has perhaps days to see the miracle of life; her life appear. Perhaps time is her friend or an executioner that will cheat her of this miracle, fate knows, but she is silent.

In a matter of moments, she is again cruising into the unknown, a girl, a Cadillac, a .44 Python strapped to her breasts, a ferocious succubus, hand gun, knives, lead pipe bombs are her guiding light into the unknown.

Next stop, well baby, paradise, or New Orleans, a humid, sweating hell-hole of a roll of the cubes or a desert hole, with dirt shoved in her mouth.

Baby is moving now, moving through evolution to her destiny.



HIP HOP BABY

by j brooke



      Hip hop, hippity hop, happiness hipster girl opting to cruise, hangin' in my sky glider, whizzing the stars, my mind; you, me, Madonna still wanting to dance to the groove. Jungle drums banging timpani at my head. Let’s do it, darlin'. I promise I won't be Elvis, Heart Break silly, and cruel.
The beat, the heat, the conga drums, sidle over here; that killer bod giggling girlish girl. Snake that silky skin around my fear, your sweetness like a candy cane. No disguise: just reality, an adventurous baby doll, an impossible dream. You, thinking that you can play with love, this girl bending, wending, and pretexting at womanhood; starving, thirsting, for too much is simply never enough.

This trying human being of way-out endings and party scenes, beginnings of no gratifying ends; playthings, body parts, and parted lips from busted pleasures and hijacked dreams, and everything stolen in between.
OK, 20-year-old, expert at nothing but sex and smiles, melting a girl’s heart and rock 'n' roll. So, you’re mine and oh, so young, Kevlar Vest wrapped around your heart and soul, and your way just so damn hip and cool, and me?

Older, wiser, vagabond wastrel of Generation X, just another sexed-out trick, again looking like the fool. Every time I kiss those striking pouts, taste that sugar trailing along your slender thighs, fuck those baby lips, adore that Pharaoh Nefertiti neck, grip for life those narrow hips, I'm heading for another emotional fucking and atomized train wreck.
Between bubblegum and bubble blues, you think you can understand, assimilate, digest, con and juke, pout and fuck, party me? And isn't that cute, you, nubile fearless baby child, sex diagnostic meter center, break heart, fast break absolute mind infusion girl of problematic woes, magnificent laser of an ice-crystal soul. No ethics, nor rules, I can see of dancing toes, girl-sex wild con, tempered in nothing real and MTV; fuck, why again don’t I know better, what is wrong with me?
Boggling my credulity once again, hemlock creature of skin, and blood, and of sin, sweat and perfect heredity of DNA. FUCK, darling, you drive me mad, make me suck my lies and secrets back, pass out, orgasm out, and make me scream.

I heard there were girls like you from the barrio; I'm just your boot-legged pleasure tool, thought it was an illusion crafted of a bullshit dream, and here you are, blown away; OK, I call your raise.

I'm all in, babylicious babe; make me believe again, make me feel my body bliss and bittersweet, there deeper in the deep. Make me realize that my life is real again, free falling and in gear; that I am alive, where before I thought I was dead.

Spread those diva legs; I think it’s time enough, baby. Don't you think enough lies have been whispered, and said?
So, place those low poker chip agate eyes on the table, please; bet mascara blues and eyelashes and pink-fire rouge, and lip gloss that reflects everything I ever thought I would never see return again.

Am I day trippin' with just the thought? I might wake within those flower-tangling arms, enclosed along my body aquiline, your breath inhaling along my own. Part of a quintet of cotton sheets and sweat and smiles and a spiraling spine; just then, when the sun sets and we can fire it up.

Just once more, doll, before the Rem wanders within the earth’s axis core of rain, because something beautiful is evolving, when everything gorgeous and tempestuous thought for me was never to exist again.
We fooled them, my pretty petulant darling girl; yes, or am I a delusional, litigated drama queen? I can hardly breathe, but you’re real, forever, for a moment; now, you’re mine, for a crystallized gem of denial is my survival stone.

My heart is faceted from your smile, and I can ask for nothing more; thank you, darling, for the gracious temporary gift of aquamarine eyes and golden rings, breasts, lips, kisses, and golden loins. 

Did I mention the rebirth of my heart? How I love you, simply and simple words, I've thrown them against the wall.

I love you. Good night, my transient wicked child. No tomorrows. . . .  

I lie, and I understand that my night is now; sweet dreams, my precious and treacherous and delicious baby doll. 



PETAL WORLD

by j brooke

 

White girl: white hair, white skin, white tears, cut and faceted lapis-colored eyes, lazing naked in a bed of white flowers; soaring stems of the petal world; capricious moods; prayer and quiet; silent cries to the timorous sky and mending her fatigue in a moment of disquietude; as morning breeze, summer char, a saffron fireball, sizzling tinge, thermal winds, a shawl of summer sweetness plies along her alabaster skin.

I am sitting near the monarchs’ home, near the circle of the Monet-colored spun spider webs, filled with dew drops that glisten from shards of Sun and remnant rainbows of the rains, of winter they have fled; though moments ago, as faceted tourmalines, they were dancing powdered wings along her face; her Amber eyes, a face that I so do adore. I am gazing at her as I always do, and I am afraid to wake her, for what if she does not want me any longer, when her eyes of a topaz Sun, might perhaps peek open as the color of cinnamon; and within that moment, she no longer loves me, sees suddenly that I am a charlatan that was once me, and once again I will become the jester’s fool.

I am watching her. I always watch her when she sleeps, and I remember what and who I was before her; before she brought jasmine, incense, diamonds and happiness to my dreams, as a gift few women, few fools as I, have ever seen.

I think back as an echo that repeats itself within a long-lost moment of memory that I shudder to recall, for I was only part-human before her, pretending to be alive; not living, no not at all; as if some ancient star, long-lost and dead in the blackness of the stratosphere, that now only glimmers its last tear, as it breaks earth’s gravity; a thief of fractured dreams, a piece of light, masquerading to be alive as I was before her, as a fragile flickering flame of candlelight. I was human, yet disposable; a lost girl barely breathing before she chose to delve within my mind and only me, before she shared her gift of smile, genius, mirth and wit for each and every other human being to see.

I am in pain as memory sears my mind, for I was a mimic of a girl: shattered, fractured, and refracted in a liquid mercury pool of skin; as images, none true, none real, remind me of a lying past and such a horrid way, and forever and all of my so banal and carnal sins. There was a desert in my heart, until she looked into my soul and forgave me for who I was and what I was so long ago and when, knowing that her elegance and intelligence and great heart would repair the broken mirror that I had always been.

I am watching her. I always watch her as she sleeps, and when she wakes, I will have cut flowers for her, and they will be white like her: delicate and elegant, children of the soil that I gathered near the lakes. She and them, her and they, they are sisters of the petal world and will make her smile, and she will touch my face and kiss my lips and I can ask for nothing more; for the flowers, so like her, so fragile, and powerful, and lovely, are the color of the scattered matrix of the rainbow world.

Within a moment of a slivered moon, bathed within a golden glow and the warmth of down, the cold of snow, and we will whisper as we touch each other’s lips, that neither bigotry, pain, nor sadness will ever be a part of our lives again.

Naked women, white sheets, passion, and a tender touch of whispers within the gray pewter morning dawn and I will tell her that I love her so, and the Monarch Butterflies: winged wind whisperers will lead us home, through the wars and battlefields of a life neither of us could ever understand; and thus, our lives will soar and the gift of her will be mine as long as she deems it so. I can ask for nothing else; for one can never grasp and keep forever the beauty of a rainbow, this I clearly know.



LUNAR MADNESS

 

by j brooke

 

 

She was an alien, young, skin brown like a piece of seared naked amber, tall, a hedonistic shoelace stood on end. The beach, Jamaica, vacay, sand, blue water, indigo like her eyes, and our eyes had locked, blue, hers, brown, mine, and that was it, for the salt water melding on her nude body, those golden breasts, tummy, cunt, her small toes made me break every fucking promise I had ever made.

 OKAY, I fucked up, stumbled the other night, no more one night stands, but I remembered the feel of a woman’s skin, satin touch, silk pouting lips of fog, lies, denial, promising day dreams, nightmares, delusions I felt I was over with. You remember those vows, don't you my man? Sex, torment, mind-bending, hell raising, gut wrenching pleasure promises, where which way is up depends on conjecture and the moment and you’re crazed, wild in each other’s arms. Jettison the food, water, oxygen means nothing and your insatiable appetite for her and you is overwhelming, each second locked in each other’s arms a hammering mind piston of an electric jolt of a lifetime of denial.

No dinner, no cocktails, no promises of tomorrow, she was a fucking savage, a tipsy-turvy top girl, no manners, carnal, honest, a stunning female alpha wolf, I guess me her prey, and then it began, the madness, the beat down and it wasn't hell, no baby, nowhere near bad. It was ecstasy, rapture of rock 'n' roll, swaying palms, teak, bamboo, a banal hotel room and whatever highs could be caged. I remember cold sheets of some summer night, stripped naked, lava skin, heavy brooding eyes, mascara bleeding, playing, teasing, tearing at one another, crawling on top of me, ripping my skull to her eyes, leering at me. She was drooling, panicked, static, eyes dilating, bitten lips, on her velvet knees, slamming fists against the bed rails, chewing at the white sheets, my cock buried inside of her cunt and then an orgasm of a lust-driven mind implosion wracked her, shattered her and she seemed to go insane.

On and on it went, sweat pouring from our bodies, my cock slammed down her throat, and it was wild, she was insatiable and why, well because common sense and ice chips for parched lips were left at the door with the last free-falling rustle of her nylons, high heels kicked to the ceiling.

 I remember that skin, a curling finger tempting, begging, pleading for me to come, just an inch, just a little bit, the whimpers, the moans of promises so you can touch that skin, that you can smell, taste and envision strapped around your body, legs splayed, her teeth chattering, her eyes looking like lug bolts. She tasted like orchids and burnt brass, legs blending, flailing, swooning towards the moon from the touch of your fingertips, that plays her body like a rare, violent violin, sweet, taught, ravaged of solo octaves strung so taught that baby diva was likely to cat gut explode.

Yeah, I know, I promised never to be that way no more, but what the fuck, there she was at first, bad things happen to good people and she was an enigma in my cigarette smoke, wet lips, engorged, full like a Caribbean Lunar dream, hanging lazy, seductive, wanting on an ocean rim, oh it was sin. But I was a weak fuck, for a moment as she shot me a laser stare of fire, ash, eyeliner and coal smudges beneath her drooping eyes, telling me. "Come here honey, I have a little sweet for you to taste."

And I kinda shrugged, felt drugged, intoxicated, drunk from her body perfume, reeling, not knowing my own name, and wondering now what this baby doll really wanted. But, I knew as she laced me with her twenty-megaton wicked eyes that there it was, that devil in my red blood and I passed to her, a topaz ribbon laying on white sheets, heard a whisper, a soft tendril of a purr, a growl. "Come baby, come here, lay right here, don't make me beg, just fuck me, don't you think that is fair?"

I moved, it was moving easy and cool, though terrified and petrified, yet what magnificent terror did I find and see and everything melded into one and a day passed before I saw nothing but her. Then, more time burned away and even more and then I saw within her lips the image of a Goddess, a slut queen that was capable of anything, being anything, a paramour, a virgin twist in her own demented mind. She was insatiable, hair like wet rusted chains, moans, screams, psycho-babble speak, and there was heat, saline water drops, cum, semen and tears, red embers and heat and I remembered painted red talons lashed on my back as some long lost treasures recaptured from the darkness of my soul.

We seemed to feed for days along this ocean paradise, I tell you it was so, kisses encapsulating, embracing, encrypting secret saline naked secrets to the world, to reawaken my fears, tongues, bodies braced as one and then the moon rose so many times and we rested as insane Siamese twins, sippin' hard gins, rum, tequilas and all the time bathed in moon light, star light, sweat and warm Jamaican salt winds and of course, banal, carnal and so-real sins.

Servants brought us Guava, Papaya and Mango treats and things animals need, for they well knew a great passion play was at hand. Black faces of Island ways understood sex, love and for a moment their gifts nourished us and we ripped it up again, though such moment to moment play might be thought of as a different thing, but it was that on the island, maybe love, probably not, and I forgot as we bathed in night salt water and our bronze skins burned up the cotton sheets, that sex, love have nothing to do with one another. Yet, I still remember her and realize more than once, she made me feel alive, vibrant, made me forget my oath, which all the while was a lie, that man can live without a woman and this I finally understood, caged away from a woman's touch, a man must surely die.

Set within the palms and thermal winds I sat as she slept, breathing air along the cotton sheets as arousal strapping my body allowed my heart to live and I wanted to wake her and ravage her and bring her to moans and screams and cheat our brains of oxygen. I wanted to show her that if dead at dawn we might hardly care, nor remember before and as she woke, for I touched the sweat that beaded on her copper breasts, she smiled, reached forward and wrapped a lily around my neck and dragged me to her parched lips and kissed me, and I felt again, how I felt, and we were one, gone forever, frozen and forgetful in a moment of time, savages tip- toeing on the very edges of life.

In the morning dawn came with the winds and she was gone, white orchid on my pillow and I simply sat and remembered and took my pen and upon white paper wrote these words.

I never saw her goddess golden cunt again.


BLOOD AND FIRE

J brooke

excerpt from


A MANDEL BECKWITH novel

                                                                                        


          PROLOGUE

          CAMBODIA

          BEFORE THE BENEDICTION

Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia, the usual Manifest Destiny fuck up, had been cannibalized, an acid bath, eaten from the core, regurgitated into a horror show, caskets, coffins, black-body ash, all of it vaporized into the heart of the Mekong Delta. The generals had lusted for it, the President had rock’n’rolled. Millions of indigenous innocents had been slaughtered for it.

Collateral damage was a bitch, so the fuck what, you gotta pay the VIG if you want the prize, hell, every gambler knew that. Body counts, black body bags, nobody wanted to know the numbers or the tote board for such a blasphemous genocide. It was an abortion that had gone bad, the dead fetus, well, they wanted it to go away, but it would not.

He was a Ranger, as were his hand-picked group of Green Berets. His white flesh was rotting, decomposing, as were his heart and soul. Jungles, bullets, blades, napalm, rain, blood, killing, hunting did that to a Ranger and it had done that to him.

The monsoons had come, crippling, drenching, and quieting the screams of the jets, high above. He had been stationary for hours now, planted on the edge of the paddy, gawking out through his binoculars. His men were wounded, ripped up, it had been an ambush by Viet Cong regulars.

They had fought their way through it, killing every one of the yellow, fierce soldiers. His wounded men were stationed behind him in the jungle. His Green Beret unit was waiting far behind him, safe, deep in the jungle, and he was waiting for a sign, the rain to cease, so they could be E-vac’ed out. 

Watching, the Captain peered out through the glasses as thirty Viet Cong began to cross the rice paddy some hundred meters across the plateau. He winced; fire ants were eating his sponge skin. He didn't blink for he no longer felt physical pain. The Cong were moving in his direction. His men needed help, he needed help, he was going insane from the senseless killing, he wanted out.

His radio crackled. Lifting up the phone, he watched as the soldiers drudged across the paddies. It was decision time, death time, final time, they were less than fifty meters away, and it was the right time. He cared no longer if he lived or died. His soul had vaporized long ago, his heart along with it.

Lightning thumped in the black clouds, it illuminated the paddies, partial remnants of his blond hair. He saw the Vietnamese soldiers faces, clear, their weapons, AK-47's, rocket launchers, they were formidable, and he knew it.

He whispered into the radio, 40 meters, 30 meters, a roar off in the storm, the ants eating his skin, more death, more grief, he heard it now.

There were flashes of fire, not lightening this time. Jet engines roaring, there were flames in the sky as his eyes closed and his heart imploding. More death, soon, now, it was time to remake his skin, for he wanted change, any way he could get it, he was ready.

Twenty meters, ten meters, their faces were his own; soldier’s faces.

SILENCE, blackness, Thor's Hammer of light in the sky, silent, mute and, then a thunderous rolling liquid cataclysmic explosion ruptured of fire and flames. The earth ignited, night became day, screams, bodies burning, shrieking, the world became a holocaust of fire, then silence, darkness, smoldering odors of burning flesh permeated the lost world of the monsoons.

SILENCE, darkness and, then a single man ran bellowing in pain, he was engulfed in trailing flutes of flames.

THERE was silence, the cave was dark, black, water dripping, cool, pungent of deep life, SILENCE, and it was waiting for something, something odd, beautiful and odious.

Blackness, then a fireball of sweeping flames flowing off a white soldier’s skin ignited the cave, threw up blisters of purples, yellows, greens, for skin burns green when caught in the love of fire.

Flashes, fire flashes, then SILENCE, the cave returned to night. Water and mud sizzled; burnt skin smelled as of death. Then, a scream of unbearable joy and pain crushed through the night world of Cambodia.

Engulfed in mud, blue eyes exposed, whites of the eyes, stark, struck of understanding, the final transformation from soldier to something so very odd, horrific, wonderful had ended, begun.

THE clouds were heavy, like lumps of cordite, a full ochre moon, at a man’s touch, breaking through the clouds illuminating the world. There was silence, quiet, the sounds of rotor blades, men's voices, winds swirled, mixing the stink of burnt flesh with monsoon winds.

A SCREAM from a creature ruptured all sounds. It was filled with understanding of the brutality and finality of transformation.

There is SILENCE and, then a SCREAM again.

The morphing from cocoon to butterfly to gargoyle had just begun, was not complete. It would take many decades of a secret life for the final canvass to be completed. Over three decades will pass, it will be a surreal world of Indian lore and pain, and then death will visit in the guise of physical female beauty, and it will be as if it had never left him at all. It will be a completion of what he was, what he wishes to become. It will be a full circle of finality, tragic, filled with awe and a woman's lips and above all it will be deadly, yet, so very beautiful.

He will, in a moment of cosmic destiny meet a stunning blonde killer and in that moment his entire life will come to fruition, pain, joy and recognition and her name will be Mandel.

 

 

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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