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.

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 6^th 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, 4^th 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.