killing harry...part quatros

[continued from...before]

i was a chic chick, and when i killed i wanted to be stylin'!

but this time style was not an option...grrrrr!

   so here i was hunting harry, in the midst of little town america. style was the first thing to go...boohoo!
    i had to tone it down for smallsville.
    manolo blahniks would have blown the sockets of where i had ventured to hunt harry. even nine west would have turned a few heads. sadly, i went for the sears, montgomery wards 'style'...if that's a word that can be used with such vile crap.
    how'd i bring myself to downscale so drastically? you forget, my luvs...i'm a professional.
    plus, i just pretend it's halloweeeeen. booo!
   

i had to be, like, straight out of the sears catalog! 

    tho i was in boondox usa, harry was the big fish in the small pond. more like the whale who had hidden himself.
    casa harry was on the outskirts of town. harry was a friggin' land magnate. acres and acres of rambling earth that would have been undistinguishable from wild countryside except for the necessary 'private property' postings, required by law to keep squatters out. oooh. squating...so de classe!
    harry's kingdom included a simply dahling old house that l.l. bean himself might have lived in.
    as for the earthy earth, a river runs through it says it all.
    several rivers and a few lakes. all which must have been oh so trouty, judging by the collection of poles and reels hanging from harry's spacious redwood entrada to his main house.
    of course i was trespassing. i figured mr. harry was spotting me from some hidden property cameras, leading to harry central, where surveillance team harry was monitoring my every move.
    yes. harry was important potatoes judging by this layout. it wasn't my job, or my place, to figure out why or who wanted harry to go bye bye. judging by this layout, sir harry was a big enough fish it could have been sooo many people.

harry's place was, jeeesh, the size of montana.

lotsa land...lotsa places to bury things...hint, hint

    i take every job as serious as a good orgasm. but the more i saw, the more i wanted to impress whoever wanted harry's number punched. whoever he/she was, they had to be an 'a' list player cause everything about harry was looking big league. those types always have someone they need knocked off, so it was just good business to do a better than great job on mister harold.
    i felt like judy garland at carnegie hall. i could feel eyeballs on me. but as always, i'd dressed for success.
    i was draped in a duckflap hat, plaid and flannel this and that, including undies. hiking boots klunky and no nonsense enough they were actually trendy. wayfarer ray bans sooo fifteeeeez i coulda pulled them offa jack kerouac's face myself. if i'd been born yet.
    i was sure i'd be greeted any second by security team harry. or 'h' himself.
    i totally had developed a crush on the man. he was larger than life for me. it would have been heaven to see him striding out with a pained expression like cary grant seeing audrey hepburn. underneath that frown, he'd love me. and i him...every moment up until i put that .38 in the back of his skull. mmmmmmmmmmmmm...

harry was a rugged guy, and deserved a macho rugged death...

like a hot dahl with hot red nails blowin' a big red hole in his head. mmmm...

    fantaseeez aside, it was not to be. not at that momento...
    no harry. no security team. nothing.
    he couldn't truly be so...so...down to earth, as to have no security team.
    could he?

    there's just so long one can walk around as if she had escaped the cover of field and ditch magazine. i decided to split.
    i toodled back to my non-descript rental car, whose license plates i had removed prior to entering harry's north forty.
    safely in my driver's seat i cocked the rear view mirror to see what i looked like after tramping in the forest for an hour.
    it was elmer fudd staring back.
    i ripped off the duckflap hat. harry had better be the best kill ever...i was going sooo out of the way for him!
    that's when i heard the voice.
   
    it came from the back seat.
    i straightened out the mirror, and saw him.
    a huge, dark shadow of a man with skin like a leather strap barbers use to sharpen straight razors on. do they use those anymore? whatevahhh...

some fuck was in the back seat of my cute rental, sounding

way too much like the jerk who narrates those

NFL flix on tv that guys like sooo much

    the guy in my seat back had a voice like the gasbag who narrates those football films on tv. sheeesh! you'd have to be bored to the point of suicide, or be a dude, to watch that dross.
    couldn't follow what mr. voice in the back of my auto rental said, sounded like something about the green bay packers.
    'huh?' i squinted into the mirror. "i don't think green bay's got a chance this season, bucko."
    "they got a better chance than you do, darlin'" he drooled in a phony texas accent guys put on when buying car tires and talking sports.
    "i'm not tryin' to take the eastern division, darlin'!" i shot back, and cranked around to see who this fuck was.
    my superbly manicured hand was already on my protection piece, a handsome auto .44. i use it mostly to scare vics into doing what i wish without going bang bang. if i shoot, it's gonna  blow a basketball size hole in whatevah's on the other side of that barrel.
    haven't had to fire it yet. but NFL voice couldn't see it since it was on my side of the faux leather bucket seats.

i had a nice hidden piece trained on mister NFL,

in case he wanted to do a blitz from the line

    i'd hate to fuck up the nice mauve and Easter blue checker pattern on the driver seat by blasting my cannon through it. not to mention how NFL boy's guts would clash with the alternating color scheme on the rear seats. red-brown guts and mauve...just not compatible.

    "i know you," i said, looking at his rough, nasty mug. it wasn't harry.
    "i bet you do, darlin'. i bet you do."

[to be deliciously continued...]