Thursday, October 29, 2009

i so love nasty!

that nasty res is writing about chix killing guys again...yum!

     hello dahlings. i'm sooo busy doing busy things, as you would expect a dangerous doll like moi to be.

     howevahhh, i do recommend highly the next chapter in my new friend, journalisto reston's blahhhg about a superbly nasty killer chic from way back when.
     res wasn't too happy about moi pulling his posties for our little get together here.
     normally i'd threaten to do deliciously awful things to the sweetheart if there was a problem. but, i appreciate his jourmalistic respect for...shall we say...women of the deadly arts. which is the theme of his oh so arty reporting.
     sooo, whilst i take care of business...if you know what i mean, and you need some killah lady action...shoot (pahdon the pun) on over to

     until i come back to you, dahls....

Sunday, October 25, 2009

a nasteee treat for misty's readers

      well luvs, i've found a blahggg after my own dark and nasty heart. i have decided to share one of their posts with you, my honies.
     don't know much about it, but you can be sure i will find out. but for now, what i've read is sooo murderously murderous, i'm a fan. i'm sure the writer won't mind me lifting this one little  post.
     if he knows what's good for him...i suppose reston is his name. be a good boy reston, and thank misty for liking your little, naughty, stories...
     as for you all faithfully following your enjoy...
     (oh yes, reston's little website is yummy name res. i've made it one of my faves.)

[From court records, journalist records, published and unpublished, unreleased police records, and other published material. Names and locales have been changed per legal requirements.--Reston Cane]

The Surgeon's Daughter

Lane Dalquist was the strikingly attractive daughter of a respected Swedish surgeon and his operating room nurse wife.

The parents had met while saving lives at St. Erik's hospital in Stockholm, at times under highly stressful conditions.

Lane's tall, good looks were not attributes appreciated at university in the United States, where she pursued her medical career. A career not as a nurse, but as a surgeon.

In the U.S. of the early 1960s, the idea that women were equals in the medical field, particularly surgery, was not widely held. Especially for women, such as Lane Dalquist, who looked like Debra Kerr or Grace Kelly.

However, Dalquist had several attributes swinging the odds back in her favor. A searing intellect. And a just as searing drive to succeed, which she received from her father.
Additionally, support from her parents, who had moved to the U.S. when Lane was four, was strong.


On a late 60s summery night in Chicago, Rod Allen was out for a drink after a long day trading. Rod was a 34-year-old financial specialist born and raised in the windy city, who worked hard trading stocks for his clients in a mid-range financial institution.

Nice looking, smart, friends and associates chided him for working too hard and playing too little. That work ethic resulted in not only his being single, but without a girlfriend and dateless since joining the firm almost a year earlier.

Rod Allen ended up in his local pub for a drink,
and to watch the Cubs lose another. Instead, he
would meet 'her'
Rod cut a nice figure as he walked into one of his regular sports bar haunts late after work that summer evening.

Smartly dressed even as his tie hung disheveled after a long day on the exchange, he took a quick look around the bar before sitting down. He chose a chair not too close, but not too far, from a good-looking blonde nursing an umbrella drink, and watching the Mets trounce the Cubs on the tv over the bar.

"A Schlitz on tap and keep the tab open Sully," the bartender later recalled Allen saying.
In between staring at the dismal game on the oversized tv, and slurps of Schlitz, Rod snuck glances at the woman down the bar. She had on attractive, if conservative, expensive clothes.

No wedding ring. And very nice legs. They were crossed, forcing the below-the-knee skirt to expose her legs up to the mid-thigh. Rod was a leg man.

The woman returned a few looks that were not unfriendly. Rod eventually made direct eye contact, and called down the bar.

"If you're collecting umbrellas, I'd be happy to get you another one of whatever you're drinking. I'm a collector myself," he joked, successfully.

He couldn't keep his eyes off her legs. They
would turn out to be deadly legs.
"Maybe I don't collect umbrellas. Maybe I collect men," she said with a dry, but beckoning edge.

Rod was bright, and liked the wit. And the edge. He didn't find too many powerful women in the corporate world who, despite their intelligence, could joke about themselves.

"A dangerous woman," he smiled. "I like it."

The woman was seated in the mid part of the bar, where the light was lower. If anything, she did not make an effort to have her face seen. One patron that night recalled, "she seemed to me to want to check others out, but didn't like the visa versa."

Apparently she wanted to be seen by Allen, and the two ended up in a dark booth together, not paying attention to the beating the Cubs were taking.

They were pegged as leaving the bar in the ninth inning. That struck the bartender as a change of pace for Allen, a semi-regular at the pub.

"The guy was such a regular Joe. Which around these parts means, die hard Cubbie. He got lucky that night, but still. I'd never seen him leave before the final nail was in his Cubs coffin," the barman recalled.

A tall, attractive, well-dressed blonde was apparently, and understandably, of more interest to Allen than a perpetually losing home team. Even one he loved.

He left with the woman, arm about her waist, walking her to her car.


If Rod Allen thought he won the lottery by walking a lovely, intelligent woman to her car, he was in for a bigger surprise.

"If your car is close by, why don't we find a secluded spot to enjoy the harbor. I'm a tourista. You're the hometown boy," his new friend suggested.

Rod and his new lady friend took off in his Camaro
to find a secluded spot on North Lake Shore Drive.
They walked across to Rod's '67 Camaro, and took the romantic drive of his life. Literally.

Whatever the 34-year-old, good-looking and lonely bachelor thought was a romantic secluded spot, didn't meet the criteria of his lady friend.

Rod was happy to please, and kept driving until finding what she preferred.

It was the definition of secluded. "Hope we can get her started when it's time to go. Might take a couple of days for someone to find us here," he quipped with an hint of friendly sarcasm. Rather than take offense, the remark pleased his friendly passenger. It was perfect for the tryst she had planned.


"So, I never asked what you do," Rod awkwardly small-talked as they looked out over the Chicago Harbor.

For all his handsome looks, savvy trading on the exchange, and easy rapport in social situations, he was not as confident, or at ease, regarding romance.

Allen would have no problem this evening, thought. At least not in being desired by his date.

She chose the place along the Chicago Harbor where
they would be alone. Truly, dangerously, alone.
"You don't have to make small talk," she reassured.

She moved close and took his chiseled jaw in the long, slender fingers of her hands. Her fingers were so long and beautiful Allen thought they were those of a concert pianist. Or surgeon.

Rod was soon in the heaviest make-out session in a car since high school. He wasn't complaining.

Wet kisses were accompanied by her guiding his hand between her long, well-formed thighs. Where Rod expected panties, there were none.

"Does that bother you?," she smiled warmly, as he did a double take.

"No...uh, no. I just thought tonight was going to be beers and Cubs. This is a very nice left turn."

She continued the hot kisses. He continued returning them.

And the woman didn't force his diffident hand up past her thighs, but let him proceed at his own speed. To where she wanted him to touch her.

Penetrating Experience

Allen's jacket was off. Removed by the blonde as she ravenously kissed him.

The stock trader would not need to push his conversational skills any further this evening. It was all going his way.

He had joked about her being a dangerous woman.
Rod Allen had no idea, as she kissed him, how dangerous.
A welcome break from the romantically solitary life he had been used to since his last girlfriend. Four years earlier.

This blonde, despite her passion, was something of a mystery. She wasn't from Chicago. Other than that, and that she dressed well, expensively, and was beautiful, he knew nothing about her.

Would he see her again? How far would they go tonight?

As these questions bounced around his head, Rod felt something. Some sort of sensation, below his chest.

It seemed to be inside him. Maybe not. Maybe she was just grabbing him. Giving him a massage with her long fingers. While she raped him with her mouth.

It didn't hurt. But it was some sort of undefined sensation. He opened his eyes from the kissing, and saw her staring into them. Her own eyes seemed to dance. To be looking into his soul.

She pulled back, millimeters from his mouth. And breathed in his breath. Looked deep, searchingly into his eyes.

His own eyes questioned what he was feeling. There was no real pain. But, nevertheless. It was curious.

"Relax. Everything's going to be okay. I'll take care of you," she said calmly.

Sex for her involved more than just physical intimacy.

Strange. She was reassuring him. How did she know he needed reassurance? What was happening?

Or, what was she doing?

Rod was about to ask what she meant by, 'relax'. But then, all of a sudden, he felt very relaxed.

Even faint.

He tried to look down, but she caught his mouth in hers with a wet kiss, and stopped him.

When she was done with that, she held his jaw with her left hand. Her right was somewhere else. She still prevented him from looking down.

"It's okay. I'm here with you," she cooed.

The woman could see he was weakened. Under her control. Completely now.

She removed her hand from his jaw, and he immediately looked down.

Rod Allen was incredulous. Shocked at what he saw.

He saw red. And lots of it.

Literally. Red. Below his sternum. Somewhere down there. He didn't know, or see exactly where.

Blood had been let loose as if a dam were opened.

The entire front section of his shirt below the chest, his expensive white Arrow shirt, now looked like half an American flag that had been badly printed. Red and white.

Out of the mess he could see her beautiful hand holding something. Her long fingers wrapped around something black. A handle of some sort?

Allen soon found out.

Quickly, and expertly, she pulled whatever it was out, and then smoothly, and with specificity, put it back into him.

He was woozy. But he could make it out.

It was a knife.

He had a knife in him. And Allen had just seen her pull it out, and place it back into his body.

Oddly, he had felt next to nothing. Was it an illusion? Had she dropped acid into his drink at the bar? How could she have just stabbed him twice, and he barely felt it?

No pain. Only a mild sensation. And now he felt like he was fainting.

He was fainting.

The Evening Ends

Rod understood now. Not fully. Not why.

But, he understood that she actually had stabbed him. He was sure he was now dying.

After it was over, she walked away from the Camaro,
into the night. Found a hotel, where she called for a cab,
and got a ride back to her car. She would never see Rod Allen again.
He didn't have time to even ask her what was going on.

Why she did it.

He was now so faint from the loss of blood, he could only look into her beautiful eyes. They were wild. Manic.

Allen hadn't realized it, but the sensation, of the stabbing, had occurred just as his hand had gone into her.

Between her legs. Into her wetness. Her sexual organs.

His mind, his life, was going. But he realized she stuck her knife into him, at the moment he was, with her encouragement, putting his fingers into her.

As their eyes looked deep into each other, he saw her begin to shudder. He hadn't hurt her. He hadn't raped her. Done anything against her will. Why was she...

Then he knew.

She was having a climax. An orgasm.

His fingers still in her. He, too weak to remove them.

She was climaxing as she was killing him. Indeed, it appeared she was climaxing as a result of killing him.

As this all patched together in his mind, Rod saw her fully realizing her orgasm.

In an abrupt motion, and as she pulled her knife from him, which would accelerate the inner bleeding ending Rod's life, she covered his open mouth with hers.

Thrust her tongue deep. Their tongues wrestled.

Rod yielded, for lack of energy, to her powerful, hungry motions. She sucked his tongue into her mouth. As if it were a penis she wanted deep in her.

Now he could feel himself dying. Painlessly. Losing consciousness.

Whatever she had done, she had done it well. Expertly. As well as a surgeon might have.

Finally, he felt the end. Her mouth pressed deep, wet against his own. His fingers in her. Feeling her lovely wetness.

Then, for him, blackness. Nothing.

She had killed him. It had been a murder.

And, an act of sex. Even love. Perhaps.

Friday, October 23, 2009


     sorry dears. if you were following the delicious hit on harry, and how i was about to dispose of that disgusting Drasco, i'm taking another week's breather.
     but i doubt you'll be upset.
     i know by the fact that you're reading this, you are all sick toddies.
     but so am i...and so much more than you all. so i know, fer sure fer sure (don't hate me because i'm sucha Val!) you will eat this up.

     happened several years ago. and it's just been kicking around. dying to come out...if you get my drift.

misty decided to go clubbing...where anything can happen 

     rather than explain, let's...well, get on with it...

     when in lalaland, do as the la's, i always say.
     and i'm there quite a bit. i sooo love vapidity.
     anywho, i was spending an evening looking smashing...prada leather skirt, sans panties. chanel silk blouse. gray velvet bottega veneta boots. to die for. so to speak.
     i was slumming at this overly chic club where last names, bank accounts and looks were the unspoken membership criteria. something caught my very perceptive and beautiful eye.
     a stunner of a doll so intent on a male she was chatting it up with...that it didn't quite make sense.
     unless you were misty, that is.

     "Dance?" a blonde voice from behind oozed as a superbly manicured finger traced itself up my inner back thigh from behind. i turned to see the woman of any woman's dreams coked out, staring me up and down. waiting to be had.
     i fucked her with my eyes and declined.
     "bitch," she cooed, making me want her nasty ass that much more. then she floated away.
     i could fuck and suck dreamy dolls any time. i quickly turned back to watch the girl and her guy.
     something was going on there. i had to know if misty's instincts were instincting true. however, the two were nowhere to be seen.

the blonde was a sexy, nasty piece of work. i didn't have
time to do her, so i f'd her with my eyes

     "fuck!" i whispered to myself, taking off through the crowd.
     after a few moments of brushing against young, beautiful sweaty bodies, out the door i went.
     they were there.
     enough coked out, beautiful people were outside sucking marlboros and american spirits, i wasn't noticed by the girl and the guy. i bummed a winston from some idiot who didn't have a clue. if you're going to get cancer, do it with the right brand asshole!
     so i stood in the midsummer night's eros, so thick you could eat it with a fork and spoon. ignoring the pools of hormones dripping from the couples around me. i peered undetected at "girl" and her dude.
     i knew the way she was looking at him. i knew it too well.

     after twenty minutes of pretending to smoke a winston that had burned out fifteen minutes earlier, i watched as they got going. i sauntered to my open ragtop porsche...i do so love a fine car when in lalaland...threw a scarf on, and waited across the street as they walked up the block to her wheels.

     before putting him in the car, she stared into the eyes of the barely 21 year old boy toy.
     it was the gaze of a cobra snake at feeding time.

      she turned the ignition on her new mustang and they were off.
      i followed a smart distance back. they worked their way from the west side onto sunset headed west. they were going fast. i kept up. hoping cops had something better to do than give misty a ticket.

i took off after them in my porsche speedster ragtop

      fuck. she was doing seventy towards the beach. he was licking her neck like it was a grape tootsie pop. they finally slowed it into chautauqua canyon, but blasted off again taking a right on pch. up we went, into 'the' malibu, as the over-botoxed pretentious nouveau riche bleach jobs refer to it.

     my couple nearly clipped a nitesurfer's longboard at 65 mph as he crossed pch at jack in the box across from the pier. assmunch surfboy flipped me off as i sped by next. i didn't have time to stop and kick his ass.
     finally, past zuma, she hit a hard left onto a frontage road of eight to ten million dollar beach houses, and i kept whizzing by. for 100 yards.
     then i whipped a 180, flew by the turnoff, and pulled up on the side of pch. i woulda headed down the road with lights off, but misty didn't need to.
     pch looked out over the frontage road below, so i could shut my lights off, perch there, and see where sugar and her dude pulled into. if they went into the house i might have to go down there and become a peeping misty.
     i watched as they sat in her car for a makeout session. oooey goooey stuff. fogged windows. la dee dah. etceterahhh...etceteraaahhh.
     hmmm. it went on for quite the while. the jazz channel was on coming in from long beach. i heard most of 'on green dolphin street' before they finally got out of the mustang.
     they went into the house.

they went into her daddy's $8 million beach house
after sucking on each other in the car for way too long

     i didn't want to drive down there if i didn't have to. the beach house was a normal size home that most people would live in. except 'the' malibu crowd. these were weekenders by the look of it. or doll's crashpad.
     it had those beachy huge windows all over the stinkin' place. with bamboo slats for blinds. it looked like trader vics with all that beach crap motif. luckily, bamboo slat blinds are easy to see through. if you're moi.
     misty doesn't go anywhere without some equipment. i had a nice pair of leica geovids under the passenger seat. always prepared. the infrared binocs let me follow luvbirds into the beach house even though they kept the lights ultra low.     the only glow was from a candle she lit after he flopped into pillows on a bamboo couch with pacific island totem poles for the legs. whoever designed this place had their taste in their wallet.
     daddy was probably a tv producer. aaron spelling syndrome.
     she kept the light low. neighbors couldn't see in. but one candle was enough for my spiffy leica infrareds. the interior looked like a few tiki bars i'd thrown up in back in the day.
     i was such the voyeur. which doesn't bother misty.
     but straight sex was not topsy on my list of things i sit in my speedster, on a cliff, at the beach, watching through nite ops binox.
     howevah, something was in the air. call it hitwoman's intuition.

     still...watching pretty miss give disco date a blow job was wearing thin.
     don't ask me what i'd expected...i couldn't even say. but it was looking like misty had wasted a drive to the beach.
     maybe i'd whiz back by malibu pier and see if i could nail hodad with his surboard, coming back across pch from his surfin' safari.
     i yawned. decided to, if nothing else, pick up a jack shake on the return drive. if there were no nite surfers to run down.

duke pearson's gaslight came on the blaupunkt
as i watched her suck him off down in the beach house below
     duke pearson's 'gaslight' came on the blaupunkt. as soon as it was over, i was turning to heavy metal and blowin' the tiki bar.
     at six minutes my song was over. i took one more peak over the cliffs to see how my honey bees were doing...whaddya know. things had changed.

     disco dan was shaking like his volcano had erupted.
     sweety was walking away as boy toy laid there with the quivers.
     she was naked as a stripper. meaning all she had on were stilettos.
     she was wiping her mouth like a vampire.
     so, she was a drinker. as far as misty was concerned, swallows were meant to go back to capistrano. not down the throat.
     i'll make exceptions if i need to ice a guy. if relaxing him with misty's mouth is the only option before punching his ticket.
     i resisted the temptation to vomit watching her lip smacking, and again readied myself to go.

     but...i was still getting a strange vibe from the tiki lounge.
     hot chic was now into a drawer, pulling out something. putting on gloves. standing behind her boy.
     he was lost in swoonland. eyes closed.

she was behind the kid, nude except for stilettos,
cute black leather gloves, and a garotte to wrap around his neck

     nude hottie was still in her stilettos. posing in the mirror with black gloves on. holding what looked oh so familiar to misty.
     she must have given him the suck job of his young life as johnny wadshot remained quivering like margarita jello shots on the tiki couch.
     as i watched through my leica infrareds, chet baker's 'i'm getting sentimental over you' crooned on the blaupunkt. nice song to watch what happened next by.
     sweetie stood behind her doll as he still lay shivering. she ohhh sooo lovingly wrapped what she was holding around his slender neck. the music continued as i watched.
     i always lovvved chet baker's melancholy horn. but his singing creeped me out. that was, however, in my misguided bisexual days. when i thought men were an option.
     once i dropped that delusion, chet's voice sounded oh sooo rite! i could always appreciate frank...'da way yoo look tttooonite'. but a guy with the soft touch of a chic?
     as he crooned started.
     doll below tightened her device around the kid's pretty neck.
     all of a sudden he wasn't so very relaxed. but if she knew what she was doing, and doll looked like she did...honey boy would be very relaxed. very soon...

i loved chet baker. he sang 'sentimental over you' on
my radio as she strangled her date to death, below

      even with the leica, it was hard to see what she had around honey's neck. it looked like a standard issue garotte.
     the g-string, as i like to call it. was my own fave device.
     i'm quite the inventress, having devised a handle to mine. allows very slow incremental turning with the slightest of wrist motion.
     let's one thoroughly enjoy the kill. no wasted energy.
     and misty does so love to conserve. very politically correct.
     howeverrr, a regular issue g-machine, like doll was using, was totally good for a little arm workout. and burning off excess hormones that a good kill brings out in a girl.
     back to doll, she had done this before. had technique.
     she'd pulled boy toy up a bit, resting the back of his neck against her naked tummy. locking her elbows to the sides of her well shaped ribcage, she easily pivoted, and was quite nicely strangling her sweety.
     technically, i wasn't sure this was anything but hot, sexy generation-y asphyxia play. but even in the candlelight, she had a look in what i could make out of her eyes.
     that's what had drawn me to doll and her disco date to begin with. i had spotted that 'misty' look.

     was this just another way to get him off?
     she was enjoying it too much for that.
     to get them both off?
     no doubt he'd come again during this little fun...but whether he'd still be alive when it was over was the question. misty was betting on black.
     as she tightened, and honey boy arched his back in futile desperation, chet crooned over the radio in my little speedster..."never thought i'd fall...but now i hear love call"...
     she was hearing love call alright. a dark, delicious, love.
     the kind of love only sick twisted killer girls like misty could appreciate.
     chet ooozed on..."i thought i was happy...i could live without love..."
     doll's date was calming down now.
     the intoxicating delight of strangulation by a hottie was kicking in.
     he was relaxing. or his body was as blood flow to the brain was squeezed by doll's skillful use of her wire. she was the definition of a natural...
     chet sang on. his melancholia sooo apt for what was happening below in the tiki lounge. chet, you are good for any occasion.
     " i must is all i'm thinking of..." was all doll was thinking of.
     nasty, deadly, terminal love. where one famished partner takes all that is, and all that could ever be, from her other.
     clubber boy was now ultimately relaxed. except for one part of his anatomy.
     doll stood behind him, straight and erect as a ship's masthead, while her boy lay relaxed, asphyxiating into a dreamy forever sleep.
     except for his own masthead. which was about to blow.
     chet finished his doll finished...hers...
     " gentle with me..." chet purrred.
     doll boy on the tiki couch was very gentle. gently asphyxiating.
     she was arching her own back now, pivoting her arms. her simply adorable black gloves gripped tight. i wondered, were they chanel?
     my instincts had been right. unless she had an e r nurse hidden behind the bamboo curtain, he was not returning from this trip to treasure island. kind of a mixed metaphor. bad misty!

after watching the kill, i rested in my speedster
the sun would be rising soon, and i'd be on my misty way

     my own cunt was now wet as doll's must have been.
     i'm not a fan of serial killing. dammit jim, i'm a hitwoman, not a serial killer.
     i'm a pro. serial murder, delish as it might be at times, declasse.
     still, if she did him right then and there, my leather speedster recaro buckets were going to need some cleaning.
     juice was running down my shaved pussy into my ass, like the owens valley aqueduct into l.a.
     "...because i'm gentle over yooo..." chet oh so sweetly murmured. as doll so sweetly killed...killed her boy.

     now at the end, his lean boyish body stretched in equipoise between eternal sleep and a final release.
     both about to occur as doll jerked one last time...
     his body wracked with a seismic shiver. his gear shift blew.
     even in candlelight i could see his stream.
     my gearbox was about to blow. i was ready to shiver my timbers...

     "...i'm gentle over yooo..."
     chet would be shocked to be singing to this. sick. tawdry. a kid scrumptiously murdered, his kill chic naked in stilettos behind him. and those black gloves. ferragomo? prada? i had to know!
     as chet finished his last "yooo", doll finished the last of her boy.
     his body...twitching in the afterglow of death. his cock only now softening...
     as he fluttered, shuddered, trembled, palpitated so lusciously in expiration, she, finally, erupted herself.
     one coool customer. one chilly chic.
     she didn't break form. perfect body perfectly posed. in the classic nasty silhouette of la femme qui Ă©trangle.
     she was beautiful.
     as he twitched in death...she now shook in several paroxysms of sickeningly horrifying pleasure. yummm!
     then...slowly becoming still. still as her murdered boy toy.
     i snapped the radio off.
     lowered my leicas. grabbed my sides...
     and doubled over as if misty had been punched.
     i had.
     my thighs quivered. stomach knotted.
     it was a hard, rough, visceral orgasm i'd not expected.
     i'd been dripping since she'd started the kill. my own scorecard was over thirty. i'd watched kills before.
     but this was

     i didn't know why it hit me so hard.
     so good.
     i let the shivers tremble away.
     leaned back in my recaro. sitting in a sticky pool of my own come.
     it was four in the morning.
     the sun wouldn't be up for two hours.
     i rolled up my window. locked the doors. checked my piece under my seat...and closed my eyes.
     i needed a rest...mmmmm

[too delicious not to be continued...]

Saturday, October 17, 2009

time out for an ale...

     let's be real.
     killing harry took place over five years ago dahlings.
     i love reliving it, but it can get tooo intense.
     and recalling killing that fuck Drasco! which i haven't even gone into yet.
     i need to take a break.

     sometimes i like to share things that are less than a half-decade old.
     like what happened this weekend.  fun fun fun, to quote my pal brian.
     but don't worry. we'll get back to harry. and, unfortunately, Drasco.
     howevahhh, over the weekend i had the most delish time...

she was at the bar with johnny stud, but studs interest me as much as keynesian economics. she was what had my attention...

     no secret i spend too much time in lalaland. last weekend i was in the simply deeliteful lion's head down in bay city, as raymond liked to call it.
     i luv brit pubs. so down home. as soon as i walk in i feel like watching soccer and kicking some ass. misty always likes to kick ass.
     so i floated in. ordered a pale ale. and had a couple of blokes and their gal pals devouring me with their eyes. i look sooo nice in skin tight evisu denims. definitely $800 well spent.
     "looking for the panty line guys? don't bother," i said, sucking a nice draw on my ale.
     "no luv. seein' how long it's been since yer last wax. couple a weeks, eh?" said the big tuff looker with the hot blonde i was eyeing.
     "find hair under these jeans pretty boy, you can tweeze it with those neon white teeth of yours, luv."
     that broke the ice. not the competition.
     pretty boy's undies were in a knot. his gal was more interested in the bulge in my jeans than his.

the guy with her said he was special forces. i had to go through
him to get her. no problem. i'd dropped special forces before...

     "yer a tough lady aintcha. i right like that," pretty guy said to 'here here's' form his wingman.
     "course don't push it sweetheart. ya never know who you're drinkin' with," he winked. i don't mind a chic who knows she's hot. it's gauche in a dude.
     "somethin' in yer eye, limey?" i said, winking at his woman. i wanted her.
     "i wouldn't give cap'n smith lip, respectfully mam'," wingman said.
     "will i upset pocahontas?"
     "no mam'. just that his majesty's special forces deserves a bit of respect. even in los angeles."

      game on.
     "my daddy always told me you get as much respect as you can take," i purred, breathing bass ale fumes down cap'n smith's too pretty, half open mouth.
     "respectf'lly doll, i was cleaning up the middle east while you were waxing your pubes so you could fit into yer denims," he said, winkin' at wingman. geeesh! guys winking at each other! get a room.
     their butch and sundance crap left his girl for me to flirt with.
     "respectfully, luv, where did you serve in the middle east?" i oozed.
     "crikey. if i told ya i'd have ta kill ya...doll," he smiled. his dolly bird followed the match like it was wimbledon.
     "be a shame to kill someone who saved your jammy arse," i cooed, finishing my bass.

pretty boy had served in the middle east. i told
him if that was the case, he owed me his life

     the temperature dropped. except for bird. she was heating up.
     after a few, he spoke.
     "ya might wanna check yer fax mam'."
     i smiled at his chic.
     "you ever hear of a holy man name of...," i queried, dropping a name i cannot say here. doll boy's face froze.
     he looked like he'd od'd on botox.
     i sucked my way into another bass. mr. special forces turned to his wingman with his blank face.
     they stared at each other like thelma and louise.

this hit involved flying into the balkans,
cracking my whip...and then...

     i don't like silence. unless of course i've just wasted a dude. i smiled at bird, turned. and left.
     her tongue touched her top lip as she watched me leave. always a good sign.

     i moved on. eyed the waitress. headed to the girl's room.
     freshened up, i decided to blow the joint. walk along the cliffs on ocean boulevard.
     surprise. outside the toilet was special forces. he was a looker. too bad men were not on my list of things to do anymore.
     "i got somethin' to say to you lady."
     i get my game on when i hear crap like that.
     "there going to be trouble sweety?" i said.
     he had a piece in his jean pant above his brit army issue boots. i spotted the bulge earlier.
     i could give a swift punch to the bulge in his 501s, then remove his bang bang before he finished doubling over.
     if needed.
     he just kept lookin.
     "am i going to have to take you down handsome?"
     thought i saw a curl on his lip. limey's are such dry slackjaws. can never tell if it's a smile. or smirk.
     that's a compliment to all you wankers reading this. anyway...
     "yer not goin' ta take me down luv," he said as the lip curl turned into a shit eating grin.
     "really," i said.
     "nah. cause i'm gonna thank ya."
     his eyes started to water.
i was aux naturelle... after i whipped his ass, i rolled
up his robe, and strangled him good with it

     "i don't know who ya are. but you wouldn'ta known that name unless you were the one."
     i relaxed. wasn't going to have to sucker punch his cock and grab his weapon after all.
     "figured it out, huh action man?"
     "the bastard ya mentioned. at was his city. me and me mates were gonna have to go in there. half my men woulda been goin' home in bags."
     i wasn't much on sentimentality. i liked it better when i had to kick ass.

     the gig a few years back had been to fly into an eastern euro shithole that'd been ground zero for the balkan war. it was where one of the players in iraq went to get funding. and to play.
     i was posing as a lady with a whip. not a far stretch for me.
     the name i'd mentioned to limey earlier was a 'holy' man who liked more than an angry god. he liked angry women.with riding crops.
     he wasn't spending all his time facing east on his knees. some of it was tied up naked with a riding crop across his hairy ass.
     won't say who paid the bill on this one, but it was a nice chunk of change.
     holyman was video'd getting the holy shit swatted out of him. not that he knew.
     when that was done, camera off, he got a little strangle session. he enjoyed it...but he didn't survive. oh darn.
     after he was bye bye, he was strung up by his holy neck for the bell boy to find.
     suicide note. delightfully perfect scene. someone had dropped a dime to the press. wink wink.
     but it wasn't the brits who paid the bill on that one.
     or washington.
     or vladimir.
     had it been any of those, misty wouldn't be sharing.
     let's say the buyer doesn't exist anymore. which ended my contractual arrangement to shut my pretty mouth about it.

i gave her a ride home. and then a ride...

     action man was still staring with watery eyes.
     made misty more nervous than if he made a move. i've taken special forces down before.
     but compliments...i get all frazzled...
     "the fucking holy bastard lost his cred with that episode. fanatics lost their boy. resistance dried up. lotta lives saved."
     "can't tell you who did that. otherwise i'd have to kill yer blimey arse, action man," i said.
     i winked. turned. he grabbed my arm.
     " bird needs a ride home. i...wonder if...ya might..."
     "...give her a ride?"

     sure i would.
     i went back to the bar.
     bird was there. alone. wingman and his date were outside waiting for action man.
     "your boy sez you need a ride," i said to dolly.
     she smiled.
     "i do..."

[back to harry...and killing that motherfucker]

Saturday, October 10, 2009

killing harry...
part six (taking out Drasco)

[continued from...take a guess!]

     i lovvve to kill. and i hated Drasco.
     that's a simple equation. but there was a rather yucky 'x' factor.
     the code among hitters is that you don't bump off your competition.
     that would be like erasing the lanes on the san diego freeway. no one would know where the lines were. people would crash all over the friggin' place. it would be nasty hell for me to find the rosecrans exit to get over to my darling exorbitantly priced shop center across from manhattan beach and have a cappucinno after buying that prada blouse and gucci shades i sooo must have!
hitman, gangster
Drasco...a smug old school hit man, with
a pinky ring, that i was going to have to...make disappear

     so hitters aren't supposed to 'do' hitters.
     but some things are more important than 'the' code.
     like having to take crap from dross like Drasco.
     my sweet panties were wet with the thought of actually taking Drasco down.
     no. it wasn't like harry. harry would be a love affair kill. Drasco would be an ugly, nasty sportfuck rape. we all need those now and then.

     for anyone in the trades reading my prose here, i'll point out that Drasco had already violated the code. he had taken my job. kill my kill, will  you? i don't think so!
     my employers knew the rules. i would not have gotten the job had there already been an action pending on harry. so Drasco had got the job after moi!
     whatever harry was, and there was more to this sweet fellow than met the eye, i was becoming surer by the moment that probably several business partners, a few wives, and maybe a number of governments wanted him bye bye.
     but i'd frickin' got the call first. it was my honor to take his sweet life. Drasco wasn't buggin' in with his heavy hand.
sexy-feet, sexy-legs, hot-feet, hot-legs, stilletos, sexy-calves
I dressed cheap, small town. Still,
I looked good. You can't hide style, I suppose.

     so. decided. Drasco had to go.
     but therein lies the rub, to quote another worthy writer.
     whatever else my competition was, he was no fool. i'd have to meet Drasco in his motel and take no weapons. that means i'd have to take him out by hand.
     hmmmm. i was good. perhaps not that good.
     but there was another possibility...yes!
     i had what i needed. i always came prepared.
     i called Drasco at the...gasp...motel 8...
     "Drasco, you win. i'll be over to talk this out. we need to come to some agreement."
     there was a pause on the other end. then a nauseating phoney southern chuckle.
     why this italio-eastern european descendant of vlad the impaler insisted on sounding like a texas aggie was beyond my stylish wits. george the 'w' bush was born in connecticut, went to high school in andover mass, and sounded like an east texas wildcatter. it didn't do him much good in the end.
     and this cheeep drawl wouldn't help Drasco.
     "well, darlin', you've come around. and now, why don't you, come around.
     "how's about ninish sound?"
     i'd play dumb. but not too dumb. too much of a giveaway.
     "if something happens to my sweet ass, Drasco, i'm covered. i won't go into specifics..."
     "and i wouldn't want you to darlin'. if i was gonna do you, it would have been in that little piece of crap you were drivin'. come now, we're professionals. we'll wheel. deal. and work this out. seeya at nine doll. (click)"
     i had no backup plan. i wouldn't need one.
Drasco's phoney texas drawl po'd me. some people
say don't mess with texas. i say, don't mess with Misty

     i got a few looks walking up the street after parking round the corner from the '8'.
     i kept it low key. sears summer collection. but i looked good. couldn't help myself. even in that trash.
     if i knew anything, and i knew a lot, Drasco would make an offer. sex for killing harry in a way that would satisfy both our employers' requirements.
     Drasco would offer it. but i knew he couldn't break a contract for an 'example' killing. he'd lie to me, fuck me, and then go kill harry in a very ugly way. and, of course, i'd be on the line for letting harry get in the paper as a mob hit. or worse, international incident.
     so things had to turn out my way. not Drasco's.

     i knocked on the door to Drasco's room. my 'fuck me' red wig looked hot. so did my spikey stilettos and floral print skirt. like something out of a nascar fan's fantasy. or a middle age hitman's. comprendo?
     the door opened. slow. sinatra was playing. was Drasco being 'romantic'? i had the urge to vomit.
     seeing his ugly mug didn't help. i held my lunch down and smiled.
     he motioned me in with the grace of...a hitman.
     "so, ya'll decided to come around darlin." there wasn't even a question mark at the end of his sentence. like there was never a question. grrrr!
     "just knock off the oilfield accent. we'll put our cards on the table and do what needs to be done." i couldn't be too nice to him. we didn't want a suspicious hitman.
dewars, white-label, scotch
the jackass offered me a dewars. he musta just read a 1972 issue of playboy if he thught i'd be impressed

     "how's bout a scotch before we get down to it." he had a bottle of dewars on the table, two glasses, and some already poured in one of them. The jackass was offering me a dewars. he musta just read a 1972 issue of playboy if he thought i'd be impressed.
     "what, couldn't afford the glen livet?"
     he shook his head. i'd stung him. "man, you know how to hurt a guy. i'll go get some if it'll make a difference."
     almost felt sorry for his murdering ass.
     "don't bother. what's your offer Drasco."
     "well, hon, before i back away from you and relax, i gotta have you take that dress off. and the hairpiece too"
     i smiled. "don't trust me, do you?"
     he smiled. "nothin' personal, darlin', but not on my life."
     i winked and pulled open my white trash blouse. tossed it to the floor. then dropped my floral print skirt. i was naked except for mervyn's cheap and sexy stilettos. i turned so he could see me 360, and then pulled off the red wig and shook my own glorious, dirty blonde hair out.
     "see mr. nasty? no guns, knives, bats...not even a pair of panties to strangle you with."
     "strangle me with panties, huh? i might like that darlin'."
     Drasco liked what he saw. the giveaway was mini-Drasco, below his waist.
     but by the looks of it, there was nothing mini about Drasco's cock. could the rumors be true? in response to my strip tease, it was sticking out like a ship mast. an arrow on a compass. pointin' due north.
     a hard north.
     "so what's the deal Drasco. what do you want for lettin' me kill harry. my way."
     Drasco turned without saying a word and ran to the bathroom. he wasn't in there long. only long enough to...well. you know.
     when he came back, i'd walked over to the dewars and was holding it. if he'd put anything nasty in the bottle i wasn't drinking. i handed it to him first. "have some."
     he did.
     i took it back and had a drink.
     "couldn't hold yourself in? i'm flattered," i said. he looked embarrassed, but no less the murdering bastard i knew he was.
     "gimme that," he growled, taking the dewars back, and throwing it down his ugly throat.

as Drasco and i were about to do the nasty, the big
red motel sign caught my eye through the window.
'color tv'. this was sooo tawdry. i loved it...

     "you and me on the bed. i take your pal out, but it'll look like he blew his own brains out. best i can do."
     i paused. wavered. quivered. just enough to look believable.
     "i can trust you..?"
     "if two working class stiffs can't trust each other in this game, what kind of a world are we livin' in, darlin'," the jackass drawled.
     i hesitated. then said yes.
     "you're a big guy, Drasco. you on bottom. i don't want your sweaty 250 pounds all over me when you lose your load a second time. you gotta condom?"
     "don't leave home without em'." Geesh. He was doing a karl malden impression.

     he began peeling off his overpriced, cheesy clothes. Drasco was a big, oily guy with a body that might once have looked like a greek statue. he'd had some practice getting undressed because he was down to black sox in about 30 seconds.
     his monogrammed designer briefs were still wet from losing control a few moments ago.
     i don't like men for anything but killing, but my eyebrows went up when he turned around and flopped over on the boxspring.
     "ya don't have to say a thing darlin'. my gift to you."
     he had the cock of a stallion. he was an arrogant bastard, but it was as nice as any i'd seen from my switch hitting days.
     i leaned over and held it in my right hand. "fuck!"
     "that's right, hon. fuck. now sit on it."

Drasco made me strip naked for concealed weapons.
He didn't think the best place to conceal was between
the halves of my naked ass...

     whatever plans i had for Drasco, it was on hold for a second. i wanted to feel that thing of his in me.
     he was a vile, disgusting, sadistic bastard. and i was the ultimo lezzie. but he was half the size of my arm. i wondered what that log would feel like in me as i did to Drasco what i was about to do...
     i didn't eat caviar. but if someone put a $1000 jar of it in front of me, i 'd sure as hell stuff some down just to say i had. Drasco's log was a $1000 jar of caviar.
     "where's your cock sock," i wanted to know.
     "wallet," he grunted.
     "optimistic sob, aren't you," i said. i bent down, took the wallet out of his pants on the floor. i pulled out one of three he had in there. he was hard by the time i peeled it on.
      for the black hole, waste of life, called Drasco, this was his one, one and only, redeeming characteristic.
     "i think you're the biggest piece of trash i ever came across, Drasco. but i'll admit, you got one hell of a cock." i pulled the latex down. it took some stretching to get anywhere near the base of his thing.
     when done, i threw one leg over Drasco's body so that i was straddling him.
     my one hand reached back, to my own lovely ass. my fingertips spread my delish, well formed glutes apart, until...i could feel it.
     hidden between the halves of my ass was a small plastic hypo, the needle covered with it's plastic protector so it wouldn' know...stick moi.
hot-sexy-ass, naked-ass, woman's-ass
i was the nurse goddess of a bad ending
for Drasco. i had a hypo filled with a gift...

     a little trick i'd used before to smuggle in that something special.
     i pulled out the hypo from my bottom, closed my hand around it, and bent down nose to nose with Drasco. the hand with my little gift was behind his head now. with the other hand i grabbed the one thing of value on this bastard, and stroked myself with the tip.
     i am a woman who can walk and chew gum at the same time. i can also pull the cover off a syringe with one hand, and pull a man's cock into me with the other.
     which is what i did with Drasco.
     while i can think about two or more things at once, Drasco had one thing on his mind as i pulled him in. judging by his earlier episode running to the boy's room, i didn't have long.

     almost immediately i felt him start to lose it.
     i looked down at the big, greasy italiano-slav with a phoney texas accent, and poised the needle against the thick artery in his neck.
     i had pulled myself up high on his cock, and with supreme maneuvering (way to go misty!), i eased back down slowly on the huge piece of him that was in me.
     as i came back down, he lost it...
     at that moment i put the needle deep in his neck and squeezed the full hypo into him.
     Drasco was too busy getting off to notice. the needle was empty and out of his neck before he was even done.
     i'd wanted his trophy in me, but i was over it by the time he was soft again. and by then, i'd finished shooting him up with enough horse tranquilizer to knock out...well...a horse.
hot-sexy-ass, naked-ass, woman's-ass, naked-sexy-woman, naked-woman, nude-woman
i pulled myself up off of Drasco after we did the nasty. he was out cold.
funny how a hypo of knockout juice in the neck will do that. i was the last
chic he'd ever get to do the nasty with.

     the big, nasty, bad ass hitter was out cold.
     i rose up on my long lovely thighs and his spent cock pulled out of me and flopped down like a caught bass on a redondo beach sport trawler in early spring. yeah, i like to fish.
     there was a half cup of little Drascos that he'd squirted into the latex. i pulled it off him, tied it off, and flushed the future Drascos down the toilet, where they would never blossom into the vile piece of shit now snoring away on the motel 8 bed.
     after i'd be done with Drasco, he'd never have a chance to infect a chic with his mutant progeny again. i was doing the human race a favor.
     always helping out. sooo 'me'.
     more important, when i was done with Drasco, harry would be left for me. and only me.
     ohhhhh, my delicious harry!
     i'd be coming for you soon enough my luv!

[to be continued...of course]

Saturday, October 3, 2009

killing harry...part cinqo

[continued from...the last post...duh!]

Drasco was the bastard in my back seat.
i wanted to blow his ass away there and then!

     i'd seen the bastard who was now sitting in the back seat of my little rental car, before.
     as a member of the kill trades, one might expect me to be honored having his smug ass in my back seat. however, there are members of my trade. and there are members.

     Drasco was the hollywood version of a hit man. except this mf was for real. nasty. arrogant. and a texas accent as phony as his moss lipow sunglasses. he had a pinky ring. how disgusting and gauche can you get!
     Drasco was not his name. but it's as close as i can get without giving away tooo much that would come back to haunt my sweet and lovely ass.
     "so darlin', you didn't hear? this is my job. a mistake's a mistake. i can forgive. just leave it to papa. i won't tell. you can collect. no one really checks these things."
     Dracso killed for pleasure, and got paid on top of it, like moi. but he enjoyed the sadism. the suffering. demolishing his vics in as ugly a fashion as this stupid pig could.
     that was totally not me.
mickey-cohen, gangster
Drasco was a throwback to the neanderthal days
of gangster creeps, mickey cohen and all that

     i savored my jobs as a fine meal. vics had their dignity. of course, they would have to relinquish it to my power. but when i took a man's life, i made him part of me. he was a meal to be enjoyed. suffering was minimal, if at all.
     each kill was a love affair.
     for Drasco, each kill was a chance to be hateful. i don't like that.

     "one problemo Drasco. aside from the fact i don't let others do my kills."
     "what's that sweetheart?"
     what a smug fucker! "well, asshole, this mark's gotta die natural, or by his own hand, according to my contract. if a gun's involved, he's gotta look like he did it. guns are not my choice for this. it's gotta go easy."
     that creep smiled like he just killed a puppy. which i'm sure was a prime activity of his disgusting childhood.
     "sweetheart, you are up the creeks with a coffee stir for a paddle. my directive is make this ugly. send a message."
     "surprise surprise you sick bitch. what job did you ever do where hateful motherfucking nastiness wasn't the directive?"
     he smiled, flashing his tobacco and coffee stained yellow teeth. man, for the money he charged, you woulda thunk he could visit the dentist for a whitening every six months. i've a running appointment every 180 days. style doesn't just happen.
     "hey. we all got our specialties. i bet yours is giving a nice blow job before takeoff. gives new meaning to the word whore. and i say that respectfully, darlin'"
vlad-the-impaler, count-dracula
ychhhh! Drasco was rumored to be related to
the real count dracula, vlad the impaler! he
certainly looked like him. ickkk!

     it was all i could do not to pull the trigger on my .44. i really would have hated to explain to the rental company why their subcompact came back with with motherfucker red blood all over their pretty mauve back seats.
     "look, Drasco, my piece of crap brother assassin. the only reason i don't blow your sorry hateful ass away is because, one, harry might be around and hear it. two, i'd lose my deposit on this rental. insurance doesn't cover asshole blood on the seats.
     "if you need to kill something ugly style, get your ugly face to vegas. lotsa folks owe lotsa money who can't
pay. the numbers boys adorrre your type. stay away from the serious stuff. harry dies nice. sweet. soft."
     Drasco seemed to be holding in some bad gas. i'll give him credit. he didn't pass it in my presence. finally, he talked.
     "doll, you are a pill. and y'all look great in plaid. howevuh, we're gonna have to work this out. you aint' gonna blow me away right here, right now. so you're gonna have to deal with this."
     aside from literally seeing this lizard's face on a most wanted flyer at a post office somewhere, i'd heard about Drasco over the years. he was some mixture of slavic and italian, rumored to have bloodlines back to the original count dracula.
     what was most untenable about this creep was, he actually dressed like a hitman. uggggggh!
     "look Drasco, get the holy 'F' out of my vehicle, or the world will be less one stinking hitman. and don't think i won't do it. i'm just a poor damsel, lost, finding a big ugly man with counterfeit moss lipow sunglasses in my car. on that point alone i'll get a medal!"
     "heh, heh. good eye toots. supposed to be $1000 shades. got 'em off some punk who got in the way of my last action. had to take him out too. pissed when i found out the specs were copies. y'all are impressing me doll."
motel-8, motel-eight, motel-six, motel-6, cheap-motel
he was staying at the local motel 8.  sooo de classe!

     what a piece of trash! "GET OUT!" i'm counting asshole! ten...nine..."
     "don't pee in your panties. i'm outta here. but we'll talk. you feel like being civil bout this, i'm at the motel 8, west side of town."
     "motel 8...class act slicko. get out now!"
     he did.
     "you weren't kiddin', were ya sweets. that's a nice piece. rounds must be a good eighty cents each. shame to waste one on me."
     "look slimo, don't take my guy out or else. why don't you go stomp a baby to death. or shoot a gramma. that's more your style."
     "don't knock it hon. beside, you ain't my idea of St. Theresa."
     "byeee Drasco."
     he started to walk away, then turned to say something as guys always do when you just want them to keep going.
     "your boy's blown to bits unless i hear from you by tonight. room sixteen. and i know you won't abuse that information."
woman-and-gun, killer-woman, murderess, hot-chick-with-gun, noir, noire, femme-fatale, smith-and-wesson
i would go back to my hotel, fondle my smith and wesson,
and dream of planting a hollow point in Drasco's sick brain

     i shoulda blown a hole in his back then and there. but he was right. even the barney fife's in this mayberry
might find something on me if they pried too much. and small town cops like to pry. i let him walk.
     "you win for now creepo," i shouted. he waved as he walked away. used car salesman bodyspeak for, i know you'll be back. the jerk really had no style whatsoever.
     i, on the other hand, had lots of it.
     my little miss pms act with Drasco wasn't totally from the heart. tho most of it was. there was a method to my bitchiness. as Drasco would find out.
     i wasn't about to let harry get iced by that piece of flotsam. no way.
     harry deserved better.
     harry deserved me.

[to be oh so continued, my luvs...]