January 22, 2011

Drone Wars: Nymphomaniac Killers

Burned Cabin.jpg


Early the next morning Tammy Mori and Katie Faye stood behind the old man with the ten-gallon cowboy hat while he chopped wood.  The older girl zipped up the microfleece, soft-shell jacket she wore under her gray, standard government-issue trench coat.  It was cold enough in the mountains to make her breath visible when she spoke.  He had every right to be angry with them.  Up 'til that point they hadn't been entirely transparent with him.  There was no longer any point in trying to deny it.  She told him she never wanted to hurt his feelings.  The younger girl wasn't really her daughter.  They hadn't set out to deceive him exactly, but now that he had caught them together in flagrante delicto there was no point in pretending otherwise anymore.  The two young women weren't related.  The other girl was her lover, and best friend. 

As he pulled a couple of more logs from under the tarp of the woodpile, it was clear he was upset.  He pretended to ignore the two of them as he stood the next one on the stump and split it in two with a menacing swing of his ax. 

If he wanted to kick them back to the curb, it was his prerogative she told him.  The two of them would understand, but she wanted him to try and see it from their point of view.  She tried to make her case why he shouldn't toss them out as if they were human garbage.  He had to appreciate that in their own way she and her partner really did have a strong affection for him.  In the past week, the three of them had developed a relationship.  They loved him, she told the man, at least as much as they loved each other.  It wasn't a question of either him or them, not in their minds it wasn't.  They might have deceived him about some things such as their own relationship, but otherwise they had been entirely up front with him.  Why couldn't he see that they hadn't meant to hurt him in any way?  When it came to their affection for him, she insisted that part was genuine and heartfelt in a way neither of them could fake. 

She could, however, plainly tell by the way he avoided the subject his mind was already made up against them.  Maybe he didn't know exactly what he was about to do next, but the game was over.  Things would never go back to the way they had been before.  They had gotten about all the information they were going to get from him.  As he grabbed another log off the frozen ground she could clearly tell how upset he was with the two of them.  Whatever it was he was going to do with them, she was convinced it was going to be unpleasant.  He was so angry he couldn't even look her in the eye.

When Katie Faye gravely nodded to her partner, Tammy Mori leveled her pistol.  The back of the old man's head exploded with the impact of the shot, and he dropped like a sack of potatoes.  The two of them reminded each other it wasn't because he called them "dirty girls" that they'd killed him.  At that point they didn't have a choice.  The two of them had been assigned the case because the man was a suspected criminal.  It wasn't their fault he had caught the Federal Government's attention.  The fault lay squarely with him.  He was the one who had brought suspicion on himself by waving around a fat wad of bills in the strip club, and bragging to everyone in the bar how rich he was.  She and her partner were only doing their job when they inserted themselves into his personal life to monitor his activities more closely.  Their mission was to locate the source of his funds, to keep tabs on his associates, and irregular monetary transactions.  And, save for a number of sexual favors, they had done nothing else.  Nothing more.  Nothing less.  He was a mature grownup.  He couldn't possibly have believed they were there because they enjoyed his company. 

"Katie Faye is a college graduate.  She should have known better," the instructor was more put out than usual when he arrived at the cabin with his sentries to clean up the mess they had left behind.  "But unexpected circumstances can arise in the field.  That's why you were made the control agent," the former death squad major berated Garry Knolls.  "You were supposed to monitor the situation, not turn a blind eye, especially once her and Tammy Mori's cover was blown.  The younger girl described how the blood spurted out of the back of the old man's head after she shot him," the instructor addressed his student.  "The two of them graphically recounted how they dismembered the man's body with a rusty chainsaw they found under the cabin, how heavy his decapitated head was when they hurled it over the mountainside and watched it roll down to the bottom.  Didn't any of that raise red flags?" 

"A minor glitch," Garry Knolls allowed.  "But wasn't my first concern for my agents?" he valiantly tried to make an argument in support of his inaction.

"A minor glitch?" the instructor couldn't believe his ears.  "Come on.  What about the fact that your two agents drained the man's bank accounts and tried to burn his cabin down in an attempt to cash in on the insurance?"

The six of them stood in the charred frame of the mountainside house -- the instructor, Garry, Tammy, Katie, the two other girls who had escaped from campus with them, and Parson, the driver.  The insurance angle was a new one on Knolls.  His team members hadn't considered the prospect of an insurance scam, although they probably should have.  Everything the instructor accused them of, he reminded himself, was pure speculation, blind conjecture.  The reason they had torched the cabin was to destroy the evidence, he countered the former death squad major's charge.  "It seemed like a good idea at the time.  Now I'm not so sure," he shrugged his shoulders.  As for the drained bank accounts, it was anyone's guess if anyone else had access to the money.  "Wasn't it safer to take the money off the streets?" he tried as best he could to assume the mentality of a government technocrat. 

Truth to tell, Garry Knolls had been out of radio contact with the girls when the whole mess went down.  He was busy elsewhere.  Unbeknownst to Katie Faye, Tammy Mori had set another scheme in motion -- one that was cash starved, a machination a little more devious than usual, even for her.  There was no point in trying to dissuade the young woman with the black wig with severe bangs.  He had wanted to tell her that a rudimentary investigation by any forensic accountant would quickly reveal a disparity in the funds retrieved from the bank when they were eventually compared to the originally deposited sum.  They couldn't get away with it.  A math PhD wasn't required.  It was simply a matter of addition and subtraction.  Sooner or later, someone would discover the cash was missing.  The trail would lead directly back to them.  Did she really believe they had landed the case because Katy Faye had overheard the blowhard cowboy boast about his billfold in a strip club?  He wanted to tell her there was more than likely a small army of real life government agents -- all ex-Vegas mob bookies, no doubt -- who closely watched over the man's financial transactions with the electronic equivalent of a digital microscope, and they were more than aware of every penny the man had, and, moreover, where it was stashed.  The undertaking was beyond foolish.  He wanted to tell her that they didn't stand a chance, the authorities could crash through their doors at any moment, but he gave up before he had even started.  When she was in one of her moods, she was scarier to him than a legion of ninja assassins. 

In the van, on a couple of occasions, they nearly betrayed themselves, but when the instructor in the front seat growled, "You better damn well hope we find the head before anyone else does," they managed to remain stone-faced, sphinx-like.  For the time being, Garry Knolls reminded himself, there was no proof against the five of them.  No matter how sure the death squad major was of their guilt he didn't have any hard evidence of any malfeasance on their part, at least, not yet.  They would be fine for a while, at least as long as they were able to maintain their air of innocence about everything that had transpired after the murder, and didn't in any way give themselves away. 

"Over here," Tammy Mori stood in the emergency lane at a crook of the road that perilously overhung the steep valley.  She and Katie Faye explained to the paramilitary soldiers that they believed this was the spot where they had pulled over to the side of the road and tossed the dead man's head over the embankment.  "The Nymphomaniac Killers" Garry Knolls nicknamed the uncanny Cleopatra-wigged pair.  "Down there," the two psycho temptresses beckoned one of the former death squad major's sentries over to the guardrail at the edge of the vertical drop-off.  "It should be down in that ditch down there, somewhere," the two of them peevishly peered over the side of a bluff that dropped at least a quarter mile into the chasm below. 


-- Daniel Mendel-Black, copyright 2011

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January 16, 2011

Drone Wars: Cum Undone



            Rose-colored, satin curtains hung over pink walls.  There was an acid, lime-green vinyl sectional couch, and a queen-sized bed off to the side.  Tammy Mori's room in the old man's mountain cabin looked less like a little girl's boudoir than a struck set from a low budget porn movie.  She wore a summery, cotton, matching lemon yellow two-piece set that played nicely off her warm skin tones, and swayed gently back and forth with her back turned to Katie Faye who flipped through a tabloid magazine she had picked up earlier in the day at the local supermarket.  The younger girl bent over and pulled back her short skirt to reveal a sunny pair of underwear that were the same hue as the rest of her outfit, took her top off to reveal her small, peach-like breasts, ran her hands up and down her chest and legs, and hopped onto the bed.  On all fours, she leaned forward coyly to show off her erect nipples, turned around, slowly pulled her underpants down to expose a perfectly contoured, shaved crotch, and gently wiggled her heart-shaped rear end in the other woman's face.  "Want me to rub your pussy?" she brushed the long black hair of her wig from her face. 

            "Why do you always put your hands between my legs?" Katie Faye carped, only slightly annoyed. 

            "Because when you want to make love you open them up, and when you don't you ask me why I always put my hands between your thighs," Tammy Mori flopped onto her back and tried to kick her underwear off. 

            "I have to go check on the old man.  It's almost time for his massage," the older girl reluctantly put her magazine down.  To seal the deal the night before at the strip club, she had bragged to him that the home care service she allegedly worked for was famous for their "special" massage.  The only way to convince him to take both of them home was with the tantalizing prospect of what was commonly referred to in the industry as a "happy ending".  "You should have seen the look on his face when I pointed you out to him and told the old, dirty bastard we were both fully certified and accredited nurses," she looked up at Tammy who was turned on her side fully undressed, her face scrunched, her right arm hooked around the underside of her raised right thigh so that Katie Faye could clearly see her pretty star-shaped anus, and her fingers hard at work on her fleshy cleave. 

            The older girl's nightclub act had ended with her oddly stooped over an upright vibrator suction-cupped to the seat of a wooden barstool.  Tammy Mori had watched the woman perform her last set with more than a modicum of awe.  There had been something arousing about the sensual way Katie Faye had squatted down over the plastic phallus with one hand on the stool to support herself, how she moved so carefully up and down the nose of the missile during her grand finale, the way she never gorged herself on the full length of the sleek dildo, like she was so small and tight down there she could only take in the tip.  Tammy Mori had fallen madly in lust with the other woman's narrow hips, her little breasts like two dainty, white, porcelain teacups, and her slinky, girlishness, as if the devil she had inside her had not manifested himself in the guise of your standard, vulgar madman with the thin, angular eyebrows, the pointed ears, black horns, closely trimmed goat beard, and the long crimson, velvet cape so often portrayed in mythology, but was more like a very well-behaved, severely mentally disturbed child gifted with the most drop-dead exotic body she had ever seen. 

            On her way up to the old man's bedroom Katie Faye couldn't stop thinking about her new lover.  "Keep it warm," she yelled back at the naked Tammy Mori on the pink, satin comforter.  She couldn't believe the other girl was not her mirror image.  She was like an alter ego, another duplicate Katie Faye, the Katie Faye reproduction she hadn't been able to kill in the inverted city of the Fortean College Tetragon.  There was something strangely perverse about their new-found relationship.  Making love to the young girl was almost like making love to a twin sister she never had, almost like she was making love to her identical self.  They were so similar she had to constantly remind herself that she was actually with another person, someone else besides herself who didn't have the exact same memories she did, someone else with other thoughts and feelings, who didn't see the world exactly as she did. 

            The old man suspected of "militia activity", the phrased most commonly used to describe his purported crime in the mission synopses, was busy in his study.  If she was on cloud nine when she ascended the top landing and entered his office, it was only because she had momentarily forgotten the cruel order of the universe.  It didn't take long for her mind to cloud over.  There was another story above hers she hadn't counted on, another forgotten plateau that ominously loomed over hers.  If she was on cloud nine, the man with the expensive beaver skin cowboy hat who yelled into the mouthpiece of his headset was firmly established on cloud ten, and when he swept his spent cigarette butts and discarded beer cans off his stoop they rained on her head.  A couple of unsavory looking characters that could easily have been two former Interan Corp. graduates were on the other end of the videoconference.  He indicated for her to fix him a drink, and motioned for her to pick out one of his dead wife's negligees from the top drawer of the teak dresser down the end of the hall.  "Something revealing," he put his hand over the receiver.  "Business," he added, his square front teeth getting in the way of the words.  "I'll only be a minute," he sucked in the sentence.  "Her bras are in the second drawer down."  After the call was over, she did her job like a veteran, and when it was all over, in the most meager attempt to preserve some semblance of what self-respect she had left, she wiped the sides of her mouth with a tissue paper, and dropped it in the waist paper basket next to his desk on her way out the door. 

            Life at the mountain cabin, Tammy Mori could already tell, was going to get old and tired really fast.  When they weren't fucking each other, they were supposed to take turns servicing the old pervert.  On the second day, Tammy Mori took second duty.  After the accident, the recluse had also preserved all his dead daughter's clothes.  She had worn a pair of the dead girl's daisy-dukes and a tube top.  He was very insistent she wore the dead child's undergarments.  When she came back downstairs, Katie Faye was curious how it had gone.  The older girl wanted to know everything.  "You're kidding," she held her hand over her mouth to suppress her mirth when the younger girl related her experience.  "No way," she exclaimed with glee when Tammy described how he got off on watching her through the bathroom door while she took a dump.  "What a dirt-bag," she playfully threw a pillow at the younger woman's head, jealously.  "I can't believe how easy you got off -- the pig made me suck his cock." 

            Up there in the mountain cabin the three of them were no better than disposable human junk.  Nothing good could come from their seclusion in such tight quarters.  Three trashy figures, their lives wasted on the pursuit of creature comforts, fast food, base instinct, celebrity worship, drugs, and cable television.  They had nothing to offer up, but their lazy, slothful desires.  Nothing to give.  Three black holes of human self-indulgence and disaffection, three empty vessels filled with wanting for the same dumb things everyone else wanted -- wanting nothing else but what was the easiest, most frequently advertised, and readily available.  The girls went into town to pick up the stuff they needed around the house.  The old man sat up in his study, and made his phone calls.  Twice a day he required his carnal titillation.  Otherwise, the girls were alone with each other.  It was only a matter of time before they all got bored, and the whole set up turned positively ugly, devolving into an unseemly, nasty, melodrama. 

Neither of the young women, however, could have predicted how quickly the situation would unravel.  They were relatively careful to maintain their mother-daughter act.  Although even a blind man should easily have been able to tell they were too close in age to pull off the impossible charade, their liaisons were generally furtive, stealthy engagements realized behind locked doors, on trips down the mountain in the backseat of the old man's truck, or at the heavily wooded, northern ridge of the tree-lined property well out of sight of the second story window of the log cabin where the old man had his office.  He rarely came downstairs.  It was as much a surprise to the two of them as it was to him when he walked into Tammy Mori's pink bedroom with the rose-colored satin curtains and sheets on the fifth day of the mission without first knocking, and found the two of them there together naked in her bed, her lovely, snow white tail in the air, her nose, and lively tongue buried in the smooth, bronze-tone crevice between Katie Faye's thighs. 


-- Daniel Mendel-Black, copyright 2011

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January 13, 2011

A Little Painting


Daniel Mendel-Black, #142, 2011, 24" x 26", oil on wrinkled canvas

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