TASKFORCE

TASKFORCE

Part 15

The problem eliminated, another few days of at times leisurely sex while at other times not so leisurely, all while consuming an abundant amount of the vineyard’s wines and he’d even been invited to a larger then usual gathering at the chateau for a weekend of frolicking and debauchery before heading back to the states.  Demi reluctantly but obediently responding to her role, that mixed with a couple of frolics with the young cousins, it all just adds to the raw sexual relationship with the twin Mistress who would like to get him to stay.  He’s sure this will become more then just an annual sabbatical as he prepares to leave.

The trip to the airport, the flight back with Demi, the jetlag with the differences in the time zones, and they all add up to the last couple days of his vacation being spent alone, researching the next trash to clean from the streets.  While killing a fresh pack of Marlboros, digging deeper into the asshole’s background running the corner of the old closed grocery deep in the hood, he obviously qualifies.  Going through BMV, finding a deuce and a quarter registered to the asshole, it’s time to get back to work.

Chapter 38

The Beamer still at his disposal, the old work van’s more to his liking at the moment.  Fuck, it’s been a couple weeks and he’s actually missing this shit.  Time to cruise the hood, lookup the asshole on the old grocery’s corner, find him alone and see just how fucking tough he is, hopefully more then that punk ass Russian.  An after hours trip to the impound lot, swapping out for the van, and the drizzle’s threatening to become a real rain, everything’s falling into place.

       Two weeks, seems like months.  It’s already after midnight, still drizzling but actually picking up to a steady patter.  And, there’s the same punks, same scams being run as he drives through the heart of the hood.  Pulling toward the familiar intersection for the second time with his Elvis impersonating rose tinted, gold trimmed sunglasses on, listening, lip sinking to ‘Kentucky Rain’ on the radio’s am channel, glancing at his reflection in the rear view mirror, a mimicking sneer and he thinks to himself, yea, after all, when you’re cool, the sun always shines.  Ignoring his favorite cigarette burning down between his fingertips, tugging the navy blue skull cap further down across his forehead, the wipers slowly swipes back and forth across the cracked windshield, the smashed bugs smearing here and there on the streaking glass.

Sitting at the red light, he glances toward the rustic riddled awning with the graffiti smeared 10 cent coca-cola slogan, imagine that, a bottle of coke for a fucking dime!  How fucking long ago was that store in the building?  Damn, Marlboros where less then a quarter a pack back then too, he thinks to himself as he glances at the smoldering butt beginning to heat up the yellowish stain between his fingers before he flattens it in the overfilled dash ashtray.  Light changing, slowly driving through the intersection, he casually scans the area, looking for the Buick as he passes the punk and his posse.

Leaking, dripping, the overhanging dilapidated tin roof hanging off the front of the building’s still functional enough to shelter the group of wannabe’s surrounding the smug asshole with his hoes tripping in and out of the old grocery’s open doorway.  Fucking drugs being sold out in the open, the tramps openly plying their wares to any passing John with a buck in his pocket, and still, he feels that rush deep inside from being back home, working his environment while going through his second pack of five dollar Marlboros for the day.

Another pass-by and he thinks it’s about time to make it happen; sensing the obvious way to get to the shithead, she’s standing right next to the punk, apparently auditioning for slut of the month.  One thing’s noticeable, the piece of shit must have something for white girls, likes to keep one around, whore her up, dress her like cheap trash.  Yea, he seems to always have one close by.  This latest one with the dyed black hair, her not so big tits hanging out, the young cunt can’t fucking be much out of her teens, if that.  Bet her fucking parents must be proud, certainly gotta’ be a couple of liberal pukes, should’ve used their right to choice a couple decades ago.  Then again, clean the bitch up; teach her some manners his way and she’s going to make a lot of people happy, just like the rest of the unrepentant bitches he drags off the streets.

Circling from the other direction, scanning the area, finding the pimped out ride parked in the old door-less corrugated metal garage back off the street attached next to the grocery building, the license plate matches.  Shaking his head, he just smiles.  It figures, the fucking jumbo chrome wheels with spinners cost more then the car.  Now, finding a spot down the street and hopefully, he’ll just wait ‘til the punk cruises later tonight.

Circling, finding a spot in front of a fire hydrant just a half block or so up the street under a burnt out street lamp, perfect.  Parking, flipping the key to accessory, he turns the radio down lower as an early Elvis song ‘Good Rockin’ Tonight’ plays out.  The tinted shades actually cool, helping light up the dark, he again smirks into the mirror, pushes the rims up his nose with his thumb.  The van doors locked, his ‘Dirty Harry’ revolver on the seat beneath his crotch, he slumps lower back into the seat watching through the streaking rain water on the windshield, not wanting to have some punk fuck the night up trying to break in.

The rain a little harder, listening to the patter on the flat metal roof of the van, he holds off on another cigarette as it pushes two o’clock.  The streets emptying, the locals obviously afraid to get wet, god forbid it might wash some of the stench off their filthy asses, he figures he’ll give another half hour or so, but again, rain always brings luck.  Resting back against the headrest, he keeps his eyes glued toward the corner.

Another fifteen minutes, the movement in the shadows down the street, he sees the silhouettes of a couple people turning the corner of the building toward the old garage.  Rising up in his seat, a slight squint as he turns the key in the ignition and he smiles as he watches his newest favorite couple disappear toward the Buick.  Lights flashing on, the deuce rolling out onto the street toward the intersection in front of the building, he slowly rolls the van out from in front of the hydrant with the lights still off.  Shaking his head at the look of the punk’s ride, it’s even fucking gaudier out on the street.

The Buick turning left at the intersection, flipping the van’s headlights on, passing the now empty stoop of the building, he follows a few car lengths behind inconspicuously in the other lane.  Cranking up the radio, the tribute to Elvis marathon an all-nighter, he listens to the commercials as he bides his time, leans toward the passenger seat to check the open satchel.  The feeling exuberating, the hunt reaching its pinnacle, he knows its just moments before the shit hits the fan.  Out of the hood, onto the nearly empty rain drenched parkway, he tries to figure something out, to make sense of it.  Why’s parkway’s for driving, and driveway’s for parking?  That’s fucked up.

No traffic to speak of, an intersection approaching, the light changing to yellow, to red, he grins as the Buick’s brake lights flash on.  Fuck, the guy’s a law abiding citizen tonight!  Cranking up Elvis belching out the first lyrics to ‘Don’t Be Cruel’ as he slows the van, he lets the front bumper barely nudge the Buick’s retro appearing continental kit hanging out over its rear bumper, smirks as he watches the convenience lights flashing on inside the car, the animated driver swinging open his car door even before the vehicles quit rocking.

“Hey motherfucker!”  Jumping out, obviously pissed, his pants hanging down across his hips, the verbal abuse continues as he points fingers, twists his body around, almost resembling a caricature of a mad pimp.  “What the fuck?... You hit my fucking ride asshole!”

Flipping the van door open, stepping out into the scattered raindrops while sliding the Magnum inside the back of his waist band, he shakes his head while sliding the oversized shades up his nose with his free thumb.  The wailing music blaring from the van, glancing toward the syringe from the top of the satchel, having it ready like he’s done so many times before, he stutters.  “Dude…. Sorry dude… But why’d you fucking stop?... Thought you’d go on through!”  The voice his best hillbilly impression, seeing the bad ass glare from the irate asshole, enjoying it immensely, he decides to push it a little further.

Glancing toward the front of his beat up van, the wipers still scraping back and forth across the smudged windshield, he shakes his head back and forth, whines as the shades slide down the bridge of his nose.   “Hope you didn’t hurt my van, man…. I need it for work… I mean when I work!... Shit!”  Slipping the shades back up with a thumb, shaking his head back and forth, reaching back behind his waistband, he feels his fingers comfortably tensing on the .41 caliber revolver, just waiting for the next move.

More then pissed, the whites of his eyes, a flashing gold tooth or two contrasting with his dark brown skin, stepping, almost lurching down the side of his car, it’s obvious the punk thinks he’s fucking with a dumb ass white boy as he bends over to check the slightest of a scrape across the metal tire cover above the license plate.  “Mother fucker… You fucking redneck honkie!”  Whipping a short barreled .32 from his side pocket, holding a punk ass gun sideways like a punk ass would, he shoves it outward, growls.  “Motherfucker… I think I’ll just cap your lily white ass… Right here!”

Arm jabbing outward, his own thumb sliding between the cocked hammer and frame of the chromed steel revolver pointing at his face, at the same time his own .41 Magnum flashing out, shoved upward beneath the punk’s startled face, he forces him up on his tiptoes forcing him to bounce on the balls of his feet.  Catching the startled punk off guard, watching his eyes glaring, twitching, he pushes the six inch blue steel .41 caliber barrel harsher up under his jawbone, jamming it obviously painfully beneath his chin as he feels the .32’s hammer slamming against his thumb.

“Mother fucker?... Mother fucker…  You said?... You piece of shit!”  The hillbilly voice gone, the ice cold monotone replacing it, adrenaline almost oozes from his pores as he glances toward the girl ducking down in the front seat, probably shitting her pants.  Glancing back toward the punk, the cannon’s barrel sinking even deeper up under his quivering chin, he scowls.  “This being the most powerful handgun in the world… And can blow your head clean off… You’ve got to ask yourself a question… Do you feel lucky?... Well… Do you?... Punk!”

“Wha…What?”  The girlish squeal, the startled expression priceless, grabbing the .32 from the asshole’s fist, shoving the six inch model 57 Smith and Wesson even harder into the throat area, he continues.  “I said man… Do you feel fucking lucky with this bei…  Oh fuck it!... Step your ass over here mother fucker!”

Forcing him hastily back toward the van with the magnum under his chin, reaching in the open door, tossing the .32 on the passenger seat, grabbing the syringe in one swift motion, he jams it in the punk’s neck, empties it in one forceful jab.    

“Aaaggghh!... Ohh!.... Ohhhh……..”  Slumping, dropping to the wet pavement on his knees, quivering, spasms, eyes rolling, the rain keeps falling as he does also, his clenching fingers slipping from his throat as he slumps face first across a puddle in the street, eyes still staring.

Watching him drop, the thought humorously crosses his mind; the motherfucker’s last thoughts are of a fucking Elvis impersonator impersonating fucking Clint Eastwood’s Dirty Harry!  What a fucking way to go, especially if he’d done any recent drugs tonight!

Quickly stepping around the front of the Buick, he slams the .41 Magnum back down into his waistband.  Jerking the passenger door open, grabbing the slumping, terrified girl’s arm, he drags her from the car, to the side of the van.  Jerking the side door open, quickly cuffing her hands behind her back, grabbing the shackle bolted to the center of the floor, slapping it around her ankle, he slams the door shut, all in less then a handful of seconds.  Climbing inside the van, the song ‘Don’t Be Cruel’  blaring it final notes, he slips the rose colored shades up the bridge of his nose again with his thumb as he reaches for a Marlboro and presses the lighter into the dash.  Waiting for the lighter to pop back out, drawing on the cigarette, sliding the lighter back into its holder, he takes a long, slow draw as he glances toward the carnage in front of the van.

Shoving the column shift into reverse, backing up the van, driving around the Buick, its driver sprawled across the wet street, no longer in the state of mind to drive it, but then again, won’t ever be, he glances in the rear view mirror at the image of the sniveling girl laying on her side, curled across the tarp covering the flat metal floorboard as he drives the blaring van into the wet darkness.  Taking another soothing deep draw on the Marlboro as he takes a look for the first time at his freshly bruised thumb, he flexes it a couple times as he listens to another commercial break between Elvis songs.  Yea, motherfucker, look who just TCB, he thinks to himself, admiring the reflection of his smirk in the mirror as he flicks the rose tinted shades up the bridge of his nose.  E would be fucking proud, but then, so would Clint, even though Clint’s famous lines involved a model 29 S and W, a .44 caliber magnum as the most powerful.   Oh well, everyone has their own opinions.

       First night back on the job, the drive to the mansion and the girl’s already in a cell, stripped naked, bound and prepared with the ever optional ball gag.  Her slender body actually near flawless, again a couple half ass small tattoos, one on the hip, the other on a tit, she needs her ass kicked for marring what can be such a hot little fucking body he thinks to himself. Stepping around her with a Marlboro dangling from his lip, the barber straight razor in his hand, he slaps it back and forth a few times across the wide flat brown leather strap attached next to the columns.  Leaning toward her, the glistening blade in his clenched fist, he tugs her neck back by her jet black hair as he slips the shinning blade just beneath her earlobe, pressing against her jugular.  Feeling the thumping of her heartbeat through the hard steel, taking a slow, long draw on the butt, glancing into her terrified eyes, he flips the cigarette onto the floor as a trickle of urine spatters between her bare thighs.

       Trembling in her bindings, her dark eyes wide, darting as she feels the freshly sharpened blade sliding upward across her neck, she squints her eyes shut, both her fists and toes sporadically curling as her naked body tautly flexes spread-eagled between the columns.  She can only pitifully grunt through the crimson ball gag as the warm liquid drips across her shoulders, trickles downward across, off her heaving bare breasts as the wet blade presses inward, calculatingly slides up past her ear, the wet sharp steel pressing against her throat.

Her terror obvious at the sensation of the razor pressing against her flesh, he briefly smiles at his twisted torment of the naked girl as he continues, sliding the blade upward, across her scalp, crisscrossing back and forth.  Again he grins to himself as he sees she finally realizes her hair’s being shaved with the ominous steel blade as it continues to swipe back and forth, dip into the basin of hot soapy water.  Her short black hair falling to the floor in chunks, some strands sticking across her wet shoulders, her exposed scalp glistens, much paler then the rest of her twitching body.

       Taking his time with the blade, he continues with her eyebrows, what there was of ‘em, then obviously her pubic hair, even as it already was a bikini cut, and finally he’s pretty much done.  Stepping back, lighting another smoke, he takes his first real look at the girl’s naked body, virtually hairless, her slim frame a tad too slim, but her tits more then a handful each, actually larger looking because of her slenderness, and well formed and extra firm.  Her highly mounted puffy nipples pointing upwards from the globular appearance of both glistening mounds, he’s sure she can be beefed up, add a few pounds and make a nice addition for one of the Mistresses.

       For now, she can hang between the columns for the rest of the night; contemplate what she’s in for.  Stepping toward the door, flicking off the light, he leaves her with her thoughts while lighting his last Marlboro.

End Part 15