THE GIRL WHO FELL TO EARTH By Torrent --- (I) She stood on the deck behind the cabin, looking over the moonlit valley. A cool breeze caught and lifted the bottom of her white silk camisole, revealing her slender waist. She wore only the camisole and white bikini panties, and for the first time in her life, she felt cold. In fact, she had goosebumps--and she loved it. There had been a lot of firsts the past few days. For the first time in her life, she was not a superheroine. Oh, she still had powers that no other woman on earth could boast of: She could fly, she was incredibly beautiful, and she was immortal. This last gift was one she believed she could not surrender, even if she wanted to. But the physical strength, the impressive muscular development, the X-ray vision, the blinding speed, even the skintight costume--all were gone. She had given them up happily, and with them the responsibility for saving lives, fighting evil, and always playing the perfect role model to young women all around the planet. Now, she was taking a well-deserved rest, here in the mountains, far from any city of consequence, alone with the moon and the owl that hooted from the woods in the distance. She raised herself on her tiptoes, then silently took flight. She flew in a languid spiral, rising above the cabin, and when she was high above its roof, she flew east, along the ridgeline on the south side of the valley, toward Big Pine Park. She flew gracefully, swimming through the air as if she were performing a water ballet. She was at peace with herself and the world around her. She no longer need concern herself with the dirty, gritty struggle in the faraway city, the struggle between greater and lesser evils, between the malcontents and the truly malevolent. Nothing could mar her serenity as she glided through the cool evening air high above the dark woods of Big Pine Park. ***** It was Irv who saw her first. She was silhouetted against the moon, a woman-shaped shadow in the sky. But that was impossible, he thought. He put his beer down on the picnic table and called out to the others, "Look, it's a fuckin' bitch, up in the sky!" He pointed up at the moon. The other three, who were perhaps more inebriated, or simply wary of Irv's idea of a joke, sat silently around the table. "I mean it, look up there," Irv insisted. Jake, their leader, decided to humor him. He looked up, saw nothing at first except a very clear sky and a very bright moon - and then a shadow making lazy circles above him and a little to the west. "Shit, look at it," he said, in a low but urgent whisper. "Look, there really is something up there." Pete and Loopy now saw her too. They started talking excitedly, but Jake told them to hold it down. Whatever it was, he didn't want to draw its attention--or scare it away. Irv, who had gone to the truck, returned with two rifles. He handed one of them to Jakes "Fuck that," snarled Jake, "You take the .22. Gimme the .30-06." Irv's face fell, but he did as he was told. It didn't pay to cross Jake. The shadow had drifted away and was now over the edge of the picnic area, near where the thick woods began. Jake pulled back the bolt of the .30-06. There was a round in the chamber. Good. No time to waste. Now the figure was coming back toward them, but higher in the sky. Jake estimated 100 to 150 feet. And Irv had been right. As the shadow passed the moon, he could see for sure that it was a woman. He raised the rifle to his shoulder and aimed. It would take an incredibly lucky shot to bring her down. He was more than a little drunk, and the target was moving. "Fuck it," he said, more to himself than to his buddies. "No excuses." The sound of the shot jolted them, even though they had anticipated it. For a second, they forgot why Jake had fired. Then there was a cry of pain and the sound of lumber breaking, and they turned to see that their target, whatever it was, had tumbled out of the sky and crashed into a picnic table 30 yards away. ***** Pete reached her first, with the others hot on his heels. He shined a flashlight down on the pale figure in the middle of the shattered table. They were very quiet for what seemed a long time. Then Pete said, "We've got to get her to a doctor." "Yeah, and maybe you'd like to drop me off at the sheriff's office while you're at it," hissed Jake. "Think, you fuckin' idiot. I just shot this bitch out of the sky. If we bring her to a hospital, I'm going to jail. And I'm for damn sure not going to jail again." "Maybe she's dead," said Irv, trying to be helpful. But the figure moved slightly, and they heard a low moan. "She's alive," said Loopy, softly. "Let's fuck her." "Now, at last someone around here is talking sense," said Jake. And he stepped forward and grabbed the girl by her thick blonde hair. "Upsy-daisy, sweetheart," he said, as he lifted her onto her feet. Her eyes, which had been closed, opened part way, and her lips moved. She was trying to speak. Jake didn't give her a chance. Holding her hair with his left hand, he slammed his right fist into her belly. There was a loud "whoosh" as her breath rushed out, and her knees buckled. He let her fall face downward to the ground. "Okay, boys, we're going to give this flying fuck the worst beating she ever had--and the best group sex." Jake told Loopy, by far the biggest of the four men, to bring her over to the table by the pickup. Loopy picked her up as if she were a rag doll and tossed her over his shoulder. Her hair and arms swung crazily as he carried her. "Lay her on her back," Jake instructed. "Let's check her out." He pulled up her camisole and exposed a lovely set of tits - and a big red welt on her rib cage, just below her left breast. There were no other marks. "Where's the bullet hole?" asked Irv. Loopy pulled down her panties just far enough to expose her pubic hair and announced, "I don't care about bullet holes. Here's the hole I want. Let's fuck it." "Fuck it you shall, Loopy, many times over," said Jake. "But first we've got to figure out what we're dealing with here." "I know what we're dealing with," said Pete, nervously. "We're dealing with trouble. Look, she was flying. And you shot her, but there's no bullet hole. You know who she is." "Bullshit," said Irv. "You've been reading too many comic books. Besides, where's her costume with the big 'S'?" "Irv's right," said Jake. "Where's that tight little costume with the logo? And what's more to the point, if she's who you think she is, Pete, how come she's lying here like a run-over dog in the road, instead of beating the shit out of us?" Pete had no answer to that. Neither did Loopy or Irv. "Okay," said Loopy, "let's fuck her." At this point, SG whimpered and pressed her right hand against the angry bruise on her ribs. She tried to sit up. "What do we do?" asked Irv, who was closest to her. "This," said Jake. He pushed Irv aside and punched SG square in the face. Her head snapped back and bounced off the table. Again she tried to sit up, and again Jake punched her, this time in the jaw. She slumped back on the tabletop and didn't move. "Okay," said Jake, breathing heavy, "turn her over on her belly and let's get this show on the road." Loopy was the first to do the honors. While the others held her wrists so she wouldn't slide off, he pulled down her panties to expose the loveliest ass any of them had ever seen - and a pussy that seemed to cry out to be fucked. Loopy unzipped his jeans and pulled out a prick that his friends swore was the biggest in North Carolina. It was ready for action. He grabbed her hips and slammed his rod into her with no preliminaries. She awoke with a start and tried to struggle, but Irv and Pete held her wrists firmly. And Jake, who had been watching with a strange smile, now stepped forward, grabbed her hair and slammed her face down on the tabletop. The struggling ceased. Loopy didn't take long. He withdrew his oversized cock, dripping with cum, and said with a satisfied smile, "Now, that's a fuck!" Irv was next. Loopy had lubricated her, so he slid in easily and pumped long and slow. He was taking his time, enjoying the best piece of ass he was ever likely to have in his lifetime. Maybe she was enjoying it, too, he thought, because her ass wiggled slightly and she made an unintelligible but sensual sound that might have been an invitation to keep it coming. Irv ended with a huge sigh and backed off. "Your turn, Pete," said Jake. "No way," Pete said. "This is insane." "Insane?" said Jake, calmly--too calmly. "Insane? I'll show you insane." He walked back to the table where he'd left the rifle and returned with it. He shoved the barrel into her rectum. "Now, it's too bad she's not awake and a contortionist," he said, "because she could kiss her ass goodbye." With that he pulled the trigger. Everyone flinched, but there was only a loud click. Angrily, Jake pulled back the bolt and checked the chamber. It was empty. "Looks like you'll just have to fuck her like regular," said Loopy, philosophically. "To hell with that," Jake growled. He pulled the gun barrel out of her butt hole, raised the rifled above her and brought the stock down on the back of her head with a sickening thud. "Jesus," said Pete. Her body twitched, then went limp. "Is she dead?" Irv asked. "What the fuck difference does it make?" asked Jake. "She soon enough will be." He scooped her up in his arms, carried her over to the pickup truck and dumped her onto the ground. "We'll get rid of her later," he said. "I'm ready for another beer." His voice was oddly cheerful, as if nothing more unusual had happened. The others knew enough to humor him when he got like this. Irv opened four cans of beer and handed them around. They talked quietly. No one mentioned the woman who lay unconscious, perhaps dead, only a few yards away. ***** But SG wasn't dead, and she was no longer unconscious. Her head ached terribly, and the pain in her ribs flared every time she moved. But move she must, before the men lost interest in drinking and decided on more fun with her. Quietly, she crawled around the truck, away from their table. After she had made it about fifty feet along the gravel road that led out of the park, she got unsteadily to her feet and staggered forward. The moon slipped behind a cloud, and in the darkness she didn't see the broken beer bottle. She stepped on it and let out a small cry of pain. A small cry, but not small enough. It was Irv; again, who spotted her first, a pale form on the road. "She's getting away," he called. They all jumped to their feet. But Jake told them to stay where they were. He groped in his jeans pocket, found the keys to the truck, leaped in and cranked it up as he hit the headlights. The truck swerved backward in a short arc, and when SG's slender body appeared in the lights, he rammed the transmission into first gear. The truck bolted forward, spewing a hail of gravel behind it. She was only a few dozen yards down the road, and she seemed frozen by the oncoming lights. She made no effort to evade the truck. "Don't," Pete cried, but his plea was lost in the roar of the engine and the loud thump as the pickup smashed into SG and sent her flying. She landed 20 feet in front of the truck, but Jake wasn't finished. The truck rolled over her body with a jolt and continued down the road before skidding to a stop. Irv and Pete and Loopy, who had been watching all this in a mixture of fascination and horror, now ran toward her. It was Pete who saw the truck approaching them in reverse. "Get off the road," he shouted. Amazingly, SG was moving, writhing in the gravel, reaching, with her left hand, for some imagined source of succor or help. The truck crunched over her prone form, skidded to a halt, then jerked forward again, as Jake shifted gears, all the while grinding the girl into the gravel. At last, he backed up enough so that she lay in the headlights, covered with gravel dust, her eyes open but rolled back, her mouth open and slack-jawed. Jake jumped out of the cab, rushed over to her and pressed two fingers against her throat. "You're a fuckin' maniac," Irv said, in a tone that suggested admiration as well as revulsion. "Any pulse?" asked Pete. "As a matter of fact, Petemeister, there is," said Jake. "Not much, but maybe we can help." He went back to the cab of the truck, opened a metal case and came back with jumper cables. "Here, Loopy," he said, "Let's give her a charge." "You've gotta be kidding," Irv said. Pete turned away in disgust. "No kidding," said Jake cheerfully. "This'll be just like ER." Loopy attached the cable to the truck's battery terminals, then handed the other end to Jake, who brushed the clamps together to produce a shower of sparks. SG lay crumpled and twisted in the road. Jake kicked her arms and legs until she lay spread eagle on her back. Then, straddling her, but with his feet parted widely enough to avoid contact, he reached down and attached the clamps to her nipples. "Clear!" he shouted, but he barely cleared her himself as she went into wild convulsions. "She's humpin' like a snake run over by a mower," Irv said. "Let's turn up the juice," said Jake. He climbed back into the cab and gunned the engine. "Christ, she's smokin'," called Loopy. Jake turned off the engine, climbed back out and looked at the twitching body. Smoke was indeed rising from her breasts. "Better put it out," he said. He unzipped his pants, pulled out his pecker and began to piss on her. The piss sizzled on the overheated clamps and the smell was sickening, but Jake didn't seem to mind. He smiled contentedly. "This," he said quietly, "is a hundred times better than sex." *** Before they finished with her that night, Loopy had fucked her four more times, and Irv had poked her twice. Pete, who had slunk away, returned sheepishly and asked for a chance to join in. Jake sneered but said, "Go ahead." For all his earlier concern about her, Pete put his heart into it. And when she seemed to regain consciousness before he was finished, he smashed her in the head with a flashlight. He was one of them, as guilty as Jake. He was filled with self-hatred--and lust. *** When the sky began to lighten, Jake said it was time to dump her. They loaded her into the back of the pickup. Loopy climbed in beside her, to make sure she didn't wake up and escape. Irv drove, Pete and Jake beside him. "Where to?" asked Irv. "The dumpster behind the Foundry Apartments," said Jake. "They don't pick up for two days." They drove past the apartment buildings to the littered cul de sac where the dumpster squatted like an ugly metal toad. Irv backed up to it, then Jake jumped out to help Loopy. He lifted the heavy metal dumpster lid, while Loopy picked SG up and tossed her naked body into the dark, foul-smelling steel box. "Is she's still alive?" Jake asked. "That's highly unlikely," Loopy drawled. "Since I twisted her fuckin' head 180 degrees while we were driving here. And I heard her neck crack." "You're a good man, Loopy," Jake said. "You're my kind of man." They drove away, as the first rays of the sun lit the thin high clouds. The apartment complex would be stirring in another hour, but for now all was quiet. Well, not completely quiet. If anyone had been standing beside the dumpster, they would have heard an occasional rustle and scraping inside. Perhaps it was the sound of scavenging rats. Or maybe simply the trash bags and debris settling. Or maybe, just maybe, it was our heroine, super no more, struggling to hang onto life--or, given the pain and humiliation she had endured that night, perhaps she was struggling to shake off her immortality and embrace the comforts of the grave.
(II) Stick drove slowly down Ironmongers Lane, peering into the semi-darkness to avoid parked cars. The headlights of his battered van were turned off. No sense advertising his presence. Somewhere near here, if he remembered correctly, there was a right turn that led to the dumpster. He'd used it several times before, driving the eight miles from town with special packages, rather than trusting them to city sanitation crews. He almost passed up the turn, pulled a hard right then followed the short street to the cul de sac. The dumpster loomed in front of him, with something pale, packing material perhaps, hanging from its rim. He got out quietly, slid back the door and lifted his package from the floor. It was wrapped in black plastic garbage bags and tied with rope. When he reached the dumpster, he could see what was hanging from it more clearly. It was a body, a young woman's body. She was bent over the rim, her head and arms and upper body dangling outside, the rest of her - assuming there was a rest of her - still inside. He carefully laid his package on the ground, leaned forward and touched the body. It was still warm. He knelt, grabbed a handful of blonde hair and lifted her head. He was gazing into the most beautiful face he had ever seen. Her eyes, which had been closed, opened partially, and her lips tried to form a word, but only a soft moan emerged. He gently released her hair, then, using a fragment of a concrete block that was lying next to the dumpster, propped the lid open enough and began to pull her out. It wasn't easy, and she cried out as her hips and legs cleared the rim. He lost his balance, and she landed on top of him. He lay there a moment, trying to resist the urge to unzip his pants and fuck her right there, next to the dumpster - hell, in the dumpster, anywhere. His dick was as hard as concrete. But this was crazy. He had to get her out of here. He picked her up and placed her gently on the floor of the van. He pulled a blanket from under the driver's seat and wrapped it around her. It was then that he noticed a foul smell. Maybe it was from her being dumped in with all the garbage. Or maybe she had pissed herself, poor thing. No matter, he'd get her back to the apartment in town and wash her up. He'd get her a cup of tea and turn on the gas heater in the living room. Then he'd fuck her and fuck her and fuck her. They didn't call him Stick because he was tall and thin. In fact, he was short and wiry. They called him Stick, and he called himself Stick, because of his nearly perpetual erection - an erection that masturbation a dozen times a day and occasional long weekends with women could not tame. ***** When SG regained consciousness - regained it enough to remember who she was, and who she had been - she was lying in a hot bath, amid mounds of bubbles. A man with a square face and dark hair was caressing her with a sponge. His expression was one of concern and gentleness. It seemed a long, long time since she had experienced gentleness. He slid the sponge over her breasts, down her belly and between her legs. She sighed and closed her eyes. Then she felt his lips on her eyelids. He was kissing her, even as the sponge caressed her pussy under the warm water. After the bath, as Stick had hoped and planned, they made love beside the gas heater, on a pile of thick bath towels. Unbidden, she took his cock into her mouth and softly sucked it. She stroked his scrotum. Then she spread her legs and invited him in. He had never been hotter, and she - well, she had never had an experience like this before. Or had she? She tried to remember the previous night. Had it been a bad dream, those cruel and contemptuous men beating her and sticking their dicks in her? She shuddered beneath Stick's humping body as the memory of the pickup truck and the jumper cables washed over her. Stick mistook her shudder for passion and redoubled his efforts. ***** She awakened to the sound of his voice. He was telling her about his roommate, someone named Stars. He seemed worried. SG smiled and caressed his cock. He placed his hand on her shoulder, then leaned down to kiss her on the mouth. There was the sound of a key in the lock of the front door, and he said, urgently, "She's here. Stay quiet. Don't do anything to piss her off." The door opened, and standing there was a young woman in black biking shorts and a black leather vest that left her muscular, tattooed arms and shoulders exposed. Her hair was short and very black and seemed to stick out in all directions. She radiated an angry, unstable energy. "Hi, honey," Stick said. "We've got a house guest for a few days." He gestured to SG, who had wrapped a towel around herself and stood timidly behind him. His warnings had confused SG. Should she step forward and offer this strange woman her hand? Should she introduce herself? Instead, she remained silent--and hoped for the best.
(III) Stars looked SG over carefully. "What's your name?" she asked. SG said nothing. She wasn't sure, from Stick's warnings, what she should say. "What's her name, Stick?" "I don't know. She didn't tell me. Come to think of it, she didn't say nothing all day." "I'll bet," said Stars, "what with her mouth being so full of dick since she met you. Where'd you find her?" "In a dumpster over at the Foundry Apartments," said Stick. Then his face darkened, and he added, "Where I was busy disposing of one of your messes." "Yeah, yeah, I'm sorry about that," said Stars. "I owe you one." She turned back to SG. "Okay, you'll be nameless. No, we'll call you Trash Girl, in honor of your humble origins. That'll be your new name. Trash Girl. Mine's Stars. Wanna know why?" SG started to speak, then thought better of it. She didn't know how to deal with this odd person. And she certainly didn't expect the sudden punch that hit her square in the face and knocked her to the floor. "They call me that because when I'm around, some folks end up seeing stars," said Stars, with a laugh that sounded like a bark. And sure enough, SG did see stars--and little chirping birds circling her head, just like in the comic books. She wondered dreamily if the others could see them. Stick said, "C'mon. Give her a break. She hasn't done nothing. Besides, she's different." "Different?" said Stars, with a look of mock amazement. "How so, different?" She knelt and spread SG's legs and jammed two fingers into her pussy. "Looks like a cunt to me," she said. Then she sniffed and licked her fingers and added, "Smells and tastes like cunt, too. No difference there." Then she grabbed SG breasts and twisted them so hard that SG gave a little yelp. "Regular tits. Same as on all the other sluts you've dragged home." She pulled SG upright by the hair and stared closely at her face. "Prettier than most, I agree," said Stars. "Is that the difference, Stick?" "Yeah, I guess so. I don't know, she just seems special somehow." "Special, huh? Well, what could it be that's so special?" She pulled SG to her feet and looked her over, up and down, with exaggerated care. Then she stepped back and said, seriously this time, "There is something different. I hit her real hard in the nose and there should be blood all over the place, but there isn't." Stick hadn't noticed, but Stars was right. Not a drop of blood. And the girl's nose wasn't even swollen. "I think we need to pursue this scientifically," said Stars, as she pulled back her right fist for another punch. SG flinched and raised her hands to protect her face. But the blow landed, instead, in her stomach. She fell to her knees, then crumpled all the way to the floor, holding her gut. "May not bleed, but definitely feels pain. Make a note of that, doctor," said Stars, who then delivered a devastating kick to SG's kidneys. SG writhed in agony. Stars was right. She felt pain, and not just physical pain. The man called Stick, who had been so kind to her that day, and who had made such passionate love to her, had betrayed her. He now stood by passively while this sadistic, incredibly strong bitch turned her into a punching bag. But this despairing line of thought was rudely interrupted as Stars landed another kick - a stomp, actually, since she brought her boot down like a piston on SG's exposed midsection. SG gasped and shuddered. The last thing she saw before passing out was Stars' face, hovering above her and wearing an expression of intense curiosity. ***** She was unconscious all through the 6 o'clock local news, which was too bad, because she would have found it interesting. It seems that the nephew of a sheriff's deputy, a young man named Pete, had tearfully confessed to his uncle that he and some buddies had killed a girl and dumped her body behind the Foundry Apartments. The uncle had dismissed it as some kind of sick fantasy, but shortly after 1 p.m. a Foundry resident had made a grisly discovery: a human head, partially wrapped in plastic garbage bags, lying near a dumpster. Dogs or coons had gotten into the packaging. The head was described as that of a young woman. But due to circumstances, her face was all but unrecognizable. Pete had now been charged with murder, and two of his buddies had also been arrested. But the alleged ringleader, a man named Jake, had disappeared. Funny thing is, Pete, after having confessed earlier, insisted he had nothing to do with the woman whose head had been found. The others also claimed to know nothing about a headless woman--or, more properly, a womanless head. Stars, sitting next to Stick in front of the TV set, was elated. "Jesus, we've got someone to take the rap. They will never, ever get all this untangled. That cunt I snuffed, what was her name . . ." "Ruby," said Stick. "It was Ruby." "Whatever. She's their problem now, not ours. They've got her confused with our Trash Girl. Thank God for shit-brained good ole boys." She took a swig of bottled water, then asked, "Where's the rest of her?" "You don't need to know," said Stick. "I'm trying to protect you. I'm always trying to protect you." "I know," said Stars. "I know, and I appreciate it. I mean it. And I appreciate you lettin' me have a little fun with Trash Girl. I promise I won't do any permanent damage." Stick merely grunted. Stars was like a sister to him, but he knew she never could keep a promise if it meant not maiming or dismembering the women he occasionally brought home. It was just a weakness she had, and some day it would get them both in trouble. But he hoped to enjoy himself with this one for at least a few more days. And maybe he could find a way to let her escape, if she promised never to tell anyone of her experiences in their apartment. ***** Stick was right. Stars couldn't resist inflicting punishment on SG. First thing the next morning, she bounded out of her bedroom full of energy. SG was sleeping on the floor in the living room, in front of the TV. "Morning, cunt," said Stars, cheerfully, as she leaped into the air and came down, knees first, on the small of SG's back. Then she boxed her ears, grabbed her hair and slammed her face into the floor. "Time for breakfast," Star said, dragging SG by the wrists into the kitchen. "I'm a health nut, but there's no reason you can't enjoy some bacon and eggs. I'm fixin' 'em anyway, for Stick." She dropped SG in the corner, next to the garbage pail - funny how that girl had such an attraction for trash, Stars thought - and set about fixing breakfast. Stick came in, with a sleepy, puzzled look on his face. "What's up?" he asked. Stars looked past him at SG, who was now on her hands and knees, trying to find the strength to stand. "Our guest is what's up," said Stars. She picked up a cast-iron skillet, already hot from the gas flames, and slammed it with a loud metallic bonk on the side of SG's head. SG fell backward, emitting a groan and the smell of singed hair. "You promised," said Stick. "I did, and I'm keeping my promise. No permanent damage. See, she's already trying to get up again. No normal woman, or man, for that matter, would take a belt like that from an iron skillet and be ready to join us for breakfast 20 seconds later. And you are ready, aren't you, Trashy?" SG held the side of her head and staggered to a chair. Stick helped her. "You okay?" he asked. Okay? Suddenly, she had a vision of herself, as if in a dream, effortlessly defeating a dozen strong men, all twice as big as this woman named Stars. Had she been able to do that once? And now? Now, she was a pitiful, battered weakling. "Okay?" Stick repeated. "I remember something," she said softly. "Ah, the cunt speaks," said Stars. "Remember what?" Stick asked gently. "I think I remember who I am - or was." "And just who are you, Trash Girl?" Stars asked. SG lowered her eyes and fell silent. They wouldn't believe her, not now, after all that she had been through. Stars would simply beat her harder, to prove she was delusional. And Stick - he too would think she was crazy. Stars shoved a plate of bacon and eggs, over easy, in front of Stick. "How do you like your eggs, cunt?" she asked. "I don't know," SG said, almost in a whisper. "I don't think I've ever eaten eggs." "Jesus, a picky eater. Just what I need. Okay, how about toast and coffee?" SG began to weep. Had she ever eaten or drunk before? They ate for energy, and pleasure. Did she need to eat for energy? She couldn't remember. "Okay, get the fuck out of here," Stars said. SG went into the living room, pulled her knees up to her chin and sobbed softly. On the TV, cartoon characters were hitting each other with big wooden mallets and dropping anvils from office windows. "Just like real life," she thought. ***** Actually, real life was soon to be quite a bit rougher than what the characters on TV endured. Stick left, with a plea to Stars to restrain herself. He knew it was futile. He looked at SG, but turned away quickly when he saw the fear in her eyes. "Well, it's just you and me, Trash Girl," said Stars, as the door closed. SG shut her eyes, took a deep breath and tried to summon up powers she had voluntarily relinquished. If that failed, she would just have to see what she could do with mere human strength and courage. Stars hadn't yet put on her leather glove, so the rough stuff started with a wrestling hold instead of a punch. SG resisted, but she quickly found herself face down on the floor, her wrists held behind her by Stars' powerful grip. In fact, Stars was so strong, she needed only one hand for the job. With the other, she grabbed SG's hair and pulled her head so far back that SG feared her neck would break. Stars let her head fall back to the floor, then dragged her over to the desk by the front door, opened a drawer and pulled out stainless steel handcuffs. In no time, SG's wrists were secured behind her. Stars lifted her to her feet and stepped back to admire her work. "Very nice, but you need a touch of leather," she said. With that, she punched SG harder than she ever had before, and our defenseless heroine slammed into the door and collapsed. ***** When she came to, she thought perhaps she had been blinded by her beatings. Her eyes were open, but she could see nothing. And she was having difficulty breathing. Something around her neck was constricting her windpipe. Had she been able to see herself as Stars now saw her, she would have been even more alarmed. SG was suspended from the ceiling of a dank cellar by a chain attached to a leather contraption that held her arms behind her. There was a leather collar around her neck, and over her head was a black leather hood. The chain from the ceiling ran through a steel ring on her collar, down to her wrists. It couldn't be said that she was hanging by the neck, but the collar supported part of her weight. The rest was borne by her twisted, outraged arms and shoulders. Her toes were only a few inches above the concrete floor, but of course, under the circumstances, an inch was a mile. She heard a gurgling, wheezing sound, and it took a few seconds before she realized that she was making it. She was beginning to suffocate. She tried to relieve the pressure on her throat by pushing down with her wrists, but the pain to her arms and shoulders was unendurable. "Having fun," asked a familiar voice. With supreme effort, she was able to say, "Please." But that was all. "Please?" said Stars. "Please what? Please beat the shit out of me? Please jump on me and hang there until the weight breaks my neck? Or my head rips off? Or how about this?" She grabbed a toilet plunger from a nearby sink and stuck the wooden handle deep into SG's pussy, jerking it violently back and forth. SG cried out in pain. "Now, that's more like it," Stars said. "A response I can understand." She tossed the plunger aside and pulled out a pair of leather gloves. "Now comes exercise time. I need a workout, and the crippled, fat-ass son-of-a-bitch who owns this building won't let me hang a heavy bag, not even a speed bag. So you're it, sweetheart." SG flexed her belly muscles in anticipation of the punishment she knew was coming. But with the first punch, it was painfully clear that even this meager defense was useless. Stars worked methodically and vigorously. Jabs to the breasts, hooks to the sides and kidneys, an uppercut to the crotch. The blows came so fast that SG lost count - and consciousness. At last, Stars took a break and squirted bottled water into her mouth. She squirted some onto SG, too. Trash Girl was awfully quiet. No moans. Not even gurgles and gasps. If she was dead, Stick would be pissed. Stars grabbed a step ladder, detached SG from the chain and dropped her to the floor. Then she leaned down and felt for a pulse. There was none, or at least none strong enough to detect. "Shit," she said. "You may not bleed, but you're just an ordinary mortal cunt after all." She picked SG up and crammed her into a dark space between the water heater and the sink. Hardly anyone came to the basement anymore, not since the washing machine broke down. She'd leave the cunt here, walk to Maxine's house and borrow a car. She'd have to dispose of this one herself; no asking Stick this time. And she suddenly felt remorse--not for the girl whose battered body lay on the cold, dirty concrete but for Stick, whom she had once again disappointed.
(IV) SG sat in the lotus position atop a crystal pillar. Arrayed around her were all the gods and goddesses, on their thrones. The clouds behind them were suffused with a golden light. Music from instruments unseen and unrecognizable filled the heavens, blending with the murmur of the deities. A bearded figure, chief among the gods, leaned forward and asked her if she regretted surrendering her powers. Did she realize now that only by saving others could she save herself? SG lowered her eyes. She was reluctant to defy a being so powerful and wise, yet she was determined not to resume her role as superheroine. "I cannot," she said. "I can no longer be what I was. I'm sorry." "Then know that we cannot protect you. Your powers were inextricably linked. You have lost the strength to defeat an army of mere mortals. Soon, you yourself will be mortal. Death will be your destiny if you pursue this selfish course." She raised her eyes. The god's face was now only a few feet from hers. It was enormous, filling her entire field of vision, crowding out all else.... ** SG found herself looking up into the very fat face of an enormous man. He had been leaning on a thick black cane, but he now shifted his weight, flipped the cane and hooked the handle into the ring on her collar. He lifted her up as if he were pulling a trout from a stream. Obese and lame he may have been, but it was clear that he was also very strong. "Who are you, child, and how did you get here?" She stood unsteadily, her knees still weak from all she had endured. "Don't worry," the man said. "I won't let you fall." "Thank you. My name is... I don't know my name. She calls me Trash Girl." "She? You mean Stick's lady friend? Ah, yes. She's quite unbalanced, you know. I hope you haven't had much to do with her. Has she beaten you?" "Yes," said SG. "You don't look like you've been beaten," said the man. "I've seen some of the women she's worked over. Whatever they looked like before, they certainly weren't beautiful when she finished with them - and you, by contrast, are quite beautiful, quite delectable." "Thank you," said SG. "Much too delectable to be mishandled by that over-muscled dyke. I think I can help you, and perhaps you can help me. Stick is a good tenant, but he's behind on his rent, and his girlfriend has done some minor damage to the apartment. I think it would be quite appropriate, and beneficial to all concerned, if you became their security deposit. What do you think?" "I will do as you say. But please ... please don't hurt me." "That, alas, I cannot guarantee. It is so easy to hurt others without even being aware of it. But I will do my best to be kind." At this point, he removed his soiled white shirt and covered her naked body. She noted his enormous rolls of fat. Never had she seen anyone so huge. "There," he said. "I've given you the shirt off my back. What more could anyone ask?" ***** Mr. Cochon, for that was his name, took her up to his apartment, which had the same layout as Stick's but was more tastefully decorated, a rather modest achievement. All the chairs were quite large, and the bed SG saw when she glanced through one door was enormous - big enough for four or five normal-sized people to sleep quite comfortably. Mr. Cochon told her to make herself comfortable in the living room, then went into the kitchen. He returned with a glass of ice water and a white pill. "I'm brewing a pot of tea," he said. "Take this. It will relax you." "Thank you, but I don't need medication," she answered. "Don't think of this as medicine. Think of it as a comforting friend, someone in whom you can have absolute trust." "Okay," she said. "I guess it can't hurt." She washed the pill down with water, then waited for something to happen. She didn't have to wait long. Mr. Cochon was talking about recipes and restaurants. There was a small place in Charlotte he especially liked, a place where they made a delicious kidney pie. She smiled and nodded politely but found it difficult to follow his conversation. She was sitting on an overstuffed sofa, and the cushions seemed to invite her to lie down, if only for a moment. ***** Mr. Cochon rose quietly and examined the sleeping girl. She was indeed very lovely. If her insides matched her outside, she would have the most extraordinary organs. He lifted her, brought her into the dining room and laid her out on a long mahogany table. He removed the shirt he had given her and stroked and poked her body. Excellent muscle tone. Very nice breasts, with nipples like milk chocolate buttons atop two mounds of peach sherbet. He leaned down and sniffed her pussy. It would be quite lovely, sauteed in butter and garlic. Then he frowned. Money. He would be a fool to devour what could bring a very pretty price at the Medical Center. And after all, he had his financial future to think about. He wasn't getting any younger, he couldn't work at any conventional job, and his rental properties brought in barely $75,000 a year. Decisions, decisions. He rubbed her belly with his fat hand, then leaned over and licked her crotch. Quite extraordinary. He sighed. The future, he told himself, think of the future -and not of the feast foregone.
(V) Shortly after Mr. Cochon phoned the Medical Center, the future arrived in the form of two young black men wearing identical long leather jackets and identical expressions of insolence and ennui. "We here for the bitch," said the taller of the two. "And to deliver a package to me," said Mr. Cochon. "Right," said the tall one. He handed Mr. Cochon a bulging leather pouch. "Thank you," said Mr. Cochon. "Now you understand that the young woman must be delivered alive. Alive and in good shape." "Yeah, man, we understand. Where is she?" Mr. Cochon ushered them into the living room. The two young men looked at SG silently for a moment, then the shorter one said, "This is gonna be one fine fucking assignment." Mr. Cochon was annoyed. "It is not a 'fucking' assignment, it is a simple matter of delivering merchandise. No rough stuff. She is to arrive safe and intact at the Medical Center, or you will pay - not to me but to your employers, and you know what kind of people they are." He didn't need to elaborate. They wrapped her in a bed sheet, an oversized sheet from Mr. Cochon's oversized bed, and the black men left without a word. Mr. Cochon opened the leather pouch. He didn't count the money. There was a lot there, and he trusted the Medical Center. They had done business before. ***** The black men dumped SG into the trunk of a '79 Pontiac that looked half a block long. The tall one got into the driver's seat, turned to his accomplice and showed just the shadow of a smile. "We do a little detour," he said. "Absolutely, man," said the short one, "a detour to Fuckland." And so they drove west on Third Street, instead of south on Begala, and in five minutes they were in neighborhood even more rundown than the one Mr. Cochon lived in - rundown and sparsely populated. They pulled into the side yard of a house with boarded windows and a sagging front porch. The back door had been boarded, too, but the wood had been torn away. The short man carried SG over his shoulder, stepping over what was left of the doorframe. Inside, it was dark and smelled bad. They let their eyes adjust to the dark. Just enough light came through slits in the boarded widows to enable them to see the broken glass and unidentifiable trash on the floor - and, sagging against one wall, a mattress that looked like it might harbor more urban wildlife than an entire block of abandoned tenements. The tall one flipped the mattress onto the floor, and his companion dropped SG onto it. She cried out softly and lifted one hand, then let it drop. "She's comin' to," said Shorty. "That just makes it better. I like it when they're awake, and scared." SG was indeed awakening. She opened her eyes and saw two shadowy figures in the gloom. She had no idea, of course, where she was or who these figures were, but she suspected she was once again in trouble. "What do you want?" she asked. "Yo pussy, yo mouth and yo sweet white ass," answered the taller of the men. Then he reached down, slipped two fingers inside the leather collar around her neck and pulled her to her feet. "We can start with yo mouth," he said. He slapped her hard across the face. "Kneel, bitch," he said. She knelt, and he unzipped his fly and pulled out a large uncircumcised dick. "Suck it. Suck it like you've never tasted anything better in yo whole fucking life." Tentatively, she took his dick in her hands and stroked it. "I said suck, bitch." She took the head of his dick into her mouth and sucked softly. Then she took in more, stroking the head with her tongue, while her lips massaged his shaft. He came quickly, more quickly than he had wanted. He angrily pulled out his prick, then smashed his knee into her jaw. "Bitch, you too goddam good." Now it was Shorty's turn. He spread her legs, licked her cunt to lubricate it, then plunged his dick into her. "Wiggle, slut. Move or I'll cut yo tits off." SG tried to move, but the blow to her jaw had left her dazed and weak. It didn't make any difference. Shorty, like the tall one, shot off a wad of cum in less than half a minute. He withdrew and, kneeling between her spread legs, reached into his pocket and pulled out a shiny black object. There was a click, and a blade appeared. The tall one slapped it out of his hand. "You fuckin' crazy. You cut her and we gonna end up on one of those slabs at the Center, with no kidneys, no livers, no eyeballs and probably no dicks. Think, you stupid mutha-fucker." So Shorty thought. "Okay, we don't cut her. We don't leave no scars. But they ain't interested in her asshole, right? We can do what we want with that, so long as it ain't cut or bleeding?" "What you got in mind?" "Is the water still on here?" asked Shorty. "Yeah, I guess so." Shorty stepped through the doorway, looked around, then disappeared. He was back in a few seconds with a garden hose. "Stick this in her asshole, and I'll go out and turn on the faucet." "Man, you are bad," said the tall one, with newfound admiration for his companion. He stuck the corroded metal nozzle into SG's rectum. She cried out in pain. Seconds later, the hose vibrated as it filled with water, then it did a sort of hiccup and SG began writhing on the mattress. The nozzle slipped out, and water spurted over her back and head. But the tall one jammed it back in, and Shorty arrived and held her down to prevent her from escaping. "Push it in more, push it in more," Shorty cried. "Push it up to her fucking tonsils." The tall one laughed and shoved it in further. He pushed a foot and a half of hose into her, and her efforts to wriggle free were weakening. Shorty lifted her head from the mattress, looked into her pain-filled eyes and said, "See, honey, I knew you could move if you really wanted to." ***** They wrapped her back up in the sheet and took her out to the car. The tall one had worried that the hosing would act like an enema and she'd be covered with shit, but the water that came out of her ass was clear. Guess she hadn't eaten in a while - except for his cum. They put her in the trunk. Before the tall one closed it, she asked, "Where are you taking me?" "Where you can serve yo fellowman and fellow-woman. You gonna be a blessing to a whole bunch of folks, and you gonna travel all over the country." He laughed. "I just hope they save a part for me, honey."
(VI) They pulled into a section of the underground parking garage reserved for special deliveries like this one, then took the elevator to an even lower level. When the elevator door opened, Dr. Hammond and Dr. Cutler were waiting. "You're half an hour late," said Hammond, a large middle-aged man with thinning hair. "Where have you been?" "We got lost trying to find his house," the tall one lied. Then, reading the skepticism on their faces, he added, "Then we, like, started jiving and not paying attention." "Put her on the table," said Hammond. Cutler, an attractive dark-haired woman with the merciless eyes of someone who enjoyed vivisection, pulled the sheet from SG. "She's conscious," Cutler said, as SG raised her head. "Why wasn't she sedated?" "I dunno," the tall one answered. "She was out when we picked her up. Guess the stuff the fat man gave her just wore out." SG tried to sit up, but Cutler pushed her back. "Lie down," she commanded. "We've got an examination to do." She ran her hands expertly over SG's body, then told her to turn over. "There's rawness here around the rectum," Cutler told Hammond. "And, ugh, there's something seeping out of her vagina. I think it's semen." Hammond was very annoyed. "Jerome, Khalid, I've told you before, you're simply to pick up and deliver. This will go in your job evaluations. I don't know how much longer the Center is going to tolerate this kind of undisciplined behavior." "Sorry, boss," said the tall one, Jerome. After the black men left, Cutler said, "Let's get to work. We've got a helicopter on call for her liver and the kidneys are staying here in town." "I don't know," said Hammond. "It seems such a waste. She's quite beautiful." "And expensive," said Cutler, icily. "We've got 20 grand invested in this piece of meat." At which point, SG, whom they seemed to have forgotten was awake, offered helpfully, "I don't want to make trouble. What do you want of me?" Her voice startled them. Cutler said, "We're going to have to sedate you. Then we're going to do a little operation. It won't take long." She opened a cabinet and pulled out a hypodermic. "Wait a minute, Helen," said Hammond. "Maybe there is a way we can recoup our investment and still allow this young woman to enjoy something approaching a normal life span. What about the Sexual Response Clinic? She seems made to order for it." Cutler frowned. "People are counting on her organs. People we can help." "Cut the bullshit, Helen," Hammond said. "You just enjoy carving, especially when it's an attractive young woman." "Is that a sin?" Cutler asked innocently. "Is it so terrible to enjoy your work?" "No, but there's more to this center than harvesting organs, profitable though it may be. The Sexual Response Clinic is doing quite nicely, but it hasn't yet won a national reputation. This young woman is just the sort of talent we need to break through to the top tier." Cutler knew that Hammond was weak, but he was also stubborn. Tactical retreats were sometimes necessary to keep him under control in the long run. "As you wish, Harry. I was just trying to be helpful," she said. ***** Hammond's faith in SG's sexual potential was richly rewarded. She was a natural. They made several instructional videos in a studio deep with in the Center, with well-hung actors from New York or California flown in for the purpose - or with another young woman for lesbian instruction. But mostly SG performed live, in a small room in front of a two-way mirror. Behind it were the clinic's clients and one or two therapists. Hammond, though he had many other obligations at the Center, dropped in on these sessions as often as possible. He found them immensely arousing, and he had insisted that SG keep her leather collar. The hint of slavery and degradation added so much to her allure. Cutler came by occasionally, too. She was biding her time, waiting for SG - or the Foundling, as she called her - to make some major blunder and embarrass Hammond into agreeing she was worth more as transplant meat than as a porn star. But that wasn't the only reason for Cutler's interest. The Foundling fascinated her from the very first day, when she tried to draw a blood sample and discovered that the needle wouldn't penetrate her skin. Quite remarkable. Hammond, of course, hadn't been interested. He wasn't a blood-and-guts sort of doctor. Administration and public relations were his forte. That and occasional sexual bouts with Cutler. These had become rarer and rarer, until the Foundling showed up. Now he seemed re-energized. Which was another reason Cutler hated her. Who wanted a man who was good in the sack only when fantasizing about another woman? It was late on a Friday afternoon, when Cutler looked into the small auditorium where the sex clinic clients sat to watch the Foundling perform. The auditorium was empty, but there, on the other side of the glass, artfully illuminated, was the Foundling, on a chaise lounge, practicing. She caressed her pussy and moaned softly. Foundling, hell, the Fondling was more like it, thought Cutler. Then the door to the small studio opened and a man peered in. Cutler recognized him as the new man on the janitorial crew. There was something creepy about him, but Fletcher, the head of maintenance, said he was the sort of young man who might come in handy one day for other assignments. The kind of assignments Jerome and Khalid had carried out until they were terminated and put to better use. ***** SG opened her eyes when she heard a floorboard creak. The stage lights made it hard for her to see who had entered. But they were perfect for Jake - yes, the same Jake the police had given up looking for. He saw SG in all her glory, lying there and staring in his direction. It was the bitch he was accused of murdering. It was the bitch Loopy and Irv and that asshole Pete were now in jail for supposedly having helped snuff. And here she was, like she was some kind of porn queen, wearing nothing but a leather collar. SG rose just as Jake stepped into the light. She gasped and looked frantically for a way to escape. There was none. He was between her and the door. "Fancy meeting you here," he said quietly. "I heard you was dead." On the other side of the glass, Cutler could hear as well as see as this dramatic reunion unfolded. She wondered if this were a rehearsal for a video the clinic was producing. Jake quickly made it clear that this was for real. He grabbed SG around the waist as she tried to rush by him, then slammed her to the floor. Cutler moved to the glass to see what would happen next. She was breathing heavily. It was wonderfully exciting. What happened next was that SG got unsteadily to her feet just in time for Jake to slam his fist into her gut. Back down she went, this time on her face. He grabbed the collar around her neck, pulled her up, then sent her careening into the back wall. The impact was more than the thin stage wall was built for. SG plunged through it and into a maintenance storage area behind it. Jake followed quickly. He held her collar while searching a pegboard full of tools. Cutler could barely see them, since they were beyond the range of the stage lighting. But Jake dragged her back into the studio. He was carrying a large pipe wrench. SG was begging now, offering any and all kinds of sexual favors, anything to avoid a beating with the wrench. Jake seemed amused. He smiled as he raised the wrench and brought it down on her upturned face. The thud was sickening, and Cutler turned away with a cry - a cry that Jake heard. He froze. Someone was watching. He stepped close to the one-way mirror and tried to look through it. He could see only his own reflection, and the reflection of SG lying unconscious on the floor. Cutler slipped out of the auditorium and headed down the hall to Security. McKinnon and Jones were on duty. "Quick," she said, "a janitor has just bludgeoned one of our employees at the Clinic studio. Get him before gets out of here, get him and kill him." Then she grabbed the phone and called upstairs to Transplant Express. "Get down to Lower Level 2 fast and bring a crash cart. We've got an unexpected donor." Then she punched Hammond's extension. She hoped he was in. She would enjoy this. "Harry, our little Foundling's had an accident. No, I didn't have anything to do with it. But Express is on the way down. I'll meet you in the OR. This should be fun."
(VII) By the time Hammond arrived, Cutler was already scrubbed and ready. SG's seemingly lifeless body lay on the operating table. But one of the OR nurses was objecting. "We don't even know if she's dead," she said. "You haven't even taken her pulse and pressure." "I saw her bludgeoned by a pipe wrench," said Cutler impatiently. "Now, if you're not going to help get the fuck out of here." The nurse appealed to Hammond. "Look," she said. "This woman doesn't even seem to have any visible injuries. Just a little swelling on her forehead and over one eye. You can't just rip her open." "Just watch me," Cutler said angrily. She grabbed a scalpel, pressed it against SG's sternum and sliced downward, toward her navel. Nothing happened. No incision. No blood. The knife pushed in but didn't cut. Cutler tried again, slashing from SG's navel all the way down to her pubic hair. Again, nothing. Cutler reversed her grip on the scalpel, raised if above her head and brought it down with all her strength. SG cried out and her knees jerked up. But the knife didn't penetrate. Cutler, Hammond, the nurses and two young surgery residents all looked at SG with amazement. She was indestructible. She was not of this world. "That's impossible," Hammond said hoarsely. He took the knife from Cutler. With one hand he softly stroked SG's blonde hair. Then, with the other, he jabbed the knife into her side. She made a little yelp and looked at him with hurt surprise. ***** SG was now an even more valuable commodity than an organ donor or sex clinic star. After locking her in her room near the studio, Hammond and Cutler called the top medical staff gathered to brainstorm. Hammond opened with the question on everyone's mind: "What do you do with a woman who can't be hurt? How can we profit as a medical center? How can we profit as individuals?" Dr. Bowles, who was new to the Center, said this was much too big a discovery to be confined to one medical institution. He suggested calling in other researchers. The others glared at him. Dr. Distruggio suggested further tests. This extraordinary being had survived a massive blow to the head and was impervious to the knife. What about burning, electricity, drowning? "Does she feel pain?" Dr. Tickler asked. He had done important research on pain and was looking for examples of people who felt little or no pain, or who were exquisitely sensitive to it. "Oh, she feels pain, all right," said Cutler. "I heard her when that janitor was roughing her up." "And she cried out as if she was in pain when Helen stabbed her in the OR," said Hammond. "By the way," he added, turning to Cutler, "that was an especially nasty piece of work." "And you were just showing affection when you tried to open up her side?" Cutler said frostily. The discussion went on for another half hour, and the meeting ended with agreement that the "Foundling" would be subjected to a series of tests to determine her vulnerabilities, if any, and her pain threshold. Cutler was delighted to be chose chairman of the experiment. She had so wanted to get to know the Foundling better. ***** The days that followed were a living hell for SG. She was burned, first with disposable cigarette lighters, then with a cutting torch. She shrieked with pain, but survived, and with no permanent scars. The hospital's emergency generator was cranked up to provide a separate source of power, and she was chained to a metal screen and subjected to huge jolts of electricity. Her hair stood on end, her saliva turned to steam in her mouth, and her eyes seemed about to burst out of her head. But she was left with no lasting damage, beyond a few bad hair days. The drowning experiment at first seemed to expose a fatal weakness. She was handcuffed, a 75-pound weight was attached to her collar, and she was dumped headfirst into the hydrotherapy pool. She thrashed around, and soon bubbles poured from her mouth. After 20 minutes, they removed her from the pool. She appeared irrevocably dead. Indeed, 45 minutes later there was still no pulse and her body was turning cold. An EEG revealed no brain wave, and Cutler delivered mocking last rites: "We commend this little slut to the obscure grave she deserves, regretting only the lost opportunity to inflict a little more pain before she left us." But she hadn't left. Six hours later, in the Center's morgue, SG awoke with a violent fit of coughing. Water spurted from her mouth, and she convulsed with desperation and pain, her every cell crying out for oxygen. It was 2 o'clock in the morning, but the orderly, following instructions in case such an unlikely contingency happened, called Dr. Cutler. She was furious, not at being awakened but at the Foundling's insistence on living. She'd pay for that, Cutler said to herself as she drove to the Center, though how SG could pay any more than she already had was almost impossible to imagine. ***** On Cutler's instructions, two orderlies carried SG down to the parking garage and tied her wrists to a drainpipe that ran along the top of one wall. SG's toes barely touched the concrete floor. Then Cutler pulled her Land Rover to within a couple of feet of SG and gunned the engine. In the headlights, SG wriggled as she tried to escape her bonds. One of the orderlies called out, "Dr. Cutler, you'll hurt yourself." But it was too late. The Land Rover lurched forward, the bumper and grill slamming into SG's pelvis and abdomen with a mighty sound of metal bending and glass breaking. The impact crumpled the Rover's hood, and Cutler, who hadn't attached her seat belt, was thrown forward into the steering wheel and windshield. She was taken to the ER for treatment. An orderly managed to get the Rover into reverse and back it up. Meanwhile, SG was left dangling from the drainpipe like a side of beef at a packing house. "Man, she must have god-awful internal injuries," said one of the orderlies. "I don't know," said the other, "They say she's damn near indestructible. She oughta be in fuckin' action movies - you know, a stunt cunt." He laughed, but he didn't have his heart in it. Working at the Center wasn't good for your nerves, or your soul.
(VIII) His idea was a good one. Hollywood would pay a lot for a beautiful woman who not only could be menaced by bad guys and monsters but could actually be beaten, burned, buried - and still show up fresh and ready to work the next day. But the orderly was only an orderly, and men and women with far more impressive credentials, if much less imagination, now met in the Center's boardroom to decide SG's fate. The committee agreed that the Foundling was incredibly durable - far more durable than poor Cutler, who was now in intensive care with a concussion and two broken ribs. This durability was a matter that deserved further study, but not only for the sake of advancing scientific knowledge. If the Center couldn't dispose of her, she might one day become a liability. She had to have a weak spot, and the committee had to find it. Dr. Distruggio suggested that her ability to feel pain might offer some clues. Dr. Tickler enthusiastically agreed. The mind-body connection was well established, said Tickler, and perhaps psychological warfare would succeed where physical assaults had failed. The committee agreed it was worth a try, and SG was now to become the property of Distruggio and Tickler. The good doctors set about their work with the seriousness it deserved. They consulted with the staff psychiatrist, Dr. Taubmann, but he offered only platitudes about self-esteem and gave them a self-help tape. But when Dr. Distruggio and Dr. Tickler listened to the tape, purely for amusement, it occurred to Tickler that if encouraging words boosted mental and physical health, perhaps a tape filled with hateful, demeaning messages would have the opposite effect. They began recording a series of such messages in the technical suite where the Sexual Response videos were edited. "You are a useless slut," hissed Tickler into the microphone. "Nobody loves you," snarled Distruggio. "We all eagerly await your death." Soon others on the staff were joining in. Cutler, newly released from intensive care, offered her own special endearments: "Die, you slimy little bitch. Feel your spirit shrivel up inside you. Die, you little coward. Die, you miserable piece of shit." Hammond's efforts were recorded, then erased. Drs. Tickler and Distruggio agreed he was much too stiff and self-conscious for this kind of work. "We are very annoyed with you," went one of his messages. "I don't think you're capable of rehabilitation, and you've cost us a lot of money." Surprisingly, Dr. Bowles caught on quickly. His messages were brief and to the point: "Eat shit and die." "You're a worthless tramp." "You're too stupid to live." They even had her favorite sex clinic video co-star send in an especially nasty tape telling her that she was a lousy lay and that when he fucked her it was like sticking his dick in a bag full of garbage. Then speakers were installed in the ceiling of SG's tiny room, and the psychological bombardment began. Day and night, hour after hour, the taped messages ripped at her soul. The sound of hateful voices alternated with hideous human and non-human sounds: metal scraping against glass, the squeal of pigs in a slaughterhouse, the angry hiss of a cat or snake, the screams of torture victims, including several screams by SG herself that had been recorded during earlier experiments. SG was at first puzzled by the psychological barrage. They had tried in so many ways to hurt her, ways that were infinitely more painful than this. What could they be thinking? But in its insidious way, the negative conditioning began to work. She became listless. Her energy drained away. Sleep was impossible. She yearned to talk with someone, anyone, but she remained locked in the tiny room, her only company the voices of people who hated her, who wanted to see her die. And, deep inside, she began to die. After 10 days, Distruggio and Tickler decided to see how their experiment was going. They found SG lying curled up on the floor, her arms wrapped around her head, trying to ward off the voices. "Get up, bitch," Tickler commanded. The medical staff had agreed beforehand that SG was to be addressed only as "bitch," "slut" or "trash." SG didn't move. Tickler kicked her in the back. She groaned but remained curled up on the floor. Distruggio reached down, grabbed her collar - her only clothing -and dragged her from the room. A burly orderly took her, slung her over his shoulder, and they went to the upper level lecture hall. The entire medical staff was there. SG was brought in on the stage, flanked by Distruggio and Tickler. "Here we have our subject for the day," said Tickler. "Let's greet her appropriately." "Die, bitch, die," the assembly roared in unison. "Very good," said Tickler. "Now, Dr. Distruggio and I will run some routine tests." Distruggio held SG firmly, her elbows jammed together behind her. Tickler raised his right hand dramatically, spread his fingers, then made a fist. He lowered it, pulled it back, then punched her with all his considerable strength in the stomach. She crumpled up and would have fallen to the floor had Distruggio not held her. "As you can see," said Tickler, "the subject remains sensitive to physical pain. The question is whether, after days of psychological torture, her body is at last vulnerable to real and lasting damage. Whether her skin can be penetrated. Whether she can bleed." Here he drew from the pocket of his white lab boat a syringe. He removed the plastic cover from the needle, pulled back SG's slumping head with his left hand and plunged the needle into her neck with his right. The plastic chamber quickly filled with blood. There was a gasp, then applause from the audience. Tickler gave a signal, and everyone shouted, "Die, bitch, die." "And die she surely will," said Distruggio. "It's only a question of how."
(IX) It was the normally unimaginative Hammond who came up with the answer, though, as usual, he had a financial rationale. Local promoters were planning a Tough Broad Brawl at Ralph's Arena downtown. They were looking for girls who could fight, or who at least were good looking enough to get the crowd excited. The Foundling clearly wasn't tough. At one time, she could take a lot of punishment, even if she couldn't dish it out. Now, she probably wouldn't last 10 seconds with some of the over-muscled dykes attracted to this competition. But she was still very beautiful, far more beautiful, he felt sure, than any other woman who would be entered in the competition. The promoters would pay for that. And in the unlikely event that she won, there was a $15,000 prize for the evening's champion. His plan, endorsed by the committee, was to offer the Foundling as a competitor on the condition that the promoters schedule her in the last bout, after all but one other fighter had been eliminated. The Foundling would fight the toughest of the tough, not because she had earned her way through earlier rounds but because she was too spectacularly good looking to be entered in any but the championship bout. The chief promoter, Sam Marx, reluctantly agreed to come to the Center and listen to Hammond's proposal. He was skeptical at first. Fight crowds like those at Ralph's loved mayhem, but they believed in fair play. They wanted fighters to advance only over the bodies of fallen competitors. What these medical guys were suggesting would cause a riot. But when SG was brought into the conference room, wearing only her leather collar and a string bikini, Marx instantly reconsidered. Sure, the crowd would be pissed at first. But when they saw this slender, lovely girl bounced around the ring by whatever tough broad made it to the finals, they'd go wild. Here was a chance to see Beauty battered, to see an aristocrat, unfairly elevated to the championship, destroyed by a good, solid, working-class woman with real muscles and a real work ethic. "You've got a deal," he told Hammond, then reached into his coat pocket and drew out a handful of cigars. ***** Fight night started early, at 5:30. Hammond, Tickler and Bowles arrived to watch the preliminary bouts, but soon found them boring. Most of the women were big and ugly and slow. They wore boxing gloves and headgear, but mostly the fights degenerated into wrestling matches. It was surprising how quickly some of the fighters called it quits after getting hit. Of course, the docs had become spoiled after watching the Foundling, that paragon of punishment. One fighter did impress them, though. She was compact and muscular, and she went about her work like a pro, knocking down much bigger women with savage punches, then, in clear violation of the rules, kicking them when they were down. She was repeatedly warned; each time, she apologized, then promptly forgot the warning. There was no danger, however, that Stars - for that's who it was, of course -would be disqualified. She was a local favorite, and she was clearly a superior fighter. "I think we may be looking at our Foundling's nemesis," said Hammond, as they watched Stars knock the teeth protector out of the mouth of an especially fat broad, then put her away with a devastating blow to the ample belly. SG, meanwhile, was in a van in the parking lot, handcuffed on the floor. Cutler, Distruggio and an orderly were with her, trading office gossip and occasionally directing a discouraging word to their captive. It was a lovely night out. The sky was clear and the stars seemed to hover just out of reach, like fireflies. SG looked through the rear window and remembered how much she loved to fly on an evening like this. Why had she given up her powers? Why was she now so hated and reviled? What had gone wrong? Her reverie was interrupted by a sharp kick from Cutler. "You're on, bitch," she said.
(X) The ring announcer cleared his throat, then spoke into the microphone: "For this fight only, there are NO rules." He paused and let that sink in. "No rules. Our lovely young challenger may use whatever stratagems she cares to. And as for our irrepressible champion, Stars, well, she's been doing pretty much whatever she wants to all night." The audience roared its appreciation. "Now, girls, I won't ask for a good, clean fight, because clean is out of the question. Just give it your best, and may the best woman be the last one standing." He stepped out of the ring, the gong sounded, and SG turned to face her doom. Stars, who had opened each of her earlier bouts by rushing forward and getting in the first punch -usually the first flurry of punches - was oddly relaxed. She sauntered over to SG with exaggerated casualness and turned to an especially vocal part of the crowd and pretended to yawn. Then she cocked her head, pointed to her jaw and invited SG to punch it. The crowd got into the spirit. "Go ahead, hit her," yelled one fan. "What's wrong, pussy, don't you know how to punch?" yelled a big woman at ringside. But SG backed away, seemingly confused, and the crowd began to boo. "Deck her, Stars," someone yelled. "Get this over with." Stars shrugged and raised her hands in a gesture that said, "What more can I do? I've given her every chance." Then, so quickly that SG had no chance even to brace for it, Stars whirled and punched her in the right breast. SG cried out, held her breast and retreated. When she reached the ropes, she turned to protect her face and belly from Stars' blows. Stars hit her hard in the kidneys. SG's knees buckled. She was hanging on the ropes, facing the crowd. People were screaming, snarling, laughing. What were they laughing at, she wondered, just as Stars ripped off her headgear and grabbed her by the hair. Stars spun her around and looked into her frightened blue eyes. "Okay, Trash Girl, let's see if you've learned how to bleed." Holding her by the hair, she delivered three quick punches to SG's face. "Ah, sweet Jesus, you've answered my prayers," Stars cried out as blood gushed from SG's nose and already swelling lips and poured down her chin and neck. The sight of blood energized the crowd, and it was like a jolt of adrenaline for Stars. She pounded SG mercilessly, and when SG slumped to the floor, Stars shifted to her kicking mode. She kicked SG's stomach, she kicked her crotch, she kicked her head. Desperate to escape, SG pulled herself to the ropes and tried to crawl beneath them. Stars grabbed her feet, dragged her back, then picked her up and raised her high above the canvas. SG was stretched out above her, one of Stars' hands gripping her throat, the other holding her crotch. "What do I do with her?" Stars yelled to the crowd. "Slam her," several fans responded. "Throw her over here," yelled a big drunken lout, who then grabbed his crotch and gyrated suggestively. Stars walked around the ring, holding SG overhead like a championship trophy. She was enjoying herself immensely. She was radiant, almost beautiful. She was no longer just Stars, she was a Star. Too bad it would have to end, but at least it would be the end of Trash Girl, too. Stars went to one corner of the ring and laid SG out on her back where the ropes met. "Hold her hair, Maxine," she told the big woman at ringside. Maxine grabbed SG's hair and gave it a good yank. "Hold her feet," Stars told another fan. He climbed up and did so, first sneaking his hand between SG's thighs, to the delight of the crowd. With her head hanging over the ropes, SG looked into a sea of merciless faces. Everyone was upside down. Then she recognized Stick. Unlike the rest of the fans, he sat silently, without expression. Then their eyes met, for the briefest of moments. A look of pain spread across his face, then he turned away. SG wanted to call out to him, but a huge blow landed in her stomach and her body involuntarily tried to double up. That was impossible. The big woman held her tightly by the hair, and someone else was holding her ankles. With SG stretched helplessly on the ropes, Stars pounded her midsection, first with one fist, then another, then with both hands clenched together. Even for an athlete in as good a shape as Stars, this was hard work. She stopped for a breather, the walked around the ring, her hands on her hips, gulping air and smiling at the crowd. God, this was fun. Then returned to the ropes, picked up SG and slammed her face down onto the canvas. "I need your mike," Stars called to the ring announcer. The announcer handed her his cordless microphone through the ropes. She placed it on the canvas, next to SG's outstretched left arm. Then, planting her right foot firmly on SG's elbow, Stars grabbed her wrist and sharply jerked it upward, away from the canvas. The crack of the joint could be heard above the noise of the crowd, and SG, who had seemed beaten into unconsciousness, revived with a cry of anguish. Stars picked up the mike and said breathlessly, "Now that's gotta hurt." There was scattered laughter, but the crowd seemed subdued. Even the most sadistic fans seemed shaken. "How about the other arm?" Stars called out to the crowd. There were a few shouts of encouragement, but it was clear that most fans had seen enough. Stars felt hurt - and angry. Her moment of triumph was being spoiled. The crowd that had so recently cheered her had suddenly transferred its sympathy to this pitiful tramp. Because of beauty. Because Trash Girl was pretty, and she was not. Volcanic rage welled up within her. "Okay," she shouted into the mike, "forget the arm. Let's work on that pretty face." She dragged SG back to the corner, stood her up, threw her arms over the ropes and told Maxine to hold her elbows so she wouldn't sink back down to the canvas. Then Stars went to work with newfound strength and savagery. SG's head bounced back and forth as the punches battered her face. Gobs of blood and an occasional tooth fell to the canvas. After 30 punches, Stars stopped. SG's head had fallen forward, her chin on her bloody chest. Stars spun her around, then grabbed her hair and raised her head. There were gasps of horror. One eye was swollen shut. The other eyeball had partly emerged from its socket and stared up at the ceiling. SG's nose was a shapeless, bloody lump. Her jaw hung open, and her front teeth were missing from the bloody hole that had been her mouth. "You want pretty?" Stars screamed. "Here's pretty." Then she grabbed SG's collar, dragged her to the middle of the ring and dropped her lifeless body to the canvas. It was all over. ***** The coroner, a paid adviser to the Center's pathology department, certified that the young woman, name unknown, died tragically in an athletic contest. No one was to blame. Judge Vinson, a member of the center's board of directors, accepted the coroner's report, and the case was closed. SG's body was returned to the Medical Center. The kidneys and liver, too badly damaged for transplant purposes, were removed, neatly packaged and sent via a refrigerated truck to Mr. Cochon. In return, he made a generous, tax-deductible $2,000 contribution to the Medical Center Foundation. SG's breasts and buttocks were sliced and sent to a local deli owned by Hammond's nephew. Her arms and legs went to the county animal shelter, as dog food. SG's disfigured head was deposited in a large jar of formaldehyde and ended up on a shelf in a closet just off Dr. Cutler's office. From time to time, she showed it to special visitors. Sometimes she enjoyed looking at it all by herself. Stars insisted on SG's heart and pussy, which she brought back to the apartment, chopped up and made into a savory stew. Stick, unaware of the key ingredients, pronounced it the best meat he'd ever tasted. And the part of her that actually remained immortal? It descended to Hades to suffer continued torment at the shadowy hands of those who had preceded her: Jerome, Khalid, Jake and the scores of villains she had dispatched before surrendering her super powers. Sometimes, on a clear, cool night on the deck of the cabin overlooking the valley near Big Pine Park, you can hear her screams. They sound like the wind. Thus do the gods reward those who defy them. THE END
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