The Hit Woman's Assassination Handbook

by Jane Brooke

  Best face forward, smile time, a little bit of pink tongue, white teeth, it always works with men. She’s a grifter, thief of hearts, money, life too, eye blinks remembering that too. Use what you have, its worked before, why not now.

  A 44 caliber hollow point bullet her last resort.

  Manipulating men has always been a waltz.Trooper Boy, a man, no different, has a cock, blood and libido.

  He’ll fall too, why fucking not.

  No reason for him to think anything bad is here. He’s a county cop.

  She’s a nice girl, big car, been driving all night, abusive husband, no, sick dad, tired, sorry, white eyelashes like an albino bat fluttering lies at him.

  No reason for him to think of the frisk, the pat down, sweet girl, angel blond girl, northern girls don’t pack guns and knives.

  Well some girls do. One girl does.

  Smiles, lying pouts, worry, Reese about to accept the Academy Award, blush, tongue, wet lips, nothing to obvious.

  Just fucking melt his black dick off his body with one glance.

  He drawls, real friendly like. “Mamm, ya okay there?”

  Ear to ear smile and, the moon reflecting off of those perfect teeth.

  The con, the cheat, ball cap off, show respect, let him get it all, white hair, eyebrows, face that stops time, makes men fools, love, cough up reason, money, sanity, their lives.No Time Machine to return back 5 minutes and drive with her brain out of her ass.

  Mirrors reflecting her lying mouth back to her.

  Maybe she could offer the nice Patrolman a blowjob, maybe a Chakra adjustment with that honey cunt of hers.

  Not yet, last resort, peddling her ass is no big thing.

  Have to think, cigarette time, hands trembling, Zippo, red dragon on the chrome, flame, smoke, show the gorgeous black cop those lips.

  A preview, that’s all, a little tease, like at the movies, before the flick hits up.

  Can’t get-a-traffic ticket, thus her name throbbing across the country on cops computers, little green blinking lights, she knows that. Tony’s got his fingers into the law, he’d know, some bent cop in Jersey City already scanning that shit.Tony’s a pug, but he ain’t dumb.

  “Geeze Officer. I...I don’t know what I was thinking of. I’m so sorry. I was day dreaming.” She slaps her leg, guffaws, “I guess, night dreaming.”

  She giggles, smokes, Miss Manners with an arsenal of death surrounding her.

  ZILCH.

  He just stares through those reflectors, ticket book in his black hand, 357 making her eyes water, gold badge, stitched name on his huge chest, Lester Goines.Gold fabric name, three Sgt. stripes on his short sleeve shirt, ironed uniform, sharp guy, Martha Stewart with a handgun thinks.

  Eyes jerk to the sweat shirt, hand moves involuntarily, license, registration next to the magnum.

  Old habits die hard.

  She’ll DO him, if pressed.

  She turns her face, exhales and sees his hand resting on the butt of his own magnum. Her hand, inches back from something foolish, deadly, but she is not going easy, not at all.

  Life, death, a shootout on a Kentucky roadside, maybe.

  She’s not going back, she’s only moving forward, only card left. Truly she is insane, trapped within various maniacal mood swings.

  “Mamm, ya been drinkin?”

  More Mamms, show of shock and hurt feelings. She is not that type of girl, is she?

  Well, fucking show him. Dig deep, you’re-wonderful. Show him for fucking heavens sake.

  “Goodness NO, Officer Goine’s. No, not at all.”

  She smiles, does the sign of the cross, “Religion doesn’t allow that, officer. My father, is sick in Phoenix, aaah, I was hurrying to get there, before, before.”

  She tears up, forgets to mention the milk and cookies she bringing poor old dad.

  “Well he doesn’t have long.” Sniffle, sniffle, “Stupid me. He’s in the hospital and...Well I’ve been driving straight through. Probably pushed it a little too far...and...and...”

  Her words drift off through tremulous lips as the cop extends his hand as she decides to frost the cake a bit more. “Been drivin’ a long time. Guess I’m just tired.”

  Eyelash bats, no one bothers to ask her why she didn’t take a fucking jet if dad is so sick.

  Lucky whore, again.

  “Ya seem sober enough, sorry bout yer troubles. License and registration, Mamm.”

  Finger’s and nudges under the sweat grip the stock of the 44.

  DO IT. Why not? DO him and, then yourself.

  Get it over; end it all in a fucking flume of cordite and flames. Hand crawl, paper work, she wipes a tear away and hands them to him.

  He’s tired, she can see it. She likes cops, fucked up job, street cleaning the bergs of vermin, never appreciated; she does though.

  He nods, moves to his cruiser, sits kitty corner on the seat, punches those dreaded number into the computer. Might as well send Tony a certified letter where she is.

  Like Octopus suckers that can reach everywhere in the country, DMV is Tony’s friend. The guys there, love fucking nude dancers too.

  Night dreaming, she watches the handsome black cop and remembers.

  She once took fifty grand, for a weekend with five black studs from the NY Knicks. Private yacht, luxurious, Crystal, caviar, semen cocktails, they had been real gentlemen.Guys had dicks, like those polish Kielbasa sausages.

  Thick, black, beautiful, the hoopsters were leapers, big men, sweet men, athletes. They had gang banged her for two days. Fucked her in the ass, cunt, mouth, double time, triple time, they had went over time. She had drank a gallon of cum, had her stomach pierced from a foot long dong in her ass.

  Another guy, three guys, cocks in each hand, one in her pout mouth, one in her ass, a jack hammer in her cunt. The pain had been horrific, wonderful as they had jerked her slender bod around like a ribbon thrashed by a hurricane of cocks.

  She had felt something that weekend as they ripped her up, cocks dancing around her tonsils, stretched her like a white rubber band.

  It had been a very nice time for her.

  Being the female Anti Christ has rewarding fringe benefits when you’re a twisted whore.She had enjoyed the weekend entirely.

  Blink, blink, blink,

  Back to Kentucky. “Nothing I can do now, except play it out.” She whispers.

  Patrolmen Goines ambles back, towers over her, looks exhausted, just staring at her. His onyx eyes keep ticking, back and forth, papers, watch, her face, watch, her angelic face, papers, watch, back to that face, she sees it.

  “Everything seems legal, Mamm. Gonna have ta ticket ya, though.”

  Registration in his hand, license too, clip, clip, on the clip board, ball point in hand, scribbles begin; she groans.

  “I deserve it officer Goines. I’m real sorry though. You could have been hurt. I feel just horrible; your job is such a hard one.”

  She’s flooding all of the vocal channels with remorse, respect, bells and whistles of sincerity, which she actually and suddenly feels.

  Let’s see if that’ll work. She thinks.

  Goines blinks, stalls.

  He likes and appreciates the candy coated blond. His eyes are black, worried and twitch at his watch and, then, back at her. He thinks for a beat, makes a scribble on the ticket, rips it from the book and suspends it in mid air before her probes for eye balls.

  She sees it.

  He’s a cop no more interested in fucking her then she is in being a decent and honest human being.

  What she does see, is a family man that just probably wants to go home, kick back with family and watch the tube. She doesn’t know.

  More suspension of her destiny, eyes from ticket to her, brain gears cli
cking. She can almost see them in his handsome head click, click, clicking.

  Some thieves, well, are born under a lucky star.

  A runaway/trick/nude dancer/con artist/grifter/liar/a gangster’s gal, a murderer, she is still avoiding thoughts about that. If that is luck, then she has had boat loads of it. Watching the Cop, she knew now that once again her luck was going to hold.

  “Mamm, this here is a hundred, fifty dollar citation. Since yer out of town and all, normally we’d visit the judge over there in Elwood County so ya could pay it.”

  AND? Mandal thinks, waiting for a request for a blow job, at least.

  Again a glance at the watch and, then eyeballs, tired, veined back at the blond doll.

  “Seein’ yer so remorseful and all, and ain’t no damage done, I’m gonna’ forgive ya this time.”

  He tears up the ticket and shoves it into his pocket.

  “Ya best be on yer way and drive a bit more careful, ya hear.”

  Being from the school that you pay now or you pay later, she is stunned and waiting for the grift.

  None comes.

  She breaths, smiles, showing appreciation at his gesture.

  “Patrolmen, I just can’t thank you enough.”

  She thinks about the hoopsters from Knicks. Why not?

  “No need Mamm, get now.” He turns, takes a step and, then turns back hearing her voice.

  “Patrolmen Goines.”

  Crinkled brow, not clear what is what, he stares at her as she holds five crisp c-notes out to him.

  “I’d like to make a donation to the cop’s fund, if you don’t mind.”

  AN honest cop, he looks at the cash.

  Man. He thinks. Lester Junior sure does need some new football cleats, one they done seen over at the Nike Store in Louisville. The ones he can’t afford to get his son on his short Patrolmen’s pay.

  Scenario’s mull around his tired cop brain.

  Thinking real hard about it, he smiles, moves a pace, takes the money knowin’ one time ain’t gonna be so bad.

  “Right kindly of ya Mamm. I knowed just the cop this I’ll help.”

  Unable to help himself, he smiles, nods, showing his gratitude to the polite girl, with a smile, Right back at ya on her face.

  “You guys are over worked, under paid; I’d hate to think of life without you.”

  And the movie goes on and on and on yet, she feels good and honest. She really does feel this way, a rare moment of truth for her. She is human after all; though sub human at the best of times.

  He nods, tips his hat, turns, crosses the street, enters his cruiser, looks back at her, another hat tip.

  She nods, she’s done the right thing and both of them know it.

  In gear, he rumbles off the dirt, hits the tarmac, red tail lights diminishing as he dissolves over a small hill on the asphalt. Her heart finds a rhythmic cadence, fumbled fingers for a smoke. Zippo fire, lips, jitters dissipating, inhale, exhale, she’s okay.

  She’s still alive.

  She had done a good thing.

  Suddenly she feels clean and that makes her feel human. Zip, Zap, Mandal returns, always does, time is running lean, time to scoot. Key twist, gear slot, U-turn, folks watching at the mall, a little gas, guns the V-8, vroom, vroom, wonders if harm has come to the Deville, seems fine.

  Down the road she goes, cough, sputter, maybe a little cold, running clean, Marlboro smoke leaking to the stars above her.

  The road trip is on again, wind rustling her buzz cut. She thinks of the black Goines, what he did, what he had done.

  Winces, groans, shaking hands, would she of murdered him down, taken his nice valiant life so herself bitched survivals’ could resume.

  She groans in mental pain, she thinks that she would have done it. Again she can’t remember if she has put someone beneath the earth before. She thinks she has. Those memories are harder to deny as the Caddy fly’s down the road.

  No answers, she simply drives.

  While unbeknown to her, wheels, gears of fate, her life, spinning, twirling, lug nuts unscrewing way behind her, NJ, Bobby Ugo, Dim DIm, way back behind her. Computers are funny things, they can actually get a girl killed.

  Billingsey, Gas, Bait, Beer, Bullets, fate, red hair watches the cool green Cadillac vanish over the hill red tail lights glowing like the twenty freckles tattooed along the back of his hands.

  “Gee shucks, he’d remember that pretty lady the rest of his gol darn life.

  He turns, dances up the steps dreamin’ of a bottle of iced cold Orange Nehi Soda, his favorite.

  Thus, is destiny, a whirlwind of moments, an Iliad Odyssey set along a Kentucky truck, stop.

  It is where the savage die, where the Greek poets and hero’s live, washed in the blood of valiantly.

  A twist of fate there, a worn fan belt here, a nice kid with the power of Zeus to burn, to incinerate a girls escape flaming in his mind.

  It is a Greek tragedy lost within the warming thermals of fate along a Kentucky road and the vision of a whore running wildly away from her past. A past that she perhaps will never find escape from.

  It is life never ending and it is real.

  The Luxury Travler Motel

  SOME WHERE near mid-night, sleepy yawns, full moon, citrine beams mixing with her spinning Cadillac wheels. Satiated, exhausted, she whips off the road, dust, parking lot awaiting her.

  Better than nothing she thinks.

  Caddy motor chills, turned key, motor conks out, green neon, always neon from the motel’s sign throbbing, on, off, on, off on her face like a skin eating virus.

  Few cars in the motels parking slots, big rig out of Nogales City too. Telling her desperation comes in every make of car along off shoots of an American dream and highways filled with life’s pot holes.

  It is cold, leather bomber pressed again her long neck, cigarette dangling from her puissant lips, sand stars grinding in her eyes, quiet, a breeze rolling in off the swamps, maybe a river, she figures.

  Shoulder holster on now, a gift from a War Surplus store, 44 jigged in deep, feels good, eight inch knife in her new steel toed work boot.

  She is ready for war.

  Voices, laughter, dull music on the wind, beaten down road side house bar, social center for the locals stuck across the street, there’s that neon again, Orange, like fire fly’s, saying: JOKESTERS BAR, pimping out cold beer, shots, good food within, maybe a line-dance too.

  Several pick-up trucks, gun racks, older Detroit cars, a jeep and some big rigs idling diesel, nothing flash. These are poor, hard, country folks, doing the best they can.

  In the shadows she plucks out an image of something interesting. An Old Coup De Ville, looking like her babies twin, maybe a 74, 75 her best guess. Rag top, faded blue, not green, but damn close. She’s sitting all alone off to the side, busted up shed light bulb hanging like a hang mans noose on a copper wire overhead.

  Thinking, always the wrong thing to do, she grabs a ciggie, kick starts it to life, feels the warmth on her face from the flame. “CLICK,” the Zippo goes-dead, an idea is exhumed from the coffin in her brain.

  Slink thief over, Slim Jim the locks, riffle the glove, get the registration, swap plates, skedaddle back, be a couple of hundred klicks down the road before anyone noticed the switcheroo, if they caught it at all.

  Mostly, likely, she’d be In Vegas, jaw crushers eating her doll, recast into a can of dog food before anybody got wise.

  Good idea, bad idea, her mind again, let’s do it.

  She’d have to scoot, suck it up and drive all night, just in case. Manic is good when on the grift. Better denying a little sleep then looking up the wrong way from the bottom of some Jersey pier, a motor crank case chained to a gals pretty feet.

  Liking the plan, a lot, she finis
hes her smoke, lets it slip down the door. It sparks to the asphalt. Madness and mania cozies in her blue eyes.

  She giggles, thinking about Daphnia Water Flea’s, out of The Science Journal, one of her fav mags.

  The little bastards grew defensive, razor sharp spines through evolution, protection from predators.

  If the little evolutionary cunt’s could do, it why not her?

  More giggles, where do those thoughts come from, the shit even blows her mind as she feels her own spine grow some tines.

  She twists the key, likes the sound of the engine, slots drive and moves slow and shadowy to the street ramp, looks left, right, and cruises across the road. She parks kitty corner in the dark just some meters from the other Cadillac. Shuts her down, she sits and absorbs it all.

  Piece a cake. She thinks.

  Some hillbilly music, laments, lost chances of love, jilted at the altar, sounds like Reba pukes out of the bar. Cow girl Mandal, flips thoughts, maybe mosey, likes that word now, kick it, maybe line dance with some country thug, have a rattle after in the motels bed and hit the road solid in the morning.

  Common sense, reaps in, blink, blink, blink in her eyes. She moans, brain making all the wrong decisions. Petty theft is silly serious stuff, burglary an edgy gig, bad idea dancing in some Tennessee gin joint; very bad idea.

  She gasps, sees a sign on the plates that says: TENNESSEE. How did she miss that? Fuck, she’s spun some serious miles since Goines. Gotta pay attention, buck it up or some serious shit could fall on top of her blond head.

  Scrounging through her girl/thief bag she had scored at a Kentucky County Store, she pushes a side a couple of specially cut eight inch tubes of lead pipe. Pipe bombs later, cool stuff, a girl never knew when she would need them.

  Popular Mechanics is also one of her fav mags. Boxes of ammo, a carton of Marlboro’s, a quart of Wild Turkey, a pint of Tequila, a switch blade, purple plastic handle reading: Kentucky, Home of Abe Lincoln on it. Wincing, she giggles. “My God, you are a fucking twisted piece of work.”