The Hit Woman's Assassination Handbook

by Jane Brooke

She’s made a fool out of boss. Boss was hung up on her platinum cunt, smart ass lips, jabber, smart talk, selfish lips, bull shit self absorbed genius lips. Lips, the first thing he will cut from her fuck faced mouth with a fucking chain saw. He smiles, tweaks the stash, thinks what kinda a cleaver bull shit she’ll have to say through a mouth a blood about that. He’ll cut her bitch cute tongue last out of her mouth, just so he can hear the screams.

  He detested her, hated her from the get go. He had once, only once, shot out to Tony a suggestion.

  Kill the bitch, liar, grifter, hitter, whore, come on Tony, let me do her, she’s filth.

  Nothing, he loved her.

  The Fat Man had a hole in his suet heart. She was misunderstood, a goddess, never talk that way to me again, he had not.

  Bobby was patient, knew it was just a matter of time. He knew that all the brains, glib remarks, grift, cunts, angel faces can’t be appreciated through a mouth full of blood.

  “MAKE IT STOP.”

  He wants to her shriek as it would be the last cleaver thing she would say, even if she could say them in several different languages. She’d shriek all right, before he cut her tits off of her body and making her eat them before she died.

  “Aaaaaaah, Blue Points....Bobby...”

  Bobby’s cheek twitches, left eye spasms. Good sign, he’s on the edge, ready to roll. Nobody fucked with his boss, he was ready to rumble. Dim Dim, quiet, polite, meat hooks folded on his truck knees, dreaming of Jelly Donuts. He was a simple man.

  “Bobby, I want things like they was.”

  Molars grinding, more facial tick’s. Bobby swallows his words, says. “Mr. Uruguay, she ripped ya off, Sir.”

  Hot drops of fired mercury dripping from his lips, itching to party with Tony’s whore one last time, Bobby is ready to roll.

  “I want her back, Bobby.”

  Drooping fat eyelids dripping over fat eyes, seemingly nodding off and going where killers go when pensive, “Intact.”

  “Intact.” Bobby seethed, trying to keep from erupting.

  Tony, girder eyes opening, slow, grinning at his vacuum cleaner of lost souls.

  “Yeah, get the men, as many as you need...Fan out....Yeah, intact...Let’s talk to Onetta.” He whispers, eying another Blue Point, “Blue points...I love I’m.”

  Tony drains another oyster, groans, drip, drip, drip, juice down the chin, mingling with that bear, black chest hair. Bobby, in the pocket, cell phone, coldly, snaps it open, speed dials, ring, ring, ring.

  “Yeah, Bobby. Bring Onetta in....Yeah, alive...”

  Bobby slaps the cell dead, inhales, exhales, fire breath, nerves cut like raw diamonds. He’s a professional, follow orders, Fat Man is father. Bobby he is a good son.

  He thinks.

  She’ll be intact all right. They gonna need a glue gun to put the skin back on her face, but she’ll be intact all right.”

  Again the black limo is cruising through Brooklyn, a black predator on the scent of its prey, one fat man, one soulless giant, a behemoth elixir of finality, one ferret and one thing on his mind.

  PAYBACK!

  Payback, Bobby Ugo style, FUCKING BIG TIME.

  Ranger Keats

  TEXAS RANGER, Elmer Keats, was exhausted, bone weary, desert hot, over-worked, under paid and dead tired. Standing next to his brown, white Police Cruiser, his clear blue eyes peered through the mirrors across the desert at another example of the carnage, sorrow, hopelessness of the white powder.

  He feels like a spent brass bullet casing, barbecuing on the ground at the practice range, ejected from his 357, six in the chamber cannon, slung in black dappled leather holster cinched around his ample waist.

  They say driving across Texas.

  Ya wake up in Texas, lunch in Texas; ya go to bed in Texas.

  Texas is a big fucking State.

  He didn’t need to be reminded about that. It was, also fucking hot, hotter, the hottest place on earth outside of Jeddah. A place filled with lizards, snakes, Gilas, cranked out idiots driving big rigs with racked out heads strung out on Crystal Meth. 48 hr’s at a clip, moving crap across the desert. Men, women, just like the charred corpse smoking in the desert before him.

  Musta been driving non-stop, out of Nuevo Laredo, going someplace, eighteen wheels, refrigerated cargo holds, reefers cooling the slag, vaporized, detonated in front of his eye balls. All of it now crumpled up like a crushed tin can, belching smoke, fire into the Texas air. He moans, presses his exhaust pipe eyes, smelling the dead body and whispers. “As if in’ Texas needed more pollution then she already got.”

  Looking out, desert scattered with cargo, tractor-trailer down, black smoke, rubber tires filled with flames, he moans. “Great. Just fucking great.”

  Six foot-three, burn out victim, 220 lbs, 20 to many, twenty-five year veteran, brown uniform, black leather gun belt, black cowboy boots, Texas Ranger, pulls of his white Stetsons brim. He sweating and has a red hanky from around his neck. He wipes drips of sweat from his fire red hair, more from the freckles, groans. “Just fucking great.”

  Heavy Texas drawl, big angular man, moves towards the burning tractor-trailer and hesitates. His eyes sweep the desert and blast along the desert as he leers at thousands of demolished boxes of frozen strawberries, strewn like blood splatter in the dirt.

  “Strawberries.” He sickeningly mutters like Captain Queeg, minus the revolving silver balls.

  Time moves, he stares, thinks, groans, it’s so fucking hot you can fry beans on the dirt. He thinks, to himself.

  Lately, fools, mostly youngin’s, no common sense, elongating their trips, forging log books, sneaking past Weigh Stations, fudging with their time limits, drivers dying, more than he could ever remember. Long hauling, hard enough as it was, but, new regulations, seeping outta DC, enacted by bureaucrats, corrupt politicos, only way a driver could make a livin’, was to cheat, lie, push it, more than a few, takin’ amphetamines, Crystal Meth their choice, dying for bad decisions made by desperate folks. Keats knows this, no excuses, grueling hours, low pay, foot to the-peddle; still too many folks being incinerated along an unforgiving Texas desert.

  Purgatory of unmarked graves, like the one he’s standing before. Desert heat washing over him, red head melting, groans, mirrored cops sunglasses dangling at arm’s length, eyes pressed with fingers; nothing he can fucking do about it.

  About to turn, move back to his cruiser, grabs a cam-corder so he can film the carnage. His blue eyes catch something next to the smoldering tractors cab. Hands on his ample stomach, he groans, presses a few times, he needs anti-acids bad. He pushes a boot forward, bends, pick’s up a glassine bag of white powder. Groans and an un-snap of a pearl shirt button, finds a Tums, pops it in his mouth; maybe that will make the pain go away.

  “Man, I gotta get outta here.”

  Whispers, he leans down, picks up the bag, wets a fingertip, dips, touches his cracked lips, his educated tongue, telling him what he already knew. Acid Reflux bellies up, strikes his throat and savages his Texas Fried steak belly, matching the anger throbbing in his temples.

  Angrily, he mutters. “Fucking Billy.”

  His eyes grow all squinty and such, angry like. He slashes his ranger sunglasses on his squints, wipes more sweat, feels real angry, knows somethin’ fer certain. One, before he retires in 30 days he will snake Billy Cox and his moronic brother Arvan down, put them away, dead or behind bars ferever.

  Second, big hand on the twelve, midnight, October 1, he would retire, never look back, let some other fuck clean up the garbage. Some promises are mumbled, just to be broken.

  “BANG.”

  What sounds like a gunshot report whips him around, nervous, real on edge. His hand dives to the walnut butt of his 357 magnum, his nerves, peeled copper wires, coming apart, frayed, wire by wire.

  357
, half drawn as he tenses and almost goes into a crouch. He calms, for a wiry blond, a real beauty tea cup, sunglasses, bare arms, slinky, is sputtering towards him, back firing in an old convertible, some faded green or blue color or another, Coup De Ville, old Cadillac. Exhaling, he shoves the 357 into the leather, shakes his head back and forth, on edge, retirement can’t be soon enough, whispers. “I gotta get outta here.”

  Peering down the road, she’s goin’ slow, getting closer, belching smoke, back fires again as she passes as if in slow motion, like in the movies. The girl, ball cap, white hair, sunglasses, Texas Lips, black sleeveless T-shirt, sun burned face, arms covered with sweat. They make eye contact, shades through shades, she turns her chin down. Nothing about it gives Ranger Keats a sense of well being, none of it.

  To Keats, the gal fidgeted, tugged on her ball cap, averted her chin and though their meeting along side of the road in a Texas Desert is a brief one, just seconds, Keats decides that’s her direction is one he needs to be going in.

  Water colored, blue eyes, watch her rattle and smoke over a hill, vanishing into the thermals. He turns, hesitates, peers down the heat undulations blistering off the asphalt into the direction the Texas rose just came from. Pulse quickening, heart pounding, ire growing, he watches two chopped Harley’s, decked in chrome, low slung, forks extended, speeding his way. He knows exactly who they are. That knowledge does nothin’ to calm his red headed temper.

  Keats stands tall, rigid, watches through the mirrors as the first Hog begins to pass him.

  The driver, long hair, good looking, lean, muscled, James Dean type, Billy Cox, out fitted in filth jeans, black boot on the chrome cruise bar, sleeveless Levi vest, decals everywhere, vest exposing muscled pistons for arms, tattoos stenciled into sun burnt skin, not burnt like Keats mind though.

  Strapped to the back and leaning against the sissy bar is a long, skinny piece a Texas double wide trash. She’s kinda filthy, sexy dirt blond, covered in Tats and soiled hugging jeans, heavy motor cycle boots, on small feet, chewing bubble gum; their headin’ fer Inferno Flats.

  The stud kid, grins, real good lookin’ kid, gives the Ranger the victory V, smirks, bitch on the back real arrogant and such, Keats blood pressure rising, trash pile whore gives him the finger as the bike roars bye.

  “Billy Cox.” Keats seethes.

  Seconds pass, close behind, on another work of art, chopper, bigger than the slime riding it. He’s a small, greased covered, denim clad, super sinewy dude, Arvan Cox. Black vest, more tattoos, bare chest, dirt encrusted beard, long oil filled hair, streamers behind him, cranks by Keats. He’s smiling, grinning, teasing, legs extended, boots on the cruise bar, exposing bad, stained, tobacco tattooed teeth; bad from years of drug abuse. He’s chawing mouth tobacco, passes, spits, brown spit mingles with his hair, he roars bye.

  “Cox’s, I’m comin fer you, real soon.” Keats seethes.

  He’s leering, ready to implode, for everybody that just passed was a fucking soap opera of the absurd and be dead if it was up to him. Still time though, he was a patient Texas man.

  “Thirty days.” Keats mumbles.

  He snarls, watching the motorcycles zoom off, melding into the heat patterns, asphalt throwing fire into the sky.

  Wipes of sweat, face, neck, lined eyes, thinks, long, hard, he whispers. “I’m comin’real fucking soon, that is fer sure.”

  Back to thoughts, the edgy blond as he walks back to the cruiser. He fiddles with the AC vents, engine idling, air conditioner keeping it at least cool. Thermostat in his head off the charts, needle red lining, eyes off to the burning wreckage. He knows the Cox boys is responsible, some way, or another, in gear, accelerate, down the road, see what that blond twist was all about.

  Destiny, fate and real stuff of a poet’s world; real cryptic stuff, that’s Mandals world.

  A blond sizzling by, psychopaths on bikes, an eighteen wheeler in smoke and flames, sometimes a girls wishes can be answered. Queer angles, queer ways, sometimes a bullet works, all of these are truths.

  Clean, clear and present soon, given, ripped away and perhaps a gift, a retirement surprise, maybe a ribbon of death, life, her own, maybe the end, maybe the beginning.

  Texas is like that. Sometimes the story takes a thousand miles to unfold.

  Coup De Ville

  “BANG, COUGH, bang, sputter” lurch ahead another fifty meters, the dying Cadillac hoping to catch some memories, passing cactus, dead rodents on the road, jerk forward, repeating the process all over again.

  Mandal, dripping sweat, sun burned face, arms, drenched body so damn hot, brain amped up, not knowing which way is up.

  Passing the tall cop, seeing his scrutiny, had thrown her, un-nerved her, plenty.

  Further-more along as the De Ville struggles through the heat, belching its guts out.

  Mandal is deteriorating, unhinging, no sleep, great escape, in a holding cell, keeping it together, just barely. No discarded Caddy chassis, road side, no Grey Hound to move forward. She needs the Caddy to carry her slag, weapons, 700 K in the back seat, divorce settlement intact, rag top princess, bad idea.

  All of it was a bad idea, from NJ to here, a fucking nightmare. What had she been thinking?

  Bill board, staked into the desert, big painted letters, reading: BERKS MOTOR STOP...FOOD/GAS...1-MILE AHEAD.

  Have to stop, eat, rest, let’s do it, she decides.

  Eyes tick into the rear view, over the bluff, big diesel machine, Greyhound Bus, banging down on her, coming out of the Sun behind her.

  Coughs, sputters, Caddy trying to eat the road forward as a Cruise-o-Liner whips past, diesel, wind swirling, roar of the motor, blinker throbbing, sets in, gone, over the hill. She’s wondering in her mind if she will ever see that moment of transportation, safety again..

  “CLUMPITY...CLUMPITY...BANG and a final, “CLUMP.”

  The De Ville dies, engines flames out, steam sizzling under the boats front hood. In neutral, she coasts, side of the road, tires crunching over gravel, steam, smoke, filtering from everywhere, silence, desert wind, her heart pounding, she sighs, moans. “I’m a dead woman.”

  Fumbles, shaking hands, a cigarette pack, draw one out, flames it to life, Zippo slap, inhale, calm, breath, she exhales.

  You’re not dead yet.

  Sound of rumbles, back down the road, rear view mirror reflecting her blue eyes, a couple of Bikers, engine roars and bearing down on her broken life from behind her.

  Eyes click, guns, ball bat, 44 resting, covered on the leather passenger seat under her hoodie. Valise, money, knife in the boot, 38 in the glove, foods staples scattered here, there, Whiskey under the seat, bag of ice, beers, covered in the back seat. Gun powder, lengths of pipe, sweat engulfing her, fatigue fucking her, eyes jerking at the rear view, at the 44, maybe, a girl never knows, fucking, just great.

  Choppers press down, she twists, edges up on the seat, lead boy, blond stapled on the back, handsome man child, sun glasses, his old lady too. Eye connect, lowered shades, he, she, he gives her grin, big white teeth, easy smile, he gives her a mischievous wink, does not go well for hard girl leaning against the sissy bar.

  Their ripping by, scowls from the skinny girl, small ass, welded to the leather seat. Mandal, unnerved, click, click, click, slow motion movie real. Life suspended and everything is crystal clear. James Dean, dirt girl friend, stunning, giraffe blond in the Caddy, ZOOOOM, ZOOOOM, movie over, they slash past.

  Right in line, another bike, weasel, little dirty man, lots a grin, tobacco juice dripping from his chin whiskers, grins, brown stains, teeth like rotted pier pilings, boots staked out in front, muscled arms, an ornery looking little guy; mean looking to her mind.

  “WHACK” he’s past.

  She feels her body shudder, smokes to calm her-self, things go from bad to critical from there. Coming over the hill is that big cop in th
at brown and white state police cruiser.

  “Fuck, what now?” She stutters.

  Her butt slips down into the seat, hand under the Hoodie.

  “CLICK.”

  Crazy stuff, bad thoughts, real bad, confused thinking kinda stuff, carburetor brain finally running out of gas. Her fingers are nestling the 44.

  Within the moment she realizes her life is in the center crux of decision, AGAIN. Change, death, life, it is her choice to make, inside the vortex. In the moment, she realizes that she will kill the Trooper, in cold blood, if it goes down wrong.

  The same scenario the other her envisioned along a Kentucky road.

  Tall cop struggling out of his cruiser, yard by Texas yard, slotting his Stetson to red hair a freckled hand on his gun butt, wincing, fingers pressed into his gut, now ambling towards her.

  She wonders who is this person, her; the other her making these decisions.

  Hammer back, hand under the sweatshirt, she sees the big cops mitt on his gun. Slowly, her hand sidles out, she lights a cigarette, leave the 44 just where it is, transformation time.

  Who will she be now?

  Killer, whore, grifter, lost little girl; he menu is never ending.

  Both hands welded to the plastic steering wheel, as John Wayne hovers over her, wide shoulders cutting the blister sun from her face.

  Looking down, sun reflecting off of his sunglasses, her own too, ball cap off. Let him see the blond, lowered shades, batted eyelashes, smiles, smoke pearling from lips, lying lips, blue eyes dancing on the biggest handgun she’s ever seen. Except her own that is.

  “Ma’am...havin’ some trouble, are ya?”

  Academy Award time, aren’t due til January. Now is better, girl, thief, whore, cop killer, maybe, act nice, sweet, fragile. Texas men are hero’s, to their women and like them sugary, all girly and such. She wishes she had big hair, big silicone tits, she smiles and acts like sweet ginger for the Trooper.

  The fucking envelope please.

  “Why, yes, yes officer, I am...It...It...just stopped. Just a girl, don’t know much about motors.” A little bit of southern twang is in her voice.