The Hit Woman's Assassination Handbook

by Jane Brooke

  What was the name of that wop divorce guy?

  Fuck it, later.

  She moves, up, down, a strider of perfection, moans, Mario and her, in unison, pressed white fingers on his lips, cunt like one of those atom smashers over at JPL, vagina shaved, ever thing blended like the sun.

  Hands, his hands, touching that skin, her no tits, no form to her body, up, down, her breathing gasping, lips tight, barred, teeth showing like that lioness again. Flow and ebb, up and, then down, time moves right along.

  She hop’s up, so playful, saliva dripping from her lips, smiles through gritted teeth, guides his cock to the entry of her anus. He can’t believe any of it, as she rams his cock into her ass. Mario gasps, she scream, racks her head back and forth, bangs his chest with her fists.

  She goes nuts.

  Mario’s eyes bolted open, nothing he has ever felt as ever felt like his cock buried into her velvet ass.

  Time passes, still Mario hasn’t blinked for a fucking hour and, then she shrieks, body shaking, shuddering, eyes twitching and, then Mario explodes, semen filling her, matching flames for flames, as he groans, tenses as she falls along his body.

  She is shuttering, weeping, as his arms wrap around her nothingness.

  Skin pressed again skin, tears mingling with sweat as she whimpers through saline water drops.

  “Il mio amore, siete stupefacenti, allineare io adore voi.”

  Broken hearted, fucked up and knowing it, holding the child in his mans arms, Mario touches her spine, her tiny rump, feels her tears on his neck and, then whispered back. “La, La ora siete cosi bello, prego mai mi non lasci il mio amore.”

  “Yes my love, I love you to, please never leave me alone, never.”

  Magic moments, surreal for Mario, fucking romance made in Hollywood, maybe red brick slippers for the wife.

  Why not, he’s done worse?

  Then the brave little girl finally gets right, leans up, hovers over him and smiles, a child really, simply precious in his old world romanced mind.

  Mario smiles, her fingertips to her own lips, pressed against his, lies shared, promises sworn to, and encore pursed from her lips.

  “Just a moment mi amore, the bathroom.”

  Giggles, girl stuff.

  “Please daddy you can spank me if I’m bad, even if I’m good.” More giggles.

  Mario loves her, she dances away, small feet getting air, a tilt back, a purr, a smile, and air kiss sent COD. Mario grabs it in the ozone. He knows he will never let it go, gosh what a gal.

  Bathroom, purse, naked, leering into the mirror, seeing nothing, feeling nothing, truly the white spirit, fiddles in the bag, finds her stuff, no pulse beat, cold skin like white Pieta Marble.

  Black ice in her hand, wondering, goofing, what’s that in the mirror? She can’t look, vomit images and, then finished.

  “CLICK.”

  Hands of a white angel behind her back; soft again. Warm and fuzzy, sex pot, god or goddess, more like Satan, out the door she goes.

  Standing before him she is swaying, smiling at smiles, hands behind her back, surprises, gifts, as a child she loved them. She has no memory of ever being a child ever racked in her brain any longer.

  That she was certain of.

  Mandal, not Mimi now, no, not the weeper, frail and so needy, different eyeballs screwed into that angelic face, smiles, fading now. Mario doesn’t get it, he will.

  She takes a barefoot step, remembering:

  That God takes everything so indiscriminately for the simple reason that he can.

  That death, like Damascalies Sword gives life such a special meaning, for without its finality, lives, careless, vapid with no thoughts of reparation within in them, were meaningless.

  Hands swung from the small curvature of her spine, hands by her side.

  Mario in Love and there are frozen icicles dripping from her eyes.

  “CLICK.”

  Chambering one of thirteen 22’s into the Beretta, she is ready now.

  Mario blinking, naked, waiting for his angel, not expecting the Angel of Death as brief moments of no recognition crinkle his brow, suspicion, not registered yet.

  Can’t be, no fucking way, lovers don’t hold handguns.

  Especially his white/blond with eyebrows that have suddenly melded into blood colored eyes as she lifts her arm, no words; a moment frozen in time.

  Eyes, his, hers, locked, clarity as if watching a single drop of blood dripping from an open neck wound. Slow motion now, frame by celluloid frame, finger pressure, Mario protests, she smiles.

  “PSSST.”

  Hollow-point racing across time, marked, centered, impacting in Mario’s forehead as blood splatters, brains, skull fragments too, patterned against white pillows and, then maybe dead, more incredulous his eyes as she tilts her head, eyes on eyes.

  Curious girl, efficient girl, blood curdling violent girl and, then.

  “PSSST...PSSST...PSSST.”

  Three in the heart.

  Mario DiCaprio has had a visit from the White Death Orchid and she was not carrying in her hands white roses.

  Humming, naked, a matrix restructured, coming apart as chips of ice from a bullets thump, knowing that she had relieved another good catholic of his life as God did so regularly.

  She feels nothing, numb as always, it was her job. A church could have fucking fallen on him just as easily. They often do to the faithful, mostly in the Philippines, Saturn cold in her throat thinking that.

  Something then moved, she thought it was her heart imploding in her body.

  But, no, behind her, she turns, Beretta in her hand, naked.

  Standing there is a fortyish women, leering, shaking and pressed against her leg a seven year old girl, chin trembling, gawking at the blood soaked corpse and, then the dynamic white creature gazing back at her.

  Two valises, behind them, bad weather and a flight cancellation, bad time, bad luck, wrong destiny, bad for them, a maze full circled back to death. Mandal, morphed, rewired, curious, blue eyes wondering, constructed of pure evil, not clear where she was, remembering and, then lifting the silenced hand gun.

  Feeling a finger against the trigger mechanism, aiming, forehead centered within the bead. The wife bends to knees taking her cowering daughter and hugging her to her side, as the naked women’s bare feet plant to the floor.

  Two steps forward, one life time back, an outstretched arm of bone.

  Pistol welded to a white grip, blue steel ice eyes UN blinking, no waver, eyes, pleading from a mother protecting her daughter, tears falling, fear, searing fear, tip of a hand gun barrel pressed against her forehead.

  Then, the bone colored women blinked, tilted eyes to the girl.

  She is and ego driven power broker staring at the innocence of virginity.

  Blink again, something so familiar in her child’s new blue orbs and now tears cascading down pristine youth and, then she remembered.

  If one is to evolve to be a God then one must do as God does.

  Thumb on the hammer.

  “Click.”

  Pressure on the trigger mechanism and, then a single word:

  “Mommy.”

  Mandal, looks, tilts her head, there is something wrong.

  God kills the mercifully, the good and the saintly, does she?

  So this who she is, what she has become.

  No matter, work, safety, her vile ways and, then resolve and benediction as the mother closes her eyes and whispers. “Please, take me but not my daughter...Please I beg you.”

  Recognition, more eyeballs ticking, closed, open, she bends to one knee, placing her eyes so close to the little girls.

  She is in the subterranean seas of the girls windows to her soul.

  Her brow crinkle
s, she is in awe. She is the little girl before, before what? Before she had evolved, made the metamorphosis from human to monster, silenced pistol tip pressed against the mother’s forehead.

  Mandal touches the girls face, her blond curls, remembers, leans in, kisses her on the cheek, stands, lowers the handgun, cocks her neck, furrows her brow, looks at the automatic in her hand. It feels hot, almost too hot to touch and, then.

  “Mommy I’m scared.”

  In a moment she regains something, perhaps partially a small piece of her soul.

  Hatred and, then anger, savages her mind as she feels her naked body might erupt into a fireball of flames and ash. Snarling now, teeth bared, she hacks the gun at the dead man and, then back at the mother and daughter as she grits out the words.

  “I have set you free. DO you see him, he who dishonors you?” Turning, she fires off a silenced bullet.

  “PSSSST.”

  The gun bucks, the smell of cordite fills the room as the lead pellet impacts Mario DiCaprio in the chest.

  Then back, leering, almost rabid, she growls like a starved animal.

  “He is a pig and you deserve better. GO, both of you. Make a new life. And then she roared.

  “BEFORE I FUCKING KILL YOU BOTH.”

  The wife, still holding beauty, no more than a concubine for a lying, cheating pig her entire life, she knows, has always known.

  The sluts, the whores, she had turned eyes away, bags still packed, so many reasons to live, stands, is silent, shares eyes with The White Executioner, savior, benefactor.

  She nods, shares understanding, woman to woman and, then hand and hand walks from the room with her daughter and the new life that has been given as a gift from the nexus of darkness, somehow transformed into-a-women of benediction.

  Perhaps as a great bird, ridding its self of its rotting plumage, Mandal falls to her knees, gun on the floor, shattered, evolution not a billion years, only now a matter of seconds now.

  She falls to her back, eyes leering at the frescos of Tuscany layered along the domed ceiling and yellow washed villas, sweeping fields of amber, red, blue flowers. They chip away at her encased iced soul as she remembers rejuvenation, a journey so long ago along; a road from a Montreal’s Girls School to a killer, to here.

  Now she knows, is clear, that it must stop here, terminate, or she will lose herself never to return to being human again.

  She begins to sob, tears falling down her cheeks, dripping down her sharp chin, pooling in the clefts of her collar bones. She is now certain that she must escape Anthony Uruguay, the sociopath mobster that had turned her out, owned her, bought her and eventually had made her into a monster hit woman whore capable of killing a mother and a small child.

  With bags of his money in tow, and in less than a week, she would be gone and again as was her MO, a trail of death, pain and sadistic grief would follow her, leaving the only man she ever loved dead.

  A genius of languages, art, music, cultures and deviance, she stands, feels disorientated and, then she straps her new life to her naked skin, turns and begins to move.

  She would not look back, the run had begun and she would barely get out alive.

  The Mirror

  MANDAL’s eyes open, her chin lifts, she stares through tears into the wall mirror. Her hands rest on Angel’s warm fur; she can feel the puppy’s tepid breath on her trembling fingers. Thoughts of suicide roam, nothing new, she is fighting her memories, trying any way she can to survive.

  “Clink, Clink.”

  The sound of metal, the junk yard, wakes her from her nightmares.

  Then, she hears someone screaming. Her white eyebrows crinkle.

  Standing, she lays Angel on the floor pillow, retrieves some peanut crackers from the end table, breaks the seal and crumbles them and, then whispers. “We’ll get you some real chow tomorrow girl.”

  Crackers to Angels snout, smiles, pup crunches them up, she whispers. “Were still alive girl, that’s good, huh?”

  She bends, fluffs her pelt, smiles, turns, walks to the door, cracks it and, then peeks across the compound.

  Quonset garages, Arvan is dancing, screaming, waving a lead hammer over his head, sucking his thumb; obviously he just whacked his thumb with it.

  Groaning, she smells her arm pits, groans, says. “Whew, shower, later, I promise.”

  Moves to her valise, grabs a pair of faded denims, white sleeveless T-shirt, white heavy socks, her heavy black work boots. Stripping off her soiled clothes, she lays her 38, Bowie Knife on the dresser, twists around, stands naked before a wall mirror scrutinizing rows of ribs that look like a xylophone they are so strident.

  Running her fingers along them, she groans. “Gotta eat.”

  Plan forming, including getting into Jason’s Cox’s head, Arvans, Billy’s too.

  She dresses, laces up her boots, shoves her 38 and knife into them. She dons her Ray Bans, looks in the mirror again, admires her armed and tough image and giggles.

  “You’re a very BAAAD girl.”

  Feeling better about life, she decides to eat before she puts the con on Arvan, knowing she must get out of Dodge, before the killers arrive. She glances at her watch, 6 AM and the first rays of sunlight filtering through the window. She steps to the door, cracks it, peeks at the cafe, few pick-up trucks, probably open, she steps to the porch, already it is warming.

  Out go her eyes peering at the rusted chassis’s, junk, engine blocks, crank shafts, wondering where Billy and blue lips keep disappearing to; nothing out there in her mind.

  Curiosity, never a good thing for her erases when her tummy grumbles. “Food, now, Arvan later. Huh, wonder what is going on out there?”

  Suddenly Arvan reappears. She presses herself against the wall, he doesn’t see her. He looks left, right, moves towards the Air Stream, into the wreckage of the cars and, then presto chango, he seems to disappear within the wreckage.

  Curiosity racks her, no dummy, not a believer in illusion, except her own, brow crinkles as she squints, murmurs. “Okay, boy’s, later. Let’s see what that’s all about.”

  She turns to the cafe, begins to walk towards it.

  AS EGGS, bacon, sausages, mounds of potatoes, grits sizzle on the grill, Art the cook fights an inch long ash from a Chesterfield plugged between his lips. He smirks as it falls into an order of eggs, stirs it and giggles. Folk’s is always wonderin’ how he gets that Mesquite Taste in their food, if they only knew.

  Back door opens, in enters Betty, looking phat, sexy, kick boots, stovepipes, hip hugging those boy hips, cut tan arms, road burn, blues hidden behind the Ray Bans.

  She hesitates at the door, eyes scanning, making sure Bobby and Dim Dim aren’t having breakfast. No thugs, couple oil men, Formica tables, she needs nothing from them, turns, walks across the place. Lots a gawks, whispers back and forth, she does a slide into a red Naugahyde booth, intense stares, she slumps in, long legs stretched out before her.

  Eyes click left, another booth, huge man, long hair, beard, tattoos, biker, greased upped, holds a new born baby tenderly in a white blanky in his massive arms. Next to him, his old lady, same decor, bike chic and looking lovingly at the duet.

  Mandal see love in her eyes.

  She gasps, eyes peering through the dark lenses, wonders about love, always illusive, not for her, probably never, she sniffles back a tear.

  Once, she dragged Tony to Madrid, to The Prado, lingered in front of a Goya painting, a Spanish woman, baby swaddled in her heavy arms, so different, babies, biker mothers, something she will never have or be.

  She stares, knows love, in beasts, monsters, Tony’s love are odd matters. She remembers the mad mans words from the barn.

  Sadness engulfs her, mixed up messages, kids, death, poets, whores, like her, maybe the same, maybe not. Even warped geniuses ponder moments a
bout love.

  Back to breakfast, Mava at the counter, plates of food on her arm, like Frisbees, moving food on the table. Oil men say their thanks, Mava too. She turns, sees Betty Blond, Mava, a thinker, smiles, moves into the kitchen, kisses some refrigerator wearing a white apron.

  Mandal thinks, even Mava is in love.

  Oil man, one of four, peeks at her and smiles. She slinks down a little deeper in the booth, impossible to hide who she is.

  Barbs and giggles fly around their table. She digs a smoke out of her tummy pack, flicks the Zippo, inhales, exhales, tummy gurgle, Mava kissing the short man in the kitchen. Mandal closes her eyes, trying to calm.

  “Hi ya, Betty, with two T’s. Ya, hungry?”

  Blink, blink, blink.

  Blues focus on Mava, time has erased again.

  How did Mava get from there to her without her noticing?

  “Good Morning, Mrs. Cox. Yes, starving. Slept great.” She lies.

  Mava, flips over a mug, Thermos in her hands, pours black into the cup, smiles, and says. “Coffee Doll. This I’ll get ya goin.”

  Aroma of the Cup of Joe, she smiles, looks at the old lady. She genuinely likes her, hopes she gets out alive and survives whatever the Cox’s is doing.

  Something going on over by the wrecked cars, she will check that out later.

  “Uuuum, smells delicious, thank you.”

  “What would ya like fer eats, darlin”?

  “Eggs’, scrambled, six of them please. Bacon, toast, potatoes if you have them, please. Thank you.”

  Mava, not used to such manners, stares, likes the girl more and more as she scrutinizes her new friend Betty’s skeletal frame.

  “Good yer eatin’. Yer nothin’ but a bag a bones. Girl needs some good food. Art I’ll fix ya right up.”

  Leaning forward, Mava squeezes her bone shoulder, traces her fingers along her cut collarbones, signs, looks at her all motherly like, winks, and says. “Darlin’ ya gotta take better care a yer self.”