Message-ID: <24111asstr$958259468@assm.asstr-mirror.org> From: Saynesberry@aol.com X-Original-Message-ID: <9f.54aed95.264edd83@aol.com> MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset="US-ASCII" Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Subject: {ASSM} The Saga of Blanche, Part VII: Death of a Queen Date: Sat, 13 May 2000 19:11:08 -0400 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: Vulpine, newsman The Saga of Blanche, Part VII: Death of a Queen by Frank Saynesberry (Now, really: if you're under 18 years of age, or you don't enjoy graphic depictions of sex, please don't read this.) **************************************************************** Sitting behind the desk in my shabby downtown "office," I heaved a deep sigh and started scooping up the photographs and documents spread out before me. Although the investigation had definitely been the strangest of my career, it had only taken a few days, and I was ready to make my report to the client, Miles O'Smiles, the millionaire pornographer. It would be a painful report for the poor bastard to hear, but he had to hear it; that's why he had hired me, after the LAPD, the coroner's office, and all the other "official" types had been unable to answer his questions. Oh, he knew the case involved foul play. Everyone in Southern California knew, within 48 hours, that the horrifying death of Miles' wife, Coyreen, the Porno Queen, was merely the finale to a sudden rampage of gruesome killings that had taken place in a single day's time. What concerned Miles was the precise nature of her death: was it murder, suicide, or accident? He didn't care about revenge, because that wouldn't have brought her back to him. Even if she'd been gunned down by the cops or the Mob, he'd have understood, just as he'd have understood a suicide: Coyreen had been a hophead and a troublemaker and a head case for years. But as the shrinks would say, Miles needed "closure." He needed something final, something to end the nightmare. I didn't know if it would help or not, but I had something for him. So, I drove back down to his new estate in Palos Verdes Peninsula, where he'd fled to escape all the remainders and reminders of Coyreen at their Brentwood mansion. With a sigh, he sat down behind his mahogany desk, as I scooted my chair to the very front of the desk, and I began to lay it all out for him - - - the photographs, the reports, and the unbelievable truth. *************************************************** Last time we saw Coyreen, she was making her escape from the little shotgun house in Watts where the Devil's Dwarves - - - and their newest and best friend, Blanche Snowe - - - made their motley, but happy, home. In the same murderous rage which had already stubbed out the lives of a college kid, a coke dealer, an off-duty cop, and a middle-aged church choir leader, Coyreen had just fired her . 32 Beretta at pointblank range into the Chief's gut, had shattered Snap's femur with a wild shot, and had left Blanche stretched out and stiff on the wooden floor, the victim of over 500,000 volts of electricity from Coyreen's stun-gun. The device lay exhausted and discarded nearby, and wisps of smoke still rose from Blanche's once-perfect, beautiful neck, where the electrodes had pressed against her skin for about ten seconds. But as she fled the scene of this carnage (and the wrath of the four Dwarves who had been unable to stop her), Coyreen soon discovered that she was not alone. For no sooner had she hopped into her yellow Porsche convertible and gunned the engine, than she felt a massive, shaking thump, that rattled and rocked the entire car. It was Chang, the seventh and largest Dwarf, who had just been returning home with carryout pizza when Coyreen burst through the front door, and had heard one of the Dwarves scream, "Get her, Chang! She killed Blanche!" Chang had dropped the pizza cartons, crossed the street in two loping strides, and launched himself over the back of the convertible, reaching out and grabbing hold of the passenger-side headrest. Coyreen glanced at him in disbelief and confusion, but she did not pause in her flight: unwanted passenger or not, she was getting the Hell out of there. Ignoring pedestrians, stop signs, and traffic lights, she roared west on 107th Street, past the Watts Towers, whirling the steering wheel back and forth and crushing her foot down on the gas pedal. The car swerved and shot around and between any cars unfortunate enough to be nearby. At the same time, the massive Chang wrapped his right arm tight around the passenger seat, trying to stay on board as his body swung from side to side, nearly rolling off the car several times. With his left hand, he reached around Coyreen's seat and sank his long, thick fingers into her throat. As she attempted to gasp, Coyreen reflexively took her foot off the accelerator, and as the little car began to slow somewhat, Chang was able to swing his legs over the trunk and into the absurdly small "back seat" area of the car. Cramped and awkward as it was, however, he was now inside the car. Choking, but with maniacal determination, Coyreen, managed to steer the car with her left hand, while her right fumbled on the floor near the gear shift. Chang's fingers began to press further. "What did you do to Blanche, you cunt?" he hissed into Coyreen's ear. "Fuck off, Slope!" she croaked, and, finding what she had sought, she brought up the little . 32 in her right hand and fired it straight into Chang's bicep. The car swerved sickeningly as they both screamed: Chang, because the bullet had traveled up through his muscles and lodged in his humerus bone, leaving his arm flapping uselessly; Coyreen, because, although Chang's grip was broken, she had shattered her own eardrum by firing so close to her head. Chang snarled a Mandarin curse and slumped back into the little back seat; Coyreen, still sucking air between her teeth in order to regain her breath, stomped down on the accelerator again. A few blocks ahead lay 110-N, then the Harbor Freeway: she had no clear idea of where she wanted to go, but "north" definitely had the right ring to it. Racing toward the next intersection, she thought that the Jap freak, or whoever he was, had passed out or even died: he was certainly not rocking the boat anymore. "Stupid fucker!" she sneered. "Thinks he can stop the Queen, does he?" But then, as if in reply, she heard a fierce, agonized growl, and Chang's snarling face, the same sort of face that once rode behind Genghis Khan, filled her rearview mirror. Lunging forward between the seats, his right hand clamped down over hers on the steering wheel, as he siezed control of the car with such force that the bones in Coyreen's hand began to snap and pop like coals on a campfire. Grunting, he jerked the wheel sharply, and instead of 110-N, they were now veering onto Figueroa Boulevard. Blood was running down Coyreen's cheek and neck, down between her breasts, from her ravaged ear; her hand was utterly crushed, pinned between the Dwarf's hand and the wheel; but she was not defeated, only further enflamed. "Big ugly cocksucker," she screamed, "you made me miss my fucking turn!" Retrieving the little handgun that she'd dropped into her lap, she raised it as far as she could in the cramped space, and squeezed the trigger. The bullet entered the left side of Chang's neck and exited the right side, then whizzed off into the darkness. He gurgled something and reached for his throat, releasing his hold on the steering wheel, and collapsed once again into the back of the car. Coyreen's right hand, crushed and already purple, slid off the steering wheel; the car swerved toward an oncoming bus, but she managed to drop the Beretta and grab the wheel with her left in time to avoid the collision. She grabbed the wheel so hard, in fact, that the car whirled around, tires screeching, in a complete circle, a blur of bright yellow on the gray, grimy avenue. But when it stopped, they were still headed north. Coyreen slammed through the gears and floored it again, and soon she and Chang were racing toward a destination neither of them would have expected: a place that spoke of struggle and death and things that had outlived themselves. **************************************************** Meanwhile, the little house in Watts had become a desperate flurry of activity. Upon Coyreen's departure, the four unharmed Dwarves had hastily retrieved their firearms from a nearby room, and had lurched into action to help their fallen companions. Ernie, the larger of the two blacks, stepped out the front door, his Uzi cradled in his arms, and coolly surveyed the street, both to see if Coyreen had left any unknown accomplices behind, and to protect the house from further assault. Benny, the big Latino, knelt on the hardwood floor, laying down his own gun and cradling Snap's torso in his arms. "Oh, shit, Benny, my laig hurts," Snap gasped, clutching frantically at his wounded thigh. Benny pulled the hand away, leaned over to inspect the dime-sized hole, and hissed, "Ay, mano, eet's bleedin' real bad! You gotta help me help you, main!" He rolled Snap's hand into a fist and extended the index finger, which he gently inserted directly into the wound. When Snap cried out and tried to move his hand, Benny's grip became firm, and he said, as soothingly as possible, "No, main, no! You gotta leave eet there, brozzer! Hol' back th' bleedin', see?" He had a sudden inspiration. "Ees like stickeeng your finger inna dike, main! Hol' back th' fuckeeng flood, see?" Despite his agony, Snap's moans were broken by a burst of high-pitched laughter. "Fuck you, Benny! I ain't never touched no got-damned dyke in m'life!" Both men laughed, even as their tears flowed, but Snap's finger stayed in the bullet hole, while Benny clutched him like a bear protecting her cub. A few feet away, both Nacho and Burt knelt between the fallen bodies of Blanche and the Chief. "Shit, Nacho, we gotta get some help!" cried Burt, looking back and forth between the two victims. "I jus' heard the sirens, main," Nacho replied, "I theenk the paralegals is almos' here!" "Paramedics, you dumbass," the Chief hissed between clenched teeth. He lay on his side in a ball; Coyreen's shot, deflected by his sudden movement, had torn into his abdominal muscles, causing indescribable agony. But if any of the Dwarves were to be gut-shot, the Chief (or possibly Chang) would be most likely to survive. Both men, despite their different physiques, worked out constantly and privately to keep in shape, and the Chief's abdominals were every bit as rock-hard and sinewy as his biceps or pectorals. Amazingly, the little bullet from Coyreen's .32 had actually been slowed, then actually stopped, as it tore through the hard, tight muscles, and fell just short of reaching the viscera beneath. Ultimately, after the doctor's blade had dislodged the slug, the Chief would merely be left with yet another scar. Blanche's case was far more frightening. "Chief, Chief, shit, man, I can't even tell if she's alive or dead!" Burt jabbered, "She don't seem to be breathing!" Nacho was similarly distraught. "Madre de Dios, Chief, her eyes are black like from a knockout, and her skin's jus' as tough as suede!" "Watch out!" the Chief cried. "Where's that thing the bitch stuck her with? Is it still touchin' her? That electric shit'll go right through her and into you!" Burt glanced around the room. The exhausted, stubby-looking stun-gun lay on the floor, fifteen feet away. "No, man," he replied, his voice rumbling from deep within his chest. "It's safe, Chief. The fuckin' thing's on the other side of the room!" Even as he spoke, he rose to one knee, pointed his 9 mm. Glock at the deadly device, and fired five perfectly aimed shots at it, reducing it to a pile of plastic and metal scraps. At that moment, Ernie stepped back inside the house, making no effort to hide his Uzi from the three-person team of paramedics who were following close behind. He stepped out of their way and the newcomers quickly brushed Nacho and Burt away from the two victims. As they bent to their work, Chief gasped out, "Tell me, dammit! Is she alive?" "Yes, she's alive," announced the lead paramedic, who was listening to Blanche's chest with a stethoscope. "At least, her body is. I can't tell you about her brain." The man tore the stethoscope from his ears, then quickly swung his leg over so that he was straddling the girl's slim waist. Placing the palms of his hands firmly between her breasts, he began to rhythmically apply cardiopulmonary massage. The other two paramedics, a man and a woman, unbuckled the straps on a backboard they'd carried in, and began to prepare for her evacuation to the hospital. "You be careful with her, got damn it!" shouted Snap from across the room, his finger still plugging the hole in his thigh. "Anything else happens to her, I'm gon' open a whole fuckin' case of whoop-ass on y'all'!" "Fuck yeah, main," added Benny, still cradling Snap in his arms. "They'll do what they can downtown," replied the female attendant. "But I can't make any promises." ******************************************************************* The La Brea Tar Pits, located at the corner of La Brea and Hawthorne Boulevards in downtown Los Angeles, were first discovered (by white men, anyway) in 1769, when a Roman Catholic "advance man," Juan Crespi, was wandering through the Sunny Southland scoping out likely sites for new churches. What he found, on this particular day, was a small lake, surrounded by tropical foliage and very lush vegetation. It might have struck the good Padre as another Eden, except that the lake was not full of water, but stinking, boiling tar. And although the vegetation was gorgeous and glorious and very, very green, there were no animals.... anywhere. It was as though all the local critters had abandoned the place .... like maybe they were afraid of it. Well, the Padre pitched camp here with his companions, but after sweating out three earthquakes in 24 hours, they decided to keep moving, and began hacking out the northward trail now known as El Camino Real. Meanwhile, the vegetation kept flourishing, and the tar kept bubbling, until in 1901, a bunch of visiting scholars from Berkeley hit one of the biggest jackpots in scientific history: this lake, which by then had partially hardened and now resembled several smaller lakes, or tar pits, was literally brimming with fossils: and so the world learned about the original Los Angelinos, the saber-toothed tigers and the woolly mammoths and, for all I know, King Kong's mother-in-law. The only thing the huge, stupid creatures had in common was that they were all meat-eaters .... or the victims of meat-eaters. See, the vegetarians could just graze like cattle, anywhere from Rodeo Drive to Sea World; but the carnivores had to chase their prey. And, very often, they chased it straight into the tar. Think quicksand, but boiling. And when the panicked, grass-chewing mammoths ran into the tar, and their saber-toothed pursuers followed, let's just say that none of them were rewarded with a Happy Meal. Still awake? Thanks. I don't give a rat's ass about this stuff, either, but it's part of the case. Anyway, the scientists had a field day, and textbooks were rewritten, and the City of Angels had its first truly unique tourist attraction. The Pits, which continued to harden, inch by inch, year by year, were roped off, and a museum was built. (The Pits never did harden completely, although much of the surface area has now been baked into asphalt: the earthquakes that plague California always managed to bust it up again.) They even erected some life-sized concrete replicas of the original animals, which they placed in and around the Pits very realistically. And, lemme tell ya, if you're not ready for it, it's a Hell of a thing to come tooling up Hawthorne in your brand-new SUV, your kids squalling in the back seat, and suddenly see a giant woolly mammoth, its terrible tusks raised into the air, standing thirty feet away from the curb! *************************************************************** Last time we checked in on Coyreen, she and Chang, both badly hurt, were barreling north on Figueroa in her much-abused yellow Porsche convertible. Chang had diverted Coyreen from her chosen route, but since she had no fixed destination in mind, it didn't much matter: she just wanted to put plenty of pavement between herself and Watts. So she kept her foot on the gas, even as she steered with her elbow (her right hand was swollen to twice its normal size now, five minutes after Chang had crushed it) and clutched the Beretta firmly in her left, in case Chang rose up again from behind her. He seemed to be lapsing in and out of consciousness; Coyreen wished he'd just lapse the fuck out and get it over with. Blood poured from his throat, where her bullet had entered and exited; he was still conscious, however, and he knew he had to stop this bitch, and he wanted very much to kill her, for she had (he thought) slain the only truly decent person he'd ever known, and had done who-knows-what to the other Dwarves. But even the largest, strongest body has its limits, and nobody keeps a clear head when blood is flowing from so many wounds. He attempted to rise up and attack Coyreen again, but suddenly his vision grew dim, and he could hear nothing but the pounding of his own blood, and with a moan he slumped back again. Coyreen felt the little car shudder as Chang's giant form thumped down on the floor of the so-called back seat, and she laughed uproariously. Slowing the car somewhat, she managed to steer with her right elbow and her knees for a moment, while she brought the Beretta around in her left, pointing it between the bucket seats, and fired another shot into Chang's unconscious form. The bullet entered his side, slipped easily between two ribs, and then, because it was a low-caliber bullet and could not pass through the massive body, ricocheted and pinged around inside him, tearing through his organs until finally coming to rest deep inside his heart. Coyreen could see none of this, of course, but when Chang's last breath left his body, she heard it, and, to her amazement, she felt the onset of a powerful, spontaneous orgasm. Once again, she screamed with joy, and tossed the little Beretta out of the car, where it clattered noisily and harmlessly across Figueroa Boulevard. "I've beat them all," she howled to the night. "I'm the Queen again! Check me out, fuckers! This is the finest Queen you're ever gonna see!" But her crowing was cut short by an oncoming car, and, cursing, she goosed the Porsche through another sudden turn, this time onto Broadway. (At this point, the Porsche rocketed directly past the spacious and elegant downtown offices of Grimbros Investigations, whose owner and proprietor was at home in bed.) She roared up the Boulevard, but when she reached 1st Street, she was suddenly blinded by a set of unimaginably bright halon headlights, appearing out of nowhere, less than a block away. She screamed and wheeled left onto First, and then this ugly, bloody case was touched by magic once again. Screeching onto First, then flooring the accelerator again, Coyreen saw that the lights were now behind her. Directly behind her, in fact, and gaining on her! But what were they? Suddenly, the headlights were augmented by a set of equally bright fog lamps; whatever was following her was burning more candlepower than a searchlight at a Hollywood premiere. It couldn't be a cop, and it couldn't be a truck; but whatever it was, why the Hell was it chasing her? Why was it getting so close? Desperate to escape, she cut through a corner gas station and emerged on Hawthorne Boulevard. The bright lights of the mystery vehicle stayed right with her, coming closer by the second; was it going to ram her? As she approached the intersection of Hawthorne and La Brea, she heard, with her one good ear, the roar of a mighty engine, and felt a sickening crash as her pursuer smashed full-speed into the Porsche's rear end. Its trunk crushed like an accordion, the little car actually left the ground and flew across the intersection. Unfortunately, Blanche and Snap and Chief and Chang had not been protected by any guardian angels that night. But now Coyreen, the Porno Queen, had come face-to-face with an Avenging Angel .... or at least someone uniquely suited to the role. "You keel enough persons today, Meestress," muttered Vitaly Arkhoff grimly, through clenched teeth; "Now, iss your turn!" As soon as the Porsche crashed back down to the pavement, Arkhoff slammed the HumVee into its highest gear and floored it, smashing once again into the smaller car's rear. Then he instantly jerked down into neutral and slammed on the brakes, and the dark, menacing vehicle came to a full stop. But not the Porsche, which jumped the curb, crossed the sidewalk, and only stopped when it hit the low, wrought-iron fence surrounding the La Brea Tar Pits. The fence moaned and gave slightly, but it did not break, and the Porsche, at last, was still. And Coyreen, pitched violently from the car, carried through the warm evening air by momentum (or perhaps velocity), never did see Vitaly, or the HumVee; and the thoughts whirling through her mind were not of Blanche, or Miles, or even the folks back in Ramp, Oklahoma. As her body flailed and tumbled and finally began to descend, her mind was filled with ... what the fuck? ... the onrushing head of a giant woolly mammoth, its trunk and terrible tusks upraised in panic, seeming to stare directly into Coyreen's eyes. Until, finally coming down, one of the concrete monster's tusks caught Coyreen, easily poking through the inseam of her cutoff jeans, ripping up through her vagina, through her cervix, her stomach, her hooker's heart, until its sharp point burst though the skin at the base of her throat, and she was limp, dead, and on display, hideously impaled on the gigantic tusk. Which, being made of plaster, could not support her weight for long, and within minutes, a tiny crack appeared at the base of the tusk, then began to widen, and finally, with a snap that sounded like one final gunshot, it broke, and fell, along with the Porno Queen's corpse, into the bubbling, ancient muck below. But Vitaly wasn't watching. He had, gently as possible, extracted Chang's body from the back of the Porsche, and was now laying it out, slowly and respectfully, in the back of the HumVee. Breathing a deep, weary, Russian sigh, he climbed back into the driver's seat, turned the vehicle around, and headed for Watts, and Mees Blanche, and her strange friends, the Dwarves. NEXT: THE SEVENTH DWARF (If you liked this story, write! Saynesberry@hushmail.com) -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: | | FAQ: Moderator: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Archive: Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository | |, an entity supported entirely by donations. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+