mouth. He swung wildly at her.
His blows glanced off, resulting in a series of barely felt soft thuds. She
reached down with her free hand to grasp his genitals. Cords stood out in her
forearm as she squeezed. The boy screamed, a high pitched undulating wail of
sheer agony. Tears streamed down his cheeks.
With one powerful movement, Lancer lifted him over her
head. She laughed aloud. This was fucking awesome! With a flourish, she slammed
him onto the points of the broken bedpost. The final bedmate shrieked, finally
sitting up from her obviously drugged sleep to see the young man briefly
impaled before his weight sent both post and fresh corpse crashing to the
floor.
The woman, middle aged and surgically altered, cowered
with the thick bedspread pulled up to her mouth. Muffled sounds, half scream,
half moan, came from her. What appeared to be implanted basketballs heaved rapidly
under the blanket. Her eyes flicked over to the trio of daggers sitting on the
dressing table. She lunged for the end of the bed, coming up short and doing a
scrambling wiggle to the chest.
Giggling at the terrified woman’s awkward moves,
Lancer waited until the bitch stood, then rushed her. A powerful shove sent the
woman into a large window. Glass cracked, yet did not break. Backing up
to get a running start, Lancer tried again. This time the bimbo simply exploded
out the window. Multitudes of small cuts covered the woman’s body. She seemed
to hang in midair for a moment, waving her bleeding arms and legs frantically,
then dropped to the stone patio beneath the window with a sick thud.
In the afterglow of her outburst of ultraviolence,
Lancer realized she should have kept one of them alive long enough to learn the
location of the last three cultists. Crap. Too late now. Maybe there was an
address book in the dressing table or something. If that would even help. She
seriously doubted that the other member’s names were earmarked with a special
symbol.
The world around her began to fade in a red twinkle.
Lancer was briefly alarmed, then relaxed as a whiff of Wilhelm’s strong
aftershave followed the light. It seemed her benefactor’s agent was acting as a
personal bloodhound.
Winking out as suddenly as it appeared, the red glow
faded to reveal a dirty living room. A large trash can sat near a couch
obviously scavenged from a dumpster. The can was full of beer cans and fast
food bags. A half-eaten pizza, cold and greasy, sat surrounded on a coffee
table by discount rate liquor bottles, most empty. It reminded Lancer of being
hired out to do frat parties. She shook her head in angry disgust. Filthy
little children. Kicking them off the planet would be a favor to society.
A high pitched whistle caught Lancer’s attention. A
lump lay in front of the couch, wrapped in a dirty woolen blanket. Each exhale
wafted out sour booze fumes. She took a careful step over to investigate. Near
the tangled mass of curly, long brown hair lay the boy’s belt and dagger.
Beside the unsheathed knife was a plastic cutting board laden with a half-eaten
block of cheese. A large orange cat was nibbling on the corner, looking to
where the ethereal girl stood with disinterest.
Lancer examined the scene, then reached down and
picked up one of the weapons that had ended her life. It wasn’t nicely cared
for. A thin patina of rust spotted the blade. Crusty yellow imitation dairy
product stuck to the edges. Oh well, she shrugged, reversing the dagger point
down. It would serve her purpose well enough.
She grabbed a corner of the blanket and flicked it
away like a magician. Simultaneously, Lancer drove the knife down into the
exposed side of the cultist’s throat. It rammed through to the hilt, tip
sinking down into the hardwood floor. The boy’s eyes shot open. A low gurgling
sound came forth, bringing with it a bubble of blood. He groped for the
handle, pulling the weapon halfway out in the process.
A full minute later, the kid’s hand fell away. His
head
His blows glanced off, resulting in a series of barely felt soft thuds. She
reached down with her free hand to grasp his genitals. Cords stood out in her
forearm as she squeezed. The boy screamed, a high pitched undulating wail of
sheer agony. Tears streamed down his cheeks.
With one powerful movement, Lancer lifted him over her
head. She laughed aloud. This was fucking awesome! With a flourish, she slammed
him onto the points of the broken bedpost. The final bedmate shrieked, finally
sitting up from her obviously drugged sleep to see the young man briefly
impaled before his weight sent both post and fresh corpse crashing to the
floor.
The woman, middle aged and surgically altered, cowered
with the thick bedspread pulled up to her mouth. Muffled sounds, half scream,
half moan, came from her. What appeared to be implanted basketballs heaved rapidly
under the blanket. Her eyes flicked over to the trio of daggers sitting on the
dressing table. She lunged for the end of the bed, coming up short and doing a
scrambling wiggle to the chest.
Giggling at the terrified woman’s awkward moves,
Lancer waited until the bitch stood, then rushed her. A powerful shove sent the
woman into a large window. Glass cracked, yet did not break. Backing up
to get a running start, Lancer tried again. This time the bimbo simply exploded
out the window. Multitudes of small cuts covered the woman’s body. She seemed
to hang in midair for a moment, waving her bleeding arms and legs frantically,
then dropped to the stone patio beneath the window with a sick thud.
In the afterglow of her outburst of ultraviolence,
Lancer realized she should have kept one of them alive long enough to learn the
location of the last three cultists. Crap. Too late now. Maybe there was an
address book in the dressing table or something. If that would even help. She
seriously doubted that the other member’s names were earmarked with a special
symbol.
The world around her began to fade in a red twinkle.
Lancer was briefly alarmed, then relaxed as a whiff of Wilhelm’s strong
aftershave followed the light. It seemed her benefactor’s agent was acting as a
personal bloodhound.
Winking out as suddenly as it appeared, the red glow
faded to reveal a dirty living room. A large trash can sat near a couch
obviously scavenged from a dumpster. The can was full of beer cans and fast
food bags. A half-eaten pizza, cold and greasy, sat surrounded on a coffee
table by discount rate liquor bottles, most empty. It reminded Lancer of being
hired out to do frat parties. She shook her head in angry disgust. Filthy
little children. Kicking them off the planet would be a favor to society.
A high pitched whistle caught Lancer’s attention. A
lump lay in front of the couch, wrapped in a dirty woolen blanket. Each exhale
wafted out sour booze fumes. She took a careful step over to investigate. Near
the tangled mass of curly, long brown hair lay the boy’s belt and dagger.
Beside the unsheathed knife was a plastic cutting board laden with a half-eaten
block of cheese. A large orange cat was nibbling on the corner, looking to
where the ethereal girl stood with disinterest.
Lancer examined the scene, then reached down and
picked up one of the weapons that had ended her life. It wasn’t nicely cared
for. A thin patina of rust spotted the blade. Crusty yellow imitation dairy
product stuck to the edges. Oh well, she shrugged, reversing the dagger point
down. It would serve her purpose well enough.
She grabbed a corner of the blanket and flicked it
away like a magician. Simultaneously, Lancer drove the knife down into the
exposed side of the cultist’s throat. It rammed through to the hilt, tip
sinking down into the hardwood floor. The boy’s eyes shot open. A low gurgling
sound came forth, bringing with it a bubble of blood. He groped for the
handle, pulling the weapon halfway out in the process.
A full minute later, the kid’s hand fell away. His
head
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