Rat-A-Tat: Short Blasts of Pulp

by Russ Anderson, Jr

  “Well you no good bum, what’re you waitin’ for? Go out there an’ kill her! She’s only one broad.”

  “O-okay boss whatever you say. It’s a shame though, ta kill her I mean, you see the body on that one boss? We should have some fun with her first.”

  “Shuddup you lowlife, go out there an’ kill her. I don’t like no loose ends, an’ right now this bitch is a major loose end that’s bitin’ us in th’ ass. Take care o’ her now!” Torretti grunted angrily as Benny ran out of the room and face first right into a quickly moving motorcycle helmet. Blood flew from his nose, and then teeth as the helmet was smashed into his face again and again, each time her voice grunted with exertion as Giana brought the helmet down repeatedly, finally with one final blow, she smashed Benny’s skull wide open and for the third time in the past few minutes one of Torretti’s men died at her hands.

  But before she could even catch a breath gunfire barked from Torretti’s office and Giana grunted in pain, dropping her left gun and stumbling away quickly into the dark warehouse, firing two quick shots behind her at the source of the bullets that had hit her.

  Torretti exited his office and swung his Sig Sauer nine millimeter around the blackened room, looking for his antagonist.

  “Where are ya Caliber? Where’d ya slink off to? What? You ain’t so tough now are ya? You take out a couple o’ these bums an’ you think you’re somthin’? NOW you’re goin’ up against a real man, me! That’s right girly, come out an’ I promise ta make it quick.”

  Torretti looked at the floor of the warehouse and a trail of blood disappeared into the darkness. He smiled like a predator stalking its prey and followed the trail into the depths of the dark warehouse.

  “Not so tough now are ya, Caliber? Come out an’ finish this. I’m givin’ ya a chance here ta end this quick-like. I promise not ta make ya suffer, like I did to yer old man. You know he suffered right Caliber? We tortured him for hours, an’ finally he cracked an’ told us everythin’. How he was a cop plant getting’ information on my operation an how they wuz gonna close up my whole kingdom down here, only all o’ that information died wit’ him. I made sure o’ it. The cops can’t even touch me now. Ain’t nothin’ pointin’ at me anymore. I kept him alive long enough to make sure all o’ his notes and information on me was destroyed along wit’ him when I shoved that car off the docks with him still screamin’ inside o’ it. Didja like the suicide note we made him write up before we killed him? I tol’ the bum what to write as he was cryin’ an’ beggin’ for his life. What, nothin’ ta say, Caliber? Why so quiet?”

  “Because scum like you doesn’t deserve an answer, fat man!” She barked as she swung through the air on a heavy chain that hung from the rafters of the warehouse, kicking him square in the face with a loud crack! She dropped to the ground and touched her bloody side gingerly, grimacing as her fingers came away crimson.

  Torretti fought his way to his feet, shaking his head to clear the cobwebs.

  “I didn’t want to kill you from a distance you old, evil bastard. I wanted to see you up close and personal as the life left your eyes.” Giana growled passionately as she raised her remaining gun to fire.

  But Torretti fired first, shooting in a lightning quick motion and catching her in the thigh as she quickly tried to jump out of the way, her remaining gun clattered away as she crawled away from him backwards like a spider, trying to avoid his next shot.

  “Yer fast princess, I give ya that. Musta been all that special-forces trainin’ ya had over in that middle-eastern dustbowl. Yeah, I know who ya are, I read up on ya before we killed yer old man. First female special-forces commando or whatever ya call yerself to have a dozen certified kills o’ bad guys. Well guess what girlie, I’m a bad guy, an’ I’m goin’ ta kill you! You ain’t getting’ the win this time.”

  “Sez who?” Her fist followed her voice barely an instant later as she punched Torretti in the throat, instantly he dropped his gun and reached for his throat wide-eyed. Giana Calibre didn’t hesitate, kicking him in the groin with all her strength. Torretti choked, but quickly punched at her as she closed for the kill, he caught her solidly in the jaw as she was moving toward him, she recoiled in pain, and stumbled to the ground, blood spraying from her nose. Torretti was on her instantly, driving his knee into her side where the first bullet had hit her. She grimaced in pain, fighting hard not to black out. Her hand steadied her upon the floor, but the fat man slammed his foot down on it bringing an agonized cry to her lips, as he spun his right hand back and slapped her across the face with the back of it, knocking teeth loose that clattered across the floor of the warehouse. She fell in a heap and lay there spasming.

  The gangster rubbed his sore throat then hobbled over to her, spinning her onto her back as he wrapped both of his meaty hands around her throat and began to squeeze. “How’s this fer up close an’ personal, huh bitch? This close enough fer ya?” He bellowed as she stared at him wide eyed with hatred practically shooting from her large brown eyes.

  Without a word and so fast that Torretti didn’t register it happened until after the deed was done, Giana drove the dagger that had been in her boot into and through his throat and out the other side, ripping it forward with finality! She kicked his dying body off of her as his fingers now spastically reached to cover his own neck, trying to keep his blood within his body and not covering the floor about him.

  Giana rubbed at her own throat and spit at him before answering his last question in this lifetime, “Yeah asshole, I think that’s definitely close enough, and the names Calibre’, not Caliber.”

  She booted him in the face one last time, as the light left his eyes, then slowly and painfully, bleeding from a dozen spots, she retrieved her guns and limped toward the front of the warehouse where her motorcycle lay. Outside she could hear the sound of approaching sirens. She tried to lift the bike up, but she was too weak with blood loss. Dizzily she dropped to the ground and slumped there next to the bike. She unzipped the front of the jumpsuit and reached down between her breasts, pulling out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, she pulled one out and tossed the pack aside, lighting it and drawing the smoke in sensually, “Funny,” She thought aloud, “I always thought these things would kill me.” Then she closed her eyes and let the darkness envelop her.

  ***

  And then the light came. She crunched her eyes painfully as she fought off the stinging brightness. A voice called, “She’s coming around.”

  “Wh-where?” She stammered softly, covering her eyes with her hand.

  “You’re in the hospital, Gee. Relax, you were beaten pretty badly. Those KIDNAPPERS did a job on you, probably were going to kill you after they roughed you up, like they did Charlie. We got there just in time Gee. We even found your bike in there. They must have been planning to make it look like you died in an accident; the grieving widow takes her own life or somethin’ like that.”

  “Kidnappers? Wha? Johnny? Is that you?”

  “Yeah Gee it’s me, sis. I don’t know how you got free from them, but you shot them up pretty good tryin’ to escape. That last one almost did you in, sis. But you got Torretti before he could kill you. I’m proud o’ you sis. Now you rest up. You were hurt pretty bad. Just be happy that you survived this Gee, an’ you gotta know that Charlie is lookin’ down on you from heaven smilin’ right now.”

  “I know Johnny, I know.” She replied hoarsely, her throat still in pain, but the best part was, Johnny was right, she really did know.

  A STIGMATISM

  By David White

  The sunlight glistened off her hair that afternoon. It was golden and tossed in the breeze just so. Rachael and I moved about the blanket that day as if living in our own reality. Passion! The air was charged with it. Though the day was warm I still felt the goosebumps form on my arms as I looked into her azure blue eyes. It was like watching gentle tides ebb in the Caribbean off some nameless island's sandy shores. It was hot and heavy; I could feel her pushing against me, pretending she did
n’t want me, but we both knew that wasn’t the case, just a game we played to make the passion seem earned.

  I lost myself for a time, some primordial memory seeming to reach out from my past. I looked down and Rachael’s top was off, but not completely, almost torn as if by some savage beast. The blue eyes stared into mine with such a strong lust it almost seemed fearful. I knew better, though; it was just part of her inner desires reaching out to pull my lust upon her. Struggles added to the pleasure; a few hair tosses, a little scratching, then the ripping sound as her panties finally gave way. Then I moved in, my manhood posing erect past the zipper that was dropped to release it. I moved in for the moment of ultimate ecstasy – but wait.

  Something was wrong all of a sudden. I felt myself floating away from the scene, almost as if my spirit was lifting and looking down upon the scene. Rachael’s body lay there motionless, almost at a slight angle. I continued to rise away from it as a strange gray mist seeped between us, rising farther and farther…but to what? Where? Darkness settled in, but only briefly, then I seemed to be falling back down to earth, or somewhere. I lost all sense of time and reality, but quickly I was back, but not with Rachael… with Sally?

  Ahhh, Yes… Sally, sweet, delectable Sally. Auburn hair with blazing jade eyes and curves in all the right places. Wow, I must have somehow fantasized about Rachael while I was going at it with Sally. But why? Hell, who cares, Sally is the one, the true love, the ultimate in passion. This is the rite of manhood I know will bring me the ultimate in joy, the deepest pleasure a man can receive once he has made the conquest of that certain woman. I see it now, though shaded in red. Sally fusses also, but just a decoy, with little effort I have her ready and slide inside her to bequeath the ultimate pleasure that I am upon her, the pure sensation that she should feel overwhelmed to experience. She moans, or is it a scream, one can never tell when locked in the grips of such passions. I yank her head back and grind her all the more, the moaning louder, the tears flowing harder and faster. Tears of joy they must certainly be, for no woman would cry after I have given her myself. No this is something all woman want, but only a chosen few I have deemed worthy to receive.

  Again this confounded feeling of being ripped away, what is this that is happening? I again find myself floating away as the girl who requires my pleasure lays in wait. Her naked body torn asunder with grief that I have been pulled from her. The swirling gray mist pulling at me like a vacuum, the lights that fade in and out, but never quite find their way through. I struggle and fight to escape the light, I force, no will myself through the mist, and there I behold her…Evelyn. Yes, finally this is the one, the others must merely have been some sub-conscious dream or calling. No. Evelyn is the one who will bask in the joy I shall provide. The silky black hair and bronze skin that covers her six foot frame. The obsidian eyes that seem darker than even her hair, the ruby red lips that are formed into… a smile?

  I feel it inside me now, she is the one. The one that will finally bring a brief relief to the fires that burn within, the throbbing between my thighs that must be soothed. I feel a sudden savageness come over me, I can hear the clothes as they tear from her body. Yes, her naked firm body that I take all I can from, that I provide with the ultimate joy and passion. I feel her pulse pounding against my fingers as they clutch her neck in one frenzied moment of passion, her gasps of breath as they slip past gritted teeth and firm lips, releasing her very soul into my grasp. The ultimate passion that one can be provided, and I have provided it. I release my grip as I look into the empty darkness that now stares at me from dead black eyes, the tautness of her constricted face muscles, frozen in the moment of ultimate passion.

  Damn it! Again I am pulled from my work, again the graying mist overtakes me. But wait, something is different this time…something in the mist. Faces. Dozens of faces staring at me through the mist. I can feel their hatred as they whirl about me. But why? Did I not provide them all with the ultimate in passion? Did I not bring the supreme joy to their lackluster lives? They fade slowly as again the bright light searches for me through the mist, again groping for me as I try to avoid it…but cannot. Then it finds me, blinding me with its bright glare. I close my eyes and try to force it away, but no, it won’t be denied, it forces its way through my closed lids, forcing me, yes, forcing me to open my eyes and stare fully into it.

  I do as it commands and realize I am in a strange room, my hands and feet strapped to a strange cart. The light is in the ceiling staring down at me, almost laughing in the process. I hear voices and notice there are others on the room with me. A priest reads passages from a bible, but I can’t hear the words; a doctor stands at the ready with a stethoscope around his neck. Then I see them, tubes that run out of my arm and up into three different colored containers. Two of the containers appear to be almost emptied, while the third and final races through the tube craving access to my body. I feel the room begin to spin about, but then I notice the glass window, outside of which sit several faces. Some are crying, while others almost seem to be grinning at me… laughing at the event. I feel the light dimming above me, clouds seeming to roll in, but not gray mist this time; no, this is more like shadows. They creep and whirl about me like demons preparing my soul for the final descent to the place where it must ultimately end. Then finally darkness, pure in its utter blackness, surrounds me like a sea surrounds a sinking ship. Pulling and dragging me down and down. It is over for me; no more will I be able to provide the ultimate joy, no. It is ended.

  T HE WITCHES OF CARCASSONE

  By Philip Leibfried

  Cutting a scarlet swath through Languedoc with their fellow crusaders, Gilles Gagne, Robert LeClair and Philippe deHavilland rode and fought like demons. Anyone who stood in their way was brutally and summarily slain. They made a fatal error, however. They forgot their true purpose, that of ending a heresy, and gave in to their carnal desires.

  It all began with the rise of Catharism in that southeastern region of France in the late 12th century. That movement, which believed in two equal gods, one good and one evil, was spreading rapidly, causing much concern in the Church. The efforts of Pope Innocent III to eradicate the heresy having failed, he declared a crusade against the heretics after they murdered his legate, Pierre de Castelnau. With an offer of Cathar land holdings to any French nobleman willing to take the field against the Cathars, an army of ten thousand fighting men was raised by the middle of 1209. Assembling in Lyon, they soon began moving south toward Languedoc. Through dark forests and across rolling meadows, the crusaders marched relentlessly.

  Gagne, LeClair and deHavilland served under Simon de Montfort, an extremely cruel and bloodthirsty individual. At the city of Beziers, which was reached on July 21, de Montfort called upon the Catholics living there to leave the city and the Cathars to surrender.

  Receiving refusals from both groups, the invading force attacked and took Beziers the next day. With orders to spare no one, Simon’s men cut and slashed their way through the streets of the city in an orgy of bloodletting. No discrimination was made for either age or gender. When it was all over, nearly twenty thousand souls lay dead.

  Gilles, Robert and Philippe led the way with evil ebullience. Chasing down and slaying a Cathar family as they fled into their home, Robert spotted a comely female huddling under a table.

  Pulling the woman out by her hair, he ripped off her robe and kissed her roughly on the mouth. She bit his lip and began screaming. Her cries caused her two sisters to emerge from their hiding places, swinging brooms at the invaders.

  Gilles and Philippe laughed heartily as they easily disarmed the women and knocked them to the floor. After having their way with the luckless females, Robert neatly beheaded each one.

  “That is one way to silence a woman,” he said with an evil smirk.

  Taking a fancy to a finely wrought silver bracelet worn by one of the women, Gilles snatched it off her wrist and placed it on his own. He felt a strange sensation as he did so, but forgot about it when it
passed momentarily.

  Returning to the plaza, the trio watched gleefully from a safe distance as soldiers raced about with torches, setting the city afire.

  That night the army encamped some five miles past Beziers. The fighting men dined on food they had taken from the city and admired their spoils. Simon de Montfort made plans with his fellow nobles for taking the next city in their path, Carcassonne.

  In that city lived two sisters, cousins to the trio slain by LeClair, and their middle aged mother, all practitioners of witchcraft. When Gagne put on the wristband, Eleanor, the mother, who wore a matching band, felt a similar sensation. Knowing that something was amiss, she consulted her magic mirror, which enabled her to see up to one month in the future and one year in the past. She saw her nieces being ravaged and slain by the crusader trio.

  “Eustace! Elaine!” she called to her daughters. “See what has become of your cousins!”

  The pair watched in horrified disbelief as the scene unfolded once more. Tears rolled down their cheeks at the horror of it. Covering their faces with their hands, Eustace and Elaine sat down and gave full vent to their grief.

  Meanwhile, Eleanor switched the mirror to future events. With some trepidation, she watched the crusaders besieging Carcassonne. Her mind was awhirl, trying to devise a way to avenge her nieces. She knew she must think fast, for the invaders would be at the city gates within a fortnight. First, however, she needed to know what made these men such monsters.

  Fashioning a figurine of Robert LeClair out of sealing wax, the beldam placed a hand on its head and probed the crusader’s memory. What she discovered did not surprise her, but did shock her in its intensity. Under that rough exterior lay an even rougher interior. It seems that Robert was a misogynist of the first order. Searching further, Eleanor found the reason for the man’s animosity toward women. As a lad, his mother and aunt had verbally, physically and sexually abused him. The mistreatment went on for several years, until the boy was old enough to strike out on his own. At thirteen, he joined a band of mercenaries after proving his ability with a sword. When the crusade was called ten years later, his group sold their services to Simon de Montfort, who had been seeking good fighting men to augment his army.