FanFic: Part One

  • I don't really have a name for this yet. I've been writing alot recently, for writing sake, and I wrote this around the time BAK was launched…

    It was night. The dense blanket of darkness that covered the world was enough to camouflage even these 3 men. Over 600 libs of muscle power was at their call, and yet they moved quietly along, unseen. As three predators they were, approaching prey with malicious intent and with stealth. They were closing in on Psychic’s…

    The neon lights above Psychic’s Bar were potent and mesmeric. A cocktail glass and the image of a shapely female were outlined in electric blue below letters arranged on a slant. P Y C H I C ‘ S B A R. The S would go out and re-illuminate at sporadic intervals. The punters did not care; their only concern was the sex that straddled poles within. Girls climbing up and down poles, looking like Pussycat Dolls. It was a profitable venue with a distasteful, but regular attendance.

    Pooley gripped the handle of his Desert Eagle in his large right hand. It was buried in the deep pocket of his bomber jacket, safety off. It engaged his wicked mind into reminiscence of its most recent uses. Bullets, a lethal dose of 50 calibre strength swiftly tore through the flesh of his target. It’s handgun form was illusive, the blast it would emit was sometimes more befitting of an AA gun, picking Harriers out of the air with ease. Sometimes he chose not to use it. Sometimes he went for natural and unaided assassinations. He was a powerful man and blood thirsty after all.

    Massaging the cold steel of the trigger with his thick index finger, he fantasized of the upcoming ambush; about pulling out this tool of death Clint Eastwood style, and leaving his prey no time to bargain or parley for their lives. Quick and clean. And then he toyed with the idea of letting them beg. He wondered. He smirked. He was full of that sense of purpose and focus that always flooded him in the moments preceding a murder. He was not the bosses right-hand-man for nothing – he was a loyal and skilled enforcer, a seemingly fearless leader of men and ruthless to boot. He drew his weapon, as if in rehearsal of the event to come.
    “Desert Eagle. Point. 5. 0. How does a Desert Eagle take its prey?” mused Pooley.

    “I’ve only ever seen one Desert Eagle on the hunt, that one is vicious and unrestrained” Replied Stuey, whose weapon of choice was an M9. He felt that he would not need it, with his captain in this mood. Luke, their other colleague, remained silent.
    “A Desert Eagle must eat. It must get what it needs. I am the same, I require prey but not to eat it…just to kill it. I am an Eagle who hunts for sport.” His voice was soft, as his self-image was layed down with his words, and that image filled him with a twisted sense of pride. He was smug, his thin mouth shaped into a smirk, his dark and empty eyes narrowing.

    Stuey could find no response but there was little need; they had reached the loading bay of Psychic’s Bar. It was un-lit, as per The Cult’s orders. There was no need for passers-by to notice what was being delivered here everyday.
    The men were hooded and concealed wearing all black: hooded Stone Island bomber coats filled up with muscular torsos, Levi jeans with army surplus combat boots, un-shined.

    Stuey and Luke followed close behind Pooley. They did not respect him nearly as much as they did fear him. They often just witnesses to the Pooley’s murderous exploits; it was always these 3 who got the assassination jobs for The Cult they served. They had seen and feared Pooley’s eyes. His murderous stare during those moments. A stare that rendered the victim’s blood icy before it was spilled. Powerfully hypnotic, his victims would not dare wrestle with its power, but stood motionless; as if paralyzed. Their limbs would defy their will to escape; their survival instinct was always overpowered. He was as a poised cobra before he took his prey. Stuey and Luke were often surplus. Spectators unrequired, but still amused. They were entitled to a cut of the spoils just for their presence, and The Boss would allocate them an amount based on their terror factor. It was that very thing which would help keep The Cult’s reputation. Pooley did not care that he did all the work. It was not work to him, it was a basic need.

    Pooley traced a scar down the left side of his face with his thick index finger. It started from the mouth, a thin country road that's end was hidden by a thick black forest. His hair was dark and dry, but it had glistened much, it had formed a lane of deep claret down one side of his pale face; when he received that blow. The remaining blood in him had boiled. The veins within him were like channels of molten lava which fuelled his vengeful, furious retribution. He raged during that battle. Torture, dismemberment and sadism took shape, powered by his black fury and wicked spirit. It was necessary; The Cult’s reputation could not waver. The iron fist had to clench when necessary, and those who stuck their necks out too far, too soon; were throttled by it. The Cult could not be beaten. They were the forerunners of the criminal underworld----no other gang could oppose them.

    "He was a brave man, to strike me. Bravery wasted. Blood wasted. He killed himself." Whispered Pooley, unheard by his colleagues, unseen also; as his smirk broadened still, and the scar took a more zigzag path along his bloodless features. It was a talisman of one of his greatest moments, he felt, and it gave more power to his intimidating avatar.
    The men were now gaining along the back-wall of Psychic’s. They then crept down a stairwell that turned a sharp corner halfway down, the rest of it bore down into a narrow tunnel which the men dissolved into, their black hoods drawn over their heads. They could hear the music in the main bar above them, slow in beat…but nonetheless it was earth-shattering as the surrounding structure responded with an uneasy and continuous shuddering.

    “It will conceal the gunshots.” Offered Luke. He was the most prudent and logical of the 3, but only slightly less frightening.
    Single-file; they descended through the tunnel. Pooley was in front, with his Desert Eagle hanging loose beside his hip, tethered to his will by a motionless arm. His excitement was peaking, and he now had his jaw clenched and teeth bearing whilst anticipating the fear of these dead-men walking that were soon to behold him.

    This basement was often used to store empty kegs and crates, as well as camouflage Psychic’s cocaine stockpile. Psychic’s itself was a front for distributing narcotics, of which its purity and ever-presence was gratefully exploited by its customer’s. The men often used, but at present they were clear-headed, and the adrenaline and buzz they would soon experience was far more pleasurable than any that a narcotic could create. A gang had been reported as being seen sneaking into here. The call came from the barmen and neither him nor his staff would go down to investigate. Guns drawn and blood-spilled were common occurrences around cocaine.

    Pooley reached the metal door beyond the base of the stairs and extended his mighty leg in a low and swift front kick to its lower-half. The door was torn impressively from its hinge’s and crashed upon the floor. The floor was of concrete; it greeted the felled metal door with a loud-heart stopping blast as the men poured within the first 5 yards of the room.
    The men stopped completely dead in their tracks. They beheld a woman, centred in the basement room.
    The woman was seemingly caught mid-stride. She tossed a curtain of long, dark hair as she looked toward them. Her eyes were dark, but shone with health and vibrancy. They were windows into a care-free but mischievous soul, congruent with a smirk that she was now wearing upon her flawless features. Her features; as if sculpted out of bright divine stone and unspoiled by the weathers and anxieties of the world.

    Her smirk widened as the men looked on at her, mesmerized. Her playful thoughts turned to her hair; she enjoyed its silky texture between long and slender fingers as she brought it about in front of her, letting it lie upon her breast. It was thick, dark and long and it shined somewhat, even only with only the dim lighting of this basement to reflect.
    Her right leg was out in front, straightened and encased in a high and tight leather boot, she rocked backward until only its long stiletto heel was in contact with the floor.
    Colour began to rise in the men’s cheeks and their pulses quickened somewhat, as they drank in her beauty greedily with leering eyes.
    Her lean thighs were covered with transparent black tights and these were underneath the expensive leather of her boots and a short-black mini-skirt that left much of them revealed. Her thin waist line, athletic and tight, was of a perfect shade of light brown and was bared below a black fitted crop top. She turned to face them fully, whilst tossing her head slightly, a long and dark curtain of thick hair caught what little light there was in the room as she made full eye contact with them for the first time. Their pulses redoubled urgency, the men were now sexually charged up within these moments of tenseness and the pounding of their hearts reminiscent of the loud thuds of the music above. They advanced slowly.
    She fluttered long jet-black lashes at the men, lidding and un-lidding them once tantalizingly, a skilled seductive move that she had down to perfection. She did not stir or retreat form their onset.
    She wore no real finery or jewellery. She was an item of beauty in and of herself. Immaculate. She eased her mouth into a grin, flashing flawless white as she overjoyed at the sight of the men. 10 seconds had now passed, and she felt the tenseness increase along with her power and control over them. She turned away and took long strides away from the men, strides that deliberated her shape.

    Pooley was the first to his senses. He would have to murder everyone in the basement, those were Boss’s orders. He could not see anyone else in the basement except two other women sat out in the semi darkness. He noticed, because this woman headed that way, and he was powerless to look elsewhere. The basement was half-full of empty kegs and various containers, and two of the back-walls were fitted with working benches. He did not know this. Everything and anything apart from this woman had become inconsequential. Her beauty, her aura and vibe of self-confidence and assurance had him in shackles of lust and wonder. She had him in her power, controlled.

    Luke and Stuey were of similar state. The men were not consciously aware of how much of a shift this was from their previous jobs. At present, they were not able to think. The men flanked Pooley on either side but were behind him slightly. Unlike him, they did not have their guns drawn. They were certain now they would not be needed this time around.
    "Who the fuck are you?" was Pooley’s poorly delivered line. His voice carried no authority as it usually did.
    The woman stopped. She did not turn to fully-face him; she twisted at her lean centre and answered him, over her shoulder.
    And she looked at Pooley as she said this, because she knew of the power in her own voice. It was not loud, but it was clear and extremely sensual. It seemed to caress the air and reach Pooley's ears as though as a gift for him. It was a brief acknowledgement of his existence that ended with another toss of her long dark hair and her seductive smile.
    Pooley fought with himself inside. His will had been distorted. He thought it wasteful to kill a woman of such appeal, even she as a trespasser and him as an enforcer. But he had a job to do. He must find out about the rival gang.
    “Who are you working with? Who was here before we came? You have much explaining to do, woman, and you’ll need me to like it before I can let you go.” He said it and his swagger had returned slightly. His authority was remembered.
    “Oh. You’re going to love it.” She said. She raised her chin slightly, exposing her neck.
    Red turned slowly and faced the men straight once again. She was stood up to her fullest height, which was slightly more than theirs thanks to her boots. Her supermodel-like posture was complete with a stance that had her boots slightly wider than her shoulder-width. She placed her hands near her hips, slightly below them.

    Pooley had had enough. His body was screaming to comply, but he had no time for this. There was strippers upstairs, all of whom had consented easily to him in the past. This woman was special. But he was strong and steadfast, and a powerful man working for a highly reputable Cult still. He advanced on her, his eyes were wide and unsure but his Desert Eagle was drawn. But he was not the poised cobra or the threat-of-an-attack that he usually was. He didn’t want to do her any lasting harm.
    He advanced until he had enough proximity for her sweet perfume to fill his nostrils. It was a flowery scent that pleasured the senses and disarmed him even more, immersed in as if in a garden of many red flowers, powerful in their graceful splendour and scent after the first months of spring.

    What happened next happened extremely quickly. Red caught all 3 men at complete unawares. Her right leg soared straight upwards, powerful and deadly accurate…until the point of her leather boot caught his chin and sent his head flying upwards. Pooley regained himself but Red had already re-adjusted herself for a round-house kick, and he could only glimpse for a nano second the black sole of her boot before, powering quickly toward him as it caught him perfectly on the mouth. He felt teeth crack and his eyes water thanks to the extreme pain she’d dealt him.

    Pooley’s world had been turned upside down as he experienced a place foreign, paths un-trod by him. It did not seem possible, that a woman of such a slim build could muster so much power and apply it with such skill. He tasted the bitter coppery flavour of his blood and it was accompanied with the taste of the expensive leather that Red wore on her feet. Perhaps the worst of all was hearing her sensual, feminine “kiyah!” that her vocals sounded with enthusiasm as she landed the second blow. What was happening?
    Red advanced and locked her slender arms around one of Pooley’s. One of her legs in between his, she pulled him around easily, firmly and quickly. She had Pooley’s right arm at her own will in this position, a textboom armlock she learned from Silver, and she moved it to aim the Desert Eagle towards Luke and Stuey.
    Stuey was fumbling frantically for his weapon. Luke already had his drawn but he did something that he would later regret. He had the chance to shoot but he did not. Red would’ve perhaps been safe, as Pooley’s large frame was between herself and the men, and they were nowhere near collected enough to shoot that accurately with enough speed. But Luke delayed his shot by an unnecessary second, and then his gun jammed as he then attempted to fire.

    Red pressed Pooley’s finger into the trigger and got both of his colleagues in one of their legs. She then claimed the Desert Eagle for her own by twisting Pooley’s arm and then throwing him with emphatic skill over her shoulder. She had victory by now. Luke and Stuey were driven back by the .50 rounds of her Desert Eagle, and their weapons flew far, too far for the badly wounded to reach easily.
    Red was stood over Pooley with her Desert Eagle. She looked comfortable holding it. The radiant smile was gone from her face; it was now just a smirk for her satisfaction. She pointed her Desert Eagle down at Pooley as she put her right boot lightly upon his chest. Not to hold him down, she was making a statement.

    Pooley looked up and knew there was nothing he could do. He had hesitated and had been out-witted by a calculating and skilful advisory. He cursed his short-sightedness as he snarled up at her, but unable to muster much into it – she only smirked wider. Stood over him, a slender tower of beauty, less than half of his weight and he had her outnumbered – she had beaten them so easily. Red re-adjusted and raised her knee high and swiftly, and she unleashed all such power available to her downwards onto Pooley’s head. His head cracked against the floor and if he ever awoke after that day, there was slim hope that he would ever remember anything. Red was merciless, and she smirked again as she ran her free hand through her dark hair and strode over the motionless heap at her boots.

    She advanced on Luke and Stuey who were groaning – their faces contorted in their excruciating pain and their eyes looking fearfully up at Red.
    “You ejected the first bullet by hand, didn't you? I see what you were trying to do. But testing technique you only heard about in the middle of battle wasn't very smart. You were asking to have your gun jam on you. I wonder, why did you feel the need to show off?” Red said this all very slowly. The last sentence she failed in supressing great delight and she proceeded to giggle afterwards. She kicked Luke’s gun away behind her with a slight flick of her lower leg as he tried, despite terrible pain, to reach it.

    “Besides, I don't think you're cut out for an automatic in the first place. You tend to twist your elbow to absorb the recoil. That's more of a revolver technique.”

    Luke and Stuey could hear the loud and echoing power of more high-heeled stilettos getting nearer. She was obviously Red’s colleague as she had a similar swagger. They could not see her, but her outline was extremely shapely.

    “You were amazing Red. These boys didn’t have a hope against you. I’ll get them tied up. Pour more wine for now.”

    Luke and Stuey were bleeding furiously now. They then passed out for a while…

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