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"description": "Making the rounds about Manhattan's cubical sprawl, a tycoon of immense power garnered through tantamount legions of suffering, is insulated by wealth, deceiving his life unaware he's marked for destruction on this particular morning. A lethal specter with a flair for the just and a taste to rebel, closes in, ready to turn his existence into a smoldering inferno, like the empire he waved his chequebooks through.",
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"writing": "===========================\n Wonder Rhonda\n===========================\n\n2024\n\nSlotted. Cocked. A swish and a gleam. Titanized steel fanned out in a circular motion, blinding in its precision. Another click. Another stakeout. The equipment of this hunt was excessive, even indulgent—but so were her targets. If someone dialed her burner to negotiate a half-off deal, they might as well ask about the cremation package. Rhonda’s work didn’t just end lives—it scorched legacies.\n\nThis morning, Rian Thomlinson was that legacy.\n\nWonder Rhonda had dedicated her life to fighting injustices and upholding her society's values, adjacent to Gropesville. Her high-powered laser-bullet semiauto pistol was a symbol of her unwavering commitment to protecting the weak and standing up against the godless hordes of an unknown past. The chase of righteousness itself.\n\nRhonda, perched low by a row of parked SUVs, surveyed the Farxyde Hotel Wynton from the corner of its plaza. The glass facade gleamed with gaudy arrogance, the building practically dripping with the sweat of overpaid architects trying to impress underqualified moguls. Across the street, Thomlinson’s pudgy frame would come in, striding confidently, his slicked-back hair catching the light. Oblivious. Carefree. Like the lies he told his own family.\n\nHe was heading toward his “Investment Day” gala, no doubt to crow about stock dividends and newly denied medical insurance claims. Rhonda let the corner of her lip curl. The only returns Thomlinson would be seeing today were the sharp ones—those engraved on her laser-pistol rounds.\n\n“Delay,” one read.\n“Depose,” the other.\n\nRhonda tightened her gloves, their white leather snug against her hands, as she finished the last bite of a Stickler’s candy bar. The choco-caramel protein-packed sweetness fueled her as much as the hunt itself. The wrapper hit the ground, a petty act of rebellion beneath the grander one she was about to execute.\n\nThis wasn’t just a job. It was a symphony of justice. What else, indeed, could be worthy of her nickname, \"Wonder Rhonda\"?\n\n6:40 AM. Just another morning in the war for balance. She took a bottle of water and sprayed it messily into her maw- the flavor always sucked, but you gotta stay hydrated. It was good that the Starlukz barista a block out was too groggy to care about the distinguished gunmetal gray outlines of Rhonda, nor her vibrant hair, nor her shades of choice.\nThough, she made sure on that matter with her.\n\nRhonda slid alongside the SUVs, keeping her movements smooth and deliberate. She adjusted her visor, the gleam of her crimson hair briefly catching the sun as her cream-furred tail swayed behind her. She was a ghost among the city’s waking masses, her outfit—a tight, leathery arsenal of destruction—tailored for precision and stealth. This coot was right on time.\n\nAs she closed the gap to get a cleaner shot, passersby began to take notice. A few slowed, whispering nervously. A man on a bike skidded to a stop, his eyes darting between Rhonda and the laser-pistol humming softly in her hand. The hum was familiar, intimate—an old friend from her days with the NARKERS, the drug enforcement unit she’d left behind. Back then, she’d been fighting a different kind of corruption. Now, her sights were set higher.\n\n“Almost there,” Rhonda murmured, her radiant eyes narrowing behind the visor. Thomlinson’s stride brought him parallel to her, his attention glued to his phone.\n\nShe crouched, the laser-pistol aimed. The humming grew louder, vibrating through her fingers like the anticipation of a long-overdue reckoning.\n\nTrigger tensed. Breath steady. KHWAM!-KHWAM!!\n\nThe lasers streaked through the air—Perfect, searing cracks that ripped through Thomlinson’s torso and knee. The energy beams pierced flesh and bone with ruthless precision, the force spinning him halfway before he crumpled to the pavement. A sickening PTSHHH! accompanied the stench of cauterized flesh, the sounds reverberating across the now-silent street.\n\nGasps erupted around her as pedestrians ducked and scrambled for cover. One woman screamed, her latte hitting the ground as she bolted into the nearest shop. Thomlinson twitched once, twice, his face frozen in shock as the life drained from his body.\n\nRhonda didn’t linger. Hasn't anyone ever seen flare guns, before?\n\nIn one fluid motion, she darted out from her cover, boots barely making a sound against the pavement. Her path cut across the plaza to the fire escape she’d scoped earlier. Shouts echoed behind her—frantic calls for help, the distant wail of sirens—but she didn’t falter. By the time she scaled the adjacent rooftop, she was already gone, a blur against the early morning skyline.\n\nThe Shade of Manhattan had struck again. Brazen, and just outside the Hotel Wynton's doors. Those investors must be pissed.\n\nHer escape wasn’t just about survival—it was about the message. Thomlinson’s fall wasn’t just another job for her—it was a shift, however slight, in the power dynamics of the elite. He’d played his part, a cog in the machine that drained life from millions for the sake of shareholder profits. And now? Now, he was nothing more than a cautionary tale.\n\nRhonda adjusted her gloves as she reached the rooftop’s edge, her lips curving into a smirk. The city stretched out before her, a glittering jungle of glass and steel, rife with predators who thought themselves untouchable. She’d let them keep thinking that—for now. Too bad Thomlinson's claim denial AI probably still runs the show now, in solemn truth. But, oh well.\n\n“Tail time,” she smiled with toothbaring glee, patting her laser-pistol before slipping into the shadows.\n\nThis mistress of karma would ruin them all, one by one. And she would again, sleep very soundly at night for it.\n",
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Wonder Rhonda
===========================
2024
Slotted. Cocked. A swish and a gleam. Titanized steel fanned out in a circular motion, blinding in its precision. Another click. Another stakeout. The equipment of this hunt was excessive, even indulgent—but so were her targets. If someone dialed her burner to negotiate a half-off deal, they might as well ask about the cremation package. Rhonda’s work didn’t just end lives—it scorched legacies.
This morning, Rian Thomlinson was that legacy.
Wonder Rhonda had dedicated her life to fighting injustices and upholding her society's values, adjacent to Gropesville. Her high-powered laser-bullet semiauto pistol was a symbol of her unwavering commitment to protecting the weak and standing up against the godless hordes of an unknown past. The chase of righteousness itself.
Rhonda, perched low by a row of parked SUVs, surveyed the Farxyde Hotel Wynton from the corner of its plaza. The glass facade gleamed with gaudy arrogance, the building practically dripping with the sweat of overpaid architects trying to impress underqualified moguls. Across the street, Thomlinson’s pudgy frame would come in, striding confidently, his slicked-back hair catching the light. Oblivious. Carefree. Like the lies he told his own family.
He was heading toward his “Investment Day” gala, no doubt to crow about stock dividends and newly denied medical insurance claims. Rhonda let the corner of her lip curl. The only returns Thomlinson would be seeing today were the sharp ones—those engraved on her laser-pistol rounds.
“Delay,” one read.
“Depose,” the other.
Rhonda tightened her gloves, their white leather snug against her hands, as she finished the last bite of a Stickler’s candy bar. The choco-caramel protein-packed sweetness fueled her as much as the hunt itself. The wrapper hit the ground, a petty act of rebellion beneath the grander one she was about to execute.
This wasn’t just a job. It was a symphony of justice. What else, indeed, could be worthy of her nickname, "Wonder Rhonda"?
6:40 AM. Just another morning in the war for balance. She took a bottle of water and sprayed it messily into her maw- the flavor always sucked, but you gotta stay hydrated. It was good that the Starlukz barista a block out was too groggy to care about the distinguished gunmetal gray outlines of Rhonda, nor her vibrant hair, nor her shades of choice.
Though, she made sure on that matter with her.
Rhonda slid alongside the SUVs, keeping her movements smooth and deliberate. She adjusted her visor, the gleam of her crimson hair briefly catching the sun as her cream-furred tail swayed behind her. She was a ghost among the city’s waking masses, her outfit—a tight, leathery arsenal of destruction—tailored for precision and stealth. This coot was right on time.
As she closed the gap to get a cleaner shot, passersby began to take notice. A few slowed, whispering nervously. A man on a bike skidded to a stop, his eyes darting between Rhonda and the laser-pistol humming softly in her hand. The hum was familiar, intimate—an old friend from her days with the NARKERS, the drug enforcement unit she’d left behind. Back then, she’d been fighting a different kind of corruption. Now, her sights were set higher.
“Almost there,” Rhonda murmured, her radiant eyes narrowing behind the visor. Thomlinson’s stride brought him parallel to her, his attention glued to his phone.
She crouched, the laser-pistol aimed. The humming grew louder, vibrating through her fingers like the anticipation of a long-overdue reckoning.
Trigger tensed. Breath steady. KHWAM!-KHWAM!!
The lasers streaked through the air—Perfect, searing cracks that ripped through Thomlinson’s torso and knee. The energy beams pierced flesh and bone with ruthless precision, the force spinning him halfway before he crumpled to the pavement. A sickening PTSHHH! accompanied the stench of cauterized flesh, the sounds reverberating across the now-silent street.
Gasps erupted around her as pedestrians ducked and scrambled for cover. One woman screamed, her latte hitting the ground as she bolted into the nearest shop. Thomlinson twitched once, twice, his face frozen in shock as the life drained from his body.
Rhonda didn’t linger. Hasn't anyone ever seen flare guns, before?
In one fluid motion, she darted out from her cover, boots barely making a sound against the pavement. Her path cut across the plaza to the fire escape she’d scoped earlier. Shouts echoed behind her—frantic calls for help, the distant wail of sirens—but she didn’t falter. By the time she scaled the adjacent rooftop, she was already gone, a blur against the early morning skyline.
The Shade of Manhattan had struck again. Brazen, and just outside the Hotel Wynton's doors. Those investors must be pissed.
Her escape wasn’t just about survival—it was about the message. Thomlinson’s fall wasn’t just another job for her—it was a shift, however slight, in the power dynamics of the elite. He’d played his part, a cog in the machine that drained life from millions for the sake of shareholder profits. And now? Now, he was nothing more than a cautionary tale.
Rhonda adjusted her gloves as she reached the rooftop’s edge, her lips curving into a smirk. The city stretched out before her, a glittering jungle of glass and steel, rife with predators who thought themselves untouchable. She’d let them keep thinking that—for now. Too bad Thomlinson's claim denial AI probably still runs the show now, in solemn truth. But, oh well.
“Tail time,” she smiled with toothbaring glee, patting her laser-pistol before slipping into the shadows.
This mistress of karma would ruin them all, one by one. And she would again, sleep very soundly at night for it.
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