3 comments/ 2041 views/ 1 favorites The Last Reflexive Ch. 01 By: MistressColleen By: Col. Brunhilda 'Iceberg' Buriman, ret. Sorority Sister of Pi Loda Cum Chapter One: Little About Dude We were relaxing, so to speak, in a brothel located along one of Saigon's seedier strips, one of the few places we patronized for pleasures otherwise difficult to find in the jungle. The outfit took up every room and balcony, and even the roof. I was kneeling behind a lovely lady facing in the direction of Sarge. He was working up a storm behind his favorite pet, the brothel's one eyed mama-san. As usual he sported his belt and trusty forty-five, neither of which he ever removed, well almost never. He loved that 1911 Army forty-five, and so did mama-san. It was typical in every way except for one thing, its water-proof vibrating handle. On several occasions he'd told me of how his father had it modified before handing it down to him, but he always began the story just before bedding down, after finishing a bottle of bourbon, before tucking the gun under his pillow for the night. Other than how dangerously exciting the piece was when used for sexual pleasure, he spoke of how important it was for him to pass it down to his daughter. When he spoke of her, I got the feeling I'd meet her someday. A loud eddy filled the room, swirling about us, caused by my partner's gurgling challenge to scream while holding a mouthful of sperm I'd fed her a few minutes ago, and the Sarge's animated rodeo-style mating, in which the constant sound of gun fire and choppers swooping overhead were drowned out of existence. Without warning, the attack came out of the tunnels, lasted ten minutes, and passed. Bewildered and in pain, I looked around to find the bodies of my childhood buddies, or parts of them, and their lady friends lying lifeless around me. Johnny's legs were hanging from the banister, the head of his lady friend yet attached to his organ. Everything was blood, there was no need to call out, I knew they were dead, every one of them, everyone but me. We'd just been destroyed by an elite group of Viet Cong guerrillas and I knew damn well the entire platoon had been wiped out. The Sergeant and his lady had taken the brunt of an exploding grenade which landed between their legs. Shrapnel tore through their bodies in so many places they were unrecognizable. My left arm was numb and my body felt as if it'd been stabbed repeatedly. Automatic weapons' fire, explosions, and the sounds of men screaming orders were everywhere around me outside. I could tell the battle had moved deeper into the jungle, away from me, and I noticed Sarge's forty-five on the floor in front of me. "Sarge," I whispered to myself, picking the weapon up into my hand. "Sarge," I whispered more quietly then before. "Fuckhead," I heard his ghost say. I listened to the words of a dead man, a man who'd taken me under his wing, who'd yanked me out of childhood and taught me to stand on my own two feet. A man who'd become the mother and father I'd never known, my guardian and mentor. I could never have imagined it ending like this, with Sarge torn into little pieces. I wanted to save him like he'd saved me, but try as I may, I could move little. "Sarge," I said a little louder. "Dude, just get that piece to my daughter," the ghost ordered. Fighting pain I took a slow look around through thick smoke hoping to find where the voice came from, or better still a medic, or someone who could help. For several minutes no one and nothing moved, everything around me lay silent, and my eyes came back to realize I was yet buried balls deep in a dead woman. "Listen to me boy," the ghost went on. "When Grandfather comes for you go with him," it said, confounding me with words that lacked meaning, confusing my already clouded mind. I yanked my cock free of the pussy before rigor mortis set in. "Sarge," I asked him in despair, but he ignored me to reiterate his command more carefully. "Obey Grandfather as you've obeyed me!" "But..." "No buts, just listen to me, fuckhead," it said. I could feel agony in the voice. "Yes, sir," I said, nodding and listening, figuring I was hallucinating because of my wounds. "Son, you're my last proverbial reflexive..." "Sir?" "...I'll be watching ya." "Sarge," I whispered one last time, a little boy calling to his mommy from his crib in the dead of night, alone, afraid and in need of reassurance. A sudden cloud burst brought thunder and lightning, adding to the confusion. Tears blurred my vision as I pulled my right hand up to wipe them from my eye. It was then I heard the vibration caused by the forty-five, and I reached to shut it off, wondering if the voice I'd heard was that of a ghost, or the vibrations. I fondled his forty-five before slipping it into my flak jacket yet beside me. It was then I saw him standing over the remains of Sarge, the hooded skeleton we must all face, and I passed out, to a lonely aria sung by the fat lady. Two years later. It was the glare of a flashlight's beam in my eyes and I jumped up, but couldn't. Someone's boot was on my wrist holding me down. I reached for my forty-five but couldn't find it. Billowing black smoke filled the room and I could see flames all around. I tried to piece together what happened quickly as I could. "Here he is," a voice yelled out. It was the voice of the guy stepping on my wrist, automatic weapon and flashlight in hand. I noticed he was cloaked in protective wear, and I tried shielding my eyes but he knocked my hand down with the muzzle of his weapon. "Get the hand, get the hand and the head," another voice boomed through the darkness. The fellow above me slipped his arm through the strap of his weapon, shouldering it. He reached in his pocket and came out with something that produced a short blue light. "This won't hurt much," he snarled as he made to bring the blue light down to my pinned arm. A sudden blast sent the blue beam and flashlight flying. My assailant's head exploded, his blood and gray matter spraying the air, raining down on me as a warm mess. I heard another blast and made to roll over in an attempt to rise. The thick smoke had the stench of burning chemicals telling me I had to get out of there quick, when out of the smoke another figure appeared, choking and gagging. It was Harriette and she fell to her knees beside me, bared breast flopping about over a holster strap, exaggerating a deep cleavage I, even under the circumstances, considered diving into. "What the fuk happened, Dude," she screamed. She was retching on the fumes and trying to wipe her eyes. "Keep your hands away from your face," I yelled at her. "This fukin smoke, damn it," she sputtered. "Shit, I can't stand it any longer!" "Keep your hands off your face," I yelled again. Getting up onto my hands and knees to turn, indicating for her to follow me. "Stay down on your knees and follow me!" Harriette got close, reaching her hand out to me. At first groping for something to hold, she finally reached between my legs to inadvertently, and then out of desperation, grab and hold my organ tight through the material of my pants. "Yo, Dude, I feel better now. You ain't missing anything here," she said, pulling on my cock, "...but are you missing this piece of your body," she asked. She couldn't stop choking or gagging as she let my cock go long enough for her to retrieve something from the floor. I turned my head to see my forty-five in her hand, and grabbed it from her, slipping it into my shoulder holster. I then reached for the gadget dropped by the fellow she'd just killed, slipping it into one of my pockets. "Now just keep your hands away from your face or you'll be sorry," I warned Harriette who immediately went back to holding my cock. Her grip was weak, telling me she was losing it, so I reached back and grabbed her breast by its nipple, using it to pull her closer, until her hand had a firm hold of my excited cock. "Mmmmm, hold on tight, and come on," I said, towing her with me. Together we crawled across what was left of a place that was supposed to be safe, unknown by anyone outside the Organization. I groped along the floor looking for the right tile until I found it. Then I pushed on it and a small piece of floor opened. I again grabbed Harriette's breast, using it to yank her around me, to in front of me, and through the opening. "Careful," I shouted. "Find the steps with your feet, but be careful." I kept pushing her ahead of me, down through the opening, not really caring at that moment whether she found the ladder with a foot or not. "Go! Go! Go! Hurry, before the fumes kill us," I kept saying as I forced her lower. "Quit fukin pushin' Dude! We're not in bed," Harriette yelped in a sputtering cry while choking. "Christ, hold on will ya, I can't stand this fukin smell. It burns, damn it! Son of a bitch!" But it was too late, I'd already pushed her into the hole, and by a fistful of her hair kept her from falling, 'til her foot found a rung of the ladder and I felt her regain control. Then I slipped in next to her and closed the floor tile over us. Now we were blanketed in the red glow of emergency lighting. "Down the ladder," I yelled, scurrying down while guiding Harriette. Once our feet hit solid ground we turned to look at each other, attempting to catch our breaths. Harriette pulled out a cigarette which I swatted from her hand immediately. She looked ready for a fight. "Not here, Harriette." Harriette's face, breast, and cleavage were grey with soot, and she yet struggled to keep her hands from rubbing her eyes. She continued to moan and swear as I walked over to an emergency medical supply box hanging on the wall. I flipped open the door and reached for a bottle of sterilized water. Stepping back to Harriette I told her to tip her head back, but she snatched the bottle from me. "Fuk off, I can take care of myself. Just gimme that got-damned thing," she yelled. Just like her dad, I thought, as she tilted her head and lifted the bottle in order to rinse her eyes clean. She sighed with relief and blinked, then rinsed again 'til satisfied, then she handed me the bottle. "Here!" I took it from her and cleaned my own eyes, while she adjusted her blouse, covering her breast. "Now let's get out of here and get cleaned up," I said, throwing the bottle into one of the corners. "What the fuk happened, Dude," she asked. "Hold on, let's get out of here first." "I know just the fukin place, unless you got a better idea," Harriette offered sarcastically. Realizing one of our 'safe houses' had been assaulted and me almost killed, I figured going back to my hotel room was out of the question, so I nodded my assent. "Come on then, I'll get us outside and you can lead the way from there," I said. "You can have your cigarette then." "Dude, tell me why those bottom dwelling pond-scum suckin' bastards wanted your fukin hand and head, huh? I almost got my ass blasted for you!" "I'll explain everything to you later, Harriette." I shook my head, not having heard a fouler mouth since my army days. "Hell, they're after the wrong 'fukin' head, if ya know what I fukin mean," she said with a rather hungry smile, her eyes dropping to my crotch. I shook my head and turned to lead the way. I knew that wasn't why they referred to her as Dirty Harriette, but you could have fooled me. As she followed me along the dimly lit winding corridor I flashed back to the day we first met. The Last Reflexive Ch. 02 By: Col. Brunhilda 'Iceberg' Buriman, ret. Sorority Sister of Pi Loda Cum Chapter Two: Night to Day The problems with the Society for the New World Order, were getting out of hand and grandfather had come up with a plan. It was a plan the Organization took years to formulate and was finally prepared to implement. I was ordered to take care of one last detail before carrying out the assignment. It was the mission's most important facet and I wondered why I'd been chosen to deal with it. The Organization had operatives trained in the art of recruiting, and I was not one of them. According to the Organization all background checks performed to date turned up nothing irregular. I studied the reports carefully. She was clean as a virgin sacrifice and American as George Washington. She was hard-nosed, true blue and fiercely independent, and an accomplished dominatrix. She's a criminal's nightmare, giving her chief both hard-ons and headaches, bringing anxiety to every D.A. not in her stable. The information was difficult to believe until it came to her father. When I read she'd been raised by her father, Sergeant 'Kit' Harwicke Karson, I knew why I'd been given the task of recruiting her. It was a storm-laden night and Dirty Harriette's alter ego, The Nun, used the strokes of thunder brought on by the hammer of Thor to accent the sound caused by her palm landing on the buttocks of Litle Slurp, the male she'd taken to bed that night. Spanking her twerp Slurp is how she's been dealing with the passing of her father during terrible storms. In the worst storms her dad had always been there for her with as much comfort as she needed, but now he was gone, and she was having some difficulty adjusting. She used Slurp and Sven to take her mind off her dad. Her dad would hold her in his arms and tell her a story. He'd tell her of defending the Country, of being a good American, and sometimes he'd talk of her mother, whom she never knew, and later he spoke of the birds and the bees, whom she learned quickly to exploit. To those few who knew Harriette, the pair of males she snatched from the abyss of virginity and trained, along with her .357 magnum, were sorry substitutes for her father, but they were all she seemed to have, or wanted around. She kept two of them chained to the floor near her bed in case of an itch, the other under her pillow, in case of emergency. I was looking forward to meeting the daughter of my hero in the morning and needed to sleep, but I too couldn't sleep during the storm, so I led each clap and roll of thunder with a rather loud 'squish', melding with 'sloshing' sounds caused by my cock plunging into the pussy of my soubrette, Holey Pi. She's both my deadly pet succubus borne to the shadows, and my big-breasted dumb nymphomaniac stress reliever. I never leave home without her. Even after hours of bumping and grinding, and finally collapsing into the arms of my dark-haired bitch, my cock buried balls deep down her throat, relaxing, I slept light that night, my dreams plagued by Sergeant Karson's death and those of my buddies. Once asleep my dreams filled with continuous gunfire, bombs exploding, the faces of my pals, the sounds of agony. Knowing I was to meet his daughter brought me some apprehension, but who knew. If Sarge had been a female those long nights in the jungle, while draped over the limb of a tall tree sleeping, we may not have been sleeping and the stars would have taken on a new meaning for sure. As is his job every morning, Sven woke Litle moments before first light, by poking him with a finger, so Litle could use his tongue and fingers to awaken Harriette, gently and affectionately. Today she was more sticky then usual and needed to peel her pussy off Litle's face. She looked down to find dear Litle's eyes glued shut and giggled to herself. Like every morning, the first thing Harriette did after sitting up was to warm her feet on Sven. Then she'd push Litle out and pull Sven, her 'sleep button', into bed to fuck for another hour. Then Sven sucked her pussy clean even if not permitted to ejaculate. Moments later she was showering and Sven was policing her bedroom. Once in robe she went to the kitchen where Litle had a pot of fresh roasted and ground coffee brewing along with a slice of toast. Some days he'd have baked an orange scone. Today Harriette has no time to sit. She gobbles down the toast with gulps of coffee, then lights herself a cigarette and takes a breath to consider the day, and what to wear. Before the first swirl of smoke has left her mouth completely, she finds Sven licking at her clit eagerly and Litle's wet tongue wiggling into her behind. She stands like that, gazing out a window while smoking, as her males commune with mother nature. She finds it important for a male to feel he belongs, to feel wanted. The frail male ego is high maintenance, and requires rituals to keep it from disintegrating, so she's established for her males several rituals. From their first morning together, Harriette's established a complex and demanding consuetude for Sven and Litle, which will continue evolving, growing more arduous with time. Sven and Litle have taken to it like fish to water. For instance, the lads always stop whatever they're doing to witness the ritual of Harriette dressing for work, and find watching their mistress dressing most exciting. They took their places, kneeling to the side, out of the way, and while Harriette dressed they swiveled and sashayed around her, crawling and adjusting their positions so to get their eyes on what ever suited their fancy at that moment. Harriette was little more than an unraveling psychic ball of yarn teasing a pair of baby kittens. Today Harriette began with a pair of seamless, crotch-less black leotards, which she worked herself into slowly, providing her boys needed entertainment. She then wiggled herself into her black leather skirt, the one from Marcelle, her couturier. It came to her knees and had a piano wire sewn carefully into its hem. The wire was invisible, yet easy to slip free. Then she donned her crimson colored blouse. It was silk and sported thirteen mother of pearl buttons, one of which was a miniature grenade of sorts, another was a bug, and one particular button was just in case she meets... She looked around to see if it met with the boys' approval. The way they were salivating and beating off said it all. But too, she realized they were biased. Next she slipped into her holster, making sure its straps fit round her breasts comfortably, neither pressing on a button nor pinching. She then donned her black velvet bullet-proof jacket with the chinchilla collar, and finally she picked up and checked her gun. Always satisfied with how clean Sven kept it, she shoved it in the holster. She then looked at her reflection in the mirror, satisfied with what she saw. Glancing to the side she found her two males on their knees watching her with eyes wide, each beating off like a couple of wild animals. She smiled and gave them a couple cheep cheese-cake poses. After using the mirror, she slid her feet into her high black leather riding boots, which Sven laced eagerly. Satisfied with his work, she smiled and turned to grab another mug of coffee Litle had waiting. The lads rose to their feet and approached so Harriette could smack each on their foreheads, affectionately. "This place better be spotless by the time I return," she warned on her way out, like any other average American in the morning on their way to work. The Last Reflexive Ch. 03 By: Col. Brunhilda 'Iceberg' Buriman, ret. Sorority Sister of Pi Loda Cum Chapter Three: Meeting Once at work Harriette always counted on lil' Mikey to have a strong cup of coffee waiting on her desk, on the mini heating pad he'd bought for her. In return she permitted him to glimpse one of her breasts now and again. One day she made the mistake of allowing him to see both breasts at the same time and found an urn of coffee awaiting her. She gulped the first cup quickly, knowing Mikey will notice and prepare another. For some reason she found herself more than ready for a fight this day, and had come prepared for battle. Maybe it was the late night face ride, or constant demands of her job, or the tightness of those new leotards, she couldn't tell, but regardless, she felt something strange, her female intuition told her so. Her father taught her the art of understanding and trusting her feminine intuition, and today it was more eerie than ever. While on the way to work she found herself stroking the five inch barrel of her .357 like she would a pet, which she's never done before. This was the only male she respected, her soul mate, and one shot killed all. The meanest streets of Philadelphia were Harriette's stomping grounds, and every syndicate boy, loan shark, pervert, mother and the child knew her. Here, her presence packed quite a wallop in more ways than a few. This morning, the tempest filling her mind was just beginning to swirl when she entered the station to find me there. She was told the Chief wanted to speak with her, which reminded her of the appointment with me, which explained to her somewhat why things seemed awry. She stepped into her office to find Mikey's coffee waiting, and grabbed messages from her desk, and tarried some. A lavender envelope intrigued her so she picked it up and ripped it open to slip free and unfold a lavender note. Sweetness, the message began, that was the best birthday I ever celebrated. Harriette stopped reading to let a smile toy with the corners of her mouth. She closed her eyes to relive those moments of passion and thought to herself. 'Yes indeed, it was more than adequate, in fact it was damn good. He's handsome, and one of my better finds, so I guess I'll keep him for a while'. Then she sighed, shook her head, gulped down half a cup of coffee, and opened her eyes to continue reading. I need another hug to put me back on course ...c'mon, Princess, let's do something special on Valentine's Day. Spend it with me. Just you and me, with your houseboys in the closet. An occasion to celebrate! Or, I'll take you anywhere in the world, all three of you if need be, and buy you whatever you need. How 'bout it? Please? Your devoted bootlicker, A. "Jesus X-ray, Christ, of all days! I've gotta use my fukin brain today and MacGuire's gotta throw my train of thought right off the fukin track with this Valentine's Day shit," she said to herself, gulping down the last of her coffee, then placing the mug aside. "Not on this particular day of any year, pal," Harriette mumbled aloud. "Ah, Christ! All night unwinding and I'm already stressed and getting a headache," she muttered to herself, running fingers through her hair. "So why not get a pain in the ass as well." She looked up from the paper and spotted me through the glass panes. She scrutinized me a bit and then forced a smile. I must have looked strange staring as I was, but I couldn't help it. I could see in her the Sarge, standing tall and mean as ever. She had his stance, his look and demeanor. She even gulped coffee like him, though she didn't dress like him. Harriette dropped the note and envelop to her desk and rubbed her legs together to scratch an itch of memory before she dutifully marched to the Chief's office. I stood to greet her as she entered but she paid me no mind. Her arrogance didn't bother me, as her dad had been the same way. I was taken by her taste in clothing. "Morning sir," Harriette began without looking at me. She stood before her boss with hands at her sides, holding her chest out to him. "Sorry I'm late, got lost in a rather long, extended..." she went on only to be cut off by the Chief. The Chief's eyes went first to her breasts, which elicited a raised eyebrow from his young detective, chasing his eyes to hers. "Relax, Harriette," the Chief butted in, trying to act nonchalant. Beads of sweat had formed on his brow, and it did seem he was occupied elsewhere, but he stayed the course. "Dude's here to talk with ya, dat's all. So jus' relax a minute, will ya?" He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a cigar, bit off the tip to spit in the corner and began chewing on it. "Damn it all, Harriette, I'm trying to quit, but ya just won't let me will ya," he said, slobbering up his stogie while settling back into his chair with a 'humph', and an 'ohhhhhhhhhhh'. "Between what you do here, and that damn dildo you gave my wife, you're killin' me." Harriette smirked, pulling out a cigarette. I was there with a flame before she could open her Zippo. She nodded and accepted, then returned to the Chief disregarding me. "And dis is one of them no smokin' areas, damnit!" "Go on, blame me," Harriette snickered, ignoring his no smoking reminder. "You're poor wife needed a nice size friend who didn't complain about her cooking. Next time I'll get her the real thing," she commented, turning to face me, finally. "Besides, what do you care? You're, ah, 'finished' at the end of each shift," she concluded. The Chief shook his head and looked at me to speak at Harriette. "I do care, and I do blame you, damn it. Who the hell else around here causes me more headaches, in both places, than you? Huh? Who? Someday I'm not gonna be around to help ya, ya know. Then what?" The Chief seemed a bit irate, or about to explode, chewing on the soggy end of his cigar. "Yo, I got a job in the real world," Harriette shouted, expelling a large plume of smoke, dousing the butt in one of the many coffee cups on the Chief's desk. "Where you used to be at one time!" "Hey, Harriette, we all do. And I could use a little cooperation from you. Like not giving anymore toys to my wife, damn it," the Chief shot back. Harriette understood his frustration, and had learned how to keep him on edge, or so she believed. He was getting upset and grabbed for the bottle of aspirins on his desk, and took a couple, washing them down with cold coffee, careful to avoid the cup containing Harriette's cigarette butt. "Damn I hate cold coffee," he said looking at me and shrugging. "Forget it Harriette, just cool it. Like I said, this is... Ohhhhhhhh, ahhhhh," he went on while his eyes closed for a moment, to some sensation. Harriette shook her head and turned to face me. "I don't give a rat's ass what his name is," Harriette barked. "He's either Internal Affairs, or some government goon sent in..." "Excuse me Chief, I do believe Ms. Karson and I can take care of business better in private, if that's alright with you," I interjected. Harriette and I looked at each other, neither blinking. I'm sure we both tried picturing the other nude. The Chief slammed his hands down onto the desk and stood, releasing one whopper of a long exaggerated fart. "Ohhhh, nice! Now you're treating me like your wife," Harriette said aloud as the chief pulled his pants up over his hard-on, breaking long strands of thick liquid still connected to someone under the desk. It was then I realized I hadn't been listening to bad Calypso music, nor the sounds of a nursing cow from a sound-effect record, but the sloppy renditions of someone under the Chief's desk sucking him off. "Fine with me," he bellowed in a huff. Harriette held her breasts up and glared at me while I looked her over calmly. The Chief left, telling me not to worry because his under-desk secretary was deaf. Then he slammed the door behind him, murmuring under his breath. Once closed Harriette reached for and lit a cigarette before I could act. "Well, who in the hell are you," she asked, squaring off with me, her eyes moving up and down my body rudely, from my eyes to my crotch. I could see she'd inherited some of her father's finer and more tacit traits. I sat down and smiled, leaving her standing. I shifted my position ever so slightly, reaching under my jacket to grab the forty-five. Pulling it free I placed it on the desk for her to see, and started it vibrating. It moved over the surface of the desk slowly, driven by the vibrating handle. I waited for a reaction from Harriette while it pushed papers around, knocked over the lamp, and made a mess. I let it speak to her, sure it was calling to certain parts of her anatomy, I could tell by the hardness of her nipples. I felt sure she couldn't wait to oblige it, but Harriette kept her cool, and looked at it without moving, eyes riveted, ears attentive to the drone of the vibrating handle on the wood desk. I thought sure she'd grab her crotch at any moment. Harriette looked to have seen a ghost and for an instant, her eyes filled with a growing lust, appeared moist, which disappeared to a hushed voice. "Where in hard-on hell did you get that," she asked softly, her tone changing as she snubbed out her butt on the floor. She stood staring and listening, a bit of smile in the corners of her mouth. Except for the droning vibration, and a lust-filled swallow, things were quiet till I spoke. "That's one of the things I want to speak with you about," I said playing it slow and easy, turning off the gun. "Well..." she began with a suddenly keen interest, more unsure of my motives than ever. "You aren't after my ass then?" "No, not exactly," I said, noticing officers glancing in at us through the glass pane. "I'd like to speak with you." "Well go 'head, I'm not stopping you," she said staring at the forty-five. I could only imagine how difficult it must have been for her, to not jump up on the desk onto the gun. "Not here and not now, Ms. Karson." Her eyes returned to bore into mine. We looked at each other now with intent and it was evident she could see I was serious, and now, so was she. "Harriette, call me, Harriette," she stated. "It's imperative we speak, Harriette, alone somewhere." "Saint Nikademo Church, Ninth and Catherine. Noon." "Fine with me." "Need directions?" "No thanks, I got it." Harriette looked at the forty-five again, and almost reached for it. It was obvious she wanted it, but controlled herself. I reached for it as she turned to walk out of the office, closing the door behind her silently, the scent of Chief's fart following her out, leaving me with her Chanel and my thoughts. I stood and smiled to myself, knowing the worst was over, and somewhat interested in what chief kept under his desk. The Chief walked back in, looking at me and shrugging, now chomping his cigar. He wondered what it was I said to Harriette to make her act in such a peculiar way. "I'd apologize for her, but wouldn't do no good," he said, rushing to his seat in order to regain his place and continue where he left off. "No apologies expected, Chief," I said while standing. "I'm more than familiar with Harriette. But, I appreciate your time and help. I need to be going," I said offering my hand to him, but his pants were already down and I could tell he was settled into a mouth, so I let it go. "Whadidya say," he began, catching himself. "I mean, ah..." The poor goat was almost as intrigued by Harriette's strange behavior as he was about spewing his hot seeds down a soft throat, and I left him that way. "Thanks again for everything," I said. "Anytime, and if there's anything ya need jus' let me know," he said as I walked out of his office and into a sea of activity and noise. A loud long sound of release following me out. The Last Reflexive Ch. 04 By: Col. Brunhilda 'Iceberg' Buriman, ret. Sorority Sister of Pi Loda Cum Chapter Four: Coffee, Tea, or Me According to my reckoning it would take ten minutes to reach the church and since it was still early, I decided to find something to eat. One of the officers directed me to a diner where I could get a decent cup of coffee. It was nearby and I wouldn't need to drive around searching for a place to park. I thanked him, and once outside looked around to get my bearings. I entered into the din of a diner that was crowded, warm, and friendly, a place where police officers, lawyers, laborers, and politicians stopped for meals. I found a stool at the counter near a fat French construction worker eating from a plate of spaghetti and eggs. I was surprised he got as much food in his mouth as he did, and that he didn't spill coffee on himself while slurping mouthfuls of the hot brew, considering he rarely took his eyes off the waitresses. My waitress was a vivacious woman with skin black as coal and hair to match, which she wore in a bob. Her eyes of bright green and her sarcastic lip caught my eye and ear. Her uniform, and those of all the waitresses, consisted of a tiny white top and skirt with a hem seven inches above her knees. Over that they wore tiny pink aprons of lace and frills. My waitress did nothing to hide the fact she had small breasts, which she successfully made to bobble around behind the blouse in an exaggerated fashion. Seemed everyone liked the waitresses here, and it was obvious why. It was also why all the clientele were male. I felt very at ease as she juggled her customers while jiggling her boobies. She played us all for what we are, men. I flipped the cup before me over onto its saucer, but didn't bother looking at the menu. I knew there would be little if anything I could eat. Soon, my waitress swung herself around to me, coffeepot in hand to pour the steaming brew. "Cream, handsome? Bottled or made fresh," she asked. Her words came out in wet slurpy slurred sounds, sultry and warm, while popping her gum and smiling wickedly. I noticed her name tag. Her name was Cuddly. "Thank you, Cuddly. Black," I responded, unable to decide where I should look. It was obvious she didn't care. She was both a subtle siren and blatant warning light I couldn't stay clear of. "Ya, Cuddly," she repeated, giggling, with a pop of her gum. "See somethin' ya like, sugar" she oozed, looking me deep in the eyes while dropping her elbows to the countertop, allowing me to see down her blouse, her small breasts. Her question made me smile as she stood and swung around to place the pot behind her. She then swung back to me while slipping an order pad and pen from her apron. "Have you any fresh fruit," I asked, enjoying the way she held herself. It must have been the four inch heels with the rubber soles. She purposely adjusted her white blouse, which had almost every button undone, while leaning forward to place an elbow on the counter, coming closer this time. Her lips were a pair of plush pillows, painted dark red, glistening in the light filtering through the restaurant window, out from between poked the tip of a soft sweet tongue so pink, calling me. "Banana's ain't ripe, still too hard... for most," she began in a deeply toned bubblegum breath. "But not for you," I said in a way that spoke of temptation. She was without make-up and had tiny ears with tiny lobes sporting large gold hoop earrings that jiggled to the rest of her body with every move. She brought her face closer to mine shaking her bangs to the sides. "Oranges nice an' firm, a real mouthful, and sooooo juicy. And da melons are, mmmmmmm, perfect," she continued, emphasizing her words, leaning closer still. I had little taste for melons and thought for a moment, pulling my eyes up to hers, and smiling. "And the grapefruit," I asked, our lips now close, breaths melding. Oh, so it's tart ya want, hmmmm," she said, licking her lips. "Mmmmm, their almost as pink, an' perfect, an' juicy, as... well. Almost as juicy as me," she assured me while pulling her lips back from mine, taking my breath with hers in one gulp. Couple guys down the counter shouted her name and she yelled for them to keep their dicks in their pants, without looking away. "Since you're working I'll take the grapefruit, with a slice of rye toast, dry," I told her. She giggled, winked and stood to continue working. Seemed no matter what her male customers were doing they all kept one eye on her. And it was the same for the other waitresses as they shuffled about and around each other, looking at times like models in a Chicago nudie-nightie bar. The Organization had begun instituting strict dietary restrictions for all personnel. It began after the discovery our nations chemical companies began altering the American food supply with genetically modified organisms secretly, with the blessings of Congress, and promises of enough organic farmland to protect them and their families. According to our information, these companies plan to soon begin splicing genetically designed psycho-pathological agents onto their genetically modified organisms. These designer chemicals are expected to accelerate disorientation and the growing despair among citizens, those who've witnessed taxation of their wages turning them slowly into servants indentured for life to members of the Democrat and Republican Parties, traitors who thrive on bribes and sweetheart deals, and who've long deprived the common people of representation in Congress and the Right to Redress of Grievances, and who are orchestrating the devaluation of our currency for the good of multi-national corporations. To this day some historians wonder what happened to all the Nazi's after the Second World War, while other people know. The traitors inside the Democrat and Republican Parties are looking for reasons to suspend our Country's Constitution entirely, because it's the only set of laws constraining their individual and collective passions to reign without reserve. These traitors have been chipping away for years at our Constitution's persnickety requirement that adequate balances stay woven into the fabric of a Government by and for the People, not the few. The Organization is awaiting a sign from the Communist Party in Russia that their success in infiltrating the Democrat Party is complete, possibly by taking down the Berlin wall. Others believe these traitors are planning to go so far as to allow an attack on our homeland by foreign invaders, as an excuse to implement the precepts of Adolph Hitler. It's been confirmed families of executives working for these chemical companies are eating only organically farmed foods, and are forbidden to consume conventional produce unless it's GMO free. The important members of the FDA and USDA are doing the same, while ridiculing any mention of this conspiracy. Since then, all agents of the Organization have been ordered to consume certified organic foods whenever possible, and I sensed things would become stricter. I never was one for 'conspiracy theories' until I served in the military, and before I discovered almost all of the poor citizens serving jail time for so-called 'drugs' are doing so on conspiracy charges, not criminal charges. Another indication of how far from the People the Democrat and Republican Parties have stepped in their hidden war on American citizen. After enjoying the grapefruit, toast, coffee, and entertainment, I asked for my check. She finished up with the guy next to me, sending him on his way. As Cuddly came to me with my check, a short thin fellow took the Frenchman's place, and this kid was all eyes and mouth. "We get a lot of regulars here," she said holding the check for me to take. I went to pluck it from her fingers and she wouldn't let go. I pulled some and she pulled some. It was only after the guy next to me spoke that Cuddly released the check. "Cuddly," he murmured almost inaudibly. "Hey big guy, whatch ya gonna have today," she said turning to him as I left her a tip and went with my check to pay. I left the diner and went to my car, a 1965 Ford Mustang convertible, fitted with a five-speed manual transmission. It's matte black both inside and out, and devoid of all chrome. Holey Pi was waiting in the back seat, almost invisibly. The first thing I did was communicate with Grandmother of my progress. Even after three years with the Organization, I still found it strange to communicate through a computer imbedded deep in my body. I knew of no other agent who carried such a device. I was long accustomed to the bio-fiber-optic network connecting my wrist and hand to my brain, and I'd become adept at controlling all computer functions. From Grandmother I downloaded 'safe' locations and code names of agents in the area that I could trust in case of an emergency, and the location of where I'd be staying, the Organization's east coast facility. Otherwise, I was to remain independent and inform her when my task was completed. After the communiqué, Pi slipped into the front seat to suck on my cock while I drove around Philadelphia taking in the sights like a typical visitor. Though I'd been around the world this was my first assignment on the east coast. While taking time to survey the area around the church so I wouldn't be surprised, I had the sensation of being watched. Feelings are part of my nature, and they'd proven life saving more than a couple times, and had only failed me once. The Chief said Philadelphia wasn't difficult to navigate, provided one remembers that 'Broad Street' is actually 14th Street. It was curious finding one street named 13th, and one named 15th, and the street between them named 'Broad'. I drove around to acclimate myself until I finally found a place to park one block from Saint Nickademo's Church. It was only eleven, so I waited in my car until a black sedan with dark tinted windows drove by, confirming my suspicions. It was then I emptied my load into Pi, who swallowed it completely. She never loses so much as a drop, not one single drop. Pi climbed back into the back leather seat when I exited. I felt it wise to walk the distance to the church, taking a roundabout stroll. It was a pleasant day for February, and the streets were crowded with people from every walk of life. While walking I saw businessmen in suits, women with children in their arms and in strollers, shoppers, hawkers, and prostitutes. There were street punks, maybe gang members, drunks and even thugs with shifty eyes. There were plenty of kids screaming and running about, adding to the general din and flavor of the neighborhood. The streets were jammed with cars, those that had seen better days and shiny new luxury models, many double and triple-parked or fighting for parking spots. Busses chugged by, cabs swerved about looking for fares, and trolleys were stopped on their tracks by trucks unloading produce. Seemed like the typical Italian neighborhood I grew up in, replete with markets, delis and taverns. I still had thirty minutes, so I made for the nearest tavern. The Last Reflexive Ch. 05 By: Col. Brunhilda 'Iceberg' Buriman, ret. Sorority Sister of Pi Loda Cum Chapter Five: The Ride's Up to You I entered a crowded tavern within five minutes' walk of the Church and stepped up to the bar. The clientele was a sampling from the neighborhood. Here were shopkeepers on lunch, the elderly, some loudmouths, and the usual crowd I'm sure. One can tell by the way they interact with the bartender. Some were reserved, and even high brow, others anything but reserved, and very low brow. All the televisions in the tavern were tuned to today's horserace. No one seemed to notice me as I order a bonded-bourbon straight up. This was a real tavern. They even carried my brand, Old Grand-Dad. As you may expect I befriended one of the old bartenders and exchanged words with him in Italian. It seemed he took to me immediately, and I felt sure he mistook me for one of the syndicate boys. After a while, he told me that his name was Guiseppe and asked if I played the ponies. I told him that I did occasionally, but was tired of losing. He gave me a tip on today's third race with a wink, Mean Colleen. I smiled and thanked him. I told Guiseppe that I had business to take care of, but I'd return afterwards. I then asked him, in a quiet voice that let him know I was serious, if he could show me another way of leaving. After a generous tip, he showed me a back door that led into the alley. He was more then happy to aid with intrigue and told me to come back soon. I thanked him, saying I'd see him later. It was a short walk down the alley where I found a side door into the church. Upon entering, I was greeted with the scent of incense, and light streaming through a window shaped like a rose. It was an old church, built by artisans who took pride in painstakingly creating works of beauty. Such people are long gone and no longer appreciated by a people being driven into poverty and dependency by bureaucratic parasites who live on the sweat of others, burdening society with regulations and over taxation more onerous then those found in Russia. Beautiful statues and flickering candles encircled the giant cathedral. Since it was a Monday morning, the church was mostly empty. I walked to a pew with my head bowed in reverence, glancing around furtively. Having been an altar boy, I remembered only too well how to act, and genuflected before entering. I knelt and put my hands together as if in prayer. Before I could look up, the scent of Chanel preceded the figure that slid into the pew next to me. It was Harriette, with her blouse buttoned to the neck, appearing somewhat subdued, though not her voice. "Right on time, fly boy," she said softly. "So, I know you're no snake-lawyer, because God didn't fry your ass when you crossed the threshold." She clasped her hands together, glanced around and then back to me. "So, whaddaya want with me, and just what are you doing with my father's forty-five," Harriette asked in a demanding whisper. "Harriette, it's a story you deserve to hear. But it's a bit long and I don't want to disturb anyone, so..." I began in a hushed tone. I looked into her eyes and could see an uneasy calm. It was a story she didn't want to hear, but needed too. She'd waited a long time to hear the truth about her father's death and was probably living a nightmare over the lies told her by the State Department. And on top of that, I was about to ask for her help in aiding the Organization on a mission, just as her father had requested of me back in 1969. After a long interval she nodded to the left, in the direction of an almost hidden portal. "My lead. Left of the altar. There's a vestibule through that door," she said. We stood and I followed her into an empty room. It was very still until an elderly priest entered. He appeared unconcerned with my presence, and smiled at Harriette. "Ah, Harriette, my favorite daughter," he said in broken English. He was a giant Italian, a mountain of a man, with a rough face and thick gray hair. He looked like one tough character, an ex-boxer from the old school. He refused to turn the altar to face his congregation when Pope John XXIII and his Second Vatican Council did away with the mysteries of the Sacraments by having the altar turned to the congregation, turning masses into social gatherings for non-believers. "Father," Harriette responded with a smile. "What brings you here on a Monday? Ah, daughter, I remember, the 14th. I'm still so sorry. But perhaps you've been doing research into what I've told you. How, in 1911, the owners of large corporations, who also influenced all major newspapers, successfully bribed enough Democrats and Republicans to take away our right to fair representation in Congress by limiting their numbers, guaranteeing racist control for years to come, and too, curtailing our right to redress of grievances. I thought the Nazi's who invaded my home town were evil, but..." the priest started in his verbose way. "Father Costanzo," Harriette interrupted gently, making the sign of the cross and taking his hand. "Yes, Father, but it was preceded by an even more vile act, the Sixteenth Amendment to our Constitution. When in 1909 they declared themselves demi-gods, and we their money trough. It's a power no person or group of people should be allowed. But, I'm afraid I must bother you. I hope you don't mind if I use the parlor? I'll be happy to discuss vulgar politics later. This dude's gonna tell me about my father," Harriette said quietly. "Oh my, certainly, my dear, certainly, certainly. That's a bit more important then our discussing the dumbing down of an entire nation," he said leaning close to her. "Remember what I told you, the Apocalypse is a war to be fought in the collective unconscious battlefield of humanity, and you must be prepared psychologically, as the Lord teaches." "Thank you father, but my father" she said reverently. "Oh, yes, yes, dear." "I'll let you know what I find out," Harriette said, glancing at me. "Um, Padre, this is Dude." Father Costanzo looked at me with hand extended and I reached to shake it. Sure enough, I found his hand large and coarse, that of a working man, the kind of man you can trust, a man who only wants what he earns, and only what he needs. I grinned and he smiled warmly in return. "You seem to be someone supporting an enormous weight," he said as if reading my thoughts. "Father," I said carefully, our eyes meeting. "Dude," he reiterated with a nod, very quietly through pursed lips. "Harriette, please use the parlor on the second floor, it's more secluded and you're less likely to be interrupted." "Thanks, Padre. I'll be sure to leave an offering for the poor when we're finished," Harriette replied, reaching to give him a hug without disturbing our handshake. I remained mute as he continued to study me around Harriette's hug. He finally produced a small grin, loosened the grip on my hand, and turned to Harriette who had since loosed her grip on him. "I'll make certain you're not disturbed," he said making to leave. "I must go now. It's time to hear confessions. May the blessings of the Lord be with you. Both of you." "Again, thanks, Padre," Harriette murmured to the departing figure. When he was out of sight, she turned back to me, a question in her eyes. "Second floor, eh? Come on," she muttered. Once again, I trailed behind as she led the way up some steps, obviously familiar with the rectory. The room we entered on the second floor was rather large and comfortable. It had several chairs, a desk, refrigerator and a television. Someone had to have been watching the tube, as it was still on. We settled into chairs and looked at each other intently. "Okay. Happy Valentine's Day to you, too," Harriette finally began in a defensive salvo. "No roses, no candy, and no card. I don't know you from fukin', er, freaking Adam, but you have my father's gun. Who in the hell are you and what do you want my ass for," she finished bluntly. She glanced at the television, then back to me. I could hear a sportscaster droning on in the background. "This is the first race today. The horses are slowly parading onto the track..." the voice stated, introducing each as it came into view. "...And here comes Sarge, number fourteen, wearing green and yellow..." Harriette quickly inhaled, mumbled, and pulled out her cell phone. I sat there waiting for the right moment, content on allowing her time to settle down, and maybe ask. I wasn't here to assault her with truth, as she dodged and evaded me. "Seems you came some distance to talk with me Dude, but consider your flight delayed, okay? This'll only take a minute... Oh, by the way, nice set of wheels ya pilot." Harriette punched some numbers and soon spoke with someone she called Lil' Ant'ny. She wagered a considerable sum on Sarge, beginning to end the call with a trail of expletives. From the gist of her words and the odds posted on the television, I surmised that 'Sarge' was not her bookie's favorite. Regardless, Harriette insisted on placing the bet. "Mean Colleen, in the third," I offered before Harriette got off the phone. Harriette looked at me and must have liked what she heard because she placed another bet. "Ass clown," she muttered, snapping the phone closed. She then turned her attention to me. Sort of. "I've been waiting to watch this horse run. It'll only take a few for the race and then..." Harriette said, pulling her eyes from the screen to look at me for a second before continuing. "...And then we'll have our little chat, until the third race." She pulled out a cigarette and lit it, offering me one. "Smoke?" "No, thank you I don't enjoy tobacco," I answered, watching the excitement build. "That was a small wager you made." "What's it to you?" "Sorry... I..." "Want a beer," Harriette interrupted, exploding from her chair, the top button of her blouse popping open as she raced to the small refrigerator. "Damn, I need that one, too." She hunched down producing the button, and slipping it into her skirt pocket. "No thanks," I replied." "Good, all the more for me." She looked at me, then started back to her chair. "So, like to bet," she goaded, the sound of her church key popping the top. "No, but it's not hard to figure what you like about this horse," I countered. Harriette's eyes narrowed. "Got more than a gut feeling this time, I can tell ya that. It's a name with a double meaning today, ha, not that you'd know anything about that..." she trailed off. "...But hells bells! Call it intuition! How can I go wrong," she bellowed. She put the bottle to her lips and took a swig, along with another puff. "Just watch. He'll win, and then Lil' Ant'ny and the rest of those sons-of-bitches will think twice before laughing at me," she gloated confidently. I remained mute as Harriette prepared for the race. "Horses aren't my forte. I actually prefer and am far better betting on football. College and pro," she finished, glancing at me. With horses in their gates, ready and raring to go, Harriette hunched forward, to the edge of her seat. The laws of physics said she should have toppled from her perch, but she didn't. Like a coiled spring, its energy waiting to burst free, Harriette's body tensed to her focusing on the screen with intensity. She not only ignored her cigarette but also her beer, and me as well. I waited patiently, my mind on what I needed to tell this hyper-woman and how I would begin. I couldn't allow my feelings to interfere. I'd come too far and there was too much at stake. I only hoped I could impress upon her the seriousness of our situation, the fate of our society rested on it. Somehow, I knew she would. She was too much like the Sarge, her dad. The gun sounded and the race began. Harriette's pick was last out of the gate and I smiled to myself. 'Sarge' looked as if he'd a mind of his own and appeared to be giving his jockey a bit of trouble. By the first quarter mile things looked sad for Harriette, but that didn't last long. By the half mile, after a struggle between jockey and horse, they appeared to meld and become one. Then, coming down the stretch they finally cut loose and Sarge moved quickly to challenge the lead. In a finish that kept me riveted, the two horses galloped to the wire, Sarge crossing the line first, winning by a nose. As it was, Harriette didn't look to be the thirty-some years of age her file indicated. And she appeared even younger when she jumped up to skip around the room like a five-year-old. Seemed quite natural for some reason. With eyes aglow and face flushed with both victory and joy, she suddenly remembered me and stood in front of my chair, each of her arms on those of my chair. She looked at me and growled. "Who were you to my Dad?" The Last Reflexive Ch. 06 By: Col. Brunhilda 'Iceberg' Buriman, ret. Sorority Sister of Pi Loda Cum Chapter Six: Death Hue Harriette removed her arms from my chair, standing to flick the set off, suddenly concerned with me. I suggested she settle back into a chair before I began, but she needed to pace, because it helped her think. I suggested she not think too deeply and simply listen to my story, the truth about her father. After a wordless confrontation with herself, she finally acquiesced and positioned herself in the chair across from mine. I looked deep into her eyes and she returned a gaze of determination. At first her green eyes sparred with my blue ones, goading me to battle, but after a bit, they quieted. She didn't seem to doubt my sincerity, and I guessed the forty-five had something to do with that. "I want you to know I admired your father," I began, and then stopped to start again, because I hadn't gotten it right. The truth was going to come to her in words she's yearned, needed to hear, and yet didn't wish for. I thought for a moment and began again. "Actually, I loved your father, and along with every soldier under his command idolized him as a soldier and insatiable libertine. There was no greater honor for a soldier than to be a DOG and live in the compound known simply as THE POUND. Sort of a cliché I know, but that's the military. It was located far outside the perimeter of U.S. Marine headquarters, Da Nang, between HQ and Hue. Far away from humanity. The only true oddity was the fact the POUND was cared for by maids," I said, with a wry smile, myself still awed by the way that man arranged things so effortlessly. Harriette looked at me with a twisted lip. "Surprised? Your dad found maids added a nice touch to the compound, and kept the men relaxed yet wound up, and if maids were good enough for the air force bases in Japan, they were good enough for him and his men." "Trust Sarge to find a sliver of paradise, Shangri-La, in the middle of a war," Harriette murmured with a shrug of her shoulders, gulp of beer, and long drag. "Yes, amazing. Even to this day I'm amazed at what he'd built out of that jungle hide-away. Our unwritten law was, if you have time to war, you have time to fuck. It was that simple." "I remember that saying from somewhere..." "Your father's command was never more then one hundred one strong, and due to the nature of our encounters, often numbered less. We were technically part of the 1st Calvary Division, ferried on demand by the 7th Calvary, but outside of everyone's jurisdiction. Our unit was classified, Top Secret." As I spoke Harriette listened with a growing intent, which made my words come easier. For some reason, maybe an unconscious need, I'd begun with her dad's home away from home. "The POUND was brutally Spartan, and the maids were expected to make it more uncomfortable when possible, rather then feminine. They would place stones under our beds, and sometimes snakes, and they'd take the beer out of the fridge when we were on maneuvers so we returned to really warm brews, and they always made sexual encounters a challenge. In fact, one day those little sirens watered down your dad's bourbon." Harriete's mouth dropped open to that, so I looked at her and smiled wickedly, with a shake of my head. "Someone got a spanking that evening!" Then Harriette smiled, almost giggled while shaking her head in understanding. "So you see, a man had to really want to be there!" I could tell she understood what I meant when a real smile shimmered across her lips, for a moment. "If you succeeded and made it into the unit, you not only wanted to be there, you'd earned the right." Harriette sat riveted to my story, and I could tell she was engrossed, mulling my every word. "Our unit took orders from a General George Sequoia Smith, whom I've subsequently learned never existed, technically. It turns out all our upper-echelon were known as Smith. The General reported directly to both the President of the United States, when appropriate, certain members of Congress, and the Organization," I said. At that, Harriette gave me a funny look. "Yes, Harriette, believe it or not, there are several members of Congress not driven by greed nor a need for power, and who are working to restore the Constitutional balances in the face of the Democrat and Republican siege." "The Organization," Harriette muttered in sudden wonder. "I'll get back to that," I told her, wanting to continue with this part first. "Whenever security issues dictated, colonels delivered our orders in person. It didn't happen often, because all communication was via satellite, and secure, but it happened that one fateful day." "It was 0100 hours, Friday the 14th, 1968. We were meeting with a Colonel Smith, whom I had the opportunity of entertaining as his documents were checked. He said his name was Sadu Subara Smith. I commented about the odd name and asked its nationality, but he just smiled and I thought sure he said, 'coming soon'. Two years later I was shown evidence suggesting his name was Saduj Subarab and he didn't really exist. Rather, I should say he doesn't exist and never has, as far as the army's concerned. But investigators from the Organization found the name Saduj Subarab scribbled on bits of carbonized paper. The small charred scraps were left behind in an office used by this non-existent colonel. But anyway, I'm getting ahead of myself." I stopped for a moment and caught my breath. I looked down and then back to Harriette, and returned to a story only I knew. I was destined to close a painful chapter in her life. It was not something I'd looked forward to, nor felt comfortable with, but I'd been given orders and a mission to complete. I saw no way around this, so I exhaled and continued. "Our outfit was ready for a break, and the orders were for two days of R&R at a regular brothel on the outskirts of Saigon. That morning everything looked like a go, by the book and totally legit. Every required and mandated coded exchange took place, and papers thoroughly examined. There's no way those orders didn't originate from the top. I can never forgive myself for being fooled by this guy, and having been horny is no excuse. I'll never forget his face. Sure your dad and the others were also duped, being they were always ready to fuck anything that moved, but since I survived I'm left to ponder my failure. I will dwell on that until I die, agonizing over why I'd become so damn horny I overlooked something..." I stopped the moment I'd realized where I'd gone. "Sorry again, Harriette," I acknowledged. Tears formed in the corners of her eyes which she blinked and wiped away, to another swig. "We landed 0136 hours, in an open field, less than one hundred yards from the roadhouse, from which we could hear music. The Doors were playing, their music wafting by under the whirring blades. We came in on five helicopters and proceeded to the shelter quickly, but carefully, unable to let our guard down completely, even with the blessing of upstairs. The copters took off and Morrison got louder. We came in leading with our hard-ons, and were confronted by enough pussy to feed an army. I saw naked women with open arms, legs, and mouths everywhere, in every corner, every nook, and even hanging from the ceilings, flying on make-shift swings. We prided ourselves in knowing where the enemy and pussies were before they became aware of us. The fastest DOGs buried themselves balls-deep immediately without discarding a bit of clothing, or surrendering their piece, neither of which we do when in the throes of passion, whether nasty or deadly." Everything was going well, many of us lost to delicious sexual abandon, lost to the most delicious styles of voluptuous debauchery ever witnessed, that continued without end. The entire place soon became a steam bath of sexual aerosol, with the wooden floors made slippery from over-filed, over-flowing pussies. Our goal was to penetrate and ransack every orifice, and everything continued to go favorably, the steaming jungle becoming cooler than the brothel." "The men were reaching their targets when explosions ripped through the structure. The shelling came in a swirling storm, covering all other sounds. The attack came out of tunnels suddenly, without warning, and lasted ten minutes. Harriette, we'd been destroyed, assassinated, by an elite group of Viet Cong guerrillas. Your dad and his lady had taken the brunt of an exploding grenade which landed between their legs. Shrapnel tore through their bodies in so many places they were unrecognizable." Harriette shook her head and wiped an eye. "He always said he'd die making love or not die at all," she whispered, through a sniffle. "You realize your father was also our father, my father," I asked, without waiting for an answer. "He was the only father I'd ever had, and I'll tell you what he did for a living." I hesitated and looked away for a moment. I heard Harriette shift in her chair, and sensed the interest. "I swear your dad was as impervious to pain as he was full of sperm. Some men are full of shit, but not your dad. He was full of sperm, enough to choke a horse," I continued, while reaching under my coat to retrieve and hand Harriette the butt-end of the weapon. Without a sound Harriette took the weapon and clasped it between her legs, forcing the material of her short skirt in with it. Then she squeezed the handle until its quiet buzzing filled the room. Without thinking she pressed her father's forty-five deeper, till it danced against her clit, and closed her eyes. Through a shrouded gaze her fluttering green eyes betrayed much of what she was feeling and thinking. I stood to leave Harriette alone with the weight I'd left in her lap, hoping vibrations of truth helped. She looked at me, through heavy lids, smiling most strangely. "Harriette, I'll leave you for now. I'll be staying at the Four Seasons Hotel. Suite 1369. Phone me as soon as you can. We have much to discuss." She nodded, then tilted her head back and gazed at the ceiling, legs trembling. "Oh myyyyyyyyyy," she managed to whisper as I turned to leave. Alone with her old friend, she looked down into her lap and noticed it, the saying engraved in tiny letters along the barrel of the forty-five: If you have time to war, you have time to fuck. The Last Reflexive Ch. 07 By: Col. Brunhilda 'Iceberg' Buriman, ret. Sorority Sister of Pi Loda Cum Chapter Seven: Question Me Harriette sat with head tilted back, gun pressed between her legs, tickling her clit in a most luscious way, behind the door Dude closed softly in departing. She sat staring at patterns painted on the ceiling and her mind, yet saw and thought nothing. All noises evaporated under humming vibrations. Ever strong, she now fought the weakness to surrender, to images of her father's gruesome death swirling round with the continuous drone. Some thoughts appeared suddenly, quite rationally, steeped in cold reason, while others built slowly, emotionally, bordering on hysteria brewed in, hatred? Hatred of what? Her father's killer? At herself, for not being there? What madness, what insanity. What of Dude? Unable to free her organ from the vibrant embrace of the gun, her clitoris warred with her mind, drawing close to ecstasy while her mind tried reworking itself through confusion. Her poor swollen clit raced to release pent up frustration, while thoughts raced to penetrate a wall of questions. It has to be true, right? Why would a stranger with my Sarge's gun lie to me, yeah right! And today on his anniversary, the very day my father, my Dad, my best friend, died. This has to be wrong. Somebody has to be setting me up to fail at something... but whom? And what? What am I thinking! Yet, this guy really seems to know my Sergeant; his mannerisms... his infamous temper. Dude saw the look in his eyes when he smiled? Dad told me he didn't smile around his men and certainly never on a mission, because it made him appear human and fallible. He told me he saved all his smiles for me. Thoughts raced through Harriette's mind faster than the buzzing handle vibrated, and she could barely deal with them, even when on the verge of an orgasm. She tried stacking her thoughts up, while her clit screamed for attention. She tried making them coherent, while her clit pushed her to emotional instability. But as with any house of cards, both thought and orgasm kept tumbling, falling short of the tape. When it came to Dude, was there a thread to pick at, one as bloated and ripe as her clit? She pondered on, completely out of control, which she never liked. This makes no sense, she thought while squeezing her thighs together involuntarily. Would the Government really lie to Aunt Anne? Can't figure that one out... The vibrations finally stopped her thinking, but for a moment. Who the hell is this Dude anyway? Why does he want my help? What in the hell is he talking about and me thinking, when I should be floating around in a cloud right now? Harriette shook her head, squeezed her thighs tighter, and wiped her eyes. She braced herself mentally, and started the handle digging in. Why does he have my Sergeant's wonderful forty-five? And suddenly it came upon her like water from a dam just burst. "Oh God, please listen to me," she pleaded closing her eyes to a whopping orgasm that lasted almost fifteen minutes, after which she pulled the gun from her little princess, turned it off, and placed it aside, with a giant sound of relief. "Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhoooo." Thoughts soon reemerged. Who can help me with this? Padre! "God," she whispered between thoughts, "thank you for him." ...He's always been there for me, even when... Wait, stop! Enough to think about already... Find Padre and talk with him. For sure he'll be able to help me sort the facts from the fiction shit... er, crap. Sorry, God, didn't mean to cuss in Your house. Her silent pleas were interrupted by sounds of footsteps in the hallway and being upset she jumped on them. Boy, somebody's ass is grass. Padre's translation of 'undisturbed', means 'off limits'. And that means even to the fu-, er, I mean, freaking Pope!! Somebody's gonna get a raft of shi-, er, crap later, Harriette caught herself and stopped to catch her breath. She mused with a sniffle, then blinked and wiped tears away, drawing many back into their ducts. Harriette sat up, collected herself, and puffed on what was left of her cigarette, with a little sigh. Her clit had subsided by now and already getting worked up again. God... I mean, now I gotta put my cock-hungry organ outta my mind and think, now that I have a plan, and someone I know and trust to help me sift through this shi-, um, mess. With pussy under control and filled with renewed confidence, Harriette stabbed the butt out, picked up the forty-five by its trigger guard and catapulted from her chair in search of Father Costanzo. She whipped open the door, darted from the room and jumped down steps in search of a man who could help. She raced through the rectory and finally found him in the vestibule, slipping from his vestments. "Padre," she implored a little out of breath. "Harriette," Father Costanzo said with a start, noticing the gun. He could see Harriette's confusion and concern, and the faint wet spot on her tights to her boots. "Ahem, what's the matter dear child? You're flushed and you've been crying, and you're very wet, or so it appears," the aged priest intoned, not having seen her cry in years, much less appear as if she's just peed in her pants. "Please, I need your help, Father. Are confessions finished?" "Never, and I can see you do need something in the way of help. Ummmmm, I may suggest," he stated leaning close to speak in a whisper. "...Ummmm, adult diapers," he finished as a question, but in his knowing way. Harriette looked down at herself and saw what he meant, surprised at how wet she'd gotten her tights. She squirmed to sticky discomfort. "Um, please, Father? It's not what you think," she shot back with an embarrassed look. It was so unlike Harriette, the priest picked up on it immediately. "Ohhh," said the old priest, "now I know why you couldn't see yourself a nun," he finished with a chuckle. Father Costanzo narrowed his gaze. "Take your usual confessional, Harriette," he said, handing her a small towel and a small spray bottle. Harriette looked at them quizzically. "The towel's for you to kneel on, I don't want you, ahem, getting the kneeler wet." Harriette looked at the bottle. "And that's to spray in the confessional just before you leave. Otherwise I'm afraid old Mrs. Clamsnapper, the woman who cleans, may pick up on the scent, and then," he stopped to roll his eyes, "she'll be all over me, tempting me to commit sin, and if I'm hiding she'll rape the gardener sure as poop." He once again donned garments and together they stepped to the small quiet room, where Harriette could plant seeds meant to answer her questions, the priest always had time for his favorite daughter. Harriette had a particular confessional booth when she wanted a special sense of serenity. Once settled in, kneeling on the towel, and the priest came into view, Harriette commenced with her troubling story, in a quiet torrent of emotional upheaval no longer hampered by the vibrating forty-five. She spoke of her feelings and her soul's torment. She asked forgiveness for ignorance and doubt. She used her religion in the old world way, as a symbolic psychology, a therapy against insanity and hell. She used the priest as he was meant to be used, as if not there, and in reality he wasn't, her unconscious was a tribunal of six wise men who came to her in dreams, and here at confession, and here laid all the answers to all the questions possible for humans to ask. An hour later, once she'd exhausted herself, Father Costanzo told her to recite a rather long intensive set of prayers as penance, meant to help her re-orient, and that was what she wanted, and how her religion worked, for her. Afterwards she was to meet Father Costanzo in the vestibule. Harriette was left in a garden of potential filled with weeds and red herrings, awaiting the application of intellect and reason. After spraying the confessional, and sticking the towel in her crotch, she did penance and sought the priest out, but found the vestibule empty. Chubby sister Catherine entered gnawing on a chocolate candy bar. She was bubbly as ever and smiled, a chocolate mustache on face. "Father Costanzo is waiting for you in his office," she offered gently. She seemed happier than usual, almost angelic, but when she noticed the gun in Harriette's hand, and wetness of her tights, a hand went to her mouth and her eyes opened wide, while she yet feigned innocence. "Oh." "Yo, Sister! What you still doin' here? Mass and confessions are long over," Harriette asked noticing the way she stared at the gun and her legs. "Paaa-lease, sister. The chocolate round your mouth looks way more weird then my carrying a gun and, um, other things," she said smiling. The blushing nun used her sleeve to wipe her mouth and then went on to answer Harriette. "Well, it's our ecumenical service and I'm so excited! But not in the same way you are, obviously. Today's Valentine's Day, the celebration of love and we're host Church this year," sister said with a giggle, once more glancing at Harriette's tights. "The sisters and I are helping out all we can," Sister Catherine said. She was very animated and Harriette was happy for her. "But enough of that, you go on now and don't keep a good man waiting," the nun chuckled. Suddenly and without warning the plump little nun let out a horrendously long deep well-intentioned fart that echoed and reverberated throughout the halls of the church, to which she looked quite satisfied. Harriette gave the nun a high-five and big grin. "I've always said you could stand-in for the church bell on Sunday's once you overcome your fear of heights," Harriette said, turning to bound up the deep stairs two at a time, the squishing of her thighs an uncomfortable but merry tune. The office door was open, but Harriette knocked anyway. "Padre, ya here," she quizzed. The Last Reflexive Ch. 08 By: Col. Brunhilda 'Iceberg' Buriman, ret. Sorority Sister of Pi Loda Cum Chapter Eight: Faithinwhat "As promised, Harriette," Father Costanzo replied, stepping out from behind a curtain with what appeared to be a small leather billfold tucked under one arm. He was wiping his hands with a wet rag, attempting to free his hands of what looked like chocolate. "Please do come in, and shut the door. Don't want any more pests bothering us, if you know what I mean," he said with a wink, smiling once again at her appearance. Harriette shut the door as the priest opened the door of a small refrigerator. "Beer? From the monastery," he asked reaching for one. He looked over his shoulder at her. "Most certainly! But maybe we should split one, ha, ha," Harriette joked, placing the forty-five on the table." "A sturdy Irish lass needs a good stout beer once in a while!" "Okay, I'm ready for one of those bad boys," Harriette said, taking a deep breath. She stood pressing her thighs together, awaiting for an order, embarrassed as never before, amazed at how wet she'd gotten from a single orgasm, and how she now wished she'd worn panties and tights with a crotch. Harriette grabbed a piece of cloth from a nearby table and jammed the material up between her legs, pressing it to her pussy quickly, before the Father's gaze returned. "Pests..." Father Costanzo said quietly. Harriette knew the 'pests' he referred to, gossips with ears everywhere. But more importantly, the pest he was most concerned with was the Beast. He's often warned her she'd soon find the electronic eyes and ears of the Beast going up everywhere. The Beast will arrive as a psychological savior state, there to fill a void caused by collective one-sidedness, barbarism. Soon entire cities will be turned into giant prison courtyards, complete with electronic watchtowers, in the name of security. Eventually freedom to speak, and even think will be challenged by the very persons forbidden by the highest law of the land to make the challenge, in the name of national security. Father Costanzo handed Harriette a beer, then placed a towel on the seat of the chair for her to sit upon. He then seated himself in a chair whose back was to the door, Harriette put the bottle to her lips and picking her head up and back, chugged almost the entire contents. "Ahhhhhhhhh, a mighty fine brew," she said after swallowing. Then she released one long loud belch she made to sound like Father Costanzo's name. The Father was disgusted but happy sister Catherine wasn't here to join Harriette, as they sometimes got together on Sunday mornings and ruined a mass. Together they can empty a theater. "Harriette, sit, sit! Don't get your panties in a knot. This day seems to have been a rather wet and wild one for you, in more ways than one, but I've some difficult issues to confront you with." Harriette wished she had worn panties, and wondered how difficult sucking the juices from her tights would be for Sven. She hated sending anything to the cleaner's dirty. "Think I'll just stand Padre, thanks," Harriette replied gulping down the rest of her beer, once again belching out the Father's name. "Damn, I'm getting good at that," she said smugly, with a shake of her head, while lighting a cigarette. She was still having some difficulty adapting to the sticky tights which now clung to her in a rather uncomfortable way. It felt as if she'd coated her thighs with Elmer's glue and it was slowly drying. She sought relief by spreading her legs a bit wider, yet not wide enough to release the cloth. "Think better on my feet," she went on, her discomfort evident to Father Costanzo. "Standing keeps the mind working, you know." she said, wishing Sven was with her now, he was superb at sucking juices out of her clothing before they dried, and he so enjoyed doing so. She debated whether or not to excuse herself in order to slip out of her damp tights, but didn't think it would do much good, and besides, Sven preferred cleaning them while she wore them. "As you wish, daughter, as you wish," Father Costanzo finally said, smiling at her discomfort. "But no more beer for you," he said, sweeping her wetness aside. Then he got down to brass tacks. "I want to start by letting you know your father... mmmm. Was a secret agent." "He wha- ," she choked, almost allowing the cloths to slip from between her thighs. She pushed the stickiness from her mind. "I'm serious. And here's something else. That man, Dude, the one you just met with, whatever he told you is truth. Believe him." Harriette opened her mouth to speak, letting the cloths fall from between her legs, landing on the floor. Harriette bent to pick it up, and Father Costanzo paid it no mind, except to smile knowingly. She placed the fabric in her pocket to bring Sven; he so loved little treats. "Say nothing yet," Father Costanzo blurted. "Just listen. We'll have question and answer period later. There's much you need to hear. This may sound strange, but..." he began, handing her the small pouch he'd been holding tucking under his arm. "...Take this... ah, thing, and put it in your pocket. When you have time, try and figure out what it is." Harriette stared at the item for a while, turning it before her eyes before slipping it into the pocket of her jacket, a quizzical look on her face. The priest continued. "Here's the story that goes with it, as it was told to me. See what you think of it. First, you must find a painting of the rose window, an exact rendition of the one found engraved on the corner of the, uh, folio I gave you. There you should find a scrap of papyrus pressed to the canvas and painted over. Inscribed on that scrap is the location of a key, the key needed to open that folio I've just given you." Harriette patted her pocket. "In there," he said pointing to where Harriette had placed the folder, "is the recorded location of The Ark." Harriette looked at him and cocked her head in disbelief. "Dad, a secret agent? Like in the movies?" "Yes, but not like in the movies, of course." "An ark, the Ark?" "Yes, daughter. The Ark." "Uh, look, Padre..." "Harriette, for Christ's sake! Lines are being drawn in the collective human psyche! And with people unable to recognize evil, the more dangerous the collective unconscious becomes, the more prone to mass hysteria and psychosis the people become. From the collective unconscious will emerge the mother of all psychosis, and its psychological manifestation will be that of the Beast, with all its eyes and ears already in place among the unsuspecting masses." "Father," Harriette replied with a questioned look, not meaning to offend a man she dearly loved. She reached for his hand. "That's okay, dear, it's just that, it's getting late..." He smiled at her with growing excitement. "It's getting what?" "Out there, out there," he said waving as if to a crowd. "The psychologies of intolerance permeating society today are making the minds of the people go numb, to surrender consciousness for stupor. Between over-taxation, and regulation, our children dumbed down in our schools, entire families addicted to pharmaceuticals, television, sports, and all sorts of new opiates, guaranteed to keep people numb, their minds off the essential principles. Those very ideas that make a nation truly great, like individual Rights and Liberties, and acceptance of difference, of opposites. These are the cornerstones of a well-balanced and prosperous people, one culturally sound in both its history and future. When the Nazi's occupied our village in Italy, those were the first things they destroyed and corrupted, just like certain members of the Democrat and Republican Parties are doing today, and today's citizens are just as ignorant as we were then. In the old days the Nazi occupation stationed armed soldiers at every corner watching everything we did. They would stop us on the street at will and without reason, and often enter our homes like bands of mad wolves, wrecking and destroying property, searching through our personal belongings for no legitimate reason, degrading and humiliating innocent people, fishing for some reason to arrest and execute some poor soul, sometimes simply because the person had something in their possession a Nazi wished to confiscate. Today they use the growing war on drugs, and other lies as an excuse. And as a truly great monster once said: the efficiency of a truly national leader consists primarily in preventing the division of the attention of the people, and always concentrating it on a single enemy. So they gave us blacks, then Mexicans, Puerto Ricans, witches, and now drug users. The intolerant never run out of victims, though I wish they'd run out of followers." The priest became sullen whenever he thought of his home town, and how the monster that destroyed it was now coming for him, to lead the Democrat and Republican Parties into darkness, but he went on. "I won't re-tell the old story of the first school day, when the state challenged the church in front of the children with producing an apple for each child. You've heard it before. At one time it was told to the children in our schools, lest they forget, but it was discarded along with the Pledge of Allegiance, and forget these things they have. Our acceptance of intolerance demonstrates how easy it is for a child of errant parents to be taken-in by a bit of glimmer without realizing its deadly snag, until too late." "In my town they turned our school into an indoctrination center, run by loud mouthed, mean-spirited school marms, quick tempered and quick with the cane. Sturdy Aryan women with long black hair kept piled atop their heads in a stern coif, their bright blue eyes glowing against the tight fitting well-starched grey blouses they kept buttoned to the collar, with matching skirts. Armed soldiers stood in the halls and rooms, watching over every child, intimidating them, denying them every shred of decency, or privacy, preparing them for Hitler's New World Order, of being watched always, living in fear of saying anything wrong, for our own safety of course. As children we were told to obey the state and not our parents. We were instructed to tell a teacher whenever a parent disciplined us, or threatened to punish us. We were taught our parents were no longer permitted to discipline, and such parents were taken to areas for re-programming, for the good of the state." "School discipline was swift and severe, and at first it was not unusual to see a fellow student pinned to the ground with a couple armed monsters kneeling on her neck after something important, like a wad of chewing gum, or note from a fellow student. Heavily armed goon squads would raid the school occasionally, to frighten and intimidate students, preparing them for their future, and I'm sure you will see that tactic re-emerge in this Country soon. The sight tapered off as the children learned to stay obedient and stop thinking for themselves. Ordinary childhood behavior became criminal, a danger to the state, or more to the point, a danger to the validity of the male principle then over-running Europe, as manifested through the far reaching influence of its human personification, Adolph Hitler. Make no mistake, Mother Russia was accomplishing the same thing. She is very much a nanny state which promises its citizens everything, provides little, and takes most." "Father, I think I'm beginning to see what you mean. I notice cameras going up everywhere. And I heard certain members of Washington already spy on the citizens, collecting data to use later, after they successfully get the Constitution suspended. Is this what you mean?" "Soon our people will find themselves under twenty-four hour surveillance, their conversations no longer secure, their correspondence no longer safe, and they will be lulled into another false sense of security, another generation lost in a stupor of TV programs praising the concepts of a police state. And it's time you learned the truth. About everything," the priest said with a belch of his own. Together they laughed. The Last Reflexive Ch. 09 By: Col. Brunhilda 'Iceberg' Buriman, ret. Sorority Sister of Pi Loda Cum Chapter Nine: Wha' da' f*@k?! The words of the priest caused Harriette to think, and provoked a torrent of concern. She was stunned by what she'd learned on top of one damn good orgasm from her now-favorite vibrator. She squeezed back tears and resentment, along with her thighs, and let go of Father Costanzo's hand to begin pacing once more, until stopped. Harriette looked around and out onto the city, seeking that which the priest saw, but quickly returned to face him. She nodded her head and listened, still hinged to some disbelief. She felt like a little girl being let in on a family's darkest secret, a secret so terrible, others died upon learning of it. "You know George Martinelli," Father Costanzo asked rhetorically, and Harriette grimaced. Everyone knew the 'alleged' underworld figure, the guy who purported to have the largest cock this side of the Pacific. She'd wanted to fuck, nail and jail that macho-Mafiosi for years, but he had the best lawyers in the City, and entire East Coast. He also preferred bimbos, the dumber the better. "Jesus! George Martinelli, Padre," she repeated incredulously. Her tears evaporated to heat produced by the name, and by her imagination. "Georgie the Boa? Georgie Big Balls? That same Martinelli?" She murmured under her breath. She caught herself and calmed down with a sigh and gritted teeth. "Of course, but..." The door erupted without warning, sending wood splinters spraying everywhere as four armed gunmen dressed as clerics burst in. "What the fu-" Harriette started, whipping her .357 from its holster without thinking. Between several bullets sent her way in a spray she dodged, she drew her magnum and fired off a round, catching one shooter between the eyes, sending his brains in a spume onto the wall behind him, in an abstract design not unlike that produced by Jackson Pollack. Before she could squeeze off another round at the assailant now in her sight, her shoulder exploded to a bullet ripping through it. The blast threw her off balance and back, her head careening off a table's edge. While spiraling into unconsciousness she yet heard voices. "Got him, and, wow... will you look at her," the owner of the voice yelled out, stopping to stare at Harriette. Then he shouted to the others. "She looks just like..." Harriette heard him yell, and then, all went black. "That's not what you're here for! Keep your focus on the mission," another voice boomed, cutting off the first. When Harriette regained consciousness, things were quiet, too quiet, and her shoulder was afire. She looked down to find her jacket red with blood and shook her head in disappointment. "Damn, is Sven gonna be mad," she said, jaw clenched from pain. Her hand found the table and she struggled to stand. "All alone once again," she growled to herself while looking around. "What the fuk happened here," she railed, seeing the office ransacked, things strewn everywhere. Harriette could hear sirens nearing, a lot of sirens coming her way. Harriette picked the phone up from the floor to dial the Chief but dropped it, figuring he was on his way by now. She picked up and holstered her weapon, but couldn't see the forty-five. She shook cobwebs from her head and then something more important came to her. Where's Padre? "Faaaaaaa-theeeer," she bellowed, while staggering through the splintered doorway to look around. Finding no one on the second floor left her with an uneasy feeling. The voices she'd heard earlier were still in her mind. With the banister's help Harriette slid down the steps to the first floor, and was met by Sister Catherine's lifeless form. For a long moment she stood there in a shock that soon turned to rage. Her legs gave out as she fell to her knees beside the nun, to feel for a pulse, for a sign of life, and found none. The poor girl's skin was cooling to the touch, her mouth, from nose to chin coated in chocolate and blood. Harriette did all she could to hold her temper, to bite her tongue. "You mother fukers," she barked huskily. Her eyes darting up and about, looking for the priest. "Father," she whispered expecting the worst. She struggled to her feet and ran toward the vestibule. "You sons of bitching bastards," she cursed the unknown assailants roundly. "Each and every one of you," she snarled like a savage seeking escape from within, dreading what she may next discover. Harriette heard the shrill of sirens drawing close, but paid little attention. Where in the hell is Padre, she wondered in thoughts frantic as her searching. She ran into the apse and yelled for him, but there was no response. She saw people milling around the entrance, afraid to enter, driven by curiosity. Harriette shouted and waved them away. Then she remembered; the rose window! Harriette staggered up the steps, tripping along the choir loft and into the bell area and there stopped in front of where the rose window was, where it should be, and stared through a gaping hole. Here was another shattered dream? Suddenly the insightful hand of intuition upon her shoulder bade her turn, and there he was, in an even more mind-numbing scene then of Sister. It was her beloved Padre. He was hanging upside down from one of the bell ropes, hands bound behind him and a bullet through the base of his skull. It was obvious he'd been tortured before he was killed. Harriette's eyes traveled the crimson flow of blood to the floor below, and fell to her knees before yet another lifeless form. She looked up at a testament to his words. The tears that erupted were those from a ruptured dam she could no longer hold back, tears she had little desire to stop, or mask. "No, fukin' no, no, no, no," she wailed. "FFFFUUUUUUUKKKKKK Noooooooooooooo!" Harriette felt the hand on her shoulder and made to go for her gun, but a hand on her arm stopped her. "Harriette, it's me, Dude. Take it easy, you've been shot," Dude said in a low commanding voice. Harriette blinked her eyes clean and slowly peered through her lashes, as Dude tried checking the wound, which Harriette shrugged off. Another nightmare, another chapter begun in the book about her gruesome life, written in warm blood and cold death, and lots of raw sex too. She refused to give up, saw no reason to. And backing down was out of the question, though she's going to start wearing panties around Dude. She swore silently to find the guilty and make them pay. She looked to Dude who didn't seem interested in how high her skirt had ridden up her thighs, exposing her pussy to him. She simply sneered when he went for her wound again. "Good eye, Dude, telling me I been shot. A regular master of the obvious," she muttered, shrugging him off again. Dude let out with a 'tsk' and leaned back. "Harriette! An ambulance is on the way. Tell me what happened," he asked, again reaching to aid the wound. "Fuck OFF," she hollered, pushing him away. "Harriette," Dude said, dropping down beside her. He looked at the Padre, whose life's blood still dripped from fresh wounds. He wanted to put his arm around Harriette, but somehow couldn't, shouldn't, wouldn't dare. A person like Harriette would never accept comfort from a stranger. "Get the hell away from me. This all began when you showed up," she said through gritted teeth, pressing her thighs together and scooting up a bit so her skirt slid lower, covering her little princess. Emotional turmoil roiled her ability to reason, slowing her thinking process. She knew it was all hogwash, the cause and effect crap. She'd been in this business too many years, and without Dude's help she may never find the assailants. "Harriette, tell me what happened? It's important," Dude tried again in a more authoritative voice, their eyes meeting. The skirmish was short and swift, Dude's voice and the growing pain taking Harriette back to childhood. Harriette recognized the tone in Dude's voice, it was that of the Sergeant. She figured Dude wasn't really a bad guy, just someone who'd brought her grief, grief she didn't want, but somehow needed? She considered what Padre told her, relenting to the bizarre tale he'd begun. She steadied herself, took a deep breath and began recounting the experience in bits and pieces of what she remembered. Dude came up with a cloth that he folded into a wad and pressed against the wound to slow the bleeding. When Harriette finished going over what had happened, she seemed to see Dude in a new light. She needed time, but saw the same urgency in Dude's eyes as she'd seen in the Padre's just before he was murdered. "Harriette! Have any idea of what it was these people wanted, or were after? Except for the window," Dude asked, looking over to the hole. "NO! I don't, damn it," she stated angrily. "I'd hoped the priest told you," Dude said. "Well he didn't. But your name came up, and you'd better, or..." "Okay, I'll level with you. But let's get that wound tended to. Everything will be okay, Harriette," he said. "Hey, tell that to my Padre," she sneered as she nodded her head toward the corpse. Rage overcame her again, and she lashed out at all the pain. "You got all the answers, eh, Dude? Right? Leave me the hell alone. I'm tired and need my pussieboys. Maybe I'll wake up from this nightmare to find Litle slaving away between my legs, and Sven serving me his famous liver and wild mushroom pate on crackers, and I'll be gulping down strong German beer..." Harriette was close to passing out and a bit delirious, pale from shock. She'd been dealt a double blow, both physically and mentally. Finding real friends like Sister Catherine and Father Costanzo brutally slaughtered could push even the strongest to the edge. Dude needed to rein her in swiftly in order to accomplish his mission. He had to continue chipping away at Harriette's hardened exterior. He had to make Harriette understand that it was important she hide before the hit squads made it this far East. The Organization needed her, and so did he. Everything was arranged, their mission of course had your average comic book adventure story goal: save the world. Dude spoke gently as he took her hand in his. He looked into her eyes and saw the pain. "Harriette, stay with me. The Chief is here," he said to encourage. She shook her head and closed her eyes, but they shot open when she heard her name bellowed by the Chief. "Harriette! Dude, how is she," puffed the Chief as he came rushing toward them, remnants of a chili dog on his chin, and stains on his trousers from what his sloppy under-desk secretary couldn't hold in her mouth. Another detective ran up to stand beside Harriette as Dude stood to face the Chief. Harriette shook her head at his silver shark-skin suit and blue suede shoes, with matching velvet tie. If anything could take her mind off pain it was this bigger pain, Boyle. "She'll survive, Chief," Dude stated confidently. "It's not a bad wound." The other detective beside Harriette whistled. "Well now, here's a first! Who'd ya let hit you," he asked, looking her over from above with a smirk and bobbing head. Harriette frowned and immediately responded gruffly to a male she lacked any respect for, the self-proclaimed lady killer. "Shut the fuk up, Boyle," she hissed, pressing her thighs together tighter. Then she looked past Boyle to the Chief. "I'm okay Chief, just not quite myself. Haven't disturbed anything... But wanna know who did this, and I wanna know today!" "OK, OK. But what the hell happened, my little creampuff, are ya strong enough to walk," asked the Chief. "You mean your biggest splined butt-plug, Chief," she answered with a sneer, looking to grin. Harriette looked from Dude to the Chief, and mustered all her strength. She took a deep breath and with Boyle's unwanted help, stood, shooing him away help after that. She staggered and was unsteady, but stayed on her feet to face them. Her pain was obvious, though veiled. "One lost his head, Chief," a voice in the distance yelled out. "Good shot, Harriette!" "Oh not again, Harriette," sighed Boyle dramatically, who was now studying the priest's corpse, careful to avoid getting blood on his shoes. Harriette glared at the detective, a menacing expression on her face. "May the headless horseman haunt your every fukin' dream, you perfect asshole," she snarled. Boyle was obviously not her favorite person and their antagonism was ever evident. The Chief was becoming quite animated as his crew scurried about searching for clues, bringing him bits of information. "Boyle, shut da hell up," the Chief warned. "Where's that got-damn ambulance? It was right behind us!" Harriette went on speaking with the Chief while grabbing another wad of cloth from Dude, to press to her wound. "Sunday's collection goes to the bank right after last Mass, so no money to steal. I dunno. I just don't get it! Why the rose window... Why Sister Catherine? And above all, why my Padre's execution? I just don't fukin' know, just don't fukin' know," Harriette's tone ending in a bellow. There was something Father Costanzo said about Dude that caused her to omit referring to what the priest had given her. Someone hollered up to the Chief that the ambulance had arrived. "That's enough for now, 'til after we get you to the hospital," the Chief ordered. Harriette grimaced. "Jesus, it's a simple wound, and I had a tetanus shot last year! All I need is a beer, cigarette, and randy go round," she croaked, putting a crooked grin on Boyle's face, which Harriette happened to catch. "Not with you, ass clown. Not if you were the last iota of cockroach shit left on the face of the planet!" Harriette was now semi-conscious and resumed more pleasant thoughts. "Yep. Lager, smoke and my boys, oh yes, my boys!" A team of paramedics came over the top step with a stretcher and ran up to Harriette. "Look boys, I'm breathing, I got a pulse, and I'm conscious," she growled at the fellows as they neared with the litter to place beside her. "Just get me to the fukin' hospital for a high-priced band-aid and then I'll swing back here. In no way am I done with the bottom dwelling pond scum bastards who did this." They nudged the stretcher closer and with Dude's quiet whisper to Harriette, the medics helped her ease into it, excited for the opportunity of getting their hands on the famous detective. "I think I could have done it myself," Harriette droned wearily as she peered into their eyes, with a wink, "but thanks." The medics descended upon her like a pair of hungry vultures, adjusting and re-adjusting her body before covering and strapping her down. Then they lifted and moved her away. "And which one of you pa-ra-medics will ride in back with me? You're both so handsome..." "Harriette, I've got your forty-five," Dude said quietly, just before they moved her. "Check," she replied with a smile, raising a thumb in salute. The Chief stood close to Dude, watching Harriette carried away. He faced Dude directly and took a sturdy stance. Motioning to the others that he wanted to be alone, he began speaking in a muted tone. "Look, Dude. Maybe I ain't in your league, but you're in my town and somethin's not right about all this," the Chief said. He looked down, around and back to Dude. He then nonchalantly reached down to adjust his balls behind the baggy material of his slacks, making it obvious he needed his under the desk secretary. Just as suddenly, as if seeming to catch himself, he slipped his hand into his pocket to pull out a few stale potato chips. "I've checked you out and you're who you say you are, but..." he said, opening his mouth wide for the chips. He stared at Dude hoping the stranger would let him in on what was happening. It was a frustrating endeavor, but a familiar one to cops. If nothing else, the Chief felt compelled to explain his point of view. Dude understood the Chief's frustration, and allowed him to express it. "You meet with my detective in private, then coincidently wind up here. Now, in less than five hours, I got one of my crack detectives shot-up, a dead priest, a dead nun, another dead body in the street, and plenty of blood and brains in the parlor that no one claims to be missin'. It all comes full circle Dude, with me finding you here before anybody else. So how's about leveling with me or at least lettin' me in on what the hell dis is all about?" "If you must know, I was at a tavern down the street, a five minute walk from here." "In a bar?" "Nice place. I believe it's named Mister G's." "Yeah, I go there for the peanuts, they're imported. Best fukin peanuts ever." "Next time you're there, say hello to Guiseppe." "Listen, Dude," the Chief began. "If ya don't want me ta..." "Come on Chief," Dude interrupted, motioning for them to leave. "I'll drive. Let's get to the hospital, and on the way I'll let you in on a little something." As the pair made their way down the steps and to the door, Dude stopped a photographer and crouched down near the body of an intruder shot dead by an alert armed citizen. He scraped a bit of gray matter and blood into the plastic bag he pulled from his coat pocket. The Chief looked at him in a strange way and the Dude shrugged. "For analysis," he said to the Chief. The Chief exhaled loudly, and shook his head. As Dude sealed the samples carefully, he spoke to the Chief from over his shoulder. "Ever hear of The Gonif?" The Last Reflexive Ch. 10 By: Col. Brunhilda 'Iceberg' Buriman, ret. Sorority Sister of Pi Loda Cum Chapter Ten: Smoothness Dude and the Chief started out after the ambulance carrying Harriette. The streets were crowded, but the paramedic driving was an ex-cab driver who knew how to maneuver around and through pedestrians and city traffic at breath taking speed during lunch hour. At one point Dude and Chief found themselves following him up the wrong side of a four lane street, kept on the wrong side by a concrete divider that stretched for a mile. The ambulance driver was not only a self-proclaimed driving expert, but a whiz with both siren and lights, which he worked into a dazzling, blinding display he presented along with an eerie wail of tremolos from his siren, all of which he'd honed into an art form. He and others considered him the Keith Moon of ambulance drivers, occasionally leaving his passengers clawing at the back window from their gurneys to escape, as he swerved and swayed along like a speed boat in choppy waters. Dude watched a couple people standing on the street almost jump out of their pants, and others crouch down while looking up into the sky for some danger as the ambulance swooped by. "Keep up with that nut, Dude," Chief Kosner growled, his body tensing. "I'm not letting it out of my sight," Dude said without breaking his concentration. He didn't know what to expect from the ambulance driver, and needed to stay alert. If he'd trusted those two, he'd have gone ahead to the hospital, but he trusted few. "Nice car," Chief Kosner said, trying to relax, to ignore the blur of people whizzing by, visible through the rose tinted windows of the car. The car's matte black interior took on a rather eerie deep glow in the orange and green lights of the console, which took the Chief into another place, or so it seemed. As the world outside rushed by, in here it became quiet and still. Stranger still was the presence he felt in the back seat, that he couldn't discern clearly, even after glancing back into the seat. Dude kept his mind on the mad ambulance driver, and paid particular attention to the automobiles both in front and behind him, but took a moment to address the feeling emanating from the Chief. "My companion, and very shy," Dude said. "Her name is Pi." The Chief was unable to detect more than a shadow and unsure he saw that, considering the darkness of the interior. He changed the subject. "Wow, a five-speed 1965 Mustang. My buddy had a five-speed 1965 coupe, but his looked like it belonged on earth." It'd been a while since the Chief had ridden at such high speeds, but he'd never driven in such comfort. At one point, while settled back into his bucket seat, he looked down into the well and thought about a car-well secretary. "It's obvious you're not on a city budget," the Chief remarked, settling deeper into the comfort. All he wanted now was a bag of popcorn, but instead pulled a cigar from his pocket and put the end in his mouth without lighting it. Dude hit the car's lighter and extended a metal cigar clip to the Chief. "Oh, no thanks, jus' want somethin' ta chew on." "Here, try one of mine," Dude said popping the cover on the console. There was a small box of hand rolled Cuban Cohibas. "Little rich for my blood, but since you're offerin'," the Chief said reaching for one. He looked at the cigar as he turned it in his fingers, deciding to save it for later, when he could smoke it in peace. For now he was content chewing on his fifty-five cent Bering. "If ya don't mind, I'll save this for later." "Good idea," Dude remarked. The Chief turned to him and shrugged, then glanced into the back seat again, barely able to make out what he thought he saw. "So, what can ya tell me," the Chief asked, placing the Cohiba in his pocket and the Bering in his mouth. Without taking his eyes off the ambulance, Dude reached into a pocket on the door beside him. "Have you ever seen this person," Dude asked reaching for a photo and handing it to the Chief. He took it and gawked in disbelief. "Sure, dat's Harriette," he said. He glanced at Dude with an unasked question in his eyes, as if wondering why he'd been shown a photo of his prized detective. Dude noticed the Chief's eyes move from the photo, to the back seat and back again, and smiled. "It's not Harriette," Dude corrected. The Chief examined the photo more scrupulously, and insisted it was Harriette. Okay, maybe the clothes weren't hers and the hair all wrong, but she could have been at a costume party. "Aw, come on, Dude, I know Harriette when I see her." "I know, but that's not her. As of yet, we're unsure of her real name, but she goes under the name of Sheebra Isadeatha. Our code name for her is The Fallen Angel." The photo took the Chief from his comfort as he continued studying it, taken by its uncanny likeness to Harriette. He sported a concerned look, as if upset with himself, but soon shook it off. "Well okay, but what's dat gotta do with me?" "I thought you may have heard of the Gonif." "Well, yea," the Chief said in pondering. "City has a couple fellas assigned to its growing activity. Word's out on dat group, but the info's sketchy at best, and what we have ain't good. Seems they're goin' round killin' women, we think, but don't follow a particular pattern. They go after the rich, poor, young and middle-aged, without rhyme or reason. And by the time somebody files a missin' person report, the trail's cold. The bodies are never found and da group don't leave no calling card." Dude stayed close to the ambulance while filling the Chief in on a few things. "There's an Organization devoted to making America a police state. They've been working to this end for years. They're especially active in Congress. They made their first decisive move in 1911 when they successfully pushed the Apportionment Act through Congress, which guaranteed for them a manageable number of Representatives, controllable through bribes and threats. With this one Act they took Congress away from the common people. Our 'representative' form of government, and then our 'real' money were swept away, replaced with the smoke and mirrors of gerrymandering, and Federal Reserve Notes. Can't call that being awake." Chief listened, stopping only to chew and scratch himself, as Dude went on. "This Organization has an assortment of henchmen and assassins, and one such group of frightened fanaticals, referred to as the Gonif, recently became independent. The Gonif happens to be an army of radicals who believe in the Beast, in its literal sense." "Da Beast? Whoa there, you're losing me Dude. I'm not up on dat Bib'ical stuff," the Chief groused. "The concept of a beast, and of four horsemen, are medieval connotations. Today it's a psychological complex at the collective level that has and will continue to well up over and over again throughout human history as long as people refuse to accept the existence of the unconscious. It's in all of us. After each time this collective complex fails, it rises again, and another human figure emerges from the ashes, from a collective magnitude of human unconsciousness, to re-define the collective psychosis once again. As the personification of evil it wars against good, to extinguish consciousness, hope, faith, happiness, and light, to spread darkness, as it's done in Europe and the East several times, and is attempting again now. "And now dis psycho-mumbo-jumbo." "Think of your prejudices and bigotries. Not suggesting you have any. Like to see them become manifest? Real bigots wrap their hatred in the armor of righteousness, then mount their high horses to wage war on some human right, and pass it off as an act of caring..." "Stop." "Bear with me for a moment, Chief, you want to know why I'm here." "Well, yeah, yeah, go on," the Chief answered, chomping away like a busy beaver on his Bering, with an end now so soggy it was turning to wet threads, which were shedding off in his mouth, which didn't bother him in the least. He was getting to like Dude, even without knowing much about him, and continued listening as if he understood. "Anyway, the Gonif is carrying out the bidding of Isadeatha and she's ordained that every female who resembles her be located and exterminated. She's a very disturbed individual. At least our assumption is the females are being exterminated, but kidnapping is just as likely. But as you've said, no bodies are found." "You mean..." the Chief asked looking once again at Harriette's double. Again, a concerned look crossed the Chief's face and he looked away, returning with Dude's next words. "Right, Harriette's certain to become a target." "That I can relate to," the Chief said in a serious tone, swallowing a wad of chewed tobacco. "Is that what happened at Saint Nick's?" "No. If that were the case, we wouldn't have found Harriette." "Oh yea, right. So what were dey after?" "The answer is a riddle." "Riddle?" "The location of The Ark." "Oh nah, Dude, now you're losin' me for sure with all dat Bib'ical crap. Don't think dis here Gonif group has grown very large yet here in my City, but if you're right 'bout St. Nick's... I'll check with that special unit and let them in on what you've told me. Right now, my biggest concern's Harriette." "Mine as well, Chief." "Yeah, Harriette's a different story." "I owe Harriette's dad," Dude said glancing at the Chief, "Is she willing to die for something other than money." "Look," the Chief began, taking the cigar from his mouth to point the soggy limp end in Dude's direction. "I've known Harriette a long time, Dude, and I've never seen her walk 'way from a fight," he said stopping to take the end back in his mouth in order to catch a large brown drip. "Hell, she'd die for her Country! In a heartbeat. Her dad taught her well. Hell, risks her life every day for chump change," the Chief said stopping to slobber and swallow. Chief looked at Dude. "Let me be blunt." Dude looked at him quickly and nodded. "First positive thing I've heard yet," Dude interjected. "I never met a tougher broad. God don't make 'em like dat too often. Her dad musta been one tough son of a bitch with her. You seen her today, hole in her shoulder and no histrionics," Chief said chewing once again. "Now days, a broad breaks a freakin' fake nail and ya gotta call 9-1-1!" "You make her sound like a chip off the old block, Chief." "Guess you'll find out, but let me get something straight. You're tellin' me, I'm suppose to get her off the streets for own safety, right?" The thought made Dude chuckle. "Chief, be serious. She doesn't seem like the type you can control, let alone park behind a desk." "Right on da mark there, Dude, but I gotta do somethin'." The Chief was chewing on the rolled tobacco with concerns that had him knotting up. "MacGuire should be around soon. Maybe take her away for a couple days." "Well, I'm hoping Harriette's every bit as tough as you say because I want her help..." Dude said. The Chief looked at Dude, whipping the cigar from his mouth once more, sending a spray that caught Dude off guard. "What? Oops, sorry bout dat," Chief said. "...And keep her alive of course." "Wait a minute. Her life's in jeopardy and you ask me about her willingness to fight and die. Ya want her help with somethin' that could get her killed anyway? I think I got some issues wid that," the Chief muttered, swallowing another large chaw. "Who's MacGuire, Chief," Dude queried. "Another detective. He's a good guy, assigned up the Northeast. Since dis is da South side, it ain't technically his area, but it's his day off, and you don't gotta be a brain surgeon to figure out he'll be round once word gets out 'bout Harriette. I heard da gents in da locker room a couple weeks ago were takin' bets on him and Harriette... MacGuire wasn't the odds-on favorite to be gettin' any from Harriette, if ya know what I mean. And then there's Harriette's boys," the Chief stopped and looked at Dude from the corners of his eyes, trying to get a read from him, to see if Dude would shed any light on the subject, since he had her profile. But Dude remained mute. The Chief sighed. "Dunno what ever happened, and the topic was suddenly dropped. Maybe Harriette got wind of it and took care of things. Regardless of what her dress says, she don't make her personal life an open book and keeps it dat way, ya know?" "Yes, I got that feeling from her. Just like her father," Dude said with a bob of his head. The Chief acted as if he meant to finish eating the cigar before reaching the hospital. "I knew MacGuire's dad, same class at the Academy. Some say he was murdered, suffocated by his mother. She jumped on his head one night, gluing her sex to his face and the rest is history. She was tried for murder, but got off scott-free. Know his Mom and brothers, too. MacGuire's good people. He may be a mother-fucker, but I don't have him pegged as her type. He doesn't seem adventuresome enough." The Chief looked into the back seat again, quickly, as if contemplating. His crew was important and their lives meant a lot to him, perhaps too much, but he couldn't help it. "It don't matter though. Hell, if it makes her happy..." The Chief shrugged it off and returned to the issue at hand. "Anyway, back to our little discussion, Dude," he said, swallowing his words with another wad, as they flew up to the ambulance. They'd arrived at Hannehman Hospital where Dude brought the car to a screeching halt beside the ambulance, but out of the way. Then he and Chief hopped from the car and looked around. Chief heard the car engine go off and locks snapping shut, but he had to piss so bad he was about to wet his pants, and he had to rinse a couple streaks of cigar juice from the front of his shirt. He ordered his men to watch Dude's car as he rushed off. The Last Reflexive Ch. 11 By: Col. Brunhilda 'Iceberg' Buriman, ret. Sorority Sister of Pi Loda Cum Chapter Eleven: Sloppy Q&A The Chief took a moment to quell his need to piss and ran to the open doors of the ambulance, as the driver came running back to help. They found Harriette humming to painkillers while cursing for the technician to get her off with his tongue quickly. The technician pulled his sopping wet face from Harriette's quim when the door swung open and his partner hoped in, which brought about another round of cursing the short ride. Harriette also cursed the loss of the tongue as they pulled the stretcher from the ambulance. The Chief hovered over Harriette as she was moved. The media was all over them, in their faces asking questions. The Chief found themselves followed into the hospital by lights and cameras. The Chief became concerned about his need to piss, and the situation was getting dire. He was to the point of losing control and didn't want the television crews to add a wet yellow spot to his brown cigar streaks, so he finally waved them away and called a few uniformed officers over to keep them at bay. "Harriette, how are ya," he asked, out of breath from holding his bladder in control, while yet chomping on the cigar which was now half its original size. "The ride was most excellent but too short. I need my whisky and a cigarette. And I'd feel a hell of a lot better if you got that fukin chicken-shit parasite away from me," she snapped, pointing in Boyle's direction as he approached with his big shit-eating grin. "I'd like to rid the world of one more asshole..." she said as they all passed through another door. "Harriette..." Boyle hissed under his breath, obviously upset. "Calm down, Harriette, calm down," the Chief said, looking to Boyle. "And Boyle, I told ya to shut your trap and leave her alone." "Okay, okay," Boyle said shrugging. "I'm here now, and dis is my baby. Now get outta da way," the Chief ordered. Boyle obeyed, flipped closed his notebook and stepped aside to be swamped by reporters. He was fuming and wanted the Chief to hear him, but knew better than to bother him when it was so obvious he needed to piss bad. "Chief, I was only..." "Who the hell told you to follow da ambulance anyway," the Chief screamed at Boyle. He left him standing with the reporters and followed the stretcher into the emergency room. Dude tagged along at a discreet distance, wanting to stay out of the limelight, paying close attention to the faces in the crowd. The team of doctors and nurses disappeared with the stretcher and Harriette behind a curtain. Chief went back into the lobby with Dude and the hounds. "Wish I had a statement from Harriette, they so love her," he said into the air. "But I gotta piss first!" "No smoking, Chief," a nurse said pointing to the cigar. In his usually gruff manner, the Chief showed her it wasn't lit, and in fact it was sopping wet limp. He left her gagging to the disgusting wad and rushed quickly to the nearest washroom. "How 'bout a statement Chief," several news hounds asked in a jumble, following him into the john. God, he hated these news people. He looked around to see if he could catch the female reporter who writes the 'Men's Washroom Talk' column. She's known to dress like a man in order to obtain access to men only washrooms after dirty gossip. "What happened at St. Nick..." they asked as the Chief pulled down his zipper to free his penis. "...How's Dirty Harriette," they asked as the urine started to flow and the Chief let out with a horrendous sigh of release, which was caught on camera. The Chief struggled to ignore the gnats around him so he could continue pissing. Only one other time in his life did gnats annoy him as much as they were now. He was in the army fighting the Nazi's in the Great War. He was forced to defend a position filled knee deep with strewn body parts, and every species of gnat, and every family within in miles came to feed, driving him crazy during a forty-eight hour fire-fight. The questions came as buzzing, forcing him to concentrate on the gentle roar of splashing piss. "...Who shot her?" "...Why?" "What's the department doing to protect the safety of our houses of worship?" On and on the questions came in rapid fire, until the Chief was finally empty and he turned far enough to shake himself off on the nearest reporter. "Oops, sorry," he offered. At that a camera zoomed in to catch the brown cigar stains. All eyes went to the stains. "Is that blood? Harriette's blood," someone asked. The Chief had to think fast. "Yes, damn it, of course it is," he said seriously. Outside the washroom uniformed cops began moving everyone back away from the entranceway, making room for the approaching Mayor, who entered surrounded by guards and more media folk. The reporters went charging out and the Chief washed his hands. He then tried rinsing the cigar stains from his shirt, but only made them worse. He then exited to meet the mayor, who spotted the soggy cigar and large brown blotches, which his jacket couldn't hide. He sighed in resignation. The Chief cursed himself for wasting such a good smoke and was about to put it back in his mouth when he thought otherwise. "Here," he said to Boyle as the detective approached. Boyle held his hand out to have the Chief slap his soggy cigar butt down onto his palm. It landed with a splat that set out a spray of brown gunk staining the front of Boyles blue suede suit. Boyle attempted unsuccessfully to jump back, shoving the microphone held by a female reporter into her mouth, causing her a bloody lip. "Wha... Oh, fu... you Chief!" "I'm gonna sue you for this," the reporter sputtered through the material of the hanky she held to her mouth. A nurse who saw what happened came rushing up. "Throw dat out for me," the Chief ordered Boyle, ignoring the reporter. His voice expressed his frustration. He then turned to face a couple familiar news people who were part of a mob asking more questions than he could hear at once. The Mayor walked up and they shook hands while whispering to each other. With the Mayor's arrival the media folks increased their vocal barrage. "Chief, how's Harriette?" "She's only wounded," said the Chief. "We should know more soon." "Mr. Mayor, is it true your wife is having an affair with her high school phys-ed teacher who now lives in the Filtchem Nursing Home?" "Say what!? Why do you people create such trash?" "Hey," yelled the Chief. "Lets' keep with da subject on hand," he demanded. "Who shot Harriette?" "We're not sure, yet." Over and over and over the same questions were blurted out, fired into his face, until along with the Mayor he got fed up. At that point he held up his hands and asked for quiet, and the media rushed up to capture his brown cigar juice blotches again, reporting them as blood stains. The Chief and Mayor faced the mob, the Chief with some trepidation about his stains, and the Mayor with some of his finer poses, ones he felt showed his resolve and his better side. Chief tried giving them some carefully worded information. "Put it dis way. An unknown number of perps, I mean perpetrators, attempted to rob and vandalize Saint Nick's," the Chief began as a noisy murmur quieted down to listen. He tried continuing, as the Mayor continued posing for photographers. "Detective Karson happened to be on da scene, and was wounded defending the church. The perpetrators killed a priest, nun and couple parishioners. More than dat I don't know at this time," he finished, waving for his officers to move in. The unsatisfied reporters started barking again, demanding more answers about the blood stains. The Chief struggled to appear confident, as a frustrated Mayor decided to try calming the crowd, without hamming things up too much. "You've heard the Chief and until we have some answers, that's all we are able to say at this time," the Mayor shouted above the din. "As soon as we have more details we'll let you know. In the meantime, I want the citizens to know that my office is going to get to the bottom of this," he said, turning to the Chief and growling under his breath. "I've had it! I'm getting me one of those under-the-desk secretaries for me." "Yo guys, get these newsies back," the Chief yelled to the uniformed officers. "This is still a hospital," the Mayor added. At that he nodded to an obscure figure standing to the side and a dozen men came out of nowhere to mingle with the crowd. This was the Mayor's special strike force, his Special Whiffer Assault Team. A dozen specially chosen males who've spent the day eating beans and cabbage. It was a subtle maneuver, and it took about fifteen minutes for them to disperse a crowd this large. "I want ya to meet someone," the Chief said to the Mayor. "Who?" "He's known as Dude." The Last Reflexive Ch. 12 By: Col. Brunhilda 'Iceberg' Buriman, ret. Sorority Sister of Pi Loda Cum Chapter Twelve: Strange Anticipations With Dirty Harriette behind emergency room doors, the police Chief introduced the Mayor to Dude and the pair shook hands, with little more than polite greetings. The Mayor was preoccupied with himself, and Dude immediately stepped back out of the picture after the introduction. Dude's entire rather gracious demeanor was evasive, meant to help him stay in the shadier areas of awareness. The mob of reporters had moved outside to escape the gas problem, their number adding to the uniformed police officers and those arriving in need of medical attention. It was a hectic scene and the Chief kept shouting for his men to keep things under control, to keep the street and walkways clear. The Mayor ignored Dude to pull the Chief aside and begin questioning him. The Chief was blunt, blurting out answers that told the Mayor little. "John, I didn't know what to say, so I told them it was blood," he snarled, finally tired of the same question. The Mayor stopped, placed a hand on the Chief's shoulder, took a deep breath and shook his head, letting the Chief know they needed to tell the voters more because the election was approaching. He looked up to the Chief and pleaded. "Give me something on the shootings, anything. I have to face the citizens and need something to tell them," he said. Because of the upcoming election, he was growing more impatient and upset with the situation. Elections were in November, just months away. As the throng continued outside the hospital, the police began dispersing those blocking entrances, and setting up barricades to form perimeters. The reporters had deadlines, and were irked by the lack of information, about ready to call it a day, when a midnight blue limousine pulled up. The limo with tinted windows pulled into a spot reserved for emergency vehicles. Doors opened and six titans in midnight blue suits and ties emerged wearing dark glasses and fedoras. The media knew who this was and pushed the cops out of the way in their attempt to record the emerging figure. They moved as a unit to surround the well-dressed goons, who were protecting a distinguished grey-haired gentleman as he slipped from his enclave, leaving behind a pair of rather well-proportioned giggling blondes. It was George 'Big Balls' Martinelli and the reporters became frenzied. Every camera zoomed in on the bulge in his trousers, which appeared more alive and active than usual. Questions came as a polite barrage, sprayed at Mr. Martinelli, who stood behind his entourage and surveyed the scene with disdain. Cameras were all over his crotch, and the rest of his body too. Bright lights and microphones battled for position. Everyone knew why he was there. Everyone knew of his promise, or threat, depending on your point of view. He promised to one day bed Harriette and leave her the dizzy bimbo he knew she was, throbbing under the detective's thin veneer of toughness, demanding recognition. "Riffraff," he murmured under his breath to one of his henchmen. "But they love me and need me, and I love them in my own way," he crowed, standing tall, adjusting his tie. He was an elegant dresser, a gentleman who loved the spotlight and liked seeing his name in print. Finally, he took a fine cigar from his lips, smiled for the cameras, and made to answer one of the reporter's inquiries. At that, silence befell the rabble, as they all knew he was a quiet man, a more than influential figure, and he never repeated himself, publicly. "I am here because my future acquisition has been wounded," he began in his deep Italian accent, the hand with the cigar animating his words. "As you all know, I consider Harriette my woman, and Saint Nickedemo's is my church." Both were true, at least as far as he was concerned, and few but Harriette contradicted him. One can always find his Rolls Royce parked outside church on Sunday for nine o'clock Mass. In twenty-five years, he'd never missed Mass. "What's dat meatball doin' here," the Chief hissed. He turned to the Mayor with an unpleasant look, noticing the approaching figure. "Well, well," the Mayor said. "Georgie's just pulled up, with some heavies. All I need, a scene stealer, and with elections approaching. Why doesn't that goon give up on Harriette," the Mayor said looking to the Chief intently. He moved his face close. "I'll bet you a month's pay check he never gets to first base with Harriette, much less an opportunity of fucking her," he said quietly. "But, damn it! Find out what happened at that church," he demanded, almost shaking with rage. The Chief glanced at Dude, who was standing to the side, absorbing everything, reelecting nothing, reflexive. He looked around and back to the Mayor. "Let's hear what Georgie's gotta say," Chief said to the Mayor in a low voice, shrugging his shoulders. Two of George Martinelli's goons entered the hospital first and looked around, followed by their boss, who discarded his cigar before entering. Once again the media flooded in behind him, only to be rebuffed by waiting officers and hospital security staff. Martinelli walked directly to where the Mayor and the Chief stood, his cock pulsating behind the material of its confinement. He shook hands with both, and they all forced a smile to some degree, though the moment stayed tense. Dude studied carefully the spectacle unfurling before him, staying to the shadow. This wasn't his game. It belonged to the Chief and Mayor. His problem was behind a curtain having her wounds tended. "Mr. Mayor," Martinelli began in his usually elegant way. "How are you..." "Cut the crap, Georgie. Miss Karson's gonna be okay," the Chief stated bluntly, keeping things real. Before him stood a man he'd been trying to put away for years. And here he was parading around with his prized cock, without a care in the world, a prized peacock strutting his stuff. "Ah, Chief. How are you my friend? How have you been," Mr. Martinelli solicited as he again adjusted his attire. He was very finicky about his appearance and only the finest things were acceptable to him. Everything about him was expensive, except his reputation, depending on your point of view. This man was a generous philanthropist who spread wealth around, though some claimed it was simply to buy the affection of the masses. "I'm not your friend and don't be worryin' 'bout my health," the Chief snapped in a guttural tone. The Mayor too, would have liked to see this man behind bars, but tolerated the intrusion with some reservation. Martinelli appeared unruffled by the greeting, as he was accustomed to, as he saw it, being misunderstood. Still, he played the hand dealt him. "Chief, you offend me," he began in a melancholy voice. "I'm simply concerned with my future conquest. Is that a crime?" The Chief was not amused, but bit his tongue. "I don't want anything happening to that filly until after I've broken her." "Mr. Martinelli, you are nuts," the Mayor said laughing. "As I said, everyone knows St. Nickademo's is my church, and that Harriette is my female. And I'm deeply grieved by the loss of our priest and the others of course..." At that he made the sign of the cross. "You must have the wrong person, you sicko," the Chief said sternly. "Chief, my dear Chief, you really should learn to be more polite. It would do wonders for your character, not to mention your blood pressure." "You talkin' to me 'bout character, ya wing-nut," the Chief stated incredulously. He moved close to the mob boss, face to face, careful to stay back from the bulge. Martinelli remained unfazed. "Chief," the Mayor interjected, "let the good citizen have his say. Besides, Harriette can take care of herself." "Thank you, Mr. Mayor. It's refreshing to find a City official who still practices civility. I was simply wondering if the offenders of this most heinous crime have been apprehended yet. Everyone knows I can't simply sit back and wait, while the perpetuators of this barbaric act are walking around free." "Ha," the Chief blurted out. Martinelli squinted at the Chief, but kept his cool. "Chief," the Mayor said in a cautionary voice. "No, we don't have any suspects yet," replied the Chief, in an irate tone. Martinelli preserved his gracious appearance, smiled continually and fussed with his tie once again. He stood tall and looked down on the Chief. "I know you are doing your best, of course," he said. "Mr. Martinelli," the Mayor began. The Mayor was brewed from the same batch of Teflon as the gangster and equally well-oiled. "The entire City bears the burden of this loss. There was no finer priest than Father Castanzo. This case has been given top priority. No one will rest until the guilty have been identified and brought to justice. And, by the way, you ain't got a snowball's chance in Hawaii with Harriette." "Ahhh, my dear Mayor. If only you understood how I feel, and how persuasive I can be," stated Martinelli with a sad smile. "I can understand and feel Harriette's pain," the Mayor cut in with a look of determination. "But, this is the City of Brotherly Love and it's my job to see it stays that way." Martinelli, unabashed, continued in his genteel manner, nodding politely. "Of course it is," he said. He looked at the irate Chief. "And I plan slipping my dear Ms. Harriette a mass of big brotherly love muscle," he said with a wicked smile, holding back laughter. "Ohhhh, yea, that's so not happenin'," the Chief retorted. "Please. You're not her father, and she is a big girl," Martinelli started to say. "I'll let her know you were here blowin' kisses. She'll be sure to like that," the Chief interrupted sarcastically. "Miss Karson's bein' worked on right now. Dis ain't new to her. She never stops doin' her job, even when thwarted by slime-balls like..." Suddenly McGuire came pushing through the throng, and the Chief was caught momentarily off-balance. He took a step to meet McGuire and spoke with him on Harriette's condition. Seeing the Chief turn to McGuire, the Mayor turned to Martinelli. "Coffee," he asked the mob boss. The Chief and McGuire walked away to consult with some of his men and find out what had been gleaned from the crime scene. Martinelli leaned toward the Mayor. "John, I can see the poor Chief is agitated. A rain check on the coffee, but before I leave I need to ask. Who is that fellow over there? I don't believe I've ever seen him before," Martinelli asked, motioning toward Dude. "I understand he was at the scene." "You hear a lot." "John. Eyes and ears are everywhere, and more are going up everyday, as if you didn't know," Martinelli said. Martinelli had an eye on Dude since he'd entered the hospital lobby. He found himself impressed with Dude's tailored Marco Azzali suit and Francesco Smalto shirt, which begged his indulgence. Dude could tell what Martinelli wished and sensed the Mayor's momentarily befuddlement. After all, the Mayor had just met him and had no idea who he was, so Dude stepped forward with hand extended and introduced himself. Martinelli greeted him in Italian and Dude replied in kind, bringing a smile to the elder gentleman thick lips. Dude suggested it was impolite to speak in a language others couldn't understand. Martinelli knew he was correct and realized just how much of a gentleman the stranger was. "Ha," Martinelli said aloud in English. "I knew you were a gentleman! I can always tell, you know." They measured each other for a moment and it wasn't difficult to ascertain Martinelli's unusual interest in Dude. Martinelli was all smiles and Dude cautious. "Cigar," Martinelli offered. "Thank you," Dude replied taking one from a small humidor held out to him. "Very fine tobacco," he said as he ran it under his nose before slipping it into an inside jacket pocket. "I have them made especially for me," Martinelli said softly, as if divulging a great secret. Then he moved his face closer to Dude's and almost inaudibly commented with a wicked smile, "Cuban, of course." His demeanor brought a smirk to Dude's lips. Martinelli smiled and nodded. He slipped his arm over Dude's shoulder like they were old friends and whispered. Dude felt a chill. "You, dear Sir, are a welcomed diversion from the plebeians with whom I am forced to deal on a daily basis. We really must get together sometime and discuss, er, politics..." The two men were looking at one another with intent. "...Or whatever." The Mayor had slipped off to the side with the Chief and McGuire and the three murmured to one another as Martinelli and Dude sparred, as only gentlemen do. McGuire finally took off for the emergency room hoping to see Harriette. Dude had little to say at the moment, but felt there was something about Martinelli he needed to understand. Martinelli wanted to befriend him for some reason, and peppered their conversation. He took his arm from Dude and again faced him. "I notice you have blood on your cuff," Martinelli began and they both looked at the small spot of dark red. "I know a reputable cleaner who does superb work. Her establishment is called Yenchu's, on The Square. Rittenhouse Square. She's a wicked seamstress who can both walk on your back and hand stitch at the same time." "Why, thank you, I'll be sure to try her," Dude replied with a wry smirk, having spent many hours face down on a bamboo mat with a delicate lotus blossom dancing on his back. "Tell her Georgie B.B. recommended her. And, she's self-conscious about her small breasts, so give them some attention. She loves it." "Thank you," Dude said with a tilt of his head "By the way," Martinelli continued, still trying to penetrate Dude's eloquent defense. "I'm having a small dinner party Friday and was wondering if you and Ms. Harriette, if she's able, would be kind enough to join. I would be honored by your presence." Dude liked the idea, but didn't know if Harriette would speak to him this soon after the church incident much less accompany him to a dinner given by a gangster she loathed. His instinct urged him to accept the invitation and deal with Harriette later. "Of course, I would be pleased to attend," he assured Martinelli. "And Ms. Harriette?" "Sorry I can't answer for her, but I'll see what I can do." "Very good, my dear Dude. Dinner is at eight," Martinelli said waving his arm and spinning around to the Mayor, ignoring the Chief. "And of course, Mr. Mayor, I would be honored by your presence also." "Sorry, binding arbitration hearing on the police, er, a contract," the Mayor stuttered, while shooting Dude a troubled glance. Actually he was interviewing a couple candidates for his under-the-desk secretary job that night. The Chief stood to the side fuming, but remained silent. "Ah, so sad, your Honor. Another time then," Martinelli stated with an air of flamboyance. "I shall take my leave and until next time..." He turned to Dude with short bow, "...Friday, for both you and Ms. Harriette. I bid you adieu." Martinelli and Dude shook hands and the mob boss turned back to the crowd. Everyone watched the colorful gangster leave with his entourage and then the Mayor turned to Dude. "Why did you accept his invite, Dude?" "Your Honor," Dude said looking at the man with a bit of whimsy. "Etiquette. You should never decline an invitation so graciously extended." Dude stared at the parting limousine with unusual interest. "Yeah, well whatever, Dude, whatever. There's no way in this sweet world Harriette will go to any dinner given by that one," the Chief stated in a hiss, "unless it's gonna be his last supper." "We'll see, Chief," Dude replied curiously. "Dude, Martinelli plans to one day fuck Harriette's brains out and make her a bimbo," the Chief growled, and Dude laughed, most uncharacteristically, and the Chief, thinking about what he's just said, began laughing himself into tears. The Last Reflexive Ch. 13 By: Col. Brunhilda 'Iceberg' Buriman, ret. Sorority Sister of Pi Loda Cum Chapter Thirteen: Nite, Nite, Teddybears Everything had quieted down considerably, and almost everyone had gone home, except for those on duty. McGuire too left earlier after finding Harrriette in such fit shape, considering. It was a little past midnight and the hospital subdued, for a Monday. Dude relaxed in a large chair located at the end of a hallway. He was in a small alcove, two doors away from the room in which Harriette was forced to stay the night. She'd finally, grudgingly, shed her clothes and had tucked her .357 under her pillow for the night. There was a uniformed officer on guard outside her door trying to ignore the slurping and slobbering sounds emanating from the room, where Litle and Sven were visiting. Once the boys were with Harriette, and she'd calmed down as much as possible, the Chief left for the crime scene, or so he said. The Mayor admitted he was off to his favorite pub for a night cap, saying he'd keep in touch. Sven had arrived dressed as only he could, in a beige three piece suit of unwrinkled linen, which always amazed Harriette, a bright white shirt with a bright red tie that matched his shoes. Litle dressed in a powder blue paisley designed polyester Nehru jacket buttoned to his neck, with matching bell-bottoms and platform shoes. He came hungry for the syrup he's grown to need like a person who needs another cigarette. He was ready to munch, and munch-a-lot he did that night, while Sven bathed Harriette's body with a warm wet cloth from top to bottom, and afterwards served her small bits of goose liver pate on dry toast, and gulps of a strong German lager from a bottle, between a few well orchestrated orgasms, that kept a shit-eating grin on the guard's face. Dude thought back to earlier that evening, to Harriette and the Chief. The poor guy had his hands full trying to make Harriette stay overnight, and the doctors were little help. Their argument was they needed to observe for a possible concussion, and monitor the healing of the gash in her arm caused by the bullet for at least the night. Harriette was one tough cookie and had no qualms about getting in someone's face, and so the Chief dangled a couple carrots in front of her. The doctor and nurses who'd patched her up retreated when finished, quite tired of dealing with the irate female monster. On the emergency room table the best they could do was bare her one shoulder, and that was a struggle. Getting her to remove her holster and gun was impossible. Once finished with the patch they wheeled her to a room quickly and consigned her to the Chief and McGuire, hoping they could talk some sense into her. She refused to stay in bed. "C'mon, babe, it's just one night. I promise we'll do something special once you're able," McGuire pleaded. "Just you and me. Leave the boys at home. Just one little night out of thousands." "Jesus fukin' Christ, even YOU don't get it, McGuire, do you! Whose fukin' side are you on anyway," Harriette lashed out. "I'll be just fine at home," Harriette roared at McGuire and Chief. McGuire had never seen Harriette like this. "Now, you two can either leave the room, or at least step aside." Harriette was in a bit of disarray, with her blouse unbuttoned to the holster's strap, her tights torn around the knee, her hair a mess, and the earlier morning stickiness had dried on her inner thighs giving her an itch rivaling the pain of her wound. She wanted to bathe, dine, and sit on Litle's face all at the same time. "You give me no choice, Harriette," the Chief finally yelled out in frustration. You could see his frustration at having to deal with her in that manner, when he'd rather be at a tavern, or at his desk. "I'm ordering you to stay! And dat's, dat!" Still, Harriette all but ignored him. "Like hell, Chief," she said in a low serious voice, standing a bit uneasily to face him with her chest held out to him like a marine, after an all night drinking spree. "Now, if you'd please move..." she said as if daring him not to. As usual the Chief finally had enough. So had McGuire, who left the hospital deciding he'd done all he could. It was enough for him to find Harriette in such good spirits. He felt his presence only agitated his beloved Harriette. The Chief continued. "Harriette, I'm not playin' damn it! The doctors think it's best you stay the night and dat's exactly what you're gonna do. Ya got part of your shoulder shot off and ya might have a concussion..." He brought his face close to hers and said through heavy breaths of stale cigar leaf, "...and since you're being so damned stubborn 'bout the whole thing I, only heaven knows why, have arranged a surprise..." Harriette backed off some, gagging to the stench. "Chief," she choked out. "Will ya get a better brand?" "...Forget my cigar. I'm tellin' ya I have a surprise for you, and dat's dat!" "Look," she said a little more calmly, wondering what this conniving old man had in store for her. Harriette knew when to change tactics. "Sure, I'm tired and a little banged-up, but really! I need to get out of this place. This is the place people come to die. I want to retreat home to um, my own bed, to enjoy some good old fashion down time." "Har, har!" "Chief, don't laugh, ya know this little girl can't sleep in a hospital. I..." "I know what ya need, Harriette. I know what you need, and I have a squad on its way here with it right now..." At that, Dude left the room, closing the door behind him. Not wishing to have Harriette agitated with him, he'd stayed out of the fray. He'd been standing quietly in the doorway of the room watching and listening, not saying a word. He was waiting for his turn with Harriette, which never came, so he took the opportunity, through the McGuire and the Chief's mistakes, to learn about her. Here he was watching a very animated version of a wild on stage Janis Joplin, short skirt, foul mouth, screeching whine, a lady of soul, but maybe too much for her own good. Harriette lifted one brow and eyed the Chief carefully, just before Dude walked out, seemingly resigned to her fate, when at that moment Sven and Little came waltzing in like a pair of toy soldiers, and her eyes lit up, and a smile came to her lips. Then she looked at the Chief and with reservation agreed to stay for one night. She was relieved when Dude left because he offered her nothing more than further annoyance, while her boys were a welcome hot toddy in a freezing hell. She couldn't remember what the hell Dude was hanging around for anyway, and at that moment didn't care. As the Chief passed Dude when leaving, Dude offered him another Cohiba, something to calm him down. The Chief thanked Dude while grumbling about Harriette, and the cigar being the only thing he'd enjoyed after being taken from his desk. Then he disappeared. While waiting in the hall, Dude befriended a young nurse with raven black hair and thick juicy lips. The nurse was intrigued with Harriette and mentioned it to Dude, as a way of striking up a conversation. "Quite a quarrelsome bird in there," the nurse said motioning toward Harriette's room with her breasts and finger. "Really," Dude responded to the sultry voice, intrigued by what he saw. "Tsk, tsk, and such a loud and ah... foul mouth," the nurse continued in a timid way. "Poor Chief. Heard him finally order her to stay..." Dude had to chuckle at the nurse's interpretation, but he didn't mind the distractions of a pretty woman. "...Did you see her two darling little friends enter? Heard they've been given permission to stay the night. It was the only way to ensure she stayed. Can you beat that?" "Well, I hear she's one tough lady," Dude offered, looking at the nurse warmly. Here was a man with an eye for females who carried the personification of his unconscious, his feminine side. "Everyone knows that! Do you know her," the nurse asked, sounding interested, in a way only such a woman can, when given the opportunity. Dude could almost read the nurse's mind, and the look in her deep brown eyes told him she could read his, and at that moment they each wished to be read. Dude spoke softly now. "I know of her." "She's had her photo in the paper plenty of times," the nurse added, pressing her breasts together while wrinkling her nose. Dude was a bit horny and wanted to change the subject. "May I treat you to coffee? If you you're free for a few minutes, or more," he asked. Her eyes lit up and she pressed her knees together, while suppressing a pleasantly girlish giggle. "Sounds scrumptious," the nurse said, glancing at her watch and smiling. "How 'bout in twenty minutes," she said from the corners of her eye. Dude nodded while returning the smile. During the wait, between room checks, and answering calls from patients and doctors, the nurse spent what extremely brief moments she could breezing by Dude, bantering about bits of colorful words with sensual meaning, coo's meant to tease playfully, and this was the only game Dude actually enjoyed playing. On the nurse's break they went to the cafeteria, which was closed. Dude spent some money on something resembling coffee, knowing neither would actually drink any. The nurse had Boston and Dude black. She reached down and took the tip of Dude's pinkie between her finger and thumb, and like that guided him to the table in the darkest corner of the entire room. The nurse explained quickly how they got the overhead lighting removed. This table was for petting breaks, and it's always first come first serve. For the next ten minutes their lips stayed glued together, tongues dueling in warm saliva, while the nurse held Dude's wrist with both hands for balance. Dude's hand had slipped under her skirt to pet gently her pussy and frig a clit thick as her lower lip, until after several waves of surrender, the last one knocked her off balance, causing her to shove Dude away before going limp and slipping from the chair. She landed on her back on the linoleum floor with her legs in the air, panting like a dog after an hour run, the juices on her face and pussy glistening in the light of distant fixtures. Dude reacted immediately, reaching down to take her hand with his dry one, pulling her up into his lap. Like this he held her with one arm round her waist, as they first used their tongue and lips to rid each other's face of saliva, and then she used her mouth and tongue to rid Dude's hand of her lavish spending. Dude whispered in her ear and she could feel his excitement, but they'd used all their time on her, and now she needed to try, on wobbly legs, teetering back to work and applying herself. They left the cold coffees on the table, as Dude helped her get land-legs back to leave him. She kissed him passionately and went back to work grudgingly, continuing with her routines. "Very nice, my male," Dude heard from the darkest corner of the dark corner. "Hello, Pi," Dude said with a snide smirk. "Dude." "You know I didn't mean anything by that. That comes from being male, probably hot wired into our neural pathways since the dawn of humanity, as you must have been also. Pi, you're a confusingly meaningful entity, intrinsic." "Mmmm. Anyway, stay alert. Feel the cold and evil? Don't let passion cloud your mind." "Have I ever?" "Mmmm." It was a clear night and Dude went to the alcove from which he could watch Harriette's room, and guard on duty. He could also stare out a window overlooking Philadelphia, at stars melting into the tinted city lights, their glow making bright the tops of the tallest structures. He was contemplating trouble, and his next move, all while preparing himself to deal with Harriette. He expected a lot from her, maybe too much, and she didn't even know him. But why should that matter? How would he act if in her place? She was a lot like her dad, and he kept hoping more so than even she imagined. At one point, when things were still, and even Harriette was asleep, finally worn out by Sven and Litle, wedged between her two young stallions, now naked, with their signature hard-ons pressed against her freshly cleaned thighs, the nurse slipped into the shadow under which Dude sat, to relieve him, to taste the nectar of this snake. It was a short but juicy mouth-watering treat for both. The Last Reflexive Ch. 14 THE LAST REFLEXIVE by: Col. Brunhilda 'Iceberg' Buriman, ret. Sorority Sister of Pi Loda Cum Chapter Fourteen: Shootout at the ER Corral A short time later the nurse said goodnight to Dude. Her step-mother demanded she clean and polish their home before bed. Dude was left to ponder in dim lights and distant voices of hospital staff kept purposely low. He was looking forward to the dinner at Martinelli's, yet didn't know why. There was something about that fellow made him think. What interest did he really have in this affair? Simply because he saw Harriette as a most prestigious prize? Harriette couldn't be the only reason he invited a total stranger to dinner. There was something about him that caught Dude's interest, but he couldn't put his finger on it. No, it wasn't his over active organ either. From where he sat, Dude could see the reflection of another nurse in the glass, another dark haired knockout, and he couldn't help watching her work. Every once in awhile she would stop and smile in his direction, their images meeting in a warm embrace in the clarity of the glass pane. There were a couple other nurses on duty, shuffling about. One sat filling out records and the other making rounds with medicines. Suddenly and without warning, Dude's intuition alerted him to something and he became uneasy. He kept still and watched, waiting for whatever it was that bothered him to make itself known. He allowed his mind to relax, and like a cat crouched before a mouse's hole, he waited patiently, watched and listened without concentrating. It didn't take long for muffled noises to reach his ears, and he slouched down into the chair. They came with the sounds of an elevator door opening and the squeaking of a wheel in need of oil. Reflected in the glass against the dark night sky he saw the elevator, but he didn't turn around or move in any way. He simply sat there feigning sleep, watching as three interns exited and turned down the hallway. All wore long white smocks and had stethoscopes dangling from their pockets. One wheeled a gurney, while the others walked beside it. What was it about the trio that troubled him? He couldn't quite figure it out. "Dude," Pi warned. At times like this Dude's instinctual emotions stir-up involuntary reactions so subtle he would barely recognize them if not for Pi. She comes when needed from somewhere, upsetting the rational order of his thought, to either compensate or complement, and though she sometimes takes time to understand, he never doubts her. Through half closed eyelids he viewed the mirrored image of the dark haired nurse, who seemed surprised by the arrival of the interns. She watched them approach and smiled tentatively. She skimmed a board with finger and eyes to see if they were expected, and then she looked to Dude, so he could see her concern. Harriette was dozing, wedged between her boys, thinking of having an order of pigs in a pancake for breakfast, when suddenly she woke and looked around. It was one-thirty, her arm ached, and she felt uneasy. She found her boys sleeping beside her and slipped her hand down to examine each one's hard-on, then slid her palm under the pillow, checking on her .357. She needed to think, and knew she couldn't move without waking her imps, so she woke them. Naturally the boys moved like exploding firecrackers, Litle diving face first into her pussy, Sven grabbing the nearest ass-cheek in his hands, lifting it far enough to get his head underneath so he could get his mouth on her asshole. Together they began burrowing into her from both ends like a couple nematode. Harriette found herself in an awkward position considering her situation, and put a stop to it. "Not now," she ordered and the boys stopped to lay back in the bed, pouting, cocks bobbing. As she does often when needing to think she looked at their hairless penises. "Stay quiet, boys, so I can think a minute." Sven moved to fluff Harriette's pillow up behind her. Litle nuzzled into Harriette, making sure his penis and balls were showing properly so she could think better. Even with all the attention, Harriette felt uneasy, and her mind went back to the church. She pushed Sven aside to scoot to an edge of the bed and grab the pair of panties Sven had brought with his delicacies. "Sven! Why do you always bring the pink," Harriette said through gritted teeth. Sven lowered his eyes and smiled. She held the silk panties out to Sven, and the young man shrugged his shoulders looking browbeaten, but Harriette's mind was on other things. She took a moment to look at her charges seriously. "Oh, go on. You two can beat-off while I think." "Jesus, who were those louts? What were they after? I could use a cigarette," she groused, as the boys sat beside her masturbating. Harriette often used their gentle squishing sounds when parsing a difficult problem in her head. Sven and Litle moved closer together into the middle of the bed hoping to give their wickedly exciting tunes a more well-rounded tone. "Too much information... God, too much going on in this little brain," Harriette said looking out the window and then to the door and then the ceiling, unable to calm down. She slipped into the terry cloth robe Sven brought along and hugged it to her body tight. "Well, at least you brought the black robe," she said to Sven. She dug further into the cowhide bag and to her delight, there was a bottle of Connemara Peated Single Malt whisky, along with a small tumbler. She poured a shot – no more, and no less. She turned to her boys and through a grin, said 'salainte.' The boys knelt together beating-off with a beat and rhythm challenging any rock duo, or church choir. "Christ, I don't know what I'd do without you two," she said, placing the empty tumbler aside. The boys smiled, watching and wishing Harriette would get within tongue range. "But I need answers, a smoke, watch my Flyers on the tube..." She went for the packet Father Costanzo had given her and wiped a bit of blood from its unusual cover. She turned it in her hands, contemplating its lack of seams and wondered how to open it. It was shaped like a billfold, but try as she may, she couldn't find a thread on which to start picking. It looked brand new and she studied it carefully. She didn't wish to destroy it, and wondered if she could, but decided on being gentle with it. After all, it had belonged to one of her dearest friends. Thoughts of Father Costanzo brought tears to her eyes and she allowed her little men to dab them up with their fingers. Crying wasn't her style, but some things just can't be helped. The priest had been a grandfather figure to her, taking her under his wing when she first came to Philadelphia. After seeing her through college, he'd gotten her the job with the force, and she rewarded him by ascending through the ranks quickly. He'd been very proud of her and always hoped to see her settled down, married and raising children. "Right," she said to herself and to him quietly. Then she chuckled, but that was simply another way of crying, and she knew it. She sat on the edge of the bed, wiggling herself back against Sven and Litle. The flickering light of a lame movie provided little comfort, whereas the hands of her boys were beginning to travel, changing that slowly. There was an old black and white film on the set, a late night thriller she ignored. She liked those old movies, where even the good-guy-bad-guy shoot 'em up tales had enough humor to keep a viewer upbeat. Too bad real life isn't like that, she thought, as four hands moved under, into and around her robe, searching for her breasts, her pussy and asshole. Wiggling a bit in their hands, she looked at her boys and reconsidered. In her reality there had been little gaiety outside her boys, less since her father died, and now with Sister Catherine and her beloved Padre gone, well, another tear fell. She wiped that one away too, upset with her childishness. She was accustomed to death, so why should it bother her now? She kept glancing out the window, then at the television, then to the object. She wanted to rip it open, to see what it was the priest had given her, but couldn't figure out how. She slammed the item down beside her, then she picked it up, stood, pulling herself from the grasp of the boys, and began pacing again. The boys went back to beating-off as she went to a chair and sat, then stood, then placed the object against her cheek and sighed. The material was cool to the touch, her blood torrid with anger, desire and frustration. She walked to the bed, lifted the corner of her pillow, and there was her friend, her shiny .357 magnum. Other than the boys, here was her buddy, her pal and mate, exactly where it belonged when she slept. She let the corner of the pillow go and again looked at the strange object, until the squeaking wheel caught her attention. It was getting closer, and she jumped into bed. The boys felt something amiss and curled up next to her, no longer masturbating. In the meantime the nurse was trying to find out why the interns were there. "How may I help you, doctors," she inquired, eyeing their badges. "We're here to check on one of the patients," replied a good-looking intern. He was very nonchalant as he walked around, pulled Harriette's chart and perused information. "Are you new here," the nurse asked, not wanting to sound suspicious. She was evidently nervous, but the doctor ignored it. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye and smiled. When finished, he returned the chart and turned toward his colleagues with a nod toward Harriette's room. "I don't recall having met you three before," the nurse said in another attempt to get information. "Yes, we're new to the hospital," he said while stepping to the others. "We're Dr. Moody's associates. He asked us to check up on his patient." He acted professionally, was all smiles, and exuded a warmth that bothered the nurse. The doctors at this hospital are known for their boldness, and they're always hot to trot, but not these three. She glanced toward the end of the hallway again, hoping Dude was watching. Dude noticed but remained motionless. The other nurses went about their duties, unaware of the situation, as the doctors moved toward Harriette's room with the gurney. One of them began chatting with the guard. He showed him a hospital ID and was quite jovial, while the other two entered the room. The boys jumped from the bed before the door opened and slipped into the washroom undetected. Harriette hid the object under her pillow, but kept hold of it. With one hand beneath her head, she feigned sleep as the door opened. She heard it close, and discerned two sets of footsteps. Someone turned up the volume on the television and Harriette opened her eyes, acting as if she'd just been awakened. "Yes," she asked while pretending to yawn. "Ms. Karson? Harriette Karson?" one of her visitors asked, taking a position alongside the bed. "Yeah, that's me. Who you two be," she asked trying to stifle another forced yawn. "Associates of Dr. Moody," the other stated, establishing his presence on the other side of her bed. "Let me guess, Drs. Jekyll and Hyde, right," Harriette snorted. "Really, Ms. Karson." "Well then. You can start by getting the hell out of my room, ass clowns. No doctor sees patients at this hour," she growled, releasing the object and moving to grasp the handle of her gun. "Please, this won't take long, Ms. Karson," the doctor near the window said. "Not long at all," echoed the other while producing a syringe and taking hold of Harriette's free arm. "What the fuk are you doing, asshole," Harriette said aloud. She pulled her sore arm from his grasp and slipped the finger of her other hand onto the trigger. "Get off me!" "Just hold still," he said with a change in demeanor, "and it will go easier for you." With that, he placed the syringe aside and pulled a gun out from under his coat. The moment his gun came into view, Harriette squeezed the trigger of her .357. The shell sent the fake doctor back across the room, his blood decorating the far wall. The force of the blast sent the pillow, Harriette's head, and her hand into the air along with the .357. The gun came up into the other doctor's face but before she could act Sven darted from the washroom to jump on the guy's head, his face, and at the same time drove his hard-on into the guy's eye, splattering eye ball juice into air round them, getting the guy screaming. He held onto the back of the guy's head, his boner lodged balls deep in the eye socket and began fucking him. The guy was screaming and had dropped his gun to grab Sven while thrashing around like an elephant after a jalapeño hot sauce enema, his head and the front of Sven coated in blood. Litle grabbed the guy's ankles causing him to fall face down on the floor, while Sven held on to the guy's head. The guy continued screaming and struggling to pull the nineteen year old 98 pound little monster out of his head, and off his face. Litle jumped on the guy's back and reached between his legs to grab his balls, causing the fellow to reach down with one hand to protect himself, if he could. Dude jumped out of his chair, and the guard jumped too, but before he could react the doctor talking with him pulled out a gun and shot him dead. With forty-five in hand, Dude turned the corner in time to see the doctor shoot the dark haired nurse. Dude fired, killing the imposter, sending his body into an empty wheel chair. Then he raced to Harriette's room and entered with weapon at ready. Expecting the worst, he found Harriette standing over her boys shaking her head. "Damnit! Can't you two simply kill without showing off," she said with an upset tone. Sven looked up at her with a big pout, and Litle followed suit. "Sven," she yelled. "Young man, you get your organ outta that eye socket this minute. You march yourself right into that shower stall and scrub yourself clean." "May I cum first," he asked. "Now!! I hate when you do things like this. Why can't you use a stick like a normal person would?" "Yes, ma'am," Sven said sheepishly, yanking his hard-on from the bloodied hole. Harriette looked at the bloody mess forming a pool under the guy's head. "Look at you. What a mess!" "Must have been a virgin," Litle said aloud, snickering. He was still on the guy's back but the guy was no longer moving. "Damnit," Harriette said turning to Dude. "Wouldn't ya just know... Now I gotta explain why Sven performed another lobotomy without a license." Then she laughed. "Harriette, you hurt," Dude asked, watching Litle climb off the fellow and run with Sven to the washroom. Harriette lowered her gun looking at Dude with one raised eye brow. She looked around him to the cadaver on the chair in the hall. "No, not hurt. What the fuk happened?" "Good," Dude said, answering the first question. "And what the fuk are you doing here," Harriette stated quizzically, perplexed. "Don't know for sure, but I've a good idea," Dude answered, ignoring her second question again. He holstered his forty-five and stooped down near the dead man with a vial and scraper in hand. He collected blood and tissue samples from the fellow's eye socket, as Harriette watched in morbid fascination. "Hey I asked... " she blurted out. "...That son of a bitch was trying to stick me!" "Looks like he got stuck instead," Dude said examining the eye socket. "But why? And, what the hell ARE you doing here, huh?" Harriette moved closer to Dude, getting herself wound up. "Every time you're around me, so is a fresh corpse. Is it just my perfume, or do you have this effect on all your women," she spat sarcastically. Dude opened his mouth to answer, but confusion spilled in. By now hospital security was everywhere, with additional emergency personnel en route. Many patients were at their doors screaming hysterically, one had a heart attack, and another shit in their bed. The nurses, some with panties round their ankles and breast bared, scurried from room to room trying to settle everyone down. The head of hospital security burst into the room to confront Harriette and Dude. With him was a detective who just happened to be at the hospital. Harriette was surprised to see it was Boyle. "What happened," they yelled in unison, both looking at the one eyed fellow still on the floor. Together their eyes traveled from him, to the walls decorated in blood and guts. "Nice art work," Boyle remarked off-handedly, shooting Harriette a sarcastic look. "And nice colored undies," he said looking between her parted robe. "Yet again, astute detective work from the commander of the obvious. You'll find lingerie on the fourth floor, you ass wipe," Harriette spat. "Jesus X-ray Christ, this just gets better and better," Harriette groaned, pulling her robe tight. Steam from the shower started filling the room. "Boyle, what the hell are you doing here at this hour? Never mind. Wouldn't believe your chicken shit lie anyway. I gotta get cleaned up," she grumbled. Without removing her robe, Harriette attempted to don her jacket as best she could, figuring to take herself and her boys home. Dude finished collecting samples and stood to assist her. "Thanks," she offered with a grimace. Dude nodded and handed Harriette her holster. She pushed her gun into the leather and took the holster from him, tossing it over her good shoulder. Once again the squeal of police sirens could be heard pulling up in front of the hospital. "Harriette," Dude started, before being interrupted. "And the Chief ordered me to stay here for my health," she muttered incredulously. "We have to get you to a safe place Harriette," Dude declared softly as he moved to take Harriette's arm. "Whoa there, big guy," Harriette said pulling free. "Not without Sven and Litle, my little suckem fuckem robots. Without them, I go nowhere." She walked to the bed and searched under the sheets for the object given her by Father Castanzo. "Have to admit they're quite a pair," Dude said looking down at the dead guy with one eye. No one was permitted to touch any of the bodies until after the crime lab fellows were here and gone. In all the confusion, only one person saw Harriette find and pocket the item. Harriette looked up to find Dude's eyes upon her and they stared at one another for a long moment, almost reading each other's thoughts. Harriette finally shook them apart as Dude tried to hang on. He couldn't quite discern her expression, nor she his. Harriette marched herself into the steam, disappearing into the washroom after Sven and Litle. A short time later the trio emerged from the bathroom, all dressed and ready to go. Sven and Litle packed their belongings up quickly, as Harriette grabbed the rest of her possessions and started to leave, walking toward Boyle, who was scribbling notes furiously. Dude took a moment to reach down and pick up the syringe, which he slipped into a plastic bag and pocketed. "Harriette," Boyle shouted, trying to slow Harriette down as she pushed passed him, stepping on his foot as she did. "The Chief's gonna wanna talk with you!" "Tell the Chief I'll call him. And, do start the official paperwork, note-boy," she sneered from over her shoulder. Together with Dude, Harriette and the boys scurried into an open elevator and disappeared, both boys having stepped on Boyle's foot as they passed.