Message-ID: <23760asstr$956153411@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Saynesberry@aol.com
X-Original-Message-ID: <43.395492c.262e9351@aol.com>
MIME-Version: 1.0
Content-Type: text/plain; charset="US-ASCII"
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit
Subject: {ASSM} The Saga of Blanche, Part V: Coyreen's War
Date: Wed, 19 Apr 2000 10:10:11 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
X-Archived-At: <URL:http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/Year2000/23760>
X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation <story-ckought69@hotmail.com>
X-Story-Submission: <ckought69@hotmail.com>
X-Moderator-ID: IceAltar, english
The Saga of Blanche,
Part V: Coyreen's War
by
Frank Saynesberry
(The following story is for adults. If you are under 18, or dislike explicit
descriptions of sex, please read no farther. You wouldn't enjoy it.)
*******************************************************
So here I was again, sitting in the run-down offices of Grimbros
Investigations, Inc., trying once more to make sense of the strangest case of
my career. I had my Fedora pushed back from my forehead, and I rubbed my
eyes with my fingertips, trying to ease the strain caused by too much
cigarette smoke, too many newspaper clippings, and the stack of 8X10 glossies
that were spread all over the top of my rickety wooden desk. I'd been taking
inventory of the case so far, and although I had come up with some pretty
solid conclusions, I knew I needed more if I was gonna satisfy my client,
Miles O'Smiles. With a sigh, I quit rubbing, fired up another Lucky, and
resumed flipping through the photos.
There she was, right on top: the deceased, Coyreen O'Smiles, formerly
Coyreen, the Porno Queen, looking much sexier than she had when they dredged
her out of the La Brea Tar Pits; there was Miles himself, the fifty-ish porn
czar and heartbroken widower, every inch the tweedy, pipe-smoking, phony
"English gentleman," who had actually been born in Oxnard, California; there
was Vitaly Arkhoff, Coyreen's former masseur, bodyguard, and
Ivan-of-All-Trades, looking exactly like the champion Russian weightlifter he
had once been; and there, grinning or scowling into the lens of my own
Minox, were all seven of the Devil's Dwarves: Chang, the massive, 6 '6
"Chinese; Snap, the tall, skinny ex-farmboy who had somehow talked his way
into the group, and its only Caucasian; Nacho and Benny, the two
wise-cracking Latinos; Ernie and Burt, the two cool, black ex-cons; and,
finally the leader of the group, the undisputed alpha male, the lean, tough
Paiute Indian known (predictably) as Chief. None of the Dwarves stood at
less than 6 '3 "; the group's name had been chosen in some moment of ghetto
whimsy. Flipping back and forth through the pictures, my eyes lingered on
the face of the Dwarf that had been killed during the Coyreen affair: I
wonder what he might have accomplished in life? At least, I figured, he had
accomplished something in death ... and there, atop the pile of morgue photos
of the other victims, in sharp and refreshing contrast, was the beautiful,
pale face of Blanche Snow. What could be said about her? Everything, but
someone more eloquent than me would have to say it. I just stared at her
picture and thought about the magic, or the luck, or the miracle, that this
whole fucking case had turned out to be....
********************************************************
Okay, maybe words like "magic" sound pretty hokey coming from somebody like
me: a second-rate private dick in downtown LA, a has-been cop in a town where
"law enforcement" has become a dirty, scandalous joke; a two-time loser in
the hallowed halls of matrimony; a "tough guy," if tough means that your skin
and your soul are covered with scars: yeah, I was a real prize, and like our
friend Coyreen, I wasn't getting any younger: I wouldn't see the sunny side
of forty again. I'm not singing the blues, just mentioning that I wasn't
exactly fairy-tale material. But maybe some things in life are so weird that
there's no way to explain them, except with fairy tales.....
For example: here we are again at the little wooden house in Watts where the
Devil's Dwarves live. Last time we looked, the unconscious, indescribable
body of Blanche Snow lay curled up on a mattress on the floor, with the
Dwarves eyeballing her. You know what comes next, right? No, it didn't.
The Chief thought the situation over, had a little chat with the Dwarves, and
instead of a gang-rape, all of a sudden the guys were moving out, some to
bring in supplies, some to find clothes for the girl, while a few, like the
Chief and Benny and Burt, stayed behind and went to work on the little
shitbox house itself. They replaced the shattered glass in the windows, and
mopped the blood and piss off the hardwood floors, and Benny, who drew the
shortest of three matchsticks, actually scrubbed down the bathroom, muttering
ancient Aztec curses under his breath the entire time. And although the
Dwarves' mattresses and bedrolls remained on the floor, they were at least
sprayed down with Lysol and arranged neatly, and Ernie proved once again that
he was the master shoplifter of all LA by bringing home brand-new shades for
the beaten-up old lamps that lit the place. Snap, meanwhile, had visited a
hardware store and lifted enough mousetraps and roach powder to kill off the
entire vermin population of his native Ozark, Alabama. And by the time
Blanche finally awakened, the nasty little crash-pad had become, if not
exactly a respectable house, something of a home. Rather than bother with
curtains, however, the Dwarves had simply spray-painted the insides of the
newly installed window panes. Nacho dusted and rearranged the little shrines
to the Virgin Mary and Julio Caesar Chavez, and Ernie smoothed and
straightened the poster of Malcolm X, after first tearing down all the
centerfolds from all the stolen porn magazines. They were trying to make a
place this girl would feel comfortable. The didn't know why she'd been
standing naked and terrified in the alley where they found her, but they knew
was in trouble, and trouble was something they understood very well. So was
being an outsider, which this girl obviously was. Sure, their immediate
reaction had been wild, almost savage lust; but after a while, as Chief was
the first to notice, their feelings became far more tender. The Dwarves all
had ever-ready, seldom-denied cocks, which had been hard ever since they
first saw Blanche, but their hearts were maybe a little softer. So they
awkwardly but gently dressed her in a floor-length bathrobe Snap had
"borrowed" from his girlfriend's place, and they made up her mattress with
brand-new sheets stolen, along with a baby-blue electric blanket, by Ernie;
and as the afternoon turned to evening, they all stayed home, making plans,
taking turns watching her until she awakened.
As Vitaly Arkhoff could have told them, Blanche had a way with people.
**************************************************
At the moment, however, Vitaly was on the lam. After presenting Coyreen with
what she thought was Blanche's freshly removed heart, he had told his
once-beloved Meestress precisely what he thought of her, and walked out of
her house, and her employ, forever. He was now roaring through the Hollywood
Hills in his HumVee, wondering what to do next, fully aware that he had
placed himself permanently on the Porno Queen's shit list.
Furious as she was toward Vasily, however, Coyreen remained a very happy
woman. The graying, rubbery mass that had once been a live, throbbing heart
still lay in the middle of her bedroom floor, still oozing watery black
blood, and starting to develop a noticeable odor. But Coyreen couldn't have
cared less. "Let's see how fine they think you look now, you pasty-faced
little cunt!" she screamed at the heart. "You thought you could take
Coyreen's place?" Naked once again after Vitaly's refusal to fuck her, she
marched across the bedroom, and taking careful aim with one pink little foot,
she kicked the heart through the air, shrieking with laughter when it landed
with a splat on the far wall, then bloodily slithered back down to the deep
white carpet. I know what you're thinking, and you're right: Coyreen was now
completely insane.
She turned to the table where her brand-new computer sat. Miles' technical
staff had completely rewritten the mirror.exe program, even going so far as
to bypass the Watts Mass Choir and pay an outrageous amount of Miles' money
for the services of a very popular "band" to serenade Coyreen on the all-new
mirror.WAV. "Now I oughtta get my proper fuckin' respect," she cackled,
booting up the machine and standing before it, hands on hips, legs spread,
like a tribal priestess awaiting word from an oracle.
In a moment, Coyreen's favorite images from her own films, now in
high-definition, sparkled and swirled across her screen. She smiled and
clapped her hands, squealing and standing up on her tiptoes like a
schoolgirl. As a brief instrumental lead-in to mirror.WAV began, she
demanded impatiently, "Okay, okay, just tell me! Who's the finest queen
you've seen?" No sooner had she spoken than she heard the harmonious, fruity
tones of N Synch:
"Hotter than Brittney, wiser than Jewel,
Blanche is the one who was born to rule!"
"WHAT?" Coyreen screamed, her hands flying to her face in shock. "You're
lying! Damn you, I'll prove you're lying!" As mirror.WAV continued with an
a cappella chorus of "doo-waaaah"s, she raced across the room, snatched up
the heart, and dashed back to the computer. "Look, you motherfucker," she
howled, rubbing the much-abused organ back and forth across the monitor
screen, "she's fucking dead! Here's her fucking heart!" She dropped it to
the floor and began to sob. "She's...dead, dammit!" she gasped.
As the pictures from her movies continued to flicker on the monitor screen,
which was now smeared with gore, the voices of N Synch rose once more:
"Search the deserts and the shores,
But you'll find Blanche among the Dwarves!
Doooooh-waaaaaahhh.......
Blanche has made a brand-new start,
And Coyreen's got a hooker's heart!"
The words stunned Coyreen out of her hysteria. Dwarves? New start? What
the fuck? Her eyes, red from tears, narrowed; her full, pouting lips thinned
as she set her jaw. Breathing deeply for a moment to bring her nerves under
control, she crossed the room, opened the bedside-table drawer, and pulled
out the small .32 Beretta that Miles had given her for protection from
burglars, as well as a cardboard box full of ammunition. Slamming the drawer
shut, she walked purposefully back to the desk. Firing all six shots
directly into the machine's hard-drive, she hissed, "This is for you, Vasily,
you lying, double-crossing cocksucker!" Then, her breathing heavy but
controlled, she emptied the chamber and reloaded the little gun. She lay it
and the cardboard box down on the desk and walked slowly toward the huge
clothes closet. "Let's see," she muttered to herself, "what does one wear
when one goes to visit Dwarves?"
In light of what happened next, it's a good thing that Miles really was at
the studio that night. Otherwise, he'd have heard the shots and come
running, just as he had come running so many times when Coyreen needed his
attention. As it happened, the first one to hear the gunfire was Eddie
Willbanks, a USC sophomore who had recently come to work at the O'Smiles
Estate as a parttime security guard. After an hour of studying for a
calculus test in the little guardhouse at the end of the driveway, Eddie had
momentarily stepped out into the night air to smoke a cigarette, and had
heard the six distant, but unmistakable "pops" of the little Beretta.
Knowing that Miles was gone, and seeing the second-floor bedroom light, he
dropped his Marlboro and sprinted up the driveway. By the time he had run up
the stairs and burst into the bedroom, Coyreen was already dressed: sitting
on the end of the bed, pulling on a pair of sandals, she wore tight, torn
designer jeans and a tube-top made of genuine ermine. She glanced up at Eddy
as though having strange men burst into her bedroom were a nightly
occurrance, which, in fact, was not the case. "Oh, hi, Eddie," she said
sweetly, checking to see that the buckles on her sandals were secure. "I
didn't know you'd come on duty yet. How's school?"
The boy's mouth hung open in amazement at the scene: the shattered glass and
twisted circuitry of the computer, the strange, greasy bloodstains on the
floor and wall, the stench of cordite and something that smelled like rotten
meat, and Coyreen, the "lady" of the house, sitting calmly in the middle of
it all, now rummaging around in her Gucci handbag to see if she had
everything she would need. Fortunately for his state of mind, Eddie did not
see the discarded heart, which lay obscured by part of the computer monitor's
fragmented casing. "Holy shit, Miz O'Smiles!" he exclaimed. "What in the
Hell happened here? Are you okay? Is somebody in here with a gun?" His
eyes darted wildly around the room as his hand reached for the stun-gun on
his hip, the only weaponry he was allowed to carry.
"Oh, no, Eddie," laughed Coyreen, "it's just me, playing around with that
silly old computer! I couldn't get the data I needed from it, and, well,
Eddie," she lowered her voice and forced herself to blush, as she had learned
to do in films, "it's a bad time of month, if you know what I mean, and I was
feeling kinda cranky, so I just shot the thing! Pretty dumb, huh? Now
somebody'll just have to clean it up!"
Eddie continued to stare, but took his hand off the stun-gun. "But, Miz
O'Smiles, ma'am, we've gotta call the police! Well, I gotta radio my
supervisor, first, but I left my fuckin' radio down at the shack...."
Coyreen interrupted him, standing up from the bed and slinging the straps of
her handbag over her shoulder. "Why, Eddie? Why call the police? Nobody's
committed any crime, and there sure aren't any intruders in here!" "Yes'm, I
see, but whenever a gun is discharged in a residential district, I've gotta
report it, and the police have to investigate it. I think that's a lot of
bullshit, but I'll lose my job if I don't do it."
She was walking toward the boy now. "Okay, Eddie, let's call the police.
And your supervisor." Her voice was slowly turning coy, seductive,
manipulative. Seeing the Porn Queen of the whole world undulating toward
him, her breasts jiggling beneath the sleek ermine, might not have thrown Joe
Friday for a loop, but it certainly confused the thinking of a normal,
20-year-old college kid. "But before we call them, will you tell me
something?" Now they were face to face. "Um, sure, Miz O'Smiles, yes
ma'am," Eddie stammered.
"Well, Eddie, if there HAD been somebody with a gun in here, could that
stun-thingie of yours have really stopped him?" "Oh, no way in Hell, ma'am,"
the boy replied, "'cause he'd probably have shot me first. But if I could
get right next to him, and put it right on his skin, it would knock his ass
from here to Dodger Stadium!"
"REALLY?" gasped Coyreen in her best approximation of girlish wonder. "Wow,
I didn't know that. Okay, now before we call the cops, tell me one more
little thing. A friend of mine told me a riddle, and I can't quite figure it
out. Eddie, if you wanted to find dwarves in Los Angeles, where would you
go?" The boy's face was perfectly blank with incomprehension. "Dwarves,
ma'am? Well, unless you mean really small people, then there's two places:
Disneyland, and Watts." Coreen burst out laughing. "Watts? Why would there
be dwarves in Watts?" The boy flushed; was she laughing at him? "Well,
they're not REAL dwarves, ma'am," he said as patiently as he could, his eyes
straying from Coyreen's face to the nearby telephone and back. "It's a gang:
call themselves the Devil's Dwarves. It's a joke: all of 'em are real big
guys." Coyreen nodded her head slightly. "Now, isn't that interesting.
Eddie, I can see you're gonna do well in college. Well, thanks for helping
me with my riddle! Now why don't you go on and call the police?"
The boy looked immensely relieved; dealing with the cops was easier than
talking to this crazy bitch any day. But wouldn't I like to get a hold of -
- - no. He steeled his resolve, walked away from Coyreen, and picked up the
phone. He'd call LA's Finest, then hustle down to the shack to radio his
supervisor. Picking up the receiver in his left hand, his right forefinger
punched in nine...one...
"One," giggled Coyreen as the bullet entered Eddie's brain. The receiver
clattered to the table. Eddie started to slump, but before he could fall,
Coyreen had wrapped her arms around his chest to hold him while she slipped
the stun-gun from its holster. She pressed the button and watched the sparks
crackle. "Pretty," she said in Eddie's dead ear. Then she let him slip to
the floor, reached over, and replaced the receiver in its cradle.
She slipped the stun-gun into her handbag, along with the Beretta, and fished
out the keys to her Porsche. "I think I can find Watts," she said confidently
to herself.
***************************************************
NEXT:
BLANCHE MEETS COYREEN
(If you liked this story, write!
Saynesberry@hushmail.com)
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com> |
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html> Moderator: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|Archive: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org> Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository |
|<http://www.asstr-mirror.org>, an entity supported entirely by donations. |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+