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Subject: {ASSM} The Saga of Blanche, Part VII: Death of a Queen
Date: Sat, 13 May 2000 19:11:08 -0400
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The Saga of Blanche, Part VII:
Death of a Queen
by
Frank Saynesberry
(Now, really: if you're under 18 years of age, or you don't
enjoy graphic depictions of sex, please don't read this.)
****************************************************************
Sitting behind the desk in my shabby downtown "office," I heaved a deep sigh
and started scooping up the photographs and documents spread out before me.
Although the investigation had definitely been the strangest of my career, it
had only taken a few days, and I was ready to make my report to the client,
Miles O'Smiles, the millionaire pornographer. It would be a painful report
for the poor bastard to hear, but he had to hear it; that's why he had hired
me, after the LAPD, the coroner's office, and all the other "official" types
had been unable to answer his questions.
Oh, he knew the case involved foul play. Everyone in Southern California
knew, within 48 hours, that the horrifying death of Miles' wife, Coyreen, the
Porno Queen, was merely the finale to a sudden rampage of gruesome killings
that had taken place in a single day's time. What concerned Miles was the
precise nature of her death: was it murder, suicide, or accident? He didn't
care about revenge, because that wouldn't have brought her back to him. Even
if she'd been gunned down by the cops or the Mob, he'd have understood, just
as he'd have understood a suicide: Coyreen had been a hophead and a
troublemaker and a head case for years. But as the shrinks would say, Miles
needed "closure." He needed something final, something to end the nightmare.
I didn't know if it would help or not, but I had something for him.
So, I drove back down to his new estate in Palos Verdes Peninsula, where he'd
fled to escape all the remainders and reminders of Coyreen at their Brentwood
mansion. With a sigh, he sat down behind his mahogany desk, as I scooted my
chair to the very front of the desk, and I began to lay it all out for him -
- - the photographs, the reports, and the unbelievable truth.
***************************************************
Last time we saw Coyreen, she was making her escape from the little shotgun
house in Watts where the Devil's Dwarves - - - and their newest and best
friend, Blanche Snowe - - - made their motley, but happy, home. In the same
murderous rage which had already stubbed out the lives of a college kid, a
coke dealer, an off-duty cop, and a middle-aged church choir leader, Coyreen
had just fired her . 32 Beretta at pointblank range into the Chief's gut, had
shattered Snap's femur with a wild shot, and had left Blanche stretched out
and stiff on the wooden floor, the victim of over 500,000 volts of
electricity from Coyreen's stun-gun. The device lay exhausted and discarded
nearby, and wisps of smoke still rose from Blanche's once-perfect, beautiful
neck, where the electrodes had pressed against her skin for about ten seconds.
But as she fled the scene of this carnage (and the wrath of the four Dwarves
who had been unable to stop her), Coyreen soon discovered that she was not
alone. For no sooner had she hopped into her yellow Porsche convertible and
gunned the engine, than she felt a massive, shaking thump, that rattled and
rocked the entire car. It was Chang, the seventh and largest Dwarf, who had
just been returning home with carryout pizza when Coyreen burst through the
front door, and had heard one of the Dwarves scream, "Get her, Chang! She
killed Blanche!" Chang had dropped the pizza cartons, crossed the street in
two loping strides, and launched himself over the back of the convertible,
reaching out and grabbing hold of the passenger-side headrest. Coyreen
glanced at him in disbelief and confusion, but she did not pause in her
flight: unwanted passenger or not, she was getting the Hell out of there.
Ignoring pedestrians, stop signs, and traffic lights, she roared west on
107th Street, past the Watts Towers, whirling the steering wheel back and
forth and crushing her foot down on the gas pedal. The car swerved and shot
around and between any cars unfortunate enough to be nearby. At the same
time, the massive Chang wrapped his right arm tight around the passenger
seat, trying to stay on board as his body swung from side to side, nearly
rolling off the car several times. With his left hand, he reached around
Coyreen's seat and sank his long, thick fingers into her throat. As she
attempted to gasp, Coyreen reflexively took her foot off the accelerator, and
as the little car began to slow somewhat, Chang was able to swing his legs
over the trunk and into the absurdly small "back seat" area of the car.
Cramped and awkward as it was, however, he was now inside the car.
Choking, but with maniacal determination, Coyreen, managed to steer the car
with her left hand, while her right fumbled on the floor near the gear shift.
Chang's fingers began to press further. "What did you do to Blanche, you
cunt?" he hissed into Coyreen's ear.
"Fuck off, Slope!" she croaked, and, finding what she had sought, she brought
up the little . 32 in her right hand and fired it straight into Chang's
bicep. The car swerved sickeningly as they both screamed: Chang, because the
bullet had traveled up through his muscles and lodged in his humerus bone,
leaving his arm flapping uselessly; Coyreen, because, although Chang's grip
was broken, she had shattered her own eardrum by firing so close to her head.
Chang snarled a Mandarin curse and slumped back into the little back seat;
Coyreen, still sucking air between her teeth in order to regain her breath,
stomped down on the accelerator again. A few blocks ahead lay 110-N, then
the Harbor Freeway: she had no clear idea of where she wanted to go, but
"north" definitely had the right ring to it.
Racing toward the next intersection, she thought that the Jap freak, or
whoever he was, had passed out or even died: he was certainly not rocking the
boat anymore. "Stupid fucker!" she sneered. "Thinks he can stop the Queen,
does he?" But then, as if in reply, she heard a fierce, agonized growl, and
Chang's snarling face, the same sort of face that once rode behind Genghis
Khan, filled her rearview mirror. Lunging forward between the seats, his
right hand clamped down over hers on the steering wheel, as he siezed control
of the car with such force that the bones in Coyreen's hand began to snap and
pop like coals on a campfire. Grunting, he jerked the wheel sharply, and
instead of 110-N, they were now veering onto Figueroa Boulevard.
Blood was running down Coyreen's cheek and neck, down between her breasts,
from her ravaged ear; her hand was utterly crushed, pinned between the
Dwarf's hand and the wheel; but she was not defeated, only further enflamed.
"Big ugly cocksucker," she screamed, "you made me miss my fucking turn!"
Retrieving the little handgun that she'd dropped into her lap, she raised it
as far as she could in the cramped space, and squeezed the trigger. The
bullet entered the left side of Chang's neck and exited the right side, then
whizzed off into the darkness. He gurgled something and reached for his
throat, releasing his hold on the steering wheel, and collapsed once again
into the back of the car.
Coyreen's right hand, crushed and already purple, slid off the steering
wheel; the car swerved toward an oncoming bus, but she managed to drop the
Beretta and grab the wheel with her left in time to avoid the collision. She
grabbed the wheel so hard, in fact, that the car whirled around, tires
screeching, in a complete circle, a blur of bright yellow on the gray, grimy
avenue. But when it stopped, they were still headed north. Coyreen slammed
through the gears and floored it again, and soon she and Chang were racing
toward a destination neither of them would have expected: a place that spoke
of struggle and death and things that had outlived themselves.
****************************************************
Meanwhile, the little house in Watts had become a desperate flurry of
activity. Upon Coyreen's departure, the four unharmed Dwarves had hastily
retrieved their firearms from a nearby room, and had lurched into action to
help their fallen companions. Ernie, the larger of the two blacks, stepped
out the front door, his Uzi cradled in his arms, and coolly surveyed the
street, both to see if Coyreen had left any unknown accomplices behind, and
to protect the house from further assault. Benny, the big Latino, knelt on
the hardwood floor, laying down his own gun and cradling Snap's torso in his
arms. "Oh, shit, Benny, my laig hurts," Snap gasped, clutching frantically
at his wounded thigh. Benny pulled the hand away, leaned over to inspect the
dime-sized hole, and hissed, "Ay, mano, eet's bleedin' real bad! You gotta
help me help you, main!" He rolled Snap's hand into a fist and extended the
index finger, which he gently inserted directly into the wound. When Snap
cried out and tried to move his hand, Benny's grip became firm, and he said,
as soothingly as possible, "No, main, no! You gotta leave eet there,
brozzer! Hol' back th' bleedin', see?" He had a sudden inspiration. "Ees
like stickeeng your finger inna dike, main! Hol' back th' fuckeeng flood,
see?"
Despite his agony, Snap's moans were broken by a burst of high-pitched
laughter. "Fuck you, Benny! I ain't never touched no got-damned dyke in
m'life!" Both men laughed, even as their tears flowed, but Snap's finger
stayed in the bullet hole, while Benny clutched him like a bear protecting
her cub.
A few feet away, both Nacho and Burt knelt between the fallen bodies of
Blanche and the Chief. "Shit, Nacho, we gotta get some help!" cried Burt,
looking back and forth between the two victims. "I jus' heard the sirens,
main," Nacho replied, "I theenk the paralegals is almos' here!"
"Paramedics, you dumbass," the Chief hissed between clenched teeth. He lay
on his side in a ball; Coyreen's shot, deflected by his sudden movement, had
torn into his abdominal muscles, causing indescribable agony. But if any of
the Dwarves were to be gut-shot, the Chief (or possibly Chang) would be most
likely to survive. Both men, despite their different physiques, worked out
constantly and privately to keep in shape, and the Chief's abdominals were
every bit as rock-hard and sinewy as his biceps or pectorals. Amazingly, the
little bullet from Coyreen's .32 had actually been slowed, then actually
stopped, as it tore through the hard, tight muscles, and fell just short of
reaching the viscera beneath. Ultimately, after the doctor's blade had
dislodged the slug, the Chief would merely be left with yet another scar.
Blanche's case was far more frightening. "Chief, Chief, shit, man, I can't
even tell if she's alive or dead!" Burt jabbered, "She don't seem to be
breathing!" Nacho was similarly distraught. "Madre de Dios, Chief, her eyes
are black like from a knockout, and her skin's jus' as tough as suede!"
"Watch out!" the Chief cried. "Where's that thing the bitch stuck her with?
Is it still touchin' her? That electric shit'll go right through her and into
you!"
Burt glanced around the room. The exhausted, stubby-looking stun-gun lay on
the floor, fifteen feet away. "No, man," he replied, his voice rumbling from
deep within his chest. "It's safe, Chief. The fuckin' thing's on the other
side of the room!" Even as he spoke, he rose to one knee, pointed his 9 mm.
Glock at the deadly device, and fired five perfectly aimed shots at it,
reducing it to a pile of plastic and metal scraps.
At that moment, Ernie stepped back inside the house, making no effort to hide
his Uzi from the three-person team of paramedics who were following close
behind. He stepped out of their way and the newcomers quickly brushed Nacho
and Burt away from the two victims. As they bent to their work, Chief gasped
out, "Tell me, dammit! Is she alive?"
"Yes, she's alive," announced the lead paramedic, who was listening to
Blanche's chest with a stethoscope. "At least, her body is. I can't tell
you about her brain." The man tore the stethoscope from his ears, then
quickly swung his leg over so that he was straddling the girl's slim waist.
Placing the palms of his hands firmly between her breasts, he began to
rhythmically apply cardiopulmonary massage. The other two paramedics, a man
and a woman, unbuckled the straps on a backboard they'd carried in, and began
to prepare for her evacuation to the hospital.
"You be careful with her, got damn it!" shouted Snap from across the room,
his finger still plugging the hole in his thigh. "Anything else happens to
her, I'm gon' open a whole fuckin' case of whoop-ass on y'all'!" "Fuck yeah,
main," added Benny, still cradling Snap in his arms.
"They'll do what they can downtown," replied the female attendant. "But I
can't make any promises."
*******************************************************************
The La Brea Tar Pits, located at the corner of La Brea and Hawthorne
Boulevards in downtown Los Angeles, were first discovered (by white men,
anyway) in 1769, when a Roman Catholic "advance man," Juan Crespi, was
wandering through the Sunny Southland scoping out likely sites for new
churches. What he found, on this particular day, was a small lake, surrounded
by tropical foliage and very lush vegetation. It might have struck the good
Padre as another Eden, except that the lake was not full of water, but
stinking, boiling tar. And although the vegetation was gorgeous and glorious
and very, very green, there were no animals.... anywhere. It was as though
all the local critters had abandoned the place .... like maybe they were
afraid of it. Well, the Padre pitched camp here with his companions, but
after sweating out three earthquakes in 24 hours, they decided to keep
moving, and began hacking out the northward trail now known as El Camino
Real. Meanwhile, the vegetation kept flourishing, and the tar kept bubbling,
until in 1901, a bunch of visiting scholars from Berkeley hit one of the
biggest jackpots in scientific history: this lake, which by then had
partially hardened and now resembled several smaller lakes, or tar pits, was
literally brimming with fossils: and so the world learned about the original
Los Angelinos, the saber-toothed tigers and the woolly mammoths and, for all
I know, King Kong's mother-in-law. The only thing the huge, stupid creatures
had in common was that they were all meat-eaters .... or the victims of
meat-eaters. See, the vegetarians could just graze like cattle, anywhere from
Rodeo Drive to Sea World; but the carnivores had to chase their prey. And,
very often, they chased it straight into the tar. Think quicksand, but
boiling. And when the panicked, grass-chewing mammoths ran into the tar, and
their saber-toothed pursuers followed, let's just say that none of them were
rewarded with a Happy Meal.
Still awake? Thanks. I don't give a rat's ass about this stuff, either, but
it's part of the case. Anyway, the scientists had a field day, and textbooks
were rewritten, and the City of Angels had its first truly unique tourist
attraction. The Pits, which continued to harden, inch by inch, year by year,
were roped off, and a museum was built. (The Pits never did harden
completely, although much of the surface area has now been baked into
asphalt: the earthquakes that plague California always managed to bust it up
again.) They even erected some life-sized concrete replicas of the original
animals, which they placed in and around the Pits very realistically. And,
lemme tell ya, if you're not ready for it, it's a Hell of a thing to come
tooling up Hawthorne in your brand-new SUV, your kids squalling in the back
seat, and suddenly see a giant woolly mammoth, its terrible tusks raised into
the air, standing thirty feet away from the curb!
***************************************************************
Last time we checked in on Coyreen, she and Chang, both badly hurt, were
barreling north on Figueroa in her much-abused yellow Porsche convertible.
Chang had diverted Coyreen from her chosen route, but since she had no fixed
destination in mind, it didn't much matter: she just wanted to put plenty of
pavement between herself and Watts. So she kept her foot on the gas, even as
she steered with her elbow (her right hand was swollen to twice its normal
size now, five minutes after Chang had crushed it) and clutched the Beretta
firmly in her left, in case Chang rose up again from behind her. He seemed
to be lapsing in and out of consciousness; Coyreen wished he'd just lapse the
fuck out and get it over with. Blood poured from his throat, where her
bullet had entered and exited; he was still conscious, however, and he knew
he had to stop this bitch, and he wanted very much to kill her, for she had
(he thought) slain the only truly decent person he'd ever known, and had done
who-knows-what to the other Dwarves. But even the largest, strongest body
has its limits, and nobody keeps a clear head when blood is flowing from so
many wounds. He attempted to rise up and attack Coyreen again, but suddenly
his vision grew dim, and he could hear nothing but the pounding of his own
blood, and with a moan he slumped back again.
Coyreen felt the little car shudder as Chang's giant form thumped down on the
floor of the so-called back seat, and she laughed uproariously. Slowing the
car somewhat, she managed to steer with her right elbow and her knees for a
moment, while she brought the Beretta around in her left, pointing it between
the bucket seats, and fired another shot into Chang's unconscious form. The
bullet entered his side, slipped easily between two ribs, and then, because
it was a low-caliber bullet and could not pass through the massive body,
ricocheted and pinged around inside him, tearing through his organs until
finally coming to rest deep inside his heart. Coyreen could see none of
this, of course, but when
Chang's last breath left his body, she heard it, and, to her amazement, she
felt the onset of a powerful, spontaneous orgasm. Once again, she screamed
with joy, and tossed the little Beretta out of the car, where it clattered
noisily and harmlessly across Figueroa Boulevard.
"I've beat them all," she howled to the night. "I'm the Queen again! Check
me out, fuckers! This is the finest Queen you're ever gonna see!" But her
crowing was cut short by an oncoming car, and, cursing, she goosed the
Porsche through another sudden turn, this time onto Broadway. (At this
point, the Porsche rocketed directly past the spacious and elegant downtown
offices of Grimbros Investigations, whose owner and proprietor was at home in
bed.) She roared up the Boulevard, but when she reached 1st Street, she was
suddenly blinded by a set of unimaginably bright halon headlights, appearing
out of nowhere, less than a block away. She screamed and wheeled left onto
First, and then this ugly, bloody case was touched by magic once again.
Screeching onto First, then flooring the accelerator again, Coyreen saw that
the lights were now behind her. Directly behind her, in fact, and gaining on
her! But what were they? Suddenly, the headlights were augmented by a set
of equally bright fog lamps; whatever was following her was burning more
candlepower than a searchlight at a Hollywood premiere. It couldn't be a
cop, and it couldn't be a truck; but whatever it was, why the Hell was it
chasing her? Why was it getting so close? Desperate to escape, she cut
through a corner gas station and emerged on Hawthorne Boulevard. The bright
lights of the mystery vehicle stayed right with her, coming closer by the
second; was it going to ram her? As she approached the intersection of
Hawthorne and La Brea, she heard, with her one good ear, the roar of a mighty
engine, and felt a sickening crash as her pursuer smashed full-speed into the
Porsche's rear end. Its trunk crushed like an accordion, the little car
actually left the ground and flew across the intersection.
Unfortunately, Blanche and Snap and Chief and Chang had not been protected by
any guardian angels that night. But now Coyreen, the Porno Queen, had come
face-to-face with an Avenging Angel .... or at least someone uniquely suited
to the role.
"You keel enough persons today, Meestress," muttered Vitaly Arkhoff grimly,
through clenched teeth; "Now, iss your turn!" As soon as the Porsche crashed
back down to the pavement, Arkhoff slammed the HumVee into its highest gear
and floored it, smashing once again into the smaller car's rear. Then he
instantly jerked down into neutral and slammed on the brakes, and the dark,
menacing vehicle came to a full stop.
But not the Porsche, which jumped the curb, crossed the sidewalk, and only
stopped when it hit the low, wrought-iron fence surrounding the La Brea Tar
Pits. The fence moaned and gave slightly, but it did not break, and the
Porsche, at last, was still.
And Coyreen, pitched violently from the car, carried through the warm evening
air by momentum (or perhaps velocity), never did see Vitaly, or the HumVee;
and the thoughts whirling through her mind were not of Blanche, or Miles, or
even the folks back in Ramp, Oklahoma. As her body flailed and tumbled and
finally began to descend, her mind was filled with ... what the fuck? ... the
onrushing head of a giant woolly mammoth, its trunk and terrible tusks
upraised in panic, seeming to stare directly into Coyreen's eyes.
Until, finally coming down, one of the concrete monster's tusks caught
Coyreen, easily poking through the inseam of her cutoff jeans, ripping up
through her vagina, through her cervix, her stomach, her hooker's heart,
until its sharp point burst though the skin at the base of her throat, and
she was limp, dead, and on display, hideously impaled on the gigantic tusk.
Which, being made of plaster, could not support her weight for long, and
within minutes, a tiny crack appeared at the base of the tusk, then began to
widen, and finally, with a snap that sounded like one final gunshot, it
broke, and fell, along with the Porno Queen's corpse, into the bubbling,
ancient muck below.
But Vitaly wasn't watching. He had, gently as possible, extracted Chang's
body from the back of the Porsche, and was now laying it out, slowly and
respectfully, in the back of the HumVee. Breathing a deep, weary, Russian
sigh, he climbed back into the driver's seat, turned the vehicle around, and
headed for Watts, and Mees Blanche, and her strange friends, the Dwarves.
NEXT:
THE SEVENTH DWARF
(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.
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