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From: Really Mean Guy <manchegocheese102@yahoo.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Between pros (MFF tort nc snuff)
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Date: Sun, 30 Jan 2005 17:10:02 -0500
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<1st attachment, "Between pros (MFF tort nc snuff).txt" begin>

Between pros (MFF tort nc snuff)



   Frank was dreaming of being in a room with red lights blinking all
around him, and under the usual dream rules, the switch he magically found
in his hand that was supposed to shut them off wasn't working.  He
remembered thinking about that, it was in a recent movie, that if the light
switch wouldn't work you were dreaming, and then he woke up.

   He laid there in bed for a few seconds watching the red light blink on
the panel next to the bed before realizing that he was awake and what it
meant.  The security system had activated.

   He was bolt awake now, sitting on the side of the bed, suddenly
sweating, his heart hammering.  His house was located in the hills of Los
Angeles, with a long back yard that fronted an empty area with a few dirt
roads for fire access.  The panel included a map of the yard on a small LED
panel, and there was a red dot blinking where the back fence would be.

   Security wasn't his concern particularly, he figured he could take care
of himself.  He had already reached into a drawer by the bed and extracted
a Glock 40 caliber automatic with a laser sight, and was idly screwing in a
custom (and illegal) silencer of his own make while contemplating the
security system panel.  Should he press the "panic button" and talk to the
security people?

   "Fuck 'em."

   He was curious.  Calm now, he decided to have some fun.  He grabbed the
spare clip and holster from the drawer, slipped on a robe and walked down
the hall in the dark.  Let's see what's up, he thought.  Someone's in for a
surprise.

   The security system wasn't his idea, the previous owner had it
installed. It was popular at the time, there was a movie, "Panic Room", and
everyone had to have one.  This house had two, a smaller version, like a
closet, downstairs, and a larger room upstairs.  There was even a small
elevator connecting them that included a hidden outlet in the basement
garage, where the house cut into the hill.  The door was in the back wall
of a walk-in closet that opened with a switch under a shelf, a back-up
power supply running the mechanism even if the electricity was cut.

   The room included survival supplies, telephone and computer connections
to the security service, weapons and ammunition, flashlights, an
independent air supply with masks, everything.  The idea was that you were
supposed the crawl in there like a rat in a hole and wait for the calvary.
It made Frank laugh.  He always rooted for the indians.

   The main panel for the security system was located on the wall inside,
and the screens glowed to life as he thumbed the switches.  The panel
contained an LED screen like the one by his bed, and it showed the red dot
now a few fractions of an inch away from the back fence, coming his way.

   Even better was the camera system, that included a sophisticated night
site system.  He clicked on the camera and punched up the view on the
screen, the scene showing the roof glowing green.  He worked a joystick on
the panel, moving the camera to where the red dot was moving, and focused
in.

   "There you are."

   A figure suddenly darted from behind a tree, moving across the yard to
disappear behind another tree, closer to the house.  Frank had to chuckle.
Whoever this was lacked military training, moving suddenly in the open like
that.  A pro would have melted his way through the yard, slowly, using the
fence line.  Good, this was going to be fun.

   He slipped out of the panic room and went back into the bedroom, quickly
shedding the robe and pulling out clothing from his closet; black sweat
pants, a black t-shirt with long sleeves, gloves, a watch cap and running
shoes, all black.  He hadn't used this gear in awhile, but once a pro
always a pro, and it just seemed natural to Frank to be prepared.  Once
dressed he moved back down the hall to the panic room like a ghost, closed
the door behind him and hit the switch for the elevator, which hissed up at
him from the well, gliding on hydraulics.

   While he waited for the elevator he pulled a box off a shelf and brought
out another familiar tool, a finely crafted air pistol that fired darts. 
The chemicals had to be stored and mixed, or they would break down, but it
only took a minute to fill a couple of the darts with the tranquilizer.  He
had two shots, but if he missed with the first, probably he would have to
resort to the Glock, unless the kid (as he thought of him) in the back yard
was so dumb that he wouldn't recognize the sound of the air gun going off.

   This is going to be a lot of fun, he thought again.  Just like the good
old days.  He pounded himself on the stomach with pride.  Still in shape
too, though the clothes did seem to fit a little tighter than he recalled.

   The elevator reached his level and stopped with a soft hiss.  Before he
stepped inside, he brought out his final prized possession, a military
grade night scope that tilted down over one eye.  He put the scope over his
cap and settled it in place, tipped down the scope and clicked the rocker
switch, making sure it was aligned properly and the battery was okay.  It
seemed to work properly, so he stepped inside the elevator and hit the
button for the basement.

   The idea was to come at the kid from the side, circle around from the
front, through a door that led to a entrance to his garage and shop area,
back around the house and shoot from one corner, catch him as he moved to
the back of the house, wherever he intended to make an entrance.

   Funny, he thought.  He was thinking as he was moving, running over the
scenario in his mind, practicing the move and the shot.  What was this kid
up to?  A burglar?  On his own two feet, no truck?  What was he planning to
find, cash and jewels?  There was nothing like that here.  He reached the
outside door and flipped down the night scope, looking at the outside
through the door as it opened, temporarily blinded by the driveway lights,
even though they were just soft glowing spots with normal eyesight. 
Stupid, he thought, reaching up to turn down the intensity until his eyes
refocused on the scene, getting a good solid picture of the front yard.  He
flipped to infrared and adjusted the picture through the scope.  Nothing
but the lights.  He slipped out of the door, softly closing it behind him.

   Not a burglar then, made sense.  A hit?  Good thing I didn't call the
security company, he thought.  But who and why?  He'd been out the game for
years now.  Anyone who had a grudge should have acted by now.  Maybe not,
revenge keeps well.  He ran over in his mind likely candidates, and then
cleared his brain of such nonsense.  Not now, he thought, focus on the kid.
He's not trained, that means he might do unexpected things, stay loose.

   It happened quickly, usually it was like that.  There wasn't time to
think, he just kept clear as he crept up the side of the house, staying low
against the shrubbery until he reached the end, laying down on the lawn,
gradually shifting himself forward until he could see around the corner of
the house.  He reached down and grabbed the air gun and laid it on the
grass next to him, and then did the same with the Glock, flipping both
safeties off.  When the two guns were arranged in a natural reach pattern
that suited him he, flipped down the scope with his left hand, keeping his
right free, and surveyed the yard with the infrared.

   Right there, he thought.  Behind a small tree next to the pool, peeking
out at the house, the red-orange image of the kid's body on either side of
the tree, moving a little as he shifted.  He flipped the scope over to
night sight and the scene shifted to green, losing the kid briefly until he
got used to the scope.  The figure now appeared as a black shadow, slightly
illuminated by the soft lights around the pool.  He watched as the kid
slipped from the trees and quickly moved around the pool on the walk,
keeping close to the landscaping.

   Everything looked perfect.  For the moment he lost clear sight of the
kid as he moved around the end of the pool, hidden by the plantings, but to
reach the house he would have to cross right in front of him, maybe twenty
feet away.  Frank reached down and grabbed the air pistol and flipped up
the night scope.

   Unlike the Glock, the air pistol didn't have a laser sight.  It was
never intended for the night, it was for use in public areas, like a
parking garage, where you wanted to take someone out, but not make a mess.
You walked up behind them, slipped the gun from under your coat and . . .
pfft, the dart would nail the target in the back.  You walked up behind
them as they reached around to feel what the sudden sting was and put your
arm around them, made conversation for anyone looking and then supported
the target on faltering steps to the door of a car or van, where hopefully
the target would pass out just as you loaded them inside.  Frank had only
used it once, and it went pretty much according to plan.  Now he regretted
not having modified the gun for more domestic use.  Still, it was worth one
shot.

   The background of the pool lights helped, and he lined up the sights of
the pistol on the end of the plantings, figuring the kid would stop there
before crossing to the house.  He watched the sight picture creep across
the open just as a dark figure occupied the space at the end of the row of
shrubs, and when the sights crossed he fired without hesitating.  Before
the kid even noticed the dart, the Glock laser light shot out and settled
on the body, following it a step or two back across towards the pool until
the figure crumpled on the ground.

   A pro in that instance would have probably felt the dart and moved
quickly back into shadow, trying to set up a defensive position in case the
other pro, who else would use a dart gun, charged in.  That would be stupid
for the shooter of course, but it was the only move, hope for the best. 
Frank wasn't stupid.  He did move, and very quickly, not toward the kid,
but around, back along the escape route, taking up a position in back of
the pool, then working up, the Glock at alert for any movement in the
infrared scope occupying the left eye.  But there was nothing until he
reached the pool and saw the bright glow of the kid's head still lying on
the walk.

   A pro might also figure playing possum, if he heard the dart but wasn't
actually hit.  The shooter would come up to claim the prize and that's when
the knife would flash out.  Frank figured that game as well, moving quickly
around the outside of the bushes and peeking around the end, expecting to
find nobody when he reached the end, but an active opponent circling him.
He already had two or three moves in mind, but there was the kid, still
laid out on the tile.  Frank moved up behind his back in one quick move,
the barrel of the Glock pressed against the kid's neck as Frank twisted the
left arm behind the kid's back and sank a knee into the torso, pinning the
right arm underneath.

   Nothing.  He was looking down at the air gun dart still stuck in the
left shoulder of the kid's limp body.  He was toast.  Gotcha, Frank
thought, as he slipped a plastic friction tie around the left wrist, and
with the gun still pressed against the back of the neck, reached under with
his off hand to grab the other arm until he had both wrists crossed on the
kid's back.  Only then did he holster the Glock and complete the loop
around both wrists.  The plastic band couldn't be forced open, it could
only be cut, disposable handcuffs, very handy.  He rolled the kid over,
pulled off his cap, and experienced the first real shock of the evening as
a blonde pony tail shook loose.

   "Holy shit," he hissed to himself.  It was a fucking girl.  Nice looking
too, a fine nose, good cheek bones.  For the first time he recognized the
bulge of her breasts against the black shirt and the swell of her hips. 
Not quite a kid after all.  She was carrying a automatic pistol with a
short silencer in a shoulder holster, and had a knife and some tools on a
utility belt.  Nothing sophisticated, no night gear, but good stuff, not
something you could acquire in the local hardware store.  So, a pro, just
not as good as he was.  On a hit.  But didn't know her opposition was a pro
too.  What the hell was this about?

   Forget it, he thought, later.  Right now the important thing was whether
she was alone.  He picked her up and slung her over his left shoulder,
always keeping his right hand free, and trotted back down the hill on the
side of the house, across the drive and back into the door.  He briefly
considered where to dump her and settled on his shop, moving back along the
hall by feel until he reached the shop room door, turning on the lights
only when the door was closed behind him.

   The shop was extensive, located in the back basement of the house,
taking up an area behind the garage and using up most of the rest of the
floor space, aside from some rooms for the utility plant and so forth.  The
garage had back doors that opened into the shop so that his cars could be
wheeled inside.  It was his hobby, working on cars, and in the big garage
he had four Ferrari's, about two million worth, that he took great pride in
working on himself.  He had even built one of the engines himself, and had
modified a balky factory suspension system on another, turning it into a
deceptive canyon racer that often surprised other like-minded sports.

   For the moment it would have to serve as a detention cell.  He wanted to
examine the girl to see what she carried, and besides it be fun, so he cut
the plastic cuffs, removed the dart from her shoulder and quickly stripped
her naked.  He ignored her charms for the moment, lifting her up to sit in
a chair, holding her there as he fished a couple of plastic ties from his
belt and then strapped her upper arms across her shoulders to the back of
the chair.  When she was held in place he moved over to a shop bench and
found a jar with more ties, pulled out a half dozen and used them to strap
her legs and hands to the chair.

   "There," he said, moving her body around to make sure she was secure.

   Ignoring her for the moment, he knelt down to go through her clothes. 
Aside from her holster and tool belt, nothing.  No identification, no
money, no keys.  Interesting, he thought.  Either she had a car parked
nearby and the keys were sitting on top of a tire, or someone was waiting
for her.  Either way, it required action.

   With only a single moment's regret for not being able to play with the
naked girl, he quickly armed himself with a few simple tools sufficient to
jimmy a car door, stopping only for a second to reach down and tweak a
pretty little cherry nipple goodbye before he once again stepped outside.

   He moved up slope with the infrared scope in place, the Glock in hand in
case of any opposition.  So far as he could see, he was alone in the yard.
He briefly considered stepping inside to check the security system, but
thought better of it.  Not enough time had passed for a backup person to be
concerned, the probabilities were strongly in favor of the backup being
outside the yard.  He started to think of the second person as a woman.

   As he moved through the back yard he allowed himself a few brief
thoughts about the meaning of all this.  An amateur, a girl.  Come to kill
him.  A relative, a girlfriend?  Maybe a daughter?  Was she on her own or
was she working for someone?  She could be a pro, she was certainly in good
shape, and she had professional tools.  But what kind of pro?  Not a night
worker, not regularly anyway.  Maybe she was really good on her own turf,
using her girlish looks as a disguise.  That didn't work when you were
covered up in black and creeping through an ultra-sophisticated security
system.

   And who was the backup?  A friend, he thought.  Likely a girl.  It was
difficult to imagine the backup being a man.  For sure she has backup, he
thought, she's a pro.  Count on it.  He stopped his brain now, at the back
wall.  It was time to move and react.

   He flipped the scope to night vision and looked up at the wall to see
where she had come in.  There, down a few feet, a blanket over the glass
shards on top of the wall, and a rope with knots laying down the wall. 
Well, the wall was just for show after all, maybe to deter a stupid kid or
something.  If you thought the homeowner was relying on a wall and some
broken glass, maybe you didn't think the yard was wired.  Hell, the wall
might as well not even be there for a pro.

   He went over the wall the same way she came in, stopping at the top to
flip on the infrared, scanning the local area before dropping to the
ground. The backup wouldn't be this close, but he was cautious by nature.
He flipped on the night vision gear and closed his right eye to let the
left get accustomed to the view.  He backed up a few paces and dropped to
his hands and knees looking at the ground, starting at the wall.

   The greenery on the house side of the wall was a result of a sprinkler
system, on this side was a dry grassy area, the source of troublesome brush
fires, and the cause of a series of dirt roads running through the hills,
one of which paralleled the back fences of the expensive homes on the
ridge. What he was looking for were tracks through the soft dirt that the
girl had made, looking for a direction.  He couldn't very well crawl the
tracks to her backup, but if he knew what direction she came from the rest
would be easy.

   There, underneath him, he realized.  He turned around on his hands and
knees, always stopping to scan around him every few seconds.  Crouching
down it was easy to see the line of prints coming up the road from the
right, the south.  The nearest entrance to the dirt road was there, it made
sense.  A paved road ran through here leading up into the hills and over to
a small lake on the other side of the ridge, the jewel in this natural area
set aside for recreation.  The backup would be there, parked on the dirt
road just far enough up to avoid being seen from the main road.  His
approach would be from neither road.  It was time to go native.

   Now this is really going to fun, he thought.  It had been a long time
since he had to crawl through weeds to approach a victim, but in his
training he had been king of the range.  They took turns trying to approach
a position with a sniper rifle, shooting a target from closer and closer
until they were spotted.  Frank once got within twenty feet of the position
before the drill instructor called a halt for dark.  When he stood up out
of the weeds he was forever legend on the course.  No one had ever come
anywhere near as close.  They even put the legend into a popular movie.

   He started by walking straight back, gaining elevation and distance from
the road as far from the target as possible.  When he was a good hundred
yards back he started his move, down and across the fields, ignoring cover,
because that's naturally where you would check for someone trying to creep
up on you.  Instead he used the most direct path, right through the low
weeds, approaching on hands and knees, using the night scope to check for
stickers and sleeping snakes, infrared being useless for both.

   He saw the figure from about twenty yards out, her face suddenly glowing
from a lighter.  The stupid bitch had lit a cigarette!  Oh this, was going
to be fun.  Initially he figured to kill the backup, no point having two
people to question, one was enough.  But now, seeing it was a woman, and
not trained, he decided to have her too, if he could.  One tranquilizer
shot is all he had left, and one is all he would afford himself anyway.

   The girl never knew what hit her.  The dart came from the side of the
dirt road within five feet of her back, and by the time she reached around
to feel what had stung her, she was already falling to the ground.  Frank
had her trussed up in back of the van in seconds, a dark green Chrysler
with tinted windows.  Good, no one would see inside.  The keys were in the
ignition.

   He took off the parking brake, put the gearshift in neutral and let the
van slide down the hill until it reached the road, backed into the near
lane, started the engine and turned on the lights.  It was done so smoothly
that if you met the van coming down the road right at that instant you
would have assumed it had been travelling down the road the whole time.  He
drove the van downhill to his street, turned right and then right again
when he reached his drive, stopping the van in front of the gate to get out
and manually type in the security code.

   He stopped the van in front of his garage and quickly moved inside,
taking off the brake of the car in back of the door and pushing it forward
so that he could squeeze the van inside.  There was plenty of room.  He
opened the garage door from the inside, drove the van in at an angle with
the rear bumper clear of the door, and shut it down.  When the door closed
behind him all evidence of the girl's mission was erased, unless they had
left a minder at home - and of course, whoever hired them.  He would find
out soon enough.

   In short order he had the second girl stripped down and tied over a
folding shop bench.  It was a good position for the girl, it suited her
body.  She was fairly plump, "zaftig" might be the right term, a soft
belly, big swinging boobs, which were now draped over the edge of the
bench, and a large white bottom, her neatly trimmed red furred pussy lips
peeking out between them.  He thought her strawberry hair wasn't real, but
the carpet matched the drapes.

   He sized up the relationship between the girls as he prepared some
equipment.  A fiberglass rod intended as part of a tent seemed right, and
he went into a closet in search of the duffle bag containing the tent.  The
pro, she was hard stuff, probably military.  She was the butch member of
the team, in spite of the long, feminine hair.  He found the tent and
pulled a couple of the rods out and returned to the shop.  Pliers, perhaps,
a soldering iron might be handy.  Maybe some nails and a propane torch. 
The soft girl, she was the kept woman, doing the driving, but not trained
for any action, and out of shape in any case, he mused.  Knives, and
definitely a couple of big rubber stoppers, he was sure he had some in a
drawer someplace, or maybe he could carve up some soft wood for a plug. 
The big girl's cigarettes would be nice.

   He laid out his tools on a bench where he was sure the hard girl could
see them, and then ripped some shop rags and tied them together around her
mouth.  He wanted her to speak, yes, but not just yet.  Blondie was started
to come out of it, but the redhead would need at least a half hour.  It was
still the middle of the morning, and he decided to complete his sleep. 
First, attend to the blonde, get her trussed up right.

   He had already given it some thought, and rolled over a big engine
hoist. It had arms on the top that could be moved out and forward, and the
frame spidered out for support.  He found some soft nylon rope from the
camping gear in the closet that would work fine.  Soft, not for her
comfort, but because it would make a tight knot without cutting off her
circulation.  He cut loose the plastic bands from her legs and tied one off
to one of the lower arms of the hoist, and then after binding her wrists
with the cord, cut her free of the chair entirely.  He soon had her spread
eagled, hanging from her wrists with her head rolling forward, her feet
planted on the floor of the shop, but tied securely to the support legs of
the hoist, spread a few feet apart.  He had positioned the hoist over a
floor drain in case nature took its course while he was gone.  He gave the
blonde an affectionate pat on her shaved pussy and went upstairs for a nap.

   Frank woke up some hours later, a little stiff, and groggy from the
interrupted sleep.  He resisted going downstairs to see the girls, taking
his time washing up and making breakfast, relaxing on the couch for a
minute watching the Playboy channel with the sound off, and idly stroking
his cock beneath his stretch pants.  Let 'em rot, he thought.  He was
confident in his bondage, they weren't going anywhere.  He put his dishes
in the kitchen sink for later, turned off the television and sauntered
downstairs, as if it were just another day, headed for the shop to play a
bit.

   He smiled when he opened the basement door, walking down a small hall
filled with trophies and plaques the led to the shop.  He could hear the
girls struggling, the scrape of the folding bench's legs against the cement
as the redhead apparently was trying to buck her way off.  Not a chance.

   When he walked around the corner he could see the big girl had made some
progress, the bench having traveled a couple of feet from where he left
her. The blonde was sweating, tugging at her ropes hopelessly, her bottom
fetching as she twitched, her hair whipping her back.  Lovely.

   Suddenly the red haired girl stopped struggling and looked up to see him
coming.

   "Goddammit, you peed on my shop floor, what kind of behavior is that for
a guest?"

   The redhead had indeed made a mess on the floor, and had spread it
around as she tried to move, tied to the bench.

   "You bastard, let us go, I'll scream."

   Frank laughed.  "Yes, you will indeed, not that it would do any good."

   This shut her up for the moment.  Her eyes searched around desperately
in the enclosed space, probably looking for a window, some sign her yelling
might do some good.  The blonde seemed to understand the threat in his
words, and she stiffened up, watching him with eyes wide.

   He ignored them, pulling a hose from a ceiling fixture, adjusting the
nozzle, and then spraying down the back of the bench-bound girl and the
floor she had pissed on, the water washing into the drain.  On second
thought, he used the spray on the girl's private parts as well, getting a
nice little squeal out of her when he was none too careful how hard the
water hit her delicate tissues.  He turned the spray down and doused the
blonde as well, rinsing off her night sweat.  She gave him a nice hard look
when he pressed the nozzle between her bare pussy lips, and then squeezed
her eyes shut and bit down hard on the gag when he turned the water on full
force.  He laughed again.  A hard case, he thought.  We'll see.

   "So," he said, reeling up the hose, "Why don't we have some names?"

   He walked over and grabbed a chair, setting it in front of the redhead,
and sat down facing her.

   "Why don't we start with your friend, what's her name?"

   "Fuck you," spit the girl.

   "Well, I might take you up on that later, but really your big ass is not
my type.  In the meantime, let's try answering my question."

   Frank calmly reached out and took one of the girl's nipples between his
thumb and finger as she struggled to move away.  He gradually increased the
pressure until she starting screaming, and then twisted the nipple
relentlessly until it was screwed around almost completely.  He let it go
and sat back in the chair, looking over to see the blonde girl's reaction.

   The redhead stopped screaming when he let go and drifted off into crying
and blubbering, salvia dripping from her mouth and her nose running.  The
twisted nipple bounced back into shape, but was turning an angry red.  He
reached out with a shop rag to wipe her face.  Might as well keep things
neat.

   The blonde girl looked away, but far too late to mask her feelings.  She
was obviously horrified by the redhead being hurt.  Ah, isn't that nice,
Frank thought.  They're in love.  He reached out and slapped the redhead's
face twice.

   "The name please, or shall we get back to the titty twisting?"

   "Cindy," the girl cried, "Cynthia."

   "Ah, that's better.  And you are?"

   The girl looked up at him and then away.  "Samantha."

   "Samantha or Sam, what does Cindy call you?"

   "Sam".

   "Well, how do you do."

   He walked over to the bench and grabbed Sam's cigarettes, Winston
Lights, 100's.  Good, he thought, they'll last longer.  He lit one and took
a drag, spitting out the smoke.  Crap.  Why does anyone smoke these awful
things.  He sat back down in front of Sam with the cigarette casually
between his fingers, as if he intended to smoke it.

   "Okay, now that we're all friends, let's get straight to the point shall
we.  I already know what you're doing here, so let's find out who else
knows you're here and who hired you two lovely girls to kill my ass, shall
we?  I don't think anything else really matters."

   Sam looked up at him, then over at Cindy, who was shaking her head. 
Smart girl, Frank thought.  She knows talking won't save them.  But that
didn't matter, because the issue wasn't being saved, it was dying.  Quickly
or slowly, they weren't leaving the shop alive.  When the question became
getting away from the pain, then the girls would talk.  Or Cindy would, he
doubted Sam knew anything.  It didn't matter, these things had to take
their course, you had to be sure.

   "Sam," he said, pleasantly.  "Shall we make this quick?  Answer my
questions and we can end this right here."

   "No," she blubbered, "She was just trying to rip you off, that's all."

   Wrong answer, he thought.  He puffed on the cigarette, reached out and
grabbed the twisted nipple again and held it firm, placing the hot tip just
behind where the areola met the breast flesh, giving her a nice painful
burn that caused her to scream loud enough to buzz his ears.  He released
her breast before the cigarette did much damage.  A little at a time, he
knew the game.  He settled back to wait for her to calm down, wiping her
face down again.  She mumbled something.

   "What's that Sam, speak up.  I can barely hear you after all that
screaming, jeez I need ear plugs or something."

   "Water," she said, "Thirsty."

   "Oh, well sure, don't want you to dry up."

   Frank stood up and grabbed the hose again, aiming the nozzle at her face
and cutting loose.

   "Better try and catch some in your mouth," he laughed.

   Sam managed to do so, in between taking enough water up her nose to make
her gag and cough for awhile.

   "Oh, damn, that's right, I forgot."

   Frank snapped his fingers and got up to search the shop drawers, finally
coming up with three rubber stoppers from a paper bag.  Never throw
anything away, he thought, you don't know when it will come in handy.

   He selected two of the stoppers and pulled on latex gloves.  He looked
around for something to use as lubricant and settled on hand cream from a
small bathroom set into the back wall of the shop.  He squirted the cream
all over the stopper as he walked behind the redhead, and then placed the
nozzle right inside her butthole, squirting several shots inside.  Sam
cried and protested loudly as he worked the stopper inside, small end
first. He thought he was going to split her ass with the big end, but it
went inside and he rammed up inside her as far as he could with his
fingers, watching as her anus ring closed down behind the intruder.  There,
he thought, no crapping on my floor.

   He whistled softly to himself as he walked behind Cindy, stepping over
the legs of the hoist.  She was more difficult, being in a better position
to harden her ass against him, but he soon had the stopper up her,
accompanied by the sobs and tears of both girls now.  He walked around and
looked Cindy in the face as he snapped off the gloves.  Not so hard, he
thought.  Good.

   He retrieved the cigarette and sat back down in front of Sam.

   "There, now we'll have no messes." He pretended to look puzzled.  "Let's
see, where were we?  Oh yes, you were lying to me about being burglars. 
Why don't we move on, or would you like another smoke?  It's not good for
you, you know."

   "No," Sam cried.

   "You didn't know that or you don't want to smoke?  Anyway, wrong
answer."

   The girl started to scream before he even grabbed her nipple, applying
the cigarette in the same area, a few degrees around the circle of her
areola, leaving it just a bit longer.  He was pleased to see Cindy
recovering from her rubber buggering, struggling in her bounds, eyes wide
staring down in horror at her lover.  Frank sat back and waited again for
the girl to settle down.

   "Please don't," she cried, "I'll do anything, let us go, please." She
broke up in tears.

   "I'm afraid I'm interested in only two things," said Frank, "Who else
knows you're here and who hired you."

   "NNNOOOOO!" the girl screamed as he reached out again, applying the
cigarette in the next spot around the circle, there now being three angry
burns lighting up the girl's breast, each worse than the last.  Frank sat
back and waited again, noting the cigarette was just about burned down.  He
casually got up and walked over to the bench, putting out the used
cigarette on a piece of scrap metal and lighting a fresh one, resuming his
position in the chair.

   "Now," he said, lifting Sam's face to look at him.  "Who else knows
you're . . ."

   "I DON'T KNOW!" she yelled, "HONEST."

   "Well, you're probably telling the truth, but it's still not the correct
answer, is it?"

   Sam screamed again as he reached out, twisting the nipple around to
bring a fresh target to bear, crushing the cigarette into her soft breast
flesh as she struggled and screamed, a fresh stream of piss falling out of
her to splatter on the floor.  Frank ignored it for the moment, asking the
question again, getting only cries and pleas in response, and burned her
again and again until her nipple was surrounded by a neat circle.  He
admired his handiwork, each burn slightly worse than the last.

   He let her rest for a moment while he sprayed down the floor again.  He
started to reach for another cigarette, but decided to play another game
instead.  He would get back to her big titties in a minute, he thought, but
was curious how the fiberglass tent rods would stand in for a cane.  He
picked up one and flexed it, liking the sound it made.  He walked over to
Sam and experimentally whipped the rod across her butt.

   The result was quite satisfactory, a nice hard slap when the rod met the
soft white flesh, an explosive scream from Sam and an immediate red line
that quickly turned into an angry weal.  Ah, not bad, he thought.  He laid
several more on top, and then worked over the back of her legs, trying to
get a couple hits on her pussy lips, without success, the plump flesh of
her thighs took the burden.  He stepped back and leaned against the bench
to watch the welts rise as Sam cried and pleaded for him to stop, that she
didn't know anything, she'd do anything, and so on and so forth,
meaningless praddle.

   The striped ass of the girl was actually turning him on, and while he
would rather fuck Cindy, and would before the day was out, taking her lover
might be fun just so she could watch.  He opened the front of his sweat
pants and smeared some hand cream on his cock, which instantly sprung to
full attention, aching for action.  He walked over to Sam, and after first
running his hands over her bruised bottom, guided himself into her and
settled into a nice stroke, looking over at Cindy as he worked in and out
of her friend's pussy, who was moaning a little, but not apparently
complaining too much about being plugged, having other worries on her mind.

   Cindy was not liking this at all, he noticed with a smile.  Her reaction
to her lover being tortured was at first horror and anger, as she delivered
muffled curses and pleas at him, struggling in her bonds.  But after awhile
she grew passive, realizing that she was powerless to change what was going
to happen.  Now she was staring daggers at Frank, a burning anger in her
eyes that was greatly satisfying to him.  He stared Cindy down as he
emptied his cum in her friend, ending with powerful lunges that flattened
her butt cheeks with slapping sounds.  He rested for a moment and then
pulled out, leaving Sam's pussy to slowly leak cum down the inside of her
legs.

   Frank was ready for a break, but decided to take care of a couple things
first.  Sam's position on the folding bench came first, it was time to flip
her over.  He was careful to make sure her ankles and wrists were secure
first, but the big girl showed no resistance, and soon she was tied across
the bench the long way, tits up, with her arms strapped to the bench legs
on one end and her legs spread and secured at the other, leaving her inner
pussy exposed, still leaking a little.  He pulled down the water spray from
the reel and sprayed her down, and stuck the nozzle in both girls' mouths
to give them a drink.  It was going to be a long day yet, and he wanted
them to be able to talk, and scream, freely.

   He checked the circulation in Cindy's hands and feet, but the soft ropes
were allowing enough blood flow for her to be able to stand and support
herself, though he figured her arms must be aching from being tied up. 
Satisfied with the situation, he went upstairs for a little lunch and
afterwards took a half hour power nap to renew himself for the rest of the
interrogation.

   As he tried to clear his mind for the nap, he was troubled by the puzzle
of this attempted hit.  Who was behind it?  If it was one of his old
colleagues or customers, clearing some grudge or maybe just eliminating
loose ends, then why now, and why use this girl?  They knew him, what he
was capable of, and never would have trusted the job to Cindy, she didn't
have a prayer of pulling it off.

   What about the girl herself?  Maybe someone close to her had been a
prior victim, and once she got in the game she had found out through the
grapevine.  Maybe, but why had she been so careless about the alarm system?
Surely, even a clumsy pro would check things like that out.  A daytime
reconnoiter from the surrounding hills would show at least the cameras on
the roof of the house.

   It just didn't figure.  He knew by this time that Sam didn't know
anything.  She had revealed enough in her cries and pleas to glean that she
was kept in the dark by Cindy on purpose, a wise move.  It seemed she
thought Cindy really was a thief, and Sam was just acting as a driver. 
Cindy didn't trust her, that was obvious, they didn't even have a
communications system during the job, Cindy was totally on her own.  Ah
well, he thought, I'll know soon enough.  He reached out and changed the
alarm to account for the time he had spent thinking, giving himself a full
half hour, and within a few seconds cleared all such matters from his mind
for the nap.

   The girls had messed themselves again by the time he returned to the
shop, so he spent a few minutes spraying them off and cleaning the floor
before returning to business.  He was anxious to start working on Cindy,
but figured it would be a good idea to complete the job on Sam.  In order
to get the complete truth from Cindy, he had to have something she could
believe in as a reward, and that could only be a quick death for both of
them.  She knew, or should know, that there was no way either of them were
going to leave that shop alive.  But in order for death to be desirable, he
had to give them both an alternative, which could only be an indefinite
period of intolerable pain.  It was easier with Sam involved, Cindy might
hold out far longer if she couldn't win a coup de grace for her friend. 
Sam had to be taken to the next level, she wasn't seriously damaged yet. 
Cindy had to understand that Sam was past saving, too broken to live.

   He was tired of listening to Sam, there was nothing more she had to say
which would interest him, so he tied a couple of shop rags around her mouth
as well, limited her to muffled cries and screams from there on out.  He
turned to the bench and considered his options, deciding on the propane
torch.  First a little clean-up.

   Sam's pussy wasn't hirsute by any means, but he wanted a clean expanse
of skin to work with and her little thatch of red hair was in the way.  He
could have shaved her, but that meant going upstairs for a razor and cream,
and this was quicker.  Removing body hair with a torch, without burning the
underlying skin too much was an art, but Frank had done it before.  It was
like painting using an air brush, you took quick short strokes and worked
lightly and patiently.  He had tied Sam to the bench with her head just
supported at one end, and he smiled when he popped the torch to life at the
reaction in her eyes as her head came up, especially when he moved between
her legs.

   He started with the hair on her mons at the thickest point, the first
stroke actually starting a little fire in her hair that he patted out,
before working the torch in closer.  The girl was straining in her bonds,
and sweat broke out all over her body as he worked.  A couple of time he
got too close, a little out of practice, but there was enough moisture on
her skin to cause only a sizzle rather than any serious damage to her skin.
He wiped the burned hair away as he went, and when he was done her pussy
gleamed hairless, just a couple of places going pink from being burned.

   "There, that didn't hurt, did it?  This will."

   He turned off the torch and touched the hot nozzle against the skin of
her inner thigh, getting a satisfying scream from the girl, and then doing
it again up and down both thighs, leaving angry welts where the hot brass
tube had been placed.

   Once again he turned to the fiberglass rod, and spent a few minutes
laying down stripes across her tummy and breasts as she twitched and howled
from the pain.  He finished by whipping the rod across her pudenda until
welts were piled on welts, and the skin started to break.  He noticed the
girl had passed out at the end, and pulled down the water spray to dowse
her face and wake her.  She moaned and cried as he prepared the next
torture.

   Laid down on her back, Samantha's soft breasts had pancaked on her
chest, falling off to either side, and he decided to improve the target. 
He considered wire and rope to wrap the base of the breasts, but to squeeze
the breasts upright and still keep her nerve endings alive, he figured duct
tape would work best.  He ripped off enough length to go around, and held
the sticky tape in one hand while he grabbed the undamaged breast by the
nipple and pulled it straight up, stretching the skin taught while he tried
worked the tape around the base with the other hand.  Frank cursed as the
tape bunched up, Sam not being any help, thrashing in her bonds while
screaming through her gag.

   Fuck, this will never work, he thought.  He looked up at the ceiling for
something to tie off to, and realized it was going to require some work. 
Screw it, he thought, I'll need suspension points later anyway.

   The ceiling of the shop was neatly finished with a suspended ceiling of
acoustical tile.  He brought over a foot stool and reached up to pop a few
tiles loose, allowing access to the ceiling joists through the metal grid.
After pawing through the junk drawer he selected three rings, two of which
he bolted through a joist, separated by a couple of feet, and a smaller
ring that screwed into the joist on its own threads, which he positioned
directly above Samantha's chest.  Satisfied with his work, he put away the
tools and turned back to the job.

   A couple of pieces of nylon string were tied to the ring above, dangling
down to lie on Sam's body.  To support the breasts he decided on a couple
of nipple rings, and a short trip to the storage closet yielded a couple of
deep sea fish hooks, perfect for the job.  This time he had no trouble
holding the breast up by the nipple with one hand while he inserted the
hook through the areola, deep enough back from the nipple to provide plenty
of flesh so it wouldn't pull through.  Sam's thrashing around was useless
this time, it just made her breasts wobble painfully as he sunk the hook
through the pink flesh of her breast tips, streaks of blood leaking from
the holes.

   He did the same to the burned breast, sinking the hook a little farther
back to get a good bite, and then threaded the string through the fish
hooks, pulling up each breast taught and tying it off.  That left Sam's
bleeding tits stretched off her chest pointing at the ceiling, adding more
pain to any movement she made in reaction to the torture.  He fetched the
fiberglass rod and laid some stripes on the bobbing breasts as an
afterthought before turning to the real task at hand.

   Frank turned to the work bench and rummaged through a collection of
nails, selecting some long, thin finishing nails.  He set the propane torch
on the bench and lit it, adjusting the flame until it was steady, and then
grabbed a nail with a pair of pliers, holding it in the flame until it
glowed orange.  When it was ready he turned to Sam and plunged the hot nail
hissing into one of her breasts and let it go just as the small nail head
contacted the skin.  The smell of scorched flesh filled the air with a
blood curdling muffled scream from Sam.  If she thought she had experienced
pain today, she was wrong up to this point.

   He repeated the procedure over and over again, until both breasts were
studded with nail heads, poking out from angry black holes in her flesh. 
Sam passed out several times, getting pulled back into unwelcome
consciousness each time only to experience another hot nail in the breast.
It looked bad enough from the outside, but most of the damage was inside,
along the length of the nail.

   When he decided she had enough nails in the breasts, he started on her
cunt.  He heated up the first nail and drove it into the left labia lip
with a sizzling sound that caused Sam to pass out almost immediately.  He
sprayed her in the face until she woke up and nailed the other lip as well.
Sam was beyond screaming now, she had run out of breath and was in shock
from the pain, her eyes wide, staring up at the ceiling.  When he pressed a
hot nail up her urethra she just grunted and twitched, unable to make any
vocal sounds at all as the nail cooked her piss hole.

   Two more targets left, he thought, the worst of course.  He heated up
another nail and turned around to run it through the edge of her anus ring.
This pulled a squeal out of Sam like a small animal being killed, and she
passed out again.  When she was revived he put three more around the ring,
and then heated up a large construction nail and rammed it right up her
hole, the smoke of the cooked flesh temporarily obscuring the sight of the
hot nail head sticking out of her ass.  They say that King Edward II was
murdered by having a hot iron inserted in his bowels and the screams could
be heard for miles, but Sam was reduced to tremors that stretched her
breasts against the fish hooks nearly to splitting and a gurgling howl.

   Since she was still conscious, Frank quickly heated another small nail,
and spreading her pussy lips with one hand, aimed and thrust the nail under
her clitoris hood into the tender flesh, holding her from bucking her hips
until the nail was sunk completely under the hood, a shot of blood shooting
out to splatter on her legs.  Sam collapsed on the bench insensible.

   As a final act, for Cindy's sake, he grabbed a large wire cutter and
snipped of both her nipples, turning her stretched, burned and battered
breasts into little blood fountains for a few seconds.  She wasn't dead,
maybe not even fatally injured with some timely medical attention, but her
identity as a sexual object had been erased.  He had been checking Cindy
and knew she had been watching, unable to turn away for long, hoping
against hope, he supposed, that somehow her love would survive.

   That was the message he needed to impart to Cindy, that there was no
turning back, no hope, only more pain and finally death.  How much pain was
up to her.  Nothing personal, it was business, just what had to be done. 
Well, maybe a little personal with the blonde bitch, she was going to kill
him after all.  It was time to begin the final act.

   He picked up the fiberglass rod and laid a stripe across Cindy's upper
legs before she had time to react, and continued to whip her as her eyes
bulged and she screamed through the gag.  The way she was stretched by the
engine lift left her exposed on all sides, and he took full advantage,
walking around her with the rod singing through the air, concentrating on
whipping her ass, her breasts and the outside of her vagina until her body
was a mess of stripes and bleeding weals.  He finally stopped when Cindy
passed out, and took a break to wipe the sweat from his forehead and get
something to drink.

   Before he woke her up he decided to rape her.  The bloody business with
Sam hadn't turned him on at all, not most of it anyway, but whipping the
naked blonde girl had enraged his unit.  He pulled it out of his sweat
pants and put some hand cream on it, rammed some more up her pussy, and
took her standing up, grabbing her burning ass cheeks for leverage as he
grunted and worked.  He just about ran out of steam before making it,
spurting a few shots of cum into her before collapsing into a chair,
exhausted for the moment.

   "Too old for this shit," he said to no one.  He mused for a moment about
why he had fucked the girl while she was unconscious.  Professional pride,
he figured.  It was somehow unseemly to take advantage of her, being a pro.
Besides, that was just business too, mostly.  He needed to let off the
sexual steam, and as long as the girl's cunts were available, well, why
not? Beats the hand.

   He watched Cindy gradually regain her senses as he mused about the
possible explanations for the hit.  It was getting late in the day, he
realized, time for dinner.  He also wanted to check the news, see if there
was anything regarding a couple of missing girls.  It seemed very unlikely,
most probably Cindy was a loner aside from her girlfriend.  One didn't make
friends with the straight world very readily in this profession. 
Conversations about your job just didn't go very far.

   He left the girls and wandered upstairs, after giving Cindy a shot of
water in the mouth, keep her moist for later.  Sam he left bleeding and
moaning, there was no point in doing anything for her now.  At best she was
just waiting for death unless Cindy decided to be stupid.  If he needed Sam
to experience fresh pain, he could always revive her later.  With any luck
at all, another hour with Cindy should do the trick and he could start
cleaning up before it got too late.  Frank sighed.  There was a lot left to
do, he thought.  Too old.

   The local news was over by the time he got a sandwich and turned the TV
on, but there was nothing on any of the websites of the local stations
about anyone missing.  He changed into fresh sweats and checked the
security system, glad for it now.  If anyone else on the outside knew the
Cindy's mission and came over to try and find her, there was no way he
wouldn't know about it.  A security panel like the one beside his bed
glowed on the shop wall next to the phone above the work bench, and he
would have a third guest if it reported any trouble.

   He padded downstairs almost reluctantly, tired now.  The rest of this
script was already written, it was always the same.  They didn't teach this
stuff in the Special Forces, or even in the CIA, too touchy feely, even in
the cold war years when he learned his craft.  You picked this up by
experience.  No one in the chain of command wanted to know this shit
anyway, Nam was a carefully crafted lie.  His superiors knew that
assassination and torture were necessary when dealing with an enemy who
knew no rules themselves.  No one regretted the deaths of the enemy, they
deserved everything they got and then some, they were truly evil, without
any respect for decency, looking to win at any cost, without souls.

   But no one could say that openly, or even hint at it.  He was never
given an actual order to kill anyone.  It was never even suggested.  An
envelope would show up with a picture and a fact sheet.  An ARVN officer
maybe, a collaborator with the Viet Cong.  He was to be removed, and as
much information extracted as possible.  The man simply disappeared as far
as anyone knew, and a few sheets of paper showed up in the box of his
handler, information without any reference as to the source.  No one wanted
to know that.

   It wasn't only men, there were plenty of women, the Cong used
prostitutes frequently.  They had easy access to Americans and could learn
things.  Often their V.C.  contacts were women as well, more trust that
way. Moving up the chain might require kidnapping two or three girls at
once, extracting the information quickly, in the same manner as with Cindy
and Sam in his shop, the least knowledgeable girl ruined first for the
education of the other two, but all dead within hours.  Then the contact,
quickly, before concerns were raised up the line and the next level fled
before being captured in turn.

   The threads always died out eventually, you couldn't torture people for
information quickly enough to prevent the next link in the line from
noticing all the lower contacts were gone.  You might interrogate five or
six people in twenty four hours, going without sleep, working as fast as
possible to take them to that point where they realized death was
preferable to life.  Everyone broke eventually, there was no such thing as
holding out.  It didn't matter how determined you were, how devoted to the
cause.  Pain burned all that out eventually.  It was just a matter of time.

   Now, thirty some years later it all came back naturally, easy.  How many
people had he tortured?  A hundred?  Two?  It was impossible to remember.
The lessons learned in Nam he applied to his new profession when he became
bored with the toothless CIA of the 70's and went free lance.  Organized
crime was quick to recognize talent and they loved him.  Any contract sent
his way was simply handled, done.

   There were never any problems.  If someone was to be removed, they just
vanished, usually in a way that provided a ready explanation, clothes
packed, car gone, no trails.  If it was a message hit, it was belted home.
One time he had dispatched a subject's girlfriend as a warning, butchering
and packaging her into little white paper packages, loaded into a freezer
chest in the guy's garage, and neatly labeled by body part.  If information
was needed, it was delivered, punctually.  For twenty five years he was the
king, the best mechanic in the country.  It was just business, a job.  It
was something he was good at, it only made sense to make money off your
best talent.

   Now some fuck had put out a contract, on him, years after he was out of
the game, and to make it worse had sent this unpolished girl after him, an
insult.  As Frank walked down the steps to the shop his anger brought him
strength to finish the job.  Whoever had done this to him was going to pay,
both for him and for what he was forced to do to the girls.  Tonight's work
was business.  The follow up was going to be personal.  Very personal.

   Cindy was awake when he walked into the shop, Sam was out again, her
burns leaking fluid slowly down her flanks.  His shop bench was going to
have to go with her, it was too stained by her blood to keep.  Goddamn it,
he thought, I liked that bench too, Ryobi didn't sell that type of folding
bench anymore.  Now I'm really mad, he joked to himself.

   It was time to take Cindy to the next level as well, first a little
flash from the past though, he decided.  He plugged in a battery charger,
switched it over to starting power and clamped one of the toothed leads to
a pussy lip, digging into the meat of it and causing little streams of
blood to leak down from the cuts.  While Cindy reacted to the pain he hit
her with the other lead, playing it over her pussy and anus, sending her
into a jerking dance while she screamed and pissed onto his shop floor. 
You had to be careful with electricity to keep the path well away from the
heart.  He had to laugh when he saw electrodes taped to the breasts of an
actress in a sleaze flick or porno loop on the internet.  Fuck, that would
kill a person instantly, idiots.

   He worked her over with the lead some more, finally clamping it to the
other pussy lip, and whipped her with the fiberglass rod, the clamps
occasionally touching and shooting sparks.  When she passed out he
unclamped the cables and put the charger away.  Too much of one type of
torture tended to dull the sensations.  It was time for something else.

   He wanted to avoid the same treatment he had given to Sam, because it
would drive her insensible, and he needed her to talk.  You probably
couldn't get her mother's maiden name out of Sam in the state she was in.
But he still realized the need to ruin her body, make sure she would prefer
death to living another moment.  There were many ways to damage a body
slowly, burn or peel an inch of skin at a time, methods that could take
days.  But he didn't have time, and the way to reach a woman was through
her charms, the things they took pride in.  Ruin them and it didn't matter
if they still had fingers and toes.

   So, when Cindy came to her senses he started with a knife, first working
on her left nipple.  He cut the blade into the flesh of the areola just
where it met the rest of the breast, and getting a grip on the top of the
blade with his thumb, slowly ripped just the skin up towards the nipple
until it pulled off.  In spite of the pain, she was forced to stay still,
because any movement just made it hurt more.  Even worse, she was compelled
to look down, it couldn't be helped.  As soon as he was done with one
section he moved to the next, peeling away the skin of her areola bit by
bit until all that was left was the bare nipple on top of a bloody tip. 
Then he moved to the right nipple and did the same, slowly, stretching it
out over a half hour, letting her recover before he continued.

   After that was done he brought over the chair and sat down in front of
her, first sticking a nail in her clit to extract the last bit of piss from
her.  He was satisfied to see that she could only dribble a little and he
wouldn't get peed on, so he went to work with the knife, peeling off the
skin of her inner pussy lips, and then scraping away the meat of her
clitoris, a little bit at a time, keeping her from going completely over
the edge.  When he gouged out the bloody root she passed out, and he put
the chair aside.  It was time.

   When Cindy came to she found that the gag had been removed and she was
free to talk.  Frank sat a few feet away, straddling the chair, leaning
over the back to watch her.

   "Feel like chatting a bit?" he said.

   "You fucking bastard, you son of a bitch, you goddamn . . .  " Cindy
collapsed into sobs and tears as she looked over at what was left of Sam.
"Why did you have to do that to her?"

   Frank looked around at Sam's leaking body, twitching in her bonds.

   "It was necessary, you had to know there was no way out."

   Cindy let her head fall and sobbed.

   "You're dead," Frank continued, "It's just a question of when.  Tell me
everything and I'll end it quick, both of you.  Hold anything back and I
skin your friend with a blow torch an inch at a time, and I won't ask you
again until I'm done."

   Cindy was silent for a moment, tensing up a couple times as waves of
pain shot through her body from her throbbing tits and ruined pussy.

   "What do you want?" she said.

   Frank snorted.  "You know what I want."

   "I don't know the name, if that's what you mean.  Tall guy, blonde, not
natural.  Earring in the left ear, I think.  A tattoo on his left hand,
some kind of bird."

   Amateur, Frank thought to himself.  That's the best she could do, that's
all she noticed?

   "Where did you meet him?" he asked, even though he already knew
everything now.

   "Paradise Bar," she mumbled, "through Bob, guy who runs the place."

   "Yeah, "Bob the neck", know why he's called that, Cindy?"

   She shrugged, looked up at Frank, shook her head a little.

   "No?  Because he got strung up once and left for dead.  Didn't die, you
see, his fucking neck was too thick, he used to be a weight lifter.  Go on,
what did the blonde guy say, tell me all of it."

   Cindy laid out the story as best she could in her condition, but Frank
probably could have done it for her.  The blonde guy was named Freddy, and
he was like Sam, not quite in the game, but he knew what was going on. 
Everyone hated him, he was an old poof, colored his hair blonde long after
it went gray.

   Freddy wasn't the customer though, that was for the naive blonde girl.
The guy making the contract was Freddy's lover, Griff, a contract pro. 
Griff took over the Los Angeles market after Frank retired, but the boys,
they never liked him.  It wasn't just that he was gay, they could have
forgiven him that.  He was an asshole, pushy, cocky, full of himself. 
Sloppy too, lots of blood and guts, could never pull of anything neat and
clean.

   When Frank retired Griff was just starting out, a refugee from Detroit
where he burned too many bridges.  He was an ex-marine, Desert Storm, got
kicked out for being too brutal in Iraq.  Nothing official, just an
honorable discharge and a message that he better take it or it would turn
dishonorable fast.  Griff had come to Frank, wanted him to train him, show
him the ropes, but he had turned him down cold, polite, but not friendly.
Griff probably hated him for that, but not enough to burn him, too risky
for starters.

   Cindy praddled on, emptying her head of everything she could think of,
but Frank ignored her.  He knew what this was about, she didn't.  The girl
was army intelligence, CIA trained, but hated her superiors and got out
when a male officer found out she was gay and tried to use it against her
for sex.  She made her way to L.A.  and found out there was money to made
from killing by accident, acting as a private security guard to someone in
the game that came to like her, offered her a job.  There was all kinds of
other stuff, once she got started she wanted to tell him everything, her
third grade teacher if he wanted.  She was in full confession mode, broken.

   She never had any training in the art, but she got away with it because
of her sex.  No one expected a hot Socal blonde to be a hitter, she had the
advantage, especially with the spics and the moolies.  All she had to do
was be someplace they hung at, a bar or a club, and the target would hit on
her.  When she had him alone he was cake.  No one connected her to the hit,
she was faceless, just another bunny.  They all looked the same in L.A. 
The bosses, they liked her, she was sexy and she got the job done.  That
she lacked finesse, they forgave, because what other choice did they have?
Some gang banger or fucking Griff?

   This was all about her.  Griff was losing business to the girl, getting
cut out.  He figured she was new here, so she wouldn't know about him, no
one talked about such things anyway.  So he had Freddy make up a tale, a
hit on an old guy living in the hills alone.  Griff figures probably she
gets whacked in the process, but if not, well, an old score settled, the
legend dethroned.  He could deal with her later.  Only Griff was just as
untrained as the girl, and fucking stupid besides not to figure this
outcome.

   "He told me it was easiest job I'd ever have," Cindy said, "An old
gentlemen, hard of hearing, living alone in the hills, no security system."

   "You didn't think to check?  You could have cased the place from the
hills."

   "Why would the guy lie?  Why spoil the job?" Cindy hissed and grimaced
as her legs deserted her for a moment, putting weight on her aching wrists
as her damaged areas reminded her of their condition.

   "You don't assume anything, that's why.  You rely on yourself, no one
else."

   Cindy was breathing heavily as she looked up.  "Who are you anyway?"

   "Frank DeSilva."

   She shook her head.

   "Hmmph, no respect for your elders."

   "What?"

   "I'm in the same business as you, or was.  Been retired for a number of
years now."

   "Fuck."

   "Yea."

   "Why the contract?" she asked.

   "To take you out.  I wasn't the mark, you were.  The guy who hired you
works for another contractor, your competition.  He was sending sheep to
the wolves."

   "Who, the blonde guy?"

   "Nope, his boyfrend, a guy named Griff, heard of him?"

   She shook her head.

   "You should have known all about him.  You make too many mistakes to be
in this business.  It cost you and your friend your lives.  But I'll give
you one thing."

   "What?"

   "The satisfaction of knowing that both of them will roast here first
before hell."

   Cindy looked up, the obvious question in her eyes.

   "Yeah, well, that's it, isn't it?" Frank said.

   "How?"

   "I'm going to hang you."

   "Can't you shoot me, Sam at least, back of the head?"

   "Nope, you owe me."

   Cindy protested and pleaded, but Frank wrapped the gag around her mouth
to shut her up and got to work.  A couple lengths of the same soft nylon
rope were fashioned into nooses and tied to the steel rings he had mounted
in the ceiling joist earlier.  He positioned a couple of shop stools
underneath them and got Sam ready.

   There was no way she could fight back, she barely even twitched when he
unhooked her breasts, even though it must have been agony when they
flattened out on her chest with the nails still embedded in their burned
holes.  He cut the straps on her legs and wrists, tying them together
quickly before she could move.  He had to lift her bodily off the bench,
and when he tried to stand her up on the stool, it was obvious there was no
way she could stand, even with the noose providing incentive.  So he kicked
the stool away and tied a length of cord around her wrist restraints,
looped it through the ceiling ring and hoisted her up to dangle by her
arms, the noose slack for the moment.

   Cindy he was more careful with, she might still have some kick left,
even though her arms and legs should be dead from being suspended all day.
First he moved the arms of the engine hoist together so her wrists were
close and tied them off, then did the same with her legs.  He carried her
over to the stool and tried to get her to stand, but she was too far gone,
sobbing and pleading for her life.  Undignified for a pro, thought Frank,
you deserve this death.  He trussed her up the same as Sam, just enough
slack in the noose so that when she was cut loose it would tighten rather
than snap, strangling the girls instead of breaking their necks.

   Before he hung them he cut the leg bonds loose, and when it was done he
got up on the stool with a knife in both hands and quickly cut the arm
ropes, stepping down as the girls necks were stretched, carrying the stool
away and turning to watch.

   The girls were suspended within touching distance as they began their
death dance, the strangulation causing them to kick their legs out in a
futile effort to find support.  The instinct even took place with Sam,
despite her damage, as the girls spread their legs obscenely in frog kicks,
trying to wrap them around each other to take the pressure off their necks,
betraying their love in the end.  A few kicks and twitches, a lot of blood
dripping from their freshly opened wounds, and it was done, the girls
swaying back and forth with blue faces, their hearts beating their last. 
It was over.

   Frank sat down on the stool and watched for a minute, reluctant to get
up.  It was going to be a long night, bundling up the girls, taking them to
his boat, driving out to sea to cut them into bait.  No silly concrete
anchors like that putz Scott Peterson, there wouldn't be a scrap left when
the crabs and bottom feeders were done.  Then back here to wash everything
down, drive their van back to their neighborhood, get back home by bus and
cab, and finally a quick sleep and the business of the demise of Freddy and
fucking Griff, as unpleasant as this and more so, but necessary.  Personal
maybe, but it had to be done just right, like all things, someone once
said.
   "I really am too old for this shit," he sighed.

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