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Message-ID: <51450asstr$1119521401@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Van Falmouth <vanfal@sdf.lonestar.org>
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Subject: {ASSM} Remorseless {Van Falmouth} (rape and retribution)
Lines: 189
Date: Thu, 23 Jun 2005 06:10:01 -0400
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Remorseless
an offbeat morality tale by Van Falmouth
~1400 words


A few minutes early for the six o'clock train, I strode off the 
bottom step onto the platform, a large, dirty concrete box that 
smelled of urine.  Dusk was descending on the ground-level tracks 
beyond the opening.  Most of the overhead lamps were burnt out, but 
enough light remained to read the thick graffiti if anyone cared.

Sunday is not the occasion for rush hour.  Five people had arrived 
before me, three men on the benches and two kneeling, backs to me, 
in the deeper dimness of the weather-protected alcove beyond them. 
I paused on my way to a seat at an empty bench, suddenly 
recognizing the far scene.

Two others, a man and ... a woman, from the expanse of shapely 
hose, were lying against the wall on the concrete beyond the 
kneelers.  Bare hips thrusting strongly, he was obviously fucking 
her as missionaries are reported to do natives.  She was crying and 
twisting her body -- in passion I supposed, until I realized the 
kneelers were restraining her arms and legs.  I listened to the 
gasping sobs, interspersed with piteous begging when she caught her 
breath: "Please, please, oh please stop!" and concluded this was a 
rape in progress.

I stared in reluctant belief while the fucker, a young man vigorous 
as the other two, rose off her, cock dripping, and jerked up his 
jeans.  He backed away to trade places with the one restraining her 
legs, who dropped his pants and fell upon her, causing her to 
scream, "Oh, no, not another one!  Oh, please God, stop them!" 
During the exchange I noted that her legs and buttocks were 
enclosed in flesh-toned panty hose pulled half-way down her thigh, 
not in the dark net of a whore.

I'm a man of a certain age who avoids interfering with another's 
business, though I'm always prepared for interference with mine. 
And I have daughters of my own, very dear to me.

My resolve was firming up when the man nearest on a bench rose to 
his feet and said to me, "What do you make of it?  Some show, eh?"

Possibly younger than I, he was dressed in a private guard's 
uniform, heavier and taller than my 150 cm.  His voice was jocular, 
eyes twinkling familiarly.

"Show?" I repeated.  "You think it's just an act?"

"Oh, it's some act!  She started out playing the cock tease but she 
totally misjudged her cocks."  He brayed laughter.  "Now _she's_ 
the butt of the joke."

I studied him narrowly.  "What's your part in it?"

"Oh, just an interested spectator, watching a miserable whore get 
her just deserts."

"You heard her offer herself?"

"A stickler, are you?  All right then, a miserable cunt.  You're 
old enough to know: the only reason the world's so full of cunts is 
to serve a man's pleasure.  Take a seat and have a little vicarious 
fun.  You can't beat the price.  And those guys are kids; they 
won't last long."

I nodded slowly in full recognition.  "Her screams mean nothing to 
you."

"Nothing?  Hell, they make it exciting!"

I looked at the other two, seated, gray of temples, hands in their 
pockets, whose bright eyes switched back and forth from me to the 
spectacle.  I called in contempt, "You think it's a nice show too, 
do you?"

The interested spectator took a step toward me.  "What are you, a 
damned holy Joe?  Sit down or I'll sit you down."  He had lost his 
smile.

"No, you won't."  My right hand slipped into my jacket's left 
armpit and emerged with Grandfather's Luger, thumbing off the 
safety as the barrel lined up.  It crashed with a bright flare in 
the poor light, a tongue of flame licking the man's left eye.  The 
heavy parabellum bullet snapped his head back.  He dropped to the 
concrete in a disjointed jumble.

Now I had the gray heads' full attention.  "You damned remorseless 
bastards!" I called.  "I've seen too many of you."

I doubt they understood; their ears had been in front of the 
muzzle.  Not that it mattered.  I shot the nearer in the head, 
knocking him sideways on his bench.  The other was too far away for 
that to be repeated quickly, so my third bullet caught him just to 
the left of the sternum as he made to rise.  His upward surge 
carried him on over to fall facedown on the concrete.

The three young men had vaulted erect.  The one fresh from the 
woman jerked up his jeans, wincing almost comically as the coarse 
zipper caught under his hard-on.  They stared at me, frozen with 
white faces in their gloomy alcove.  To escape they would have to 
run towards me.

Taking careful aim, I shot the right-most in the nose.  That 
released the other two, who instinctively crouched as they 
sprinted, one to pass behind the benches, the other toward the 
opening to the tracks.  It might have been a good tactic against 
anyone without my decades of practice.  I stopped them both with 
snap body shots.  The one trying for the opening fell heavily and 
labored to scoot further.  I strode near, aiming at his head.

He rolled over on his back and gasped one word:  "Why?"

I understood him despite the ringing in my ears, perhaps less 
severe even after six shots because the platform was not fully 
enclosed.  I raised my voice so that he could understand _me_. 
"It's my practice to stamp out wolves and other dangerous non-
humans whenever I get the chance."

"I'm as human as you are!" he protested.

"No, you aren't.  Somehow your line missed the gene for 
identification with others that makes human society possible.  This 
lack is responsible for almost all the world's terror."

"That's ... that's the most --"

I didn't linger to hear his summary.  A bullet in his face stopped 
it forever.

One round but no target remained.  I returned the weapon to my 
armpit.  The woman -- girl, actually -- had sat up and leaned back 
against the wall, legs splaying from bare pubes.  She sniffled, 
torso twitching, huge wet eyes staring at me.  I looked around.  No 
one else had entered from the staircase.  It was the work of a 
moment to pull the limp bodies behind the rear set of benches, 
leaving wet smears on the concrete, dark in the poor light.

I approached the girl and extended my hand.  "Help you up?"

Her arms quivered.  "You ... you killed them all!"

"I think so.  Let me help you.  The train will get here any 
moment."

"D-do you have to kill me too?"

"Kill you too?"  I sniffed.  "Certainly not!"

She raised her hand gingerly.  I took it and pulled her to her 
feet.  She snatched at her disarrayed clothing.  Fresh tears welled 
on her cheeks.  "They raped me!"

"I know.  I'm sorry.  I know it looks bad with six of them enjoying 
it, but I hope you can believe all men aren't like that.  If you're 
willing to come with me, I'll take you where you can clean up and 
get a bite to eat."

"Go with a killer?"  She shrank back, crept around me and stooped 
for a large bag, from its angularity perhaps filled with books.  My 
god, was she a school girl?

She eyed the distance to the entrance stairs.  I stepped back and 
gestured.

"I won't interfere with you at all.  You can go up or you can ride 
the train.  If you come with me, I guarantee you won't be 
molested."

Her big eyes contemplated me but I never heard her decision. 
Suddenly the six o'clock train rumbled through, gliding to a stop, 
doors hissing open.  Only one man disembarked.  He sniffed, raised 
his eyebrows and said perhaps to me, "Smells like a war zone."  I'm 
sure it did.  He disappeared toward the staircase.

I boarded and walked to the front car, not looking back.  Shortly 
the train slithered onward with a lurch.  I never saw the girl 
again.

I call it the "Gene of Remorse."  It's not often you get the chance 
to remove a few of the many whose actions unambiguously demonstrate 
its lack.  Those without remorse get none from me.  I looked out 
into the gathering night with unalloyed satisfaction.

END
vanfal@sdf.lonestar.org

vanfal@sdf.lonestar.org
SDF Public Access UNIX System - http://sdf.lonestar.org

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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