Gum Belle, Episode XI, Part I
There was a moments disorientation, a tumbling, crazy jumble of sensation as Gum Belles vision rolled end over end. She saw her headless body, writhing like a dying snake, and another goon, the mirror image of the first, with a wicked-looking saber in one hand.
Then she closed her eyes and let go.
It was over remarkably fast. The mangled face smiled one last time, then melted into shapeless goo. The body thrashed a bit longer, its distended neck lying limp across a good fifteen feet of warehouse floor. It resembled a fleshy fire hose, only its open end oozed a slow drip of something that was neither water nor blood, but a tarry pink substance. The White Russian padded past it, wary and professional, his eyes focused on the twitching body, his saber shaking ever so slightly.
Something soft and gentle wound around his ankle.
The White Russian lunged forward, but the whatever-it-was did not want to let him go just yet. It tightened its grip, pulping the tender bones in his foo
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The tall, handsome waiter moved easily through the pale wonderland that was the Plaza Nightclub. The tables were pearly white, the chairs were white ash, the floor was white marble, and the plates were pure white china. He himself wore a white uniform, and he delivered the food and drink with hands encased in white cotton gloves. Each table was set with a tall white candle, and he made sure each was lit with a pure, alabaster flame as he passed them by. The bandstand, all silver and stucco, was stocked with very fine musicians in bright ivory suits that glittered in the stage lights. They played the latest music; the Big Band stuff that was all the rage with young people like the waiter.
White, you could say, was the color of the day at the Plaza Nightclub, which made the six big men at the owners table so very conspicuous. They all wore dark suits with matching snap-brim hats pulled low over their eyes. Several wore black leather gloves, and their oily patent-leather loafers lur
Miss Twist: PrologueEast Berlin, December 14th, 1965. 8:30 PMMiss Twist: Prologue5 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
It was snowing on the wrong side of the Berlin Wall.
The woman in black burrowed deeper into her coat and rubbed her hands together beneath her fur hand muff. It couldn't be warmer then fifteen degrees Fahrenheit, and the harsh, blustery wind made her face numb and stiff. No wonder the lovely lads in the press department called this the Cold War.
She turned down a narrow, dingy alley, her boot-heels clicking briskly on the cobbles. Something vaguely human was huddled beneath a pile of white-dusted rubbish. She made the effort not to look too closely at it. She couldn't afford pity. She was on the clock.
The alley opened onto a street. Across the way was a local bar. Its small-paned windows were too frosty and fogged up to see inside, but two drunks slumped by the front door, singing boisterously in German. Best to move now, before they saw her and wondered why the pretty lady was skulking in the shadows. The woman in black twitched her s
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a spray of gas bombs hit her square in the face and blossomed into sickly green fumes. Gum Belles eyes rolled back in their sockets and her head fell into a stack of her own coiled neck. The crooks van roared off, its six heavy wheels leaving deep tire tracks in the unconscious womans shapeless body. Bum Frank coughed and sneezed and struggled against the belt that kept him tied the deathtrap that was now the freighter Confidence, but to no avail.
Just then, FBI Special Agent Lionel Ricketts awoke with a gasp and a pounding headache. The Confidence was littered with bodies, and there was a big pile of some rubbery red sheeting in the middle of the deck. The custom armored jobbie was long gone, but the cloying stench of the gas was everywhere.
What a mess, he grumbled. Leave it to the criminal element to vomit all over six months hard work. Jenkins was still curled in a fetal position next to one of the gangsters, whose gas mask ha
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So, what is this place like? Aline twitched her fingers nervously as she looked over at her best friend Eliza who was sitting confidently behind the wheel of her car. The two had met in high school and remained friends after graduation despite Eliza being two years older than Aline. Their friendship was a rather odd one, since it was hard to imagine two more different people.
Eliza was always well organized, her personality forceful, and her face extremely prone to irritated frowns. She was wearing a bright red shirt, black long pants, and gazed ahead with a vague contempt for the other drivers or quite possibly the road its self. By comparison Aline was dressed in a much more tame green shirt and bland white pants.
As they reached a red light and the car came to a reluctant stop Eliza finally provided her best friend with an answer. Does it really matters