Bita's Vengeance

Bita had endured enough.

The Zionists had destroyed her home, bombed her family, mocked her people’s suffering—and the world did nothing. But she wasn’t just going to scream into the void. No. She wanted action. So when the Revolutionary Guard prepared for their long-awaited strike on Tel Aviv, she demanded to join them.

At first, they laughed. "War is no place for a woman," they said.

Bita merely smirked, peeling off her shoe and pressing her bare, sweat-streaked foot into the face of the nearest soldier. "You think I’m afraid of filth?" she hissed. "I was born in it. Lived in it. And soon, the Zionists will choke on it."

The Guardsmen exchanged glances. Then, slowly, they grinned.

Tel Aviv, at last.

The raid was chaos—gunfire, smoke, the screams of occupiers realizing their stolen paradise was crumbling. But Bita wasn’t here for the fighting. She was here for justice.

Bound Zionist prisoners were dragged before her, their faces bloodied, their arrogance stripped away. Bita lounged on a commandeered chair, her bare feet propped up, caked in dust and the grime of war.

"You like stealing our land [for Greater Israel]?" she cooed, wiggling her toes in front of the first trembling captive. "Then taste it."

She forced his face into her soles, laughing as he gagged on the dirt—the very earth his people had tried to erase her from. "Lick," she ordered. "Lick until there’s nothing left."

When he finally pulled back, retching, Bita sighed with satisfaction. Then her eyes dropped lower.

"Now… let’s see how brave you really are."

She stood, planting one foot on his chest, pinning him down. Then—slowly, deliberately—she raised her other foot, hovering over his groin. His breath came in panicked rasps.

"This is for my brother," she whispered.

CRUNCH.

His scream was cut short as her heel sank in, grinding with methodical fury. She didn’t stop until she felt something pop beneath her—until his writhing turned to twitching, his cries to whimpers.

Then she moved to the next prisoner.

And the next.

By dawn, Bita’s feet were no longer just dirty—they were stained. And as the fires of Tel Aviv burned behind her, she smiled.

"Finally," she murmured, "I can breathe."