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Description
What it‘s All About
by JamesE82

“Just a quick little thing, really,” the Crimson Conservative said. “Nothing special, but worth doin’, and worth doin’ right, ya know?”

The man she was speaking to was unable to reply, as he was on his way to being strangled to death.

“That’s an old bit of wisdom that this country o’ mine’s forgotten,” she said, her giant red combat boots thudding down the hall, one massive hand clamped onto the man’s throat. His face was strawberry-colored and coated in sweat, eyes open but unseeing as he was dragged along, heels weakly lifting off the ground as his legs occasionally spasmed in ever-weakening efforts to struggle. “Seems this nation’s forgotten plenty: Work for a living, don’t take what don’t belong to ya, raise your kids so they don’t turn into crooks…

“Oh, and here’s a pretty important one: Don’t kidnap women and sell ‘em into sexual slavery.“

She kicked open a door as she finished the sentence and flung the man into the room. The man, a mafia lieutenant named Calvino Rizzo, slid into the middle of the floor, his throat making guttural noises as oxygen was sucked through it and into his burning lungs. Connie walked into the room, slamming the heavy metal door behind her with a casual flick of a finger. She stood over the face-down, gasping man, smirking as he struggled to turn himself over.

“Y’all watchin’ this?” she asked, addressing the rest of the men without looking at them.

“You’re a dead woman,” another Italian stated. Connie hadn’t bothered to learn his name, not as she grabbed him, broke his arm in three places, carried him to the room, or as she used a bent piece of rebar to in effect staple him to the wall. He gripped the U-shaped piece of metal with his good hand, trying to wedge his fingers between it and his neck. “Nobody fucks with the Ginnimis like this without paying!”

“Kelbeh,” another man spat. He was in the same position as the Italian, but this man‘s name Connie did know: Hatib Nizar Abd Akram. She knew his name, age, height, and that he was a brother of the terrorist leader she had killed on the outskirts of Angel Falls, leaving him pinned beneath the truck he had been using to transport a colossal bomb into the city. “Bitch, you will die! You will go to hell, where I will be waiting to cram your kisich with hot coals!”

The other men pinned to the walls were either too frightened or in too much pain to say anything. That, or they had succumbed to the wounds Connie had inflicted on them as she stormed the secret Ginnimi family compound.

“I asked if you people were watchin’,” Connie said, finally looking up and making eye contact with all the still living men. After silence fell over the room but for the buzzing of the overhead fluorescent lights, the Amazon nodded. “This fella doesn’t seem to know anything,” she said, and slowly crushed his head beneath her boot.

One man, an Arab with his pants and underwear around his ankles, vomited and resumed his sobbing. Connie walked over to him, her clean boot thumping, the gory one making a sploch sound with each step. She stood with her toes right in front of the puddle of the man’s vomit and waited for him to look in her direction. Shivering, his head rose until he was staring at her chin, then Connie gently pushed on his forehead until he was looking up into her single deep blue eye.

“Now that you’ve seen what happens to a guy who don’t know anything,” she said, “I think it’s about time I ask if you have any information you think I’d like to hear…”

* * *

“Thank you, Urooj,” Connie said, walking back into the room ten minutes later. “All the women were exactly where you said they would be.”

“Yes, yes,” the man with his pants around his ankles whispered. “I tell… I tell all…”

Connie nodded. “You did, and a bunch of American girls who aren’t gonna live the rest of their lives in humiliation and pain thank ya for it. Even that woman I pulled you offa when I first found you--the blonde cheerleader, remember? The one tied to the mattress, screamin’ as you raped her? Even she’d probably thank you, on account’a what you were doing to her was like a date where the guy doesn’t pay for dinner compared to what the fella fixin’ to buy her would have done to her. I’ve heard things ‘bout those Chinese and what they like to do to blonde American dames…”

“Yes, yes,” Urooj repeated. “I sorry… I so sorry…”

Connie walked over and gently placed her hands on the Arab’s shoulders, fingers on either side of the bent rebar pinning him to the wall. “Maybe ya are, maybe ya ain’t; that don’t concern me, and it don’t concern that girl you were raping. All I care about is the information you gave me, and all you should care about is my gratitude to you for givin’ it.”

“Y-Yes?” Urooj said, the tiniest glimmer of hope in his eyes as he looked up at the towering supersoldier.

“Yes,” Connie said with a smile. “Thanks.”

The Crimson Conservative pushed down on his shoulders with both her giant hands, pulling the terrorist’s head off and sending his body flopping to the floor. The head, still held against the wall by the bent length of iron, tried to speak for a couple seconds, then the dead mouth hung slack and still.

Threats and curses were spewed at the woman from the others for a solid minute, the terrified criminals working out their shock at the gruesome killing--and the fear that they were soon to meet a similar end--by a verbal explosion of vulgarities and machismo. Finally the adrenaline-born energy ebbed, and the only sound in the room was once again the buzzing of the fluorescent lights, this time accompanied by the steady drip of blood from Urooj’s head.

“You‘ve seen what happens to one of you fellas when I‘m happy with him,” Connie said, pulling a massive revolver and waving it slowly around the room. “How ‘bout I give you an idea of what happens when I ain’t happy?”

The hand not gripping the gun shot out and ripped the rebar from around Hatib’s neck. A kick from her boot took the Arab’s legs out from under him, and the already weak and wounded man hit the ground hard.

“I’m not happy at all with you, Mr. Akram,” Connie said as she kicked him to the center of the floor. The terrorist rolled until he hit something soft and yielding.

“Allah!” he choked out, turning to find his face inches away from what appeared to be a dark red and pink waffle, but was in reality the crushed head of the mafia lieutenant.

Connie pulled the trigger, and Hatib’s left shin was blown to pieces. “Rewarding underlings for a job well done by letting ‘em rape American women,” she said with a shake of her head. “Are all your helpers so lucky, or was Urooj your favorite?”

The terrorist leader was in no condition to answer, but that was fine with her. The Crimson Conservative had many more questions to ask Hatib and the remaining prisoners. Questions about white slavery, weapons trafficking, organized crime activities, terrorist plots…

It‘s too easy sometimes, she thought. Grab the bad guys, get ‘em to talk, and then make it so the bad guys can‘t do bad stuff to good folks anymore…

Grinning, Connie took aim at another strategic location on the terrorist‘s body.

“This is what it’s all about,” she said, and squeezed the trigger.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Does this one really need a lot of explaining?

If the Crimson Conservative’s New Year’s resolution was to be a kinder, gentler superheroine, I’d say she’s blown it. If her New Year’s resolution was to do what she does best, to do what she believes she was created to do, then I’ll have to give her an A+ so far.

The death of Hatib’s brother, Saleem, was more spectacular, , but preferable to what Hatib is going to be put through. Both events took place in , a location that is a bit safer thanks to Connie’s penchant for making baddies like the Akrams see the error of their ways by doing more than giving them a stern talking to.

was able to somehow capture my girl in the middle of doing her thing; don’t ask how he does it, just head to his page, send him some cash, and have him do it for your own characters.

The Crimson Conservative is my creation, © 2009.

Comments welcome, even if it’s to complain that you were trying to eat while reading this one and it made you, well…

Description
What it‘s All About
by JamesE82

“Just a quick little thing, really,” the Crimson Conservative said. “Nothing special, but worth doin’, and worth doin’ right, ya know?”

The man she was speaking to was unable to reply, as he was on his way to being strangled to death.

“That’s an old bit of wisdom that this country o’ mine’s forgotten,” she said, her giant red combat boots thudding down the hall, one massive hand clamped onto the man’s throat. His face was strawberry-colored and coated in sweat, eyes open but unseeing as he was dragged along, heels weakly lifting off the ground as his legs occasionally spasmed in ever-weakening efforts to struggle. “Seems this nation’s forgotten plenty: Work for a living, don’t take what don’t belong to ya, raise your kids so they don’t turn into crooks…

“Oh, and here’s a pretty important one: Don’t kidnap women and sell ‘em into sexual slavery.“

She kicked open a door as she finished the sentence and flung the man into the room. The man, a mafia lieutenant named Calvino Rizzo, slid into the middle of the floor, his throat making guttural noises as oxygen was sucked through it and into his burning lungs. Connie walked into the room, slamming the heavy metal door behind her with a casual flick of a finger. She stood over the face-down, gasping man, smirking as he struggled to turn himself over.

“Y’all watchin’ this?” she asked, addressing the rest of the men without looking at them.

“You’re a dead woman,” another Italian stated. Connie hadn’t bothered to learn his name, not as she grabbed him, broke his arm in three places, carried him to the room, or as she used a bent piece of rebar to in effect staple him to the wall. He gripped the U-shaped piece of metal with his good hand, trying to wedge his fingers between it and his neck. “Nobody fucks with the Ginnimis like this without paying!”

“Kelbeh,” another man spat. He was in the same position as the Italian, but this man‘s name Connie did know: Hatib Nizar Abd Akram. She knew his name, age, height, and that he was a brother of the terrorist leader she had killed on the outskirts of Angel Falls, leaving him pinned beneath the truck he had been using to transport a colossal bomb into the city. “Bitch, you will die! You will go to hell, where I will be waiting to cram your kisich with hot coals!”

The other men pinned to the walls were either too frightened or in too much pain to say anything. That, or they had succumbed to the wounds Connie had inflicted on them as she stormed the secret Ginnimi family compound.

“I asked if you people were watchin’,” Connie said, finally looking up and making eye contact with all the still living men. After silence fell over the room but for the buzzing of the overhead fluorescent lights, the Amazon nodded. “This fella doesn’t seem to know anything,” she said, and slowly crushed his head beneath her boot.

One man, an Arab with his pants and underwear around his ankles, vomited and resumed his sobbing. Connie walked over to him, her clean boot thumping, the gory one making a sploch sound with each step. She stood with her toes right in front of the puddle of the man’s vomit and waited for him to look in her direction. Shivering, his head rose until he was staring at her chin, then Connie gently pushed on his forehead until he was looking up into her single deep blue eye.

“Now that you’ve seen what happens to a guy who don’t know anything,” she said, “I think it’s about time I ask if you have any information you think I’d like to hear…”

* * *

“Thank you, Urooj,” Connie said, walking back into the room ten minutes later. “All the women were exactly where you said they would be.”

“Yes, yes,” the man with his pants around his ankles whispered. “I tell… I tell all…”

Connie nodded. “You did, and a bunch of American girls who aren’t gonna live the rest of their lives in humiliation and pain thank ya for it. Even that woman I pulled you offa when I first found you--the blonde cheerleader, remember? The one tied to the mattress, screamin’ as you raped her? Even she’d probably thank you, on account’a what you were doing to her was like a date where the guy doesn’t pay for dinner compared to what the fella fixin’ to buy her would have done to her. I’ve heard things ‘bout those Chinese and what they like to do to blonde American dames…”

“Yes, yes,” Urooj repeated. “I sorry… I so sorry…”

Connie walked over and gently placed her hands on the Arab’s shoulders, fingers on either side of the bent rebar pinning him to the wall. “Maybe ya are, maybe ya ain’t; that don’t concern me, and it don’t concern that girl you were raping. All I care about is the information you gave me, and all you should care about is my gratitude to you for givin’ it.”

“Y-Yes?” Urooj said, the tiniest glimmer of hope in his eyes as he looked up at the towering supersoldier.

“Yes,” Connie said with a smile. “Thanks.”

The Crimson Conservative pushed down on his shoulders with both her giant hands, pulling the terrorist’s head off and sending his body flopping to the floor. The head, still held against the wall by the bent length of iron, tried to speak for a couple seconds, then the dead mouth hung slack and still.

Threats and curses were spewed at the woman from the others for a solid minute, the terrified criminals working out their shock at the gruesome killing--and the fear that they were soon to meet a similar end--by a verbal explosion of vulgarities and machismo. Finally the adrenaline-born energy ebbed, and the only sound in the room was once again the buzzing of the fluorescent lights, this time accompanied by the steady drip of blood from Urooj’s head.

“You‘ve seen what happens to one of you fellas when I‘m happy with him,” Connie said, pulling a massive revolver and waving it slowly around the room. “How ‘bout I give you an idea of what happens when I ain’t happy?”

The hand not gripping the gun shot out and ripped the rebar from around Hatib’s neck. A kick from her boot took the Arab’s legs out from under him, and the already weak and wounded man hit the ground hard.

“I’m not happy at all with you, Mr. Akram,” Connie said as she kicked him to the center of the floor. The terrorist rolled until he hit something soft and yielding.

“Allah!” he choked out, turning to find his face inches away from what appeared to be a dark red and pink waffle, but was in reality the crushed head of the mafia lieutenant.

Connie pulled the trigger, and Hatib’s left shin was blown to pieces. “Rewarding underlings for a job well done by letting ‘em rape American women,” she said with a shake of her head. “Are all your helpers so lucky, or was Urooj your favorite?”

The terrorist leader was in no condition to answer, but that was fine with her. The Crimson Conservative had many more questions to ask Hatib and the remaining prisoners. Questions about white slavery, weapons trafficking, organized crime activities, terrorist plots…

It‘s too easy sometimes, she thought. Grab the bad guys, get ‘em to talk, and then make it so the bad guys can‘t do bad stuff to good folks anymore…

Grinning, Connie took aim at another strategic location on the terrorist‘s body.

“This is what it’s all about,” she said, and squeezed the trigger.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Does this one really need a lot of explaining?

If the Crimson Conservative’s New Year’s resolution was to be a kinder, gentler superheroine, I’d say she’s blown it. If her New Year’s resolution was to do what she does best, to do what she believes she was created to do, then I’ll have to give her an A+ so far.

The death of Hatib’s brother, Saleem, was more spectacular, , but preferable to what Hatib is going to be put through. Both events took place in , a location that is a bit safer thanks to Connie’s penchant for making baddies like the Akrams see the error of their ways by doing more than giving them a stern talking to.

was able to somehow capture my girl in the middle of doing her thing; don’t ask how he does it, just head to his page, send him some cash, and have him do it for your own characters.

The Crimson Conservative is my creation, © 2009.

Comments welcome, even if it’s to complain that you were trying to eat while reading this one and it made you, well…