Joel Reiner sat at his desk, the same one that he had sat at every day for the last eight years, and tried to focus on the story at hand. His notes sat in disorganized piles across the surface of the desk, quick scribbles of information gleaned from seedy sources in even seedier parts of town, brief memos that had seemed either more or less important at one time or another, and the odd newspaper clipping which may or may not have been relevant to the current state of affairs in the largest city in all the world.
Megapolis had always been a hotbed of organized crime. The family tree of gangsters and mobsters had its roots in the dark days of Prohibition and the Great Depression. Thompsons had been replaced by Uzis, perhaps, but the basic tools of the trade remained the same. Extortion and strong- arming, liquor and drugs, prostitutes and pimps, bank robberies, corporate swindling, government corruption, drive-by shootings and back-alley beatings—The powers of evil and vice were as potent in the city today as they had ever been.
And the newspapers, too, remained the same. The Megapolis Gazette had dedicated a correspondent to the crime beat for almost eighty years. Joel Reiner was simply the latest in a long line of hard-nosed, in-your-face, get-the-story-out reporters who had penciled the byline once a week, every week, section A, page four, column one.
Joel’s office was nearly as disorganized as his desk. A rusty metal trashcan sat in the corner, wads of crumpled paper littering the floor at its base. Two large file cabinets, stuffed to overflowing with folders that had not been looked at in years, dominated the near wall. A small window, smeared with years of downtown city grime, provided a gray view of the building next door. A tattered sofa sat against the far wall, next to the door. The sofa was covered with old issues of the Gazette and no one had sat on it in ages. A medium sized black and white television sat in the corner, its screen a dusty indicator that it, like the sofa, was rarely used.
He pushed the stacks of notes around the top the desk, desperately searching for the one piece of data that might inspire his failing imagination or stir an idea in his aching head. A yellowed piece of scratch paper caught his attention for a moment but then he tossed it aside in disgust.
“People don’t want to read another column about the failed war on drugs,” he snapped. “Readers want action. They want personalities. They want to know about exciting people doing exciting things.”
He pushed a second stack of papers aside and continued the search. The sorry truth of it was that he had not seen the scratched wood surface of his antiquated desk in years. Even his secretary was loath to try and organize the endless piles of paper. Pieces of unopened mail lay strewn among notes and memos, likely never to be read or even noticed. One of these, a plain white envelope, fell from the desk and settled on the hardwood floor next to his chair.
Joel glanced down at the envelope but did not lean over to pick it up. Although he faintly remembered his secretary dropping it off two days prior, the last thing he wanted to do right now was read the mail. He had more important things to do, after all. There was an article to be written and a deadline that was fast approaching.
The twelve hundred words required by his editor had never been a problem for the award- winning columnist. Even when he had been laid up at the hospital, courtesy of a beating from Joey Malokovich, he had managed to get the column out. In fact, he had never missed a deadline. But all that was old history. In the what-have-you-done-for-me-lately world of newspaper reporting, Joel’s stock was starting to drop.
His computer sat on the corner of the desk, the screen as white as the virgin snow of a Himalayan mountaintop in the middle of winter. His fingers, considered magical by some of his less talented associates because of their ability to crank out editorial masterpieces at the rate of seventy words a minute, lay idle at the base of his keyboard. A glazed look was plastered across his face. His eyes glanced with disinterest from the screen back to his notes and then back to the screen.
“So this is what writer’s block feels like,” the reporter mumbled with a sigh.
A tiny clock at the bottom of his computer screen clicked off the passing minutes. The icon of an envelope flashed insistently, reminding him over and over again that he had e-mail. Joel did not have to look at the messages to know what they were. His editor had been hounding him for the overdue article constantly for the last twenty-four hours. The presses would not wait and the editor would not be sympathetic, he knew.
He again tried to focus his mind, to concentrate on the myriad of events that were taking over the city. Something was up, he knew. Something was going on and whatever it was it was big. But his notes were old. His sources had clammed up.
On the surface, everything seemed peaceful. A calm had come over the town. Even the Dark Water, the notoriously violent and uncontrolled section of Megapolis sandwiched between the twin rivers, had grown quiet. The Refrain crime family, a shadowy organization in the best of times, had all but disappeared. Drug trafficking had slowed, murders were down, and Refrain’s council of lieutenants had faded into the background. As far as Joel was concerned, it could mean only one thing. His fingers typed the words--
“Don Refrain is up to something. Something big. He does not want to draw attention to himself right now. He wants us to become complacent. He wants us to think that everything is hunky-dory. Then, just when we are not looking—Bam! He drops the hammer on us.”
Joel stared at the words for a long time. They were not exactly a byline but they were a start. Still, the reporter had to admit that it was more than just a lack of solid information that was stymieing his writing. He thought again of the time he had been laid up in the hospital. It had been the first time in his eight years at the Gazette that he had missed a day on the job. Joey Malokovich had beaten him almost to death. He would have been killed had it not been for...
“...Ms. Marvelous,” Joel said while swallowing hard.
The usually stoic reporter was not sure he wanted to think about the beautiful super-heroine. She was the reason that he could not write, he knew. She was the reason that he could not function.
The last few days had been hell. The uncertainty, the not knowing, the disbelief—She was not really dead, was she? No, she couldn’t be dead. She was as strong as ten freaking men, for Christ’s sake! Joel had seen bullets bounce off of her chest without doing a bit of harm. He had seen her stop armed bank robbers without even working up a sweat. She had single-handedly destroyed gangs of drug- peddling street thugs. She had gone up against the toughest, most ruthless, criminals in the city and emerged victorious.
“She can’t be dead,” the reporter assured himself for the thousandth time.
Unsubstantiated reports of the heroine’s demise had started coming in four days earlier. Callers refusing to identify themselves had claimed that the beautiful champion of justice was dead. “There had been a fight,” they said. “She had been beaten and destroyed. The Defender of Megapolis was no more.”
Other papers and media outlets had reported the rumors almost matter-of-factly, as if further evidence was not needed. The fact that Ms. Marvelous had not been seen of late, that she had not made an appearance to put an end to the claims, seemed to lend credence to the story. But the Gazette, at Joel’s insistence, had withheld its editorial opinion. But for a brief acknowledgment that the whereabouts of the famous heroine were unknown, the paper had remained clear of the gossip and speculation.
Within the bustling confines of the paper itself, though, people were becoming more convinced that reports of the heroine’s death were true. Conversations around the water cooler invariably speculated on the fate of the gallant super-fem. His associates sidestepped the issue when in Joel’s presence, quickly changing the subject or simply walking away with the uncomfortable and downtrodden expressions commonly reserved for those in mourning. That his colleagues now reacted to him differently bothered Joel to no end, but at least he understood why they did it. Everyone knew that he had shared a special bond with the media-shy super-heroine. Everyone knew that he considered her a friend. And everyone expected that his weekly article would finally address the matter of her untimely demise.
“But she isn’t dead,” he reaffirmed once again. “She is just on vacation or something--”
“Joel,” his secretary said while poking her head in the door, “There is a news alert on Channel Six that you should see.”
“Not now, Marjorie. You know how I feel about television news. And now isn’t a good time. I have this story to get out and--”
“I really think you should watch this,” the woman insisted while walking into the office and heading for the set. “It’s important.”
Joel sighed in resignation and leaned forward with his elbows on the desk. He displayed his impatience by lazily propping his chin in his right hand and frowning as Marjorie flicked on the television and changed the channel. The secretary stepped back and the twenty-inch screen slowly came to life. The gray image of a pretty correspondent filled the picture.
“Hmm,” Joel muttered in disinterest. “Kyra Silver? I thought she left Channel Six last year to take a job at NYCNN. I wonder what she is doing back--”
“Just watch, please,” Marjorie replied while adjusting the volume so that the correspondent’s voice could be heard.
“... was jogging along the East River when he spotted the naked body of a young woman washed up onto the shore. Police are now confirming that they believe the body to be that of the super-heroine known as Ms. Marvelous. The gruesome discovery would seem to confirm stories reported by Channel Six earlier in the week that Ms. Marvelous had been killed in a battle with a group of unknown assailants...”
Joel’s eyes closed and he tried to shut out the words emanating from the television. He had always liked Kyra but now he hated her. She was lying. She had to be lying.
“... the heroine frequently battled against dangerous criminals and had made numerous enemies in high places. The details surrounding her death remain a mystery, though, as police try to piece together the events that led up to her downfall...”
It can’t be true, he thought while trying to find some fallacy in the words. She isn’t dead. It was all just a bad dream.
“... to the city morgue for an autopsy before a public memorial service can be held later in the week. Once again, the nude body of a young woman believed to be Ms. Marvelous has been discovered along the shores of the East River. This is Kyra Silver reporting live from the scene...”
“Turn it off,” Joel groaned from inside his own personal hell. “Turn it off and get out.”
He opened his eyes and watched the secretary leave. Marjorie was a good woman and undeserving of the harsh manner in which he frequently treated her. She closed the door behind her. For several minutes, he stared blankly at the computer screen. The clock continued to tick. The envelope icon continued to flash. The world would go on, he realized, whether he wanted it to or not.
He had known Ms. Marvelous almost since the beginning. Her appearance on the Megapolis scene had been spectacular. There had been other super-heroes in the town over the years, though none so striking as the gorgeous young blonde. The relationship had started as one of mutual benefit, he feeding her information about criminal activities around town and she giving him exclusive interviews and pictures in return. The relationship had eventually developed into one of friendship but he had never known her real name or true identity. He had not wanted to know, he supposed, as the mystery surrounding this beautiful woman, this brave defender of the weak, added an excitement to the relationship that he always enjoyed. He was a perverted old man, he supposed, a thirty-something reporter with a super-heroine fantasy that did not include getting to know the person under the mask.
But he regretted it, now. It had been selfish of him and he now regretted not learning more about the real Ms. Marvelous when he had the chance. She was more than just a pretty face and an incredible body, he knew. She was a vibrant young woman that put her life on the line repeatedly for the sake of people she did not even know. He would change things, if he could. And if she were really gone, if she were really dead, he wished that he could let the whole world know the identity of this gallant, virtuous, young woman that had fought so hard and sacrificed so much to keep the undeserving citizens of Megapolis safe.
As his eyes began to swell with tears, the usually hard-bitten reporter knew that he had better concentrate on work or he might completely break down. Once again, he scanned the surface of his beat- up desk and shuffled the piles of paper from one place to another. Seeing nothing of interest, his gaze shifted to the floor and the envelope that lay there. He leaned over and picked it up.
The envelope was unstamped and unmarked except for a name that had been scrawled on the front. It was supposed to be his name, Reiner knew, except that the first ‘e’ and the ‘i’ had been interposed and the second ‘e’ had been swapped with an ‘o’. The envelope felt light in his hand as if it
contained nothing at all. His finger slid under the flap and tore the paper across the top. He peered inside and frowned.
“What the hell is this? Some kind of cloth or something--”
The reporter’s words caught in his throat as he suddenly recognized the item. He pulled it from the envelope and held it above the desk. The black, silky fabric unfolded in front of his face. He looked away with a pained expression. He gripped the cloth tightly in his clenched fingers and held it close to his chest. Tears rolled down his cheeks.
“Ms. Marvelous’s mask...”
He laid the mask atop his keyboard and wrapped his arms over the top of his head as if trying to contain the emotions that were bubbling over from his body. The bitter sadness that he felt became mixed with anger. Someone had sent him the mask to make a statement. Someone, probably the heroine’s killer, had wished to rub it in. To add insult to his misery. They were laughing at her, Joel realized. And by laughing at her, they were laughing at everyone that believed in her. They were laughing at everything that was good and just.
Joel gently folded the velvety piece of fabric and slipped it into the top drawer of his desk. He turned to his computer and again stared at the almost blank screen. Finally, he erased what he had previously written about Don Refrain being up to something. His fingers settled on the keys and he took a deep breath. The tears dried on his cheeks. A look of steely determination, not unlike the one he had frequently seen on the face of Ms. Marvelous, took over his features as he began typing his weekly article.
“The forces of evil have struck a dire blow against the city of Megapolis. A gallant warrior for good has been struck down and the forces of evil believe that they have won. They taunt us with their terrible deed and mock us with their perceived victory. But they are mistaken—For though a beloved Champion of Justice has fallen, the forces of good shall never be defeated by those of evil. Others shall rise to take up the banner of justice. Others shall come forward to replace those that have been vanquished. And to Ms. Marvelous, our guardian angel, we say, you shall never be forgotten...”
The scintillating brunette walked through the center of the saloon with her head held high. Her strides were long and purposeful. Her slender, five foot six inch frame was made taller by the three-inch stiletto heels of her leg-hugging thigh boots. The violet costume embracing her fantastic body fit like a second skin. She was aware of the eyes zeroing in on her. She was aware of the catcalls and whistles greeting her presence. But she did not care. She had business in this tavern.
The bar was mostly empty but for a dozen or so rednecks and a few boys from the hood. It was the middle of the day, after all, and decent folk were working jobs or running errands. But there was nothing decent about this bar or its patrons. The saloon was as seamy as the squalid row of tenements that had sprung up around it. The patrons were hard-timers all, a seedy mixture of drug pushers, bookies, and small time criminals that had spent as much time in the joint as they had on the outside. They were losers, every one of them, and the gorgeous brunette did not fear them.
She strode past the lopsided pool table and ignored the goons throwing her mock kisses. She passed by the old jukebox and stepped around a beat up little table that had countless sets of initials carved into its wood surface. Her burning brown eyes remained focused straight ahead. Her concentration remained fixed on a man sitting at the center of the bar. His back was to her but she recognized him none-the-less. He was the reason she had come. He was the man of the moment.
“Joey Malokovich!” the athletic brunette demanded while stopping a pace behind the man’s stool. “I want to have a word with you!”
The man did not move. His heavily muscled shoulders remained hunched over the bar. His head tilted forward as if in a private trance. His hands rested atop the polished wood, protecting a half- emptied longneck bottle of cheap beer.
“Go away,” he snarled without turning. “I got no need for any ten dollar hookers, today.”
“Turn around and face me, you cheap hood! Turn around and face me or I swear that you will wish that you had!”
The man remained calm, even disinterested. “Blow me...”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. Her flowing brown hair seemed to bristle as it lay atop her athletic shoulders. She stepped forward, narrowing the gap between she and her quarry. Her left hand moved toward his lower back. Delicate fingers slipped under his belt and inside his denims. She grasped the waistband of his briefs and pulled upward.
“Hey!” Joey blurted out as he was pulled from the stool by a super-powered wedgie. “What the hell do you think you are doing?”
The girl darted away as the bruiser attempted to swipe her head with the back of his elbow. He shot her an ugly look and tugged at his pants in an effort to get his underwear out of his ass-crack.
“Elle Mental!” he snorted while backing against the bar. “You got a lot of nerve showing your pretty little ass around here. A lot of guys in this place would like to fuck a horny little hotty like you. But I can protect you, if you want. What do you say? Blow me and I’ll make sure that you get out of here in one piece.”
The beautiful heroine’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “Yeah, like that is going to happen! But maybe I will fold you in half so that you can blow yourself. Would that work?”
The six foot four inch thug leaned back against the bar as if unconcerned. He took up the longneck and hammered down a deep swig. His beady brown eyes scanned the luscious heroine’s lithe body hungrily. She was really hot, he quickly decided. Maybe not as hot as Ms. Marvelous, but close. Her legs seemed impossibly long. The tight-fitting boots hugged her ankles, calves and knees. They rose to halfway up her powerful thighs. The deeply tanned skin of her upper legs and hips was revealed beneath the high-cut of her violet costume. Her slender waist was barely twenty-two inches around. She had a good rack, her breasts being large, firm, and round. Small nipples formed clearly visible bumps in the sheer fabric of her super-heroine outfit and seemed to be pointing at him, beckoning even. Her shoulders were bare. Her arms were covered by detached sleeves from the middle of her biceps down to her wrists. The skin-hugging sleeves revealed every curve of her well-developed yet completely feminine muscles.
“You really are a fine piece of meat, Elle,” the thug said while licking his chops. “If you were to come and work for me, I could pimp you into the finest hotels in the city.”
“Try coming back to the real world, dreamer. I think you have been spending too much time in Joey-land.”
Malokovich shrugged. “So if you don’t want to be my ho, what do you want?”
The slender brunette put her hands on her hips. “I want information, Joey. Information about what happened to Ms. Marvelous.”
The thug snickered. “Information, huh? That will cost you more than a simple blow job.”
The heroine was not amused. “I am in no mood to play games, Joey. You will tell me what I want to know or I will beat it out of you.”
“You and what army?”
The hint of a smile formed on Elle’s full red lips. “Nice comeback, dumb ass. Ms. Marvelous always said that you were a bit lacking in the brains department. Now I know what she meant.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, sweet cheeks, Ms. Marvelous isn’t here to help you. There’s only one M-Girl left and that’s you. So like your former partner, maybe it’s time you got what was coming to you. Boys, get her!”
“How predictable!” Elle said while ducking under the pool cue swinging for her head from behind. “I should have known that you would not make this easy!”
“Laugh it up, bitch!” Joey snarled. “But I promise that you will sucking on my cock before you get out of this saloon!”
The lithe heroine moved with catlike speed while driving a reverse elbow strike into the gut of the man behind her. A kick to his right knee sent him sprawling into a chair. A foot to the face drove him backward to the floor. The pool cue flew from his hand and skittered across the uneven wood planks before coming to a rest at the feet of four drunken rednecks.
“Uh oh,” Elle mumbled while taking a fighting stance. “Looks like there are more of them!”
The goons charged forward as a disorganized mob, fists flailing and wide lustful grins on their faces. The beautiful heroine was a blur of speed and motion as she dodged each and every attack while delivering a series devastating counter-strikes of her own. In mere moments, the four men lay groaning
on the ground, each suffering from a different ailment—One a broken nose, another a dislocated arm, the third a cracked rib, and the last a bruised set of family jewels.
“Never mess with a girl in tights,” Elle offered as way of advice. “We super-heroines know how to take care of ourselves.”
A flash of movement out of the corner of her right caught the young super-fem’s attention. She reacted too late and the charging shoulder of a large man crashed into her side. The one hundred and twenty pound angel was slammed to the floor.
“Hey, no fair!” the dark beauty exclaimed while looking up at the gangbanger that had dropped her. He was a large man with a nasty scar on his face and a patch over his left eye. His two buddies stood close behind, each with a leering smile smeared across their unshaven faces.
“We’re going to bust you up, skank!”
Elle rolled into a crouch and flashed her opponents a quick smile. “Bring it on!”
The largest of the young men, the one that had charged her, stepped forward and drove a kick at
her head. She caught his foot in midair. She stood and winked at her foe. “Time to go for a ride!”
The sensational super-fem jerked the man’s foot above her head. His large body went head over heels before crashing into the floor at the feet of his buddies. He rose to his hands and knees and groaned.
“Shit! She is a lot stronger than she looks.”
“Fuck this!” the second gangbanger said while drawing a knife. “I’m going to slice the bitch into little pieces!”
Elle dodged gracefully to the side as the four-inch blade was thrust for her ribs. A second slash narrowly missed her chest.
“Whoa!” she exclaimed while dodging a third swipe. “This is getting a bit too close for comfort. I need to take this guy out before he gets lucky!”
A chopping overhand strike hammered the knife-welding gangbanger on the shoulder. A side thrust kick knocked him into the side of the bar. He came back at her with a vengeance, the dangerous blade of the knife whipping back and forth through the air, but once again the agile heroine quickly dodged away. As he approached again, she vaulted into a springing handstand and drove her stiletto- heeled boots into his chest.
The banger was launched up and over the bar by the tremendous force of the double kick. His body crashed back to earth on the other side. The cascading roar of breaking glasses and bottles announced that he did not land well.
“Now to take care of your friends!” Elle declared while turning away from her beaten foe.
The third gangbanger stood just feet away. He had drawn a knife of his own. Worse, the man with the patch over his eye had regained his feet and was prepared to rejoin the fray.
“It is time to put an end to this!” the dark-haired heroine stated boldly. “My business is with Joey Malokovich, not his lackies!”
The beautiful hellcat unfastened the length of rope that dangled in loops from her right hip. Using the incredible telekinetic power of her mutant mind, she mentally commanded the rope to rocket forward. Like a serpent flying through the air, the rope darted across the short span separating the combatants and quickly encircled her two dumbfounded foes. With a second command from her amazing mind, the rope snapped tight around their bodies and entrapped them within its inescapable coils.
The two bangers gurgled in protest as the rope thoroughly ensnared their arms and legs. They were pressed tightly together, back to back, helpless to break free from the cord that entrapped them. As one, they tottered and fell onto their sides.
“That takes care of that!” Elle stated victoriously. “Now for Joey--”
“Not so fast, super-bitch!” a man said from close behind. “You still got to deal with me!”
The heroine’s large brown eyes opened wide in surprise as the cold steel of a gun barrel pressed
against her right temple. The metallic clicking sound of a pistol hammer being drawn back sent a chill racing down her spine.
“Say goodbye, bitch!”
Elle reacted without thinking. Her movements were a blur of speed. Her right hand shot upward and grasped the man’s wrist. She pulled the gun forward. The shot exploded from the barrel like a crash of thunder and lightning just inches from her face. An unseen bullet zipped past her nose, a metal slug of certain death that cut through the air like Satan’s stare before burrowing harmlessly into the wall at the far end of the saloon.
The powerful heroine used her amazing strength to straighten the arm of her much larger opponent. She hyper-extended his elbow across her shoulder. She took satisfaction from his cry of anguish. The gun dropped from his hand. It clattered against the hardwood planks of the floor like a carpenter’s hammer driving a nail.
“You should be more careful with your toys!” the heroine said while releasing the man’s arm and driving a reverse mule kick into his gut. “Otherwise, you may find that no one wishes to play with you!”
The beautiful brunette spun on her left foot and finished the man off with a spectacular roundhouse kick. His heavy frame crashed into and through one of the small tables that littered the saloon. But near to where he stood were four more burly rednecks ready to take his place.
“There seems to be no end to them!” the Elle exclaimed while raising her fists. “But very well! I have enough knuckles for everyone--”
A longneck beer bottle crashed down on the back of the gallant heroine’s head. Her eyes squinted in pain as she spun to face her attacker.
“I should have known that you would hit me from behind, Joey Malokovich!”
The thug’s stone-cold eyes glared back at her from beneath a thick uni-brow. “Gee, I’m sorry. Does that make me a bad person?”
“You are scum, Joey. Nothing more and nothing less.”
“Then maybe you would like it better if I beat the crap out of you from the front?”
The powerfully built bruiser charged forward and let loose with a barrage of punches. He was an
enforcer by trade. He had been beating the snot out of people since the age of twelve. He got paid for breaking bones and he was good at his job. The fact that he naturally enjoyed bitch-slapping gorgeous super-heroines only made his life all the better.
Elle dodged the first three punches. She deflected the next two. The last one, though, a haymaker delivered from Texas, caught her high on the forehead. Her head snapped back. Her neck compressed into her shoulders. Her lithe body hit the floor like a stack of newspapers dropped from the morning delivery truck.
“And that’s how it is done!” Joey announced to the other men watching.
“Is that all you have got?” Elle asked from a sitting position on the floor. “I have been hit harder by rain drops.”
The heroine regained her feet with the speed and grace of a jungle cat. An open-handed palm strike jolted the thug and knocked him back against the bar. A leaping spiral kick to the chest made him groan in misery. His eyes rolled up into their sockets and his heart skipped a beat. He struggled to remain conscious.
Elle had finished off larger men than Malokovich with such blows. For the moment, she wondered why her friend, Ms. Marvelous, had found Joey to be such a tough opponent. He was nothing but a punk goon, after all. His clothes were as cheap as the booze he drank. A black leather jacket, open down the front, strained against the heavyset muscles of his arms and shoulders. A fishnet tank top audaciously showed off his broad chest. Gold chains dangled from around his thick neck. His greasy hair was jet black and cropped short to his head. He was not Italian but in every way he had tried and succeeded in looking the part of a cheap Sicilian hood.
The gorgeous heroine glanced back over her shoulder to make sure that the remaining rednecks were staying back. The group of half-drunken men had apparently seen enough. They were now more than happy to remain clear of the beautiful hellcat’s dangerous hands and feet.
“Ok, Joey,” the dark-haired beauty said while returning her penetrating gaze to the dazed thug. “It is time for you to answer my questions.”
The bruiser propped his elbows on the bar and leaned backward against it with his two hundred and sixty pound weight. “You want to know about Ms. Marvelous, right?” he said between disrespectful
glances at Elle’s incredible, supermodel-like body. “You want to know what happened to your former partner?”
Elle nodded her head. “That’s right. Tell me what you know. Were you part of it? Did you help to murder her?”
“Me?” Joey replied with a surprised smirk. “No, I wasn’t there. Wish I could have been, though. It was my destiny to rape that blonde bitch to death. Or at least I thought it was. Funny how things work out.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don Refrain and Prince Lomac have been letting me freelance. They knew how I felt about Ms. Marvelous-- even suggested that I was obsessed with her or something. Maybe they were right. Nothing was more important to me that bringing that blonde whore down. I nearly did it a few times, you know? I fucked that bitch until she was whimpering for mercy. I drilled her until she was begging for--”
“Enough of the perverted memories,” Elle demanded impatiently. “Just tell me what you know.”
“Yeah, whatever. Like I said, the bosses, Refrain and Lomac, were letting me go my own way in the hopes that I would track down and finish off Ms. Marvelous. She was a royal pain in the butt, after all, and they figured that due to my obsession with the bitch I might get lucky and find a way to remove her from the picture. I was nearly onto her, too, and then she goes and does the craziest thing...”
“What? What did she do?”
Joey chuckled. The smile on his face was as sinister as the Devil himself, but Elle thought she saw a brief flicker of sadness in his dark eyes. “The crazy bitch went up to the Manner and called Refrain out.”
“Othello Manor?” Elle asked in disbelief.
“The boss man’s own home,” Joey confirmed. “Damned if she didn’t challenge the whole friggin crew to a fight. ‘Winner take all’, she said. Wish I could have been there but I wasn’t. Even so, she never had a chance.”
“Who was there?” the dark haired beauty insisted. “Who did she call out?”
“Lomac was there. The way I heard it, he’s the one that finished her off. Rocko, Smitty, and Mikey were there. Nev Refrain. Griffon, I think. That crazy robot, Jack Hill, too. Maybe Puck, I’m not sure. The boss, for sure. And his bodyguard, Gravestone. I think that about covers it. Shit! I was out searching for the bitch and she up and comes right to them. Crazy broad! She should have known that she couldn’t beat them all.”
A stunned look came over Elle’s face. Why had she done it, she wondered? Why had her friend done something so foolish?
“Now about that blow job...”
“Huh?” Elle answered from the depths of her introspection. “What did you say--”
An icy cold splash of beer pelted her face, compliments of Joey Malokovich. Elle’s mouth opened
wide in surprise. Her eyes stung as the alcohol seeped under her lids. The thug smiled back at her, the guilty beer mug still held in his hand. It had been a small diversion, but effective.
“Time to pay the piper,” Joey said while leaping forward and slamming the mug down across the heroine’s head.
For the second time in as many minutes, Elle’s head stung and shattered shards of glass fell to floor at her feet. The crack of her opponent’s left fist bouncing off of her cheek made her head spin. Her long hair cracked like a whip in the air, sending droplets of cheap beer spraying about the room.
“You gave me a wedgie,” Joey said while grabbing the waist of her costume in his hands. “Allow me to return the favor!”
Elle gasped as her tight-fitting costume was violently jerked upward. To her dismay, the crotch- band was driven between her nether lips and forced deep into her slit. Her cheeks burned in humiliation as the taught band was pulled into her butt-crack and the men behind let loose with a series of raunchy catcalls at the sight of her exposed buns.
“How does that feel?” Joey asked after pulling the long-legged beauty up onto her tiptoes. “Should we make it atomic?”
“Bastard!”
“Aw, don’t be that way! We are only just getting started!”
Joey lifted the slender girl off the ground and slammed her back first against the bar. Seeing an opportunity, he positioned her between brass bars of the waitress station.
“That ought to hold you!” he said while wrapping her arms underneath the bars.
“I shall not be restrained for long!” Elle countered. “You shall soon regret your brashness, Joey Malokovich. I will have little difficulty in beating the likes of you--”
“Aw, shut your yap!” the thug responded while driving a knee into the gorgeous girl’s vulnerable midsection. “The time for talking is over. Now, it’s time to make you my ho!”
Elle groaned as a second knee lift slammed into the ripped muscles of her abdomen. Jody had warned her that Malokovich was a devious foe. Now it seemed that she was going to learn the hard lesson for herself.
“Not today, you cretin!” the brave heroine snarled while aiming a kick for Joey’s groin. “I will never be your whore--”
To Elle’s disappointment, her foe anticipated the kick and blocked it with his hands. He punished her with a short punch to the face. Dazed, Elle leaned back against the bar, relying on it to support her weight. His left hand clamped around the base of her neck, holding her steady. His right hand made a b- line for her crotch.
“Bastard!” the dark angel shouted again as the man’s fingers made contact with her womanhood. “How dare you!”
Joey forced his middle finger into the girl’s slit. He wiggled it past the taught thong of her jacked up costume and dipped it into her hole.
“That was easier than I thought it would be,” he mocked. “You’re no Ms. Marvelous, but I bet you are a horny little hotty, just the same.”
Elle tried to raise her arms but found that they were hooked beneath the brass bars of the waitress station. The six foot four inch, two hundred and sixty pound body of her opponent leaned against her, pinning her against the bar and nearly smothering her much smaller frame.
“Get off of me you pig!”
Joey’s finger began pumping in and out of the girl’s tight hole at a frantic pace. Like a piston, it gyrated up and down, in and out, trying to make her wet.
“Show me how hot you are!”
The cheers of the other men in the saloon indicated their approval as the big goon successfully forced himself on the smaller heroine. The gangbangers that had been tied in the girl’s rope cut themselves free and got back to their feet. The rednecks that had been busted up were likewise enjoying the show. The man with the pistol retrieved his weapon and positioned himself at the side of bar in order to get a better look.
Elle screamed as the unwanted molestation of her womanhood continued. Her attacker’s finger was like an invading force trying to conquer her. Having the repulsive thug leaning so close to her, smashing her against the bar with the weight of his body, was revolting. Having his finger inside her was dreadful. She wanted to smash his face. She wanted to—
“Oh!” Elle gasped as an unwanted sensation tingled in her pussy. “No! This can’t be happening!”
The beautiful brunette’s eyes opened wide in dismay and confusion as she felt her secret treasure trove begin to moisten. Against her will, the tingling sensation gradually grew stronger. Her opponent’s finger was insistent. It was pumping in and out of her box at a rapid-fire rate.
“You’re getting wet!” Joey said mockingly.
“You are an evil, brutish man!”
“Bad to the bone, Doll Face,” he replied while looking into her enormous brown eyes. “Bad to
the bone.”
Before she knew what was happening, Elle found herself being pulled from the waitress station.
His finger came out of her hole but her relief was short lived. His left hand remained wrapped around her throat. His right hand clutched her between the legs. The powerful thug easily lifted her lithe frame into the air above his head. He walked her across bar and slammed her down on the hard slate of the pool table.
Elle groaned as her back crashed against the unforgiving table. She looked up, dazed, only to see her worst nightmare coming true. A dozen men surrounded the table and looked back at her with hungry,
lustful eyes. Hands grabbed her ankles and spread her feet to the corner pockets. More hands grabbed her wrists and pulled her arms over her head. They held her there, spread-eagled and helpless.
“Oh geez!” Elle groaned silently from atop the table. “I think I may have miscalculated! Coming here was not the good idea I thought it to be. There are too many of them! I cannot break free. I am defenseless!”
The lithe heroine strained against the men holding her. Her slender body writhed atop the table but to no avail. She was trapped and she knew it. And as the mass of men began to mount the table, and as they began to mount her, she wondered silently if she might not have made the worst mistake of her life. Would she be the second M-Girl to perish, she wondered? Was this the end of the line for Elle Mental?