By: Col. Brunhilda 'Iceberg' Buriman, ret.
Sorority Sister of Pi Loda Cum
Chapter Nine: Wha' da' f*@k?!
The words of the priest caused Harriette to think, and provoked a torrent of concern. She was stunned by what she'd learned on top of one damn good orgasm from her now-favorite vibrator. She squeezed back tears and resentment, along with her thighs, and let go of Father Costanzo's hand to begin pacing once more, until stopped. Harriette looked around and out onto the city, seeking that which the priest saw, but quickly returned to face him. She nodded her head and listened, still hinged to some disbelief. She felt like a little girl being let in on a family's darkest secret, a secret so terrible, others died upon learning of it.
"You know George Martinelli," Father Costanzo asked rhetorically, and Harriette grimaced. Everyone knew the 'alleged' underworld figure, the guy who purported to have the largest cock this side of the Pacific. She'd wanted to fuck, nail and jail that macho-Mafiosi for years, but he had the best lawyers in the City, and entire East Coast. He also preferred bimbos, the dumber the better.
"Jesus! George Martinelli, Padre," she repeated incredulously. Her tears evaporated to heat produced by the name, and by her imagination. "Georgie the Boa? Georgie Big Balls? That same Martinelli?" She murmured under her breath. She caught herself and calmed down with a sigh and gritted teeth. "Of course, but..." The door erupted without warning, sending wood splinters spraying everywhere as four armed gunmen dressed as clerics burst in.
"What the fu-" Harriette started, whipping her .357 from its holster without thinking. Between several bullets sent her way in a spray she dodged, she drew her magnum and fired off a round, catching one shooter between the eyes, sending his brains in a spume onto the wall behind him, in an abstract design not unlike that produced by Jackson Pollack. Before she could squeeze off another round at the assailant now in her sight, her shoulder exploded to a bullet ripping through it. The blast threw her off balance and back, her head careening off a table's edge. While spiraling into unconsciousness she yet heard voices.
"Got him, and, wow... will you look at her," the owner of the voice yelled out, stopping to stare at Harriette. Then he shouted to the others. "She looks just like..." Harriette heard him yell, and then, all went black. "That's not what you're here for! Keep your focus on the mission," another voice boomed, cutting off the first.
When Harriette regained consciousness, things were quiet, too quiet, and her shoulder was afire. She looked down to find her jacket red with blood and shook her head in disappointment.
"Damn, is Sven gonna be mad," she said, jaw clenched from pain. Her hand found the table and she struggled to stand. "All alone once again," she growled to herself while looking around. "What the fuk happened here," she railed, seeing the office ransacked, things strewn everywhere. Harriette could hear sirens nearing, a lot of sirens coming her way. Harriette picked the phone up from the floor to dial the Chief but dropped it, figuring he was on his way by now. She picked up and holstered her weapon, but couldn't see the forty-five. She shook cobwebs from her head and then something more important came to her. Where's Padre?
"Faaaaaaa-theeeer," she bellowed, while staggering through the splintered doorway to look around. Finding no one on the second floor left her with an uneasy feeling. The voices she'd heard earlier were still in her mind. With the banister's help Harriette slid down the steps to the first floor, and was met by Sister Catherine's lifeless form. For a long moment she stood there in a shock that soon turned to rage. Her legs gave out as she fell to her knees beside the nun, to feel for a pulse, for a sign of life, and found none. The poor girl's skin was cooling to the touch, her mouth, from nose to chin coated in chocolate and blood. Harriette did all she could to hold her temper, to bite her tongue. "You mother fukers," she barked huskily. Her eyes darting up and about, looking for the priest.
"Father," she whispered expecting the worst. She struggled to her feet and ran toward the vestibule. "You sons of bitching bastards," she cursed the unknown assailants roundly. "Each and every one of you," she snarled like a savage seeking escape from within, dreading what she may next discover. Harriette heard the shrill of sirens drawing close, but paid little attention. Where in the hell is Padre, she wondered in thoughts frantic as her searching. She ran into the apse and yelled for him, but there was no response. She saw people milling around the entrance, afraid to enter, driven by curiosity. Harriette shouted and waved them away. Then she remembered; the rose window!
Harriette staggered up the steps, tripping along the choir loft and into the bell area and there stopped in front of where the rose window was, where it should be, and stared through a gaping hole. Here was another shattered dream? Suddenly the insightful hand of intuition upon her shoulder bade her turn, and there he was, in an even more mind-numbing scene then of Sister. It was her beloved Padre. He was hanging upside down from one of the bell ropes, hands bound behind him and a bullet through the base of his skull. It was obvious he'd been tortured before he was killed. Harriette's eyes traveled the crimson flow of blood to the floor below, and fell to her knees before yet another lifeless form. She looked up at a testament to his words. The tears that erupted were those from a ruptured dam she could no longer hold back, tears she had little desire to stop, or mask.
"No, fukin' no, no, no, no," she wailed. "FFFFUUUUUUUKKKKKK Noooooooooooooo!" Harriette felt the hand on her shoulder and made to go for her gun, but a hand on her arm stopped her.
"Harriette, it's me, Dude. Take it easy, you've been shot," Dude said in a low commanding voice. Harriette blinked her eyes clean and slowly peered through her lashes, as Dude tried checking the wound, which Harriette shrugged off. Another nightmare, another chapter begun in the book about her gruesome life, written in warm blood and cold death, and lots of raw sex too. She refused to give up, saw no reason to. And backing down was out of the question, though she's going to start wearing panties around Dude. She swore silently to find the guilty and make them pay. She looked to Dude who didn't seem interested in how high her skirt had ridden up her thighs, exposing her pussy to him. She simply sneered when he went for her wound again.
"Good eye, Dude, telling me I been shot. A regular master of the obvious," she muttered, shrugging him off again. Dude let out with a 'tsk' and leaned back.
"Harriette! An ambulance is on the way. Tell me what happened," he asked, again reaching to aid the wound.
"Fuck OFF," she hollered, pushing him away.
"Harriette," Dude said, dropping down beside her. He looked at the Padre, whose life's blood still dripped from fresh wounds. He wanted to put his arm around Harriette, but somehow couldn't, shouldn't, wouldn't dare. A person like Harriette would never accept comfort from a stranger.
"Get the hell away from me. This all began when you showed up," she said through gritted teeth, pressing her thighs together and scooting up a bit so her skirt slid lower, covering her little princess. Emotional turmoil roiled her ability to reason, slowing her thinking process. She knew it was all hogwash, the cause and effect crap. She'd been in this business too many years, and without Dude's help she may never find the assailants.
