Sunday, March 18, 2012

“It’s beginning,” the slave answered. “I have the first one.”

Chapter Two Seeking Angel by A J Burton
Simone fumbled through her purse searching for cigarettes. She would have preferred a joint, but she knew it was best to keep her wits about her when working. In a couple of hours the joint at the bottom of her bag would help her relax, but only after the last customer was off the streets.
Stained fingers found cigarettes and lighter among the contents of her purse. A yellow flame flared. Her lungs drew in the smoke; Simone felt the nicotine enter her blood stream helping her focus.
It had been a slow night. Only two clients, both cheapskates wanting hand relief, which had made her total take for the evening a disappointing sixty dollars. She often wondered why these sorts of clients even bothered. Why they simply didn’t do themselves and save their money was beyond her.
I’m twenty five; she thought sadly, five years on the street seemed like a decade. She could see no end to it since she had no more cash now than when she had started. Simone was like many girls who worked the area. She’d become lazy, slovenly - a drug addict, who slipped easily into a seedy lifestyle as a working girl. She pulled her tight purple tank top down over her large breasts: her man magnets.
Under her long black wig, her own hair was cropped short. The wig was her disguise. However flimsy, it gave her the confidence to walk the same neighbourhood during the day hopefully unrecognized by former clients.
She usually stood by the alleyway between two businesses, a dry-cleaners and a television repair store, both of which had closed for the day. Street lighting was adequate to show prospective clients what was on offer.
The wind was cold and she cursed herself for not wearing something warmer. This small patch of the neighbourhood was now hers and hers alone. C’mon, c’mon, anyone, fat, bald, old or young, she thought.
Sometimes she did her business in the alleyway. Mostly she went in the client’s cars. She wouldn’t get into any car until she’d been paid and checked the client visually for any signs of aggression. Heavily intoxicated or drugged-up clients she told directly to go elsewhere, though her so-called rules literally went out the window if the client managed to produce good old American green backs in sufficient quantity.
Simone finished the cigarette and flicked the glowing stub into the street. She didn’t notice a black van parked a hundred yards down the road, its lights out. The van stayed there for a few minutes. It was very late, two a.m. if she had bothered to check her wristwatch. Plastic bags, blown by the wind floated across and down the deserted street.
 The van’s motor coughed into life, its V8 motor was barely audible, due to the double mufflers specially installed by its owner. It cruised quietly to a stop opposite Simone, the motor quietly idling. Thrusting out her breasts, she tried to peer into the blacked out windows of the cab, not seeing a black figure slide out from the rear of the van. Simone tapped on the passenger window.
“I can’t see in, baby! Roll down the window so you can see what I’ve got.” She jiggled her breasts from side to side even rubbed them on the glass. “C’mon baby, you know you want me.”
From behind, a leather-encased arm completely encircled her neck, pulling her backwards. Simone tried to lash out, scream. Her efforts were choked off as strong muscles squeezed. The inside of the forearm exerted pressure on the main artery on the side of her neck, shutting off the blood supply to the brain. The pain was incredible. Simone struggled violently as the pounding in her brain grew into hot stabbing needles. The attacker squatted, turned his hip into the small of her back lifting her off the ground. Twisting and writhing, Simone’s own weight began to choke her. Finally her struggles weakened and she blacked out as she was carried backwards.
Tossed into the back of the van her limp body landed heavily onto a vinyl mattress. Simone began to come around but was dazed and confused. She did not have the strength to fight back as a ball gag was forced into her mouth. Then she felt herself flipped onto her stomach, her hands forced behind her and strapped with plastic ties. Both ankles were tied in a similar fashion. Within seconds, Simone was completely helpless, neither able to cry out nor move.
As the blood once again began to flow she quickly regained full consciousness but was so terrified she failed to struggle at all. Her attacker produced a large body bag and began slipping her into it. Simone’s fear turned into abject horror. Now instinct took over and she began to thrash about violently. Got to get out, oh my God! Someone please help me! But this screaming was done in silence, despairing, pathetic and all to no avail. The gag did its work; the plastic ties rendered her struggles ineffectual.
She watched helplessly as the darkness closed in with an ominous zipping sound. Imprinted in her memory was the face of the leather-hooded man, then the darkness became total, the smell of vinyl filling her nostrils. Lying in the back of the van she fainted as paralyzing terror overwhelmed her. She never felt the van move off.
As the van drove past the next intersection, a motorcycle pulled out and followed it at a discreet distance. The van drove a few miles before stopping. The slave removed his gloves. He reached over, opened the glove compartment, and took out a cell phone. Dialling a memorized number, he waited patiently while the phone rang at the other end. A female voice answered. Her voice was a soft whisper, as if she had just awoken.
“Yes?” said the voice.
“It’s beginning,” the slave answered. “I have the first one.”
There was a short pause. The slave could hear the sharp intake of breath as she absorbed the implications of this news.
“Let the terror begin. It is your time now.” she said, “You have been extremely patient. What you are about to do will bring you honour at the gathering when we have finished our mission. I will meet you at the temple.”
 “In death we guide the souls we take.” The soft voice spoke the first line of a mantra they had both learned long ago.
“Yes mistress,” he replied. “Our sacrifice your thirst will slake.”
The phone went dead and the van started up again and drove off into the night trailed at a discreet distance by the motorcyclist.

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