( I went to karaoke instead of working on “The Elevator – Part 2″ … oops, I’m a bad girl!

So, to tide over the gap, here is a micro-short-story, set in an alternative dimension in the future.)

A young woman becomes set on revenge after the Alliance tortures and kills her baby in the name of science. The top experiment honcho, Dr. Mengele (no direct relation to Hitler’s buddy), unknowingly hires her as his private dominatrix.

Will she get to kill the asshole?
Will she get to kill the asshole?

:::::::::::
Will she get to kill the asshole?

It’s a great night – but the party’s really gonna start once I blast this motherfucker’s face to smithereens.

In 5 minutes, I’ll reach back and pull the gun tucked in my bra strap. Whip it in front of me, cock it, lock it on target and put Dr. Mengele’s brains on display next to the fake Gaugin. Then I’ll throw the ends of the cable around the legs of that grand piano, sprint to the windows, and jump through the glass panes like a latex cowboy being thrown out of a saloon brawl.

I’ve assassinated plenty of Alliance officials before, but this time, I’m foaming at the mouth. If I had a cock, I’d be able to hammer a nail through the wall. Five years of working my way up the Resistance, and now I finally have this putrid maggot bent over the coffee table, milky white ass wiggling, almost demanding: get on with it.

You know what I should do? Kick the pointy tips of my boots straight into those contracted balls and boom over his spasm-ing body: “I guess we’re even now. Oh wait – you killed my baby. You win. Bye bye, fucker.”

But that’ll turn him on, so forget it.

But that’ll turn him on, so forget it.
:::::::::::

There is an ache in my phantom right nipple. She always rejected the left nipple, smart baby. My left breast was bone dry, while the right one was gorged with enough milk to nurse a baby hippopotamus.

After the Alliance took her, I pumped that right breast for almost a year, but it refused to believe that she was gone, baby, gone.

So I took a red-hot cleaver knife and chopped it off.

But th
::::::::::: t.

When I told the shitface that taking off my bra would lead to the falling splat of the silicone prosthetic, he told me to keep it on. What a moron.

He clears his throat and that gleaming bronze face looks back at me. “Don’t be afraid. Inflicting pain on another is a gift. Nothing else gives everyone’s synapses such a satisfying work-out.”

But that’ll turn him on, so forget i
:::::::::::t.

I know she cried, screamed, wailed for me. At 7 months, she was already singing Verdi operas, her little lungs so powerful that they could blow stacks of paper across the library as easily as blowing dandelion puffs.

She would grab the floating white pieces and say, “Mommy, mommy, I made it fly.”

:::::::::::

I walk up to his chained form, and he shivers as my shadow presses on his back.

“Yes,” he hisses, “yes, yes, yes.” He’s undulating his hips, dry humping the air. His hands, bound behind him, flex and pull against the ties vigorously.

“What did I tell you about trying to get loose?” I say.

The left side of his face is pressed to the glass panels on the table, muffling part of his mouth. “That every twitch equals a stroke of the switch.”

One, two, three steps and I am right behind him. A boot goes up, a boot goes down, the spiked heel resting on his cheekbone. I lean on that foot, digging my soles into that pretty face, forcing his mouth to gape open.

He whimpers from his throat.

My hand snakes behind me.

His eyelashes flutter close.

I grab the warm steel of the gun.

A stream of saliva starts to pool by his mouth.

I slowly lower the gun to his temple, until it’s just a hair away from his skin.

His mouth vainly tries to close itself. Like a guppy fish with sliced gills.

But that’ll turn him on, so forget it.
:::::::::::

I hear they drowned her. They made her fill those prodigious lungs with as much air as possible, and then the white coats, they dumped her in a tank.

She lasted an hour. Maybe 45 minutes.