Posted by critmk and Shoot2Kill on December 20, 2000 at 07:47:43:
Leather and Fur, Beauty and Blood
by Shoot2Kill
Part 1: Executive DeathKay stood in the mirror, admiring herself in the policewoman uniform; the tight sky-blue blouse which strained across her impressive breasts, the darker trousers which fitted her rounded rear as if tailored for her. Caprice stepped into the room, tugging at her own blouse, struggling with the buttons across a deep cleavage.
'You definitely got the best choice,' she drawled, nodding at Kay's contented posing. She struggled again with the cop shirt, and finally managed in bringing buttons and holes together. 'I mean, look at this, it's nearly indecent.' Kay had to agree: If the Californian girl took too deep a breath, she'd end up shooting everyone with escaping buttons. Which was sort of appropriate. The blonde bundled up her hair under the uniform hat and pouted at the mirror.
'That doesn't appear to be a problem for all of us,' Kay said wryly, as Dominika came into the bedroom. She too wore a cop uniform, but the blouse was only done up halfway, revealing a cleavage straight off a saucy postcard. The diminutive woman shrugged at the two women in outrage. 'What?' she cried. 'This is the only way these clothes are comfortable!' She put on her hat with a determined tug, and even that was at a coquettish angle.
'Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever,' Kay muttered in resignation, before opening the briefcase that had arrived with the uniforms. 'Careful with these.' Inside were three 9mm automatic pistols, which Kay passed over along with the thick cylindrical shapes of silencers, each as fat as a deodorant can. The women tucked the silencer into the back of their pants, nestling it into the spinal groove just above their lingerie, then loaded, cocked, and holstered the guns. Their gloves' fingers shone against the cold metal.
Nobody spoke as they adjusted their clothing. And then Kay led the way. 'Let's work.'
****
The stretch Limo bumped slightly as it left Highway 19 and headed towards the city. Inside, a pre-board meeting of Colbrook Cosmetics was already in order. Six of the industry's most powerful women sat on white-leather furnishings, drinking from champagne flutes as laptop information sped before them.
At 44, Lindy was actually the youngest of the group, while also being what most would describe as their leader. She wore a tight blue trouser suit, her white blouse buttoned over a large, matronly chest, her Louise Brooks bob artificially black, and her eyes marked with the faint beginnings of wrinkles. She clicked irritably at a gold pen as she awaited a download of sales statistics.
'As I was saying,' she continued, '2001 looks to be a very bad year unless funding receives a transfusion of new blood. Janice?'
Janice shifted uncomfortably on her seat. She wore a red blouse, the top few buttons undone to give a glimpse of a small but well-shaped cleavage, held in place with black lacy edging. Her leather mini skirt revealed legs which a woman half her fifty years would be proud of. Only the silvery wires, nestled amidst otherwise blonde hair tied in a bun behind her head, showed that maybe the Grim Reaper was just a little closer to her than to the bimbos in the typing pool.
'We made enquiries as ordered of Jessel and Associates, with view to a 20% funding loan. At the same time our investigative division made some discrete background checks.' She stopped, her hand trembled for a moment, and then she took a welcome drink of champagne. It then seemed to occur to her that she'd said all she needed to, and that this particular hot potato could now be passed on. 'I believe Marilyn has the report,' she said archly.
Marilyn snapped upright as five pairs of eyes turned to her. She was the oldest there, a couple of years beyond Janice. She had a warm face lined by a million smiles, her blue eyes still sparkling beneath well-shaped white hair. The body crammed into a blue skirt and frilled cream blouse had begun to submit to gravity's incessant attentions, and her curvaceous form said a lot more for the wonders of modern underwear than the scant hour a week she spent in the office gym. She lit a cigarette, and felt everyone frown at her.
'Oh come on!' she protested, waving the smoke-trailing Camel. 'We all die sometime.' As she said it, a police car sped past them, but no one gave a thought to the three policewomen inside. Marilyn opened a cardboard file, and offered around the few photocopied pages.
'It's a money-laundering company, basically,' she admitted through a cloud of blue smoke. 'For the Mob. It was pretty deeply hidden, but our investigative arm noticed just a few financial irregularities, and delved deeper, and there it was...'
'So we only have two choices?' Francesca asked. She had celebrated her fiftieth birthday the previous week, and really didn't need this shit. Her blouse was snow white, an impressive bra ghosting behind the shining material. The contrast with a soft leather business jacket and knee-length skirt nearly hurt the eyes. Although her body was still admired by most of the guys in Development, there were traces of a second chin developing, and her tight stockings did a lot of PR work on what was happening to the flesh of her thighs. 'We either get in bed with... With 'gangsters'... Or we go under?'
'Go under, or go down,' Suzette chuckled, miming a blow job. Her cream-coloured slacks and jacket showed off deeply tanned skin, which was increasingly adopting the texture of the softest, finest leather. Her white T-shirt was low cut, and a Victoria's Secret bra had turned two gravity-succumbed breasts into neat, firm domes which bulged into view like a peach. Her long hair was the colour of ashes, tied back into a plait.
'Can we argue that we don't need the money? No, of course not. So what if they haven't got their dough legally? Let's be honest girls: if the public knew about a lot of our animal experimentation, we'd be fending off some very bad press too. Gangsters are just businessmen. They're not going to kill us!' She sipped at champagne, and shrugged to the group. 'Well, are they?'
'Are we slowing down?' Joan frowned. She shifted on her seat, peering forwards towards the dark glass screen which separated them from their driver, Daniella, and the ever present PA girl Fran. Beyond the two figures, the view of the road showed cars increasingly overtaking them. 'Aw shit,' she cursed at another delay. The chestnut curls piled on top of her head were a masterpiece of dyeing and hair extensions. Her business suit matched the colour almost perfectly, together with a black silk blouse which caressed braless firm breasts which she'd just had fitted.
'I wonder what-'
****
'-Seems to be the problem, officer?'
Daniella squinted up at the policewoman who stood over her. A young Italian driver, Daniella was still unsure about some American procedures, but even so there was something about this that felt... Wrong? Beside her, Fran leant over, her body poured into a strappy white minidress which would have worked wonders had the cop been a man.
'What did we do, officer?' she asked. Daniella could see in her mirrors that two other policewomen had left their car and were walking up to the Limo's passenger doors.
'Oh, nothing,' Officer Kay said brightly.
Then she brought out her silenced pistol and shot both of them.
****
Joan screamed when the back of Daniella's head hinged open like a Faberge egg, and deposited a sticky cloud on the partition glass. The chauffeurse's body pitched backwards into it and slid down, her peaked cap askew on top of her shattered skull. The six women saw young Fran's hands wave out as if fending some bees off, and then three wounds unzipped red lines in her tight dress's front, and she slumped dead into an untidy seated position with blood streaming from her nostrils.
'Oh my God!' Marilyn shrieked. Her cry raised an octave as the Limo doors to the right were roughly snatched open. Blinding light flooded in, around the shapely figures of two traffic cops in straight-legged firing stances clutching bulbous, deadly metal shapes. The other women were beginning to scream, or uncertainly raise their hands, or both.
'Waste 'em!' Dominika shouted with delicious anticipation, and then the two trigger fingers began to snap off rounds over and over again. The silencers spat out white flames, making powerful compressed sounds like the "phutt" of a football being punted.
Over and over again. The screaming from within in the car intensified, and if they'd been asked afterwards, Caprice and Dominika would have said that there were probably more 'NO!'s than bullets that morning.
****
For the six women whose bodies were burning up with surges of adrenaline, time seemed to slow as the car door swung open like the gates of Heaven. Sound and images blurred and thickened as the brief slaughter seemed to stretch into hours.
Joan was the closest to the door, and the first to die. Caprice put a bullet nearly point blank into her forehead, even as the 48-year old woman was muttering a final terrified 'oh shit' with the gun barrel levelling with her skull. PHUTT! Her head snapped backwards as if pushed by an Evangelist at a baptism. There was instantly a purple bruised ring around the crisp 9mm hole in her brown skin. A small bright red cloud formed in an instant behind her head, settling into beaded patterns on the white leather interior. Joan's arms flung out as her body pitched backwards violently, wrenching her blouse across her body and revealing one hardened, nut brown nipple to the world. One foot emerged from the car, hanging out in the air over the tarmac, trembling with her death throes, a high heeled shoe inelegantly peeling itself from her stockinged feet and clattering to the ground.
The policewomens' attentions chanced upon Suzette at the same time. Her face was screwed up, head turned away, hands - one still clutching a champagne flute - stretched out in scant defence. Her lips gibbered in prayer. PHUTT! PHUTT! Both breasts pouted sticky, succulent red mouths and the woman gave a shuddering moan of pain. Near black blood sloshed across the leather behind her as she span over onto her side, crumbled off the seat and came to rest in a half-kneeling position. One arm was folded beneath her, the other - fingers bleeding from having crushed the flute within them - across the seat. Blood seeped from her lips and nose, eyes stared vacant, and two ragged triangles marked the centre of spreading stains in the back of her cream jacket.
'Please-' Lindy begged for a futile moment, her words lost beneath the screams in a car interior suddenly too small, suddenly too red. PHUTT! PHUTT! Dominika shot her twice in the guts and she jerked as if a current had been applied to her. Thin fingers pressed to the plate-sized stain in her white blouse as she nearly doubled up, her movement revealing the bloody pattern on the white leather behind her. Her neat haircut went awry as her head shook and her mouth worked in violent 'O's of agony.
PHUTT! The cream blouse over the centre of Marilyn's bosom kicked open with a scarlet volcanic motion. Spray kicked out behind. She froze her desperate attempt to claw over Joan's corpse, and looked down in mute amazement at the viscous trail drooling down between her breasts. A cough wracked through her, and her face went as white as her hair as she felt blood trickle out the side of her mouth. Her slump back across bodies and upholstery was gradual and graceful, the dignity of her demise betrayed by her skirt riding off to reveal too-young G-string panties to the eyes of the tabloid crime photographer who would arrive in an hour. Her fingers curled up like evening flowers, twisting in convulsions for a moment. They stopped.
The sticky impacts opened up Francesca's stomach as two cop shots found her. PHUTT! PHUTT! Her white blouse began to turn red, circles widening like ink on water. She struggled to get up, hands bloodied and appealing. PHUTT! Another bullet from Caprice took her underneath her left breast, spinning her half-crouched form around to show off a leather-covered back in which three star shaped exit wounds shone. Her spine was arched like a bow string before - PHUTT! PHUTT! - two final bullets into the top of her back finally killed her outright, leaving her to drop heavily into the spread patterns of her own lifeblood.
As the last woman appreciably moving, it was inevitable that Janice should be shot from both sides. She thrashed as silenced shot after silenced shot (phutt phutt!, phutt phutt!) ripped through her red blouse. Her clawing at the wounds tore off buttons, revealing a satin bra to the world. Blood fountained over her chin as she thudded back into her seat, jerking with each fresh impact, Her legs, outstretched, showed off stocking tops. Her knees failed her as the bullets stopped, and she flopped forwards, half on the bloodied leather, and half off.
Lindy stirred drunkenly as the policewomen stopped, guns travelling over the sprawled victims. She coughed, and the cops brought the smoking muzzles to bear. Her fingers were glistening red as she pushed at her stomach, trying to stop the flow.
'Why?' she gurgled.
Kay arrived with her colleagues. Shooting Daniella had splashed her cheek with a tiny stripe of blood. It looked like some initiation mark. She aimed her gun at Lindy's large breast. 'Let's just say that your poor rabbit victims have got some very moneyed supporters.'
It was only then that the dying head of Colbrook Cosmetics realised that these killers wore canvas training shoes, and that the normally-leather holsters and belts were plastic.
'Oh fuck-' Meat-is-murder types.
PHUTT! PHUTT!
Kay's bullets created fresh nipples in Lindy's breasts. She gave a squeal and grunt, shaking with and after the impacts, before sliding to the floor of the car interior. Her staring eyes met five other pairs. Her arms flopped away, as if welcoming more shots, but the cops were already heading back to their car.
They left behind them a limo, underneath which the first drops of blood were falling. From a distance it looked like a tiny oil spill. Only the limp hand of the dead driver, hanging out of a window, and a single crimson-flecked foot almost on the ground, said that anything was wrong to those passing in their own cars.
'Not bad,' said Kay, shutting off a stopwatch. 'Fifteen seconds, and most of that was conversation.'
*******************************************************************************