Posted by Extranjero on June 04, 2003 at 10:31:08:
CHICAGO DOLLS
In her dreams she walked on air, and there was always music. Athletic dancers writhed beneath the lights. She strode the stage, exulting in the glamour and the glory. The audience loved her and she lapped it up.
She pranced and strutted through the dancers, belting out her song. Her self-assurance shone through every word. The smoky dark was full of eyes, all focused on her body. She flaunted it in fishnets and a slinky black lace basque.
At the climax to the song, the dancers lifted her. The upsurge made her feel as if she’d come. But as she basked in the applause, the tableau overbalanced. She pitched into the darkness, and woke up amid a nest of sweaty sheets.
Velma sat up muzzily, her bob of black hair hanging in her eyes. The coverlet slid off her naked breasts. The bed creaked, and girl beside her grunted sleepily. Velma glanced at her, then settled back against the bedhead. Her rounded bosom rose and fell, the rosy tips still tender from her dream. But the spotlit stage had turned into a narrow, cramped apartment. A dawn as grey as dishwater seeped in.
She’d been a star: she really had. She missed the glitz so badly. No sequinned basques and dresses now, just raincoats and low heels. Being on the run wasn’t as thrilling as she’d hoped. Her infamy was nothing to be proud of. In the end it came down to these poky little rooms and the drunken girl still snoring at her side.
Pouting, she slid out of bed and padded to the bathroom. Though bleary, she was beautiful, with cat’s eyes in a bold, beguiling face. Her body was erect and poised, her muscles toned by endless dance routines. The door to the bathroom stood ajar, steam hanging in the passage. She heard a languid splashing and found Roxie in the tub.
The smug blonde grinned at her, still rubbing soap into her breasts. Velma gave her a pinched look and sat down on the john. Roxie was a pretty girl with sapphire eyes and wispy golden hair. Just the shapely side of plump, and touchingly naïve. She’d used to work on stage as well, but seemed to find this new life just as thrilling. But what could you expect from such a wide-eyed country girl? Velma’s gaze strayed to her breasts as Roxie rinsed them off.
The clamour of the city sounded through the open window. “So has she woken up yet?” Roxie drawled.
Velma shook her head and finished peeing. They’d picked their guest up at a bar and brought her back to spice their sex games up. Chances were she was a whore and would be wanting money. Velma sighed frustratedly. Her shapely tits grew full as she leaned forward.
“I think we should leave town,” she said. “Before the feds catch up.”
* * *
The stairwell and the passageway were hushed, and full of men. They waited with their Thompsons gripped, their pistols drawn, their shotguns braced and ready. Men in sombre, threadbare suits, the brims of their fedoras flecked with rain. As pale light tinged the hallway, a tall figure in a trenchcoat climbed the stairs. He was lean and coldly handsome, though his face was mostly shadow. It seemed that each man stiffened as he passed.
He stopped to listen at the door. The apartment was still quiet. The tall man drew a pistol from his coat. It was a nickel-plated Colt; the hammer eased back with a bony click. He caught the nearest agent’s eye and was about to give the word, when a stifled commotion broke out in the stairwell.
Mouthing a curse, he turned to look. A girl was trying to shove her way upstairs. She was in her twenties, trimly dressed, with glasses that gave her a studious look. Her pinned-up hair and earnest pout compounded the impression. Her raincoat was unbuttoned to reveal an A-line skirt, and firm tits pressed against a crisp white blouse. He recognised her winsome face and felt his spirits sink.
“You can’t keep out the press!” she hissed, and waved her notebook at him like a pass. He gestured at his men to let her through. She hurried up the staircase on her sensible flat heels, then gasped as he took firm hold of her arm.
“One of these days, Vicky, you are going to get that pretty head blown off.” He steered her past the door and down the passage. “We’ve got suspects inside there. They’re armed and dangerous. You can have your damn exclusive, but just stay out of our way.”
“Can I quote you on that?” she asked crisply. Not bothering to answer, he turned back towards the door.
* * *
Velma sauntered back to bed and climbed onto the mattress. The fair-haired girl rolled over sleepily. Like Velma, she was nude, her breasts still ample in respose. Her elfin face was frowning at her dreams.
She twitched as Velma prodded her. Her brown eyes opened wide. Velma’s sleek tits filled her field of vision. Her gaze grew lustful at the sight, but then she saw the scornful face above them.
“Come on, babe,” said Velma, “get your butt out of the bed.” The dozy girl stuck out her lower lip. She groped her bedmate’s bosom. Velma sneered and slapped her off. And then they heard the sound of crunching wood.
Velma looked round with a gasp, her dark eyes growing round. The door of the apartment was kicked in. She heard the thud of heavy boots and shrank against the bedhead, too startled to try covering her boobs. The blonde girl raised herself onto her elbows, still dazed and peering blankly through her fringe. As she drew one knee up, two men burst into the room and aimed their guns.
“Christ, don’t shoot!” whined Velma as she grovelled in the sheets. The wan light turned her skin to ivory. The men’s tense postures loosened as they took the tableau in. She sensed their trigger fingers slackening. One took a good look at her tits, then gestured with his Thompson. “Get off the bed and up against the wall.”
A double gunblast filled the room. The sheet on Velma’s lap twitched violently. Two neat holes appeared in it, and matching holes were punched in each man’s coat. They jerked and stumbled backwards, faces stiff with disbelief – still trying to train their weapons on her breasts. Velma pulled two pistols from beneath the crumpled sheet and sprayed them with a hurricane of fire.
She and Roxie always slept with guns under their pillows. The roaring volley made the blonde girl cringe. The Thompson gunner crumpled up, his sternum splintering. Blood splashed the carpet like spaghetti sauce. The other agent flipped back through the doorway, as though he’d skidded on a patch of ice. Velma screamed defiantly, still firing as she slithered off the bed. A fog of gunsmoke blurred the room. The dopey blonde just sat and squealed in fright.
Another man swung into view, a pump-gun at his shoulder. He sighted on the screaming girl and shot a wad of buckshot at her breasts. The soft tits bounced against her chest as a dozen searing pellets punctured them. Her voice broke and her head flipped back. The impact threw her down onto the bed. The mattress bounced her up again, her riddled bosom joggling afresh. Crimson inkblots flecked the sheets. The agent’s shotgun reared. He pumped the slide; the empty hull went spinning through the air. Then Velma turned her Colts on him and blew him back into the passageway.
She was curled up in the corner, legs entangled in her sheet, her smooth face twisted in a vampish snarl. The recoil of the pistols travelled back along her arms and sent a quiver through her pampered breasts. Plaster burst out of the walls; a shard of wood went flying from the doorpost. She knew that she was almost out of shells, but couldn’t stop. A fourth man dived into the room and rolled beneath her bullets, to fetch up on the far side of the bed.
Cursing like a common slut, she struggled to her knees and brought both pistols round to bear on him. But the guy was up already, with an ugly Thompson levelled in his hands. Velma knew at once that she was never going to make it. A mewl of horror surged towards her lips.
The sub-machine gun chattered with a blaze that lit the room. The hail of bullets pummelled Velma back. They blasted dime-sized holes in her, gyrating deep into her tender flesh. Her mewl became a startled wail, and then an anguished shriek. She writhed against the bedroom wall, still clutching both her guns. Blood exploded from her chest, as if to mock the paleness of her skin. She jiggled in a final dance; her scream grew hoarse, and choked. A bullet blew her navel out. She jerked like someone fitting, and went limp.
The agent watched her, breathing hard. The air was full of smoke. The girl drooped like a closing flower, head bowed submissively. Her gun-hand clunked against the floor and he fired another burst. Velma Kelly came back for an encore, shaking her bosom teasingly before she slumped again.
The stinging echoes faded out, to leave a hissing hush. Velma’s head lolled down onto one shoulder. More men pushed into the room and stared down at the bodies. “We got `em both,” said someone fiercely.
The senior agent came on through, with Vicky the reporter at his heels. “Just come and take a look at this,” he said. Her prissy face grew paler at the sight of so much blood. The watching agents smirked behind her back.
The blonde girl sprawled with legs apart, as if to flaunt the pink pout of her sex. Her hands still rested on her riddled breasts. The pain had melted from her face to leave a vacant sourness. Vicky swallowed, glanced away – and gawked at Velma’s perforated corpse. The dark girl’s hair was in her eyes, half masking her pinched features. Her boobs and belly had been stitched with holes.
“They had it coming,” said the tall man dryly.
Vicky watched the streams of ketchup oozing from each wound, and felt a sudden giddiness engulf her. She was still a cub reporter, with no stomach for this stuff. Cupping a hand across her mouth, she blundered for the bathroom. An agent snickered, but she didn’t care.
* * *
Roxie shivered like a cornered rabbit. The bathroom was a claustrophobic box. Beyond the door, the shattering explosions had tailed off, but now the rooms were full of boots and voices. The light fitting above the tub lit everything too bleakly. It felt as if her bath had turned to dishwater and scum.
She reached out for her folded towel and grasped the Smith & Wesson it concealed. Velma had taught her never to be nude without a gun. The hammer clicked beneath her thumb and she cowered in the bathtub, biting her lip and trying not to cry.
Then she heard a boot clunk on the fire escape outside. Her fine hairs stiffened and her nipples bulged. A shadow from the cloudy daylight slid into the room. She raised her gun – and then the door swung wide.
Vicky stumbled in and saw a man outside the window, his sub-machine gun braced as he prepared to clamber in. She gaped at him, then realised there was someone in the tub. She turned round with a gasp, and Roxie fired.
The bullet ripped through Vicky’s blouse and ruptured her left breast. It burst out through the back of her new coat. The cub reporter grunted and lurched back against the doorpost, a stupefied expression on her face. Her glasses made her look like a shocked schoolgirl, in contrast to the boobs that pressed against her blood-splashed blouse.
The man outside leaned through the open window, his Thompson poking in ahead of him. Roxie switched her aim and shot him just below the hairline, projecting blood and brains into the street. He jerked and let his weapon go. It clattered on the tub. Roxie shot the girl again, and made a grab for it.
Vicky felt a gutting blow. She gurgled and grimaced. The second shot had pierced her belly, soaking her crisp blouse with fresh, hot blood. She slithered down the doorframe, still convulsing with the dying pangs of pain. Her sensible grey skirt rode up to give Roxie a glimpse of her black garters. And then a wedge of silken panty, growing damp as Vicky wet herself.
The dead girl toppled sideways like a saucer-eyed rag doll, and Roxie cocked the sub-machine gun’s bolt. She heard a rush of boots along the passage, and squeezed the trigger just before the first man reached the door. The heavy Thompson bucked and flared, and turned his vest into a poppy-field. He tumbled back like someone who’d been knocked down by a truck, and Roxie raked her aim along the wall. The bullets shredded wood and plaster, bursting through into the rooms beyond. Startled agents jumped and jack-knifed, spattering the wallpaper with blood.
Roxie sat up in the bath, her wet breasts joggling with the Thompson’s kick. The muzzle flash was brighter than ball lightning. Back and forth she worked the weapon, gouging blackened holes across the wall. Glass was smashed and woodwork splintered. “Come and get me, G-Man!” Roxie bawled.
The men in the apartment had dropped flat or scurried backward, but the senior agent didn’t lose his cool. Crouched by the brick fireplace, he raised his Colt and fired back through the wall. One of his bullets sprinkled plaster-dust on Roxie’s hair. Another struck the light-fitting and wrenched it off the wall.
Roxie raised her eyes and saw it plummeting towards her, still trailing its cloth-insulated flex. Her heart bounced up against her ribs and seemed to plug her throat. Before she could begin to move, it landed in the water. At once she was engulfed in sizzling pain.
“Eeeeegghhh!” she squealed, convulsing in a bath of agony. The gun kept firing in her rigid grip. The recoil flipped the Thompson up, then wrenched it from her hand. Roxie mewled through gritted teeth and bucked spasmodically. She jerked her hips like someone being fucked.
Then the fuse burned out and blew, and Roxie’s mind blew with it. She shuddered and flopped back into the tub. Water splashed across the boards, then quietened again. When the agents swung in through the door, she watched them blankly, her dumb-blonde death stare brimming with reproach.
The tall man came to take a look. A thin smile twitched his mouth. “Electrocution would have been the sentence anyway.” Roxie’s breasts were just awash. Her tongue was peeking out of her slack mouth. He briefly savoured her repose, then went back down the bullet-ridden hallway.
“So who’s this broad?” asked someone, bending over the dead body on the bed.
The tall man shrugged. His eyes were fixed on Velma. Her punctured breasts were dripping like squeezed fruit. He’d seen her on the stage one time: a saucy, strutting beauty. And even then, he’d somehow pictured this.
“You like to see girls getting shot, huh, Carl?” an agent murmured.
“It really makes my day,” the G-Man said.