Silenced night, Unholy night

The weather was moist and cold, a flowing, living mean sheet of ice that has something personal against you.
And everyone else in Chicago.
Neda sat on a bed in the safehouse fieldstripping the Beretta. The guy between the sheets snored a bit. He hadn't been bad. Well, he had been bad, but the good kinda bad.
She'd  have to save that alias and burner phone.
For now.

She assembled and loaded PX Storm and grabbed lighter and smokes. She opened the window and checked the surroundings while planning. She had a job to do, but it wasn't easy. Nothing ever was.
Nothing good anyways.
She didn't like the choices, but she picked the best one. There was still time.
She tossed the butt out and closed the window. Shivers ran in her nude body.
Neda hid the gun again, no need to scare the man. Yet.
She was cold. And knew how to fix that too.
"Wake up sleepyhead"
Time to check if it was worth keeping the burner.

Donaghue sat in the SUV eating his chicken nuggets at arraigned spot in the morning when passenger side door opened.
"Hello Neda, what gives me the pleasure this time?"
"You still trying to be funny? That is so sweet"
Donaghue lifted a folder and kept holding it even as Neda tried to grab it.
"It has a price"
"Really? Widows and orphans fund? Or cash?"
"a favor. And no, not in the way like my wife thinks"
"Donaghue, you are divorced. Twice. You are the saddest cop stereotype there is"
"Four times"
"Really? Sorry, haven't been keeping up. You just don't learn do you?"
"Vegas. I was drunk. She worked at Hooters and  I wasn't really married with the fourth one"
"And the favor was...."
"You heard about Krampus?"
"The name press gave to the dude that's been slaying Santa's left and right past few weeks, sure. I think half of US has heard of serial killer targeting Santa Claus by now, maybe some folks in Europe too"
"Kill him"
....
"Donaghue, I am a shadow, I'm outside the law and you are a police. Are you wearing a wire and trying to entrap me or some shit because you just asked me hunt a serial killer and kill him?"
He put the rest of his nuggets down
"No wire. Listen, the department's been looking for weeks, everyone has. Four Santa's dead in less than two weeks. He needs to go. I think it's fair trade for witness protection files I am not supposed to have, copy or deliver to anyone."
"Ok"
He let go and Neda started to go.
"You don't want to know why?"
"I really don't care. Maybe you just love Christmas?"
"Nope, fucking hate it. Fake smiles, ugly glittery tinsel and cheesy music, religious crap, gifts and commercial shit and all the domestics, homicides, suicides, rapes and drunken brawls. Worse than a heatwave."
"Right mr cheery, then why? Promotion?"
"nope. Sheila, my ex, she has kids. Girl and boy.From before. Their excuse of a dad is worse than me, not violent just useless. I never wanted kids, had myself fixed too. I left that bit out on my second wife for four years, but...shit yeah, but I loved that bitch and I care for her kids. Way I never thought. Even though she broke my heart. I'm still their "uncle". And they love Christmas. All innocent and all.. hopeful. And they are scared witless.And  I told them that the bad man is gonna go away. I promised."
Neda shook her head
"Oh I know. I know. Laugh all you want. You get the file, the fucker dies, happy ending for all"
"Donaghue, it's a deal." Naeda opened her door to leave "And for a scottish amoral cop you are one big softie"

She went to another safehouse, rented under false name, to check the goods. It had just gone from hard to walk in a park: aliases, floorprints, guard rotations, call signs, frequencies, planned escape routes, the requisition forms for unmarked vehicles...Donaghue had to know both Marshall service's and Fed's to get these.
There were at least two good windows for her op.
All she now had to do was to find a serial killer.

The law enforcement works like cleaning services. They take out the trash and keep everything more or less in working order for the common people.
The Krampus had rattled the cage.
People were scared so police had hit the streets and put pressure on everyone. It worked because as one crime lord had put it quaintly: If you toss a frog in boiling water the frog will jump the hell out, if you put the frog in warm water it will stay there even when heat is turned on and it just boils to death.
Maintaining pressure.
Neda had for that, and a few other things, put five bullets in him. But despite it's inhumanity it worked as a method.

That meant that the killer had been found by someone and either was dead already or paid to be protected. First choice would make her job ever easier, second meant that she had to make a better offer.
Just business.


It took her two whole days, negotiations and endless phone calls. Through bribes and threats and half heard rumors she knew she had him.
The address and name of Krampus.
And he was protected by Aryans. Of course.
As a black woman there was no way Neda could or would want to contact the bigots but she didn't need to.
Jimmy the Butler was old, white, mean and ex-con and he could get the info for her.

"Up there, fifth floor. Porterson, Ian Porterson"
"you are sure?"
"Dollie sugarcane, those boys wasn't smart enough to lie. They were planning to squeeze him out of money and get free work out of him"
"Is he in security or something?"
"Nah. If wasn't serial killer he'd be going to hell anyways.He's a business lawyer. They caught him in the act with second one and now he's paying them. And they try to get him to ice the black Santa's"
Neda glanced over her glasses raising her plucked eyebrows.
"Their thing, as racists you should know that Little mama"
"Jimmy I appriciate your help but you do know I am going to beat the crap out of your old honky ass next time"
"The lip on you black girls, priceless. But I don't hit women so it's not fair"
"And as you don't have a left arm you won't hit with that either"
"I done told you girly, it's martial arts, not partial arts. You can come and try to kick my ass sweetbuns, anytime." he cackled.
"My lip? My lip? really? Just fuck off old man, I have some work to do.
And Jimmy...thanks"

Picking the lock on backdoor was relatively fast and simple. The building was in a better neighborhood and there were no security cameras nor ATMs near by. It took her a while to navigate to the correct corridor.
She had double-checked the apartment number. It was something you did, every professional has a tale of a SNAFU over mixed addresses or numbers. And that's pro's.
Neda wore real UPS brown uniform, tab and a parsel and started to ring the doorbell.
She heard movement from the inside and rang again. There was a sound and flicker at peephole.
"Hello. Anyone home?"
Ratch of a security chain and door opened. Fit, middelaged cleancut man, medium build, mr Joe Average stood there.
"What is this? I havent ordered anything."
"I'm sorry but are you mr Ian Porterson?"
"yes"
"Well I have a paid express package here for you and I would need a signature" She showed the pad at him.
"Fine" he sighed and shut the door and worked the door chain in order to open it again.
He step out sighing
"now where do sign..?"
The silenced .22 S&W auto sent pair of subsonic hollowpoints: first one on the bridge of nose between the eyes, second one half an inch higher center brow.
Neda spun on her place to gather force and struck elbow first on his throat. The man's limp body staggered in to the apartment and Neda followed.
She closed the door and put few more rounds on his chest.
She did a fast recon checking on the twitching body every now and then.
 Kitchen clear, living room clear, bedroom clear, bathroom clear, one locked door. Right.
She leaned over, there was really no point in checking pulse so she pressed suppressors end to his temple and fired once more.
 The next round went into the lock of the locked room shattering it.
As soon as she saw the trophy room, with it's clipbook and brownish bloodspattered pieces taken from victims  among some seriously disturbed drawings and photos she felt a heavy burden fall.
Killing is easy, living with killing some one undeserving it? Much harder.

She made a clean getaway and slept well.
There was work to be done.

Four days later:

She steadied her breathing and walked at a brisk walk. Her right earplug had something wrong in it, the ear shrieked a bit from the flashbangs that took out the guards. The job was done, evil men were dead and now for the magic trick without mirrors.
She had timed the jog and made the trip in about two minutes to the dumpsters on sidestreet. She stripped off the kevlar vest, black neoprene body suit, balaclava and smart combat boots. She tossed those and the MP in the rucksack holding four flasks of sulphuric acid and timed block of semtex to ruin any evidence, into the dumpster.
Neda took out her preparedness pack from behind the dumpster, pulled on fishnet stockings and short red piece with quite giving cleavage. Finish with wide belt, grab purse and stiletto pumps and she climbed onto the cover of dumpster and wrenched pre-opened wire bars off the window.
She manouvered in and set the bars back in place

The toilet stall was empty so fixed her make-up and clothes a bit, slipped pumps on, flushed the toilet for show and stepped out.
The guys in the bar's mens room stared her like deers in headlights so Neda let out an appreciative trained giggle,wide smile, fluttered her eyes-lashes and kissed two of them on cheek leaving crisp, clear imprints of her lipstick and stepped out.
She walked to the bar knowing she had at least two cast iron tight alibi's for anything tonight come hell or high water.

She took a cab to her real apartment. Well,a  favorite one. Almost home.
But something was wrong. Someone had been here. She had only keys and a punch dagger in purse. That would have to do till she got inside and her hands on some of her proper hardware.
She opened the door,in a relaxed stance but ready to assault attackers any minute.
The room was dark and there was something on the floor.
A big wrapped present  with red bow and a card.
And someone had stapled old broken, unwashed sock inside her door.
She checked the flat fast but nothing was amiss or touched otherwise.

Neda lifted the present carefully, it was hefty and had no apparent wires. The card attached had clumsy ballpen scribbling on it:

"because You Have a Good Girl this yer. Merry Xmas!"

She tore the wrappings and opened the box. A Gold plated Desert Eagle . 50 pistol and a card saying  "it's clean" with same sorry handwriting.
"Awwws, Donoghue you are a softie you. For a bastard" And laughed happily.



-----
This soft and gentle tale is dedicated:
To all of your good and bad, naughty or nice, have a merry pagan festival of giving and enjoy life.

Your pal, Curt

The finished business...

You'll find no better pulp fiction than the fanzine we're planning on releasing next year, and even the cover illustration is finally finished!
To spare all you readers from scrolling way down the blog, I'll provide you with a direkt link to the excellent piece of fiction which inspired my to this illustration.

A Brave New (Pulp) World...

Finally got some time to finish the inking, while waiting for a client to call back. What took most of the time was the tiresome cutting and pasting when scanning an A3 illustration with a A4 scanner. Also, some Photoshop-editing was needed since I managed to smear some still wet ink over the picture...

EDIT:
And here with flats. These aren't the actual colours, but they give a hint where we're going:

ANOTHER EDIT: The car starts to take form, bu Neda needs a lot more work...

”There is one thing you have to understand in order to stay alive...”

A rough sketch on Neda with her beloved GTO.
A fabulous girl always matches her accessories (cars, weaponry etc). A sensible girl chooses her footwear wisely, thus the trainers she's wearing (^_^)
And yes, she shoots as accurately with her left hand as with the right one.

Please remind me NEVER, EVER to do cars again. At least without a model...

My blaxploitation piece

Well mission was ”Something old, something new, something borrowed”
so I went to my usual HC violent prose(old) and borrowed Rama's sweet blaxploitation babe and as i have not done blaxploitation I guess that is new.
So take a comfy position and let's go...




There is one thing you have to understand in order to stay alive.
Chicago is a modern metropolis, shiny, hi-tech, respectable.
And be it after dark or plain daylight, on a wrong street you say the wrong thing to a wrong person and your swift death is considered mercy.


The civvies go to their nine to five-lives, commute to suburbia, kiss the wife/husband and get the kiddies to school en route to their lovers.
To them it's an imaginary world from news and TV's series.
There are parts of town they instinctively stay the fuck out.
That's common sense.


Those streets are white spots on a map. Filled with nomads, warlords, barbarian hordes and yes, there be Dragons.
One of meanest firebreathing lizards was Afanasy,a hulking georgian who came to US to build a crime empire of his own.
He aspired to be a modern Al Capone, hence Chicago.
In a decade his merciless rule spread through-out the city feared by any sane people.

While somewhat sane, Thomas Coyne actually believed that his status as a journalist would provide protection from physical harm. He followed his story and the trail of money and drugs far too far.
This he found out a bit too late while meeting his contact in a carage on the North side.
The blued menacing pistol was the first sign of danger, his contact's burly companions the second.
After short but exceedingly brutal beating the four russians tied the unconcious reporter and tossed him in the trunk of sleek black Chrysler.
They rode out in high spirits. Afanasy would be pleased at them and that meant money and girls.
No one noticed GTO rolling silently without lights after them.

Russians stopped after an hour. In a few years this would be a flourishing suburbia, close chitown but at a safe for middle-class distance.
But every white picket fence needs a foundation.
And Afanasy loved some traditions.


They pulled the reporter out. The small white man was awake, gagged and his eyes filled with desperation.
”Oleg, video”
One of the men pulled out a small handheld videocamera ,flipped the light on it on and pointed it at bound Thomas.
The men forcemarched him to plasticsheet next to construction pit.
One of the russians switched the concrete mixer on.
”any last words for camera mr. Reporterman?”
they chuckled hyena-like.

”How about you comrades call it a day and piss off?”
Russians turned at the soft voice their guns raised.

She was alone, sporting red leather jacket and blue top above skimpy latex miniskirt that fondled her ample curves.
Her long dark cocoa-toned legs were captured in large-holed fishnet stockings and ended in high-heeled shoes.
Pulling her shades down with single index finger she tilted:
”You boys hard of hearing? Go back to your mama's and there wont be none. Ok?”


The russians gazed at each other then back at the black woman standing defying them.

”Listen you bitch, he's going go first and then we are gonna have some fun with you.” He brandished the pistol he pointed the woman with.
”See, four of us with guns and you all alone”

”yeah” She said ”odds aren't even”

”still, I gave you the chance and you really shouldn't have called me bitch so I am not letting you off easy”


The words had merely left her lips as she spun around, flipping twin derringers down from her leather jacket's sleeves.
Before the gangsters got their shots off her ”sissygun accessories” as she called them had barked.
Her second shot missed her target and blew one russians kneecap to oblivion, the first shot had struck it's mark and taken head clean off from the gangster next to Thomas.
Then again her derringers were singleshot 12 gauge. And matched her earrings perfectly

She dove behind the russians car as the remaining gangsters opened fire. She kept moving as cars stop bullets only in movies. The M-16 was back at GTO with Hendrix so she had to do with her Smith & Wesson.


Over the deafening gunfire she could hear one of them circling at her. She leaped up from the darkness and let it go zen: arm, eye, focus, flight.
The semiauto in her hand spat five pieces of molten lead out straight to center mass of the russian.
The videocamera guy lifted his handgun as her gun belched twice.
First shot tore the wrist holding the gun, second removed his manhood.

She walked gracefully as a lioness at Thomas seemingly untouched by carnage around and flipped a stiletto open.
”Relax Thomas” she said cutting his ties open ”you are safe”
Thomas pulled gag off his mouth
”Wait, who are you? Where..”
”Easy boy, you make Wanda's world go round and she asked me to look after your skinny white ass. You have any idea how hard it is to find a hairdresser who actually knows her shit?”
”Wanda's? But who..”
the woman tossed the stiletto straight behind her back.
It entered unerringly through the leg-wounded russians right eye all the way to his brain.


She helped Thomas up and went to sole russian alive.
The man whimpered and tried to hold his groin together. She took his videocamera, checked that it still records and flipped it at herself.
”Hi there Afanasy. Looks like I broke your boytoys. I leave one of them to give you this message: Chicago is not safe for you. If you aren't gone in two days I'll bring you down. Because I got some for you all. Nothing personal”
She blew a kiss at the camera
”Love, Neda Ebony”

And then she just dropped it and walked away.

Like I said in the beginning: in order to stay alive you DON'T mess with Neda Ebony.