cops.JoeFriday = Friday();

cops.hisPartner = Partner();

villains.mayor = villains.satanicCultLeader = Villain(basicSatanicLeaderSleeperDef);

virgins.ConnieSwayle = Virgin(femaleDef);

effects->StartIntro(video714, voiceOverDeepMonotoneVerySerious);

suspectList = development->intro(flashback714, cops, villains);

const "Just the facts maam" = cops.JoeFriday->investigations(suspectList);

(void) villains.satanicCultLeader->kidnap(virgins.ConnieSwayle);

(private) sluts.ConnieSwayle = cops.JoeFriday->rescuesAndIsRewarded(virgins.ConnieSwayle);

(public) sluts.ConnieSwayle = effects->EndTheme();

Quote

mmmmm sometimes formula fiction is delicious

def(Advert->

Antihero.Blonde = the.blonde();

Antihero.Brunette = the.brunette();

Antihero.SApsycho = the.girl()

Villains.cannonfodder = given.shooter();

Effects.1:n = explosion.single(),explosion.multiple(),explosion.megaton(),sex.soundtrack();

Effects->StartRun(E ffects.2,musictrac(Sirina:TheLastCall),vid.overlay(the.blond.thebrunette);

Add.run(segment.2(whis per.love(Blonde.Brunette))segment.3(SApsycho(summary.intro)(voiceover.newstuff)));

Add.run(segmen t.3(scene#1445a9(lust.lady.subseq),Effects.4,musictrac(MassiveAttack:PleasureCircus));

Add.run(se gment.32(Effects.3))

End.run

->end Advert) Quote

|---------------------------------Liebe steht nicht Tod (Drittel)----------------------------|

She walks on a recently beaten path through a field of high growth grasses and wild flowers; there is a thick fog obscuring anything more than 20 feet away, though, at her height seeing that far in this growth would be impossible. Anemone, raunculi, red lilies and martagons, belladonna, alpine pansies, woven into the tall grasses; some cling low in the shadowed roots, glacial buttercups, alpine crocus, primrose, periwinkle, columbine, and the lovely scent of jasmine, others compete for the higher sun when it shines, geraniums, daisies everywhere, rosemary, African lilies, Pasque flower, the bells of Trumpet Gentian, and always, purple, dark and shadowy is belladonna. Like Ophelia�s bounty of signifying herbs, offered as her rue to those who doomed her father and her obsessive love, the flowers are abundant, brilliantly colored, lovely and each so imbued with symbolic meanings. The air is thick with the smell of the mashed wet grass and fragrant flowers. Down the path she can see more of the neatly aligned trample that begins to curl to the left. The footing is difficult with the plants pushed down, lying in straight lines toward her; each step brings the possibility of snagging her foot under the tips of the layers before her and falling onto the path. She remembers this familiar path, she�d been younger, and wild, and drunk. They�d gone very late at night, with hardly enough time until the grey light of approaching dawn, but it had been young corn, not grass and flowers. Crop circles, they had gone to make a crop circle that early summer night. Her feet are booted, no sandaled, no bare and she hears the sound of each step shifting the pressed growth. The sound is loud in the hush of the fog and with each placement of her foot the harshness of her step offends more. She puts her hands to her ears to keep its noise out. In the silence of her head she hears her heart beat and between each beat, the sound of some machine, regular, clocklike, but gaining speed, faster, like some run away metronome. She feels about to sneeze; no, some gnat is buzzing around her face, her nose, attempting to land. She brushes at the offending insect; and �Wake up, wake up, we need to speak.�

Opening her eyes she looks up into the menacing green eyes of Driver. �Welcome back, quickly now, before the nurse returns with security to have me removed. How did they know? How did they know where you would be? Was it the Czech? Was it him that informed? Was it the girl? Who? Do you know WHO?�

She blinks and focuses her memory.

A city street in Ljubljana; the light of dawn just beginning to show the grey gloom of the block they waited on. Some buildings half demolished by the air strikes and political street battles of the 1990s. Others stained with years of neglect but, on closed warehouse and front entryway doors, showing, the shine of new steel locks and bolt hardware. They�d arrived early in the evening before, always early, enough that they�d hold the advantage, avoid the trap, be ready. At that hour, before dusk, there had been little traffic in the area, a couple trucks which had stopped at a large warehouse with boarded windows and one entryway to the street. Boxes went in, boxes went out. There were two men in that building; neither seemingly armed when she and the Czech had pried a board off a side window to examine the interior. They had watched together from the nondescript Ford they drove as an elderly woman, bulky in her oversized grey patched coat, with a stained red and cream colored scarf on her head had dragged a small cart loaded with stuffed plastic bags up the street just after dark. They�d sat the entire night waiting for the agreed upon 4 AM meeting to take place. Except for the intial foray neither of them had left the car. The Czech had smoked in the style of a well-trained Russian army sniper, something she knew he had once been; the cigarette cupped carefully in the hand, for a while, so closely that she could smell the burnt skin. She and he both knew that they were observed. Impossible not to be here; something that both she and the party she was meeting were well aware of. This district had a reputation, and payments had been made to secure the safety of the site for both parties.

She and the Czech, in the cold car, the stale cigarette smoke smell mixed with her perfume and the smell of the gun oil as he reassembled his Beretta. It was now 5:17 AM. Speaking around the wrinkled cylinder of his fourth cigarette �They come soon or we need leave. Sie sind sp�t und glaubt dies alles falsch.� She�d said �Ja, ja, ich stimme Ihnen. Something�s felt wrong about this whole run.� Pausing to look out the windows of the car she added, �I think there�s some sub-text to this deal, something we don�t know yet.�

Then the ancient black Mercedes had driven slowly out of an alley half a block ahead and turned toward them. The Czech had quickly reassembled his weapon and slid the clip home. She had slid the HK MP-7 from her messenger bag, and sat, relaxed, with it on her lap. Whether this was their agreed upon meet or a set up by the Slovenska Informacna Sluzba, any trouble would mean the same thing. The Mercedes pulled to a stop, facing them; then the rear passenger door on the sheltered side of the vehicle opened.

She opened her sheltered side door and stepped out, the HK in her hand at her side, all safeties off and a round in the chamber. She recognized the occupant immediately, the Russian. This was a surprise, they hadn�t seen each other in over a year and the last meeting had not ended well for either of them. The Russian nodded her head and began to approach down the side walk. Reaching the front of the vehicle her black eyes and black hair shone like onyx in the morning light; petite, like the blonde, but more muscular, moving gracefully where the blonde walked always carefully, as though, the world might open under her feet at any moment. Close enough now to almost touch they had stopped, nodded, and greeted each other like estranged sisters, or disaffected lovers. �Anya, hello; what a surprise.�; she�d held the HK ready in her hand and glanced carefully around behind the Russian. She knew the Czech was minding the rear approaches to the meeting. The Russian nodded and smiling replied �Yes, so nice to see you again as well.�

� Amanda 2011
Quote

For Grumpnose.. not poetry, but, a form of woven reading for you...

Thank you roo, you forgot the brown recluse and the rattlesnake;0)

... The Phoenix Valley is often called �The Valley of the Sun�, but I often called it �The Valley of the Dead�. It�s where things were created by nature to do nothing but kill, or eat the dead; and where people went to die, retiree�s moved there to spend their last days. Even the trees were designed to kill; trees with thorns longer and sharper than thorns on a rose. They were like nails. All the native trees in the valley were like that. Non-native species weren�t, and looked oddly out of place. Pretty much all of the plant life had thorns. The Cholla cactus would react to the slight vibration of footsteps on the ground near it, and launch it�s thorns.

Everything there either stung, bit, or pricked. Scorpions of every imaginable variety were there. It was ironic because the large scorpions, the more intimidating ones, were the most harmless. The small, bright yellow, scorpions were deadly. We would get locusts too; huge swarms that would dominate. They would fly into you when you were outside walking around, like suicide planes, only bugs. We lived in harmony with black widows, who, though widely disliked by most, are the most tolerable of insect house mates. They stay in their corners, and very rarely venture out into sight. So long as you don�t stick your hand in their corner and try to grab at them, peace and harmony prevailed. The widow�s was the lifestyle that, later, I would find most tolerable.

Excerpt from Forward to Circles � Amanda 2011



Quote

i know i know grump.. "supposed to be working on that book gurl" *sigh*

*scribble scribble scribble* Quote

|---------------------------------Liebe steht nicht Tod (Vierte)------------------------------|


The two vehicles pulled into the asphalt paved lot laid out besides the renovated building near downtown Ljubljana; unlike the previous location, this had suffered none of the effects of the bombings and post war riots and UN and American influences. Not the starkly neo-Europa of the city center, here there is a touch of the sad and dreary past decades of soviet influence. The treasure from multiple industries which prey on the weaknesses of the human species, are in evidence in the lines, lights, and palpable lust of the architecture of the center of the city but this area, while generating a fair share of that treasure, had not yet been rewarded by it.

The lot was bright and warm in the yellow of the early morning light; and the exterior of the building, painted in the popular pastel greenish yellow of the more popular soviet tourist areas scattered across the Ost Block, struggled to look its best. Behind us, and across the nearby major roadway, the glass and polished aluminum of the newer buildings flared and glittered in the glare. The four of us, the Russian, her driver, the Czech and I exited our rides, everyone looking unobtrusively, and hopefully unrecognizably all around themselves. I had the HK nestled in my messenger bag. The bag slung over the shoulder of my camel hair coat; my hand nicely concealed within it, finger on its trigger. The Czech was relaxed and walked slowly at the rear of our group as we approached the front of the partially renovated structure.

The exterior had multiple installations of lighting, a long second story balcony with wrought iron fencing, an obvious visual link to some time someone had spent watching a Girls Gone Wild in New Orleans internet vid, or some visit that someone in their circle had made there. The lighting glowed feebly in the sunlight, and announced �Orto Bar� in large block black steel lettering on the fencing. Beneath the second floor balcony were two large French doors, in heavy steel, painted to resemble grained wood. But it wasn�t these doors that we approached; instead, we skirted around the building and down a walkway that followed the incline that the building rested on to a second set of glowing dim neon lights and another industrial steel door; this time painted to resemble the door on a large bank's deposit vault set into a wall of huge orange painted castle stones. A large sign in painted green block letters over the door read �Dancing Bar� and under that the word �escape�.

The Russian�s driver approached the door and pressed a buzzer beside it, and then commenced pounding on the door with his hand. She motioned the Czech and I to join her as we heard a buzzer sound and the latch on the door release. The Russian�s driver pushed the door open and entered; the three of us followed with the Russian in the lead. The Czech surged by me, preventing any first attack from reaching me. He remained standing in the doorway for a moment, then stepped inside and motioned me to follow.

The inside of the dance club escape is, surprisingly, brightly lit. It is composed of a large set of connected open sections, each with its own bar; or, in the case of the main room two bars, its own �theme�, and each with several small raised platform dance stages; each of the dance stages having at least 2 installed poles and backed by a series of wall mirrors. There is no identifiable single theme although the primary colors of the largest room are a gold yellow reminiscent of the Russian �amber� room, long pillaged and its wealth lost forever in 1918, and a deep red. One section of the room is painted with a pattern of white fluffy clouds in a cerulean blue sky. This section is arranged with multiple small bench seats obviously intended for �private� dances. Walking through a narrower part of the long dance club toward the main room they see a large linen draped round table beyond another small dance platform.

At this time of day only a few of the staff of the strip club are present; a bartender stands, sorting a pile of bills into three separate columns, behind a long gold bar with most of its gold and white stools stacked along its lengt; a pair of thick torso�d and strong armed bus boy and or bouncers polish the floor to their left. A pair of dancers sits at one booth, one with deep scarlet colored hair tied in a knot at the crown of her head, sits face down eating and doesn�t even glance up at our intrusion; her neon green nails pick at the remaining pieces of toast on her plate, and her coffee cup bears bright orange lipstick marks. The dancer with her sits smoking and watches, with no interest at all, our entry. The Russian moves toward the large table where a single bulky male in a dark suit, with neatly oiled black hair sits, with his large hands in fists that rest upon the white linen. Passing the end of the bar on her right she eyes the blonde standing there; the girl is beautiful, hair and face are similar to hers, but in that spider web of a black dress, she is obviously ill-at-ease. She�s constantly in motion, pulling, tugging, and adjusting the frail fabric something that refuses to adjust.

�Dobre din. Hello. Please sit.� �Another Russian?� she wonders. She joins him at the table, sliding the messenger bag off of her shoulder and laying it on the table as she sits, the weapon inside pointing in the man�s direction. �Spasiba.� She says. The man speaks again, �Anya, would you and Gregor see to the tea please?� he says and gestures toward the bar behind them. The Czech remains standing behind her turned to his right watching all of the players between her and the door they�d entered through. Anya and her driver go to the bar where the bartender puts two steaming glasses of tea is filigreed shining silver glass holders on a tray which already has a silver sugar bowl and a plate with a stack of white sugar cubes on it.

�I am called Viktor Zemorsky� the large man says to her across the table, and then sits quietly waiting for her response. �I�m here to arrange for the release of Simone Kreshenkov from her modeling contract with the Kamansky Studio Group� she�d replied.

Behind her Anya is plucking at the cords of black silk spider web the blonde dancer wears; the dancer�s smile is soft, but a repeating tremor beats a tiny rhythm at the corner of her smoky shadowed eyelid, betraying her nervousness. The Russian driver walks the tray of the silver tea service from the bar, the fluid in the tall clear tea glasses, with their bindings of filigreed silver peacocks, spins, dancing, with its heat roaring so quietly into the room�s air in twin spiraling breaths of steam.


� Amanda 2011
Quote

Bravo! Quote

|-----------------------------------Liebe steht nicht Tod (F�nft)----------------------------------|

�Mr. Driver, you have to leave, she needs to sleep now, to rest, and you�ve got her heart racing.� Drive stands upright and watches the blonde's face closely, �The Czech, the girl, who?� he repeats, his face like iced rock, his green eyes practically glowing with malice. �Tell me NOW damn it!� he shouts, causing the nurse to squeal and jump into the air. �Mr. Driver I insist!� she hisses at him. His reply to this, �Go call your security nurse, this is as important as whether she lives or dies.� The nurse pulls a cell phone from her uniform pocket and presses three numbers.

Driver leans over the bed again and pinches the blonde�s nose closed, she gasps, chokes and opens her eyes, shuddering and sucking air into her lungs through her mouth. �They knew all along, from the very start, they watched it all. They��

Viktor Zemorsky, is a patient man, unlike those he worked with and for. He had spent years controlling his fury, imposing restraint while his mind howled for release, for teeth, for claws, for hot burning metal to oppose the movement of flesh; but no, he knew which way the wind of the world heaved itself now. He had waited and gradually control had paid off handsomely. �So, you understand that there are larger issues here. That the woman Simone Kreshenkov�s agreement is more solidly founded than she has let you understand, and that the Kamansky Group is, a bit more than it seems?� She had waited for the hook in what he had spoken around without ever revealing her plans for the better part of 2 hours, over tea, offers of drinks, rest, and �entertainment�. She picked up the embellished silver tea glass holder and, turning it in her hands, allowing the yellow light of the room to bounce into her grey eyes, recalled the old man in an abandoned Orthodox church in Russia who�d charmed her and taught her how to drink tea from it.

Viktor was beginning to feel uncomfortable about the situation. With only limited time he needed to convince her to follow his plan, to hit the marks he was laying out. Why the hell wouldn�t this American bitch just agree? What did she need to make her move? �At any rate, the Finns are waiting word that their demands will be met and that the woman will be picked up at the appointed time.� He shrugged the large shoulders he had developed in 0WK prison in the Czech Republic. �You understand that this is not a �modeling agreement� yes?� She had nodded then, and looked into his eyes. For the past hour that at least had become abundantly clear, it was not a matter of simply buying another cam model out of a contract so that she would be free to work for any site or no site without obligations to her previous employer, it had shifted into a realm she knew a bit about, but was unprepared to cope with. She understood that all too well now. But knowing things, and changing a feeling of obligation; this was something she was attempting to introduce to herself, and failing at.

He saw the hook catch, it was in her eyes, they had been uncertain before, but now, they were still and focusing through him and into the future. �Now� he thought. The next thirty minutes were filled with the transfer of the agreed upon funds, electronically, from one account into another. Only one half was to be made available now, the other after delivery of the �model�. Viktor settled the accounts inside of his own head, half was better than nothing, his employers were supremely rational men.

This would be his method of gaining even more power over those he was employed by. He had carefully placed each obstacle in the way of this woman and her lovers. He had even employed at one time or another many of those she now relied upon. Now, he was prepared to use their removal, and the collapse of their business collaboration to vault into even more rewarding positions. He smiled for the first time in months.

In the dim glow of the red spotlights the blonde twisted and thrust herself at Anya. What had been white clouds on a blue sky were now pink puffs on a purple sea. When the Russian woman reached for her the blonde slid away and to the side, her beautiful black dress was now a heap of torn fibers on the bench seat beside the Russian. Her breasts rolled and her shoulders slowly shifted forward, back, forward back. She raised one arm above her and let the Russian cup her breast and pinch her nipple. She laughed wickedly for effect. She was nothing if not a great actress. Just another lap dance she said to herself. Anya pinched harder and drew the dancer to her.


� Amanda 2011
Quote

|----------------------------------Liebe steht nicht Tod (Sechst)-------------------------------|


Waiting at the Warehouse

The Czech turns and looks at her across the seat back. He rests his right hand on the edge of the back and picks randomly at a ragged hole in the old vinyl there. �Perhaps this is why there�s a hole� she thinks, looking closely at the scarring on the first knuckles of his right hand. A web work of thin white scars radiates from all of the circles of the calloused knuckles. He looks out the passenger window at the boarded doors and windows of the ash grey buildings, squinting his eyes a bit under his grey and black eye brows he speaks for the first time in an hour �Wir sind f�r das Treffen Anfang. I have vests in the boot. Man Sie?"

The gloom outside was shifting to full dark. �The only thing that would make this better would be full on rain. At least then whatever shooters are out there would have more trouble� she thinks. They are again in a warehouse district. Only three buildings on the street are lit, and the sparse street lighting is old, dim, and yellowed; not the halogen visible several blocks away. They had not been followed while getting here; the Czech had made sure of that with the traditional three block tail evasion routines. But she felt them out there; she had long ago learned to use the lower regions of her brain to survive beatings, assaults, and random or planned acts of violence. �Ja bitte; but the light weight only, we may need to run quickly. Do you feel it?� she replies. He looks into her eyes for a moment �Ja. They wait.�

He shrugs his shoulders and opening the door slides out into the dim light.


Inside the deal

The room is filthy, windows so crusted with grim that the light entering from the long brick and cement wall on the right side is actually grey. The hard lumber floors are swollen with moisture, uneven from swelling and contracting, large wide expanses with huge grainy splinters, littered with trash, a few dusty wooden crates, loose box wood from broken and tossed aside shipping crates, piles of tarps with spider webs stranding off on each side, some metal tool chests, red with a patina of undisturbed grey dust. Large timber columns evenly spaced every ten meters in two rows running from the freight elevator that she and the Czech stand in, to the opposite end of the room; where stand, two heavyset unshaven men, dressed in workers loose clothing, and wearing long woolen grey coats. And tied to the cheap tubular steel and torn and worn yellow vinyl covered plywood chair in front of them is Simone Kreshenkov. She�d been beaten, her once beautiful long narrow noble Russian nose now pushed to the left side, swollen, and bleeding, her high fine cheekbones bruised, the rag stuffed into her mouth soaked with blood, her once designer silk blouse torn and bloody, her Chlo� raw silk skirt covered with grey dust, and wrapped around her waist, her knees black from the floor dust and abraded. The blonde�s fury goes on like floodlights and the Czech is only able to stop her from lunging forward with the H&K spitting death at the two thugs by grabbing her shoulder.

The barrel shaped thug on the left nods and gestures them forward. They are only here to collect Simone the blonde thinks; what happens to these two after, is, after. The Czech steps forward and she follows; her hand is at the ready on the trigger of the H&K in her bag. The Czech announces �Okay, things are fine, she is alive this can be fixed.� His left hand in the air, his right is in his coat pocket; he steps slowly forward scanning the room�s corners and eves for potential danger. The blonde�s eyes are fixed on the beaten face of Simone Kreshenkov; her left eye is swollen shut, but her right eye gleams with anger and panic. At four meters from the chair the thug on the left pulls a Husqvarna M/40 from behind his back. The Czech settles him with the Beretta in his pocket; two quick shots to his chest before he can get the weight of the M/40 raised. The thug behind Simone swings his right hand around her and quickly draws the long shining boning blade around her neck. The blood is instant, huge, stunning as it arches up and out; drops drift in the air and settle on the Czech�s shoulder and dapple the dirty floor; from behind him, in horror, the blonde splits the bottom out from her messenger bag with fire from the H&K, and the room is filled with the smell of Simone�s blood, and the stench of the cloud of smoke erupting from the bag. A tongue of fire stretches out from the bag and the ball load ammunition sprays Simone�s head, and the entire upper torso of the murderous thug onto the wall and dingy windows behind them.

The Czech and the blonde stand in silence, deafened by the roar of the H&K. The blood shines bright red, like the patent leather of her favorite heels, she had loved those shoes, lost now for over three years in her escape from Germany. It seems like centuries ago now, that brief hopeful moment, that had failed so quickly, almost from the minute she�d landed in Stuttgart. She focuses on the mess. �Okay� she says; and repeats �Okay� again. The Czech turns and looks closely at her face. �Gehen wir, schnell aber vorsichtig ja?" She focuses on his face, wrinkles her mouth into a shape that the south African girl would recognize immediately. She nods once and turns.

Bits of blood and tissue slide slowly down the large pane of one part of the dingy window, in the cast off of the thug�s and Simone�s death, a bit of eye, part of the lustrous beautiful blue iris and pupil of Simone�s right eye holds firmly to the glass. The sudden silence of the room is broken by the noise of the freight elevator engaging behind us.

� Amanda 2011
Quote

Fuk yuk ... gory stuff! I'm not gonna sleep! Quote

|-----------------------------------Liebe steht nicht Tod (Siebt)-------------------------------|

The Czech stands in the shadows to the side of the open front door of the warehouse; with the blonde on the opposite side, her back against the outer cement wall of the structure. �We should have thought of night vision gear� he says to the air. The blonde makes no reply, inside of herself, she is thinking only of Simone�s death, and what had preceded it, she remembers her own violent treatment in the past, the lack of freedom, the shocks to the body, and the damage to her �self� that followed. She sighs, looks at the dark shadow that is the Czech and mutters �no fucking use at all� to herself; then, more loudly, �Okay, are you ready? I see no other way than just to move quickly, try to see where they are, and try to get the fuck out alive.�

Anya sits in the empty room in the dark. She has not moved a hair�s width distance in forty minutes. The rifle�s tripod is resting on top of a pile of cement bags and Anya rests in a chair behind the pile. The butt of the Remington 40x Tac is nestled into her shoulder, her head rests against the meager stock, her eye cupped by the star light scope mounted on the weapon. Her breathing betrays no motion. Her mind is vacant except for the preparatory vision she replays of how the shot will be taken. They will exit the doorway, obscured by the body of the car she will not risk a head shot; the driver will stand behind the vehicle to provide covering fire; that has the highest probability. Less likely is that he will take time to open the rear door for the blonde American target, and then enter the vehicle, starting the engine while she exits the building and dashes to the car. She has envisioned all of the possibilities and selected the only option common to all of the variations. She is dispassionate about killing the blonde, they had been lovers briefly three years ago, but she had opted for a different path than what the American had offered. And the wealth offered by this selection was undeniably superior. Her long eyelashes dip and then return to an open position. �They will exit the doorway, they will go to the car, they will enter the vehicle, and then� she recites.

The Czech takes a deep breath, pictures the street, the car, the distances, the timing, prepares; �I miss Vanya, her warm generous body, in my arms, dancing� is in his mind as he lunges out the door. The blonde follows immediately on his heels, the H&K held out at her side; the Czech holds his Beretta in his hand, relaxed, prepared to adjust. They move quickly to the side of the car and lower themselves into its shadow. �No fire� he thinks. �Not really a good thing.�

Anya�s concentration is locked on the car. She is prepared and anxious for this to end; desiring her reward, the months ahead in some location sunny, warm, where there is food, a piano to play, a lover or two.

�Okay.� They open the doors and the Czech slides in across the seat, key in ignition, twist, the vehicle coughs and shudders to life. The blond opening the rear door at the same time as the Czech opens the driver�s she slides onto the floor. The Czech sits up shifting the car in to gear and stomping the accelerator. The blonde slides onto the seat as the car lurches forward, the H&K raised over the seat for action.

Anya�s finger gently applies pressure to the trigger of the 40x, her grip is firm and the safeties are released. The .308 slug launches from the barrel at seven hundred and seventy seven meters per second; at this range there is no drop or drift of the slug more than one millimeter. Striking the sheet metal of the door panel the metal clad nose of the slug is slightly depressed and slowed, encountering a light weight metal brace on the interior, and a portion of the window�s elevation mechanism the speed of the slug drops more significantly and the slug�s tip is flattened out, it�s metal jacket now torn at three points around its circumference. Its trajectory has altered now, and it passes through the cloth and cardboard of the interior door panel hot from the friction of its travel and encounters and slowed by perhaps one half of its initial velocity. At three hundred and fifty meters per second it spreads the camel hair coat�s fabric leaving a slight burn mark and a tear in the material; it strikes the light weight body armor the blonde is wearing and changes it shape more drastically, becoming almost liquid in its flight. The Kevlar sinks, depressing into the blonde�s lower side, the flesh dimples around the bullet resistant fabric and the heated metal, the Kevlar fails, 20 layers giving way to the metallic thrust.

Anya watches the vehicle sway and rock as it roars up the road. �One shot, one hit� she thinks to herself, and her mind returns to warm sandy shores. She quietly breaks the rifle down stowing it in its shoulder sack. She stands and looks around the dark room. Stooping she retrieves her brass, slides the chair back to its earlier position, leans across the cement bags and pushes the window shut. Brazil does not appeal to her.

Clutching the wheel in one hand and accelerating down the street toward the nearby highway the Czech risks a look over the seat. He had heard the metallic sound of the slug hitting the car, followed immediately by her sigh as the blonde slumped over on the seat, and the sound of the H&K hitting the rubber matt on the floor. She lies still on the seat and he notes the black of the blood stain growing on her lower side. �Wir sind fickt!� he sighs.

Five minutes later he pulls to the side of the road, quickly climbs out, rushes to the rear door and opens it. Leaning over her he touches her face. Her eyes are open and looking at him, �You live?� he asks. She moves her head slightly. He pulls a cell phone from his pocket and presses a call code. Holding the phone to his head he says �status�, at the answer he frowns and touches another call code �Yes� he says, �Yes I know. She�s been wounded. I do not know. Yes, the border. Yes I know it.� He closes the phone and drops it in his pocket. He looks at the blonde. "They struck at the helicopter. We must move quickly, remain alive." Slamming the door he returns to the driver�s seat and the car lurches off. The sound of the car moves quickly through the air striking surfaces and riding airwaves in different directions until it sounds, at very subtle levels, like the movement of water deep in the locked pressure zones found far below the surface of the ocean.

� Amanda 2011
Quote

|-----------------------------------Liebe steht nicht Tod (Acht)--------------------------------|


Healing

She knew that something was wrong in the orchard outside of the southern church; the orchard where she slept, ate, and swung from the branches of the apple and pear and peach trees. She lived here to protect the fruit, and for a very, very long time she had done that; and been rewarded for that service by the comfort of the trees. The care was mutual, for their comfort of her, for their nurture, she kept the rot at bay. She made sure that the droppings were collected in her dress skirts and carefully moved to the field at the edge of the orchard. There the crows and yellow jackets could feast to their fill. And the horrid pigs too. They always escaped their pens and wallowed in the fruit pile at night. In the morning she would chase them off, drive them waddling and cursing her, back towards where their pens were. Because they had had their fill they would only curse, never turn and charge her. �Awful, awful pigs� she thought after each intrusion.

But something was wrong this morning, she could just feel that imbalance, even the sky felt it. She walked to the edge of the orchard and reached up to grasp a favorite apple branch. She smiled at the lovely pink blossoms on this tree; she had just cleared the last of the discarded apples yesterday. She loved how the orchard was always busy with itself, and how it always needed her. So she stood watch here, waiting to see if some fungus or insect was the source of her discomfort; but she could find nothing that she could identify as a threat. Then she heard a noise. Nothing but the wind, and the rain, and the thunder; and the pigs, and her own voice in song or humming and cooing to the trees, or shouting at the pigs, made a noise. For all the time she had been here that was how it had been. There was the sound of her skirts of course, and the crows with their wings flapping and their own singing calls, and the sound of her feet on the orchard dirt, and her hands on the bark, and her thighs when she would hold fast with them to get some damaged piece of fruit from high in the branches. But those were all the noises she could remember hearing.

Now though, some strange melody was in the air, it came from across the grassed edge of the orchard, and the gravel road that never made a sound. And from behind the always in bloom azaleas planted around the foundation of the church; their pink and white and scarlet blooms so beautiful in the sun. But that noise was coming from behind them, from the church itself. It was music, she recognized it, and it was a song from far back in her memory. It made her uncomfortable, anxious, and the trees did not like it either, she stroked the trunk of the apple tree and wrapped her arms around it. The music was so grey, and it made her feel weak and hopeless and bad. She wanted it to stop.

The nurse laid her hand on the blonde�s forehead lightly. �Miss, you need to wake now. Your discharge papers are complete and your friend and Mr. Driver are here to collect you. The doctor has briefed them both about your follow-up care and an appointment needs to be made with your physician when you get home." The stay at the clinic had been far too long. While she had been here things had quieted, but her lover had kept her informed on the changes going forward, and the forces being applied. The partnership was under financial pressure and few contracts for the group�s touring services where being let.

The brunette moves close to the side of the bed and squats low; kissing the blonde�s cheek she whispers something softly in her ear. The blonde turns her head and looks into the deep brown eyes of the brunette, �Oh how I have missed you, I am so very sorry for it all� she says in a low voice. The nurse returns to the room with a wheelchair, the blonde sits up and swings her bare legs over the side of the bed. The brunette runs her hands down the blonde�s legs and laughs softly. �I like the liberated you� she says. The blonde makes a dramatic grimace at the brunette and slides off the bed and straightens the blue skirt she�s wearing, her white cotton top fails to disguise the bandaging that remains along her side. �Let�s go. The helicopter is costing a small fortune� the brunette says. The two women leave the room with the brunette pushing the wheelchair and the blonde with her head back looking up at the brunette from below, a large smile on her mouth and her hands dancing in the air as she signs words of love.


Flee to Paris

From Trieste to Paris the trio flew Alitalia. The four hour trip went well for the blonde, she has escaped the hospital, is with her lover again, and on her way to her home. The financial issues concern her, and the unresolved problems with the Ost Block groups are far beyond the stage of dangerous; but for the moment, her heart is soaring. All around her people smile at her excitement and the beautiful smile on her lips. Her long hair shines like Rumplestiltskin�s product and she is in constant physical contact with the brunette. Her hands briefly touch the brunette�s knee, her shoulder, clasp her hand, and cup her chin. She leans over and kisses the brunette freely, and lays her head upon the brunette�s shoulder.

Driver sits at the back of the first class seating, his eyes in motion as he constantly monitors information on his smartphone. Occasionally, his hand raises the phone to his ear and he mutters instructions in a low tone into the device.

They land at six in the evening at Charles de Gaulle and process through security quickly. At the terminal exit a pair of Driver�s employees and the Afrikaner amazon meet them; one of the body guards goes to retrieve the few items brought along from Italy. With their eyes in constant motion they load themselves into a black painted Humvee and roll out of the airport and onto the Autoroute du Nord south towards Paris. In the rear of the Humvee the blonde is ecstatic, �Paris!� she sings; �Oh darling, we are here again, I know it�s only one night but oh, I love you so!� Her hands rapidly sign, �thank you thank you thank you� and a final sweet open-b, performed slowly, accompanied by a heartbreakingly grateful expression on her pale face. She leans close into her lover, opening her face, her heart, herself to take her lover in.


� Amanda 2011
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Inspired by the Father of Rap, the one and only, Captain Sensible


Girls: She said Dudddddddllllllleeeeeeeeeyyyyy!

Dudley: I said "wot!"

Girls: They said Duuuuuuuuuudddddddllllllllleyyyyyy!

Dudley: I said "wot!"

Girls: They all said Duuuuuuuuuuudddddddddlllllleeeeeeeeeeey!

Dudley: I said... "wot you want!"

and it goes on and on...

If you want the whole thing you can read my memoirs, appendix 42-B

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Note: due to the size of this segment it will be placed in 2 postings..*sad look directed at one of my readers* not you Kertus.. you'll enjoy this.. i just know it...


|------------------------------------Liebe steht nicht Tod (Neunt)----------------------------|

The phone rings in a well-appointed office where a beautiful woman in her fifties, dressed in a deep blue silk blouse, is studying her weekly online correspondence. Her blue eyes move rapidly across the pages of her screen while her hand makes rapid notation clicks on key items. She lifts the handset of her phone and raises it to her ear while still attending to the correspondence. �Annette Oui qui est-il? Oui, imm�diatement nous relient.� She pauses now, attending exclusively to the phone. �Hotel Le Meurice, Il s'agit de Franka Holtmann, gestionnaire de t�te s'exprimant. Comment puis-je servir vous? Yes madame, we have your reservation. Of course, all is as you requested. La Belle Etoile suite of course and the additional suites on the floor below. The party will be of six with, let me check, yes, two additional arrivals during the evening. And the room service, yes, the chef de la cuisine, Yannik, is excited to cook for you, yes he will remain during the night for you. Oui, oui. All of the departure has been arranged and your security will have the access to our systems as you requested. Oh non, merci, we love having you with us again. Yes it has been years since you and your mother. Yes I had heard that, I was so saddened. Absolument. Merci. Au revoir.� Her hand hovers over the cradle and slowly lowers the handset.

She sits quietly for a moment and then picks the handset up and presses a button on its cradle. �Annette, please will you notify security that they will arrive in a short period of time, and housekeeping, and ask the hotel physician to come and see me.� Her eyes have already returned to the screen as her hand cradles the handset.

The front of the Hotel Le Meurice is directly on rue de Rivoli and faces the Jardin des Tuileries. The street is busy during the day, taxis pedestrians and tourists wandering the streets, traffic stopping and starting at the hotel and passing through the block to travel to any of ten thousand businesses, offices, other hotels, government offices, and magnificent sites to view. A couple standing together in comfortable conservative clothing and examining a list of upcoming events at the Louvre draws no attention, their sunglasses conceal that their eyes are not entirely focused upon the notice in their hands. As the Humvee passes the male hands the list to the female and places a call upon his satellite phone.

The blonde is staring out the window of the Humvee as it slowly moves through the traffic on rue de Rivoli, she sits sideways, on her knees on the leather seat looking at the Jardin des Tuileries. She practically vibrates with her excitement at being in Paris again. The vehicle draws up before the long row of arched entryways to the hotel�s lobby entrance, immediately several of the hotel�s security employees approach the Humvee, and Driver and one of his security employees exit to the entryway. Looking through the hotel side passenger window the brunette watches Driver converse with the hotel staff; after a moment the hotel security members disperse toward the street. Driver speaks to his employee who moves to the rear of the vehicle to remove the baggage that has been brought from Italy.

The lobby of the Hotel Le Meurice is a study in Renaissance French design in black, white, and gold. Every item glistens as the blonde spins and pirouettes in spirals trying to see all of it; white and gold Louis chairs, glazed white free-standing columns with Napoleonic raised plaster stencils of vines slung heroic, their capitals adorned with greenery, huge bouquets of fresh flowers, a couple kissing standing in front of a huge white vase topped by sunshine yellow lilies, the ceilings adorned with vibrant classical frescos. She spins again and sees herself, and the brunette, who stands still, her hand to her sunglasses as their removal is begun, in the curved reflective surface of the matched mate to the large shining white vase. She spins across the marbled floor, laid in fifty centimeter black squares surrounding pure white marble circles, the geometry of the room so perfect, leading the casual stroller towards one or another of its purposeful venues; Restaurant le Meurice the main restaurant here with its fine white linens brushed chrome and glowing white fabric chairs, white and gold shaded lamps, large gold framed portraits, huge French framed and hinged windows, flowers vased and elegantly arraigned, visible through the open pair of white enameled and sheer fabric windowed French doors leading into it; the hotel service agent, the desk pure Louis. Subtle table lamp, elegant blotter set in green and gold leather, shining letter dagger, pointed enough to pierce breast plate armor; there the service desk, well lighted, all the better to collect your Euros, gleaming in gold and white so well polished that the entire room is reflected foreshortened and perspective perfect; and there she is again, in that reflection, platinum hair in a flowing rush suspended in the air, her arms raised in a graceful gesture she�d been taught what seems now like centuries ago, her face as pale as the white top she wears with her blue skirt flowing in a sea slide echo of her hair, a scarlet spot on the side of the top, so jarring and yet warm in this cold and beautiful room; and her lover, and Driver, and suddenly the Afrikaans girl, dressed in Dior, conservative, tall, coiffed, so wonderfully beautiful; spin and, the brunette, her lover, suddenly close enough that the scent of her perfume fills the blonde�s mouth and nose and instantly she stops her pirouettes and is still with her head raised looking at the beautifully painted, embellished, Renaissance, radiant ceiling; dizzy and she closes her eyes in joy.


� Amanda 2011
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So French .... So ummmm manfique!! next post ... Please... Waitin' Quote

Goodbye! by Richard Aldington


Come, thrust your hands in the warm earth
And feel her strength through all your veins;
Breathe her full odors, taste her mouth,
Which laughs away imagined pains;
Touch her life's womb, yet know
This substance makes your grave also.

Shrink not; your flesh is no more sweet
Than flowers which daily blow and die;
Nor are your mein and dress so neat,
Nor half so pure your lucid eye;
And, yet, by flowers and earth I swear
You're neat and pure and sweet and fair.
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hmm weep, and there you are, being beautiful. damn you, damn you, damn you. Quote

hmm weep, and there you are, being beautiful. damn you, damn you, damn you.



Well how I feel at present I may soon be saying the poems title to the entire site for anything between 6 months and permanently. Quote

....awww there ya go, alls good on planet earth...let's rename this lil thread 'I didn't wanna b a asshole, u made me one' ... nice ta see we can all bury the machetty! Now wheres the rest of my fukkin' story!!! Quote

....awww there ya go, alls good on planet earth...let's rename this lil thread 'I didn't wanna b a asshole, u made me one' ... nice ta see we can all bury the machetty! Now wheres the rest of my fukkin' story!!!



here it is

THE END !


***************************************************
Tired Of Being Nice
By
Stephen K. Nuffer



I have been nice and I have been kind,
But push me a little too far and watch me unwind!
I will shake your hand I will do my best,
But mess with my family and I will fail the "nice man" test.
I know a few people maybe two or three,
Who pushed a few too many buttons and now they need to just let me be.
Don't be nice to me it won't work anymore,
These foolish games that you play has shut that door.
They have a way of turning it around and make you look like the bad guy,
Friend you to your face, and behind your back lie.
They have to win no matter who they hurt,
They will rub your name right in the dirt.
Then they wonder why you have given up,
If only they could wear our shoes, and drink from our cup.
I hope God will forgive me, because He knows I have turned many a cheek
and His forgiveness and love I do seek.
But there comes a time in a mans life
When he counts the scars in his back,from the evil mans knife.
Maybe I am wrong, maybe I am a fool,
but I am "tired of being nice", and I am changing my rule.




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