FAIR WARNING: This story contains graphic violence and graphic sex, course language, foul manners and some shoving. For those of you who are fans of my romantic stories, thanks for checking this one out, I'm very sorry to say that, while there will still be buckets of hot sex, there's not going to be any hand holding or love falling in this one. I'm really sorry, please don't hate me, I just wanted to try something different. I'm sure I'll be back to the mushy stuff in no time.
Violetta: Chapter One: The Long Road to Hell
The girl traveled by day, cautiously, heading for the Canadian border. She had stolen another piece of shit car every few states, and tried to keep a low profile. She had been heading North on US-29 but, the closer she got to the border, the more likely she was to be spotted. 29 would take her straight and true into Canada, but there was no way she was crossing over at a legit customs station; she would find some border town to lay low in, and cross over through the wilderness somewhere. Instead of tracking North, she got off of US-29 and took the endless, straight expanse of the I-90, heading west across the middle of South Dakota. Once she neared the Montana state boundary, she veered north again, using the network of state highways and county roads to slip back and forth across the state line as she zig zagged toward the northern border.
She was sure all the State Police between Miami and Big Sky country had her picture tacked up on some coffee stained bulletin board somewhere, but the cops were clueless, as they had always been. They would be covering the routes into Mexico, if they bothered to look for her at all. She wasn't running from the cops.
Of course, there was no way in hell the girl could go back into Mexico, all of Latin America was probably going to be too hot for her for the next goddamn decade. She scanned the flat, desolate horizon, still white with Snow, even at the beginning of April. “Dios,” she thought, “this is no country for a self respecting Colombiana. Of course, she hadn't really been Colombian for a long time, and she hadn't really respected herself for even longer.
Eventually, the girl stopped for gas, near sundown, at a roadside gas station. She pulled the battered Ford Ranger in front of the two pumps and opened the door. The attendant, sitting in the little safety glass booth, took one look at her, and put the phone he was playing with back in his pocket. He stood up from his stool and straightened his parka, preparing to do a little customer service.
The girl was dressed like a migrant worker. She wore a humble wool sweater over a plaid checkered, man's work shirt and threadbare Levis. Her feet were clad in dirty running shoes and her hair was tied up under a light blue bandana. Despite the lateness of the hour, she still wore a pair of cheap, gas station sunglasses. For all her attempts at looking unnoticeable however, she couldn't, or at least hadn't, taken steps to conceal the fine lines of her lithe body. She stood around five foot seven, with a lean, compact, figure. She was narrow through the waist and hips, and even through her jeans, an idiot could detect a perfectly formed pair of legs.
The attendant, a blotchy faced gringo, his lank, brown hair plastered to his skull with some kind of pomade, approached her, smiling a yellowish, gap toothed grin. “What can I do for you seniorita?”
“Uh, fill please?” the girl said, making her accent thick.
The attendant removed the pump nozzle and inserted it into the tank. While fuel filled the truck's tank, far too slowly for the girl's taste, the attendant attempted to engage her in some small talk. She just looked at him helplessly and gestured, feigning ignorance of the finer nuances of the English language until he gave up. The pump clicked off, he shuffled over, topped the tank once and said, “Fifty two eighteen please.”. The girl withdrew a small, crumpled ball of bills from her jeans pocket and peeled of three twenties, leaving her, apparently, with not too much left. She paid him, and as he fished her change out of the fanny pack that evidently served as his cash register, she said, “Scuse, please, where is Hotel?”.
The dim bulb took a moment to comprehend her meaning before recognition dawned on his acne scarred face, “The nearest hotel? Well, that'd be the Northwestern, up in Bison Gap, about twenty miles up the way you was headed. Look, I know it's getting' late but if I was you, I'd probably try to head straight through to the state line tonight, I don't think you want to be stayin' in Bison Gap all by your little old lonesome.”.
“Gracias,” the girl said, climbing back into the truck and starting it up. As she pulled out of the service station and back out onto county road 24, she reached over and opened the glove compartment. She withdrew the small, black, .380 semi auto. She racked a round into the chamber and then she reached back and tucked it into the waistband of her jeans, underneath her shirt. She drove the rest of the way into Bison Gap.
It was dark by the time she reached the tiny hamlet of Bison Gap. The “Now Entering” sign that the girl passed on the edge of town looked like it had been used for target practice by generations of .22 wielding teenagers; it boasted a population of four hundred thirty. The town was a one street shithole, dark and desolate, with only a few commercial structures sitting, mostly blacked out, on the main drag. As the girl drove the pick up through town, careful to observe the speed limit, she noticed only two businesses had their lights on, despite the fact that sundown had only been ten minutes prior. First, she passed the Bison Market, a convenience store and deli, made from corrugated tin and a few grimy opaque, panes of glass that could once have been windows. A few locals stood out in front, underneath the blue green glow of the single halide street light. Catty corner from the store was the an old west style, unpainted wooden building with a large sign that read, “Cody's”, as well as a neon red sign that flashed the word “PEN”. The “O” had been burnt out for God only knows how long. The place could only be the local cantina. Directly behind the bar, on a side street, she could see the three story brick building bearing a faded sign that read “The Great Northwestern Inn” painted directly on the cracked, red brick.
The girl stopped the beaten up Ranger in front of Cody's, and gave the cab a once over before exiting. She made sure the case was tucked away under the seat, and grabbed her worn, olive green, canvas knapsack before climbing out into the bone crushing cold of the South Dakota evening. Her arrival did not go unnoticed by the men standing out in front of the convenience store, smoking and drinking tallboys of cheap, watery beer. She was as aware of them as they were of her, but she ignored them, and headed into the bar.
Cody's was a dive, an empty dive. Two ancient pensioners sat at a table in the corner, each with rocks glasses half filled with bourbon. They conversed in hushed tones, and stopped altogether when the girl entered the bar. Thick silence pressed against the walls of the joint, the girl felt as though she had interrupted a funeral, one with no mourners, still awaiting the arrival of the corpse.
The bartender, a paunchy, middle fifties man with dirty white hair and mustache, had heard the door open, and came around the corner of the “L” shaped bar. He looked surprised to see a new, female face. The girl approached the bar, putting her backpack on a stool. She stared at the dusty row of beer bottles on the bar shelf as the bartender stared at her.
“Dos Equis,” she said, her speech still heavily accented. She put two fingers above the bar, about the height of a shot glass and said “Rum.” The bartender looked at her strangely for a second and sucked air through his teeth. “Darlin'” he said finally, “I don't think you want to do any drinkin' in here tonight. I'm not tryin to be rude, this ain't no racial thing or nuthin', just trying to do you a favor. It's just after six, if you hop back into your truck and start now, you can make Buffalo in little over an hour. Why don't you just head on up to the next town, and do your drinkin' there, huh?”
“I stay Hotel?” the girl said haltingly.
“Oh Jesus sweetie, you're just not understandin' me.” the bartender said, as if he was talking to a slow child, “It's not safe for a woman alone, hell, anyone, in this shithole anymore. Do us both a favor and get yourself gone before the K-crew come in OK?”
“K-crew?” she asked. She spoke the word with much less of an accent now, but the bartender didn't appear to notice.
“Knight Crusaders; Bikers.” He replied, “Tryin' to take over what's left of this godforsaken town from the Bookers.”.
The girl removed the sunglasses she wore and looked squarely at the bartender. He noticed; they always noticed. The girl had been cursed with a pair of sublime amaranthine eyes; depending on the light, they ranged from indigo to a deep purple. Her goddamn eyes and the beauty of the face they rested in had done nothing but damn her from the day she was born.
“Dos Equis.” She said again, her accent noticeable but light now, “Rum.”.
“Goddamn it girl,” the bartender started and then cocked his head, listening. The girl heard it too. The low, distant rumble of a big engine chuffing through blown tailpipes. “Look,” the bartender said urgently, “Go in the back, there's an emergency exit. Wait until they come in, then sneak out and run around to your truck. Get the hell out of here.”.
The girl pounded her clenched fist down on the table. In it was a crumpled twenty dollar bill. She glared at the bartender like a viper, her violet eyes flashing venomously. The bartender shook his head and took a dusty shot glass from under the bar and slammed it down in front of her. He shuffled off then, fetching her order. As he did so, the sound of the engine grew ever louder. The girl turned on her stool and looked casually, out the large plate glass window, into the street. The bartender returned with a bottle of Mexican beer and a dust covered bottle of Bacardi Añejo. As he poured her shot, he said, “You got maybe fifteen minutes before you end up duct taped to the back of some asshole's Harley sweetie, something I can call you before that happens, maybe something so's I'll know if your family comes lookin' for ya'?”.
She turned her head slightly, still watching the street. “La Chica.” She said simply.
“Nice knowing ya' Lachica,” the bartender said, “I'm Uncle Jack.”.
The roar of the bike became overpowering now, as she could see it, topped with the wiry silhouette of its rider pull up across the street in front of the mini market. Two of the parking lot gawkers walked over and began talking to the helmetless rider as he dismounted, turning off the bike and restoring the thick silence of the bar. The two old timers got up from the back table and hobbled to the front door. One of the raised a hand to Uncle Jack without turning, neither acknowledge the girl.
“Last chance Lachica,” the bartender said warningly. The girl took a long pull from her beer and continued watching, until the biker and his two companions started walking across the street, straight for Cody's. The biker was average height, and skinny, with long, limp, light brown head and a receding hairline. The taller of the two locals was also skinnt, but with a pot belly. The other was smaller and stocky, with a trimmed beard and one of those cheap trucker hats. They were both dressed similarly in grungy parkas, flannel shirts and jeans. Before they reached the bar, she turned to face the bartender, her back to the door, and downed her rum.
The girl heard the door swing open and the gruff voices of men as they entered the establishment. She heard two voices, although she knew that there were three of them. One was blathering some inane story about a slut he had banged, probably his cousin, the girl assumed, while the other voice contented itself with grunting laughter.
“Jack, beers!” the storyteller hollered as the girl heard the heavy boots of the three men fall in around the back of her stool. The bartender scurried off to grab three bottles of bud out of the cooler, and the girl took another pull from her Dos Equis.
“Hi.” the girl heard the third voice, oily and slightly high pitched, “Welcome to Bison Gap.” He had the slightest speech impediment that made the “s” in Bison sibilant, lisping slightly. She felt a hand rest lightly on her back, too close to the concealed .380. She turned around not too quickly, to face her new friends. Mentally, she introduced herself to Verga (the dick), Chuckles and The Weasel. That's all she would ever need to know them as.
“Good evening,” the girl smiled politely. She rested on hand on the neck of her beer as it sat atop the bar and her other on the seat of the stool next to her. Her firm, buoyant, apple sized breasts jutted out invitingly.
“So, what brings you to our little piece of paradise?” the wiry biker with the lisping voice she had dubbed The Weasel asked, not caring about her answer.
“Would you believe I'm here to meet my husband?” she asked, grinning slightly.
“I might believe it, but I wouldn't give a shit.” The Weasel said sardonically, causing both Chuckles and Verga to laugh.
“And who might you boys be?” the girl asked playfully.
“We're the welcoming committee, honey, we're here to welcome you all night long.”. More laughter.
“Nice cut.” the girl said, nodding to the black leather vest The Weasel wore over a white thermal shirt. On the back was a large Maltese cross with the word Knight above it and Crusaders M.C. Below it. The girl had at least a passing familiarity with the names of most of the motorcycle gangs that were major players in drugs,guns or whores and she had never heard of the Knight Crusaders.
“You like biker boys baby?” Weasel crowed. It came out “boyzth”.
“Not particularly.” she said, turning slightly to take a sip from her beer. Chuckles lived up to his name and got a nasty glare from The Weasel.
“Well that's too bad honey, because the Knight Crusaders own this town.”
Uncle Jack had been standing there with three ice covered bottles of Bud for most of the exchange and chose this moment to interrupt, “Here's the brews guys! No charge of course.”.
Chuckles moved to the bar and started to pass out the bottles while Verga said, “Go wash something you old cocksucker, this place if a fucking pigsty. The bartender, clearly not the heroic type, went off around the corner, to the empty side of the bar.
“Well gentlemen, it's been great being welcomed and all, but I've been driving all day, and I just want to get these clothes off and slide into a bed over at that Hotel.” She nodded in the direction of the Northwestern.
This elicited a hoot from Verga, and The Weasel just smiled, in a manner she supposed he thought was seductive. “We can get your clothes off and get you relaxed baby.” he said, licking his chops like a hound. It was like she had given these morons a script, so predictable.
“Ah, Dulce,” she said “That's sweet, but I think I'm going to have to say no.” Chuckles started up again, his near constant tittering an octave higher now; Chuckles the Creepy Molester.
“I'm afraid that 'no' wasn't one of the choices Angel.” Weasel said, reaching his hand out toward her face. The girl blocked his hand, but slowly, gently, and lowered it, smiling.
“Fresco,” she said, “calm down, haven't you heard? No means no.”.
“Not in Bison Gap it don't” Verga spat.
“Is that so?” the girl said, her eyes glinting as she smiled at them.
“Goddamn right.” The Weasel said as he stepped up close to her and put his knee against her crotch at the edge of the bar stool.
“And what if I say 'No' anyway?” she said as The Weasel stared into her hypnotic, orchid colored eyes.
“Then” he hissed, keeping his eyes locked with hers, “It'll be the last thing I hear you say, because we'll stuff a bar rag down your throat and have you anyway.”.
“I see,” the girl responded, arching her eyebrow, “are we just going to do it right here?”.
“Now you're seeing the light girlie,” Weasel said, grinning his brownish wolf smile. He looked around the bar, at the plate glass window that looked out onto the main road and the rows of windows on the west wall. “Walk-in.” he said.
The Weasel reached out and tried to grab the girl's upper arm and she pulled it away, standing up from the stool, grabbing her knapsack and throwing it over her shoulder. “Alright, calmate,” she said, reaching out and running her index finger along Weasel's arm lightly with one hand, taking up her beer with the other, “You lead, I'll follow.”.
“Let's go, dumbasses.” Weasel said to his pals, and they surrounded the girl, walking her in the direction of the bar's large walk-in refrigerator.
“All of you?” she asked?
“That's right baby,” Weasel sneered, “we're having a party.”.
The girl swayed her hips, doing her best slut walk, sipping her beer, and letting her fingertips graze each of the three men's bodies as they made their way to the heavy, steel door. Verga opened the door and Weasel ushered the girl inside, followed by the rest of the party guests. He closed the thick, sound proof, door behind them.
The bartender, Uncle Jack, just shook his head as they escorted the girl past his perch at the far corner of the bar. Jack figured that the girl was a whore, and heard somewhere that there must be work in this hellhole, maybe over at The Parlour, the little brothel operated by the Booker's. If that was the case, and she was hard enough, maybe she could do OK here, at least for a little while.
When they got into the walk in, Weasel put his hands on the girl's hips and started to push her over a tower of Miller High Life cases, but she danced out of his grasp, dropping her pack on the floor, and said, “Hold on compa,” as she got down on her knees on the ice cold concrete floor. “Let's get better acquainted mis amigos.” she smiled wickedly, “Time for a little sword fight, no?”. Verga and Chuckles both looked like someone had stuck them in the ass with a pin; they started to unbuckle their belts, almost in unison.
The Weasel moved more slowly, he started to unbuckle and then stopped. He reached down and grabbed the girl by her chin, forcing her eyes to meet his lusty gaze. “I know what your game is bitch,” he snarled, “You think you're going to get by passing out a couple of blowjobs, and that may be fine for these numbnuts,” he nodded at his friends, “but you better know you aren't walking out of this refer before I get a poke at that sweet, brown, pussy of yours.”,
“I wouldn't have it any other way mi amor,” the girl said, licking her lips.
Weasel started to unbuckle as Verga and Chuckles approached, their pants and boxers down to mid thigh, their cocks already out and rising steadily. The girl judged that Verga's tale of inbred lust, the one he was sharing when he walked into Cody's, must have been all talk, because he was hung like a bull...mouse. Chuckles on the other hand had some lumber swinging, and he started to stroke it a few feet from the girl's face. She looked at his tool and had to admit, after a shower and a flea bath, under different circumstances, she might have been able to appreciate it. “No, no, let me.” she said, reaching out with both hands and taking the thugs' stiffening dicks into her hands. She started to jack them both slowly as The Weasel finished dropping his jeans; another small fry.
“I want your mouth, whore.” Weasel said.
“Hold on boys,” the girl said, starting to unbutton her top. She had positioned herself, on her knees with her back to the cases of beer, the three men faced her in a semi circle in the tight confines of the long, narrow refrigerated room. She removed her shirt slowly, letting the anticipation build. When she got it off, the sight of her tiny nipples, made rock hard by the refrigerated air, strained at her simple, black bra made Weasel's eyes glaze with lust. She handed the shirt up to Chuckles, and said, “Hang this over there, compa, I wouldn't want to get any of your...juices on it.” she said with mocking shyness. Chuckles politely complied.
“Start sucking bitch!” The Weasel demanded impatiently, but stood still when he saw the girl was reaching behind herself the unlclasp her bra. As she did so, she leaned into him, preparing to take the head of his terrifying four inches into her mouth.
The girl's fingers easily found what they were looking for, not the clasp on her bra, but the three inch, folding, straight razor fastened to one of the straps. As she loosed it from its hiding place and unfolded it with one hand, she grasped the neck of her now empty Dos Equis bottle as it waited on the floor, in front of her knees.
The girl knew the entire sequence of motions, the tightly choreographed dance of death that would ensue as soon as she moved. She could see every step in her mind's eye. There was no fear, no uncertainty. She acted.
The girl shot to her feet, with her chin tucked down into her sternum. The crown of her skull impacted The Weasel directly under his chin, breaking teeth and snapping his jaw shut with an audible “Clack!”. He staggered back, stunned.
As she rose, she passed the razor blade over Chuckles' cock, splitting the top of the swollen shaft like an overcooked Ballpark. He howled and instinctively grabbed his crotch with both hands and tried to limp to the door. With being able to use his arms to balance, and with his pants around his thighs, he staggered and toppled over.
Men and their dicks; it never failed to amaze the girl. Once, in Mexico, she had stabbed a man's bodyguard in the neck, and he still tried to kill her with his bare hands. He had raised his arms and tried to crush her throat with his hands even as his lifeblood jetted from the wound in his neck in great gouts, painting the stucco walls of the plaza a lurid crimson. She had watched him die, fascinated, while she blocked his rapidly weakening attempts to strangle her. Cut a man's jugular, and if he's angry enough he'll go to hell trying to take you with him, but put a shaving cut in his penis, and all he wants is to find the world's greatest surgeon, right away.
By the time she stood completely, Verga started to reach for her but she had planned the sequence too well, she brought the beer bottle up with lightning speed, smashing it into a universe of tiny, glinting shards of green glass on the side of his face. After completing it's arc, her hand swung back and jammed the jagged edges of the broken bottle neck she still clutched into his left eye. Too stunned from the blow to scream, but she drove him back against the wall, pushing the bottle deeper and waving the razor against the left side of his neck. Here, she had miscalculated a little. A jet of Verga's blood sprayed forth and soaked her checkered work shirt as it hung on one of the cooler's shelves. “Pendejo!” she spat as the man fell to floor, his hands trying to reach his open throat and the tattered remains of his eye all at the same time.
Chuckles was trying to push himself off the floor. He was making a high pitched, pig like, squealing noise, that the girl gratefully silenced by standing over him, grabbing a handful of his dirty, curly hair and cutting his throat. That left only the Weasel. Less than five seconds had elapsed, since she had pulled her blade, she figured she could take some time with her only remaining date for the evening.
The Weasel, still groggy and teary eyed, was reaching back, under his vest so the girl kicked him in the jaw, hard, with her dirty sneaker. She pounced on him, putting the blade against his neck, and reached around his waist. She found the handle of a revolver and pulled it out. A nickel plated, short barreled, .357; it reminded her of something, a blood stained hotel bathroom, back in Bogota, when she was a little girl, if she had ever really been one of those. She tucked it back into her own waistband, next to the .380.
“OK, Mal Paraido,” she said coldly, straddling his chest and holding the cold steel of her razor against his throat, “let's have a talk about your little boys club.”.
The Weasel had been fairly accommodating after a few shaving cuts. He shared the history of the club in Bison Gap. The Knights were a small club of outlaw lowlifes, with only a dozen or so patched members. They had come into town about eighteen months ago, looking for a remote location with a sympathetic law enforcement presence to start a permanent meth cook. The Booker family, owner's of the local mine had control of the small black market and what few criminal enterprises there were, so they agreed to let a few Knights set up their cook out in the badlands, a dozen or so miles out of town in exchange for a healthy “lease” on the property. Things had gone great for a while, when the bikers were cooking their speed and then smuggling it out to all parts of the mid-west, but it wasn't long before the locals had begun to sample the Knight's low cost product. Meth abuse soared and productivity at the already struggling mine dropped. Ezekiel Booker, the apparent patriarch of the family, told the bikers that they had to either kick back three quarters of their profits, or get out of the county. The Knights decided that since the local law had no interest in getting between the two groups, that the Bookers could fuck right off. They refused the deal, and a war had started. Recently, however, the Knight's leader, some winner called “Zilla” had been killed, gunned down by some heavy hitter named King, that apparently worked for the Bookers. Nnd rather than retreat, the Knight Crusaders were getting ready for an all out counter assault.
The girl thanked Weasel for the information by slitting his throat quickly, and turning him over, while he struggled weakly, so that he bled into the rusted grate of the large drain that sat in the center of the gently sloping cooler floor. “Well, that's gonna make the clean up a lot easier on Uncle Jack.” she thought.
She looked at her shirt, were it hung. There was a great splash of Verga's “juices” all over the front. She looked down at her legs, and, predictably, some of the men's blood had stained her jeans as well.“Puta Madre” she swore. She only had the one disguise. All she had left in her pack were work clothes. “Ni modo” she sighed, what could a girl do. She opened her knapsack and removed a set of clothes. “Don't look boys.” she said lightly, just as the last bit of light faded from The Weasel's eyes. She turned and showed her boyfriends her back as she stripped down and changed.
The cooler walls were insulated, and the door was more than eight inches thick, and Uncle Jack sat out in the bar, alone, holding a shot of vodka in his trembling hand, oblivious to the kind of party happening in his refrigerator. He had heard a little noise that could have been grunting or groaning, and he hoped that the whore was showing those assholes a really hot time. “Vlad”, the biker had a real mean streak, and no matter how good she was, she'd be lucky to get out of their with all her teeth.
It didn't take as long as he expected, only about ten minutes, before he heard the cooler door open. He looked over, fully expecting to see Vlad and his lackeys coming out, laughing and buckling their belts, like the pigs he knew them to be. Instead, someone else walked out, someone who hadn't walked in in the first place.
The girl had changed clothes. She now wore black cargo pants and a black cotton tank top. She had a leather racing jacket slung over one shoulder and Vlad's .357 tucked into the front of her waistband. The bandana that had covered and bound her hair was gone now, and her blue-black tresses hung in wavy strands, down her back. Jack stared at her, his mouth hanging open, vodka forgotten in his hand.
La Chica as Jack thought of her, walked calmly up to the bar, withdrawing the magnum and laying it on the bar in front of her. “So, Uncle Jack,” she purred, “tell me about the three dead men in your refrigerator.”.
End of Chapter One:
Next time, Violetta has a run in with the law and gets a warm greeting from the housekeeping staff at the Great Northwestern Hotel. Keep your eyes open for Violetta Chapter Two: The Hospitality Suite.