From Divine Play, pp. 274-276

Lt. Carnell badly needed her in a sting against a cartel that thrived on child slavery and snuff films, and was immune to infiltration except by an attractive woman whose AmerAsian features would appeal to Bertram “Icepick” Jaaku, a Japanese who affected the traits of an oyabun, without any connection to yakuza or any other time-honored criminal institution.  Hence, his elimination would compel no reprisals.

Her entry was as a typist (in short skirt) in the corporate office. It took a day or so before a tsukaiipa, an errand boy, for Jaaku approached and began the brash accelerated process of procurement. He blatantly inspected her with his glacé eyes and told her that his kumi-cho, his boss, wanted her to visit his place for some “night work.” She was thinking how easily she could kill him with a thumb-drive to his neck, or by stomping on his loafer-clad (Sammy Gucci) foot, while her back-fist cudgeled his glossed skull.

The “night work” began with attending parties at Jaaku’s mansion that were, fortunately, too mannered to be orgies. However, the décolleté gowns she wore garnered his affection. She accompanied him to clubs, in pluribus unum [one among many], appeasing his vanity only—since many were available to gratify other needs.

She’d filled in only a third of the names on the organizational flowchart before he maneuvered her into his vaulted bedroom, its floor and walls stifled by Persian carpets and woven wallhangings and silken pillows. Jaaku had preserved a vengeful rape fantasy for Asian chicks, de rigueur for one who saw the world as bristling with instrumentalities for his pleasure.

He was 1.7 meters tall, weighing maybe 81 kilos, with dyed blond hair punctuating the tawny rutted face and fleshy lips. The appositive black eyes were transparent or opaque in accordance with his passions.

He slapped her around and tore her negligee while she screamed and pleaded; he grabbed her hair, wrenching her neck, spewing saliva and curses. “Bitchcunt! How many men shove eels in that filthy hole? Huh? You dripping disease! Inside you are blackrotten skag! Smear pus and shit on my silk sheets! Huh?” Then he smacked her again.

Her swollen face was throbbing; she felt blood trickling along her belly and back. Her father had trained her for transcendence. She had perceived the absolute when his punches and kicks had struck so powerfully they stopped her breathing. She’d glimpsed perfection every time her fingers were smashed by a wooden bo or her bare feet were gouged by a spear. But never had she been ashamed of her body, made to feel her life was futile, that she was no more than a flinching, squealing little creature. Just let him beat on you a while longer, and then fuck you, and tomorrow he’ll be more careless, less vigilant, just trusting enough . . . So much evidence, so many secrets. All the little children being raped and killed. All the little ones. He knocked her down and kicked her, the narrow-toed shoes slipping between ribs, penetrating her. The suffocating potpourri, the blaring pseudo-soul of ersatz-orgasms hammering her skull. “Bitch! Bitch! Bitch! Bitch” he squealed.

He produced a hunting knife, slashed her thigh, and sliced apart her bra, the blade’s tip lacerating her throat. But the pads adhered to her skin, and the overlapping pairs of flaps, of cloth, wire, and fat, absurdly wobbled as she dodged the knife. In his dilated eyes, she saw the fundament of lust and rage and, with divine sight, beheld herself, naked, mutilated, heaved from a trunk by her arms and legs, and flung into a shallow desert grave.

Daken taijutsu, attack the bones. She blocked his right wrist, numbed his hand—and the knife clattered to the floor. Her right hand became a sword, scything the air, fracturing his collarbone. He howled and gripped her throat, and she pressed her palms against his ears and opened out, shattering his eardrums. Sputtering blood and fury, he swung at her, and her right leg swept against his legs. Upended, he seemed to spin as he fell, like a glass bottle, breaking his nose on the brick fireplace. When he turned, blood was splattering from his mouth. He clutched a poker and bared his red-stained, jagged teeth. He leaned on the stone to boost himself upright, and in that moment, the heel of her right foot rammed his chin and snapped his head back, damaging his brain stem just enough to stop his breathing. I’m a great assassin, just like Daddy.


About Tom Ukinski

Tom Ukinski is an attorney in state government in the Midwest. He's been writing plays, novels, short stories, comedy sketches and screenplays for many years.
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