Lurid Detective Stories: “The Price of Blood” – Part 6

It’s a dark night, no pun intended. It’s cold, wet, and miserable, just the way Darkies like ‘em. The rain is coming down in sheets, and the hail is the size of golf balls. She waits patiently, hair plastered to her head and upper torso. Except for her armored parts, Mondo’s soaked to the bone. Kane is excited, almost giddy. After some grueling legwork, she finally tracked down Margo’s thief. She’s been stalking him ever since.

A century ago, the most-wealthy of human society lived in grand mansions which lined both sides of the street. That was before the gods, their Darkness, and the subsequent decay. Of the half dozen or so mansions that remain standing, all have been converted into seedy flophouses by their less-than-respectable present day owners.

She’s standing just inside the front doorway of the sleaziest of said buildings, looking every bit the part of just another Blonde working girl hustling johns and janes for a living. In this part of town, which has long been annexed by the city’s more unsavory denizens of the supernatural, a prostitute sporting Light (light body armor), packin’ heat, and wearing tactical sap gloves is the norm rather than the exception.

They materialize in the middle of the street. They’re figures seemingly composed of electricity, shorting out in the extreme wet weather.

This is her quarry. It’s show time. Kane licks the thin, succulent lips of her hard, vulgar mouth. Now she’ll see if the handful of spells Margo has taught her so far and those TAZ simulations at the SLPD firing range have prepared her for a confrontation with multiple gods!

The paperwork finally came through this morning for his listing, along with a trailer which allows her to sanction anyone who chooses to interfere with her body bag. That’s the good news. The bad news is that it’s a Kill-Me Listing.

Bottomline is no excessive force. She can kill, but she can’t kill.

Being hamstrung by a KML, guarantees there’s gonna be those troublesome resurrections you have to watch out for. That’s why operators prefer Destroy-Me Listings. ‘Cause with a DML you’re free to do d’em perps in right and ensure there’ll be no reanimation stragglers.

Kane holds her ground as the perps walk up to the hotel and try to muscle past her.

“Stupid shits, can’t you see me standing here working this door?”

The duo de-cloak. One is Tiny Martian, a pure-bred Ogre. The other is Jelly Roll, Margo’s Daemon thief. Jelly has a weakness for blonde snapper. And, as such, he gives de blonde the once over.

A frog and a genie, both of ‘em gods. Now this is my idea of a hand to draw to! This is what every Grimm’s first gig should be about. For a rookie, it don’t get much better than this, Cher.

“Move aside, whore!”

“Keep it frosty, Tiny.”

Instead of merely having it unhook itself, Kane directs her Victorian predecessor to the quarter-length version of the modern long line bra to yank and tug itself down around her waist. Its pencil-thins slice so viciously into her shoulders that they draw blood. When given the choice, this semi-aware pseudo-animate draconian armor always chooses to express itself sadomasochistically, just like its beloved mistress. Armor and wearer share the same perverse tendencies.

A Wash U couldn’t eradicate those deep-seated S&M tendencies she was born with. But, like others of her ilk who have learned to function as productive members of society, she learned to do so thanks to said MCN.

That’s so much better. Never a distraction. Always an ally. My good old chum, pain, is here to pleasure me on. Pain-bent and loving it.

She enjoys the bra straps cruelly and relentlessly cutting her. Jelly likewise enjoys seeing her being cut, especially in such a manner. But most especially, he enjoys seeing her so obviously enjoying herself being cut. It’s another part of her carefully constructed trap. You see, Jelly most especially likes blonde paingirls. The sicker, the better.

“What an awfully big pair you have there, paingirl. Got a license for ‘em?”

“The guns or the gunns?”


Mondo’s shorts pull themselves down low enough to expose the top of her [pubic] beard. A blonde-worshipper always wants to see the pubic hair.

“Yea, you got the proper license all right. Now get on your fuckin’ knees and suck me off, bitch, before I rip you apart, limb from limb! Consider it your freebie for the night.”

Too bad, so sad. Brawn, but no brains. Trash talkin’ and shit walkin’. Still, you can’t let that vanilla go to your pretty little head, else these way too dangerous cats will hand it to you on a silver platter. No way can you afford to lose your edge now, girlfriend. You’re much too close to offing these bums to blow it by getting cocky, sloppy, and Natalie Woods dead.

“Yea, make her do charity work, boss.”

“Go up to the room. I’ll join you as soon as she finishes with me.”

Tiny acts like he’s turning to go into the lobby. This is way too easy, something’s got to bust, she thinks.

She unzips Jelly’s fly and drops to her knees. She pauses to inhale deeply and savor his pungent unmistakable musk, a gaminess that expectedly reeks of fire-n-brimstone. Then, just like a snake, she goes down on him. Kane deep throats his cock in one gobble! Suddenly, things bust wide open.

Tiny pulls her arms back, while firmly planting a jackboot against her spine. In spite of the tenacious grips of her holsters on her A10s, Jelly pulls her gats free.

“Show your new master the respect he deserves, slut,” Jelly demands.

Mondo obliges by biting off his cock.

“Ahhh!” Jelly screams out, as purple blood sprays out of the gaping hole in his crotch.

By combining circular breathing, with that aforementioned mouth of hers, she’s able to utter an incantation. It’s one of the minor Awful Sayings, the one for introspection. Her course of study with Margo hasn’t progressed to the point yet, where the witch has taught her any of the major ones. The spell she invokes momentarily opens up the asphalt just behind Jelly’s cloven feet. He falls backward into the fire belching abyss, still holding onto her Hogs. Tangible ectoplasmic incarnations of his past victims, prey and foe alike, materialize and leap in after him.

She pulls her arms forward. It’s the surest way of getting out of someone’s surfboard hold. Tiny suffers two dislocated shoulders. Yep. Both of his arms are pulled out of their sockets. While he’s going into shock, Kane whirls ‘round and choke-slams the Ogre through the lobby doors. Maniacal glee, the least malevolent iteration of her facial, reshapes the hard pretty face of this cold calculating killing machine. Then the rush cometh, heralding a bent arousal most menacingly evil!

“Boss. She’s been combat-trained!” Tiny yells out above the explosion of lead glass and oak wood that was the doors.

“Save your breath to scream,” Kane taunts, Jelly’s genitalia still in her mouth.

No one in the lobby moves a muscle, except for those who make ample room for the melee. A whore beating up a loan shark. Who’d ‘ve thunk it? Nothing fancy. She keeps it short, sweet, and to-the-point. Kane pulps his skull with her armored fists.

The saps deliver just like their maker, Damascus Gloves, advertises: With the ease of a sledgehammer smashing an overripe watermelon, you too can comprise the brain case of any opponent.

Mondo’s loaded gloves munch themselves clean of the splatter. Sensing that her DGs are still hungry, Kane buries her gloves in the mush that was Tiny’s brain and said gloves scarf up the rest of his grey matter. Her bra and shorts pull themselves back up to where they belong, while her gloves are having their “Brains Rockefeller”.

Needless to say, he’ll be a long time resurrecting.

Out of pure habit, she almost commits a fubar. She starts to take him round-the-world, that quick snap of the head which severs the spine at cervical vertebra 4, C4, the exact center of the AOM. But, she stops herself in time. The RTW would, obviously, constitute “excessive force”, since it would prevent him from resurrecting. He’d be dead for good: gone forever.

In spite of the restrictions imposed on her, she’s in seventh heaven. This sanction is turning out better than she’d ever dared imagine it would. Rapture ensues, ushering in its twin bedfellows: squirting and multiple orgasms. Her benevolently parasitic armor, her bps, greedily consumes her copious secretions. It feeds on secretions, excretions, waste matter, and blood, even spit.

“She killed Tiny! She killed Tiny!” Someone off to her left, yells emphatically.

“Kill the bitch!” Another voice demands.

Things are getting ugly, fast. To dissuade the cocky, who she doesn’t have the time to waste on, Kane momentarily flashes her badge.

The desk clerk and owner, a Gnome, exclaims, “Watch out! She’s a Nancy Drew!”

“Still want a piece of me?”

To further make her point, she spits Jelly’s private out onto the floor. Many of the females start laughing. Most of the males reflexively grab their crotches.

“I’m a Grimm, on official police business. A formal sanction is in progress. Interfere, and you die worse than he did.”

Kane gets the desired effect. They hesitate, instead of mob her. She beats feet back into the storm, springing a trap Jelly had set for her under the misconception that she’s just some untrained streetwalker gone psycho. If he only knew what she really was, he wouldn’t‘ve bothered.

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