Post by ThegunsofNevada on Dec 13, 2004 22:31:20 GMT -5
She sat idly in the high backed secretary's chair, her feet in dress shoes up on the desk, gently humming J-pop tunes as she bobbed her head.
The Japanese office was cramped, and smelled of incense, but was well maintained, and looked totally un-Japanese. It was efficient, with off-white paint, not the shoji doors and ornamental vases designed for turirist consumption. The girl knew that and liked it. She checked her watch.
It was a handsome watch on a handsome girl. The watch was polished platinum with roman numerals on a black background, with a black leather band. The girl was tall, perhaps 16 or 17, with pretty, chiseled features, and pure white hair that hung straight all the way down too her shoulders, with bright green eyes and a crooked smile with long, sharp teeth. She checked her watch again.
Aw, what the hell, I can indulge myself, she thought. She shrugged off the black suit jacket she wore, which covered a nicely starched white dress blouse and a high gloss black shoulder holster holding a 9mm Glock pistol. She also wore black loafers and black slacks, with day glow striped black and pink socks. She rolled up the left sleeve and folded it neatly. She gently reached into her suit jacket pocket and produced a small, flat white box. She took out the type of disposable alcohol pad frequently found in first aid kits, a white rag, and a razor blade. She opened the alcohol pad, sliced it in half, and wiped down her arm. Then she drew the razor blade down her arm, at a parallel angle with her elbow joint, her blood flowing up, and her adrenaline with it. She lay back, enjoying the music and the feeling of slight pain and pleasure as her blood flowed. She waited a little, and whipped it clean with the rag, and then with the alcohol pad. She rolled her sleeve down, replaced the blade and rag in the box, and the box in the coat, and then she put the coat on her small frame.
She unbuttoned the black holster and took out the black Glock pistol, and screwed a 6'' tube onto the end. She checked that the silencer was secured, and then spun the pistol around on the table.
A few minutes later, the doorknob into the reception area began to turn.
The girl was surprisingly quick and light on her feet; with one fluid motion, she took up the pistol and moved behind the door.
Just then it opened, and a small Japanese businessman with balding black hair and an expensive suit walked in.
The girl squeezed the trigger. The magazine was loaded with sub sonic bullets and the silencer was effective, so the gun wasn't loud, but the man was. He screamed as his kneecap flew in front of him. The next several shots splattered blood on the off-white walls, and the man collapsed to the ground. He rolled over, and the girl smiled. She shot him twice in the head, just to make sure that he was dead, and emptied the rest of the magazine into him for fun, enjoying the way the body jerked.
She bent over him and drew a smiley face on his forehead with his own blood, wiped her finger clean, and stood up. Metholidicly, she dropped the magazine out, replaced it with a new, fully loaded one, and put the pistol back into her holster. She walked out, blood splattered over her face, smiling.
In the back room, the secretary strained for the telephone, bleeding from her hand, which was pinned to the wall. Just a few more inches…<br>
The Japanese office was cramped, and smelled of incense, but was well maintained, and looked totally un-Japanese. It was efficient, with off-white paint, not the shoji doors and ornamental vases designed for turirist consumption. The girl knew that and liked it. She checked her watch.
It was a handsome watch on a handsome girl. The watch was polished platinum with roman numerals on a black background, with a black leather band. The girl was tall, perhaps 16 or 17, with pretty, chiseled features, and pure white hair that hung straight all the way down too her shoulders, with bright green eyes and a crooked smile with long, sharp teeth. She checked her watch again.
Aw, what the hell, I can indulge myself, she thought. She shrugged off the black suit jacket she wore, which covered a nicely starched white dress blouse and a high gloss black shoulder holster holding a 9mm Glock pistol. She also wore black loafers and black slacks, with day glow striped black and pink socks. She rolled up the left sleeve and folded it neatly. She gently reached into her suit jacket pocket and produced a small, flat white box. She took out the type of disposable alcohol pad frequently found in first aid kits, a white rag, and a razor blade. She opened the alcohol pad, sliced it in half, and wiped down her arm. Then she drew the razor blade down her arm, at a parallel angle with her elbow joint, her blood flowing up, and her adrenaline with it. She lay back, enjoying the music and the feeling of slight pain and pleasure as her blood flowed. She waited a little, and whipped it clean with the rag, and then with the alcohol pad. She rolled her sleeve down, replaced the blade and rag in the box, and the box in the coat, and then she put the coat on her small frame.
She unbuttoned the black holster and took out the black Glock pistol, and screwed a 6'' tube onto the end. She checked that the silencer was secured, and then spun the pistol around on the table.
A few minutes later, the doorknob into the reception area began to turn.
The girl was surprisingly quick and light on her feet; with one fluid motion, she took up the pistol and moved behind the door.
Just then it opened, and a small Japanese businessman with balding black hair and an expensive suit walked in.
The girl squeezed the trigger. The magazine was loaded with sub sonic bullets and the silencer was effective, so the gun wasn't loud, but the man was. He screamed as his kneecap flew in front of him. The next several shots splattered blood on the off-white walls, and the man collapsed to the ground. He rolled over, and the girl smiled. She shot him twice in the head, just to make sure that he was dead, and emptied the rest of the magazine into him for fun, enjoying the way the body jerked.
She bent over him and drew a smiley face on his forehead with his own blood, wiped her finger clean, and stood up. Metholidicly, she dropped the magazine out, replaced it with a new, fully loaded one, and put the pistol back into her holster. She walked out, blood splattered over her face, smiling.
In the back room, the secretary strained for the telephone, bleeding from her hand, which was pinned to the wall. Just a few more inches…<br>