WARNING: Adult content ahead. Gratuitous violence, sex, foul language, forced sex, torture, blood, guts and that's just the fun stuff!
Ok here's the sequel to Seeds of Memory. Word. Y'all better be reviewin the shit and let me know if anyone's reading it. Wheeee!
On last week's episode:
Two months later...
Angela awoke to the alarm clock buzzing, slammed it off and sat up in bed, smacking her lips. She felt fatigued, but not bad. She'd been feeling rather worn-out of late. The young woman limped her way to the kitchen in her and Freddy's simple abode to find her companion already up and sipping coffee. "Legs giving you much pain," he asks her idly, trying not to make an issue of it.
"Sometimes," she says sleepily. He'd been getting her pain pills to help but she didn't like taking them. They'd both settled into a semi-normal life in Mexico, and Angela had surprised the psychiatrist since as Ellen she'd learned Spanish under his nose from the nurse, Maria and fit right in. Well, as good as a white woman could under the circumstances. Angela worked in a deli and Lowell had gotten employment at a pharmacy. He didn't mind that sometimes Baby manifested strongly and at times called him Otis. He was still surprised that her psyche was still holding together, but somehow she was making it all work.
"Here, have some toast," he offers.
"Ugh, I'm not really hungry," she turns up her nose.
"Angela, come here and let me look at you," he says, and brooks no refusal. She shuffles to him.
He looks her over very intently, laying a hand on her stomach, then cupping a breast which was more full and tender. "Hey," she squawks. Aside from being tired she looked radiant and content.
"You're pregnant, doll," he tells her.
"What!"
"How long has it been since you had a period?"
"Uhh..a couple months," she says. She'd written it off as stress and nerves. What the fuck was she gonna do with a baby?
"I know it ain't mine," declares Freddy, who'd begun reflecting Angela's hillbilly accent. "It's that reporter's, isn't it?"
Ellen was very happy at the prospect...another Firefly at last. At least they wouldn't all die out. Baby was fearful of the responsibility and the loss of freedom. Angela would have to mediate the twain...Freddy wondered how this new situation would play out.
Three years later--
"Thought you could fuck us, Ricardo," the hard-eyed woman hissed in Spanish, handgun inches from the portly man's head. Sweat rolled down his face while he begged and gibbered in fear, on his knees before the tall female.
"N-no! Tell Paolo I'll have his money! Just gimme a little time!"
"You were given a shipment of cocaine to transport, to return with the profits. The cocaine disappeared, the money isn't here and here YOU are with a new car. You are fucked."
"Wait, wait! Senora Angela, I'll--" blam
She painted the cheap hotel room's wall and floor with his brains. "That's ok, Ricardo; I know where you have the money hid," she said to no one in particular. He had it in a briefcase in the trunk of that expensive new car. Paolo Chavez would get his money, and Angela Johnson would get her payoff. She wasn't known as the Right Hand of the Cocaine King for nothing.
Angela doffed the red wig and prositute's clothes in favor of her comfortable and serviceable gear: tank top, short button-up shirt, straight-legged jeans, boots, holsters for her many weapons. It wasn't the first time she'd played the part of a puta to accomplish a mission; Ricardo had seen her before and wouldn't let ganglord's Right Hand, his Ángel de Muerte get close to him. With his embezzled funds, however, he wouldn't be averse to being propositioned by a sexy prostitute.
She gathered up the rest of her things and left the double-crosser's body where it had fallen over, the owners wouldn't dare do anything to bring Senor Chavez's ire down on them--he owned pretty much everything in the whole region, including most of the police. She'd filched the keys from Ricardo's pocket and checked the trunk, sure enough the rest of the money was there. Might as well take the nice floatboat car, too--Paolo might even let her keep it. She was sure Kevin or Freddy would enjoy it at least.
Paolo's men conducted her swiftly to their master, she was accorded the same respect as Chavez's other high-ranking members and strongmen. She was one of very few to operate in that manner, most women still were confined to home or brothel. The majority didn't know who she really was, only that she was a powerful force for their side. Paolo did, though. He had eyes and ears all over, including the southwest United States, and netting the infamous, talented, and beautifully deadly Baby Firefly was the best luck he'd had yet. And he wasn't saying a word.
"Angela, m'dear," the middle-aged druglord speaks warmly in English. "Come to the living room." She, and a few picked bodyguards, follow him to his luxurious living room. "I see you have something for me." She hands him the briefcase which he opens, scans the contents, then shuts, smiling. "And that bastard Ricardo?"
"Dead," she says.
"Idiota," he shakes his greying head. "A bit too greedy, the toad. My little brother will see to your share of take. Well, sit down, child." She sits beside him on the overstuffed sofa, thinking, I'm no child, mister, but saying nothing. "How's your brother?"
"He's doing fine, his medical supply company is growing."
"If he's interested in my special...laboratories again, you let me know," he says jovially. "And that niña, that adorable baby of yours?"
"Roberta's running around like a hellion," Angela says, the love evident in her tone.
"Growing like a weed, eh? Well, Miss Horsey, you're obviously ready to gallop off to that adored family of yours, I can see. Pietro will be calling you tomorrow, ok?"
Jeez, he could be so pompous, Angela thought as she left. In the shiny new car, no less. Paolo could sit and bullshit all damn day, and she was itching to get home to her lover, brother and daughter.
Man, she was tired. Pulling up into her driveway she rubbed her eyes and scratched her head. The bouncy hair had been colored a honey brown and she sometimes straightened the unruly curls to change her appearance. The nice two-storey home Freddy and her had moved into was also home to Kevin McAllister, a devious gringo who'd stolen her heart...among other things when she'd first met him...her daughter Roberta and friend Inez, who acted as den mother.
"Mama! Mama," cried the toddler as soon as she heard her mother enter the house. The child had good hearing and an uncanny sixth sense when it came to the adults she loved. The little girl's hair was a rich brown like her father, Lance, with his dark grey eyes and her mother's bright smile. Her round head was covered in tight ringlets, just like Angela's hair was as a baby.
"There's my Berta," she called back, sweeping the toddler into her stout arms.
"I was getting worried," came Freddy's voice as he entered the room. He was always worried over her it seems. She didn't mind being loved so much, though. Otis always thought she'd get herself into trouble she couldn't get out of again.
"Hi, Freddy," she chirped. "Where's Kevin?"
"The asshole's upstairs in your garden tub. Wasting water, no doubt."
"Freddy, be nice."
"Ain't I always," he sniffed. He'd always felt the drifter Kevin was up to no good. When Angela put Roberta down he moved to her and gave her a squeeze, which she returned. She couldn't resist the former psychiatrist's charm.
