Chapter Two: the Blood-Spattered Bride
Four years and six months earlier in the city of El Paso, Texas
The radio sputtered and fizzed as police units solemnly indentified and inspected corpses. Blood stains and bullet shells attracted flies in abundance, and the hot Texas sun wasn't helping much either. A car pulled up the outside of the church, and an albino man looked out as a blonde approached him. "Well, give me all ze gory details, West." he sighed, and the blonde rolled his eyes, hands on his hips. "It's a goddamn massacre, bruder. Zey wiped out ze whole wedding party, execution style." he said as the older German exited the car, and they began walking back into the church, side by side. "Give me a figure." the albino murmured, scanning the outside of the crime scene with bright red eyes. "Nine dead bodies, und we're talking ze whole shebang. Bride. Groom. Reverend. Reverend's wife. Hell, zey even shot ze old man zat plays ze organ."
"It would appear to me zat somebody objected to zis union." the albino German murmured as they came through the doorway, looking around at the carnage. "Mein Gott, how can you stand zis, Ludwig?" he added, making a face at the reek of blood and fresh corpses. Ludwig shrugged. "Dunno, Gilbert. What'd I tell you though? It's like a goddamn Nicaraguan death squad." Gilbert smacked the back of his head. "You stop that blasphemy, bruder. We're in un house of worship." he lectured. Ludwig nodded, ashamed. "Tut mir leid."
They both came to a stop, more or less in the center of the cathedral as Gilbert put his hands on his hips, surveying the scene. "Well, zis is definitely the work of professionals. I'd guesstimate Mexican mafia hit squad. Four, maybe five strong." he declared, and Ludwig looked at him. "How can you tell?" Gilbert's mouth twisted in disgust. "Well, un sure und steady hand did this. Zis isn't un squirrelly amateur; zis is ze work of un old dog." He began walking forward, indicating the bodies with a curt hand gesture. "You can tell by ze cleanliness of ze carnage. Now, un kill-crazy rampage though it may be, all ze colors are kept inside ze lines." he explained as they both came to a stop at the side of a woman's corpse. "If you were a moron, you could almost admire it." he muttered under his breath, and narrowed his eyes. "Who's the bride?" he asked abruptly, pointing to the corpse, which was indeed in a blood-spattered wedding dress. Ludwig shrugged. "Don't know. Ze name on ze marriage certificate is Arlene Machiavelli. Zat's a fake. We've all just been calling her "Ze Bride", on account of the dress."
Gilbert knelt at the side of the dead woman. "You can tell she was pregnant. Man would have to be a mad dog to shoot un goddamn good-looking frau in ze head like zat." Her leaned forward slightly, trying to reconstruct an image of the bride in life. "Look at her. Hay-colored hair. Big eyes. Like un blood-spattered Engel."
The body suddenly spat right into his eye.
"West," Gilbert began dangerously, wiping the bloody saliva out of his eye. "Yeah?" Ludwig asked in confusion. "Zis fraulien isn't dead." the albino growled, pointing to the bloody woman on the floor.
***Time Skip***
The lifeline monitor beeped softly, rhythmically, as thunder rumbled in the skies outside. Rain pattered against the windows of the coma ward, turning it dark and tinting all the lights with a melancholy blue. There weren't many; those in comas didn't need light, much, and visitors were few. But someone was happy; they whistled as they strode through the halls, a jaunty little tune called "Twisted Nerve", by Bernard Herrmann. A tall brunette with a full-body tan and an oddly upright cowlick, sticking up between the bridge of a pair of dark sunglasses. His one crimson eye gleamed happily as he marched down the hall, his other eye covered by a simple black patch. He entered the nurse's changing room, still whistling happily. There was so much work to be done.
It was but the matter of moments to discard his bomber jacket and redress in the starchy white uniform, setting the nurse's hat –temporarily– in place of his dark glasses, and stabbing a needle inside an unmarked bottle full of amber fluid, drawing out about 80 milliliters and spraying a tiny jet into the air, making sure there were no air bubbles. He smiled to himself and set it down on a tray, switching out his normal eyepatch for a white one with a red cross on it. He continued whistling happily as he made his way to the coma ward, and entered the room of a certain anonymous, unconscious wardmate with a crash of thunder and the furious driving of rain.
He set the tray down, looking at the unconscious blonde curiously. He briefly held his hand over her mouth, trying to feel for her breath; it was there, but extremely faint, barely present at all. He cocked his head to the side and smirked.
"I might never have liked you." he stated flatly, as if the patient was conscious and able to hear his every word, his voice low and husky. "Point in fact, I despise you." he added with a small chuckle, tilting his head a little further. "But that shouldn't suggest that I don't respect you." he finished, turning to the tray and picking up the needle. "Dying in our sleep is a luxury that our kind is rarely afforded." he murmured, uncapping it with a pop. "My gift to you."
He bent down, poking the needle through her IV line, and was about to inject it when his cellphone rang. "For fuck's sake!" he snarled, wrenching the needle out and slamming it down on the tray, fumbling his phone out of his pocket. "Hello Oliver." he hissed into the phone, his one remaining eye irritated.
"What's her condition?"
Allen smirked down at the sleeping woman. "Comatose." he purred happily.
"Where is she?"
"I'm standing over her right now." Allen chuckled, shifting from one foot to the other as he grinned at the body.
"That's my boy. Allen, you're going to abort the mission."
"WHAT?!" the brunette screeched, slamming his fist into the nearby wall, making the lights flicker.
"We owe her better than that."
"YOU DON'T OWE HER SHIT!" Allen snarled as he stomped to the opposite side of the bed, over by the window.
"Will you keep your voice down, poppet?"
Allen's teeth squeaked as he ground them together. "You don't owe her shit!" he repeated in a low hiss, literally trembling with rage.
"May I say one thing?"
"Speak!" Allen muttered, throwing his free hand up in the air.
"All four of you beat the ever-loving sugar out of that woman. But you didn't kill her. And I put a bullet in her head, but her heart just kept on beating. Now, you saw that yourself, with your own lovely blood-red eye, did you not?"
Aforementioned eye was twitching steadily.
"We've done a lot of things to this poppet, and if she ever wakes up, we'll do many more. But one thing we won't do is sneak into her room in the night, like a filthy rat, and kill her in her sleep. And the reason we won't do that thing is because that thing would lower us. Don't you agree, Mister Jones?"
"I guess." Allen muttered resentfully, knowing that he really had no choice on agreeing, not if he wanted to live.
"Do you really have to guess?"
Allen let out a vexed sigh. "No, I don't really have to guess. I know." he muttered obediently.
"Come on home, poppet."
"Affirmative."
"You're my favorite enforcer~."
"Love you too, psycho. Bye-bye." Allen muttered, then flicked the phone shut. He strode back over to the bedside and stood, arms folded, over the comatose woman. He was very obviously exuding a layer of forced calm. "Thought that was pretty fucking funny, didn't you, bitch?" he growled, tapping a foot against the floor. "Hmm?" he grunted when he, obviously, received no response. His lip curled in a sneer. "Word of advice, bitch. Don't you ever wake up." he snarled, glowering down at her, and without a further word, and no longer whistling, he spun on his heel and stomped out of the room.
Four Years Later
The comatose, unknown woman had been transferred to a bigger ward, with other unfortunates like herself. This one was in poor repair and lit just as badly, with a few stray insects, like mosquitoes, buzzing about the sticky, humid air. One landed on the arm of "the Bride", plunging its tiny proboscis into her skin as it began sucking up blood.
A few seconds later, her eyes flew open and she shot up with a strangled, wet gasp, scaring it into flight. Her head whipped around, registering the ghostly blue-white of the hospital ward's lighting, the other comatose bodies, her greasy hair whipping about her face.
At this moment, this is me at my most…masochistic.
Oliver…it's your baby-
BLAM!
With a whimpered gasp, she reached up, touching the side of her head. Cool, hard. She lowered her hands, then curled her fingers into a fist and knocked twice. Her honey-brown eyes widened as inarticulate horror washed over her. Metal. Her heart racing wildly, and electronic beeps following the beats, she lowered her hands to her stomach. It was flat and soft. Her face crumpled as inarticulate whines and moans came out of her throat. Gone. Gone. Shakily, she pulled up the papery fabric of her hospital shirt, finding raised, obvious scars. She let out a cry of loss, starting to sob as she curled around her stomach. Rocking back and forth atop the medical gurney, she clutched at the scars and tried to deny what she knew to be true. Her child was gone. Wrenched from her body and probably burned atop a funeral pyre. "Oh, my baby…" she whimpered, tears pouring down her face.
Slowly, shakily, she stopped sobbing, looking tearfully at her hands. "Four years. Four years." she whispered, still breathing harshly, reading the lines on her palms. She curled them into fists again, her tears returning.
Her head whipped around as she heard cheerful whistling, and she quickly laid back down, feigning her comatose state as she forcibly calmed her heart. A man in medical scrubs entered, showing another man in trucker clothes in with him. She heard one of them chuckle, and swallowed slightly. Both of them came to a stop at the end of her hospital bed, and there was a pause. "Price is 75 dollars a fuck, my friend. You getting your freak on or what?" she heard an American-accented voice say, and went cold with both fear and outrage. "Oh, yeah, boy." she heard the other man say, accompanied by the rustling of clothes as he took out his wallet and paid the doctor. She swallowed again as the doctor counted out the money.
"20, 40, 60, 75. Right. Now, here's the rules." he said in a practiced tone, as if he had run through this several times before. She wished to god that he hadn't, but doubted so. He cleared his throat and continued. "Rule Number One: no punching her. Nurse comes in tomorrow and she got her a shiner or less some teeth, jig's up. So no knuckle sandwiches under no circumstances. And by the way, this little cunt's a spitter, it's a motor-reflex thing. But spit or no, no punching. Now, are absolutely positively clear on rule Number One?" he asked briskly as she fought to contain her rage. "Yeah." the other man chuckled, and the doctor went on. "Good. Now Ruler Number Two: no monkey bites, no hickeys. In fact, no leaving no marks of no kind. After that, it's all good buddy."
She was going to kill them. She was going to kill them both.
They both chuckled. "Now, her plumbing down there don't work no more, so feel free to come in her all you want, keep the noise down, try not to make a mess. I'll be back in 20." the doctor said, then slapped the other man and made to leave the room. She heard him snap his fingers and turn back. "By the way, not all the time, but sometimes, this chick's cooch can get drier than a bucket of sand. If she dry, lube up with this and you'll be good to go. Bon appétit, good buddy." he said in farewell as they both laughed.
She was going to kill them both with fire.
She heard the remaining man chuckle as a jacket settled at her feet, and the bed dipped with the weight of a new body. "Oh, yeah." he murmured as she felt him straddle her body. "Oh goddamn, you are the best-looking girl I've had today." he chuckled as he bent down and she felt the hot, stinking breath flowing from his mouth blast against her lips.
Without a second thought or a hint of regret, she lunged up and bit down on his jugular.
Arya's POV:
After the body stopped twitching, I spat out the remaining flesh in my mouth and shoved it off me, ripping the IV line out of my arm as I swung my feet over the side of the bed and pushed off, fully intending to walk out. I grunted in surprise as my legs gave out, sending me sprawling to the ground beside the corpse, and I smacked my legs, trying to will them into movement. When it was clear that no amount of will would get them going –at present– I dragged myself over to a pitcher of water and dumped it on my face, trying to clean off the noxious man's blood. I heard the familiar whistling, and dragged myself over to the body, quickly searching it and pulling a flick knife from its belt. As the merry whistling got closer, I dragged herself laboriously across the floor, trying to get behind the doorway. "Yo, stud! Time's up, buddy! Coming in, ready or not!" the doctor called, opening the door. "Hey buddy, did you have yourself a good time, man?"
He froze at the sight of the body, throat torn out, and sprawled on the floor with blood all over his front, staining his shirt dark crimson. "Whoa…" he whispered, stopping right where I wanted him. I twisted my body out from behind the door and sliced the tendons in his ankle. He dropped with a shriek of pain, hitting his head on the ground and, most unfortunately for him, momentarily disorienting himself. I grabbed him by the collar and dragged him laboriously to the doorway to the medical closet, shoving his head into the half-open door. He regained intelligence just when I got him positioned, and I grabbed the edge of the door with both hands. "Where's Oliver?!" I snarled, slamming it into his head as he yelped. "Where's Oliver!?"
He grunted as I slammed the door into him again, his face contorted in pain. "Please stop hitting me…" he whimpered, and I slammed the door on him again. "Where's Oliver?!" I demanded again, hysterically, and he groaned in pain. "I don't know who Oliver is!" he pleaded, and I slammed the door on him again. "Bullshit!"
I suddenly noticed the nametag on his shirt, which said "Buck". My eyes automatically traveled down to his hand, where he had tattooed the word "fuck" on his knuckles. My eyes unfocused as I drifted back into my memory, seeing the very same doctor standing in the very same spot as the other man at the foot of my bed.
"Well, ain't you the slice of cutie pie they said you was? Jane Doe, huh? Oh, we don't know shit about you, do we? Well, I'm from Huntsville, Texas. My name is Buck, and I'm here to fuck."
My teeth clenched as I looked down at the man slowly. "Your name is Buck. Right?" I asked quietly, making him swallow. "And you came here to fuck. Right?" I ground out, and his eyes bulged as he let out a tiny mew of fear. "Wait a minute, wait-" he stammered, but I let out a scream of anger and slammed the door on him as hard as I could, crushing his skull with an ugly cracking sound as his body twitched, then fell limp. I grabbed his cheap glasses and put them over my own eyes, feeling around for his keychain and pulling it out of his pocket. My lip curled in disgust. "Pussy Wagon. You fucker." I snarled, and slammed the door on him one last time for good measure. I collapsed against the body, panting, and rested my weakened body for a few moments before I began to strip it of its clothes.
***Time Skip***
I rolled out of the elevator on a wheelchair, pushing myself across the concrete floor of the parking lot. I glanced from side to side, looking at all the liscense plates. "Texas. Okay." I muttered, pushing the wheelchair faster as I searched for my ride out. as I looked to my left, I slammed my hands down on the brakes, glaring at what most obviously belonged to the set of car keys in my breast pocket. A large, gaudy yellow truck, with the words "Pussy Wagon" emblazoned on the tailgate in pink and red. The lettering matched that of the car keys, and I grinned and rolled over to my new ride. I opened the door to the backseat, hauling myself inside with a groan as my wheelchair was sent skidding off into the depths of the parking lot.
I dragged myself across the backseat and grabbed the coat hanger on the top of the car, hauling myself upright into a sitting position with a drawn-out howl of effort. I lay against the wall, panting for a few moments, then reached over my legs and pulled the car door shut, sealing myself in. I rested for a few moments more, watching my feet as I panted heavily. I grabbed my thigh and tried to will it to move, but I had no such luck. Alright, I would start small then. I evened my breathing out, slowly, and lay back against the car door, still watching my feet. "Wiggle your big toe." I murmured to myself, trying to stretch and pull muscles that had been years out of use.
Nothing.
"Wiggle your big toe."
Still no joy.
Sensing that this would take a while, I folded my arms across my stomach and stared fixedly at my feet. I could do this. I would do this, or die trying. "Wiggle your big toe." I growled, trying vainly to get at least a tiny hint of movement. "Wiggle your big toe." I whispered, straining with all my might. "Wiggle your big toe."
As I lay in the back of Buck's truck, trying to will my limbs out of entropy, I could see the faces of the cunts who did this to me, and the dicks responsible; members all of the Deadly Viper Assassination Squad.
When fortune smiles on something as violent and ugly as revenge, it seems proof like no other that not only does God exist, you're doing his will.
At a time when I knew the least about my enemies, the first name on my death list, Kuro Honda, was the easiest to find.
But of course, when one manages the difficult task of becoming king of the Tokyo underworld, one doesn't keep it a secret, does one?
Cast:
The Bride: Aryana/Arya/Ari Thompson
Bill: Oliver Kirkland/2p England
Earl McGraw (Police officer on scene): Ludwig Beilschmidt/Germany
Edgar McGraw (Police officer arriving): Gilbert Beilschmidt/Prussia
Elle Driver (woman with an eyepatch): Allen Jones/2p America
I was wildly uncomfortable writing this chapter. Rape is just not okay under any circumstances, especially the ones in Kill Bill. It's even more nauseating when you're writing one of your own characters into the wildly uncomfortable scenario. To distract you from such unpleasantness, I present to you the mental image of 2p!America in a nurse's outfit!
…okay, maybe that's just more unpleasantness.