Moving On
Dealing With It
By Pat Squared
Tim wondered why God chose to inflict this fate on him.
Outside of his twin brother, Ron Stoppable was his best friend. Other than him mom, Ron was the only one who patiently put up with their antics. Jim and Tim were both excited when they heard that Ron and Kim were getting married. They both decided to hunt down Drakken after the blue skinned villain put two rounds into Ron's and Kim's face.
As far as Tim could figure out the only reason God spared Kim was the fact that she unknowing was pregnant with Ron's child. Ron was not needed anymore for the propagation of the species and so God let Ron die. Tim hated God. He had turned his back on God. If there was such a thing as a just God, good people like Ron would not die and his nephew would not have to grow up without a father.
Now he was stuck with the next worse thing to a born again bible thumper. Maybe she was one Eastern Orthodox style.
It was his soul that would burn in hell, not hers, why did Marie even give a flying fuck about him. He only killed her boss, kidnapped her, kick her around, and yet she care about his soul.
Sometimes even someone as dense as he could read the signs.
Stockholm syndrome – Capture Bonding. Christ, why didn't I see it before.
A hostage will start bonding to their captor if held for a given period of time. Marie believed herself to be attached to him. She believed that she could save his soul.
Tim did not want anyone to save his soul. He had long since surrender it. Thirteen years he signed the deal with the devil. He danced with the devil knowing when the music stopped; he would have to pay up for the dance.
He took in a deep breath and exhaled.
God had turned his back and on the good and now God was trying to save the damned.
Crap God, if you did not want me to go on this rampage, all you had to do was raise the first shooter's bullet one inch higher. It would have bounced off Ron's helmet and Ron would be alive today. Better yet, all you have to do was make sure the wrong sperm-egg combination did not happen and Drakken would not be born. If you were a perfect fucking deity, I would not have to do what I did to fix your errors. Perfect God my ass!
He wanted to curse out God. He wanted to rip the veil of innocence from Marie so she could just effing see what he saw.
God loves me...right and I am the Dalia Lama, Buddha, Mohammed, Confucius, and Jesus of Nazareth. Dream on and you too can buy oceanfront property in Middleton.
Tim Possible looked on as the hunters examined the old campsite the pair used last night. One was checking the fire pit while the other was providing over watch protection.
Damn...fucking Russians make sure everyone serves a two-year term in the army.
Despite these two being far long past their army days, the lessons were not forgotten. Hunters were not so vigilant against ambush when hunting animals. Only man hunters would be so vigilant against ambush. They were hunting him.
It was fifty yards from the tree to the old camp site. He theoretically could make the shot, but theoretically he could chant an incantation that would make them forget all about him. He could theoretically toss a stone and have them looking for the source of the sound as Marie and he slipped away.
It was like walking along and picking up the winning lottery ticket out of the gutter. Theoretically possible, but highly unlikely.
However, Tim had to do something. He slowly drew his pistol. With his left hand, he grabbed a rock. He tossed the rock ninety degrees to his right into a clump of bushes.
They were looking for him. Worse, because his rock spooked some kind of animal which charged the hunters and knocked one to the ground. Whatever it was...it was not happy and started chasing the other hunter who was running for dear life. It happened so fast that Tim could not identify what type of animal it was. Wolverine, badger, tiger, bear...whatever. Tim did not really care as long as it was chasing away the hunter. He had hit the proverbial lottery ticket.
If Tim survived long enough to get back home, he knew not to even think risk his money in the casinos since his used up his lifetime supply of luck in the Russian forests.
The other hunter was down on the ground. He was dead. His neck was broken when the creature pounced on him.
Tim stripped the man down to his underwear. Only an idiot would assume that stripping the dead is an easy task. Dead bodies are limp and trying to manipulate one is a nightmare as any EMT or coroner can attest. The clothes were far too small for him. However, the man had some paperwork, an identification card, a Mosin-Nangant M1891/30 7.62x54mmR rifle with a primitive three power telescopic sight, six five-round clips of ammunition in a bandoleer, and a pack laden with supplies.
Tim wondered just how much longer God was going to play with him. Between being a wanted criminal, a hostage with Stockholm syndrome and a heart condition, survival in the Russian wilderness, and now professional state hunters eager to add two legged prey to their resume, God would have more than enough to make him the star of a wrapped comedy. No author could be so twisted as the divine one. If it was not real life, no one would believe that he was so lucky as to spook a pissed off beast. Deus ex machina (God out of the machine) as the ancient Greeks called it. He was now officially the American idiot starring in this comedy of errors.
Tim knew better than to wait for the hunter to return for his dead buddy. He had expended all his luck on this one. Now he had to be careful. He checked the rifle. The hunter was smart. It was loaded with no round in the chamber. Only idiots trusted the mechanical safety of a firearm.
He would keep it that way. God only knows just how likely he was to trip and accidentally shoot himself now that his luck was gone.
Tim knew that fortune would wait until he actually had a glimmer of hope before shafting him again. There was no other option but to deal with it.
Ronald S. Possible did the walk-around on the machine that was going to kill him.
Lately his nightmares involve him crashing and burning. He would not die...not yet. He would be taken to the hospital were his cousin and Vee would trade notes on who got the better kiss. Vee would then borrow a dull rusty spoon and start removing certain body parts.
Worse yet was the dream where he found himself and his cousin making the beast with two backs and Violetta walking in with his family in tow. They would then take him out, shoot off all his appendages with a shotgun, and stake him over an ant hill like the Indians use to do.
Ronnie wondered what was going on in his head. He like Vee very much, but he could not get the image of his cousin out of his head. Jen would just change in front of him. She would just off and do something crazy and rope him along with her. Thankfully, nothing else was remotely sexual, but after the first night, Ronnie was worried. But just the possibility it might be sacred the living crap out of him and fueled a wet dream that no man should have to endure.
The other tasks on the ranch were not pleasant. Being a cattle farm, Ronnie had to help in the butchering process and learned just exactly how cattle was turned into USDA prime dry-aged beef. He had to help inseminate half a dozen heifers using the rubber glove and semen sample technique. He had to pick up dozens hay bales and load it up unto the truck. He had to learn to ride while breaking in horses. Cleaning out the stable was getting to be old game; Ronnie swore that he would be smelling shit for the rest of his days.
However, none of the tasks worried him as much as today's task.
Yesterday he used up his lifetime supply of luck when he soloed. Today, he would have to fly in formation with another chopper and get a herd of cows to more to another pasture before they ruin their current one by eating all the grass to the roots. Soloing was easy. Climb up to altitude, fly a course with four ninety degree turns, and return to earth. Being high up was easy. If he made a mistake he had time to recover. Being at the nap of the earth...what was the line...it's not the fall that kills you...it's hitting the ground that smarts.
Today, he fueled-up the chopper. With a ranch hand and him plus fuel, the chopper would handle like a pregnant cow and have the all the expected aerodynamic properties of the one that jumped over the moon.
Ronnie was wearing a set of sage green Nomex Jumpsuit, a pair of mirror aviator's sunglasses, boots, and a black cowboy hat. Jenny took a photo of him by the helicopter and then wished him luck. She would be flying with her father in the other one.
Martinez, the ranch hand was waiting in the helicopter.
"Bueno diaz, Senior Possible."
Ronnie never met the man before. He was older. In his early forties. His face was weather worn.
"Bueno diaz, Senior Martinez. Como esta usted?"
In one sentence, Ronnie use up most of his non-obscene Spanish.
"Muy bien, y usted?"
"Muy bien."
"Senior Possible, vaya con Dios."
Great. He does not speak any English and is wishing me luck. He is going to jinx me.
Ronnie ran through the preflight check list and the start up check list.
"MD-321, requesting permission to take off."
"This ain't NASA or the FAA tower, Ronnie. Just keep an eye out for the electric wire and listen to Martinez. You're the pilot, but he will guide you. He had been doing this since he was a boy. Joss and Mark will meet you in fifteen over the south pasture. Keep an eye out for airplanes buzzing the ranch. This is unrestricted airspace as long as you keep under 1,500 feet and don't fly too close to the Canadian border."
Ronnie knew that would be the envy of all his classmates. Getting to fly a actual helicopter and getting a pilot's license would give him bragging rights. However, he hated the damned things. He had examined the Jesus nut carefully. It was the one thing holding the propeller to the shaft. If that went, no amount of praying would save his life. He did not want to be here, but his cousin blackmailed him.
Why couldn't Uncle Mark and Aunt Joss have more kids? That way Jen gets to boss around someone else instead of me.
All the needles were in the green. Ronnie twisted the throttle as he pulled back on the collective with his left hand. Now he was hovering on a cushion of air. He applied more throttle as he pulled the cyclic a little bit forward to compensate that he no longer enjoyed the benefits of hovering over an air cushion.
Don't let me mess this up. I don't want Jen and Vee comparing notes on how I kiss at my funeral.
Ronnie performed a slow turn and headed to the south.
Violetta opened her notebook computer and checked her email. There was a new address.
To: "Violetta"
From: "Jen"
RE: Ronnie
You don't know me, but I am Ronnie's cousin Jenny Possible.
Your pal has successfully made his first solo helicopter flight yesterday and is one more step closer to being a certified chopper jockey. I have attached photos of him working on the ranch.
He is gathering the attention of the local girls, but don't worry, I told all them 'zit-queens' that he is already spoken for and that you would come on up to Montana to kung fu any girl who tried to kiss him that was not kin, and only then kin can kiss him on the cheek. Truth be told, he is cute (thankfully, unlike Uncle Larry's brats), but definitely funny.
Ronnie has this fear of choppers. I don't know why, but every time he flies with me, he ends up collapsing on the ground and kissing it when we land. I hope that he gets over his fear because he is a natural chopper pilot if he could just relax a little bit and stop worrying so much.
Ronnie decent with horses, willing to help out in the ranch and in the kitchen. He's getting better at tossing the hay bales around and he is putting on muscle. When he comes back, he will need new shirts are his old ones will be too small. Take the poor boy shopping so that he doesn't get stuck with the discount rack. Otherwise the ladies in the stores might want to try him on in the fitting rooms. Besides, if he was not my cousin, I would be doing everything in my power to grab that boy. You are some lucky girl.
As I get to know Cousin Ronnie, I am learning about you. He always keeps the photo of you and him by the lake next to his heart and when he does not think I'm looking he pulls it out and looks at it. I don't know how you do it, but the boy is still busted up about you despite all the fillies in town who are crying because he ignores them. As I don't yet have a boy of my own, if you have any advice on how to snare one up good one like you snared Ronnie, I'm all ears.
Attached also are photo of pa and me busting Ronnie with whip cream pies to the face. It's a tradition up here when someone completes his first solo flight. Flying can be serious business, but who said that we can't have fun on the ground. I hope you forgive me for mashing Ronnie's face good. I did not do it all that hard and pa told me his nose is not broken.
Jen P.
PS: I hope that you and Ronnie can come next summer. Being the only girl in a ranch full of men gets ancient mighty fast...I will teach you how to fly a chopper and ride a horse. Also, next year, I will be old enough to get my driver's license, 14 is legal as long as it's farm equipment. Want to learn to drive?
Vee opened up the photo files attached to the email. There were several shots of Ronnie about the ranch. His skin was darker from working outside and he was wearing a black cowboy hat, no shirt, jeans, and work boots. He looked so happy. Ronnie was definitely becoming a hottie despite the fact that he never takes care of himself.
Vee scrolled down to the last photo. Ronnie face was covered in pie. On the right was a man. On the left was...Jen.
Violetta knew that Jen was Ronnie's cousin.
But why did Jen have to be so cute.
Jen had green eyes just like Vee only paler. Ronnie had a thing for green eyes. Maybe because his mother had green eyes, but no matter what Ronnie liked green eyes. In all the other categories, Jen had her beat.
Jen had long, beautiful, blond hair. Vee had medium, dark hair with an abundance of split ends.
Jen had a tan that Vee would kill for. No matter how long in Vee suntanned, she never tanned, just turned red and then immediately started peeling after a failed attempt.
Jen had bigger breasts than Violetta. Jen looked like she would grow up to model for the Ms. Canned Milk USA campaign.
Worse of all, Jen probably did not talk funny. Violetta hated her stutter. It was one of the things that ensured that she was the social pariah at school. If Ronnie was not there, she would not have a friend in the world.
If Jen was not Ronnie's cousin, Ronnie would probably pick Jen over her to be his girl.
She prayed that all the other non-kin girls at the ranch were either happily married or real ugly. Violetta wondered what made her special enough for Ronnie. The cynical part of her told her that she simply got to Ronnie first before any of the other girls could see just how much of a catch Ronnie was.
Jen was too perfect.
Jen's perfect teeth versus Vee's braces.
Jen's size C cup versus Vee's size A cup.
Jen's curly blond hair versus Vee's limp dark hair.
Jen's curvy body versus Vee's stick with two bumps the size of a rubber eraser.
Jen's perfect tan versus Vee's peeling skin.
A girl who could fly helicopters and ride horses versus Violetta's piano and kung fu.
Excitement versus the same old thing.
Violetta knew that if Jen was not Ron's cousin, she would loose her BF to the blond.
Violetta knew that praying for other girls to be ugly or break out in zits was not a good prayer to make to God.
However, the young girl spent eight years with Ronnie and she was not going to let some Ms. Canned Milk with big jugs take him away. Violetta would not just wait and pray that things would work out. Only fools trusted in fate and storybook endings.
Violetta would wage preemptive warfare.
Violetta would give up being an unrepentant tomboy and master all the girly-things like make-up and scents and everything else that a girl could use to lock in a boy. If necessary, Violetta planned to go all the way to hang unto Ronnie.
Violetta thanked God for Jen inadvertently giving her that wake up call. The fact that Jen was Ronnie's cousin made Jen safe. But there were other busty blond that were not Ronnie's cousin. She was not going to lose Ronnie to some big busted floozy.
When it came to protecting her BF, it was war, and Violetta was from the Old Testament School of warfare. She did not take any prisoners. She had to protect him from some scheming leech. Ronnie was not stupid, but sometimes a little slow when it came to reading people.
It was time for a total make over.
With Ronnie becoming such a hottie, Violetta had to be a hottie too. Or she would risk having another girl kissing her BF and taking him away. If was not Ronnie's fault. Violetta knew that when men saw a cute girl and get an erection, their brains turned to mush.
No one takes Ronnie. He is mine. He needs me...not so lousy bimbo who is just going to get knocked up, fat and ugly, and bore him to death with tabloid gossip. He is too good for that. I will get myself knocked up with his twins before I let him go.
What Violetta did not know what that Jen had a similar inferiority complex about Violetta.
After looking at Violetta's photo, Jen started believing herself too fat.
Jen felt herself just another plain, blond trailer trash bimbo compared to Violetta exotic Eurasian features. Violetta was apparently so smart and worldly that Jen felt trapped on the ranch for the first time in her life. Jen was now ashamed to be a country girl. Jen suddenly became weight and figure conscious.
Both girls had issues.
Violetta wanted to hang unto her man.
Jen wanted a man of her own, but trying to find one that can kiss as good as Ronnie with her over protective father around was an exercise in futility. Jen wondered why Ronnie had to be her cousin, instead of someone elses.
Movement slowed to a crawl as Tim Possible tried to ensure that he sterilized the path they used. He tried to recall everything his grandfather taught him about moving in a war zone when Tim was stuck listening to grandpa's old war stories about fighting in the Pacific, Korea, and Vietnam. Don't use paths, sleep on the side of a hill, preferably under a thorny bush so they cannot coordinate a perfect sweep, and remember, you were playing on someone else's back yard. Stealth, not speed, was the key to survival.
Tim looked at Marie. Something happened and Tim was trying to figure it out. Marie was the last person you would want out in the wilderness. No outdoor skills. A need to constantly rest and take her medications. A conscience. An extra mouth to feed.
With all the pursuit, the pair was moving only a couple miles a day on a good day. Twice, two groups of hunters have tried to follow their trail since the incident in the forest. Thankfully, Tim did not have to waste one of his precious rounds of ammunition. He was trying to save it for the bears. There was plenty of game, but none with the fat that Tim and Marie would need to survive much longer.
The pair could not do this forever. Once, the pair had to float down rivers to elude the search dogs the last couple hunters brought with them. Tim knew the next time he could not count on a nearby river to mask his scent. Thankfully, it seemed that the large patrols were drying up, but now they were hiring hunters...men who knew this land and its secrets. Tim would rather have the battalion bumbling conscripts trample out and ruin the scent trail rather than one hunter who knew the land.
Tim looked at his reflection in the water. He was much skinner than he was at the start of this mission. He would say that he was now 135-140 pounds and that was optimistic. Marie was now under a hundred. Soon it would be winter, unless they started eating fat, they would die when the snows come. He did not know what to do. Marie wouldn't leave him. He could not just walk away and leave her to rot.
However, to steal a car was to let the others know where he was and that he was still alive. If he hid long enough, the authorities would believe that the pair met their end out in the wilderness. It was their only chance...his only chance. It was not so far fetched. Even those who grew up in this land suffered injuries and die. However for the ruse to work, they had to leave no sign of their passing.
Tim wondered what would have happened in the old West. Uncle Slim's wife had an ancestress that was captured by the Sioux and married off to one of the Sioux warriors. Did that lady break down and lack unto her warrior as Marie was doing to him? How much longer would this happen until things really blew up.
Earth to Tim, this is not a romance novel.
Tim had to keep moving. Survival came first, anything other than survival wasted precious resources.
He had lost his life a long time ago. Now it seemed the only reason for his existence was her. He did not love her. He could not love her. He did not want to love her. Love was chaos. Love would only complicate things. He chalked up his thoughts to Mother Nature's hardwiring. Any guy traveling around with a pretty, fertile young lady would start thinking about reproduction. It was mother nature's way of keeping the gene's flowing.
The Possible's had Ronnie to keep the gene's flowing. With the why Ronnie's best pal been around him, Tim figured that Kim would have her hands full trying to Ronnie from making her a premature grandmother. Tim was not needed anymore to keep the genes moving. He was an evolutionary dead end like his twin brother. It was just his twin faced up to facts sooner than Tim did.
"How old are you?"
"We're thirty two," Tim automatically replied.
"We...we is a plural in English. Do you have a twin sibling?"
Damn, the amateur shrink got another piece of information out of you, Secret Agent Man. You might as well tell her everything. Maybe you can get her to see some reason. Maybe you can get her to understand why you are so messed up in the noggin and that it's in everyone's best interest to go to the nearest town and back to daddy.
What are you stupid? What exactly is she going to understand? You sold your soul to the devil for the chance at revenge. She is a Christian, Tim and you are a pagan with a malfunctioning Irish Catholic conscience. She is turn the other cheek and you come from the smite them all and let God sort it all out school of diplomacy.
If Tim was sane, he would listen to the cynical voice that kept him breathing despite all the tight spots he had been in. However after living in hell, doing the insane thing was sometimes the only sane thing to do.
"We have an older sister. I am the youngest brother. I ended up here oddly because of family."
Marie started asking questions and Tim soon found himself telling her just exactly how he got trapped in all this madness.
He expected her hatred and contempt when he told her of his crimes. He expected her hatred and contempt when he broke down and confessed his inadequacies. He had surrendered all his secrets to her. He expected the end of the world to occur.
Tim Possible had let out the World Serpent, Fennis Wolf, and Loki from their imprisonment and yet Ragnorok did not happen...yet.
Tim knew that fate was waiting just until he actually had hope before fate would dash it.
Ronnie collapsed on the hanger floor.
"Wake me up when it's time to head back out tomorrow," he muttered to no one in particular.
Ronnie was totally exhausted. Being scared, knowing that one slip up would kill him and Martinez, everything only wore him out. He just wanted everyone out so he could go over to the toilet in the hanger and puke his guts out. He smelled himself. The flight suit had to go into the laundry. It was a miracle that he did not defecate on himself today.
Ronnie wondered just how many more herds had to be moved to greener pastures. He just wanted summer to be over and be back in the city were the most dangerous thing he did was walk to school.
It was time to finish the paperwork. One would think that pilots just picked up a set of keys, turn on the ignition, and take off. No, the gods at the FAA ensured that every minute of terror was logged for posterity's sake. He staggered back to the chopper and grabbed his log book. Seven point six plus twenty three point two meant that he logged in thirty point eight hours for flight time. He filled in the appropriate spots and wondered if anyone else would ever see this. Ronnie waited for the chopper to cool down before refueling the external tanks. Tomorrow would be time for the north pasture.
He was too out of it to even think about supper or climbing the stairs to sleep.
Ronnie just removed his flight suit, rolled it up into a pillow and crashed underneath the machine that now fueled his nightmares.
Ronnie, wake up!
He sat up wanting to believe that he was in just one seriously messed up nightmare. However his head hit the bottom of the helicopter airframe and then rebounding on the concrete floor told him otherwise. He closed his eyes wondering just how much more damage he would have to do to his head before they would take him off the job.
"Sorry Ron, the little boss, your Uncle Mark, told me to get you. He admires your work ethic, but you need a shower, a hot meal, and a good nights sleep on a real bed otherwise you won't be ready for tomorrow. Today was great. Don't worry, did you think the boss was going to risk kin without an IP in the right seat. I am also an FAA certified check pilot. You just passed a check ride that washes out half the pilots out of the Army Helicopter Flight Training Program, Ron. I just got to mail off a copy of your logbook and the FAA will mail you back your license. Next, we will work on your instrument and commercial rating."
Ronnie cursed up a storm. He was afraid that he would crash and burn and he had an IP in his seat.
"Jesus, Martinez, why didn't you tell me you can fly?"
The man laughed.
"It's Charlie Martinez. Jesus is my youngest son. You were so serious and besides you were speaking to me in Spanish, so I figured that you could use the practice. You are a natural for flying and languages. Don't worry about being afraid. If you are not apprehensive about flying a helicopter, you are stupid. There are old pilots, bold pilots, but no such thing as an old, bold pilot. It's when you lose your respect for the machine that fate bites you on the ass. Your cousin, Jennifer, is the one that scares me up in the air, she has no fear of the dangers...Does not even do the walk around half the time. I see that you already prepped the bird for tomorrow. You just need a little more seasoning and as long as your respect the bird it will take care of you.
"Your accent needs a little work, but with the right kind of long-haired dictionary, you will soon be sounding like one of the announcers on Mexican radio. Your cursing is extraordinary. Remember it's hijo de puta, not puta ina mu."
Ronald groaned. His uncle already had a second adult pilot on the payroll.
Why did they need me to risk my life and a perfectly good, expensive helicopter flying below tree top level to get the cows moving?
"Puta ina mu is Tagalog. Same meaning. Learned it from my girlfriend's aunt when..."
"We all heard the story, bad boy. I promise that you will return back to your chica in one piece with wings of gold. No woman can resist a pilot. They just instinctively know that we are a superior breed of men and they can't wait to have some of our rug rats to ensure their offspring won't end up with the IQ of a pet rock. I learned that to my misfortune when I was in the Army with your uncle Mark. It cost me my freedom, engagement and wedding rings, three boys, and seventeen years of listening to my nagging wife, Claire, about just how long she spent in labor. I swear that number just keeps growing. My sons are following in my footsteps. I am just making sure that they have a stash of condoms. We guys got to stick together."
Marie looked down at the soul that was her captor.
Russian authors were the master of capturing the essence of a tortured soul, perhaps since the Russian experience is that of tragedy. Tim might have not been Russian by blood, but he was trapped in lifetime of despair that could only be called Russian.
Maybe only Fyodor Dostoyevsky could express the pain and guilt that trapped the American. Dostoyevsky's protagonist Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov was not half a haunted as the one called Tim. Her life was like Sofya Semyonovna Marmeladova's life minus the drunken father and prostitution. Somehow fate seemingly cast her in the role of Tim's spiritual savior.
Like in Dostoyevsky's tale, the crime started in Saint Petersburg. Like in Dostoyevsky's tale, Tim, like Raskolnikov, committed heinous crimes in believing that he was doing more good than the evil they performed. Like in Dostoyevsky's tale, Marie, like Sofya, got the tortured soul to confess. Maybe like in Dostoyevsky, maybe they both can restart their lives in Siberia. Maybe like in the novel, there was hope.
Marie Ivanovna Romanov remembered reading the books in her father's library. Crime and Punishment, Anna Karenina, and just about every other Russian novel seemed to end in tragedy. Tragedy – a disease all too common to the Russians and the English. Marie prayed that whoever authored the whims of fate was not a Russian or an Englishman. Tragedy had warped and twisted an otherwise good soul. Now it was time for the tortured soul to be allowed some redemption.
Marie closed her eyes and cuddled next to the soul that she had to save. The old life of being a currency trader and a minister's daughter was fading away. She wondered for so many years why God made her sick and weak. Now she knew that she was being prepared for a task. Darkness had a firm grip on a lost soul for far too long. She would be the pry bar that would pry Tim away from the Devil's grasp and back to the light.
Special Agent Lori Zimmer of the Colorado Bureau of Investigation finally got the interagency politics sorted out. The grandstanders were gone leaving the professional who simply wanted to get the job done.
The two FBI agents from Washington who tried to take over the investigation were sent to some distant field office in Alaska and the Special Agent in Charge of the Denver Office personally detailed his best man...woman to the case.
Zimmer was sick and tired of the political games. She lost two hours trying to get everything back on track.
The ATF came through and did not drop the ball. The report was textbook perfect and her local experts reviewed all the data for accuracy. There was no way any defense attorney could toss out the evidence.
Local police and state crime lab personnel found and processed thousands of pieces of potential evidence did a similar job.
A group calling itself Allah's Holy Martyrs released a videotape claiming responsibility for killing the Zionist tool, Jim Possible, an American spy and vowed more attacks on the heartland of America. The local SWAT team under the guidance of the FBI Hostage rescue team simultaneously executed seven search warrants on suspected Islamic extremists with links to Jihadist Movements. Now the ATF and local bomb squads were busy cataloging the find of military ordinance and homemade explosives. Two suspects shot it out and were unfortunately killed, but the others proudly admitted to carrying out a hit on the American counterintelligence agent with only two hours notice.
Zimmer got the who, what, when, and how. However without the why and who else, Zimmer did not want to close the investigation.
Global Justice sent a senior representative, Will Du, to bring over the Possible files. The local and state police was following up on every criminal that Kim Possible prosecuted. The FBI, Interpol, and Global Justice were tracing all the super villains.
However what opened up her eyes were the files on Jim and Tim Possible. They had a high number of cases where the bad guy met a grizzly end.
Since most of the deaths happened in jurisdictions without the concepts of civil liberties, the local police did not bother to investigate and told anyone that they were happy that the villain committed suicide by torturing himself or herself to death. Also all the bodies were burned to prevent epidemics (a through investigation). However, one of the deaths occurred in the states and another in England. In both cases, napalm and other caustic chemicals were used to destroy forensic evidence. England's police were just as often on the forefront of criminal forensics as the United States, so it was not for the lack of effort.
Tim and Jim Possible were suspected in the murders of a dozen super villains. Since Global Justice could not prosecute due to political fallout and lack of evidence, they merely retired the twins from active service. For eight years, they've been going around the world on their own dime. Having twenty-four patents, made them independently wealthy. However, a call to the US Treasury got one hundred agents scouring records for possible funding sources.
Tim Possible was missing.
No one in the family or Jim's lover would tell authorities what happened to Tim. There was an ongoing surveillance effort on the twins, but the twins always slipped their watchers.
Was Tim Possible dead?
Also what was Wade Lode doing before he was killed.
Wade had to know what was going on.
However, despite repeated FBI efforts no one successful penetrated Wade Lode's secure communications. With his agoraphobia, he never left his home long enough to be bugged. Zimmer knew that the deaths of Wade Lode, Jim Possible, and the disappearance of Tim Possible were all related.
Despite the calls for a quick resolution, Zimmer knew that this case was more than a car bombing. The car bomb might have been planted by a Jihadist, but someone had to put out the order and convince the Jihadist that killing Jim Possible would guarantee martyrdom.
The operators were dead. That was enough for many in the law enforcement community. Zimmer wanted the asshole that called the shots. If her boss did not like it, he would have to deal with it.
Violetta's head swam with all the details about just how to apply the foreign thing call make up to her face.
What made it harder was that the Middleton, Colorado was 88-percent white, 8-percent Hispanic, 3.8 percent African American, and 0.2 percent Asian. She learned the hard way that make-up designed for the wholesome buxom, blue eyed-blond did not work for her. Her skin tone and features make the standard makeup tones look like clown make up.
After an entire weekend shopping the various makeup counters at the mall, she lucked out to find the only Asian who worked in the cosmetics section to show her how to play up the best of her features with what was locally available. Violetta learned that she would have to order what she needed online or at least wait until she got a chance to visit Tita 'Berta's sister place in San Diego to get the perfect lip shade and eye shadow. For now, she had to carefully mix two different shades to get the same effect.
Her backpack was filled with earrings, make up, foundation, body scrubs, lotions, shampoos, conditioners, scents; everything included a comprehensive set of instructions that she would have to master. She got her ears pierced (having let the holes closed up) again. Toss in the appropriate clothes and Violetta's cash stash was hit rather hard. She went into her room and looked at it with a critical eye.
The only seeming difference between her room and Ronnie's room was all the posters on her wall were more violent. A monster holding up the rotting head of a Zombie was not exactly what one would call setting the stage for a seduction. There was nothing pretty about her room. Just a bed, a dresser, a desk with a notebook PC plugged into the charger, and a full length mirror attached to the back of her door. Carefully she rolled up all her hand drawn posters and put them away. The real Violetta had to be put away. The real Violetta was ugly and knobby-knee and boney-butt and so tomboyish...all the things that Jen was not.
Violetta hated herself for not being the pretty, feminine looking-thing that Jen was.
Looking at herself, Violetta saw the scraped knee street urchin looking back in the mirror. She was wearing black work shoes, black cargo pants, and an olive-drab Bundeswher fatigue top. Her hair was hidden underneath a ball cap. Her clothes were wrong. They screamed battle axe lesbo. Her manner was wrong. Her stance was too masculine. Her steps were too big and aggressive. She did not move with the effortless grace of a model. Everything she was...was wrong.
Being a tomboy worked when all she had to be was Ronnie's best pal. Now she was his girlfriend.
The standards were higher. She had to excite him. She had to captivate him. She had to maintain his interest, no matter how tired, irritable, phony, or pissed off she felt. She had to be pleasant no matter how bad the headaches and cramps from her period were. She had cultured, prim, proper. She had to be perfect.
With this war, Violetta knew that she was already competing against every girl at school, let alone all the unmarried females in the world. She had the temporary advantage, but she had to focus on the word temporary. Losing was not an option for Violetta. Without Ronnie, she would be alone in the world without a friend.
There was nothing good about losing. It did not build character. Failure was a habit. The dumb kid was always the dumb kid because it was the kid's habit to be stupid. The same people always came in second. Violetta pride herself in being the best. She got the best grades. She engineered the best pranks. She got the first BF. She beat out the other girls when it came to sports. She won because she made winning her habit. Second place or last place...it was all the same. Losing was losing and close only count in explosives.
As Violetta started putting the old her away she could not help crying.
Ronnie was so perfect and she was so...her. She was so inadequate...so ugly...so unladylike...so unfitted to the task ahead of her. She hated herself so much that she wondered why Ronnie even bothered hanging out with her. He took grief being the Trash Can Baby's Puppy.
Violetta removed her all her old clothes and looked at herself in the mirror. Her breasts were too small. She did not have a butt or hips. While she was skinny, her tummy and legs still had some of her baby fat. She had to get rid of it before Ronnie got home.
Tita 'Berta was working late today. As usual, there was some rice in the rice cooker and some chicken adobo. Tonight, Violetta would forgo the rice and just have one small piece of chicken. All protein and no carbs. She would take a scoop of rice and run it down the garbage disposal so Tita 'Berta would not find out that she was cutting back. Tita 'Berta was having a big kick about eating disorders and Violetta did not want to get into an argument with her about images, self-esteem, and food. She knew what she had to be to keep Ronnie.
Violetta had to be perfect...not just good enough...not just slightly better than the rest...she had to set the impossible standards for others to follow in her wake. Violetta had to be so perfect that Ronnie would believe that he lucked out and would never think about running to another big-jug floozy.
It was six o'clock. Violetta grabbed her inhaler. She hated it. The medication was another reminder that no matter how hard she tried that she could not be perfect.
She could not afford to fail. She did not want to even think about the consequences of failure let alone deal with it.