Mission 04: The Licking Woman

A man walked along a deserted street at night. He was alone, save for the dog he owned. It was a small Beagle, and it had brown and white fur. The adorable little thing had been a present to his wife. They were newly weds, you see. He'd gotten it as a birthday present for her when she'd mentioned her love of dogs offhandedly on their first date. Both had ones growing up, but this one was special to them. It was the first to be owned by both as newly free people.

She was 26, brown hair and blue eyes, while he was 24— black hair and brown eyes.

He'd been walking for some time now, despite his wife warning him not to go out for so long. The dog was restless, and would yip endlessly unless he took it out walking, at least for a long enough time to satiate that desire. Work all day meant that the only time he could walk was night, and this night was particularly barren. Nevertheless, Brian got home to his beautiful wife Lizzy, but something was amiss.

She asked him what was wrong, and the man got skittish, so he told her of his experience.

Out walking with their pretty little dog, a strange woman approached. The streets were empty mind you, but this woman was erratically swaying from side to side, almost rickety. She grew closer and closer as he walked by, unafraid . . . at first. The woman had dark hair, ratty and stringy, but he wouldn't pry. On his way, he thought it would be bad to let her see the dog, even if she didn't turn around.

He wished she hadn't.

As they neared, the woman turned to look at him, and he froze. Those eyes . . . the stare was bad enough, wild and insane.

But the horrible part was the tongue hanging out.

Good lord, the tongue was massive. Veiny too. It had all these little nodules and enlarged tastebuds that appeared infected, simmering pus from pore. The sheer width of the thing forced it to hang out, where its length showed practically an entire foot of pure flesh, as if an excess of blood pumping through had rushed from her veins to the tongue and swollen it much the same way a man's member might be. It throbbed and twitched about, appearing to secrete a strange fluid that dripped to the ground and fizzled. It was about half a foot wide, and caused the strange woman to look as though . . . she were grinning. For a moment, he was paralyzed, afraid of this bizarre, distorted nightmare.

She came closer, swaying fish hips, barefoot, skin pale like the moon.

They were face to face eventually, a distance he'd never wanted to be after seeing it.

And it licked him.

It licked and licked, covering him with a thick saliva that felt warm and corrosive, seeping under his skin, invading every orifice. The woman bathed his entire upper body, never bothering to speak a word. She only made the odd moan. Could she talk? That giant, pulsating thing probably wouldn't let her, though the mouth that held it was easily just as contorted out of shape. He couldn't bear it, but as soon as she began, there was no stopping her. He stared for a moment as she danced off into an alleyway, swaying perennially off into the night, like a twisted hourglass.

It was the single most unpleasant experience he'd ever gone through.

It was also the shortest, clocking in at about thirty seconds. She was like a snake, incisively curving her body around him.

Now that he was home and finished telling her the story, Lizzy immediately felt a rumble in her stomach, the back of her neck prickling.

What woman was this? Was she even human? Why did it happen and what for?

This city was full of crazy people, it wouldn't surprise him if the woman was some prankster, with his reaction captured on candid camera. He meant, that had to be an animatronic, right? It had to be some kind of special effect, but the time of night . . . Well, everything seemed fine now at least, so they went to bed. All was peaceful. The idea of the woman faded away, until she felt him shiver. He began to tremble all over, and he moaned out for her, pained. A tirade of small shakes encompassed him, bringing her concern to a fever-pitch. What made him tremble so? She tried her best to comfort him in the night, her hopes being that she'd make his nightmare evaporate.

But he wouldn't stop. He kept shaking, uncontrollably.

She tried anything to comfort him, saying things like, 'It's alright sweetie.' Or, 'It'll go away, dear.'

But nothing worked.

So she turned the light on.

A million tumors covered him, curving his arms out of shape, distorting his handsome face into a deathly caricature, and bringing her favorite person in the world to a state of savage un-death.

The tumors pulsated, spitting pus and blood as he shook, seizing harder and faster. The light seemed to worsen his symptoms.

And to her horror, next to him, the dog lay, covered in malignant pustules much the same. It had been lapping his face, and sleeping on his chest. Despite taking a shower before bed, the man's skin seemed to react to the substance from the tongue, completely covering him in these bizarre, agonizing boils. She screamed at the top of her lungs, and so called 911.

By the time the ambulance had arrived, the man had died, as had their beautiful Beagle.

They seemed to have been infected by something, killed with an advanced disease, yet they were both fine mere hours ago.

What had happened to them? She was sure that woman he'd spoken of caused it. That bitch . . . she would regret it one day. And so, she shouted at the top of her lungs on the news, screaming for help across all the radio shows, and called every number hysterical for some kind of aid. Somebody, somewhere; just listen. She wailed aid, wishing anything that she could harm the licking woman, the person who'd ruined her life.

(*.*.*)

Devil May Cry. Front office was silent.

Dante sat at his desk, feeling alone. He'd been depressed under his skin for a while now, not really wanting to go out or do anything.

Beneath his personally ideal lifestyle, he couldn't outrun a fact that haunted him.

In this colossal world called Earth, people he cared for were dead. All of them. It was a usual topic he chose not to dwell on. In his darkness, he could hear Jesus weep at him. Dark angels watched him, silently planning what they'd do if ever he'd let down his guard. Such was life as a child of Sparda, but no need to meddle back through that history now. He was sort of paranoid, feeling so isolated in this dark hole he'd made for himself. No one to share it with either . . . so it goes. The deep abyss of his mind held fractures of life, memories he neither needed nor wanted. He didn't care either, that was the peculiar thing, the only thoughts he dwelled on were lost love and food, not that the occasional wine or beer ever crossed his mind. So many shadows moved to the rhythm of the sun, by nightfall they all seemed like one monster, coming to get him sooner or later. Would they linger for him, or was it another they hunted?

While he mulled over these swirling thoughts, a woman pulled up in the shop's driveway.

She was familiar, even though she really wasn't. As she bumbled in, he could tell she was uncomfortable. Despite this, the girl was trying her best to look like she was the opposite. Decked out in plain jeans, sneakers and a green t-shirt, the woman could see Dante scanning her casually.

"You," she pointed, strangely dramatic. "Are you the guy I'm looking for?"

He gave her this confused, deriding look, "Not today. By the way, what are we talking about?"

"I got a business card from some guy downtown who referred me to a seer upstate," she quickly explained. "She told me to see you."

Alice.

Seems like she was good for more than just giving him food. Well, technically, this was also 'giving.'

"Hmph, so the Madame sent you?"

She nodded without humor.

"Alright then . . . what's the password?" he asked.

She glared at him.

"What password?"

"I take it you've never done this before, huh?" the hunter said, motioning between them.

Defiantly, she confirmed this, "So what? Are you the man I'm looking for?"

"Repeating the question won't help. Why don't you give me some details instead?"

"There's a woman I want you to kill." Oh.

Oh no.

No! Not again.

He sighed in a depressed manner, "Judas Priest, you know, you're the second person this week who's asked me that. And much like her, I'll tell you exactly what to do."

He often substituted Jesus Christ, the biblical figure, for Judas Priest, the Metal band. It sounded better in mixed conversation and he enjoyed paying reference to a band he enjoyed rather than a religious figure he never had any hope of relating to. He thought it added a charming addition to his vocal patois. But right now, he was anything but charming. Pointing to the door, he held his finger in place as he stared at her.

"There's the door."

The woman's cheeks reddened, her bloodshot eyes narrowing, all the while her white teeth bared themselves freely. How rude!

"What's wrong with you!? Don't you want to make money?" she spat the question, infuriated.

"No, I don't think I want your money. I think you're screwin' up my office, and I think you're goin' away," he served her back, chilled rage and dead-set. The pure malice in his voice made her back off some. He grumbled to himself and decided, perhaps, it was worth hearing her out for shits and giggles, "What's the matter with you broads anyway? The last chick was her dad; what's it with you, huh? Revenge or a careless dislike?"

The woman glared at him, suddenly teary-eyed.

"She killed my husband."

. . . Oh.

"Well— uh . . . I'm real sorry about that," he told her, exhaling sadness. "But if you want to catch a murderer, call the cops."

She pleaded with him.

"I did! The guy they put on the case died of the same damn thing. He had these tumors and boils all through his body . . . and it was all cause of this bizarre toxin. Doctors can't explain it, cops can't catch it, nobody else even seems to remember it, so what am I supposed to do about it? She took away everything from me. Nobody wants anything to do with it now, they don't want a citywide panic. So, now I'm stuck without my husband and my Buddy," she wept as she spoke.

That last name caught his ear.

"Buddy?" he asked out of curiosity.

"He was my puppy. My beautiful little boy," she told him, a pained smile coming as the duality of the beautiful beagle's memory returned.

A clench came over his stomach.

"Where did your husband meet this woman?"

Her face changed, becoming softer, kinder. It wasn't in her nature to be vindictive, not usually anyway.

"On the street. It was late, so there wasn't anyone out, mostly."

"What did she do?"

Lizzy told him the story. Every. Last. Detail.
His instincts once told him to say no.

And yet, his heart now begged him otherwise.

This mysterious 'licking woman' had stolen the girl's only world, leaving her alone and broken.

God damn. He couldn't let another soul feel that pain, this crushing feeling. If vengeance was what would bring her grace, then he would comply. He was in for the kill and down for the ride, hunting a vile woman with a putrid tongue that licked as she pleased, licking her way across town, licked right into his hands. Crushed within his hands. Lizzy looked like she'd die if she didn't get control again, control of her life, and that was a horrid thought.

He sought happiness for the wounded, at least for the sake of an injustice being righted.

This was how he'd taken on the case of the Licking Woman.