Chapter Ten: The Attack

Lisa slinked amongst the wicked children. She leered at those who looked at her, and they either leered or sneered or smirked their shared contempt. She walked over to the smoke filled bathroom. She opened the door. She continued her slink as she entered and looked about. All the stalls were empty. She rushed into the nearest stall, her sour, puffed-up strut now the gait of an excited and terribly nervous thirteen-year-old. She pulled a walkie-talkie from her brassiere, and turned it on. The white noise it made caused her to nearly faint with fright. She lowered the volume, and set it to channel "2".

"The Blood Tree blossoms. Over" she whispered into it.

"Cowabunga, sis," replied her brother's voice, "Movin' in. Over."

"Confirmed, resuming mingling. Over and out."

She turned the device off and hid it in the toilet tank. She adjusted her dress and her wig, then strutted back into the haze.

Meanwhile, the boys were in Snake's U-Tow, backing into the loading dock of the old warehouse. They were in Goth ensemble: Jimbo, still wearing his favorite T-shirt, now sported spiky black hair, several ear and nose rings, and black faux leather pants; Kearney wore a shredded mesh tank top over his white shirt, and had donned a tartan with a dark pattern, he also wore a brass nose ring, and had spiked leather gloves. Dolph had dyed his hair black, and had shaved off the part that was not hanging over his left eye; his lips were painted black. Bart had gone all-out: his hair was in it's usual spiky style, but was now black; he wore a tight, black leather corset, tight black spandex pants, a studded belt with an enormous silver skull buckle, Doc Martin's boots, and studded leather gloves. From his old piercing he dangled an upside-down cross earring, and he had a small stud in his freshly-pierced tongue. His face was painted a very pale yellow, and he had dark shadows painted under his highlighted eyes. Under one eye he had painted a black teardrop; his lips were covered with black lipstick, and lined with dark red pencil. Each ruffian wore a long, black coat in which they concealed two silenced, semi-automatic pistols, and several extra clips.

They helped Snake and a few of the Goth underlings unload the weapons, and then Jessica Lovejoy stomped in. She went over the delivery, checking the off each box of guns and bullets and crossbow bolts on a notepad. She tossed the notepad over her shoulder, and several underlings rushed to catch it.

"Good work boys."

She turned towards the Snake and the boys. Bart was startled by her: it had been several years since he had really talked with her, and he was amazed and horrified by her mature figure and her powerful stance. Her dark eyes flashed like black flames, and her blackened lips curled into a powerful, animalistic sneer. Bart was drawn towards her in lust and repelled in modesty; he was disgusted and fascinated, aroused and disgusted, by the Sophomore Succubus.

"Lord Todd would like to discuss the next week's orders with you in his chambers," she purred, "Follow me."

The all started after, except Bart. How can she walk like that? She's like Jell-o on springs on a trampoline in an earthquake!

Nelson nudged him, and Bart snapped out of his daze and walked. Are her hips supposed to move like that? God! Look at that butt!

He was so deeply buried in his sophomoric rapture that the next thing he knew, he was in Todd's inner sanctum. Todd sat at a desk that seemed to have had black paint poured over it, and left to dry. Jessica stood beside him, hand on his shoulder, and behind them stood two twelve-year-old boys with 22-caliber rifles.

"How good to see you, Snake. Yes, this week's delivery is perfect, here is your pay." he said in a low, growling voice, and handed Snake a wad of blood-soaked money.

"I hope you don't mind the bank-teller blood."

"Never do, Satan-dude."

"We'll need all the usual next week: five hundred grams of hash, fifty cartons of cigs, a hundred grams of opium, fifty grams of peyote, five hundred 22-bullets, one hundred .357 magnums, fifteen crossbow bolts, and about ten liters of gasoline."

"You betcha."

"And see if you can bring us a black goat, male, and we can sacrifice 'im!"

The voice came from Todd. But it was neither Todd's normal, high-pitched whine, nor the low, gravely voice he had just used. It was a shrill, womanly voice that made the hair stand on Bart's neck.

Todd turned his head with a slow and painful-looking motion. He was now staring into Bart's frightened eyes. A low, womanly voice now issued from his dark lips.

"Hello, Bart."

"Now!"

The men reached for their weapons. Snake, being the most experienced at such situations, had his gun out first. A tiny 22-caliber bullet was fired and glanced the side of his head, fracturing his skull. He fell with a whimper.

Jimbo had his gun out next, then Nelson, then Dolph, then Kearney, then Bart, but they never fired. Jessica had drawn a pistol that she had hidden in the back of Todd's chair, Todd had drawn a hidden weapon as well: an enormous revolver like "Dirty Harry's", and two armed guards had popped out from behind the desk. Five against six.

"Shit," they all said, and they threw their guns on the desk. Jessica smirked, and Todd laughed a deep, frog-like laugh. He opened one of his desk drawers, and said into the walkie-talkie that he took from it:

"Bring in the girl."

The door opened. Lisa, her black wig torn off, her makeup smeared, was lead into the room at gunpoint by two pale-skinned children in patched and frayed clothing.

"Lisa!"

"Yes," said Todd in a smooth, velvety voice, "We knew of your feeble plan. Pitiful creature. Her virgin form shall be our profane tabernacle tonight. She shall be tortured and raped, and forced to watch you five die. Then I shall give her to my darling pet, Jessica, to be her plaything with her 'till she ceases to amuse her. Then we shall kill her, and bathe in her blood by the pale moonlight!"

"No!"

"You…"

Both Bart and Nelson were silenced, knocked unconscious by the butt of a rifle, as their friends were in turn. Lisa screamed, Patches gagged her. She fainted.

Lisa awoke, cold and naked, on a table covered with white linen. Ropes were entwined about her body. Her legs were spread; her privates exposed to the world. She tried to scream, but it choked in her throat. All was dark. She could perceive several candles, just beyond her field of vision, illuminating nothing, doing little more than confusing her senses. She turned her head, and the sight she saw was enough to make her scream.

Bart, Nelson, Jimbo, Kearney, and Dolph, naked, tied to crosses. All were beaten and bloodied. One would move every now and again, and she saw each of their stomachs move with a strained breathe, but she feared they would soon die.

"Everybody's gonna' die, Lis'"

"I mean right now!"

"So do I!"

She recalled that exchange with her brother, many years before, at Kamp Krusty. It gave her some hope. But it soon faded. Dark, disorienting music started. Screeching, untrained voices sang blasphemy. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a procession of black-robed children. They passed by her, between the table and the crucified children, and knelt on the ground. Todd and Jessica were at the end of the procession. After kneeling, they went up to the unholy altar. They stood facing away from the congregation. They were looking at something.

Lisa did not want to look. She was filled with paralyzing fear. Slowly, a force within her began to turn her head.

The statue of Lucifer. Her heart filled with a bright and bloodlike fear.

She screamed. Buddhist nonchalance had given way to pagan fear. Doubt was drowned in desperation. Faith had conquered reason.

"Help me JESUS!"

They laughed. Her prayers would go unanswered. They were in vain, those sweet and salty tears; her effeminate and ineffectual god would not save her.

Through the laughter, through the heartache and the tears, Lisa heard a faint roar. Soon it was louder than the cruel laughter; the laughter ceased as their pride was punctured.

A light was seen in the high warehouse window. A motorcycle came crashing through. The rider flipped off in mid-air, and landed right between the crucified teens and the terrified virgin. The helmet was cast aside, and a familiar blue coif popped up. She unslung her submachine gun.

"Get away from her you BITCH!"

The congregation scattered, running for their weapons. Todd and Jessica flipped the table over, using it as a shield. A second roar was heard. The wall crumbled before the mighty Hummer. Rainier Wolfcasle, Uzi in one hand, semi-automatic shotgun in the other, burst through the windshield, firing madly.

"Nahp tyme, kiddies!"

Teen and preteen fell to his shots. Apu, Captain McCallister, Krusty, Mel, and Mr. Teenie, exited the vehicle as well, albeit in a less dramatic manner. They began firing too, though now in defense, as several kids now had their guns.

"Remember," said Apu, "They may be Satanic murderers who killed my wife and first-born son, and they may have been near the point of torturing and killing and innocent girl, but they are still children. Go for the knees and spinal columns!"

Apu used his old Indian Army carbine. He had it set on semi-automatic, and, with the skilled marksmanship of a convenience store clerk, he took out the children.

Blam!

"He'll never walk again!"

Nor will Gheet…

Blam!

"Hoo! You won't be swimming this summer!"

I would have taught him how to swim this summer…

Apu charged into the crowd. He tossed his rifle into his left hand, and drew his mighty Khukri knife. He hewed their twin limbs like twigs. Wrists and forearms and shoulder blades were slashed and shattered by the curved steel. Out of his periphery he saw a motion. He turned and saw a child struggling to raise a high-power rifle. He lunged forward. He cast aside his carbine and seized the gun by the barrel. The frightened child fired; the shot flew and took off the leg of one of his comrades. Apu raised the Khukri across his chest, and brought hit down into the child's neck, his previous admonition forgotten. The tore through his veins, burst open his trachea. He fell, blood gurgling in his throat.

Apu was stunned. His knees buckled. A great rumble was heard as a third group burst onto the scene: Skinner, Seamus, Kirk, and Moe. Apu recovered just in time: a bullet grazed his arm. He switched hands and drew his sidearm. Todd, Jessica, and Patches were in the corner, by the stairwell, and Patches was firing at him. With three well-placed shots, he brought the street urchin to his knees and sent the two human monsters scurrying into the bloody fray.

"Apu!"

"Mrs. Simpson!"

"Cut those boys down!"

Marge had untied Lisa, and draped the altar cloth over her thin, shivering shoulders. Apu turned and saw the boys, hanging from their cords. He took his knife and cut them down, while Lisa and Marge helped them to their feet and rushed them to the door while Skinner, Moe, and Seamus covered for them. Outside, Willie waited on his tractor.

"Hop on, wee'uns!"

They climbed on and held on as tightly as they could while Willie sped them away from the horrible place.

After what seemed to the children like a second and an eternity to the battle-hungry Willie, they stopped.

"'Ere's me car," said he, as he handed Bart the keys, "Get in, lock the doors, an' if anyone suspicious comes around, drive away. There's a gun in tha' glovebox. And give the wee lass a swig uh' the whiskey beneath me seat. It'll calm her poor wee nerves. If I'm not back in three hours, or Skinner or someone like tha', drive, an; drive far away. A'll be back!"

And with that, he turned the tractor around and headed back to the horrible battle. Lisa clung onto Bart, shivering horribly.

"Lis', you alright?"

She cried silently into his shoulder.

"Did…they touch you?"

"…No…but…oh Bart! I was so scared!"

"Shh-shh…it's okay…it's all over…"

Nelson opened the door for them. Lisa sat between him and Bart in the back seat. Jimbo gave her the flask of whiskey, and Lisa took a small sip. The hot, fiery liqueur burned her young mouth, but the heat in her belly and the slight, fuzzy headache took away the shuddering and nausea. Nelson patted her on the back. He's always been like that…treated me like one of the guys…she thought

"How 'bout some tunes?" suggested Dolph. He turned on the radio.

"And now, the original version of 'Dooley'!" said the announcer.

"I met 'er on the mountain, and there I took her liiiife!

I kicked, and punched and slapped her,

then stabbed 'er wit' ma kniiiife!"

Jimbo quickly changed stations. Warren Zevon's "Excitable Boy" was playing.

"And he raped her and killed her,

then he took her home,

'Excitable boy'…"

"No music," Lisa said bitterly.

Willie returned to the smoke-filled warehouse. He drew an enormous black powder musket and fired, sending one of the young villains flying across the room. Moe blasted wildly with his shotgun. Seamus, having received some sniper training during his brief stint with the IRA, carefully placed each shot in a joint or major nerve.

Kirk was aflame with rage. He fired left, he fired right. He shattered windows; his shots hit the brick wall and ricocheted about wildly. A large bullet struck his jaw. He jerked the trigger in pain, then turned towards his attacking, cocked his rifle, and squeezed. Nothing. He began to reload, dropping several shells, fumbling with the clip. Another bullet struck him in his gut. The world went gray and misty. As he fell to the ground, he thought of his life: his lost job, his faithless wife, his son, doomed to be a loser like himself, raped, mutilated, cut down in the prime of his life. His mother…who would care for her now? And now he was dieing. He smiled.

Skinner saw Kirk fall. He quickly pulled a grenade from his belt, bit the clip off, and tossed it at the child who had shot his friend. He flung himself to the ground and covered his neck.

Blam.

The child was sent flipping and flailing though the air. His comrades were skewered with hot shrapnel. Moe was struck in the eye and fell, swearing and writhing in pain. Skinner stood, placed a fresh clip in his rifle, and fixed the bayonet. He charged, firing from the hip, skewering the frightened children. Seamus, out of ammo, fixed his bayonet and did the same. Willie cast aside his musket, ran to his tractor, and grabbed his mighty Wallace Claymore. He drew the enormous blade from it's scabbard, and charged into the bloody fray. Before the three, the frightened punks flew like chaff in the autumn breeze.

Three children, their nerves failing, their ammunition spent, and their pants in desperate need of laundering, made a quick break for the door. They immediately turned around, when met with the sight of a tank speeding towards them. They dashed out of its way just as it burst through the wall and sent chunks of stone and mortar flying. Homer, armed with his shotgun, and Herman, toting a mini-gun, emerged.

"Now that my children are out of harm's way, I can kill indiscriminately! Take that! Whupie-kye-yi-yay, mother furker!" cried Homer, decapitating a lad of but twelve summers with a spray of deer shot. Herman started up the mini-gun, drawing a jagged line of bullet holes on the brick wall. Ralph stood smiling. The path of the mini-gun passed over him. He fell. He was still smiling.

The fight was bloody and quick. It seemed that victory was certain for the gun-toting civilians.

A noise, like a mighty, roaring wind was heard. Everyone stopped and stood silently, looking skywards. All the upper windows shattered, and men in black combat armor leapt through. They leveled their guns at the chests of all those present. Several more men in S.W.A.T. gear charged in through the doors and proceeded to disarm and handcuff all present. Those who were resisted were maced. A man in a trench coat and porkpie swaggered in and looked about. He whispered to one of the S.W.A.T. men and Homer, Marge, and all the adults were promptly unchained.

"Sorry bout that," he said in a Boston Irish accent, "Agent Malone, FBI regional director. I got a call earlier from a "Maximilian Frink" that a lot of "weird stuff" was going on in the old spirograph factory in Springfield. Looks like the tip was right. It seems like you fella's just busted solved one of the worst occult murder cases in the country's history. Who's in charge 'ere?"

"Lt. Seymour Skinner, sir!"

"Lieutenant, eh? Where's the police?"

"Disbanded, sir. The chief was murdered, and the already sparse police force either skipped town or quit. City council ruled that the local militia would police the streets in their absence, sir. We are the militia."

"Hmm…I see a carbine on yer shoulder, Lieutenant…no no, don't worry, I'm as for gun rights as the rest of us. Heheh. Without these illegal weapons y'all got, I doubt you would've stopped these kids. Anyhow, you'd best all go home. We'll round the rest of them up."

The brave men and blue-haired woman trekked out, smiling, victorious. Several black vehicles sat idling around the warehouse, yellow and red lights flashing from their roofs. Max Frink stood talking with his parents in front of his parent's car, talking to one of the FBI agents. An ambulance sat nearby, and the paramedics mere bandaging Moe's eye.

"Ah, sheesh. Now I have to keep turning my head to see if the rummies are stealing the beer."

"Wow, you were amazing Marge! It was just like in the movies!"

"Thanks…you sure you are alright Homie?"

"Naw, just a few flesh wounds. You?"

"A few cuts and scraps. I'll be alright."

They hugged.

"Ouch! I have a bullet hole there!"

"Sorry!"

Homer noticed Apu. He was slouching away dejectedly.

"Hey Apu! Alright?"

"Oh…yes. After all the times I've been shot, I've gotten used to it."

The Hindu limped away.