Disclaimer: 1) Big O and all related characters are the copyrighted property of Sunrise Inc.
2) I'd just like to say before hand that I took some liberties with characters and I hope readers will keep an open mind as to the plot of my story. This is my first time posting a story and I hope someone enjoys it. It's a little rough at times and contains sexual references, course language, and some violence in later chapters. That being said, Enjoy.
Killer Angel
by Union Operative 0282
Part 1
Two Years Prior to 'Big O' Act 1
The Nightingale
Inside West Dome #5 the affluent citizens who could afford it spent their evenings at the night club Nightingale. Inside the lights were low and the air was rich with expensive perfumes and the soft notes of concert piano. A long haired blond man wearing a tuxedo sat at the piano fingering out silken melodies, to which a voluptuous Negress in a strapless dress of midnight blue sang serene words alongside in a language lost some forty years prior. Yes, to those who could afford it this was the distraction offered to the denizens of Paradigm City to help them forget that which they had already forgotten.
Seated at the bar dressed in a spaghetti-strapped black dress was a woman whose entrance had drawn every man's, married or unmarried, twenty to sixty year old, lecherous eye. Her luxuriously long blond hair was up in a bun, and the hem of her dress went far above the middle of her thighs. While sitting she kept her legs tightly crossed, much to the chagrin of all the male patrons.
She sat crooked on her stool absorbing the ambience with a sultry, casual look upon her face. She was aware of the physiological effect she had on the men in the club. She was always aware of it. It was her greatest agent; the well spring of her power. Absentmindedly she leaned one elbow on the counter top and fingered the edge of her cosmopolitan, occasionally lifting it to her lips and sipping from the pink liquid.
Suddenly the muffled sound of tinkling bells erupted from the woman's black handbag. From it she extracted a medium sized portable phone and as she pulled the antennae out with her teeth and placed it against her ear she heard the monotone drone of her employer's voice: Alex Rosewater.
"Angel, I have just concluded my meeting with Mr. Buchheim. Negotiations have failed and I am afraid that I must now enact 'Genesis 19'. Is that understood?"
The woman's mouth curled up in a sinister smile.
"Of course," was all she said as she flipped phone shut and replaced it in her purse. Then she took out a tube of hot pink lipstick and freshened up her lips. After replacing this she got up from her seat and walked off. Though she hadn't paid for her two cosmopolitans the man behind the bar neglected to hinder her exit. His gaze stayed fixed upon the swaying motion of her ass as she walked toward the exit.
Once outside a young valet in a pristinely pressed red coat and black trousers brought out her pink Corvette convertible. He looked like he had barely reached puberty, with just a hint of peach fuzz and ill concealed acne.
"There you are, ma'am." he said weakly, handing her the keys. She smiled at him and held up a crisp twenty dollar bill and tucked it into his breast pocket.
"Thank you very much, young man." she laughed melodically, and got into her car and sped away. The boy nearly wet himself. After she had driven a half a mile away he finally croaked out a tardy "thank you" to the night air.
Part 2
The Buchheim Residence
East Dome #3
At about twenty minutes to one in the morning George Buchheim pulled into the driveway of his East Dome #3 home in his beat up station wagon. Though inside the Domes, the neighborhood in which George and his family lived was only a step above the disparity outside the Domes. It was a run down district in a run down outer Dome. Still the Buchheim house was relatively well-kept and cheerful.
The hour was late and his wife, Margaret, was surely worried, but knew he was most likely working on something important. That was the kind of woman she was and George loved her for it all the more. And if that was truly what she thought, then how right she'd be. Something important had happened four hours ago. Word had come down from Paradigm HQ and it's CEO, Alex Rosewater, that George was being relieved of his position as Publisher of Paradigm Press, and demoted with possible termination. It was owing to this that he had been so late returning home. He had made a stop at his city apartment, after many circuitous turns to evade pursuit, to retrieve a particularly subversive piece that he had been working on. It was that very brief that had prompted the punitive move by Paradigm. As long as it was in his hands it was a bargaining chip that could be used to put pressure on Rosewater, especially if he could just finish up his investigation into an enigmatic new angle.
George grabbed his leather bound portfolio from behind the driver's seat and walked into the house. Understandably the lights were out. George turned on the lights in the foyer and the kitchen, and rummaged around in the scantly stocked icebox. He did this not expect to find food, but rather to wake up someone, his wife or one of their daughters, Patricia, their nine-year old, or Evy, their six-year old. It was a time honored ritual, but one that wasn't working tonight. It would appear that for once he would have to seek out his girls.
He thought it would be rude to wake the girls, if they were that tired, so George headed straight to his room to find his oldest girl: his wife. The door was closed and as he opened it and switched on the light he was greeted by a terrible surprise. Inside his room were set four wooden chairs, two on the left side of the room and two on the right. Seated in three of the chairs were his wife and daughters. All three had been stripped down to their undergarments, tied to the chairs, blindfolded, and gagged.
His wife, Margaret, sat by herself on the right. She looked like your average housewife of the '50's, with her hair styled and curled to hug the side of her face with perfectly bowed bangs cascading above her eyes. She was very handsome in face and figure, with a rounded hourglass shape, large breasts supported by an equally large old fashioned brassier, and wide motherly hips sheathed in girdle-brief panties. Her legs were both bound to the legs of her chair with white nylon rope, and her hands bound together behind the back. Her eyes were covered by a white satin scarf folded over several times and tied around under her perfect hair. Her gag was a bright pink rubber ball stuffed into her jaw as far as nature would allow, protruding like a bobbed-for apple, and strapped in place with two thick leather straps. Her face was white with terror.
Patricia and Evy were seated on the left side of the room clad only in their white flowery panties, tied and blindfolded exactly as their mother was. They were gagged, however, with large handkerchiefs stuffed into the mouths and held in place by a length of rope tied like a horse's bit through their mouths. Their faces, at least that which could be seen, were red, probably from crying, silently.
"What on earth!" George cried out, taking a large step into the room. However, after the step the door slammed shut behind him.
"You certainly took your time. . .Mr. Buchheim." a Voice said, sweetly. George turned reflexively and received a second shock.
The Intruder hidden in the corner of the room was the most peculiar he had ever seen. It appeared to be a woman from her figure, in fact he knew it was a woman, though she was masked. She was dressed in a bright pink cat-suit that was tailored exactly to her body's ever curve. It was covered in zippers, seams, and rows of buttons to achieve this feat. The bodice of her suit had four flexible ribs molded into it following her contours, cups jutting out of the suit with under-wires and seams to support and not restrict her ample breasts, and seams following her hip bones down and around her groin and meeting in back in a thong-like action, separating her glutes. The legs continued down in one piece ending in high heeled boots with a row of buttons on the sides for a snug fit on the calves. Likewise, the arms ended in maroon gloves with buttoned forearms. A zipper with a large circular ring ran from the turtlenecked collar, between the breasts, down past the navel, underneath a maroon belt that hung loose on her hips, and down between her legs to her butt. Her mask was an equally tight fitted hood that covered her whole head but for her nostrils, her pouting lips, and her sensuous, sapphire eyes.
She held in her hand a 35 caliber handgun with a silencer screwed in the end, pointed right square at George's head. Despite this, he couldn't keep his eyes from roving over her enormous breasts, her tiny hips, her even tinier waist, or her slightly bulging pudenda.
She walked casually, hips swaying seductively, toward Mr. Buchheim and stopped only when she was up close and personal with the gun's silencer pressed into his chin and her hot breath exhaled from her nostrils vented on his cheek.
"We need to talk, . . . Mr. Buchheim. . . . or should I call you Georgie-Porgykin." the woman said slowly and playfully. George's eyes grew wide at the reference. It can't be! He thought. . .
To be continued . . . . .