(Um . . .Warning: this one is pretty gross too. Heh.)

It was normally a fifteen to twenty minute drive from Indian Village to Whittier on the east side of the city, and that was ignoring the significance of red lights, which most Detroiters did. Somehow, it only took Emirene thirty minutes to get there on foot, albeit at a dead run. She stayed one road off of Mack Avenue going north and one road off East Outer Drive going west until it turned into Whittier after crossing over I-94. Honestly, it should have taken her five hours to travel the distance on foot but somehow she was there, none the worse for wear or breath, as the evening life of Whittier began to give way to the nightlife.

She found the squat apartment building in one hell of a decrepit neighborhood. It was the sort that only had two floors; the ground floor apartments and the basement apartments below them. Just out front, a skinny crack whore flaunted her sickly figure to the passing traffic. A street light down, a juvenile scored a nickle bag. Emirene settled herself onto the roof of a copy shop across the street and watched the neighborhood business trade hands and sell itself. Not long ago, she would have felt the need to act but the petty crimes of the living no longer impressed her. She simply watched the entrance of the apartment building for activity. People came and went without peaking her interest until a black and white pulled up in front around midnight. She leaned over the edge of the roof, watching with interest. The officer driving stepped out and let a large man out of the back seat. The cop spoke calmly to the man a moment before patting the large man's arm and getting back into the patrol car. The man stood at the curb and watched the police car pull off down Whittier before turning toward the apartment complex. Seeing that it was time, Emirene stepped back from the edge of the roof and jumped down into the alley behind the print shop.

She moved around the building and crossed the street. She took the stairs beside apartment 3 down to the basement apartment marked C. She pulled the badge off her belt and knocked on the door. She held her badge up to the dirty peephole so that all that could been seen was the shiny metal of her official police ID.

"Who is it?" a deep voice came through the door.

"Officer Mendoza. I just wanted to ask you a few more questions about the death of your roommate, Mr. Costa."

There was a long moment of silence before she heard two deadbolts being clicked aside. The door opened a crack and the large man looked down at her as she lowered her badge. ". . . You look strange."

"Yes, I'm sorry. I'm on my way home from an office costume party," she smiled reassuringly even as her body started to ache in remembrance of the pain this man had inflicted on her. "It's really important that I speak to you about Mr. Ventimiglia."

Again there was a moment of silence before the door was opened further. Valentine Costa moved his large body out of the way to let the small police woman into his apartment. It was as crappy as she had assumed it would be. The main room included the kitchen, the living area and it had a bed crammed into a far corner. Two doors lead to what she assumed was an official bedroom and a bathroom. No windows. The room was furnished well enough and boasted a high definition flat screen TV as its pride and joy near the shabby couch.

"I've been down at the precinct station all day," Valentine said quietly as he closed and locked the door behind her. "I don't know anything more than what I already told them."

"I understand that, sir, and I'm sorry to bother you about the loss of your friend, but I need to discuss a few things with you."

Valentine sighed and walked toward the kitchen counter to take a seat. "Do you want coffee or something?"

"No, thank you. I'm fine."

He poured himself a mug of cold coffee and brightened it up with far too much sugar. He took a swallow, grimaced, and looked at her. "That's a nice rosary."

Emirene put her hand to her chest but couldn't force herself to smile at him. "Thank you. Would you mind telling me what you were doing before, during and after the time of Mr. Ventimiglia's death?" She moved toward the extra chair but she did not sit. She had left all but one of her guns on the copy shop's roof. One gun would pass for a police interview. Besides, all she would need was one bullet.

"Well, before and during, I was asleep. Vic works early in the morning and I'm always asleep when he leaves," his voice dropped into a tired monotone. No doubt he had explained this a multitude of times today in a more professional setting. "I didn't wake up until the police called me about . . . about it."

"So you were asleep the whole time."

"Yes'm." He was a large man but very soft spoken. If she hadn't known better, her first impression of him would have been large but gentle and kind, if a bit slow.

"Did Victor know any people who didn't like him? Someone who you think would have a reason to hurt or kill him?" She was utterly amused at the ridiculousness of this question.

Valentine shifted a bit in his chair and concentrated on his coffee mug. Her interrogation experience told her that he was about to tell a lie. She had been expecting it anyway.

"No one I know of, ma'am."

"I see," Emirene kept her voice even and polite. "How long have you known Mr. Ventimiglia?"

"Oh, all of my life. We grew up together. He was my best friend," he was so quiet and distraught.

"I'm very sorry for your loss. Now, I'm not sure how much of his death was explained to you, but it's quite clear to us that this was a premeditated homicide, very likely planned for personal reasons. There is a large chance that the person who did this to him was someone he knew. We've been compiling a list of his family and acquaintances and a name has come up that I need a little clarification on. Do you know anyone by the name of Nico?"

Valentine blinked and looked up, startled. "You mean Nicolas Biondo? Do you think he did it?"

" . . . Biondo?" Emirene was unable to stop her left eye from twitching slightly. Valentine didn't notice.

"Yeah. I don't think he did it. His dad just died the other night. He's very sad over it. He wouldn't kill someone when he's sad like that."

"Are you saying that Nicolas Biondo would be capable of murder under normal circumstances, when he's not grieving over the loss of his father?" So that was why Biondo feigned ignorance about the third hitman. He was protecting his son.

The big man began to fidget. He rubbed his bald head nervously. "No no. No, I didn't mean that. I'm just saying, why would anyone kill someone when they have more important things to think about, you know?"

"Perhaps Nicolas Biondo thought it was Victor who killed his father," Emirene insisted quietly.

"What? No. Victor wouldn't kill Mr. Biondo. Besides, I heard he died of a heart attack or something. Natural causes, you know. He was in prison."

"Hm, I see," Emirene rubbed her lips as though she were pondering something deeply. "Still, I think I should question Mr. Biondo. Do you know how I can get in contact with him?"

"Uh . . . no. . . but his father's funeral is tomorrow. He's gonna be buried at Mt. Elliot Cemetery at noontime I think."

"I see. Thank you. I'll try to speak with him after his father is put to rest."

Valentine nodded.

"Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Costa. I really do appreciate it," she smiled at him. Clearly, he was glad that this interview was drawing to an end. He was about to get up and escort her to the door when she put her hand up quickly, "Oh wait, I wanted to ask you about one more thing."

"What's that?"

"I was wondering if you knew anything about the multiple homicide of four Detroit Police Officers about five years back."

Valentine blinked his large, dark eyes slowly. " . . .Why are you asking?"

Emirene remained casual. "Well, a piece of paper was found on Victor's body. A similar one was found on Mr. Biondo in his hospital bed. Would you like to see it?"

The look on his face said, no, I would NOT like to see it. She was going to show him anyway. She moved her hand behind her back, secretly pulling the snap of her holster loose as she went. All it would take was a quick draw and it would be over. She pulled out a folded piece of paper and held it out to him.

For a moment he didn't take it. When he finally did, she noted that his large hands were nearly twice the size of her own. He could easily crush every bone in her hand if he felt the urge. He unfolded it slowly and she watched him as his eyes moved over the words.

I MURDERED BATEMAN, BRINKER, FULTON AND . . . MENDOZA . . .

She didn't even get a chance to reach for her gun. Valentine lunged so suddenly out of his chair and toward her that she didn't even know the fight had begun until she hit the ground, crushed between the dirty carpet and his large body. The chair she had been standing in front of never stood a chance. It crashed at her side and broke into pieces. Her oxygen supply was suddenly cut off as his large hands wrapped themselves around her neck and squeezed. At least it would have been cut off, if she needed oxygen in the first place.

"You're suppose to be dead!" Valentine throttled the small woman, his incredible strength bolstered even higher by confusion and fear.

Emirene threw her hand to the side and grasped around until her fingers found a broken chair leg. She gripped it and swung upward. The wood cracked in half against the side of Valentine's bald head. The man cried out and fell to the side, releasing her from his attack. She rolled quickly the other way and sprung to her feet. "Well, that is what the coroner's report said."

He recovered quicker than she would have expected him to. As she was pulling her gun from its holster, he threw himself at her again, this time a large, meaty hand going directly for her piece. He grabbed a hold of her and they struggled a moment before he grabbed her wrist with one hand and moved the other to just below her elbow. With a mighty roar, he snapped the bones of her forearm in two. She cried out in shock and yanked away. He let her go, more interested in the gun she had dropped.

Emirene backed up until her hips hit the kitchen counter. She looked at her forearm. Halfway down, it was bent at a right angle, as though she had a second elbow. The most shocking part, however, was the pain. Or the lack thereof. Sure, there was pain, but it was only an echo. Like the memory of a horrible injury long since past instead of a current injury. She looked at her ruined arm in amazement.

Valentine retrieved the gun and looked up just in time to see the female police officer who should, by all rights, be rotting in her grave and watched in horror as she used her good hand to snap her arm straight again. He could hear the grating of the broken ulna and radius crunching back into place.

He was shocked. He was revolted. He was going to be sick. He dropped the gun.

In mere seconds she could feel the strange itch of her bones mending back together. The wormy movement as her muscles and tendons reattached themselves. In under ten seconds, her arm was as good as new. She wiggled her fingers and then shook her arm out, dropping it to the side.

"W . . .w-what ARE you!"

"I wish I knew," Emirene said with true sincerity. Then she attacked.

Valentine's body nearly went straight through the wall when Emirene smashed into him and threw him through the air. Pictures frames shattered and hit the ground just as he did, showering him in glass. She stepped over her discarded gun, no longer feeling the urge to use it, and picked him up by the collar of his shirt. This man was a brute and a cold blooded killer. A single bullet to the head was too merciful.

"I killed Biondo," she confessed and turned, throwing him through the air and into his expensive television set. Both he and the HD went over the other side of the table and rolled to a crashing stop against the bed. She moved around the couch and table to stand over him. "And I killed Victor too."

Valentine looked up at her though the blood running into his eyes. His pain was suddenly overshadowed by his pure rage. He leaned forward and grabbed her ankle and yanked, pulling her feet out front under her and sending her to her back on the ground. He was on her in an instant. He throttled her with one hand and began to punch her face in with the other. He hit her and hit her and felt bone crunch under his huge fist but no blood was coming out. Flesh tore away from muscle and still no blood. He tried hitting her harder, DEMANDING blood.

She had gone limp under him. Surely she was dead now, but he continued to pound her face into the back of her head. Tears mingled with the blood on his face and he screamed as he pulverized the woman's face beyond recognition.

When it seemed like there was nothing left to punch, he slowed and stopped, fisted raised above his head as he looked down at the bloodless mess below him. She had killed Vic. Now she was dead. She should have been dead before, but she was certainly dead now. Oh. What was he going to do with the body? He dropped his hand and sat there on top of her, thinking of what to do.

He didn't get far beyond wondering if he had any trash bags left before the woman's limp hands suddenly flashed up to his face, fingernails digging into the flesh of his right cheek and left eye. He screamed as the fingers scraped downward, taking one eye with them and tearing chunks of flesh and fat away. Dimly, through the blood pouring into his remaining eye, he saw movement in the mound of flesh and bone that had been the woman's face. He grabbed hold of what was left of his wits and sanity and threw himself off of her, crawling across his carpet toward the door, leaving a trail of blood behind him. He shrieked at the top of his lungs, both in English and Italian, for help.

He heard movement behind him. He felt the movement. The woman was slowly getting to her feet. Oh God, oh hell! Oh God please someone help me! She didn't come after him immediately but walked slowly to the far corner where he left his favorite aluminum bat. Oh GOD!

When he reached the door and realized that the deadbolts were still in place, he pulled himself up the door, reaching for the locks. The instant his hand touched the metal, the aluminum bat smashed his fingers between the two. He howled and dropped his hand back to his chest, curling up in a ball to protect what he knew he could not protect.

The next strike came to his side, breaking ribs. She hit him until every rib was broken and then move on to the other side. When his screams began to annoy her, she hit him in the head until he stopped his hollering.

She could have stopped then, but she didn't. The faceless woman beat the bald man's body until she had broken as many bones as she knew existed. She beat him until nothing solid remained.

When she found that she had enough of her face back to speak, she went back for the paper that had set the man off in the first place and sighed, "it's nothing less than you deserve."

She carefully refolded the paper and slid it into his pants pocket. She looked down at the body a moment before turning to retrieve her gun. She touched her face. It seemed a bit off but it was still moving and reconstructing itself. Curious, she walked toward the closed doors and found a bathroom behind one of them. In the mirror, she watched as the last features of her destroyed face were put back into place.

The most interesting thing was that the tears were back. Every bit of her flesh had been torn and ground down, yet those dried black tears were there, the same as they had been. She reached up and rubbed her finger against one of the dark makeup lines. Not even the smallest smudge appeared. It was like the lines had been tattooed into her face. She frowned but was not surprised. She doubted anything would ever surprise her again.

Well, there was no reason to stay any longer, especially after he had made such a ruckus. She left the bathroom and nudged the body out of the way so she could open the door. She was met by a startled hooker who had her fist raised to knock on the door. She had heard a man screaming and had come to see what all the hullabaloo was about. She stared at Emirene for a second before screaming for reasons she didn't really understand. Emirene understood. Somehow this stranger knew that everything about her was wrong, and it terrified her.

She moved past the screaming woman without a word and raced up the stairs. She was already across the street and making her way around the back of the copy shop to retrieve her weapons by the time the woman actually found the dead man inside his apartment. Emirene was long gone before the police sirens began to wail in the distance.

(Have you every written something violent and then, after rereading it, sat back and said "Wow, Laura (or insert your name here), . . .what the fuck is wrong with you?" Yep.)