A/N (1) Previously on Chuck versus The Journey: Chuck lends Sarah a helping hand as people in a relationship do and supports her in coming to terms with her past. She decides that she tells him how she earned the nickname 'The Enforcer', and this chapter is an account of that evening in her past, as seen through her eyes then.
A/N (2) WARNING for the FAINT-HEARTED: This chapter describes in gory details how Sarah Walker defends herself against a rape. It spells b-l-o-o-d-b-a-t-h. Read that word again, please. It is no secret what Sarah can do and that she will succeed - or the story would prematurely end here. If you don't want to learn how she saved herself in all minutia and with utmost violence, please skip to the next chapter, where I summarize the events, and I promise you won't miss the cornerstones of what happened.
For anyone wondering why I chose to write what I wrote below: Sarah becoming The Enforcer never really was explained in the show. We (the fans) kind of got the impression that she simply was trained. Like she turned out as the talented Ms. Walker in the task of killing people. But our darling is unique, totally unique. There has to be much more to The Enforcer. I like to think that it was something epic, something extraordinary terrifying, with an equally terrifying background, that led to becoming The Enforcer. Something that is personal because it is tied into female reality painfully close.
If you're looking for trouble
You came to the right place.
If you're looking for trouble
Just look right in my face.
I was born standing up
And talking back.
My daddy was a green-eyed mountain jack.
Because I'm evil, my middle name is misery,
Well, I'm evil, so don't you mess around with me.
I've never looked for trouble
But I've never ran.
I don't take no orders
From no kind of man.
I'm only made out
Of flesh, blood, and bone.
But if you're gonna start a rumble
Don't you try it on alone
Because I'm evil, my middle name is misery,
Well, I'm evil, so don't you mess around with me.
"Trouble" (Jerry Leiber & Mike Stoller)
A/N (3) If you haven't read A/N (2), please do now. This chapter has an M/VbS rating for violence by Sarah.
Chapter 35: Sarah vs. The Enforcer (2)
(Saskia "Sassy" Tomaszewski, aka Sarah Walker, about the night she became The Enforcer)
Alecto, Megaera, Tisiphone. The Erinyes, or as the ancient Romans called them, the Furies. Like the Furies, I will come over these seven men about to rape and kill me. I will be a deity of vengeance and death, shed their blood as they want to shed mine after using and abusing my body. I will wreak revenge on these men in place for every woman who ever got raped.
A good pep talk, Walker. Now what you're going to do about it? What good will it do? You are alone. Like every other girl raped, you are alone. Then, after, you are alone again. Why do so many people believe that it's our own fault? A little black dress doesn't mean yes. Though both are f-words, cheerfully flirting doesn't automatically include willingly fucking. A little goodnight kiss does not imply getting banged hard against my door. Unless I let you know that I want it. Trust me, you will understand if I want it. Pretty simple actually, don't you think?
Where do we end up as rape victims? Since our civilized society usually acts as the three monkeys on that crime, mostly nowhere. Some believe that we make it up – out of revenge, out of anger, out of being, well, so they like to think, just dumb and mean women. We aren't dumb or mean – well, not more than men anyway -, we are human beings with the right to decide what's going to happen with our bodies. Will some make false claims? I assume so. As I just lectured, we are human beings. Females make mistakes and commit crimes too. But what about the rest of us, the huge overwhelming majority who gets wounded physically and emotionally?
We are alone again, with pain, anger, and a false sense of guilt eating our souls away. You can't talk to anyone. Try talking about your experience to the new boy with whom you finally hope you can get over your trauma. Most will scurry away like the roadrunner, as if it was your fault or if you are dirty and stigmatized.
God, Walker, you should get yourself in a rage to save your life, not turning gloomy over female reality. Not right now, at least. So, where are we?
That wasn't going to be a romantic night. I can't change the situation. It's the way it is. But it will be what I am going to make out of it. I am Sarah Walker. I don't give up. I go to war.
The pervert was still pulling my hair, kneeling on my left. I guess he would have preferred to scalp me over anything else. But it got a little crowded there around me, so one of the two on my right steps back, finds some cigarettes and searches for his lighter in the trousers he has around his ankles. If you knew how ridiculous you look, you wouldn't do that. No problem, take your time. I'll be here when you had that smoker. And here's me thinking that this particular kind of cigarette was only lit afterward.
So here are three men directly at the bed. Pervie is on the left. A heavily tattooed guy is in front, as naked as I am, and determined to penetrate me in a few moments. A bald one on the right. A fourth fat one sitting behind the one in front, a fifth haggard man smoking in the back at the right.
Hands start to roam my torso roughly. Kojak on my right finds my chest very interesting and lets his hands do the watching. The tattoo-bomb at the foot end of the bed climbs up towards me. Are we a little impatient? The pervert on my left finally lets go of my hair, sits down next to my legs, and pushes something aside in my direction, before he pulls at my leg to make me spread more.
Their touches stir revulsion and fury inside me. Don't let your fears get the best of you, Walker. Channel them into a rage. The cloud in my head is almost gone now. My limbs feel livelier. Adrenaline is rushing through me. Hello, my friend, where have you been? We carried each other through so many dicey situations, and now I thought you abandoned me. Glad to have you back.
That man on my left shoved something aside? There was it again, the memory of the button of my blouse that made a soft pling when falling. It fell on one of the three knives they placed on the bed when they still thought they would torture Tony. Poor Tony. Thou shalt not steal.
My heart supports me. I can hear it pumping in my ears. Get your mind in combat mode, Sarah. Nothing to worry about, you can do that, I encourage myself. I fill my lungs with oxygen, once, twice, once more.
"Wow, is this slut enjoying this? She's pushing her tits into my hands. Bet she'll be a hot fuck," the baldy idiot says.
God, why do some men always think that we girls like nothing more than to be harassed, molested, and raped? There must be something seriously wrong with the design of the male brain.
There is absolutely no time to dwell on my feelings or the humiliation that threatens to engulf me. I am Sarah Walker. I am strong and unbreakable.
I tense some of my muscles. They seem to function. It is not as trustworthy as usual, but the adrenaline and my training are doing quick work now with the drug in my system.
"Can we get her on her knees?" the pervert says. "That would be a romp, eh? Three at a time, eh? How many are we? Seven? We'll find a way, eh? Where there's a gang, there's a bang, I always say."
"Shut up," the tattoo-monster growls, "and get her ready. I can't wait. I think I never saw a foxier hoe before."
They pull on my shoulders, and I inconspicuously help them get me in an almost sitting position.
There they are. Not mine, but still, it's family, my best companions ever - knives.
I leisurely consider my tactic. Possibly I should divert from my usual efficient style. There are way more opponents than I could be sure to eliminate. Probably I should add an element of horror. The more gore I produce, the more pain I inflict, the more these men will be shocked, will hesitate with their reaction, will make a wrong decision. Could be, could not be. All these decisions a girl has to make - what dress, what knives, what shoes, what guns, what perfume, what poison.
I can comfortably reach the knives. My left hand drops on the first one as if I didn't do that on purpose. I manage that surprisingly smoothly and quickly. The pervert guy on my left has returned to rubbing my thigh, bent low over my middle, and scrutinizing my womanhood as if I was the first woman he had ever seen.
Pervie, whichever way, I will make sure that mine's the last pussy you see.
Lights are on, curtain's up, the audience is waiting - showtime.
I still am not confident how much strength my left hand has, so I pull back my elbow and then drive the knife as hard as I can forward and into his stomach. Not perfect, but it is a pleasure to see the cold steel doing its work and being rewarded with screams of pain. As I guessed, the knife is deadly sharp. Before I let myself fall back, I grab another knife with my right hand and, in a circular motion bringing my arm up, try to slash open the throat of the bald man to my right. He does me the favor of removing his hands from my boobs and pulling his arms back, so the flight lane for Air Death is free. Falling backward, I also pull the first knife, which I firmly held onto, out of the side of the perv and let it drop on the bed next to me. You'll never know when it will come in handy.
Wow, that was a tremendous, coordinated move! I should apply to the Cirque du Soleil. Kojak's hands come up to where I perfectly slit him. I have no time to think that over as I am sprayed with his blood. As I planned, I take an additional second – one really should give an encore after such a nice stunt – to apply extra terror. I do not aim for a specific spot. I simply slash my knife across the face of the bald guy. Doomed, he is anyway, but I notice out of the corner of my eyes how the others are shocked to see what I do. These are brutal men, but knife-fighting isn't their favorite way of killing apparently so they are tremendously horrified by the sight. Knife fights are ugly. Even if you have killed but never seen what a knife can do, you will be aghast. Let's be honest, it's my luck. Luck is a lady tonight.
Then I launch forward again to the naked tattoo guy that had been busy crawling up to get comfy between my legs. Greedy bastard wants to be the first to pop my cherry. Technically, Saskia Tomaszweki only exists for less than three weeks and never had sex in her life, so I am a virgin, cover-wise. Tattoo is momentarily scared stiff. No pun intended. He should neither help his buddy to his right on the floor, nor the other one to his left, which after my perfect cutthroat is no buddy but only body anymore. He should save himself. He tries to reverse his approach towards me, pushing himself back from crawling up and facing me on his knees, bending backward so my knife can't reach his throat.
Well, silly, what can I say? Have you ever been to a fish market where they clutch the fish and decapitate it with one decisive blow? It was a nuisance to touch Tattoo's manhood, but it wasn't to be his manhood any longer, if you can follow my thought. Whatever I look like in men's eyes, heaven knows I'm no box of candy.
Blood splatters on me. I should smell it, but I am too busy to survive. I don't think I ever saw more horror in someone's eyes. Pervie whimpering, Tattoo screaming, Kojak death rattling.
The smoker stumbled back when I killed the one to my right, falling over his trousers around his ankles. I hope I either die or survive with a bit more dignity than that dope. Don't let anyone tell you that men think with their dicks. Most wouldn't be such idiots if they would think at least with their dicks – fact is many don't think at all. Thank God for that in my current dilemma.
Too bad for my chances to ever meet a man worthy of my devotion. If I ever find a man who wants me first, and only then my body, but still wants my body desperately, whoever that is, I'm going to marry him straight away. Ok, ok, possibly not marry, but make him happy enough that he never cranes his neck for another girl again.
I better take care of the fatty in the chair next. The tattooed one – can I still say guy? – crumbles down at the foot end of the bed while I slide off into Fatty's direction. He is the one who still is clothed and had the quickest access to his gun. At least, I assume so. Don't underestimate our stout citizens. They can be extremely agile. He looks like a rain barrel someone slung a leather jacket around, and turns out as immovable as that, which is my advantage as he is anything but quick fingering for his gun. Still, it is about split seconds now. I slip out of bed, stand up, and am about to throw the knife at him - which I usually avoid as it means you give up on it - when my knees give in. Damn, I had feared that the guy on my left wasn't done for. He is bleeding profusely, but he is tearing me down to the floor.
There's good in everything that happens. Always look on the bright side of life. I never was happier that a naked perverted fellow with a gaping wound to his stomach pulled me down to him. Consequently, Fatso in the chair shoots and misses me. The perv tries to wrestle my knife from me, but I roll him on top of me. Not how I wanted to spend the evening, but my best option to evade the bullets that will follow for sure.
The fat slob is shocked enough by the bloody scene that unfolds that he blindly continues to shoot. The second bullet hits the pervert's arm. I see the gun wound—nothing terrible, just a scratch. I shift a bit to be out of the trajectory as good as I can manage, always keeping Pervie on top of me. I doubt he enjoys it, although it had been everybody's plan. Yikes, that sicko even had planned to have me taken by three guys at once. Now, I am a healthy young woman, and I like to try new stuff, but there are limits. I can play sweet, I can play rough, but I hate humiliation and abuse. I know what I'm talking about.
The third bullet from Fatso hits my partner in rolling around again. I notice him shudder and get weaker while the blood from his open stomach runs over my own bare mid-section, and blood coming from his mouth drops on my hair and face, and neck. The fourth bullet brings salvation. I actually feel him die on top of me. It is a peculiar experience. Due to his nearness, I perceive that last moment, even his last breath.
The shooter is paralyzed as he realizes what he has done. How long do I need to get rid of dead weight, roll over the floor once, and then throw my knife? Hm. I don't have time to check my watch, but I did not take as long as a guy who just shot his comrade, tried to follow my move, re-aim, and was about to fire. Because fire, he did not anymore. My position is awkward, and I can't get out a beautiful throw. I hit him deeply into his shoulder. Crap, that was not perfect, but he won't be able to shoot again so soon and will be too busy with himself to care about me for the time being.
The yelling and painful screaming and cussing are ear-deafening, but I try to block it out. I only hear what I need to hear, and that is the fourth guy, the one with the cigarette. I think about getting the gun of Fatso but decide against it.
They say that women are more adept at multitasking than men. Don't believe everything you hear. I am not. But I am much faster than men, and I can make the right decisions much faster. There simply was no way to get the gun, coming with the need to kill Fatty for good and eliminate the smoker struggling with his trousers around his ankles in time. Not in my feeble condition, haha.
I attack the trouser guy, moving over to him. As I do that, I grab the blade I temporarily deposited on the bed. I launch myself directly at the fourth guy as he is unarmed. This sounds a bit silly, but I take the risk as he obviously can't find his weapon with his pants down or didn't even have any. A fatal oversight on your part, Trousers, as I call him. Possibly you should have put more emphasis on your education. You are going to women? Then don't forget the whip.
My onslaught was perfect, I have to say myself. I feign an attack with my left hand. It's empty, but he still has to respond to it, and I realize he's not skilled in close combat. Probably strong only when attacking people with his group of buddies. I expected that his long arms would hit me, but a girl sometimes has to suffer to defend her honor. I know that I will need a lot of makeup to cover the shiner I receive and that that blackie will bloom in striking colors for a while.
My assault is forceful enough that his hit to my face does not stop me. His other hand tries to block a stab at his heart, but I ram the knife into his kidneys instead. When Trousers instantly begins to collapse against me, I pull out that knife. Then I finish my work by slitting open his carotid. General surgeons warning – smoking is dangerous to your health. If I remember training correctly, there are two essential blood vessels, the Arteria Carotis and the Vena Jugularis. A squall of blood kind of floods down on me, telling me I accomplished a deep cut. He leans silently against me as I also opened his trachea perfectly. Yeah, I still got it, I always take the breath of all the dudes away. A textbook kill – the deeper the cut, the less the blood will squirt out, but well out slow and thick. But I was too close, cheek by jowl, to prevent him from using any kind of weapon, so I'm afraid I'm going to need to wash my hair later.
I enjoy saving my life. Graham, blasted Graham would have pronounced me dead a few minutes ago. But no, I have to face him about the blunders made. Why was Tony not appropriately screened? If we had known that he was stealing whatever from Mr. X, I would have stayed away from him. Why was Graham not getting me out of Miami the moment my job was done? Why the delay for a cover that with almost absolute certainty was useless already? Yeah, I got Graham's reasoning, but somehow I had a strange feeling about it all along. But I have no time to dwell on that, and I have no time to die. I want to live with every fiber of my being.
The fat slob eventually pulls the knife out of his shoulder, screaming like a dozen pigs at the slaughterhouse. He miraculously still stands, crying and screaming in agony. But he has dropped the knife that tortured him, and I pick it up quickly. He is a risk, nothing more. I swiftly lift his head and slit his carotid as well. He is too fat so I can not apply a good cut in the short time I have set aside to kill him. Gotta keep on schedule. They told us to make the cuts properly and deeply, but the outcome of too many lunches and dinners are in my way. I mean, he'll be dead pretty soon, but the downside is that if you don't cut the artery excellent and deep, the pressure within it will end up in blood squirting like a holey garden hose. That's exactly what happens. What feels like a gallon of blood gushes over me as the gratification for my deeds. Miraculously, he does not fall flat but goes to his knees, and his dead body rests there due to his massive build. Annoyingly, he kneels on the gun he dropped. I'll never be able to lift that weight from the weapon without a crane. Rats!
I can hear Mr. X and his bodybuilder storming back into the loft. They abandoned the booze and, after hearing the shots, hurried back from downstairs. They can see from afar that the night did not go according to plan.
Holy shit, the muscular fellow suddenly aims a Colt .45 at me. All I can do is crouch down behind the mountain of flesh in front of me. Dead Porky is precisely in the line of fire between the Colt-slinging man and me. A shot so unmistakably for that weapon rings out, and I realize I am not dead. Something falls on my hair and shoulders and kind of drips down on my chest. I see fragments of what must be parts of the plump guy's skull, and I realize the grainy gray stuff must be his brain matter. I feel like Jackie K. on that November 22. But there is no Clint Hill around to protect me. Dear old Clint, I adore him. Makes me think of my days with the Secret Service.
Mr. X has pushed down the bodybuilder's weapon in a futile attempt to save his comrade. He certainly was fooled because the dead man rested on his knees and thought he was still alive. The tiny pause gives me the chance to dash to the right, and with a swift move, I kick the door to the bedroom shut. Oh, forgot. I follow up to brutally kick the dickless dickhead to the floor. Yes, he's still trying to find his pecker. I save him from the trouble by quickly and consecutively stabbing at his intestines, liver, spleen, all the messy stuff, just to spread more terror for everyone still alive.
Hey, I'm making all the moves today. No need to go to the gym later.
Then, the two men outside make short work of the door. A barrage of bullets keeps me on, as seen from them, the left side of the bedroom where a large wardrobe stands. If Tony would have been married and had found the necessity to hide a lover from his wife hurriedly, he could have stored three of them there. Ricochets hit the mirror on the ceiling. Splinters of glass rain down on me, parts remain above, but I protect my face and endure it on my shoulders and arms while I dive for cover. Then the door bursts open.
"Look at that fucking massacre!" the beefcake shouts. "Where is she?" he yells.
Massacre? I wouldn't call it that in my current mindset. Let's agree on a mild case of excessive force in self-defense.
And where would I be, dumbass? Ha, I can't believe I get away with that. Fortune favors the bold! Even Jerry Lewis, in his most dimwitted movie character, would find me under the bed. OK, so Flexasaurus has a 50:50 chance, as that wardrobe would be large enough for me, and he decided to kill that piece of furniture first, suspecting I am as foolish as they are, and hide there.
One deep breath. Then sliding out from under the bed to the other side of the room. I suppress a yelp of pain as I roll over a couple of shards of glass, like that cop in the movie. I forgot both the name and the title. The bodybuilder is standing with his back to me, considering if he should give the wardrobe the coup de grâce. Ridiculous. He would have heard if I was in there as his bullets could not have missed me.
I realize that I have not uttered one syllable, not made one single noise, even suppressing the heavy panting from the fight for a few moments. I am focused on killing everything that moves.
Or, at that moment, stands still, like Mr. Muscle Beach. I can't throw and lose the knife. Never throw your knives. You might need them later. I step on the bed and then catapult myself at him with all the momentum I can muster. I have no reservations about attacking him from behind. They wouldn't have had any scruples to take me from all sides, so I don't have either. I know I shouldn't do that. If he's smart, he simply turns around, and I jump into his Colt like into an open knife. Boom, end of the story, fish food. And there is Mr. X as well, for whom I am an easy target now. But I have to do something about Mr. Muscle Mountain, and X had shown unusual restraint earlier when he thought he still could save Fatso, so I am taking another high risk.
Ah, that was impeccably smooth. No one is around to applaud as I thrust the knife into that tiny spot below his skull where his spinal cord connects to what little brain he's got. Did I mention that I may be a total failure regarding relationships, but I am no slouch when it comes to knives?
I've got no time to admire my handiwork, so I turn. There still is Mr. X with a gun in his hand. No, he's gone. He finally realized that this bitch is his worst nightmare.
Stark naked and smirched with blood from head to toe just like a body painter had gone crazy with the red paint pot, I follow Mr. X. He turns around in the kitchen and fires at me wildly and aimlessly. At least two of the bullets graze me, but I only feel the sting and no real pain. If I had been that shooter, the game would be over at this point.
His weapon clicks empty, and his eyes come up to me in horror. Mr. X frantically opens a drawer, and guess what, he retrieves a knife. If I did that, I probably would end up with a drawer full of baking forms for muffins.
I laugh. It sounds hysterical. I'm the Queen of Knives. What does he think he will gain with a knife against me? With a quick move, I stab it out of his hand and move up to him. He blocks me and lands a good punch. Have to give him that. I feel I am getting weak, and he senses it. With renewed energy, he avoids my assault again, and the mighty shove that he follows with sends me flying over the large kitchen island that is topped with black marble. It's beautiful but too large for my apartment. Falling, I take most of the pans and pots there down with me.
I hit my head hard. Don't lose it now, Sarah. He is standing above me and kicks me with his right foot. I almost can't hold Tony's excellent Sicilian Burger to myself as X repeatedly hacks at my belly and then tries to hit my face. My left hand wanders blindly around, hoping to find the blade or at least a sturdy pan. He puts one foot down at that hand, and I'm afraid he breaks some fingers, but I won't be sure until I get that shoe off of them. Then he hits my chin with the other foot, and I almost collapse. One second. Just one second to recover, please. But he doesn't give me that.
After a severe kick to my side that sends another bolt of pain through me, he uses the moment I writhe in agony to pick me up and slam me against whatever is in my back. I'm half-standing, giving in at the knees, fixed by his body so I can't slip away. Before I can breathe again, he repeats the simple maneuver. All good things come in threes, so I remember, and he seems too, as the air is blown out of me when he slams me a third time firmly against the wall of kitchen furniture, a dishwasher on floor level, a microwave directly on the back of my head. Good kitchen equipment. I still would be a lousy cook.
X thinks he has me. He slams my head against the microwave again. I can feel the door of the oven crack - or is it my skull? The knife slips from my hand and clankers to the floor. He goes for it immediately, bends down—mighty big mistake.
I kiss his face with my knee as hard as I can. Something cracks, jaw, nose, big useless gob, whatever, I don't care as long as his discomfort is worse enough to keep him from retaliating instantly. The blow brings him up. The knife is in my hand in an instant. I told ya so, I'm so much faster than anyone else.
He steadies himself with one bleeding hand on the kitchen island. Geez, it's the hand that slapped my boobs to see how nicely they bounce. Or did he say, fabulous bounce? Yeah, that was it, fabulous. I am a woman. I don't forget - I archive.
Let's turn the tables around, will we, you and me, the bare-naked lady and her best pal, the blood-dripping blade. Like Modesty and her ever-trustworthy Willie, we go to work. It's a dirty job, y'know, but Saskia gotta do it. Like chopping meat, I bring my weapon down. It makes a hideous noise as it hits and screeches over the black workplate. How convenient that his hand was in between that and the knife. Would you believe it, things were bouncing again. Without any satisfaction, I see three fingers springing over the workplate like they were alive, and I can't help to think that it'll be a while until I have an appetite for finger food again. Finally, the fingers fall to the floor, and as he pulls his hand away with an eerie yell, I see a fourth one is just hanging on the part of skin or muscle.
I feel no revenge, no content, no hate. All I do is deliver pain and death. I'm a waitress serving your favorite burger. A patty from finely minced human meat almost melting in your mouth or roughly chopped so you can feel the structure on your tongue? Want extra finger fries to go with that? A cold drink to wash it down? Well, if you've got style, you order a Bloody Sarah where tomato juice is replaced with blood. We've got all kinds of blood, from fat men, from thin men, from strong and pervert men. Our Cuvée Of The Day is a beautiful recommendation.
I don't feel anything. I am a killing machine with the weirdest of thoughts but no emotions attached to these or to the ferocious violence I am acting out. Am I talking with myself? Do I get crazy? Is this what is called a blood rage?
X howls in agony, yells to put down my knife, and begs for his life. I am no fool as, at the same time, I see his other hand groping for the few remaining pans on the workplace. A murderer and a liar, can you believe that? Yikes, I realize that fits my job description too - now. But I am getting somehow weak inside. X wants me to put down my knife and go to sleep. Forever. The big sleep. Yeah, I think I am going nuts. I don't want to stop killing as long as anyone is alive who could hurt me.
I could have killed all night, I could have spread my wings like an angel of cruel death and slain in a thousand ways as I've never done before. There is a funny little leprechaun sitting on my shoulder that tells me that I am losing it, that my mind tries to cope with the carnage I am responsible for. But I only want to survive!
Our struggling clearly shows that we both aren't in mid-season form anymore. Somehow Mr. X grabs a pan and smashes it on my head. The next time he manages that, I'm done for, I know, I will pass out. Mustering the last of my strength, I untangle my hands and drive the blade into his abdomen. I pull it out, I thrust it back in. And again, just for ol' time's sake.
He is screaming at the top of his lungs first, then groaning obscenities, and then only bubbling blood from his mouth. This time it's me having him fixed against the workplace so he can't slip away. I ignore the notion of detached triumph welling up and remain as silent as before. I drive the knife in until his guts are hanging out and until I can't hold it anymore because it becomes so slippery from all the blood and his bowels. I drop the knife - don't worry, darling, I'll get you later, you'll be cleaned and loved and caressed as my life savior forever. My crimson-red, sticky fingers grab his hair and smash his head on the black marble until it looks like someone spilled a pot of pasta sauce.
I look for the knife. Wouldn't it be loverly to leave Mr. X a souvenir, like carving my initials into his back?
I realize he is dead. Kaput. May he rot in hell. I have forgotten the movie title, the character, the actor, but I remember the quip. So I swear it into his swollen, blood-smeared face that has hardly any human features left. "Yippie Ki Yay, motherfucker."
I am alive.
Naked, besmirched but not defiled, hurt in every which way, yet alive.
I prowl around like a tired pussycat to check that nothing moves except the hands on the clock on the wall and me. I lick some blood from my lips. It tastes so sweet because it isn't mine. My handbag is in the living room, next to Tony's dead body. I pick out my phone and call Graham. I wish I could crawl through the phone and strangle him. I'm on a killing spree, and I gladly add a bonus kill.
I want to shower, but my legs won't carry me anymore. I gradually and reluctantly comprehend I killed seven men with my bare hands extended by three knives, men who were about to rape me - has everyone gotten off at least once, yeah, then let's make sure she doesn't see another daylight. But I made sure these bastards will never ever harass another woman. I feel I have changed forever. I am a professional killer now. I sense I might be the most ruthless cutthroat the CIA ever had on her payroll.
They came to have their fun and get rid of my dead body later, but I prevailed. I am not thrown into the trash or buried at sea, with the sharks politely stopping by for the wake. Oh, the shark, babe, has such teeth, dear, and it shows them pearly white. Just a jackknife has Sarah Walker, and she keeps it, ah, out of sight.
I look at myself. I am genuinely the lady in red, although I don't wear one piece of clothing. All the blood on me begins to dry up, and now I stagger from the stench, plopping on the couch. If you don't think you can stagger while sitting blood-soaked and naked in a luxurious living room after you killed seven men, try all that first before you say I exaggerate. I begin to shake, and I know I can't get up anymore for the life of me. The bedroom with my torn clothes is too far away, the bathroom is too far away. Too far away. I'll be happy if I don't vomit as I begin to feel sick, but it would hardly raise any eyebrows amid that bloodbath.
I call Graham again and tell him that I am waiting for our folks as I am, so he shouldn't send in any pansies. While talking, I see a small red light blinking and realize the cameras which were inactive before are recording. Possibly switched on when Mr. X and his minions first entered the loft. I demand from Graham that these recordings are secured and not handed over to anyone but me. I place my handbag over my pussy. What would a girl do without her bag?
Finally, I ask him to find out Tarantino's phone number as I got a story to sell that makes his movies look like a lame kiddie birthday.
•••••••••••••••••••
A/N (4) Rape victim statistics: 2%-10% of all rape claims are false. The other numbers are crushingly clear. Only 23% of rape victims reported the crime to the police. Only 20% of those lead to arrest. Only 50% of those 20% lead to trial. Only 35% of these trials lead to a conviction. Has anyone done the math with me right now? Yeah, right. It means that out of 100 rapes, 0.8 get a sentence. Tell me what's wrong with these figures. Source: Dallas Morning News, September 15, 2019, quoting official statistics from the Justice Department regarding the years 1990-2009.
A/N (5) Quotes: All the A/Ns below solve the references I made in both "Sarah vs. The Enforcer" chapters. Some of those I made deliberately. Others simply happened while writing. Even others I wrote, and only after looking at the words, I thought, hey, that might have come up subconsciously. Listed for everyone who finds it fun to check if you caught all of them.
A/N (6) Drinking Champagne, and feeling no pain: "Drinking Champagne" is a song written by Bill Mack, made famous by Cal Smith (1967) and later by George Strait (1990).
A/N (7) Scarface, Babyface, or Bugsy: Famous nicknames for infamous criminals: Al "Scarface" Capone, George "Babyface" Nelson, Benjamin "Bugsy" Siegel.
A/N (8) C-47 on June 5, 1944: That, of course, is about D-Day from World War II, referring to the All-Americans, 82nd Airborne, and Screaming Eagles, 101st Airborne, made famous by Dick Winter's Easy Company pictured in HBO's "Band of Brothers". The paratroopers were flown out to Normandy early, before dawn on June 6. To give credit where it's due, there were also British paratroopers that day.
A/N (9) T-box shot: The t-box (the very small field of the eyes and the nose) shot is almost a guarantee to kill any combatant instantly, second only to the center of the chest.
A/N (10) Men of the USS Indy: In July 1945, heavy cruiser USS Indianapolis (CA-35) completed a top-secret trip to deliver parts of Little Boy, the first nuclear weapon ever used in combat, to the United States Army Air Force Base on Tinian. On her way back on 30 July, the ship was torpedoed by an Imperial Japanese Navy submarine and sank in 12 minutes. Of 1,195 crewmen aboard, approximately 300 went down with the ship. The remaining 890 faced exposure, dehydration, saltwater poisoning, and shark attacks while stranded in the open ocean with few lifeboats and almost no food or water. The Navy only learned of the sinking four days later, when survivors were spotted by a PV-1 Ventura crew on routine patrol. Only 316 survived. The sinking of Indianapolis resulted in the greatest single loss of life at sea from a single ship in the history of the US Navy.
A/N (11) Three-fold: When a US soldier gets killed in the line of duty, a US flag is carefully folded into the shape of a tri-cornered hat and handed over to one of the surviving dependents at a funeral with military honors.
A/N (12) Walker does Miami: "Debbie Does Dallas", an infamous 1978 porn movie.
A/N (13) You can't always get what you want: Rolling Stones song first released in July 1969 as the B-side of "Honky Tonk Woman".
A/N (14) Sonny Crocket as portrayed by Don Johnson in the hit show "Miami Vice" (1984-1990). There was another Sonny Crocket later, but, well, Don Johnson is Don Johnson.
A/N (15) Saskia and the seven hoods: 1964 musical film starring The Rat Pack, Sinatra, Martin, Davis: "Robin and the 7 Hoods".
A/N (16) Seven little criminals: Paraphrasing the American children's counting-out rhyme "Ten Little Indians" first published in 1868, meanwhile politically correct rewritten using various unoffending titles in most countries. It is so often referenced that I could not evade doing so myself.
A/N (17) Always Look On The Bright Side Of Life: Monty Python's biggest musical hit, first heard in the 1979 movie "Life of Brian".
A/N (18) Three monkeys: The three wise monkeys are a Japanese pictorial maxim, embodying the proverbial principle "see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil".
A/N (19) Kojak: New York City Police Department Detective Lieutenant Theo Kojak, as portrayed by Telly Savalas in the show "Kojak", was the quintessential bald head of the 1970s.
A/N (20) Thou shalt not steal: One of the Ten Commandments, traditionally been interpreted by Jewish commentaries to refer to the stealing of an actual human being, that is, to kidnapping. With this understanding, a contextual translation of the commandment in Jewish tradition would more accurately be rendered as "Thou shalt not kidnap". Nevertheless, this commandment has come to be interpreted, especially in non-Jewish traditions, as the unauthorized taking of private property (stealing or theft), which is a wrongful action already prohibited elsewhere in the Hebrew Bible that does not ordinarily incur the death penalty.
A/N (21) Luck is a lady tonight: "Luck Be A Lady" is a Frank Loesser song from 1950 (written for the musical "Guys and Dolls"), which became a staple for Frank Sinatra.
A/N (22) They say that women are more adept at multitasking than men: According to recent studies, this is a myth. Even more embarrassing for us guys than the myth, one study summed it up like this: Women are not better at multitasking - they just do more work.
A/N (23) Arteria Carotis and the Vena Jugularis: Yes, these are the main artery and vein. Sarah's ponderings about cutting deep or not so deep and its outcome are correct as well, though I took the liberty to exaggerate a bit.
A/N (24) Clint Hill: Clinton J. Hill is the Secret Service man, assigned to the detail of the First Lady Jackie Kennedy, who runs up to JFK's limousine on November 22, 1963, at Elm Street in Dallas, when the deadly shots rang out, jumped on the car only moments too late and shielded the President and the First Lady as they raced to Parkland Hospital in vain. He is one of the tragic figures of the 20th century, only coming to terms with what he called his failure in his 80s. As I write this, he is the last living person from the presidential limo that fateful Friday.
A/N (25) You are going to women? Then don't forget the whip: Whatever your opinion on Friedrich Nietzsche and "Also Sprach Zarathustra/Thus Spoke Zarathustra" (sometimes called an ingeniously failed masterpiece) is, this quote remains popular enough to be used time and time again – including by one Johnny Ray C.
A/N (26) The Big Sleep: Title of Raymond Chandler's seminal crime novel from 1939 that set standards for a whole genre that still stand.
A/N (27) Like that cop in that movie: Bruce Willis as John McClane in "Die Hard".
A/N (28) Modesty and her ever-trustworthy Willie: Modesty Blaise is a fictional character of comic strips, novels, and movies, created by author Peter O'Donnell and illustrator Jim Holdaway in 1963. The stories follow Modesty, an exceptional young woman with many talents and a criminal past, and her trusty sidekick Willie Garvin. See also (FF-author's) WillieGarvin's bio page.
A/N (29) I could have killed all night: Sarah cruelly paraphrasing from "My Fair Lady" ("I Could Have Danced All Night"). Before you wonder, yes, my Sarah Walker is an educated person and someone who would understand a good deal of cultural references while not being up-to-date with Californian club bands and not having a favorite band.
A/N (30) Wouldn't it be loverly: That simple "r" in "loverly", of course, marks it as another reference to "My Fair Lady" and shows how references happen. Writing the "Wouldn't it be…" part after deliberately playing with "My Fair Lady" a few lines before, the "loverly" came naturally.
A/N (31) Yippie Ki Yay, motherfucker: Bruce Willis' famous quip as John McClane in "Die Hard").
A/N (32) Oh, the shark, babe, ...: Quoting the song "Mack The Knife" from the "Threepenny Opera" (1928, Bertolt Brecht), firmly established into collective consciousness through Bobby Darin's swing version from 1959. I only had to exchange the name.
A/N (33) The Lady In Red: A 1986 US #3 and UK #1 hit for Chris de Burgh.