JULY 25, 2014 3:16PM
Inquisition on the 25th Floor! (OS Weekend Fiction)
Sister Lucretia Dismas: Noir Nun
in
Inquisition on the 25th Floor!
The nun strode past the airy, fresh smelling corporate lobby and into the elevator. Two men of finance followed her inside. She stood silent and enigmatic, unsmiling, in her full robe and habit. She made no motion to press the elevator button.
"Where to, Penguin?" one guy - bro, was that the vernacular? - asked with a cruel-lipped smirk. His buddy guffawed.
"Twenty-five." The answer was in a dark voice full of menace and malice.
The pair laughed again, their giggling just short of pre-teen girlish. "You gonna try out for Miss December?" The other Bro's laugh was a practiced, grating retort born of frat parties, drunken country club golf outings and bellowing strip-club bluster.
He moved to press the button for the 25th floor, beside which, in neatly engraved bronze letters was printed BachelorCat Enterprises.
When the elevator rushed past the fifth floor, the second Bro said, "Hey, Mother Superior, print porn is dying. Why don't you get a webcam?" More childlike, red faced uncontrollable giggling.
"No, Bro, BachelorCat still does open leg spreads!"
In truth, Sister Lucretia Dismas barely heard them. She was more concerned about whether the .22 caliber pistol in the holster hidden in her robe would be enough to do the job. She also had her shiruken throwing stars as well as her grapple hook gun, in case she required an unconventional exit. She wondered if she should have worn her suit, or her special nun swat gear. Her wimple wasn't intimidating enough, but she had very little time to plan.
Soon enough, the giggling finally intruded into her thoughts. She had had enough.
She slammed the stop button just as the elevator was between the tenth and eleventh floor. The elevator was stuck.
Instantly, Bro One, still guffawing, placed his palms out in a placating motion. "Hey, hey Sister, I'm sorry - we're assholes! We didn't mean to hurt your feelings!"
"You've hurt nothing, you pathetic fuck, except my preparation for battle," she replied, the steel and rage inside her barely breaking surface.
Bro Two frowned, then giggled nervously. "What?"
"You heard me, you son of a pus-festering whorebag. I won't repeat myself. Instead, I'll simply get in a last minute training workout before I begin my holy work."
Before Bro Two could realize it, Sister Lucretia delivered a swift, delibitating punch to his throat! He fell to the floor, gasping hoarsely and clutching at his neck.
Bro One said, "what the hell? You can't just do that-"
"I do as I please, Doucheface." Miraculously, Sister Dismas' robe hardly impeded her delivery of a pointed kick to the groin. Bro One didn't even have time for screaming before blacking out.
Meanwhile, Bro Two edged for the alarm button. However before his outstretched hand could reach it, his finger bones were neatly crushed by the sharp slam of her foot on his hand. Her stiletto heel then drove clean through the center of his palm, like the stigmata of her Savior. He passed out.
Satisfied that their annoyance was neutralized, she pressed the button for the twenty-fifth floor again. When the elevator reached its intended destination, she moved to exit but her stiletto heeled shoe was stuck on the passed out Bro Two's hand.
"Shit," she exclaimed. She lifted her foot, lifting the skewered palm along with it. She didn't have time to unravel this mess. She wiggled her foot off of the shoe and kicked off her other heel. It pissed her off not to be able to battle dangerous foes without her stiletto heels, which to her were like the most comfortable, supportive sports footwear. At 6"1' she didn't really need them anyhow.
She walked briskly towards the reception desk, not bothering to acknowledge the frowns and stares she received, nor the gasps of horror that the elevator passengers stepping into the car emitted when they saw the impossible carnage of the Bros of Finance.
****
The receptionist was a fashion-y girl with fake boobs, and she was sending a text message, ignoring the multiple buzzing rings. Sister Lucretia Dismas approached her and said. "Stu Loffner. Where do I find him."
The receptionist frowned, taken aback and said, "do you have an appointment with him?"
"Tell me where he is NOW, you stupid bitch!"
"What? Oh my god! Chill out! You can't talk to me like that!"
In response, Sister Dismas grabbed the woman's cell phone and threw it across rows and rows of office cubbies until it crashed with a satisfying thwack.
The poor receptionist began shrieking, getting up from the desk and backing away. Curiously, no one around her came to her rescue. They were too busy surfing the internet.
The nun couldn't be bothered to beat the seven hells out of her at this point. She strode down the cubby row, and stopped at the first office to the left. Inside was the head of public relations of BachelorCat Enterprises, a tiny slip of rat-faced, annoying perky.
"You. Tell me where Stu Loffner is now."
"Hi!" She said. "You're probably here for the naughty schoolgirl fetish photoshoot! Stu's in his private conference room down the hall! The other girls aren't here yet though, so you need to wait at reception!"
Sister Dismas continued walking down the hall. Se thought about unholstering her gun, but decided against it. She couldn't resist the drama of the reveal, of the explanation.
Her confrontation with Stu Loffner, President of BachelorCat Publishing was at hand.
****
She went inside the airy marbled office which had a balcony jacuzzi and a spectacular view of Las Vegas. At its sole mahogany desk sat Stu Loffner. He wore round spectacles and a white suit.
"Well, Sister, if you're quite done brutalizing my staff, please come in and we can have a chat. How are things?"
"You tell me, Loffner. I assume you know why I'm here?"
"No doubt to fight in the name of Christ or something equally tedious I'm sure," he replied dryly.
"I'm surprised you'd find the end of your life tedious, you fucking fuck."
"Oh, now now, such language!"
The nun removed the gun from her robe pockets. She cocked it and pointed it straight between his eyes. "Walk slowly over to your minibar over there - slowly - and bring that bottle of wild turkey. Two glasses. Hurry."
Calm and assured, smiling in fact, he did exactly that. With a congenial smile he poured two tumblers of the Wild Turkey. Sister Lucretia eyed him carefully. When he offered her a glass, she used her free hand to grab the one in his other hand instead.
"Ah, very good Sister! Now where were we?"
"The girl. Pauline Perrot. You've mutilated her, I'm almost certain of it. Where is she? Why did you do it? You don't have a record of serial killing, nor the profile of one."
"Hm, I suppose I don't, do I? And yet, something has set off the Spidey-Sense of the mighty - what do they call you, the 'noir nun'? Sister Scourge of the Supernatural? I wonder why that was?"
"Pauline's scum-sucking roommates found some suspicious literature in her room. God knows why I would care about such a stupid, sinful slut. Actually, I don't. This just gives me an excuse to maim and kill someone today. It relaxes me."
"As if I would allow such a thing to happen to me?" he smiled.
"As if you had any fucking choice." The nun slammed the tumbler down in front of him. "Another."
Pouring the Wild Turkey, he said "Sister, what comes to mind when you hear the name LaVey?"
The nun groaned and rolled her eyes. "Seriously? I once took a staple gun to a LaVeyian Satanist's eyelids. Not because he did anything criminal, but because his bloated face and his unkempt goatee annoyed me. Is that what this shit is about?"
"You didn't answer my question."
"Atheism, hedonism, rejection of religion, that's what those dumb fuckers believe. They're not carving up goats and girls, although I still like to beat the crap out of them for fun."
"That's right!" Loffner stood up suddenly, a wild insane gleam adorning his bespectacled eyes. "Atheism! Rejection of mysticism, of magic! I am a Satanist - but a SCIENTIFIC Satanist! My evil is the evil of our natural world, of our laws of science and physics - and my mission is to SPREAD it! LET IT overrun the earth until we're all taken to the null void of nonexistence, of No-Afterlife!"
His voice took a high pitched tone. He pressed a button and a secret panel in the wall behind him slid open, to reveal its vision:
"Pauline isn't dead, Sister Dismas! I have used science to make her my harbringer of the Apocalypse!"
He snapped his fingers at the retro yet modern promethean nightmare behind him. "Destroy the penguin, Pauline!"
"Good eveningggghhh," the revenant shell of what was once Pauline Perrot rasped, bits of necrotic flesh and spittle flicking off her lips. "IIII amm your Ki-ki-kitty Pauliiiine!"
The monster Pauline was no lumbering, bumbling hulk of a Universal Studios creation. She was surprisingly quick, and as expected, superhumanly strong.
She said a silent, mental prayer to her patron, Saint Dismas, as the creature leapt and tackled her straight through the glass windows, both of them plummeting twenty-five stories down. Hopefully the grapple hook gun would find its mark.
(copyright Chillerpop, 2014. All rights reserved)
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Comments
A cliff hanger??? You and Kieko Alvarez should get together... R&R ;-)
@jmac - thank you. ..I'm afraid all my Noir Nun stories end in cliffhangers. It's called laziness.
@Keiko - thanks! I
don't do the weekend fiction too often myself. And the two douches the
good sister put a hurting on wouldn't know good prose porn if it bit
them in the ass.
Let's hope you're the first case of Ebola in the US!
Oh, hey Knause-y!
How's your little "tour of vengeance going"? You're as adorable as
ever. I hope you're staying safe from those marauding hordes of radical
man-hating feminists.
My kind of cleric. r.
LOVING IT! (But going to confession just in case...)
Hi KC! Thanks for
stopping by! Not my best fiction effort by any means, but I have fun
writing about this violent nun. Hope you're well.
Based on some of the
stories I have heard through the years from some of my Catholic-raised
friends, this level of violence may not be wildly out of line for a lot
of nuns. This also kind of got me thinking about that movie, Ms. 45.
And for reasons I cannot fully explain, I was particularly tickled by the inclusion of the word "footwear" in the following sentence: "It pissed her off not to be able to battle dangerous foes without her stiletto heels, which to her were like the most comfortable, supportive sports footwear."
And for reasons I cannot fully explain, I was particularly tickled by the inclusion of the word "footwear" in the following sentence: "It pissed her off not to be able to battle dangerous foes without her stiletto heels, which to her were like the most comfortable, supportive sports footwear."
VA, what can I tell
you? I have a thing for determined, violent nuns. And warrior chicks
in high heels. It's terrible, I'm a horrible person. But if a
superheroine is going to have powers and abilities far beyond those of
normal women, she should be able to sprint and do backflips in the
longest and sharpest of heels.
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