The Pulptress (3 page)

Reaching into the left side
of the Body Box, she wrapped her fingers around a bottle with a
bulbous end. Twisting its lid, she pulled the dropper in the bottle
out by its bulb, squeezing as she did. Setting the bottle down on
the counter, she tilted her head back and lifted the dropper over
her right eye. Gently mashing the dropper’s bulb, she flinched ever
so slightly as fluid dripped twice into her eye. She repeated the
process in her left eye and began blinking them both rapidly. After
a few seconds, she opened them and looked at her naked reflection
in the mirror. The almost translucent blue of her eyes swirled and
spun in both eyeballs, like little eddies on her pupils. The color
changed, giving way to the opulent brown of brewed coffee, accented
with flecks of forest green. Reaching to her left, The Pulptress
grabbed a wash cloth and dabbed the wetness from her eyes and,
after putting the dropper back in its bottle and the bottle back in
its place in the Box, continued on to the next chore.

Lifting a round glass jar,
about three inches high and wide mouthed, out of the center of the
Box; she popped its plastic lid off. She then set the jar down and
scooped up a little of the fine yellow powder the jar held in her
right hand. Quickly, she ran that hand through her unkempt blonde
hair. Dipping again into the jar, she applied even more powder to
her head. Taking both hands, she vigorously rubbed the powder
throughout her hair, almost as if she was washing it. Within
seconds there was not a trace of the golden haired woman left.
Instead, her hair was a lush, vibrant august red and fell down
around her face, mussed though it might have been, as a frame
fitting a portrait.

Sealing and replacing the
jar in the Body Box, The Pulptress reached into the right side and
pulled from it a turquoise colored tear drop shaped bar of soap.
Stepping backward into the shower, she pulled the curtain, but
didn’t bother taking a wash cloth with her as this was not a bath
proper, just the final part of her routine. The water bit into her
skin welcomingly, inviting her to simply melt down into the tub and
play in the droplets. She ignored that impulse, scrubbing her
entire body, every inch with the soap bar. Water ran down her body
in rivulets, taking the pale whiteness of her skin with it as it
went. It almost appeared, The Pulptress often thought, that her
pigment was paint and the water was literally washing it away. Of
course, the process was more complicated than that, the chemical
compound within the soap bar counteracting the chemical agent she’d
used to whiten her uppermost epidermal layer hours before. Although
she was definitely not tropically tanned in any sense of the word,
she was glad to see color returning to her skin, even happy to see
the freckles in various places that she’d always despised as a
child. Every time she became someone else, she always enjoyed
literally returning to her own skin more and more.

Once the last bit of pale
swirled away down the drain, she turned off the shower and pulled
back the curtain. Taking a towel from the rack adjacent to the
shower, she reflected on the scene in the bar as she dried her
body. It always amazed her that men hired to act as strong-arms and
tough guys, the very people who should know how to fight and
especially how not to be taken advantage of, always stood right
where she needed them to so she could beat them senseless. She also
had to admit, the thought making her smile, that she liked that
part of all this probably the best. Not simply the fighting, but
the concentration, the strategy that went into reading a room and
making the end result come out the way she wanted.

And she’d gotten most of
what she wanted out of this one. Putting the first line of
Lannigan’s attack in its place. And enough time to get her business
done with Deuce Kane and prepare for Lannigan’s second wave. Her
brown eyes drifted to the domino mask nestled in its place at the
top of the Body Box’s center section. Yes, she’d gotten what she
wanted. Now it was time again for her favorite part of being The
Pulptress.

***

“
Too quiet if you ask me.”
The large square shouldered man fiddled with the multivision
goggles that sat too tight on his potato shaped head. His long, but
thick fingers sweated inside the black leather gloves he wore,
making it more difficult to get them to do anything with his usual
skill and dexterity. He stood at the left side of the Morriston
Corridor, one foot hiked up against the wall of the Hotel, his back
reclined against it. He’d ran out of snide comments fifteen minutes
earlier about how the space between two buildings where garbage of
all sorts and the cans to hold it was called an alley in any other
part of New York City, but on Park Avenue it was a ‘corridor’ and
even had a name. He swore at the heat, not simply the unusual
Spring mugginess in early morning New York, but more the fact that
his two hundred dollar haircut had been reduced to a sticky mat of
strawberry blonde locks thanks to the mask he wore. It was a sturdy
cloth pullover job, some sort of Kevlar weave material, with an
open face. The oversized black goggles with reflective lenses,
equipped for any sort of vision needed with just a brush of the
left side, occluded most of his pock marked visage. None of that
mattered to him, though. He was just hot and irritated. “Guns would
make it better. We should have guns.”

“
No dice,” smirked his twin
across the alley, a double in almost every way. If someone had been
unfortunate to turn off Park Avenue into the Corridor, they would
have probably suspected they were seeing double. Both men were just
over six feet tall, of similar muscular build, and clothed in
matching black skin tight jump suits. Single piece outfits covered
with pouches, pockets, and hideaway spots, but identical, even down
to the utility belts around their waists and the stylized lavender
‘L’ patch sewn on the upper right arm. “Remember,” the man on the
right side of the Corridor, standing just away from the wall, his
thick legs spread apart, cautioned, “extraction, not
execution.”

“
Yeah, yeah,” chided his
associate, their voices being the telltale mark between them. The
man on the right was very nearly monotone, a deep baritone voice
with one rhythm. His perspiring partner on the other hand wore his
New Jersey heritage loud and clear in every word he let loose.
“It’s just that,” the sweating man griped, “these gigs don’t come
with enough excitement. I mean we got three guys on the inside
wrappin’ the package and four of us out here waitin’ on delivery.
I’d just like to see a little action instead of being Lannigan’s
mail man.”

“
Action,” scoffed the
droning man on the right as he looked up the side of the Morriston.
He didn’t really expect to see much, the guys on the inside were
just that good at this part of the exercise, but still time was
ticking and doormen and security guards wouldn’t stay unconscious
forever. “You mean like what the first team got earlier? You can
have it, pally.”

“
Hey, now,” bubbled the New
Jersey native, pushing himself off the wall. “Don’t you go
comparin’ me to those mooks. I mean, they get to carry their pieces
and everything and still get waylaid! By a plastered broad wantin’
to dance no less! If you ask me, Lannigan oughta take every one of
them out back and shoot-”

His heavily accented tirade
was rudely interrupted by something clattering on the asphalt
between the two men. Both jumped back defensively, reaching for the
collapsible nightsticks that hung clipped on the right side of
their pouched belts. As they drew their weapons, the sticks
extended from about four stubby inches to a slender twelve inches
of black reinforced metal. While the whiner stood point, seeing no
one initially, his partner knelt down to see what lay at their
feet. Goggles. Three sets of goggles just like the ones on his own
head. And somehow stuck to the lenses of one pair, a ragged piece
of Kevlar reinforced cloth, a stylized lavender ‘L’ emblazoned on
it.

“
Geez,” the man on one knee
said, absolutely no change in his flat tone, “Compromised.
Extraction’s compromised.” He jumped up, his volume only slighter
louder as he ordered, “Point, report.”

“
Nothin’,” the other
reported. The New Jersey still weighed down every syllable, but
gone was the griping, weaseling whine. He was all business now,
even though business was apparently bad. He glanced over his
shoulder at his partner and what lay on the ground, saying,
“There’s nothin’ and nobody.”

“
Then,” chastised his
partner, standing up and raising his baton in front of him,
pointing into the alley with it, “how do you explain
her?”

What the sweat bathed
kidnapper for hire saw when he followed his friend’s gesture, made
the droplets on his clammy skin feel ice cold. In part because he
was absolutely sure and certain no one had been in the alley two
seconds ago. And in part because seeing a woman like her always
stopped a man a breath or two short.

She stood out in the open,
right in the middle of the alley halfway between each open end.
Even in the dim light cast from shaded bulbs on both sides of the
Corridor, it was plain to see what and who she was. A statuesque
woman, over six feet tall thanks to the black heels adorning her
feet. Her legs were long, lean stems seemingly made of porcelain
due to how the shadows played off her skin. She stood with her
right foot out in front of her, her hands on her hips, looking dead
ahead at her two playmates like a mischievous school girl ready to
roughhouse. This image was helped along by the way she was dressed:
a short black skirt that accentuated the delicate curve to her hips
and the already noted legs; black suspenders with a V necked red
and white striped tee shirt under them; a black fedora atop her
head of august red hair, pulled down rakishly, casting a hint of
shadow, but not enough to hide the black domino mask she wore, her
rich brown eyes exuding strength from behind it.

“
Don’t bother,” her voice,
light yet sharp like the blade of a dagger, tripped playfully from
between her ruby red lips, “trying to explain me, boys. Better
crooks than you have tried and,” she gave them an exaggerated wink,
“they failed just like you would.”

As her banter faded, both
men assumed fighting positions, the New Jerseyite holding his stick
high like a caveman’s club, the one tone wonder pulling it close to
his chest and tensing into a crouch, right shoulder closest to the
ground. He locked gazes with the lady in the alley and said, “Only
three masks. What’d you do with the two at the other
end?”

“
Nothing,” The Pulptress
answered matter of factly. “There were no two at the other end.
Guess they grew brains and went home.” She widened her stance just
a little and raised her hands up into a boxer’s pose, fingers bent
into relaxed fists. “Not too late for you fellas to get a case of
the smarts, too.”

The sweaty complainer
lumbered forward a few steps, swinging his Billy club around over
his head. “You’re nothing,” he said thickly, “but in the way,
little girl.”

“
Okay,” The Pulptress said,
her face aglow with unadulterated glee as she leapt forward. “Now
it’s too late.”

Both men charged at the
masked woman as she jumped into the air. Landing like an attacking
tigress on her feet, she broke into a run, her aim set on the space
between them. The more disciplined of the two, the man with no
inflection in his words, made the first play as she jumped again,
very nearly passing by him. He swung his club up from his chest
hard, glancing it off The Pulptress’s left leg. She grunted when
hit and tucked her shoulders for the crash landing against some
part of the alley. Striking the ground on her right side, she was
already in a roll back to her feet. To allow herself any less would
have meant death on more than one occasion.

Her quick recovery startled
both men, but still they turned and approached, eager to take
advantage of what should have been an injured opponent, but was now
more a fighting hellcat, dancing back and forth on the balls of her
feet. Off guard and angry, both men lost any semblance of training
they’d possessed seconds before and sprang like mad dogs at The
Pulptress. She thrust out her right arm first, her fingers curled
in against themselves, and twisted her wrist as she planted her
open fist dead center in the monotone man’s throat. He stopped
suddenly, almost where he stood, and gasped over and over, like a
man drowning in the early morning air. As he dropped to his knees,
his Billy club clamored against the asphalt. He clawed at his
throat with his now empty hands, the entire world whirling around
him like some mad cyclone. He tried to curse, to cry out, to
breathe, as his fingers dug helplessly, hoping to somehow pull back
the shroud of darkness closing in around him. He failed, pitching
forward, his face slapping dully against the unforgiving alley
floor.

As she retracted her arm
from one man’s throat, The Pulptress dipped back and to the right,
barely dodging the savage swing of the other’s night stick. He
roared like a grumbling grizzly, not a hint of Jersey in his
guttural utterances, and pounced forward, his arms open and ready
for a tackle. Standing up quickly, The Pulptress spun around in a
full circle, her left leg raised high. Bones crackling like puffed
rice in milk echoed throughout the Corridor as her foot pummeled
his masked face, his right cheek mulched into a bloody pulp. Unlike
his friend, Lannigan’s hired muscle from New Jersey didn’t go in
for the dramatic final scene. He simply toppled over like a sack of
wet cement, the other cheek making a spongy breaking sound as his
head hit the ground.