The QUEEN SONG

Part 2

(25) Scenes 57-59

09/20/2019
Mike W McCoy

Version 2.0

<>57<>  Bites and bruises.

Special agent Boris grunted as each thrust of his hips met up against the Queen’s wide, bony backside.  She responded to the violent sexual actions with sounds similar to the hiss and crackle of a burning eucalyptus tree.  The crude sex was not about pleasure, but domination.  He was oblivious to the wants beyond doing what she needed, and if not for the delusion of the Queen Song, Boris would scream at the horror.

They squirmed across the scratchy sand-layered tiles of the pool’s deep end.  Her immensely strong arms re-positioned his body as if it was a rag doll.  Boris would wind his hands into her long brittle hair, holding on like a rodeo rider, or clutch at the hard insect-like carapace plates--trailing down her warped spinal column.  Several times they performed while atop the mutilated fresh corpse of the cult woman she had just fed upon.  Blood, and smeared bits of internal organs, slithered across their flesh, appearing as old spaghetti left out for the dogs to fight over.

The pair of Courtesans moaned louder and louder, as if keeping a morbid metronome, a weird background clock for the Queen Song.  They kneeled, facing each other, and gyrated in wide plunging circles.  Their bleeding and sunburned arms flailed and stretched like the probing fronds of smart-cactus.  Scoops of sand and grit were tossed into the air, like a bad imitation of dancing water fountains.  Their long brown ponytails had unraveled, and accented the swoops and thrusts of the mental madness ringing behind their bloodshot eyes.

Farther out inside the waterless pool, the approximately 40 more groaning cultists continued with their own shattered and stuttered versions of sex and violence.  Some simply attacked each other with no empathy or restraint.  Hair was yanked from scalps, bites and bruises brutally blemished bare flesh.  Even the death of some couldn’t stop the orgy of trance-induced insanity from continuing.  Frantic screams, bloody clawing, and solid beatings carried on.  Everything began to increase in intensity and volume as the Queen and Boris changed positions. 

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<>58<>Yes, Mr. Takaoka, lets.

“Agent Yoshi, please,” Fong insisted again, holing out the 12 gauge.

Securing her insanely sharp knife between her teeth, like a cartoon pirate, she reached for the weapon, but paused.  Somehow the dents and dings on the gun made Yoshi think it was from the trunk of her police cruiser, long abandoned on the street outside of Club Uzi.

“Problem?” Fong asked, breaking ‘Memory’.  Instead of a direct answer, she laughed, took the weapon, and gave a cryptic slow laugh.

Before the triad man could respond, she and the cousin of Mr. 12 sidestepped to join her last Ninja, Mr. Takaoka. 

The Japanese warrior had lost his face mask and head scarf, revealing a deepening blue black bruise above is left eye.  His grin expressed both the sorrow at becoming the last of Team Six, and the unexpected pride of facing battle alongside his savior and master.  He wiped the katana across his arm, cleaning off the blood and gore, then gave her a quick bow before asking.

“Shall we then?”

“Yes Mr. Takaoka, let’s.”  Her response was firm and fun. 

Together they approached the stage of the theater in lockstep, as if going to see the Wizard of Oz.  Yoshi stopped their advance just long enough to re-secure the blade in her blood-speckled headband, and verify a shell was chambered in the weapon. 

Fong, holding his bleeding guts inside, got the attention of Mahn.  “Was she always like that?”

“Not sure…been a long time.”

“Speaking of time,” Fong added with a matter-of-fact tone, then waved at the gang of 12 or 15 crazy-eyed cultists gathering within spitting distance of Jax. 

The mob was near king’s bishop 5 and the jumble of corpses surrounding the altar of death.  The Firstborn strode towards the Alien egg, now leaning crooked on its wide, low pedestal. 

Leaking acid goo from inside the gray-green oval continued to dribble as stringy globs upon the chessboard stage.  Slow curling smoke, and a smell of burnt wood wafted in waves.  Several disciples rushed forward, stepping on or over the dead bodies of fellow disciples, and the massacred triad men of Uncle Ueo.  But they held back, not touching the altar, as if Jax had mentally commanded then to stop. 

Yoshi and Mr. Takaoka angled left, towards the bloated edge of the same mob.  Mahn helped stand and steady Fong, then they too stepped closer towards the macabre mound of murder from the right. 

Yoshi could slightly feel a strange vibe coming from Jax.  But with each step closer to the grotesque mound of crusty carnage and cactus pierced dead flesh, her own fierce resolve to kill the Firstborn, no matter the cost, drove the tingle from her mind.

Abruptly, Mr. Takaoka yelled a challenge and dashed forward.  His swinging sword was a blur of horizontal and vertical swipes.  The decapitated bald head of the 1st cultist hadn’t hit the stage before the 2nd hypnotized disciple was disemboweled.  A shirtless 3rd, wild-eyed cultist, died when the katana pierced his heart.

Yoshi followed only a pace behind.  Using the buttstock of the shotgun, the agent crushed in the skull of her initial target, and swung it like a club into the throat of the next.  The dying wide-assed cult woman clutched at her crushed trachea, and collapsed to her exposed knees.

A duo of shirtless men, with ripped matching brown dress slacks, sprinted at Fong.  The Snake managed to hold off the 1st with a strong arm push, but the 2nd slipped around, closer.  Fong used his knife to rapidly slash into the screaming cultist’s guts, spilling liberal cups of blood on the stage.

BRANG.

The shot from Mahn’s pistol was an audio exclamation point.  The creep that Fong was holding off collapsed, brains and chunks of bone exploding from the back of his skull. 

“Ganji,” the Snake managed. 

“You’re welcome,” Mahn nodded back, and quickly replaced his weapon’s clip.  “Feels like old times.”

BANG, KABANG, BRANG, BRANG, and KABANG.

Mahn fired in quick order, delivering deadly love taps into the cultists closer to Jax.  In response, the Firstborn pushed a short thick limbed thug forward, and dodged back behind the Alien egg. 

KABANG.

Mahn flawlessly headshot the short Enforcer.  But the man still stood and swayed on his feet, spoiling his next shot at Jax, by stumbling into the path of the last .45 caliber bullet.

KRBANG.

Time seemed to slow for Yoshi.  She blocked a wild punch by another long haired cultist, and as he fell away, his hands clung onto the 12 gauge, ripping it from her grasp.  With a grunt of frustration, Yoshi drew her knife, and immediately sliced open the jugular vein of the next closing cultist, as if it was made of tissue paper.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Mr. Takaoka dispatch another crazy with an arm-severing swing, and Fong pushing back against a topless, skeletal-thin woman.  Yoshi watched, as if it as trapped by slow motion, as Mahn’s head-shot victim stumbled backwards, and collided into the Alien egg. 

The altar fell from its pedestal with a loud squishy crack, and a seam split open from below the leaking petal. 

Yoshi gasped in horror. 

A large, cat-sized gray, almost white, spider with a meter long tail pushed its way out of the sideways egg.  Instinctively, she blocked a wide swing by the grabby cultist opponent, never taking her eyes off the Alien creature.  In only heartbeats it scurried up the side of the fallen egg, then using its tail as a coiled spring, it propelled itself into the air.

Yoshi knew, without having to see, it had leapt torpedo straight onto the face of her half-brother!

“Mahn, no, no, no,” she muttered in stunned disbelief.  Jax said something, and so did Fong, but ‘Anger’ had taken control, and blanked everything else out. 

With an unconscious muscle memory, Yoshi stabbed the long haired cultist under the chin, and into his brain.  She released the knife, dived right, and rolled up into a kneeling position holding the fallen shotgun.

She pointed it at Jax.  The Firstborn was too amused and fascinated by the situation to be afraid of what could happen next. 

KRABOOM!

The 12 gauge fired at Jax from less than 18 feet.  The military sabot round entered center mass, knocking him backwards.  The 4 brass flanges broke off, and bounced bone to bone, creating separate wound channels, and carving his insides into a cadaver before he hit the ground.  Thick, strawberry jam-like acid blood quickly spattered and pooled around the Firstborn. 

‘Anger’ was still not finished, and directed the conflicted woman into another act merciful cruelty. 

Oblivious to the sudden loud screeched outcries from the cult followers, Yoshi racked the weapon’s slide, chambering the last shell.  She walked towards her brother’s form, collapsed on the stage floor.  Mahn’s body twitched, as the Alien face-hugger tightened its tail around his throat, as if anticipating an attempt at rescue.

“Mars sucks anyway.” 

KRABOOM!

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<>59<>  Orgy of madness.

The sunlight of breaking dawn helped cast a sharp-angled dark shadow into the Olympic-size pool.  The murderous orgy of madness was still thrusting away.  Disciples continued to pound flesh and pull hair, teeth mashed muscle, pain pierced the air, and screams still sweetened the Soundtrack.

The Courtesans were shuddering violently, and rolling around the sand scattered tile of the pool’s deep end, appearing as pixies on supercharged crack.  Both held up bleeding, scraped raw hands to the rising sun, and dialed their wailing noise away from perverted passion.  Their vocals began to echo over the mixed crowd of cultists with a more sorrowful undertone.

At only a handful of strides away, the mutated form of the Queen was squatting atop the nearly exhausted prone position of Boris.  Her no-longer human-shaped profile made a stark shadow, resembling a vulture stretched into the body of a snake.  Her backward bent legs held Boris squeezed tight, as she rode him up and down.  Both oddly long arms mimicked the Courtesans reach for the sky, while combing through her wild cactus needle dusted hair.

Boris grunted in pain and pleasure each time she slammed down.  His body was being abused by a stuttering, sucking death.  But, his mind stayed trapped by the hypnotic delusion of the Queen Song.  For him, she wasn’t a deformed monstrosity of jutting fangs, black talons, and a heaving gaunt chest: the Queen was a fantasy of every lover he had ever been with. 

Suddenly, the Song in the man’s head stopped.  It was like a jagged spike had been yanked from deep inside his mind, with no regard to the damage it made on the way out.  Between the inhales of 2 breaths the Queen Song had died.

‘Confusion’ and ‘Anger’ filled the hole, and ‘Memory’ tagged in just for fun.  Mother leaned back, bellowed a deep scream at the rising sun.  From his pinned position, Boris glanced around trying to comprehend what was happening.

His filthy, ripped slacks that had been torn from his badly bruised body and were in a heap, only a stretched arm’s length away.  The violent excitement of the split moment forced in an instant of insane clarity.  Special agent Boris made his last sane move.  Lunging left, he broke free of the Queen’s hold, and thrust his hand into the ragged pile of clothes to find the triad knife. 

The Queen looked down on him at that instant.  He felt an itch burrowing from her black-on-black Alien eyes into his.  Then, with a wordless curse, Boris let muscle memory guide his hand.  Heaving up strongly, he slashed in a straight and true arc, dragging the big blade thru the monster’s neck and vertebra!

Her extended jaw snapped at nothing as her head separated from its body.  A sudden gush of dark, acid blood spurted out, and burned a horrific hole into Boris’s chest.

Her body went limp, collapsing like a puppet with broken strings.  His dying thought could just barely registered her thrashing limbs, as the Queen’s surprised visage tumbled across the pool’s tile, and ended up facing the satisfied, crooked smile on the mutilated flesh of her assassin, special agent Boris.

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