Jersey shore, grand caymans

The last time I was on holiday in Grand Cayman, I befriended, and bedded of course, a local girl. I never did take the time to learn her name, calling her “Babe”, was sufficient. I met ‘Babe’ at a beach party sponsored by one of the local radio stations.


She was working the party, serving keg beer and having a few for herself. Babe supported herself working as a nail technician by day and as a server in the catering business any and every other time.

The problem with the sailors old meme of “a girl in every port” is that sometimes the girls relocate.

Sandy, my girl in Tortuga, Haiti, had moved to George Town, Grand Cayman, after completing the online training to become a hair salon beautician. As luck would have it, she rented a house right next door to ‘Babe’. Also, unbeknownst to me, Babe had surreptitiously snapped a few pictures of us together, including ones of me enjoying her hamster suit. She displays them proudly, in her bedroom.

As you can guess, the two girls had become the best of friends in my absence. This I learn while calling on Babe. Sitting in her den, sipping sweet tea, we chat amicably. Babe assures me that she has no problem with my seeing other girls. She even hints that she wouldn’t mind sharing, giving me a sly wink. I begin to think tonight might get quite interesting.

Babe excuses herself to “get something from the bedroom to show me”. I hear the distinct sound resonating from her room of a pump action shotgun, probably a Mossberg 500, being chambered with a round. Dropping my tea, I dive over the back of the couch, sprint out the door, and hightail it down the block. I guess I’ll be seeking other entertainment from the bevy of local beauties this evening. Pleasure awaits, as soon as I empty the contents of the safe deposit box at Cayman National Bank.

Fortunately someone saved me the labour of transporting 200 kilograms of gold to, well, anywhere. The box is empty! “Your wife Sandy accessed the contents after you died in…”, the bank manager’s voice trails off as he realises the absurdity of his statement. Well, at least, that explains the matching Charcoal Grey Maserati’s parked in ‘Babe’s” and Sandy’s driveways.

Unfortunately for Gertie, I will not be contributing to her rehabilitation.

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Kris Kringle’s been spending a little too much time in the homes of high ranking government officials for the NSA’s liking. Diplomats, station chiefs, and clandestine service employees homes seem to garner a little too much consideration from Sinter Klass’ otherwise busy midnight Christmas eve run; according to the “eyes only” report I’m reading from U.S. America’s Homeland Security. The report courtesy of the deep web.

The U.S. American clandestine agencies suspect Sinter Klass of colluding with Zhengzhou, selling case operative identities and other intelligence to and from first, second, and third world nations all over the globe. Also, none too pleased are the Americans about Pelznickel’s narcotics operation.

Father Christmas’ base of operation boarders the North Western edge of Quttinirpaug National Park, on Canada’s Ellesmere Island. The location, well north of the Artic Circle, was deemed too hazardous for U.S. America’s military personnel and equipment to make an operation of this type cost effective. By contracting a company, new to the paramilitary business, the NSA figures they can keep their budget in tact and save a few bucks if the mission proves unsuccessful; “the dead cost nothing”.

“Business End International”, a start-up in the private military business had been looking for their big break. Based in Lihue Hawaii, the company boasts the ability to garner the cooperation of countries worldwide. The Kanakaloka caper is their foot in the door of the lucrative U.S. America’s military contractor pool. As such, they called in an expert, someone who’s tracked Mikulas high and low, all over the world, someone with intimate knowledge of Papai Noel’s habits, vices, and comrades; yup they called me. “It will be like a vacation”, the company’s salesman told me. Thoughts of basking on one of Hawaii’s famed beaches, hula skirt maidens prancing about, mai-tai in one hand and a bikini clad lass in the other, convinced me to get on board.

After two and a half days pouring over operational plans and specifications in a nondescript storefront office, located in Kauai Island’s Kuhio Mall; we have a fairly comprehensive plan. Time to hit the beach! The weather, which had been a very agreeable twenty one degrees Celsius all week, turns into a chilling rain as a tropical cyclone skirts the island. So much for my holiday.

“You thought we’re paying you just to check over out attack plan?”, the CEO of Business End International half queries. “We need you on the ground, or ice as the case may be, an expert advisor to provide real-time operational feedback. If there are any workarounds that need to be devised, I need a specialist with experience!”, the BEI boss concluded. Hooroo potential bikini babes. I should have known, between my expertise garnered from my time in Special Forces and the exorbitant fee they are paying me; fun wasn’t part of the programme. Rooked again.

. . .

82.604513,-77.257691, 19:00 hours, December 24. Twenty klicks south of the infamous Santa Claus’s “workshop”. Our team of mercenaries, er, freedom fighters, um er, “volunteers” from seventeen western and southern hemisphere countries are assembled; we number just over one hundred. The plan is fairly simple, storm the Hoteiosho campus, castrate it’s operations, and capture Babbo Natale. Utilising Martel MTT-136 electric dog sleds and AB Elmacchina electric snowmobiles, we will able to approach the campus with ninja like stealth.

Between the personnel, heated polar suites we have donned for this mission and cold weatherised equipment, including an anti-aircraft gun in case Kringle attempts a flight of flight; the operation is costing the Americans just under one billion tax dollars. Glad I’m not a citizen. Quite easily justified though if we can finally nail that Swiety Mikola bastard once and for all!

The BEI provided intelligence is exactly one year old. The thought being, our target duplicates his operation every year, thus newer data, and the cost of newer data, would be useless. Logical, I suppose. The satellite overviews show just where to expect the guards to be patrolling and the location of the security system. Other than the workshop, there a few barracks and a stable. “What are these spots”, I query the CEO. “Oh just some animals roaming the ground, probably reindeer. Nothing to worry about”, his answer. Nothing to worry about?, I’m not too sure about that.

The plan is simple. Utilising the Elmacchinas and Martels, we’d quickly cover the martel-mtt-136-electric-dog-sleddistance between our insertion point and the perimeter of the Julenissen compound. After neutralising the few expected Elfin boarder guards, the team will sprint to the “workshop”. Flash-bangs and breaching rounds. A quick incursion into the premises and Santa would be ours.

The twenty clicks are covered in a snap, our electric sleds performed admirably. The three Elfin patrol guards are quickly dispatched and the security system shut down by a focused EMP discharge. The plan is working. Just as we begin our sprint to the “workshop” we are thwarted by the ruminant guard, including St. Nicholas’ Imperial guard, his sled team. Fortunately, one of the Mexican volunteers planned for just such a problem as she produces a satchel full of Prime Rib laced with a powerful sedative. Once the rangifer tarandus are subdued, we continue our mission.

Forty team members in position, surrounding the “workshop”, the rest serving as lookouts several yards away from the main entrance hall. Ready? 3. 2. 1. Bang! Breaching charges fired, flash-bangs in all available orifices, blinding light and deafening sound. What should have followed: several team members entering the building, sidestepping the innocent Elves, finding Klaus and bringing him out, to face justice.

Instead, things went sideways… the first several volunteers are cut down by well armed Elves, proficient in the use of their General Electric XM214 Miniguns. The firefight that is playing out threatens to consume our entire contingent.

Just as it begins to look beyond hope, I get a call on my Sat-phone. Its Capt’n Sky. I had read Sky into the mission, just in case I needed an emergency lifeboat. Capt’n Sky reports there is a lone target fleeing from behind the “workshop”, making his way to the docks. I gather a contingent of nearby compatriots and we sprint in that direction. One of the commanders directing the firefight sees our move and orders the troops to disengage the Elves.

In the now comparative silence, I can hear Kanakaloka screaming into a Sat-phone as he runs toward a rather familiar looking red Donzi tied up alongside the dock.

“We got him!”, exclaims one of the commanders closing in on Klass. “The ice floes are too heavy to navigate in a light boat like that, he’s trapped!”. Pere Noel is still screaming to someone at the other end of his Sat-phone, running, tearing off his jacket, followed by his shirt. We continue to close in on Swiety Mikola, we’re about thirty yards behind him as he kicks off his boots. At twenty yards away from Pelznickel, still running towards the end of the dock, Santa shouts one more time into the Sat-phone before chucking the phone into the water. Stripping off his pants to reveal red thong underwear, Kris Kringle dives into the frigid water.

Just as Mikulas surfaces a few metres out, so does a submarine. Kris Kringle is admitted aboard via a diver’s hatch and the sub sinks quickly into the black night sea.

“What- who’s navy was that?”, inquires one of the volunteers standing with me on the dock. I just shrug my shoulders. Oh, I know, I recognised the insignia on the mast. I now know Santa is part of… well, I’m sure you know as well.

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No life is guaranteed, all lives are fallible, all life is precious, and enabled, if the universe and the hitman society agree.

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asian chic(k)

I encounter the Asian chick again, this very evening, at a medium class, even by US America standards, steak house. The food, by the way is quite tasty, my steak, done to perfection. The Derby, in Arcadia, California. Across the isle from me, the Asian chick sits with her beau, maybe her husband, perhaps her brother; either way, they are not lovers in love. Her date of the evening, seated to her left, and she chatted amicably but there are obviously no sparks. Occasionally the Asian chick steals glances in my direction. She does not acknowledge my presence directly, obviously, but we both know each other were in the room.

When the fellow in question gets up to use the loo, I make my move. There have been too many times the Asian chick has crossed my path. Was she keeping tabs on me for Zhongguo or is she looking for a job; I needed to know.

Knowing I have only a few minutes alone with her, I quickly sidle over, to her right, in the booth where she is dining. To her right, just in case I get cut short and beau returns too early, we could pretend to be old friends or something, without minimising his position. I get directly to the point.

“I work for (*)”, a half-truth, more on that later, I convey. “Are you searching for a better employment opportunity?” I complete. This leaves her open to discuss her intentions. If she hesitates, it means she has been spying on me, for some agency. Her answer however conveys a different universe. She was assigned to my case, initially, with the thought that the Zhongguo clandestine services might bring me into their fold, but after observing my ways and means, she decided she wants to become a part of whatever organization(s) I am employed by. She digs my style.

Just then, beau returns from doing his business. The Asian chick and I share a fake laugh, for his benefit, and I get up to return to my table whilst slipping her a business card. What she tells him of us is her business. On a whim, I covertly take a few snaps of beau, to run through the C.I.A.A. database. As I await my dessert, the search returns a negative response on beau, just some guy.

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Gertrude, a stalwart from our sister agency in Finland, has been in the business longer than even Marcie. Yet despite Gertie’s, and by the way, she despises the name Gertie, though we refer to her as just that as our private joke. Despite Gertrude’s longevity in the business, she looks amazing for her age; her German and Nordic heritage, and a little help from the medical field, have served her well.

Bambi, Gertrude’s cover name, is famous, or perhaps infamous, for her preferred method of execution. Now known and ‘The Gertrude Grapple’, the procedure is usually preformed in the bedroom. The procedure involves the deft usage of her thighs to remove the wedding tackle of the amorous victim. The mark usually bleeds out fairly quickly, though she usually swings her legs around to complete the job by snapping the job’s neck, capturing him, under the chin with the crook of her knee and scissoring him with the other.

Bambi always gets the job done, hence my visit to her in this Bremen hospital. I heard she was laid up here after her last job, a rich U.S. American touring Europe vie an expensive, customised BMW motorcycle. Apparently the young rich kid rubbed someone the wrong way and was marked for termination. Having hitched a ride with her job, whilst speeding down the Autobahn he decided he wanted the ultimate thrill, to be fully inserted, at 200 km/h. She gave it to him, just before he died. On completing the Gertrude Grapple, Gertie reached over her head to the handlebars to steady the bike. Facing the rear of the craft, however, she failed to notice the motorist, in the left lane of all places, changing a tyre. The resulting impact launched her over the stopped automobile, over the guard rail, and down the cliffside five hundred metres below the roadway.

Word came out on the ether that Gertrude was laid up, needing knee and hip replacements; the wear and tear on those joints must be phenomenal. Visiting her via Skype, she looks pretty torn up from the thicket of thorns she landed in after her Autobahn adventure. Considering the crash, I’m surprised Bambi needs only maintenance work done.

I also find it surprising the general lack of sympathy the hitman community has for this damsel in distress. Though I suppose her preferred style might be a little off-putting, gruesome to some, causing the general lack of empathy. Or it could be simply one less assassin means more jobs for the rest of us. Subscribing to the former, I decide a trip to George Town, Grand Cayman is in order; to liquidate some bullion I have stashed in a safe deposit box there.

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Tinker Taylor Soldier Spy

Great movie, quite real in the aspect of the daily dirge of spy work and that of a hitman. And at the end, spoiler alert, the perfect way to die. While some think they’d like to die of old age, feeble and slightly aware of their coming doom. Others dying doing what they like most, cumming and going at the same time… The best is a bullet in the Lachrymomaxillary Suture, hollow point preferably, with a huge exit wound. Over and done, no pain, no remorse, no… anything, just dead.

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Capucine on assignment

Downtown Crossing, Boston, Massachusetts, U.S. America. I watch as Capucine sits at one of the hotel’s three bars; this one is ‘U’ shaped , stalking her prey. Long blonde hair pulled sloppily into a ponytail. Glasses for effect, wearing a dark coloured Yale hooded sweatshirt and tan khaki pants. Backpack slung over her chair, the contents far more deadly than her college co-ed appearance projects.

I’m supervising this mission, Capucine’s first for the C.I.A.A., as part of her probationary period for the company.

Nursing her one beer, pounding down the mixed nuts, she keeps a careful eye on the mark. When she sees the mark’s signal to the bartender to settle up, Capucine does the same. Thanking the bar girl for her patience with a small box, I later advise the bar girl not to eat anything inside that box, she sprints to catch up with her victim at the lift.

Once in the lift with the job, Capucine makes a flirty pass, knowing already he is going to his lonely room, having struck out in the bar just minutes before. Capucine tags along with the mark, engaging in suggestive conversation all the way to his room and enters with him to complete the contract.

I sprint from my seat at the bar and up the three flights of stairs to continue my surveillance. As I pretend to be having trouble with the key for my room, Capucine and the mark stroll past behind me.

Peephole ViewerIn my peripheral vision I watch as Capucine and the target enter his room. Before the door closes behind them I hear Capucine remark to the job about wanting to show him her cookies. I’m temped to observe the kill, I did just pick up a Peephole Viewer from the C.I.A.A.’s logistics department; but I decide to trust Capucine to her own devices.

Barely two hours later Capucine joins me at the hotel’s martini bar. “Done”, she reports as she drags one of the bar stools very close to mine and sits. “It’s nice to be paid for this kind of work for a change”, Capucine observes. Up to this time Capucine’s victims were all matters of her own survival; kill or be captured, killed, or worse. “Proof!”, I demand. Capucine produces a Jolla smartphone from the pocket of her hoodie and thumbs to a picture. The photo is of a very dead shirtless man with an opened box of Thin Mints protruding from his chest.

“Very nice”, I observe quietly. I believe Capucine was grateful I didn’t interrogate her about the events that transpired in the hotel room. She did blush a little though, when I pointed out there was a mint and chocolate smear on her chest, just below her neckline.

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