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Wonder Woman

Given all the hoopla surrounding this weekends latest superhero film, today seems like a good one to slap this bad boy up.

Although in the end this will cost you far less than ten bucks and bucket o' corn, and promises a decidedly more ... uplighting ... ending.

Wonder Woman by Gerald E. Sheagren

Santos and Dwight took the stairwell to the tenth-rate hotel’s third floor—hearts drumming, sweat lacing their brows and soaking their underarms. The short hairs at the back of their necks were practically standing up and saluting. their quarry was an assassin by the sobriquet of Wonder Woman and if all they’d heard was true, she wasn’t going to go down easily.

They’d seen a picture of her—the only one known to exist—and couldn’t imagine how such a gorgeous chick could be such a cold and heartless killer. Hell, with her raven hair, smooth, alabaster skin and what had to be 36-Cs, she’d be more suited for a centerfold. But life sure had its crazy little quirks. The short dossier they’d read said that she possessed exceptional strength and cunning, and had a black belt both in judo and karate.

She had no known address and traveled the world, dealing out death with the greatest of ease. Sniper rifle, knife, garrote or bare hands—nothing was beyond her expertise. And you could throw in C-4 and a rocket launcher to boot. But when she’d two-faced Frankie Spinoza on a contract, she’d stepped into some serious do-do. He’d found out where she was and now it was time to give her a taste of her own medicine.

Santos and Dwight were no slouches when it came to the extermination game, with fifty-two kills between them. And for a little extra insurance, Victor was stationed on a rooftop across the street with a titanium rifle, complete with a sound-suppressor, a 20-round clip and the best optics money could buy. His job was to cover the solitary window of room 521, taking down the elusive Wonder Woman if she should make an appearance. And his orders were to empty the whole fuckin’ clip.
Reaching the fifth-floor landing, Santos eased the door open and cautiously peered into the darkened hallway. The coast was clear.
Dwight huffed. “I can’t imagine a looker like her bunking down in this flea-bitten shithole.”
“She probably figures it’s the last place anyone would look. C’mon, it’s time to boogie.”
They slipped into the hall, their radar on high alert. A roach scurried across the threadbare carpeting. A dim light overhead flickered and sizzled, threatening to blow out. The stale air smelled like a derelict’s armpit.
Reaching 521, Santos placed his ear against the door, hearing nothing. Then he whispered. “Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.”  
With that, Dwight kicked the rickety door down with his size-twelve shoe. They rushed in, bending low, their guns trying to cover every direction at once. It was empty. The room was totally crumb-dumb, with puke-green carpeting and 1960s-era furniture. Dust mites rode the sunrays from the room’s only window. The bed was unmade, with yellowed sheets, its pillow still bearing the ident of Wonder Woman’s head.
Santos sniffed the air. “I detect her perfume. It smells like roses.”
“The only other place she could be is the bathroom. We saw her come in this dump of hotel and she never left.”
“Yeah, she’s probably in there, soaking in a nice warm bubble-bath, drinking wine and fondling those gorgeous boobs of hers.”
“I’d sure love to give that babe a nice long hump.”
“Before or after she’s dead?”
“Before. I wanna hear her mewl and pant and tell me how great I am.”
“Think again, partner. Believe me, with her reputation, you’re going to have to settle for post mortem. C’mon, let’s get this show on the road.”
With all camaraderie put aside, the two men braced themselves then charged ahead like gangbusters, with Dwight kicking in the door. The bathroom was empty with one big exception. There, floating atop a full tub of water was a blow-up doll, complete with raven-colored hair, startling green eyes, ruby-red lips and a wholesome bust. It even had an authentic-looking pussy, surrounded by a curly thatch of pubic hair. Written across its stomach in black magic marker were the words Fuck Me.

Dwight could only stare. “What the hell?”

“Man-oh-man.” Santos couldn’t help a chuckle. “This Wonder Woman sure has a sick sense of humor.”
Then to top off the weirdness, they heard a sprightly musical tune. Looking around, Dwight saw a cell phone lying in the rust-stained sink. “Shit, should I answer that thing?”
“I don’t like this whole fuckin’ situation, but go ahead.”
Picking up the cell, Dwight swiped a finger to answer the call. “Yeah?”
Hi, sugarplum. I was just wondering if you got there yet.
“Who the fuck is this?”
C’mon, you know damn well who it is. How do you like the dolly? It looks a lot like me.
“Yeah. That was real ingenious of you.”
I thought so. Hey, if you have the time, you should strip off your clothes and hop in the tub for a good time.
“I’d rather have you in person.”
No can do. By the way, do you know what I named the dolly?
“I’m interested to hear.”
 I named her C-4. Have a nice day, sugar.
Just then, the right eye of the doll turned from green to a blinking red.


The explosion rocked Victor on the rooftop across the street, debris buzzing all around. He leapt to his feet in a panic. And when he did, the high-powered round found him, exploding his head like a sledgehammer would a melon.

Gerald E. Sheagren is a 68-year-old retiree, who lives in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, along with his wife Sharon and three unbalanced cats. His one goal in life was to be a dick-wad and he’s totally succeeded in the effort. Gerald writes in just about every genre, but his favorite is crime stories with a great deal of suspense and a whole lot of grit. After all, an old fart like him has to keep his blood pumping.