by: Bobbi Raye Duke
The Amtrak train flew by on the track on its way to Memphis. The tall, stocky, raven haired, buff woman came out of the lavatory, cool and slow. She looked around, clad in a black velvet bustier studded with diamonds and blue jeans. “What’s the matter,” she thought playfully, “never seen a sexually independent woman before? Goodness knows when JC Chasez licks the stage, you glorify him, but when Madonna displays her own sexual independence, you scorn her and all the young’uns who come after her.”
The other woman, her accomplice, was sitting tightly in her chair, trying to hide desperately from the real world that she detested. A haggard woman, her bleached hair looked like it was forced by gunpoint into curlers, then released never to be the same again. Her face looked like a boiled cabbage, it looked like if you touched it with the slightest touch, it would literally explode, tissue, viscera, blood and all, on contact with a feather-touch, and release air filled with gall, hate, loathing and verbal/emotional abuse and abominable obscenity like no other a human being had ever encountered before. She pathetically quivered in her seat, looking like a heap of soggy Corn Flakes and feeling that way. She wore a pentagram hidden deep in her hefty cleavage, though she looked like just a ragged old evil thing that escaped a nursing home years ago, there was a dark truth about hr, she was a Satanic Wiccan.
The other woman strided toward her seat cooly as a black panther. She sat down in her seat. A waitress went up to her and said “Would you care for a cocktail, Madam?” “A Kahlua and cream, please.” the woman said in a business-is-business type attitude. The two women sat staring at the tunnel in front of them, they were in the middle of the train, near the emergency exit. They sat quietly, not talking to each ther for a moment. The raven-haired siren peered out the window where the other woman was sitting. “So funny,” she said in a Southern drawl. “One would think only Angels fly as swiftly.” She slyly grinned. “Don’t speak of Angels. They give me the evil runs,” the other woman grumbled, her voice sounding like it was a fart coming from the depths of Hell itself, and just as foul-smelling.
The other woman got her Kahlua and Cream and coolly and luxuriously sipped it. The business between the two was a black-market peddling of an illegal new drug made from fermented birch bark brew with a dangerous hallucination-inducing chemical, liquid nexxus, the once-famous drug of night clubs, now in liquid form. Wiccans of the Haggard’s coven now used it to recieve money in order to acquire the accessories to do what thy did best–kidnap, sexual assault, sexual assualt of minors, body mutilation, animal abuse, murder, and otheprverse abominatins, or what they called “coven rituals”.
“Got the cooler?” The raven-haired siren said. The Haggard slyly displayed it subtly, only to the siren, under her seat. Full of the stuff, the woman trusted the Haggard, she knew it was full of jug after jug. The Haggard’s coven had connections natiowide by internet. Her next stop was Memphis to poison youth, teens, and heaven knows whoever else 2 to 30 with her evil brew while she killed, raped, molested and slaughtered other innocent, pure youth completely hidden from the public eye very cleverly.
“Not this time”, the siren thought. The siren pulled open a sleek, sexy gold case, full of a cool 1k. She displayed the money wih a smile. Slience filled the car as the Haggard reached for the money with one hand, her other hand on the handle of the cooler.
The siren clasped her hand around the woman’s hand as if she were cuffing her. A lovely rush of adrenaline ran through the siren’s body as she yanked the woman from her seat, much to the immediate dismay of all on board who watched. The Haggard screeched, howled and bellowed, bellowing horrid obscenities while the siren got her in a headlock. The woman sounded like Satan as a Bostonian woman of 78. Both spilled out of the emergency door like moonshine from a jug. The siren cleverly usedthe Haggard’s plastic cooler as a good cushion as both bodies bounced from the train into a nearby field. A figure suddenly trotted up to them on a horse as the siren cleverly hog-tied the screeching Haggard quicker than the blink of an eye. The figure on the horse was…angelic. She was a lovely brunette country girl in very short cutoffs and a lovely blue bandanna print halter top. A roar equivalent of that of a lion shook the nearby woods as a dashing car, painted an orange color, came storming out of nowhere belting passionately the first few bars of Dixie.
The driver appeared, a paradoxically wise yet sweetly naiive sort of country gentleman, someone a woman would want to make sweet passionate love to for the rest of her life, peered out of the window and smiled with a genuine sweetness. “Have a nice ride, shugah?” he asked the screaming, hysterical haggard.
“Crazy dyke!” the haggard screamed in an alto voice to the siren. The siren lifted up her… mask…and yanked something off her neck…a voice altering computer chip! The woman suddenly spokewith the voice of a sexy, sweet, Georgian 18-year-old guy!
“I do believe the proper offensive term you wanna use is crazy homo, shugah!”
The siren yanked off her mask. She was an 18-year-old blonde Georgia man, handsome and sly as a cougar and just as lithe, as innocent and pure as Swiss cream.
The prisoner was taken to the General Lee as the blonde took his suit off to reveal his manly self. The wild horse was set free, and the trio drove with the song (just for variety’s sake, plus it was certainly loud enough to drown out the Haggard’s screeching) “Get Ready For This” by 2 Unlimited (what? A native Georgian listens just to Garth Brooks all the time?)
“Who the hell are you? Who the hell are you schizos?!” The Haggard screamed over and over.
[Charlie’s Voice, country music similar to the Dukes of Hazzard theme plays in the background] Not too long ago, there were some rednecks from Georgia. They were all moonshine runners in the beginning, running from a very corrupt law enforcement. Times were tough at my own agency, and I needed three good people who could take a lot of wear and tear. These three people were perfect, and now they and their lovely, quick-as-a-cat-car work for me. My name is Charlie.
*Charlie’s Angels theme plays*
It was another wonderful morning in California. 6:00 am, Los Angeles began to sing with the song of life as the cars pulsed through the blood veins of the city, the skyscrapers sang with the multitude of symphonies of business, the youth sailed in to Venice and other such places to soon begin the wondrous beguine of salt, sand, surf, hot dogs, burgers, and tans and margaritas.
And three young folks from Georgia were somewhere on the side, hidden very subtly by a lovely house, which was, in all reality, the Charlie Towsend agency. Beauregard, Luke and Daisy Duke were lounging in the main room. Bo, Luke and Daisy were all cousins. They were all Georgia natives, and though Charlie Townsend’s other angels had been repetitiously professional over the years, these three were, refreshingly, anything but. Bo was lounging with both whimsically mud-covered boots up on the sleek black Japanese coffee table, his sexy blonde lion’s mane lounging across his angelic, alluring face, the face of a most rare gentleman indeed, a rare diamond amongst rhinestones, a country gentleman. Luke was on the other side him perching his own mud-covered boots on the table and chowing down on the sushi served in front of him. “I swear, California,” he mumbled, eating the various forms of sushi served on a giant oyster platter with his own bare hand. “Next time, I swear, I’m gonna request me some Cocoa Puffs the next time we come here in the morning.”
Bo giggled. “I’m gonna request me my Lucky Charms.” Daisy grinned playfully. She had snuck a box of Lucky Charms off of the lear jet that picked up the Dukes at the airport to take them at warp speed to California. Something she never dared to do, knowing that it was usually the work of a worthless cheapskate, but she just wanted to surprise Bo, knowing that he loved his Lucky Charms, just to see what he’d do.
“Oh, Daisy, you shouldn’t have, shugah,” he said, sounding as slow and sweet as molasses in December. He reached for the tiny box and started to tear into it and chow down. The lovely lass sat between her cousins, looking like a young lioness, a lovely brunette mane and a sumptuous red shirt tied at the midriff, playfully showing a black satin bra very subtly, and very short cutoffs to match, truly a Hillbilly Marmalade. Bo picked out a blue Diamond out of the many wonderfully whimsical marshmallows the box had to offer…and playfully threw it at Luke when he wasn’t lookin’. It pelted him in the cheek. He looked at Bo and smiled as if to say, “Why you no good, lily livered scalawag!”
Bo smiled and teasingly flicked his tongue like a cutie-pie, lovable little snake-in-the-grass. Luke tossed it back to him. The situation eventually ended in a head-tohead fight. The ammo: Pink hearts, yellow moons, orange starts, green clovers and blue diamonds, and all the other various charms. Suddenly, another figure came in the room. He was a California native, and though he was dressed in a constricting, suffocating Armani uniform, he himself was the exact opposite of what he was required to wear. His name was John David Bosley, and he was Charlie’s right hand. He was usually the Jiminy Cricket for the angels, while Charlie was their blue fairy. Bo originally figured out the analogy, and it made all three laugh their asses off just to think about it that way.
“All right, you crazy Dukes, no Lucky Charm assaults in here!” he said in a most wonderfully playful tone. “Awwwwwww shucks,” the Dukes chorused in mock disappointment. “Let the beguine begin!” Bosley said as he switched on a sleek black box before him. It was a speaker and a mysterious voice came from it. “Good morning, my wonderful new angels.” “Mornin’, Charlie!” chorused the three Dukes in a most friendly, hilbilly, southernly manner. “Bo, Luke, Daisy, I trust that you’re all rested and ready for your next assignment.” Bosley opened a sliding door on a wall so they could look at a sleek monitor and see their new assignment, or as Bo always called it, “watchin’ the skinny TV!”
“As you all know, Bo’s daughter, Bobbi Raye, is alive. She was kidnapped years ago by a stranger who was going to sell her as a baby on the black market for money. But his wife, however, convinced him to keep her. We all know now, through extensive research, where Bobbi Raye has been forced to live all these years. She’s been living in Gata Negra, California, just 30 miles south of Los Angeles. Yes, what you’ve heard is fully confirmed with no sarcasm intended, Bo. I simply can’t lie and I’ve got to be as raw as the sushi I serve you guys–she’s a victim of child abuse.” Charlie gave them the lowdown, and as he did, the screen went computerized and he showed the Dukes the stats on all the kidnappers.
Name: Hamilton Seamus Pelzer-Combs
Born: In Mississippi woods, concealed from the rest of the world, in a hidden Satanic Wiccan coven.
History: Born to mother, who has no previous records (mysteriously, they’ve been “lost” for some odd reason), who only goes by the name “Natasha”, and Father, Father Herbert O’Malley Pelzer-Combs, who was a well-known, well-respected Christian priest in public, but in private, he was a feverishly delirious wife-beater, and repeatedly raped her, and abused herverbally/emotionally/sexually/physically. He also threatened to kill her if she told, and if she didn’t put on a norml facade as he did in public (coincidentally, she went through the exact same stuff with her family as a kid/teen/young adult before she married.) She found a very subtle, untraceable way to kill him when Hamilton was 6 (she abused Hamilton in the same manner, meanwhile, continued to do so since.) She threatend to kill him if he tld, he’d witnessed his father’s murder. She became a Satanic Wiccan shortly afterwards and forced him to join.
Past History as child/teen/young adult: She abused him in every way possible, and in rituals. He put on a normal facade in public or died otherwise.
It began to show that something was wrong when he was in high school, but in the meantime, he was forced to go trough everything from special ed classes to perpetual friendlessness. He was still underneath, however, his mother’s spiritual gag.
Weight: 210 pounds
Height: 6′ 0″
Religion: Satanic Wicca
Deputy Jean Virginia Pelzer-Combs:
Born: In a KKK club hidden in the Ozark hills
to mother Avonlea Chaste (Klan wife) and father James Beauregard Chaste (Klan Husband/”Preacher” [obviously a huge hypocrite]) Avonlea was forbidden to have any education past 8th grade, simply because the sexist school system referred to her as “a part of the gender who any further curricula is unnecessary for due to the natural and bilogically lower caliber of such gender” (she was forbidden to go on past the 8th grade because the school system thought she should just stay home, cook, clean, sew, crank out kids and never be the slightest hint of what today Destiny’s Child calls the “Independent Woman.”)
Jean’s father was also verbally/emotionally/physically abusive, with his wife as his right hand, the Mr. Smee (Peter Pan character), if you will, or the Mr. Tweedy (Chicken Run). Both Jean’s parents, too, had put a spiritual gag on her in public from childhood, it stayed with her to young adulthood onward.
She married due to her mother’s urging. She maried Hamilton and he had abusd her. (She wasn’t imbued earlier on, however, with the caliber to realize he was abusing her.) She was afflicted with a permanent insanity shortly afterwards. She has beome so insane one could almost swear she’s a normal housewife. She truly believes her husband is Jesus Christ (and he DID brainwash that myth into her head, also brainwashing her into believing stubbornly that He/She/Daughter Chrissy are actually Baptists.) They are, in all gruesome, horrid reality, Satanic Wiccans.
Hair: Blonde (Bleached Lighter to hide gray)
Religion: Satanic Wicca
Name: Christine (Chrissy) Pelzer-Combs
History: Abused to the point of insanity by her father since toddlerhood, she has now become his hitwoman and assassin. Prissy, snotty, stuck-up and permanently lost.
Hamilton was a horrid-looking fellow, he looked like Satan as a Bostoner. His face was a wretched, arrogant mass of rumpled-by-hate, wrinkled, crumpled old snot-filled Kleenex. He was vomit-inducing to look at, his face was one with hate and every last one of its family tree. Out of his face peered evil, tiny little assassins colored with a facade of innocent blue. His body–well evey wise person knew it was okay to be healthy for any sex and not a Cosmo-type body, but anybody could tell his body was disfigured, disfigured and distorted from one of his Satanic Wiccan spells gone awry. His gut made him look like he was impregnated, and in this case, he was–with his own gall, bile, bitterness and hatred. He never smiled, and in his many shots, when he did, it always unfailingly chilled each Duke’s bone marrow Antarctica style.
As for Deputy Combs, however she was twice as terrifying. The woman looked like a combo of Debbie Reynolds and the Blond Haired woman from the Burt Reynolds’ move The Maddening, and she was just as insane. She was so insane, she was insane to the point where she seemed normal. She looked and acted lioke June Cleaver in all of her shots, and had a smile that, to a pewrson who didn’t know who she truly was, bright and pure, but to the Dukes, Bosley and Charlie, they could plainly tell that tyhe woman was, in all sick, raw, cold reality, she was a maddened woman indeed.
Chrissy was a tall and anorexic woman (her father told her that men and male characters such as Fat Albert and NSync’s Joey Fatone could be fat and still sexually acceptable–in Joey fatone’s case, of course–because they were men, but if she, as a woman had the slightest bit of fat on her, that she, by nature, would be less physically beautiful than Claudia Schiffer and other Cosmo models like her.), yet she was lithe and strong. She wasn’t beautiful, that was certain. She looked like Gwyneth Paltrow half starved and with exceptionally greasy hair and skin as white as that of a cooked oyster. She certainly was prissy in face and lips. She looked unhealthy. There was no use saving her soul, any Duke could see that, sadly, it was already gone.
Bo clasped his hands and bowed his head in prayer. He blessed the villains and wished them all the happiness in the world and all the love and success in life that they needed, and every treasure in the world. It was far too easy to wish them all hell and fire and death and plague, and he knew if he did, it would do him absolutely no good. It would only succeed in destroying him as a person, and then eventually, slowly and surely, it would eventually kill him and replace him with some abominable, vile, detestable hell-beast that would have become just like Hamilton Pelzer Combs. he didn’t need to do such prayers for Bobbi Raye. Somehow, he just knew, deep inside his spirit, though he’d never seen her since she was a newborn, that she, as a person spiritually, despite the hell and fire the Pelzer-Combs’ had perpetually, mercilessly and relentlessly gave her, was alreadfy blessed with love, success, and every true treasure life had to offer. As for the Pelzer-Combs, it was them who needed help, and though it was already too late to save their souls, he prayed for them anyway, simply to preserve his own.**
“Your first mission, angels, is to head for the illicit massage parlor in the underground. Several satanic wiccans have hollowed a place out in the underground sewage system to have massages done for them. You’ll be undercover, and needless to say, you’ll be going into the belly of hell itself. But it’ll be worth it, because there, at approximately 3:00 a.m. (and mind you, you’ll need plenty of California espresso for this job) you’ll be finding a connection there, a connection who’s one of the sorriest cops on his force, all too obviously. His name is Cristobal Valentino, and he’s Combs’ connection in LAPD. When Bobbi Raye tried to run away once, not only did Combs alert him about her, but he also fed him a lot of bull about her. Point is, Valentino’s got a lot of info about where Bobbi raye might be, and in this case, Bobbi raye’s salvation begins with him, follows with other connections, and ends with Bobbi Raye being found. Good luck Angels, and may God and Jesus have mercy on your souls.”
The Wiccan massage parlor was underground. Bo *did* drink a lot of espresso for this gig, and he was ready. The place smelled like Hades’ toilet…the three went underground, all painted up in different types of body paint (as was the custom of the employees of the parlor) and entered the place, which was goth and full of goth/red/black tones. they opended up a big hole in a pipeline, all hollowed out, found three employees assigned to Valentino that night. They knocked ’em out with Aikido nerve pinches–thank goodness for the Aikido training Charlie gave ’em–and tied ’em up and gagged ’em in a storage room. As hot and steamy as the place was, hot as Florida–it chilled each Duke to the center of each of their bone marrow cells Antarctica-style. They remembered Sherriff Combs’ picture…it seemed like as if he truly ruled this place, as if he was one with it spiritually. It was wet and scented with blood all over, goats for sacrifce, sex going on, very perverse. The place emanated goth and darkness in every way imaginable, it truly was Hell on earth.
But each Duke willed themselves to be as strong as adamantium in soul and spirit, and each thanked the Lord and Jesus for that torture resistance training Charlie gave ’em in Thailand two years ago, to help them not fight, resist or ignore carnal, spiritual, psychological, mental or soul pain, but to submit and accept it completely, without hesistation or restraint in the slightest bit, as a natural consequence of such circumstances, and to do so with joy and bear with love no matter how abominable it was. Daisy recalled a passage she’d read in the Bible:
“But I tell you, do not resist an evil person. If someone strikes your left cheek, turn to them your right. If someone wants to sue you and take your cloak, let them have your tunic. If someone forces you to go one mile with them, go with them two.”
She knew it was right. For some in the world, the abused, raped, attacked, assaulted, robbed…sometimes life did, by nature, suck, and that wasn’t a big enough word for it sometimes. But rape was a prime example. Any woman who pounded and resisted, it only increased the rapist’s passion and increased the victim’s chance to penetrate and then kill the victim. If she displayed her karate skills, the predator viewed her as sport. If she begged him to stop, he’d only say something like, “Speak again, whore, and you get smacked like one!” But to submit completely, to submit no matter how abominable the treament, with not a hint of hesistance or restraint, and silently, the predator would either leave the woman/girl’s virginity intact, calling her a “worthless dyke” or something (which of course, she wouldn’t be) or leaving her alive at the very least, and hallelujah for that.
Bo knew it was right at Christmastime, especially in the big city of Atlanta, where robberies of someone’s gifts happened in the mall constantly. He was told specifically by Charlie and also by a Montana cop friend he’d made online, no matter how much you’ve spent on gifts for your loved ones, if a theif threatens you, let him have them no matter what. One false defense move and one would be stabbed or shot–the enemy could NEVER be underestimated–or to resist them even increased the chance more.
So went it with carnage and material possessions, so went it with the human heart, soul and spirit.
As fearful as they were, and as destestable as the place was, they were prepared. For they were Dukes.
Valentino looked bit like Ricky Martin and Enrique Iglesias combined. He was topless and wore bike shorts. He didn’t look sinister for the moment, he had a well-groomed facade.
He looked arrogant.
Bo was in the room, painted from head to toe in makeup. He looked like a big ol’ chunk of blue cheese. He also had matching skintight pants on. “It’s getting a wee bit chilly in here, Sven” he said, mistaking Bo for the attendant he’d tied up. Valentino was gay, but Bo wasn’t about to tell him *his* sexual preference. He confidently put on the strange oil–apple–and massaged it in his hands and went to work. “At your service, my good man.” “Splendid. Shall we begin this bossa nova?” “Boom, baby!” answered Bo. “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” yelled Bo and charged through like a bull in a china shop, leaping boldly like the General Lee, doing a flip, then landing on the man’s back. He clung on to the pole above him and began to knead the man’s taught muscles with his toes. “My, my, shugah”, Bo said, pretending to be gay, “You hlodin’ a lot of tension in your vertebra.” Valentino groaned an oversexed groan. “By activatin’ the right pressure points, you can release pressure, alleviate pain, or even…” With one twist of both his feet around the vile man’s neck–CRUNCH!–Bo had knocked Valentino out.
“….knock that sucker out.” Bo said flatly, returning to his normal, macho tone.
Bo took the keys from the man’s wrist, subtly whistling for the others to come in. They did. Daisy was painted like the Goldfinger lady, Luke looked like a Kabuki actor from Hell.
They headed into the locker room, busted into Valentino’s locker. “Ooooh, Palm Pilot!” Bo said, snatching the tiny computer.
The information was downloaded from Valentino’s Palm Pilot into Bo’s own HP Jornada 550, info… that led to his beautiful baby girl’s salvation….
The Palm Pilot gave him the info he needed, or at least it began to, and though it may have been baffling or elusive, it was more than enough for him, something to treasure as one would a diamond from Tiffany.:
Combs/LAPD will attend cop convention at my mansion in Receda, Friday, 8:00 pm.
888 Russian Hill. Secretly, we will discuss whether or not we will keep Brat Ass in the vault or transfer Brat Ass to another concealment. I, for one wish we could simply kill Brat Ass. Brat Ass, by nature, is useless to society. Combs said it, his woman smiled and nodded, and I agree. Satan approves.
Bo felt as if his tissue, inner stomach wall, intestines and viscera was being ripped to shreds cold-bloodedly by some uncontrollable four year old boy screaming his lungs out in a feverish, rabid, raging fit. Brat Ass? Bobbi Raye? *How dare this evil bum, this evil filth, and his low-caliber minion and the low caliber minions below her have the gall to call Bo’s little Bobbi Raye that.*
Useless to society–by nature–Bobbi Raye? Sweet blessed Jesus, how could they be so cold-blooded, so noisome-in-soul, that way with his dear little Bobbi Raye? She couldn’t be that way, let alone a brat.
Shame, that some people ended up being the way they were.
How could human beings, by nature, not have enough caliber to know until 1973 onward that child abuse did exist, and was NOT simply a parent exacting discipline upon a child? And how could human beings not have enough caliber to know until the internet kicked in that emotional and verbal abuse upon a child DID exist as well as physical, and was just as legit, that emotional/verbal/physical/sexual abuse upon a child were all equal in abomination, one no less abominable than the other? What kind of beings were human beings? He had no idea they could be so sick and savage and stupid. He recalled a female comedian once saying that no alien would want to land on Earth, “because Earth is the Alabama of the universe! Don’t even stop there for gas!”.
When Valentino came to again, Bo was busy giving him karate chops on his back, nice and light.
“MMMmmmmmm, Sven, the way you use your hands….you ought to serve LAPD sometime.”
“I myself am sure you do it quite well,” said Bo, pretending to be legit, but in reality, putting it sarcastically.
“I do. I do quite well as an officer, I’m proud to say.”
Bo rolled his eyes. By the time he and the other Dukes escaped the hellish-place, just before he did, he threw up passionately in the nearby trash can.