Pop The Cherry

British Airways Flight 1283, which landed in Monte Carlo right on time, found itself under serious scrutiny from probing eyes. They had missed her in London but would not miss her in Monaco.  

“The Cherry’s not on it, Boss,” Brett's voice sounded hollow over the phone.

“What do you mean she’s not on it?” Mr. Big screeched as he patted his black cat, Jello, on the head and adjusted his monocle. His voice sounded like fingernails on a chalkboard, causing Jim and Wayne to glance at one another nervously.  

“Sorry, Mr. Big Belly, she’s just not on that plane. She must have taken an earlier flight.” It was a conversation Brett wanted to extricate himself from.  

“This is the first time Karen has left Houston in years.  Must I remind you all that she’s the cherry on top of the Threadgill sundae?” The Assassin’s Guild has held contracts on her clan for many decades. “As the last Threadgill, we must take her here and now!”

A call from Eugene interrupted their conversation. “The Cherry just arrived at the Hidden Pearl Hotel, Mr. Big Belly. You want me and Paul to move in and take her out?”

“Like you did at her stay over in London? No. We don’t want to screw this up again. I’ve brought in our best men to handle the situation.” Mr. Big Belly laughed like a maniac.  

“You mean Ric and Terry?” Eugene returned the maniacal laugh. 

“Did you just laugh? No, no, no! You do not do the evil laugh. It’s my thing. You do something else.”

“Oh . .  . not even a small little chuckle?” Eugene sounded disappointed.  

“No. Not even a chuckle. That’s my villainous trademark signature. Come up with your own. Like a tag word or something.”

“Tag word?”  

Mr. Big Belly sighed. “Yeah . . . like Kerplowie . . . or  such.”

“Could I just smile a litt—“ A click ended the conversation. 

Mr. Big Belly put in the call to give Terry and Ric the location of The Cherry. His heavy hitters would end her once and for all.

The Hidden Pearl was a thirty story paradise complete with casino and lounge. The Assassin’s Guild entourage rented out the penthouse suites covering the entire top floor and set up a command center. Soon they were plugged into the hotel cameras and had eyes on Karen as she played Black Jack in the casino.   

“I would have hit on that 15,” Jim mumbled.  

It didn’t take them long to discover Debbie, Debbie, and Debra, Karen’s three personal bodyguards, discreetly positioned nearby. They preferred to be called the Triple D’s. (Because there are three of them and no other reason this writer has imagined.) 

Her security didn’t matter. Ric and Terry should be striking any minute.  

“She didn’t even split her aces.” Jim scowled. “The Cherry is burning through money like Hunter Biden at a strip club. Ric and Terry better attack quickly and end this abhorrently bad Black Jack play.”  

Okay, any minute now and this would be over. Thirty minutes later, Mr. Big’s phone rang.

“Bam!”  It was Eugene.

“What’s that?” Mr. Big Belly seemed annoyed. “That 'bam'.”

“Bam? That’s my tag line. You told me to get one.”  

“Oh. That’s what you came up with? Anyways, where’s my best two men?”

“Bad news, Boss. Raul and Paul found Ric and Terry dead in the stairwell. Bam! Looks like Karen brought in a couple of her own heavy hitters.” 

“Oh no, not . . . Lyenochka and Karenina?” Mr. Big Belly spun about in his chair in a panic, his arms flailing around like a Titanic passenger swimming in the North Atlantic. “Are you sure?” 

“Yes. They were beaten to death with 1st Place Ribbons. The yellow ones, not the red ones. Definitely their handy work. Bam!”

“There’s more bad news,” Paul stated as he was followed into the room by Raul. “Your driver is dead.”

“What? Jesse James? How?”  

“It looks like he ran into Karen’s driver, Jessizero.  They engaged in a game of chicken with the limousines in the parking garage and both were killed in a head on collision during a dual of Jessies." Wayne frowned. 

“Well, I guess they didn't 'bawk' at the task.” Mr. Big Belly did not like how things were playing out. “Is everyone else here?”

Bill started counting heads. “Looks like we’re missing Ric, Terry, and Jesse James.”

“Bill, were you not just paying attention?” Mr. Big Belly looked peeved as he cuddled Jello.  Well as peeved as you can look while hugging a fluffy black cat.  

“Sorry, I was entering a piece on Fanstory for the Who Killed Kar—-“

“Bill, can we please focus?”

“Sorry, Boss. Deadline and all.” Bill shrugged. “That contest creator is a real ball-busting ‘rule Nazi’. “

“Tsk. Tsk. Tsk.  Focus.” The boss pointed at Bill. 

“I still need to write some reviews. I have four Six Stars left and it’s already Saturday.” Bill sighed. “I really don’t have time for murder.”

“Make time. Raul, hand out the Uzis. Now we take matters into our own hands.” Big Belly let out a rancorous evil cackle. 

“Boss. Is that the long guns or the little small ones?” Raul looked perplexed.  

“The middle-sized ones.”

Soon every remaining member of the Assassin’s Guild held a loaded Uzi.

“We’re going to go to the casino and mow down Karen. The Cherry of the Threadgills shall be no more!” Mr. Big Belly pointed at the camera screen before them. 

“Boss. She’s no longer in the casino. Bam!” Eugene's comment caused them all to stare at the screen. 

“Who was supposed to be watching her?” Mr. Big Belly screeched, grabbing his monocle to examine the monitor more closely. 

Wayne and Brett shrugged. Eugene studied his feet. Raul studied Eugene's feet, too. Paul pointed at Jim while Jim pointed at Paul. Bill was busy typing on his laptop and was oblivious to what they were talking about.  

“Stop fretting, boys, I’m right here.” Karen stood in the open doorway of the main suite. 

“Bam!”

The last of the Threadgills wore a red pantsuit with matching fedora, although her red curls spilled out from underneath. A tube ran from her nose to an oxygen tank she was pulling. 

When she entered the room, she was followed by Lyenochka, Karenina, and her Triple D's. All the lady guards wore matching black pantsuits and fedoras. 

“Hey, Boss, why don’t we have matching outfits?” Jim questioned.  

Choosing to ignore the untimely wardrobe complaint, Mr. Big Belly addressed his arch-nemesis, "So, we finally meet face to face, Karen, Cherry of the Threadgills. Looks like this centuries old contract will finally be fulfilled today.”  

“Perhaps.”  

“What do you mean perhaps? This is over here and now.”

“Maybe.”

“No, not maybe. Are you not reading the situation correctly?”

“Could be.”

“Enough! Take them out with your Uzis, boys!”

“Wait!” Karen pulled the hose from her nose and held a lighter up to it. “I filled this oxygen tank with a few other nasty gases, the purpose being two-fold. One, I am now as high as a kite. Two, to finally rid the world of you and your diabolical Assassin’s Guild.”

Mr. Big Belly let out a long evil laugh while stroking his pussy. (Jello, you dirty minded perverts.)

“Joke’s on you. You kill us all and you have fulfilled our contract. We win!”

“No, the joke is on you, Mr. Belly. The doctors have given me just a week to live. I have terminal. . .” Karen paused for dramatic effect, pointing a finger in the air, “. . . gingivitis!”

The kingpin frowned. “No . . . that’s a mouth thing.”

“Oh . . . okay, I think it was tinnitus.”

“Ringing in your ears? I don’t believe you can die from that.” Mr. Big Belly shook his head.

“Not that one either? How embarrassing. Well, it’s an ‘itis’. That I know.” Karen scratched her forehead with the hand holding the lighter. “A bad one. One that kills. So we came up with this plan to come here and take you down. We named our scheme ‘Let’s go to Monte Carlo and Eliminate Mr. Big Belly With Obnoxious Gas’.”

“Catchy.” A chuckle from Big Belly surprised her as he held up Jello. “You forgot one thing. Your love for animals. You would never kill a cat, even to get me.”

“Meow.” Jello seemed to agree with Mr. Big Belly’s assessment. 

“You brought your pet along on a hit?” Karen shook her head. 

“There’s always room for Jello.” Mr. Big Belly smirked, knowing he was about to pop The Cherry.  

“Wait. Wait. Hold on a minute.” A black-haired woman with glasses entered the room carrying a clipboard. “I missed a few things. Did you say you’re dying from gingivitis? And what was the cat’s na—-“

Mr. Big Belly cut her off, “Who's this woman and why's she interrupting our final climactic confrontation?”

“Oh that’s on me.” The Cherry grinned sheepishly. “She’s my biographer, Barbara. She’s writing a book about me.”

“Yes, and I hope you guys don’t mind, but I’m going to change all of your mundane 'Brady Bunch' names to something sexier like Stephen and Miranda. Maybe even throw in a Sophia and Marc.” Barbara scribbled something on her clipboard. "Plus, I'm gonna make that cat a dog."

“Sure. Whatever. Can we just move this along? I’m getting hungry.” Mr Big Belly’s tummy rumbled.  

“Of course. Where were we? Oh yes, the cat.” A frown spread across Karen’s face. Foiled by a feline.  

“Yes, saved by the cat. I’ll tell you what. I’m feeling generous. Why don’t you find yourself a warm beach somewhere and suck on that happy hose for the next week? We’ll give you a seven day pass. If you’re still alive after that, well, let’s just say that you won’t be for long.”

Karen thought for a moment and looked at her female counterparts, none of whom seemed to be willing to kill a cat. It was the unspoken symbol of their reading club. 

“Seems like we have a deal, Mr. Big Belly.” Karen tucked her lighter into her pocket. “I must admit, I never expected you to be so damn sexy, handsome, intelligent, witty, strong, powerful, awesome, groovy, skilled, sexy and just plain magnificent. (I took some creative liberties here.)

“You said sexy twice.”

“Yes . . . yes I did.” The Cherry winked.  

“This calls for a celebration!” Jim popped a cigar into his mouth. With a flick of his lighter, the entire top floor of the Hidden Pearl Hotel incinerated into a mighty fireball that could be seen for miles.

It would appear Fanstory will be needing some new writers.