*This will be my first attempt at writing a multiple chapter story as a serial. I will probably fall on my face, but I hope it actually works. This is a fun concept Laurie Breeze and I came up with, and it is actually the second part of a series I am doing with her. Her wonderful part is
BLACK NIGHT IN THE BLACK HILLS (Part 1 of the Jonica vs Laurie Series). I am looking forward to completing this story, but I warn you, it will be long!
There will be many characters you will recognize from FCF and from previous stories written by Laurie, Gemma Rox, and me. Hope you enjoy!*
A Clockwork Strawberry (Part 2 of the Jonica vs Laurie Series)
By Jonica
The day was overcast and so was my mood. I walked though the Quarter as if looking for something. In fact, that is exactly what I was doing…looking for something. Well, not something. Someone. People avoided me for the most part. You would avoid me too if you saw the murderous look in my eyes. When I find her, I’m going to hurt her…hurt her bad. But it may not be the look in my eyes that are making people avoid me. It may be because I am wearing all black on a hot, steamy day in New Orleans. Or it may be my platinum hair hanging loosely on my shoulders. Or the intense black eyeliner around my bright green eyes. Yep, it’s nice when the sidewalk clears like Moses parting the Red Sea. Although I’ll never admit it, people were avoiding me because I’m carrying a tire iron. And that intensifies the look in my eyes…..
In and out of every club in the Quarter, I search. From the nicer ones on Bourbon to the seedier Elysian Fields strip joints, I search for Batgirl. Where the hell is she? My tire iron would really like to know…..
Things began changing for me a few months ago. My boyfriend of several years…we’ll call him Joe…left me for a tart of a stripper known only as Kitten. We picked her up as a stray in Houston, but that is for another story. For this story we’ll just say that he claims he fell in love with the little whore because he couldn’t stand any more of my antics. Those antics of course were causing trouble for him and a little British slut we’ll call Gemma. I hate Gemma, and Gemma hates me. Oddly enough though, Gemma was the only person in the world I trusted after that asshole Joe. She was there when we adopted the Kitten. The notorious Canadian crime lord, Boche, abandoned Kitten. Now she is a thorn in my side. Someday I will have a tire iron with her name on it. But the tool I am carrying now is specifically for Batgirl.
Batgirl and I picked up where Joe and I left off. She rescued me from a self-destructive life on the streets and she claims I did the same for her. Things were going well until a crazed group of bikers showed up in New Orleans looking for Batgirl. Their leader has even gone as far as put a contract on me. Well, she did until she found out whom I am working for. Contracts tend to be dropped from your head when the contractor finds you are a hit woman for the Bad Bitch of Rue Bourbon, the notorious Jenn Peccavi. So the biker turned contractor now is only looking to “kick (my) ass.” As a result, Batgirl fled for my safety, and she is hiding from the bikers and from me.
As I am checking strip clubs Dumaine, I get some leads on where Batgirl may be. Rumor is she is working a high-class place on Canal. I head than way with burning hatred in my eyes. The tire iron is resting lightly on my left shoulder as I stroll eastward when I see a vaguely familiar face in a crowd of tourists walking down Canal toward the aquarium and the casinos. I know I have seen her before, but for some reason I can’t remember. Strange images of black hills, bikers, and blood flash in my head but I can’t put my finger on the odd sensation. I stare at the face until she must have felt my gaze. The pretty brunette with green eyes looks curiously at me. Her head tilts in a question, as if she is searching her memory too, her glasses slightly askew. I know I have seen her, but where? Finally, she shakes her head slightly and turns away, but she glances over her shoulder every few steps. I almost follow but the tire iron in my hands reminds me I have more important tasks at hand.
I walk up Canal, the Warehouse District on my left and the Quarter on my right. I cross Dauphine and head toward the club I was told about. The club’s entrance is off Rampart near Louis Armstrong Park. Rain begins to fall and it only darkens my mood. The smells of the Quarter invade the area in the warm, still rain, but I pay no attention to the crawfish gumbo, beignets, and potted ferns mixed with decaying trash. I also don’t pay attention to the two women walking up fast behind me. I take the right turn onto Rampart with the tire iron still resting on my shoulder. It doesn’t register when the tool is suddenly yanked from my grasp from behind and my path filled by a gigantic blonde wearing black leather and the colors of the motorcycle gang hunting for Batgirl. Realization they had found her before me suddenly fills me with dread, but that is short lived as the monstrous blonde suddenly laughs and hits me squarely in the mouth with a right jab so hard that I actually leave my feet and crash into the two leather clad bikers behind me. Falling to the sidewalk, I taste blood on my lips, and lights burst in my head. Already nearly unconscious from the first blow, I vaguely hear a voice above me say, “Kick her ass, Rylie!”
Rylie then proceeds to do just that.
I try to sit up but a boot to my chest knocks me back to the ground. The last thing I remember is the giant blonde asking where Batgirl is hiding as she straddles me. I try to respond with a hearty ‘fuck you’ but all I manage is an embarrassing, “fuuuggghhhhhhhoooooo.” Punches rain down on my face and head until I am completely out.
Now, I call the blonde biker a giant and a monster, but she is actually quite beautiful. But when you are 5’2 and only weigh 112 lbs., most everyone who’s 5’10 and outweighs you by nearly 40 lbs looks like a giant and a monster. I wouldn’t have been a match for Rylie even if she hadn’t sucker punched me. I may have fared better with my tire iron, but I doubt it.
Soon, however, the slaughter is over as sirens scream down nearby streets. I vaguely recall cops and paramedics around me, but really only faces. One face, though, stands out. The brunette from earlier is looking down at me with bewilderment…and recognition! It occurs to me as I’m being loaded into a waiting ambulance that my platinum wig has fallen off revealing my own true brunette hair. All I can think of as I look at her are ‘South Dakota’ and ‘bikes.’ The look on her face is one of total hatred. As I fade into unconsciousness again, I wonder “what the hell did I do to her?”
To be continued....
