Well, sometimes the stories are easy to write. Two victims, one man, one woman, shooting.
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nacros.com
by Attica
“What time is it?”
The man behind the steering wheel lifts up his wrist. There’s a brief glint from a shiny golden wristwatch.
“10:58”
“So they should be wrapping up anytime,” says the man next to him.
“Yeah. Is the battery charged up?”
The man sitting in the passenger seat reaches next to him and grabs a small handheld object. His face is briefly lit by a blue glow. “Yeah, we have 30 hours of recording time. Plenty.”
The driver shifts in his seat, trying to alleviate the soreness in his ass. His brown eyes look up, scanning the dirt road, then lazily looking over the nearby shacks in the shanty town. The dim yellow light of single 60 watt bulbs leak through walls of many of the dwellings.
The passenger speaks up. “Think they’ll mind they’re own business?” he asks?
“Yeah. They’ll stay inside. Look at this place. Do you think any of those people have a gun? Are going to stick their necks out? No. They’re dirt poor.” The driver leans against the window. He looks at his watch again. “He’s late.”
The passenger slinks further in his seat. “Well, at least the good part is that he won’t be armed. That’s what the intel says anyway.”
“When was the last time they were right about everything?”
“Never.”
A light comes on a few doors down, illuminating a porch.
The passenger sits up and taps the driver on the shoulder. “Hey, here we go.”
The driver sits up, looking out the front windshield as they both stare out into the abandoned street. A man comes out of the house, dressed in a white wife beater shirt and a set of baggy shorts.
“Man, he looks like a low-rent Soprano,” whispers the passenger.
“Which one?” asks the driver.
“Huh?”
“Which Soprano?”
“Christopher Moltosanti”
“Yeah, you’re right. That’s our guy,” whispers the driver. “Are you ready?”
The passenger reaches down, getting the small video camera. He flips it on, making the video screen glow softly as his thumb flips off the lens cap. “Ready.”
The driver starts to open the door when he feels a sudden tug on his shoulder pulling him back in.
“Who is that?” whispers the passenger. Both men stay still as the man on the porch steps down the steps, followed by a young petite hispanic woman. She’s wearing a tight tank-top, accentuating her breasts and a tight pair of frayed jean shorts that barely cover her tight bubble butt.
“Shit,” mutters the driver. “He was supposed to be alone. Now what the fuck do we do?”
Both men stare at them as they linger on the porch, talking to whomever is inside still, just out of view.
The passenger whispers “Is she his daughter or something?”
A moment later the man on the porch puts his hand on the girls ass and squeezes it tightly.
The passenger quietly snorts. “Guess that answers that question.”
The driver silently nods. “That means girlfriend. That means she’s not a civilian. She’s a casualty of war. We’re going as soon as they’re clear.”
Both men stare as the woman waves, a long arm and thin hand waving. Her long wavy black hair moves behind her as she turns away, revealing her breasts and petite, curvy form before both of them descend the steps and walk onto the sidewalk. “Fucking shame,” says the passenger. “She looks like she’d be fun to fuck.”
“Ten seconds.” says the driver. “I’m going to shoot the girl first to make sure she doesn’t go anywhere while we’re busy.”
Moments both men burst out of the nearby parked car. The passenger leaps out, a handheld video camera cradled in his right hand, bound by a strap around the back of his hand, changing from a passenger to the cameraman. He holds the camera up so he can align the viewfinder as he breaks out in a run, trying to capture the moment while not tripping on the uneven sidewalk.
The driver launches from the other side with a cat-like grace, leaving the door swinging and squeaking on its hinges, his right hand gripping a Glock 23, the safety on as he breaks out into a parallel run down the street, transforming himself from driver to shooter.
Both men quickly close the distance. The girl hears the commotion, turning her head to the side, her eyes turned backward so you can see the profile of her face and her pouty lips. The man visibly starts as he hears the footsteps but doesn’t turn around.
The shooter then stops, his feet stretched apart in the classic shooting stance as he brings the gun up to aim it, his finger flipping off the safety. The girl’s eyes go wide as she looks back, seeing the gun start to come up. The cameraman is still running, trying to make sure that he fills the tiny LCD frame with every moment. Only a few meters of distance separates everyone.
Time slows.
The shooter is still bringing up the gun as the girl turns her head back forward, her long black curly hair swinging back into place as her left arm tenses, grabbing her boyfriends arm, she starts to lean forward, her leg muscles tensing as she prepares to take off into a run. It’s only now that the man turns, realizing something is wrong, his bushy eyebrows scowling with anger and annoyance. He hasn’t seen the gun yet. He hasn’t seen the danger.
The shooter lifts up the gun. He focuses on the girl first, bringing the muzzle of the gun up along her long legs, past her bubble ass, firm with youth. Then going up still, past the tattoo at the top of her hips. His eyes focus on the tan small of her back then moves up a few inches before settling in on a spot. Subconsciously he holds his breath and then pulls the trigger. There’s a shock and recoil and a bit of white smoke as the bullet leaves the gun with a short crack. The bullet travels through the air before hitting the girl, right in her spine, two inches above the small of her back.
The bullet does exactly what the shooter wanted. It pierces through skin then starts to expand, flowering inside of her as it travels forward, the momentum carrying it past muscle and sinew until it strikes a vertebra in her back. The copper pieces then shatter, creating bits of fragmented bone that are propelled forward as jagged pieces of shrapnel that perforate and embed themselves into the delicate white spinal cord underneath.
The girls hands go up, feeling like someone punched her in the back. A last, interrupted signal reaches her right leg causing it to spasm clumsily. She stumbles and starts to fall. No matter what happens in the next few minutes, one thing is sure; she will never walk again.
The man is finishing turning around, the look of anger flaring until his eyes come up and see the gun. First a look of surprise, then his hands come up defensively just as the shooter levels it squarely towards his chest. There are two quick cracks as the shooter expertly places two shots into his chest, adjusting his aim each time, making sure that he punctures each of the man’s lungs. The man grunts, stumbling backwards a few steps before promptly sitting on his ass. His face looks shocked as he takes a deep gasping breath, then collapses onto his back.
The cameraman slowly walks up, keeping the two prone forms in frame. The girl is sobbing and crying on the concrete, her legs shuddering awkwardly on the ground, a small raw hole in her back, bleeding a little river of blood. Time returns to normal.
“Did you get that?” asks the shooter.
“Of course!” says the cameraman.
“Come closer,” says the shooter. The man deftly flicks the safety back on and holsters his gun as he walks up to the shot man. “We have work to do still.”
The cameraman walks up, keeping the shot man in frame, stepping over the sobbing and jerking girl on the road until he’s standing over the dying man and next to the kneeling shooter. In the little video camera frame he watches the shooter reach out and grab the man so that his face can point directly up and into the camera.
The shooter speaks up for the camera. “This is Valencio Tolentino. This is what happens when you try to sell drugs on our turf.” The shooter holds up face up so that the camera gets a good shot. Valencio’s eyes are shuddering, his chest heaving awkwardly as wet choking and wheezing sounds come from the back of his throat. “You see? You hear? If you are a rival, watch this, for you too will die’.
The cameraman zooms in on Valentino’s face. His nostrils flaring as a bright red froth starts to bubble at his lips.
The shooter now begins to work on tearing off of his shirt, ripping the front of it open to reveal two bleeding bullet wounds in the chest. One has gone right though a nipple in his chest, while on the other side just an inch lower than the nipple. Both are oozing bright red arterial blood. As the cameraman pans down, little bits of bright red froth start coming from the bullet holes as air passes out of them producing a soft sucking wound.
The shooter moves down a bit. The cameraman takes a tiny step back, following the action. The shooter grabs each side of the dying man’s shorts and pulls down. The elastic and the underwear giving way easily as he yanks down the mans shorts past his knees, leaving them in a tiny bundle.
Neither men say anything as Valencio’s breathing gets wetter and more ragged, watching him trying to breathe as blood fills up in his lungs. His face starts to turn bluish as he drowns in his own blood.
The cameraman keeps the camera focused on Valencino’s crotch, noticing that his cock is starting to fill, twitching, growing harder as Valencino keeps trying to breathe, the wet gurgling becoming more frantic and hurried as a pink foam oozes out between his trembling lips. The cock grows, slowly climbing raising off of his stomach until its stiff and trembling.
“He wants to fuck before he dies,” says the shooter.
“Well, I’m not going to help him with that.” The cameraman holds the camera steady, still focused on his cock as he turns his head toward the girl, still sobbing and moaning on the ground a few feet away. “And she’s not in a state to help him either.”
Valencio’s heaving chest starts to slow. A few weak coughs come from deep in his chest, causing flecks of blood to fall onto his face, followed by a steady flow of blood out of the corner of his mouth, flowing out, heavy and clotting. Valencio’s eyes are still trembling, he’s still conscious and aware, even though he can’t breathe and all he can taste is blood.
The shooter reaches to his side and unholsters his gun. “Get a shot of his face.” The camera frame leaves the twitching hard uncut cock and scrolls upward so that Valencio’s panicking and pained face can be seen.
The shooter then talks, clearly for the camera. “Valencio here is dying. Just like all of you will die if you compete with us. In pain. Trying to live. Wanting to have one last fuck. This message is for you. Watch! This could be you.”
The shooter then turns his head slightly. The cameraman nods, understanding as he moves the camera back down the length of Valencio’s trembling body, back down to his pelvis, framing the stiff twitching cock and balls in the frame. The shooter than carefully takes the sole of his shoe and rubs it against the length of Valencio’s shaft. Once, twice, a third time, watching intently and then watching the slow contraction of the man’s scrotum. The shooter pulls his foot back and sets it on the ground, lifting up the gun and aiming it right at Valencio’s crotch.
Time slows.
The first desperate spurt comes. A single white rope of cum flings out of Valencio’s body, landing across his chest. Then a gunshot. A bullet then rips into Valencio’s contracting scrotum, destroying his testicles and ending his ability to father children. Another spurt of cum, clear and white. Then another, but the cum is now streaked with red blood. Then another flex of muscles and this time a ribbon of blood and cum spews forth from Valencio’s cock as Valencio’s muscles rhythmically contract, pulsing out blood and white sperm.
The cameraman records every pulse of blood coming from the tip of Valencio’s cock. Eventually it stops. A gasp is heard from the cameraman as he quickly tilts the camera up to see Valencio’s eyes open wide, his head shaking back and forth, as if trying to say no.
“This is what happens to people who cross us,” says the shooter.
The camera stays on Valencio’s face as it begins to soften, watching as the last moments of horror register across his face before his eyes open a bit wider. A quiet gurgle escapes his lips as his head rolls to one side and blood pours out of his mouth.
Time comes back.
“What about the girl?” asks the cameraman.
“Right, the girl.”
They both turn and take a few steps over to where the girl is. The cameraman gets there first. The girl is sobbing, crying, she’s moved away a bit further, crawling, a small puddle of blood on the ground, then streaked as she’s tried to crawl away, dragging her now useless legs behind her.
Her head comes up off the ground as she hears the men approach.
“Oh god oh god please please...” The girl tries to crawl away, pulling her body along with her arms, scratching them as she desperately tries to get away from the two men.
The shooter holsters his gun, then reaches into his pocket, pulling out a single nylon zip tie. He walks over to the girl who starts to scream as he grabs her arms and pulls them back behind her, pressing her wrists together right over the bullet hole in her back. He then presses his knees into her hands to hold them still.
“AHHhHHhhhhHhhH!” cries out the girl, feeling the pressure against the bullet hole. She feels a sickening prickling as the pressure digs some bits of bullet and bone deeper into her already shredded spinal cord. Her legs twitch a few times as signals shoot down from the severed bundle of nerves.
The shooter grunts once, wrapping the nylon tie around her wrists and then pulling it taut, binding her hands behind her. The cameraman records everything, standing two feet away as the girl squirms on the ground like a pinned bug.
The shooter then leans forward, moving his face close to hers, her cheek pressed up against the warm asphalt as she sobs. He leans all the way forward until his lips are just inches from her ear.
“I’m sorry,” the shooter begins to whisper. “You...you weren’t supposed to be here.”
“Noo, please...please...don’t, don’t kill me, I wanna live...!” she whispers back.
“Shhh. I know. But we can’t. I just wanted to let you know that I was sorry.” The shooter pulls back and then grabs her by the shoulders, flipping her over.
“Ahhh, no no no NOooOooOOoO”
The shooter reaches down, touching her cheek gently, a momentary flicker of sadness, then his hand lashes out and down, ripping open the front of her blood-streaked shirt. Immediately her breasts come flopping out, freed of their fabric prison, the areolas of her breasts dark and large.
“Oh god oh god please please let me live.”
The shooter pulls out his gun. He then looks into the camera. “This is what happens if you help those that oppose us.” He then takes the gun and presses the muzzle right against the center of her chest, right between her large breasts. He feels her warm soft breasts against the sides of his hands as he presses it hard, right against her sternum.
The girl jolts upright, feeling the hardness of the gun pressing against her soft skin, shocked and surprised by the warmth of the metal, still warm from the shots before. Her nostrils flare, smelling the gunpowder smell.
“Noo god no pleasepleasepleaseplease<BANG>hurrkkk!”
The girl jerks, hearing the shot and feeling the bullet tear through her. It feels like someone reached in and stabbed her in the chest with a thousand needles as both breastbone and bullet break into pieces, tearing into her beating heart.
“Gluck....glurk....glurk...”
The girl feels her heart, or what is left of it, try to beat, then she feels nothing.
The shooter pulls the gun away. There’s a hole, ringed with black from gunpowder in the center of her chest. A tiny little spot of blood leaks out. But that’s all. All of the blood in her body suddenly ceasing to move. The shooter then holds, supporting her in his lap, cradling her like a child.
His whispers to her softly, so that the camera can’t hear. “Shhh. It’s ok. Just let go.”
The girl looks into the camera, her face is afraid, shuddering, feeling the stillness in her chest and then feeling it spread, the world starting to shrink in size like a deflating balloon. Then her face starts to change, looking a bit puzzled, confused, like she didn’t understand what you just said. Then her eyes look around, keeping the confused look as if she was lost. A few moments later her eyes relax, her eyelids half closing as her brain shuts down.
Neither man says nothing. The shooter holds her as her mouth hangs open, feeling her body convulsing softly for the next few minutes as death slowly washes over the girl. Finally she goes still, relaxing as a dark stain appears in her crotch and slowly spreads across the denim fabric, turning it black.
The cameraman turns the camera off.
Later, lit by the glow of a monitor, the cameraman uploads the video to narcos.com
If you like it, please consider adding to my rep. Feedback is always welcome.
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nacros.com
by Attica
“What time is it?”
The man behind the steering wheel lifts up his wrist. There’s a brief glint from a shiny golden wristwatch.
“10:58”
“So they should be wrapping up anytime,” says the man next to him.
“Yeah. Is the battery charged up?”
The man sitting in the passenger seat reaches next to him and grabs a small handheld object. His face is briefly lit by a blue glow. “Yeah, we have 30 hours of recording time. Plenty.”
The driver shifts in his seat, trying to alleviate the soreness in his ass. His brown eyes look up, scanning the dirt road, then lazily looking over the nearby shacks in the shanty town. The dim yellow light of single 60 watt bulbs leak through walls of many of the dwellings.
The passenger speaks up. “Think they’ll mind they’re own business?” he asks?
“Yeah. They’ll stay inside. Look at this place. Do you think any of those people have a gun? Are going to stick their necks out? No. They’re dirt poor.” The driver leans against the window. He looks at his watch again. “He’s late.”
The passenger slinks further in his seat. “Well, at least the good part is that he won’t be armed. That’s what the intel says anyway.”
“When was the last time they were right about everything?”
“Never.”
A light comes on a few doors down, illuminating a porch.
The passenger sits up and taps the driver on the shoulder. “Hey, here we go.”
The driver sits up, looking out the front windshield as they both stare out into the abandoned street. A man comes out of the house, dressed in a white wife beater shirt and a set of baggy shorts.
“Man, he looks like a low-rent Soprano,” whispers the passenger.
“Which one?” asks the driver.
“Huh?”
“Which Soprano?”
“Christopher Moltosanti”
“Yeah, you’re right. That’s our guy,” whispers the driver. “Are you ready?”
The passenger reaches down, getting the small video camera. He flips it on, making the video screen glow softly as his thumb flips off the lens cap. “Ready.”
The driver starts to open the door when he feels a sudden tug on his shoulder pulling him back in.
“Who is that?” whispers the passenger. Both men stay still as the man on the porch steps down the steps, followed by a young petite hispanic woman. She’s wearing a tight tank-top, accentuating her breasts and a tight pair of frayed jean shorts that barely cover her tight bubble butt.
“Shit,” mutters the driver. “He was supposed to be alone. Now what the fuck do we do?”
Both men stare at them as they linger on the porch, talking to whomever is inside still, just out of view.
The passenger whispers “Is she his daughter or something?”
A moment later the man on the porch puts his hand on the girls ass and squeezes it tightly.
The passenger quietly snorts. “Guess that answers that question.”
The driver silently nods. “That means girlfriend. That means she’s not a civilian. She’s a casualty of war. We’re going as soon as they’re clear.”
Both men stare as the woman waves, a long arm and thin hand waving. Her long wavy black hair moves behind her as she turns away, revealing her breasts and petite, curvy form before both of them descend the steps and walk onto the sidewalk. “Fucking shame,” says the passenger. “She looks like she’d be fun to fuck.”
“Ten seconds.” says the driver. “I’m going to shoot the girl first to make sure she doesn’t go anywhere while we’re busy.”
Moments both men burst out of the nearby parked car. The passenger leaps out, a handheld video camera cradled in his right hand, bound by a strap around the back of his hand, changing from a passenger to the cameraman. He holds the camera up so he can align the viewfinder as he breaks out in a run, trying to capture the moment while not tripping on the uneven sidewalk.
The driver launches from the other side with a cat-like grace, leaving the door swinging and squeaking on its hinges, his right hand gripping a Glock 23, the safety on as he breaks out into a parallel run down the street, transforming himself from driver to shooter.
Both men quickly close the distance. The girl hears the commotion, turning her head to the side, her eyes turned backward so you can see the profile of her face and her pouty lips. The man visibly starts as he hears the footsteps but doesn’t turn around.
The shooter then stops, his feet stretched apart in the classic shooting stance as he brings the gun up to aim it, his finger flipping off the safety. The girl’s eyes go wide as she looks back, seeing the gun start to come up. The cameraman is still running, trying to make sure that he fills the tiny LCD frame with every moment. Only a few meters of distance separates everyone.
Time slows.
The shooter is still bringing up the gun as the girl turns her head back forward, her long black curly hair swinging back into place as her left arm tenses, grabbing her boyfriends arm, she starts to lean forward, her leg muscles tensing as she prepares to take off into a run. It’s only now that the man turns, realizing something is wrong, his bushy eyebrows scowling with anger and annoyance. He hasn’t seen the gun yet. He hasn’t seen the danger.
The shooter lifts up the gun. He focuses on the girl first, bringing the muzzle of the gun up along her long legs, past her bubble ass, firm with youth. Then going up still, past the tattoo at the top of her hips. His eyes focus on the tan small of her back then moves up a few inches before settling in on a spot. Subconsciously he holds his breath and then pulls the trigger. There’s a shock and recoil and a bit of white smoke as the bullet leaves the gun with a short crack. The bullet travels through the air before hitting the girl, right in her spine, two inches above the small of her back.
The bullet does exactly what the shooter wanted. It pierces through skin then starts to expand, flowering inside of her as it travels forward, the momentum carrying it past muscle and sinew until it strikes a vertebra in her back. The copper pieces then shatter, creating bits of fragmented bone that are propelled forward as jagged pieces of shrapnel that perforate and embed themselves into the delicate white spinal cord underneath.
The girls hands go up, feeling like someone punched her in the back. A last, interrupted signal reaches her right leg causing it to spasm clumsily. She stumbles and starts to fall. No matter what happens in the next few minutes, one thing is sure; she will never walk again.
The man is finishing turning around, the look of anger flaring until his eyes come up and see the gun. First a look of surprise, then his hands come up defensively just as the shooter levels it squarely towards his chest. There are two quick cracks as the shooter expertly places two shots into his chest, adjusting his aim each time, making sure that he punctures each of the man’s lungs. The man grunts, stumbling backwards a few steps before promptly sitting on his ass. His face looks shocked as he takes a deep gasping breath, then collapses onto his back.
The cameraman slowly walks up, keeping the two prone forms in frame. The girl is sobbing and crying on the concrete, her legs shuddering awkwardly on the ground, a small raw hole in her back, bleeding a little river of blood. Time returns to normal.
“Did you get that?” asks the shooter.
“Of course!” says the cameraman.
“Come closer,” says the shooter. The man deftly flicks the safety back on and holsters his gun as he walks up to the shot man. “We have work to do still.”
The cameraman walks up, keeping the shot man in frame, stepping over the sobbing and jerking girl on the road until he’s standing over the dying man and next to the kneeling shooter. In the little video camera frame he watches the shooter reach out and grab the man so that his face can point directly up and into the camera.
The shooter speaks up for the camera. “This is Valencio Tolentino. This is what happens when you try to sell drugs on our turf.” The shooter holds up face up so that the camera gets a good shot. Valencio’s eyes are shuddering, his chest heaving awkwardly as wet choking and wheezing sounds come from the back of his throat. “You see? You hear? If you are a rival, watch this, for you too will die’.
The cameraman zooms in on Valentino’s face. His nostrils flaring as a bright red froth starts to bubble at his lips.
The shooter now begins to work on tearing off of his shirt, ripping the front of it open to reveal two bleeding bullet wounds in the chest. One has gone right though a nipple in his chest, while on the other side just an inch lower than the nipple. Both are oozing bright red arterial blood. As the cameraman pans down, little bits of bright red froth start coming from the bullet holes as air passes out of them producing a soft sucking wound.
The shooter moves down a bit. The cameraman takes a tiny step back, following the action. The shooter grabs each side of the dying man’s shorts and pulls down. The elastic and the underwear giving way easily as he yanks down the mans shorts past his knees, leaving them in a tiny bundle.
Neither men say anything as Valencio’s breathing gets wetter and more ragged, watching him trying to breathe as blood fills up in his lungs. His face starts to turn bluish as he drowns in his own blood.
The cameraman keeps the camera focused on Valencino’s crotch, noticing that his cock is starting to fill, twitching, growing harder as Valencino keeps trying to breathe, the wet gurgling becoming more frantic and hurried as a pink foam oozes out between his trembling lips. The cock grows, slowly climbing raising off of his stomach until its stiff and trembling.
“He wants to fuck before he dies,” says the shooter.
“Well, I’m not going to help him with that.” The cameraman holds the camera steady, still focused on his cock as he turns his head toward the girl, still sobbing and moaning on the ground a few feet away. “And she’s not in a state to help him either.”
Valencio’s heaving chest starts to slow. A few weak coughs come from deep in his chest, causing flecks of blood to fall onto his face, followed by a steady flow of blood out of the corner of his mouth, flowing out, heavy and clotting. Valencio’s eyes are still trembling, he’s still conscious and aware, even though he can’t breathe and all he can taste is blood.
The shooter reaches to his side and unholsters his gun. “Get a shot of his face.” The camera frame leaves the twitching hard uncut cock and scrolls upward so that Valencio’s panicking and pained face can be seen.
The shooter then talks, clearly for the camera. “Valencio here is dying. Just like all of you will die if you compete with us. In pain. Trying to live. Wanting to have one last fuck. This message is for you. Watch! This could be you.”
The shooter then turns his head slightly. The cameraman nods, understanding as he moves the camera back down the length of Valencio’s trembling body, back down to his pelvis, framing the stiff twitching cock and balls in the frame. The shooter than carefully takes the sole of his shoe and rubs it against the length of Valencio’s shaft. Once, twice, a third time, watching intently and then watching the slow contraction of the man’s scrotum. The shooter pulls his foot back and sets it on the ground, lifting up the gun and aiming it right at Valencio’s crotch.
Time slows.
The first desperate spurt comes. A single white rope of cum flings out of Valencio’s body, landing across his chest. Then a gunshot. A bullet then rips into Valencio’s contracting scrotum, destroying his testicles and ending his ability to father children. Another spurt of cum, clear and white. Then another, but the cum is now streaked with red blood. Then another flex of muscles and this time a ribbon of blood and cum spews forth from Valencio’s cock as Valencio’s muscles rhythmically contract, pulsing out blood and white sperm.
The cameraman records every pulse of blood coming from the tip of Valencio’s cock. Eventually it stops. A gasp is heard from the cameraman as he quickly tilts the camera up to see Valencio’s eyes open wide, his head shaking back and forth, as if trying to say no.
“This is what happens to people who cross us,” says the shooter.
The camera stays on Valencio’s face as it begins to soften, watching as the last moments of horror register across his face before his eyes open a bit wider. A quiet gurgle escapes his lips as his head rolls to one side and blood pours out of his mouth.
Time comes back.
“What about the girl?” asks the cameraman.
“Right, the girl.”
They both turn and take a few steps over to where the girl is. The cameraman gets there first. The girl is sobbing, crying, she’s moved away a bit further, crawling, a small puddle of blood on the ground, then streaked as she’s tried to crawl away, dragging her now useless legs behind her.
Her head comes up off the ground as she hears the men approach.
“Oh god oh god please please...” The girl tries to crawl away, pulling her body along with her arms, scratching them as she desperately tries to get away from the two men.
The shooter holsters his gun, then reaches into his pocket, pulling out a single nylon zip tie. He walks over to the girl who starts to scream as he grabs her arms and pulls them back behind her, pressing her wrists together right over the bullet hole in her back. He then presses his knees into her hands to hold them still.
“AHHhHHhhhhHhhH!” cries out the girl, feeling the pressure against the bullet hole. She feels a sickening prickling as the pressure digs some bits of bullet and bone deeper into her already shredded spinal cord. Her legs twitch a few times as signals shoot down from the severed bundle of nerves.
The shooter grunts once, wrapping the nylon tie around her wrists and then pulling it taut, binding her hands behind her. The cameraman records everything, standing two feet away as the girl squirms on the ground like a pinned bug.
The shooter then leans forward, moving his face close to hers, her cheek pressed up against the warm asphalt as she sobs. He leans all the way forward until his lips are just inches from her ear.
“I’m sorry,” the shooter begins to whisper. “You...you weren’t supposed to be here.”
“Noo, please...please...don’t, don’t kill me, I wanna live...!” she whispers back.
“Shhh. I know. But we can’t. I just wanted to let you know that I was sorry.” The shooter pulls back and then grabs her by the shoulders, flipping her over.
“Ahhh, no no no NOooOooOOoO”
The shooter reaches down, touching her cheek gently, a momentary flicker of sadness, then his hand lashes out and down, ripping open the front of her blood-streaked shirt. Immediately her breasts come flopping out, freed of their fabric prison, the areolas of her breasts dark and large.
“Oh god oh god please please let me live.”
The shooter pulls out his gun. He then looks into the camera. “This is what happens if you help those that oppose us.” He then takes the gun and presses the muzzle right against the center of her chest, right between her large breasts. He feels her warm soft breasts against the sides of his hands as he presses it hard, right against her sternum.
The girl jolts upright, feeling the hardness of the gun pressing against her soft skin, shocked and surprised by the warmth of the metal, still warm from the shots before. Her nostrils flare, smelling the gunpowder smell.
“Noo god no pleasepleasepleaseplease<BANG>hurrkkk!”
The girl jerks, hearing the shot and feeling the bullet tear through her. It feels like someone reached in and stabbed her in the chest with a thousand needles as both breastbone and bullet break into pieces, tearing into her beating heart.
“Gluck....glurk....glurk...”
The girl feels her heart, or what is left of it, try to beat, then she feels nothing.
The shooter pulls the gun away. There’s a hole, ringed with black from gunpowder in the center of her chest. A tiny little spot of blood leaks out. But that’s all. All of the blood in her body suddenly ceasing to move. The shooter then holds, supporting her in his lap, cradling her like a child.
His whispers to her softly, so that the camera can’t hear. “Shhh. It’s ok. Just let go.”
The girl looks into the camera, her face is afraid, shuddering, feeling the stillness in her chest and then feeling it spread, the world starting to shrink in size like a deflating balloon. Then her face starts to change, looking a bit puzzled, confused, like she didn’t understand what you just said. Then her eyes look around, keeping the confused look as if she was lost. A few moments later her eyes relax, her eyelids half closing as her brain shuts down.
Neither man says nothing. The shooter holds her as her mouth hangs open, feeling her body convulsing softly for the next few minutes as death slowly washes over the girl. Finally she goes still, relaxing as a dark stain appears in her crotch and slowly spreads across the denim fabric, turning it black.
The cameraman turns the camera off.
Later, lit by the glow of a monitor, the cameraman uploads the video to narcos.com
