Boddiford Affaire

"Please baby...help me" Carlos reached for Rita. Rita sidestepped his grasp and looked at her stricken husband.

"How you like that, Papi?" she said quizzically. "Does it hurt? I bet it does. Well, it just saves me from having to kill you, too."

A completely confused look crossed Carlos' face as he collapsed into a widening pool of blood next to the body of Olin Boddiford. "Wha? Why?"

"There are a hundred million reasons why, Papi" said Rita, as she watched the last flicker of life escape Carlos' eyes. His head hit the floor, and Rita surveyed the situation.

She was standing in a filthy barroom, surrounded by carnage. A dead old white guy on the floor, covered by a dead Puerto Rican. On their sides, they were flanked by two dead black guys, who were missing half of their heads. Blood was everywhere. To top it all off, there was a hysterical white whore tied to a pool table, who had been violated in the worst of ways. Her eyes showed the shock of someone who had just witnessed things she would never forget, and her body showed the ravages of someone who's dreams had just been cut short. Rita walked up to Angela, and grabbed her by the hair.

"See, you filthy bitch. We were playing the same game. We were both after the old man's money. Your plan was just a little cleaner than mine. But it looks like I got it done first. Too bad for you. I will send you letters from my new island. Enjoy being a washed up whore, you dirty rotten cunt." With that, Rita spit in Angela's face and walked towards the door.

Chapter Ten

Rita let the rays of the sun warm her body, and enjoyed the feeling of sand between her toes. She lowered her sunglasses to survey the body of the cabana boy who was bringing her the first of several umbrella-decorated rum drinks of the day.

"Will there be anything else, senora?" asked the attendant.

Rita looked down towards the tell-tale bulge in his banana hammock swim trunks and saw something that pleased her. "Yes, my pet. Please be in Bungalow #3 in an hour."

"Very well, ma'am"

She dismissed him with the wave of her hand. He would serve his purpose. He would make her cum, then be gone. She loved the way things worked here on the island. While she did not end up with quite enough to buy her own island, Olin Boddiford's accounts reaped enough money for her to purchase a very safe, secure and well-off life on this one. Life was good.

Rita opened the paper the cabana boy had brought, and almost choked on her drink. The headlines read "Boddiford Kidnap/Murder Case Solved" She quickly scanned the beach, half expecting to see police officers swarming towards her, but saw nothing but a couple of seagulls and the ever-present beach servers. Nervously, Rita began to read the story:

Los Angeles, CA (UP)

The Los Angeles Police Department has announced that Hollywood industry titan Olin Boddiford's grisly murder six months ago has been solved. According to Police Chief David Washington, Boddiford and his wife, Angela, were the victims of a plan hatched by Compton bar owner, Jerome Simpson. Chief Washington said that Simpson had his employee, T-Bone Watson and a friend, Carlos Ortega, kidnap Mrs. Boddiford from their Beverly Hills home, then lured Mr. Boddiford to Simpson's bar to retrieve his wife. Simpson had Boddiford empty the contents of his bank accounts into various offshore accounts that US authorities are unable to access, then he murdered Mr. Boddiford when he arrived at the bar. Chief Washington went on to describe the rest of the scene, "It looks like one of Simpson's accomplices, Carlos Ortega, got greedy, and shot Mr. Simpson and his employee, Mr. Watson, in an attempt to keep the money for himself. Unfortunately for Mr. Ortega, Mr. Simpson managed to shoot him before he expired, and Ortega bled to death on the floor of the bar as well. The whereabouts of Mrs. Boddiford were unknown until this past weekend, when a dirty, disheveled woman walked into the police precinct headquarters and announced that she was the missing Mrs. Boddiford. After questioning and having her story corroborate what the officers believed, Mrs. Boddiford was released on her own recognizance and has not been seen or heard from since. Deputies stationed at the Boddiford mansion say they have not seen her, and all of the couple's acquaintances refused comment on the situation. The case has been officially closed, and no more police department resources will be expended.

Rita knew she was in trouble. There was no mention of her in the article. Why? Why had Angela Boddiford not told them what had happened? Why had she not told them who the real mastermind was? What kind of game was she playing? Then it hit her – Angela hadn't said anything to the cops, because she wanted to even the score on her own...outside the law. With Angela Boddiford still out there looking for her, Rita knew there was one woman on the face of the earth who would not rest until Rita was dead. Suddenly, the thought of a liaison with a well-endowed cabana boy seemed much less appealing than a quick trip to somewhere a bit less visible. Somewhere like, maybe, Peru. Rita Ortega got up and quickly removed herself from her beachfront chair, and made her way to Bungalow #3. Her hopeful cabana boy had his amorous hopes brushed aside as Rita waved him off when he attempted to follow her.

She burst in the door of her bungalow and grabbed her suitcase. She began throwing clothes into it, not really looking to see what she was packing, just taking it all to be safe. She reached for the phone she had left lying on the bedside table to call for plane reservations. She reached for it...and it wasn't there.

"looking for this, bitch?" came a voice from behind her

Rita did not turn around. She knew who it was. "What are you doing here?"

"I came for you, you fucking cunt" said Angela Boddiford in a very evil and weary voice. "You took my life, so I've come for yours"

Rita knew she was in trouble. She reached for the gun she kept in her underwear drawer for just such an emergency, but she wasn't fast enough. Angela was behind her in an instant. She quickly looped the nylon she had been wrapping around her fists over Rita's throat, and began to garrote the heavier woman for all she was worth. Six months of living in the streets had made Angela a lot stronger than she looked. Six months of sucking the dicks of strangers for food money. Six months of sleeping in alleys and abandoned cars. Six months of whoring her ass out to any crack head who could come up with a hundred bucks, or fifty, or ten if she needed it that badly. Six months of anger, hurt and frustration came out as Angela slowly cut off Rita's wind pipe, and watched the Puerto Rican's eyes bulge from her head, and her tongue pop out of her mouth. Rita slumped to the floor, dead.

Angela stood over the body of her victim. She smiled. Letting that United Airlines crew pull a train on her in exchange for a smuggling her onto the flight to the island was totally worth it. Even taking a strap-on up the ass from the bull dyke head stewardess wasn't so bad now. She quickly dragged the body to the bathroom, and put it in the bathtub. She turned on the faucets, grabbed an empty tequila bottle from the trash can, and a raunchy novel from the bedside table and staged the props. It would look like Rita had fallen asleep, drunk, in a bath while reading, and drowned. Autopsies in this tiny little island country were notoriously incomplete, and the last thing they wanted was a murder mystery to ward off tourists. They would just rule it "death by misadventure" and that would be that.

Angela then returned to the front room. She rifled through Rita's purse and dresser drawers until she found what she was looking for. A small black notebook with account numbers and passwords, and a wrinkled personal check for $100,000 made out to "Carlos Ortega" folded inside the front cover. It was the very same notebook and check Rita's asshole husband had taken from Angela just six months ago in that God-forsaken barroom. The notebook gave whomever wielded it complete access to Rita's money – to Olin's money - to Angela's money.

Angela walked back into the bathroom and turned off the tap. Rita was completely submerged. She reached in, and grabbed a handful of Rita's hair. She pulled the dead woman's face above the water, spit in it, and said "Enjoy being a dead whore, you dirty rotten cunt". With that, she climbed out of the back window of the cabana, and disappeared into the surrounding jungle.

Life as she knew it had changed yet again.

-THE END