Barbie's Revenge

A virtual nobody, like many of us, Barbie (Barbara) Tosland was an unusual victim.

She suffered at the hands, mouths and dicks of the three Reynolds brothers and Terry Schischka and Mark McGreevy, when attacked six days ago.

She didn't appear to be carrying permanent scars and she still laughed and joked to customers without any apparent psychological impairment.

In fact, she served Stu and Owen Reynolds that morning, giving them their hamburgers without any hint of recognition.

Both said "Thanks Barbie" and tipped her handsomely, conscience money no doubt. But that's not going to save them from retaliatory revenge.

Barbie was not beautiful, she walked with a slight limp and had been a below average student at high school. But she regularly thought deeply, and currently was thinking those brutal motorcycle guys who had their way with her would suffer extreme discomfort, any time soon.

She didn't think of chopping off their dicks or slitting their tongues. Some or all of those things risked bringing attention to herself and initiating police criminal investigation.

She needed to hurt them without a finger pointing at her.

One thing was on her side. No one, including the victims, would think of her being the culprit when she took revenge if that was considered too sophisticated for Barbie Tosland to think out and to personally execute.

Oh yes, Barbie intended to deal with the situation herself.

She'd figured if she complained to the police about the rape, she'd be laughed at and abused, perhaps told to shut her mouth because she worked at a take-out food outlet, which made her fair game, whereas for instance, alleged attackers Steve Reynolds and Mark McGreevy were ex-footballers of high repute.

She imaged one police officer would have explained, cold-eyeing her, 'Know what we mean miss? We know if this was taken further and received publicity, the public would ask, who the fuck is Barbara Tosland?"

Well, who the fuck are overweight police, the assholes, Barbie mused, leaning over the counter at the Crap Burger Bar waiting for customers?

It might have a crap name but it reigned supreme locally and the cops resented that because it was owned by two known felons, Sue and Tony Mellows, so the police chief had ordered his personnel not to eat crap food, food from Crap Burger Bar.

Fuck customers who arrive in waves as well, thought Barbie, instead of arriving in dribs and drabs, making it easier for her and cooking staff doing the meat and onions to give proper attention in preparing the orders without being placed under pressure.

It was either a feast or a feminine. Didn't customers realize if they didn't arrive at peak times, their meat would be cooked to perfection and the burger would be constructed like a work of art rather than tossed together in a rush?

Barbie talked to Peggy-Mae under the tree on the big uncut lawn behind the bar about the peak times rush and the persistent rumor that Sue and Tony Mellows kept cattle at the back and ground the chickens live, which explained why that burger meat tasted so outstandingly fresh.

Everyone at the bar, including Crap Burger employers had told an investigating newspaper reporter they'd never seen cattle on the lawn or seen or heard cattle being slaughtered.

They said emphatically that the rumors were utter bullshit.

Co-owner of the business Sue, had arrived carrying a big carving knife and told the reporter to fuck off.

"Under local ordinances, we're not permitted to keep even roosters on our property she said, running a finger along the edge of the blade and wincing.

A small piece was published:

'There appears no truth in the rumor that cattle are kept behind the Crap Burger Bar for ensure the ground meat is the freshest around.'

Readers were left to wonder then why did crap burgers taste the best in town?"

Finishing their 'smoothies', the young women went back inside, Peggy-Mae agreeing to swap with Barbie to take the 4.00 to midnight shift for three weeks, allowing Barbie to work Peggy-Mae's 8.00 to 4.00 day shift. That arrangement would secretly allow Barbie to attend to the Reynolds' Gang between nightfall and midnight and still get a decent sleep.

Barbie decided to work up from the bottom, in terms of seniority.

Stu (Stewart) Reynolds was riding along a near-deserted strip of Creswell Street near his home where it bisected through Hammonds Park. Up ahead he saw a woman's body on the sidewalk. The 18-year-old stopped to check out the contents of her handbag for cash and anything else of interest and then to see if she were still alive.

After pocketing the roll of money in her handbag he rolled her over. She was wearing some kind of netting that came down over her face from her had. Just as he was about to lift it, the bitch sprayed his eyes with something that seemed to sting and make him go all weak, he was to tell police later. He complained all of his money had been stolen.

Stu awoke in hospital.

Following complaints from passing motorists, police had investigated, finding Stu tied to a tree, stripped and with a huge flanged butt plug up his ass.

The toes on both feet had been smash with a short iron bar that had also been used to knock him out. There were no prints on the bar nor on the cardboard sign affixed to the tree above him reading, 'I take it in the ass'.

The story was published in the newspaper and later that morning, gay guys were calling the hospital to express their sympathy. As soon as he was discharged from hospital, in a wheelchair because both feet were out of action, Stu went to stay with his grandparents 200 miles away where gays presumably would not have heard of him.

Unfortunately, his grandparents and others in that community had heard a full radio news report about the heinous crime, Stu spend the next six weeks cooped up with his grandparents who invited local gays to visit him to chat or whatever.

Oh, his vintage Triumph Bonneville, handed down from one of his brothers, was stolen by a passenger who jumped out of a pick-up and rode off on it, according to witnesses (probably attracted from Supreme Burgers finishing off inferior burgers) while waiting to watch the police arrive.

Later that evening, Owen Reynolds and Mark McGreevy left the hospital where they'd gone to visit the victimized Stu and were accelerating off on their customized 1200cc road bikes when a driver in a 'dark car', was all they could tell police, left his or her side of the road, apparently out of control, and both riders had to take emergency action.

Owen's bike crashed into a parked vehicle and burst into flames, destroying it and damaging the parked vehicle and severely burning Owen's legs. Witnesses watched horrified and hadn't really noticed the dark car that drove off.

Mark's car hit the front of a new BMW 7 Series and he went hurtling on to the top of it, badly deflecting the roof. He fell back on to the road and an evading vehicle ran over both arms, only bruising them. Mark stood up screaming in pain and abuse but was knocked down by the following car, fortunately without too much damage but his spleen had to be removed by surgeons.

Barbie, who'd parked in a side street, when running back to assess the carnage, and was delighted to find that no-one involved had not suffered life-threatening injury.

She thought Mark's moaning sounded very much more painful than her moaning and cries for help when he'd been involved in gang-raping her two weeks earlier.

The next evening, Terry Schischka came out of the shed where he lived and found his vehicle soaked in gasoline. The bike was his pride and joy, a Suzuki GSX-R600 20th Anniversary Edition. He was still standing in gasoline when someone said "Catch!"

Terry instinctively catch the object tossed in a gently arc and then dropped it when realizing it was alight.

Whoosh!

"Oh, you poor bastard. You've set yourself and your beautiful toy alight," he could hear someone saying. It was a guy with a high-pitched voice, he told friend Mitch from his bed in the burn's unit at the hospital. The offender was guy with a maniacal laugh.

'He' the perpetrator of the attack was Barbie wearing a fully buttoned up black leather jacket. Black pants and wore a motor-cycle helmet with dark visor.

Terry remembered the black-dressed guy rushing at him to pull him clear and spraying him with a fire extinguisher.

"My bike, my bike. Spray my bike?" Terry had screamed and that's when he heard the maniacal laughter again and the guy just tossed the extinguisher aside.

"He then took my cell phone from my side pocket and asked me who to call. I got him to call you, Mitch. Couldn't call the cops because my shed is full of stolen cigarettes, booze and I've got some dope stashed there."

Fortunately, Terry had been wearing leathers. Even so, his legs were severely seared in the short-lived blaze. His gloves saved his fingers but, oh dear, thought Barbie, inspecting his face when he's passed out in shock and pain, to find bits of burning debris had burnt into the skin, leaving him rather disfigured around the cheeks and forehead. She felt pleased his eyes had escaped damage as she would have felt mean had he been blinded.

And so, on to Mitch Reynolds, leader of the pack.

Barbie remembered the attack on her. She'd had been walking home at midnight when the small group motorcyclists surrounded her.

Mitch had ordered her to hop on the back of Terry's bike.

But she'd refused.

Mitch got off his bike, put it on the stand, and striding over to her, had grabbed her by the hair and pulled her screaming to Terry's bike, where Terry had smirked and said, "Don't damaged the paintwork babe, it's super-special."

However, Mitch being the brains of the group, had subsequently worked out that these vindictive accidents on the group had all occurred at night, and so he wouldn't be going out at nights. The 26-year-old, who'd been in Barbie's class at high school, still lived at home.

He loaded his father's hunting rifle and slept with it beside his bed; his bedroom looked straight out to the shed where he kept his beloved two motor-cross motorcycles.

Two weeks later, Mitch had become somewhat less cautious, wondering if for some reason he was not a target of this crazy person who probably was a neighbor gone loco over the late-night hooning as the gang departed from his home, then returning late at night with much hilarity.

On Saturday afternoon, he left his Harley soft-tail in the shed, deciding to go for a flit along the trail through trees in Hammonds Park on his two-month-old WR450F Yamaha that he'd done most Saturdays since stealing the machine in a far-off city.

Mitch was roaring up an incline, head down looking just head and fighting the bucking machine when suddenly he came to a dead stop and went flying over the handlebars and lay semi-stunned. Dimly he felt something being attached to his wrists and then to his ankles.

Regaining his full senses Mitch's heart missed a beat when he saw the black-dressed figure attached a rope from his ankle to a stake in the ground. Mitch planted his boot into the fat ass of his assailant, determined to unmask the bastard as soon as he over-powered him. But the assailant was agile and rode the kick forward without appearing to be hurt.

Mitch went to sit up to get the bastard, only to find himself almost completely staked out. He bellowed a cry for help.

Barbie had suppressed a cry of pain as the heavy riding boot glanced off the cheek of her ass and managed to tie a half-hitch. Tie the last leg and he would be powerless, she thought, but easier said than done.

Mitch lashed out with his leg as soon as she neared it.

Barbie worked out the solution: she walked around, pulled the half-hitch tighter and between his swinging kicks completed another hitch. She then kicked him between the legs.

Mitch howled in agony and while he was diverted, she calmly grabbed the rope on his free leg and completed the stake-out.

"I'll get you, you bastard. I'll kill you," he'd snarled.

Barbie popped six tampons banded together into his mouth so he couldn't spit on her, holding the seventh up for him to see, but he didn't appear to recognize what it was.

Then she opened a jar and freed four spiders on to his face, saying in a deep voice: "Poisonous spiders." There were, of course, normal household spiders and they scuttled off, fanning across Mitch's face.

Barbie watched impassively through her mask as his eyes bulged. With satisfaction, she heard his muffled screams.

Barbie then lit a small spirit stove, placing on it sever mini branding irons used by home leather-workers.

Thirty minutes later she used a mirror to show the terrified gang leader the results of her handiwork on his forehead. But Mitch bathed in sweat and shaking in uncontrollable fear, was so near unconsciousness he was unable to comprehend the writing as it was back to front in the mirror: viewed front on, it read 'I Rape.'

Unfortunately, no one came along the little used track until next morning. A man walking his dog found Mitch still staked out. The dog-walker called the police on his cell phone, and agreed not to touch anything, not even to remove the tampon gag.

Barbie, however, had been too smart - she'd removed everything that was hers, completely covering her tracks. The rope used was found to have been taken from a child's swing from a nearby home and police enquiries from home handiwork suppliers in a radius of fifty miles revealed no recent sales of mini branding irons (Barbie had borrowed them from her grandfather's workshop without his knowledge).

Because Mitch and his motorcycle gang had been a pain in the ass of police for several years, they allowed the media to photograph and film the branded face of Mitch. He denied raping anyone and alleged to reporters he didn't even know the meaning of the word until a cop explained it to him.

Mitch had a problem over the inch-high lettering on his forehead. He had no money to pay for skin grafts and his parents refused to pay, believing he'd must have raped someone to had this done to him.

The police found out from Mitch's mom about the terrible time Mitch's brothers had had and their two friends, which made the police suspect something was going on. At the same time, Mitch worked on figuring why the assailant appeared to be so short and have such a high-pitched voice voiced person and appeared to have an unusually shaped chest.

Finally, he had the answer, the assailant was female!

Mitch also knew who that woman was, and wearing a fedora pulled down over his scared face, grabbed his hunting knife and jumping on to his Harley rode like a madman to the Crap Burger Bar to cut off the nipples of the fucking bitch and cross-cut her face on both cheeks.

"Where's Barbie!" he shouted in rage.

The duty chef came forward carrying a knife three times as large as the one in Mitch's hand.

"She flew out last night to rejoin her parents who now live in Spain," said Peggy-Mae. "Are you Mr Reynolds?"

"Yes, if it's any fucking business of yours."

"Barbie left you a letter."

Peggy-Mae handed it over.

"Anything else?"

Peggy-Mae shook her head.

Mitch began to storm out when Peggy-Mae called out.

"Yeah, what?"

"You've forgotten to place your order."

"I'll never eat another fucking hamburger again," he fumed, crashing out through the swing doors.

Outside astride his Harley, Mitch read the letter:

Dear Mitch, Terry, Mark, Stu & Owen

It was so sad that you guys have had a run of bad luck lately. I felt I could share the pain you were in; such a gruesome time for you really, but the truth is I felt very happy about you being severely mistreated. Never mind, over a long, long time you will get better, unless some horrible infection cuts in and begins eating into your bodies, my poor darlings. I could cry for you but unfortunately, I ran right out of tears one night almost three weeks ago.

I'm sorry to bring you further bad news. It seems I am a carrier of some sort of wicked STD which can make males infertile. I intended to seek treatment the day after my unfortunate experience of being used for some sort of primitive ritual, which means those who participated may all now be firing blank shots for the rest of their lives. The sound of tiny feet running into their bedroom in the morning alas can only be the feet of their nieces and nephews or the little tots from next door. I do not believe the cocks and balls of afflicted men turn black and fall off, but one never knows.

If you are not doing anything this evening, perhaps you may all decided it may be preferable to ride over the cliff at the top of Mt Cullum and free-fall to the granite rock falls some 1500 feet below. After all, what is life when you're having sex knowing you're firing blank shots? If the babes learn about this, and I'm sure they will, they will be humping back at you with a nasty smile reserved for pathetic bastards in their lives who all happen to be males.

Your loving friend and playmate, Barbie.

PS: Oh, my dinky games with you assholes, I think I've emerged the winner, don't you?

With a heavy heart Mitch rode off to show the letter to members of his gang who included his brothers.

Blank shot, eh? He groaned, thinking he and the boys may as well give up the idea of ever marrying as what wife would want a husband who fired blank shots.

The End