Precision Solutions

Having been discovered in August of 2012, the anomaly was little understood at the time, but in short order both local and state officials knew that they had a monster on their hands with little idea how to deal with it.

The beast started out small but now occupies 20 football fields or 26 acres of territory in far-south Louisiana's Assumption Parish at coordinates 30°0´40ʺN by 91°8´35ʺW. The nearby town is Bayou Corne. The entire Gulf Coast area lies over a string of gigantic salt domes, some of which have been mined for commercial and military purposes since shortly after the Civil War. This particular area rests atop an aggregate of underground caverns owned by Occidental Petroleum and operated by Texas Brine Corporation.

In 2012 something happened deep underground to Texas Brine's salt dome, at the time being used as part of the United States Strategic Petroleum Reserve and holding millions of gallons of petroleum distillates. Deep in the hostile darkness underground, a wall of the salt dome collapsed, opening a channel upward to the territory occupied at the time by acres of salt marsh and cypress trees.

Suddenly, residents of the town of Bayou Corne began reporting bubbles rising to the surface of several waterways. Then with unnerving suddenness an entire plot of swamp collapsed, morphing into a seemingly bottomless mush of foul-smelling dark water topped with a colorful rainbow of petroleum waste.

State and parish officials including representatives from the governor's office rushed to the scene and attempted to control the hostile dark mess with floating booms often used near ships to manage oil spills. The area continued expanding. At one end farthest from the treeline the sinkhole has a changing but relatively shallow depth; nearest the treeline, however, its measured depth is 750 feet and growing with the stench of methane hovering over gas bubbling from deep in the darkness.

One afternoon as the soupy dark slop was being monitored by cameras placed to keep track of the living thing, observers were aghast as they witnessed the impossible. An entire portion of treeline with huge, tall cypresses, shook violently in their tops, then began to steadily and rapidly sink into the goop as if they were being devoured from below by a monstrous Cloverfield-like beast. Steadily the entire mass of great trees disappeared until nothing remained but leafy trash on the surface and the rocking containment booms. It had taken all of fifteen seconds.

The thing had come alive in a new and dreadful way.

Engineers who know their business believe that the sinkhole and its hellacious stew will continue its slow but steady march toward Louisiana Highway 70 and the nearby town with its railroad. More than 150 residents of Bayou Corne have been moved away with only a pitiful few remaining. A continued buildup of gasses has technicians worried that something may eventually set off an explosion, turning the area into a living hell.

At night Louisiana and the South generally come alive with the heady fragrance of magnolia, wisteria, lilac, honeysuckle, kudzu and freshly-mowed fields. A cacophony of sounds fills the darkness with every mating call given by God to His creation as creatures from insects to tree frogs to alligators, bears, and felines large and small voice their part of the disjointed yet wonderfully natural symphony. Lightning bugs, fireflies to northerners, flit to and fro on invisible paths resembling tiny flashing gold, light-emitting diodes.

To an observer near the sinkhole, however, there is no such display. As if creatures understand that this is a dark, eldritch landscape from some hideous moon, there is only the disgusting, thick oily gurgle as the sinkhole mutters to itself. In the light of a waxing gibbous moon the surface is always moving in some unnervingly dreadful fashion.

Small bubbles pop at the surface and leave their stench of dangerous gasses. Tiny swirls across its surface imitate larger whirlpools. The scene is dim, hostile, filthy, and breeds a sense of deep uneasiness in a watcher.

Suddenly, a disturbance roils the thick surface of the fluid, then something out of Edgar Allan Poe appears in the form of a large whirlpool as the monster below wakens to consume something foul.

A greasy sucking noise emanates from the dark mouth of the thing as it hisses and snarls its rage at not having arms to reach out for prey. A shadowy, nasty, bottomless hole appears in the center, then migrates to swing about in a rotating fashion near its edges. The greedy sucking noise now resembles a thick, sloppy roar as if it were an earth-bound black hole.

After half an hour of this nightmare, the whirlpool seems to tire. It diminishes to a series of ripples that gradually chase each other away, leaving the 46 acres of threatening liquid a glassy dark surface reflecting only the moon now migrated nearly across the sky to disappear behind the cypresses.

For now, the ghoulish monster of a pit rests quietly.

For now.

Followup

The following evening after my busy day of checking up on the self-appointed elite tribe of Ralston Carpenter and any crime reports that could be remotely stuck to that family, I gathered my work in preparation for my date with Heather Longstreet. Given the nature of my request for her outfit, I decided to include a bit of my own erotica.

I put on a close-fitting pair of gray denims that performed as intended...they displayed marvelously the gathered form of my stem in its smooth close-fitting bikini. When I turned sideways, I could see the sexy bulge there. After the days with Pandora, I wouldn't have changed that for anything; I looked forward to wearing it among others.

A soft and light blue long sleeve shirt open down my chest displayed my bare breasts whichever way I turned. Black boots as always and my black Seiko watch completed my dress for the evening. The anticipation I had for Heather was far outstripped by her nearly pornographic outfit, much to my arousal and pleasure.

With file folder in hand, I rang the bell of her suite. She opened the door slowly, giving me an opportunity to view her carefully. We were most assuredly going to get waylaid by the law or by the patrons' dress requirements of where we were going. Heather wore her hair long to offset her yellow sweater that struggled desperately to conceal her lovely bare breasts beneath; I scored the contest as breasts, 10, sweater 5.

Her white leather micro-skirt she'd belted with a wide black leather Carhart item; the skirt's length was criminally miniscule resembling those worm by my favorite Italian voyeur artist who styles herself as Lexo. Heather's white micro contrasted beautifully with her chocolate flesh and her sculptured bush of black grass. The leather skirt was short enough to expose a delicious portion of her lovely bottom behind, and a clear view of the lower portion of her black fur in front. The diamond on its clit chain swung erotically between her thighs in full view of all interested parties.

"Do I meet your simple standards, Mr. Stone?" she spoke in a low, husky voice, turning for my inspection as she spoke. The low heel pumps brought into sensuous relief the muscles of her calves and legs. And I was simply this beauty's friend? How in the world.....?

I kissed her, took her hand, and led her downstairs to my Jeep Wrangler where I assisted her up its step and into the passenger seat. Everything this gorgeous lady had was on display as I did so, therefore, she would be equally as naked when she got down. What a delicious thought!

We entered Pisco's Italian Marketplace, a good friend's very nice restaurant despite its off-the-wall name. Sicilian restauranteur Joey Pisco waved a hearty welcome to us and came over to meet Heather. I watched his trained and appreciative eye take in her lovely face, her jostling breasts and her nakedness below the tiny skirt.

"In case you're concerned, Jonathan my friend, her dress for the evening is perfect," smiled our host. "You will not object, of course, if I call out my staff to view this miracle of feminine sensuality? Thank you. And please notify me when you, Heather, get ready to bend over. This 8^th wonder of our world I must see!"

Heather giggled and kissed him on his cheek. The rest of the diners within view of my date stopped open-mouthed at whatever they were doing and pointed to Heather. Just about the reaction I'd hoped for. For Heather, she smiled and proudly strode with me to our booth. Yes, her curvy ass, naked thighs and grassy pussy were all bared; the diamond on its clit chain glinted brightly, drawing longing gazes from men and women.

We ordered and then enjoyed dinner. As I talked over what I'd found and Heather gazed at me with much more than friendly eyes, she managed to keep her chest in motion. Her breasts resembled a struggle beneath her sweater between two animals determined to take possession of her treasures.

"Heather, I discovered quite a list of violent actions against the sexual partners of Mason Carpenter. Whether on college campuses or just in dating, despite complaints made with very credible evidence, nothing was ever done to him. His parents, Ralston and Stella, have a lock on prosecutors and law enforcement. Moreover, I found two unexplained deaths attributed to him. One girl was crucified in a clearing outside of town following having been gang raped; the other endured incredible torture.

"Her hands and legs had been wired together, then she'd had Drano poured down her throat...and she'd been set on fire. I've never seen such animal brutality in all the work I've done. I can deal with him and his family. On this case, there'll be no warning. We're going to dispose of him permanently."

"Let me add a juicy tidbit from what I discovered about that cockroach and his buddies," I ground out, unable to keep the contempt from my voice. "For years they've had a private club called 'The 21 Club.' They started it years ago to represent their intention of raping that many girls. What they've done in the years since probably added to their vicious record. The police know about this; they're worse than useless...they actually enable these ghouls with their own inaction."

She stared at me for nearly a minute of silence, reading my expression and remembering what I'd told her previously. Then she took my right hand and placed it on her thigh, allowing me to enjoy the warmth of her skin. She held my hand gently as she led my fingers into her pussy, now slippery with her arousal.

I continued speaking in a low voice as I softly fingered her flesh. Heather rolled her eyes upward and whispered a groan as she said, "Jonathan, you've been my friend for just a very brief time. Now I'm ordering you to go beyond that. Dear God, Jonathan, you are such a wonder to me."

Upon removing my fingers, I placed each on my lips and tasted her juices. In fulfillment of my promise to Joey Pisco, I called him over to assist Heather in rising from her seat and to enjoy her very willing display of the joys of her micro-skirt.

"My boy, both you and Heather have permanent reservations with us. Such sensuous beauty must be rewarded. Goodnight," he smiled. Then he leaned over and said, "You lucky, sexy bastard!"

"Don't I know it!" was my fervent reply.

We returned to Heather's suite and I continued with the ghoulish litany I'd begun at Joey's. "His parents are an element within that self-appointed elite of our nation who have so much money, they're untouchable. They live in a net of their own invulnerability, consorting only with others of the same brutal conviction that they are deserving of everything from others, to whom they owe nothing in return but indentured servitude.

"They're even more wretched because they know this, Heather. They relish it. They're convinced they are better than most Americans because...well, just because."

"What do you mean, Jonathan?" Heather had become far more subdued than I'd seen her before during our short acquaintance.

"I mean that they have attended all the 'right' institutions, belong to all the 'proper' clubs and groups for people of their financial arena, know just the 'right' people with connections to help them get done whatever sorry schemes they have and belong to the ever-so-proper political groups. They are reinforced in this by a media that couldn't investigate its own ass, it's so incompetent.

"Their contempt for most of us out here in what they think of as "flyover country" is simply bottomless. They are Nazi-like in that they truly believe they are of a higher order of human being, and in their conviction that the rest of us must either happily concur with this garbage...or be disposed of as useless scrap."

"You can't be serious, Jonathan. Isn't that more than a little over-the-top?"

His expression and grim silence moved the lovely black woman to realize that on this subject Jonathan had a humor factor of minus zero. He was describing a phenomenon so hostile to the hopes and thoughts of most Americans that their first response would dependably be one of disbelief.

"Mason's parents don't care what he does, who he does it with, or what consequences it produces. He can do no wrong, just as they are convinced about themselves. I found a credible source, Heather, who was present when Ralston and Stella were told about Mason's part in crucifying that poor girl in the clearing. Know what their reply was?"

She shook her head miserably.

"His father said, 'Well, at least he's not out of fresh ideas." His mother winced, then remarked, "Well, we can certainly hope that she died for some good cause, can't we?" Followed by the laughter of an utter jackass. That's who these people are, Heather. Now, lady, do you still want us to deal with this hideous mess? Remember, you aren't going to know how; just that it's been done. And as you consider it all, recall briefly what you personally have experienced."

Heather walked to the sliding glass door of her porch and stood silent. After a time during which I actually wondered if I'd read her wrong...if she'd back out of her request for our assistance...she turned about and said with steel in her voice, "Yes, Jonathan. This is not childish get-back-at-the-bad-boy. He has to be stopped before others die."

"And they will die, Heather. Mason Carpenter is a monster." I walked over to her, tilted her face upward, and kissed her lightly on her lips and eyelids.

"As much as I desire you, gorgeous woman, I have a lot of work to do. We may not see each other for a few days because my planning involves some travel. But please rest assured of this, Heather: you are precious to me. I'll not leave you. My heart's desire for you is not to haul you into bed but to remain your friend, even if my Christmas wish might be to combine the two."

She placed both my hands gently on her breasts, squeezing them as she stared at me. This lady is certainly one big, delicious woman. Still, she's touched me within. My primary work for her is the project at hand.

"Call me when you can, Jonathan. I trust you. I'd never have let you caress me so intimately as you did at Joey's if that were not true. I'm in your hands; please take care of me."

"Indeed," I whispered as I walked to the door.

Preparations

In my experience, the most effective means of dealing with a threat who is so determined that he or she is for all purposes a killing machine who relishes what they do, a Hannibal Lecter with a more attractive face, is to make them suddenly vanish forever. Without a trace. The terror factor never leaves those who enable this sort of ghoul, and the grief is never wiped from the hearts of those who care for him, her, it...however one wishes to characterize them.

I now had the 'how' of the plan. Next came the coordination, and for that I needed the aid of PRISM Designs. I called Ashwynde Richardson, the director of their antiquities research and exploration and my gracious friend of the erotic website, the lady who'd invited me to get down there as soon as possible.

If she is in person more delicious than she sounds on the phone, I may become the man who never returned. She arranged for the company jet to fly up and get me at the Baton Rouge airport, then take me back to Florida. I'd let her know that I needed support for contract work; she explained that those in attendance at the Florida meeting would include herself, my pilot Arabella Robineaux, Parker Campbell, and her husband, Mark.

Early in the morning I watched a Beechcraft Premier 1A taxi to a corner apron by the A3 passenger lounge at Baton Rouge International Airport, then observed the pilot, a stunning young black woman, another woman who must have been the flight attendant, and a third striking lady with a huge, beautiful blizzard of kinky silver-white hair depart the craft, laughing as they strode to the loading ramp.

I'm usually prepared for most ordinary situations, but this one honestly stopped me in my tracks. The trio approached me as I stood to greet them, feeling that somehow my best manners still weren't going to be good enough.

"Good morning, Mr. Stone. I'm Arabella Robineaux, your pilot. This is our flight attendant with multiple talents, Candace West, and here is our safety officer, the 'elder' Sheila Davenport. We playfully refer to this gorgeous lady that way because she just celebrated her fortieth birthday last week."

All this was accompanied by good natured laughter as each shook my hand and very professionally measured me in the process. The beauty with the wild burst of lovely silver-white hair reaching to her waist gazed at me with the most unnerving pair of violet eyes I'd ever seen.

"Hello, Mr. Stone. Ashwynde described you to us and I should say warned us, too. I can see that she was correct; you seem to be a most unusual and handsome man. My service to you as our 'safety officer' ...you know, I sound like a school crossing guard...is to protect you from, well, whatever. I can see that I might as well not have come. You are obviously capable of protecting yourself."

"Sheila, please go light on our guest. He needs to be ready for Ashe and that meeting when we get to Palm Beach." She laughed merrily as Arabella said this.

Arabella followed it up with a loud whisper behind a hand raised to her mouth, "Mr. Stone, she's also a cougar of the most dangerous sort. Guard your life around her!"

It seemed the better part of valor for me to say, "Ladies, please call me Jonathan, or Jon. Otherwise, I'm going to suffer a serious identity problem." They laughingly agreed.

"Oh, by the way, Jonathan," remarked Arabella as we walked down the ramp to the Beechcraft, "one of Sheila's tasks is to join you in the cabin to ensure that anything you want will be taken care of. Now that you've been warned, is that agreeable, or would you rather be alone?"

"Arabella, after that introduction and a mere glimpse of this gorgeous lady, I'd recommend you institutionalize me if I did anything but grab on to her for life! Will, you please sit with me, Sheila?" I turned and asked as I bowed deeply.

With a curtsey and laughter, she replied, "Why, Jonathan, I thought you never ask."

"Okay, ladies, let's get this mess into gear, shall we!" urged our pilot.

We hustled into the well-appointed but not ostentations little jet. Arabella moved to her single seat in the cockpit, began flipping toggle switches, pressing buttons and turning a few dials as she spoke to the tower requesting a takeoff slot and confirming her flight plan.

Sheila and I took our seats, but not before she assisted me in removing my sport jacket. I'd worn a fitted turtleneck shirt, so she got a good look at my chest. As we sat her perfume, a delectable aroma of orange blossoms, drifted softly to me.