Have you ever seen a complete set of hardbound Encyclopedia Britannica. That is a smaller set of books than the list of derelict factories and warehouses in New York!!!
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The Bronx Crux Murders
- Thread starter windar
- Start date
windar
Teller of Tales
Good suggestion!
Alrught you wiseacres; I hold a certified New York State Poetic License, which entitles me to bend reality for the sake of a good story. So, I'm going to have Stan keep looking for white vans and guys with shaved heads and Barb will just have to hope for the best.
This too!!!
By the way, the source of the quote at the end of today's episode, "The basis of optimism is sheer terror," is Oscar Wilde, from The Picture of Dorian Gray"
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
Except that there are tens, for not to say hundreds of them. Entire stretches and quarters of former industrial areas are abandoned.Good suggestion!
Meanwhile, Stan Goldman sleeps with the enemy.
RacingRodent
Consul
Except that there are tens, for not to say hundreds of them. Entire stretches and quarters of former industrial areas are abandoned.
Meanwhile, Stan Goldman sleeps with the enemy.
Speaks, he has not tried to get into the Professor's knickers even once
Repertor
Artifex Imaginum
A paradise for urban explorers.Except that there are tens, for not to say hundreds of them. Entire stretches and quarters of former industrial areas are abandoned.
windar
Teller of Tales
The only one he's slept with is Barb.
But tonight, he isn't going to get any sleep. After all, New York is the city that never sleeps...
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
I obviously mean : Goldman is giving the enemy a lead all the time.
Repertor
Artifex Imaginum
Repertor
Artifex Imaginum
Action in prospect!
Hold on, Barb.
We are anxiously waiting. Nobody will sleep tonight.
I know how he feels. Get on it, Stan!
Edge of my seat.
Well, obviously.I obviously mean : Goldman is giving the enemy a lead all the time.
Do we at least have a deck of cards?Action in prospect!
Hold on, Barb.
We are anxiously waiting. Nobody will sleep tonight.
24.
My trek under the lash to the far side of the factory, bearing that cross of heavy timbers, was anything but direct. I staggered, half-bent over under its weight, weaving unsteadily from side to side. With each uncertain step forward the tail of the cross dragged along behind, impeding my progress and making a loud scraping noise on the gritty floor. The hard wood dug mercilessly into my bare shoulders.
Every now and then when I would falter, Father Gerhart, who had handed the video camera off to Donnelly ... the better to wield his whip ... would drive me on again with any number of well aimed lashes targeting my dangling breasts, taut tummy, pale thighs and quivering buttocks. The sting of the leather as it struck my skin was bad enough, but the knotted end would also wrap around to grab at my flesh. As it was withdrawn, it would cut and burn.
The distance I had to cover was difficult to judge, but the factory building was long. It might have been as much as several hundred feet ... perhaps something like the length of a football field ... far too long for someone my size to carry that cross.
On three occasions I fell to one knee and nearly keeled over sideways. Each time Tiny would rush to my side ... first to steady me, and then to lift up enough on the cross to give me a little respite. But then he would back away and allow Father Gerhart to drive me to regain my feet with a wicked rain of punishing lashes. Once on my feet again I would lurch unsteadily forward.
By the time I had covered roughly two-thirds of the distance, I could go no further. I stopped dead, dropped to my knees and ... before Tiny could grab hold of me ... flopped full forward on the floor. My face struck the concrete and the top of the cross banged against the back of my head. Kneeling beside me, Tiny lifted the cross just enough to turn my dazed head to the side. Blood ran from my nose. I groaned.
"I don't think she can go on, boss!" said Jake. "The little detective bitch has about had it!"
"We'll see about that," barked Father Gerhart, "Stand back!"
He applied the lash, time after time without mercy to my buttocks and back and flanks, but I just laid there. Nothing was going to make me heft that cross again!
"Where the fuck is Goldman?" I thought to myself.
"Ok, enough!" intervened Professor Donnelly. "Let's not kill her with that whip. Tiny and Jake! Pick up the ends of the crossbeam and drag Detective Moore the rest of the way!"
I felt the weight of the cross lifted from my back and shoulders. As I hung by my wrists, face down, the two cousins carried me and my cross the rest of the distance. Though my eyes were blurred by tears and my head was spinning, as we neared the far end I could see the object of my journey ... a square hole cut in the concrete floor ... just about the size of the wooden upright of my cross. And lying on the floor next to the hole were a couple of staves to wedge in place once the cross was raised.
A moment later, we came to a halt. The cousins flipped the cross over and dropped it on the floor. It landed with a resounding thud, with me sprawled on top of it, wrists still bound to the crossbeam, legs and feet splayed on either side of the timber. I moaned, twisted my torso from side to side, and lay still.
"Get the nails and hammer, Father Gerhart!" said Donnelly as he panned the video camera over my postrate nude form. "Begin with her wrists, then move to her feet."
Gerhart produced and dropped a box of spikes on the pavement not far from my head. I turned to look at the label on the box. It said "50d".
"My God, no! Please! Are nails really necessary?" I cried, a note of hysteria in my voice.
"Hold her feet now," commanded Gerhart to Tiny and Jake as he knelt over my left arm and wrist. "We don't want Detective Moore kicking anyone where it hurts, now do we?"
They took hold of my ankles and pinned my feet to the floor, one on either side of the upright, pressing my knees upward. Meanwhile, Father Gerhart removed a spike from the box and carefully positioned the point against my slender left wrist. I felt its sharp point scratch my skin, as he adjusted its placement.
I knew what was coming next. Somehow I knew I should look away, but I couldn't. Instead I watched wide-eyed as he re-positioned the spike yet again and took careful aim with a hammer, squinting with one eye.
The blow came a moment later. The clang of metal against metal rang in my ears. A lightning bolt of pain raced up and down my outstretched arm. I screamed and bucked, raising my butt high off the upright, arching my back and twisting violently away from the source of pain. Then I fell back, my tailbone banging hard against the wood. Gazing out along my throbbing arm, I gasped. The nail shaft had passed clear through my wrist and buried half its length in the wood. Blood seeped from the wound.
A second blow had sank the remainder of the nail. Father Gerhart rose and scrambled over me to position himself at my right wrist ... affording me in passing a disgusting look up under his toga. This time I was determined to look away. I willed myself not to watch the nailing of other wrist. Instead I focused my gaze on Donnelly and the camera. The pain was no less. My scream this time was even louder than before, echoing and reechoing off the walls and ceilings of the vast and nearly empty building.
I bucked and squirmed so much after the second nail was driven through my wrist that Tiny and Jake had difficulty holding on. Thrashing about, however, was useless and eventually I settled down. As I laid there panting and staring fixedly at the ceiling, the cousins set about getting my feet in place to be nailed. I offered no resistance. They set the sole of my left foot flat against the wood and slid it upwards until my knees were fully bent and held in place by Tiny, who wrapped his tree-trunk-sized arms so tightly around that my legs could not be moved. Jake then placed my right foot squarely on top of the left.
Father Gerhart went quickly to work. I was soon screaming and bucking again as the hammer was raised and brought down, piercing and fixing both feet to the wood with a single spike. Two more hammer blows and it was finished. I was nailed to my cross, arms outstretched and knees slightly splayed ... like some kind of prize specimen in a butterfly collection.
"Good work!" shouted Donnelly. "Time to raise her up now. Careful! Take hold! That's right, put your backs into it! Easy does it!"
With Gerhart guiding them, the cousins began to raise the heavy cross, increasing the angle as they put their shoulders under the crossbeam. As they lifted, they shoved the base toward the open hole. The cross shook as it scraped along the floor. I moaned with the vibration and lolled my head from side to side.
Once the base had slid to the very edge of the hole, the cousins righted the cross with a mighty heave and allowed it to fall into place, which it did with a speed and impact so jarring that I was thrown out and away from the wood, and then back again like rag doll. I howled at the top of my lungs as the sudden and sharp strain on my nailed wrists and feet sent sharp stabbing pains racing back and forth through my entire body.
I was crucified! It was done. Nothing left to do but hang there and suffer. Sliding down to full rest, I put my weight on my wrists, spread my knees and shamelessly exposed my sex. I glared daggers at my tormentors who were standing back, hands on hips, looking well satisfied with themselves. Donnelly continued to pan the camera around, taking pains to record my agony and humiliation from every conceivable angle.
"Hey pervert! What do you think you are going to do with that video?" I shouted angrily.
"We intend to use it, along with the ones we made of the other two women, as a recruiting tool. Our secret society will grow once our manifesto is out. This video of your passion on the cross, and theirs, will help us attract like-minded souls to our ranks!" replied Donnelly matter of factly, and not with a disturbing hint of excitement in his voice.
That was all I wanted to hear. I cursed the day I had been assigned to Goldman and this stupid case!
I hung from my impaled wrists because I wanted desperately to relieve the pressure on my poor shattered feet. But before long I found that hanging in that position began to restrict my breathing, which in turn caused me to push up so that I could fill my aching lungs with air. Shakily I rose, blood flowing copiously from the wounds in my feet down between my toes and soaking into the timber below. I gulped air, my body trembling with exertion. Losing control, I swung outward, twisting right then left and back again until fatigue sent me crashing down to a hanging position again.
This ritual ... this wretched little dance for breath ... performed over and over again ... became my sole preoccupation. I could think of little else. Push up, gulp air, come crashing down.
Donnelly was in his element, faithfully recording each of my desperate struggles, capturing the implicit eroticism of my wild gyrations, the sheen of sweat glistening on my body, the gentle swaying of my breasts against the my chest, the clouded expressions of effort, agony, humiliation, and defeat that flitted across my face.
"Pervert!" I croaked. No response. He had heard it before.
At last, the good professor appeared to have gotten enough of me dancing naked on the cross. Hours had passed. It was evening. He set down the camera, beckoned to Gerhart and made ready to leave. The cousins were instructed to stay behind.
"How long do ya think she'll last?" inquired Jake.
"She's strong," replied Gerhart, thoughtfully rubbing his chin. "She's a runner. She's in good shape and has strong legs, and we know she has spunk. She'll certainly last through the night and possibly another day. You two are to keep watch until she's gone, however long it takes, understood?"
"Yessir!"
"Oh, and by the way," he added, reaching into a satchel and withdrawing two semi-automatic weapons, "I am leaving these with you, just in case."
"Yessir!"
What followed had to be the longest and most miserable night of my life. Nothing prepares you for being crucified! I suffered terribly ... sometimes hanging listlessly, other times struggling animatedly ... twisting, writhing and squirming ... swinging my body wildly out and back. I screamed. I sobbed. I begged pitifully for relief, any kind of relief, from the horror of being nailed to and left to die on that cross. My pleas fell on deaf ears.
The two cousins sat on the floor and kept watch, at first happily enjoying my naked struggles. They jeered me and made lewd comments, delighting in the swaying and jiggling of my breasts and the opening and closing of my legs as I danced the dance. Then they became bored. Tiny left twice during the night for provisions. By morning the floor before my cross was littered with discarded fast food cartons and containers, candy bar wraps and crushed beer cans.
By the time morning light flooded in through the skylights I was in extreme stress. To make matters worse, I could tell it was going to be another New York scorcher. The heat and the humidity were already oppressive.
The cousins dozed, stretched out lazily on the floor before me.
My strength was ebbing. I found it difficult to hold my head up. It lolled from side to side and would fall forward till my chin came to rest on my chest. My sweat-soddened brown hair spilled over to half cover my breasts. My throat was parched. I cried out for water.
By midday I was passing in and out of consciousness and often hallucinating when I was conscious. I kept imagining that Goldman had arrived to rescue me, or that I was back in my apartment and Goldman was tying me spreadeagled and naked on my bed.
And so the long hours dragged by. The cousins brought in more food. They played cards. Tiny would get up from time to time to fondle me or poke his stubby finger around in places I would never allow the likes of him to touch under any circumstances. I was numb ... beyond caring.
And then it was night again. My second night on the cross. I was weak, sinking fast. I no longer thought of Goldman or any chance of rescue. I was going to die on this fucking cross. Just a matter of time, I told myself.
My trek under the lash to the far side of the factory, bearing that cross of heavy timbers, was anything but direct. I staggered, half-bent over under its weight, weaving unsteadily from side to side. With each uncertain step forward the tail of the cross dragged along behind, impeding my progress and making a loud scraping noise on the gritty floor. The hard wood dug mercilessly into my bare shoulders.
Every now and then when I would falter, Father Gerhart, who had handed the video camera off to Donnelly ... the better to wield his whip ... would drive me on again with any number of well aimed lashes targeting my dangling breasts, taut tummy, pale thighs and quivering buttocks. The sting of the leather as it struck my skin was bad enough, but the knotted end would also wrap around to grab at my flesh. As it was withdrawn, it would cut and burn.
The distance I had to cover was difficult to judge, but the factory building was long. It might have been as much as several hundred feet ... perhaps something like the length of a football field ... far too long for someone my size to carry that cross.
On three occasions I fell to one knee and nearly keeled over sideways. Each time Tiny would rush to my side ... first to steady me, and then to lift up enough on the cross to give me a little respite. But then he would back away and allow Father Gerhart to drive me to regain my feet with a wicked rain of punishing lashes. Once on my feet again I would lurch unsteadily forward.
By the time I had covered roughly two-thirds of the distance, I could go no further. I stopped dead, dropped to my knees and ... before Tiny could grab hold of me ... flopped full forward on the floor. My face struck the concrete and the top of the cross banged against the back of my head. Kneeling beside me, Tiny lifted the cross just enough to turn my dazed head to the side. Blood ran from my nose. I groaned.
"I don't think she can go on, boss!" said Jake. "The little detective bitch has about had it!"
"We'll see about that," barked Father Gerhart, "Stand back!"
He applied the lash, time after time without mercy to my buttocks and back and flanks, but I just laid there. Nothing was going to make me heft that cross again!
"Where the fuck is Goldman?" I thought to myself.
"Ok, enough!" intervened Professor Donnelly. "Let's not kill her with that whip. Tiny and Jake! Pick up the ends of the crossbeam and drag Detective Moore the rest of the way!"
I felt the weight of the cross lifted from my back and shoulders. As I hung by my wrists, face down, the two cousins carried me and my cross the rest of the distance. Though my eyes were blurred by tears and my head was spinning, as we neared the far end I could see the object of my journey ... a square hole cut in the concrete floor ... just about the size of the wooden upright of my cross. And lying on the floor next to the hole were a couple of staves to wedge in place once the cross was raised.
A moment later, we came to a halt. The cousins flipped the cross over and dropped it on the floor. It landed with a resounding thud, with me sprawled on top of it, wrists still bound to the crossbeam, legs and feet splayed on either side of the timber. I moaned, twisted my torso from side to side, and lay still.
"Get the nails and hammer, Father Gerhart!" said Donnelly as he panned the video camera over my postrate nude form. "Begin with her wrists, then move to her feet."
Gerhart produced and dropped a box of spikes on the pavement not far from my head. I turned to look at the label on the box. It said "50d".
"My God, no! Please! Are nails really necessary?" I cried, a note of hysteria in my voice.
"Hold her feet now," commanded Gerhart to Tiny and Jake as he knelt over my left arm and wrist. "We don't want Detective Moore kicking anyone where it hurts, now do we?"
They took hold of my ankles and pinned my feet to the floor, one on either side of the upright, pressing my knees upward. Meanwhile, Father Gerhart removed a spike from the box and carefully positioned the point against my slender left wrist. I felt its sharp point scratch my skin, as he adjusted its placement.
I knew what was coming next. Somehow I knew I should look away, but I couldn't. Instead I watched wide-eyed as he re-positioned the spike yet again and took careful aim with a hammer, squinting with one eye.
The blow came a moment later. The clang of metal against metal rang in my ears. A lightning bolt of pain raced up and down my outstretched arm. I screamed and bucked, raising my butt high off the upright, arching my back and twisting violently away from the source of pain. Then I fell back, my tailbone banging hard against the wood. Gazing out along my throbbing arm, I gasped. The nail shaft had passed clear through my wrist and buried half its length in the wood. Blood seeped from the wound.
A second blow had sank the remainder of the nail. Father Gerhart rose and scrambled over me to position himself at my right wrist ... affording me in passing a disgusting look up under his toga. This time I was determined to look away. I willed myself not to watch the nailing of other wrist. Instead I focused my gaze on Donnelly and the camera. The pain was no less. My scream this time was even louder than before, echoing and reechoing off the walls and ceilings of the vast and nearly empty building.
I bucked and squirmed so much after the second nail was driven through my wrist that Tiny and Jake had difficulty holding on. Thrashing about, however, was useless and eventually I settled down. As I laid there panting and staring fixedly at the ceiling, the cousins set about getting my feet in place to be nailed. I offered no resistance. They set the sole of my left foot flat against the wood and slid it upwards until my knees were fully bent and held in place by Tiny, who wrapped his tree-trunk-sized arms so tightly around that my legs could not be moved. Jake then placed my right foot squarely on top of the left.
Father Gerhart went quickly to work. I was soon screaming and bucking again as the hammer was raised and brought down, piercing and fixing both feet to the wood with a single spike. Two more hammer blows and it was finished. I was nailed to my cross, arms outstretched and knees slightly splayed ... like some kind of prize specimen in a butterfly collection.
"Good work!" shouted Donnelly. "Time to raise her up now. Careful! Take hold! That's right, put your backs into it! Easy does it!"
With Gerhart guiding them, the cousins began to raise the heavy cross, increasing the angle as they put their shoulders under the crossbeam. As they lifted, they shoved the base toward the open hole. The cross shook as it scraped along the floor. I moaned with the vibration and lolled my head from side to side.
Once the base had slid to the very edge of the hole, the cousins righted the cross with a mighty heave and allowed it to fall into place, which it did with a speed and impact so jarring that I was thrown out and away from the wood, and then back again like rag doll. I howled at the top of my lungs as the sudden and sharp strain on my nailed wrists and feet sent sharp stabbing pains racing back and forth through my entire body.
I was crucified! It was done. Nothing left to do but hang there and suffer. Sliding down to full rest, I put my weight on my wrists, spread my knees and shamelessly exposed my sex. I glared daggers at my tormentors who were standing back, hands on hips, looking well satisfied with themselves. Donnelly continued to pan the camera around, taking pains to record my agony and humiliation from every conceivable angle.
"Hey pervert! What do you think you are going to do with that video?" I shouted angrily.
"We intend to use it, along with the ones we made of the other two women, as a recruiting tool. Our secret society will grow once our manifesto is out. This video of your passion on the cross, and theirs, will help us attract like-minded souls to our ranks!" replied Donnelly matter of factly, and not with a disturbing hint of excitement in his voice.
That was all I wanted to hear. I cursed the day I had been assigned to Goldman and this stupid case!
I hung from my impaled wrists because I wanted desperately to relieve the pressure on my poor shattered feet. But before long I found that hanging in that position began to restrict my breathing, which in turn caused me to push up so that I could fill my aching lungs with air. Shakily I rose, blood flowing copiously from the wounds in my feet down between my toes and soaking into the timber below. I gulped air, my body trembling with exertion. Losing control, I swung outward, twisting right then left and back again until fatigue sent me crashing down to a hanging position again.
This ritual ... this wretched little dance for breath ... performed over and over again ... became my sole preoccupation. I could think of little else. Push up, gulp air, come crashing down.
Donnelly was in his element, faithfully recording each of my desperate struggles, capturing the implicit eroticism of my wild gyrations, the sheen of sweat glistening on my body, the gentle swaying of my breasts against the my chest, the clouded expressions of effort, agony, humiliation, and defeat that flitted across my face.
"Pervert!" I croaked. No response. He had heard it before.
At last, the good professor appeared to have gotten enough of me dancing naked on the cross. Hours had passed. It was evening. He set down the camera, beckoned to Gerhart and made ready to leave. The cousins were instructed to stay behind.
"How long do ya think she'll last?" inquired Jake.
"She's strong," replied Gerhart, thoughtfully rubbing his chin. "She's a runner. She's in good shape and has strong legs, and we know she has spunk. She'll certainly last through the night and possibly another day. You two are to keep watch until she's gone, however long it takes, understood?"
"Yessir!"
"Oh, and by the way," he added, reaching into a satchel and withdrawing two semi-automatic weapons, "I am leaving these with you, just in case."
"Yessir!"
What followed had to be the longest and most miserable night of my life. Nothing prepares you for being crucified! I suffered terribly ... sometimes hanging listlessly, other times struggling animatedly ... twisting, writhing and squirming ... swinging my body wildly out and back. I screamed. I sobbed. I begged pitifully for relief, any kind of relief, from the horror of being nailed to and left to die on that cross. My pleas fell on deaf ears.
The two cousins sat on the floor and kept watch, at first happily enjoying my naked struggles. They jeered me and made lewd comments, delighting in the swaying and jiggling of my breasts and the opening and closing of my legs as I danced the dance. Then they became bored. Tiny left twice during the night for provisions. By morning the floor before my cross was littered with discarded fast food cartons and containers, candy bar wraps and crushed beer cans.
By the time morning light flooded in through the skylights I was in extreme stress. To make matters worse, I could tell it was going to be another New York scorcher. The heat and the humidity were already oppressive.
The cousins dozed, stretched out lazily on the floor before me.
My strength was ebbing. I found it difficult to hold my head up. It lolled from side to side and would fall forward till my chin came to rest on my chest. My sweat-soddened brown hair spilled over to half cover my breasts. My throat was parched. I cried out for water.
By midday I was passing in and out of consciousness and often hallucinating when I was conscious. I kept imagining that Goldman had arrived to rescue me, or that I was back in my apartment and Goldman was tying me spreadeagled and naked on my bed.
And so the long hours dragged by. The cousins brought in more food. They played cards. Tiny would get up from time to time to fondle me or poke his stubby finger around in places I would never allow the likes of him to touch under any circumstances. I was numb ... beyond caring.
And then it was night again. My second night on the cross. I was weak, sinking fast. I no longer thought of Goldman or any chance of rescue. I was going to die on this fucking cross. Just a matter of time, I told myself.
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Tarnishing the name of a bunch of pig's vulva munching, avaricious, backstabbing (just ask Caesar), slave trading, misogynists....and that is just the ones I admire?
I think I am with Barb on this one...well in spirit at least, not on the actual cross
Well as a Phoenician RR I suppose I have to agree with you
(what's wrong with pig vulva, anyway? You probably turn your nose up at dormouse!)
windar
Teller of Tales
Well, Moore, clearly you've been wasting your talents writing police reports all these years. That was scary and sexy and chilling and hot all at the same time. I'm glad I took time out of looking for you to read that. You don't mind, do you? Moore? Hello?
Oh, shit, I better get back on the case - Stan
Oh, shit, I better get back on the case - Stan
bobinder
ARTISAN
Well written Barb - you really make us identify with the experience!
Let's hope an epilogue is not as long a Princess Laetitia's
Very good writing, Det. Moore...
Let's hope an epilogue is not as long a Princess Laetitia's
Very good writing, Det. Moore...
Vonce za
Not my department, says
Apologies to T. Lehrer.
(The conclusion and epilogue are up to Windar now)
