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Update 5 March 2005
The Willow Pages
Willow
Fawnsworthy created by M. Mitchell Marmel
"Justice
Takes a Hand"
by M. Mitchell Marmel
|
"Justice Takes a Hand"
From the Diaries of Willow Fawnsworthy edited by M. Mitchell Marmel August
17, 1936
The papers today are full of the drowning of the Soviet Naval Attache, one Captain-Lieutenant Maxim Igorovich Rahksov. Comrade R. probably should have held his tongue in public. Of course, Comrade R. probably thought that none of the tourists taking late afternoon tea on the Grand Hotel terrace spoke Russian, and normally, he’d be correct. However, even if I didn’t have a fairly good grounding in the language, the word “Stagg” and the tone in which it was spoken would have attracted the (well-hidden) attention of a mousy-looking doe, hair in a bun, sipping tea a couple of tables over. As it was, I managed to catch a few choice phrases such as “will have to do it myself” and “favor for our revolutionary brethren in Novy Haven” to see that this porcine chap was up to no good whatsoever. Comrade R. was refreshing himself with what appeared to be good-quality grain vodka, and, by the way he was comporting himself, appeared to be settling down for an evening’s worth of liquid entertainment. I decided to head back to my rooms and pick up a couple of items. By the time Comrade R. poured himself out of the Grand and headed rather unsteadily towards the Soviet embassy, it was a lovely dark evening, and he appeared ready for further entertainment. Therefore, it must have been manna from Heaven (which, of course does not officially exist for any good Soviet citizen) when a sultry raven-haired island lass apparently wearing nothing but a grass skirt, a flower garland around her neck, a blossom in her hair and an inviting smile on her face, accosted the good Comrade, introduced herself as Nuki-Nuki and invited him for “some number-one boom boom on the beach?” Comrade R. appeared more than willing and ready as the lovely Nuki-Nuki escorted him to a secluded cove nearby, throwing her garland aside and splashing into the surf, flag waving over her pert little behind (some crude wag has said, “Nothing sets off a pert little tail like a pert little tail,” but I digress). Comrade R. followed, pausing to change into what has been referred to as “standard NKVD bathing costume”, i.e. leaving all his attire on the beach before splashing into the surf. As for what happened next, well... Nuki-Nuki managed to retain her honor, but when she got back to her rooms, she made damned sure to scrub her hands thoroughly. After all, the condemned man should enjoy himself a bit. It’s a funny thing, really; when one is drunkenly basking in afterglow, a neck rub feels great, and when pressure is applied gently but firmly to the carotid arteries, the slide into unconsciousness is also gentle but firm, requiring only to hold the subject’s head underwater for a brief period to ensure that said unconsciousness becomes a permanent feature, with no nasty signs of struggle to arouse suspicions... A gentle shove to send our porcine pal into the undertow, wade ashore a few feet away from the point of entry, removing the grass skirt and using it to obliterate one’s tracks going in and coming out. rolling up the bathing suit from around one’s waist, stuff the grass skirt into a nearby compost heap and the raven-haired wig into one’s purse, and the very proper Willow Fawnsworthy, slightly damp from a late-night swim but otherwise respectable in her glasses and hair in a bun, walks back to her rooms unremarked upon, just another Euro tourist. On the way back, a warm feeling of satisfaction washed over me, and I giggled to myself when I realized the cause: After all, I had gotten M. I. Rahksov. |