STRIKE ‘TIL IT’S DEAD

STRIKE ‘TIL IT’S DEAD

I enjoy comedy. But drama is eating me. I’ll strike these keys til I am freed of its influence on me.

DISCLAIMER: This story I am about to write is based on truth and facts. All the names, dates and places shall be lies to hide shit from those I fucking hate. I won’t be editing it, so it’s gonna be a rough read.

My name is Girl Villain. I was born somewhere where I won’t say. I’m sure Russians prefer it that way. I was a product of many broken homes. I grew up in Rhode Island, where I went to high school the few times when I wasn’t busy screwing older men.

Once upon a time, I had a giant need to belong to somebody, so when a much older married illegal alien who sold drugs and did other bad things, enjoyed screwing my underage twat enough to get me pregnant more than once, I jumped at the opportunity to change my name to match his. And even though legally I couldn’t be Mrs. Drug Dealing Illegal Alien, when I became of age I signed everything with his name and I sued him for child support, he didn’t fight it, claimed both kids as his, eventually I got DMV proof I was who I wanted to be.

It’s hard to belong to a drug dealing illegal alien when he’s married to God only knows how many other women, and he has children who are not mine and he spends his time and money on them and not me and the two children we created. Plus, all that time he spends in prison and being deported leaves me totally unsupported. So, I tried to hook up and become Mrs. Woman Beater who ain’t above selling kids for drugs, but that man too went somewhere, I don’t know where, oh look, a drug using dude… Okay so, he’s only a user, he’s about the same age as me and he doesn’t beat women and he doesn’t want to sell my babies. Hm. He’s different, but I just gotta have somebody’s name!

How can I get him to claim me as his? He’s too busy looking for work. Idiot loves to work. But he does need drugs… I too love drugs. We can do them together. Okay, and wait, he’s running from the law, I have a lot of experience with that, and dammit I don’t want to use the ID of Mrs. Drug Dealing Alien anymore because that man may never get a chance to sneak back into this country. I need a change, and so does that Working Man whose real name is Stupid Idiot. All we need is to change our names, move to a tiny town, I know where and I know how we can make it happen. We’ll be together forever, Working man and me, yeah, he can do his work thing while I serve drugs every day. That way, I know he’ll stay.

And he did, until the reality hit that my kids had split. Working Man dropped his alias and told me to get lost. I was left to hide from the state because my mother sued me to support my own children.

Years later, Working Man was caught far and away by the cops. Using his real name, Idiot went to prison and then the drugs left his system. While he was behind bars, I made my mother change the name she sued. No more Mrs. Working Man, but she had to sue Mrs. Idiot.

Idiot stuffed his belongings away, like a pack rat he collected valuable things, but he couldn’t kill any thief who could sell the things and run away, not while he’s in prison, so his old pals and his half brother wanted to know the location if I had any information. They came to me, but how would I know where he keeps his treasure? I’d been asked to keep everyone informed about anything I could learn. I know he trusted nobody, or at least I thought I knew that there couldn’t be one single person on earth who knows where. But my God, they were right, Idiot had lots of expensive stuff he kept out of sight. He didn’t tell me, or them, who’d tell junkies, con artists and even his father didn’t trust the brother. There is a stash of cash, I don’t know how much, but I know for a fact there are Gibsons and other guitars because of all the songs he wrote and a few pictures his pals keep to note, and Harleys and Indians because he loved them, he fixed them and he kept them, and I know of at least one boat because he liked fishing. We the leeches have seen and we know there is stuff, but where?

I lost my kids and my identity. Working Man went straight and he won’t make me Mrs. Idiot. Well, he ain’t going to get away with it! I need an identity!

I’ll just run a few lights in town, “Yes officer my real name is Mrs. Stupid Idiot. I forgot my purse at home where I live with Mr. Idiot, who’s in prison right now, but when he gets out, he’ll be surprised to see the new ID that I forgot again to carry with me. Sure, I’ll try to remember not to speed and do it all while wearing my seat belt. Thank you for releasing me to my sister and friends, and thanks for the tickets, I can’t believe I, Mrs. Idiot, keep forgetting to slow down and buckle up. Of course I’ll show up to court the moment I leave the DMV because I keep losing my ID.”

OMG, now you can replace your lost ID online, change your mailing address… Cool stuff. While Working Man returned to Stupid Idiot and ignores me in prison, I’ll keep busy, take a class and volunteer to help law enforcement with all these criminals in this small town. Plus, I’ll leave messages on internet boards, let people know I am single and I want to belong to somebody, while I wait for Idiot to return to this state, he has to serve time here too, plus, he doesn’t burn bridges so friends we shall remain. I can help him run his company, the company he can do well with if he remains.

Years later, my dear friend, still insisting he is going to remain drug free Idiot, and that we never again shall be Mr. and Mrs. Working Man, he got released and then he went and dated somebody not me. OMG they got married using his real legal name. It’s okay. I can be happy for him, ya know, because we’re friends.

I was happy, but not as happy as I when he got divorced, and needed someone to run his work office, someone who knew how to use a computer, because he got hurt at work. Smashed his hips and broke something in his spine. Crippled men sure do need good friends! And they need new addresses too and credit cards.

I don’t know how his house burnt to the ground, nor how he was able to get out, but hey look, he’s got a safe. Stupid Idiot has a thing about dates. Me and those loonies he calls friends, just know that the combination to this thing is whatever the birth date is of that daughter he always talks about but cannot see, because he keeps and doesn’t trust bad company.

But no worries, his condition worsens while I wait. Boy, he sure is getting addicted pain meds. I tell the nurses I am ex Mrs. Idiot so that he doesn’t have to become a ward of the state. “He’ll live with me and I’ll take good care of him.” Even though all his credit cards show he rented a motel room across the street from the hospital, and I live in an apartment subsidized for low income women who aren’t married to men who own property worth over $600,000. if divided up by the right hands. I won’t have to dream forever about what I could do with his stuff, because crippled and addicted can’t stay alive too long.

Takes forever for some people to meet their fate. OMG that daughter of his is looking for him on Facebook. She keeps messaging me, I’ll tell her that I and her father have been happily married for decades and I’ll promise to message her proof, and I will give her proof if I can find a way to do it. Holy shit, what luck, that girl just told me her birth date!

I don’t confess all things to be used against me. “Officer, officer I just found my husband, even though I don’t know how I was able to find him 100s of miles away from the place I call home, but he’s dead.”

Officer said, “Yeah, he’s dead. He’s got a bullet in his head.”

“OMG, I knew he was upset. Here’s his ID, see how it matches the one on me?”

“Sure, do you want to keep his gun?”

“No, thank you, though. I gotta go.”

THE END

I’ll place it on my blog too.

If you didn’t like this story, don’t worry, someday soon, I’ll redo it using me, the author’s POV, and it’s gonna be more than interesting.
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Until then, NO MORE DRAMA FOR ME.

I’m back to comedy.

V.

Sanctuary

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Sanctuary cities are places where the slave masters meet and greet and then disperse their products.

If an illegal immigrant cries; rape, or my children have been rapped, or my children were kidnapped, or I’m being used as a sex slave, or all I wanted was a job, but to get to America I had to swallow 20 bags of cocaine and ride in a van filled with toy animals which were stuffed with explosives, does their voice get heard?

If you people actually cared about crimes against humanity, you’d pay attention to knowing about all the crimes citizens commit against citizens and then you would know that those crimes are committed a billion more times against people who are not supposed to exist inside this country.

Those who support illegal immigration, those who want you and me to see illegal immigration as just the less fortunate trying to make a better way for themselves, are the ones making a lot of money off of stolen identities, drug trafficking, pedophiles and other forms of human trafficking.

Illegal immigration has NOTHING to do with immigration. It has everything to do with people feeding the needs of those who are the worst predators on earth.

Being pro illegal immigration is being pro human trafficking.

Just keep pretending that you give a damn about human beings. Obviously, to me, you all believe life’s about nothing more than picking the side that you believe will help make you popular.

If an illegal immigrant falls dead in the woods, or somebody’s basement, does it make a sound when no one knew if was around?

“They like me, they really like me!”

illegal-immigrants

You fuckers need to check your bleeding hearts!

Sincerely, Vonda Norwood

I found the photo when I googled sex trafficking.

THE SPY WHO LOVES CHRISTMAS

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This story is not about espionage. It is a mystery about the spy who loves Christmas.

Next, proofread.

CHAPTER ONE

In the year of nineteen ninety, President Saddam Hussein told the world that he would not send his military into the neighboring, sovereign state of Kuwait. But on August second, around two in the morning, the Iraqis went in and robbed, tortured and murdered Kuwaiti citizens. They rounded up Westerners there and in Iraq and then took those captives to Baghdad, where they held them in strategic places and hoped that their human shields would spare those specific areas from retaliatory attacks by western nations.

Early August, while many Westerners in Iraq hid from the military, and as diplomats from their countries worked to locate them and aid their escape, a thirty-two year-old American named Glendale White moseyed up the center of a bustling open-air market in Baghdad. It was eighty degrees and twenty minutes passed noon. Through a haze of smoke made by timbers in fire alters, which roasted seasoned fatty fish, Glen’s black wingtips crunched against a dusting of fine sand on top a concrete path. Merchants roared announcing their wares to the crowds who scrambled to and from display tables and rummaged for high-end and brand-name plunder.

The aroma of warm cloves filled Glen’s nostrils and a tear spilled from the corner of his right eye. He brought a chaffed knuckle to his face and absorbed the moisture. Glancing left toward a row of five, multicolored, makeshift tents, he caught sight of a merchant staring at him. At the last tent and in front of a table of pomegranates, the gawker, who wore a white dishdasha, stood stiff with his hands at his sides and his shoulders squared and his big, brown eyes locked on Glen.

The American kept that Iraqi peripherally in place and he headed toward him. Glen weaved around and sidestepped passed shoppers and he studied a pile of radios and their torn wires. The Iraqi stood frozen in front of bright red fruit, but his stare followed the American’s every move. At the first tent, Glen halted and he browsed overcoats that hung from a metal pole. The Iraqi blinked rapidly, until Glen continued to stroll.

Arriving at tent number four, where men’s dress shoes were strewn on a red carpet, Glen crouched, he grabbed a brown shoe and he mumbled, “Salvatore Ferragamo.” The ogler cleared his throat softly. Glen dropped the shoe. He sprung up, pivoted right and marched forward.

At a hand shake away, the six-foot and two-inch-tall American stopped and he stared down at the stoic stranger, who then raised his chin and smiled and he placed his hands behind his back. With a heavy Arabic accent, the Iraqi shouted in English, “You here? Now you remember your good friend Sami?”

Sami had wavy, salt and pepper hair. He stood about five-feet and four inches tall. Over his head, Glen scanned the dark interior of the tent. Behind the pile pomegranates and a wood table with four silver platters displaying colorful spices, stood another man, who bore a frown, and whose sparse hair had more salt than pepper. That man in the shadow was about the same height and he wore the same type of white robe as the one calling himself Sami. “You are here now, but they…” Sami shook his head. “…not here!”

 

The Crime Report – A humorous erotica tale

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The Crime Report

Written By Vonda Norwood

A humorous erotica tale

Featuring

Lena Harris and Blake Williams

 

From the Beginning

Behind a closed door of an eight-by-five interview room, Detective Arnie Thompson placed a small, black device on a wood table and he explained to Miss Lena Harris that her side of the story would be recorded. Beneath squares of fluorescent lighting, the two sat on metal chairs and they faced each other across the table. The detective tugged once on each white shirt cuff. He then pointed to Lena’s blouse and cleared his throat.

Lena’s blue eyes fluttered. “I know, you already told me.” She smiled toward her lap and grabbed the bottom tips of her open, pink blouse. Black, tussled hair swayed in front of her shoulders. “The first time, he only got two middle buttons.” The twenty-two-year-old pulled wrinkled material, and a folded collar came together at her throat, and torn, pink threads met with button holes and covered the gap of bare skin between her breasts. “But the second time,” she grinned at Thompson. Her eyes widened. “…all the buttons popped.” Above the young woman’s pleated and hip hugging, pink skirt, she tied the blouse and made a bow above a dime-size slit of an innie bellybutton. Thin material wrapped B-cups. Lena’s nipples were smooth and a shade darker than the blouse. At the back of her head, she gathered wavy hair and dropped the strands, which then fanned across her shoulder blades. “Is that better?”

Detective Thompson intertwined long, broad fingers and he rested his hands and arms on top of the table. “From the beginning, please.”

“Okay.” Lena breathed in slow and deep and then she exhaled groaning. Her lips pressed together tightly and then they popped open. “I broke up with Josh because he lost his boner at the park.”

“Central Park?”

“Yeah.”

Image

Cover Reveal

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MeanBone  On a Tuesday afternoon in Lincoln, Nebraska, Henry Doyen and Sally-didn’t catch her last name, cozy-up beneath dim lighting in a back booth that faces a fire exit inside Vega’s Sports Bar ‘n Grill. From behind, whistling, table pounding and cheers assure forty-eight year-old Henry that the Huskers remain in the lead. Caressing the tip of Sally’s bare shoulder, he lowers a half-empty mug of draft to the table then he cups its brim. Sally ogles his grainy and massive paw and she bites her bottom lip. Henry glances at his hand then he studies the gleam in her brown eyes. “What’s so interesting?”

Sally lowers her glass of Long Island Iced Tea to a light-brown, wood table. She pivots toward him. The hem of her light-blue dress moves up and exposes her left knee, which then presses to his blue jeans. “I have a lotion that’s really good for dry skin.” Waves of gold tequila breath break through a haze of lilac perfume, they fill Henry’s nostrils and ease the sting from his eyes. His blurry gaze drops to strapless terrycloth and the narrow line of shade between Sally’s bulky breasts. She cups the side of his head and pets his brown and bristly flattop. “Henry…”

He raises his gaze to her pouting lips. “Hank.” From her shoulder, he glides two fingers beneath her chin where then he draws strands of ginger hair to the back of her neck. “Please.”

She caresses his knee. “Hank?”

“Yes?” He taps her bottom lip. Plump lips part, he slides a finger up through a thin glaze of pink gloss then onto a wet and warm tongue. Sally closes her mouth, she suckles then rears back and giggles. Hank cups her shoulder, he pulls her toward him then presses his forehead to her temple. “Not what you wanted?” She shakes her head and slides her palm up his thigh. He releases the mug then engulfs the soft and slow hand approaching his zipper. “What do you want with that?”

She slides her knee up the red seat, bringing her leg alongside his thigh. Sally leans forward and up, raising her backside two-inches. “I want to take it to my apartment…” Hank’s fingertips race down her spine, they dip then glide between firm cheeks. He cups and caresses a plump muscle, which then lowers to his palm. His fingers spring toward moist heat. “I want to lick it, suck it and get it dripping wet.”

Between his thumb and finger, Hank pinches a thin layer of steaming silk and he strokes short hairs. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Wet as this?”

“Wetter.”

“What do you have in mind?”

Her lips sweep across his. “Fuck my ass.”

Mean Bone

Written by Vonda Norwood

Featuring

Joan Vassal as the Dominatrix

And

Henry Doyen as the Master Gunnery Sergeant

All Right Reserved

CHAPTERS

She wants to lick it, suck it and get it dripping wet

All other women are psychos

Stranger Danger

What Hit Him

The Dominatrix Vs. The Master Gunnery Sergeant

 

Whiskey sippin :-D

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Most people know that I’m working to uncover lies and fraud.  It’s more than a time consuming task, but the liars are stupid enough to believe that everyone too is blinded by greed, very petty greed, so we’ll be more than smiling during many trips to the courthouse.  For legal reasons, I gotta be vague.

No worries about the legal mess.  I honestly can’t wait to write about it. People are gonna say, “Ain’t no way all this crap happened. Writers gotta make their stories believable!”   😦  Just remember, truth is stranger than fiction. But I do wonder if I’ll have to tell lies to make the story believable… Crazy, huh? 

I have more than my fair share of distractions, so my publications are slow.

I just wrote a shorty I hope to publish in the next two days, because I honestly just want to put something new out there.

Anyway… The whiskey; I think I tasted the stuff once, pretty sure it was whiskey, burnt my mouth and throat so much that I didn’t experience an actual flavor. But in my story, the bourbon has a flavor and aromas and talk about experiences of lingering taste, and it has a specific name. So, I’m gonna research the fire water and get back to editing.

I’m in the closet for two days.  Research, baby!

Happy creating!!! 😀

 

I am my own private dick.

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Back.

I have to go to the Mid-West to do some amateur investigating and work with others to put together the pieces there for me to gather.

I’ll be gone for two weeks, doing paper work and research of the offline kind.

This note shall be my daily auto tweet.

If you are like me, a person who does a lot of shopping via Amazon .com, please use  this free and easy way to support those who help us everyday: The Valkyrie Initiative. They support Veterans & First Responders    .

I am a ridiculous person whose goal in life is to entertain via sexy and funny ways. I am a writer who has published a few stories here.

Happy creating! 😀

Be back.

V