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karin naude Oct 2013
before the world i stand as woman, African queen
exotic beauty, strong, tough and resourceful
there in lies the damest of all that bind me to a cruel fate
"Africa, the birth place of mankind"
her daughters, slaughtered,mutilated and, raised to feel inferior
relaxers, skin lighting cream, weaves, wigs, diets
raised by western thinkers, propaganda splashed on the soap box
forced to work for the rich and powerful plastic people
forced watered down music

i dream of a world lead by African queen's
confident in there velvet cream skin
loving afro hair
swagging there bustyness with pride
no more selling our bodies for west
taking pride in being different
Sarra Jan 31
It's everywhere I go :
What once leached over a dark corner
mutilated,
grew faster and stronger
A different shape everytime
yet the same core
Countless,
rot.
Like a radar
shivers climb my spine
as It gets closer
and closer
to Its prey
The strangulating reek
thicker
and thicker.
As I float farther away
from the distorted
distant sounds of the crowds
and dive into utter blackness  
I can almost taste the decay  
from Its crumbling mask
My body quietly shivers
It gowls
The beast is awaken
Starving
his loathsome breath cutting my left cheek
I feel It growing
ready to attack.
The bus halts
I shut my eyes,
resisting the sudden ray of light
that brought me back to life
freeing me from Its clasp
It crawls back to darkness
waiting for Its next victim
at the next stop.
In my country, countless girls and are harassed on their way to school or to work. Few take action. Fewer get results.
igc May 2015
I saw the best minds of my generation congested and
polluted overdosing on irrelevance

Abandoned abused replaced
Fed to the thought police
Corrected corrupted
Declining the potential to be heard in
exchange for the opportunity to be documented

Lives being lived according to unfeasible standards
You either make it or you don’t
there’s no in between
there’s no maybe
there’s no equal

Left to meander through the conceived thoughts of others
decisions being made
moves being made
eulogies being made

nothings real
nothing’s right
nothing’s honest
nothing thought up matters


Who in the safety of their homes were taught respect
are told to mask their emotions
Identities saved for the weak
Only to be showcased when conducive

Who pump iron into their veins
looking for an angry fix of acceptance
Sweat streams surge down their backs
Failure prominent in their thoughts
Motivation blessing their features
the Devil clever in disguise

Who see little white fields of fairy dust
a never ending landscape of courage
giving them superpowers beyond belief

Nothing beats the freedom of being told
You can fly

Who dream of equality behind closed eyes
But render to imposed birth rights when open
The upper hand implying more than height
and executing more force than necessary to move them

It’s all about the cause until you’re indubitably
the effect

Who tuck monsters into their beds
Forgetting to check closets for skeletons not quite left behind
in the path of carefully chaotic self destruction
Conveniently purging themselves of words whispered
in the throes of passion
Forced upon the ears of all naive enough to listen

Who carelessly expend countless hours playing with
condescending pawns disguised as adults
All grown up with no where to go
Replacing quality with quantity
Leaving long dull trails of breadcrumbs
leading to hearts long since lost
Never to be recovered again

Who follow sexuality by the book
doing this to get that for this him them who what when where
Why does the finish line have to be covered with brightly colored lace and muffled drunk cries chanting no

Who stare straight dead into the soul of love but never
Never into her eyes
Told she is not worthy of being addressed directly
Fingers itching to cop a feel
Only to discover the body is but a passage to her straight dead soul


Who trade in their voice mind and individuality
for half assed smiles and superficial men
As the face of a leviathan nicknamed acceptance
hands them a paycheck they’ve worked too
night day night night hard to refuse

Who idolize the feel of phantom limbs of lovers past
Twisted words convoluting their heads
Forcing on masks of pure heroine
at the sight of scars left on the soul
Scratching at the need to feel wanted
But cowering at the ability to truly be heard

Who have perfected the art of parallel painting
Elegant red streaks hidden beneath layers of
choppy dark colored hate covering pretty pale limbs
Seeming to fade as colorlessly caked on insecurities susurrate bitter-sweet nothings that curl themselves just inside her mutilated skin

Who scavenged their looks from the bottom of holes
they’re expected to clamber out of
Smiling pretty smiling
Being treated to complimentary meals
Only to be served plates full of disappointment.

Who crave companion’s flaws
in ruthless attempts to satisfy their hunger for compassion
Selfless beings dedicated to less than noble attempts at vanquish
The call for heat too satisfying to refuse the trade off forever uselessly launching themselves into razor sharp blades
aimed at ***** sleeves

Who see soft lips as cushion enough to fall from towers built of fear
Dragging moist palms across pavement thighs
Tearing at the seams holding their
hearts together

Who cower behind brick wall appearances
fruitlessly clutching on to ideas reserved for the most fortunate
Scaring away potential with claws that seemingly only come
out to play in the face of acceptance

Who’s sick stick thin limbs trail their worn down
fingernails in an effort mar skin no one can see
Streaks titillate their bright red scalps
A reflection of their underlying journey

Who disgorge yesterday's meal from stomachs long before empty
Blood spewing from the mouth an open wound
Continuously sewed up but never stitched tight correctly
Wiring shut opinions but never gorged enough to
muzzle their Howls



Ideas, calm and collected have long been hijacked and invaded by Hestia

Hestia! Consent! Content! Acceptance!
Long nights and roid rage men!
Two faces fighting a losing battle!
Girls playing mom! Boys playing war!
Ill ridden parents still pledging to the
United States of Controlling Media!

Hestia! Hestia!
Overall reign of Hestia!
Hestia the beautiful!
Incarcerated Hestia!
Hestia the ******!

Hestia twisted and shaped to form the voice of conformity
Hestia constantly watching over and monitoring
Hestia being told what to ******* think

Hestia seeping creeping sneaking into the
darkest crevices of our minds
Hestia when least expected coming out to say
“Hello”

Too late! Hestia’s already made herself at home
Wedged between the rooks of your biggest fear and
burrowed deep into the folds of
Your  Worst  Nightmare

**** in a constant battle between
rejecting Hestia,
and accepting her.
This was obviously inspired by Allen Ginsberg's "Howl."
Considering it was, at the time, the voice of that generation, Welcome to Generation Y.
This is a work in progress.
Anthony Perry Jul 2018
There is something violent about how I see the skin on your body
Its so rich and smooth, almost decadent and unlike you

This observation turns into a premeditation when you touch my cheek
Its almost like i can feel the heat melting off your bones

As I laid you down and slipped a knife underneath your sternum
You whispered something hidden in painful tones like a sharp breath piercing the guttural moans

But I dont need to hear words to know the searing desire steaming from your guts as I replaced them with hot stones

The blood on your finger tips remind me of fresh water on leaves after a storm and your severed head looks like its been through famine, disease, and a damaged city plagued and war torn

Yet there is still beauty in the decayed decadence that is your mutilated corpse

The moonlight drowns in the canal of blood begging for remorse while the insects march and sing a song of things that can only get worse
©anthonyasylum
This is a poem about the need for closeness between two people
Daan Vandelay Feb 2014
A mutilated vision, troubled past and
wrong decision, my place is where I
am not. But I can't choose and only by
wishing will my worries be banned.

Let's accept never being smooth, late
nights never go as planned, as if fate
picked me out to be unlucky, sad
for himself, selfpity terrorizes this lad!

Corners are not made for crying, but
why are they so perfect when you do?
Going blank, fever raises, save me,
tell me I'll be okay, comforted by your edges.

The way I am gives girls chances for choosing,
if I don't change, incapable of leading, I'll keep losing.
I choose, I end up finding corners kind of attractive.
Lisa Aug 15
The moist eyes from fallen tears
The pit of fire that blazes our soul
The treacherous terrains of walking on
broken pieces of a road

The unjust words of malice spoken in the heat
The tormented and mutilated sentiment
Left and is now what remains

I find that in these thunderstorms of long lost empathy
We drifted years ago
We had nowhere to turn to
So we just let go

We let go of the connected understandings
Of which intertwined our minds
The love we said never-ending
Its expired now!

Now I'm here in solitary confinement
Imprisoned inside of my heart

Tell me what cure is there truly?
For an intentional, yet seemingly unexpected
Heartache
This is dedicated to past loves and past friendships
Born of Fire Jun 2015
I miss the way your body molded around me under the covers and how your skin gently kissed mine. Your soft breathing rustling across my skin, singing me to sleep. I miss the gentle snores after you had floated into sleep, your arm tucked over and under me. I miss the way you would twitch in your sleep, notifying me of a night terror. I miss the way your snoring would ensue with a hand on your head and a kiss on the cheek. I miss the way your eyes would meet mine in the morning, with a faint smile as your hand rose to my face. How gingerly your lips met mine. How caring your handling was, as if I was porcelain and you were rock. I miss the way your hand found mine, almost as if by accident, as we walked side by side. I miss the way your body would find a spot in my arms so perfectly, and how you rested against me with repose. I miss how your voice would raise in pitch when you were excited, and your eyes would gleam brighter than normal. I miss the surprise visits and the way you looked at me. I miss seeing you every day. I miss the harshness of your words as they rolled across your tongue and spilled over the ridge of your lips. I miss all of your broken promises and somber apologies. I miss the rage. My heart has been mutilated by so many others, yet still beats the strongest when my eyes graze across your image.
I could be falling apart
breathing this american air
the taste of kerosene
is on the tip of my tongue
pressed against my teeth
I can hold it and wait
once a traveler said to me
Jesus could put his tongue
into the back of his throat
and block all air flow
achieving nirvana
on a single breath
I exhale out ennui
another overdose victim standing beside me
and the mutilated legs from Tiananmen square
blown off by the country boys the party called in to ****** the city kids, or so its said
my words are noted in the public record
and I'm called up to the bench
and told to file a motion for release
in 30 days
I sit in a hallway and explain to the guy who found him
on indiana street because he just got the feeling he needed to go back
that nothings guaranteed on this timeline
but he only half listens
and looks at me with suspicion that softens with my power
and steady detachment
I say my power and mean affect, vibe, charm, so on and so on
all the masks
and mines a suit and title
the robe and the stare
are you on the level?
Graff1980 Oct 2018
At first I was a lover,
adherent adorer
of the ultimate
father figure
to whom
I sublimated
all that I was.

Then when
faced with
the pain
of existence
I became
a questioner
of the almighty.

In studying
the sorrows of history,
I saw the stain
of human tragedy
perpetuated
on the forms
that people hated,
how they mutilated
men, women,
and children.
Then I became
an accuser
judging
the behavior
or lack there of
of this
omnipotent being.

Till, I saw the truth
and the abstraction
shrank from something
to nothing.
The light of a creator
that subdued my mind
and enslaved my spirit
blinked out into the nothingness
that it always was.
And yes,
scars were left in the shadow of fear
and the agony sang every night,
but my kindness is untouchable
and I am eternal as the prairies.
And yes,
I collapsed like an avalanche,
a flower mutilated in the summer,
but remember:
Simplicity does not age,
I'm not helpless,
even if I look fragile
as a palace of glass,
I am sraight as a tree.
And yes,
there will be cold and difficult hours
but not lost roads
no forbidden voices
but a generous sun,
but breath of inspiration.
And yes, that will be me:
'There are so many things in you
and they are all so delicious"
7th may 2019
Deer Lake CA
TheScarfIsPurple Sep 2018
They cut away my ears
              They did

They tore my chin down
              They did

They broke and mutilated my fingers
              They did

You see?
It was them

              But just blame me.



( I was scared but now i'm free)
Something I dreamed about.
ChrisL Feb 17
Gnashing
Gnawing
Clawing

Furiously, more and more
Never ending
It won't end
I plead
And nothing
I beg
Only laughter

Snarling
Howling
Baying

Insatiable hunger
Drawing near now
Hot breath on my neck

Mangled
Mutilated
Maimed

Strength is waning
Last breath draws near
The end is here.
M May 14
In the graveyard of dreams
fog whirls around your mutilated carcass
I have been in this state for too long
brittle nails & worn hair, my drawn-out smile

I open your grave to find Pandora's box
your words choke me
turning my teeth a deeper shade of red

scarabs escape
they bore into my face
infiltrate my deepest memories
I surrender
austin Aug 30
Outside, it's cold as ice
But I can feel the blistering heat around my neck.
The burning grip, I can't escape
leaving me mutilated as I cease to breathe

These are the hands of a murderer
inhuman and inanimate
I thrash through the embers
in attempt to escape
the vicegrip that leaves me bleeding,
gasping,
burning amongst the flames

I am a brutalized, bleeding corpse.
Pain and indifference drips onto the floor
with every worthless step that I take
The demons have stabbed me repeatedly
I've lost every drop of humanity I had

Everything I've ever loved has been destroyed
This is not what was meant to be
It's me and my demons, and I've just lost it
Someone's going down, and it's not me

Today I will tear the hands of my demons from my brutalized, mutilated face
I will pull the devil's crushing deathgrip
from my lifeless corpse.

I shall watch the blood pour from his body,
Listen to his bones begin to shatter,
and the screeching sound of his
inhuman, brutal wretching
like the squeals of a pig.

I'll set him ablaze and watch him burn.

The devil's vice-grip hands couldn't hold me down.
I'm ready to start my mission.
I'll tie my demons to a tree
and do unto them what they've done to me

I'll tighten these chains around their neck,
Just like they tried to do to me.
I'll watch them suffer, struggle to breathe
Then I'll tighten these chains some more.

and when they think they've reached the end
I'll stab them with knives a hundred times.
Soak them in gasoline, light the match
I'll watch the flesh fall off their burning bodies.

And I'll do it with a smile on my face.

This job will not be done
until each and every one is wholly
unrecognizable,
Skulls shattered into a million pieces,
Bodies thrashed, cut up and burned

They thought they were certainly
stronger than me.
But they would soon meet their demise.
I put a bullet in all their heads
and they all hit the ground, dead.

They should have listened to what I said.
Should have ****** with someone else instead.
I put bullets in all their heads.
Now they're all ******* dead.
A brutal interpretation of claiming victory against depression.
Archana Jan 8
Draped in boundless pride
she strolled along the streets,
the town's flamboyant prima ballerina.
Still little did the debaucher know her.
Defenceless she laid
as he spanked and clouted her,
Her vehement howling and wailing couldn't stop
the yanking of clothes.
Motionless, emotionless she laid
while he plundered and mutilated her body.
Vandalised by an uninvited visitor,
Incapable of moving her body
the ravishing ballerina reclined.
The scars he made was not on her body but deep in her soul.
That gloomy night whistled away
for the sun to flare its first ray.
'18 year old violently molested and deceased'.
Hence the prima ballerina became a mere newspaper headline.
The intense pain injected in the soul of an innocent girl can never be presumed by anyone else.
scully Dec 5
I've spent a lot of time staring at myself
In the mirror, thinking that
Love looks like sacrifice.
See, where I come from,
Devotion twists itself into ****** forms.
Agony breathing between a lust for heaven or hell,
Misery dripping like blood onto concrete.
Love stains my hands red and the offering is such:
Here lies this contorted body,
Begging you to dismantle it.
Gut me of my delusions and
Carve out my smile to mount on your wall.
Here lies this mutilated body,
Unrecognizable in the face of faithfulness,
Staring into the eyes of adherence like
Its got a gun to my head.
Make me stand to look at this body.
Maybe its my misconstrued fantasies,
I bid myself to Love and it burns.
Take these confessions,
This ******,
Write about it like its poetry
When it reads like atonement.
Here lies this shrine of a body,
I write to God like a friend but we haven't been speaking.
I flinch when you cup your hands around my face,
A knife pressed against my throat
Slicing into my mumbled apologies.
I am sorry
I cannot soften the corpse I am becoming.
I've spent a lot of time looking at you,
Thinking that Love may look like resurrection.
Rebirth in your softness.
Here lies this reviving heartbeat of a body,
If I am the sacrificial altar,
Get on your knees and start praying for my resurgence.
I'll see you back when it is bloodless and lifeless,
When its been emptied of its contents and is just the frame
Of our offerings.
I've had Love to die for
Your Love is holy,
Something to live for.
how dramatic am I?
Jonathan Moya Nov 11
The stars on the flag started falling off
when Private Walker returned home
to Tennessee after six months of being
in country in Afghanistan.

At Camp Leatherneck on the treadmill
he folded five points to pentagrams,
imagined fireworks nova his welcome back.

The flag rarely flapped in the arid silence
of base camp.  Was MIA everywhere else.

He landed unmet in
Chattanooga on Veterans Day
in time to catch the parade highlights,
which happened two days earlier,
being ignored on the airport monitors  
in the hustle of terminal traffic.

No flags decorated Broad street shops,
no watchers waived the red, white and blue.
Police motorcycles fronted the parade
and patrolled the back in sunglass alert.

Two Vietnam vets shouldering hunting rifles
marched grimly in parade formation followed
by alternating school bands and ROTC cadets.

All two thousand stars dripped down,
faded blue in the rush to show the next ad.
Every which way he looked
the rushing crowd turned his back to him.

He remembered Anousheh, the girl
whose name meant everlasting/immortal.

The child who hugged him,
kissed his forehead when he gave
her a Hershey bar from
his mom’s care package
while patrolling the base perimeter road.

The friend, the daughter, the grandchild
who died in a Taliban wedding bombing,
one week after her seventh birthday,
three days after their embrace.

His heart, his tears, his breath,
his every word was Anousheh.
All was and will be forever Anousheh.

And when he prayed
he prayed like Anousheh,
and on his knees at the airport
he faced her outbound heart
and prayed for a mutilated world.
Sky has fallen on your head, Earth erupting has upended you into two, is it time for change yet?


Everyone knows the extinction's coming, racing towards US from our future,

Seen on the horizon, still, no talk of evolution, adapting to reality,

Not the worldly world of criminal insanity?  Non-republican caucasian

Newborns to men who are heterosexual are still neutered as newborns,

Mutilated as toddlers, kids, mass-*****, and every crime done against them

As kids and teens, yet the Roman Catholic Empire doesn't even acknowledge

Their inquisition against them, let alone slow it down, stop it.  How is

It that Pope Benedict (Arnold, the Rat...), the last inquisitor, hasn't

Been prosecuted in the ICC?  Just so you know, if "...we(e),..." don't

Uninstall RumputiN/vlad-the-impaler from the Blackhouse by 1-21-21, the

United **** of assassins is the new notsee Germany and since it's citizens

Haven't stopped it's Gov't, it must be destroyed at all costs, for life,

Humanity, the Earth, to even exist.  Is impeachment peachy keen now?

Do you feel like keeping it in the ground, abolishing fossil fuel use yet?
Great works, thanks; also, please: Sample letter: Hello.  Donald Trump is deliberately undermining the oversight powers of Congress and acting as if he is above the law. Yet, some House Democrats are still stalling on impeachment.  The Trump organized crime family isn't going to re-institutionalize organized crime as gov't (from the top down, "power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely"), "...we(e),..." have already defeated that; impeachment is a necessary step- regardless of political effects that could be construed as negative.  Thanks for your attention.   reality
Pagan Paul Oct 2018
.
i.
And it grips her submissive mind,
sweeping her along unbidden,
through timelines inducing nausea,
passed worlds previously hidden.
Tumbling stones rumble unheard,
a slide that sends gravity shifting,
starting a new path through time,
the butterfly effect begins shifting.

ii.
The images stop swirling,
a vision fades slow into sight,
a row of glowing Seers Spheres
racked in the pale moon light.
Eleven cradles for resting orbs,
four relieved of their weight,
claimed by other time travellers
already gone through the Gate.

iii.
And she sees Grimly approach,
picking a Sphere from the rack,
carrying careful in clean hands,
then through the door turns back.
She sees herself seated rigid,
watches Grimly hand her the Sphere,
a bolt of understanding hits and
her mind becomes crystal clear.

iv.
She realises these are tests
for the next vision is of her,
as a child in a camel train
leaving the great city of Ur.
Crossing the desert once again
with oils and perfumes so pure,
amidst the most luxurious goods
of gold, silver, silks and furs.

v.
And the images diffuse, refocus, Judderwitch by a grave,
of an unfortunate sacrifice, the girl she could not save,
a flame handled dagger marks a headstone epitaph,
and her weeping grief slowly turns into a manic laugh,
as in the grave paces away, a woman screams out loud,
buried alive with a nest of spiders, no forgiveness is allowed.

vi.
And the scenes change, redefine, Judderwitch on a street,
with a mutilated corpse, an horrific sight for her to meet,
as a black rat starts to happily nibble at the naked feet,
and she shivers. She shivers? The Empress of Evil cold,
an anger courses through her at this alien feeling untold,
whilst her body stiffens at the answer she beholds.

vii.
Grimly sees her body stiffen,
a knowing smile graces his lips.
His eyes move to a vacant cradle,
as Time plays out one of its tricks.

viii.
And she knows.
She understands.
The Seers Sphere is Time itself.
Exactly one eleventh of
All Time.

ix.
The race through Time gently slows,
the globe feels warm as it brightly glows,
and deep inside she already knows
she is accepted and with Time she flows.
Connection with the Seers Sphere grows,
as the Ritual comes to its joyous close,
and the Seers Sphere hummed as it chose,
Judderwitch, and on its journey goes.



© Pagan Paul (05/10/18)
.
Poem 5 in Judderwitch series.
(Part 1 was posted a few days ago).

My Judderwitch poems are now in a collection :)
https://hellopoetry.com/collection/28451/judderwitch/
PPx
FreeMind Sep 2018
My Mama always told me, that I should never, ever, cry.
That I could only shed a tear, when someone very special died.

I kept that promise, Mama, for many, many, years.
But tonight, I'm filled with sorrow.
A river path has already been created from my eyes to my cheeks.
My body is shaking, My eyes are swollen, My jaw is clenched tight.
For I have lost someone very, very special to me.
Maybe no one can see, and maybe no one can tell, but, Mama,
I lost a little girl.

She ran from me far, far away.
Into the dark, deep, scary woods, where there was no way out.
I tried to help her, I tried to call out her name.
But she thought she could get out herself. And told me not to help.
Oh Mama! You wouldn't believe what happened next!
He came behind her and slaughtered the little girl.
Mutilated her.
Until there was nothing left but blood and bones.

Oh Mama! I'm so sorry!
I'm sorry I could not get her out!
I'm sorry that I didn't try harder to help her escape!
Oh Mama! I'm sorry, I'm sorry!

The little, happy girl is gone.
But her killer is still on the loose.
He is swimming in glory and victory.
Showing off her stolen innocence as his award.

Oh Mama,
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry that she is gone.
You are enjoying life, While Im here struggling to survive
Aug 31, 2018
#56
Kaitlynnt86 Dec 2018
from the start
we were never apart
  for the days I wanted to die
you were always there
by my side
            the collapse of my veins              
and tear in my brain
brought a dismay
to many they’d say
the bliss i’d feel with you
changed my point of view
indistinguishable faces
and interchangeable places
the thoughts i've chased
have now been replaced
‘till death do us part
you have my mutilated heart
Four women stared at the shoes.
Only one could afford them. Only one wanted them.
Only one needed them.

The fourth woman would steal them.

Beryl Masterman glared at her competitors in the plush carpeted showroom of Sothebys on Oxford street

Her eyes were transfixed on the three women. Seething with rage at the sight of her great grandmother's former diamond studded heirlooms on ****** display in a gold gilded glass cased monstrosity.

Beryl was a beautiful woman possessed with delusions of grandeur.
Her family's fortunes were lost when the ***** industry collapsed and the Chinese authorities nationalised their properties.
Barely escaping with their lives they had  made a valiant attempt to smuggle arms into the Congo in the hope of securing a lease on a diamond mine in the Transvaal.

This scheme  too was fated to collapse but not before forty extremely precious diamonds were discretely sewn into the hem of Great Aunt Sarah's wedding dress.

It was a small step, no pun intended, to get a cobbler to purpose build a beautiful pair of diamond studded shoes. No one knows what price he was paid or if it covered the cost of his funeral two days after the shoes were handed over.

The Mastermans were a ruthless lot and each generation had an intelligent matriarch at the head of the family.

Beryl was trained in the ancient art of skullduggery, hand to hand combat,profiency in wrestling and was an expert with a rapier.

All her skills would be called upon in the events about to unfold.

Only once had Beryl come close to death. Making a mad dash across check point Charlie she had unleashed a full ammo clip when her sten gun misfired. The startled guard, a brute of a woman with the fists of a boxer cut Beryl's face with a nasty uppercut. This immediately caused her nose bone to destruct and the blood flowed unmercilessly.

Provoked by this savage attack Beryl lunged into a full tilt roundhouse and caught the guard on the side of the head causing instant death. Five other guards shocked at her reactions failed to act and Beryl made it to safety. This would go down in legend although it was the least of her exploits.

Hitting thirty eight now she still had the legs of a glamour model.
Six foot six and a beer belly to match the bar flys in any American city. Yes, she was out of shape but once committed to a cause was known to get into fighting shape in rapid order.

It's true that her mishaped nose took away from her looks slightly but even at that men stopped in their tracks at the elegant gait.
Men were known to duel at dawn for her affections.
No one ever really captured her heart and had they known her scurrilous background they would have backed up the bus a mile before she boarded.

As Beryl cased the room and took note of the exits and fire escapes she noticed a small man looking at her. It might have been an innocent glance but nonetheless his body was found an hour later in the Gentlemans privy with his head shoved and smashed into a ******. The look of horror on his mutilated face was a sight the coroner to this day has never forgot.

Beryl was on a mission and it was essential to get those shoes.
Her fake passport and identity were in her handbag and a hotel reservation booked in South America. Tonight she would steal the shoes and three women would lie dead in their hotel rooms.

One man would be given the task of solving the case. Detective Harry Horsefooder would need his full faculties to bear down on the culprit. As Beryl's plane took off that very night his body was found torn from limb to limb in the backroom of a cheap hotel. He never got a chance to fire his weapon. His eyes were gouged out and his wallet was missing.

Scotland Yard were now on the case. The trail would lead them all over the map of South America.

In a hotel in São Paulo Beryl lounged across her bed. Smoking a Cuban cigar she figured out her next move.
Perhaps she would get the next flight to Cape Town.
The shoes were going back to Africa either way.

Beryl gazed in the mirror and looked at her reflection.
The belly was getting harder to lose. The make up not quite as good at camouflaging her broken nose. A couple of teeth were getting loose in her head but by God she was still beautiful.

A soft smile traced her countenance but even as she relaxed another woman was on her trail. An enemy from the past.
The incident from Check point Charlie was about to reignite.

A KGB agent wanted to apprehend Beryl. She had orders to bring her back to Mother Russia. Belanka Stavros Lettrovnass was on a flight to Sao Paula.

Belanka looked at the photo of Beryl her handlers had given her.

'What a fat ugly looking *****' she thought.

Already she was underestimating Beryl and this would have fateful consequences for the KGB's best undercover operative.

Beryl averted her gaze from the mirror and sank back a Black Russian. Stretching her torso across her bed she thought to herself

'I will get the Masterman fortunes back. Or die trying'

Then she closed her eyes and slept the sleep of the just and righteous.
Beryl's exploits will follow soon.
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