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Victims’ Vengeance

Some people join the police force because they believe they can make a difference in supporting justice.  Some go into law enforcement to garner the respect of the uniform, the power and sometimes even privilege of being a police professional.  Some enter the police profession to take advantage of the respect, power and privilege given to people in law enforcement.  Such was the attraction of police work for Big Mike Fedora.

Big Mike was born Mikhail Fedorov, in a Moscow suburb.  His father had been a tough street cop in Russia, and regaled his son with stories of exploits performed and perpetrated by his colleagues.  Some of the stories were about real police work, finding clues, squeezing information out of street stool-pigeons, and beating the crap out of incorrigible criminals.  Some other stories were about taking advantage of the trades persons along the beat.  Coercing the butcher for a free string of sausages, the baker for the fresh rye, and the smoke shop for a pack of cigarettes.

The stories Mike liked best were the stories of how the cops dealt with prostitutes. The poor girls, and often women who rented  themselves out in desperation, to pay rent, buy food, care for children.  It didn’t matter to Mikhail’s father and his colleagues – they would have their fill of flesh.  Cut to twenty years later, and Mikhail Fedorov is Detective Lieutenant Mike Fedora, an anglicized version of his Russian roots.  The last name was partly an adaptation of his real Russian name, but also reflected the fact that Mikhail constantly wore Fedoras.  He had several colours of one style, and the colours he chose, day by day, reflected how he was feeling.

All the hookers knew that when Big Mike was sporting the black fedora, they’d best call it a day.  The black hat indicated that somebody was going to get raped before the day and night were done. Mike would cruise the area under the sparse street lights until he saw a girl that seemed right for that night.  None of the girls could figure out what governed Mike’s preferences.  Sometimes he’d victimize a plump, white, blonde girl, other times a scrawny Latino, tall black girl or short Asian.  Of course, none of them could report it for fear of what might happen in retaliation.

One night there was a new girl on the stroll.  Truly gorgeous, with long, wavy, coal-black hair that framed a sweet, youthful face.  She wore a knee-length, flowing dress of dark green with a crisp, white blouse.  Not the flashing, fleshy garb of most working girls.  Mike Fedora saw her on the corner of Westerly and Lawson and circled the block to come back around and stop in front of her… but she wasn’t there.  A John had picked her up.

The next night, Fedora went cruising especially to find her.  When he did, he pulled up at the curb and stepped out of the car to accost her.

“You’re a real cutie, you are,” Mike said.

“Are you looking for a date?” the girl replied.

“What’s your name?” he said.

“What do you want it to be?” she smiled.

“You don’t know who I am, do you?” Mike murmured.

“Should I?”

“You should and you soon will.  I’m Mike Fedora – Detective Captain Fedora.  I’m not going to run you in, but we will get together real soon and become …. intimate acquaintances.

“You’re barking up the wrong tree, bloodhound.  I don’t pay my way like that.” the girl said, flippantly.

“What’s your name,” Mike asked again, forcefully.

“Morrissa,” she shot back.

“Last name!”

“Goldstone.”

“I’ll see you again, Goldstone, real soon,” Big Mike Fedora snarled, in his most threatening way.  He stepped into his large, black, unmarked car, started it and smiled up at Morrissa as he slid the car smoothly into the passing line of traffic.  In his rear view mirror, he saw an open convertible BMW pull up beside the girl.  The driver was a tanned man with salt and pepper hair cut short.  With very little hesitation, she slid into the seat beside the man when Mike lost sight of her.

The next day shortly before noon, Big Mike Fedora parked his car in the visitors/guests area in the parking lot of Morrissa’s hotel.  He flashed his badge at the check-in counter and got her room number.  He knocked on the door of her second-floor room until she was roused from sleep.  She wore a thick bathrobe when she looked out the peep hole and saw a police badge up close.  She opened the door and invited Mike in with a wave.  He glanced at the rumpled bed as he strode across and sat in one of the obligatory two chairs with a small table between.

“It must be expensive,” he said, “living in a hotel.”

“I’ve just been in town a week, and don’t know up from down yet,” she said as she sat in the other chair with the small table between them.

“Get yourself together,” he said, “and I’ll take you out for breakfast and fill you in on this town.  If we’re both working in the same district, we might as well be friends.”

The girl accepted the invitation and went to shower.  As she stepped out of the steaming enclosure, she was seized by Big Mike Fedora who was as stark naked as she was.  He was huge next to her petite form, and she was helpless to forestall what was about to happen.  Mike made use of every opening in her body.  He slapped her so hard with his huge hand she became too dizzy to reason.  She was groggy from the slap, and from the pressure on her throat as the big cop turned her this way and that, lifted her and put her down as suited his salacious whims.

Morrissa took two days to partially recover from the beating and rape.  As soon as she felt confident in her mobility she went to her nearly empty closet.  She extracted a cheap guitar case and laid it on the bed.  She flipped it open and looked down at the beautiful Winchester 30-30 with the gold anniversary inlays and polished ebony stock.  She took a utility knife from her luggage and set about modifying the guitar case.  She opened the back of its body and made a small opening at the extremity of the neck.

The next evening, dressed in a very drab, academic-looking, tweedy suit, with a floppy, eccentric hat.  She walked quickly, as if hoping to get through safely and get to the concert or whatever it was to which she was rushing. she saw Mike Fedora chatting up two of the working girls.  She strode past them unrecognized and stopped beside a pile of commercial garbage from the surrounding stores.  She glanced around and decided she was not observed.  She lifted the guitar case to shoulder level.

Big Mike Fedora dropped like a rock.  Morrissa was sorry the two girls got splattered with Fedora’s blood and guts, but they’ll be glad they won’t have to take punishment from him ever again.  She resumed her posture and performance, hurrying along with her guitar case.  She saw through the corner of her eye, the prowl cars racing to the scene, but didn’t display any interest.

She took the weekend off and was back on the stroll on Monday night.  All the talk among the girls was about who could have done it.  One of the girl’s wanted to give the guy a medal, whoever he was.  Morrissa never said a word about it, and felt fine about the safer work environment.  She never imagined that her participation in firearms competition back home would give her the opportunity to use her championship skill to  advantage.

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