My name is Hanna
As a special investigator for the FBI, I have been involved in several deep-rooted cases. High profiles of murder suspects; some as low-life as you can imagine, and others, who, end up being the least suspected of the batch, but that’s where I come in, to separate the factual from the fantasy.
But there is one case I have been put in charge of that I cannot solve. This person takes each victim and doesn’t just kill them. The murder suspect actually takes certain parts of the body and cooks them and creates a meal.
What parts that aren’t used are burned, and the ashes are rid of as if placed in an urn and then distributed in a wind, over a lake, even poured over mountain caps, simply buried, or flushed down a toilet.
Ten years, twenty-seven arrests, twenty-seven convictions, and yet—and yet this one perp cannot be found. But I know why when no one else at the FBI, don’t.
It is me. Hanna Lector. And I so love a well done fava meal. Care to join me for dinner?
She could barely hear the laughter over the sound of the rats running ramped in the streets of what was now a decrepit old town.
"Even the smartest man in our village couldn't get rid of them, what makes you think we believe you can do it? Though you are quite the pretty young thing, mabye we can make use of you elsewhere" An intense feeling of disgust crawled its way up her spie and she had to fight it from showing on her face as she pulled out her Pipe.
"I don't provide those types of services, I'll take cash payment for getting rid of the rats and nothing else."
"You'll get your payment after you get rid of the rats." The mayor said but he is more politician than man. Regardless of the outcome he had never planned to pay the woman for her time. After she led the rats out of town the mayor banned her from returning and well, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
That very night she used her pipes beautiful song almost like a siren to lead all of the men from their bed and off of a cliff. When the town women had awoke they found half of the towns money missing and their husbands wedding rings on their bedside table but at least their kids were safe and sound.
The Lambs of the Silence
FBI special agent Starling knocked on the door, another routine dead end to be sure. There was no answer so he rang the bell; this triggered a shrill electric bell deep in the dungeon where Catherine Martin lay helpless, deep inside an earthen hole. Jane Gumb considered her reflection in the mirror as she unlocked the door, surely it was some sort of zoning officer, here to complain about the lawn once again, but just in case, she laid her python on the stove and felt a wave of giddy energy wash over her. The python might get a bite today.
"FBI agent Starling," he said and flashed a badge at the door, "I'm looking for someone...a Ms. Jane Gumb"
This struck Gumb as funny, so she snickered quietly and unhooked the chain on the door.
"Jane moved out, but I think I have an address," she said, "can I offer you something...cold to drink?"
"No thanks," he said. There on the window a massive moth fluttered; a death's head moth. Starling felt his pulse quicken and the blood drain from his face. He unsnapped the holster of his duty weapon. Shit, I'm here alone and nobody knows where I am. His Smith & Wesson model 13 held only six rounds, but he was in the habit of carrying two dump pouches. This isn't enough ammo. It was her, he knew it.
Romeo and Juliet
Hey bitch where you at?
Meet you at the garden?
My daddy's gonna kick your ass
Our families hate each other
Just be there
We are the family jewels
Without loving you I shall perish
Drink my love as I will
I find humor in my line of work. Decapitated head, well, that's just because he couldn't keep his head on straight.
Why do they always requests these outfits? My boobs are pressed up to the max in this costume. Don't get me wrong, they definitely have a fetish fantasy that I haven't yet dreamed of - oh wait - I can't dream. I'm dead.
I love the underestimation. Cute, a swift upper kick. I remember the third grade. Wait, I'm confused? Am I the bad guy? Ok, ok, I'm not the "good lady," but give me an outfit that I can at least breathe in.
I forgot my Walkman for this battle. Instead of Pink, I'm subjected to Dido - slight my neck now. I'll provide the blade. Just kidding. Nothing gets me more turnt than "I'm coming up, and there better be a party started.
Ribs first, slow upper cut. I'm outnumbered by 12. Kind of shameful on their part. Maybe the lowcut leather is less of a deter and more of an assest. Best part of being partially alive is that it let's you feel more alive than ever.
"Let's dance." I say to my opponents. Dead-Polita is ready to rumble.
Who the hell’s Brenda?
Sam swore as the steering wheel was torn from his grasp. Natasha shot frantically at the attacker, but she leapt off their car onto the army truck behind them. The truck then revved forward and smashed into the back of their car. With no way to steer, the vehicle scraped along the wall of the bridge, then cartwheeled into the air.
Steve only had a split second to think. He shoved Nat over and pulled Sam close in the same motion. He yelled "Hang on!" and pressed the shield against the passenger door. An instant later, the door broke from the car, and the trio fell out with it, as the car flipped and smashed away. They landed hard and slid along the concrete on the door; Sam let go and rolled painfully to a stop. Steve and Nat stood shakily, seeing the assassin pointing a huge gun at them. Steve shoved Nat away before the shot, and covered himself with the shield. The shield blocked the shot, but the force of it cartwheeled him back and off the bridge.
When he came to, he was lying in a bus. People were disappearing out the doors, and there was blood and glass everywhere. Then, the gunshots sounded. The last people dropped dead in the entryway. Steve leaped up and sprinted his way out of the bus, covering his face with his hands. Someone was ripping the vehicle apart with a military-grade machine gun. Someone really wanted Steve dead.
He dove out the back window, and landed on his shield. Thanking God, he crouched on one knee, covering his whole body with the shield as several enemies shot at him. Using a trick Peggy had taught him, way back in 1943, he angled the shield so that the bullets hitting it ricocheted into one of the shooters. He was hit, and fell down. Steve changed the shield angle to repeat the action, but another shooter had already fallen, and looking up he spied Sam on the bridge picking off the assailants. Steve sprinted at the guy with the huge repeating gun, flipped over him, and slammed his head into a car. "Only one guy left," Steve thought, but Sam interrupted him. "GO!" Sam yelled from the bridge. "I got this!"
"That's right, there's still the assassin lady," Steve thought, shaking his foggy head. "And where's Natasha?"
He followed the sound of an explosion, jogging cautiously to the fireball. Then there was a single shot, and his heart went cold. "Natasha," he whispered with dread. Then he caught sight of the assassin, with her short black hair and metal arm. He ran at her before she could shoot again. She saw him coming, and went to punch with her metal arm: Steve blocked with his shield, and a booming metallic sound erupted as steel met steel.
They fought on the street, among the cars. Steve quickly disarmed the assassin's firearms but took longer to rid her of the tiny knives she kept producing. She grabbed hold of his shield and threw it at him, but it missed and lodged itself in a van. They went to and fro with the knives, assassin slashing and stabbing, captain ducking and dodging. He finally got close enough and threw her over his shoulder, but she bounced up, kicked him in the ribs, and grabbed hold of his throat with her metal arm. She threw him to the ground and reared back her prosthetic limb to strike; Steve bared rolled over in time, and her fist broke a hole through the road. She pulled out another knife, and they were at it again: stab, twist, slash, duck, punch, kick. Steve grabbed his shield and knocked up her chin, then grabbed her face and flipped her over his shoulder. She hit the deck hard, and her mask fell off.
She stood up slowly, with her back to him. Steve, panting hard, was relieved he might finally be able to identify her, when she suddenly turned, and...
"Who the hell's Brenda?"
It was her. How...how could this be? She fell to her death 60 years ago: how could she be alive? And why the hell was she trying to kill him? Steve's mind was racing fast, and he felt a slow, seeping cold envelop him. She was pointing a gun at him, but he couldn't believe it. This was Brenda Barnes, he knew it was! His best pal...she would never point a gun at him! What's been done to her? What happened with the metal arm?
Steve barely noticed Sam swooping in to knock Brenda away. She came to her feet, eyes wide, hair ragged over her face. She stared at Steve hauntingly, but Natasha, having picked up Brenda's own gun, shot at her. When the dust had cleared, Brenda had disappeared.
Wailing sirens pierced Steve's consciousness, and he was ordered roughly to get to his knees; but he didn't care. All he cared about in that moment was that his friend, his best friend since childhood, Jaimee "Brenda" Barnes, was trying to kill him.