The Kildaran - First Interlude

[Okay, so you're saying, Huh? Interlude? What? Let me tell you a story... While writing The Kildaran, I made the acquaintance of Dick Evans, another writer and fan of Ringo's work. We discovered that he could think of angles I didn't and vice-versa. So, he and I have been working together ever since - I'll write the chapter, send it off to him, he'll make suggestions, and then I'll accept (or not) or sometimes go off on a tangent. But Dick has an idea for ANOTHER book in the same 'universe', tentatively titled Paint It Black. Many of the changes we've made have been to tie this one a little more closely to that one, introduce concepts here that he'll expand there. But the biggest addition is the creation of these 'Interludes' - basically, character sketches of the major players from PIB which, really, have no place in the narrative flow of my book. So at appropriate times, I'll take an interlude (which Dick generally roughs out and then I polish to fit the style that I'm using) and insert it between chapters. Think of the chapters as scenes, and the Interludes as the intermissions between the acts.
Anyway, this is the first interlude. Language and content advisory! Prissy - Major Connors - is NOT a nice person at all, at all.]

INTERLUDE: PRISSY
18 Months Ago

Major Priscilla ‘Prissy’ Annabelle Connor, twenty nine going on thirty, five foot six, and a hundred and twenty five pounds, was being overcome by her needs, once again, but had yet to put her body to work the way she knew best and enjoyed the most. Prissy planned on a spree that very weekend.
There was a HomeSec Convention in the area. Maybe with a delicious and sweaty forty eight hours, she would manage to suck, fuck, and even lick her way into the good graces of several of the other agencies still working in the area, following up on any remaining leads, and trying to deal with the flak from the press.
She'd only gone and joined the National Guard and gotten a ROTC scholarship after promised moneys had failed to come in. She'd had to join the Soccer team to try earn a scholarship when she discovered that the ROTC scholarship still left her in need of funds.
It was in college that she'd learned about lesbians and that they too appreciated her body and could also give her something in return. Prime example: the coach and her soccer scholarship. Usually her harem helped keep up with papers and the multiple assignments a ROTC cadet had to deal with while playing D1 soccer and trying to get an CS-IT degree, all at the same time. Free time was hard to come by, so she used her body to make sure she had an easier time and a lot more fun.
She may not have done all the busywork, but she retained everything she read and heard in the lectures quite easily. She was also blessed with a near-eidetic memory. She still had to read, listen to and write what she wanted to remember first, and that was work she didn't like.
On top of extricating herself from numerous secret affairs in college she still owed the Army at least six-years of service after graduation and earning her Commission. At least she'd chosen a degree field that would all but ensure her a desk job in the military and a means to control her own fate. Maybe it would give her the opportunity to tweak her own data files on occasion. It would also let her read everyone else's files, making her life in the military easier, as she would be able to find new lovers to control and guide her career.
Her auburn-red hair was still gray-free these days even without much help of chemicals, unlike many of her peers, who had no real outlets for their stress and anger. She loved her hair, especially when she let it down. The natural deep red waves drew eyes to her like mosquitoes to a UV zap-lamp.
Then, with a small quirk of her full lips, a slight downcast of her large eyes as if she were shy and unsure., a wet touch of her tongue to moisten her lips, and more often than not her target would melt before she even got them in her hands.
She had a file full of married men and women who'd fallen to her natural abilities, which allowed her to keep her new boss informed on what was happening “Inside” the Florida National Guard politically. It also gave her ammo to bomb anyone that pissed him off, might be a potential obstacle in the future, or just looked like fun at the time. She'd even consoled’ a few who’d been demoted or passed over for promotion for some unknown reason and made a life long friend in the meantime. That was as long as they never discovered who'd torpedoed them in the first place.
It didn't hurt that she liked the stalk and the fucking afterward. She wasn't sure which was more thrilling, but just the thought of the hunt itself, could make her wet in anticipation.
She had learned to use that ability at the young age of twelve going on thirteen on one of her father's friends at a party. The man had passed out drunk in a lounge chair in her father's study. He’d awakened to find a very recently ex-virgin grinding down, him deep in her, and himself on the way to what the spilled fluids and stains suggested was NOT his first orgasm. She'd been smart enough to gag him, muffling his shout of surprise. His powerful third orgasm triggered her first, when pleasure finally overcame the pain of her first sex. For herself, she'd bit into his chest, bruising and marking him as hers for weeks after.
That had gotten her extra spending money for a few years. A blow job under the table during a political dinner had gotten her first car loan and his political office quietly the payments. After he’d become mayor of her small hometown, anal sex had gotten her a recommendation for the ROTC scholarship.
She kept him well-supplied with ‘favors’, of course. Often she’d perfect her technique with others before coming back to him to demonstrate her latest trick. For him, her first, she did things only a gymnast could do, and he paid for it very well. He went as far as embezzling funds from the city itself to keep her happy and available. She’d played his enemies the same way, allowing him to blackmail them, gaining power and guaranteeing them both extra money. This pleasant state of affairs lasted until the day his heart gave out during one of her weekend visits from college.
She made sure to clean up the scene as best she knew, including the use of bleach to ruin any DNA on scene and mask the musky scent in the air which would have immediately pointed at the cause of his untimely death.
It wasn't her fault he took way too many Viagras to keep up with her. He should have paid more attention to the medicine's warning label and less to her ass waggling in his face.
She placed a call to an escort service - one she’d thought about hiring on with, just for the experience - and then hung up after a few seconds, long enough for an appointment to have been made. She hoped it would appear that he’d died while waiting, the excessive Viagras taken ahead of time overtaxing his heart.
Not even the local papers printed more than a few lines in his obituary. The investigation into the recently discovered embezzlement didn't last more than a week. After all, what was the point in muddying the name of the recently deceased?
What really pissed her off was that it had taken her over five minutes to notice that the mayor had died, so much had she been under the control of her immediate needs. Her mind had cleared up immediately after her orgasms faded, though, and allowed her to think clearly. Luckily she shaved below back then so there would be no pubic hairs to connect her to his happy demise.
Ever since she used him to lose her virginity, he'd been one for the little girl look, hence her shaving. Any other hair of hers - well, she often visited him in his office with her father when he had business there. This established her as a regular, nobody to take note of. Plus it gave her the chance to tease the old lecher with her short skirts and lack of panties. Finally, since it was the Mayor's office, there would be tons of other people's DNA and fingerprints in the room, all leading nowhere.
She'd gotten out clean.
After graduation she'd found a promising young captain, now a retired colonel himself, to help her early on in her career. People talked, of course, but she had enough on so many others that those rumors reached her first. Then she’d take action through her growing network making life hell for the talkers and rumormongers.
Those that hated her openly she arranged for bad evals to appear in their files, and good evals to go missing. Anyone who supported her, with or without her incentives, and a few others, chosen at random, suddenly found plum assignments dropping in their laps, or unexpected promotions. She was laying in for future need.
Most of her old network soon split up as they retired or got out of the National Guard. Many fell into any one of the many HomeSec contractors that had been popping up left and right since 9-11. Lots of these were hidden as earmarks, inserted in nearly every bill passed while the shock was still fresh, so nearly every senator or congressman in DC had his own agency on speed-dial.
Supposedly they networked with each other and the real Big Boys of the business. But in general, they failed at that simple task. Inter-agency jealousy and rivalries, a need to gain credit for any good intel and have someone else to blame when it all zeroed out put paid to most of their good intentions.
It was the DC Mambo. Since no one really had a hard count on all the new Home-Sec agencies out there or where their real authority started and ended. So actually calling anyone to task on what they provided was nearly impossible. Anything not generated in-house had to be verified via their own channels, slowing down the process. Of course, it did ensure that all their bases - and asses - were covered before they actually offered a position on anything new.
Then, too, many of these new agencies were just smoke and mirrors for larger contractors. They’d use various similar names and minority department heads to appear as small and minority-led businesses, opening up routes to benefits their parent companies had no right to. In the end, instead of actually becoming a line of defense for the country, these mini-agencies lined up at the trough and grew fat on the gravy being ladled out by a panicked nation.
Prissy had long ago realized this. She used her contacts to arrange good jobs for good friends at places where the gravy train promised to keep flowing for as long as there was a war on terror. More than two dozen agencies had special friends in them, and she'd even managed to get a few into the FBI before the current situation had come to pass.
==========================
Prissy was pissed off in a way that few men could understand but instinctively were aware of and avoided like a plague.
A pure fury only a woman scorned could assume for her own.
A fury that was normally associated with redheads.
Of course, she just happened to be of that genus.
With over eight years in the Army National Guard, she was a fulltime IT and Security specialist, a job normally held by someone far senior to her and with more years of service. But she had risen like a shooting star, and on talent alone, just not the talent college and the Army had schooled her in. No, she used one every women carries in her arsenal. Good looks, the hard athletic body of a teenager, and a willingness to use it to further her career and network of insiders in various HomeSec companies and inside the Beltway itself.
Not that it seemed it would help her or her current mentor, Colonel Olds, any.
He'd just been hammered and verbally threatened - by a civilian of all things! - during a national crisis that was in her boss's backyard. For what? For just taking control of the situation as was warranted by policy and his being the ranking military man on the spot at the time. The rest of the meeting had gone on like a nightmare. She’d blotted out the memory of what had happened after her boss was removed from even nominal control of all the agencies and local forces gathered. No matter what she tried, though, she couldn’t blot the memory of him being told to shut the hell up or be shot on the spot. By a fucking civilian.
No matter how serious or dangerous the man looked, it just wasn't done.
But everyone had kowtowed to his orders as if he were anointed by God Himself. Hell, the President practically polished his boots as a favor! But rescuing Olds from the aftereffects of his tantrum was going to be tough. He’d let anger take over, when a few glances around the room and a surreptitious question or two would have told him not to fuck with the man. Instead, he'd pushed and been pushed back and whipped like a cur.
He'd tried to back door the situation after the meeting was over to get back at the man or get something on him. All of his so-called friends in DC and elsewhere had all told him to fuck off. Olds just didn't have enough goods on his friends and enemies in DC to get anything done other than orders to stay the fuck out of the man’s way.
If he'd just taken a moment to calm down and ordered her to take the initiative, things would have been different. She'd honey-trapped more than enough people in positions that would let them find out why their bosses treated the man like a demigod and how to get back in the game before it was all over. In fact, she'd have fucked every agent in the room if she'd needed to.
Now, it was a month later, the Christmas trees long packed away. The civilian had gone back to wherever he came from, covered in glory. And Olds? Colonel Robert Olds of the Tallahassee National Guard HQ had been passed up again for promotion for the third and final time.
Do not pass GO.
Do not collect your star.
Do not get a chance to promote your assistant to Colonel on a fast track to replace you, skipping her a grade as planned. No choice assignments until retirement. No spot in DC, and now no chance of a position with one of the Alphabet Agencies. Ever. It'd be golfing and fishing for the rest of his life on his meager Colonel's pension.
Fuck.
This meant no special posting for her either, now. She'd have to actually take a job for which she was trained for and not act as an aide for the Colonel anymore. She needed to wash away his sins, somehow. It would help if it was someplace where she could access her own records and adjust them. She’d have to ensure her own career didn't die as fast as his had, and it'd have to be on merit alone.
At least she was also as smart as she was pretty, but that was real work. Until she found and subverted another ranking officer and those about her, which promised to be fun as it usually was, she was on her own again. And it was all that assholes fault.
One Mike Jenkins’ fault. Oh yes, she found the name easily enough. And from a name, she could dig, and plot, and scheme. Because she had plans for that man, eventually. Bad, evil plans.
==========================
Mike Jenkins had killed the career of Prissy’s Colonel as sure as he'd shot the man himself as threatened. Something about, “If he didn't shut up and let those that could, do, and those that had no clue, shut the fuck up.” And he, Colonel Olds, obviously knew crap. He’d gone into the meeting, thinking that he had it all under control. How wrong she had been!
It took her some time to find an agent who didn't know who she worked for. Eventually she did, and fucked him silly and done other things to make his mind pliable as mush. He’d broken down the events of those 48 hours to her. The VX in the mosquito truck, stopped as it started to spray down International Drive. The VX at Wet ‘N Wild, and the dupe who’d helped save the situation. The aerosol cans of VX at Disney. The spray plane, loaded with VX. And the final attempt, deep in the tunnels below Disney.
Even she had to admit, Olds couldn’t have handled it.
She didn’t have to like the man who did, though. And she didn’t.
She'd disappeared after the events for a few weeks. It was suggested that she work off some back leave; with the overload of stress and biological hormones she'd built up, she agreed readily enough.
She spent much of that time watching from the sidelines. Her programs trapped memos passing through her office, so she could read first-hand what had really happened. The rest, she filled in from news channels. Yes, it'd been a mess, but in her opinion, who gave a fuck? So a few fat Northerners on vacation ended up worm food. A couple locals? Big fucking deal. More would move south next winter and it'd be just as crowded with tourists and old people. But the damage to her career - that could be permanent!
The only thing that kept her from going apeshit all over some unsuspecting person was the plentitude of horny young men that had descended on Florida that Christmas break. She had had to prove to herself that she was still pretty and desirable and could out-fuck any two-bit coed. She’d pulled a few of those into her bed, too, the really cute ones, for a lesson in what sex was really like. Who knew, maybe, someday they'd be of use to her too. And what coed or hornytoad checks a room for security cameras and sound when there's such a promising spread awaiting their use?
She’d bet some of them would even pose for them - thank you GGW!
Her ex-boss had been good looking enough with the rank and promise of a star on his shoulder to keep her bedding him down, or giving him a quick blow when the opportunity allowed. Now, he looked like a lumpy bag of potatoes left out in the sun too long.
She avoided him like the plague and made sure his retirement papers went through in record time, even for the Army. DOD and many others seemed to agree that everyone was better off with Colonel Olds out of the loop, out of the service, and onto a golf course as soon as possible.
Planning her revenge would take time. No problem; she had plenty of it now. Her assignment as the S-2 for the FNGHQ didn’t tax her much; she often worked on her back - or more often on her knees - and the chosen would scratch hers in return. That's how her game was played.
She’d even managed to avoid overseas and combat duties by sending anyone who might be an obstacle in her place. That's also how her bosses kept getting promoted over other more effective managers and intelligence officers.
Men were putty in her hands. So too were many women. Her gymnast's flexible body and perky breasts gave her the edge she needed to lure them in. And, paired with big, wide, innocent eyes no one knew what was coming.
She was a master at more than sex. Her revenge and planning skills, had they been known, would have made her a favorite of any of the dictators or drug lords in the world. They didn’t know of her, though. On the whole she thought that was probably a good thing. She believed if they'd ever figured her out they'd shit their pants in a panic and run for their mommies.
She never had to remember not to look directly into the camera, and she could always claim someone else was blackmailing her too. Fate or luck had wired her body for sex appeal and a need for sex too. Since she was twelve, she had just plain enjoyed sex and the control it gave her. Once the mood or need struck her, she'd find satisfaction, one way or another.
The same applied to her anger. And when both were satisfied, life was pure bliss. She could actually concentrate on her assigned job and make long term plans without interruption. Her upcoming birthday - thirty - had kicked her biological clock into overdrive, but there was no way she was going to succumb to the demand to produce offspring. Practicing making kids was good enough, thank you very much. Maybe someday, after she got her bird and was a lock for her first star she might have a child or two. She could always find someone to nanny the brat, anyway. But marriage was right out.
Too many men and women were out there, and she could use them for more than just sex or a donation of DNA. She probably would go to a sperm bank so the Army didn't look askew at her having a child out of wedlock. Then she could also pick compatible features to give her children the best opportunities to be smarter and better looking than she was. An interesting challenge, that.
She'd checked though some alternate channel contacts she'd made after the numerous whining calls that Colonel Olds had made. Those had all but immediately killed his career, along with any chance at credit for managing the entire national security situation cluster-fuck. Still, if he’d persisted - if he’d brought her into the loop - maybe she could have salvaged something.
But he'd backed down. Someone had scared him into stopping calling in favors or looking at her for other suggestions. One look into that defeated man's eyes had told her all she needed to know.
Her lover was a coward.
She'd known the same day her boss had arrived back at Headquarters, with his head hanging down. A pair of suits with black shades escorted him all the way to his desk, where they'd removed his cell phone, disconnected his computer and land-line. Then, they’d stood outside the door every single day until word came down that all of the terrorists were either captured or terminated and all the WMD's were neutralized or in friendly hands again.
Who had the power to do that to a man who commanded and controlled thousands of troops?
Who could make his longtime contacts in Washington DC just hang up on him or tell him to shut up and toe the line like a plebe?
Everyone abandoned him in his time of need. He looked like a puppy kicked by its master, and that still haunted her. Well, a little bit. He'd tried, after the events, to get his own revenge. Where did it get him? Under guard at his own desk. His clearances were gone and he'd remained a figurehead for only a short period of time until the memos came through.
She'd order the mandatory retirement cake. Everyone in HQ would show up and give him a pat on the back as he fell from grace and became a civilian again. She might even show up herself with a lover on her arm, just to show the bastard how badly he'd screwed up and what it cost him.
No more dumbasses, no matter how high their rank! She'd find new men and women with power and rank to control again, that was a given. She’d just have to make sure they passed a basic IQ test too.
Not too smart though, she couldn't afford to have them catch on to her ways. It would have to be the ones who thought below the waist, or wore their hearts on their sleeves. She couldn't afford any more idiots, not if she was to make her plans work.
The last day, though.
She’d come in to work, early for once. Olds’ watchdogs were there already, so she knew something was up.
“Morning, boys,“ she said. “You’re here early.“
“Yes, Ma’am,“ one replied. She thought of him as Igg, the other Ook. “The Colonel’s replacement is due in later.“
“Oh, so soon?” she asked, knowing full well that the formal transfer of power was to be the end of the week. “May I see the Colonel? Is he busy?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” said Ook. “You can go in.” He even held the door open for her.
“You stupid prick,” she hissed as soon as the door closed. “This is all your fault. You and your whining and moaning to your friends in DC. Well, fuck you! In a couple days, you’re history, and I could be too!” Olds just hung his head and took the abuse she heaped on him over the next couple minutes.
She finished by saying, “Looks like I have a new boss to fuck. Hope he’s a better lay than you.” At that, he looked up, angry and confused.
He started screaming at her then. The door burst open, Igg and Ook rushed in. He didn’t care, he’d gone over the edge. Furniture started flying, some at Prissy, some at the watchdogs, more out the window. Igg grabbed her and pulled her out of the room, slamming the door shut. Ook was already calling the MPs.
Olds’ screaming continued as they waited, punctuated by the occasional crash. After a few moments, the noise subsided. She moved as if to enter, but they stopped her.
“Best let someone else deal with him, Ma’am,“ said Ook.
Something made them tweak to the fact that it was too quiet in the Colonel's room. Ook broke open the door.
They managed to cut him down from his kludged up noose just in time. It would have been a long and bad death with his hand at the knots. Prissy silently wished they'd let him go out that way, burying any chance of him exposing her little schemes. Something of this must have shown in her eyes. Or maybe it was that hint of a smile.
He'd tried to jump at her, eyes ablaze. Igg had easily managed to stop him, though. A failure in this, too.
Then she'd smirked at him openly, as he was dragged from what was once his office. The MPs finally arrived, wrapped him in a Love Me jacket, and hauled him away.
She knew that, no matter what he said now, no matter how lucid, nobody would ever take him - or any tales he might tell of Major Connors - seriously again.
What she remembered of him was the look in his eyes as he was hauled away. She knew the look of a lover jilted, and she saw it then, with the realization of his crushing defeat.
She couldn’t help but compare that with the look in one Mike Jenkins's eyes, an unknown government asset that was blacker than black. Eyes that promised to deliver whatever he told a person he was going to do to them. And nothing, not even God, was going to get in his was.
That and the fact that he was a pure Grade-A psychopath and a son of a bitch as well.
Psychopaths needed to be put down like the rabid dogs they were before they did any more harm.
Mike Jenkins was a rabid dog. Looked like it was time for her to play dog catcher.