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From: tmquin@ibm.net (Thomas M Quin)
Subject: {ASS}SSK: Mary Anne -- Epilogue (M/F, NC, B&D, Kidnap)
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STANDARD DISCLAIMER
===================
The following piece of fiction is intended as ADULT entertainment and
has been posted only to an appropriate group on the Internet. If it is
found in any other place this is not the responsibility of the author.
The author explicitly prohibits.
1) The posting of this story in an incomplete form.
2) The use of this story in a larger work without his express
permission.
3) The use of this story on any CD, BBS or Website without the
written permission of the author.
This work is copyright TM Quin 1998.
All characters in this story are fictitious, any similarity to
persons living or dead is purely coincidental. The author does not
necessarily condone or endorse any of the activities detailed in this
story, some of which are dangerous or illegal.
Quin 1998
tmquin@ibm.net
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Getting Even with Mary Anne by Quin
================================
Epilogue: "Do It Yourself Justice"
===========================
And it might have ended there if old man McAlister hadn't opened his
stupid mouth.
I returned to my car, dumping the bag of evidence in the trunk, and
got ready to leave. I even started the car and turned on the radio,
then turned to pull some cans from the cooler in the back seat .
That's when I heard the news broadcast with old man McAlister giving
a statement to journalists. I admit to only half-listening. The
guy's a windbag, always has been and loves the sound of his own voice
far too much. Finally, though, someone asked a question and his
answer shook me.
Apparently some judge had decided that Bobbie's suicide note was not
admissible evidence, so Mary Anne was off the hook. I didn't
understand why. Still don't; I'd always assumed that a confession in
a suicide note was evidence enough, but there was some bizarre legal
precedent that said otherwise. I immediately recognized the stench
of McAlister's political influence. So did some of the journalists;
the questions became more hostile, and McAlister tried to excuse
himself. The news anchor said that it wasn't over, adding that
Bobbie's note had named all of those involved and some prosecutor had
smelled blood and was "pursuing other leads." Still, it said enough
-- thanks to daddy's influence, she was probably not going to jail.
She looked up in surprise when I re-entered the room. She'd
struggled and managed to knock the chair over but hadn't gotten any
further. Using the knife I cut her free and grabbed the spare rope
to tie her more securely, then threw her over my shoulder and took
her downstairs to where my car was waiting with the trunk open.
Sometimes if a man wants justice, he has to do it himself.
Dumping her inside, I hog-tied wrists to ankles, then closed the
trunk. I felt some urgency -- there was a good chance daddy may ring
his pumpkin to pass on the good news, maybe even come over himself.
I needed a few things from the house and quick.
I took all her baggage, then checked the Taurus in case there was any
more. Fortunately she had been living from a single bag so there was
nothing to pack. About the only thing of hers I left was the mobile
phone -- everything else joined her in the trunk. I unloaded the
larder and refrigerator into a box which I dumped in the back seat,
then ran upstairs to recover her boots. While I was there it struck
me that it was a waste for all of daddy's kinky stuff to be left
behind. Anything that might remotely fit her joined her in the
trunk.
Now for the final act. The farm was too far from town to get any
public utilities, so a diesel generator provided power, and cooking
gas was fed from a tank outside. It took me a few minutes to figure
the timer on the oven, setting it to come on in about 2 hours, then I
turned all the burners on full and started to fill the house with
gas.
I was in the next state when the house exploded. Fortunately all the
press nearby made sure that the report hit the newswires pretty
quickly. Old man McAlister was frantic, and apparently the local
police and the fire people covered the scene like a rash. I settled
back and enjoyed the spectacle as relayed by radio. It was only then
that I wondered how to get her back to California safely. In the
end, I left her tied up in the hayloft of an old barn while I picked
up some camping gear in the next town. I don't know which of us was
more relieved when I came back and found she was still there. The
story of how we got back is almost an epic in its own right, and
maybe I'll tell that another time.
So what happened? Well, McAlister admitted to hiding a fugitive,
claiming that his daughter must have died in the explosion. Of
course, the FBI determined there was no human remains and that the
explosion was deliberate. The current theory is that Mary Anne faked
her own death to avoid prosecution. Most people suspect that daddy
is still hiding her somewhere, but he'll find out what the grand jury
believes next week. Now that McAlister's power base was broken, all
sorts of people started coming out of the woodwork. I hear that
Betty has agreed to testify if she's granted immunity. As the
injured party, I've received some good publicity, too -- just last
week Barbara Walters was sitting in my den doing a "60 Minutes"
interview with me. Amazing. At the end she asked where I thought
Mary Anne was. I just shrugged and said I figured she was out of the
country by now. I had to suppress a smile of course, what with Mary
Anne being bound and gagged less than twenty feet from where Barbara
was sitting.
And Mary Anne? At the moment she spends most days strapped into the
padded box I built under the stairs. That old box is working wonders
with Mary Anne's attitude -- the girl's so happy to be out of it that
she'll do anything for you, anything at all. At night I take her out
and we play lots of games. Like I said, she's much more amenable
these days. It's interesting how people's expectations contract to
meet their environment. When I was in jail I used to think it was a
good day if I avoided being beaten up. I think Mary Anne's finding
out the same thing. Back in Washington, I suspect you'd have to buy
her a meal, take her to a show or buy her something nice just to get
to first base. These days she'll fuck you for a square meal.
And I like the box -- it puts her conveniently at hand when and if I
need her. But it has its disadvantages, such as having to keep her
gagged all day in case I have any unexpected visitors. So I have a
contractor working on converting my basement. I pay well and he
doesn't ask questions, like what the little room at the back is for.
He's obviously an honest man, otherwise he'd have realized that it
has the same dimensions as a standard jail cell. In fact, it's
exactly like the cell where I spent most of the past twelve years. I
don't think I need tell you what it's for, do I? The nice thing
about DIY justice is that you can make the penalty fit the crime.
I'm sure that twelve years will be long enough for Mary Anne to think
about her mistake.
Of course, I haven't told her about that yet.
The End
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