It is a frightening commentary on this place that none of the men on the floor notice the half-naked gleaming body of our heroine as she glides unobtrusively along the back wall of the New York Stock Exchange, uzi at her side, gleaming ash-blonde tresses reflecting the lights from the board overhead. Her piercing thick-lashed blue eyes narrow as she observes the carnivorous faces around her, their pale skin taut with greed and obsession, their rapacious eyes darting wildly, their scrawny arms waving slips of paper frantically,stupidly in the air, voices screaming for attention. Disgust rises in her as she knocks two of the ugly gnomes aside for a better view of the pit and the racing symbols and numbers on the screens above her. She raises a slender hand to the alabaster column of her neck, reaching for the comfort of the smooth stone from a special creekbed that lies in the soft,shadowy valley between her lush breasts. For a moment she allows her thoughts to drift to the only man who had ever understood her needs. "Oh, Drygulch," she whispers.
But no, there is no time for such weakness. Already one or two of the slimy filth near her are giving her suspicious looks. Indeed, she wonders if she might look slightly out of place in the black thong and tiara. Or is it the thigh length boots that give her away?
If 'twere done, let it be done quickly, she murmurs, raising the uzi and aiming at the racing numbers on the monitors. The first burst of gunfire can barely be heard above the shrill voices of the screaming, self-absorbed horde, who grow slowly silent as the sparks cascade upon them from above, the dying embers of the bids and asks filming their faces with the ashes of their greed
"Noo-o-o-o," a lone sob fills the silence. Horror, fear, confusion begin to alter the weak features of a people who suddenly realize their raison d'etre is no more; in a single moment their lives have become meaningless, their power gone up in smoke, as it were. Glassy-eyed, they look about them, searching for an explanation, looking at the now impotent paper in their fists.
Our heroine lifts her noble head and look upon the bovine herd. THey flinch at the ferocity and righteous beauty of her uncompromising gaze. Her lips, full, warm and generous for those who earn the gift, but tight now with emotion and anger, part and she speaks, "No more," her words fall into their midst, cold diamonds slicing into their shrivelled, manipulative market maker hearts.
Our heroine backs slowly toward the door, an expression of contempt on her lovely face, repulsed at the sight of grown men kneeling and weeping over their now useless forms. One pathetic fool, muscles atrophied by months of doing nothing but stare at ticker tape, attempts to grab her as she passes. A well-aimed kick sends him moaning to the floor. At the door she turns, breast heaving with emotion, and silently flings a sheet of paper down in front of the these sad imitations of humanity that stand before her. "No more," she reiterates and with a final glare, she disappears into the anonymity of a New York street.
The man crawls over to the sheet of paper and timidly lifts it by a corner, as if might still bear the heat of her vengeance. "What is it?" whispers a voice.
"It's yesterday's closings on a bunch of stocks belonging to someone named.....Rambi," the man replies, and lets the paper drift from his fingers as he bends over to throw up. |
