prologue

This morning I was forced wide awake from a rather dead sleep by the cold steel of a pistol’s barrel pressed firmly to the back of my head.

"Don't move," his voice said.

"Uhm," I whisper, "ok?”

"Ms Bees Knees, contract killer, wanted in 49 states," his voice said.

"Well," I correct him, "48, if you want to get technical being as I was never formally charged with that half-assed slipshod massacre in Alabama..."

"Is that right?" his voice said.

"Yes," I affirm, “That’s right. I am a seasoned assassin sir, not a bullshit stick-up man,” I purr.

"Erhm, very well then I apologize ... Ms Bees Knees, contract killer, wanted in 48 states," his voice said, "you are a fugitive wanted by the United States of America and hereby, under my arrest."

“Very well… may I see my captor then?” I asked.

“By all means,” his voice said, as I slowly turned to face him.

“Well, well, well,” I cooed, rather pleased with what I saw, “may I have 3 last requests then before you proceed?"

“Yes,” he said.

“I’d like to be fucked by you, I'd like an extra dry, dirty martini and I'd like a cigarette,” I proclaim through smirking lips, “in that order.”

"I thought you'd never ask," he said and proceeds to take off his pants.

Now just a word of advice to all of you men out there. Once your pants are off and your other head is doing all of the thinking...

you’re as good as dead in the water.

It’s simply the quickest way I know how to "disarm" a hetero male. Simply put: he becomes the prey and I become the predator.

Needless to say, my captor didn't even know what hit him, literally, as I brought a vase crashing down upon the back of his skull. His nude body, with all its dead weight, slumped on me now, my captor was completely out cold.

"THAT WAS A MING YOU FUCKING IDIOT," I groused, as I heaved his hulking mass off of me and onto the floor, "those goddamn vases are priceless."

After tying his arms and legs securely to the bed posts and drawing the letters "MBK" in blood red lipstick across his chest, I exited hastily out the back door and slipped away to freedom once more.

introduction

MBK.

Ms Bees Knees, that was how I was known to the other assassins that ran in my network and, of course, by the law.

MBK.

From as far back as I can remember, I was always a killer. A “natural born killer” who constantly committed murder due to an unhealthy level of unchecked aggression partnered with a crippling lack of basic impulse control.

But getting paid to kill had, oddly enough, not crossed my mind until I turned thirty. Up until then, I suppressed my murderous instincts as best I could. I hid them. I buried them... along with the bodies.

For most of my life, I was a financially stable and modestly conforming girl-Friday. Even though I knew I was working way below my skill-set, I craved docile mediocrity in a place where my homicidal desires could remain dormant and I could live a life of complete and total mind-numbing normalcy.

But naturally, I continued to leave a trail of bodies, wherever I went.

I was wrong to assume that my impulsive killings would cease once I "went straight" in the corporate world. If anything, my murders escalated. As I saw it, my inner-murderess simply refused to be ignored. Tried as I might... I just couldn't stop killing.

And so, it was right after my last inappropriate "unpaid" homicide, that I had what one can only describe as an epiphany.

death becomes me

I'm not entirely certain who I may have killed last night but this morning I woke up absolutely drenched in someone else's blood. How did I know that the blood was not, in fact, my own? I guess it was probably the severed, muscular man's arm I had been resting my head upon that gave it away.

"Fuck," I muttered, "Another set of 800 thread count linen-weave sheets RUINED," I groused as I peeled myself from the cold, blood-soaked bedding and eased myself onto the floor, avoiding a rather large puddle of sticky blood that had pooled at the side of my bed.

"Hmm," I wondered out loud, "Where is the rest of you?" I asked the lone, severed arm absentmindedly, scratching my head in order to emphasize my dismay.

My eyes scanned the room and quickly fell upon a pair of men's Italian wool trousers draped carefully over the back of a chair in the far corner of my room, where a beautifully crafted pair of leather shoes were also placed neatly on the floor beneath it. On the chair itself was a folded crisp, white button-up, a pair of silk boxer shorts and some socks, all perfectly arranged.

"Oh, this one was a snazzy dresser too," I mused as I walked towards the neatly displayed set of garments, a trail of bloody footprints following me all the way, "I do love a man with exquisite tastes in fine clothing," I added wondering to myself how much I could get for his things, "I wonder why I killed him?"

I was honestly baffled, I could not, for the life of me, remember what had transpired merely hours beforehand. I glanced down at myself and scanned my nude body for any telling marks, bruises or signs of struggle and right away I noticed that I had fragments of skin beneath my fingernails, which I assumed, was probably from the backside of my mystery man.

Although quite honestly, skin under my nails after a night of vigorous fucking was really nothing seemingly suspicious to me… I was known to do some real damage to the human body when caught in the throws of orgasmic passion and so I discounted it as anything suspect and continued my search.

I contorted my body, twisting it this way and that in order to get a better look at my lower half. I went over my feet, shins, calves, thighs and inner thighs, ass and stomach and found no scratches or bruising.

So far so good.

I shambled into the bathroom, in order to get a better look at myself in the full-length mirror that hung on the inside of the door and while examining my throat and shoulders, glimpsed behind me, the reflection of a leg and foot dangling over the edge of my bathtub.

"Peek-a-boo, I've found you," I said to its reflection and to who I assumed was my latest victim, turning abruptly on my heels I made my way over to say hello.

The first thing I noticed, beside the obvious missing arm, was that he was classically handsome in that sort of young Marlon Brando sort of way and the second thing that I noticed was, naturally, his cock-size.

"My god, I bet the boys never made fun of you in the locker room," I remarked as I reached down and held the still somewhat swollen length of him. "What a shame I had to kill this one so quickly," I said to myself, "I could have been hittin’ this right about now."

As my eyes trained back upon his face, the events from the night before all came flooding right back to me along with the motive of his unfortunate demise. And rather anticlimactically, I realized I had killed this man because he was a "shuffler".

That's right, a foot "shuffler". Someone who simply refuses to pick up their own feet when walking short or long distances [like say from my bed to the restroom and back] but instead prefers to drag along their feet as if they are simply far too lazy to pick them UP AND OFF THE FLOOR thus causing an irritating "schkrrrrt, schkrrrt, schkrrrrt" that, to me, is even far worse on the nerves than dragging ones finger nails across a chalk board.

There are very few peeves that drive me to murder a man and I’ve got to say that shuffling ones feet in my presence is at the top of my list.

Now please understand, I DID warn him. It’s not like I am some sort of uncivilized maniac. I had asked him kindly to please not drag his feet. TWICE IN FACT! But after his third trip to and from my restroom "schkrrrt-schkrrrting" the entire way, I simply could not stand it anymore and gripping my trusty Wusthof meat cleaver, which I naturally kept at the ready concealed beneath my mattress, I lunged at him like a crouching tiger while screeching, “I SAID PICK UP YOUR FUCKING FEET!” severing his arm with one swift, clean whack.

He died from the sheer shock of it all. Well, that and the massive hemorrhaging.

epiphany

"Fuck," I said as I now stared down at the dead man lying somewhat disjointed in my bathtub. Just fuck. Why of all things, did it have to be KILLING that came so naturally to me? "Why couldn't I have a talent for baking wedding cakes or knitting wool sweaters," I groused at the dead man before me.

Just then, an all too familiar voice that I had heard nearly a thousand times before boomed its way into my train of thought...

"What are YOU good at?" squawked the television infomercial from the other room.

"Making others die," I replied.

"So why don't you market that expertise?!" challenged the overly enthusiastic actor.

I cocked my head and listened more intently now, "Show the world what YOU can do," boomed the announcer, "ang get PAID for doing it!! We can show you how for a small fee of... " his voice trailed off as my purpose became clear.

And that was when I had my epiphany: I was going to be who I was all along, a cold blooded killer... only this time, I was going to murder for money.

interlude

I've agreed to meet with fellow blogger and playwright extraordinaire lecram at an undisclosed location for an exclusive interview, on account that he not reveal my whereabouts. Which he, wisely agreed to.

ms bees knees: I apologize for all this hush-hush business but with my line of work it is of the utmost importance that we follow protocol and remain as invisible as possible.
lecram: By all means… but what exactly is your profession?
ms bees knees: I'm a hired hitman now … you know, a paid assassin. I thought you knew that? What with all of my past exploits and whatnot. To make a long story short, the "right people" recognized that I had a talent for, uhm, homicide… and brought me onboard, so to speak. So now I kill for a living, and its fantastic! I actually have to be on my mark in less than two hours for another job so…
lecram: Yes, of course, let's see… Ms. Bees, word has it that you had taken a break from blogging because there was some sort of world tour involved. Is that true?
ms bees knees: World tour? In all honestly, I was on the lam. Running from the law. Incidentally, I was almost captured just the other day. But my captor suffered an unfortunate accident when his head met with my ming vase and, well, here we are!
lecram: Hey, it was tough tracking you down to do this interview... do you usually hang out in an alley dressed in a slip?
ms bees knees: Only on hot days.
lecram: Tell us about your adventures... perhaps some charming incident that occurred.
ms bees knees: Well, I finally killed a man with a new technique I've been honing for a while. I slit him from navel to neck and gutted him like a fish while he was still alive. I'm really quite proud of that particular hit. I felt I was really able to tap into my inner artist and just kind of go with it, you know?
lecram: I… see… [shifts uncomfortably in his chair]… changing the subject. What are your plans now?
ms bees knees: To continue murdering for a living… and perhaps record a pop album. Even though I decry pop, it seems to be the thing to do these days. I'd also like to pursue acting what with my past experience in gonzo porn… I figure that should be a cake walk for me.
lecram: OK... I've been meaning to ask this for a long time. Vanilla or chocolate?
ms bees knees: I loathe both. Isn't there a vodka flavored ice cream yet?
lecram: Sadly, I don't think so.
ms bees knees: Oh… well, listen I should probably get moving along but before I go…
lecram: Yes?
ms bees knees: Care to join me for a dirty martini?
lecram: And if I say no?
ms bees knees: I'd advise against that.
lecram: Well then, I'd love to.
ms bees knees: Shall we?

killing lou: part 1

I found myself at a gentleman’s club in San Francisco the other day, squinting to adjust my eyes from the blinding sunshine outside to a red-lit sunken room filled with velvet chairs and cocktail tables surrounding a mirrored stage and a pole.

Wrapped around that brass pole were the muscular legs of an exotic dancer whose breasts defied gravity while suspended upside-down. She was also blind-folded and I'm guessing, about 40.

I'd insisted on tucking tens into a few of the strippers thong bottoms just so I could get a better look at them and sadly enough, as was suspected, they were all Picassos: fantastic from far away but a goddamn hot mess when examined up close. Perspiration covered their caked on, cracked foundation and flimsy ill-fitting costumed tops clung to their bulbous breasts, their asses squeezed into hot pants that reminded me of sausage casings.

Illusions. That's what these woman were. Smoke and mirrors. But the money they made was anything but an illusion. And they intended on giving 5 thousand of it to me… if I killed their boss.

And I planned on doing so right after my dirty martini.

Apparently this boss of theirs, Lou, was a real sonovabitch. He’d been pimping out, beating up and stealing from “his girls” for some time now and they’d had enough. The final straw was when one of the dancers accidentally stumbled upon a dead girl stuffed into a dumpster behind the club, wrapped in a tablecloth and missing her head, after that… the ladies pooled together their money and called me.

Conveniently, Lou had an office “suite” right inside the club so that he would never have to leave his kingdom.

Now, all I had to do was wait.

killing lou: part 2

I remained seated near the back, in the shadows of the club until closing time. As the very last dancer left for the evening, just before dimming the house lights, she looked towards where she knew I'd be and lifted her arm slowly, brushing her fingers through her heavily hair-sprayed curls.

That was my signal. I knew it was go time.

The front door locked with a deafening click. I was alone with Lou now.

“Time for work,” I said to the silence that absorbed me.

I finished the last few deep swallows of my drink, applied a fresh coat of lip gloss, cocked and loaded my Colt .45 *clink clack*, smoothed the creases from my coat as I stood and began to snake my way through the main floor of velvet seats into the direction of Lou's office apartment.

My muffled steps climbed a set of carpeted stairs that lead to the bar and a second level. Behind the bar, to its right, I followed a long, carpeted hallway that lead to the back of the club and right to Lou’s hidden dwelling. His door was left ajar by one of the girls just as planned.

I raised my weapon, sunk into a crouch, and slipped inside…

This is what I saw: filling an almost empty room was an enormous black leather sofa that faced away from me. Sitting in the very center of that sofa, with his back to me, was whom I can only assume was Lou, vigorously jerking off to the porno plastered across the 60-inch television screen in front of him.

I smiled and straightened to standing. I aimed my pistol at the back of his head and moved slowly to just outside of his peripheral view…

“Oh I love this one,” I purred, “The Joy Suck Club, right?”
“GASP! ” he gasped.

“Hahaha!” I laughed.

“WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU!?” he screeched, scrambling to cover his swollen cock, “How ‘d you fucking get in here?”

“Careful Lou,” I said, gun aimed steadily at his head, “no sudden moves,” I added.

“What do you want?” he shouted, “You want money? TAKE WHATEVER YOU FUCKING WANT!” he added, shaking uncontrollably now.

“No Lou,” I said, “ What I want is your life.”

“Jesus…” he whispered.

“Not where you're going,” I corrected.

"Please..." he pleaded.

"Hey Lou... make sure you tell the Devil that Ms Bees Knees sent you," I said firing my gun and hitting my mark right between his fucking eyes, "He'll know who I am. I promise you that."

crime scene : broadway and 8th, oakland, ca

Unfortunately, on my way to work, I was forced to drive the hook of a crowbar into the foramen magnum of a rather uppity and deeply annoying horn-honker.

But let me start from the beginning...

She was in the SUV behind me, leaning on her horn. I was stopped at a green light, due to traffic, going north on Broadway. Apparently, my not wanting to proceed through a green light and block the intersection annoyed her severely. And after my gesturing repeatedly, with upturned hands and exaggerated shoulder shrugs in order to convey to her that I was unable to go anywhere, in hopes that she would cease her relentless honking - which she did not - I then motioned for her to kindly pull over.

Which, unfortunately for her, she did.

She sped past me, slammed on her brakes and killed the engine to her car. I pulled up behind her, parked my Volvo, reached for my crowbar, stepped from my car and walked purposefully towards hers. She must have seen me coming because by the time I arrived at her door, she had promptly locked it and rolled up her windows.

"Get out of the car,” I growled, tightly gripping my crowbar. She didn’t budge. Only shook her head “no”.

"Very well then," I said as I shattered her driver’s side window with one swift whack of my crowbar, "I'll remove you myself."

I then reached inside, grabbed a fistful of her hair and jerked her face to mine, “Never honk your horn at me!" I rasped, and with all the force I could muster, head-butted her in the forehead for emphasis, knocking her out cold. [Rule #1: Unruly types are always a lot easier to handle when they are unconscious.]

But disappointingly, this one came to rather quickly, and began to struggle as I tried desperately to tug her through her now missing car window. "Stop squirming!" I croaked trying to get a decent grasp. Her resistance now only compelling me to punch her repeatedly in the face, her nose erupting in blood, tears and slobber.

Well, that was when I decided to utilized my crowbar once more and hooked its "claw" end into the back of her skull just beneath the occipital ridge, puncturing the foramen magnum - that soft area where the spinal cord leaves the brain, which caused her to expire - allowing me to jerk her now limp carcass free from her SUV.

I suppose, at that point, I really should have stopped. She was, after all, dead. But I didn’t seem to notice, nor honestly did I care, as I repeatedly beat and stomped her rude ass for another 15 minutes more.

With my fury finally dissipated, I unhooked my crowbar from her bloody, broken body and walked away. "Time to up my dosage of anti-psychotics," I said to no one in particular, "I seem to be experiencing poor impulse control again." And with that, I slipped back into my vehicle, applied a fresh coat of Burt's Bees beeswax lip balm, fixed my mussed hair, clicked my seat belt [safety first!] and continued on my way to work.

crime scene : garage elevator

Tragically, I’ve gone and done it again. She was an old, black woman in a purple velour pantsuit, a crooked wig and a cane that she leaned her hefty, porcine body heavily upon. I’d seen her around the agency. I think she worked over in our birth and death records division. “Happy Friday,” she managed to whimper with her last breath as I beat her to death with her own cane.

But let me back up.

This morning as I boarded the elevator, in a glorious mood brimming with rainbows, puppies and sunshine, I chirped a “good morning” to the two folks already occupying the lift.

“Good morning... and isn't it a lovely day today?” squawked the businesswoman with the enormously stacked, blonde bouffant to my right. I smiled and nodded in agreement. Then I turned to my left, expecting the same response from the second occupant, but instead received a grouchy “grunt” instead aimed in my general direction.

I was stunned. In that one drastic moment, my bliss-filled mood darkened. I seethed silently to myself as the elevator ascended and then stopped on the 4th floor. The bouncy, big-haired gal made her exit, taking my only bit of morning gaiety away with her and, sadly, left me alone with my antagonist.

I turned and decided to engage her in some small talk in order to perhaps give her a second chance. I do try to be merciful. I do.

"So you work for the county as well don’t you?” “Grunt” came her curt reply. “I see,” I fumed, “You know… you really ought not be so churlish, it’s quite rude,” I explained calmly through clenched teeth and, almost as if to punctuate my point and really drive my message home, I then yanked her cane from beneath her.

She collapsed onto elevator floor like a useless rag doll where she lay now cowering and protectively covering her face as I furiously bludgeoned her about the head and neck with her own cane.

“You really ought to” THUD “be more considerate” WACK “to those of us trying to start” CRUNCH “our day off with a positive attitude!” SPLAT “Now fucking say happy fucking Friday” CRACK “SAY IT!”…

And well, you know the rest of the story. By the time we reached the 12th floor, she was dead and I was back to my optimistic, exuberant self, albeit now covered in blood, but once again overflowing with morning glee and thoughts of glossy, red balloons, show ponies and dancing bears.

Happy fucking Friday.

crime scene : work mailroom

Now I could be wrong about this but I think that I’ve just unintentionally killed the elderly Chinese lady who was recently employed to man our mailroom. But I swear that I slaughtered her in complete self defense. I'm talking about 80 pounds of snarling, unbridled rage. That woman went stark-raving bananas! Though stunned throughout the entire ordeal, I was thankfully able to defend my person with a secret knowledge of the resplendent but deadly *cricket kung-fu*.

Anyway, this is how it played out:

After I accidentally shoved her out of my way in order to mail something while also shouting, “aahng-lan-heui!,” [which loosely translates to “Get out of the fucking way” which probably was *not* the best choice of words] she suddenly goes crackers and charges at me with a razor sharp letter opener. A letter opener! The audacity!

Oh for fuck’s sake, I remember thinking to myself, here we go again…I blocked her advance with my cunning but clever *leaping lucky goldfish spin* tricking her into lunging left as I ducked right, I faked a *dipping moon seizure* only to trip her up with a *laughing dirty turtle flip* [works every fucking time!] then hammered her in the coccyx with my *deceptive leaping ghost attack* [ETA: Although in retrospect I probably should have utilized my *invisible wizard slap* here instead because I fear that it was at this point during *my dance* that I may have terminated her life.] then back-flipped into a *transcendent mantis stance* so that I could meditate a moment ::breath and center:: and then lunged into the *fang of the cat pounce* in order to finally render her unconscious with a *deceptive bamboo nerve pinch* [Although like I said, she was probably already deceased by then.]

I’m heading over the HR right now in order to report all of this. I just wanted everyone here to know my side of the story, you know, just in case things get ugly. Just in case.

crime scene : janitorial closet

I have gone and done it again. As luck would have it, I've inadvertently ended the life of yet another annoying co-worker. This time it was the smarmy, greasy 3-foot tall “Portagee” who at one time [RIP] answered to the name of Carlos Jesus Barbosa.

Each morning, sleazy Carlos, with his ill-fitting toupee, wiry unibrow and an oft exposed mass of coarse, curly chest hair, would leer at me with his slithering, ferret-y eyes as I walked reluctantly past him in order to get to my division. He would then annoyingly mispronounce my name in broken English repeatedly while simultaneously sucking his teeth and smacking his lips, like a stallion excited at the possibility of one day mounting me like an in-season mare.

::SHUDDER::

I guess after enduring years of his douchey smile, inappropriate behavior and all-together appalling appearance, I finally snapped.

I’ll not go into details about how I extinguished his life at this time but what I will tell you is that the following items were utilized during his execution: a lead pipe, a kazoo, 3 rubber bands, a few cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon [for me, naturally], a snow globe, house slippers [again for me, I prefer to torture in comfort], thumb tacks, strawberry fruit roll-ups, crotch-less pants, dental floss, twinkies and several staple guns.

His body is currently residing comfortably in my gym bag [he fit perfectly!], resting rather peacefully behind the 2-ply rolls of toilet paper, a filthy mop, some disinfectant and an economy-sized box of tampons in our building’s janitorial closet.

crime scene : bathroom stall

Courtesy flushing is a “known” in public restroom etiquette which asks that one should flush ones toilet in intervals if one is rocking a number “two” so that those in the surrounding stalls won’t have to breath one's unpleasant fecal smells.

It is a notion that is [unfortunately] not too familiar with a certain anonymous female county employee here at the Public Health Department where I work. This woman, who is identified only by a pair of daunting black Reeboks, is a continuous violator of this concept. And it’s a crying shame for those of us [read: me] who oft have to suffer thanks to her uncharitable inactions.

So the next time I am forced to inhale her odor, while she is steeping quietly on her throne in the stall beside me, I’m going to take it upon myself to educate her on the principles of the “courtesy flush” by kicking in her door and severing her spine with a swift karate chop to the neck. Killing her in the stink where she sits.

Only then will her stench be the sweetest smell of victory for me. Only then.

crime scene : parking garage

Yesterday while riding the elevator down to the underground parking garage, I had an odd encounter with a cripple. Now I am aware that the term “cripple” is a somewhat derogatory term for the “physically disabled” but I wasn’t the one who used the offensive word in the first place. Rather, it was the cripple who did.

Cripple: [Slurping coffee quite loudly out of a paper cup.] You know [slurp, slurp] the great thing about being a cripple…

Bees: [Looking at her with wide eyes and a tightly closed mouth… aka crank face ©]

Cripple: [Pausing as if tempting me with a punch line, then continuing, her voice high-pitched and quivering] … It's that I get to park closer to the elevators, saving my poor feeble body from having to walk too far.

Bees: [Nodding and then studying her closer. She is wearing what appears to be a dirty t-shirt, sweat pants and orthopedic sandals buckled over bright, white socks.]

Cripple: [Shifting her weight from one diseased leg to the other, then continuing] That is… unless one of YOU youngsters parks in our cripple zone. Then being cripple ain’t so great.

Bees: [Nodding and thinking … I guess that’s one way of turning a frown upside down you old, fucking gimp… but instead saying] Yes, that is pretty great, isn’t it?

The doors slid open, abruptly ending our chat, and the cripple hobbled out with methodical, calculated steps. That was, until I stuck out my right foot and tripped her. She staggered and then toppled over knocking herself unconscious on the concrete platform just outside the door. Blood pooled around her head at an alarming rate.

I stepped over her broken body and walked to my car - which just so happened to be parked in the “cripple” zone.

crime scene : lobby exit

Yesterday, while completely lost in thought, I mechanically exited my office building through the glass lobby doors without paying much attention to my surroundings. As I pushed the heavy doors forward while looking elsewhere, I subconsciously became aware of some drag, some resistance to my pushing, resulting in me absentmindedly SHOVING more forcefully.

It was only then that I looked in front of me and down… down… lower… and a little lower… to see a tiny, elderly Asian man who was, at that very moment, struggling to escape my otherworldly-strength and the door that was now heaving him forward. As I watched in absolute horror, he was propelled onto his hands and knees. His small tin cane unable to stop the ground from flying at him.

I apologized profusely while trying to lift his small, fragile frame from its bent position. He resisted my advances to assist him and swatted me away as if I were an insect.

That was when he shouted Mo-lan! [Retard!] at me. A moment of comprehension caused me to pause, blink and blink again.

Me: Dude, mud lun yeah? [Dude, what the fuck?]
Him: Say baht-poh! [Die, bitch!]
Me: Wan jun dude! [Damn dude!]
Him: Ley lo mo hum mah lao [Your mom fucks monkeys!]

The gloves came off after that last remark. I lost all tact. I threw a punch at his head, boxed his left ear and knocked him to his knees. I then finished him off with a scissor-kick to the back of the head, snapping his neck instantly.

Me: Au wui waht lei dui an chut lei yuen hau bai ju hai lei go see fut dau, sau yi lnei hau yi geen do au teck do lei go see fut biu C! [I'll pull your eyes down to your ass, so you can watch me kick the shit out of you!]

No one insults my mother.

crime scene : my bedroom

The evening before last, while going through the motions of yet another insufferable ride on public transportation and pondering the many things that I often ponder, such as “Why it is that asphyxiophiles fascinate me so? I wonder what that’s like? To strangle someone during sexual intercourse in order to heighten one's sexual pleasure?”... when suddenly my skin crawled uncomfortably as I sensed eyes upon me.

A young boy, all of about 16, faced me across the aisle off the 51 as it roared through town towards my destination… home. He seemed immediately taken by me, for which I surmised by the abrupt straightening of his slouched posture and the unoffending widening of his eyes, which were rather boldly fixed upon me.

He shifted nervously in his seat.

And so, naturally, I gave him *the mesmeric whore-eye*: my patented come-hither-face for which never fails to tempt, and smiled at him carnivorously adding: “Today, shall I make you a man?”

He agreed without hesitation, like any average, horny, hetero teenage boy should, and followed me home to my bed. And as was promised, I made him a man [three times in fact] and then... just for fun... I choked him.

crime scene : yoga studio

Here's a little Sanskrit lesson for all you: savasana, also known as corpse pose, concludes all asana yoga classes and allows one to mindfully quiet their physical body and meditate on their inner tranquility, while laying quietly on the floor.

It is a welcomed relief for bad asses such as myself who are constantly doing backbends with passion and unceasingly BLOWING DOORS on all the other losers in my class.

Ideally, it's a time to focus inward and relax. That is, unless you're me: then it’s a time to plot someone's demise.

Look, its exhausting being the very best at everything that I do. That's why the new and far more flexible student made me so grouchy. All night long she had out posed me, out stretched me, and out extended me, which all just annoyed me severely, thus compelling me to hate her assface and wish her harm.

Moving along then.

And so during savasana, while pretending to play dead with the rest of the class who meditated on their inner child, I instead meditated on my inner murderess who, naturally, insisted I surrender to her deviant ways and jack the bitch lying next to me.

And so I sat up, lifted the hefty wooden yoga block [used for alignment in Iyengar yoga poses] in my right hand and proceed to BASH in the head of my nemesis as she lay in corpse pose [pun intended].

::OM!:: WACK!
::OM!:: CRUNCH!
::OM!:: SPLAT!

With just three fatal blows to her head, I had annihilated the competition, cracking her skull wide open and sending her on, blissfully [for I swear she was smiling!] to an eternal and forever restful savasana.

::OM!:: I then gazed up at the horrified, blood-spattered, faces of the other students around me and sighed admiringly at how much they all now resembled a beautiful Pollock masterpiece.

::OM!:: As chaotic screams erupted around me, I took a few deep, intoxicating breaths and slipped into a relaxed state of nirvana. I eased my body onto the floor and into the puddle of warm blood that pooled around me, closed my eyes and gave into the waves of euphoric well being now mystically flowing freely through me. Namaste.

crime scene : psychic parlor

Psychic Madame Juanita outright refused to let me tape my session because she said that my digital recorder would interfere with her “abilities” to read my cards. I looked around her place just then. Dirty clothes were strewn haphazardly about her office along with garbage and a dead, brittle Christmas tree that sat somewhat defeated in the corner of the room. Even it seemed humiliated to be seen in such clutter. That’s funny, I thought to myself, because if I didn’t know any better, I’d have guessed that your fucking filthy, pigsty of a “parlor” would have been enough to throw your “sensitivities” off, you arrogant whore.

“That’s fine,” I said instead with a forced smile and obediently slipped my handheld back into my purse. Not even two minutes into the door and she’d already managed to get my hackles up.

How unfortunate for her.

Now I am perfectly aware that psychics are for the most part con-artists and I’ve not met one yet that has been able to convince me otherwise. But for entertainment purposes, I must say, that they usually put on a good show for what they’re worth. This, sadly, was not at all the case with Madame Juanita whose entire reading was horrendously boring and poorly performed. That alone would have justified my taking her pathetic life. But then, to add insult to injury, Madame Juanita foolishly also took me for a sucker.

Ms Bees: Tell me something Madame Juanita.
Madme Juanita: The cards know all! Ask!
Ms Bees: Why do I have so much violence inside of me?
Madme Juanita: I see that you are possessed by a negative entity. A dark-sided, evil spirit.
Ms Bees: You don’t say?
Madme Juanita: The cards never lie!
Ms Bees: Oh. Okay. Well then, how would I go about getting rid of it?
Madme Juanita: For $90 I can meditate in-depth on it for you.
Ms Bees: I’m sorry? [Raises eyebrows] Did you say $90?
Madme Juanita: That’s correct.
Ms Bees: Hmm. I’m not sure I have that much cash on me. [Lifts purse to lap.]
Madme Juanita: I also take credit cards.
Ms Bees: Credit cards? Oh is that so? And then you'll remove my hex?
Madme Juanita: No, the $90 is just to figure out what it is. Once I know. I can banish it for another fee.
Ms Bees: Another fee you say? I see. [I begin to dig for something in my handbag.]
Madme Juanita: That’s correct.
Ms Bees: I have one more question for you Madame Juanita.
Madme Juanita: Ask and you shall know!
Ms Bees: Tell me… do you see me committing a homicide in my future?
Madme Juanita: Like a murder?
Ms Bees: That’s correct.
Madme Juanita: The cards say... no?
Ms Bees: You didn’t seem too certain about that response. Is that your final answer then?
Madme Juanita: Yes?

Without skipping a beat, I pulled from my handbag a 4-foot long nylon rope, neatly twisted taught around my left fist and with one fell swoop of my right, had Madame Juanita in an “Italian necktie” chokehold. “Tsk tsk, wrong, wrong, wrong,” I chided calmly as she thrashed about, struggling to free herself from certain death. “Even I knew the answer to that and I’m not even psychic. Nope, I’m just crazy.”

Madame Juanita took forever to finally expire: she was a real fighter. But in the end, I won. I always do. “Also I think I’ll be keeping my negative entity for now,” I added as I pried my money from her claw-like, dead fingers, “Besides, I really like to think it gives me character. Don’t you?”

crime scene : alligator farm

So there I was, at the Everglades Alligator Farm, wrestling with a ‘gator in an attempt to take back my arm which was at that very moment being painfully consumed, when a husky youngster sidled up beside us and began to rudely stare.

I pointed a finger at him then, with my bloody free hand, and asked him how it felt. To be pointed at. Not so nice, is it? I questioned. Rather shamefully he shook his head slowly.

Etiquette is everything, I explained to him in a calm, matronly tone. You’ll get nowhere in life without it. Nowhere at all.

He then apologized and I asked him to come closer.

Which he obediently did, causing the alligator who was violently devouring my arm to stop and, instead, eat the wee yet obviously meatier lad.

Manners. I do what I can, one child at a time.

crime scene : neighbor's porch

The other morning, I found myself unable to pull away from the grip of a terrifying nightmare:

I was being serenaded by what I believed was in fact the devil himself and, naturally, he possessed exceedingly awful singing abilities and seemed nearly tone-deaf to my delicate ear. I also noticed that the more I ran from his haunting vocalizations the closer he would seem to be and oddly enough [and for this I was almost certain!] he also seemed to be humming the words that he did not know. "That's very non-Lord of The Darkness-like," I remembered snarking to myself. How was it, I pondered, that the devil himself did not know the words to the song for which he sang?

Now mind you, usually someone’s inability to sing isn’t enough to terrify me to the point of fright and flight, but I’m here to tell you this: it gets much worse. For the song this monster sang so poorly was not just any old song. No, no. The song this beastman sang was none other than … wait for it… Against All Odds by the one man everybody loves to hate: Phil muthafucking Collins.

As I managed to jolt myself awake, I realized to my obvious horror that this was NO nightmare at all! The singing was coming from right outside of my bedroom window from the house next door!

“Hum-hmm a look at me NOW, well there's just an empty SPACE! hum-hmm hmm hmm is AGAINST ALL ODDS and that's CHANCE I've got to TAAAAAAKE”

What. The. Fuck?

Highly agitated and all scowley-faced in only my robe and slippers, I stomp-walked to my neighbor’s house and banged loudly on his door. Even before the offending singer could muster a simple “hello?” upon opening his door, I was already upon him, swiftly burying the claw end of my Death Stick TI7C Steel-tipped hammer with its curved handle into the center of his forehead. His body slumped and fell forward forcing me to quickly side-step in order to miss his dead mass as it hit the front porch.

“Being woken up by some douche bag who can’t sing is enormously unsettling,” I groused with hot, metallic breath at the now still corpse resting at my feet. I yanked my hammer out of his forehead and wiped the blood from its titanium finish, “But when he’s singing Phil Collins, well, he’s just asking for IT as far as I’m concerned. Look man," I continued, "I don’t write the rules, I just enforce them. And honestly what can I say? After all, the devil made me do it."

crime scene : market and 9th

"They called me Brock 'the rocket cock' Hughes back in 1974 when I was a lucrative pornographic actor in the San Fernando Valley," said one inappropriately loud hobo to another as I walked briskly passed them and their encampment of shopping carts and sleeping bags.

Suddenly, the Rocket Cock's attentions fell upon me and before I knew it, he had sidestepped his massive form, cloaked in a filthy blanket, before me, halting me rather abruptly on the sidewalk.

He was an unpolished, loutish man covered in open sores and liver spots who wore a wide-brimmed hat and had skin the color of dirty leather. He pointed one grimy finger at me, just inches from my face. His eyes of pure, hypnotic sea greens and sparkling blues, fixed steadily upon me.

"I know you!" he said with absolute certainty.
“You were chosen by The Almighty to destroy me!" he said.
"Yes! I know you!” he said.
“I’m sorry?” I said.
"I think you may have the wrong person," I said.
“Oh?” he said.
"Please allow me to introduce myself," I said.

"I'm Ms Bees Knees ... a writer of the wildly, popular blog I'm the Bee's Knees with its tales of homicidal high-jinks where hilarity oft’ ensues as well as the occasional superfluous fiction and farcical, coming-of-age narratives. I’m a sort of literary celebutante if you will,” I gushed.

“And dare I say,” I continued, “a rather reluctant sex symbol, which is quite ironic, being that I am an awkward and perpetually insecure girl with a somewhat larger than average nose,” which I then dutifully pointed out to him.

“And although it is true that I enjoy knifing the occasional, and always expendable, obstinate elderly person or random wise-ass insolent… hobos on the other hand, not so much. That just seems wrong to me,” I said.

"Oh!" he said.
"Boy is my face red," he said.
"Sorry," I said.
"No, no, my mistake!" he said.
"Well, I'll just be moving along then," I said.
"Of course," he said and promptly stepped out of my way.

Unfortunately for Brock "the rocket cock" Hughes, I was, like, totally lying, as I so often am want to do here at the wildly, popular blog I'm the Bee's Knees. *rolls eyes* Everyone is fair game when it comes to my natural selection by assassination. No one escapes my freakishly alluring wrath. No one!

Especially a vagrant who ASKS to be destroyed, well ... in so many words. As if I’d turn down an opportunity like THAT !? As if!

And so, as I inched passed this now entirely trusting grifter - with my makeshift shiv at-the-ready and concealed in the sleeve of my smart yet summery, fitted seersucker blazer - he unwisely turned his back to me at which point I pounced upon this castaway of society... and slit his face from ear to ear into a perfectly bowed Glasgow Smile. Blood filled his mouth and trickled down his chin.

“Gurgle, gurgle, gurgle,” he said.
“What was that?” I said.
“I can’t quite make out what you’re saying,” I said.

I then gave him a “Mazzolato,” an execution taught to me by my dearly beloved Great Grandmother Sophiera.

What I did was this... I knocked him on his back with my hefty pocketbook, slit his throat with a surgeon’s precision and then stomped on his abdomen in order to assist the hemorrhaging of blood now spurting like a geyser through the opening at his neck.

Bless my sweet Mama Sophiera! Her creativity in the arts of manslaughter was, and continues to be, unrivaled.

“You know me,” I said.
“...!” he said.
“I was chosen by the Almighty to destroy you,” I said.
“Just like you said,” I said.

And that, my dear readers is, the end.

crime scene : ballet class

I took ballet classes when I was a wee one but, as would become my pattern, like most physically strenuous recreational regimes that I took on throughout my life, it didn’t last long. I stopped showing up to dance class and blamed my absence on a painful orthopedic deformity called hammertoe, for which I pretended I’d had, after discovering it one day in our family’s Encyclopaedia Britannica.

Fast forward some 20 years later, I’m watching the New York City Ballet’s televised performance of The Nutcracker and I decide right there and then that I want to dance again. So intense is my newfound thirst for dance that I, at the expired age of 26, enroll in an “adult ballet” class with the Shawl-Anderson Dance Center in Berkeley, California that very same day.

Beginning I – Adult Ballet – 6:30 pm. I arrive early in order to change and get a good position at the barre. Once in place and stretching, I am joined by several ample, middle-aged homemakers in roomy t-shirts, sweat pants and legwarmers. It is obvious, almost immediately, that we are all thrilled at the prospect of becoming prima ballerinas.

It is also obvious, that our instructor does not match our enthusiasm. Madame Olga is a slight, stern, thin-skinned Russian woman with a perm-a-grimace who does nothing to mask her pain in having to instruct us. Throughout the entire class she taunts, criticizes, insults and chides us as only a ballet instructor can.

And then, sadly for her, she decides to target me.

Madame Olga: You are clumsy like hippopotamus!
Me: “?”
Madame Olga: “You are oafish like sea cow!”
Me: “?”
Madame Olga: “You are bumbling like donkey!”
Me: “Back the fuck up off me lady,” I warn with loud indignation.
Madame Olga: “You are helpless like worm!”
Me: *something snaps in my mind*

Before I can stop myself, I've reached around and grabbed Madame Olga’s tightly-wrapped and rather severe bun at her neck's nape, dug my fingernails deep into her scalp, gripped her hair tightly by the roots, jerked her head towards me and then, with a force that lifts her right up off the floor, I slam her face into the mirrored wall before us. As her skull impacts and then shatters the mirror, blood simultaneously sprays in all directions causing the other students to clamor quickly out of the way.

I let go of her then and allowed her body to fall rather lifelessly to the floor.

Utterly shocked, my blood-spattered peers stare, aghast at me as I slowly wipe my hands clean and then proclaim, “Class dismissed.”

crime scene : safeway deli

A while ago, whilst perusing the bakery at safeway, I stumbled upon an old, doddering lady of about ninety who to my UTTER DISMAY was shoplifting an entire entenmann's coffee crumb cake, cramming it, cardboard box and all into her ample handbag without any detection whatsoever.

Next... like a calculated, cold-blooded killer, she devilishly eyed the deli's rather fine selection of gourmet cheeses and chicken-liver pates ... sizing up her second swindle.

Yet, not a soul paid the old fossil any mind! AS IF!

Well, I for one, was not fooled by her ruse. I decided then that it was up to me, and me alone, to stop her!

SO THIS IS WHAT I DID: I dove at her wrinkled, arthritic knees and toppled her into the neatly stacked, clear-plastic cartons of freshly baked holiday cookies, knocking her to the floor where she flailed quite hysterically as if she were a sad turtle sprawled helplessly upon its back.

Pumped with the adrenal rush that one gets when one is "saving the day", I next grasped her frail ankles quite aggressively and, from what I can remember, for it's all an enormous blur now, started dragging her through the poultry aisle [much to the horror of onlookers as I was later informed] when some shitbird clubbed me, quite inconsiderately, over the head with a frozen 20lb. turkey.

naturally, from the hefty blow to my skull, I lost consciousness at that point.

I was told soon after I had awakened from my coma that all of the excitement from my alleged beat-down had apparently killed the old woman.

Although!

According to the coroners who autopsied her, it was learned that the old scheming criminal hadn't much longer to live anyway what with a weak heart and all. So the way I see it, I did society a favor.

That's one less pilferer the world has to worry about. Am I right!?

crime scene : oakland bar

I once ruthlessly bludgeoned the very life from one inconsiderate young "hipster" at a small local dive bar called on downtown Oakland, who thought it wise to shove me out of the way while I waited at the bar for a cocktail.

!?!

And so... I clubbed her to DEATH with my tiny, but fatal, lucite-heeled platform shoe, slipped from my size 8.5 right foot, which I sometimes use as a weapon when "my lover" [mr. colt .45] is not on my person.

Three solid WACKS to her skull were all it took. Problem solved.

Ms Bees Knees meet dead girl.
Dead girl meet Ms Bees Knees.

mbk: Why hello dead girl.
dg: ...
mbk: How do you do?
dg: ...
mbk: So you MUST be quite thirsty what with shoving me out of the way earlier?
dg: ...
mbk: What's that?
dg: ...
mbk: You're dead? And therefore, no longer care to have a beverage?
dg: ...
mbk: So I should probably just go on ahead of you then?
dg: ...
mbk: Well, don't mind if I do...! [steps over dead girl] I'll have that dirty martini now please. And thank you.

crime scene : oakland's chinatown

I worked on the borderline of Oakland’s Chinatown. I often went to the Lucky-Ling-Ling Cash-And-Carry-Buffet to eat things that I didn’t recognize for the low, low price of $2.99. One dish in particular was a favorite of mine. It was steamed rice with spicy, green beans sautéed with a mysterious, crunchy, salty, secret ingredient that I couldn’t, for the life of me, figure out.

Regretfully, one day, I decided to ask what it was. Bad idea.

Me: [Asking in a LOUD voice] Excuse me. What is this? [Points out ingredient in take-out carton]
Chinese girl/food server: [Blank stare]
Me: [Asking same question again, but LOUDER] This. This here. [Points again] What is this?
Chinese girl/food server: [Blank stare]

I could see that I was getting nowhere. She was unwilling to cooperate. Next, I turned to the cook.

Me: [Again, quite LOUDLY] You there, can you please tell me what this is? [Points to food in the take-out carton]
Chinese cook: [Blank stare]
Me: [More aggressive now] This. This thing here. What is it?
Chinese cook: [He leans in towards me and whispers] Peeko wegeebo.
Me: Huh?
Chinese cook: [Looks at Chinese girl/food server for help. She offers none. He whispers again.] Peeko wegeebo.
Me: I don’t understand what you’re saying. And why are you whispering?
Chinese cook: [Gets nervous, looks around, stage whispers louder] Peeko wegeebo!
Me: Are you saying pickled vegetables? Peeko wegeebo is pickled vegetables? Like seaweed?
Chinese cook: [Nods and quickly looks away]

Then things got dicey.

I caught out of the corner of my eye a reflection of something metallic flying towards me. I sidestepped quickly in order to dodge what I could see now was a throwing star. Suddenly three, rather small in stature, Ninjas dropped from out of nowhere and surrounded me. The clack clack clack of nunchucks made me realize, in an instant, that these bitches wanted to rumble.

“Now that you know our ancient Chinese secret ingredient, you must die a slow and unkind death,” muffled the voice of one of the tiny men. I couldn't see him speak since his mouth was covered by black fabric, but I knew his lips weren't synching with his words. I could sense it.

Luckily my fighting instincts that laid dormant within me, of 20+ years of Kung Fu martial arts training under the renowned and rather jolly lao shi/grand master Ching Lo Ping, surfaced like an old friend. Slowly, I set my takeout carton of delicious rice, spicy, green beans and pickled vegetables aside in order to avoid spillage and assumed the crouching monkey posture. Suddenly I was Qi lin - the mythical dragon-headed, lion-beast with the tai chi chuan [that would be “the grand ultimate fist” for those of you who don’t know] and before they even knew what hit them, those ninjas were seriously fucked.

I executed a perfect kuai snap kick to the first challenger’s dan tim [ just below his navel] causing his innards to implode upon impact; then I spun around into a front toe kick/slap instantly breaking the second masked man’s neck. Two down, one to go. I finish off the third guy by cartwheeling into a Golden Gate sinking-bridge/African camel toad crouch/kneeling-horse stance in order to release my fa ging, knocking him dead to the floor. I then ended my dance by back flipping into my favorite landing form called the crossed leg seated stance.

Ninjas lay broken around me.

I relaxed into a squatting sloth posture, brushed myself off, picked up my take-out and exited the Lucky-Ling-Ling-Cash-And-Carry Buffet as quietly as a house cat.

Needless to say, I haven't been back since.