I do my talking with a gun...oh lord, it gets me high. [Extreme]

[Ket]

This story will involve detailed descriptions of violence and death. Just a warning.

Oh darlin, darlin What have I done? Now I do my talking with a gun And blood will spill into the gutters And it will stain the morning sun Tell me what the hell I've done Can I stop at one? Or have I just begun? Take out the bodies that live Oh, Lord, it gets me high I think I'm gonna get my fill Of taking lives

Jesus watch over me, keep my anger at home You better bless these wicked hands, cause they got a mind of their own Devil whispers in my ear, "It's time for your curtain call." So I dress myself on up with alcohol  Step aside, step aside, oh let the whistler through There really ain't no help at all for folks like me and you Don't go downtown Get your god damn hands up, don't you look at me No one's dyin' here alone Well I came to get it on Let's get it on

Killing was in her blood. Every single drop inside of her five foot, seven inch frame harbored the desire, the instinctual need to put a bullet through another human being, to watch their life recede from their eyes in front of her. It was her life's calling, her career…of a sorts. She travelled the country and the world, killing. Paid to remove targets out of people's lives when they didn't want the blood on their own hands. She'd become an inhuman machine, capable of committing murders quickly and efficiently, then returning to wherever her temporary home was to soothe the numbness with copious amounts of alcohol.

Her life hadn't always been so focused on death. Born to conservative, patriotic parents, her name was Rachel Matthews all throughout her childhood and early adulthood. She grew up in a small town in the Midwestern United States, her father a life-long factory worker and her mother a homemaker.

In every way imaginable, Rachel's life growing up had been nothing out of the ordinary. Her family was distinctly middle class, with a nice house, in a nice neighborhood, two kids, picket fence, and the whole blah blah blah that goes along with the American Dream. They attended church every Sunday, had homemade meals for dinner around the dinner table every night, and took one family vacation each summer. Her parent's weren't strict, per say, but they way that they'd raise her and her brother meant that she stayed out of trouble anyway. Her grades were always good, even if she got the occasional B here and there. Math was her strong suit, and she was considering going to college for it, in order to teach before she found a husband, when she would settle down and become a housewife just like her mother.

It was the only life she knew. The only life she wanted. The only life she looked forward to.

Until that fateful September day during her freshman year in college.

The patriotism she'd been taught all her life kick in with a ferocity. Within a week she had disenrolled from college and enlisted in the Army. The rigorous training and discipline of the military fit her like a glove, which surprised her at first. But as her days in boot camp flew by, she quickly found herself becoming adept at being the first in her class in everything she did, be it physical conditioning, mental toughness, combat readiness, or weapons training.

Rachel was gung-ho Army Strong. She personified the stereotypical soldier, always ready, always willing to fight, never questioning orders.  Eight years of faithful service to her country resulted in two tours in Afghanistan, one in Iraq, various medals and accommodations, and an honorable discharge at the rank of Sergeant.

It also resulted in one blood-thirsty killing machine. The Army always said it didn't put women on the front lines of combat, but that was utter bullshit, and Rachel knew that first hand. When soldiers were needed, whoever was available that had the proper training was sent to fight. More often than not, that meant her. The men she fought with didn't see her as a girl, they only thought of her as another soldier. Hell, most of them secretly thought she was more insane than they were. By her third and final tour, all Rachel wanted to do was get behind the sight of a gun, her finger ready on the trigger, poised and waiting. It had become a cathartic release for her to kill. No longer was it just a job. Taking lives had become a passion.

To the point where even the Army became concerned. Because they were in the middle of a volatile war, and needed absolutely no bad press, they quietly discharged Rachel, wiping their hands of any responsibility the would have of rehabilitating the woman that they had broken down, rebuilt into a killing machine, and then let loose on the civilian population.

With her mind tortured, but smart enough to know that she just couldn't randomly kill people on the streets to fuel her desires, Rachel turned her attentions to re-inventing herself. Gone was the sweet girl from the small town in the middle of nowhere. In her place was now Sam, the cruel, sophisticated, and meticulous, assassin. For the majority of the past decade she'd killed, relishing every moment from receiving the call for a job, right through the planning stages. The kill itself was her glory though,  her pride and joy. The kill is what kept her alive. What allowed her to have at least a modicum of human contact in her aloof life. Because after each kill, she'd head to a bar, pick out the man or woman she'd like to fuck for an hour or so, have her way with them, and then go home and drown herself in a bottle.

The routine was monotonous. But it kept the machine that was once Rachel alive.

This story is about a woman who lives a cold, lonely life. With her occupation, there really isn't any other way she can live. A consummate actress, her only passions in life are pulling a trigger and finding the bottom of a bottle of liquor. Events in her past had turned her hard, had scrambled her mind, had turned her into the vicious machine of a person she is today.

Yet after almost ten years of nothing but guns, death, and alcohol surrounding her, she's beginning to have doubts about this life she leads. Tiny slivers of remembrances of knowledge that she used to be a different person. Knowledge that there is something out there besides murder. Unable to piece the puzzle together herself though, she continues doing what she knows how to do best.

I'm looking for a partner to write with who can bring a character to the table that can help her solve the riddle that is her life. It's not going to be easy, as she is a loner, save for an hour here and there at a time. She is also madly violent and has unknown mental disorders. I want to play out how the combination of death, mental instability, and questioning of her own life will affect not only her but someone else.

It doesn't matter to me the gender of my partner or your character. However my character will be female. We can plan together how they will meet. It could even possibly be that your character is one of her intended targets, but it doesn't have to be that way. Being as she is full of bloodlust, this will be an extreme story, and some of that may spill over into any smut that may occur in the story. Please let me know your limitations on that. Death of the main characters will not occur.

If you're interested in exploring something dark and violent, you know where to find me.

My O&O's