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*Click*, goes the hammer of her favorite M1911 Remington .45 semi-automatic pistol as the thumb on her leather gloved hand pulls it back into firing position. The barrel of her pistol is buried down the waistline of a young man wearing a red swastika sash on his right arm.

“Sag es mir nochmal (tell me again),” she says in fluent German. The officer whimpers quietly as he notices a golden lock of hair fall from beneath the woman’s cap and drop in front of one of her dazzling green eyes. Her other gloved hand is pulling hard onto his collar; she has him close, so close that she can smell the beer on his breath, and the musty odor of his sweat. She will not miss this smell.

“Or you might find yourself explaining a rather embarrassing weapons malfunction to your superior,” she quips. The boy’s eyes dart beyond the woman. Another soldier is approaching, his flushed cheeks and off-balanced walk suggest he is retiring from the tavern across the street for some fresh air. He spots the two and ogles for a moment, a dumb smile glides across his face.

The woman notices the officer whose dick she’s holding for ransom about to yell. She pushes the pistol further into his trousers, pulls his body into hers, and moves her mouth onto his. This stifles his imminent alarm and causes the man’s knees to slightly buckle. He feels the pressure of her curvy frame press into his. Even in this short moment of pleasure, he senses his cock pulse in anticipation and nudge against the barrel of the gun. The woman’s tongue slides into his mouth and he feels her moan softly through small vibrations in her jaw.

If he had kept his eyes open, he would have noticed that she never closed hers. If he had been paying attention to anything other than the sensation of her full breasts as they pressed into his chest then he would have noticed the hand around his collar move into his coat pocket and quickly remove a folded document.

The soldier watching the scene bursts into laughter, “Well done Lars! Give her one for me too won’t you?”, he yells as he dances a jig in celebration, “I’ll give you two lovebirds some air”. With that he turns around and re-enters the tavern exclaiming loudly about the scene he had just witnessed.

The woman finishes the kiss, pulls her head back, looks into the boy’s eyes, and spits directly into his face. A dark stain of red lipstick is smeared around his mouth, which is still hanging agape in a dumb shock.

The boy stutters in confusion, “p-please. I th-thought we were close”. The woman’s top lip curls up in disgust, “We’re close now. Happy?”

“P-please don’t sh-shoot me”, he pleads.

“Just because I let you get your fingers wet doesn’t mean I would hesitate to castrate you here in the street, you piece of shit.” The boy begins to cry, his stutter turns to soft weeping as the tears fall down his cheeks.

“Unless,” the woman continues, “you tell me where the convoy from Poland was headed?

“I cannot-”, she digs the end of the pistol up causing him to emit a stifled squeal.

“Yes, you can Lars, and if you don’t like the thought of cumming blood for the next week, you will.” Her voice is calm, her eyes pierce his panicked expression with disinterest. “Stop crying and tell me where it was headed or I will send your peckerless body home to your mother,” she insists.

“Ok ok, but only if you…” his voice trails off.

“If I what?” she enquires.

“If you kiss me?”

“Excuse me?”

“I thought we were in love Elisabeth. I am in love. If you’re going to break my heart then I might as well have one last kiss, like we kissed last night.”

“I have my pistol positioned squarely between your balls and you’re asking me to kiss you?”

“Kiss me like you did last night and I’ll tell you where they were headed” he mutters.

“You’re not in much of a position to negotiate here Lars. But I’ll tell you what. You tell me first, and then I will kiss you. I’ll kiss you so well that you’ll be jerking off to this moment until the day you die. And then you can go back to your pathetic little friends in there and tell them whatever you like.”

The woman smirks at him, it was the same smirk that shot an arrow right through the his heart when first saw her look at him, “after all,” she adds, “I did kind of like you.” He sniffles at this; she withholds the desire to vomit.

“Maybe in another life it would have been different with us,” she offers

“Do you swear?”

“On the Furor’s life. You tell me where the paintings are headed, and I’ll kiss you now like I did last night.”

He pauses, smiles bashfully, and looks away, his relax in posture tells her he feels some relief. This causes her eyes to roll firmly into the back of her head. These German boys are no goddam different to any other, she thinks to herself.

The boy continues, “It was headed toward Neuhas, that’s where Frank’s villa is. They were removing the paintings before the Russians came.”

“The Russians knew about the paintings?” she asks.

“I don’t know, I just know the paintings were headed to his vault. It’s underground,” he replies. He looks at her stern gaze with longing, with loss, “Elisabeth, you told me you wanted to marry.” He begins to cry again. She softens slightly, easing up the pressure of the gun, “I want to tell you something else Lars, come closer”, she pulls him into a tight embrace.

>!She holds him for a moment and lets him feel the true pain of the betrayal. After all, he was a dedicated suitor. She pulls her mouth close to his ear, he feels the warmth of her breath on the side of his cheek as she whispers to him, “My name is not Elisabeth”, and with that she unloads three charges from her favorite pistol into all future chances of Lars’ progeny. He collapses onto the ground, his hands attempting to grasp his now destroyed lineage in futility.!<

“Don’t be so gullible Lars, don’t you know it’s witching hour?” She holsters her pistol as she looks to the tavern. She pauses, turns to look at him one last time and says in American English, “and the name’s Maria.”

And with that, she dashes into the alleyway away from the bustle of the evening. The gunshots roused a slurry of drunken soldiers from the tavern in alarm. They rush over to Lars who tries to point them toward the alleyway but can barely move from the pain.

Maria runs out into the moonlit fields behind the tavern and throws apart a makeshift patchwork of branches hiding a Zündapp KS 750 motorcycle, this one with the sidecar removed. The taverners run recklessly up the alley toward her.

She swings a leg over the seat, kicks the cycle into life, hits it into gear and pulls back on the throttle.

The cycle and her both shoot off across the empty hills.

The night-witch named Maria Karkovic flies down into the valley below headed straight toward the flashing runway beacons of an airfield in the next town over.

NSFW: yes

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