Riga Timed

 

 

 

 

Riga Timed

Riga was inside a grey pipe. The pipe was above a road and footpath in Madrid. She climbed inside the pipe via a service hatch at midnight. There was nobody about midweek. She dressed in black. Ankle boots, combat trouser, jumper, jacket and wool hat. Plus gloves. The hatch was hard to open but she used WD40 and spanners. It was heavy and cumbersome so she took her time. It opened upwards. She lifted it up and slithered inside. Upon lowering it she left the fasteners unconnected. An observer wouldn't suspect then. The pipe was five feet in diameter. The height of Riga! She ducked a little bit as the upper surface was greasy. The pipe was used for oil. At the moment it was empty except for a small amount in the bottom. Riga walked thirty yards to where the pipe was above the footpath. It crossed the road. From inside her shoulder bag she took a time bomb. This was wrapped in water proof tape. A small green digital dial faintly illuminated. Riga carefully programmed the bomb and saved it. This was set to detonate in the future. Not just at any time. She knew when a certain individual would be passing. The bomb would explode wrecking part of the pipe and the passing person. Even if oil started to flow the bomb would work. Riga placed the bomb on the side of the pipe. It was held onto the metal side by strong magnets. The battery life was months. Four kilos of plastic explosive would do the job. The target would die. The target had done several bad deeds that were hindering the world. For this he was a target. His dastardly deeds would cease. The world would be partly safer. Little Riga doing another operative job. She left after planting the bomb. She had never been here...

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varied stories

 

We Avoid

The turbines hummed over and over. This was good for it showed our trip was ongoing. We hadn't splashed down in the Great Ocean. It was all water and wet. There were sharks. Those weren't an issue. The issue was any water landed was risky. Keeping in the air was priority. The engines were built by Rolls Royce and all was fine. Emma had flown this Great Circle Route six times. It was always the same. Not boring for she watched different films. When in the mood she read a trashy paperback. This occupied her time on the twenty six hour trip. After all what could possibly go wrong? Just then there was a loud bang and the plane lurched…

 

 

Safe House

My name is Percy. I have a double life. I work in life insurance and am also a spook. A spy for those of you not in the know. I live on the outskirts of London and commute to work by train. I have a nice semi detached house built before the war.

I also have a safe house. This is where some of my ‘other’ work takes place. There I can do what I want as long as it gets the needed results. Anything goes.

My safe house is located in a town further away from London. I will not say where or in what country. It has three main rooms. In each room I do a different role or job. My job, the ‘other’ job, is both for personal gain and for National Security.

I always dress ‘for work’, whether commuting to my insurance job, the SIS office or my kinky dungeon. I love wearing pinstripe suits and do look good in one. I’ve a collection of 27. They cost between 200 and 2000 UK pounds. It helps bring in the results. Who ever heard of a shabbily dressed spy? Maybe a scruffy police detective but never a spy. It just isn’t cricket. As for my dungeon role, I have several, shall we say, suitable outfits. I also wear them in the torture chamber. Both roles are closely connected. I wear anything from Bermuda shorts and shirt to prisoner uniform in the funny room. Go figure.

***

Room One

Kinky things take place in here, for fun or to make a spy to talk. I have a special set up of kinky toys and equipment. This ranges from sex toys to outfits right and a bed with chains, hand cuffs and fitments. There is also an activity chair with performs several functions.

Some great secrets were released in here by Soviet agents who would not talk any other way. One called Boris had his bollocks tickled with a blow torch turned on low. He spilled the beans about a new Russian tank and where it would be deployed.

A Czech woman called Ava briefed me all about her government’s role in the armament industry for the Soviet Union and Warsaw Pact nations. Her information was priceless. Just like the site was of watching her nail her nipples nailed to a board, by herself. I held the nails. I came six times during that performance. Ava came over twice that.

***

Room Two

This is the torture room and it says what it does on the box. Enemy spies get their nipples burnt with Zippo lighters and their heads chopped off and stuck on spikes.

You would think this was the busiest room but it isn’t. It’s the quietest. I often have to make up a reason to torture someone just to make sure all the equipment works and that my skills are still current.

Last week I kidnapped an East German man who was a spy and hit man. I needed details of his skills, how good he was, where he was trained and how many hit men/women were in circulation. I drugged the unsuspecting man and he awoke tied and bound on the torture wrack.

I introduced myself and gave him my name. This was fine because he would soon be dead. I asked him questions. He chose to lie. I removed three fingernails and a tooth. This brought some answers, low level stuff. What we already knew. I upped the pressure and applied blunt force with a hammer. He opened up like a burst dam. To be sure he was truthful, I administered some truth serum. It made him slightly delirious and helped with the pain.

When all of his secrets were out I killed him with a bolt gun. Then I carved him up and gave the neighbours some red meat. Nothing like fresh red steaks. I still had my skills and got the required results. I immediately informed my superiors by carrier pigeon and the guinea pig express.

***

Room Three

This is the funny room. Does that need any explanation? Twice weekly comedian acts perform by me to a select audience. It always brings a chuckle. I get to perform one man comedy sketches and read my poetry. Some people tell me not to give up my day/night job. If only they knew what I really did, they would insist I become a full time comedian and play the Albert Hall!

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Flying Shithouse

My name is Barry and I’m from Runcorn. I’m an ex British Army soldier who served in Northern Ireland, The Falklands, Bosnia and Iraq. Right now, I do a very special job. I drop exploding shit on various targets and change the world for the better. To do this, I use a flying toilet, one that was once used by Queen Victoria. All the fittings are solid gold. I modified it a little to bring it up to date. I fitted a flush that saves water, a more comfy seat, foot rests, a joystick, a big gun/bomb sight and a computer. And I made it totally stealthy. It flies by having a highly efficient rocket engine that runs off the methane from my shit!

Last week, I flew over an artillery position in the Donbas in Eastern Ukraine. I dropped my shit on Neo Soviet trained Putin loving terrorists. Days before they had shelled Ukrainian army positions on the front line and I got a call through the back channel then went to help. I chose the right kind of shit to hit them with. They were blown to bits by my smelly explosive shit. Four big guns with ammunition and fifteen terrorists were killed and several injured.

They never saw me till I de-cloaked my toilet. Then they opened fire on me but missed when I looped and half rolled away. I revealed myself so they know they’re being watched by the impossible: an English man from Runcorn on a flying shit house. Their artillery position was out of commission and would no longer break the ceasefire.

***

The month before, I raided a White Supremacist camp in America. They were set up in the everglades, on a dry island in the swamp. It was only accessible by boat, swimming with armed scuba gear or by air. I flew on my magic shit house.

They pedalled their hate online, in a racist publication called The Schmeisser and lastly, at face to face meetings attended by closely vetted people.

I hovered over them for two hours, watching them through my British Army binoculars. I knew their routine. They had three buildings consisting of an armoury, a mess hall and a barracks/operations room. I simply shovelled incendiary shit all over their camp and watched it burn down. Only three Neo Nazis died out of ten but they got the message. Stop their hate. I’d regularly check up on them.

***

My fragmentation shit targeted the Daesh Isis Muslim terrorists. They were responsible for many atrocities including multiple beheadings, planting IEDs, making car bombs and more. I flew my toilet in a huge arc to the Persian Gulf. I hit two targets, one each in Iraq and Syria.

The Syrian base was in a cave at the foot of a hill in a remote valley. The entrance was a long hidden tunnel, the only way in or out. I solved this quandary by blowing up the entrance and bringing half the cliff down. My gaseous explosive shit was very temperamental but right for the job. It flowed into the tunnel and up the cliff face. I fired a cherry red laser at it and in a flash it detonated. When the dust cleared it would take a million years to dig anyone left alive out.

The Iraqi Daesh base was remote by pure distance. It was a series of huts and old lorry trailers far off in the desert. Two hundred Daesh terrorists were training on weapon ranges or in ‘classes’. I zoomed over and released the last of my gaseous explosive shit on them. Like their Syrian based comrades they ignited and died. Nothing but ash remained. There no survivors.

***

I got an urgent call to stop oil tankers from being hijacked by Iranian Republican Guard terrorists. I used a special type of shit for them, runny diarrhoea shit that contained an acid and napalm mix. It would burn their little gun and missile boats like dry grass under a hot sun.

Their bow gunners opened fire on me with 50 cal type guns. Their fire was wild and missed. SAM missiles soared upwards, uselessly. I’d allowed them to see me but was safe behind a bullet proof protective bubble.

I made run after run and released the dangerous liquid. It fell down like rain, covering their flimsy but cool looking boats and ignited on contact. Crew members flamed like torches and dived into the blazing sea. Their boats burned and blew up spectacularly. I sank four hundred small boats at six different ports up and down the Persian Gulf. No more tankers would be hijacked by the Iranian terrorists. Any previously held tankers were released without condition.

***

Right now, I’m on my way to shoot up a corrupt politician who was based in a certain Asian country. He pretended that he was a good man and cared for his voters. In reality he was involved in drug smuggling, illegal weapon manufacture and running a prostitution racket. He needed liquidating. I had some armour piercing shit pellets. They really hurt and would do the job.

I located his mansion which was in a province. I zoomed overheard and let them hear my engine. Several people ran onto the lush green lawn. I swooped round, visible. They shook their heads at the sight of a man on a flying toilet! Two security men opened fire with AKs. I locked them all up. Baby turd pellets away! They hit home at a mile a second. The politician was full of shit and died badly along with his security detail. His operations were on hold and his voters free, for now. I’d be back.

***

I am always available to help innocent people out. My fees are low and I like to see the world. Give me a call; you know where to find my number.

 

Sarken

 Sarken

A man with a pistol

And three clips of ammo

An old gun with a single stack clip

Not a plastic Glock

He's a bit mad!

Not just in the head

His dog was squashed dead

By a delivery truck

The dog ran out

Was killed immediately

Poor driver was doing his job

Sarken doesn’t mind that

Being a working man himself

He will go out and shoot dead

Chinese immigrants instead!

To appease his fucking anger…

New story be warned

 Reasons

It was a full moon. The man carried a pistol in his pocket. He walked down the pavement of the small street. There were others out and about. It was early. His gun was a weight in his pocket. He was aware of it. Knew that if he pulled it out and used it there would be panic. People screaming running pointing. Hurt dying dead if he hit them square on. Imagine going to the store and being shot in the face. Your world changed forever. He didn’t remove his gun. It remained in his jeans pocket resting against his hip. Even showing the gun would panic people. It was an object no less no more. It was capable of powerful life ending events. Well the actual bullets were. Without them the weapon was just an object. It could pistol whip someone but needed bullets to work. Or in reality needed a focused person who knew what they were doing. To load aim and shoot the gun. The man knew how to do that and had done so several times. In London, Manila and Rio. A travelling global killer. He bought his weapons locally. Why did he do this? The reasons were his own. The gun sat in his pocket. His hand rested on it. He hummed a tune. Time passed and he walked the streets. Soon he would use it. There were six people ahead of him. Stood by a street vendor eating and talking. He decided to randomly shoot one of them . In his mind he counted down. His hand was ready as was his intent. Soon now. Somebody would get hurt. Always when the moon was full…

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RIGA STORIES

 

Another Silence

Why was Riga being distant to one of her operatives? She had things on her mind. Being a private person she didn’t tell many her thoughts or issues. She'd confided a few times in this certain operative. They had a romance when he first joined her unit. It lasted weeks. She liked him but didn’t love him. Or did she? He loved her deeply. She was easy to fall for being genuine. What you saw as what you got. She judged people on their actions and said love was just that an action. It was easy to say I Love You. It was harder to show more than words. The operative listened to this and remembered. He now judged her on her actions not her words or lack of them. She was mostly silent. He only got one encrypted message every day or two. When he asked her questions on the mission she replied. When it was personal stuff the wall was there. What was she going through right now? Why had Riga put a wall there? Was she avoiding him? Or avoiding being close to him. He still saw her at the base and she still gave orders that he followed. One of the more experienced operatives pulled him to one side and explained their boss had always been this way. She was testing him. Would he keep his cool or freak out? He continued being professional and learning his trade. Answers would be given in time. For now he let the distance remain.

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Command Rules

Riga became cold hearted to one of her operatives. This man was older than her. He was trained in jungle operations like she was. They went training in the jungles of Guatemala. Here they practiced hit and run missions on fictitious targets, escape and evasion, navigation and other disciplines. They were off the grid with only emergency satellite comms and a one-time use drone. They could do what they wanted and they did. They found a secluded pool with a falls. Here they swam and were careful of the currents. For three days they remained here. It was paradise in a distant land. Lovemaking and more was one of their activities. The jungle was a place with no people. At least this spot was. There were no rival guerrilla groups or drug production facilities. Just Riga and Miguel getting it on by a pool with falls. Of course it couldn’t last forever. They had to hike back to Brazil and show proof of training coverage to Satan. They took their time returning. Upon arrival they were greeted as heroes. Did the other operatives suspect what had happened? Of course! Riga was distant and professional to the trooper. He was hurt and upset. Why was his boss like this? If he had ever been in command he would know. The others could suspect or guess but not be given proof unless it was needed. And this time it wasn’t.

***

 

 

Solo Riga

Riga pretended to go AWOL. She simply disappeared and never told anybody where she was going. She went to the neighbouring country flitting over the border in a truck. Safely across she went to the small town. Here she donned a disguise as a domestic helper. She said she was from Laos. The wages here were low. Many people moved abroad to earn a better wage. Some became victims to fraudsters. Riga didn't like this. It wasn't honest or ethical. She pretended to be a poor woman looking for work and a better life at a factory compound. The two men she met carried guns and were very shifty. They checked her fake passport and flight tickets then took her to a middleman. He interviewed her and checked her background. All she told him was lies. That she needed to earn a wage for her daughter and sick parents who were old. He took it all in. This was a common story. Riga was given a meal of takeaway burger and fries with cola. Then she was taken to see a bigger boss. This was her target. He did the final interviews and had the workers’ fates in his hands. Riga told the same story but added to it. Again he believed her. He examined her documents again. He explained how much she would be paid and where she would stay. There was a secure dormitory for the women separated from the men. However she would be expected to have sex with him or anybody who wanted her. This started there and then. He said show me what you’ve got and she did so. She was naked and he fucked the operative leader on the sofa in his secure office. He came inside her and she came three times. She enjoyed sex and used it to further her aims. After she washed she went to her quarters. Here there was no privacy and make armed guards prowled about. Riga went straight to work. She had to clean up in the guards’ canteen and serve food and do their laundry. Riga was well organized and put a rota together. This allowed her to do different tasks at different times. The work went on the three weeks. Then the top boss called her to his office and locked the door. As before they had sex. Riga always enjoyed this. After it was over she carried out her mission. She got a ball point pen off the desk and pushed it into the boss' eyeball. She was fast and it killed him in seconds. His body jerked and he fell to the floor. Now she accessed his encrypted computer and hacked it in less than a minute. She located his main bank accounts the sent the money to a thousand different shell accounts. This in turn sent the cash to a hundred thousand others. It was untraceable except for the magical marker she'd put on it. Then she locked his pc and climbed out of the window onto the roof. Here she snuck onto a neighbouring building, climbed down a wall and escaped from the secure guarded compound. Now Satan had another evil soul in Hell and the cash went into bank accounts owned by people and organizations allied to the dark side. Riga wasn't paid a cent for her actions. The thrill of success was all she needed or wanted. The fake company would fold and the guards would rebel when they found their leader dead and wages unpaid. The workers would be left to their fate. It wasn’t Riga’s current concern. Satan would deal personally with them.

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