Victim’S Revenge

By Nicholas Sault

Victim's Revenge is a series of short stories that depict just thatthe victim's revenge. The stories will strike a chord with all those people who regard our PC society as becoming increasingly biased toward protecting the criminals. Ordinary folk believe that violent offenders get off too lightly and that any suffering the offenders receive at the hands of the law bears no comparison to the suffering they have imposed upon their victims. Too often, we hear the sort of cry, "He got off with eight years. My daughter has a life sentence living with the horror he has inflicted on her."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris NZ
• Release date: Jun 21, 2018
• ISBN: 9781514467015

Book preview

Copyright © 2018 by Nicholas Sault.

Library of Congress Control Number:      2018906567

ISBN:                  Hardcover                        978-1-5144-6703-9

                            Softcover                           978-1-5144-6702-2

                            eBook                                978-1-5144-6701-5

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 06/18/2018

Xlibris

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CONTENTS

1     Plane Revenge

2     Close Shave

3     Less than Human?

4     Life Ain’t What it Used to be

5     Fjastumun Women

6     Skateboard

7     Little Man

8     Bolide

9     Arabian Days

10   Fat Lady Singing

1

Plane Revenge

Hey, Jo, I was aware that we would have to travel over water to get to Wellington, but we seem to be heading away from land.

Jo Fleetwood steadied the sleek, twin engine Piper Chieftain onto its cruise heading, levelling out at 4000 metres with the instruments showing an air speed of 210 knots. The weather ahead looked perfect, which was not surprising since she had arranged things so that this flight coincided with a settled outlook. The passengers consisted of four Auckland businessmen who were convinced that the flight was all their planning, and that the neat, dark-haired young woman in the driving seat had nothing to do with their schedule.

This was quite a special business group. One of the number, George, who at this moment was reviewing a collection of coloured brochures, happened to be Jo’s husband of three years. For the most part the men’s voices were just faint mumbles against the drone of the engines, but occasionally one of them would raise his voice to address Jo, usually making some kind of tiresome flattery concerning her appearance and flying ability. It was now the turn of big John Carter, the general manager of Profile Period Pieces; a company that made reproduction period furniture.

I cannot believe our luck, Jo. The booming voice of this handsome, prematurely white-haired man carried easily over the engine noise. Been thinking of buying a plane for years, but the budget has never stretched that far. Who needs one now that our finance director’s gorgeous wife is a commercial pilot?

Jo knew that he was alluding to the fact that Northland Charter had given special terms to her husband’s company, which meant that the directors could afford to fly to practically all their out-of-town business meetings. She glanced back at the men, who looked pretty relaxed and happy-go-lucky, whisky tumblers in their hands, expecting only the best from their trip.

The soft voice, tinged with a slight Italian accent was Vittorio Castroni. Jo glanced at the dark, almost pretty man. A real lady’s man this one; or, thought he was, anyway. She guessed he was successful with women, judging by the number of different women she had seen him with. But he had got on the wrong side of one lady, and was still smarting from fighting a sexual harassment case. His flamboyant suits and gaudy ties, together with his flashy looks, screamed hey, look at me.

The fourth man was suave in an English way. In fact, Gordon Priest had been brought up in England, and in his business guise he was charming and very amicable. But little did he know that Jo had had a long talk with Mrs Priest, and that Jo knew that the sales director’s demeanour changed the minute he crossed the threshold of his own front door.

She was a lovely catch, George, your Amy Johnson.

God, he’s off again, Jo thought, glancing round as John Carter made his umpteenth compliment of the trip. And does he think Amy Johnson was the only ever female aviator? Inside, she seethed. On the outside she was all smiles. Let them have their rest and relaxation for a while.

But, hell, George, you haven’t been beating her, have you? John Carter craned his large frame forward to glare at the rather nasty bruise that covered the part of Jo’s cheek near her left ear, and appeared to extend down below the collar of her sky-blue jump suit.

Are you kidding replied George, vehemently, with all the training she does I wouldn’t fancy my chances with her in hand to hand stuff. Isn’t that right, honey?

He’s probably right, Jo smirked to herself, and then turned the smirk into a sparkling smile as she glanced back again.

No, this lady runs in the dark, George went on. God help any muggers. But this time she came off worse in a confrontation with a fence post.

Hell, he really believes that story, she thought, her countenance changing to pain with the memory of what really happened that evening.

She slowly changed the heading. The men did not notice at first; they were pouring over figures, and their business mumblings were drowned out by the steady drone and whine of the engines. It was perhaps ten minutes before Gordon looked up.

Did you ever see the ocean that blue, guys? he said.

Hey, Jo, I was aware that we would have to travel over water to get to Wellington, but we seem to be heading away from land.

Very observant, honey? she replied to her husband. The fun was starting.

Jo, we would love to fly up here all day, but we have got a schedule to keep, John Carter, General Manager, sounded very general manager.

Oh, John, she was enjoying herself now, schedules are not going to be a problem to you any more. She now smiled with what she thought was a sinister smile, but her pretty face disallowed it, and these men were used to not taking women very seriously.

Come on, honey. Stop fooling around. Her husband still had a smile on his face, so he obviously was not taking her seriously.

What we’re doing here, guys, is taking a one-way trip. Jo’s attempt at Chicago gangster lingo was not very convincing either.

Look, Jo, John Carter was getting his most pompous now, we can come flying for fun some other time. We have to get this round-trip done in one day. You know that. Be a good girl and turn the aircraft around.

You patronising bastard. The woman’s vehemence took the big man by complete surprise, and he sat down suddenly, the small plane shuddering with his momentum.

Mrs Fleetwood, what is going on, please? Vittorio was uncharacteristically ashen faced, and Jo suspected, with pleasure, that he was a nervous flier.

Jo, what the hell are you talking like that for? added George, but all the men were attempting to speak at once, and his question went unanswered.

QUIET. Jo turned fully around to face the aghast men, leaving the plane on autopilot, the silver craft heading towards one of the many horizons that make up the Tasman Sea. The inside of the plane fell quiet, and she began to talk calmly, and as softly as the engine whine would allow.

Basically, I am teaching you a lesson. I have had enough of men ruling my world. Up here you are in my world, and I rule……. Shut your goddamn mouth, for a while, Pig. George, who was about to speak, slumped back in his seat, his face a picture of amazement at his wife’s spite.

Jo, this is a joke… George didn’t get to say any more as a resounding slap caught him around the eyes and nose, causing him to snap his head back. Blood from his nose seeped between his fingers as he covered his face.

What the…? Somebody else started to speak, but stopped as Jo went on.

Do you know what that fucking pig, Larry Parsons, said to me only yesterday. Me, three weeks qualified as a commercial pilot, and he gets his fucking oar in already. ‘Don’t go and get pregnant, sweetheart’, he says, ‘there’s plenty of aspiring pilots in line behind you.’

You can’t punish us because of your boss, Jo, Gordon got these words in, but flinched as if expecting her to attack him.

No, you stupid little shit. Jo was almost spitting venom. You’ve got your own accounting to come.

Come on Jo, enough is enough, said John, affecting his ‘tired of this’ voice that he reserved for underlings, especially women.

Hey, mister General Manager, I’m boss up here. Shut it.

Vittorio was looking sick, but managed to find a little voice. But what have you got against us, especially Mr Carter. He is impeccable.

Mr fucking Carter……

Jo, I have never heard you speak like this. George had staunched his bloody nose, but kept out of reach in case she took another swing at him.

Mr fucking Carter, she continued, the respectable silver-headed, executive. The fucking sexist silver-headed bastard.

Jo, for Christ’s sake, cried George, trying again to appeal to her. But he saw the lost cause, and gave it up.

Remember Vicki Sarson? Yes, you bastard, you remember her. That mealy-mouthed, sycophant Jimmy Fraser got the job she should have had. What was it? Did you fancy his ass more than hers?

He fitted the team, Jo. Fact of life. John Carter ignored her insinuation, and tried to look bored as if he was still not convinced of the seriousness of the situation, but his white knuckles on the seat in front betrayed him.

Fitted the team, hell. Did you know gentlemen, of the twenty-four graduates he has employed over the last five years, she dug a finger into the collar bone of the big man, do you know how many of these were women. Shall I tell you? Shall I? Shall I? She bore into the middle-aged shoulder with that same finger. Fucking none. Some statistic, eh? And, gentlemen, she was acting the boardroom lingo now, they would understand that, I checked the university records to get the average gender split for a sample of twenty-four graduates, based on the job requirement. And what do we find, gentlemen? By the law of averages eleven of those hires should have been women.

She was enjoying herself again now. The spitting anger was gone, and she was in control of herself.

And did he hire any women at all? Yes, whoopee. One of them was lovely Lydia. Tits three hundred times bigger than her brain. The poor girl is too dumb to say anything about the ass groping she gets from this dirty old man.

This has gone far enough……, the big man started to say, but stopped short when he saw that he was in line for a nose bleed.

I can’t believe this is happening. George was really bemused, and not quite sure what was happening. Jo went on.

Why did you turn away those female graduates, Carter? For some reason, it gave her pleasure addressing him by his surname. Afraid they might get pregnant?

It is a consideration, he replied, a little sheepishly.

"You bastard. If it wasn’t for women suffering the agony of childbirth there wouldn’t be a next generation of graduates. Women should be rewarded for that labour, not punished by being cast aside. Through the ages, assholes like you have kept child-bearing on a par with calving. We’re just a bunch of cows, calving. The most important function in the human world, and its relegated to the back room, and used as an excuse to brand women as unreliable in the workforce.

Well, you have a point, Jo…….. She cut John Carter off again.

Don’t you try to placate me. Sexism is too firmly entrenched in your thick fucking skull to be convinced. You ain’t going to save your bacon that easy.

The plane, on auto-pilot, continued towards that sharp, blue horizon. For a quarter of a minute the five people were silent.

So, what is your intention, Jo? It was the immaculate voice of Gordon, the sales director. He did not sound too happy.

Well, Gordon, she replied, mocking his English accent, "for your male sins you are going to end your life the way a brave man should, though I doubt you will be very brave when