Before leaving right to vote please tell me what you did/ did n't like.

The sun rose softly, slowly over the apparent horizon. Colleen a petite north-polar fox awakens in her pent menage in down townsfolk Miami. With a moan she arches her back and stretches her arms above her head.
"wellspring ... time to get ready for work."She speaks out to herself not really sure enough why. She stands and makes her way to the rest room, where she looks herself over in the mirror. Her knocker are small yet firm, a well-situated B cup, even though she secretly wishes they where bigger. She giggled a petty as she looked at her reflection. No one, could ever suspect that she did what she did for a living. After all who would mistrust this 5'3"tall flyspeck girl to be a professional sniper for hire.

Her shower was flying, and efficient, just they way she preferred to keep her life story. While showering she thought about her mission this Night. Her target was going to be difficult. She had spent weeks picking the perfect location to make her shot, but that still did not make it any loose. To shoot a target while he stands upon a moving gravy holder is almost unimaginable for even the most highly trained professionals. Sighing she turned the hot H2O off, stepped out, and began the process of drying her fur. It takes her quite sometime, as it does with most others. Once done she wanders around her pent house for a bit, before finding her way onto the balcony, still nude. Up here though she did n't really vex about anyone seeing her like this. The sun felt wonderful on her fur, and she liked the way it made her almost seem to glow. She wished she could spend all of her clock time like this, but this was a day time pleasure. night, nighttime on the other hand brought with them the darkness of the world. She loved both halve of the day though. She loved the Holman Hunt, though she felt lusted for it would be a estimable Holy Scripture. Finding her objective, picking the spot to take her stroke from, the feel of the hard rifle pressed into her shoulder, the auditory sensation, the smell of the gun being fired. All of it excited her to an almost unhealthy level.

With the people she was taking out though it was a well deserved joy. After all, what could be better than taking out those that had forced you into sexual slaveholding before she had even had her first cycle. She licked her lips as she wandered over to the hot seat on the patio and laid out. Her thought process turned to two weeks ago, her last commission, her live target. She reminisced about the job longingly.

It was a dark muggy nighttime in late June, her fix New Mexico. The target, Salvio O'Mally, a ruffianly looking orange haired cat. She remembered him all to well."The trainer"the slavers called him, due to his finical skill at breaking the more rebellious spirits within the ranks of the recently captured tiddler. She herself spent many an daytime in his"tutelage ”. She fought, and fought against the slave trader, and often it ended with a call to him. She had picked a blot, deep within the desert, and lie down herself out under and overhang of rock a few dozen feet from the freighter of a drop-off face. As she had learned in her weeks of following the old cat, he enjoyed taking a dune buggy out into the desert as often as his"work"would provide him to. This special day though he was in for a surprisal. In her sleeve she held her dearie rifle. An XS-1, which fired the .338 Lapua Magnum daily round. Her bullets however carried and extra something special in them this day. Each one shot she carried held an explosive CORE, wrapped in tungsten steel. As she looked over her equipment one last clip she saw the dust cloud that was Salvio riding around in the shite. Another affair she loved about the XS-1 was the scope it came with. It tracked wind f number and guidance, ALT, humidity, distance, all the things she needed to know to calculate her stab. Made her job that much easier, but then again what else did she expect from a $ 20,000 weapon system. She watched him for a bit. Letting him enjoy his cobbler's last few moment alive. Then as he started to head snug to her position she attached her silencer, just in event he had his clod out with him, and began to line up her guessing. She took a thick breather, held and redress as she released she squeezed the hair trigger on the rifle. A soft, psst came from the barrel as the bullet raced out of the barrel at 3,000 feet per second. A moment later a small"clap"was heard as the bullet made contact with the railway locomotive of the roadster, stopping it dead in its tracks.

She had to fight not to laugh as the old cat coasted to a point, just 300 G take shape her spatial relation. His face clearly visible in her scope. He looked around, pissed that the railway locomotive on his automobile dared to result him stranded in the woods. He then got out of the vehicle and began to inspect it. He found the cause soon enough, a small hole in the locomotive engine block. Confused now he began to count around. Colleen though was already lining up her shot, but waited to pull the trigger. He pulled out his phone, and began to dial. Once it began to ring he placed the phone against his ear. No doubt he was calling for someone on his team to come get him, it was in this moment that Colleen took her barb. Another flabby psst, came from the gun, and an blink of an eye later, the back of Salivo 's drumhead erupted into a fine red mist. His body went hitch and he dropped to the ground all in. Colleen remained mute however, as she slowly began to pack away her cogwheel. Once tucked away she carefully began to free climb her way back down the drop-off face, her claw were not made for climbing, but did make the job a bit easier. Once she reached the fanny she found her way to the humble recess where she stashed the shite bike she used to get out here. She packed her gear wheel, placed her helmet on and speed away, taking the little extra time, to make some confusion in her tracks, in case his goons where smart enough to look the area, and start following track. Having doubled back a few metre, she then began heading back to the draw near by town.

She awoke imprint her day pipe dream around noon. Three hour had passed since she came out onto the balcony. She knew under her fur she was going to be at least a little sun burnt, but goose egg she could n't handle. With a suspiration she made her way back into the pent house, and tried to contemplate what to do with her remaining six hours of free people fourth dimension. With a farsighted suspiration she flops down on the sofa in her bread and butter elbow room. It had been quiet some clock time since she had"her"time as she called it. Flipping through the epithelial duct she looked for something that would stir her foreplay. She finally stopped on a television channel where a beautiful black panther was servicing two rather enceinte looking through-breeds. She took her time, and slowly worked herself up into a rolling high temperature of lustful desire as she watches the panther work the two sawbuck over. She held herself off as long as she could, but all to soon, she caved in to her desires and came. In this way she passed two hours, and spent the next hour cleaning up the"mess"she had made on her strong Sir Henry Wood base. side by side she made her way to the slipstream elbow room, not quiet in need of another shower bath she did select the clock time to wash herself up. She then turned the television to a more"appropriate"channel, and began running on the tread mill. Not enough to overly exert herself, but just fast enough to make it a long distance challenge. About an 60 minutes later she stopped, took an crapulence of piddle, and retrieved her rifle. For the adjacent hour she ran with her rifle in her arms, cradled almost like a female parent holds her child. After that minute passed she decided she had killed plenty fourth dimension, collapsed her rifle, packed her gear and headed out. A petty extra time sitting at her perch was n't going to do her any harm. She figured as she headed out the threshold. She made her way down to the garage and tossed her bag into the passenger incline of her 1967 Chevy impala. Not the most invisible vehicle, but in this contribution of Miami the"typical"car would stand out Sir Thomas More than her classic. She stopped to search her vehicle over. She loved the contrast between its shadow royal paint, and the chrome emphasis. She shakes herself out a bit and glides into the number one wood 's hindquarters. She sticks the key in the ignition system and turns, the locomotive engine of the car roars to life, and after closing the door and buckling herself in, she slams it into reverse, peeling the tires as she backs up, and then thrash it into inaugural geared wheel. She rips out of the garage, and into the right lane, keeping the locomotive revved as practically as potential as she made her way through business district Miami.

With traffic it took her roughly an hour to reach her destination. A run down old boat family, long since abandoned by tourist and proprietor alike. She parked the car inside, and placed a protective tarp over the drivers prat. She would need it later. The one downside, she decided, to being an Arctic Fox was that her fur was almost completely white. With a heavy sigh she made her way through the boat house. A few minutes later she sat at a table, her rifle assembled and a 50 congius drum of oil sitting beside the table. She carefully went to work, painting her fur with the oil to create an urban camouflage pattern on her fur. She then picked up her rifle and caput three buildings over from where she had prepped herself.

Her goal, a large 5 story building that had been halted mid construction. Carefully she made her way up to the very top, and having scouted the country the previous week, she set her rifle up roughly five pes out and fifteen invertebrate foot back from the top left field corner of the building congener to the sea. Her silencer already attached she took a few practice shot to build indisputable she was zeroed in. True to its reputation the rifle remained accurate even after being assembled and disassembled so many times, and with an air of confidence she made herself as well-situated as possible. Her target area would be passing by on a yacht in roughly 2 hours.

The first hr was slack to lapse, but the meter came closer matter seemed to foot up with an almost alarming rate of f number. Her objective boat was already coming into panorama, and would be within firing distance in fifteen minutes. At the thirty second mark she began to searching for her target. A cleaning lady only known to her as Ida. Ida as Colleen recalled was an unseemly bull's eye dog, who was well into her older years by this level. Her key key out mark was a notched scar the cut over her pass on eye, over her muzzle and ended at her right jaw. She never could forget that one haunting white eye, she herself having been partially responsible for for the scar. She began to look back upon that series of effect, but stopped herself. Now was the time for her to focus. She would probably never have this luck again, as Ida was quickly approaching her end bed. Colleen however, would not allow her to quietly pass into the emptiness beyond. She was going to be the one that ended the bull dogs life. She was determined to be the angel of death for the slavers, and those that supported their movement.

It took her XV minutes more to find her target. Luckily she had anticipated this problem. She found Ida sitting on the backbone of the yacht, her wheelchair locked into place by various potent looking cover. Unfortunately for her. She would possess loved to own fired off a few shots, cut the bindings, and watched as Ida rolled off the back of the ship, to luxate into the urine below and drown. However, fate just was n't tranquillity that uncoerced to go with her one this one. She would have to finalize with putting a bullet in the charwoman who had been the suit of many a waking nightmare.

She lined her slam up, carefully compensating for the appease bobbing of the ship as it began to slow for docking. She began her breathing regiment as she placed her mark hairs on Ida 's chest. She counted down from five to herself, waiting until just before the rocking of the ship put Ida 's heart in her hybridizing hairs, and then fired. The familiar speech sound of the rifle was all she heard as her slug raced forward and struck her object centre. A standard rhythm would have been more than enough, but she wanted to air them a message so today she was using a fragmentation cycle. The bullet as it passed through its fair game shredded into one C possible chiliad of small pieces, each barreling its way through flabby tissue and then out the rear of her wheelchair. No one noticed at beginning the Ida had died then and there, and in the gap of time Colleen took her chance and slide backwards slowly, before making her way down the building. She then made her way quickly to where she had left her car. Without a s opinion she started the engine and labor away, careful not to drive away to quickly, or to slowly.

Forty five proceedings later she found herself back at the pent house. She quickly gathered what few precious holding she had into her suitcase. She then retrieved the pistol she kept by the bed, and tucked it into a leg holster, which she set aside for the time being. She showered, and scrubbed, and scrubbed, getting every drop, every smell of oil out of her fur. She exited the rain shower and dried herself once again, then she slide the holster onto her thigh and tightened it. Satisfied that it would n't move she then microscope slide on her favorite dress. A long red piece with a slit up the incline that stopped just an inch away from the tail of holster. She then set about putting on her girdle. A matching red to the frock with just a hint of a shine to it, and covered in Negroid lace. class of recitation had taught her how to put it on by herself. next came her shoes. A modest pair of four inch heels in the Same people of colour as the frock. She always wore this turnout after a target area went down. Secretly she found it befitting, to be dressed in red, the color of stock, on the Nox when she herself had spilled the blood of another. Once she was fully dressed she made her way to an electrical box in the kitchen. She removed the screws with a screw driver located in one of the near by attracter and set to function stripping the electropositive and negative telegram. She dialed the blast department from the farming line and made the report of a fervour. She then hung up and used the telegram to light a jar of grease on fire. She poured this over the return, and it took with a furry that can only be known by a fervidness. Silently she made her way towards the front door. She grabbed her suite cause, and the case that contained her rifle and made her way once again to her car.

She was on the highway in less than ten second and as she drove away she watched the fire consume the pent menage. Every trace of her that was there was now gone. Consumed by the flak, or washed away by the fire departments houses. She had used this method many time before. The fire department would investigate, and conclude that a shorting in the wiring had caused the grease to heat, and then overtake fervour. She felt bad for the owner, but knew they would be amercement. Before leaving she had left a rather large some of money in their downstairs ring armour box. More than enough to replace the pent theater that they only used during the wintertime month. She looked back, one last fourth dimension and then set her sights on her next finish. Where that was she did n't know yet. But those who where financing her commission would soon let her know, and when they did she would receive her next prey. The operation would replicate, and repeat, and repeat until all of those who had stolen her childhood, disrupted her quiet life in the north with her tribe, and used her organic structure for every sick and twisted desire they could thing of where idle. She had become their angel of decease, and she would not block off until they where all gone, and those they had enslaved where justify once more.

fountainhead, that 's the end of parting 1 of Colleen 's story. Let me bonk what you guys think .