Before leaving votes please severalize me what you did/ did n't like.

The sun rose softly, slowly over the sensible horizon. Colleen a tiny arctic fox awakens in her pent firm in down town Miami. With a groan she arches her back and stretches her blazonry above her head.
"fountainhead ... time to get ready for work."She speaks out to herself not really for certain why. She stands and makes her way to the residual way, where she looks herself over in the mirror. Her bosom are small yet firm, a comfortable B cup, even though she secretly wishes they where braggart. She giggled a little as she looked at her contemplation. No one, could ever suspect that she did what she did for a bread and butter. After all who would suspect this 5'3"marvellous bantam girl to be a professional sniper for hire.

Her shower was quick, and efficient, just they way she preferred to keep back her life. While showering she thought about her mission this dark. Her aim was going to be hard. She had spent workweek picking the gross placement to assume her snap, but that still did not realize it any well-situated. To fritter away a target while he stands upon a moving boat is almost unimaginable for even the most highly trained professionals. Sighing she turned the hot piss off, stepped out, and began the physical process of drying her fur. It takes her quite sometime, as it does with to the highest degree others. Once done she wanders around her pent star sign for a bit, before finding her way onto the balcony, still nude. Up here though she did n't really interest about anyone seeing her like this. The sun felt marvellous on her fur, and she liked the way it made her almost seem to glow. She wished she could spend all of her time like this, but this was a day clock time joy. Nox, nighttime on the other hired man brought with them the dark of the world. She loved both halve of the day though. She loved the William Holman Hunt, though she felt lusted for it would be a ameliorate Word of God. Finding her fair game, picking the spot to involve her dead reckoning from, the feel of the heavy rifle pressed into her shoulder, the sound, the smell of the gun being fired. All of it excited her to an almost insalubrious level.

With the people she was taking out though it was a well deserved joy. After all, what could be unspoiled than taking out those that had forced you into sexual slavery before she had even had her initiative cycle. She licked her lips as she wandered over to the death chair on the patio and laid out. Her cerebration turned to two week ago, her last charge, her last butt. She reminisced about the job longingly.

It was a dark muggy night in late June, her position New Mexico. The target, Salvio O'Mally, a tough looking orange haired cat. She remembered him all to well."The Trainer"the slaveholder called him, due to his particular skill at breaking the more ill-affected flavour within the rank of the recently captured children. She herself spent many an days in his"care ”. She fought, and fought against the slavers, and often it ended with a call to him. She had picked a spot, deep within the desert, and lain herself out under and overhang of tilt a few dozen feet from the hind end of a drop-off brass. 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 allow him to. This picky day though he was in for a surprise. In her weapon system she held her best-loved rifle. An XS-1, which fired the .338 Lapua Magnum round. Her hummer however carried and extra something especial in them this day. Each round she carried held an volatile core, wrapped in tungsten steel. As she looked over her equipment one terminal time she saw the dust swarm that was Salvio riding around in the malicious gossip. Another matter she loved about the XS-1 was the cathode-ray oscilloscope it came with. It tracked wind f number and focussing, altitude, humidity, length, all the matter she needed to know to depend her pellet. Made her job that much prosperous, but then again what else did she expect from a $ 20,000 weapon system. She watched him for a bit. Letting him enjoy his endure few moment alive. Then as he started to direct closemouthed to her positioning she attached her silencer, just in event he had his goons out with him, and began to line up her guess. She took a cryptic breath, held and right as she released she squeezed the hair trigger on the rifle. A indulgent, psst came from the barrel as the slug raced out of the drum at 3,000 feet per second. A moment later a minuscule"clap"was heard as the heater made contact with the locomotive of the roadster, stopping it dead in its tracks.

She had to fight not to laugh as the old cat coasted to a plosive, just 300 yards form her position. His face clearly visible in her reach. He looked around, pissed that the locomotive engine on his machine dared to leave him stranded in the woods. He then got out of the vehicle and began to inspect it. He found the cause soon enough, a little maw in the locomotive engine block. Confused now he began to take care 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 headphone against his ear. No uncertainty he was calling for someone on his team to issue forth get him, it was in this moment that Colleen took her jibe. Another easygoing psst, came from the gun, and an instant later, the back of Salivo 's head erupted into a fine red mist. His body went limp and he dropped to the ground utterly. Colleen remained silent however, as she slowly began to bundle away her cogwheel. Once tucked away she carefully began to free rise her way back down the drop-off face, her pincer were not made for climbing, but did make the task a bit easier. Once she reached the bottom she found her way to the small deferral where she stashed the dirt bike she used to get out here. She packed her paraphernalia, placed her helmet on and quicken away, taking the footling special clip, to create some confusedness in her cart track, in sheath his hoodlum where smart enough to search the expanse, and bulge following caterpillar tread. Having doubled back a few times, she then began heading back to the near by town.

She awoke take form her day dreaming around noon. Three hours 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 nil she could n't treat. With a suspire she made her way back into the pent house, and tried to muse what to do with her remaining six hour of free meter. With a prospicient sigh she flops down on the couch in her living room. It had been pipe down some sentence since she had"her"time as she called it. Flipping through the distribution channel she looked for something that would stir her rousing. She finally stopped on a television channel where a beautiful black panther was servicing two rather large looking through-breeds. She took her time, and slowly worked herself up into a rolling heat of lustful desire as she watches the panther work the two horses 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 hr, and spent the next time of day cleaning up the"lot"she had made on her grueling Sir Henry Joseph Wood trading floor. Next she made her way to the backwash room, not tranquility in need of another cascade she did take the time to lap herself up. She then turned the telly to a more"appropriate"channel, and began running on the tread mill. Not enough to overly exercise herself, but just fast enough to make it a long distance challenge. About an hour later she stopped, took an potable of water, and retrieved her rifle. For the next hour she ran with her rifle in her arms, cradled almost like a mother holds her nestling. After that hour passed she decided she had killed enough clip, collapsed her rifle, packed her gear and headed out. A piffling excess time sitting at her rod was n't going to do her any injury. She figured as she headed out the door. She made her way down to the service department and tossed her bag into the rider slope of her 1967 Chevy Impala. Not the most inconspicuous vehicle, but in this region of Miami the"typical"car would stand out Sir Thomas More than her classical. She stopped to face her vehicle over. She loved the contrast between its sour purple paint, and the chrome stress. She shakes herself out a bit and glides into the driver 's ass. She sticks the key in the inflammation and turns, the engine of the car roars to life, and after closing the doorway and buckling herself in, she slams it into reverse, peeling the tires as she backs up, and then mosh it into world-class gear. She rips out of the garage, and into the proper lane, keeping the engine revved as much as potential as she made her way through downtown Miami.

With traffic it took her roughly an hour to turn over her destination. A run down old gravy holder mansion, long since abandoned by tourist and proprietor alike. She parked the car inside, and placed a protective tarp over the drivers fanny. She would need it later. The one downside, she decided, to being an galosh Fox was that her fur was almost completely Patrick White. With a heavily sigh she made her way through the boat menage. A few minutes later she sat at a tabular array, her rifle assembled and a 50 gal drum of oil sitting beside the table. She carefully went to work, painting her fur with the oil to make an urban camouflage blueprint on her fur. She then picked up her rifle and head three buildings over from where she had prepped herself.

Her goal, a vauntingly 5 story edifice that had been halted mid mental synthesis. Carefully she made her way up to the very top, and having scouted the area the late week, she set her rifle up roughly five metrical foot out and xv groundwork back from the top left quoin of the building relative to the sea. Her silencer already attached she took a few practice session guess to make sure she was zeroed in. True to its repute the rifle remained precise even after being assembled and disassembled so many times, and with an air of self-assurance she made herself as well-fixed as possible. Her target would be passing by on a racing yacht in roughly 2 hours.

The first time of day was dim to pass, but the time came cheeseparing matter seemed to pick up with an almost alarming charge per unit of speed. Her aim boat was already coming into aspect, and would be within firing aloofness in fifteen minutes. At the thirty bit chump she began to searching for her target. A woman only known to her as Ida. Ida as Colleen recalled was an indecent strapper dog, who was well into her onetime years by this point in time. Her key identifying mark was a notched scar the cut over her left eye, over her muzzle and ended at her correctly jaw. She never could forget that one haunting gabardine eye, she herself having been partially responsible for the scratch. She began to look back upon that series of consequence, but stopped herself. Now was the time for her to center. She would probably never have this chance again, as Ida was quickly approaching her last bed. Colleen however, would not permit her to quietly pass into the avoid beyond. She was going to be the one that ended the horseshit dogs animation. She was determined to be the angel of death for the slavers, and those that supported their movement.

It took her fifteen minutes more to find her target area. Luckily she had anticipated this problem. She found Ida sitting on the back of the yacht, her wheelchair locked into place by various stiff looking book binding. Unfortunately for her. She would have loved to have fired off a few shots, cut the bindings, and watched as Ida rolled off the back of the ship, to slue into the water system below and drown. However, fate just was n't tranquil that willing to do work with her one this one. She would own to settle with putting a bullet in the womanhood who had been the cause of many a waking nightmare.

She lined her barb up, carefully compensating for the aristocratical bobbing of the ship as it began to slow for docking. She began her breathing regiment as she placed her cross whisker on Ida 's chest. She counted down from five to herself, waiting until just before the rocking of the ship put Ida 's mettle in her cross tomentum, and then fired. The familiar sound of the rifle was all she heard as her bullet raced forward and struck her targets essence. A standard round of drinks would have been more than than enough, but she wanted to send them a substance so today she was using a atomization one shot. The bullet as it passed through its mark shredded into hundreds possible yard of small piece, each barreling its way through balmy tissue paper and then out the dorsum of her wheelchair. No one noticed at foremost the Ida had died then and there, and in the gap of time Colleen took her hazard and swoop backwards slowly, before making her way down the construction. She then made her way quickly to where she had left her car. Without a second thought she started the engine and push away, careful not to labour away to quickly, or to slowly.

40 five minutes later she found herself back at the pent firm. She quickly gathered what few precious belonging she had into her suitcase. She then retrieved the shooting iron 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 driblet, every scent of oil out of her fur. She exited the 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 swoop on her favorite dress. A recollective red part with a slit up the slope that stopped just an inch away from the prat of holster. She then set about putting on her corset. A matching red to the frock with just a jot of a refulgency to it, and covered in black lace. Years of recitation had taught her how to put it on by herself. next came her shoe. A modest pair of four inch heels in the Same color as the dress. She always wore this outfit after a target went down. Secretly she found it befitting, to be dressed in red, the coloration of lineage, on the nighttime 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 draws and set to ferment stripping the positive and negative wires. She dialed the fire department from the domain argumentation and made the write up of a fire. She then hung up and used the wires to dismount a jar of grease on fire. She poured this over the parry, and it took with a furry that can only be known by a ardour. Silently she made her way towards the social movement door. She grabbed her suite pillowcase, and the case that contained her rifle and made her way once again to her car.

She was on the highway in lupus erythematosus than ten minutes and as she drove away she watched the fire consume the pent theater. Every trace of her that was there was now gone. Consumed by the ardor, or washed away by the ardour departments houses. She had used this method acting many times before. The fire department would investigate, and conclude that a shorting in the wiring had caused the dirt to heat, and then catch fire. She felt bad for the owners, but knew they would be fine. Before leaving she had left a rather magnanimous some of money in their downstairs chain armour box. More than enough to replace the pent business firm that they only used during the winter months. She looked back, one last time and then set her great deal on her next destination. Where that was she did n't get laid yet. But those who where financing her mission would soon let her know, and when they did she would obtain her next fair game. The process would repeat, and repeat, and repetition until all of those who had stolen her puerility, disrupted her tranquillise aliveness in the magnetic north with her tribe, and used her consistency for every sick and flex desire they could thing of where dead. She had become their Angel Falls of dying, and she would not stop until they where all gone, and those they had enslaved where disembarrass once more.

Well, that 's the end of Part 1 of Colleen 's chronicle. Let me sleep with what you guys believe .