Bloomberg

By Molly Prude

Has sugar ever tasted so sweet? Not to Molly Prude, off to Branson Missouri for the Lil' Debbie convention. With her sidekick, Bettie at her side - all knock-knees and coke-bottle glasses - they find themselves waist deep in the middle of a terrorist plot to bomb the brand new Andy Williams Tower...with a delicious treat.

After all, Bloomberg is no ordinary FDA approved sweetener. It's the bomb.

A sex bomb.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Molly Prude
• Release date: Aug 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310627545

Molly Prude

Molly Prude is the star of her own erotic fantasies, she wants you to star in them, too.A native of Philadelphia, a mom and an avid writer, Molly's adventures have recently taken her to the erotic, supernatural community of Serenade Springs. She's always looking for company, so why not tag along and see how kinky a Kinky Mom can really be...

Book preview

BLOOMBERG

by

Molly Prude

Copyright © 2014 by Molly Prude

Smashwords Edition

Author's note: All characters depicted in this work of fiction are 18 years of age or older

Molly stood at the pinnacle of the Andy Williams Tower, twenty-three stories into the night's sky, watching the fires burn along West Seventy-Sixth. A satin stainless revolver hung heavy from her right middle finger, looped through the trigger guard and dangling free. Its long barrel swung like a pendulum beside her bare leg, a silent metronome keeping time with the pulse of the surrounding police sirens.

Her eyes welled with tears as she watched the fires, black mascara staining her checks. She blubbered as the smoke of the theaters rose to meet the thin wisps of the early morning clouds. It'd be dawn soon. The first tinges of light could just be made out in the sky to the east.

Molly could see it all from her perch, the whole of Branson.

She had a unique view of the destruction – the destruction she had wrought. Branson was burning, from the river to the east, down Seventy-sixth. She'd burned it all.

Molly choked back a sob.

How she'd ended up at the zenith of the skyscraper, grasping an empty forty-four, with every inch of her body moaning in pain...well, it was too much for her to comprehend. She felt disjointed, separate from her body. It felt like the last twelve hours had belonged to someone else.

And perhaps it had. Could Molly really take responsibility for anything that had transpired? Was any of it really her fault?

Coming down from the Bloomberg, she was gaining some rational perspective. If anything was to blame for the last twelve hours, it was the Bloomberg – the demon white. If she thought about it like that, she could muster up the faintest glimmer of hope.

But Molly knew, looking down at the damaged and destroyed police cruisers and TV trucks that littered the streets before the Andy Williams Tower, the odds were slim that anyone, in the cold, clean light of day, would have any sympathy. Slim to none. Not with Branson burning all around her and Molly there, somehow the only one left standing. All the chaos, all the violence, it was too much. They'd need someone, something to blame.

And they'd blame Molly.

Molly let the tears come. At this point, it was all she could do. If there had been any bullets in the gun, if she could have summoned up the courage to step off the precipice of the building, it'd have all been over in an instant.

But she'd shot the last bullet from the gun. She had nowhere near moxie enough to leap to her death. She had no choice. She'd have to face the music. Pay the butcher's bill. Soon, everyone would know, everyone back home. Her husband, the kids...everyone.

It was the end. The very end.

She could only barely remember the beginning.

#

This is interesting, Bettie said out-loud, squinting at a tourist flier through her coke-bottle lens. She quoted: "Scientific studies have proved Brason to be thirty-three percent more aw-shucks, with fifteen percent more howdy, than any other