KILLING JANE FONDA

By CL Lucas All Rights Reserved ©

Action / Drama

Eight

The Death of Brian V. McDonnell

The water at Sausalito pier sat calm. On it, otters loitered on their backs cracking mollusk on cute little tummies whilst gentle waves slap, lap, lapped against algae coated rocks whilst Sausalito houseboats gently rocked on them amongst the jetsam. Inside one, Bernadine Dohrn gripped Billy Ayer’s cock in a pale, manly hand.

She pumped it. His weakness wetted her.

Her total control over him initiated his erectile dysfunction, deflating the usually pumped ego of the radical. The rush of the power over him fired sexual electricity through the roots of her hair, her shoulders, her arms, her legs and then her thighs before collapsing, in swirling currents around the locus of her vagina like a whirlpool.

Despite the impotence, Billy moaned at her.

Dohrn kept one hand kneading his ass, the other still held his crank. Suddenly, in a flash, Bernadine’s hand raced up a bony spine grabbing a hunk of his gnarled hair. As she yanked his head back, the cock-hand basted in pre-cum cleaved into the crack of his ass, an index finger finding its mark then thrust into Billy’s anus, paralyzing him in shock.

As she yanked his head back, Bernadine grinned pressing a breast into his shoulder. “Don’t fuck it up like Seattle mother fucker,” She whispered in his ear.

Bernadine had to prove—

Bernadine had to deliver her promises from Flint.

Billy’s dick came to life. Engorging with blood, it peeked through the opened zipper of blue-jeans he’d drug behind a car to radiate toughness with a worn-out look.

Bernadine pushed him onto the houseboat floor lowering her organ onto Billy’s cock. She fucked it to the edge of orgasm then hopped off. “Succeed tomorrow,” she said, “I’ll let you cum.”

It was near midnight on February 15th, 1970. Howie Machtinger, a skinny ginger Rick Astley looking character, principal bomb maker for the Weathermen, had left the houseboat just an hour before.


Officer Brian V. McDonnell descended from a tradition of San Francisco police officers where a McDonnell had served the force since 1930. Two had been killed in the line of duty, one in the mid 1930s, one in the 50s.

It was February 16, 1970.

Brian, stereotypical tall, dark, handsome, wore closely cropped black hair with extra length on top. He had blue eyes on a squarish face with gently rounding jaw. Although 45, he barely begun to show wrinkle.

Brian’s father retired in ’59 as detective. Brian had run for station representative in the DPOA and the results were coming over the teletype that night.

As it spit out results, Brian studied them. Tom Fogerty, a big potato fed Irishmen stood to Brian’s side entertaining him with lamentations of his wife’s over control of his life regarding the coming celebrations.

“Wife nagged me to cut back on the booze this Paddy’s.”

“Well Tom, you made last year a banner event,” Brian said.

Tom squinted, pinching his face. “I told you a hundred times Brian,” he said through a half-turned grin.

Frank Rath leaned back against the wall watching the traditional ribbing between the two from behind the coffee desk in the business office they occupied.

The desk wasn’t designed for coffee. In fact, it was filled with fifty, if not a hundred pounds of springs and steel latches designed to lift two platforms for elevating hefty 30s era typewriters to its secretary. Instead, the platforms now supported a coffee pot each.

In front of each with 3x5 placard in front. One labeled good coffee the other labeled ass.

Frank loved coffee.

So did Brian.

Frank wife’s sister in Seattle regularly mailed him gourmet beans from some unknown roaster in the region. He was ok with sharing, on occasion, but one had to pay into kitty for regular access. The signs came after officers regularly entered unnoticed to drain the good stuff instead of waiting for the freeze-dried stuff that smelled like a cat farted when the can opened.

An extra coffee pot from his wife’s kitchen accompanied him on shift which he differentiated the two with signs, lording over them like a coffee addicted mother hen.

“Pot’s almost drained Brian. How ’bout you grind some bea—”

In the microsecond between syllables, 22 “U” shaped staples the size of a fat man’s thumb, barbed wire and shards of glass debris exploded from the office window penetrating the body and brain of Brian V. McDonnell, turning him from Brian the lawman, loving husband and father of two into Brian the vegetable, crumpling to the floor spraying blood onto walls and cheap white tile.

Officer Fogerty’s body absorbed 19 staples.

He took one in the eye blinding him for life. The remainder pierced nerves here and there, committing him to a life of pain and eventually, an untimely death attributed to the bombing.

Frank was blown against the wall and took less damage, somewhat protected by the desk.

Patrolmen Perra and Fife, who shared the 3 p.m. to 3 a.m. shift that night patrolled a few blocks away on Haight Ashbury when the call came out, “406 Park Station, send ambulances, we’ve just had a bombing.”

Perra floored the accelerator, turned them down Haight, then Stantion, turned south then took them west on Kesar screaming into the station parking lot to find Ron Martin stumbling around in a daze and Officer Arnot propping himself against Park Station wall by a bloody arm.

Martin didn’t know it yet, but an inch separated him from a hunk of shrapnel lodged in the frame of his patrol-car. It would have off a leg, if not killed him — the driver’s side received the brunt of it when the bomb exploded from the south-side window ledge upon which it had been placed.

Blast fragments were found as far as two blocks way embedded in the third-floor walls of Polytechnic across the street from Keysar Stadium.

Inside, Frank Wrath stumbled around with gun drawn. Several others suffered minor injuries but in Brian McDonnell’s room, blood shared the floor, walls and desk with shrapnel’s pockmarking everything within the blast’s reach.

Bits of Brian’s brain decorated the wall behind the teletype.

The bomb had been set to explode at 11 p.m., during shift turnover, but fate condemned only three.

Brian never came to and died two days later.


Bernadine wouldn’t let Billy Ayers leave the Bay Area until she read what happened at Park Place Station the next day. After reading the front page of a paper stolen from a neighbor’s slip, she slipped inside the houseboat shredding clothing as she moved through tiny rooms to the frameless bed where Billy slept.

As she touched his organ till he, and it, awoke, Bernadine simultaneously massaged her womb. Good and ready, she slid her wet fingers under Billy’s nose and cast herself forward onto the bed, almost doing a gymnasts’ twist mid-air to wind up on her back.

She spread her legs. “You can fuck me Billy,” she said. “You can even get on top.”

Which he did.

And when he was about to cum, she clamped her legs around his back and let him finish inside of her.

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