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Gemeni Vigilanți	By : St. Tabris Category: +. to F > Black Lagoon Views: 6156 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I neither own nor profit from Black Lagoon or To Catch A Predator, and I most certainly do not know Chris "Have a Seat" Hansen.

Chapter List
- 1-Have a Seat
- 2-Playtime
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It was cold and dark in the basement. A single bare lightbulb provided little in the way of illumination. Stacked against the walls or set on a table were a variety of instruments: hacksaws, nail guns, slip-joint pliers, ice axes, cattle prods, Tasers. The walls were discolored here and there by brown or carmine blots. A vile if tolerable stench permeated the room.
It was in this unsettling environment that the fat, bearded kid-lover regained consciousness. When he tried to get up, he found he had been stripped naked, gagged and bound by the limbs in a stress position. He could barely even roll over.
“Good,” said a voice, its owner out of sight. “It’s about time you woke up.”
The would-be child molester protested through the duct-tape gag as the man in the suit and tie from before stepped from the shadows. “That was very rude of you to refuse my hospitality. You could have at least sat down.” When his victim did not cease babbling in fear, the man grabbed one end of the tape and tore it off in a single fluid motion. The pedophile yelped as bits of skin were peeled from his lips. “Now…are you going to be more affable or am I going to have to do the same thing to your junk?”
The plump pedo croaked out a hoarse “okay.” He looked up at his captor. “Shit. Now I know who you are…” he gasped. “You’re…Chris Hansen.”
“No, we’re not…” answered two childlike, Eastern-European-accented voices in unison. Hansen wobbled and...deflated—
The pervert took a closer look, not quite believing his eyes—and was horror-struck. The thing was indeed the Dateline host—or rather, it had been. Hansen had been murdered, and his assassins had skinned him from head to toe, using the sack of flesh as a gruesome disguise…the same assassins who now stood before him!
They were children, a boy and girl, aged ten or perhaps eleven, with lustrous white hair and piercing purple eyes—twins, from the looks of them. The boy sported a pageboy cut, while the girl decorated her lower-back-length hair with a black ribbon. Both wore gothic-looking clothes. With a start, the man realized they had to be the same kids who had invited him. Quaking and sweating, he stammered, “W-who…who the fuck are you two?”
The boy smiled a maniacal smile and bowed, saying, “I’m Hansel—”
“—And I’m Gretel,” added the girl, curtsying in such a way that her panties were exposed. Their captive was not at all aroused.
“And we,” they spoke together, “are the Vigilante Twins.” The siblings beamed evilly at him.
The man whimpered and tried not to look right at them. “What do you want with me?”
The twins turned to each other, still smiling, nodded and returned their attention to him. “We grew up in an orphanage in Romania during the later years of the Cold War,” said Gretel. “After Ceauşescu died, the orphanage was shut down. The people who took us in were—”
“—Not very nice,” Hansel said. “Were they, sora mea?”
“No, fratele meu,” Gretel answered her brother, “not very nice at all.” They stared at him. Stared like some sort of predatory eldritch horror stalking its prey. “They hurt us.”
Hansel exclaimed with an insane twinkle in his eyes, “They beat us!”
Gretel added, “They raped us!”
“They made us hurt the other children!”
“They made us kill them, too!”
“And you know what?” the twins queried as one again. “We found out…we liked it!”
“So,” continued Hansel as he patted the pants-pissing pervert on the cheek, “we escaped and became contract killers. We killed anyone for the right price.”
“Or just for fun,” tittered his sister, hiding her mouth in her hands.
“Or just for fun,” Hansel echoed. The boy sighed, his face expressing nostalgia. “And when we heard of Roanapur, Thailand, we knew we had to visit. And it was the most fun we’ve ever had.”
“The most!” Gretel concurred, rapidly nodding. “Lots and lots of places to go, people to kill…”
“Up until,” Hansel went on, “we took a Russian home to play. We stuck nails into him over and over. Big ones, too.”
By this time, the child-molester wannabe’s face had turned a remarkable mixed shade of green and gray. It was as though his body couldn’t decide whether he should defecate, vomit, have a heart attack, or any combination thereof. Jesus Christ, what have I gotten myself into?!
“If you put them in his head, it twitched like a fish, even after he died!” the girl exclaimed with an eerie grin as she played with a strand or two of hair. “It’s too bad that he and our other playmate happened to work for Miss Balalaika. She was mean. She almost caught us, too. But I met a nice man at the docks one day, and he helped us.”
“With our escape,” added Hansel, “and our worldview.” He beckoned to Gretel, and they wandered off, only to come back dragging another unconscious person behind them.
“This is the cameraman,” said Gretel, and slapped the bloody, baseball-capped guy awake. Hansel gave him a digital camcorder and told him to film them. The man, broken and near-catatonic from days of extensive torture, obeyed at once.
The twins began to undress in front of their bizarre audience. The way Hansel and Gretel kissed and touched each other, under different circumstances, might have been perceived as sweet and innocent, even if one acknowledged the incestuous connotations. Any sexual thrill the degenerate would have felt normally was buried by a crushing feeling of mortal terror. This, however, the murderous pair intended to immediately correct.
Hansel kneeled between the man’s splayed legs and nuzzled the larger cock as his sister ground herself against his well-formed butt, glancing from time to time over her shoulder to make sure the cameraman was still recording. “Mmm,” he murmured, and licked up and down the length of it.
Gretel spread Hansel’s cheeks, admiring his little pink asshole. She leaned close and licked it. The rough moan her brother made said he liked it, so she buried her face in his ass and tongued him.

Hansel, prepubescent stiffy twitching, moaned in pleasure as he impaled himself on the slick involuntary erection. “You see,” he said in between gasps for breath, “now we don’t murder just anybody.”
Gretel chortled as she gaily jilled off, “Yeah, now we go after perverted scum like you—like the freaks who abused us!” The twins' bloodthirsty tendencies hadn't been dampened so much as focused. In any case, the underlying psychosexual dysfunctions remained.
“And the smug imbeciles who think justice is served by locking you up!” Hansel cried. After another minute or so, the boy came, his young load dribbling through his hands.
Gretel climbed atop the captive pervert, sharing a passionate kiss with Hansel on the way. The man struggled despite his bonds, so she punched him in the nuts. For a little girl, she packed a wallop—the pedo didn’t scream so much as wheeze. “Behave,” Gretel said like a schoolteacher disciplining a student, waggling a disapproving finger. All the excitement had gotten her very wet indeed. She sighed as the fat cock disappeared between her nether lips; even though she hadn’t been penetrated by an adult in a long time, it went in without any trouble.
In addition to the glow of the shaft inside her and her own fingers teasing her cute little clit and perky nipples, Gretel was enjoying Hansel rimming her. “Ah, dragă frate,” she panted, her sex making gentle, squishy noises, “you always know how to make me happy! Oooh!”
In the midst of all this, their victim couldn’t suppress his carnal urges. He began thrusting up into Gretel’s underage pussy. There was no doubt in his mind that he would not live to tell the tale, so he might as well take what little pleasure he could from this.
Gretel dislodged the slippery rod from her young depths, stepped off the man, and kicked him in the testicles—this time, for the hell of it. Ignoring the muffled groans of pain, she and Hansel kneeled and sucked him off further.
“Oh God…oh dear God…UHFF!” the deviant shouted as he went over the edge, and his hot, gooey cum shot into the twins’ adorable faces. They still lapped at his penis, making sure to get every last creamy drop.
“And now…” Gretel snickered. The man’s eyes widened as Hansel brought a pair of scissors from behind his back. The metal blades gave off a cold gleam in the low light. Down they went, closer and closer, sharp edges closing ’round his manhood…
“Snip!” sang the twins.
The shrill, tormented scream rang hollow in the desolate Cajun night.

Eyes shut in ecstasy, Gretel drove the severed erection in and out of her. “Da, da, da! Am de gând să vină!” she whined. Her back arched from the sweet stimulation. “I’m going to come!” And she did, holding the bloody phallus deep inside, vaginal muscles rippling with the force of her climax, juices staining the floor. Gretel opened her eyes and mouth to accept Hansel’s kiss. “Mmm…”
They turned to the wriggling, sobbing, exsanguinating tub still lying against the wall. “Shall we finish up, sister?” inquired Hansel with a cruel smile.
“Why, yes, brother,” answered Gretel. “I call nail gun.”
In the next fifteen minutes, Hansel and Gretel ultimately and gleefully divested their prisoners of their lives in a methodical and wanton way, using a combination of such depraved means as a carbolic-acid enema, enucleation by pliers, puncture of several exposed vital organs via nail gun and electrocution with cattle prods. The sociopathic siblings lay entwined, covered in blood and gore, making out, when they heard a commotion from outside. Something thudded repeatedly against the front door, followed by a crash, a thunderous bang and rapid footsteps.
“FBI! Come out, show your hands!" yelled an authoritative male voice. “Where are they?”
“Damn, look at that hole!” remarked another.
The twins muttered together, “Uh-oh,” and scrambled to dress.
The basement door was kicked in, and twelve heavily-armed, black-clad operators of the FBI Hostage Rescue Team swarmed through. “On the floor, you little fuckers!” the point man roared, shotgun at the ready.
Hansel and Gretel glanced at each other, smiling, and moved. Gretel suddenly had her M1918A3 Browning Automatic Rifle out, and she unloaded on the armored G-men. The room exploded with bullets and muzzle flash.
“FUCK!”
“FIND COVER!”
“I’M HIT!”
“LET’S TANGO, BITCH!”
“PULL BACK! UP THE STAIRS!”
The firefight lasted less than a minute. When the smoke cleared, the Feds were shot full of holes and Hansel and Gretel were gone. As the HRT operators and following agents secured the scene, they swore they heard the children laughing somewhere in the gloom.
“Let’s play again…someday…”

“The body of Dateline host Chris Hansen was found last evening at an abandoned house in New Roads, Louisiana. Two other unidentified bodies, one of which is presumed to be a member of Hansen’s film crew, were also discovered. FBI sources say both appear to have been mutilated, and one sexually assaulted. There has been no comment on the condition of Hansen’s body. Hansen had been missing since May nineteenth, when he and his crew were separated from police while filming an episode of To Catch a Predator in Wilkinson County, Mississippi, and vani—”
Hansel clicked the TV remote, changing to DVD input. Gretel sat on the couch next to him. “Well,” he said, “what do you want to watch, sora mea?”
Gretel piped, “How about Hostel: Part II?”
Hansel nodded, fetched the disc, and inserted it in the player. “We have such good taste,” he said with a wicked grin as he pressed PLAY.
“Yes, we do,” replied Gretel, and planted an affectionate smooch on her brother's cheek.
The twins undressed and began to enjoy the movie—and each other.

Note: Inspired by this picture—http://gelbooru.com/index.php?page=post&s=view&id=804563
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Gemeni Vigilanți