Philomene Doucette is a made-to-order assassin, and death never looked so good. Orphaned and brainwashed from the age of six, by Beau Dupree, a C.I.A spook, she is a beautiful, empty killing machine, fractured from systematic abuse. Philomene is given her most important assignment yet: executing Haruto Mori, the leader of a deadly Japanese clan. To conceal her identity, Philomene is smuggled into Japan under the guise of being a sex worker and is presented as a gift for Haruto. Philomene’s mission to kill Haruto becomes an inner battle as she struggles between her conditioning, the affection she feels for Haruto and her increasing desire for Tadakai, her CIA handler.
When Haruto is unexpectedly murdered by another assassin, Philomene uses her deadly training to find answers. She learns of a shocking government plot for mass murder at an upcoming Yakuza Summit—where Tadakai will be in attendance.
Philomene rescues Tadakai, and together they find a haven in a remote, abandoned farmhouse. As they forge a deeper connection, the two make a life-changing decision to leave this dangerous lifestyle behind to create a new life together...but their past misdeeds will not be absolved without exacting bloody sacrifices.
Currently performing in the Broadway National Tour of The Book of Mormon, Monica has worked with such notables as Jesse Norman, Diahann Carroll and Freda Payne. She covered Eartha Kitt as the Fairy Godmother in Rodgers and Hammerstein's' Cinderella and sang opposite Jon Secada as the Narrator in the National Tour of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, Her other credits include; Broadway: Finian's Rainbow, Abby's Song, and Ragtime. Off-Broadway: Little Ham. National Tours: Disney's The Lion King, Annie 30th Anniversary; City Center Encores! productions: On The Town, Pipe Dream, Fanny, Anyone Can Whistle, Purlie, Finian's Rainbow and Applause. When she is not onstage, you can find her in a quick change booth--writing, playing video games with her daughter or perched on a stool, having a cocktail
Orphaned and brainwashed from the age of 6, Philomene Doucette is a fractured fembot with a deadly aim. A beautiful empty shell struggling with the void. Now aged 22, she is about to embark upon an violent journey of self-discovery as she sets out to answer the question--Who Am I?
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Till Death Do Us Part
She stood in the opulent foyer with her back against him. The top of her black, very tight, very short dress was pulled down, exposing her tawny brown skin. She leaned on him for support as he branded the side of her neck with his lips. One hand kneaded and pulled at her generous chest while the other, wet with her need, teased the swollen bud atop her sex. She turned around to taste him and their tongues wrestled for control as she slowly backed him up toward the living room. With her mouth still locked onto his, she unbuttoned his pants, pushed him down on the couch and swiftly mounted him.
She rode him. His cadence steady, her rhythm sure as passion surged between them. A tiny thread of sadness crept inward.
That’s all she would allow. As she reached up and undid the clasp of her barrette, a cascade of inky black waves tumbled down and around her shoulders.
From the base of the barrette, she pulled an ornate jewel, unsheathing a needle coated with a sticky white substance. As her hips increased their tempo, she stroked the top of his head and peppered him with feathery kisses. He was near to completion when he called out her name.
Her rhythm faltered. She hated that name.
He opened his eyes. “Sophie?”
She inserted the needle between his top two vertebrae.
He froze with a look of mild surprise on his face. He tried to speak, but his mouth wouldn’t move and, to his horror, neither could he.
“Shh…” she whispered as she placed the tips of her fingers on his lips and reverently watched him struggle with the encroaching darkness. As he closed his eyes, she kissed the top of his head, then said a prayer.
She always said a prayer.
Death was sacred, even if she was the one dealing it.
Afterward, she got up, righted her dress, walked back into the foyer toward the console table to grab her purse then up the stairs to the door just left of the landing. It was a steel security door with a digital keypad lock. She reached into her clutch and took out a small aerosol can. Upon first glance, it looked like hairspray. She sprayed the substance on the keypad and when it dried, it left a residue on the keys from the oil that had been deposited from the owner’s fingertips.
Next, she took out a cell phone, pulled a cord from out of its base and inserted that into the lock. She plugged in the numbers then waited while her modified phone went through all possible configurations in less than a minute before triggering the lock. The door opened and gave way to a home office, ordinary in scope except for the almost half-million-dollar security system. There, for one thing only, she detached the portable hybrid external drive and left the way she came. She took out her cell phone again and this time used it as such.
Then, finally: [Click.]
“I’m listening,” said the voice on the other end. Exact. Male.
“Seven,” she replied. Flat. Hollow.
She put her cell phone back in her handbag then reapplied her lipstick in the mirror above the table.
Red lips reflected back.
The mirror shattered and red ran down her arm. Red dripped onto her very tight, very short dress and it mattered none as she put on her sunglasses, grabbed the hard drive and walked out the door.
She drove away in her black SLK convertible. Reaching into the armrest, she brought out a remote control, pushed its lone button, then threw it in the back seat. A great boom sounded as she neared the corner. When she looked in the rearview mirror, smoke and flames painted the sky black and red.
Police cars whizzed past her.
Fire trucks followed.
She drove--down the Hudson, through the Catskills and across the Delaware until the light of dusk stained the horizon. Upon reaching a tiny, out-of-the-way cabin, she stopped and like a robot out of charge, sat motionless in the car.
Minutes passed before she slowly looked around and her eyes brightened with the remembrance of how she came to be there.
She got out of the car and opened the front door, dropping her keys on the floor. They landed with a clatter and the sound reminded her of spent shell casings. She pulled her dress off from over her head and threw it down alongside her keys, then walked toward the back of the cottage, through the open patio doors, and dove into the pool lying beyond it.
She submerged herself completely, reveling in the cold sting of the water, and remained there till the air in her lungs burned for release. The butterflies took flight. Always the butterflies, as she unfolded within herself and pushed out her darker self, who found no issue with killing.