Disclaimer: The following is fiction. The story’s content does not represent the writer’s beliefs, opinions, or attitudes. This story is intended for adult entertainment only. The characters and events depicted in this work are fictional. The author does not condone or promote unlawful activity as described in the story. By continuing to read this work, you acknowledge that you are an adult who wishes to read works of fantasy and fiction for the purpose only of fantasy. All the characters in this story are adults. They may play different ages for the fictional character they are depicting, but they remain at all times adults.
Writers: Anon / Augmented by Regis
Subject: WAR GODDESSES SYPNOSIS & CHAPTER 1
Story Codes: Erotic Horror
War Goddesses 1
SYNOPSIS
Sol California, it is January 28th, 2051, and the new Republican President of the United States of America lies in bed feeling very much like the seventy-nine-year-old man he is. It turns out that it is an unspoken understanding by all that his younger, 64-year-old Vice President is the real leader of the party. Their far-right party is now in full control of both the legislative and executive branches of government. But a mild, ordinary warhorse of a candidate could win the White House, where a proto-fascist in the pocket of the military-industrial complex could not.
The public really believed the number two man could be kept on his leash by the older, wiser man. They liked the team: tough talking voice of the white middle-aged male backlash for a stick, and a limp old carrot of a party hack as a front man to calm the talking heads who dominate screen time on CNN. But great mischief has already been done. The United States needed money fast! When Quebec seceded from Canada, the US eagerly absorbed the nearly all white northern county in an attempt to offset the voting bloc posed by the middle-class frightening influx of non-white immigrants into the cities.
With a declining white birth rate, more white voters were needed, no matter what the cost, and the price we paid Canadians to join the United States was to adopt a Universal Health Care system like theirs had been. And only vice: drugs, gambling, and prostitution, could generate the kind of money needed to fund such a system.
When Mexico defaulted on its debt to the US, A legal team representing organised crime in America went to the White House with a bold plan. If Mexico gave Baja California to the United States to cover its debt, the Mob would run Baja California as a vice zone, a legal red-light district.
It was here that drugs, whores of all ages and sexes, and blood sports would generate trillions of dollars for the US. In exchange for this special license, the Mob would close all gambling, legal and illegal, as well as prostitution and drug smuggling in the other, now fifty-seven United States. The moral majority could run the rest of America as a born-again Christian fascist country, while sin would be banished to Baja California, where tourists from all over the world could come to commit unspeakable sin, knowing it was perfectly safe to do as they wanted.
In a mob-run town, you could leave your hotel room door unlocked or walk the neon-lit streets after midnight, confident you wouldn’t get mugged or hassled by beggars. And as a side benefit, Baja California became a prison state, a new version of Australia, the place apart where the riffraff were sent. It was a place where the maximum-security prisons could dump all their lifers on a new boss: either serve your sentence as gladiators in the domed arena’s blood sports, or suffer mob justice for disobedience and be fed to the sharks in the pretty warm blue waters off the pretty desert coast.
The US President was truly an old-fashioned man who deeply distrusted any single solution to so many horrible Problems. But the Japanese had promised to build a world-class deep-sea harbor for the battery of six huge casino hotels, all for the rights to monopolize sea access.
With so much money to be made, the whole resort would be open to the public and satellite TV sports coverage eighteen months from the day he signed the paperwork. As his wife had said, “The men and women who’ll live and die down there are already damned. It’s your job to save America!” She slept soundly, a good Christian, and the only solace he had in the world. As he lay in bed in the death hour of 3:00 am, the end of his index finger and thumb still throbbed from how hard he held onto the pen when he signed. The ink had been dry for now six hours. Tomorrow, he would give a press conference and explain what he had done to the world.
CHAPTER 1 — DEATH’S DISNEYLAND
Eighteen months later, I strode the sun-blasted streets of Sol California City, a free man for the first time since being sentenced to twenty years of hard labor for running a politically subversive internet web page. I guess I never really believed the Sedition Act of 1999 could survive a Supreme Court challenge.
Screw it. The National Security Agency visited me in my eight-by-fifteen cell at the Bend, Oregon Federal Correction Facility and slapped me on the back, saying …
“We love your encryption routines, Jack, just explain them to this tape recorder here, and run a few errands for us and our friends at the Biochemical Warfare Facility in Palm Springs, and hell, Jack, we’ll turn you loose and let you have your Library Card back!”
So I talked, and doomed thousands of Underground brothers and sisters who had come to depend on my encryption codes for intellectual freedom of expression. So I talked, and now I have a Government-issued unlimited VISA Card, and the freedom to turn my every Mission for my new Master’s into a working Vacation!
So I talked, and now I had an hour to kill before meeting my contact at the Kat Fight Klub, a blood-sport theater restaurant in the basement of the Coliseum 2000 Casino Hotel. My job was to pass a Pimp a needle full of the CIA’s latest combat frenzy-inducing drug, for his fighting cunt.
He, in turn, would dose one of his stable of Fighting Girls before this afternoon’s High Noon Showdown. I, in turn, would take sub-vocal notes into my throat-implant vox-recorder for my Hidden Master’s, masturbate and guzzle vodka tonics and make nice with the Locals.
And did I mention I was on a sixty-foot-wide sidewalk running along the most beautiful beach on Earth? Did I mention every halfway good-looking female between 12 and 50 from every war-torn country in South America had hiked North to make a FINE living on these same clothing optional, rich, tourist-clogged sidewalks?
My erection was jerking, and my head was spinning from not looking at so much inspiring bosom, sweaty belly, and brown bare legs. I had left the jet black inverted pyramid of the Celestial Nile Casino hotel behind and was fighting my way through a flooding river of sex and greed, heated humanity.
I was headed to the beachfront entrance to the one-hundred—story-tall, half-mile in diameter mirror-glass Coliseum 2000, which boasted a two-hundred-thousand-seat Arena in the “Courtyard” of the hotel ring, where manmade lakes, man-made hills and every zoo-bred beast or war toy or known to man could be used in staging battles great and small.
CNN blimps floated overhead, making certain that every scream and spilt gut could be seen on hi-def home theatre screens in America, where public use of the words “bosom” or “bomb” was illegal, but in the privacy of your home, cable or satellite television could put you in the middle of the action!
The Concrete Assyrian Griffins and Nubian Lions that made a double procession flanking the causeway from the Coliseum 2000 to the bikini blasted beach signaled a left turn was in order, and I “excused me’d” my way into the mob of tourists being sucked into the air-conditioned bowels of the biggest lobby in the world.
Standing between the black and white columns on either side of the electric doors, I glanced down at my watch. I had forty minutes to kill. I made my way south (right), along a facing of rainbow-painted pillars through some cypresses onto a four-lane concrete ramp running down into the darkness.
This was where loading docks received the tons of imported steaks, fresh vegetables, and clean linen each day. What grabbed my attention was a noisy mob of tourists in a ring, pressed up against the shutter-steel gates that closed off the sub-basements from street traffic.
Curious, I muscled my way inward (hell, I was on government business!), and saw that in a space cleared in the center, two girls faced each other in a fighting stance, standing about ten feet apart, both covered with sweat and breathing heavily. Seeing them, I started breathing heavily!
The fighter to my right, whom I learned was called Camille, was a Chicano girl of almost pure Castilian Spanish blood, her honeydew melon-sized breasts swelling over the black-lace cups of her bra like almost translucent white cream. You could see the web of blue veins under the soft skin of her swollen cleavage.
Her gypsy mane was jet-black and hung down her back in curly heaps of thick, wet hair. Her talons were black, painted as were her toes. The pubic triangle revealed by her black lace panties was lush, an Amazon delta. Her eyes were worthy of Cleopatra, huge, burning coals!
Her mortal enemy was wearing a tissue-paper-thin thin worn red flower print cotton shift, unbuttoned down the front so the front of her olive-skinned, massively voluptuous peasant girl’s body was exposed. Her hair was waist-length, falling straight, thick and black to her hefty buttocks. She left wet footprints with her bare feet as she gave a look of pure malevolence to the other girl.
Her pimp, obviously a little uncertain, a heavily muscled yet well overweight country bumpkin in a tee shirt and baggy trousers, waved a machete and boasted how Aza was a pure Mayan girl, from her full, eagle beak-like nose, to the blood of the Jaguar God of blood sacrifice flowing in her veins.
A touch on my left arm caused me to jump a little, and I found myself looking at Camille’s pimp in his good right eye (his left being white with a cataract).
“After this public appetizer, I will have my woman take you to the private club.”
His blue foil leisure suit glistened, shimmering as I palmed a syringe into his palm, answering his code phrase with my own.
“I can only really relax in a private club.”
He nodded to a statuesque goddess in a skin-tight, vinyl red dress standing behind us on the curb in the glare of direct sunlight. Her mid-thigh length dress was scoop-necked, her 44D cup cleavage shining like olive spheres, oiled and shining, as if she had stuffed a pair of large melons into her tight dress.
Her legs were long dancer’s legs, kickboxer’s bare legs, her thigh muscles bulging firm atop her slender ankles, with her feet severely arched in her nine-inch red stiletto heels. Her face regal, brunette hair a full mane for a Latin war goddess. Her lover smiled, gold teeth shining in the middle of his face.
“My ancestors came to the Caribbean from Africa, where they were Kings. Salma, now she makes me a King.”
“Is Salma a fighting girl?” I asked, fantasizing about how it would be to make love to such a royal animal.
“She is my number one fighting girl, as well as my personal fuck woman,” he confided to me, “Camille is out here proving to me she has what it takes to fight as a girl in my stable, Salma is my queen. It will be she you drag will carry to victory in the death fight later inside.”
A sudden cry riveted my attention to the spectacle of two magnificent girls flying together, the two uranium halves of a nuclear bomb! An explosion of curses and flailing limbs spun out of control at the center of the circle as Camille and Aza rained blows on each other’s shuddering heads.
The two combating cunts were dancing in a circle, their sizeable boobs flopping wildly. Totally without thought of self-defense, the two bitterly battling amazons were like a tigress and a lioness meeting in a jungle clearing. All attack, snarling through bloody, bared teeth!
Both girls’ mouths streamed blood, blood squirting from their nostrils as bare knuckle fists pounded like artillery shells onto eye-sockets and cheekbones, jaws and temples. Aza howled and rushed the ivory white Chicano, her brown shoulder slamming under Camille’s arms into her wet, bare belly.
She drove the other girl backwards, her black talons tearing open her dress and ripping gruesome red furrows in the exposed meat of her shoulders. But Camille kept on her feet, and drove her right knee up into Aza’s dangling brown mammaries again and again and again.
Bellowing, palms shoved into Aza’s shoulders, she shoved the Mayan warrior away. The crowd roared as the two hell cats closed again, grappling desperately. Camille grabbed two handfuls of Aza’s hair and shoved her head up, driving her own forehead into the Mayan girl’s nose, attempting to drive the cartilage like a spike into the brown peasant girl’s brain!
Face erupting crimson, Aza staggered back, now completely unhinged, ploughed back into the fray, wrapping her fingers around Camille’s soft white throat and began choking her with all her might. Camille responded by strangling Aza back, as each girl tries to throttle the other and drive her to her knees.
The two near-naked girls thrust their voluptuous, wet, bloody torsos together, elbows out, shaking, faces purpling with the incredible force with which they were squeezing each other’s necks. Camille’s eyes bulged out, and her face went from ruby red to a frightening purple.
Even though she still had Aza by the throat, and Aza’s tongue protruded, blackening, Aza was shaking Camille like a rag doll. Suddenly, Camille’s feet slipped out from under her as her rubbery legs gave way. She slammed onto the concrete on her back, limbs kicking weakly, gagging.
Gasping, streaming sweat, the now completely naked Aza stood over her fallen foe and the light of realizing her victory came into her eyes. Camille’s Pimp just shrugged his blue foil shoulders and winked at me as he went about paying off bets. Salma appeared at my side and guided me to a stretch limo at the curb.
“We’ll have to drive to the east entrance to get to the club,” she explained as I slid into the cool air and rich leather within, ”Want some champagne?”
I nodded as the door closed, watching the crowd follow the winning pimp and Aza back out to the beach, leaving Camille to pick up her clothes and head out to the waves to wash up and recover alone.
THE END OF CHAPTER ONE