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 CHAPTER 3
Story Codes: Erotic Horror
War Goddesses 3
CHAPTER 3 — THE KAT FIGHT KLUB
The Grand Concourse de Or was fifty moving sidewalks, red carpeted, that carried the constantly arriving hordes of goggling international tourists from the cab and airport van cues along the quarter mile East Face of the Coliseum-2000 Resort Hotel Complex through the football field long stretch of air-conditioned colonnade into the vast cathedral-like lobby within.
I was able to tear my eyes from Salma H’s bombshell contours in their skintight red casing (a little red dress), only because she was looking cosmically bored to death with the refugee camp-like confusion all around us and the deafeningly loud Country Music blaring down from the rafters at us.
The music had simultaneous German, Japanese, English and Spanish DJ commentaries ( …. Welcome back, pardners to KSPUR, and our special noon time album preview … Today we’re featuring Reba and Clint’s duet release of songs from the “Turner Diaries” soundtrack).
A buzz like a gnat-sized demon cut through the cacophony, causing me to look down at the black leather handrail to my right. On it were little television consoles the size of cigarette boxes spaced about every three feet. “Welcome to Coliseum-2000, select from the menu,” blinked on the tiny screen.
I had a choice of 1: Orientation, 2: Hotel Maps,3: Pre-Room Registration, 4: Arena Pre-Views, 5: R-Rated Erotica… “For your pleasure!” Wow.
With a series of mild bumps, the conveyor belt passes through a series of gun and explosive detectors, a sound barrier and drops us onto the black marble tiles of the “Largest Lobby in the World”, and we reeled, pummeled by the sound of thousands of one-armed bandits (slot machines), loudspeaker pages.
( “… Nippon Sex-Violence Tours Group 666 please converge at the Information kiosk to the south of the roulette tables …”), and all around plain old-fashioned going-to-the-department-store-with-your-wife-and-kids hubbub!
Salma snapped her cheek full of yellow banana bubble-gum, grabbed a daiquiri from a tray offered her by a bikini-clad Courtesy Hostess with one large breast purposefully hanging out, and dragged me through the stampede for a full twenty minutes before we emerged before a set of glass doors under a flashing neon Members Only sign.
Waving at the security cameras, she pulled me past them into a narrow hall leading to another set of glass doors labeled “Iguana Lizard Lounge”. But we wheeled left before a set of unmarked chrome steel elevator doors set in the black marble wall. Her bright red polished talons slipped a security card from god only knows where and fed it to the gizmo by the door. It spat it out and voila: the doors opened and we got in, Miles Davis from “Kind of Blue” piped over the muzak speaker.
I was just getting into “Flamenco Sketches” and vertigo when the car stopped dropping, and Salma, with a mighty shake of her gypsy mane, towed me out of the elevator and over to a posh black leather and velvet booth near the stage in the infamous Kat Fight Klub!
“So whadda ya tink?” Salma said, sliding her World-Class ass across the leather in our booth, leering like one teenage boy showing another teenage boy the Playboy Magazine he had hidden under his bed.
I goggled, taking it all in. A chrome bar ran the length of the right side of the room, sitting about a hundred well-fed tux-clad business men types and one-thousand-dollars-a-pop hookers (excuse me, I meant to say: escorts!).
Booths ran the length of the left wall, table-cloth and candle-lit tables filling the floor back to the stage or raised square canvas “ring” in the back. The sound level was hushed, a string quintet sawing away at their violas, violins and string-basses in the corner. Mozart, of course.
Snooty plastic, like the Country Garbage playing in the concourse, was low-brow plastic. But you had to have Serious-Plastic to eat here. She rattled on about the “Fight Game” and picked at a crab salad whilst I had the duck and a Singha beer, eyeing the three immense television screens, each at least ten feet by twelve, set over the ziggarat of booze bottles behind the bar.
The central television showed a dirigible camera view of the huge central Arena in the resort’s courtyard, where orange vested chain-gang work crews struggled to rake mortar fire craters flat, scoop up spent shot gun and machine gun casings, and round up the stray broken broad swords and bowie-knives.
This cleanup was so that this afternoon’s group of near-naked boy and girl gladiators, putting their lives on the line simply for the entertainment of the people pacing the stands, wouldn’t twist an ankle on Hamburger Hill, or by the man-made lake called the Bermuda Triangle in the brochures.
The television to the right showed the empty stage in front of us, ready to capture the action when Salma demonstrated the CIA battle-lust drug I had smuggled to her pimp. It was Salma’s nudge to my elbow that directed my attention to the bare-breasted boxing match getting underway on the television monitor to the left.
“Oh, no!” I vocalised with everyone else in the room who was looking up on the screen just then, “She’ll get creamed!”
The camera had just panned from Rebekka, a barefoot five-foot-five swarthy Italian Amazon in red Everlast boxer shorts, to the surprise on the card.
Rebekka, as focused as an animal in the midst of a hunt, tapped her black boxing gloves together in front of the 44D boobs that bounced with her as she bounced on her toes, Hollywood’s favorite bleached blond Party Girl climbed awkwardly between the ropes.
She was naked but for a professional pair of rigid body armor boxing trunks and big red gloves that she obviously had trouble holding up in front of her in a defensive posture.
“It’s Drew,” Salma snapped her gum and snorted.
I breathed as I and everyone else in the crowd read the text that scrolled across the bottom of the screen: Rebekka, Mistress of the late Chicago Boss of the Trash Haulers Union, indited on seventeen counts of consorting with a known target of a RICO Investigation is challenged tonight by Drew, weighing in at twenty pounds under the Middle Weight Sybil Brand Ladies Division Boxing Champ.
(And about ten inches less in the bust, the announcer added with a wink in his voice). The five-foot-two Miss Drew joins us tonight, thanks to compiling more than eight hundred violations of the conditions of her parole for running a red light in a reform school zone.)
The bell rang and Rebekka danced forward, alternating jabs at Drew’s cute pug face and Drew in turn skipped backwards, letting herself be herded around the ring, keeping her big red gloves up as if desperate to avoid thousands of dollars of painful reconstructive surgery!
Salma was snorting so regularly that she sounded like a mature sow demonstrating the noise a train makes to her piglets. Drew pawed out at Rebekka ineffectively a few times, and a man in a booth near ours pretended to snore loudly.
Then, as if they could hear our unvoiced jeers, the two girls closed, hunched over, and pummelled each other’s gloves. But Rebekka broke to the right and, dipping, fired a mean left jab under Drew’s defenses and solidly connected with the creamy skin sheathed ribs below Drew’s soft left breast.
Drew hooted and literally flung herself back into the ropes, and unintentionally rebounded right into the Italian girl’s follow-up charge, wedging her narrow shoulders between Rebekka’s gloves. In a split second, you could actually see light dawn in Drew’s powder blue eyes, and her right uppercut tapped Rebekka’s jaw up for a roundhouse left that dropped the olive-skinned Italian girl to one knee.
As Drew backpeddled, astonished at what she had done, people all around the Kat Fight Club threw back their chairs and applauded from their tables. Salma’s jaw dropped. Suddenly, Rebekka shook her head (you could actually see her mouth the words: “Lucky Punch”), and leapt back to her feet and stormed after Drew, who barely got her mitts up in time to catch a blizzard of blows aimed at her face.
Her whole frame shuddering from the punches Rebekka was throwing at her, Drew struggled vainly to bob and weave like she had a few weeks of training in Sibyl Brand to do. But the other girl was a real fighter, and pissed! Salma leaned over to me, her left hand straying into my lap, causing my attention to stray from the fight on the sports screen television.
I could smell a sea-salt/rose scented heat rising from her massive mounds, stemming from deep within the golden cleavage of her magnificent breasts, and I felt both weak and drunk.
“I remember my First Fight …” she exhaled the words like cigarette smoke, curling, slow and heavy, “I was a thirteen-year-old girl who lived in what is called in Spanish: The Ring of Those Who Must Live Below Heaven.” The Ring of Those Who Must Live Below Heaven was, by 1989 (when Salma was thirteen), a nickname given by Martyred Marxist Poet to the vast masses of poor that lived around Mexico City in a circular ghetto without sewage, running water, or paved streets.
Thirty million unskilled, uneducated men, women and children lived here, driven North by civil wars in the fallen dictatorships US business Interests had maintained through the Cold War. When the USSR fell, so did the US passion for the World War Two era, Latin fascists, and their feudal kingdoms.
The richer the capitalists in Central Mexico City grew on oil profits and tourism, the less the Mexican middle class recalled their poor Catholic relations, multiplying unchecked in the shadows of wealth that tripled, then doubled, then tripled when the National Debt was forgiven with the so-called “sale” of Baja California to the Northern Anglos.
Now all the previously frozen capital could be pumped into rebuilding Core Mexico City and erecting “family” tourist resorts on the west coast, where folks could stay in “respectable” resorts, only a twenty-minute helicopter jump away from Big Fun across the Sea of Cortez, which the Americans called the Gulf of California.
The People’s Revolutionary Party ( the ironically named Mexican Ruling Party, decades of single-party rule under their belt), invited every toxin-producing company booted out of Germany, Japan or the US to build in this ring of cheap labor, extending the harm to the population.
Salma’s family had lived in a self-made warren of pasteboard boxes and packing crates where her mother cut open beer cans and scraped off the labels for her father, who then used half of a broken scissor as a tool.
“He used it to cut and hammer dream-like animals, which her older sister sew together with bits of copper wire stripped from abandoned cars. These Native Arts Necklaces, Mobiles and Wind-Chimes, her other eight siblings sold along the highway that ran from the Daath Petro Chemical facility through their squalid barrio to the Capital City.
“Even though she was a middle-class girl by local standards, she, nevertheless, had to join her local gang of home girls, the Steel-Cheetahs, when pubic hair and breasts sprouted, making her old enough to draw male attention, and thus threaten the local pecking order of marriageable females.
This entailed going into the mountains of garbage and junked cars near her home, a place nearly a mile square, in which gangs of boys and girls staked turf and fought and died to hold it, fighting off cat-sized rats, vicious dog packs, mentally deranged homeless men and each other.
They would lavishly mural and furnish an old bus or lean-to of scrap metal, give themselves a Gang Name, and move in to get drunk, high and fornicate enthusiastically. It was August 14th, a hundred degrees, and blinding bright as she found the goat skull on a fence post “marker” where she was to strip naked and wait for whatever was to come.
Her huge brown eyes and wild masses of hair gave her the look of a wild animal as she scanned every shadow for a revealing outline and listened to every creak and snap for the attack she knew would come. Suddenly, three bigger girls erupted shrieking from every side! Instantly, they were on her, fists driving into the hellcat they had trapped in their midst.
She had been hammered into a crouch when suddenly something snapped deep within her, as softly as a cat biting through a mouse’s spine. Red poured into her brain like burning liquid light. She returned to her senses, what must have been only minutes later, and was startled by what she saw.
Looking up, she observed two of the now naked gang girls staggering away, limping on a full run on two legs and one arm each. Looking down, she realized she was kneeling on the third girl’s heaving chest. It was obviously pointless to hit her any longer.
Standing, swaying, an unprecedented cool breeze swept through the stinking heaps of trash, some a hundred feet tall. Her skin grew goose bumps. An hour passes. If those girls had seconds or reinforcements to back them up, they had found more pressing matters to attend to.
Salma felt more irrevocably changed than she had when raped of her virginity at the tender age of eight by a local commissioner’s strong-arm man. Dragging the fallen girl to her feet, she all but carried her back to the overturned semi-truck the Steel-Cheetahs used for a clubhouse.
The other girls were waiting there, wide-eyed, sipping homebrew beer. They had a headband made of the gut of a girl she’d killed, she wore until ten years later it had come apart beyond repair. Even though fighting had already made her rich, she had sat on her bed and sobbed.
“So you see, I can identify,” Salma said, throwing back her drink, and looking back at the television monitor where Rebekka was brutally hammering the now-out-of-it unconscious blond girl into the ropes, “Somewhat …” She laughed, and I joined her, “I sure hope the fights I lost I didn’t look that bad as I was losing!”
Drew’s head was lolling left and right with every punch, her knees wobbling, torso weaving back and forth, body held up by the ropes. She tried to raise a knee to push the Italian girl back, but Rebekka contemptuously slapped it away. Then she stood back, letting Drew stagger forward.
She completed the victory over her capitulating foe by folding Drew over her arm with a murderous right hook into her soft, white belly, then dropping the beaten blond to the canvas with a hammering slam to the back of her sweat-matted head, a blow that could have ended her life.
Suddenly thoughtful, I wished that even if I couldn’t win, it would be great if, sometimes, someone I supported could win, just once. It would make up for being so owned outright. Such a predictable piece of property.
Salma, sensing my change of mood, turned my face to hers and spoke to me in a surprisingly gentle voice.
”I’ve got to go to the dressing room to change for the fight and take your stuff.”
Smiling so that it made me smile in return, she held my eyes with hers as she slipped her left hand under the table into my pants, stroked my erection to explosion, then with a deft twist of her wrist, caught all of my ejaculation into her palm, which she bowed her beautiful head to suck clean with a lick of her tongue.
“For luck,” she whispered and slipped out of the booth and vanished.
Trembling, I looked up to be equally astonished to see the most drop-dead beautiful All-American Girl rise laughing from a table of Japanese business tycoons. Her black lace dress evening gown had a breathtaking low cut that exposed an amazing uplifted cleavage.
She had shoulder-length chestnut hair tossed carelessly over naked white shoulders. But what made my heart beat so hard that it really hurt was my conviction that I knew this woman from somewhere. But Where?
She excused herself and disappeared to the back, where Salma had gone. Was she the woman Salma was going to meet in Mortal Kombat? I felt confused. But why? Who was she? I felt stricken. Something important was about to take place, and I had to know what it was before it happened. I had to get in some kind of control!
THE END OF CHAPTER THREE