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 4
Story Codes: Erotic Horror
War Goddesses 4
CHAPTER 4 — GIRL VERSES GIRL
She was standing on a high chalk cliff face overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, which, one hundred million years ago, had been an ever-widening valley, yet to be inundated in the peaceful interior heart of the super-continent of Gondwana Land. The souls of the ghosts of the Amazon Queens that led their nomadic warrior tribes back and forth across that prehistoric world on long forgotten Quests now cried upwards through cold, salty depths for their inheritors to hear their battle chants, incantations, and magical words of power. And evoke by racial memory their Inheritance of Charm and Sword!
She was in modern clothes, her flower print dress rolled down to her waist, exposing fulsome, firm, black lace bra-restrained breasts to the goose bump-raising gusts of cold, sea gusts. Her long brown hair fell back of her shoulders in Jamaican braids. She was looking over her shoulder as if to see if her lover had paused in his undressing to stop and watch her unfolding nakedness.
Tall, maybe 25 years of age, she looked to me so good that. If you could go back and erase every mistake I had ever made with my life, and add to that every happiness I had ever hoped of having, and then make that emotion into a figure of flesh and bone. Then it would be embodied in that girl!
She was, I realized mid-daydream, the girl whom I had just seen leaving a table full of rich Japanese business Tycoons for the backstage area of the Kat Fight Klub. But the girl in my fantasy was scrubbed clean of all the Gangster Moll paint and hard laughter. She was the way she would look as if I were her Lover — in my dreams — where, damn it, had I encountered her before?
Suddenly, I was returned to my Body. Why? I looked up. A clammy feeling fell across my flesh like cold oil. Who, Where? I looked back, then groaned; every gate of emotion in my psyche shut down. That’s what I felt arrive! Your Grandparents will tell you they remember where they were when they heard that World War II was over.
Your Parents will tell you they remember where they were when they heard that President JFK was shot dead. And your kids will never forget where they were when they heard that Canada had fallen apart and they had six new States and State Capitols to memorize.
Me, now I realize I’ll remember to my dying breath, sitting here in the posh Kat Fight Klub, sipping a Singha brew in the World infamous Coliseum-2000 Resort-Hotel in Sol City, Baja California, when dapper Death Itself nodded to the Maitre D’ to show him to the table always held open for him.
His table was always available, simply marked “reserved”, in case he should come to town! The table was up front, Ringside, where women met in Mortal Kombat for the diversion of upstanding American and Canadian Citizens who were taking a little Holiday from the Family Values up north.
Death was Frank, my agent handler, the computer whiz, the turncoat maker. As soon as I saw him sashay into the room, I knew it was the End of the World. I had wondered why I was given a task so simple as smuggling a CIA-developed combat-lust-inducing drug.
He regularly provided it to some pimp to try out on one of the fighting girls in his stable. Now I knew, deep in my heart, they wanted a cutout. Someone expendable. They would hang back and watch me to see if someone grabbed me to steal what they would think was my secret fight-advantage giving potion.
When I get grabbed, they would ice me and grab the kidnappers! What a way to intercept the Competition. If they had simply mailed the Pimp the syringe via UPS, no one would have seen him get a “package” just before one of his girls inexplicably wins a fight where she ought to have been out-matched!
Two plus two would give the enemy me. And I would be the bait on the hook to catch the big fish of the opposition. I could feel myself turning grey-green as Frank tuned his cuff links, pretending to carelessly look around the Room before taking his seat. He saw me all right.
A momentary pursing of his lips, as if a kiss, let me know I was one pinned-down butterfly. I thought bitterly of poor blond mop-headed baby-faced Drew, whom I’d just seen eat the green weenie in a brutal boxing rout. I identified with her, to my regret. We were both put in the Ring to lose, to set up the real fight that was meant to happen.
Right now, I wish I could find that girl on whatever concrete holding cell bench she was waiting on, waiting to be sent to the punishment that was to be her thanks. I would throw my coat over her naked shoulders and steal her from the Bastards in Power. I would run with her South, somewhere we could hide forever. Drink. Smoke. Laugh. Forget.
“Look sharp, my man.”
It was the guy I only knew as The Pimp, electric blue foil leisure suit and shaved black head flashing in the neon lighting like He was Neon. But his hand was on my shoulder, the smallish face centered in his bullet plug of a head full of genuine concern. That he should be concerned about me, really concerned me!
“May I join the Party?” he slid in beside me as I nodded.
“Do you see the guy I’m not looking at?” I asked, signaling for a waitress.
He nodded, patting all his empty pockets. I passed him one of my Turkish blends of Afghanistan hash and American tobacco.
“Have you ever …”
He nodded and hushed me as he leaned forward so I wouldn’t have to stretch out my arms to light his smoke.
“Man, I would have never dosed Salma with that stuff had I known it came to us through him.”
We pretended to letch the waitress as she leaned over to polish our table, letting us know how good the care she was giving us. I tipped her way more than she dared hope and shrugged my shoulders at the Pimp as if to ask why. He admired the smoke ring he made and started to talk without moving his lips much, real low, so his words died out about a yard from his face.
“Let me tell you a little story about that dude. First of all, a friend of a friend of mine served with him in the suppression of the Idaho-Oregon Uprising. The cat’s a fucking walking upside-down pentagram!
“Slick as shit through a goose, he pretends he is nothing but the brain of a tax accountant trapped in the body of a soap opera hunk, but being able to print his own money means nothing to him. Being a cold-blooded stone killer is his idea of recreation. He’s an all-around Renaissance Man of the World.”
“He’s my nursemaid,” I hissed, “Speak nicely or keep your peace.”
“You’re a dead man,” he continued, just as amused by being in mortal danger as I was, ”You set up my woman for a fall?”
I shook my head imperceptibly.
“Didn’t think so. The other Bitch is gonna get a nasty surprise, right?”
“I think that’s the plan.”
“They don’t need video of their shit in action, do they? No, this is all about seeing who gets all upset with us!
I nodded, deflating like a tired balloon.
“Damn!”
“You said ‘first’, what comes ‘second’?”
“Second,” he smiled so everybody could see how at ease and casual he was feeling, “Comes a story that Salma told me about when she had travelled as an official, on the payroll of Uncle Sugar, germ-free army whore with the battalion sent down into Brazil to protect the loggers from international environmentalists and pygmies with blowguns who didn’t like the Amazon rainforest converted into sunbelt condominiums ….”
It had rained for ten days straight, reminding all the Commanders of Vietnam, with mid-calf mud everywhere, bugs the size of cats, and beer served at eighty degrees, tasting cold cause it was what they called double one hundred, one hundred degrees of temperature, one hundred per cent humidity.
While she humped generals and such in a quonset hut with plumbing, all the rank-and-file grunts had to trudge three clicks up a truck route to a double row of fifty-year-old, falling-down, miners’ and loggers’ storefronts and such, all held together by decades of multi-lingual pop-star and cola posters and hand bills.
This ville had no name, no police, no plumbing, no pavement. You could buy supplies at scalper’s prices, get your truck half-fixed and drink bath-tub beer and god knows what jungle home brew till you went blind.
Bored and ready to raise hell, Salma had sloshed into town only to see every grunt and out-of-work half-breed within twenty miles around making for a muddy soccer field. It seems Frank was the Chief of Security and had given up trying to settle a feud between prostitutes.
These were the local-born whores, (who worked along the truck road, squatting by little campfires, waving their tits at the drivers), and the better-looking hookers that Pimps in Rio de Janeiro and Sao Paulo had flown in to work off debts in their brothels. Frank’s idea was to let them arm themselves with kitchen knives, table legs, broken bottles, rocks they picked up, whatever, and battle it out until one side or the other eliminated the competition.
He parked a troop transport at the edge of the field and set up a video camera on the roof. He actually fired his pistol into the air to start it off! All in all, maybe sixty soaking wet women fought, staggering about in that muddy field, cursing in Spanish and a dozen dialects, oblivious to the cheering soldiers and loggers and the horror of their pimps who were helpless to stop this decimation of their income property.
But almost instantly, the slashing and stabbing between the lighter-skinned city girls and darker-skinned home-girls branched out into bitter infighting where old grudges were settled and the plainer girls ganged up on girls they felt had been given an unfair advantage in looks.
Within two minutes, Salma said, it was a general Malay, several bodies already being trampled into the brown goosh by furiously fighting girls. Woman everywhere staggered, stripped to the waist, barefoot, wildeyed, blood streaming from their heads down over swinging arms and flapping breasts.
The town beauty was held naked and spread-eagled by her arms and legs by four jealous girls of Inca stock, while she twisted, protesting their betrayal. Since they had their hands full just holding her, they just stood there waiting for a friend of theirs to finish off the pale hooker she was fighting with, to come over with her concrete-filled pipe to bash out their writhing hell-cats’ brains.
This was cunt-killing sport! Another naked, mud and blood-covered girl actually pulled a woman who was strangling her childhood enemy off of her, so she could throw herself onto the gasping prostitute and wrap her own fingers around the slender throat she felt was hers to throttle!
Even the prostitutes’ naked pre-teen daughters, dancing around the field in their tattered rags, soon became so carried away that they rushed in to fight alongside their mothers against the daughters of the women their mothers were fighting. And in the midst of this Amazonian Combat, a torrential downpour erupted from the sky, so that one could barely see a few yards in front of their face!
This sky-launched flood of pounding rain had the effect of splashing the combatants in every direction. Howling women chased screaming women out from the soccer field, where they burst through the encircling ring of spectators, and raced off into the jungle or into the village.
Ropes were sought for lynching. Shotguns were fetched from hotel rooms. Fights were broken off only to be renewed when the combatants met again later in different surroundings. The camera mounted on top of the truck could not catch everything, but it recorded enough to make it interesting.
Salma saw two women who had caught up to one another in an open storm drain, wrestling chest deep in the rapids’ muddy water flowing around them, shouts and curses carried away on the wind. Two girls had driven another up a tree like dogs pursuing a cat. She said they were crawling up after her to do battle in the limbs!
Yet another naked teenage girl was seen staggering home to sleep off her drunken stupor, in her hand an enemy’s head, blood dripping from the stump of a neck, swinging the decapitated head by the hair like a handbag. She must have found a sword or knife in the mud, missed by the cleanup.
The dispute was not resolved the way Frank had envisioned, but he had boasted that the peace was restored by bringing the number of prostitutes down below the number needed to service all the loggers and soldiers. It seemed the girls remaining were too busy fucking to fight.
“That’s really sick,” I admonished Mr Neon, as I now called him.
Mr Neon shrugged his shoulders.
“I notice one thing, though,” he said, drawing on the straw in his tall tropical fruit rum concoction, “I always notice people who get upset by seeing or hearing certain things always seem to go miles out of their way so they can see or hear about those same certain things so they can manage to get good and upset.”
“I guess they feel it’s a calling or their duty,” I said, making small talk.
“What are we going to do?”
Frank was making certain everyone in the room could see the wrist computer he wore, holding up his arm as he checked to see if he had any e-mail.
“We’re going to sit here, watch the fight, and act as normal as we can, guy. And watch each other’s back on the sly.”
“Oh, no …” I breathed.
She was back in the room. She was pausing by the table of Japanese Businessmen, smiling thank you, touching arms, looking drop-dead gorgeous in her encasing black lace gown.
The gown’s spectacular cantilevered black lace bodice thrust her honey-dew melon-sized breasts together and up and out in a breathtaking display of marshmallow cleavage. She switched her small-of-back length brunette tresses, all eyes in the room on her. She commanded attention in her presentation.
Mr Neon looked at me and smiled as if to say: Forget it!
“Who is she?” I whispered.
“That,” the pimp said, “Is Jennifer Three.”
“Jennifer Three?” I asked, for the first time, putting together a face and figure with the story Frank had told me about the first experimental use of the fight drug.
“Yup, the shit you pass to me for Salma is the battlefield standard issue offshoot of the stuff they gave her and the girl she fought. It’s a lot more stable. And different. Now she’s called Jennifer Three, as in Jennifer Version Three, just like computer software.
Jennifer One was Jennifer before being biochemically altered that first time. Jennifer Two was the fighting girl permanently, (as they found out with that first formula), altered somewhat by that drug. Now here we have Jennifer Three, fully equipped with implanted, radio-signalled pumps that send measured amounts of the fight drug into her bloodstream when her masters want to move her to combat mode.”
I was only half listening as Jennifer Three left the table she had been visiting to walk over to join Frank at his.
“Son of a Bitch!” I whispered, “And I thought you were a simple, ordinary Pimp with a Stable of fighting cunts you had assembled to use in the many pits and stages on the Baja peninsula.”
He laughed, mouthing the words: “Hell, no!”
But then I was stricken by what I saw dangling like a charm from a thin gold chain looped around her waist. It was a gold cursive lettering spelling out: Jennifer Four!
THE END OF CHAPTER FOUR