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 6
Story Codes: Erotic Horror
War Goddesses 6
CHAPTER 6 — Red Helmets Over Little Tokyo
That should be about it, I thought to myself. I was leaning with my elbows on my knees, head hanging down, almost between them, looking at the way my pants had bunched up around my ankles. My shoes were sticking out in the front of the crumpled heap of material. Somebody else’s cigarette butt lay, scarlet lipstick around its butt end, in front of my shoes.
I lurched to my feet, yanking my pants up, belt flopping, and reeled as if thrown off a cliff into an abyss. I slumped to the right, toilet-paper roll canister driving painfully into the meat on the outside of my thigh. The little phone booth like space of the green toilet stall reared around me like a nightmare. What?
Suddenly my mouth was full of rotten fruit and vegetables spit, and I began to gag! Squinting at the prison-like ceiling light in it’s steel cage I suddenly began shuddering from the chill of the frigid air-conditioning, and scrambled out of the stall into the bathroom, gawking stupidly at the row of porcelain sinks.
Every few minutes the urinal’s would gush water. What? What was I … I vaguely remembered coming in here … How long ago? I lurched forward, splashed water in my face, zipped up my trousers, and made for the door, feeling the seat of my pants because I noticed I had been sitting on the toilet with my pants down, but my boxer-shorts still pulled up …
Bang! I was halfway into the Central Concourse before I returned to awareness. The Casino seemed deserted, halls empty, glowering maids, silicone chest expanded courtesy cocktail waitresses and janitors leaned against columns enjoying a smoke in peace.
Even the Great Slot Machine Pits were only half full, old ladies and half-blind old men pulling at levers like machines themselves. Oh, I get it. It must be tea-time, four o’clock, when the Big Event takes place in the Great Central Arena with the fake lakes and midget mountains and the cast of convicted thousands.
Or at least several hundred. Everyone had fled to Sports Bars, Hotel Room Entertainment Centers, or plush Viewing Theaters. Those who hadn’t coughed up the $500.00 for a seat in the stands with the literally hundreds of thousands of Tourists and Fans. Shit, I got wasted and I missed it. I was going to see….
Then I began pulling myself together. Something must have happened to me. I had, I glanced at my watch, lost an hour and a half at least! Vertigo and nausea were kicking in with a vengeance, now. That’s it. I am a kind of Spy, now. Someone must have drugged me and made me tell all I knew.
But then, I was still alive. It didn’t make sense. Why was I still alive? I had delivered the fight frenzy drug. The girl who it was tested on Kicked Butt in the Major League. All I had to do was go home, report, and get another low-life styled job like this one was for Uncle Sugar.
I tongued a console on the inside of a left rear molar, and got a beep from the transmitter in my middle ear. A pixel of light also flashed in the periphery of my vision. My implanted electronics seemed to be functioning. Too bad this diagnostic was the only trick I could get them to do.
It’s only in cheap shot to wrist screen sized action videos that the heros can play back what these systems record, do cut-and-paste, and all that. I had to go to a lab and be downloaded and then reformatted like a dumb 1960’s Russian Spy Satellite. Returning to a really ill version of normal all I wanted was out!
The halls seemed canyon-like as I made my way to a causeway leading out to the Beach. I felt like Virgil wandering the empty streets of Rome, loathing the Deathfights, but glad they were pulling all the smelly, noisy proletariat out of the city and into the bleachers, leaving the atmospheric streets still and moody for a poet out taking a walk.
The sun was half way down the pure blue Pacific sky, cloudless but cool, the heat of day had broken with a blue breeze, and a blue sea and sky California was privileged to share with Hawaii rolled out forever and “So what?” repeated like a blue riff playing directly into my ear.
I bought a beer from a girl who had to hoist the tray out from under the shadow of her mountainous tits, then tipped the bitch five bucks for the courtesy brew. Wouldn’t you? It washed the bitter taste of being just who I was out of my mouth and I pulled my shoes and socks off.
I walked across the sand out to the line of an endless series of glassy curls. So what? So, fucking what? The sand felt just like it was when I was ten years old and Page Military Academy bussed us out to Santa Monica Pier for a day at the Beach. Far out. Very far out.
Out in the breakers really big Mexican girls would be floating like manatees, laughing and waving at their skinny Mexican boyfriends up the beach to pull off their jeans and jump in. But those kids with their brave new mustaches and cigarette packs rolled up in a tee-shirt sleeve just laughed and waved back.
I was just old enough to grow my own erections then, having been exposed to toilet blow jobs and the bigger guys calling us kid “Bitches”, their boy-cunts, and I would wade out in the waves and swim with them, wondering why they wore tee-shirts over their black one-piece Mexican Wrestling Women bathing suits.
I guessed after a while the bitches were being modest about their immense bosoms. But, so what? They and their boyfriends and their sweet picnics at the pier and the used rubbers and the cheap beer.
They’re gone with peace, love, and cheap gasoline for their fine rebuilt 1954 Chevies, and Black Beetle Studebakers, and here and now was, actually, all right. Cool foam washed my floppy pale white feet, and cool foam washes away the Cosmic Frown, the wrinkle waking up too fast from a nap put in baby’s brow.
Then I saw Her. No, it was a different Her. But a her, for sure! Splashing naked in the surf, rolling over and over in waist high little waves that, in reality were too weak to really turn her over. Pale as my feet, but a lot sweeter, freckled white bare breasts lolling that begged to be squeezed.
And as if I had said that and she had heard me, the naked lady got to her knees, and took a long soulful pull on her bottle of Champagne, auburn hair, cropped into a spikey mop that clung wetly to her head. Her pubic hair was auburn too. She was maybe thirty-five, five foot four, a hundred and two, bird limbed, she was a voluptuous pixy with huge sad eyes and full laughing lips that….
“Hi!” I waved and waded out to her, water soaking my trousers to the calves. “May I join you?” “Did you know the only thing against the law in this fuck factory is fucking on the Beach?” She laughed deep, wet and nasty, swaying upward.
“Do you,” she said offering me her bottle, which I waved away with an apologetic smile, “mind very much fucking a very drunk Lady?”
She got to her feet, and stepped into my personal space like she had furnished it her own damn self, she seemed so at home, breast pointing into my ribs, making wet spots, a knee sliding between mine.
“By the way, my name’s Rosanna,” she peered up with clear cool eyes, “Can you say Rosanna?”
“I say, Rosanna, why don’t we go to my room and screw until dinner?”
“Great.” was all she said.
And that’s how I came to walk with a naked lady through the doors and halls and up the elevator to my room, feeling all they eyes on us, and liking being me for the first time in Modern History. I’m sure if a hotel manager had been paged, or a house cop had seen us. But none did. Only the incredulous.
And as we went into my room, I thought: ‘So what?’
“No Glove, No Love”, she mumbled as she climbed onto the coffee table in front of the window and began to dance.
“I’ve got some in the bathroom,” I explained, shrugging off the unmade bed and the sorry heap of cloths thrown over the chair.
I had to pee in the worst way. That’s how I managed to shut the bathroom door behind me, leap to the toilet, kick up the lid, and drag out old faithful just as he started to gush.
That’s also how I managed to empty my bladder and finish a long, long sigh before glancing right as the girl in the tub full of bubble bath giggled and raised a tiny little pistol from the heaps of bubbles and pointed at me.
She raised a slender finger to her bee-stung lips. Shhh … Right! I put everything back and obediently waited as she stood up smiling a demented little smile, letting the concealing suds flow away from a breathtaking fleshy figure, for such a tiny girl. She stood maybe five foot four inches tall and weighed maybe 90 pounds, dripping wet.
My eye did it’s automatic thing, and I gauged her to be a wonderful 34.7 D-Cup, with a 22 inch waist and 33 inch hips. But what would have stopped my heart, if her baby gun hadn’t already stopped my heart, was her breasts. Frankly she had the most beautiful formed bosoms I had ever seen in my life.
And I’ve tried to see as many as humanly possible! She was milk in the form of a little Japanese girl. Her huge mass of raven black hair was tied up in a pony tail. To my horror I was getting an erection. It wasn’t that I wasn’t planning on getting an erection. It just wasn’t this erection I was planning on getting!
She covered her mouth in mock horror, then stepped out of the tub. I didn’t warn her about getting water on the floor, because I figured she had already considered that. I don’t know why the fact she was Oriental seemed to stand out in my thoughts. I never found Orientals particularly insidious. It was guns, like the one she pressed under my jaw I always found insidious.
“Don’t make a sound, Mr. Mark,” A little girl voice said with surprising authority. I didn’t tell her she could call me Jack. “I am your bodyguard, but only as long as you obey,”
She plugged her tits into the wet spots on my shirt Rosanna’s tits had made. Boy did I notice that! But I don’t believe she was aware of what she was doing.
“But you be bad boy, and I be your assassin! Understand?”
I nodded. I stepped back raising my hands, interlacing my fingers so she wouldn’t have to tell me to do it. She nodded approval. Music was turned up in the bedroom. Her eyes slid to the door and back to me.
“Who are you?” I whispered hoarsely.
“Natsuko,” she turned me around and nodded to the door knob, “You go through first and walk to the wet bar and wait for me to finish with your girl friend, then we talk about things.”
“She’s Nobody,” I whispered desperately, “I’ll give her a hundred bucks and ask for a Rain Check, Okay?”
“No deal, Mr. Mark, she unlucky girl. Tough.”
Natsuko stepped behind me and I felt the mussel lift the hair on the back of my head. Trembling, I took a breath, strode through the door into the Room. And I saw Rosanna, buck naked, aiming a 38 right at my chest, mouthing the word: DROP!
I dropped to the carpet, as a bullet sliced through sudden thunder over my head, and tore away half of the Japanese girl’s right ear!
Blood exploding from the side of her head, Natsuko, dropped to one knee and squeezed off three shots at Rosanna’s torso, but Rosanna had vacated that space the split second before and rolled sideways behind the bed, firing through the bathroom wall and tattooing the wall and mirror inside with shocking holes.
The tiny naked Nipponese nude had flattened to the wet tiles and slid sideways, out of sight. Rosanna realized she had only two shots left, (my revolver had been in the bed side drawer with the Gideon Bible and the Koran), and I also knew how many bullets it held.
In silent slow motion, she waved me to crawl to the room door, and stay down, which I did, as she tip toed to the place in the entrance hall where she judged the corner of the bathroom to be. I raised crossed fingers as she aimed the blue metal barrel of the gun to the level of a girl’s head.
She had assumed the naked Jap cunt was squatting in the corner of the bathroom, behind the tub. She squeezed off a single round, then instantly raised the gun to what she believed was Natsuko’s chest level, and fired the last round.
I sprang for my suitcase and a box of ammo but my right ankle was yanked up into the air by a bullet, sending me sprawling, watching helplessly as Natsuko twisted around the corner of the bathroom door, snapping the gun around to shoot Rosanna, who was hurtling, in vain, across the carpet at her!
The trigger pulled … But the chamber was empty! No, jammed!
Rosanna was almost on her enemy when a second pull punched a nickel sized tunnel through her soft white right breast, lung and shoulder blade. I actually herd the round make a tap as it buried itself in the door behind her. Rosanna waved her hands as if she were a Magician trying to cast a spell to make the Japanese witch go away, but Natsuko emptied her pistol into Rosanna’s soft tummy, hot lead tearing through her tender female organs.
The horribly injured girl dropped to her knees, and transferring the empty gun into her left hand, Natsuko pulled back her right arm as she lunged forward, to drive her fist so hard into the center of Rosanna’s throat, it crushed her windpipe. Rosanna flopped sideways onto the carpet, legs thrashing, eyes open wide, rolling in incomprehension.
Suddenly five black leather suited female figures burst into the room from the Hall outside, wearing head enclosing red helmets, and brandishing black stubby machine pistols. On a nod from Natsuko who had pulled an identical outfit out from under the bed and dressed in a flash, I was hustled into the muted light of the hall, looking once back at Rosanna’s form, writhing weakly on the floor, before Natsuko snapped the door shut.
We wordlessly raced to a service elevator that dropped the two hundred stories down to the seventh parking sub level where I was unceremoniously thrown into a black delivery van that, flanked by the six women on super-charged black motorcycles, pulled out into the dusk, and peeled off for the highway out of Sol City, and into the bone desert of Baja California.
I sat in the empty cargo space, walled off from the driver, and tried to pull together all I had seen. The seventh girl, the one driving the van, had looked maddeningly familiar. Where had I seen her before? Natsuko had called her Madoka. The name was vaguely familiar.
Madoka had, as the van’s sliding door had shut, spoken a command to the van’s autopilot I understood, but then didn’t understand. She had spoken the universal CPU attention getting command and then a destination that didn’t make sense. She said, turning back to the driving console: “Computer, Little Tokyo!”
THE END OF CHAPTER SIX