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 9
Story Codes: Erotic Horror
War Goddesses 9
CHAPTER 9 — The Ladies Room
“… And all you ever suspected went on there.”
Frank’s lantern jaw dropped. The girl guard stopped jabbing my kidneys with her machine pistol. Hey, I was thunderstruck too. The television “wall screen” over the receptionist’s desk was filled with a scene both deceptively normal, yet completely wrong!
The deck of the yacht, Samurai Nun, Universal Export’s seagoing regional office, rocked gently in it’s berth in the Arena Marina, the blue Pacific’s rocking in the surrounding main deck window. On the screen a scene took place that seemed equal portions: 1.) A girl Visiting her sick friend in the hospital, 2.) Blood donation for the Red Cross, and 3.) Madame Frankenstein.
Jennifer, stripped to the waist, her white silk blouse down around her waist, her heavy breasts barely restrained by a black lace bra, long athletic legs crossed high, showing a lot of thigh below the black mini-skirt, sat reading a Cosmopolitan while a decorous black girl in a white smock chatted, laughing, tying Jennifer’s long, straight brunette hair into Jamaican Rastafarian braids. Jennifer and her hairdresser were placed between two hospital beds.
Both of Jennifer’s inner arms were linked by vein needles and copious tubing running to her left, to needles placed in Rosanna’s right inner-arm, and left inner-thigh. And behind the hospital bed, a heap of electronic equipment was stacked unceremoniously on a folding chair, two hordes of colored cables connected to a skull harness tacked to Rosanna’s cranium with scary knitting needle length bone screws.
A second set of cables and blood tubes connected Jennifer to a vague female figure in a second hospital bed on Jennifer’s right side. A decadent looking Japanese woman, voluptuous in a black knit wool mini-skirt and long sleeve sweater emerged from the “Manager’s Office,” her red-rimmed eyes wry with concern.
I noticed a tell-tale sniffle. Her name tag read: Kahori. She tapped at a clip-board computer in her fingers, and bumped Frank’s shoulder with hers.
“Jennifer’s gone to Level Eight.”
“Impossible!” Frank hissed.
The screen filled with Cindy Crawford’s famous face, CNN logo in the lower right corner of the screen.
“The World was as shocked as Hospital Personnel this morning when an unidentified American woman in her mid twenties entered a Sol California Emergency Clinic today with a desperately injured woman she called Rosanna. Staff has told CNN that she assembled this equipment from the brain surgery after preforming drastic and life saving open chest cavity procedures herself in the emergency room.
“Now, as you can see behind me, a completely unheralded and unheard of procedure is taking place. For an explanation, I turn you over to Dr. Yasmine Wu, Chief Medical Officer at this Clinic., Madame Doctor Wu, what can you tell us?”
The camera wheeled back to include a medium height, rather obviously muscled woman in her early fifties, scowling through her glasses at a stack of print outs. Without looking up she began to talk, as if to the stethoscope hanging from her neck.
“That woman is cycling blood from the injured woman to the Blank.”
“A ‘Blank’, Madame Dr. Wu?” Cindy chirped.
”Oh, sweet Christ,” Frank breathed as Kahori nodded.
Blanks, also called “plugs” were vat cultured human bodies grown for replacement organs and body parts. Their cortical brain matter was retarded by chemicals, so that the Supreme Court wouldn’t try to extend Civil Rights to them.
Here we saw blood flowing from Rosanna to a Blank via Jennifer’s blood stream where it was obviously being mingled with the blank’s blood, and the mix of original Rosanna blood and modified Blank blood being passed into the blank where it was communicating on a genetic level with every tissue cell in the Blank.
How Jessica was managing all this, whether some kind of Super Yoga or Mind Control was involved or not was a mystery. Another Mona Lisa smile played on Jennifer’s lips. I stopped being so afraid. I stopped thinking just of myself. The same sweet half smile that loosened my emotional chains seemed to infuriate Frank. His face was purple!
“And you see those wires Miss Crawford?” Cindy nodded astutely, “I think our Girlfriend is copying dying woman’s brain patterns to the blank. You know what I think. I think if we pop that blank’s cranium, we see a newly full-grown brain, intact and buzzing.
“And you know what else I think?”
A camera zoomed into the face of the blank, a sleeping, peaceful face. But the albino hair was already blushing reddish, and the lips were swelling to a familiar oh so kissable smirk.
“I think our Girlfriend isn’t really a people like you and me.”
“She’s AWOL. Out of Fucking Control. She took conscious control of her CPU implants,” Frank snapped.
“Level Six,” Kahori mouthed, “And she can now apparently direct cellular level enzyme, hormonal, and perhaps even genetic modifications.”
“Level Seven …” Frank cursed softly, “And if your guess is correct, up to Level Eight.” Kahori seemed freed herself, seeing the American Girl, giggling and bantering with the black girl. Two reasons God put a sun and moon in the sky over the earth to light us”.
Silly chatter as if nothing mattered. It was sunny day, and the cafeteria has shrimp salad tangy with lemon for lunch. Kahori knew she was seeing the end of her Game.
Her eyes slid sideways to Frank. Frank didn’t allow those kind of thoughts to exist in his Cosmos. She had noticed that the headset on Rosanna’s head wasn’t matched by a mate on the Blank. Yet already the REM was flickering it’s eyelids. Memories, and even dreams were rising like fish to the surface of a pond in there. Direct Conversation.
Level Nine. Jennifer was sitting on Level Nine, reading about tricks to play on your boyfriend in bed, swapping confidences, and flying like a hawk, high and solitary, in the sky above a crowded and very profane city. An alien intelligence, distant but not cold, watching the Earth as Martians might, through great telescopes. Not longing, simply curious. Cirrus at dusk. A girl. Jennifer Nine.
666
The black man Jack Mark called Neon sat sweltering in the front seat of a red 1963 Lotus scanning the parking lot of the Little Tokyo Mall for his two little truants. Squinting from the glare, his new gypsy maned Bride, Salma, panted like a lioness on the African savannah, her blouse tied between her massive, and sweat drenched bosoms. Her skin tight blue jeans breathed better than leather, but oh, this weather!
Both leaned forward in concert as they spotted two naked girls fleeing the hot pursuit of four Mexican and two oriental police. The comedic chase zig zagged between cars pulling out, lanes, and around islands of shopping carts.
The blond Drew was screaming, “My feet are on fucking fire!” as the chase took them in the general direction of the Lotus.
“So run faster!” Linda, the buxom brunette screamed as her hip painfully sideswiped a door handle … “Fuck!”
“The Security Squad called the local Cops on this one!”
Neon raised his eyebrows in surprise.
“Our Double-Agent pal Frank must be pissing his pants, as word about the second snatch might get back from those girls to the CIA.”
“Yeah,” Salma agreed, “If the Feds connect him to the Yasuka Babes, they’ll know he was behind the first Opposition grab.”
She popped open her door the very same moment Neon did.
”Poor Jack. You pin down the heat, I’ll fetch our babydolls.”
Drew, gasping for air, daggers of agony stabbing her lungs through her ribs, scrambled onto a furnace hot hood to escaped being grabbed by the two husky Malaysian security guards, and immediately howled in ever higher pitches of shrill pain from the molten hot hood.
She felt two strong hands pull her down, as Linda disappeared behind a RV, eluding the four City Cops, who now were peering under car bodies, and waving their stun sticks like flashlights. She tried stamping back on her captor’s feet, but the steel toed boots defied her.
She was thrown painfully onto the asphalt, wrists already lashed. One woman grappled with her thrashing legs, while the other covered her with a stun stick, laughing at the indignity Drew was experiencing, trading crude remarks with her partner about Drew’s gaping sex, as they rolled her onto her belly.
BLAM! The sound of Neon’s shotgun echoed above the roar of traffic, causing everybody to drop their groceries and bags and hit the ground, glancing around, wide-eyed in fear. Both guards had thrown themselves on Drew, fearing she was the target. Drew’s eyes bulged, she was being crushed by the well-meaning guards!
Suddenly the weight lifted. Drew looked up to see a Mexican Amazon Goddess pitch one guard across a Lexis Minivan hood so hard, she rolled onto the roof of the Honda roaster next to it before dropping between two cars. The other Malaysian guard tackled Salma around the waist, carrying them completely over the stunned blond, onto the street.
They rolled apart and closed, swinging their fists. Both women shuddered from the impact of the blows they traded, sweating and gasping in the hot sun. Both held back, taking the measure of the other woman.
“Fuck it, she can box!” Salma said to herself, but the other woman read that in her eyes and grinned, before dancing forward with a flurry of meaningless punches at her head that concealed two or three well placed real slugs to her left breast and jaw.
These carried the Malaysian woman’s full weight, and had Salma dancing back, fists raised in front of her face as she shook her head to clear it.
Salma ducked and weaved but the bitch was ahead of her, ducking and weaving like an echo, smirking. Then, boom, boom, boom, Salma was clobbered by a combination. Salma leapt back so she could us a kick but the guard blocked both it and the reverse kick follow up.
“Are you gonna Lick me or keep licking me,” the Malaysian Girl taunted.
Salma streaked forward, threw herself onto the ground, rolling under the girl’s arms, and snapped her calves around the guard’s ankles, bringing her down! Oof!
BOOM!
Neon’s gun roared again, causing the Malaysian girl to wince just long enough as she got to her feet, that Salma was up first, and land two brutal left and right combinations to her head, then as she fell back against a car, Salma leapt into the air, delivering a knock out heel kick to the center of her forehead.
Drew’s shout caused her to turn around just in time to take a punch to the mouth! She grappled with the smaller of the two Malaysian guards, cussing, blood running from her lips. And shit, the four Mexican Cops were running up to the rescue!
BOOM!
Just enough of a distraction that Salma was able to deck the feisty guard with and uppercut, and charge into the oncoming line of female Mexican police. All four woman sought to encircle Salma, but Salma moved quickly, using their lack of co-ordination against them, kicking the closest in the belly, throwing one into the other.
Then, using a judo move, she grabbed the fourth by the lapels, twisted around, dropping to a crouch, so the astonished cop flew over her head and into a light post. The girl she had kicked leapt onto her back, yanking a night-stick backwards, snapping her head back, crushing her throat.
The other two women waded in with their fists, actually getting into each other’s way as they cruelly pummeled her breast melons and bare wet tummy!
BOOM!
This time nobody flinched or looked up! Salma, grabbing both ends of the night-stick choking her, hoisted her hips up. Lashing out with her feet, she was lucky! Her two attackers went down clutching their necks, gasping. Then Salma was able to drop to her knees, pitching the cop that had been behind her back, into the pile of her fallen comrades.
Grabbing Drew by her wet hair, the furious Mexican Amazon dragged her through two rows of cars where Neon pulled up in the Lotus. Drew yowled as she was rudely pushed into the little trunk. Then Neon drove up one aisle and down another before Linda stepped sheepishly out to join her pal in the cramped trunk. Neon lost no time in getting onto the freeway, and headed back to the City on the Coast.
666
Six hours later both girls stood, showered and bikinied while Neon waited at his desk for Salma to return to his inner office. No one spoke. The air conditioning seemed set to 60 degrees. The muzak was 1980’s commercial jingles turned into pop songs, as was the current fashion.
It was Heavenly! Salma showered and dressed in clean versions of what she had worn before, slipped in. “We just got the FAX. The holding company we sold their contracts to has accepted our settlement offer. Drew and Linda are ours again.”
Neon blinked and sighed.
“We’re sorry, Mr. Grier,” Linda spoke up.
Neon waved the explanation away, then walked to the window, and looked out. The pastoral view of wind rustling the wild grasses growing around a medieval Moslem border-temple wasn’t real. It was a video loop in a CD Rom.
His relief, however was real.
“You could have gotten killed,” He gave them a stern look, ”You could have displeased a customer!” he winked at Salma, But the end-user that hired the holding company to buy your Contracts was a Dirty Bird,” he pecked at his phone’s battery of buttons, “A very Dirty Bird.”
“What do we do with them?” Salma asked.
Mr. Grier, in reality, Chief of the Sol City NSA field office, otherwise known as ‘Neon’ to our hero, smiled as they tightened their tummies in anticipation.
“We put on the Party Duty.”
Their grins could have lit up a stadium the size of the Arena.
“But we’ve got to find Mr. Mark. We don’t really owe him, he’s not one of ours, but his captor, Mr. Frank Bland, is,” He looked at the visibly relieved girls, “Any suggestions, Ladies?”
“Well, Mr. Bland,” Drew piped up, “Told his Boss Witch Natsuko to get back to the Boat.”
“The Marina!” Salma and Neon said together, “I had been taken to Kahori’s ‘office’, which Frank referred to as The Ladies Room. I was strapped into a combination dentist’s chair and gyn exam chair that obviously went to prove there was enough demand for torture chairs for them to be specially designed and manufactured.
“The room was circular, barely large enough to walk around, and rocked with the boat. I had been fed dinner hours ago, and left alone to ‘stew in my own juices’, as Frank had charmingly put it.”
I wondered if Rosanna knew how much I wished. Wished …
THE END OF CHAPTER NINE