Prologue: Sol California

It is January 28th, 2001, and the new Republican President of the United States of America lays in bed feeling very much like the 76 year old man he is. It is an unspoken understanding by all that his younger, ( 62), year old Vice President is the real leader of the Party that now controls both the Legislative and Executive Branches of Government. But a mild, ordinary warhorse could win the White House, where a proto-fascist in the pocket of the military-industrial-complex could not. The Public really believed the #2 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 limp old carrot of a Party Hack as a Front Man to calm the Talking Heads on CNN.

But great mischief has already been done. The United States needed money FAST! When Quebec succeeded from Canada, the US eagerly absorbed the nearly all white Northern County in an attempt to offset the voting block posed by the Middle Class frightening influx of nonwhite 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 it's Debt to the U.S. A legal team representing Organized Crime in America went to the White House with a bold plan. If Mexico gave Baja California to the United States to cover it's debt, the Mob would run Baja California as a Vice Zone, a legal Red Light District where 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 57 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 sin knowing that 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 Australia, where the maximum security prisons could dump all their Lifer's 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 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 18 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 A.M., 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 now six hours. Tomorrow he would give a Press Conference and explain what he had done to all the World.



Chapter #1: Death's Disney Land


Eighteen Months Later I stride 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 8 by 15 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 had a Government issue unlimited VISA Card, and the freedom to turn my every Mission for my new Masters 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 C.I.A.'s latest combat frenzy inducing drug. 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 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 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 to the beach front entrance to the 100 story tall, half mile in diameter mirror-glass Coliseum 2000, which boasted a 200,000 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 spilled gut could be seen on Hi-Def Home Theater Screens in America, where public use of the words BOSOM or BOMB was illegal, but in the privacy of your home, cable or satellite TV 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 signalled 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 40 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 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, who I learned was called Camille, was a Chicano girl of almost pure Castillian 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 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 strait, 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 beaklike nose, to the blood of the Jaguar God of blood sacrifice flowing in her veins.

A touch on my left arm caused me jump a little and I found myself looking Camille's pimps 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 Goddess in a skin tight vinyl red dress standing behind us on the curb in the glare of direct sun light. Her mid-thigh length dress was scoop necked, her 44-d cup cleavage shining like olive spheres, oiled and shining. Her legs were long dancers legs, kickboxer's legs firm atop 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 how it would be to make love to such a royal animal.

"She be my number one fighting girl, as well as my 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 who you drug 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 others shuddering heads, dancing in a circle, boobs flopping wildly. Totally without thought of self-defence, 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, driving the other girl backward, black talons tearing open her dress and ripping gruesome red furrows in her shoulders. But Camille kept on her feet, and drove her right knee up into Aza's dangling brown mammarys again and again and again. Bellowing, palms shoved into Aza's shoulders, she shoved the Mayan warrior away.

The crowd roars 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, then unhinged plowed 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 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 to 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.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> >>>>>>>


[img]graemlins/devil.gif[/img]