by Jake Stone
When the women reappear from behind the transport, I’m pleasantly surprised by what I see. Dressed in black leather bikinis and high heeled boots, the three of them look like models straight out of an eighties rock video.
Atia is perfect at the head of the group, her shoulder-length blond hair framing her stunning features, her resting bitch face and full red lips, her statuesque shoulders and athletic physique. She’s an absolute dream.
“We won’t be able to carry any weapons inside,” Atia declares, gesturing to the thin straps of her outfit. I can tell that she’s uncomfortable, angry even, that she’s had to degrade herself to such to such an extent for this mission. But I can’t help but appreciate her sacrifice.
Fuck, she looks good!
“What if things go south?” Petronelous asks. “What do we use then?”
“Him,” Atia replies, shooting me a resentful stare.
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
“Initially, the plan was to have Vitor play the role of slave master,” Atia explains. “He was to take three of the other Purifiers, women who’ve had experience with slavers, into the auction and search out the target. But seeing how they’re all dead now, it’s going to be up to us to play the parts—you included.”
“Me as the slave master?” I ask, pointing at my chest. “How the hell am I supposed to do that?”
“What’s the matter, off-worlder?” Zorel asks with a giggle. “Can’t handle three gorgeous women?”
“It’s not that,” I say, “it’s just, well, I don’t think I really look the part.”
“Then be the part,” Petronelous says, gripping me by the shoulder. “You have to do this, Xander. Be what you need to be to get what you want.”
“Rachel,” I say.
“Exactly.”
She’s right. If I’m going to save Rachel from the slavers, I’ll need to become one. But I’m worried. I have no idea how to be a slave master. Just the thought of it makes me sick. I want to kill the slavers, not be them.
I’m also scared. Slavers are cruel bastards, and the mutants are even worse. If I’m not careful, I’ll end up as a slab of meat with a mutant carving me up with a rusty knife. For the women, it’ll be even worse. They’ll be traded like cattle, used by men and monsters who care nothing for their well-being.
But then I think of Rachel. How she was taken from me, how they tore her dress off, how they ripped her underwear off right in front of me. It’s then that I know what I have to do.
“Alright,” I say, clearing my throat and throwing back my shoulders. “Let’s do this.”
Petronelous nods at me proudly, while Zorel gives me a playful shove. Only Atia seems unconvinced.
“Take this,” Atia says, tossing me a bag.
I quickly look inside and find a black hat, a trench coat, a belt with weapons and a bag of gold coins.
I put on the belt first, followed by the hat. But when I try on the coat, I quickly realize that it’s way too big for me. The hem pools in the dirt around my feet, while the sleeves eclipse my hands. I’m a little kid in his father’s coat.
“You want me to trim it?” Petronelous asks, drawing one of her swords.
“No,” I say. “It’ll just look weird.” I shrug it off and rest it on the hood of the transport. “I’ll just go like this.”
“Are you sure?” Petronelous asks.
“Hey, you said it yourself. I need to be the part. It shouldn’t matter what I’m wearing.”
“Fine,” Atia says. “Do what you have to. Just remember this: our fate, as well as Rachel’s, lies in your hands. Do not fail us.”
“I promise,” I say, holding her gaze.
Chapter Seventeen
The road to the auction is lit by fire.
Large metal cans the size of barrels line the road, burning some type of fuel that fills the sky with black smoke. It leads to a gated assembly of giant tents and large stages, where the disconcerting sound of drunk laughter rages out from the crowd inside.
It’s only interrupted by a voice on the loudspeakers—a cheerful pervert who addresses the crowd of sexual predators like a deejay at a strip club.
“Now, now,” the man says with a laugh. “No need to fight over the pretties. There’s enough for everyone!”
The women close in behind me as we approach the entrance. It’s then that I begin to sense their unease. Are they as scared as I am? Why shouldn’t they be? Purifiers or not, this is a dangerous place, much less for women in black leather bikinis. I can only pray that I don’t let them down.
Stumbling over a rock, I accidentally pull on the chains that are connected to their necks. Petronelous cringes as she suffers the strain. Zorel winces then pinches me on the ass. But Atia’s reaction is more threatening.
“Do that again,” she warns. “And I’ll slice your throat.”
“Ugh…sorry,” I say.
The entrance of the auction is guarded by shady figures, men dressed in black studded leather and corroded armor, whose faces look like broken asphalt. They leer at the new merchandise like kids at a candy store, impressed with the caliber of women I’ve brought to them.
“Get a load of these bitches,” one of the slavers says, a thin man with grease-stained skin and broken teeth who’s immediately smitten with Atia’s perfection. “I could spend a couple of hours with this one for sure.”
The others quickly close in around us, seeming just as enthralled.
I watch as the first guard, a starved figure with a mohawk the color of blood, rests a hand on Atia’s waist, grinning in satisfaction as he pulls the front of her thong down to peak at her pussy.
Bastard.
But Atia does nothing in reply. And that makes me feel even worse. I can feel the ache of her desperation, the need to reach for something sharp and stab it into his jugular. Shit, I’d hand it to her. But we can’t react. We have to stay cool.
“These bitches are just ripe for some fucking, eh?” one of the men say.
“Damn straight,” another agrees as he openly admires Petronelous’s ass. He pulls her thong to the side and spreads her cheeks, a delicious grin spreading across his ugly face as he gets a full view of her pink asshole. “I could ram my cock between this bitch’s cheeks for a full afternoon.”
They laugh.
All around me, the same continues, these warriors, these women who’ve put so much on the line for me, struggling in silence as these large disgusting men grope their bodies, oblivious to the people inside them. And that’s when I know it’s time to react.
“Get the fuck back,” I warn, shoving the barrel of my pistol into the first man’s eye. He scowls at me in anger, his teeth a graveyard of diseased tombstones. The one to my left tries to move in, but I unsheathe the blade from my belt, and hold it to his crotch, daring him to move closer.
“Nobody touches my girls,” I warn menacingly. “You got me?”
The first man nods in silence, waving back the rest of his men. “I got you, boss. No one’s to touch the man’s bitches ain’t that right boys?”
They don’t reply, so I press the barrel of my gun deeper into his face.
“I said, ain’t that right boys?” the man says again.
The men nod.
“Good,” I say. “Now, get the fuck out of my way and let us in.”
“Sure thing, boss. All you got to do is pay the fee.”
I reach into the bag of coin Atia gave me and give him a couple. “That should cover it,” I say.
“Sure, boss,” the man says. “All that’s left is the password.”
Password? The question leaves me confused, but any sign of hesitation can break my cover. So, holing my aim, I say, “There’s never been a password before.”
The men exchange nervous glances.
“Uh…” the man says, struggling to come up with an answer. “It’s a new rule. But one we can overlook for someone of your…” He glances at my gun. “…caliber.”
“Good,” I say. “Now, g
et the fuck out of my way.”
I pull the gun from his face, and he shuffles to the side. His men stay rooted to their spots, watching me through narrowed eyes as I move past them with my women. No doubt they’ll be waiting for my return.
“Nice job,” Petronelous says. “How’d you come up with that?”
“I have no fucking clue,” I whisper, suddenly aware of how fast my heart’s beating.
“Pretty sexy, actually,” Zorel says, her hand tightening around my bicep.
“It was too close,” Atia criticizes. “You need to act quicker. Any sign of weakness and we’ll end up on a slave ship set for Veernahm.”
“What would you suggest?” I ask. “Shoot them all in the face?”
“If need be.”
“If I’d done that the mission would’ve been over.”
“This mission is already over.”
“Are you serious?” I ask. “I just saved you right now.”
“You’re going to get us killed, or worse if you don’t take this more seriously.”
“I am taking this seriously!”
“Stop,” Petronelous whispers, her gaze shifting to the crowd. “People are watching.”
“Fine,” I say. “Let’s just go.”
“Yes,” Atia replies.
The auction is a carnival of debauchery. Young women with gorgeous bodies dressed in string bikinis, dance all around us, drawing the attention of every foul creature who can drink, eat and shit.
They ogle the women from the edges of the stages, kicking back bottles of cranish while smoking crude forms of cigars that reek of cow dung.
Howling like dogs, they berate the women with disgusting requests, grabbing their cocks with lustful eyes as they watch the women obey.
“I need to find Rachel,” I say.
“Agreed,” Atia replies. She turns to me. “Do you see her yet?”
I look around, examining the dozens of women around me. Women on stages, on poles, their bodies in motion, with only their sad eyes to betray the active facades they put on for the crowd. Unfortunately, none of them are Rachel.
“No,” I hiss.
“Perhaps we should speak to someone,” Zorel offers.
I look around and spot a man with a wide-brimmed hat in a leather cloak sitting on the stairs of the stage. He holds a cane with a whip at the end, his fingers jeweled with ornate rings. Those are his women, I realize, recognizing the relaxed, yet pensive nature of a pimp. Could he know something?
“Him,” I say, motioning to the man.
Atria frowns. “No,” she says. “We mustn’t make ourselves known. Continue with the plan. Keep looking.”
“There’s no time for that,” I say, already noticing the league of men ogling Zorel between sips of cranish. It won’t be long until I get approached again. Who’s to say I’ll be able to keep my cool the next time? “We need to get pointed in the right direction and get the hell out of here.”
“I think he’s right,” Zorel says. “The longer we stay, the lower our chances of success become. There’s no way I’m going to let another asshole try to finger me without buying me a drink first.”
Atia’s about to speak when Petronelous cuts her off. “She’s right, captain. The sooner we find her, the better off we’ll be. Perhaps it would be better if we were more proactive in our search.”
Atia beams a look of frustration at me. “Very well. Do what you must.”
The slave master lifts his head as he notices us, his eyes growing wide as he sees Atia, Zorel, and Petronelous trailing behind me. He’s impressed. A grin stretches across his gaunt face like a salesman at a car dealership, and I see a line of metal teeth that glint under the strobe lights overhead. “And who do I owe for this grand pleasure?”
For a moment, I’m at a loss. Amidst all this mayhem, I haven’t taken a moment to think of a name. Rushing through my thoughts, I think of the first thing that comes to mind and clear my throat. “Pimp…Daddy…King?”
The man frowns, pausing to comprehend what I’ve just said. Even the girls exchange glances, their fear suddenly replaced with confusion.
“Pimp…what?”
“Pimp-Daddy-King,” I correct him, saying it more confidently this time. “From earth.”
He cups his face as he thinks. He’s never heard of my planet. Of course not. But then, his grin returns. “Oh, yeah,” he says. “I think I’ve heard of you.”
I sigh inwardly, sensing the relief of the women behind me.
“Vendal’s the name, and women’s the game.” He takes my hand and shakes it firmly. “What can I do you for?”
“I’m looking for a woman?”
He laughs. “Aren’t we all.”
“A brunette…with blue eyes.”
“Ah, something dark to match this glorious light you carry around you.” He gestures to Atia and Petronelous, shooting a wink at Zorel, who turns her head to the side, coquettishly. Of the three women, she takes on the role of slave with fervor, and that makes her the most dangerous.
“You could say that,” I answer.
“Gotcha.” He turns around and yells to one of his men, a bald bruiser wearing a tank top with dark skin and thick muscles.
“Yeah, boss?” the man replies.
“Bring me, Katsa! And hurry up, Pimp-Daddy-King over here is a man who doesn’t like to wait.” He looks back at me and smiles.
Within seconds, a beautiful brunette is dragged down from the stage wearing a brown bikini and stiletto heels that show off her toned thighs and round calves. In her early twenties, her hair is down and loose around a pair of perky breasts that seem to defy gravity. Her body is magnificent. “How ‘bout this one,” he says, clutching her by her jeweled collar and giving it a yank.
The beauty winces at first, her youthful face marred by a look of irritation. But then, after a second, she relents, bowing her head in subjugation, and offering me a seductive smile that tells me she could suck the balls out of my cock. She thinks I’m a cruel slaver, a bastard who would seriously consider buying her. I’m not either of them.
“She’s alright,” I say, “But I’m looking for something a little more…”
“Yes?” he asks.
“…off-world.”
His eyes glow at the term, and a mysterious grin stretches from ear to ear. “I’ve got just the thing,” he says, holding up a finger in the air. “Follow me.”
Chapter Eighteen
Vendal leads us through a parade of flesh and ugly criminals, unconcerned for the chaos happening around us. It’s really unnerving.
He ignores the beautiful women dancing on the stages by boasting about his harem. He disregards the collared mutants slobbering in the corners of the auction by convincing me that three slaves are always better than four. He turns a blind eye to the drunken slavers beating each other over meaningless slights by complaining how saturated the market for young women is. All the while, oblivious to the dance music thumping over the speakers and roaring fires bursting out of the oversized flamethrowers positioned on each of the stages. I’m in a MadMax movie. Only this one isn’t as fuzzy and cuddly.
The deeper we venture into the crowd, the more I become fearful. Not for myself. But for my companions. They’re barely dressed and unarmed. Not the best combination in a hell like this. But I draw my gun and hold it out, making sure every one of these bastards gets the warning: Don’t touch my girls or I’ll fucking kill you. It works—up to a point. I’m still helpless against their stares.
“Here we are,” Vendal says as he halts us outside an expansive tent made from red velvet drapes. It’s the largest one I’ve seen here, at least the size of a large restaurant.
Outside, a pair mean-looking mercenaries armed with studded wooden clubs holding a pair of mutants by their leashes stand guard at the flapping entrance. Their bald heads angle to the side, as they see us.
“These boys can be a bit touchy with outsiders,” Vendal warns. “Better let me have a talk with them first.”
&
nbsp; I watch, nervous, as Vendal leans in to speak to the first mercenary. He’s a tall skinny figure with green dreads and a tattooed forehead. He listens carefully to Vendal, lips peeled back from his crooked teeth, as he stares at Petronelous in her high-waisted thong and tight bra.
“What’s he saying?” she whispers.
“Probably something disgusting,” Atia replies.
I want to reassure them that it’s nothing. But I can’t. They’d know I was lying.
When Vendal is done, he looks back over his shoulder at us, and motions for us to follow.
“I don’t trust him,” Atia whispers.
“And you think I do?” I ask.
“You led us here, didn’t you?” she replies.
“Only because this was the best way I could think of,” I shoot back.
“Fine,” she says, “let’s just get this over with so we can leave.”
“At least we agree on something,” I say.
She stares at me, her gorgeous blue eyes narrowing into slits. She’s not used to being told what to do.
Inside, the tent is large and luxurious. Elaborate carpets line the desert floor, allowing a harem of beautiful slave girls to lounge against the stadium of throw pillows surrounding them. They look up at us in a daze, clearly inebriated by some type of sedative used to keep them docile.
One of them, a gorgeous young woman with curly black hair and full red lips, looks up at me and smiles, her eyes rolling back in her head as she begins to laugh. On the inside of her forearm, I spot the tattoo of a snake slithering toward her wrist. It’s beautifully drawn, but frightening as well. I frown, troubled.
“The mark of the snake,” Vendal says with a concerned face. “Poor bitch. That means she’s one of Skarteck’s girls. Got to be careful not to get too close to the merchandise, though, or he’ll kill ya.”
Skarteck? I exchange a glance with Atia as my heart leaps into overdrive. We’ve found him! We’ve found the son of a bitch. Rachel has to be close by. She has to be. Now, I need to remain calm.
