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codes: M+f+/ SM / humil / viol / caution / anal / nc
Note: This story
is a bleak, dark tale, not for the squeamish. So if you’ve already decided to step into
this puddle of muck, make sure you’ve got a pair of waders handy – Hip high if
you can manage it – because you’re going to need them! Peace, brothers.
--
WARNING:
This story delves into aberrant sex practices that might well offend
you. So if such topics offend you, do not read this
story. Some of the sex depicted is consensual, some not. I
don't condone it. I'm not advocating it. I may or may not even like
it. It's simply a fantasy, a product of my imagination, and thus,
completely fictitious.
Before you read it, please note the following:
*If you are under eighteen, it is illegal for you to read
this story!
*If you have a hard time separating fantasy from reality, do not read this
story!
*If it's illegal in your jurisdiction to read non-consensual sex stories,
don't read this story!
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-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Road to Brazzaville
(An Erotic
Horror Story)
By
Hunsi
Book cover Picture
Click to meet Fedji & Sally:
/files/Authors/HumblePie/Brazzaville.jpg
Fedji
had his Norton M21 opened up full-throttle and leaning into the curve when he
spotted a swirl of smoke rising up and out of the ravine that skirted the
road. Letting up on the throttle he
brought the old Army M21 Scout to a stop, then peddled
the bike over close to the edge to see if the smoke and the fire was a result
of some poor bastard having missed the turn.
Something that happened
quite frequently along this rugged mountain pass that ran between Katabu and Abuja. Less so by the locals fortunately, but for
those who came from elsewhere to visit the Kwiambana
Game Reserve for the first time, the occurrence was more frequent than not.
And sure
enough, not 20 feet down the mountainside he spotted the twisted, smoldering
hulk of a gray Land Rover, and the body of the man who'd been thrown through
the windshield and now lie dead on the ground.
Almost
reflexively he dashed down the hillside to see if he could help, but quickly
learned there was nothing to be done.
The man with his head smashed in was dead enough.
It was a
macabre scene to be sure, but when he spotted the gold Rolex on the white mans
wrist, and the high end safari gear scattered about, he began to see things in
a different light - one of opportunity!
And that
opportunity was all right there scattered about at his feet, just ripe for the
taking. Everything from Nikon D6 and
other professional photograph equipment, to the Gold Krugerrand
he saw scattered about on the ground.
Six,
eight, twelve he counted, a fortune, enough money to upgrade his lifestyle
quite a few notches, indeed.
Then
too, there was the envelope folded inside his shirt pocket addressed to
Jonathan Tyler. Inside he found a letter
and a picture of a young lady dressed as a stewardess, and upon the back of
that picture she had written, “Saturday, Lagos, Murtala
International, Sunbelt terminal, Love, Sally Bates.”
To him,
she looked pure gold. Fact is, anyway
he chose to calculate it, that young blond, blue-eyed, American sweetheart who
projected a mien as pure as the driven snow, made her as valuable a commodity
to him as the Rolex and Krugerrand combined. Maybe more to the right
people. All he need do is find
them.
But that
in and of itself was a tall order for a man who spoke only enough English to
help a lost tourist find his way back onto the right road. Something he did a lot of as a young man
while working the tourist trade in Morocco.
“Still, what
little I knew worked for me then, did it not,” he
asked himself, “So why not now?”
"Yes,
why not," he answered himself in effort to further bolster his
confidence. Besides, the "opportunity"
was too rich to let pass.
So,
without giving it further thought, he gathered up the picture along with the
rest of his newfound riches and headed back up the hill before some uninvited
guest discovered the looting.
Then
after storing it away in the sidecar, he kicked the starter, lowered his
bottle-rim goggles, and set out for Lagos with time enough to spare to set the
trap to capture his riches.
---
Sergeant
Kadata followed the approach of the Olive green
Norton M21 through his binoculars as the rider approached the roadside check
point guarded by is unit.
After
signaling to his men to lower the boom, he took up position out front on the
red clay road and watched as the rooster tail of red dust slowly began to ebb,
and the whine of the engine was replaced by the backfiring, "popping"
sounds of rapid deceleration.
Coming
to a stop just an arms length away, the red, dust coated rider lower his
goggles and unwrapped his scarf to greet the check point officer with a
disarming smile.
"Papers,"
Sgt. Kadata asked, while holding out his hand.
"My name is Fedji
Adebayo, but my friends, they call me
lucky." The rider cheerfully
replied, as he reached into the pouch where he carried his travel documents.
Sgt. Kadata eyed him cautiously as he did, mindful of the fact
that a big man like Fedji could easily over power
five of his men barehanded and not break a sweat. Not the sort of man he'd normally take
lightly under any circumstance, and by the sound of his men anxiously rustling
about behind him, it was obvious they were taking him quite seriously as well.
Still,
despite the sheer physicality of the man, there was something Sgt. Kadata saw lingering behind Fedji's
broad grin that spoke more to his honesty than deceit.
"They
call you Lucky, do they?" Sgt. Kadata chuckled
while taking note of Fedji’s name and his country of
origin.
"Yes,"
Fedji beamed in reply, then pulling out one of those Krugerrand he'd found scattered about the dead man's feet,
he flipped it up into the air for Sgt. Kadata to
snatch.
"See,
now you be lucky too."
"I-I-I,"
the stunned captain of the guard stammered, his eyes sprung wide like
saucers. "Well now, I can see that
I am a lucky fellow, indeed," he grinned wolfishly, then turning back to
his men, "Lift the gate immediately and allow our guest to complete his
journey to Lagos.
"Go
in peace, my friend," he then said to Fedji,
"and don't spend it all on the ladies."
---
He
arrived in Lagos late, but already having mapped out the route he'd be taking
in his head, the dark, unlit jumble of streets slowed him down not a jot.
As it
was, he arrived at "The Pik kuil,"
The "Cockpit," before the fights were to begin. He found the Sjina
man, (the Chinaman) sitting in the corner jotting down names and handing out
tags to the farmers whose roosters would fight tonight to win them some money.
"Sjina Man, my friend, I need me some help." he said, sitting
down beside him.
Obviously,
he knew the man, at least as well as anyone could. The truth be told, the short, squat,
slant-eyed, black and Chinese mixed breed didn't speak all that much. But when he did his message was always
conveyed through an intermediary, one of the many he employed to stand by his
side with a revolver tucked under their belt.
Yes,
even in Lagos, cock fighting was risky business!
So it
stood that out of an abundance of caution there was always a third party
standing between if you wished to speak with the Sjina
Man. Of course, it never hurt to show
him the money first. Which
was why he chose to flip yet another of those Krugerrand
high in the air for the bodyguard, the intermediary, to catch.
"I
need me a pair of wrist cuffs, and a length of chain by tonight."
Fedji sat
back and watched the Sjina Man, the Chinaman, take
hold of the gold coin and bit into it and examined it before putting in his
pocket.
Then
spotting a woman standing close in behind the Sjina
Man dressed in a kimono like affair and a headpiece not at all unlike a burka, he reached out across the table and tugged on her
sleeve. "I need me one of these
too," he followed, then again reached in his pocket for another Krugerrand.
Again,
the chinamen bit into the coin, then again put it in
his pocket before having the woman escorted out.
She
didn't return, of course, but the kimono-like dress did, as did the head piece
stuffed in a bag that was placed on the table before him.
"One
last thing," he then said as he pulled a fourth of the seven gold pieces
he had left and flipped it up high so the guard had to reach out and snatch as
he would a fly. "I need me some
chloroform," he said flatly, pronouncing the word as well as any
pharmacist, and as did the Chinaman when he leaned in close and asked if he
wanted a 2 once bottle or 4! Clearly,
the word, chloroform, was the one English word all the bad guys knew, no matter
the language they spoke.
An hour
later and thousands of dollars lighter, he return to his bike and stashed all
he had come to buy in the sidecar, and then set out to find himself room at a
local hostelry to clean up and ready himself for his meeting with Sally, the
stewardess he was waiting to meet at the Sunbelt terminal in Murtala International Airport.
--
Chapter
2
Sluicing
out his pound of Gold. . .
Walking
up to the Sunbelt International counter to ask the agent where he might find
the lounge for incoming flight # 423.
The
agent, himself an Nigerian, couldn't have been more
engaging. "Yes, my good man. You have come to meet a friend perhaps?"
"Yes,
a woman friend, an American. Can you
please point the way?"
"No,
I do better. It's my time for Tea, so I take you there. Okay?"
"Thank
you, my friend, that is very well of you," he replied as the two set out
to walk the length of the terminal. And
in the course of their walk, Fedji thought it best to
share with the agent what troubled him about his upcoming meeting with
Sally. That way by shaping the dialogue
he'd be in control of it should something go wrong.
"You
know, this lady I've come to see, I've not yet met. And as she is an American and I speak so
poor English, I can only hope I do not offend her."
"Ah,
so it's an acquaintance by mail, is it?
Well not to worry. I'll be close
by. I studied much English in school, so
if she not understand you, I be there to help."
"Yes,
thank you. Let us just hope she recognizes
me," he followed, as they entered the lounge finding all the flight crew
already gone, save one, Sally Bates.
And, indeed, she did not recognize the man she'd never met!
"Sally,
Sally, it is me, Fedji, Fedji
Adebayo. I come to takes you to Jonathan."
"Why,
where is he?"
"The
photoshoot, like he say in his letter."
"Photoshoot?"
"Yes,
yes, the elephants, they migrate in June."
"You're
his helper, his friend?"
"Yes,
he tell you in letter."
"Hum,
well, I'm sure he did, but apparently that’s one letter I’ve not received as
yet. No matter," she then brighten up, "I'll just gather my bag and you can show
me to your car."
---
With her
head tucked down low in the sidecar seat, Sally was shaking with fear and
holding on for dear life as Fedji cut into a corner
so tight that it felt to her like the forward momentum was going to send her
sailing off into free space.
For
whatever reason Fedji was obviously in quite a hurry. Like a race against time that started the
moment they departed the airport, and continue on through the filth and decay
she saw in the streets of the city. The
shock and awe of it all sent Sally's imaginings amuck, her mind frozen in time,
unable to respond to anything, much less the soot laden air that filled her
lungs, and the moth that had splattered into a slimy green ooze upon contact
with her teeth.
Pulling
up in front the hostelry, she felt an overwhelming sense of gloom. The beggars, and the drunks lying comatose
upon the walk, and the rats, as large as Chihuahua's, frightened her to a point
beyond despair. The fact is, she was so
lost to herself she scarcely felt the shaking, nor hear Fedji's
voice asking, or telling, her something she couldn't discern.
But all
that changed, like in an instant, the moment Fedji
snapped the cuffs around her wrist.
Like a
lunatic driven mad by her fears, she started screaming, “No, no,” with a
wild-eyed look of a woman seeing herself surrounded by demons who were about to
consume her.
But in a
place like this where the wretched suffered such agony and pain, her particular
act of madness wasn’t something anyone was likely to hear.
Once
more, the screaming and the madness only grow all the worse once Fedji attached the chain, and then led her up a flight of
steps and into a room, where an old woman waited to do what she had been paid
to do. Dress her in that kimono and a burka-like headpiece he had purchased from the Sjina Man.
"Dankie, (thank you,)" he told the old woman while
handing her a handful of Nigerian notes. Then upon her departure, Fedji stood back and assessed his treasure buried beneath
the disguise. Covered from her feet to
the top of her head, you could see nothing of her save the blue of her eyes wet
with tears and fraught with panic peering out through the veil that covered her
face.
"Kom, (come),” Sally," he said, again picking up the
chain and led her back down the stairs.
Five minutes later, with his treasure securely anchored by chain to the
sidecar, he kicked the starter, lowered his bottle-rim goggles, and set out on
the road to Libreville, Loubomo, Brazzaville, then if
need be, down to Cuito, Angola, the heart of the
diamond fields.
--
Chapter
3
Looking
for hope in all the wrong places . . .
Fedji was
flying down the road, throwing all caution to the wind. While he knew it was a dangerously reckless
thing to do, drawing attention to himself like that, he did so anyway even
though he knew it wasn’t necessary. The
fact of the matter is, he knew her flight had a 5 day
layover, and at this point in time, no one would even know she was gone.
Still, Fedji pushed on.
Just two days on the road and they had already crossed the Border
between the DRC and the Central African Republic, and with his old M21 Scout
kicking up a red rooster-tail of dust, he already had Brazzaville in his
sights.
Of
course, traveling anywhere fast in Africa is a relative term you
understand. With the sweltering heat and
the ruggedness of the terrain, both man machine were
always riding the thin line between success or failure.
Machines
break, need Petrol, and men need rest and food and place to piss and shit and
wash the pits when the smell throttles even them. Then add a woman to the mix, especially an hysterical woman who was screaming for help none stop the
whole way long, and you’ve got yourself a unnecessarily hard journey, indeed.
Still, Fedji was nothing if not resourceful. To eat, he simply stopped at a roadside kiosk
for coconuts, pan bread and Tilapia wrapped in a banana leaf. To clean up, he just pulled up to a roadside
stream. All quick and efficient and
smart when the last thing you wanted to do was alert people to the presence of
the screaming, stark raving mad woman who was in the midst of being kidnapped.
Thankfully,
bathing in a roadside stream usually went a bit better. That is if “better” means to you having to
chain her cuffed hands to a rock and stick a bar of soap in her mouth to quiet
the wildly struggling, screaming wild-eyed woman who was utterly consumed by
madness.
But,
truth be said, it wasn’t all that bad a job.
After all, his priceless commodity - his blond, blue-eyed, American
beauty – was nothing less than a work of art.
Something that stirred the senses, not to mention his
cock. Just as she would the
wealthy magnate he was going to sell her to in exchange for his pot of gold.
And with
Brazzaville now in his sights, he could almost smell it, and found himself
endlessly thinking about meeting up once again with Tayo
Obasi, an old friend, someone he’d known since his
days selling Dates in a Marrakesh bazaar.
Of
course, They were both just young men starting out
back then, but through the years their friendship held to the point where each
always made sure the other knew how to contact his friend no matter how far
they wandered.
One
can’t have more of a friend than that, now can you. But, before that time came, he had one final
cleaning to do. Not because he couldn’t
stand the stench a moment longer, but so Tayo could
see the beauty beneath the dust and grime coated face when he first pulled up
the veil. And, as luck would have it, he
found a most ideal spot not a kilometer further down the road. A waterfall that looked so
uncharacteristically pristine and pure.
Nonetheless,
he still saw the battle coming, trying as he might to stifle that wild-eyed,
screaming out-of-her mind lunatic curler up in the sidecar lying in her own piss.
“Damn,”
he cursed himself, “this is going to cost me plenty.” Surely, no man in his right mind was going
to pay a plug nickel for a woman who was completely out of her head no matter
how beautifully wrapped the package.
So,
pulling over he gave her a bar of soap and a long lead then pushed her into a
waist deep culvert carved out beneath the falls and watched until that smelly,
grimy, damsel in distress came out looking ever bit his pot of gold.
Then
chaining her back up to a boulder next to the falls, he threw himself in
beneath the falls to bring himself back from the wilds. And that’s when it happened!
A rock
broke free from atop the falls and cascaded down along with the water and hit
him square on the noggin, knocking cold and leaving a bloody three-inch gash on
the top of his head.
It might
have taken him hours, or minutes to regain his senses, he had no way of
knowing. All he knew was that when he
re-opened his eyes, who did he see?
Sally, her face leaning in so closely with his, and in her hand, a blood
soaked torn off piece of her kimono, tenderly attending to his wound. Once more, that wild-eyed look of a girl lost
to this world was gone, replaced by the girl he had first met at the airport
terminal three days ago.
It was
as if her capture and imprisonment never even happened. “But how could that be?” he
wondered. How could all the pain and
suffering she had been made to endure, simply be washed from her mind?
“Or was
it washed away,” he puzzled, “or had she simply found the means to bury it, or
somehow transformed it into something else.
Something that allowed her to sympathize with her captor for no reason
other than to show she cared enough about him to stay rather than make a run
for it.”
Still,
whatever had happened to her, it really didn’t matter to him. All he could see was that shiny pot of gold
smile, and soon to come meeting with Tayo, and how
ready she appeared to be for it.
---
They
arrived in Brazzaville that evening. A
largely populated city on the DRC boarder, Brazzaville was nothing less a
lawless state, a place where the bad guys were only out numbered by the
thieving police. And it had been that
way ever since a prolific vain of gold had been discovered just outside the
city.
It was
also a place where Fedji had to take great care to
keep his treasure safely hidden away. So
taking a moment, he stopped to do just that, burying her deep down in the boot
of the sidecar where his duffle bag of had been stored, and now lay hidden in
the jungle bush along the roadside.
Not
wanting to keep her stored away in that sweltering heat for a dangerously long
period, he immediate set out to find the first bar he could fine to ask where
he could find the “Rooi Sitkamer”
(The Red Lounge), and a person named, “Bhutto
Ben Al.” The names that his friend Tayo had given him long ago, and for the safest of keeping,
he now kept safely locked away in his head.
Pulling
up to the first Bar he could find, he stopped to ask the bartender for a sniffer of Lotoko, a Mash
whiskey, then while talking to him he managed to work in the names he was
looking to find. And, as luck would have
it, he not only knew where the “Rooi Sitkamer” was, but couldn’t stop raving about.
“Hay mann, you gots the mony, huh?” He chuckled.
“You got the franc for the best Ashawo
(whores) in all of Brazzaville? Well, Rooi Sitkamer has them all, mi
Mann. Dutch, Nigerian, Italian, you name
it. They ever got them a few of those
rose cheek young Americans too. But know
this, if you want a taste that white chicken meat, its
going to cost you a bagful of nuggets just to get a whiff.”
Yes, he
knew the “Rooi Sitkamer”
well, as well as the fact that it was located but a mile away.
Fifteen
minutes later, he was parked outside the Rooi
Sitkamer, eyeing the line winding out the door
and down the street.
Obviously
the place was making the bucks, and with all the gold
money circulating round town, he hadn’t a doubt they were making the kind of money
he wanted for his blue-eyed, blond headed, American Sweetheart.
Walking
in, he went straight to the bar and asked where he could find, Tayo.
The
bartender remained tight-lipped, and instead of answering, signaled for
security, which came in the form of three pistol toting, billy-club
wielding brutes to escort him out. But
when they approached, and he was prepared for the worst, whose voice do you
think he heard calling out his name?
“Fedji! Is
this you? My friend, how happy I am to
see you,” Tayo said, obviously elatedly to see him.
“This my friend,” Tayo said to the
other two security men. “I know him
since a boy selling Dates in a Marrakesh
bazaar.” Then turning to the bartender,
“Nfuni, hand me a bottle. I’m going to sit and share a drink with my
boyhood friend.”
So, Fedji sat and drank with his dear friend and told him about
his cargo, his pot of gold that he wished to sell.
“She’s
priceless, Tayo, priceless I tell you. The one in a million men will pay handsomely
for.”
“I must
see her, I must,”” he beamed in reply.
“Yes,
yes, of course, you will see her, when I show her to Bhutto Ben Al.”
“Then we
must go see him. Why don’t you go bring
her in, we’ll take her to him.” Which Fedji did, though fearful as he was about what he might find
when he dug her out of the sidecar. Would she the screaming, wild-eye, lunatic
completely lost to this world, or would she be the sympathetic captive,
identifying with her captor just as he had left her?
---
Buried
as she was beneath the disguise, other than the sight of her radiant blue eyes
shining through the slit in her veil, there wasn’t a whole lot of her to
see. That is until Bhutto Ben-Al rose up
out of his office chair and came about to stand behind her. Then in one swift move, he reached down and
raised the hem of her robe up high up over her shoulders.
It was
an assault upon her person and nothing less.
A turning point from which everyone knew there was no return. But she didn’t go berserk as Fdji had feared, nor did all hell didn’t break loose. Instead, she just looked over at Fedji as if looking for reassurance, to make sure she
wasn’t doing something wrong. And she
looked no less stoic when he shoved a finger up her cunt while licking her face like a mama dog would in effort
to soothe her pup.
“Remove
her clothes!” Bhutto barked, and Tayo did. Then after giving her a final look over, he
stepped back around his desk to open a safe.
A minute more, and he had 2 gold bars sitting upon a scale atop his
desk. “That’s 400 troy ounces, 25
kilograms of pure gold, take it or leave it,” he said, sounding every bit the
syndicate crime boss who meant what he said.
But who
was to argue. Not Fedji. All told, Twenty-five kilograms of gold was
worth more than three-quarters of a million U.S. dollars: The proverbial pot of gold sitting at the end
of the rainbow.
“I’ll
take it!” Fedji said, then
lit up with a ‘three-quarters-of-a-million’ dollar smile.
“Good! Now then, you bag it up,” he followed,
tossing an attaché case his way. “And
you, Tayo, take her to her room in Die Heuning Huis (The Honey
House). But leave her clothes. She wouldn’t be needing
them any longer.”
Fedji felt a
certain sense of finality in his voice and the coldness in his comodity-like handling of the matter that left him feeling
extraordinarily uncomfortable with himself.
After all, she was a person not a milk cow, and the thought of them
parading her around like some prized beast amongst the horde of men roaming the
halls did not set well with him at all.
So, not
wanting to leave it at that, he called out to Tayo as
he was walking out the door.
“Hey wait up, my brother, I want to go with you
to say good-by.”
“Hey,
man,” he then asked Tayo upon catching up. “What’s all this about? This some sort of marketing routine, where
you parade her around naked to market the wears?”
“What? Me?
Market the goods to these two legged flea infested rodents? No, these 5 Franc-a-fuck paupers are not fit
to eat her shit. Where she is going,
it’ll be her eating the shit, and gladly, just to escape the pain.”
“I don’t
get it,” Fedji replied, sounding a bit agitated. She’s the absolute queen of beauty, so why
take to a place like that?”
“Fedji, my brother, you were just paid a fortune for her,
and you accepted that payment gladly, and now you act as if you’re insulted?”
“It’s
not that.”
“Then
why ask?”
“I don’t
know, it’s just that, well . . .” he stopped mid-sentence unable to find the
words.
“Just
relax, Fedji,” Tayo cut in,
mercilessly bring his agony to an end.
“It’s just what comes when men who harbor resentment meet up with
Americans. Men who
have had enough of their arrogance, and their hollier-than-thou
self-righteousness that they unashamedly put on demonstrable display. Men who know those Yankee self-indulgent pigs
couldn’t last a day living as they do.”
So, yes,
you can expect your priceless, faultless, do-no-wrong young American beauty is
going to be bought down a notch or two. Hopefully not of so low as a beaten dog, grateful just for the
opportunity to lick her master’s feet.”
Fedji said no
more. With his worst fears now run
amuck, he found himself feeling like a animal caught
in a trap he had himself created. A
creation built upon his own selfish greed, and not caring a wick about Sally; A girl who in the
end wanting only to please him, and nothing more.
---
When at
last they had reached the entrance to the Heuning Huis (The Honey House), a pair of guard posted outside the
entrance came up quickly to take possession of Sally. One of those jack-booted watchmen took hold
of the chain that hung from her cuffed hands and held her fast, while the other
took up a rawhide whip to beat her. Her
back, her ass, until she was striped red and blue like the stripes on old
glory.
Then
opening up a nearby closet, he hauled out a yoke, the likes of which looked to
have been recently used by an actual harnessed oxen. “Hold her while saddle her,” he told his
companion, and then when she came to shoulder the burden they led her by the
chain to the door of the bedroom suite then stopped to ring the bell.
“Your
Excellency, Alhaji,” the guard in the lead called
out. “Your beast of burden is here, and
she wishes to be of service,” he called through to door, sounding rather rote,
as if from a script to please the man inside.
And then in response to his call, a fat, triple-chinned, ton of lard
wearing nothing more than his sandals appeared at the door.
He was a
hideous looking blob of a man to be sure.
But it wasn’t the sight of the ghastly ugly man that disturbed his as
much as did the matching pair of Mastiffs he was fighting to hold back. And should you wonder why, all you need do is
look beneath where the visible sign of their arousal swaying like dangling
sausage just inches above the floor.
“Sir,
would you like to use this beast, or would have me take it to the public
service rooms?”
“No,
just tie it to the post,” he said, pointing inside his room.
Out of
curiosity, Fedji thought he’d have a look inside
himself. And that’s when his whole world
came unglued! Inside the room he saw
another man with a whip, and an other girl on the
floor with a dog riding her back. “What
is this?” he spoke out angrily. “I was
told this was a fuck house not a nut house.”
“And
you,” he said to the fat man while poking him on the chest with his
finger. “You’re a fucking madman who
need be beaten senseless.”
But that
didn’t happen. Instead, he turned and
shouldered-up to the guard standing to his right. Then with that attaché case full of gold
still in hand, he smashed the bloke to the floor, and then on the return swing,
sent the other flying against the wall.
Now,
with both out cold, he again set his sights on that porky-pig in man form. With a snarled look of a man consume by
anger, he knocked him to the floor. Then
racing past, he chased the dog off and unharnessed
the girl before carrying her back out the door.
“You
fucking swine,” he bitterly lashed out at that black tub of lard rolling around
on the floor. “You’re the one who ought
to be fucked by the dogs.”
“Now, I
want you to take this gold back to Bhutto Ben Al and tell the fucker he can
keep it,” he said, as he tossed that attaché case full of gold at the fat man’s
feet.
“You just tell him I already got me all I’ll ever
need. A woman, who cares about me. Something that slime ball Ben Al will never
know.”
Then
quickly he picked up Sally up off the floor and tossed her over his shoulder,
and then just as quickly, he tucked the girl from the room up under his arm and
dashed out the building to get to his M21 as quickly as his feet could carry
him.
It took
but a moment to get Sally back in the sidecar with the girl sitting on her lap,
and an instant more to kicked the starter, lowered his
bottle-rim goggles, and set out for his home in Abuja to raise babies, and back
to work chasing off the Elephant poachers that haunt the Kwiambana
Game Reserve.
And, of
course, to live happily ever after. :)
Das
Ende
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