Gynophagia Chronicles: Samantha
Tuesday, September 8, 8 PM
Seabrook Manor, Athens, Georgia
Narrative Reconstructed by Peter Howard
“The Mormons,” said the Professor as he put the five ball in the far corner pocket. “Are the ones that figured it all out first.” He moved to the opposite side of the table and put the seven away. “You see, Mr. Philips, they were predisposed to producing large numbers of children quickly. The women are not much more than baby factories and they had their gospels to guide them. The book of Mormon not only allows for polygamy, it promotes it. So, Utah fought for the right, and won, in SCOTUS on the grounds that their tenth amendment rights were violated upon entering the union. And so it is that now, every woman there holds equal status to any other woman. They’re all does at birth. Utah feeds most of the rest of the country and Canada, and it’s no accident. They can produce a full grown doe for fewer than three hundred Euros that is healthy and at full weight, which can read, write, account and perform basic labour. Thanks to them, the United States is the only nation in the world that is a net exporter of meat. If you’re smart enough,” he paused as he sank the eight ball, “You’ll recognize that any female offspring you have is not something to grow attached to. She is meat. Get used to it.”
The game was called “Who’s the Boss?” in private. Gianni knew it was the professor’s favourite tool to humiliate those unfortunate enough to land here, in his billiards room. It worked well on those born and raised on the Eastern Seaboard and much of the Midwest where morals demanded modesty. Thankfully, that was where the most important power brokers were in North America, save for a few.
The Professor’s spindly hand chalked his cue stick and regarded it with interest through round spectacles. He turned his thin, hawkish face toward the girls standing statue-like in front of the cork bulletin board. He raised his thin grey brow and held the cue stick by the very end, and marked her pink blouse with the blue chalk on the tip.
“That’s mine,” he said as the cue poked the girl in the shoulder. He expertly put a blue X over her breast and lowered the stick.
“This is ridiculous,” said the professor’s opponent. He was tall, strongly built man in his middle fifties with silvered blonde hair and fleshy cheeks.
“Would you prefer I foreclose on the bank, sir? You took the deal I offered. I’ll remind you, it’s a permanent loan of three million Euros for your loyalty and this game with your daughter as the prize. Are you reneging?”
The other man sucked in a breath, looking at the girl with her big pleading blue eyes. She was an attractive girl, Gianni thought. She very likely had not heard the word “no” in her life, at least not from her father. Appraising her as a specimen, as Gianni was trained to do, she was certainly good stock, suitable for breeding. Her hips were perfect for pushing out offspring, and her chest, not too large, spoke to one who could handle two or even three sucklings with ease.
“Or,” said the professor. “If you continue to waffle, we can play for it all in a single game.”
Gianni smiled to himself. To most three million Euros was the difference between prosperity and poverty. To the Professor, it was pocket change. The money was not the issue here for him. To Arnold Philips, however, it was his family’s life and death. Risky high interest loans should not be more than thirty percent of a small bank’s portfolio. Gianni had watched this play out over the last few months as Mr. Philips leveraged his bank with risky high interest loans that were failing more and more, to pay off. Instead of going to the fed, as most banks would, he had gone to a more forgiving source: the Professor. It was a mistake many a small bank had made.
But Charleston Mutual Commonwealth Bank was the second largest privately held bank in South Caroline. It had assets in Europe, Japan and South America and potentially controls ten percent of shipping between those three regions. Philips was sitting on a gold mine, and he was too stupid to know it.
“Your break,” said the Professor as he lifted the frame off the tightly packed balls.
It would be there third match in this game of “Who’s the boss.” If Philips could win two, he’d walk away free and clear with his nineteen year old daughter in tow. She stood trembling in the newly soiled pink blouse that covered her to her thighs. She stood there stiffly, her eyes the only thing that moved save for the tears that occasionally brought mascara down her cheeks, marring her otherwise perfectly made up face. Gianni thought her very attractive with her perfect skin and straight blonde hair.
“Either way,” the professor was saying. “That is still mine,” he again marked the girl’s pink blouse and turned to Mr. Philips. “You can tell her to take it off or I’ll simply make a phone call. It’s the same to me.”
Philip’s dough boy face had broken. He faced his daughter and nodded. Miss Philips let out a sob and unbuttoned the blouse, showing her left ring finger to be sporting a ring with a sizeable stone.
You devil! Gianni mused at the professor as the girl slipped the blouse off her shoulders and onto the floor. She wore underwear coloured beige-nude, though opaque. ON this side of the continent, any hint of inappropriate skin was considered to be an invitation to cull. “Forc” was synonymous with “Slut” it seemed.
“Take your time, Mr. Philips,” said the professor. “Don’t be sloppy. It’s why you’re here that you were in the first place. We have all night, if you like.”
Philips put up his cue and leaned heavily on the edge of the pool table. “I need a drink.”
The professor nodded to Gianni.
“Drink, Sir?” Gianni asked as if he were simply a servant. So far as Philips was concerned, that’s all Gianni was a nameless servant.
“Whisky on the rocks.”
“Professor?” Gianni asked.
“My usual, thank you,” said the professor.
Gianni moved from his position in the shadows and went to the small bar where he mixed the Professor a Martini. The Pool Room was designed so only the tables were not in shadows, and those around it could be relatively obscured. On the walls, football memorabilia hung over lustrous oak sideboards. The pair of matching red-felt tables were a billiards table, that sported no holes at all, and the pool table that was currently being used. At the end of the room opposite the bar, stood Miss Philips in her under-things under a large bulletin board, upon which was pinned the title to her body. It had been signed by Mr. Philips but was unsigned by the Professor.
Gianni delivered the drinks to Mr. Philips and the Professor with one for Miss Philips.
“Lemon Water and Vodka,” he told her. “For your nerves.”
“Thank you,” she mouthed, with genuine appreciation.
Philips downed his drink and broke, sinking the seven and the ten. He chose stripes, tanking the fifteen and the nine. He flubbed on the eleven.
The professor made a show of running the table in silence, then ran it again, claiming both of Miss Philips High Heeled pumps.
“So,” the professor said as he racked again for Mr. Philips. “When is the wedding?”
Philips looked up, scowling.
“Oh, come now,” said the Professor. “I’m trying to help you, sir. You’ll have much reason to celebrate if you win! It’s all about incentive. Incentive makes for good competition, don’t you think?”
“The wedding,” Philips began. “Is on Saturday.” The break sank the fifteen and the two. “The boy is the son of an old client.” The six sank. “Richard Betcher.”
“Ah,” said the Professor. “The real estate mogul? I’ve heard of him.”
“Yes,” the seven fell. “His son, Steven, has been, so I’m told, in love with Britney since he was twelve,” down went the three, “and she was eight.” The four sank. “We caught them playing doctor about a year later.” In went the five. “We never thought it would go far beyond that.” The one sank. “But it turned,” the six disappeared. “Eight in the corner. Anyway, it turned into a real romance.” He shot, and sank the eight ball.
“That’s lovely,” said the Professor.
“The story or the game?”
“Both, I think,” said the professor. “You see? When your remember your priorities things work out.”
Philips racked.
“They say,” the professor shot, broke, and sank the eleven. “That a man’s refuge his,” fifteen, “his son,” nine, “but,” ten, “a man’s salvation” fourteen, “is his daughter,” thirteen, “I tend to,” twelve, “think that sons are,” eight, “both salvation and refuge. Daughters are a bit of a burden.”
“Whatever you say,” said Mr. Philips. He looked back at Gianni “May I have another drink?”
The Professor racked again. He put his cue tip to Britney Philips crotch.
“Those are mine,” he smiled.
“Daddy!” the water works were flowing now, as Britney Philips uttered the first words Gianni had heard from her. He hoped the whininess in her voice was not typical. If it was, he couldn’t understand how Mr. Philips could possibly have tolerated such a child.
Philips closed his eyes. “Take them off,” he told his daughter. When she started to protest he snapped: “Take them off!”
Hesitantly, the girl slipped the garment past her thighs revealing a very neatly cropped blonde carpet waxed at the edges, but still flowing below her crotch. She sobbed as she pushed the garment past her knees where they fell away.
Philips choked on the break, giving the professor leave to run the table again. The professor claimed a stocking, then the other.
“Just one win,” the professor said when he’d racked again. “That’s seventy five percent odds at this point, Mr. Philips. They’re in your favour.”
Philips shot hard, sinking the three, four and eight.
The professor shook his head. “How unfortunate,” he said. He put his cue to Britney’s right breast. “That’s mine.”
Britney hugged herself and shook her head. “But he got balls in!”
“Mr. Philips, have you not explained how the game of eight-ball is played? You might enlighten the poor girl as to how you just lost.”
Philips was breathless. “I scratched.”
“What?” Britney asked incredulously.
“I sank the eight ball without calling it. I lost.”
Her whole body was shaking. Gianni almost felt sorry for her. Otherwise she remained frozen, not moving at all.
“Your daughter is forfeiting,” said the Professor.
“Britney, honey,” said Mr. Philips.
“Daddy!” she sobbed. “I don’t want to die!”
The professor snapped his fingers, eyes meeting Gianni’s. Gianni moved, but Philips stopped him.
“Wait,” said the man. He approached his daughter and took her into his arms, holding her for a few moments and whispering things inter her ear. When he drew away, he had unclasped her bra and slid it off her with her reluctant assent. She folded her arms to conceal her breasts even so.
Gianni knew what to do. He extracted the Velcro cuffs from behind the bar and approached Britney. She offered her wrists weeping, her belly keeping time with each sob.
“Behind, please,” the professor demanded.
The girl complied and offered her wrists at the small of her back. Her nakedness on full display, she kept her chin high, and was actively resisting crying any more.
The Professor, Gianni knew, never tired of this game. He was an honourable player regardless of victory. He’d made it his personal mission to see the children of his opponents have every opportunity, but he was ruthless with those who cheated. Gianni had seen him lose only twice, and both times he was quite gracious with the victors. Gianni wondered what type of loser Philips would be. The man was not a winner, that was certain.
It bothered Gianni that he was unsure of Philips. The professor had trained him from boyhood to read people through casual observation. Philips was proving a challenge, and he should not have been.
Britney was easy enough. She was the most, or among the most popular girls in every school she’d attended. She dominated the other girls, and probably decided who was an acceptable boyfriend for who. She was defiant, as told by the boyfriend, and probably loyal to him. She got her own way always, especially with her father, who was wrapped solidly around her finger. Not getting her way brought tears, which invariably worked in her favour. This time might be the first time in her life they had not. Beaten, she folded. This was certainly the first time she’d been beaten.
The one thing that Gianni could tell about Mr. Philips was that the man had given everything he had to this girl and more, and that he loved doing it.
The eight ball fell, and Philips was not even watching.
“I’ll do anything you want,” Philips said. “Please let her go…”
The professor took the title off the bulletin board and signed it on the edge of the pool table.
“You have a valuable asset I can now offer for a great deal of money to those with interesting appetites,” said the professor. Philips’ face went white. “In that case, we are done. You have an hour to say goodbye. I understand that in the west it is traditional for a father to enjoy his daughter’s last orgasm…”
“My God!” Britney sobbed as she collapsed onto the floor.
“I’ll be back in an hour,” said the professor.
Outside, the Professor waited as Gianni closed the door.
“Interesting man,” said Gianni.
“How so?”
“I found him difficult to read.”
“Ah,” the professor said. “You failed to notice how I goaded him into winning the fifth game.”
“Professor, please,” Gianni said. “Hurting a man’s pride them backing him into a corner, don’t insult me like that.”
“Oh?” said the Professor. “He’s easily as good a player as I am. He thought he could save her at that point. Then I took her panties, and you failed to watch him.”
Gianni sighed. “And that made the difference?”
“He was repulsed by his own desire for her. It’s why he lost. His first loss was simply fortunate. I’d expected him to win that break, actually. I think you were too busy looking at Miss Britney to notice,” the Professor led Gianni up the curved staircase and into an upper parlor-office. He turned on a monitor to see what the banker and his daughter were doing.
“You need to control, or at least check your urges, boy!” admonished the Professor. “They’ll be your undoing.”
On the monitor, father and daughter were engaged in a most in-platonic lip lock.
“Good for them,” said the Professor. “Now, what did you bring me from Phoenix?”
“I found a family that has four girls who are, are not biological offspring of the parents while three others are, all in the same family. So we have four possible clones. And I managed to get blood samples from all of them, of course, and sent them to a local genetics lab to test paternity. After initial confirmation I sent those to DeSilva and they managed to identify clone markers on all four.”
“Excellent!” exclaimed the Professor. “How is your friend John?” He offered Gianni a glass of Glenlivet.
“Very well, actually. He’s managed to become more subtle in his dealings.”
“Carmine must be very proud.”
“He should be,” said Gianni. “The club Johnny runs is like nothing else I’ve seen before. It’s very impressive.”
“Worth my time?”
“Not if you want to maintain a low profile, no. Its clients are a who’s who of the Northern California Elite,” said Gianni, sipping his whiskey. “But Johnny could get you in unseen if you should wish it.”
“Perhaps some time in the future,” said the Professor, regarding the monitor again. “Anything of value in the San Ramon package?”
On the screen, father and daughter were now engaged in violent passion.
“Considerably. We now believe that the project is more advanced than we previously suspected. For one, those possible clones I mentioned, you'll be interested to know we have a connection to the original.”
“That is?”
“One was a clone of Martha Carrington.”
“What?”
“I suspected it from the start. The girl is Martha's twin and looks the part. I think that the DNA will tell us we have three more Playpen Playmate clones.”
“Now that is interesting,” said the Professor as he lit a pipe and puffed . “Very interesting,” he repeated, brooding behind his large desk. “I wonder, with Playpen Magazine involved with Tucker-Kline… we have connected all these families to TK, yes? There is money behind this. The question is: who is at the top…?”
“Maybe it's the Trust?” mused Gianni sardonically.
“Quite likely,” said the Professor. “Could they be more than simple investors?”
“Wait,” said Gianni shook his head to clear it. “You think that Tucker-Kline is taking direction from the Trust?”
“Two major players in the trust’s portfolio are operating together and have been for years… at least on the surface. I would think that there must be some coordination there at some level through the Trust.”
“That would be a departure,” said Gianni. “The Trust's board of directors is a well guarded secret.” Gianni’s head was suddenly filled with possibilities. “I wonder…”
“Indeed, so do I,” said the Professor.
“So how does this help us?”
“The Trust's agenda has long been assumed to be the stability of Commonwealth economy. What if it had a larger agenda? Can you imagine what that agenda might be?”
“Global Thermal Nuclear War?”
The professor laughed.
“Perhaps. But you can allow me to work on that issue. Your mission is simply to unravel this riddle on what the details of this project is. We'll unravel the agenda as we go. Let me worry about taking control of the snake that is behind it.”
The snake metaphor. The professor's rule #2: all large organizations are like snakes. They move sideways and cannot be trusted. The Professor's rule #3: In order to take control of a snake, first you have its head. Gianni's head should have been spinning, but he maintained some measure of composure. The Professor was not simply dealing in corporate espionage, this was far bigger.
“How do we proceed then?”
“We keep following the leads back to their source… we’re obviously not even close yet, but we’re on the right road.”
Gianni nodded.
On screen, Mr. and Miss Philips were holding each other in post coital bliss.
“Am I going to London?”
“Patience, boy. Patience. These things take time, and the yellow brick road may wind through unnamed places before you get to the wizard. Take heart that, at least we know we what to look for.”
Gianni nodded. “I understand.”
“In the meantime, Lance, we’ll work with what we have. Stay on the Wells family. They’re closest to Tucker-Kline. You still suspect they’re in the program? Good. Try to confirm it. It will take time, but we’ll get to our destination.”
Gianni sipped his scotch, pensive. The professor rarely called Gianni by his given name. It was not a slip. It was to make a point that the Professor was the only man on earth Gianni could truly trust.
“First, however, you need to work on your discipline. You’re far too distracted by carnal desires.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Take Miss Philips to the kitchen, and I better not see you give into your lust. Oh, and when you remove her skin, don’t mar it! I have a chair that needs reupholstering.”
“Yes sir.”
The professor puffed. “But give them their hour,” he added. “It’s only fair.”