Aurora - Blood Moon Tribute Pt. 07

Sook stood on the dock, the sleek, grey hull of the gunboat looming over her. Uniformed crew hurried up and down the gangplank under the lights, heading for their stations or loading supplies, while several other V-VVIPs loitered nearby- appointees to the inner circle- waiting to board. Stooping, the little Korean scraped up a handful of gravel and, picking out individual stones, commenced flicking them one-by-one at the gunboat's dull flank. "Ping-yeowww!" she sang. "Gotcha! Ping-yeowww!" She nudged the old man. "Here. Wanna a shot?"

The old man glanced at the offering then cleared his throat. "We're meant to sail on that thing. Don't go putting holes in it."

Sook took another shot. "Ping-yeowww!"

A face appeared, peering over the rail above them. An officer, and by the looks of him none too happy. Like a kid caught red-handed misbehaving in the playground, Sook tossed her ammo into the water, then brushed her hands, looking blasé. The face disappeared and she aimed her fingers at the space it had just vacated. "Pew... pew... pewpewpeww!"

"Why not just go and kick him in the shins?" Watson asked dryly.

"Shins?" Sook scoffed, "When I could kick him in the nuts?"

"Is this your hobby or something? Upsetting people who could really fuck you up?"

Sook nodded. "I like to think of it as a calling."

"Well can you at least wait till we get to the island? It's making me nervous."

Sook slid an arm around his waist and gave him a hug. "Relax. We are V... V... V... V... V... V... VIPs."

The old man tried to sidle away. "Not so close. People will talk."

"They already do." Sook said wryly, "Don't you worry."

Watson jerked his head in the direction of a fellow traveller. A heavy-set Asian in a hundred thousand-dollar suit, rendered scruffy through sheer neglect. Surly eyes glared out of an inscrutable face. "Any idea who our shipmate is?"

Sook tilted her head to look at Watson from the corner of her eye. "You don't know?"

Watson shook his head. "I was too busy trying to figure out who I was meant to be."

Sook bent over and scraped up another handful of gravel. "That's Zhang Jingli. We came here in his plane."

Watson arched his eyebrows. "Indeed? Err... don't suppose we should go over and say thanks?"

Sook flicked a little nugget of blue-metal at the gunboat. "Nahhh... he's not the go and say thanks sort of guy. Neither are you for that matter. He only did it to suck up to the king."

"What's his claim to fame?"

"No one really knows. Real estate, property development, gambling. He trades ivory as a hobby for elite clientele. That's the reason he's here."

Watson looked around. "There are heffalumps in Ab Aldafra?"

Sook giggled. "No. But there are plenty in the country he bought. I mean the king. Or there were."

"Bought?" Watson frowned.

"Uh huh," Sook nodded, "some little country in Africa. He went and bought it. A Blood Moon deal. Now he's clearing out the vermin so he can plant palm oil."

"What about the other dude?" Watson asked in a low voice.

"The bald guy? Eastern European kleptocrat. Sold the king a bunch of plutonium."

The old man squinted at Sook in disbelief. "Plutonium? What for?"

"What do you think? The king wants to be first in the region to get his hands on a nuke. How would that look to his uppity neighbours? Right? Piss me off would you? Well one flash and you're ash."

"So, one has the wherewithal, the other the will to use it. Seriously? What sort of frikken' people are these?"

Sook nudged Watson in the ribs. "Same sort as you, and don't you forget it. In these circles that sort of thing is cause for bragging. Like an elixir of eternal youth. For rich clients only. The ultra-wealthy elite, who want immortality on their list of unobtainable luxuries."

Brows knitted, Watson nodded thoughtfully. "You know, you're right. I may have just seen the error of my ways."

Sook looked over her shoulder at the sound of purring rotors. "Look!" she pointed, "A chopper."

Watson followed the direction of her pointing finger. "Might be the boss."

"You think?" Sook said and heaved a sigh. "Lucky guy. Wish WE could go by chopper."

"What?" the old man exclaimed, "And miss out on the boat? You have no soul."

As they watched, the aircraft circled down, then flared hard and settled onto a spot-lit pad, 200 meters away. "It's that grey one," Sook observed, "the one we saw on our way to the big house."

No sooner had it hit the deck than the rear door slid open, and two tiny figures in black set off in a stooping run, into the featureless darkness beyond the pad. While Sook and the old man stood watching, waiting for the helicopter to shut down, the figures reappeared, still at a run, carrying another smaller figure between them. "Someone's in a hurry." Watson observed.

"Look out." Sook joked, "Might be a kidnap!"

"From the palace?" the old man scoffed. "As if."

The film reversed and whole the whole colourful spectacle rewound. The helicopter rose gracefully off the pad, collected its wits, then shot upwards forty or fifty feet, before nosing over and sliding effortlessly into forward flight. The wheels came up and the landing lights went off, the machine turning invisible against the backdrop of a gritty black sky.

***********************************************************************************************************

Meanwhile, in a poorly-lit underground cell, no more than three hundred meters from where Sook and Watson stood chatting, Ally turned this way and that in front of a stainless-steel mirror, admiring her scratched and blurry reflection. After months in the Hole... literally, a hole, 6-by-6 and 6-feet deep, with bars over the top and a 6-inch opening to the sewer- they had posted her to a brand-new address, an executive suite, with a mat and a pillow and a stainless steel bucket, a fresh air vent and her very own faucet. Well, it had felt like months, though in truth it had only been days, lying on a concrete floor in the pitch dark, cold and hungry, with no way of judging the passage of time. Learning etiquette at the business-end of a firehose, blasts of water so chilling she found herself dreaming of the exercise yard, under the merciless glare of a scorching white sun.

They'd even given her a new dress into the bargain- sky blue, raw silk, with thin little shoulder straps and plunging back. She shimmied her shoulders watching her breasts dance and jiggle, her half-erect nipples drawing zig-zags under the cloth.

Head down, Ally raised the hem of her dress and cranked out her pelvis. She'd shed a good ten kilos, if the mirror could be believed, and now had hollows over her hip bones. She ran a hand over her recently denuded mons. Smooth as a billiard ball. Nice job, performed while she was deeply unconscious, using methods unknown. She'd rarely ever gone cleanskin before, since she hated the stubble left by razors. Even worse, she detested those ingrown follicles that inevitably popped up, after ripping her pubes out with wax. She couldn't afford lasing, and didn't trust the multi thousand-dollar treatment used by the Braggs. Instead, she mostly chose to go trimmed, for the benefit of her playmates, something they could get their teeth into. Now, as she looked, she had to agree it didn't look half bad. Lasered by the looks, with no unsightly nicks.

Her mind strayed to those knee-tremblers with Penny, the young English woman who, in spite of her protestations, had become quite the fan of girl-on-girl. A smirk crept onto Ally's face. Just wait till she got back, and that randy little Brit slipped her hand down the front of Ally's pants as she so loved to do. Was she ever in for a little surprise.

A key rattled and Ally jumped in fright as the door flew open. Quickly smoothing her dress, she backed up to the rear wall doing her best to look harmless. Just like she'd been taught, naked and shivering in etiquette school, one guard bellowing unintelligible instructions, another with a firehose shooting from the hip.

Ally's heart sank as small, squat female waded into the cell. Bush Pig, her personal jailer, in her sage-green uniform and black hijab. Two steps inside she pulled up in the power stance, arms crossed, feet apart, gut hanging over her belt. Legs like hams, feet reminiscent of trotters. Fat fingers, snub-nose, thin lips and double chin- she embodied the porcine motif as if it had been made for her. Scouring her throat, she spat on the filthy floor, and while the little Westerner counted down, expelled a gust of eye-watering fart-gas- dead rat and sour cabbage with rotten egg undertones.

She held the woman's gaze, smiling. Mister Firehose had taught her not to hold her nose or cover her mouth, or fan her face or double-over pretending to gag. In fact, Ally had already decided, Mister Firehose was such a compelling instructor, if she ever got home, she'd start a school, for intractable teenagers, and churn out doctors and lawyers and corporate jet pilots, saturated and shivering but all top-notch.

Having dished out the ritual insult, Bush Pig whipped a metal detecting wand from its holster. In a couple of steps she coat-hangered Ally, one fat forearm across the Westerner's neck, pinning her to the wall. "Hello Bushy." Ally rasped, as the wand swept up her inside leg then smacked her hard in the crotch. "So how's Mister Pig today?"

Bush Pig curled her lip at the gibberish. "Whore!" she grunted in her native tongue, "It makes me sick to breathe the same air as you. If it was up to me I'd see you hang."

"That's good to hear." Ally grated, as the wand continued up over her torso, taking her hem along for the ride. For the entertainment of Bush Pig's male cousin, Bigfoot, who'd just swaggered into the cell to catch the show. "And what about your little boy, Mo?" Ally carried on. "I hear he just had his first sexual experience. Ten years old, you must be proud. Is his bum still sore?"

"When His Majesty is finally cured of his affliction." Bush Pig growled, dropping Ally's hem, then swiping sharply upwards, deliberately smacking the underside of her breast. "We will get to see you swing. And oh what a happy day it will be. Who knows? I might even get to pull the lever myself."

"Really?" Ally grit her teeth. "So is that dead dog I can smell on your breath? Or your daughter's shit off Mister Pig's dick?"

"You and all the other Blood Moon whores." Bush Pig continued, seizing Ally's arm, spinning her round then slamming her into the wall. "A mass public hanging. Outside the palace. You will all wear slips, and the citizens will cheer as you empty your bowels."

"That's much better, thanks." Ally gasped, cheek squashed hard against the cold, dank concrete. Bush Pig kicked her feet apart and up went the wand, between her legs again. Security screening was a daily charade. As if, overnight, she'd tunnelled through a meter of concrete, then down into the earth to a seam of iron ore. Then dug it up, and used the shit-bucket to smelt it, with her own manure for fuel, before forging a blade with her fist and honing it on the wall."

Bush Pig stepped back and Ally collected herself, adjusting her dress as she faced the door. Bigfoot tossed a pair of silk slippers down in front her and Ally knelt, knees pressed together, to pick them up. "For me?" she smiled, straightening. "You shouldn't have."

The screw raised a leg and gave his boot a tap, gesturing with his chin and growling commands. Ally held the slippers out. "You want to try them on, Cinderella? Is that what you're saying?"

Ally's hair went flying, as Bush Pig gave her a smack in the head. "Okay, okay," she said, raising a hand, "I get the picture." As much fun as it was goading these idiots, they had dim brains, short fuses and no sense of humour at all, and she knew from bitter experience how quickly the game could turn ugly. She slipped her feet into the dainty silk footwear and wiggled her toes. After so long barefoot, or scuffing around in flipflops, the leather-soled slippers felt as good as a holiday.

Another figure appeared, a member of the riot squad, in black fatigues and black webbing vest, a cut-down assault rifle slung across his chest. After a brief, rapid-fire conversation with the other two screws, he reefed a pair of handcuffs from a pouch and handed them over. Bush Pig held her arms out, wrists together and for one fleeting instant it seemed as if the cuffs were for her. Growling instructions, she gestured with her chin at the quaking little white girl.

"Cuffs?" Ally demanded, "By the hair on your chinny chin-chin, are you fuckin' serious? I mean, look at me!"

The male screw took are more direct route, seizing Ally's arm and slapping the cold metal bracelet round her wrist, ratcheting down till the steel bit into her skin. "Do you fuckin' mind?" Ally bridled, as the goon grabbed her second wrist, almost pulling her off balance. "OI!" she bellowed, "Back the fuck off!"

Fist clenched, the screw drew his arm back. Ally closed her eyes, tensing for impact, and when nothing happened carefully opened one eye. Hand on his arm, Bush Pig was shaking her head. "Sorry, brothers," she said, "we are to leave no marks. But have no fear, where she's about to go she'll get her reward."

While the first guard finished installing the handcuffs, the second slipped a black canvas hood over the prisoner's head. "What the fuck?" Ally demanded. "Are you guys insane?"

Bush Pig shook her. "Shut your mouth, whore! Before you wake the entire palace."

"Where are we going?" Ally demanded, as they bulldogged her out of the cell into the corridor. The door slammed shut with an echoing boom, and big, meaty paws gripped her arms. The squaddie in black gave her a shake. "Silence! Shut up!"

"Am I going back to my cell?" Ally pleaded.

The screw in green looked at Bush Pig over his shoulder. "What did she say?"

A few steps behind, Bush Pig shrugged. "Who knows? Who cares? It might as well be the yapping of a dog."

Fear and confusion vied for airtime in Ally's mind. Then, suddenly, 1 met 1 in the vortex and Ally came up with 2. She was going home, she thought, she had to be. It all added up. Her transfer from the hole, improved rations. A new dress, silk slippers. She was going home at last, she had to be, it was the only thing that made any sense. Roger Bragg had finally come through, or the embassy, or the prime frikken' minister. She didn't care. Tears bubbled out of her eyes. "I'm going home." she whispered under the stifling fabric. "That's it, isn't it? I'm going back home. I'm going home, and when I tell my story this place won't be worth shit."

The prison guard in black looked at his comrade. "Listen to her. Sounds like the chattering of a monkey."

"A bleacher monkey." Greenie snickered. "If you lift up her dress you can see where they cut off her tail."

The head-kicker looked at Bush Pig. "Have you any idea what she's saying?"

Bush Pig shrugged. "Begging to stay in the hole, if she knows what's good for her." she replied and they all laughed.

Greenie shot his colleague a glance. "There are plenty of empty cells down here you know. Maybe we should have some fun with her first."

"Not tonight, Brother." Bush Pig said flatly.

"Why not?" Greenie challenged. After all, she'd already shown him what the little whore was made of. "What do you care?"

"About her?" Bush Pig asked, "Nothing. Absolutely zero. But if she turns up... used... I'm the one who'll have to explain."

Ally felt like her feet weren't even touching the ground, as if she were walking on air, while the escort half-guided, half-carried her, through the block to a stairway. Then up, into another long walkway. Enough illumination was struggling through that Ally could make out lights overhead, vague blobs looming one after the other, reminiscent of a walkway or corridor. She racked her brains trying to recall the prison geography, strip-lights or points on the ceiling, she couldn't recall. In any event, they had to be nearing the end of the block and there'd be a stairway heading up to the admin. Sure enough, Bush Pig and her pals manhandled Ally up another flight of stairs and came to a halt. She heard the beeping of a keypad, followed by the sound of an opening door.

Hustled inside, her escorts wrestled Ally unceremoniously down onto a chair. Off came the cuffs. Then off came the hood and Ally looked round squinting, completely disoriented. A big space, brightly lit, rows of seating, reminiscent of an airport departure lounge. No Roger, unfortunately, and no Beck or mealy-mouthed consul grinning indulgently, but the surroundings were nonetheless extremely un-prisonlike. Bush Pig and the knuckle-draggers turned to leave and Ally called after them. "Don't forget to write!" she sang. "And let's hook up on space book or shitter. Love you!" she cried, blowing kisses at their backs. "Byeee."

Pulling up at the exit, Ally's pals paused to chat with a pair of heavily armed guards, then shouldered through the door, leaving her alone.

Though not completely alone. A young, blonde female in a short, frilly pink dress, materialised in front of her, looking down. Flicking her hair back with a toss of her head, she commenced speaking... French, by the sounds... as Ally sat massaging her wrists. "Speak English?" Ally asked once the opening tirade had finished.

"Who are you?" the girl demanded, switching effortlessly to English.

Ally swept her fringe aside. "Tarzanna," she replied, "Queen of the Jungle. Who are you?"

The girl jerked her head in the direction of the exit through which Ally's fan club had just departed. "They bring you in handcuffs."

Ally smoothed her dress, suddenly, uncomfortably conscious she was stark naked under the flimsy blue cloth. "Call me kinky." she shrugged, checking her surrounds. Another girl approached, a second young stunner who pulled up beside the first, and stood looking at Ally down her nose. The two had a lively conversation and the first girl asked, "Are you from the Bird House?"

"What are you?" Ally glared, unable to make head nor tail of the question. "A cop or a journalist?"

"Well?" the girl demanded, not about to be put off by some thirty-something scrubber in her nighty. "Are you?"

"If by Bird House you mean Big House," Ally said, "then mind your own fucking business."

"Hmph," the girl sniffed, "just as I thought."

"What label are you from?" the second girl demanded. "Who is your agent?"

"Jesus Christ." Ally cursed, "Is this the set of Mastermind or something?" Looking through the pair, she spied a coffee machine on the far side of the room, where another gorgeous young thing was helping herself. "Have they got coffee?" she breathed, rocking forward onto her feet and forcing her way between the pair. When the girl at the machine saw her coming, she beat a hasty retreat, not about to be stained by Ally's malodorous proximity. Hands trembling, Ally twisted a styrofoam cup from the stack and assembled a hasty brew- her first in weeks- with two spoons of coffee, four of sugar. While her cup filled with a dribble of scalding hot water, she pinched three sachets of creamer together then tore them open as one, tipped her head back and emptied them into her mouth.

The young women looked-on, grimacing. "You're from the jail." honeybun number-one declared.

Ally choked and creamer shot out her nose, leaving her inquisitors to jump out of the way. A third young female arrived, a mixed-race stunner with huge, brown eyes and long black ringlets tipped in brown. "Jesus Christ," Ally coughed, "is this Miss Universe or something? What is this place? What are we all doing here?"

A fourth beauty joined the pageant, then a fifth. "Where is she from?" one asked another.

"Jail." came the reply.

Ally ripped open several more creamers and stirred them into her brew. She raised it to her lips and took a first, shaky sip, the beverage so hot it burnt her tongue. She rolled her eyes in ecstasy.