Ebb Tide Ch. 04b

In #2, an old street bum was fighting off 10 inspired Chihuahua with a 2x4 with barbed wire around it.

In #3, it was a repeat of #1 except the fighter was male and the dogs were English mastiffs.

People were above each contest, betting on the outcomes and cheering on the blood-letting.

There were five groups in the room with me.

The largest group were 'the furniture'. They consisted of two gimps (S&M toys in full leather bondage gear with head gear which only had holes for the nasal openings), two 'guys' and three 'girls' (teens picked for their androgyny), three transsexuals (two guy to girl & one girl to guy – all pre-ops) and four adults (equal gender split) in various stages of moral and physical decay from persistent drug and alcohol abuse.

The second largest group were the above-par guardians for the hostess of tonight's nightmare festivities: 5 men and 3 women in the role of muscle and one post-op tranny (girl to guy ~ the physiology is hard to hide from the trained eye) who was clearly the shot-caller for security here.

The last three groups: our hostess was an aging beauty hiding behind layers of expensive plastic surgery, though she was still attractive in a very mature, MILF sort of way. She had most likely altered her normal attire. She was dressed in worn jeans, boat shoes, no sox, a sports bra and a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up and tied above the waist. From the way she scanned me, she expected to be recognized. No such luck.

The other two were similar in numbers – three apiece – with two guardians and one 'thinker', but were otherwise leagues apart.

The one keeping to the darkest part of the room wore an Army surplus overcoat circa Vietnam era with equally worn, aged clothes beneath. He was etched by time, with long, unshorn white hair, a face closer to seventy than sixty and blue eyes which shown with a blazing, keen intellect and little, if any, pity. His watchers were males in their mid-forties, strong, no firearms I could detect, but they had the 'rest easy' stance I associated with professional killers. Check that – they were fanatic-killers.

The other guy lounged in a chair and seemed to be somewhat enjoying himself. His suit was silk, his tie pin and sole earring were gold and diamond and his watch cost over $5,000 easy. I didn't think he was happy. It was merely the face he was showing the world and I wasn't able to fathom his real feelings. His guardians were a man and woman, highly polished, exquisitely dressed and I had to imagine – highly paid. I could tell they were a bit uncomfortable in this setting.

I seriously needed to make a donation to a Buddhist Temple because my karma was working overtime.

A repeat: a small fucking world.

"Technical Sergeant Gibson?" I made eye contact with the female guardian.

"Hospital Corpsman?" her left hand went down to her left hip. She did so because she had her hip because 'me' and my Marines had saved her and her unit of Rangers. I'd kept her leg attached through some hairy hours before we could get her medevacked. She'd never gotten my name it appeared.

"You know this man?" the guy in the chair inquired icily without looking up.

"Yes Sir," she kept her eyes on me. "We crossed paths in Iraq. I don't walk with a limp, or a prosthetic, because of him." It was nice to know she felt it necessary to be truthful with this guy. The truth did not make him happy.

"Is this going to be a problem?"

"It was in 2003, Sir. A lifetime ago," was her clipped response.

Technical Sergeant Jareela Gibson had been a US Air Force Combat Controller – one of those brave men and women who calls in those precision air strikes – and a member of what were consider 'Special Forces'. I imagined her comrade was equally qualified. The manager was about to move things along.

"Wait," Ms. Gibson called out, "I was a Staff Sergeant when me met."

"I know. I heard you were promoted after the crap that happened to us along with the Silver Star they tossed at you," I grinned.

"Oh," she nodded. "Yeah ... I probably got it because you didn't knock me unconscious."

"You were the expert on the scene," I ignored the manager's pique. "You let me do my job while you did yours, so it all worked out in the end."

She snorted. Her platoon (the Rangers she'd been assigned to) and mine had shared a lively few hours, her screaming occasionally into her radio as I operated on her thigh.

Both her unit's medical specialists were down before I got there. She insisted on no sedatives and her work was calling in air strikes on some really hostile folks who were terribly close in a built-up area. We needed her awake, but I had to work on her to save her life and her leg. She had been one tough bitch. Not much seemed to have changed.

Off to the hostess I went.

"You seem to have made a friend," she smiled at me rather seductively. Had I not had far too much pussy in my life already ...

"She's not a friend. I hardly know her. We bumped into one another in the Armed Services, nothing more. Me, her and roughly 5 million other Americans who thought volunteering to be bullet-bait was a wise course of action," I gave my own grim grin.

"You beat up three of my people ..."

"You surrounded me with goons with guns after my friends and I were invited here by Reagan Cho as a matter of diplomacy," I countered.

"Ah," she laughed lyrically. "Reagan ..."

She took out a remote and activated a monitor. It showed a different room. My ladies and two guards were entering. Inside were Jo, Reagan, Kristoff and a waitress. I had to do a double-take. The waitress quickly plied my group with drinks which they rapidly all took sips of. I looked from the screen, to our hostess then to the screen again.

"You are going to be so much fun!" my hostess squealed. "You caught it right off the bat."

"What if you accidently poison Reagan and Jo?" I battled for some mental bargaining room.

"Oh," she regarded me like an enraptured psycho, "I have. I can simply get them the antidote in time. The other three ladies and Reagan's current fling ... if I feel like it."

Here I was thinking 'Lady, kill Kristoff and Reagan is going to stake you out, cut off your eye lids and leave you in the Sun to die' which didn't do me, or my girls, much good.

Jo ... I wasn't so sure.

"You did what?" the cultured man came halfway out of his chair. "We didn't discuss this. They won't be so understanding where their Summas are concerned."

"We have made some adjustments," the old-timer spoke softly. "Let's just say this will bring all the players into alignment. With those two on the line, they will agree to our new way of thinking."

The other guy wasn't happy about this.

"You seem to be taking this awful well," the lady in charge kept showing me her perfect teeth and ample cleavage.

"I figured you've kept me alive for a reason. I'm waiting to hear what it is," I related in an even voice. This lady was insane and I was totally at her mercy. Acting blasé was the best way to keep her interested.

"Oh," she pouted. "Not even a tinge of worry?"

"Lady, you've lost your God-damn mind," I said. "You think you've made a deal with either of those two?" I motioned to the other major players in the room with a head toss.

"When this production heads south, it will be on your head, not theirs. I know who Jo and Reagan work for. If you think you can somehow mollify either of them this side of the grave after this ambush, you are clearly delusional. No matter what happens to me, they will find a way to see you dead ... and that guy," I glanced to the Ancient One, "already knows it."

"You think so?" she tilted her head coquettishly.

"Yeah. Since you have no real idea what true love, or 'blood-for-blood' comradery are, you can't understand how sadly you've fucked up and I don't feel like educating you. Get on with whatever you've planned out," I egged her on.

"Do you know who I am?" she didn't appear offended. See, if you are a mad tyrant, you don't get people giving you the unvarnished truth often. In small doses, it is actually refreshing to them ~ in small doses.

"Sycorax, Vice Lady of Gluttony," I answered. "Who you are in real life ... I have no idea though I get the feeling you think I should know you."

"I'm London Villiers," she waited for some sign of recognition. I had to think about it for a few seconds.

"The porn star," I stated. "I don't do porn. I heard about you on some Vegas awards show some years ago. Otherwise ~ nothing."

"All men do a little porn," she tried to salvage a bit of her own self-worth.

"No ma'am. I had an active, real-world sex life in High School and in Service; I never had an issue at the bars I frequented. I used a computer to further my career education, nothing else. I know other guys and gals do it and I'm fine with that. It was never my thing is all," I continued to undercut her without appearing to do so.

"Perhaps if you survive," she offered ... herself. "Okay," she turned business-like, "we have an issue with you and Mr. Pharris."

"I understand."

"Do you?" she tilted her head to the other shoulder. "I don't think you do."

"He runs the police and politicians for your merry little band. If I take him out, you aren't sure his successor can do nearly as good a job. Right so far?" I countered.

"So you can see why we can't let you kill him," she reasoned.

"Fine. I don't plan to kill him."

"Really?"

"I give you my word," I nodded. She giggled.

"Your word? What is your word worth?" she wondered.

"My word is this: give me the antidote and I can sneak it into all of the beverages of those six people without them figuring it out and I promise to never tell anyone outside this room what you did, or even meeting anyone here. I give you my word on that," I suggested a non-lethal alternative.

"I have one of my own," London smiled. "You have three options. First, you can compete in three bouts tonight and if you survive all three, I let all of you go free, give all six the antidote and we three agree to not interfere with you and Lloyd's little war. How does that sound?"

"Can I see my ladies before I head out?" I conditionally consented. I knew the deal. The bouts would be #1 dangerous, #2 nearly impossible and then #3 absolutely impossible as in they would kill me no matter what.

"You don't want to hear the other two options?" she was mildly offended.

"My trust in you is low, but by all means, inform me," I allowed.

"Option No. 2: You can walk away right now – just you. Be out of Clark County by sunrise and never return. Abandon your feud with Pharris. In one weeks' time, we will release Ms. Curtiss and the other woman. Ms. Norquist must remain."

"Option No. 3: you agree to leave Pharris alone and you come work for me and I will provide protection for you and your other two ladies. Ms. Norquist still must go, but I can protect you two and find a place for both of you within my organization."

Her lips promised all sorts of carnal rewards. She meant it. Her Chief of Security was less than thrilled.

"When do I start the first fight?" I said instead of even remotely considering her words.

"Would working for me be that bad?" she twisted in her chair so that her copious ta-ta's was more exposed. Also, she had tied the flannel at her waist, exposing her belly. She most likely wanted to work out more to maintain a washboard abdomen, but her endless series of indulgences showed.

"I'd happily work for you if you killed that guy," I nodded to the old guy, "right now."

"Why?" she titillated.

"He's setting you up to be murdered ... so it is either you, or him."

"Really, young man?" the old fella asked. "What makes you think I want to kill London?"

"The blood won't be on your hands. You'll leave it to either Thulsa Doom and/or Circe. They aren't going to be happy after tonight's stunt ~ putting their people at risk."

He laughed.

"You know little," he rasped in amusement. "Enough to be a distraction. Not enough to be a true threat." The pieces fell together.

"Does she think you, Jareth, being elevated to the new Xaltotun will protect her? You are already getting rid of Lloyd. Do you want to have a fresh Lord of Sloth, as well as totally new Vice Lords of Envy, Pride and Wrath? Or just Envy and Gluttony?"

"Why would we want Baphomet dead?" his eyes bore into me.

"Because you would be total idiots to attempt to take the top spot and leave him alive," I reasoned. "No. We all know he's a raving megalomaniac. He's got to go, just on your time table, not mine."

"You are unlikely to be able to defeat him yourself," the cultured one pointed out.

"That would make you Archimago, the Vice Lord of Avarice and considered the best odds maker in the City," I looked to the third guy. He neither confirmed nor denied. "You – I have no issue with. I take it on faith you knew I was going to be screwed over – that's business. You didn't betray Reagan, or Jo ~ thus you aren't blindly arrogant, or grown senile and decrepit from lack of competition."

Why did I say those last three sentences? I needed to cultivate an ally. Sycorax was nuts and Jareth had fucked over Reagan, Kristoff and Jo as well as myself and my ladies. He had to pay' so no deal for him.

"Can I see my ladies before my first fight?" I looked to Sycorax.

"You should be more respectful," the Tranny Praetorian rose from his treasured spot on the arm of Sycorax's chair and came my way. He looked like he hated all living things. I imagined the Tempest Witch collected the tragically broken and damaged souls around her to comfort her in her own fractured world in which she futilely buried herself in never-ending excesses.

He drew his 8" double-edged blade on me super-quick. Stopping him wasn't something I needed to do. Had I been marked for immediate death, I wouldn't have made it this far. The blade's edged pressed against the jugular. I could tell he was extra unhappy not generating the fear and surprise he was accustomed to.

'Sorry, Bitch; I'm on the job now. Lives to save. No time for flinching,' I kept my thoughts to myself.

My silence earned a hand to my crotch. His hold began to tighten. I minutely moved my head back for a head butt.

He caught it and prepared to present the hardest part of his skull for my attack. It would have really hurt had I carried through. He should have been watching my cheeks. I spit in his eyes instead. My right hand crossed to his knife wrist, pushing it back then twisting. He'd scream over that except ...

My left drove knife-like into his right kidney which really caused him to howl. He toppled backwards. I snatched the knife out of the air as he fell. Guns were out all around.

"I assume I can't keep this," I looked to Sycorax.

That was more misdirection. See, Tranny Praetorian wasn't done yet – plenty more fight so when I dropped the blade and the guns relaxed, I hauled off and kicked him hard in the ribs, sending him crashing into the closest table. Coke and pills flew everywhere.

At this point I studiously ignored the rest of the room. When threatening to shoot someone, your threat only works if they are 'aware' of it. You do this through obvious visual presence, or repeated voice notification. I was ignoring their visual presence.

If they grappled with me, well then 'Lord Hallelujah!' ~ I'd have a gun. The only voice which mattered was Sycorax. I landed twelve blows on her chief guardian before she called for a halt.

"Stop that," she commanded in a nonchalant manner. I immediately stopped and returned to my original spot.

Why had I beaten up her No. 1 bodyguard? To impress upon the room I was a savage. That meant, until they were sure I was dead, my companions would be treated with a modicum of concern ... because, for some reason, if I didn't die and they treated them poorly, the same beating would be coming their way. It is a technique called subliminal conditioning. I couldn't have gotten away with it if the criminal leader hadn't clearly been a sadomasochist nutjob.

"No, you can't see your ladies before the first fight, but they can witness it first hand," she allowed. Whether that meant they would be in the pit with me, or not, wasn't fully conveyed to me.

"Thank you," I bowed my head slightly ... said to fuck with hers. She made a lazy motion with her arm and four of her guardians gathered me up and marched me from her presence.

"You are going to pay for that," one of the women told me once we were in the hall.

"Ha," I chortled. "They are going to kill me tonight no matter what I do, so fuck off."

They got angry. Fifteen seconds later I dropped the last gun on the ground, then rousted the four of them up. Even though I'd kicked their asses, I still had somewhere to go and I'd yet to see a firearm strong enough to shoot through any of the steel doors I'd been confronted with ~ rather smart of Sycorax.

"Come on," I chided the one who told me 'I'd pay'. She looked at me funny, as if she expected me to make a run for it – or hit her again. "Your friends will kill my friends if I make a break for it, so I'm putting up with your bullshit," I explained. They were disoriented and sore.

I had concentrated on the head trauma this time around. The more their noggins were messed up the less likely they were to realize I'd palmed a few minor weapons from them. After all, I hadn't stolen any weapons during my first two beat-downs on purpose ~ to lure them into a false sense of security where that was concerned.

We soon arrived in the bowels of this complex where they kept the animals and other contestants for the paying attendees' amusement. From what I was able to gather, the first round of entertainment ~ the hobo fights and 'runaway vs. animal' battles for survival were ending; and the next round was for human combatants. It was bare knuckled brutality for those banned from real boxing and Mixed Martial Arts because of substance abuse and/or mental health issues.

I had never been enamored of the belief Mankind was a noble creation. I grew up poor and rough, the government sent me places where you definitely needed violence, or the threat of violence, to get the job done and it hadn't escaped me Reagan, via her Mom, ran a criminal enterprise where the laborers saw about 10% of their earnings if they were lucky. Jo's job description was 'Murderer for Hire'.

Being a Hospital Corpsman didn't make me a 'Good Guy' any more than being a Sniper made a serviceman a 'Bad Guy'. I had once known an HC who pedaled heroin on the side without giving a damn who ended up dead on the end of a needle as well as a Sniper who spent all his pay providing outreach for homeless vets. Why did this matter now? I'd met all kinds of folks and knew snap judgements were often wrong.

But I wasn't wrong about this crowd. They were evil. How so?

Training normally wonderful animals to become human-killing monstrosities ~ check.

Feeding the neglected and ignored human refuse of society into your regularly fatal amusement park games ~ check.

Laughing and joking about the misery as it unfolds ~ check.

I was not a moral crusader. I didn't level any threats as I looked around. If I saw any of these assholes in the outside World I would treat them like I would a known terrorist – I'd kill them if I could do so and avoid drawing law enforcement's attention my way.

They had divorced themselves from the basic tenets of Humanity and I wasn't a big believer in second chances (...which made the still living Chinese woman in my bedroom VERY confusing to me at the moment.) I'd kill them because they might be a threat to me, or someone I cared for, down the line.