Bad Luck Black Money Page 23

  The lecturing, middle-aged professor in his white lab coat and thick-rimmed eyeglasses had come to a conclusion. The zenith of human evolution was Germanic. This seemed odd to Boss, since his own heritage was a mix of French and English and American mutt. Nevertheless, his mind was open, and he waited for the professor to show evidence in support of his theory.

  In through a door behind the lecturer walked two naked people. A blonde-haired, blue-eyed man standing at over six and a half feet tall, proudly displayed himself for the audience to study. Beside him stood an almost six foot tall woman with the prerequisite blonde-hair and blue-eyes. She also sported D-cup breasts with bright pink nipples and areolas. Both had thickets of untamed pubic hair.

  "If you wanted to start the human race over again, these specimens of physical perfection should be your models. They can work in the fields all day and screw your brains out all night. The race is highly intelligent and many of their genetic weaknesses have already been purged.

  I like to call them Saxony-Anhalts from the region of Germany from whence they originate.

  My team has spent generations perfecting the breed. We have an ample supply of fertile women and virile men, from which you may start your very own breeding programs.

  Are there any questions?"

  Boss rocked back in his chair and it twisted from side to side as he studied the pod's reaction to what the professor had said. Half the members were scribbling notes down on paper or frantically typing away on computer keyboards. The other half of the pod looked as if they were lost, not knowing what to think or do.

  A raised hand shot up from the middle of the lecture hall. It was light olive colored and belonged to King Jaheal Naheer.

  "Yes, sir, what would you like to know?" asked the professor, happy that someone wanted more of his haughty wisdom.

  Jaheal stood up and said, "I want to know what Boss has to say on the subject."

  Every pen stopped scribbling and not another key was pressed as the entire pod looked in Boss's direction.

  "I just got here," Boss spoke up. "Who am I to question this learned professor?"

  "You're the most dangerous man here according to Duke Winterfield," said Gloria McNeil, the only female member in attendance. "I think I'd rather hear what you have to say on the subject than some quack scrounged up from some Ivy League university. No offense, professor."

  "None taken," said the professor, who wasn't used to hearing any criticism from his students. His knuckles turned white as his fingers dug into the lectern. "Please, feel free to voice your opinion... sir."

  Continuing to rock and swivel in his chair, Boss said, "Well, since everybody seems to be interested in my opinion, I'll give it to you.

  If we were dropped back in the first century, Black Forest region of what is now Germany, then the professor is absolutely correct. The man and woman down there would make excellent breeding stock. Of course, you would want them to have sex exclusively with each other for the purpose of reproduction.

  After just a quick glance around this room, I can see all kinds of genetic weaknesses and imperfections floating around in this gene pool. You wouldn't want to roll the dice and mingle your genes in with those beautiful freaks of nature, who stand naked before us. But then again, would you really want a homogeneous population of super men? What would stop them from rising up against you?

  And what level of technology are we talking about here? The lecturer mentioned that his Saxony-Anhalts could work all day in the field. Are tractors and irrigation systems off the table? If so, do you realize how many calories those giants need to consume every day, in order to work hard and not lose weight?

  There are just too many variables here to arrive at any definitive conclusion. Would I want to rule over ghost-white Germans at the equator? Maybe, if they had time to acclimate. Or would pygmies perform better in physical combat? Maybe, if we're taking small firearms. They'd definitely make for smaller targets, whereas giant Germans make for huge targets."

  "I can't do this!" shouted a pod member, who was seated up front near the professor. "We're all going to die! He'll kill us all!"

  Another pod member, seated near him, motioned for help. And several people dragged the distraught man out of the lecture hall.

  "That's just Seymour," spoke Gloria over the chaos in the room. "He has panic attacks. Ignore him.... Do go on."

  Just then, the Duke of Winterfield opened the door behind Boss and quietly said, "Milton, a word."

  "Excuse me," Boss said, as he headed towards the exit.

  The Duke and Boss walked down a hallway, stopping after they were a hundred yards away from the lecture hall. The Duke turned to Boss and asked, "Are you practicing psychological warfare against my entire pod?"

  "What? No!" exclaimed Boss. Adding, "No, sir, your Dukedom."

  "Don't lie to me, Milton. I'll ask you once more. Are you playing psychological games with all the other pod members?"

  Staring the Duke right in his eyes, Boss said quietly but with conviction, "No, sir."

  The Duke stood there studying Boss's face then replied, "I believe you. But that's the end of your lecturing days.

  Actually, it's the last time that joker with a doctorate degree will ever spread his nonsense around here. He's served his purpose, which was to open some of the pod's minds to alternative lines of thinking.

  Political correctness has seeped its way into my pod, and it must be eradicated. I want my pod striving to improve themselves.... I don't want them traumatized into stasis."

  "That wasn't my intent, sir. I swear I was only trying to help. Gloria said that Seymour has panic attacks. I assume that's what just happened."

  "Nobody likes a tattletale, Milton," said the Duke as he started walking. Boss tried to stay at his side.

  "You're already competent enough. You don't need any directed learning. But that cannot be said for the rest of them. They'll never be a match for you and your spawn. But they can be better then, than they are now.

  In the very beginning, after the billions of retarded monkeys are dumped into their mass graves, you'll need other pod members. Ones who aren't totally useless."

  "Yes, sir."

  "... And you're conclusions were all wrong, anyway."

  "Really, how so, sir?"

  "Milton, you are an American. It's not your fault. But as an American, you were constantly bombarded with comfy, cozy, idealistic nonsense. Some of it has evidently sunk in."

  Boss almost objected, but then he thought better of it. He prided himself on always being open to others' philosophies and their worldviews, no matter how much they differed with his own. This was one of those times when he could learn more listening than talking. And it wasn't ever a good idea to argue with the Duke of Winterfield.

  "The lecturer was also wrong. We are the ultimate achievement of human evolution. We determine the fate of the masses; therefore we are their gods. Genetics and heritage play only a minor role. Self-determination, absolute free will, and the power to shape the world as we see fit, those are the traits that make us gods....

  But that wasn't really the professor's point, was it? He hypothesized that the Germanic race was the one, closest to perfection. Therefore, if you have to start the world over again, do so with German blood.... Wrong again.

  The English make better slaves. The Roman Empire would have attested to that. Germans have a berserker streak imprinted in their DNA, which makes them inherently dangerous.

  The English will fall to knee for anyone who prances around with a crown upon his head. They'll change their religion at his majesty’s behest, risking their own souls eternal damnation. They'll sail halfway around the world to fight and die for queen and crown.

  And don't give me any of that latitudinal evolution bullshit. Englishmen can sweat under the hot African sun as good as any Ethiopian can. How you blindly accepted a kernel of racist theology in the militantly, antiracist USA is beyond me.

  At one time in history, the sun never set upon
the British Empire. Now, England is a basket case. Its men are not even shadows of their forefathers. Its women... well, I don't even want to think about the women.

  Suffice to say, the England of old is dead. Its corpse is rotting in the light of day. Its bones are being picked clean by vultures. Even its past glory days are being erased from the history books. An entire country betrayed by its need for approval from the scum of humanity.

  America fairs no better. The coals that once stoked the flames under America's melting pot have been smothered out. Now, the once revered melting pot is nothing more than a slop bucket, bubbling with stench and decay, waiting for the day somebody shows mercy and smashes it to pieces with a hammer.

  And it wasn't even hard to destroy. We merely dangled a treat in front of their greedy faces, and they sold their own souls for a false feeling of security and a full belly.... Screw them! They deserve what's coming their way."

  They walked on in silence, Boss not knowing what to say or if he should say anything at all. They ended up at the arboretum again, the one place that seemed to calm the demons inside of the old man.

  They sat on a fossilized log beside the large, rushing stream, which zigzagged, through the indoor forest. Boss noticed that there were speckled trout swimming in the water. Some day, he'd have to ask if it was OK to go fly fishing here.

  After a long while, the Duke asked, "What have you deduced?"

  "About what, sir?" responded Boss.

  "What do you think the New World Order’s purpose is? Why are you here? What's the meaning of it all?"

  Boss took his time in answering. He wasn't sure what the man wanted to hear. Did he want some kind of reassurance? Did he want praise? The string of questions the Duke had asked seemed to hint for a philosophic response. So, that's how Boss decided to answer.

  "I kind of feel like a caveman seeing an airplane for the first time. Your technology is leap years above mine, and mine is leap years above the general publics’. That means the NWO either has the technology for interstellar travel or is almost capable of such a feat.

  This underground structure seems to be totally self-sufficient. As long as you have access to other sources of energy, besides the Earth's heat, then you could put this whole thing up in space or perhaps underground on a distant planet.

  This obsession with building the perfect society makes sense if there are plans to replicate it out in space. One people with one solitary goal, spread out over the galaxy, hence, the underlying hatred of diversity and cultural differences in the New World Order. Oh, it's fine for the soon to be dead, normal people, but not the NWO. Do as we say, not as we do.

  Sooo... am I close to the mark, or did I miss the whole target? I've probably watched too many science fiction movies, right, sir?... Duke Winterfield, sir?"

  The Duke didn't acknowledge Boss. He acted as if he hadn't heard what the younger man had just said. He just sat there, watching the stream flowing by and looking at the exotic plants on the far side.

  Thirty minutes later, a short bundle of female power came walking up behind them. She had her yellow-blonde hair in a ponytail and was dressed in combat fatigues with a .45 semi-automatic pistol strapped to her side.

  "Duke Winterfield, Karen Sculley at your service, sir," said the little woman, holding her hands together behind her back.

  "Milton," said the Duke as he got up and stretched. "This is your new chief of security."

  "Pleased to meet you, sir," spoke Karen and extended her hand to Boss.

  "Sure," Boss said as he shook her small hand. "Uhm, what about Sarge, Duke Winterfield?"

  "Sarge?" pondered the Duke aloud. "Oh, the mustached man who currently heads up things? He seems competent enough, but he's no Karen Sculley.

  He can keep on top of things until Karen arrives across the pond in six to eight months time. She's currently running an operation for me.

  Normally, we provide the maximum level of security for all our members. But your little gang of ex-soldiers seems to be doing a fine job without our intervention.

  It took my detail over an hour to secure your bodyguards. They had to gas the whole, damn block to get them all.... We have never had to gas a whole block before. That speaks volumes about their skill set.

  You are responsible for the safety of Esmerelda, Ruby, Emerald, and yourself. We're currently taking care of Diamond's security, covertly. I want you to double your current security force. You also need to hire unmanned aviation specialists because you're getting fighter drones. If someone wants to hurt you, make them pay for it in blood."

  "I'll get on it as soon as I can, sir," answered Boss while looking at Karen. "And may I ask, why I'm in need of Sculley's services?"

  "Because I say so," responded the Duke. "Think of her as a present from me to you."

  Turning toward Karen, the Duke said, "Go over the proper way to handle a semi-automatic pistol with him. Pay special attention to clearing jams. Also, show him a few moves. I don't want him going down like a bitch."

  "Yes, sir," Karen replied.

  Boss yelled out, "Thank, you, Duke Winterfield," as the Duke walked away.

  The two of them were left standing there. They looked each other over.

  "Haven't you ever heard the phrase, 'don't look a gift horse in the mouth'?" Karen asked.

  "I think you're more the size of a gift pony than a gift horse," retorted Boss. "Isn't that right?"

  "It's well within my authority to bend you over my knee and give you a good spanking," Karen said flirtingly. "You wouldn't like that, or would you?"

  "If I were bent over your knees, my elbows and knees would be touching the floor."

  "Want to bet?" asked Karen.

  Chapter 34

  Esmerelda sat on the right-hand side of the Duchess of Winterfield. A select, few, female NWO members joined them at the head table. Lesser women members sat at the tables nearest them. Further away at slightly less fancy tables, sat the wives of members.

  It delighted Esmerelda to be sitting at the cool table, a treat, which she had never experienced in high school. She noticed that her flatware was gold, while the wives of members, who sat at far away tables, were stuck with mere silver.

  Servants, who were dressed in the traditional garb of seventeenth century France, served the daintiest pastries imaginable with exquisite grace and poured tea into eggshell thin, porcelain cups. Performers in colorful tights juggled balls and swung from a nearby trapeze. Everything was designed to delight the female senses, and Esmerelda was thoroughly delighted.

  Tablemates of Esmerelda gossiped about which members were doing what to whom. Then they would take a break to brag about their children's accomplishments or those of their husbands, before returning to the juicy gossip.

  It was all very entertaining to Esmerelda. But she didn't feel the need to compete with any of the women surrounding her. The fact that her entire family had individual memberships did all of the bragging for her. Like the Duchess, she listened politely while others did most of the talking.

  A couple of hours passed and the Duchess of Winterfield leaned over to Esmerelda and whispered, "Are you getting bored, dear?"

  "No, ma'am, I'm fine."

  "Well, did you know that we have other activities, which we can avail ourselves of? Feel free to have a change of scenery. I've been told that you like to ride horses. We have horses and a riding area on one of the lower floors. I don't remember which, but someone will show you."

  "Thank, you, Duchess Winterfield. I think I'll take you up on your kind offer. I haven't gone riding in years."

  "You should be able to find a horse to your liking. I believe we have all breeds. And of course, our horses will be the very best of the best."

  "I'm more excited than a good, little girl on Christmas Eve," Esmerelda said.

  The Duchess nodded at her personal maid, who was standing nearby, and the girl hurried over.

  "See that Esmerelda finds her way to the stables."

  "Yes, Duchess."
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br />   "Oh, I didn't know I was leaving now," Esmerelda said, rising to her feet. With a slight bow she added, "by your permission, Duchess."

  Outside of the tearoom, a rickshaw waited to carry Esmerelda and the Duchess's maid wherever they wanted to go. The rickshaw was essential, especially, when wearing a layered, frilly dress.

  As a tall, shirtless man, who had well defined chest muscles pulled the rickshaw, Esmerelda let her mind wander back to her childhood, when she first fell in love with horses. All little girls want a pony, and Esmerelda had the good fortune to belong to a family that owned several horses.

  Rhonda (Esmerelda's mother) had inherited a farm in California's wine valley. She was an absentee landlord for the most part. The couple, who ran the farm, paid her enough in rent to cover the taxes on the place, but not much more. As a show of their appreciation, they stabled Rhonda's horses for free.

  Esmerelda could remember the day, like it was yesterday, when she got her first pony. It was on the occasion of her eighth birthday. The whole family had driven down to the old farm. She was in the car, looking out the window, when she saw a solid white pony with a big, red bow draped across its shoulders.

  Looking back on it now, Esmerelda realized that, that was the happiest day of her life. The birth of her children was special, as was her wedding day. But nothing in her life had ever brought the amount of sheer joy into her heart as had, getting that pony for her birthday. She named her, Sprinkles.

  The young Esmerelda enjoyed Sprinkles every time she got the chance to go to the farm. She wanted to take care of the pony, all by herself. She liked to give the pony its daily bucket of oats and would make sure the pony had enough hay to nibble on. Brushing its coat and occasionally washing the pony with a bucket of soapy water was especially fun. And she would give Sprinkles carrots and sugar cubes as often as she could get away with it.