Bad Luck Black Money Read online

  Saturdays come and these stands get packed with human sardines. They sit ass to ass, above asses and below other asses. Drinking beer and stuffing their fat faces with... nachos and... doughnuts, which make their already bloated asses even bigger.

  And what for? So they can watch steroid fueled Neanderthals play a meaningless game that never ends, year after year, until they're all dead. And then a new generation of mouth breathers takes their place in a never-ending cycle of stupidity....

  Imagine a world with elbowroom where you can travel over a hundred miles in any direction without seeing another living human. Imagine our world were we squeeze the last foot-pound of work out of the useful idiots, then slaughter them before they get old enough to become a burden upon our society.

  Imagine the New World Order were mankind is bred like prized swine to produce even better future slaves, harder working and sexier in their masters' beds.... Soon, there will be no need to imagine because it will become reality."

  Not knowing what to say, Esmerelda twirled a silver spoon inside of her steaming cup of green tea. She would alternate between watching the greenish liquid swirl in the cup and the silver hair upon the Duke's head. His eyes burned with intensity; therefore she avoided staring directly into them.

  "I've come here to give you a warning, Esmerelda, my dear. Take heed of it, because there won't be a second. You're traveling down a dangerous road. It doesn't lead to anywhere you want to be."

  "What road are you speaking of, Duke Winterfield?"

  "Well, it's not the road to vengeance. That is a road, which I've traveled down many times. Contrary to what the mass hypnotized, groupthink imbeciles say, vengeance is good. Nothing heals old wounds like having the inflictor of those wounds, beg for your mercy. Only to be denied, of course.

  The road to sadism is also all right. Many of my pod enjoy the occasional, woeful screams of pain. As long as you're the torturer and not the tortured then I'll look the other way when you kidnap, bind, and torture any of the sheeple. But that's not the real purpose behind the machinations you put into motion. Is it?

  No you have something totally different in mind.... Don't you?

  You are running down the pathway, at full stride, towards the big cock."

  "I've never been so insulted!" Esmerelda exclaimed, her face turning bright red. "And right to my face!"

  "Don't play games with me, girl," growled the Duke, his voice stirring fear in her very soul. "Do you think me a fool?"

  "No, sir, Duke Winterfield," Esmerelda managed to squeak out, while looking down into her teacup.

  "I've known of your perversion since Milton first made a bleep on my radar. I make it a point to know everything there is to know about prospective NWO members. Why would Milton overlook your skankiness? Nothing in his profile would indicate he'd marry an absolute whore. You were a piece of the puzzle that didn't quite fit. Unless,... he didn't know about the real Esmerelda.

  In the future, you should remember that it's hard to keep secrets when you've slept with eighty-seven men. And spilling your guts to your dead professor friend was stupid. She wrote an academic paper, which contained thinly veiled references your affliction and its origins. It's out there for anyone to discover.

  "Please, don't tell him, Duke Winterfield! I'll do anything for you. ANYTHING!"

  "Don't worry. I have no plans to let the pussy out of the bag. And by all accounts, it's a rather large pussy, at that."

  "Why can't the ground open up and swallow me alive or a lightning bolt strike me dead and end this humiliation?" thought Esmerelda. Her shoulders slouched like a man who'd lost the will to live.

  "For all his attention to detail, Milton failed to do a proper background check on you," said the Duke. "It's a smudge on an otherwise sterling life."

  The Duke made a 180-degree turn while remaining on his backside. He leaned his back and elbows against the table and stretched out his long legs. He stared out at the empty stadium as if he were looking over an endless ocean. Esmerelda was relieved that the old man had turned his back to her. She no longer had to feel his judging eyes boring through her.

  "Unfortunately, my wife the Duchess had a detective dig up dirt on you behind my back. She's a sneaky, deceitful creature. Normally, I would have put a stop to her shenanigans before any harm could be done. But recently I've been totally consumed with NWO business.

  At your first NWO meeting, the Duchess sent you horseback riding. It was a psychological ploy to reawaken your inner slut. And it seems to have worked."

  "With the utmost of respect, Duke Winterfield... I have not touched a man's penis that wasn't my husband's in over twenty years."

  "Then tell me this. How were you going to insert that rotten catheter into Saladino without touching his dick?"

  "That's not fair. It wasn't going to be sexual. It's a medical procedure. Nurses do it all the time. And I would have worn latex gloves."

  "Condoms are made out of latex, and you're not a desensitized medical professional.... You're a sperm dumpster with a big dick fetish."

  Esmerelda didn't react. No matter what she said or did, it wouldn't change the Duke's opinion of her.

  "What am I to do with Sarge?" asked the Duke.

  "Whatever you like, Duke Winterfield," Esmerelda responded. "But please don't do it on my account. I don't find him the least bit attractive."

  "Odd, considering how much you hunger for the big anaconda. I was told, Sarge brags about his big member to anyone who'll listen."

  "It's not that big," Esmerelda said. "From the bulge in his pants, I estimate he's only swinging eight and a half inches, max."

  "And that's not big enough for you?" asked the Duke, mildly amused.

  "No, your Dukedom. Like you said, I'm a skank. I need at least a niner to get me there. Sarge is a half of an inch too small. At best, he would only be able to mildly irritate me."

  "Damn," cursed the Duke at her candor. He was a little shocked but not mad. "I'm happy to hear that. It would be such a waste if he had to be eliminated. Sarge is the perfect soldier ant. He's loyal and motivated by money.

  I've taken the liberty of solving your Saladino problem. He's been transferred to one of my insane asylums. Only three days left on his prison sentence before becoming eligible for parole. So close to freedom, yet so far away.

  Beauford will freak out once he realizes his predicament. Indefinite detainment until he's deemed psychologically fit. After a week or so, spent in a straitjacket, screaming, cursing, and crying like a frightened child, he'll be taken out of his padded room. That's when the fun begins.

  My doctors will start him on a regimen of directed, psychedelic drugs. Saladino will be trapped in a hell of our making, within his twisted mind. I expect him to see devils, melting corpses, and rabid wild animals, all trying to do him harm.

  Your amateur torture sessions might have lasted four days, IF you were careful. But where's the fun in that? My professionals can keep him in horrific agony for months, maybe years. Slowly upping the dosages over time and switching drug concoctions will keep Beauford's trauma, vivid and intense.

  Every so often, they will allow him to detoxify, in order to break down any tolerances that he might be building up. Going cold turkey is hell for a junkie. The few days, when the bastard has a clear mind, will be his worst days. Then he will beg for freedom, knowing deep down that it's all in vain. Pain is coming. As long as he breathes, pain will always be coming.

  Enough of that, you are going away for a while. You should take your daughter, Ruby with you. It can be a mother/daughter bonding experience. I'll fly you out to my island in the South Pacific. Superstars from the movies and world famous singers will entertain you. Chefs from my personal staff will prepare sumptuous feasts. The health spas down there, actually improve your health."

  "Thank, you, Duke Winterfield," Esmerelda said as she got up.

  The Duke didn't stand or even bother to turn around and look at her. He said, "Go home. A car will pick you and Ruby up, sho
rtly."

  Esmerelda did as she was told, and the Duke of Winterfield stayed there for over an hour, thinking deep thoughts.

  Chapter 39

  Prince Nalaheb Naheer, son of King Jaheal Naheer, brother of Prince Abdul Naheer, nervously waited in the lobby of Pluto Moon Technologies. He had told the receptionist that he urgently needed to see Mr. Milton Hopenhammer on an urgent matter concerning his son. The cute, little receptionist, who wore a short, revealing, red dress, assured him the message would reach the president's desk. He took a seat.

  Used to wearing the traditional, flowing robes of the Middle East, Prince Nalaheb found the silk tie of his Western business suit a pain in the neck, literally. As he loosened the tie, he noticed that his shirt was getting sticky from nervous sweat. His brother, Prince Abdul, was better in dealing with people, but this part of the plan had fallen upon his narrow shoulders.... The pathway to heaven wasn't supposed to be easy.

  It wasn't long before the cute, blonde receptionist sashayed over to Prince Nalaheb, and then led him up to Boss's office. The receptionist walked a couple of paces ahead of Prince Nalaheb, inadvertently giving him an up close view of her perfect ass. Nalaheb was of two minds. An uncovered female working along side of men theologically repulsed him, especially while dressed like a whore. But he did enjoy watching her butt cheeks fight each other like two dodge balls trapped inside of a popcorn popper.

  "Knock, knock," rapped the receptionist upon Boss's door with one of her small, manicured hands as the other slowly pushed it open. "Boss, this is Prince Nalaheb."

  "Prince Nalaheb!" exclaimed Boss as he walked over to the prince and hugged him. "Any son of King Jaheal is like a son of mine."

  Prince Nalaheb was in a near state of shock at Boss's greeting. He was expecting a cool, calculating businessman and here the man was acting like his long lost friend.

  Glancing around the spacious office, he saw the beds and obvious sexual contraptions hanging from the ceiling. Nalaheb also got one last look at the receptionist's ass as she left, closing the door behind her behind. It was clear that this infidel was a spoiled hedonist, just like every other American.

  "How is King Jaheal doing?" asked Boss.

  "... He is... well," Prince Nalaheb answered hesitantly. "How do you know his Majesty?"

  "We're good friends. We met earlier this year and just hit it off. Which son did you say, you were?"

  Prince Nalaheb was shaken. This man knew his father better than he did. This turn of events jeopardized the mission. "I'm Prince Nalaheb Naheer. My mother, Jasmine, is one of the king's royal wives.... Uhm, I need to make a phone call. I had to leave my phone at the guard station. May I use a phone?"

  "Yes, of course," said Boss. He went to his desk, pulled open a drawer, and dug out a cell phone. "Here, use mine," Boss said as he tossed it to Nalaheb, who somehow managed to catch it after batting it around in the air a few times.

  "I'm going out into the hallway for a moment, if that's alright with you?" asked Prince Nalaheb.

  "Sure, take your time," answered Boss, as he plopped down in a chair behind his desk.

  When Prince Nalaheb was out of the door, Boss smiled at the Prince's naiveté. Did he really think that he could make a private call on a phone belonging to P.M.T.?

  Boss tapped awake his computer and released a program which would translate and transcribe Nalaheb's conversation. Boss put his feet up on the desk and waited for the prince's phone call to dance across his screen in real time.

  "Yes," answered Prince Abdul.

  "We have a problem, brother."

  "And what might that be?"

  "Hopenhammer knows our father. He knows him better than we do. We are dead!"

  "Calm down, Nalaheb. This changes nothing. Proceed with the plan."

  "Abdul, don't you understand? Hopenhammer makes one call to his Majesty, and father will have us beheaded!"

  "... We knew the risks before we started this. It's too late to back out now. Do your job."

  "I didn't sign up for a beheading! Fuck you, and fuck the plan. I am leaving."

  "Nalaheb, my brother, were do you plan on fleeing to? The Amazon jungle? A deserted island in the South Pacific? Wherever you go, they will find you and kill you.

  Do you think these terrorists are playing? When they track you down, they'll use a rusty knife to slowly saw your head off. Ask yourself, will that be better than a quick swing of a sharp sword by the king's executioner?"

  "Abdul, you are frightening me."

  "Remember your reward in heaven if you die a martyr for the cause. Endless virgins, rivers of milk and honey, life everlasting. You should be so lucky as to die."

  "They will come for you, too."

  "Let them, my brother. I welcome release from this world. I have had too many women, drank too much wine, and sang too many songs. Life is becoming more of a chore than a pleasure.... I welcome the sweet release of death."

  "Good for you, Abdul. But I like living. I don't want to die."

  "Who says it will come to that? We are not going to hurt Hopenhammer. We are actually helping him, when you think about it.

  Through us, he will be reunited with his long lost son. And if that wasn't enough, I've arranged for the hottest nurse in all of Russia to sex him up. It will be like a grand vacation for him, and all he has to do is give us the Day-2-Night Scrambler."

  "I don't think it will be that easy," Prince Nalaheb worried aloud.

  "Don't think. Just do," Abdul said, as he hung up the phone.

  Rather than analyze the situation to death, Boss acted on his gut feelings and fired off a series of rapid emails to his security force. It was one hell of a time to be in transition between security chiefs. Major Elliot was the interim leader of his security team. Boss didn't doubt the man's ability, but he'd still have felt better with Sarge in charge or even Karen Sculley.

  Before Prince Nalaheb had a chance to re-enter the room. Boss picked up a hardline phone and called Milton, who answered on the first ring.

  "Hello, Father," spoke Milton.

  "Listen, son," said Boss, while frantically typing on his computer. "I don't have much time. I'm going to be away from the office for a few days, and your mother is on some freaking tropical island somewhere, so I need for you to run Pluto Moon Technologies for awhile."

  "Wow, I'm honored, Dad."

  "Don't make any drastic changes. Don't try to impress me. You already have."

  "Thank, you, Father. I don't know what to say."

  "Don't say anything. The paperwork you need to secure corporate power is in the bottom drawer of my desk at home. I've got to run. Goodbye."

  Boss was going to play along with Prince Nalaheb and see where the fool would lead him.

  Prince Nalaheb decided that it was time to take the bull by the horns. He marched into Boss's office, pointed a bony finger in Boss's face, and said, "We have your son."

  "I don't think so," replied Boss, rocking back and forth in his executive chair.

  For a moment, Nalaheb was dazed and confused. "... Yes, we do. He is safe in my family's desert compound. But if you want to see him alive again, you will hand over the Day-2-Night Scrambler, and come with me."

  "How do you know about the scrambler? It's classified, top secret."

  "We have our ways," proudly stated Prince Nalaheb.

  "Let me take a wild guess. The guy, who worked on that project, who talks like you and looks like you and has the same religion as you, ... he's the mole. Everyone says to not judge a book by its cover, but ninety-nine percent of the time, you can."

  "I do not care about your human resources problems," whined Nalaheb, who was becoming more frazzled by the minute. "Do you want your son to live or die?"

  "Well, which son are you talking about? I have more than one."

  "Milton Van Hopenhammer, Junior! Your namesake!"

  "... Yeah, he's not really my favorite. How about you keep him? I haven't talked to him in like twenty years."

  Prince Nalaheb
sunk down into a chair. He didn't know what to do or say. And he was visibly shaking.

  "I'm just fucking with you. Of course, I want my kid returned in one piece....

  Look, I'm going to have R&D bring over the prototype. Is that cool with you, Prince Nalaheb?"

  "... Uh ... I ... I think so. But we need you to come show us how to work it and how to make more of them.... Is that permissible?"

  "Not really," said Boss. He got up and then helped Nalaheb up, since he seemed to be rooted to the spot. "But hey, you're the kidnapper, right? I have no say in the matter."

  "... Yes, yes, if you say so," answered Nalaheb, who followed Boss out the door and down the hall to the elevator.

  "Demonstrating the D2NS will be simple enough," Boss said, as he pressed the down button. "Making copies is a little trickier. We're not just dealing with terabytes of data. We're talking about replicating some state-of-the-art hardware, too."

  "I ... see," lied Prince Nalaheb, who couldn't follow what Boss was talking about.

  They stood around in uncomfortable silence in the lobby until Major Elliot came in through one of the side doors, pulling a suitcase-sized device on wheels behind him. Handcuffs locked the Major to the device.

  "Boss, sir, here is the D2NS that you requested," said Major Elliot, freeing his wrist from the restraint.

  "Very good," Boss replied.

  "I need you to sign off on the transfer, sir."

  "Of course," Boss said, as he took an electronic tablet and stylus from the Major and began writing.

  Elliot stepped in-between Boss and Nalaheb, then began talking to the Prince. While he was making small talk, he effectively blocked Nalaheb's view of the tablet, allowing Boss to write orders in private.

  After handing the tablet back to Elliot, Boss pulled the case behind him and walked outside with Prince Nalaheb right on his heels. A golden limousine pulled up beside them and a hulking, bearded man jumped out to open the limo's back door. The bearded chauffeur popped open the trunk and reached for the Day-2-Night Scrambler.

  "Wait, one second," ordered Boss. "That's a delicate piece of equipment. You break it or let it bounce around in the trunk, that's on your head not mine."