Ever Onward

by Wayne Mee

  “My Lord, the trial is ready to proceed.”

  Jocco’s wolf-gray eyes fixed on the little man and held. How in hell has this little shit become so important to me, he asked himself? The answer was quite simple; ‘Wicked Walter’ was a genius. His mind was a snake’s nest of perverted ideas, each one more ruthless and depraved than the last. Each one, however, made Jocco more powerful.

  Not only had come up with the idea the Temples, but with many more ingenious ways to help run Jocco’s growing kingdom. It had been Walter’s idea to shun the cities and concentrate on the farmland; to force the population back into raising crops and animals and to subjugate rather than eliminate all competition. To aid in this, Walter, again with Jocco’s permission, had sent his tax priest and guards into every hamlet and village, listing the age and skills of everyone left alive after The Change. A Post-Change census. Anyone with skills or knowledge needed was put to work immediately, rewarded with power, privileges and personal slaves. Anyone lacking these various abilities was placed in a farming unit.

  Things had gone well for the first six months, but lately things had began to change. Resistance to the taxes had risen sharply. Tribute was late in coming. Sweep Teams had been ambushed and the slaves set free. In the fertile San Joaquin Valley, tax priests and guards had been attacked and robbed. And now a temple had been raided in Bakersfield. Clearly, King Jocco could not allow this treason to continue.

  “My Lord? The trial?”

  Jocco looked up. The officers before him stiffened. “Bring the prisoners forward.”

  Bobby-Joe Burlis, dressed in clean fatigues and a black bulletproof Kelvar vest, nodded. Several soldiers dragged a man and a woman up to the dais and forced them to their knees. Both had been badly beaten. The man’s right eye was swollen shut and two of his front teeth were missing. The woman looked almost as bad. Both their heads had been shaved. In King Jocco’s court, the accused were clearly guilty till proven innocent.

  Jocco leaned forward, his voice deceptively soft. “You are rebels. You were caught robbing one of my temples. Because of you, several of my soldiers have died. Have you anything to say before I pass sentence?”

  Both prisoners kept silent. The woman glared back open hatred at the robed figure. Jocco motioned and Bobby-Joe approached.

  “Have they revealed anything about their leaders?” he whispered.

  Bobby-Joe shook his head. His arm still hurt where the bitch had bitten him.

  “About where their main camp is?”

  Again the shake of the head.

  Jocco’d voice hardened. “You mean you’ve had them for three days and you didn’t get a fucking thing out of either of them?!”

  Bobby-Joe was sweating now. Jocco had always been a mean bastard, but ever since this shit with the rebels, he’d turned into one sadistic mother-fucker. “Er, no Jocco, I mean, my lord.”

  Jocco’s gaze narrowed. In private he usually dropped all this ‘lord shit’, but only in private and only with a chosen few. Bobby-Joe was one of them, along with George the Man, Roy Heller, Tim Galt and a few others. After all, appearances counted. How else could discipline be maintained? Pussbag, however, continued to treat him like Satan’s chosen son. The little psycho would have gladly licked Jocco’s boots if he’d let him.

  “If my best officers fail me, maybe I should turn them over to the priests? Wicked Walter has his ways.”

  Bobby-Joe winced. The creepy little bastard made his skin crawl. Wisely Bobby-Joe said nothing.

  Jocco winked at him. “At ease, soldier. I don’t like Walter the Wimp any more than you do, but he does get results. I’ll give you one more try to do the same. With the man only. Use Pussbag. He could get the Pope to scream he wasn’t Catholic. The woman goes to the poles.”

  Bobby-Joe nodded, glad that he himself had escaped a similar fate. The ‘poles’ was another one of Pinkton’s ideas. A form of crucifixion. The telephone poles outside the Fortress were decorated with dozens of rotting corpses.

  Jocco raised his voice. The room once again became deathly still. “I, Jocco the First, Supreme Ruler of the Kingdom of California, pronounce you both guilty of high treason. There can be but one sentence; death. Take them away.”

  After the hall was cleared, Jocco hooked the silver circlet over the back of his throne, flung off the silk robe and called for a cold beer. An orderly ran up with a frosty Coors Light. His inner circle of officers crowded around him; the ‘good ol’ boys from the bad ol’ days’. Jocco chugged the brew and belched.

  “Pomp and circumstance, gentlemen, pomp and fucking circumstance. Loosely translated, ‘bullshit baffles brains’. But it keeps the yokels on their toes and that is what counts. Now, how about a little Poker?”

  Walter Pinkton watched from the sidelines as Jocco’s cronies crowded round him. Orderlies produced a card table and chairs and before long the beer and booze was flowing. Pam the Bitch, now Lt. Gliss, and a few other women officers came in and the party really got underway.

  “Anti up, assholes!”, Jocco cried out, slamming down a bag of coins. Paper money was now only good for wiping your ass, but Walter had soon realized that the barter system could only go so far. Jocco had taken Walter’s advice and declared coins to be accepted throughout the realm. Walter’s tax priests were set another task. Every bank, store and any other place where coins could be found was methodically searched, counted and brought to the Fortress. Walter’s personal little army of tax guards ensured that none was lost along the way, except of course for what Lord Walter kept for himself.

  Post-Change prices were cut to 1% of their original value, and the cent, not the dollar, became the official coin of the realm. For a few pennies a man could buy a meal, a room or a whore for the night. When farmers were lucky to see 500 cents a year, Jocco’s soldiers got that in a month, his officers in a week.

  And of course there were perks for the privileged. Lavish estates, slaves and servants to work them, and power --- but not too much power. That was one hand that Jocco played very close to the vest.

  “What’s the game, Jocco?”, Pam asked. “Same as the last time?”

  Jocco grinned slyly, deftly shuffling the cards. “Too dull. You see one set of jugs, you’ve seen them all.”

  “Not like these,” Pam purred, ripping open the Velcro on her flack-vest. Black lace barely concealed swelling breasts.

  “Lieutenant Gliss,” Jocco said dryly, “you do indeed have a most excellent pair of tits, however, I have something a little more less obvious in mind, though perhaps just as uplifting.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like the looser takes a hundred men north to Bakersfield. I plan to put an end to these rebels once and for all.

  “Than Georgie might as well start packing right now,” Roy Heller chuckled.

  George the Man shot Roy the finger. George was now a colonel, while Roy was only a major. Rank hath its privileges.

  “High stakes indeed, My Lord,” Walter said, gliding out of the shadows to a place behind Jocco’s chair. “But think you it wise to leave such a decision of import to the fickle whim of fate?”

  Bobby-Joe banged down his beer can. “For Christ’s sake, Pinky, can’t you ever talk normal?”

  Wicked Walter ignored the big man, though a part of his devious brain filed what Bobby-Joe had said into an often used compartment --- the one titled ‘Revenge’.

  “It pleases me to tempt fate, Walter,” Jocco smiled. “I’ve been doing it all my life.”

  Walter bowed. “As you wish, My Lord. But, a small suggestion?”

  Jocco nodded, his hands already busy dealing out the cards. Walter continued. “Some of my people should go along with your men. After all, the temples are involved.”

  Eva Madeau, already half in the bag, barked out a laugh. “If I’m the one to go, I don’t want any of your coin-counting faggots tagging after me. The rebels are said to be tough bastards. Your limp dicks wouldn’t last a day.”

  Lord Pinkton smiled, showing a brief g
limpse of why he was called ‘Wicked Walter’. “I think you’d find, Lieutenant Madeau, that my tax guards are quite up to the task. Also, their leader is anything but a ‘limp dick’.”

  “Oh ya?”, Eva challenged. “What’s the fucker’s name?”

  “Captain Chillis.”

  Eva’s eyes widened. “Scar? I thought that cold-hearted son-of-a-bitch was killed in the Santa Barbara riots?”

  Walter’s beady eyes actually twinkled. “He was wounded, yes. Fortunately he recovered.”

  Jocco turned to Eva. “Who is this ‘Scar’ character?”

  It was Bobby-Joe who answered. “Head honcho of the Pinky’s tax guards and one mean mother-fucker. My Sweep Team found him wandering around half dead about five months ago. The dude was just about done in. With that scared face and eyepatch he look like Death warmed up.”

  Jocco slowly put his cards face down on the table. “Why, prey tell, if he is such a legendary warrior, is he working for Lord Walter instead of me?”

  Bobby-Joe shrugged, willing himself to remain calm. “Well, we tested him, but he didn’t exactly pass.”

  “You mean he refused to rape the girl?”

  “Not exactly,” Bobby-Joe said.

  “Well?” Everyone there knew that tone.

  “He didn’t rape her, he killed her. Snapped her neck like a wishbone. He also took out both guards supervising the test.”

  Jocco looked up, his eyes narrowing. “He killed two of my men and you let him live?”

  “He didn’t kill them, Jocco, just disarmed them. When I got there he handed me their weapons and walked out. Later I heard that Pinky, I mean, Lord Walter, had hired him as a drill instructor for his new guard unit.”

  “He’s worked out extremely well,” Walter put in, looking directly at Eva Madeau. “If you overlook the fact that he hates women.”

  “Like I said,” Eva muttered. “Another faggot!”

  Jocco picked up his cards. “Walter, send this ‘Scar’ to me after dinner. I’ll let you know what I decide in the morning.”

  Walter bowed, his ferret-like eyes agleam. “As you wish, My Liege.”

  When the Change came ten months ago, Walter had seen Jocco as his savior, an Anti-Christ come to fill the void left by a non-existent God. Since then Walter had altered his thinking drastically. Now Jocco seemed like little more than a smart bully leading dull ones. True, he had the charisma and leadership abilities that Walter lacked, but he didn’t posses the far-reaching view of things that Walter did. Jocco lived from day to day, while Walter dreamed of the ‘Big Picture’. For now he was content to let Jocco sit on his petty throne, as long as he pulled the real strings of power.

  ‘Oh what a tangled web we weave,

  When first we practice to deceive.’

  The future, Walter was sure, would take care of itself.

  Chapter 38: ‘SCAR’

  Lord Walter’s Main Temple

  (formerly St. Mary’s Col.)

  Beverly Hills, California,

  May 7th, First Year A.C.

  Standing in front of the mirror, the man straightened his clean fatigues and tugged his black beret down to a rakish angle. The silver pin it sported was the perfect counter balance to the black silk eyepatch. The image that stared back at him was a far cry from the one he’d have seen five months ago. Then he’d been little more than a torn and tattered scarecrow with a scarred face and an infected eye socket. Now he saw a soldier; a commander of men; bold, daring, someone that you definitely did not want to fuck with.

  Like the number of roads he had traveled in his rather eventful life, his list of names seemed endless. Little Brucy to his alcoholic mother; Bruce the Goose to the neighborhood toughs he’d hung out with; Master Drill-Sergeant Chillis to the grunts at Fort Bragg. When the world got terminally fucked up a year ago he became Rambo, then One Eye the Wanderer and most recently, Captain Scar of the Royal Tax Guards.

  He’d come a long way since being picked up by one of Jocco’s Sweep Teams. A hell of a long way. But now it all seemed worth it. He thought back on the ‘test’ they’d given him. After a meal and a couple of beers, they’d put him in a room with a naked woman tied to the bed. With his one good eye he’d gazed coldly back at the two soldiers dressed in clean army fatigues, then moved towards the bed. The woman, her eyes glazed from drugs, took no notice of his scarred face. Still, she’d shivered at his touch. He remembered the feel of her sweat-slicked skin, the smell of her unwashed body.

  “Well, Ugly?”, one guard had said. “Are you going to do her or not?”

  He remembered gently moving his hand over her flat stomach, up between the boney valley of her small breasts and on up to her slender neck. The woman gave a little moan, sounding like a frightened animal. With a twist of his large hand he’d snapped her neck. The frightened mouth relaxed in a grateful smile.

  “Jesus Christ! You can’t ---”

  He knocked the first guard on his ass, drove the second guard’s head into the wall and jabbed stiffened fingers into the first’s guard’s exposed neck. Both men were out cold. He then gathered their weapons and waited quietly on the bed. It wasn’t a long wait. An officer barged in, followed by several other guards. The scarred man handed over the weapons and casually asked if he’d passed the test. The officer, a southern-roughneck named Bobby-Joe Burlis, scratched his head and said he’d let him know. Scar had shrugged and left.

  The next day a guy with a long robe and a shaved head told him somebody called Lord Walter wanted to see him. Lord Walter turned out to be a skinny little shit with glasses; he also turned out to be one of the craftiest buggers Scar had ever met. He explained how he wanted to start his own little army, independent from the Great Jocco’s and that he wanted someone with no ties to the Dark Army to head it. He’d provide the men and weapons while Scar provided the knowledge and training.

  A line from a Dillon song had popped into his head. ‘When you aint got nothing, you got nothing to loose.’ “Why the fuck not?”, he’d replied. Lord Walter had kept his word and the man known as Scar had been working for the little prick ever since.

  Now, five months later, Jocco the Great had finally noticed him.

  He wasn’t too sure how he felt about that. He had it soft working for Wicked Walter. The tax priests did most of the work, all he and his men did was guard the shit the priests collected. Sure, it meant spending a hell of a lot of time on the road, and you never knew when a robber or some pissed off peasant would take a shot of you, but it was still a hell of a lot better than the four months he’d spent reaching California.

  His mind cast back over those tough times and, despite the warm spring night, he shivered.

  Those crazy farmers had trailed us for months! All the way from the fucking east coast! That stupid shit, One Arm, was still alive then. Him and Straw and Hank and Vinni. The three bitches too. Marla, Carie and Wonda. Carie had been alright. She could hold her own and shoot better than most men. That peroxide cunt Wanda though, was something else! Always coming on to the men, teasing them, sticking her big jugs in their faces. He remembered catching her and Vinni going at it one night on guard duty. He’d kicked the shit out of both of them. Vinni had taken it, but not Wanda the Bitch-Witch. She’d gone wining to One Arm. When the stupid cripple had told him to back off, Scar had come close to gutting the bastard.

  He moved to the table and poured himself another drink. Not the watered shit Jocco’s troops got. Nothing but the best for Lord Walter’s tax guards. He tossed off half the glass, went to fill it, then stopped. It wouldn’t do to meet Jocco three sheets to the wind.

  He smiled to himself. A year ago he would have chugged the bottle. Since joining the Guards, Mrs. Chillis’ little Brucy was wising up, thinking ahead, even setting goals for himself. He’d cut back on the booze and stopped drugs altogether. Started working out too. Christ! He felt in as good a shape now as he had when he was in the Army! And when you came right down to it, saying ‘Lord’ wasn’t much different than ‘Sir’.


  He’d also left those crazy farmers behind. Even if they did follow him south, they couldn’t get at him now, not with a hundred Guards under his command.

  Yet they still haunted his dreams. There were nights he woke up in a cold sweat, sensing them getting closer, closer...

  “Fuck that shit!”, he said out loud, reaching for the glass. But after the first swallow, he pushed it away. The memories however, were not so easily shoved aside.

  Hank’s brains splattering all over the windshield just outside of Buffalo; Marla disappearing into the North Dakota night. Then there’d been that time in Wyoming when Vinni sprouted a fucking arrow in his throat! They’d fled west then, racing for the coast. They’d almost made it when the ambush happened. Carie and One Arm both bought the farm on that one!

  Scar knew in his guts that the farmers were responsible. They’d been hounding them for months; always just behind them or waiting round the next bend. He’d fed south then, just him, Straw and Wanda the Witch. In Reno he’d swapped Wanda for a spare tire and a tank of gas. Bikers got the jeep and Straw just outside of San Francisco. By the time Jocco’s Sweep Team picked him up near Fresno he was little more than a walking skeleton.

  Ya, things had changed a hell of a lot since then! But a dark corner of his mind still wondered where the crazy farmers were. Part of him didn’t want to know, yet another part, the larger part, hungered for revenge.

  The poker game had long since been abandoned by the time the man known as Scar arrived. Guards outside the wrought-iron gates of the U.C.L.A. campus had verified his pass and collected his weapons. They’d been damned good too; finding the hide-out gun strapped to his leg and the spring-knife up his sleeve. He didn’t mind. He hadn’t come here to off anyone. Besides, he still had his hands and feet, and up close that’s all he’d need.