Loser

by Valerie J. Long

  I only nodded. It was his story, so he had to determine the pace.

  “Sadly we soon found the solution. There were plenty of examples in the USA. Those were hits from Jelly plasma guns.”

  “Oops. Jellies?”

  “No. Used by humans. First in the USA, where after the Invasion millions of such weapons were scattered, and some soon trickled away through dark channels. Here in Europe it was much more difficult to get your hands on plasma guns, but of course the big bang didn’t destroy everything. Some poor bastards had entered the contamination zone and searched for useful stuff. There they found some strange tubes that didn’t appear broken, but didn’t work, either. So they’d sold the would-be scrap for a few Euro. Perhaps out of pity, someone else bought the would-be scrap, then found a fool who paid money for something unknown—at some point someone recognized it and grabbed it. Who cared if the collectors died from radioactive sickness? However, these weapons, just as the American ones, still weren’t usable this way. It took years of research to learn the function principle, then the problem of energy supply had to be solved, Dragon technology had to be adapted, and then the whole thing had to be brought to a reasonable size. Then those weapons disappeared. Of course nobody should know about it before the time was right.”

  “But now the time is right?”

  “Exactly. Now it’s time to let the governments know about the instruments of power they command.”

  “Then I’d better stay away from these people.”

  “That’s not the point, Jo. You don’t know the worst yet. Why do I tell you about all this? These people try to gain exclusive access to Dragon technology knowledge.”

  “Yes, and?”

  “They—people like this Hans Schmidt—are hiring graduates. Those who are hired become part of their machinery, under their heels. Those who reject are eliminated. They won’t tolerate independent Dragon technology experts. Not even you, Jo.”

  Chapter One-Hundred-And-Thirty-Eight

  Indirectly, Ulf confirmed my suspicions. This Schmidt knew about me, he just hadn’t shown yet. If that was the case, had Ulf really given me a friend’s advice—and thus put his own life in danger—or was it his role as good friend to prepare me for the inevitable, so that I made the right decision once time came?

  Crap. I liked the first alternative more, but if I wanted to survive and stay free, I had to assume the latter. Some paranoia couldn’t be bad in this environment. Consequently, I had to continue to play my double role. Externally, I was the nice girl thanking for the good advice, internally I had to prepare myself to burn the bridges to my current life way more thoroughly.

  I leaned forward, reached for Ulf’s crotch and kissed his neck. “Would you like a little smooching?”

  “Now?”

  “That’s what we came here for, didn’t we? When we leave the car, we should smell like sweat and sperm. You can’t feign that, you can only do it. Come, let the thrill turn you on.”

  Ulf wasn’t really in the mood. I could understand that—I felt the same. However, I was a pro. It didn’t take long, and his hard rod filled the emptiness between my legs. After all, it was just sex, that simply always had to work.

  I reassured myself with a positive thought—finally the men were after my head, not after my body! As long as the Cartel was interested in the Dragon technology expert Johanna Meier, they wouldn’t simply let the annoying, unexpected Ironman winner Johanna Meier disappear. Until Mr. Schmidt addressed me directly, I was relatively safe. I hoped very much that he’d wait until after the Hawaii competition, so that I’d have time to plan my exit.

  I had to remove myself from the Cartel’s access so thoroughly and so believably that they’d close my file and forget me.

  Johanna Meier had to die.

  “You’re looking as if you’d just had a wonderful thought,” Ulf commented. “Will you fly now?”

  “I almost feel so,” I purred truthfully, rubbed my breasts against him and pinched my vaginal muscles together. “You’re my anchor. Hold me tight—no, do me from behind now, hard and fast.”

  The thought of my death made me incredibly horny. Oh fuck, I wanted several men together now! The suddenly sprouting thought that Ulf, whose cock had just pleased me, could well be my executioner, only made me hotter.

  Luckily, we both just came, as I felt the sudden urge to laugh out loud. Yes, I was simply crazy! Crazy and as good as dead. Dragon hot!

  Chapter One-Hundred-And-Thirty-Nine

  When we opened Phoebe’s back doors and set our feet down on the white pebbles of Ronnie’s access road, Hans Schmidt was already waiting for me—or so it seemed. Or was it customary for him to linger alone outside the front door, while inside the party happened?

  I gave him a sugar-sweet smile and linked arms with Ulf. “Should we go back in?”

  “You’re wearing an enchanting perfume,” Mr. Schmidt commented.

  “Which tells of great pleasure,” I agreed in passing. With that, we let him alone. Mr. Schmidt’s grand entrance wasn’t due yet.

  I felt like having a large glass of champagne now, or something like that. “Do you like champagne?” I asked Ulf with a nudge at his arm.

  “Aw, not much,” he admitted.

  “Not even if it’s frothing out of my pussy?”

  So this way you made a hard-boiled police commissioner blush. Oh yes, tonight I’d rock Ronnie’s party! Even if nobody knew I was celebrating my upcoming death, they would celebrate with me.

  Ronnie intercepted us on our way to the bar. “Where have you been? I had hoped Jo would properly celebrate her farewell with Jen and me tonight.”

  “We’ll properly celebrate farewell,” I assured him. “Oooh yes, we’ll celebrate!”

  Ulf’s knowing smile made Ronnie pause. “What are you up to, Jo?”

  “Give me a bottle of champagne, and I show you. Give me a bathtub, and I’ll soak in it and offer your guests from my bath. It’s time to heat up the party mood, don’t you think?”

  “If you say so,” he agreed, clueless. On our way to the bar he gathered up his Jen.

  “A bottle of champagne,” he instructed his barkeeper.

  “Still corked,” I added. The barkeeper frowned, but handed me a bottle after he had removed the lead cap and the agraffe.

  With a little help from Ulf, I climbed the bar counter. “Do you have your glasses ready?” I asked while shaking the bottle with one hand. With the other I was already pulling the halter over my head. My dress slid down and with one leg I tossed it aside. Except for my sandals, I was naked now. This way I had gained the audience’s full attention.

  Another shake—the cork flew off with a bang, and with a quick move I pushed the bottleneck into my crotch. The pressure made the expensive beverage shoot into me and almost as quickly run out next to the bottle. Ulf’s glass was already waiting. The remaining bystanders needed a surprise second longer. But then they cheered excitedly and came to get their share. Champagne with pussy juice—only here, only today! Drink from a dead woman’s body!

  Part Thirteen—Ironwoman

  Chapter One-Hundred-And-Forty

  The day of my death began as bright and beautiful as the days before—little wind, a lot of sun, no clouds in the sky. Early in the morning, I enjoyed my special sports breakfast, drank juice and tea, then I slipped into my jersey, fetched my bicycle, and went on my way to the start. The place was full of people, and in the crowd I almost disappeared as one out of many. I had no eye for the beauty around or the people, as I had to focus on the things to come.

  Due to the number on my jersey, I was allowed in everywhere. I brought my bicycle and the shoes to one change zone, my running shoes to another, each time passing several barriers of officials, then I made my way to the start barefoot. Before I was allowed to the competition, I had to go to the doping test. Nicely separated by gender, including the officials and doctors, we were allowed to bare ourselves, open our pubes wide and then provide our urine sample. The reason for th
is exhibitionistic and embarrassing procedure was to prevent giving the urine from concealed containers, so the female competitors had to truly reveal everything. I guessed that it was easier for the men—they just had to pull out their member and show that there were no tubes.

  As I was used to appearing nude, I had less problems than other competitors. Some newcomers appeared appalled at the extent of privacy intrusion. Would it truly help to make the sport cleaner? In Frankfurt, the testers hadn’t found anything, although probably all top runners except me took something. In any case, after this peep show, I no longer worried about my yet dry and decent jersey.

  The next step was the blood sample. This year, the sampling had been organized right before the start to get the most current blood test results.

  “This adds to the thrill,” I told the young doctor, before she could apply the syringe.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Well—you’re pricking me now. The wound will close soon, but some blood remains in the adhesive bandage. With that, I’ll jump into the water soon. Sharks can smell the slightest traces of blood for miles. We’ll see whether these traces will spread faster than us swimmers.”

  She paled. “Sharks?”

  “They’ll go into a blood frenzy as soon as they smell such. I’m sure the organizers have taken care of that during their preparations. A few butchered young girls will enormously add to the thrill, don’t you think so?”

  Her face became a bit green, but she finished her task.

  “Don’t worry,” I reassured her, “I swim very fast. Aside from that, it’s a beautiful day to die, isn’t it?”

  Chapter One-Hundred-And-Forty-One

  Before dying came the competition. I felt tempted to answer the pre-start announcement with Those about to die, we salute you, but for one, I didn’t wear sandals, and for two, there was no Roman emperor I could have addressed. So I left it at merging into the crowd of athletes.

  Naturally, at least the German reporters had a certain interest in their European female champion. But compared to the world leaders, my result hadn’t been outstanding, so that I only had a good underdog chance in Hawaii. Moreover, I was a woman in a competition dominated by men. Hardly anyone knew me well. Of course, I could have been identified by photos or my number. So I had changed my hairdo and offered little opportunity to examine my number. With my short-grown body I literally went under in the crowd.

  First came the two-point-four miles swimming in the open Pacific—of course accompanied by boats, the crews of which were equipped with shark-deterrent sticks and even prepared to collect the swimmers from the water in an emergency. Sharks were no issue for us athletes though, as we were quite busy pushing, kicking, boxing each other to gain enough room to crawl. I needed the better part of the first mile to fight my way out of the crowd and forward of it. I needed the second mile to catch up with the top flight, and on the last four-hundred meters, I had to struggle with my stamina.

  The short time of changing allowed me to catch a little breath. On my bike, it was then time for the attack. The top flight was already on its way, but I had one-hundred and twelve miles to catch up with them—more than enough.

  I didn’t have to pretend to let the fight for the top appear dramatic. When I took the lead, drool hung from my chin, and if my face appeared tortured, it was because I truly tortured myself. I wanted to know whether I could win this darn Ironman, and I fucking wanted to know how well. So I gave all. No games, no false modesty. If my nanos had improved me, I’d use that shamelessly. Perhaps my doped competitors would ask themselves which untraceable substances I had taken. Well, there were a few people who could have told them, but those were light-years away from us now. I wouldn’t tell.

  And—I—will—conquer—this—darn—hill!

  I didn’t allow myself to leave the saddle. That was good for a sprint, but for this elongated ascent, I only had to pedal evenly. Pedal. Pedal. Pedal. Monotonous and strenuous, nice for a hellish muscle-ache on the next day, about which I no longer had to worry though, because I’d already be dead then if everything went according to the plan.

  Moreover, I had my nanos. They could quickly and reliably patch the fine strain damage in my muscle fibers. So all was clear?

  No, as I first had to endure this torture and pedal as if my life was at stake. Even if nobody forced me to do so—for all the pain I alone was to blame.

  It’s just strain, and it’s only hurting a little. Whipping is worse. Knives are worse. Only today—and I pushed the pedals.

  After a while, I didn’t care how I finished. After another while, I told myself, if I did this shit, I’d want to fucking win it. If I tortured myself at all, then it should be the full load of Dragon poo, and right into my eye.

  I took the descents at breakneck speed, mercilessly utilized my nanos’ aid to balance across uneven ground, even let my bike skid across slippery ground without going down. The cameras that meanwhile had homed in on me didn’t bother me.

  Finally, I reached the most anticipated change. Pedaling was over—now I could run myself free. Ahead of me lay only a marathon distance, and I’d fight that down now, too!

  I won’t tell all the details, how I trotted along the track with stars before my eyes, full of sweat, snot, drool and tears, more like falling forward than really running—then there was this gate, suddenly there were people in my way, officials who caught me, wiped my face, gave me water, led me to another doping test. Pissing, pricking, then I was handed on, and suddenly several people held microphones up to my nose, excitedly yelled their questions at me. I shook my head, as if that would help me, and took several deep breaths. Okay. Now I was ready to listen to them.

  “How do you feel now?”

  “What do you think about this incredible result?”

  “How was that possible?”

  Result? “What result? I think I’ve won, haven’t I?” At least, I hadn’t consciously noticed any competitor ahead of me. No, I had outdistanced them during biking, during the change neither of them had run past me, and during the run nobody had passed me—I’d have noticed that, even if I hadn’t registered much else. “Somehow I’ve run like in a tunnel,” I explained my non-perception. “Just run. It has sufficed, hasn’t it?”

  “What do you say about your record?” one of the reporters insisted.

  Now I also recognized the distinctive microphone of a German station. “Record? I don’t know my time yet. I didn’t care. Was it good?” I looked straight into the eyes of the man behind the German microphone and ignored the others’ excited questions. “How good was I? Tell me my time, please.”

  “Seven hours, forty-four minutes, nineteen seconds. World record.”

  “World record.” So. “Then it was really good. No wonder I feel so broken. I’m feeling simply crappy. Ugh.” Be a pro. Give the cameras something, something other than your see-through jersey and your wet pussy. “Well, the swimming was ugly—arms and legs everywhere, I could hardly paddle without hitting someone. Then the competition was gone. At that point, I could have given up, but I told myself, what did you train and hurt yourself for all the time? So I crawled until my arms fell off. I believe at the first change, I was well back. In the beginning, biking went well, until the first climb. There I switched off my mind and only pedaled. I was up and down the hills like mad, at full risk. I didn’t know if my power would last, I just went on. Actually, at the change I was done. I don’t know where I found the energy to then run, but somehow—one foot by another, nicely in rhythm, I’ve mastered the distance. I’d guess I was fast because I wanted to come to an end. By how much did I break the record then?”

  “Well, five minutes,” my opposite replied. “The one for men.”

  Chapter One-Hundred-And-Forty-Two

  “For men?” I echoed helplessly. “But then…”

  “You’ve won this competition across genders, exactly. The fastest man finished after you, by time. An incredible achievement. Honestly, we all ask ourselves no
w, how can one do that without doping?” The reporter smiled disarmingly. His colleagues listened anxiously.

  I smiled back. “Honestly, no one ever accused me of doping so kindly. If someone had asked me this morning whether such a performance would be possible without drugs, I’d have said, surely not. But obviously it’s still possible if you only train hard and consequently enough, as I did. And honestly—I’ve never felt as devastated as now. Or did it look easy to you?”

  No, it hadn’t. Several interviewers shook their heads, the German said, “Several times, you looked as if you’d drop any moment. Did you feel like that?”

  “Worse,” I admitted. “I felt as if I’d collapse any moment—and I felt as if I’d be struck by lightning if I dared to slow down even the slightest bit. As if a hundred howling hellhounds would snap for my heels and tear little shreds from my calves with every step. And now—well. I’m alive, I’m breathing, I can even talk in coherent words.”

  “If it’s no doping, what is it then, what makes you so much better than all other competitors? Do you have an explanation?”

  “No. I can offer hypotheses. Number one—unconditional focus on the task. I’ve trained mercilessly. I’ve given truly everything. I’d have accepted to break down and die after the finish—which luckily didn’t happen. Number two—I must own a very high pain tolerance. Sadly, I’m accustomed to standing pain.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s been a while back. I fell into the hands of a criminal who found pleasure in systematically torturing me. You don’t want to broadcast the details. In any case, this competition wasn’t only significantly shorter, but in comparison, heavenly pleasant.”

  The interviewers’ faces showed a wide range of horror, disgust, and pity before my last remark seeped through and elicited a grin.