by Hondo Jinx
Frankie’s green eyes stared up at Sage’s glistening slit, gleaming feverishly.
“Are you ready to taste a woman for the first time, sister-wife?” Sage asked as a sparkling strand of her sweet essence stretched toward the Gearhead’s beautiful face.
“Yes,” Frankie gasped. Her luscious mouth opened wide, straining upward. The lust-crazed Gearhead’s tongue stretched out, tangled its tip in the glistening strand and hauled Sage’s juices into her mouth with an epic shudder.
Then Sage lowered her crotch and rocked back and forth, eclipsing Frankie’s pretty face and painting it with her hot wetness.
It was too much. Brawley’s impending climax bellowed to life again, bucking like a rank bull trying to spring out of the chute.
This time, Brawley didn’t care. Fuck it. He’d pop, hose down the girls, and keep pumping away, pounding his slutty cat girl and any other woman who dared splay herself beneath his fierce thrusting.
Besides, he wasn’t the only one racing toward orgasm. He could feel all five of his wives hurtling simultaneously toward an epic, mutual explosion.
In fact, they were so close now that he reckoned he’d push them over the edge just by hosing them down with hot cum.
But then a high-pitched chime dinged in his head, paused his building bliss, and redirected his attention faraway to the south.
Apparently, the cartel truck had finally stopped.
Brawley pulled free of Callie. He barely registered her whimper of complaint as he rose to his feet and pitched his consciousness southward.
His mind raced over the rugged mountains, flashing across miles of harsh desert terrain, and nosedived out of the sky, through the roof of a large, silver hangar and into the drone, which still sat atop the tractor trailer, filming and recording audio.
The hangar was a brightly lit cavern half-full of vehicles.
A man’s voice spoke in nervous tones.
Then a deeper, aggressive voice started machine-gunning bursts of Spanish.
Having grown up in West Texas working alongside Mexican hands and hanging out with Mexican bull riders, Brawley could follow along all right, getting most of what they were saying.
“Todos?” the angry man shouted. “Todos los hombres?”
Brawley panned the camera down and brought the men into view. One, a stammering asshole Brawley recognized as a driver, nodded.
Yes, all of them, the man confessed. All of the macheteros were dead.
This confirmation tore a howl of rage from the other man, whom Brawley recognized immediately.
Raul “El Teribble” Coronado had the proud, rough-hewn features of a hard, high-desert bloodline. He was a short, compact man with broad shoulders and the scarred, boxy hands of a power-punching welterweight prizefighter, which, according to Brawley’s Dark Lattice research on all things psi cartel, made sense, since before rising to power, Coronado had been a heavy-handed professional boxer.
Together with Francisco and Javier, Raul made up Los Hermanos Coronado, the infamous rulers of the psi cartel, who oversaw psi crime along most of the United States’ southern border, putting them in regular contention with Brawley’s old enemies, the psi mafia, one capo of which, Senior Dutchman, still needed to die.
In time, in time.
For now, Brawley had other matters to attend to.
Brawley had never been much of a multitasker. He believed in doing one thing at a time and doing it right.
“Hijo de puta!” Coronado yelled, and slapped the driver so hard the guy dropped to the ground, bringing grins onto the faces of the hard-ass bodyguard types standing ten feet behind him.
Those two were probably Carnals, Brawely reckoned, and likely very good with the handguns he could see printing against their shirts just above their beltlines.
These were merely professional observations, however, automatic calculations in this new life he was forging.
It didn’t matter if they were Carnals or not. Because they weren’t wearing helmets.
Coronado shouted in rage and brought his glossy dress shoe down on the fallen truck driver’s head.
Brawley noted Coronado’s cauliflower ears, the scars crisscrossing his dark eyebrows, and the crookedness of his hawk nose. Yes, the man was a fighter. It would be fun to fight him hand-to-hand, mano e mano, to test himself against this hard-hitting desert warrior.
That would be a fight worth fighting, a victory worth remembering.
But this wasn’t a game, and Brawley didn’t have the time or patience for that shit.
Coronado had sent assassins to kill Brawley and his women—or, more likely, whomever they found when they got there, since they knew nothing about Brawley… only that Cherry had abruptly stopped doing business with them.
Faintly, Brawley was aware of his own body back at the ranch and the many hands and mouths moving over him, sucking and squeezing, licking and pumping, all five of his mischievous, thirsty females working him in a frenzy, trying to milk him even as he worked.
The filthy little sluts!
Snapping back into his own body, Brawley gazed down at the five women gathered around his throbbing erection. With their flushed faces, glittering eyes, and wet mouths, the panting women were a study in depravity.
They sucked and kissed and begged Brawley for his seed, all while sneakily fingering themselves and each other, out of their minds with white-hot lust.
“Y’all are wilder than an acre of snakes,” he said. “You were fixing to make me pop before I came back.”
Their moaning laughter was a confession.
Generating a pillow telekinetic force, he drove them backward, where they knelt in a pleading cluster. The naked, sweaty beauties opened their mouths wide and begged for his seed like a nest full of baby birds chirping for sustenance.
As his balls swelled toward eruption, he fired a pulse of Gearhead juice back over the miles, triggering the detonator he’d jammed into the C-4 packed inside the juice-tweaked drone.
There was a bright flash, and his mind’s eye, hovering upon a sea of Seeker juice, observed the flaming hangar streaked in gore.
Vaya con diablos, Coronado.
Rushing back to his women, he was hit with one hell of a kill-boost, which detonated yet another explosion.
Brawley roared as he hosed down the depraved cluster of desperate beauties, setting off five more explosions, all five girls crying out with orgasm as jets of hot cum splashed their pretty faces, filled their hungry mouths, and painted their magnificent, convulsing bodies.
5
The taxi lurched to a stop on 7th Ave.
“Shit,” Alex hissed.
Times Square was always a pain in the ass this time of day, filled with tourists and weirdoes. Not that those two categories were mutually exclusive.
But today, demonstrators had completely blocked 7th Ave. Meanwhile, Alex was running late for an important meeting, go figure. Not through any fault of her own but because Mr. Davidson’s cute and completely inept intern had given Alex the wrong fucking time.
Alex growled and stared out past the driver, a toad of a man with beads of sweat standing out on his hairy rolls of neck fat. The driver apparently believed his job consisted of three elements: asking her where she wanted to go, driving really fucking slowly, and filling his cab with a blend of Bollywood show tunes and the worst b.o. Alex had smelled in months.
And that was saying something, coming from a woman who took the subway to work and often caught lunch in the dungeon of stench that was Grand Central’s underground food court.
Through the windshield, Alex studied the angry crowd. They were pumping homemade signs overhead and shouting at the world. What they weren’t doing was moving, despite the blaring horns and the whine of approaching sirens.
Whatever these assholes were protesting, there were a bunch of them, and they had blocked 7th Ave like a deep vein thrombosis.
The toad clearly gave zero fucks. He just stared through the glass, blinking and stinking, letting his
meter run.
Suddenly the air felt hot, and the back seat compartment felt tight.
Alex glanced at her phone and groaned.
1:27.
Shit, even if they plowed straight through these sign-waving jackasses, she’d still be late.
And… double shit.
Just as she was checking the time, her phone dinged with a message from none other than Clark Davidson himself.
Davidson did not tolerate tardiness or excuses. It wasn’t like he would fire Alex. She was the best in her department. But he would certainly remember this when promotion time rolled around.
Alex thumbed her notification into view, read his message, and typed a quick reply.
Be there soon. Stuck in traffic. Protestors. Sorry.
She hesitated before hitting send, weighing that last word.
Was there any word more pitiful, more sniveling, than sorry?
She deleted it but hesitated again. The truncated message felt dangerously unapologetic.
She glanced up and looked through the windshield. The protestors weren’t budging.
“Shit,” she growled again, typed My apologies, and hit send.
Protestors were moving through the stalled traffic, chanting, “We want truth! We want truth!”
That’s when she understood. And it was all so damned ironic, she had to laugh. “Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch.”
Alex worked for Dayton Systems, Manhattan’s largest security camera provider and monitoring service. She had started in engineering before moving into sales eight years ago. Now she held a director role that straddled engineering and sales, a nice gig that paid well but unfortunately forced her to attend meetings like the one she would soon be late to.
The FPI, a government agency she had never heard of, wanted Dayton Systems to hand over footage from a bunch of different cameras across the city.
Without so much as a warrant.
Yeah… um… no.
Making matters even more aggravating, she had discovered that the agency’s acronym stood for Federal Paranormal Investigations.
Which, translated in Alex-ese, stood for stupid-ass X-Files Bullshit that deserved no government funding, let alone a block of her precious time.
But apparently, the FPI had leverage with Davidson, because the CEO was not only entertaining their demands but also rearranging his schedule to meet with them.
Personally.
Around thirty seconds from now.
And what was it all about?
The madness, that was what it was about. The crazy mass hysteria that had been popping off all over the city, the nation, and the world.
People everywhere were reporting paranormal bullshit. Witchcraft and wizardry. Signs and wonders. Yadda yadda yadda.
None of it was grounded in real evidence. People claimed they saw shit, but no one filmed it.
Others said they filmed stuff but claimed the footage later disappeared.
Yeah, right.
Still others claimed to remember things days after they happened, awful scenes coming back to them in terrifying snippets they just had to share on the internet and bargain basement talk shows.
All over, people were reporting bouts of amnesia, strange visions, and missing friends and relatives.
The reportedly missing persons annoyed Alex more than anything because in preparation for today’s meeting, she had looked into a number of these cases, every last one of which had turned out to be total bullshit with no records whatsoever that the supposedly missing persons had ever even existed in the first place.
Madness.
For a long time now, the world had felt like a simmering pressure cooker on the verge of blowing its lid.
She expected big things were coming to a head. War, likely. Maybe even a big one. As in World War Fucking Three, thank you very much.
Here in the States, folks had become so politically polarized that civil war felt inevitable. People had been cherishing their hatred for too long. Sooner or later—and glancing out at the livid assholes streaming past her stalled taxi, she thought “sooner” had a ring to it—the lefties and right-wingers were going to tear each other’s throats out, because at this point, killing each other would be easier and far more palatable than somehow finding a way back from the Land of Vitriol.
Maybe that’s why people had latched onto this paranormal bullshit so hard. Whatever the case, conspiracy theories were everywhere.
Mutants walk among us. Aliens walk among us. Fucking wizards walk among us.
And the one thing these crazy-ass theories all had in common?
The government was covering it all up!
Right.
It was nonsense. Pure and simple. The collective hallucinations of a nation rapidly succumbing to deep, cultural dementia.
Alex, of course, was having none of it. She was a realist. Period. Not an optimist, not a pessimist. A realist.
As an engineer, she regarded the glass neither as half full nor half empty but rather as exactly twice the size it needed to be.
Reality, baby. Dig it.
The trouble with logic in times like this, however, was that when you were surrounded night and day by so much madness, you started to wonder if you were the crazy one.
And the next thing you knew, all that laughably crazy bullshit was on your doorstep, threatening your very livelihood.
Dodgy government agents in your office and delusional protestors blocking your way and nixing your much-deserved promotion.
A pudgy fist hammered on Alex’s window, making her jump. A woman leaned close and glared through the glass at Alex, chanting, “We want truth! We want truth!”
With its broad, bright red face, the woman’s big head reminded Alex of a beet. She was clearly swept into the moment, a full-blown wing nut transported by emotion, possessed by anger, and absolutely devoid of rational thought.
There would be no calming this woman or her fellow protestors. They had reached some kind of breaking point, and now they were in full swing, supercharged with mob rage, and they were damn well going to get the truth!
Alex sighed, suddenly fatigued beneath the weight of all this absurdity.
These protestors were not going to get out of her way. Period. That was the point.
That’s when she realized what she needed to do. No matter how much she hated the idea, she had to bail. These pebble-brained fuckwits were going to force her to walk ten blocks to the office so that she would show up not only late but sweaty as well.
Gentlemen, she imagined Davidson saying as she came through the door, allow me to introduce Alexis Angelini, a sweaty mess who will not be getting promoted anytime in the next century or two.
Shit.
Alex paid the cabbie and got out.
Out on the street, everything was chaotic, a hot and deafening mosh pit between the flashing canyon walls of Times Square’s sky-high electronic billboards.
Alex struggled between the shouting idiots, fighting her way to the back of the taxi, where she thumped the trunk impatiently.
The toad popped his trunk but didn’t come back to help.
Of course not. Because the world was full of assholes.
Oh well, she thought, wrestling her suitcase from the trunk, at least I’m done breathing his stink. The driver’s stench still clung to the back of her throat like a patch of oral thrush.
She dropped the suitcase to the pavement, extended the handle, and dragged it behind her, cutting through shouting imbeciles. Though she kept the suitcase close, it kept snagging on people.
Alex wished she didn’t have the suitcase, but it was the easiest way to carry her gym clothes, running shoes, purse, and the experimental new cameras she’d been playing with at home. Now it was a huge pain in the ass, catching on protestor after protestor, holding her back.
Alex shouted for people to move out of the way, but they were so fired up and shouting so loudly they didn’t even hear her.
The air was stale and soupy, a humid cloud
of exhaust fumes, perspiration, and that sweet street stench that clung to Times Square all summer long.
A sign bumped into Alex’s head.
A furious-looking man on her other side leaned close, shouting, “We want truth!” in her face, his breath all cigarettes and garlic.
In a panic of burgeoning claustrophobia, Alex struggled blindly toward the sidewalk. When she was almost there, she stepped in a puddle pooled against the sidewalk.
“Fuck!” she shouted as the warm liquid spilled over her shoe and soaked through her hose. But a second later, she forgot all about the puddle when she stumbled over the berm of the sidewalk and nearly toppled to the ground.
For a frantic instant, she teetered there, knowing that to fall here would mean death by trampling beneath this stampede of morons. Ultimately, she stayed on her feet, saved by nothing other than the counterbalancing effect of her cursed suitcase, which had once again hung up on the legs of some ranting asshole.
Struggling across the sidewalk, she flattened herself against a storefront, and tried to catch her breath. Her panic rapidly shifted to anger, which even more rapidly escalated into full-blown rage.
These stupid fucking assholes! Wasn’t it enough for their hysteria to cause some ridiculous meeting with the FPI, make her late to that very same meeting, and ruin her chances at a promotion she’d been chasing for nearly two years?
No, these fired-up lunatics wouldn’t be happy until they’d knocked her down and trampled her to death on 7th Ave.
“Just fucking die,” she shouted, “all of you!”
And then, as if Alex herself had suddenly become one of the mutant-alien-wizards that people were ranting about, the world obeyed her command.
With a bright flash, a shimmering portal of crackling white-and-purple light opened overtop the glutted intersection.
The protestors’ chanting sliced away, and for an uncanny fraction of a second, Times Square fell utterly and gorgeously silent.
Then the protestors screamed as one, howling like a legion of penitents burning in hell.
And for as much as Alex loathed these people and shunned all stripes of mob psychology, she added her voice to the screaming. Heartily, in fact.