Dark Erotic Fiction

THE CASTLEMAN TRUST SERIES

Peter J. Foster

Chapter Twenty: Capital City Snuff Shop

“Don”t get your news from the news media,” my media professor cautioned. “It isn”t news. The news media is entertainment. Only entertainment: our modern news media is the modern counterpart to Rome”s Bread and Circuses.”

Viewing the news did upset me. The news is skewed. “If it bleeds, it leads.”

Case in point: Capital City Snuff Shop. Prior to WSA 2001, I would have expected an upscale chewing tobacco vendor. Capital City Snuff Shop lasted all of ten days before being raided for violating WSA 2000″s prohibitions on who and what could be enslaved. I think it was the market niche that Capital City Snuff Shop tried to create: the owner, Gabriel Peck, only took in women who were to be immediately killed.

It is not widely known that upon conversion, all of a woman”s assets become the property of her owner. I assume that the owner has to liquidate the slave”s property and pay off any outstanding debts, but I don”t know. The real money in WSA 2000 isn”t in converting women for minimum cost and then selling them quickly and at a high price—a presentable woman 18-24 brings about $2000, about half of that profit after overhead and “costs of goods sold” are deducted—it is in looting her property and money after conversion. Older women (30+) or those who aren”t very pretty will bring about $600, which is a net loss of $50 to $400. Might as well sell cars. A new family sedan retails for about $4000, and the profit is around $800—with cars, the real profit is in selling automobile financing. Sell the woman as meat? I wonder why more women don”t get sent to organ banks—the meat prices are low compared to transplantable organs. I”m no business major, but if I”m in business to make money, I”d sell to the best-paying market. The woman herself will bring the slaver about $500 profit for selling her living body, on average. Selling her as meat brings about the same. Converting women for others brings fees of $25 to $100—quick and easy money. On the other hand, taking all of a woman”s savings and property averages about $2500. A convertible woman has a small bank account ($400), a car ($300), real property ($700 equity) and other chattel such as clothing and jewelry ($700). There is even a speculation market with stocks and bonds and such—but don”t ask me to explain what I don”t understand. There is more to a woman”s net worth than her tender pink body.

Capital City Snuff Shop was in the business of snuffing women for profit. There were two routes used: “volunteer conversions” and “conversions by relative or person of personal contact.” The third route, judicial conversions, was low-profit because the state had already looted the new slave. That is why so many judicial conversions wind up dead—not worth the slaver”s time to pick up the living. According to reports, Capital City Snuff Shop wasn”t too careful about who they converted. Many of the elderly rich women were converted “voluntarily—”and there are no surviving witnesses to say otherwise. These women had protected themselves by prenuptial agreements, and they had heirs, which is why the “voluntary conversion” raised some doubts. But the wheels of justice grind slowly. What touched off the raid was a video.

Colonel Murphy had me watch the video. He warned me that I”d need Summer”s services afterwards. I placed myself mentally in a detached, analytical state of mind. Five young women were shown in the video. They wore school girl uniforms and giggled a lot. Two slaves, naked except for thick white collars and black gun belts, asked the girls what they wanted.

“We want to convert and ride a Chair-I.A.T.” It was explained in subtext that Chair-I.A.T. stood for Chair, Individual, Automatic Termination. The woman pronounced it “chariot.”

“Fine,” the slave appeared bored. “Check the appropriate boxes. I need your driver”s licenses.” More giggling. “Thank you. Now take everything off and put it in a box. Everything. You wouldn”t want to get hurt.”

“How about my nipple rings?”

“I”ve got a navel ring.”

“I”ve got a clit stud.”

“I”ve got all of them.”

“I”ve only got ear rings,” the first girl said.

“There”ll be the rest of your life to take care of that,” the slave said. “Take them out.”

“I can”t” said the one with everything pierced. “Only my ear rings come out.”

“We can let her ride with them in, Stace” the second slave said. The second slave affixed a black collar with a bulky box on it to each school girl as they finished stripping. The box was placed on the back of the neck.

“What”s this?” asked Nipple Rings.

“That”s part of the Chair-I.A.T. You”ll need it to experience the ultimate high.” The first slave smirked. “Ladies, follow me to the next room.”

The camera view changed, showing the small crowd as they entered the room. There were three low-backed chairs in a line. Protruding from the seat was a small smooth dildo. The chair was fitted with straps for the legs, a seat belt, shoulder straps, and on the chair”s arm rests were motorized clamps for elbow and fore arm.

“Which three first?”

There was a bit of a shoving match, but three girls seated themselves. First, the women had to impale themselves on the dildo. Two chose the vagina and Nipple Ring chose to accommodate the dildo in her anus. They strapped their ankles to the foot rests as requested, then snugged down the waist strap. The shoulder straps were next, and they slipped their wrists through the loops and placed their elbows in the elbow cups.

“Press hard against the elbow cups,” Slave one said as she pulled a remote from her belt. When the women complied, the clamps compressed around the wrists and a hoop swung around the elbow joint with a click. Suddenly the three seated women gasped—and the two standing women grabbed for their own throats. The chair-bound women began convulsing, their faces turning red and going purple. The two standing girls staggered and fell, spasmed, then went limp. Puddles formed beneath the chairs and the two bodies on the ground.

“God!” the first slave said. “I love my work!”

Slave Two entered and drew a box cutter and a pair of pliers from a pouch on her belt. She began cutting body jewelry off the corpses as two more nude slaves entered the room. These slaves wore just red collars and they began removing bodies. The corpses” collars were taken off the bodies, and the chairs released the three seated corpses. The bodies were stacked in the next room on a wooden pallet. A fire hose was used to wash everything down the drain: blood, urine, fecal matter.

The scene changed. Two Goth chicks entered. One had very short black hair and was rail thin—call her Mutt. The second had black hair reaching below her shoulders and was chubby—call her Jeff. Mutt and Jeff looked as if they hadn”t smiled in years. They also looked very young.

“What can I do for you today, Ladies?” Slave One asked.

“Cut the horse shit, sister,” Mutt monotoned. “We are here to die. Where do we put our clothes?”

“In a few minutes we will be getting 28 women who thing that they are getting a free abortion. They are, but not the way they think.” Slave Two smirked at the two Goths. “How would you like to help out?”

“Cue-el,” Jeff said evenly.

“Put everything but your driver”s license in the boxes. Fill out the form on the electronic pad and leave your license on the counter.” Slave One said. “I”ll check your work in a moment. Let”s get these shock collars on you.”

“Just as long as you test them on us,” Mutt said as she shucked her sweatshirt, revealing large, firm breasts with erect nipples. “Life sucks. Humans stink.”

“We just want off this ball of shit,” Jeff said as she deposited her dress and shoes in the box. She wore nothing beneath and Jeff”s slender body could have passed for a boy”s in the locker room. Jeff had hairy arm pits, black hair on arms and legs, and a full fluffy pubic bush. “Helping others will be a bonus.”

“Yeah, shoving others off this rock will rock,” Mutt added as her jeans hit the floor. Mutt”s abdomen bulged and it didn”t appear to be fat. In contrast to Jeff, Mutt was almost hairless—just a trace of pubic hair showed.

“Good answer,” Slave One peered at Jeff”s driver”s license. “You don”t look 36.”

“It is a going away present for the mother unit,” Jeff tapped the electronic pad. “I would like to be around to see her face when she learns that she”s volunteered to be a slave—but I don”t want to wait. We want to die soon. Besides, she has a protection order out against the father unit so that he cannot enslave us. I”d like to be dead before breakfast.”

“Oh, yes,” Slave One said. “Capital City cops will be here in two hours. We are to have everything sewn up by then.”

Slave Two was peering at Mutt”s driver”s license. “She”s too young to be your mother. Step mother?”

“Naw,” Mutt responded as she scrawled a signature on the electronic pad. “My straight-laced prude big sister. Can I list three “right of first refusals” here? I want Hill”s Fine Meats, Stuff”n”Snuff Slaves and Prudence”s Pain Palace.”

“Oo, sister,” Slave Two cooed admiringly, “I like your style! Too bad that we”ve got a date in Hell.”

“I”ll find out if there”s life after death. If not, tough shit.” Mutt laid down the stylus. “Do I get those rights of first refusal? If so, add in that I want just two dollars. This makes Mildred a slave, right? You don”t know that I”m not Mildred, right?”

“Honey, if you have your mother”s driver”s license, I”ll do her too!”

“How about a credit card? Will that do?”

“It is identification,” Slave One said. “The Slave Authority isn”t too picky and we can pull a birth certificate off the net by hacking the TerraCotta Systems web.”

“Good. I hate my step mother, too. I want her dead. Same address, same three companies for “right of first refusal.”" Mutt”s eyes glittered. “Notify the companies to pick up at 7:30. They always have breakfast at 7:30 and I”d like it to be today. It can be tomorrow or sometime this month. But specify that they have to pick up at 7:30 on the dot.”

“I have a better idea,” Jeff said. “Let”s report that my mother unit is not only a slave, but an escaped slave. Report that she is harboring other escaped slaves at her place of business and that all women will have to be detained and their identities verified. She can be picked up at 4587 East Brookings Street, Suite D, second floor, at Mildred”s Interiors.”

“Done! The Slave Patrol sometimes takes no prisoners!” Slave One picked up a pair of red collars matching the pick-up slaves. “We can use the help. Any last requests?”

“Yes,” Jeff said as she embraced Mutt. “We want to die holding hands.”

“That is possible. Let me get these collars on you.” Slave One buckled two red collars on them, making sure that the collars were tight. The collars had a small pouch on each side and a box at the back. Slave One took her remote out and triggered it. “There are two features to this collar: a remote control stun gun and a garrote. The garrote will tighten down and strangle you, then snap your neck with a spring-loaded hammer in that box on the back. You will lose control of your body almost immediately. We haven”t had any complaints—”

“Geeze, Stace,” one of the clean-p crew slaves staggered in from the other room. “Give us some warning before you do that? I bit Violet”s tit!”

“I didn”t feel it,” Violet”s left nipple was bleeding profusely. “Can we tape a paper towel to it? I don”t want to scare the customers.”

“No need. Just stay in the back until we snuff the sows. After the police raid us, the meat dealer will pick up as agreed.” Slave One, or Stace, grinned wickedly as the Goth chicks rubbed their throats.

“Cue-el!” Mutt choked out. “I will really like the kill feature.”

“Tiff and I will ride the Chair-I.A.T.” Violet said. “It is a failed automatic abortion and female sterilization machine. The spatula rips out the womb and then cauterizes it.”

“That is why we don”t need to do a piss test,” Stace said. “We have a doctor”s certificate guaranteeing that the sow wasn”t preggo.”

“What about the drug screen?” Jeff asked.

“We lie. The record-keeping requirements do not require a specimen. The bodies will be destroyed. If we weren”t shutting down, we could run this way forever and not get caught. No evidence. Here”s the killer—you know those driver”s licenses? We sell them on the black market. Since their owners are now registered slaves, guess what? Our buyer generally waits 30 days before telling the Slave Patrol.”

“Why 30 days?” Jeff asked.

“First payday. Illegal immigrants, real escaped slaves and women on the run are our customers. Don”t they get a surprise!”

“Cue-el!” Mutt rubbed her crouch.

“Stace,” Slave Two said. “They”re here.”

“You and the new girls go outside and herd them in a dozen at a time at 25-minute intervals. We only have a dozen black collars.”

I lost track of individual women as the new victims were paraded naked into the reception area twelve at a time. They handed over drivers licenses, at least they appeared to be driver”s licenses. Mutt and Jeff fitted the black collars on with Slave Two. Three women at a time were taken into the death room. The scene shifted to the Chair-I.A.T.s as the doomed women seated themselves.

“You”ve got to watch this,” Slave Two said as the doomed women strapped themselves in and triggered the restraints. “There is a fifteen-second delay. Some silly cows stick the dildo up their shitters!”

“Why would anyone stick an abortion—”the speaker stiffened in her Chair-I.A.T. gasped, began soundlessly screaming while her eyes bugged. The other two seated women reacted the same way. Two out of three chairs began dripping a clear liquid.

“Because, stupid bitch, they weren”t told that the Chair-I.A.T. was an automatic abortion machine. They thought it was just a vibrator. There”s a vacuum system and a water hookup so there isn”t any blood. When the cauterizing element fires up, there is a bit of a smell. It looks painful. Anyway, we choke off their screams with the mechanized strap, then we break their necks like this.” Slave Two pushed the remote”s button and the three women went limp. A stream of liquid poured from the third woman. “Isn”t progress great?”

“Cue-el,” Mutt said. “I like the choker, too. I”d prefer black.”

“We color-coded them so that we wouldn”t hit the wrong switch.” Slave Two said. “Look, this button with the chair symbol? It releases the restraint systems.”

The three women fell from the chairs when their straps and clamps released and retracted. The silver dildos even retracted, the seats tilted forward and the dead or dying women slid off the seats. Two Chair-I.A.T.s had brown smears on them.

“The problem is that the Chair-I.A.T.s are not self-cleaning. Plus, we still have to remove the bodies. Give Violet and Tiff a hand with the meat and hose this place down. In a minute, we”ll bring in the next bunch.”

The scene was repeated nine times. There was one woman left over. It took about five minutes to process one batch. The Nazi SD running the death camps might have liked the Chair-I.A.T. The final batch consisted of one more “abortion clinic patient,” Violet and Tiff. The last “patient” had been drafted to load the boxes containing women”s clothing aboard the bus. Mutt and Jeff were also loading things. Stace closed the lap top computer system and reeled in three electronic note pads, put them in a case and handed them to the bus driver.

“Good bye, Gabe.”

“Remember, tell the cops to look for the video system. Bye, Stace.”

“Now what?” Mutt asked.

“We wait for the cops and then we die. Want to watch Violet and Tiff die?”

“Cue-el! We”re next!”

The Capitol City police busted down the front door and screamed “Police! Freeze!”

Stace pushed a button. Mutt and Jeff”s were holding hands with they spasmed. Their free hands curled into fists and rose to waist level—and the police opened fire. Bullets riddled the three women at the front. Stace”s collar flashed and her head separated from her body—Stace”s knees buckled. The scene shifted again and three women in Chair-I.A.T.s began their final dance. Slave Two smiled into the camera, but her words were drowned out by gunfire from the next room. Slave Two”s collar flashed and her head fell off as the door burst open. A man in black coveralls and assault armor riddled Slave Two as her body fell, his weapon on full automatic. If it mattered, it was a P90.

“What do you think?” Colonel Murphy asked.

I shook my head.

“When was this? Who edited the video? What did they use for sound? Where are the bodies?”

“I”ll give you the report.”

“Sir, why am I seeing this? What is it you wanted me to do?”

“Fake ID, lots of untraced cash, I”m sure you will figure it out. I don”t want to prejudice your operation. Tell me if you find anything. I”m leaving Shawna with you. After you write a summary, classify it and put it in your safe. I”ll take the video with me. Eastlake is opening a snuff shop between Eastlake University and Industrial Center.”

What the colonel meant was that I was supposed to look for conspiracies to overthrow the government of the United States through violent means. It was okay to use political action, as long as laws were obeyed. Those who became a “clear and present danger to national security” by waging guerrilla warfare were to be terminated.

“May I have the dossier on this Gabriel Peck?”

“He is dead. No, you may not.”

The only photograph was on video and being taken away—if it were that Gabe. I was told to ignore him. That meant that I had to concentrate on finding Gabriel Peck and dealing with him, but I wasn”t to tell Colonel Murphy unless I found something of significance. That was most likely a dry well for me. I had an assignment, my summary of the video would be my primary operation file, and I would label it Det MFS-46 001-01 for Detachment Forty-six”s Case Number One of the year 2001. I was shaken up. Summer had explained it, Uma Castleman had explained it, I read about it in the psychology journals, but seeing pure evil on the screen shook me up. Many men wanted to die. They usually wanted to die a meaningful and heroic death, but often just dying was enough. The Eastlake South Mall shooter apparently sought a glorious death by first shooting innocent people and then having a final orgasmic Alamo of his own making against Eastlake Metro and Eastlake County Sheriff SWAT teams. Summer told me that many women wanted to die a romantic death to validate themselves as women and worthwhile human beings.

The world was mad!