Doomsday Warrior 12 - Death American Style by Ryder Stacy

the pickings were said to be plentiful. They had been for his grandfather, and his father, who has established and built up the sex-slave business. Gathering the girls like any annual crop grown by man. And selling them to the highest bidder. They had become rich men for finding just the right things. The special things.
    “She is a virgin,” the slaver went on, getting down on one knee and putting his hand up against her blonde triangle of fur that seemed hardly enough to protect what lay behind it from the ravages of cruel men.
    “See?” he pushed mockingly, as if with all his might, up into her and acted as if he couldn’t get through. “See—mutant virgin. Her virginity is made of steel!” Both officers broke up at that. The man was humorous, even if he did try to pawn off some of his refuse on them. But with the grain always came the chaff. As it was with grain—such it was with whores.
    “Very well, very well,” the head procurer said at last, after he had gone back and forth up each row and seen and inspected every one of them. Every short, tall, skinny, fat, normal and mutated female specimen that filled the warehouse like a cattle run fresh in from the Rio Grande. “Do you have your clipboard?” he asked his subordinate. “I don’t want this bastard to give me what I can’t use.”
    “But, Excellency,” the wart-faced Russian flesh-peddler whined. “We agreed in advance that if you liked the purchase—you would take them all. You said—”
    “Oh quiet, your whining drives me to distraction,” the sex-officer barked with annoyance. “I will pay you what we agreed. There is plenty to amuse the President and provide entertainment for the delegates. I just don’t want to infest my goods with the most hideous. Americans, I suppose, go for what we go for.
    “That one there covered with warts,” he said with disgust. “Get her out of here.” He pointed at the creature. “She’ll infect the others.” He began walking down the first row from the start all over again, as both his assistant and the slaver followed close behind, scribbling quickly in their notepads.
    “I’ll take this blonde one, this three-breasted one with the star pattern . . . I’ll take the Siamese twins there; amazing how they’re joined at the—I wonder if they both feel it?” He moved on. “Let’s see, the half row of Negresses there—pygmies, aren’t they? Yet perfectly formed. Oh, the visitors will get a kick out of them, I’ll tell you that. Oh, and save that one—the albino—for the President. He loves them small—and—and mutated like that.”
    “Yes, yes,” the slaver noted, writing away madly as he noted the number of each one that was pasted on her back, so he would deliver the right ones. Already he was thinking of how he would spend the money, the small fortune he would get for this delivery.
    “Are you listening, man?” the procurer shouted angrily, slapping the slaver on the side of the face with his riding crop. “I haven’t time to dawdle. Wake up, fool.”
    “Excellency, Excellency, so sorry. Sorry, sorry . . .” he mumbled inanely, bowing halfway to the floor half a dozen times. Then he continued to write down the selections.
    “Yes, I’ll take these Arabian girls with the extra legs, these three here with feathers on their arms. Cute —I like that. And those two-tongued ones. I know just the group that will get a kick out of that,” he laughed and the others joined in, not knowing who the hell he was talking about.
    “Come on now, don’t dawdle, fool,” the procurer said, smacking the slaver on the side of the head again, just as the last pain was starting to subside.
    “And I’ll take those and these . . . and . . .” The colonel went through the whore selection like a kid through a candy store. He took one of everything nice—and two of everything nasty.

Nine
    R ona was there to see Rockson off, just as the sun was heading down wearily from yet another day of trying to