Ever Onward by Wayne Mee Page B

idiots hadn’t changed, only the gene-pool had gotten smaller ---
one Mother-fucking hell-of-a-lot smaller!
    His nimble mind still racing, he
reviewed last nights ‘recruiting session’, the first, he now
believed, in a long line to come. He smiled at his own play on
words. The woman the crazy shit had found would continue to serve
as a form of ‘initiation booth’ for his growing band of merry men.
Bang her willingly or BANG! you’re dead! Sweet Christ, he even had
a pilot! A most unwilling one to be sure, but something could
always be worked out.
    Big Bad Lieutenant Sam had been a tad
reluctant to deflower the fair damsel. Even after Pussbag had cut
him a few times he still refused. Only when Jocco had his loyal
servant give the bitch a pierced ear big enough to stick a finger
through had Big Bad Sam finally dropped his drawers.
    As for that little prick Pinkton ---
again a smile at his own play on words --- he was so bloody scared
he couldn’t even get it up! Georgie-boy had helped out there,
offering an empty beer bottle as a substitute. Old Four-Eyed
Pinkton had accepted it gladly and started in with
gusto.
    Jocco saw no reason why what had
worked in the past shouldn’t go on working in the future. Of
course, dear Nurse Shirley Rottencrotch might give out, but then he
was sure in his heart of hearts that he would eventually find a
replacement.
    Part A of his plan would continue; the
creation of the Dark Stranger’s army. Part B would soon follow. The
details were still vague, but then, hey, one step at a time. A line
from some stupid old movie surfaced. ‘Step by step; inch by inch.
Slowly I turned...’ Jocco smiled, not sure just WHAT he was turning
into, but was very anxious to find out.
    Christ, isn’t life grand? The future
lay before him like a conquered land, an open bank vault, a willing
virgin --- the possibilities were endless!
    The roar of the big truck’s motor cut
through not only the rain, but the fog in George the Man’s somewhat
limited brain. Like Jocco, the Government of the State of
California had made Georgie-boy an offer he couldn’t refuse: two
years in the army or five in the can. Up until the day he was
caught, Georgie-Porgie had been snatching what he could from the
grimier streets of L.A. A mugging here, a drug-deal there, here a
rape, there a rape there, everywhere a rape. Fortunately for him,
three of the four women he had molested refused to testify, and of
the one that did, the D.A. had failed to prove beyond a reasonable
doubt that Georgie-Porgie hadn’t been invited to put his pudding in
her pie. He was nailed on the drug bust however, and so was given
the choice of being Uncle Sam’s boy for two years or some con’s
girl friend for five. Owing to his strong preference for the fairer
sex, Georgie-boy chose his kindly Uncle Sam.
    Excited, nervous, and still half
drunk, Georgie’s mouth was running almost as fast as the truck’s
motor. Unlike Jocco, however, George the Man had no idea what the
fuck was going on.
    “Shut up and drive,” Jocco told him.
George shrugged, fumbled with the gears of the heavy troop carrier
and drove out onto the landing strip. The rain had stopped, but
puddles littered the runway like angel’s tears. Pussbag had Sam
Waterson, Walter Pinkton and Shirley Bates tied up in
    back. Shirley, her face bruised and
puffy, sat staring off into happier times.
    “Where we going, Boss?”, George
asked.
    Jocco pointed across the runway to the
long row of barracks. As the large truck approached the buildings,
Jocco flipped a switch and a siren bleated out into the silent
morning. George stopped the heavy vehicle and Jocco climbed up to
the open command post on top. George sat waiting, a loaded M-16
across his lap, absently rubbing his sore crotch where the stupid
cunt had bit him.
    The strident sound of the siren
stopped, and Jocco’s clear voice boomed from the speakers mounted
on the front of the troop carrier. “Now here this. All survivors
will come