Free Doomsday Warrior 12 - Death American Style by Ryder Stacy Page B

favor he courted. He expected to bribe the American delegates to vote his way on any treaty. Money, sex, perverted sex—yes.
    Two of his top procurers, Kranslov and Bortuski, walked up and down the rows of women who stood before them, chained one to another. The women were dressed in rags, tatters of clothes. Many had lost their shoes, their few meager possessions on their long journeys from the far west and south; plucked from roads, from houses, taken out of schoolyards. The sex squads of the President swept far and wide. And none escaped their sight.
    “They look beautiful, do they not?” a swarthy-looking fellow was asking as he rubbed his hands together, walking along and in between the two fur-clad officers who perused the potential purchase.
    “Beautiful? Beautiful?” the taller of the two Red Army inventory officers, asked with a sneering laugh. “I have hardly seen an uglier bunch since my days in Afghanistan.” The second twisted-nosed officer glanced at the breasts of every female who stood in front of him, pausing here and there to examine or squeeze one that caught his fancy.
    “This one, for example,” he said stopping directly before a short, squat female perhaps only four feet high and nearly as wide, with what appeared to be two female openings in the lower part of her body. “I said unusual—but not hideously ugly. What man would ride something like this?”
    “She was quite popular where I bought her,” the female-flesh peddler Porschvk said defensively, squinting through his one good eye as he looked at her.
    “And where was that?” the Red officer asked, amused, as he and his associate stood with hands behind their backs inside the warehouse-of-deposit, just a few blocks from the Capitol Building.
    “It was—it was,” the slaver said, slapping his hand hard against his face as if trying to shock it back to him. “Dorganville, a small mining village up near the Minnesota border.”
    “No wonder, fool,” the procurer laughed, “filthy miners would fuck a radioactive raccoon if that was all that presented its furry bottom to them! You must be losing your eyesight; this creature is so foul her mother must have thrown her from the crib.” The woman, if she could understand, paid it all no mind. She had been insulted a lot worse than that. In fact, in the mining town where she had come from, the main form of fun on Saturday night had been for the entire mining community of 250 men, 78 dogs and assorted other mammals to come pay her a visit, one at a time or all at once. So words, to say the least, were not about to inflict any damage. Thus, she lifted her misshapen head, opened her purplish lips in a terrible smile, and winked lasciviously at the two officers—who quickly moved off, shuddering at the very thought of being forced to copulate with the she-thing.
    But secretly both men were highly pleased. Though there were a number of defective selections in the group, overall the quality was high—and the mutations quite unusual in some cases. One of the procurers stopped before a beautiful teenage girl, her blonde hair falling down around her shoulders and partially covering her young breasts, which popped out of the torn shirt like fruits emerging from their protective skins. And she had three of them—three breasts. One of the rarest of the sexual mutations. For, in fact, though there were countless mutations occurring throughout the country all the time, most of them died. Died screaming, ugly, scaley things, killed at birth. And the better off for it. But some survived. And some were even . . . beautiful.
    As was this tender child.
    “Virgin?” the procurer asked, turning her around by the shoulders with his firm fingers, digging into her young flesh so that he left little imprints on her, making the girl wince.
    “I swear it. On Lenin’s sacred tomb,” the Russian trader said. He was one of many whose families had come long ago from the motherland to the occupied country where