The Dictator's Claw

Chapter 5 --- The Feast of the Hog

Sven leaned back in the large rear seat of his new Cadillac Fleetwood limousine, inhaling the rich aroma of the soft maroon leather and burled walnut that engulfed him from all sides. Flipping down the vanity mirror, he inspected his fake mustache and goatee´ skeptically from behind his dark glasses, but admitted to himself that they looked fairly authentic, almost matching the tint of his thinning blonde hair.

He glanced with annoyance at a few random specks of dirt under his fingernails, remnants of the lawn he had cut just hours before. He would have to hire someone to do that from now on, he decided. After all, he could more than afford it now. He straightened his thick, black silk necktie and adjusted the gigantic ten-gallon Stetson so that it dipped stylishly below his right eye. The soft fabric of his new three-piece hung luxuriously, complimenting his muscular body in all the right places, and he brushed the tropical white wool briskly, removing tiny shreds of lint, before pouring himself his second Scotch of the evening from the built-in bar, to his right.

Sven loved this car. He had wanted a limo for a very long time, but had previously been unable to justify the expense. Sure, procuring girls for Tara had allowed him to pay off his mortgage, send Brianna to the best private schools, and had been key in funding several elaborate Caribbean vacations he had taken with Shelley over the past few years. But now, with his additional fat monthly stipend of 125 Gs, he could well afford the commercial storage shed for the car, which had not been cheap, as well as the bogus identity to which it was registered. This last part was essential, as there could be absolutely no tracing of the vehicle to him, given where it was usually driven by Randy, the chauffeur he employed part-time who worked for a local livery service.

His secret life was something he had nurtured lovingly over the years, but now it was really beginning to pay off. In just ten more months, he'd quit the boring job, sell the house, and move to the islands, where he'd build a compound that might even rival Palace Tarakimo. He chuckled. Well, maybe not in a year, but someday.

The intercom phone buzzed, and he picked it up.

“Boss, the girls are ready and waiting for you. Marnie just called, and asked if you'll be dining there tonight.”

Sven laughed lightly. “No Randy, I'll be going for a steak in Atlantic City . I wanna check out some of the new casinos. I plan to work up a big appetite,” he said smugly.

“Sure thing, Mr. Hog,” Randy returned from behind the raised glass partition, saluting him slightly with two raised fingers.

Even though he had lifted it from one of his favorite television shows, Sven had been vaguely irritated at the mention of his alter-ego's pseudonym in Wendy Franzen's letter to the editor, but had also been secretly thrilled by it. Only a select few ever used it. Besides, he thought contemptuously, those that did didn't seem of the demographic that would subscribe to the Liberty Times , even considering the rag's dwindling circulation, and Franzen wouldn't be a problem for much longer, anyway.

As his limo glided up the long circular drive of the private home of Marnie Gould, proprietress of the HenHouse, the exclusive sex club that he owned a significant share of, Sven laughed to himself at what Diana might think of his sweet little arrangement. He couldn't help but be dubious of the effectiveness of Diana's current regimen of “schooling” by Tara . That prude little twat was so tight you could cultivate diamonds from lumps of coal if you stuck them up her ass for just minutes.

His brow furrowed evilly at this idea, and he laughed again, this time louder, not caring if Randy was watching him in the rear-view, with his usual mix of puzzlement and awe.

As the neatly uniformed young man opened the rear door of the long white Caddy and helped Sven to his alligator-shod feet, Marnie walked quickly from the house to greet him.

“Boss Hog, looking very commanding this evening, as always,” she flattered; holding out one red-nailed hand as she lightly brushed the other seductively over his ass, kissing him on the cheek.

From inside the HenHouse, faint screams floated across the dewy, lush lawn.

*************************************************************

“You…you can't be serious,” Diana sputtered finally, as the horrific, 8 yard penile replica was pushed into place and positioned directly below her.

“Oh yes! Sadly, for you, I am!” the tyrant sneered. “The artist was chastised severely, though. It doesn't even begin to pay tribute to the girth of my endowment, though the length itself is fairly accurate,” he snickered lewdly. “Kind of puts the ‘dick' in ‘dictator,” doesn't it?” He looked around at his men, who laughed mechanically in response. “Seriously, though, it's fairly slender for a good reason: it must be able to easily penetrate any opening that it collides with, especially since the speed of that collision will be painfully significant, though I'll explain more about that later.” He paused to admire the ghastliness of his contraption. “Of course, it's realistically rendered in that it's not perfectly straight, a feature that you will soon discover greatly accentuates the pain, when your snug little asshole lands on it!” he guffawed loudly.

Diana felt cold sweat break out all over her body as she realized just how serious the madman was. Trying to avoid the potential mutilation for as long as possible, she egged him on. “I know you want me for yourself, Tara. Destroying what you're most interested in isn't going to buy you anything in that department. I know how your sick little mind works. This is obviously the stick, so where's the carrot?”

“Very astute,” the general boomed congenially. “But you're wrong about one thing: I'm far more interested in that lovely snatch of yours. I'm not really into the anal thing, so if that area's too badly decimated, it won't be too much of a disappointment for me. As far as the proverbial ‘carrot' goes, it's advancing toward you from the wall that you're facing, at the moment,” he said, cackling softly.

She looked with terror at the opposite wall and watched, hypnotized by the sight of yet another long phallus moving slowly toward her crotch at about a 15 degree angle.

“When this second rod reaches your pert little pussy, but before it enters you,” the maniac paused, stringing out the suspense for as long as possible, puffing thickly on his fat cigar, “my engineers, who are concealed in a small room behind that wall,” he pointed proudly with his cigar to a small oblong slot in the stone, perhaps four feet higher than the jutting rod, “will make some adjustments, so that you can be adequately pleasured. It will be your task to keep those slender hips of yours moving, for if you don't, you will be motivated to do so!” He clapped his hands with glee.

Suddenly, before her eyes, a large container that looked like a paint can was lowered from the ceiling. It was no more than two feet in front of her face. When it finally stopped moving, the bottom was only inches from her tummy, and it radiated heat. Faint wisps of steam rose from the top of the container, though she couldn't see what was in it.

Diana turned her head at the sound of a sharp screech below her, as a very tall ladder was expanded, locked into place, and positioned next to the fake phallus. A small Asian man scurried nimbly up the metal steps, apparently with no fear of heights whatsoever. He reached into the pockets of his soldier's uniform, and produced two lengths of cable, which he quickly attached to metal loops on either side of the container. He tied the other ends of the wire to something below her. The whole procedure took him less than three minutes. Then, as quickly as he had arrived, he and the ladder were gone.

She looked down again at Tara with a disgusted look on her face, as he smiled up at her. “I'm sure you'll take your time explaining this as well,” she spat.

“You know me too well --- too, too, well!” the dictator beamed, huffing out a smoke ring. “Under your hips is sort of a reverse motion detector. After my men activate it, it will relentlessly monitor the movement in your hips. If you keep active, nothing too traumatic will happen --- you'll just be slowly fucked into oblivion!” he howled. “On the other hand,” he continued leisurely, “if you stop moving, that container will begin to tip, dribbling oozing hot wax all over your stomach, which, when enough of it spills at one time, will find its way into your twat, where it will gradually clog the penetration of the rod pulverizing your pretty pussy!” Tara began to pound the arm of his throne delightedly, no longer able to control his sadistic merriment.

“I…but, I….” Diana stammered out miserably.

“Yes, my dear?” the fiendish old man purred back at her, attempting to project an infinite amount of patience with the poor woman, but unable to completely hide his true intention of terrorizing her as much as possible before starting the torture.

“I…thought you said you weren't going to ruin my….” Diana fumbled weakly, not wanting to use the word, which had always disgusted her.

“Your… cunt ?” the villain bellowed harshly. “Yes, well, wax won't cause much damage, though it will suit my ultimate purposes by producing an exquisite amount of pain,” he laughed. “No, my super-cock, below you, is going to do the real damage. If --- though I believe ‘when' is more accurate --- the dildo rod stops moving completely, the cradle mechanism will slip, and you will fall one foot in that sling. If your muscles are strong enough, you can get the dildo moving again. You'll have one minute to do so, before you fall another foot. Of course, each time the dildo jams, it will be succeedingly more difficult for you to get it moving. And that can't go on forever, since, as you can see, there are only about five feet between you and that mock-up of my manhood beneath your pretty ass. And you won't be able to take much of my big boy once it begins to plow into you, I'll promise you that!”

“NO! NO! NO! ” Diana screamed crazily, finally abandoning what little remaining shreds of courage she had left.

“Now, now,” Tara chided her, as if she were six, “keep those hips moving, and you haven't a thing to worry about. Though, I must tell you, in all the years I've used this device, no one has been able to keep moving for more than six hours before collapsing with exhaustion. But, a strong woman such as yourself may very well earn a place of mention in the Tarakimo record books,” he finished, blowing a stream of smoke into the air luxuriously. “We'll see,” he said finally, lifting a crystal Brandy snifter up to toast her, watching as the light bounced off the fanciful facets in the glass, swirling the amber liquid around decadently before waving it beneath his large nostrils with pleasure.

Diana shrieked again as she heard the dildo rod stop moving, and gasped as it began to be “adjusted” to enter her loins with a series of buzzing motor sounds. She watched the hole in the stone, and could see two sets of eyes, alternately peering through large scopes and looking down to undoubtedly make changes in the calibration of the rod.

The general laughed. “They can't help you, precious. Only I can,” he smirked, sipping his nightcap and raising a hand to his chest of ornamental ribbons and medals. “Though, au contraire, that's not entirely true! You can help yourself. That UN report…let's discuss it, shall we?”

“ GO TO HELL, YOU MISERABLE FUCK! ” Diana wailed, breaking into choking tears.

“Tisk, tisk, I wouldn't expect such boorish language from you, my high-and-mighty Oxford graduate. I'm disappointed…even offended …and I'm only a crude street thug, at heart,” he chuckled. “Isn't that what you've called me in your report?” he demanded sternly.

When she didn't answer him, the dictator picked up a riding crop and waved it in the air grandly. “Major Sang,” he trumpeted ominously, “begin with her!”

*************************************************************

As Sven strutted through the door of the HenHouse, he removed a leather cigar case from his breast pocket, plucked out an 8 ½ inch Punch President, and tore the end off of the cap viciously with his teeth. He thoughtlessly spat the crumbs on the red carpet beneath him, as a Korean house boy scurried to brush up the debris. Marnie, expert at not betraying the disgust she felt for this oafish brute, held out a flame from a gold lighter. In this henhouse, she thought grimly, Stevenson was the rooster to whom she had to cater most, especially given his recent elevation in position from the powers-that-be.

She waited expectantly as he collapsed into a large butterfly-wing chair near the door, tilted his head back, and took several cool drags from the big black cigar.

“Whatcha got for me, Marnie?” he grinned, chewing on the end of the rancid stick.

“Well, boss, our operatives in Bolivia were able to procure two beautiful twin girls for us,” she replied. “Given that they're twins, we expect to get close to half a million for them.” She smiled, proud of the difficult coup.

Sven pulled meditatively on the cigar, removed it from his mouth, and blew a thick cloud of noxious smoke into the entry room. “Tha's good,” he said finally, “but white girls would have netted us almost twice that.” He tapped his ash on the floor carelessly.

Marnie had to fight to control her temper. “Yes,” she said, through gritted teeth, “but you have to remember, Mr. Hog, that, given the current situation, world attention is sharply focused on these kinds of operations right now. I can assure you, once the awareness has waned, we'll be pursuing such procurements as soon as possible.”

Sven paused to consider this, slightly pissed that his employee knew so much about the business. He hooked both of his thumbs in his vest pockets and continued to smoke. “Tha's good, Miss Gould, because our superiors are expecting us to top $25 mill this year in revenues, and I'm gonna see that they get it.” He stood and buttoned his jacket importantly.

Marnie brushed the custom-tailored white coat with her hand, deciding it was best to stroke his gargantuan ego, rather than risk winding up as bait in one of Tara 's shark pools. She straightened his neck tie, holding her breath, while Sven continued to puff smoke uncouthly into her face.

“Are Jake and Nick here tonight?” he asked, walking toward the back of the reception area, sneaking a peek down the long, dark hallway.

“Yes,” Marnie said, “they're waiting for you, with the twins, in Salon K.”

“Yes, what?”

Marnie kept a straight face, though the level tone in her voice could not help but leak her exasperation. “Yes, Sir ,” she said.

The blonde pony-tailed man gave her a shit-eating grin and flung his Stetson haphazardly on a nearby chair, starting off down the hall, leaving a heady cloud of smoke in his wake.

Marnie sighed, and went to retrieve his hat, thinking wearily that she was getting way too old for this.

*************************************************************

As the flight attendant announced once more that take-off would be delayed yet again due to air traffic problems, Sy removed the copy of the Times that he had taken with him, and re-read the lead story, Famed Reporter Feared Kidnapped in Tarakimo , for perhaps the tenth time.

No doubt the reporters who had compiled this story were still sequestered within the country, as the barricades to entering and exiting were still in effect, even four weeks after the incident. Were they now suffering, as he had? He fished out two Maalox and popped them in his mouth, turning the pages of the journal with clammy hands.

But no, he thought, that would run in direct contradiction to Tara 's usual pattern of operation. He wanted the world to back off just enough, due to fear of what he might do to the twenty or thirty journalists that were holed up, but he wasn't stupid enough to harm any of them, except for Diana, he thought wretchedly. They're probably all in a deluxe wing of the palace, eating caviar morning, noon , and night, he mused. And some of them are no doubt beginning to like it, and that was Tara 's real intention: corruption of the innocent. There was nothing the monster liked better, except for abject torture, he thought glumly.

“Is this seat taken?” a large black man in an elegant dove grey suit piped from Sy's left.

Sy started, as the thought immediately screamed in his head ( TARA ), but he just smiled and got up to allow the man access to his seat.

“Going to New York ?” the well-dressed man asked him jovially. He had a lilting Caribbean accent that reminded Sy uneasily of Isamu's own affected way of speaking, even though he knew Tara 's lead goon was of Nigerian origin.

“Ah, yes,” Sy returned, starting to feel an adrenaline rush of fear begin to build near the base of his spine.

“Me, too!” the man sang happily. “Ah, but it'll be blessed hot out there, this time of year, won't it?”

Sy just nodded pleasantly and instinctively placed an arm over the newspaper in front of him, failing in deterring the big man's careful gaze.

“Oh, that mess!” the suited man continued. “A true tragedy. I do hope that poor young girl is OK. There's no telling what that maniac will do to her. I've heard he's a true savage, no?”

Sy steadied his hands and looked into the man's eyes. He was no longer smiling. His pupils seemed afire with menace, as he stared down the old man, not blinking once.

“I've heard the leader is a powerful man. I sure would not want to cross him. He can make people's lives a misery, even when they're not in his country. People have told me that he's ordered kidnappings of many relatives of his enemies, even small children --- young girls for instance. He even has a special place for them. Kind of a miniature version of his playroom, I think it is. The schoolroom , that's it. Yes.”

“What do you want?” Sy whispered, face completely white now.

Suddenly, the intercom crackled to life above them, and the attendant made the final take-off announcements. Sy tried to keep his eyes on the young woman as she went through the standard demonstration of seat-belt safety and emergency exit locations.

Sy's eyes went wide as he heard a sharp “click,” inches from his left side, and then gasped as a sharp piece of metal made contact with the space just above his kidney. He closed his eyes tightly, wishing for it to be over as soon as possible.

“Feel familiar?” the black man asked, softly. “The leader has acquired so many more playthings that he's eager to show you, Mr. Carey,” he continued, in a harsh whisper. “I don't think you want to see them, though, do you?”

Sy shook his head slowly, glancing down at the pen knife which was now grazing his side. But as he did, the man jabbed it into him even harder. Sy had to bite his tongue to stop from screaming.

“If I could get this little trinket through security, imagine what I have waiting on the ground, old man…” he laughed, lowering his voice even more. “We know you've been contacted by David Palmer. I'm telling you right now, if you decide to keep that appointment with him, little Kaylie will be on a private jet, heading for a very painful lesson in the leader's schoolroom. Understand?”

Sy nodded his head violently.

“Good,” the large man said, in a slightly louder voice. “I'm going back up to first class now,” he boomed, as a chime, indicating that cabin movement was permitted, sounded crisply.

Sy raised himself on shaking legs as the man brusquely pushed past him. Once the frightened man had slumped back down in his seat, the black man clapped his large, rough hand loudly on Sy's shoulder and intoned: “Enjoy the rest of your flight. And don't worry --- we'll be in touch, old man.”

Sy put his head in his hands and began to cry softly. When he finally looked up, he noticed his tears had fallen upon a block of text that he scanned distractedly:

“My room, unlike Diana's, he explained, had a terrace…”

 

Sy found himself studying that sentence, re-reading it over and over. A terrace in Palace Tarakimo? He couldn't quite claim to be an authority on the place, but remembered inspecting it closely enough when he'd arrived with Jozef in the Rolls. Terraces were great for assassinations, weren't they? It didn't match Tara 's paranoid mindset at all.

Staring at the photograph of Sven Stevenson, just below the paragraph, Sy's head began to throb.

*************************************************************

Sven burst roughly into the salon, kicking the door in theatrically with his alligator-skin cowboy boot.

Before his delighted eyes were two beautiful twin girls, with brown skin the color of milk chocolate and tits the size of baby watermelons, milky white aureoles beckoning. They were bound together at their wrists, completely naked, kneeling on the large four-poster bed in front of him. He giggled wildly as both of their faces crumpled with fear at precisely the same time, as they got their first look at the brawny cigar-smoking man whose threatening appearance promised to make the rest of their night a living hell.

Jake and Nick, the two big bikers who assisted him on many occasions, each stood and walked over to the girls. The men, greasy, long-haired types who wore black t-shirts, jeans, motorcycle boots, and leather vests caked with studs, grasped the hair of one girl each, pulling it violently back.

Sven chuckled and paced toward the girls deliberately. He got in their faces and puffed heavily on his cigar, completely shrouding the poor twins in smoke for a brief instant.

“Well, I'll be,” he crowed. “Looks like I'm gonna double my pleasure tonight, eh, boys?” He reached out and tugged on the right girl's nipple violently and leaned in close. Sven ran his hot tongue over the left girl's face, and without pause, lapped it straight onto the other's, as well. He then stepped back, and undid his large turquoise belt buckle.

“Ladies, my name is Boss Hawg, and we're gonna get to know each other real good tonight.” He doubled up the leather and cracked it hard, inches from their faces, his cock bulging with excitement as the girls jumped in unison. “Boys, untie ‘em and place ‘em end to end on the bed there. I want their feet techin'.”

He grinned with secret mirth at the cornpone Southern accent he intermittently affected, then walked over to the bar and poured himself a double Bourbon on the rocks, inhaling the intoxicating aroma of the aged liquor as the girls began to squeal with fear.