The Convention
Nicky Sees the Dark Side
“Nicky Thatcher? Yes, you are on the list. Welcome to the Secret Meeting,” the security guard drones out as she and Steve pass through the metal detector. She scratches her head at the fact that Steve’s large belt buckle doesn’t set it off, but there are other things to worry about. It still sickens her what she has had to do to Steve for this, turning him into a glorified puppet, body awake and mind asleep-but she has to have a pet along for the ride, and she has to see what’s going on firsthand. Even if she chooses not to do anything about it, she has to know what she’s turning her back on. She reaches for her phone, hesitates, then pulls it out all the way and dials her father’s number.
It takes a few minutes for him to arrive, and she’s about ready to throw up by the time he comes with two companions. All sorts of characters have paraded past her in all combinations- smirking men with mindless women, smirking women with mindless men, women with women, men with men. Some seem more aware than others, but Nicky’s not sure if that’s a good thing or not.
“See you brought your Stepford boy as your thrall for the evening. Useful choice, but a little boring for a kid of mine,” Sawyer says with a laugh.
“Some of us here don’t like to fry the brains of innocent people,” Nicky growls, looking at Lil Miss Behave and her revealing outfit.
Sawyer nearly falls over laughing. “Innocent? Lil Miss Behave? Here? Never! You’ll just have to trust me on that one, but she ain’t innocent. She was a victim, but never mine. These days, I just pick one up for the night and let ‘em go at the end of the show. More than a day, like this mess, I got a supplier who gets me someone to prove the old man’s still got it, but it’s the same routine. Let ‘em go, and maybe she’s picked up a few new tricks.”
“If I may interrupt?” the other man says pointedly. Much to Nicky’s surprise, Sawyer shuts up. “Even had he not mentioned it, I would have known in a moment that you were the lovely daughter Sawyer never stops talking about. I can see the resemblance, right down to the tight shirts. I did expect her to take more after you than her mum, but given that the man in the tight shirt was often—”
“We don’t need to talk about that!” Sawyer interrupts, looking more embarrassed than Nicky could ever imagine seeing her father.
“I think I’m gonna like you,” she says to the man. “I guess if he’s talked about me, you know my name.”
“That I do, Mrs. Thatcher- or would you prefer Nicky? Tony Horn, at your service. Glad to see you here and observing our work,” he says, offering a charming smile and a kiss pressed to the back of her hand. “Ah- my dear Syndrome has returned,” he adds as another stunning blonde joins the party and rattles off another report of activity from the hour.
“I guess that’s what you people call a laptop computer,” Nicky says sarcastically.
“And I thought Major Tom was the most skeptical ally I would ever meet,” Tony says with a confused look on his face to Sawyer. Sawyer waves a hand suggesting he should ignore it, and Tony leaves with Syndrome.
“Don’t mind him. He’s seen too much of the dark side for jokes, and he’s put up with me for too long to have much of a sese of humor left. Besides, he’s kinda smitten with Syndie there. She’s been with him through every battle, and he won’t ever leave home without her,” Sawyer explains.
“She seems young for that, unless. EW! Oh my GOD!” Nicky shrieks, turning an unpleasant shade of green and running for the exit before Sawyer can finish.
“Oh, bless you, darlin’. You thought Syndie was the girl! Naw, Syndie’s just a nickname, like Lil Miss Behave here. Short for Syndrome. Syndrome’s a computer program he uses. Once he gets a girl under, he plugs that into her brain, with all the stuff he’s picked up over the years... and a lil bit of all the pretty gals he’s picked up over the years... then brings her along for the week’s adventure and cuts her loose when it’s all over. As it happens, he’s got a special gal this week, same as me- I do believe the one he’s got for this little party even volunteered. The girl’s always there, just... enhanced... in an uninteresting sort of way. He says it makes things more useful, and he’s a whiz at reckonin’ just what skills she’s got so she can help him out. Put all of that together, and darlin’, that might be the most lethal weapon walkin ‘round this battlefield.”
“I guess I can deal with that. Don’t get any ideas about Steve, though. I don’t think he’s got enough memory for that.”
“Oh, too easy, Nicky. C’mon, I know I raised you to give me straightlines, but that’s so old it was old when I was a kid.” Sawyer consults the schedule that was folded in one of his many pockets. “All right. Now, the wrasslin’ exhibition is in an hour, and if the DWA gives you the crawlin’ shivers the way I thought it did, you’ll want to see that so you know what you got to take on. Then, let’s see... oh, this should be a good laugh, some class 4 college gal is givin’ a demonstration. Dunno why that’s main stage- reckon some rich booster got a whole lot poorer for it, though.”
“Wait. Colleges as a WHOLE use it?” Nicky demands stridently.
“Fraid so. Some even offer learned control techniques as a major. Most of ‘em who use it are Bible-thumpers, makin’ more in their image istead of the Lord’s. I wish they’d resort to ‘holy war’ just so people can see what they are,” Sawyer says, pointing out the big cross over Ted Baker Baptist College’s display, enthralling disillusioned lower-level controllers with promises of salvation and missionary work abroad.
“Charming. Controllers in the name of God,” Nicky says with distaste. Sawyer almost smiles at her, but keeps his poker face as he leads her to the elevator.
“Here’s a place to start- the elevator, where fresh meat is delivered to the starving masses below,” Sawyer says dramatically.
“Or to be somewhat less over the top, where prey from the upper floor is sent to be fiished,” Nicky says grimly, no longer in the mood for her father’s joking.
“Always got to take the fun out of things.”
“You find fun in this?”
“More of a challenge than findin’ misery, ain’t it?” Nicky grants him the point with a tightening of her mouth. “I spend a lot of time here to follow the movements of different cults and companies, see who’s getting a bit too big for their britches. Now, remember, what you see can always be worse.” The laughter is gone out of his voice, replaced by forboding as the bell dings. Four college girls stumble forward out of it, their pupils so dilated that their eyes seem like black voids, their legs wobbling to the point where they can barely stand, and their breathing heavy. Each one’s bottom clothing-two skirts, a pair of shorts, and a pair of jeans- is still intact, though well soaked, but whatever they were wearing above that has either been covered or replaced by a cheap white t-shirt reading “Cybergurl In Training!”
Sawyer rolls his eyes. “Well, they say that’s what the Internet was made for,” he says. Nicky blinked, unable to believe the reference he just dropped, but what happens next catches too much of her attention. Women in heavy makeup, stripper heels, and torn Daisy Dukes guide the fresh meat to a cubicle area. The four newcomers sit down as if being crouched in front of a computer is their born position and begin typing away at more and more forms that Nicky guesses have some sort of technology to erase the user’s mind, evaporating thoughts away and filling the resulting space with porn.
“Camgirls? You brought me here to show me camgirls? I could have found that from Steve’s old bookmarks,” she says dismissively.
“These ain’t your ordinary camgirls. Near as we can tell, they speak their own language, they only sleep after their filming sessions, and not for long, and webcam all night and day. Tony swears the only time they get fed is durin’... but you don’t want to hear that, I reckon. Now, before you jump down my throat and demand to know why we ain’t done anything about these scoundrels, the way I know you’re rarin’ to do, first of all, we don’t have proof. We can guess, and folks like me and Tony can guess pretty good from our years in the business, but guessin’ don’t hold up in court. Second problem is, under their false faces, they’re damn near a Fortune 500 company, and that ain’t the kind of power a man like me can take on and win in the court of public opinion. Now, they ain’t been ‘round long eough for us to see what they do when the girls get too old, and maybe that’s how we can get ‘em someday. But porn stars, so long as they’re clean, are on the safe side of class 3. Let me do the ol’ read your mind trick again- ‘if that’s class 3, then how horrible can the other classes be?’” He delivers this last in a surprisingly accurate imitation of Nicky’s sometimes shrill voice, and she looks away to avoid letting him know how easily he scores on her. “And that’s my point, darlin’. Now watch close- not too close, mind, but close eough to see what’s goin’ on here.”
Nicky takes her father’s words to heart and observes as rapid-fire porn flashes in front of the four girls’ eyes, freeing up their hands from the monotony of typing into forms so that they can remove their pants and shoes, then wrap their legs around the computer screen. They work in complete silence except for the tapping of keys as they type out their moans, supporting keyboards on their knees- or in the case of one well-endowed girl, on her breasts. Webcams glow from on top of each monitor, transmitting the takedown into complete mindless lust to millions of horndogs around the world. One by one, each lowered a hand to her dripping pussy, still trying to express their desire with the other on the keyboard.
With as much emotion as a Barbie doll, the veteran Cybergurlz strap stripper heels onto the feet of the young women, and each stands by a terminal until the new girls come and go limp with a smile of mindless ecstasy on each face. The veterans then face the camera, lick their lips, and tease their breasts to get the viewers’ attention, then type “U Like? Can Haz Moar!” into the console, mouthing the words in the netspeak that is all their damaged brains can handle.
One girl, freckle-faced and prime material for a thousand ingénue roles, is rejected. The Cybergurl next to her makes a mouth less sincere than a game show model’s and dresses the girl up in her old clothes. In the meantime, the other three are approved, and the porn stars stand up their new co-workers and make out with them to let the programming sink in a little deeper. Once that’s done, the nude girls are dressed in a strange mix of school clothes: schoolgirl skirts that barely cover their naked asses, sheer white stockings, and sweater jackets labeled Cybergurl U. They are walked over the classroom set behind them and seated in the second of the two rows of desks, where laptops broadcast the exotic sex acts being performed at the head of the class. Enthralled both by the images on the screen and the real life echo in front of them, the new Cybergurlz eagerly await their turn to be called up front to serve as an assistant.
Nicky notes the freckled girl and says, “At least one got set free.”
“Good eye. I’ll see to her,” Sawyer replies. He walks over to the Cybergurl walking the girl over to a deprogramming booth and grabs her ass. Before Nicky can splutter out the protest that’s on the tip of her tongue, the porn star goes into a display of ever more parts of her body, which releases the reject so that Sawyer can whisk her over to Tony. Tony waves in salute, sits the girl down, and begins his work.
“So the grab-ass was just an excuse?” Nicky asks sharply.
“Well, I ain’t gonna object to a fine piece of ass like that, but it’s a trigger for their programming. Cybergurlz.com at least has the sense to have a deprogrammin’ booth for those they can’t use, but it just wakes ‘em up. If anything was damaged, it’d be gone. Now, Tony, he can get her all the way back to who she was. Might take a few hours, but not much more. She wasn’t out long and didn’t go near as deep as some he’s done.”
“And the webmaster or the CEO or whoever won’t go after you guys for getting in the way?”
Sawyer smiles. “What, he’s gonna complain that we deprogrammed someone he couldn’t use? She won’t know enough to finger him for crossin’ the line. And if someone is dumb enough, well, he’ll have a little run in the Labyrynth to clear his head,” he says, his tone hardening at the end, showing Nicky that if Sawyer had his way, Cybergurlz.com would be out of business in seconds. She bites back the sigh of relief, because that would show weakness, and she can’t afford to do that here. But it’s good to know that her father isn’t quite as immoral and obsessed with women as she thought.
“Maybe you’re not a total asshole,” she starts to say, but before she can get too mushy, hoots from somewhere that isn’t a booth showing off improbable sexual positions catch her attention. There’s an intense poker game going on at the main stage, and it looks like the prizes have been brought out.
Sawyer looks over. “Final table, I see. Shame Darvin had to babysit the kids- he mighta won one of those. Still, we got a couple from the early rounds, and Daunte’s still workin’ on last year’s batch.”
“How do you win a cheerleader?” Nicky demands, gesturing over at the quintet of women sitting behind the table. All of them are in full red, white, and blue uniform. All have white-blonde hair, though it’s obviously natural for none of them. All have knockout figures, perfectly done makeup, and mindless smiles brightened by way too much lip-gloss. The two players remaining look them over with eager eyes. Nicky curls her lip at the obvious implants that poke through the girls’ shirts. She has to admit that they’re the epitome of cheerleaders, though; it’s impressive in a way, even if the little blue C’s on the shirts show that these are the “best of the best”— or to those in the know, the worst of the worst.
“’Cause there ain’t a cheerleader in Texas with a free will of her own, that’s how. Every school’s got their own method of trainin’ ‘em up. The lowest schools just go out and buy ‘em from some class 6 factory. Some of the ones with a little more dignity give a Class 1 boy a full ride so he can bring his pet cheerleader along for the ride. But they can’t just go out and pick up some two-bit hoochie off the streets- they need real athletes to do all them crazy flips ad tosses and the like- not like that flexibility goes to waste in other activities.” He jerks his head towards the table, where the five girls bend their legs behind their heads to show their fitness (and smoothly shaven pussies) to the admiring crowd.
“So they search the nation for the truly gifted to flesh out their ranks, or do all of this year’s batch just happen to be Southern belles?” Nicky asks as each girl gives her name with a drawl so thick that even the proudest transplant in Texas would blush.
“’fraid so. These five are the ones that went the furthest. Trained, hypnotized, drugged, brainwashed, hit with subliminals, conditioned, shaped, molded, the whole nine yards. Nothin’ more than trophies now. They’ll be given to the winner of the poker game between the representatives from all the D-I schools that care to participate. They’ve been given good ol’—fashioned Southern names, good ol’—fashioned Southern values- well, ‘cept in the bedroom- and good ol’—fashioned Southern manners. When they finish up cheerin’, some lucky quarterback gets a pretty little trophy of his own, and she’ll cook for him and be a good momma to his kids, if that’s what he wants. Or she’ll go to Hollywood and make millions acting, or show everything the good Lord and the marvels of science gave her in the filthiest magazine in America, if that’s what he wants. And none of ‘em will remember a damn bit of it. As a friend of mine likes to put it, there ain’t no there there. That camp throws ‘em off the cliff, and the next ten days are to test how far they can fall. I’ll spare you the details to keep you from bein’ sick.”
“You’re too kind.” Nicky regards the five behind the table. “So if Darvin were here, he might be able to win a few to bring back?”
“And what would a school like Houston Methodist do with a bunch of bimbos anyway?” Sawyer counters.
“No other school could be so noble, of course,” Nicky says.
“Well, there’s one up in the north end of Texas, but that’s on account of the football players bein’ the ones without a mind of their own. Not like the cheerleaders are much better. That school’s fond of takin’ girls with a bit of an edge to ‘em and turnin’ ‘em ito outright temptresses that would make Mata Hari blush and Cleopatra take notes. There’s a reason they’re named the Mean Green.”
“So that’s why a real green dress is cruel,” Nicky muses. Her gaze darts over to the booth belonging to Three Sisters, prominently placed near the main stage, where the women looking out have sneers on their faces and long fingernails that seem ready to kill for killing’s sake. She watches as the sparkle of their green dresses draws in a careless passer-by, and she gets the sense that the hapless man will never be seen again.
“Don’t ever let ‘em tell you there’s no such thing as witches,” Sawyer says when he sees where Nicky’s looking, bt his attention is soon back on the poker game. School officials in their institutional colors- maroon and white for one, burnt orange and white for the other- feel up the five cheerleaders to judge their quality. The girls don’t react, except to giggle a little at the touch.
“And how do they explain this to the parents?” Nicky asks.
“Folks like those who raise their kids to be cheerleaders and tell ‘em that’s the greatest thing a gal can do... well, when they get a call tellin’ ‘em that their daughter’s on the squad in Austin or Lubbock, the only story is if they choose to show her off to the local papers. ‘tween one thing and another, we think ‘bout sixty-five percent of college cheerleaders are controlled. The rest of ‘em are so repulsed that they call themselves dance teams and don’t want to be associated with the C word. Kids in high school are different-they’ve got the Guardians watchin’ their back under cover of the NCA. That nice couple I introducd you to before are with them. They keep the perverts and the harem boys at bay, with extreme prejudice. You don’t wana cross ‘em. But these cheer camps pull the wool over their eyes, makin’ ‘em think that they’re reputable outfits. The NCA’s good people, don’t get me wrong, but they let way too many slave traders lead way too many smart, talented young women to a peroxide and silicone grave while they’re frettin’ ‘bout some onesie-twosies tryin’ to get up a girl’s skirt.”
“I never knew all the politics involved. And here I thought the only politics and double-dealing in cheerleading came from the girls on the squad,” Nicky says with a roll of her eyes.
“No one ever thinks, and it’s a shame, ‘cause it’s all there in front of veryone’s eyes. How else is a gal gonna let a man she just met at the start of the semester stick his hand up the skirt, grab her ‘tween her legs so tight he can lift her in the air, then launch her towards the ceiling? And how else is she gonna be smilin’ the whole time she’s doin’ twenty somersaults in mid-air without questionin’ that the boy’s gonna catch her? And ain’t no blonde dumb enough to keep on grinnin’ like the cat that ate the cream when her team’s losin’ by a hundred points.” Sawyer lays out his points in the voice of a man who’s given this lecture a thousand times before and never had anyone actually listen to it.
“Seeing the sausagefest down here- with a few exceptions- I assume the men aren’t as controlled.”
“You’d be surprised. Not as deep, no, but you ever wonder how those boys can do their job while they’ve got their hand up the skirt of one of the hottest gals he’s ever seen in his life?”
“I see your point. And because they work so well together, no one ever questions. They think it’s all natural, but it’s anything but.”
“Everyone’s too impressed to see the obvious. And I don’t mean the stuff you’re gona be looking at for the rest of your life now. I mean the real obvious, like “turned into a ‘Throw Me in the Air Barbie’ obvious. You recall that one gal who fell, broke her neck, and was still leadin’ the fight song as they carted her off on a stretcher?”
“Sure do. That was a major human interest story, what, a year ago?”
“Human interest my ass! What the hell kind of person with free will would do that? Even a harem gal would at least say ouch. That had the mark of a Cherry Hill model, given how sweet and innocent she looked- oh, they’re a class 6 operation that hides behind class 3 ‘cause they let the old ones come back to run the line if they break down or retire, so they’re not technically slaves. Cherry Hill dolls always revert to their deepest programming when faced with adversity. Lord God have mercy, if I had a way to take those sons of bitches down myself, I’d do it.”
“If you’re trying to prove to me you’re not a completely immoral asshole with an insatiable sexual appetite, you’ve made your point. Stop trying to impress me,” Nicky says.
Sawyer grins at her. “Love you too, darlin’.
A roar from the table causes both their heads to turn, and the man in maroon and white pumps his fists in the air, reaching across the table to claim his winnings. The cheerleaders are stripped quickly, if not efficiently, pieces of uniform flying off the stage into the grabbing hands of boosters and audience members, and the school representatives stake their turns on the more than willing girls.
There’s laughter behind her, and she turs to see two Japanese businessmen, looking out of place amidst the debauchery, talking. Sawyer sees where she’s looking, cocks his head as if listening, and says, “Let’s see, the short one’s wondering why they’re celebrating, since there’s only five of ‘em that controlled, and his buddy with the glasses agrees, since they’re flat-chested to boot.”
“Yeah, okay, you speak Japanese? Sure. Flat-chested. Those sacks of saline have to be at least DDs, and if they were any more controlled they’d come with remotes. There’s a public orgy going on; I don’t think this is the right time for one of your bad jokes.”
“I never said I spoke Japanese. I speak Japanese mind controller. Now, I’m sure there are a lot of good, kind, wholesome family-type folks in Japan, same as there are in the United States of America. But they’ve got some strange ideas ‘bout what’s the acceptable limits in some places. And they’ve done experimentation that’d make your hair turn white, even if half the stories you hear are just B-movies. Anyone in the community kows that Truman used the atomic bomb to save Japan, not destroy it, and what really happened to Amelia Earhart. Someday, if you really want to know, I’ll tell you. But there’s a reason you don’t see the Japs ‘round here much.”
Nicky has become far too accustomed to rolling her eyes at her father, and she’s about ready to give him an earful about unacceptable racism in the twenty-first century. Then she sees the human cartoons bouncing towards the two businessmen, one with a fresh bottle of sake and the other with sushi rolls. They fall to their knees in a way that indicates this is their usual position.
“I can see why they think the cheerleaders are flat-chested,” she manages to get out past the bile in her mouth.
“Someone could induce a suicide durin’ this convention, and it wouldn’t scare me more than someone invitin’ the Japs over to share their trade secrets. Now, don’t you look at me like that- I told you, I’m sure there are lots of real nice folks in Japan, but the ones who get into our business... well, they’re into things that’d make you turn green, and half of ‘em are banned in the Western world. That’s how desensitized things have gotten, and that’s why I want you to get in here and make a change. Now, if you’er still not sure ‘bout things- if you want to give ‘em the benefit of the doubt, go talk to ‘em. Short one’s Satan, the one with the glasses is Lucifer.” Sawyer walks away, deliberately averting his gaze.
“At least you people have some standards,” Nicky replies, noticing other controllers doing the same. Sawyer offers her a sardonic smile that she hadn’t thought he was capable of.
As they cross the floor, the bell rings at the big stage, indicating that the DWA wrestling card is about to begin. Grateful for the distraction, and eager to learn about her enemy, Nicky smiles.
“Still into the wrasslin’? It’s a good start. Lord kows Eric has enough with all those regional territories ‘cross the country to feed his main roster. He’s got ‘bout four hundred all told, thirty of ‘em in the spotlight at any one time.” He looks disdainfully at Eric’s rookie crop, sitting enthralled in the front row. Their pink suits cling to them like a second skin, showing every curve as their breasts heave. All of them look like they would appreciate a moment of privacy, or at least a opportunity to run to the bathroom.
“Do I even want to know what those are made out of?” Nicky asks.
“Suits are pretty standard. He puts old-fashioned itchin’ powder in ‘em- yeah, that kind of itch, and the pants on those are tight enough to help them in their time of need, if they’re willin’ to surrender their dignity. Of course, that’s only part one of the take-down. Part two is Smile-ade. Yeah, it’s cheap Smile-Mart crap, but it does what he really wants. He wants ‘em to be suggestible-see, part two really comes from the audience. Now, these gals aren’t getting the full experience, but it’ll be enough to get ‘em started.”
“Wait. Having a crowd of two hundred and something mind controllers hungry for sex, with you in a trance isn’t the full experience? Lord, what have I gotten myself into?” Nicky laments.
“The world’s most famous bingo hall! This place ain’t got nothin’ on them. This should give you a idea.”
The lights go out and bitch rock pounds through the speakers. Nicky notices that unlike all the other music she’s heard here, it’s not trying to worm its way into her brain. Of course, there are other distractions, like the arrival of the 6′3″ “Incredible Miss Whip-It”, a bruising black dominatrix who hits the ring in all black fetish wear.
“Let me guess, the villains are butch and the heroines are pretty,” Nicky says, rolling her eyes at the tropes.
“The words you’re lookin’ for are heel and face, but yeah, that’s usually the way it goes. This is jobber trainin’, so things’ll be a bit different. As for her—” Sawyer points at Miss Whip-It- “With a name like Missy Whippett, you think she had much of a choice in the matter?” he asks.
Nicky blinks and shrugs. Miss Whip-It lassos one of the girls in the front row, choosing her as the opponent, and the delicately built blonde walks into the ring, becoming more brightly flushed and obviously aroused with each step. The announcer, in an overly dramatic voice, declares, “And in this corner, from Nashville, Tenesseee, Maria Clement!” His wicked grin, and the ideas being hollered from the stands, makes Nicky wince.
“Are they really chanting ‘She’s a crack whore’?"” she asks her father, hoping he’ll tell her otherwise.
“Sure are,” Sawyer replies.
In the ring, Maria tries to lock up with Miss Whip-It, half trying to take her down and half trying to go down. An unpleasant look of confusion crosses her darling face.
“So the suit makes her hot, and the Smile-ade makes her suggestible, and the chants make her—”
“Whaddya think, Sawyer? Nitro 69 or Tennessee Lady Thrall? I got a pretty little blue number she’d look sweet in,” Eric interrupts, tapping Sawyer on the shoulder with a wicked grin on his face.
“Ummm, Nitro 69! Definitely!” Sawyer says, and Eric goes to sit down with his creative team. Turning to Nicky, Sawyer adds in a conspiratorial whisper, “Now, if I had him choose Tennessee Lady Thrall, he’d be a dead man the first time that pretty little thing ended up in the ring. Might solve some problems, it ain’t quite the right way to go ‘bout things, and our little maze is a whole lot more effective.”
“You’re a very strange man, but in a good way,” Nicky replies with a smile. She focuses on the match, such as it is. To Miss Whip It’s credit, she’s actually trying to wrestle. Maria, on the other hand, may think she’s trying to fight back, but the compulsion to fuck instead overwhelms her. The dirtier and dirtier chants coming from the audience make her uncontrollable, and finally the urge is too strong. She nibbles at Miss Whip-It’s leather-clad crotch as she goes for a bodyslam. Miss Whip-It smile and throws Maria to the ground, then dramatically raises her left hand.
“And there’s step three, comin’ up,” Sawyer notes. Miss Whip-It’s hand streaks down to latch onto Maria’s temples in a claw hold like iron. Maria’s eyes roll up in her head as she begins to simultaneously pass out and have the greatest orgasm of her life. “Eric teaches all of his wrestlers control-grade nerve holds to short-circuit opponents’ brains. By the end of the day, well, that’s all that pretty little thing will have in her head, the only memoiries she’ll have left. All she’ll remember is being a Diva, being what the audience told her to be, and how hot it all makes her. Then he’ll take that All-American body and develop a character, a set of moves, maybe a good finisher, and voila! Nitro 69 will be born.”
On cue, Maria’s arm flails forward in the submission signal, and Miss Whip-It drops her unceremoniously to the floor. Maria gives herself over to the pleasure completely, her hands becoming busy as she’s stretchered out to cheers from the perverted crowd.
“In Philly, they’d throw her a few useful things to help her in her time of need. They are the City of Brotherly Love, they like to remind everyone,” Sawyer says. “That’ll be her next stop so they can finish her programming in a hurry. With looks like those, she’ll be on cable sooner than later.”
“I guess in this world, that’s all that counts,” Nicky says, rolling her eyes.
“Never to me,” Sawyer reassures her as the ring is set up for the heavyweight match. The champion, Wendi Whoppers, gets major cheers from the crowd, for reasons that are obvious and proudly showcased by her outfit.
“Did she cut her teeth in Japan?” Nicky asks.
“Nope, but Eric likes havin’ someone who can travel there when needed,” Sawyer explains.
Nicky raises her eyebrows as the opponent is introduced. “Black Jackie? She’s already got a stage name? That was fast.”
“That’ll be the name on her entry form. She’s from another cult, Northern State. This one’ll be on cable- Northern State girls are easy prey, and they make good money from name recognition. Smacks of a slave trade the way it’s used, but we don’t need to talk ‘bout that-they’re my problem. This one will get you a big ally if you want her. You might find this useful.” He hands her a piece of paper with a Colorado phone number and leaves, giving Eric a knowing smile to unnerve him as he does. Nicky sits back and watches the match through narrowed eyes.
She’s ready for her role now, and ready to hold her head high as the daughter of Sawyer Samuels.