Buyer's Remorse
Buyer's Remorse
Hypothesized by AbleArcher, written by Czarreynard
There's a reason why they call it a bazaar (though it should be spelled "bizarre"). If one is willing to travel the distance, he or she is sure to find what they are looking for in Delhi. An average bazaar can contain camels, finely-crafted beads, precious stones, texts from the days of yore, tropical fruits and nuts, exotic birds, fish (food or otherwise), pottery, masterfully-woven baskets, vibrant carpets and garments made from only the finest of looms.
But there is a darker side to these markets. Bedlam lurks in the shadows. Some come to bazaars not to partake in the foods or buy their brides a wedding gift. Illegal spices flow like water, prostitution is commonplace, and weapons can be bought on a child's allowance. If it can't be found in India, it does not exist.
This brings us to our fateful protagonist. To partake in such trade is to secure one's future and the rush of gold was too tempting for this young man to pass up. Fathered by a gunsmith and adroit in the ways of a firearm, this young merchant sold his wares all over the world. With crosshairs set on the mysterious streets of Delhi, the launderer stalked among the busy throngs.
He was a newcomer to this place, though no one would suspect him. He kept his face hidden behind a white hood. If someone asked him why he wore it, he could simply lie and say it was to keep the hot sun at bay. His cloak and satchel concealed the wares he planned on selling. It was virtually an untapped market. Sure, AK-47s were aplenty in a bazaar such as this, but he planned to offer finer products at much more agreeable prices.
Magnums, revolvers, handguns, shotguns, tactical-machine pistols, rocket-propelled grenades, fragmentation grenades, sniper scopes, mines, even knives and sabers were at his disposal. Heavily loaded with two duffle bags, a backpack, a satchel and a trench coat full of weaponry, this merchant possessed enough wares to start the Six-Day War all over again.
He had arrived by boat just a few days earlier and had caught a ride with several other merchantmen on their way to Delhi, hoping to strike a vein of buyers. Some might ask, what propels a man to do such things? The answer: wanderlust. If the world you wish to see, why not make a killing in the process?
Of course, he could not set up shop just anywhere. It would take a skilled eye to find a proper alley. Selling firearms is quite illegal. Seeing a darkened alleyway in the small gap of two buildings, the merchant began to prowl. It did not take long before the childish giggles and fanfare from the bazaar died away and new sounds took their place. The sounds of screams, cries of pleasure and of pain and the occasional celebratory gunshot, aimed high into the sky, crackled.
This was the antithesis of the bazaar which flooded the city's main streets. In the narrow alleys and darkened passageways, another bazaar of a more robust nature, was in process. The air here reeked of greed and of sin, much to the merchant's chagrin. It wouldn't do to sell guns to people who had no need for them. Sultans and nobles had their own warriors. But the peddlers of drug lords and henchmen of local gangs were in a constant need of firearms and ammunition
The merchant delighted in seeing this was the target market.
Young men, some as young as eight, some as old as thirty, holstered AK-47s. "There's no pride in ownership anymore," thought the merchant to himself. Surely he would have to introduce them to more stylish weaponry.
Spying a corner of the alley where he would not be disturbed, the merchant rolled out a blanket amid the squalor and cracked concrete. First, he laid out his selection of shotguns; sawed-off, riot and the like. Then handguns, followed by submachine guns.
Before long, however, a filthy lorry, packed with young militiamen, crawled through the narrow alleyway, scattering those who would dare stand before the rugged men aboard. But the merchant only surveyed them with a watchful eye. One of the men, who stood in the bed of the truck proudly behind dark sunglasses, carried a gilded Kalashnikov. "It seems they have an eye for things," the merchant thought.
Upon seeing the carpet strewn with weaponry from the West, the truck's angry engine became pacified and the man with the golden gun, a jackal, stepped toward the mild-mannered merchant. He let the burning cigarette in his hand fall to the dusty concrete and proceeded to extinguish the remaining embers with the thick heel of his boot. He lowered his sunglasses to look the merchant in the face.
"Nice spread," the man said in Hindi.
"I offer only the finest," replied the merchant, confident that the man knew what he was looking for. The merchant spoke several languages, including English, German, French and Mandarin Chinese. It was important to connect with a client and not knowing the language of a customer can be dreadfully detrimental to a sale.
"My men...they require rifles. Will you sell us Kalashnikovs?
"That depends."
The militiaman raised his eyebrow, "What exactly do you mean to say, peddler?"
"Do you want your men to feared as well as respected?"
The jackal laughed, "Of course! What other way is there to wage war?"
"Then I suggest buying your men weapons that can't be obtained on every street corner from here to Bollywood. How are you going to inspire fear with a gun a child can use?" The merchant's tone was icy, but constructive and firm.
The jackal and his men laughed again, "You have a point! Very well, what do you propose?"
The merchant smiled to himself. Upon the carpet rested several M4 Carbines. The merchant waved to them with the palm of his hand and the militiamen began to examine them.
"They are American-made, of course. The Yanks use them in field operations frequently. I think you'll be quite pleased."
The leader of the curious band flipped up the ironsight, put his fingers in the trigger-guard and pointed it at the head of the merchant. With a chuckle, the jackal pulled the trigger. The merchant knew better; the gun wasn't loaded. The carbine made a soft click as the hammer moved. The sound felt almost empty, as if rapture had not quite been reached by that oh-so-satisfying clap of gunpowder igniting.
"Impressive. We'll take ten," said the cocky-eyed leader.
The merchant chuckled, "Buy a dozen and I'll throw in some grenades."
The leader extended his arm to shake, "You drive a hard bargain. I like that."
The militia leader also spied something hanging at the merchant's hip, a beautiful-decorated Single Action Army revolver.
"What about that?" said the militiaman with curiosity, "That would look good on my hip, no?"
The merchant hesitated and put his hand on his hip, as if to protect the beautiful handgun. "Sorry, this one's not for sale. I have some other revolvers if you'd like to see those."
The militiaman's face fell. "How many rupees you want for it? My father is a drug lord. He can get you all the money you want. Name your price."
The merchant shook his head in persistence, "I'm sorry. But I'm not going to part with this gun. If you'd like to see my other handguns, I'd be more than happy to show them to you."
The militiaman gritted his teeth in frustration. He pointed a finger into the merchant's cloak and growled. But then, he chuckled and smiled evilly. "Very well. See you later, little man."
With a quick bark toward his fellows, the militia piled back into the lorry. The truck backfired a few times, raising a cloud of obsidian smoke and horrid fumes. But, through the smoke, the militia leader's eyes and those of the merchant clashed, neither trusting the other and certain that their paths would cross again.
...
The merchant shook his bag of rupees with glee. The militiamen had paid handsomely for the carbines. But, despite his newfound wealth, the merchant was irked by some unseen malady. Call it a soldier's intuition, call it poetic justice or irony. Of course, selling arms can be a dangerous and confusing business. When one sells weapons, he must be aware that his business may come back to bite him.
The merchant decided to ignore these feelings. In fact, he seriously doubted the sale was unwise. A merchant should always save his ace in the hole.
The merchant had decided to end his day's work. He hadn't expected to make so much money so fast. This little spot of luck called for celebration. The merchant planned to find a place to stay, get a hot meal and perhaps a nice drink.
As he walked through the crowd of the shadow bazaar, he noticed it was getting more anxious. The people partying in the streets were getting more riled up from drink and the exotic spices. That was when the merchant saw a crowd gathering in front of a small stage.
The merchant decided to stop for a second and watch. Upon the stage, a young man was talking enthusiastically in Indian with a megaphone in one hand and a wad of bills in the other. He kept pointing to a small group of young women on stage, who all looked somewhat listless and stoic. "Come one, come all! Straight in from the border, the finest girls you've ever seen! Buy now! Buy now! These special ladies know how to treat a man!"
Frankly, the merchant wasn't surprised. In a place where drugs and guns run rampant, ownership of other beings is sure to follow. But, what the merchant noticed, much to his confusion, was that the girls on stage were all quite calm, as if they had been through this before. They did not cry or act frightened. They simply remained by the side of whomever held their leash, loyally and without whimsy.
They were "ferals," morphs who had developed into bipedal creatures, but lacked certain intelligence. They were essentially trapped between Neanderthals and sentient creatures, stuck somewhere in the middle of the evolutionary chain.
"Need sons to carry on your legacy? Why get married? If the cow is free, why buy the milk? These girls will carry your children in their wombs and without the hassle of matrimony! Breeders are all the rage! So buy now!" cried the man with the megaphone, as if he were selling a household appliance.
One girl in particular caught his eye. Or, rather, he caught hers. She was a small, little cheetah, with a beige-colored fur, pockmarked with scattered brown spots. She was petite in height and weight. She wore nothing, but that was to be expected as well. No sense in hiding what you are trying to sell.
Although he had been acting inconspicuous, the cheetah gave him a polite stare, as if to call out to him. The merchant glanced to his left and to his right. The other members of the throng were too far away to have been to subject of her gaze. Still, the merchant felt no pity or sympathy for her. In a business such as his, others could easily slow you down. Partnerships, businesslike or otherwise, were problems that most dealers wished to avoid.
The man with the megaphone called out again, "We'll start with this one! Bidding starts at 25,000 rupees!" The girl who had been eyeing him was yanked to her fee. She followed her holder to the end of the stage, where she could be seen more clearly. Despite being the center of attention, her eyes still maintained locked upon the merchant in an almost stupefied sort of way. "Do I hear 30,000 rupees?" said the man with the megaphone, provoking the bids, one by one.
The merchant scoffed. That much for a mongrel like her? Surely, they had to be kidding. The merchant turned his eyes away from the poor girl and began to walk away from the crowd of vicious, sex-starved men. "Savages," muttered the merchant under his breath. "Pure savages."
"35,000 rupees!"
But, as he began to tear off from the droning throng, a man on a dirtbike, with nigh insane abandon, tore through the bazaar. The loud whine of the engine filled the alley like a shrieking ghost, but no one took notice. The bodies of the girls on stage, the aroma of illegal spices in the air seemed to draw all attention away. Even the merchant was unaware until the bike's helpless rider was upon him.
"40,000 rupees! Do I hear 45,000?"
The merchant, who's only wish was to find a hot meal and shower, heard the hum of the bike too late. The noisy bike, buzzing like an annoying insect, crossed the merchant's path and into the mud puddle in the middle of the road. The puddle, which had collected the filth of the street, broke outward and onto the pristine cloak of the merchant, making a dark brown patch of sludge across his chest.
"What the fuck!" shouted the merchant in disgust and anger. The rider, who looked back to see the expression on the merchant's face, grinned and cackled with pleasure. The merchant threw up his arms as if to say, "What gives?"
"SOLD FOR 50,000 RUPEES! An all-time high! Congratulations to the man in the white coat!"
Upon hearing his description, the merchant turned toward the stage to see what had transpired. The auctioneer was pointing straight at him and the girl wore a warm smile across her face. A few men around him patted him on the back or cursed his good fortune.
"No...no..." said the merchant to himself. Had he just bought a 50,000 rupee harem girl? The auctioneer, the handler and finally, the girl, made their way down from the stage and carved through the throng.
The merchant was far too shocked to believe this was happening. He tried backing away, but the crowd merely circled around him, clapping for his success. The auctioneer, holding the leash of the girl, placed it in the hand of the merchant and took the sack of rupees the merchant was holding.
"But I didn't...I wasn't trying to..." the merchant struggled to get his words out. Everyone was making him nervous. There were rival buyers patting him on the shoulders, the auctioneer was holding the bag of rupees in the air victoriously and finally, the girl's hypnotic stare, now accompanied by a pleasant smile, all seemed maddeningly irritating.
As the applause died down and the auctioneer returned to the stage, the merchant decided that dragging this girl around just wouldn't do. Tugging the girl's leash angrily, he dragged her toward the stage entrance, where a bouncer blocked the way. "What is it you want? You've already got the girl, beat it."
The merchant just shook his head, "That's just it. I never wanted her in the first place. I want my money back."
The girl's ears fell, though the merchant was far too busy negotiating her return to notice. He didn't want her? Her gaze fell to the ground, disappointed and hurt.
"No returns, all transactions are final," said the thug coldly.
"But this is a mistake," the merchant barked back, "I never meant to buy her. I wasn't even in the auction."
"You raised your hand."
"Because someone almost ran me over!"
"Not my department. Now if you don't leave, I'll be forced to put a couple of holes in your head. Kindly step away."
"But..." began the merchant.
"Kindly...step...away..." said the thug, more irritated than before. He leveled the MP5 strapped around his neck. Thinking better of arguing, the merchant tugged on the girl's leash once more and angrily stormed away.
...
50,000 rupeesâ€"gone in the blink of an eye. Well, there went his hopes of checking into a nice hotel for the night. To make matters worse, he now had another mouth to feed. The girl followed dutifully behind the merchant, head down. He had said some hurtful things back there, but she knew that this man was now her keeper.
Coming to an inn, which resembled more of a shanty, the merchant's knees nearly buckled. A poorly kept, cracked roof covered walls which seemed to be made of hardened mud. The floor was made of dirt and squalor. The windows were cracked and the whole place reeked of stale alcohol and urine.
At least the inn was within "bounds". Having left the secrets streets of the black bazaar, the merchant could feel somewhat secure in knowing he was back to a more forgiving world.
"I can't believe this is happening," thought the merchant. "Why do women always get in my way?"
The cheetah, who sat quietly behind him on her haunches, simply stared up at her new handler. He had cut his way through the throng like a white knight. She couldn't help itâ€"she was transfixed. She had hoped he would buy her and her heart went aflutter when his hand soared into the air.
The girl had been in and out of these streets since she was a child. When she became of child bearing age, rich and powerful men had often lusted after her. However, when they realized the girl's womb was barren, they would toss her out onto the street. Soon, she would be rounded up by another dealer and the process would begin all over again. It was a vicious cycle, but such was the life of a breeding girl.
After paying for a room, the merchant dragged himself and the girl inside, only to find the inside was just as foul as the exterior. There was a small bed, which the girl immediately, with the likeness of a housecat, perched herself upon. The merchant discarded his robe upon a creaky, wicker chair, revealing his face for the first time that day.
The girl's eyes went wide as the face of a human male appeared. Long, blonde hair cascaded about his shoulders. His skin was pale, the result of constantly wearing a hood. His brilliant blue eyes seemed like jewels in the filth that surrounded them. The cheetah girl's heart began to stammer.
Taking off his utility belt, the merchant proceeded to the bathtub in the corner of the room. Although the shower was stained with from some red residue and a spider was toying about in the drain, the merchant angrily pulled the shower curtain, turned on the water and continued to ignore the girl.
The girl, finding it futile to try and catch a peak of him through the shower curtain, looked back toward the clothes he had laid on the wicker chair. Although his white cloak, the saintly thing which had distinguished him from the throng, lay there, she could not help but notice the utility belt.
Upon it lay the Single Action Army revolver. The girl, crawling over from her perch on the bed pulled the thing from its holster, as if it were the Holy Grail being relieved of its pedestal at long last. Six bullets. Six small instruments of death were at her fingertips.
Of course, she'd seen guns before, but never like this. The followers of her keepers had often carried them, she'd even been hit with the blunt end of one when she had failed to conceive.
But now, it looked like a thing of beauty. An engraving snaked along the barrel. The gun even shone in the dank of the room. She put her finger in the trigger guard and held the gun at arm's length--a childhood fancy.
She cocked her wrists backward in imitation of a gunshot. The cheetah felt the power that comes with such a thing.
But her newfound sense of power was short-lived. The gurgle of water stopped and the shower curtain was peeled back. The merchant, stepping out, spied the girl sitting sheepishly on the bed holding his finest possession.
"You!" roared the merchant, charging over to her. She squinted her eyes shut, knowing very well his tone of voice. She did not dare fight him, so she simply allowed him to snatch the gun from her paw. He raised his hand behind his head, poised to strike.
The girl, sensing all too well what was coming, calmly shut her eyes and presented her cheek for him to swipe. The merchant gritted his teeth. He was furious. How could he not be? He had just spent a small fortune on this girl and now she took to meddling with his possessions?
But despite his rage, the girl's sullen look shook him. The composed, expectant look on the girl's face told him she'd suffered this many a time before. Too many. She almost seemed desensitized to it. Even so, a tear, a very, very small droplet of water, began to pool in the corner of her eye.
The merchant paused. Did he really want to strike this girl? True, she had cost him a much and had the gall to peruse through his belongings, but that single tear upon her cheek seemed to unveil an abusive past. She may have been a troublesome girl, but he could not bring himself to strike her.
Perhaps that is why he preferred guns. A gun makes fighting simpler, for a life only weighs as much as the trigger which ends it. The user feels no pain and can inflict grievous damage with virtually no repercussions.
The girl's face was unchanged; she still waited for her new handler to strike, loyally and without defiance.
But the merchant, unwilling to do such a thing, let his hand drop to his side. Twirling the gun's trigger guard about his finger, the merchant turned away and began to dress.
Perplexed, the girl slowly brought her eyes back upon the merchant. She found herself wondering why he had failed to follow through, even after she had disobeyed him. It felt pleasant to have escaped such a trouncing, but such compassion had never been shown to her before.
She watched him silently as he clothed himself. She saw things she had seen many a time before, but not under such circumstances. The merchant back rippled with a light tone of muscle. His buttocks were equally as pleasant to look at. And from where she was sitting, she could see his limp member swaying as he moved about.
The girl blushed underneath her fur. She had never seen such a handsome man. Perhaps it was because he had shown her a little sympathy. Regardless, she could already tell that this handler would be more interesting than those of the past.
The merchant finished dressing and fixed the clasp upon his utility belt, allowing the revolver to rest within its holster. He glanced at the girl, taking her in for a moment. Although he had really been disgusted with her before, he now seemed to notice another side to her. She was striking. Not necessarily beautiful, but better-looking than most breeder girls.
Taking her leash in hand, the merchant unclasped the buckle "Come, we're going to get something to eat," he said in a much calmer tone than before. "I can't let anybody see that I have a breeding girl on my hands. The breeding trade is quite illegal and I'm not in any mood to have to have a run in with the Indian Embassy. You must walk upright to avoid suspicion."
The girl cocked her head in confusion. She did not understand what he had said, as her linguistic skills were limited, but she could not explain why he had suddenly abandoned his anger. She leapt down from her perch upon the bed, appreciative that the merchant had let her go. Dutifully, she followed behind him, knowing not where they were going.
The merchant was thankful for the little bit of preparation he had done before departing for India. Carrying an emergency cache of funds was always a bright idea. Although this reserve was nowhere near as much as his earnings, the merchant found it important to have cash on hand.
After all, gun laundering is illegal. Bribing competitors, buying oneself out of political messes and even keeping oneself fed in times of crisis were all things which required money. He only carried around 10,000 rupees in the emergency kit, but it would be enough for him to feed himself and the girl, at least until he could resume sales.
By this time, the sun had nearly completed its journey across the sky. The sky had taken on the scheme of burnt orange and the buildings of the bazaar were now cast in deep shadows.
Being outside, the girl found it odd she could resist the urge to simply scamper away. The cheetah could not remember the last time she had gone without a leash. She walked upright, as per the merchant's wishes, but sloppily. It would have to do. Her back was simply not meant for it, her mind and body had only evolved one-half. Walking bipedal was a bit of a struggle, but the cheetah decided she would do it for the merchant if that is what he required of her.
Of course, the bazaar was now drawing to a close. Sellers were beginning to pack away their wares and tents, though many seemed to be in no rush. The harsh truth was that some merchants never left the bazaar. It had become the home and only source of income for many, dooming the poor to the streets for as long as someone would buy from them.
The smell of curry wafted in the air, thick and pungent. The smells of rice frying in skillets and baked bread filled the nostrils of the duo and soon they were salivating like beasts.
The merchant was painfully reminded however, of the lack of meat in India. Although its culture and theologies are rich and cultured, vegetarianism is a strict practice. Though he would have liked nothing better than a juicy steak after today's loss, he knew that it simply could not be done.
Still, his and her bellies needed filling. Stopping at a small, shabby restaurant where a woman was furiously frying rice, the merchant and the girl sat down. It wasn't much, but the merchant did not plan to go hungry this evening. The stools were very stout. Although the cheetah was very grateful to not have to eat on the floor for once, the merchant, being a Westerner, was obviously uncomfortable.
Before long, the merchant and the girl were served customary dishes of India, rice and curry served on a banana leaf. Folded bread was also served to each of them and used to scoop up the curry.
Though not exactly a steak, the merchant could tell by presentation alone that the Indian people knew how to dine. The cheetah considered the same. Her previous owners had often eaten rare and exotic foods from all over the continent but would never spare a rupee on feeding her correctly. Often, she was left eating watery rice, which was considered a meager meal by any right. She gazed at her handler thoughtfully. He may not have been very enthusiastic with being her new master, but he most certainly cared enough to see her belly filled with good food.
"Look at your ribs, poor thing," said the merchant as he stroked her sides with the back of his hand, noticing how tightly her fur strode across her ribs. "We'll need to fatten you up a bit, eh?"
The girl purred a bit, enjoying the contact between them. She wasn't familiar with his tongue, but she could tell by his tone he was being sympathetic. She also couldn't help but notice he would scrape some of his helping off his plate and deposit it upon her own. The merchant's hand traveled upward, toward her cheek, as if to brush and pet. As he did so, the girl, full of affection for her caretaker, licked and nuzzled his hand a bit, purring while she did so.
The merchant smiled. It was if he were petting a common house cat which simply vied to be paid some attention. "I can't blame you, really. You didn't ‘make' me buy you. It was the scum of these streets. They wouldn't know how to treat a woman if she jumped up and bit them on the nose." To accent this, the merchant took a gentle hold of the cheetah's nose and wiggled it. "After all, you are kind of cute."
As tender as the moment was, the abhorrent sounds of a truck engine rattling could be heard, complimented with shouts and burst of gunfire. Some of the black bazaar patrons must have been getting rowdy. The merchant tried to ignore it.
But the sound kept getting louder. Shouts could be heard. The gunfire became more distinct. Something about it perturbed the merchant, but his mind could simply not place it. The girl cocked her head at seeing him distressed. Her deep eyes stared back at him in confusion.
The merchant's eyes went wide when he realized just what was going on. The gun reports sounded distinctly like that of an M4 Carbine. The whine of the engine was familiar, too. But what made the situation all too clear was the sound of an RPG swooping threw the air. Before he even knew it, the merchant stood up and leapt across the table at the girl. The cheetah yelped as the merchant threw himself towards her.
A deafening explosion ensued. The merchant's ears filled with a high-pitched blare. Drywall and tile came crashing to the floor as a cloud of dust and smoke enveloped the room.
The merchant quickly checked to see if he and the girl were both intact. The woman behind the counter also seemed to be alrightâ€"only swept off her feet by the impact. The cheetah's eyes cracked open, realizing that the merchant had not charged her out of anger, but to protect her from harm's way.
As the dust settled, the whine of the engine faded into an idle sputter. As the air became clear once again, the merchant could see the decrepit lorry, filled with militiamen. The jackal with the sunglasses was leaning up against the truck, a cigarette burning dimly in his mouth. All those aboard were carrying the very same arms the merchant had sold them that morning.
The merchant pulled the young cheetah onto her feet. Leading her over to the woman, he instructed the proprietor in Hindi: "Please, take this girl and yourself to safety." He hurried both of them out the rear door. The older woman hurried, but the cheetah lingered and gave the merchant a sad look, as if this were the last moment they would ever share together. "Don't worry," he cooed, holding up her chin, "I'll be fine. Now go. It isn't safe here."
The woman took the cheetah girl by the arm and led her out the door. Once he was sure that the two women were out of danger, he turned his attention back to the jackal gang.
"What is it that you want?" he yelled from the rubble to the offenders outside.
The whole gang of jackals cackled menacingly. The leader, taking one last drag upon his cigarette before discarding it, took a few steps forward. "You seem to be along way from home, my Western friend. Here, in the bazaar, our will is absolute."
The merchant said nothing.
"It is quite a shame. Here I thought I had actually met a clever adversary, but I was mistaken. You see, a gun merchant has a lot to gain and little to risk. But, my friend, you seem to have overlooked something in your hastiness to sell your wares." The jackal allowed his words to hang in the air poisonously, as if trying to provoke the merchant.
"And that would be?" said the merchant, trying to sound calm and suave. To show fear now was to die.
The jackal flashed his teeth, "You may make a handsome profit, but you risk getting shot with your own merchandise."
The merchant said nothing.
The jackal was not quite finished, however, "On these streets, my word is law. My family rules this territory. Whatever I want, I get. It was unwise of you to withhold that revolver from me, even after I offered to pay for it. You've given me no other choice. If I can't persuade you to sell it to me, I'll take it by force!"
The merchant simply cracked a smile. "That's not going to happen..."
Frustrated by the overconfidence of the man-in-white, the jackal gave a hasty order, "Fire!"
With prompt quickness, the men aboard the truck all fired their carbines in unison. Bullets flew wildly into the restaurant, once again filling the small room up with clouds of dust. Hot lead peppered the air. Bullet shells careened violently as they were ejected from the carbines, littering the street and filling the air with soft pings.
The deafening ensemble of gunfire soon exhausted itself as clips ran dry. The men all smiled. The leader of the jackal pack rubbed his hands together with glee. He approached the entrance to the restaurant, ready to reap his prize.
But as the smoke began to clear once more, a stoic white figure appeared, still standing. The merchant was alive.
"What foolishness is this?!" yelled the jackal, suspecting all was not as it seemed. Indeed, the situation appeared impossible. The merchant's cloak was tattered with bullet holes. Yet he still stood, unfazed by the salvo of projectiles which had just struck him full force.
"This is my favorite jacket," said the merchant in a collected tone, as if a shot had nary been fired. With a deft hand, he pulled upon the cloak's collar and tore the article loose. Underneath, lay the answer.
A collection of armor had been hidden beneath the cloak. A tan-colored vest, arm pads, knee pads and shin guards encased the merchant. But this was no normal armor. This was Dragonskin. Overlapping "scales" provided a nigh unbreakable shield for the merchant, allowing him to withstand the volley of bullets. It was pocked with bullet holes, but far from destroyed.
At the merchant's hip rested the Single Action Army, polished and gleaming in the last beams of the day's light. Removing the revolver from its resting place, the merchant leveled it at the jackal and his men, finger on the trigger.
Despite how serious this must have looked, the jackal could not help by burst into laughter. The merchant frowned at this, convinced that he had made an intimidating display. The gang members also laughed, but nervously, simply not understanding where the source of humor lay.
"Fool!" cried the jackal, still laughing, "you've only six bullets! There are seven of us!"
The nervousness in the laughter faded as this fatal flaw was exposed, but the laughter died as the merchant cracked a smile. "You forget," he said without looking at any of them, "this is no ordinary gun. And I'm no ordinary gunman."
Behind him, the door cracked open a bit. The cheetah's eye, a voyeur to the scene, peered in to see the merchant standing in the ruined store, disrobed and before the militiamen. At first, her heart skipped a beat to see him in such standing. But seeing the confidence in his face reassured her.
The merchant's grip tightened on the trigger. The men in the truck squirmed, trying to anticipate the path of his bullets. But it was to no avail.
The merchant's finger snapped back quickly, propelling the first bullet into one man's right shoulder.
Two more reports sounded shrilly, followed by three more.
All six shots had been fired before the first scream escaped into the air. The six militiamen were all beginning to bleed from their shoulders. They dropped their carbines and clutched themselves in agony, trying to control their bleeding.
"Don't worry. Those wounds aren't fatal. You may want to check your men into the hospital, though," chortled the merchant, reveling in the fact he had just incapacitated his rival's fighting force.
The jackal was hoarse with rage, "I'm still here! And you're out of bullets! You lose!" The beastly man procured a large saber from behind his back and charged toward the merchant, growling and snarling with ferocity.
The merchant simply stood his ground. Taking a firm grip on the handle, he hurled the gun through the air.
The weapon flew true. As it twirled through the air, it came to rest on the skull of the oncoming jackal. In fact, the blow struck him so hard the beast was knocked onto his back. Blood blossomed from the gash on his forehead. The saber scattered across the dusty ground, well out of reach. The jackal collapsed against the side of the truck, blood trickling from his mouth.
The merchant advanced toward the collapsed men. He retrieved his revolver which was slick with his enemy's blood. The jackal looked at him fiercely through one eye, though he was powerless to do anything. The merchant bent down so his mouth was near the jackal's ear and whispered, "Perhaps it was you who overlooked something: never bite the hand that feeds you."
The jackal groaned and slipped into unconsciousness. Victory belonged to the merchant.
As if on cue, the cheetah's arms slipped around the merchant's waist in a tight and celebratory embrace. She nuzzled and kissed his cheek affectionately, relieved to see that he was alright. "Alright, alright, settle down," the merchant said with a chuckle, actually glad to feel her touch.
People began to emerge from the nooks and crannies of the street now that the violence had died down and gunshots no longer sounded. Window shutters opened cautiously and faces peered out onto the street to see what had transpired. As a small throng began to encompass the scene of battle, smiles spread across the faces of the people. A few clapped, several whistled. The merchant was being hailed.
Even the woman who owned the shop had emerged from her place of hiding and was smiling. The merchant frowned however, at the state of the restaurant. It had been decimated. It was then he turned back toward his defeated opponent. A rupee sack perched upon his hip. Tearing it from the belt, the merchant examined what was inside: a small fortune.
For a moment, he hesitated. The wallet was easily as valuable as 50,000 rupees, maybe more. But as he saw the sad state of the little restaurant, he could not find it in his heart to keep it to himself. Striding over to the old woman, whose puzzled countenance gazed up at the man, the merchant placed the sack of rupees in her hand. "Please, take this. You served us an excellent meal," he gestured to the cheetah girl, "and we've made a terrible mess of your shop, I'm afraid. Use these to rebuild."
The woman was dumbfounded to be holding such a sum. She nodded her head in thankful way. Tears even began to stream down her cheeks. With tears of joy streaming down her wrinkled face, she embraced the man as if he were her own son.
The cheetah girl smiled.
As the woman reluctantly let go of her savior, the merchant waved to those who had seen his heroic deed modestly. He was no hero. He had profited from war, just as the jackal had said. But perhaps business does not excuse morals. Scooping up the cheetah bridal-style, the merchant headed off toward the motel, leaving the cheering people and defeated militia in his wake.
...
Placing his cheetah girl upon the bed, the merchant nearly collapsed beside her. Although the body armor had kept him safe from harm, the destructive force had knocked the wind from out of him. The purring of the cheetah girl beside him seemed to give his body and soul a bit of respite, however.
He turned his head to look at her. After being in the middle of a fight where hot lead and blood were commonplace, the world seems to change before one's eyes. The cheetah now possessed an aura of beauty he had not detected before. All her shortcomings and the price she had cost him seemed to melt away beneath those blue eyes of hers.
"I should probably name you, considering you're mine now," said the merchant, almost in a whisper. The cheetah's eyes widened a bit. She had formerly only been known as "bitch" or "girl".
"Shakti, perhaps? It means "to be able" in Sanskrit. And you've proven yourself to be a lot more than just a breeding girl. You're loyal, you're gentle and you're grateful for all you have."
He now had the time and patience to look her over. Perhaps his anger had clouded him from seeing just how beautiful she was. Her tan fur, speckled with black spots and her cream-colored tummy were truly a sight to behold. He gazed upon her long, slender legs and soft, curly tail. Ample, yet not unwarranted, breasts accented her skinny frame.
This was not unexpected. Breeding girls were often "experimented" on. What little money was spent on them by their masters was spent on enlarging their breasts or filing down their fangs and claws. Therefore, girls who were fed very little could have the body of a porn-star.
The merchant ran his hand over her flank, feeling the soft pelt which surrounded her luscious curves. He felt his heart hasten a bit. A shiver of lust ran up his arm.
Shakti beamed at him through narrowed eyelids, the way a house cat does when one pets it. Her tail flicked a bit, coming to rest upon his leg. She purred as she did this, her eyes gleaming in salaciousness.
The merchant's heart panged. How could he have been so naïve, so ignorant as to overlook her beauty?
But as he stared, the merchant began to notice a peculiar aroma wafting in the air. The girl's purring turned to soft moans. Her hand drifted down to that heavenly place between her legs to reveal a swollen mound. It would seem she had entered estrus.
The merchant felt a bit queasy. A few hours ago, he had loathed this girl and now he was falling in love with her? He felt hypocritical for a fleeting moment. Did he really deserve her after he had threatened her? Insulted her?
But those immaculate blue eyes seemed to pierce his doubt, make it burn away as the sun does the morning mist. With shaking hands, the merchant placed his hands on Shakti's breasts. He looked up to see her reaction and was relieved when a smile filled her face rather than a scornful frown. She had no voice, but her eyes seemed to say: "Go ahead."
The merchant, admittedly, had never been intimate with a woman. Perhaps in his eagerness to make a comfortable living for himself, he had denied himself companionship. He now found himself free to show emotions he had harbored for years.
His grip on his breasts grew firmer and he slowly moved his hands about timidly. He had only dreamed of moments like this. The orbs felt so soft in his hands. Her fur and flesh were warm and spongy.
He felt her shiver beneath his touch. Perhaps this was because she had never been so gently caressed. Foreplay is usually never wasted on a breeding girl. There is no need for it. Her purpose is to rear sons. Foreplay was meant for the whores and the mistresses, the ones for whom sex is a pleasure and not a duty. But tonight would be differentâ€"vastly so.
Shakti gave a soft cry as he thumb ran over her areola. She had never dabbled in such pleasantries before. It felt so...nice. She was normally subject to rough, unloving and painful sex. In the merchant's every slow and tantalizing move of his nimble fingers, she could feel something more than lust: affection.
It was ironic to think that fingers which had wielded a deadly weapon just moments before were now taking on a new purpose. They were not only gentle, but translated his deep longing for her, as if they were saying, "I need you."
Her toes curled as she enjoyed his hungry touch. Her eyes closed in bliss. She had watch with jealously as her former masters fondled their women in such a way. But, now, at long last, it was her turn. She emitted a soft meow as his palms cupped the undercurve of her breasts.
But Shakti longed for more. His touch alone was simply not enough for her. She wanted more of himâ€"more love, more caressing. The girl felt a bit guilty. After all, she was the servant, not he. But the need for pleasure, the ache to be quenched, spurred her ambition and prodded her to ask for more. She allowed her tongue to snake out past her teeth, as if giving her new lover a little clue.
The merchant's reaction was priceless. He blushed deeply, not sure if he was comfortable with what she was asking. But perhaps he was acting too cautiously. He decided to respect her request, knowing this was something she truly appreciated. By the look in her sapphire eyes, she had been waiting for his arrival for sometime--someone to whisk her away from the pain of bondage and show her compassion.
Despite all that had happened, he found himself wanting to fulfill that dream. His mouth opened slowly, as if he were unsure of his actions. He lowered his head to her chest which he had been caressing so lovingly with his hands. He found himself worrying if he would dislike her taste or if he would simply receive a mouthful of fur. But the merchant pressed on, as if his tongue had seized independence and allowed the girl a very quick lap at her nipple.
The girl meowed with a hint of desperation, as if to say, "More!"
The merchant pondered for a moment, taking in her salty taste. He could taste the desire in her velvety skin. Her nipples, by now, had become rigid and aroused. The merchant found it quite enjoyable to run his tongue over those little nubs. With each swirl of his tongue, the girl's purring grew louder and sweeter. Meows escaped into the air as a sure sign she was pleased.
The merchant placed pliant lips about one of the nubs, imitating an infant's wont to suckle at his mother's breast. Inside his mind, the merchant recalled vague memories of this. But his parents had faded away before he began to remember such things. Perhaps this was his chance at redemption.
To his surprise and delight, a morsel of milk spread across his lips. "But she isn't pregnant," the merchant thought to himself. Her belly lacked that cute balloon shape that accompanies maternity. But there was milk all the same. It tasted creamy and sweet, like warm, molted sugar. It spread a soothing feeling through him as it trickled down his throat, relaxing him, sending all of his fears fleeing.
She was obviously using lactation pills. In order to ensure there would be enough sustenance for any children she might bear (or for the sexual needs of her master), a breeding girl was often slipped these pills. This was also used to enlarge the breasts, something a breeder girl needs a decent pair of.
But this did not defer the merchant from his suckling. In fact, he could hear the meows and purrs escape Shakti. Breastfeeding could often be very stimulating.
Sex is simply not meant to be performed with the phallus and the chalice. It is meant to be done with the hands, the fingers, the tongue, the teeth, the curling of toes, the squeal or whimper of pleasure, the happy tear and the nuzzling of the nose.
The cheetah's cries grew more frequent as the merchant persisted. He allowed his tongue to occasionally lap at what milk he had missed. The girl could feel the love outpour from her as did her precious milk. Yes, this was how she had pictured it. Being close to such a mysterious and messianic man, to feel his quaking need for her and quake in need for him. With a gentle hand, she pressed upon the back of his neck, encouraging him to be more vigorous.
It felt odd to have his tongue at her breast but to feel her loins stirring. Some of the other breeders she had come to know would grow very aroused when the master or a child suckled at their teats. Therefore, she knew it was meant to feel so nice, the idea of nurturing someone with her body alone.
The merchant found himself consumed by hunger. But this hunger was not of one for food, but for the cheetah. His suckling grew more laborious as his lust drove him onward. Shakti began to whimper as his tongue lashed against her breast. She could feel pressure building beneath her down below.
She was growing heatedly anxious. Her hand gripped the merchant's head tightly, as if to prevent him from escaping her. Shakti did not want it to stop. She was finally enjoying the act of love-making. Her former masters never possessed such skill. Her pleasure had never been a priority.
But the cheetah felt herself peak. There was a wild torrent of juices bubbling down below. As the feeling reached its crescendo, the girl let go and her fountain of womanly nectars sprang forth.
Her labored breaths calmed a bit. The merchant raised his head from her lovely breasts to inspect the situation. As he saw the cheetah's thighs coated in slick juice he chuckled, "Not bad for a first-timer, eh?"
She wrapped her arms about him, as if to thank him for such a pleasurable ordeal. He had given her what she had always wanted in the first place: a lover, not a master. She pecked him with kisses here and there, showing him her appreciation. She licked him a bit, as cats often do to those that are in their favor.
"I can see you liked that," said the merchant with an amorous grin "looks like we're both desperate for a little action."
But heat is not so easily sated. The girl's affectionate kisses turned into longing and lustful licks. Her hand drifted down in an attempt to relieve herself of such a burden, but the merchant snatched up her wrist before her hand completed its journey. "Ah ah ah," he said, wagging his finger at her coyly, "It's my turn."
He moved his hand to that damp moist spot between her thighs. His touch was soft, yet firm. Using his fingernails, the merchant traced tiny arcs across the fur of her inner thighs. The girl moaned and nibbled on his shoulder to stifle herself. But she found embracing him difficult, as he still wore the Dragonskin.
Of all the obstacles that had come their way this day, none seemed more annoying than the piece of armor which separated them. The girl began to pull off the vest for him. Sensing what she was getting at, the merchant allowed her to do so. Next came the shin guards, arm guards and the like. His underwear followed suit. All that was left were his dot-tags. Save for this last item, he was as bare as she.
Shakti was very excited to see him naked. Though she had seen him bare earlier, she saw him in a much more delicious light now. He seemed more masculine, more messianic. His skin was pale from hiding under his cloak. Her primal instincts guided her eyes. He had already sprung out into full form, obviously aroused by Shakti's breasts and pleasant moans just a few moments before.
Her paw reached out for his member, to touch it and take in its warmth and texture. But as her delicate paw took a gentle hold, the merchant seized her wrist gently again, "Okay, little kitty, it's time we put this old thing to the ultimate test," he said, slapping the bed with his hand. The old mattress creaked.
The girl knew what was next. She had served long enough to know the secrets of the carnal arts. Tonight, she planned to use all she had learned. If anything good had come out of her service to hateful men, it was that she now possessed the skill to make the merchant truly happy. Shakti took respite in that.
She crawled toward the headboard while the merchant moved to the foot of the bed. Shakti flaunted her lithe tail high into the air, curling it on occasion to make her rear look all the more alluring. Her folds were dripping from her orgasm, but were already puckered again from heat. With a playful finger, she pulled on one of her labia for him as if to say, "Want some?" She allowed her tongue to dangle a bit, panting in anticipation. She was ready.
The merchant struggled to retain his desire. As he neared her, he trembled with excitement. Never would he have guessed fate would bring them together like this. He put both of his hands on her pretty rump while she caressed his face and neck with her tail. It was the equivalent to baiting a hook. This long and voluptuous thing coaxed him into drawing closer like some dim-witted fish and hypnotized him into a trance which brought their hips together.
Eventually, the merchant drew close enough to feel the heat emanating from her folds. Her buttocks provided ample support for him to balance himself upon. But through her desperate meows she pleaded for him to stop fiddling around and to get the ritual underway.
"Okay, okay, I hear you," said the merchant with a chuckle. "You're awfully assertive for a breeding girl." Of course, he was being facetious. His heart was warmed by the fact she needed him just as he needed her. It was a glorious feeling to be wanted in that way.
The merchant took his member in hand, holding it carefully as he would his revolver. Steadying himself, he guided his member towards the awaiting folds of the lovely Shakti. The girl growled as he did so, evicting within her primordial needs. Flesh glided upon flesh tantalizingly. Fiery pleasure was produced from the meeting of his member with her moist lips.
But the girl, adoringly stubborn as she was, pushed her hips back toward the merchant reflexively. As a result, her greedy lips swallowed him, allowing his member to slide past those velvety lips and into her warm, silky channel.
Despite being a well-used woman, Shakti was quite tight. The merchant noticed her toned muscles take hold of him. He could feel the cozy warmth and slickness of her inner folds. But, to his surprise, the girl's hips simply just kept pushing back, trying to work their way down to the root of his member.
The merchant's jaw clenched. He could scarcely believe love-making felt this good. It was even better than the taste of her breasts. All these years he had abstained from such pleasures. It brought his innermost feelings, love, lust, even joy, rising toward the surface. For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, the merchant shed a tear.
Eventually, Shakti's fuzzy rear found its way to the base of his length. Her tail brushed past his chin and chest, as if to provoke within him those emotions. She turned her head and managed to see him out of the corner of her eye. She cracked a smile at seeing the pang of lust on his face. She turned her head forward and with devastating slowness began to bring her hips forward a bit.
The merchant groaned as he felt the cheetah's muscles tug at him. Shakti tried to reverse the journey she had just a moment ago finished. The merchant felt his member pass through that delightful tunnel once more. As his tip threatened to slide out, however, the cheetah pushed all the way back down, completing the circuit. But as soon as she had neared him again, she began to drift away once more.
The merchant's hands grasped the girl's buttocks as she did this again and again and again with the same overwhelming sluggishness. He pleaded with her softly, begging her to move faster. But she simply flashed a sinister grin at him. She curled her finger, prodding him. He slowly realized she wasn't going to increase her pace. It was apparent that he would have to play his parting all this, too.
As Shakti drew away once more, the merchant did likewise. The girl cried out softly, feeling him slip between her thighs with ease. Now he was catching on. As they approached breaking point, their hips, perfectly timed, reversed and met in the center. By doing so, the merchant succeed in driving his member deeper into Shakti's womb.
For a while, they were content with this simple pattern. Sliding away from one another only increased their desire to be close, which drove them back together. With every completion of this pattern, the merchant tried to bury himself deeper while the cheetah attempted to clench her muscles tighter.
Pleasant friction was produced, making the delight increase with each passing thrust. They both began to pant and sweat, struggling to keep up such a physical act. But the pleasure was sublime and forced them to overcome such earthly limitations. As the delight multiplied between the two, their bodies soon fell prey to primal ways. The merchant's hips began to buck spasmodically, refusing to listen to fortitude and restraint. Shakti's hips moved in much the same way, occasionally giving in to feral nature. But these were not unpleasant, oh no. In fact, they made the act of love-making surprising intense. The spasms came unpredictably, lacing their pleasure with a bit of delicious suspense.
But as the speed of the merchant's hips grew and the cries of Shakti became more frequent, so did the beating of theirs hearts become speedier.
Each hump fueled the next, as the pleasure permeated quickly. Even if the militiamen had somehow managed to regroup and were threatening to level the motel room, neither of the two would cease.
Using his long arms, the merchant placed his finger into the girl's navel. His tickled her tummy a bit, trying to make the moment sensual. She giggled in a bubbly sort of way. But her hips seemed to have a mind of their own. The instincts tattooed into her brain demanded satisfaction, instructing her hips to move fast and greedily. She could only obey.
The merchant too felt the need to achieve rapture and bring their coupling to its crescendo. Each crash of their hips felt as if it would achieve the overflow they desired, but, to the merchant's surprise, the rapture he desired always seemed one step ahead of his hips.
All of a sudden, the cheetah's cries reached their highest note and her insides relinquished. A torrent of her juices rushed around his member like a renewed canal finally free of its locks. Her body went limp, her tail drooped and her chest heaved at having completed the erotic journey. She bathed him in her feminine broth.
Although the intensity of their humps had not been able to provoke him, the merchant found the calming rush enough to send him over the edge and into an oceanic wave of pleasure. His member fired out a hot jet of warm, sticky seed into the girl's womb. She felt the soothing warmth of his seed coat her inner walls graciously.
"Damn, girl, no wonder you were worth so much," said the merchant with bated breath. Though his heart was filled with love and lust for her, he found himself feeling remorseful. How could he have been so unkind to such a sweet thing?
His body too, went limp. Pulling himself free of her now sticky passageway, he allowed himself to fall upon the bed. But when he had done so, the bed groaned in protest. With a sudden plunge, the supports broke, sending the mattress on a short fall to the floor.
Though briefly startled by their short journey downward, the two laughed giddily. Neither cared to fix the poor thing, as the cheetah girl once again jumped into the merchant's awaiting arms.
Each felt happy for the other and themselves. At long last, they had each gotten what they wanted. Shakti found the man of her dreams and the merchant had found a purpose.
Drowsy from their bedroom delights, the girl fell asleep in the merchant's arms, purring affectionately as she faded off. The merchant, however, stayed awake. His mind raced back to the origin of all this. His arrival in the bazaar had seemed so long ago.
The merchant kissed the lovely girl on the cheek and murmured, "I love you." But, being consumed by the darkness of the room, the merchant closed his tired eyes and chased his lover into sleep. He knew not what to do next, but if fate had brought Shakti and him together, surely it would not steer him wrong now.
...
What transpired that evening was fated to bring Shakti and the merchant together. Although their assignation had provided their hearts and souls with a bit of respite, it did no solve their financial woes. The merchant and the girl sneaked out of India as quietly as he had arrived.
The merchant and the girl stole aboard a boat bound for god-knows-where. The merchant returned to his work, as people will always have a need for men such as him. He learned however, to sell his weapons with greater discretion than before. He sold to the oppressed and those who needed protection. No longer did he sell to the bloodthirsty. Shakti accompanied him dutifully as a good wife should.
Within a few months after their exodus from the bazaar, Shakti's belly swelled. She was baffled by this, really. So long she had been barren, only to discover that she conceived via the only man she had ever loved. Perhaps conception is more complex than we believe. Perhaps it is not only the coupling of man and woman, but the act of love which buries the seed, nurtures it and allows it to blossom into life.
The kitten was beloved by the merchant, in the only way a father can love his daughter. He, Shakti and Little Shakti saw many places and many things, each time bringing hope to people who had been trodden upon.
Looking back, the merchant thought it ironic that Shakti would bring such light to his life. His greatest regret was not seeing how beautiful she was from the beginning. But just as a trigger disguises the weight of life, the merchant realized one must never underestimate the power of a supple thing.
So, it is with a heavy heart, that we must close this tale. Its secrets were uncovered, its woes and joys all given rapture, its moral given and its contents concluded. Many would call that an ending. And, indeed, it is.
The End
Story © Czarreynard and AbleArcher
DragonSkin © Pinnacle Armor