Once upon a time Leatherman had a trusted advisor, a fat, cowardly man named Jojo. A lot of people had said—very far behind Leatherman's back—that it had been Jojo who had been the brains of the Slavestates. They said—whispered—that Leatherman had provided the guns and the guts to set up the terrorland that he ruled and Jojo had provided the organization. Jojo had invented the crude tax scheme, he hit upon the idea of Radleps; knowing that he lacked the balls to build Slavestates, knowing that he had no ability to command men, Jojo had hidden behind Leather. But Jojo had provided a valuable service. He had run the empire.

A shotgun full of death had put a swift and rather messy end to Jojo's power-behind-the-throne act. The brains that had guided the Slavestates to prominence in the old continent had ended up dripping down the walls of an old mansion deep in the Hotstates. Bon-ner had pulled the trigger.

And the Slavestates had lost its smarts. Leatherman was no moron, but he was no Jojo either; he could manage but he couldn't think as intelligently as Jojo could. He had replaced his old counselor but Jojo's successor lacked the spark of murderous genius that Jojo had possessed.

His name was Woolcott and it was he who listened to Leatherman's plan.

"I like it," said Woolcott.

"The way I see it," said Leatherman, "if we get rid of Chicago, we more or less got rid of most of our problems."

"Wish I had thought of it myself," said Woolcott. Woolcott had one advantage over Jojo: He loved to fight. And he fought well. He had put down a couple of blazing slave riots and had tamed a couple of Tax Men who were getting a little big for their britches.

He wasn't that stupid, but he wasn't a genius either. So when Leather told him his idea of settling Chicago's hash once and for all, he went along with it. Jojo would have said: Are you crazy or what?

"Got risks, though," allowed Leatherman.

"Life is full of risks," said Woolcott. "But you have to take them. That's the way I see it."

"Yeah, maybe. We can put a couple of hundred 'leps together and what? Six hundred, seven hundred, maybe a thousand Stormers together. We gotta leave the rest of them to defend the territories and the Cap. Right. So call it fifteen hundred men tops ..."

Woolcott nodded. "Something like that . . ."

"What they got in Chi? Three hundred? Four? Call it five, right?"

"Something like that."

"Three to one."

"One problem," said Woolcott. He reached out and grabbed the bottle of raw plum wine that a convoy had brought and that stood on Leather's desk and took a deep swig. He belched.

"What problem?"

"You got some real tough bring downs in Chicago. Real tough. Like Beck . . ."

"That fuck." Leather hadn't forgotten being doublecrossed by Beck. "I want him alive."

"Like Dorca."

"Another asshole."

"And Bonner, 'course."

"Okay! Okay!" bellowed Leatherman, "you made your fuckin' point. So what? Everybody is tough these days. So what?"

"Chill out, man. Jeez. All I'm saying is that you got some hard guys in Chicago, okay?"

"Yeah. Three to one . . ."

"You want me to advise you or what?" demanded Woolcott, "you want to hear my opinion or what?"

"You tell me, Woolcott, what?"

Woolcott smiled to himself. Before, when Jojo was alive he would never have dared to talk to Leatherman like this. He had once heard Jojo call Leatherman a "shit-eater" and Jojo lived. If you were the Man's advisor you could do whatever you wanted—anything you wanted except kill the Man. If you got any bright ideas about taking over, the 'leps would eat you alive. Woolcott knew that; he wasn't as smart as Jojo had been, but he wasn't stupid either.

"Three to one doesn't mean shit to the fucks in Chicago. I figure Bonner got to be good to kill fifty or ninety-six or thirty himself alone, right." (Woolcott wasn't real clear on the order of numbers.)

"Right. So fuckin' what?"

"So if them Chi-boys fight real tough then you might end up winning but being weak. They might cut us up bad. I'm not saying we're gonna lose or nothin' like that. I'm just saying we might win and get screwed too."

"So what are you trying to say?"

"What I'm saying man is—" Woolcott took a long swig from the wine bottle—"you want some-" he shook the bottle at Leatherman.

"Yeah," said Leatherman.

"Yo," shouted Woolcott, "where's the fuckin' slaves when you need 'em?"

No sooner had he stopped speaking than the office door opened and a tall, shapely female slave came into the room. Her long dark hair tumbled in loose curls down to her shoulders.

"Give the Man a drink," ordered Woolcott.

The slave woman nodded and took the bottle from the table.

"I can do it myself," growled Leatherman. The metal pods reached out and caught the bottle. Clumsily Leatherman lifted the flask to his lips and poured a gush of liquor into his mouth. A splash fell on his neck and shoulders carving little clean gullies in the filth on his body.

"Take off your shirt," ordered Leatherman, "and clean me up."

The slave nodded and stripped off her top. She pressed her full breasts against the President of the Slavestates and her pink tongue darted out of her soft mouth to gather up the drops of wine that glistened on Leatherman's flesh.

"Go on," said Leather to Woolcott.

"Like I was saying," said Woolcott, his eyes fixed on the slave's breasts, "Like I was saying is that what we need is allies." He produced the last word triumphantly, like a Tax Man who had just found a load of gas.

"Don't be an asshole," said Leatherman. He knew the word and he didn't like what Woolcott was getting at. "I'm not gonna get into no deal with any of the other fucks." "The other fucks" were the other rulers of the states that made up the continent.

"No," said Woolcott, "you don't get what I'm saying."

"Yes I do," said Leather. "You want me to make some kind of deal with Carey and Berger and I say fuck that."

"How come?"

"Because I hate them fucks."

Woolcott's eyes narrowed like he was trying to scope out what his boss was thinking. Actually he was watching the slave woman tug at the belt of Leatherman's leather pants. "And you think that you make a deal with them then you owe them something, right?"

"Something like that."

"No, man, it's simple." The slave girl reached down the front of Leather's pants.

"Simple, huh?"

"Yeah. You make a deal with them. Tell them that the raiders and smugglers and road guides and that shit that live in Chicago they make trouble for everybody. They make trouble for you, they make trouble for Carey the Kook, they make trouble for Berger, they make trouble for everybody. So you tell them that you all need to get together and destroy this crap that lives in Chicago. Then . . . then . . ."

"Yeah," said Leatherman. The slave's hand was working back and forth gently in his pants. "Get away from me," he snapped at her. "Just fuckin' kneel there and stay stilt." He pointed at the worn blue carpet with a sharp blade. The slave woman knelt down next to him, a very pretty pout on her red lips.

"Then you fuck 'em. You get them to lose the blood. Make them weak. Let them get brung down. Then you get Chi-town and you got the other territories so fucked up you can just walk in. Man, you could be the ruler of the entire continent. You could get rid of Chi and Berger and Carey all at once. Not bad, huh boss?"

"Not bad," said Leatherman.

"I think it's fuckin' brilliant," said Woolcott emphatically.

"It ain't bad at all."

"How do we get them to go for it?"

"Hey, you want to get rid of Chicago, right?"

"Yeah."

"You think Berger don't? Or Carey? Together you could do it."

Leatherman hefted one of the slave woman's exposed breasts on the flat of one of his knife-hands. "You're pretty cute, you know?"

The slave woman tittered.

"How old are you."

The woman shrugged. "I don't know."

"You like to play? You like to eat pussy?"

"Uh-huh."

"Good girl. We'll find someone for you to play with tonight, okay?"

"Sure, master."

"C'mon, Leather, what do you say?" demanded Woolcott.

"I'll sleep on it," said the President of the Slavestates, standing up.

Woolcott grinned. He glanced at the slave girl, who panted slightly. "The hell you will, you shit-eater!"

Leather just laughed and walked out of the room, the slave woman trotting behind him.

Woolcott smiled to himself and finished the bottle before going to look for a couple of slave girls himself.

Web Site Contents (Unless Mentioned Otherwise) ©2012 By Atlan Formularies, Post Office Box 95, Alpena, Arkansas 72611-0095
Phone: 870-437-2999 - Fax: Out of Order -  Email: Addresses

[ Back ] [ Home ] [ Up ] [ Next ]