Queen's Fortress: A Short Story (Part Two)
One of the losers Sally chucked out of the go-go bar, by the scruff of his neck, had been a small-time drug dealer called Louie Boston. As she dumped him on his rear end in the alley, he told her she looked like a gigantic version of Liza Minnelli.
Sadly, that had been the sweetest thing anybody ever said to her. She told him to come back at 1 AM, when she got off. They would go somewhere.
Louie was on time and they drove somewhere. But Sally found the back of his pickup truck perfectly serviceable. She did what she always did. She put him on his back and told him to lay still. She expertly brought his member to maximum tension with her fingers.
Then she impaled herself upon him. Rapid-fire until she got what she needed to get.
For his part, Louie Boston loved it when the woman did all the work.
Six months later, though, he was complaining. He never thought he'd ever hear himself say it, but he felt like a piece of meat, used. Did he mean anything, on an emotional level, to Sally?
There, there, Sally said to him. Of course Louie Boston was very special to her. After all, he is the first man who'd ever told her she was beautiful.
Six weeks, or so later, Louie Boston resumed his whining.
"Look, babe, I'm all for keeping things loose. I'm not making any demands. You're married, I'm married. I know how it is. There's no candy and flowers here. We bang in the back of my truck. Fine, I'm good with that.
"Nobody's gonna do the 'meet the folks' routine, or the 'see where I grew up' number. I don't wanna know EVERYTHING about you; and I sure as hell don't wanna tell you EVERYTHING about me.
"But---and believe me, I never thought I'd be the one saying this---you gotta gimme something. You can't keep me hangin' on, spinning my wheels over there."
Sally did not often get to showcase her cunning, her femme fatale skills. People thought the only arrows in her quiver were her size and meanness.
She made a production out of her response. She rolled her eyes, shook her head, sighed, and let her shoulders fall---as though Louie's persistence had drug it out of her.
She said that she was cold toward him because she didn't want to let herself feel. Louie was the type of guy she could fall hard for. Sally held herself back because she didn't want to get carried away. She didn't want to go getting her hopes up, and start dreaming impossible dreams.
If only Sally and Louie had met years ago. Their kindred souls would have recognized each other. As it was, she and Greg had come together at a vulnerable time in their lives. They had each been lonely, wandering, seeking hearts, desperate for respite from the turbulent seas of the single scene.
Sally felt she owed her husband a certain loyalty; and she talked about how sweet and needy and vulnerable he was. She was careful to project just the right degree of devotion, while at the same time making it clear that she wouldn't scoff at a way out.
Then came the piece de resistance. Sally didn't think she could ever divorce Greg. It would break his heart into a thousand pieces. It would be a blow he could never recover from. Greg McCone was too good a man to inflict that kind of pain upon.
She even managed to include the part about her husband's life insurance policy without being obvious. Instead, she expressed it as just one more proof of Greg McCone's conscientiousness and devotion. She could see the dollar signs dancing in Louie's eyes. Five hundred thousand dollars was, by far, more money than a small-timer like Louie could ever hope to see in his lifetime.
That was it. Sally had purged herself.
Then Louie Boston, as though he were the author of impossible dreams, took it from there. There was one clear impediment on his and Sally's path to everlasting happiness. And its name was Greg McCone.
Incidentally, Louie Boston was the "numbskull" we referred to at the beginning of our story.
Sally was glad things had turned out the way they had. It would have been nice to get away with it and the money, losing Louie Boston like a bad habit. But on the other hand, she was okay with the fact that her husband---who wasn't such a bad guy---had not lost his life, after all.
Sally posed no pretense. She had pled guilty, taken a plea bargain: eight-to-fifteen, and spared the taxpayers the expense of a trial.
Sally had finally found home. The place where she belonged. The place where she was appreciated. Where she could be herself.
Soon after she hit the big house, Sally took on a trio of lovers as her own exclusive property and slaves. She hadn't swung that way before, but in lock up she had learned fast and adapted readily.
As by far, the biggest, baddest, meanest, hardest-hitting mama around, she made herself the undisputed boss of the cell block within a year. And upon that firm foundation she plotted to bring the entire prison population under her sway.
She sent her minions forth to gather intelligence on all the prison gangs in operation. With an eye toward taking them over, reorganizing, and consolidating them under her sole iron-fisted rule.
There were those that had needed to be done away with, of course. But those happy coincidences had been written off as 'accidents' by the investigating authorities. The victims, all vicious lifers, were not mourned as a great loss to humanity.
Sally McCone was determined, with clenched-fist resolve, that her organization would spread its tentacles far and wide into the outside world. Even internationally.
Sally put together an elite bodyguard for her personal protection. All big, bad, mean, hard-hitting mamas. All serious weightlifters. Not one under six-foot tall.
To maintain her edge, Sally began taking steroids. Which she got from a guard who as an amateur bodybuilder.
As a result she underwent a most remarkable physical transformation. She ate like a monster and trained like a demon. Sally dedicated herself with religious zeal to the fortification of her body-temple. The muscle fiber came pouring in, spiking her strength and plummeting her recovery time.
The roids would catch up with her eventually and do her in, she knew. But on the other hand, who wants to live forever?
And the roids didn't do her in today. Today they had done just the opposite for her. Today they had transformed her into a god.
The stuff had apparently triggered an action in her pituitary gland. And brought on growth spurt in her late twenties---seven inches.
On her twenty-ninth birthday Sally McCone stood seven-foot-four inches tall in her bare feet.
"A growth spurt in the late twenties is indeed extremely rare," said the prison physician who'd examined her, "but not unheard of. Its more to be expected with men than women, but you are not the first."
"So, it definitely wasn't the roids?" Sally said.
"I never like to rule anything out definitively, my dear, as a scientist. But steroids have never, to my knowledge, been known to add height. You were probably just due. Do you feel strange or bad otherwise?"
"Not at all. Never better in fact."
Sally had also packed on one-hundred-forty pounds of USDA, Grade A, one hundred percent, lean, solid beef. She broke the scales at four-fifty-five. The weight was very well distributed, in proportion. It made her stronger not slower.
And, if she wasn't exactly svelte, she remained, however, unmistakably pleasing in the feminine way. She was husky and broad-shouldered, but not bulging with muscles.
Just solid. Just big, solid, and shapely.
Sally had struggled with cellulite her whole life. But today she was at one percent body fat. Not a jiggle anywhere.
For some reason, her knees didn't bother her anymore. Not only that, but her flexibility was great. She was a spry as a twelve-year-old taking gymnastics lessons.
The doctor was writing a paper about Sally for a medical journal. He was an advocate of legalization of the use of steroids to enhance athletic performance in all sports. He believed that NFL players were dropping like flies today, due to concussions and other injuries, were doing so because they were denied the benefits that the very best sports science has to offer.
Namely: the medically-supervised use of steroids to fortify themselves.
While he tried to maintain a clinical, scientific distance, he thought Sally McCone was a living miracle. Her case might be the beginning of a strong case to be made for the general medically-supervised use of steroids for physical fortification and improvement of health.
Of course, he knew that "results may vary," as they say. Sally was probably an outlier. Until he cracked that nut, all he could think to say about Sally was: E=MC2 and then a miracle happened!
Sally was treating herself to a spa day. She was in repose. Stretched out on a leather reclining chair in the middle of her specially enlarged cell.
One slave was giving her a pedicure. Another a manicure. Another slave was braiding her hair into cornrows. Sally had a mud mask on her face and cucumber slices over her eyes.
Later, she was lying on her stomach. On a table, covered by nothing by a beach towel. While a slave called Helga administered an all-over, deep-tissue massage.
It was good to be the Queen.
All those years ago, Louie Boston had told her she favored Liza Minnelli. The older Sally got, the more she saw it.
Sally McCone---all seven-foot-four, four-hundred-fifty-five pounds of her---was a lovely monster.
Ten years in the joint and Sally was paroled. Not her idea.
On her last day the girls made a little ceremony of it. Standing at attention outside their cell doors. Presenting themselves for review in their starched prison blues and polished shoes.
Sally passing by, waving regally to them. Accepting their acknowledgments and well wishes.
And there was cake.
There had never been any question about Sally reclaiming a life for herself on the outside. She planned to rob a convenience store on the very day of her release.
She found one. Waited until dark. Waited until it was deserted. Waited until there was no other car in the lot besides her chopper and the car of the one employee on duty.
The clerk was alone in the store. It seemed that way. Sally walked in and walked through the store. Looking around to be sure it was just the two of them.
Sally made her tour with the clerk trailing behind. Asking if he could help her. Asking if she was trying to find something.
Sally ignored him and continued her tour unimpeded. She went into the 'Employees Only' area and checked the bathrooms. All clear.
The clerk was demanding to knew what was going on. Demanding to know who Sally thought she was. Demanding to know if she knew whom she was messing with.
He grabbed her arm, biceps bulging. She flicked it off, annoyed by a gnat or something. Without breaking stride. Which should have been his first clue.
Sally made her way back to the front of the store. And locked the door. Turned the sign around to the 'Sorry, We're Closed' side. Pulled down the shades.
The clerk was trapped in the store with Sally. But he didn't see it that way. If he had only known, he would have called for help.
The clerk was bellowing about something.
Sally turned around to take notice of the man. "You're a big one, aren't you?"
And he was, relatively speaking. Estimation: six-six, two-ninety-five. Typical fodder for the linebacker corps. A man used to being in control in situations like this. A man used to having the upper hand. Instead of being woefully overmatched one-on-one. Which he was at this moment.
You didn't have to be a mind reader to tell what the man was thinking. This woman was a freak who belonged in the circus. And she had obviously lost her mind. But still, she was only a woman. And that counted against her and in his favor, in a situation like this. A standoff that might go physical.
Sally had planned to rob the place. But then she realized that she had never stolen anything in her life. She hadn't even brought a weapon. But since the object was to get apprehended anyway, why make it complicated? Why not stick to what she knew best?
Sally pivoted back on her right leg to give herself some leverage. Grabbed the back of the man's head to give herself a bit more. Slammed an uppercut into his stomach.
The force of the blow had actually lifted him off his feet. And doubled him over. All thoughts of physical resistance evaporated. As did the air available to his lungs.
Sally lifted him up by the back of his pants. And flattened him face down on the floor. She put her weight into it and broke both his arms behind his back. The entire operation had taken all of sixty seconds---if that.
The sounds the clerk was making would have broken her heart. Had it not been so cold.
Sally sat on his back and started smoking a cigar. She kept sitting and smoking. Long after the man passed out from the pain.
Sally would just wait. Wait to be discovered by someone in the morning. Wait for the hysterical phone calls to the authorities. Wait through the shocked gaping of the public. Wait for her uniformed escort back to her fortress.
You see, royalty does not rush out to meet the world. The world rushes to meet royalty. And that gave Sally an idea. The first thing she would do when she got back, would be to issue a new decree.
From now on everybody, including the guards, would henceforth address her as Queen Sally.
It was good to be the Queen.
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