ACQUIRING CARRIE
I believe in the law of the jungle. The strongest rule and thrive, the bulk simply subsist and any substandard beings are left to wither and expire. It has been the natural way for millions of years and survival of the fittest has led us to the world today. Ironically the metaphor relates to the jungle, but in reality only losers would want to live in a jungle surrounded by an environment beyond their control.
Across all of my endeavors and pursuits in life, I hold that paradigm to be self-evident. I have been driven and disciplined to find myself at the apex of the social strata in my world today. I'm Mason Hall and I'm a businessman, a CEO, a boxer, a champion. I set my own agenda, my own rules and I win the game. Some people might think I'm an arrogant asshole, but fuck them.
For the employees in my own businesses, if you can't perform, then you can't provide. Each month I let go the lowest performing in the company without regret or remorse. And my bottom line is stronger for it.
In the sport of boxing, the vanquished must relinquish their rights. I train boxing five nights a week at a gym on the other side of the city. The only boxing gyms that offer a truly worthwhile experience are always located on the wrong side of the tracks - boxing studios in the upper crust suburbs are sycophantic services for pissants.
In the bedroom and affairs of the heart, the one who can dominate should take control and demand all that they need to satisfy their condition. If the other doesn't like it, then fine - leave. If you take umbrage at the sexual requests of a superior being then you don't deserve the honors that they are bestowing - fuck off and find someone else on your own level.
My philosophy obviously extends to physical and mental health. There's no need to embrace cripples or retards in your circle: no-one wants to be a burden - work hard, dig yourself out of your own hole and thrive.
So junkies have no right to live - they are a waste of space and a drain on the oxygen that the rest of us deserve. Which is exactly what I thought after my evening sparring session as I encountered a limp body between two dumpsters on my way back to the Lexus.
Content to let nature take its course, I strode past unconcerned. A whimper and a moan was no trigger to me, but when I heard a second desperate cry, "Help me," I stopped in my tracks. I'm not sure what influenced me to turn around-- a moment of weakness or a voice resonating in my mind - but I doubled back to find a woman's body lying prone on the concrete.
"What can I do for you?" I asked directly, crouched on my haunches. Cans, paper, foil and syringes littered a circle around her body. She was encased in a dirty golden fabric - in its day the garment would have been a glorious sequined clubbing dress but now it was simply a threadbare rag doing its best to cover a tortured soul. She was young, but age impossible to determine from the state of her abused body - maybe 18 but looking like 60.
Her gaunt face looked up at me from hollow sunken gray eyes and a terrible smell wafted. "Let me die."
"Do you want me to help or do you want to die? You can't have both. What's it to be?"
Her head slumped and her temple hit the ground as her eyes closed.
"Die." Then as if shocked by her own response, her eyes opened and she whispered, "No - help me. Help me." A tear spilled from the corner of her eye and she choked, "I don't know."
"Listen. I can help you. But there are conditions attached." Her eyes were closed, she was motionless and I could not discern if she was listening to my voice. "Do you hear?"
Her body did not move, but she murmured, "Uh huh." Her eyes did not open but her brows lifted as if trying to open eyes glued shut.
"Do you want my help?"
"Yes."
"What is your name?"
"Carrie."
"Are you willing to give yourself to me, Carrie? Will you agree to serve me? Do you agree to abide by my rules?" A tiny nod.
"I need you to say yes, Carrie."
"Yes." Barely audible.
"I need you to say "I am yours Daddy."
"I am yours." Pause. Had she gone back to sleep? "Daddy."
With the last utterance, her body jolted into spasm. Froth appeared at her lips and she jerked momentarily on her back. Then stillness, apart from the froth continuing to bubble and flow from her mouth.
Reaching into my sports bag, I rummaged through the first aid equipment to locate an epi-pen adrenalin shot. I'd seen this before outside the gym so I knew just how to react. I gripped each side of her golden dress at the neck and tore it apart, cleaving a rip in the fabric down to her navel, exposing an emaciated body. Her tummy was recessed and harshly exposed ribs framed a chest endowed with tiny mounds for breasts and shrunken nipples. I plunged the pen into her chest, waited momentarily, and then her neck snapped backwards and she gulped a lungful of breath.
Immediately she rolled to her side and issued a short vomit of foul smelling liquid and I discerned a puddle of piss spreading on the concrete. Wiping her mouth with my sleeve, I collected her frail body in my arms and carried her the remaining distance to my car, laid her body across the back seat and headed home.
On the drive, I contemplated dropping her at the general hospital. But I recalled the promise that she'd made and my commitment that would go with it. Now we had a bond. Like keeping a pet, a commitment comes with responsibility. And with her promise to me, she would in fact become a pet, a slave, a servant. She owed her life to me, and I intended to use it.
At my underground carpark, it was trivial to retrieve Carrie's lightweight frame from the Lexus and I slung her over my shoulder in a fireman's lift. Cameras spied us from all angles in the garage and I pondered how the images might appear suspiciously like a date raping scenario. But the cameras were in my private domain and I had the influence to ensure that no footage would ever see the light of day.
I swiped for access and the elevator quickly transported us without interruptions to my penthouse apartment atop the skyscraper. I wondered where Carrie should convalesce -- contemplating the lounge or a spare bedroom. But I concluded that my own bedroom would best suit and the cleaners could deal with any mess. An old adage came to mind: "Start with the practices you intend to continue." Now that this junkie was my property, she would take to my bed in future service, so it was an apt place for treatment.
I lay her limp body onto the bed and looked over her disheveled figure. The ragged dress lay torn across her chest, and I ripped it to the hem and freed it from her inert body, revealing a naked figure with clammy white skin free from tattoos or piercings. Hip bones jutted absurdly out of her body to an impossibly thin waist. A sequence of healed scars across each wrist betrayed some history. She felt cool to the touch and I drew a blanket across her torso.
A few phone calls later and my personal doctor was buzzing to access the lobby. We had a special relationship and I knew that the consultation would remain unmentioned in future. And in case Carrie never made it to the other side of her trauma, then no evidence would ever arise and no questions would ever be raised.
He made a detailed physical examination over Carrie's naked body, turning her over and paying particular attention to the needle tracks puncturing her skin. He took a blood sample and inserted the vial into a small portable electronic testing device encased in his portmanteau. While the tests were processing, he beckoned me.
"She's a long term user. It looks like mainly heroin but I suspect there's other substance abuse also. I can identify extensive injection sites, see?" The doctor pressed against her flesh to demonstrate the damaged dermis and showed needle tracks in her arm, between her fingers and between her toes.
"May I?" he asked, and with my approval he spread her legs to reveal a sequence of pinhole scars on each inner thigh leading all the way onto her labia. Her bent legs fell apart to reveal her little slit with two dark inner pussy lips peeking beyond the outer mounds, leading upward to a pink clit with a button that extended beyond the tiny hood. Her bush consisted of light, fine hair that was unkempt and grew over her pubis and down each side of her labia and merged into light bristles covering her unshaven limbs.
The doctor straightened her legs and he stepped towards the foot of the bed. He lifted her leg, closely inspecting the sole, his face not reacting to the smell emanating from her body. "The feet indicate an extended period of homelessness. From my experience this condition - the level of callous and some other issues - represent at least two years of exposure."
He shifted to the head of the bed, and she remained unconscious as the doctor's gloved hands manipulated her mouth. He drew down on her lower jaw while he shone a tiny flashlight into her mouth, arching his head to view from various angles. Retracted lips revealed bleeding gums and a full set of dirty teeth. A disgusting tongue lolled out - covered in a grey mucus and the edges jagged with fissures. "Severe vitamin deficiency, and possibly other nutritional issues," he stated clinically.
The blood sampling machine buzzed and the device sputtered as it issued a small docket detailing the results of the test. The doctor looked closely through his bifocals: "But alive and nothing permanent."
The doctor asked unemotionally: "What would you like me to do here?" He knew the diplomacy of the situation and made no queries about where the girl had come from or what were my intentions.
"Can you give me a plan back to normality Doctor? At home."
"Certainly, but it'll take a little while for her to get there." With that, the doctor pulled a prescription pad from his bag and penned out half a dozen sheets. "Here are the pharmaceuticals that will help with the various concerns. The dosage and timing are written on each one. The remainder of the plan is common sense. Rest, nutrition, exercise and abstinence. The withdrawal stages will be the worst but this one should help," he tapped one script in particular. "But it will still be very hard. Would you like me to write anything particular down?"
"No, that's OK."
"Good luck," he stated matter-of-factly as he packed up his Doctors kit. "I'll see myself out. I was never here."
