Aurora Blood Moon Tribute Pt 08

This is a work of fiction. All characters are 18 and over.

The Blood Moon seemed to come as a surprise, every 2 years, last minute preparations always carried out in a rush. Like showgirl accommodation, in the barracks gym, hastily converted into a dormitory. The space was now home to a gathering of 40 or 50 mainly young women- from hired-in performers to press-ganged stocking-fillers, gathered from all over the world.

Desolate, depressed, weighed down by the unknown, and still without a clue what she was doing there, Ally was assigned a folding rack with a thin, threadbare mattress, way back in a litter-strewn corner, as far from the doors as she could possibly be. Oddly reminiscent of her patch of turf in prison. And there she hid, only rousing herself to shower and eat, staying low under the radar, largely ignored.

Patterns began emerging from the ebb and flow of seemingly random activities, like small cliques moving to and fro between the dorm and the combination change room/ablution block, inmates jostling to be last in the chow-line. Nothing was meaningless- Ally had learnt that lesson back in the prison, where her observations had roused a sixth-sense for danger.

With no real idea yet why she'd been sent, but erring on the side of pessimism, Ally watched the showgirls come and go, some to a schedule, others dragged unceremoniously out of the crowd by the mistress of ceremonies- Madam Jumanah, a local woman of dubious proclivity and 3 or 4 burly goons. The 'fishing fleet'. Most went off to the showrooms, the 3 amphitheatres attached to the barracks, each boasting several ascending levels strewn with cushions for the audience, facing a semi-circular stage. Those others not on-call were randomly whisked off into other dimensions, and while no one said where, Ally let her imagination fill in the blanks.

Willing the hours to pass so she could just go the fuck back to prison, Ally lay curled up on her side under a coarse dark grey blanket, contemplating a shower. Cleanliness was not only encouraged, it was enforced, and it was always best to get in before the Japanese vomit- and enema-lesbians finished their show and stank up the joint. But just as she was stirring, the doors boomed open and the Fishing Fleet burst in, MC Madam Jumanah and her gunslinging muscle.

The woman produced a whistle from the folds of her abaya, and its ear-splitting trill echoed through the gym. A collective groan went up as the showgirls all roused themselves, then traipsed one by one to the centre of the basketball court, lining up for another infernal pick 'n mix. Willing herself invisible, Ally pulled the blanket up over her head, burrowing down, until a passing showgirl seized a handful and tried to drag it away. After a brief tug-of-war a second girl turned up- an English speaker- still in the process of dressing. Watching the tussle, she glared at Ally. "That means you too."

"What the fuck for?" Ally scowled, trying to brazen it out- her short fuse already the stuff of legend.

"You're not on the program." the girl said, as if that ought to explain.

"Meaning?"

The whistle blew again, followed by Madam Jumanah's equally shrill voice.

"It means get your ass out of bed." the German girl said then turned to go. "Before the filth comes and kicks it out for you."

Making theatre of her reluctance, Ally slung one leg off the bed, hand holding the slip in place over her groin, then the other, then paused for a moment, stretching and yawning. The whistle blew again, and Ally looked up to see a brace of head-kickers had broken away, and were undeniably bound in her direction. Taking the hint, she slid her feet into the embroidered silk slippers, then sauntered to the middle of the gymnasium. Choosing 2 taller girls as cover, she shouldered her way into the haphazard line-up, head down and shoulders hunched.

With the chatter dying down and with the girls more or less behaving, Madam Jumanah swept to the end of the line, then commenced a calculated drive-by. Stopping here and there, she tapped random girls on their shoulders. They immediately fell out, moving away to the open doors where they gathered in a huddle and stood, silently waiting. Ally nudged her neighbour. "What's going on?"

The tall blonde shot her a glare but otherwise held her tongue, as Madam Jumanah bellowed for silence. The woman was two girls away when Ally heard a brief commotion, and before she knew it, the fearsome Yuliya barged in beside her, displacing the girl to Ally's right. When Jumanah's hand landed on Ally's shoulder, Yuliya leant around her and raised a hand. "No!"

Jumanah looked around in a quandary. The Eastern European rapist was one of the most popular acts, but she was still the king's property and hardly entitled to be throwing her weight around.

"Why you say no?" one of the head-kickers demanded, translating for the Madam.

Yuliya replied in her native tongue. Madam Jumanah ferreted a cellphone from her robes, dialled an interpreter and put it on speaker. The conversation bounced back and forth in a game of linguistic tennis, and after a brief discussion, Jumanah cut the call and pocketed the phone. Leaving Ally behind, the selection committee continued on past, tapping-out a further 4 girls, before dismissing the gathering with a blast of the whistle.

Ally watched the ensemble head for the exit, the armed escort leading 10 girls away. As Yuliya turned to go, Ally put a hand on her arm. "No idea what just happened," she said, "but I've got the feeling I should be thanking you."

Yuliya didn't reply. Looking over Ally's head she beckoned another girl, who broke away from her own conversation and hurried to join them, as the crowd dispersed, leaving Ally, Yuliya, the interpreter, and a couple of spectators behind. Yuliya and the new arrival had a quick conversation and the new girl looked at Ally. "Yuliya say, what you just talk?"

"You speak English?" Ally said, then twirled a finger. "Are you able to tell me what just happened?"

"Happened?"

"This meeting? This gathering? What was it for. Where did those girls go?"

"Not on program." the new girl said.

Ally nodded. "Go on."

"Well... if not on program, men can use."

"Use?" Ally asked, though she already knew. "In what way?"

"For fucking." the girl shrugged matter-of-factly, "What else?"

"What men?"

"Officer." the new girl replied, then cracked a wry smile. "Or maybe some guard, who is doing officer a favour."

"Right." Ally said as it all came into focus. Secondary duties. Always a bitch. "And they wanted to... use me?"

The new girl nodded.

"To fuck?"

"Correct." the new girl nodded again.

"So why did she stop them?" Ally asked, nodding at Yuliya.

The two Europeans had a quick discussion. "She say she like you." the new girl said.

"Yuliya?"

The translator nodded.

"She likes me?"

The girl, a hard-faced, hard-bodied, twenty-something blonde, gave another quick nod. "She say you fighter, same like her. Remind her of little sister."

"Me?"

Yuliya spoke up again and the girl listened, nodding.

"Yuliya say, she tell Jumanah. They no take you."

"And they listened to her?"

"Everyone listen to Yuliya." the new girl said, then narrowed her eyes. "If... not... want... STAB... in back."

Ally looked around, speechless. And after all the nasty things she'd said and thought about the uppity bitch. "Well... can you tell Yuliya, I am very... very... Well, just tell her thanks. I appreciate it."

Yuliya listened to the message and her face lit up with a smile. Not for the first time, and much against her will, Ally was struck by Yuliya's beauty. Underneath that hard façade, behind that checkered reputation, she was a dish. Yuliya extended her hand, and when Ally went to shake, Yuliya pulled her into a one-arm embrace. Breaking off, she spoke to the translator again.

"Yuliya say, is anything you need?"

"A pair of knickers." Ally said, rolling her eyes. Only joking, but she was heartily sick and tired of running around with her undercarriage so easily exposed.

"Knickers?" the new girl frowned.

A passer-by hiked up her dress and tugged the waistband of her panties. "She means underwear."

The new girl nodded, then passed the message on. Before Ally could explain she was only being sarcastic, Yuliya bent at the waist and skimmed off her briefs, then held them out with a guileless expression. Ally gulped, wondering how to politely decline, but a gift like a Mafia moll's knickers was not to be sniffed at, and taking the offering, she snuck a look at the crotch of the pristine white panties. Clean enough to eat her dinner out of. "Thank you, Yuliya," she said, "that's very kind."

Yuliya and the new girl watched Ally shimmy into the still-warm knickers, and seat them with a wiggle of her bottom. They looked at each other, smiling, and in perfect English Yuliya said, "You welcome."

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Ali was waiting in the hallway outside when Watson emerged, freshly showered and recently fellated. There seemed to be a pattern emerging. Just when his urogenital system thought it might be time to retire, along came another young stunner to stoke up the boiler again. Or in this case 2- Sook and Cassandra in rapid succession.

The human body, Watson once read, was designed for a life-span 40-odd years, long enough to find a mate and make some kids, and maybe raise an empire or two. And here his own vehicle was, at one and a half times the manufacturer's specifications, still trucking on. And, judging by the load he'd just pumped down Cassandra's gagging throat, working overtime.

Almost immediately, a door flew open a couple of apartments away. Watson backed up to the wall, making room, as a naked young female ran towards them, hand over nose and mouth, coughing and mewling, blood pouring out between her fingers. As she carried on past, Watson looked at the crazy-trail of blood on the patterned silk carpet. "Ali? Should we...?"

A figure appeared in the doorway of the apartment from which she'd just fled. And there stood Zhang, the Chinese the ivory merchant, private jet owner and friend of the king. Clad in boxers, he stood smoking a freshly-lit cigarette, holding his neighbour's gaze with a vaguely triumphant air.

"No problem, excellency." Ali said, reaching out to adjust Watson's official attire- silk pantaloons, colourful boots in exquisite soft leather of yellow and green, with silver trim and upturned toes, and a simple waist-length linen tunic, "The cleaners will deal with it."

They parted again as another steward, Ali's clone, scurried past with an armful of towels. Bowing deeply to the smoking Chinese, he shepherded the VVIP back inside to help him dress for dinner.

************************************************************************************************************

The Great Hall, one level below the royal chambers on the topmost tier, had been quickly transformed for the banquet. Drapes of silk hung from the ceiling, creating the ambience of a giant nomad tent, while the huge panes of its sweeping glass frontage had each been turned 90 degrees, opening the hall to a balmy evening breeze. Decorative oil lamps lit the simulacrum of a medieval desert dwelling, the motif reinforced by burly guards in ceremonial kilts. A folk ensemble- lutes, flutes, zithers and frame drums- was belting out jigs for the bellydancers, while bare-chested serving boys ranged the hall.

Watson joined the crowd, 100 VVIPs, drifting into the venue. As they passed through the doors, each guest was handed a headset- the king's presentation was to be delivered in the local tongue, simultaneously translated, English out of the blue headsets, Chinese out of the red, Russian green, Spanish orange, French yellow and so on.

Those of the inner circle- the Brit, Levine, the Russian kleptocrat, the girl-beating Chinese, a fat American lawyer running tax rackets and a sweat, an African prince, an Australian diplomat, a media magnate of no fixed nation, another Chinese in the supertrawler game, a South African diamond merchant, and Woodrow-Munt, geneticist and baby-killer- were seated in a semi-circle in the very front row, while the rest of the guests settled down behind them.

Watson slipped his headset on, adjusting the single earpiece, then sat himself down in a pile of silk cushions. His joints were old, but they were serviceable, and a cleverly concealed backrest provided additional support. There was not a table or chair in sight. They were in a tent in the desert, after all, and about to partake of a feast- what warrior nomad in his right mind would burden his camels with furniture?

Those guests too fat, too stiff, or simply too old and decrepit to sit on the floor, sat in recesses, designed to accommodate their impairments while maintaining the illusion they were sitting at ground-level. All facing the great hall's centrepiece- a low wooden stage, draped in cat skins- leopard, lion, cheetah and black panther, with two mighty elephant tusks, crossed at the tips, standing upright at the rear. No prizes for guessing its intended occupant.

Watson felt a presence beside him and his heart sank as he looked round. The British ex-officer, Devine, who'd tried so hard to out him, sat himself down on the cushions next to the old man. "I say," he smirked, "who's in fancy dress now?"

Watson gave his antagonist a quick once over. "Both of us, I see. Still, at least I'm not impersonating an officer."

"I was an officer." Devine bridled.

"And so was I... old boy. Past tense, just like you. In fact, you know, the only difference between you and me? I actually set eyes on my enemy. Angels fifty, at Mach one point five. On QRA. And what did you do?"

"I was in Ireland... old boy... fighting the IRA."

"Navvies and potato farmers." Watson-Munt sniffed, "And Irish civilians. Don't make me laugh."

Devine smoothed his hair, patently stung. "You know," he said affably, "I have some chums in MI-Five. I might have them look into your recent activities."

Watson arched an eyebrow. "Indeed? Why thank you. I'm flattered you find my affairs so intriguing. And I'll make sure to let the Prime Minister know. I'm having lunch with him as soon as I return. Misuse of Government assets. I'm sure he'll find it most interesting."

A shout went up and 4 bearded gunmen pushed through the curtains, all in silk robes and bulky turbans, blazing away at the ceiling. Most guests hit the deck, while some, like Watson, remained sitting upright, gaping in surprise, caught by the shock and awe of it all. They were just firing blanks, Watson quickly realised, while his bowels were still busy considering their options. From assault rifles, exact replica's, no doubt, of the ones used at the Original Blood Moon, over 1 thousand years ago.

"Get down you bloody fool!" Devine hissed, tugging on Watson's pantaloons. "Didn't you read the bloody protocol?"

Rolling onto his knees, Watson doubled over and pressed his forehead to the floor, one hand on top of the other in front of him. Stewards began circulating in the midst of the raucous fanfare, gesturing VVIPs down, forcing them if necessary, till everyone was face-down and prostrate. The gunfire ceased and Watson heard the sounds of exertion, huffing and grunting, as half a dozen of the king's heftiest guards, dressed as slaves, bore His Majesty into the Great Hall on a litter, the very same type as had never been used in the original ceremony. In fact the whole re-enactment was largely a sham, cobbled together from various gimmicks inherited over the centuries. All to celebrate what had been more or less a surrender, of battle-weary commanders and roughed-up noblemen to a bloodthirsty conqueror in the midst of smoking ruins.

The bearers lowered the king onto the dais in a nest of embroidered silk cushions, then dismantled the apparatus around him and gratefully withdrew. Once they'd stowed the contrivance, they could nip down to the barracks for the evening's show- the Jap scat and vomit lesbians maybe, or the blonde double-headers, or the strap-on ass-raper if she was performing. The king, meanwhile, caught his breath after the arduous journey, all the way from his chambers one hundred meters away, sitting on a sling in the litter. A steward darted from nowhere and dabbed His Majesty's glistening brow, as the three wise men gathered behind him, the king's seers the only subjects allowed at his back.

Watson's earpiece crackled and a voice said, "Brothers!" Head down, he looked around and saw the assembled worshippers begin to rise, those who could to their knees, those unable, rolling onto their backsides. No matter how they managed to do so, yet none sat higher than the king on his dais.

More stewards darted here and there making final adjustments, in preparation for the king, His Majesty Abdulaziz bin Salman Al Shabazz, direct descendant of King Salman the Great, founder of the nation, to present the official welcome in the form of Salman's victory speech. When he spoke, huffing and grunting into a microphone, Watson found himself irresistibly reminded of yet another South Park parody- a fat, heavy-breathing, hamburger scoffing, anti-smoking zealot. The translation entering his ear did little to dispel the comedy.

"Brothers..." the king began, "Yesterday these mountains rang to the sounds of war... Brother fought brother, father fought son, and the mountains ran red with rivers of blood... such courage, such sacrifice, such devotion to duty, such honour and suffering... pleasing to god..."

Watson grit his teeth. That old sky dwelling psychopath would have needed extra popcorn for that bloody show. Ten thousand dead if the history were true.

"And now..." the earpiece went on, "through god's grace I, Salman, have prevailed. The war is won... the almighty cast his die, he has blessed my quest and I am victorious. So, my brothers, the time has come... let us lay to rest our arms. Let us salve our wounds... let us render unto god those of our brothers who... gave their lives in the name of his greater glory. As you kneel before me... vanquished and bleeding... I see not my enemy. But brothers in arms... generals, princes, noblemen most worthy... many who now lay gifts at my feet... others their fealty... and many, many more who have poured their blood into this sacred soil. Do I see a difference between you? No, my brothers... for in the words of the Herald... he who taketh the scales... and measureth gold against loyalty and devotion... will he not find... gold is as heavy as a camels eyelash... while loyalty has the weight of a mountain?"

Watson gave his neighbours the side eye, watching, wondering what this bunch of billionaire businessmen and cashed-up lawyers, politicians and crime-lords made of this scripted drivel. All he saw was a bunch of mainly old men, in unfamiliar discomfort, gritting their teeth while they waited for the bullshit to end.

"So now," the king waxed lyrically, "as the clamour of battle recedes... let us gather as one... victor and vanquished... both equally tempered in the crucible of war. We have tested each other's mettle on the battlefield... and those of you who now kneel before me.. who have fought so well and met defeat with such dignity... let no man raise his hand against you. For from this day on you are my brothers... and whatever wealth is now brought before me... it is equally yours. We are now one nation, under god, and I am your conqueror... but as your king... I am also your servant. And I vow...

I will take a bride from each and every one of your lands... and the last... under the next full moon... will be my queen... and we will be forever... a single family."

Everyone jumped as the assault rifles lit up again, VVIPs plugging their ears, those less accustomed to the sound of gunfire ducking for cover. The racket shut down- simple as fingers off triggers- to reveal that the band had cranked up again, and a bevy of belly-dancers shimmied into the hall, hips undulating, finger cymbals ringing. At the same time, stewards dressed as slaves hurried in bearing trays, heavily-laden with the finest of foods. Pewter mugs appeared, followed by more make-believe slave boys lugging tumescent skins of wine, a rare, royal indulgence in a culture where alcohol was proscribed.