Never give a virgin incel, who just so happens to have an IQ to rival that of Einstein or Stark, an inch, or they'll try to take forty years of a woman's life work.
That was what Melissa Caple-Caddock, a woman worth nearly thirty billion dollars, the owner of six international, multi-faceted companies, chair to a board of influentially wealthy globalist advisors, and recently publicly divorced, thought to herself as she strained against the two people she had only recently known as her employees, grunting with the effort as she tried in vain to free her arms from their grasp. Glancing down to her right, she flinched and pulled her eyes away, shock still swelling in her chest at the brazenness of this insurrection, as she saw the erection standing proudly in the open air between the thighs of the man to whom it belonged.
'I told you,' Melissa said, 'there's too many people in too many places for this to work. You'll never take over the entire structure--the board, the advisors, the regulatory bodies won't-'
'You fool.' The man said, stepping out from behind Melissa's own desk, the lights of the cityscape outside the extravagant windows behind it silhouetting the youth. He had Melissa's iPhone in his hand, holding it casually, like a simple plaything. Her lock screen was still the picture of her and her now ex-husband's marriage, and she could see the pair of them kissing beneath his thumb. 'You no longer have any power here. You haven't for months. Haven't you worked that out yet?' he said, gesturing with his free hand first to her left, then right. 'Do these two naked men not prove to you that even your most trusted staff are not yours to command any longer?'
Melissa had to admit he had a point. Ordinarily, the two males - who were both on significant salaries for the sake of their permanent, dedicated protection of her person, somewhere in the neighbourhood of two-hundred-thousand dollars a year - would have been her last, and most infallible line of personal security. If the president needed a secret service team of twelve to shadow him or her, then Melissa Caple-Caddock needed only two.
Boris Cechivic, the man whose penis she had glanced at moments ago, had been imported personally from Poland after being scouted out by the then president using secret inserted agents, and put on a ultra-top-security government-grade life policy that provided him nearly limitless access to the entire country of America for free in exchange for his undying--or
dying
--service.
Once he had been old enough to attend more mature education, he had been hand-schooled until he was 21, being taught everything from where to piss all the way up to mixed-mastered martial arts. He had six degrees, eight blackbelts, had won three fighting world cups, could outshoot the current government's chief military advisor - who was an ex-marine sniper - and legally
owned
four wives. Melissa had paid the U.S. Government five-hundred thousand dollars for his exclusive ownership, and she had paperwork in a secure vault somewhere that confirmed he belonged to her in full, complete with the presidential office's wax seal.
The man to her left, Jackson James, similarly undressed and equally as decorated, was six and a half feet tall, could run ten miles without breaking a sweat, and had an anonymised Guinness record for hauling a freight train over two miles,
solo
. The freight train, at the time, had carried a full complement of people. The son of two nobody farmers in America's extreme mid-west, he had been purchased by a private security corps' shell entity for nearly a million dollars at age twelve and had from that moment onwards been training every day of his life to be the fittest, smartest, toughest solo operator the country had to offer. The plan had been that, if ever the United States, and indeed by extension, the world, for of course the USA would represent Mother Earth and her people, ever needed a singular heroic saviour, perhaps for some form of alien combat arena or as a test of their people, Jackson Andrew James would be theirs.
So indeed, Melissa did have to concede the fact that they
might
just prove how fucked she really was. Only, she did have
one
trick left up her sleeve, just in case of an event such as this...
'Rope and fire,' she said. The young man frowned, and Melissa felt a tiny thrill shoot through her as she realised he
didn't know
what she was doing.
You don't know
all
my tricks, boy.
'Angst and steam. Syrup and goat, miles and feet. Space, candy, arachnoid and follicle!'
The words, far from the gibberish of a terrified woman, were a secret trigger phrase, programmed into both men throughout their adolescence through a complex and careful regiment of active and passive subconscious implantation. Both men had attended nightly hypnosis sessions, followed by rigorous training, before going to sleep with brain pattern inducers and sound emitters. Every month, both had been tested to ensure their complete obedience was instantly and undeniably commanded at the sound of their trigger phrases, and neither had failed even a single test while under, nor had either failed to submit to their trigger phrases.
The smile died on Melissa's face as the two boys restraining her continued to hold her tight. She frowned - then, realised her error. Her fear had clearly caught her off guard.
'Men,' she ordered, 'release me and restrain him!'
Neither man moved. The frown deepened, and at that point Melissa realised that the young shithead standing in front of her was smiling - no,
laughing
