INTRODUCTION
Inspired by the dirty bits of sleazy films and novels of the 1970s and 80s, Regime Change is a noir dystopian series about an alternative near-future USA in which a shadowy cabal hell-bent on regenerating their once great nation name, blame and shame women guilty of moral turpitude. It focuses on seven salacious Los Angelenas ensnared in the unfurling of an ancient new world order.
*** indicates a break in the story.
PART 1: PUSH BACK
Hell-bent.
The Movers and Shakers of America were enraged at only winning some battles but not the war. The men who pulled the strings behind the scenes could look back on 50 years of success on the economic front. But on the cultural front the enemy prevailed. And the enemy rubbed their victories into the faces of the Patriarchs.
No more. The men who called the shots knew if they were going to take back the nation, the only way would be fighting house-to-house, in hand-to-hand combat.
The initiative came from certain right thinking members of the judiciary. They formed a special, secret court, similar to the Star Chamber of medieval England. They named it the Court of the All-Seeing Eye.
The Court discretely recruited patriots to be their special investigators, their special, secret agents. They picked men who were resolute, capable of the most intricate planning and off-the-cuff improvisation, ready willing able to go under cover, to deeply penetrate enemy territory. To overcome all resistance. To get their hands dirty.
When the recruitment was over, the agents were issued special warrants commanding them to take back their neighborhoods, by any means necessary.
PART 2: COMEUPPANCE
A gold digger gets impaled.
Wearing oversized pink Alexander McQueen sunglasses Alexandra Cappodocia felt a warm glow from the head to the toes of her ripe body. The warmth wasn't just from the beams of California sun that tanned her almost nakedness (her red bikini was barely within the vicinity of community standards). It was also the warm glow of accomplishment, for she was well and truly in the catbird seat. Today was her fifth wedding anniversary and now it was time to get divorced. Her plan was coming to fruition.
Sandra reflected on the last five years of her life as she lay on a lounge chair beside her husband's pool, her third passion-fruit daiquiri of the morning dangling from her right hand. She looked at the large diamond of the wedding ring on the third finger of the hand wrapped around the sweating cocktail glass and murmured, "Sucker."
Not bad for a 35 year old former diner waitress, a high school drop-out from Venice Beach, the grand-daughter of Greek-Turkish immigrants, thought Sandra, gazing blankly into the depths of her husband's swimming pool.
For such a rich man--a self-made rich man he never stopped droning on about--John Smith was dumb as shit, Sandra smirked slyly to herself, bowing her head forward, causing her shoulder length, messy black hair with dirty blonde high lights to partially cover her chin and her somewhat saggy oily breasts.
"Next time I go to the salon, I'll get a different 'do instead of 'bed-head,'" she laughed out loud at her own joke.
Sandra had immediately recognized John Smith when she asked him for his order: the millionaire who hated hoity-toity food had been profiled on-line. Smith's eyes went level to Sandra's large breasts and then up to her brown eyes and he had gulped, "What do you recommend?" Sandra saw her chance. She said, "Three crispy strips of bacon, two eggs sunny side up, white toast: there's nothing better in this world."
A month of Smith visiting the diner and unbuttoning two more buttons on her blouse was all it took for the thirty year old Alexandra Cappodocia to become the wife of 55 year old John Smith.
Funny, I never think of myself as "Mrs. Smith," thought Sandra as she looked up to the sky. John is a nice man, too nice for his own good. He's completely clueless that the reason he hasn't got me pregnant is I've hidden from him that I'm on the Pill. Sandra simultaneously rolled her eyes and snorted.
In the first year of her marriage Mrs. Smith was self-disciplined enough to not have any flings (a dildo she hid inside a large monkey plush toy helped in this regard).
But after a year (whenever Mr. Smith was out of the house) of gasping to herself, "Think about the money, think about the money", her head filled with a vision of her yoga instructor eating her out, sliding the dildo in/out of her slickness, the dam burst. Her decision to start having flings was made easier by her belief that her husband was a fool.
Sandra started having flings when she began working in the restaurant industry. When Sandra was honest with herself, she knew they weren't really affairs or flings, but more accurately described as one-morning or one-afternoon or one-night stands. As is well known, old habits are hard to break.
Starting with her yoga instructor (the first of many instructors over the last four years) whenever Sandra got what she called "the craving", she fed herself to the fullest. Her husband believed her when she told him the reason she started waxing her pussy silky smooth was to please him.
Sandra had "flings" with young men who she easily got under her thumb, be they white, Latino, black, single, married. Jiggling her breasts and not wearing a bra when she prowled LA in one of her husband's Beamers opened many doors and...zippers. She even seduced a few illegal immigrant pool boys (who were always arrested by ICE soon after the flings).
"Pool boys," she mumbled, "what a cliche...I'm such a cliche," she laughed at herself and then drank the daiquiri to the dregs.
"Now I'm going to get me the right kind of lawyer, milk Smith of his last bottom dollar and be filthy rich for the rest of my life." Sandra was a bit tipsy, unaware she had said spoken out loud. She yawned, stretched all her limbs, curled her toes and arched her back like a waking cat. On each of her legs, just above the ankles, were tattooed flames, all the way around, like shackles. The first time John Smith saw the flame tats was on their wedding night--and he was dismayed. Sandra didn't care.
"I know the perfect lawyer for the job. A real shark. My husband's lawyer. The twins will work their old black magic once again and lickety-split I'll be free of that fucking pussy." Sandra jiggled her breasts, laughing.
Smith's lawyer was named Del Toro. She didn't know his first name. But she knew Del Toro was a man; bottom-line, that meant he would be putty in her hands, she believed. "Well hopefully not putty..." she moaned softly, starting to imagine what not just her hands would do to Del Toro to get him to see the light.
It suddenly dawned on Sandra that it must be nearly high noon and it was time to get into the shade. She swung her legs over the lounge chair, turned, sat up, facing her husband's mansion. Sandra froze like a cougar caught in the head lights of a Jeep Cherokee. Del Toro was looking down on her from the window of her bedroom on the second floor of the mansion! (Six months after they got married Sandra convinced Smith that it was his idea that they should have separate bedrooms.)
How long has he been watching me? Sandra asked herself, looking up into Del Toro's (always menacing) black eyes. He had a hard stare. Sandra shuddered.
Wait, this is a sign that somebody up there likes me. Sandra got a jolt from this line of thought. No time like the present, let's commence Operation Get Them By the Balls.
Mrs. John Smith took off her $550 pink sunglasses and put them on the lounge chair. Not breaking eye contact with Del Toro, Sandra slowly stood up, smiling widely. He did not acknowledge her.
After a quick stretch, Sandra scampered over the hot stones of the patio in her bare feet into the shadows of her husband's mansion, her heavy breasts bouncing, glistening with sun tan lotion and sweat.
Sandra stood in what her husband called the "Rec Room" of his mansion, her eyes adjusting to the darkness, the air-conditioning cooling her skin, making the nipples under the red triangles of her bikini perk up.
"Rec Room--he's so old fashioned," she muttered, blinking, her long eye lashes fluttering quickly.
"There's something to be said in defense of the old fashioned," a basso profundo voice boomed out from the blur in front of Sandra. The frightening voice focused her vision: there stood at the foot of the marble stairs her husband's lawyer.
Del Toro was a blunt man. Both in words and looks. His head was always shaved. His large nose had been broken more than once. Mr. Smith said his lawyer had "Roman features" (whatever that means Sandra had said to herself at the time). He was six feet tall, his strong shoulders taut under his tailored suit. He had big hands with blunt fingers. Whenever he visited the mansion (which was frequent due to her husband's business dealings all over the globe) he looked at Sandra with black eyes filled with contempt. Sandra had a vague recollection of her husband telling her recently that Del Toro had been made a partner in a big firm and got married for the first time at age 45. "He's a blunt instrument," was Smith's assessment of Del Toro.
And now Mrs. Alexandra Smith stood under the glowering gaze of her husband's lawyer, for all intents and purpose, naked. Sandra was 5 feet 2, 130 pounds, with large, all-natural somewhat sagging breasts, a rounded belly with an innie and what used to known as "child-bearing hips". Most men were too distracted by her tits and ass to notice her shapely legs. The glistening sun tan lotion that covered her accentuated the lushness of her body, its ripeness.
Sandra always had carefully plucked eyebrows and always wore magenta eye shadow. When people said she looked Mexican, she sharply corrected that her hazel eyes, her face, with its slightly pointed nose and slightly too wide mouth, was the best of Greek and Turkish femininity (much to every one's bafflement). She rarely smiled.
"John's not here, he won't be back until eight, to take us for our anniversary dinner party at Hell's Kitchen," Sandra spoke in her usual near whisper. Just thought I'd put that out there, she said to herself.
"I know that Sandy," the lawyer replied, bluntly. Sandra winced.
"You know I prefer to be called Sandra," she said, raising her voice.
"I know what you prefer," Del Toro replied sharply, dressing her down with his eyes.
