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.
