The Saga of Blanche IV: With the Dwarves Standing naked in the stinking, grimy alley, Blanche was a beautiful, but heartbreaking, portrait of confusion, betrayal, and fear. Not five minutes earlier, one of her trusted co-workers from O'Smiles Productions, Inc., had brought her to this shadowy nook in the heart of the Watts district, forced her to remove all her clothes, and had put her out of his car, which he instantly drove away. Now, wearing nothing but the blue leather office shoes that her abductor had allowed her to keep (so as not to cut her feet on the broken glass scattered throughout the alley), she stood, shivering with fear and shining with sweat from the sweltering Los Angeles springtime, utterly confused, utterly helpless. She was nineteen years old, and if a renegade computer program can be believed, she was the loveliest woman in Southern California: a place where loveliness, be it natural or manufactured, was not uncommon. Her hair, black and shining as a raven's wing, fell in gentle waves to the bottoms of her shoulderblades; her chiseled features, violet eyes, and naturally-red lips arrested the attention of all who saw her; and the natural curves of her 5'7" body undulated gently but hypnotically, like waves lapping some heavenly shore. Her 34" breasts jutted boldly, but not brazenly, capped with strawberry-colored nipples that were now puckered and stiff in the dank air of the alley. Her soft, flawless white skin, which bore neither suntan nor tan lines, seemed to illuminate the senuous perfection of her body, sweeping downward from just below the nipples, across her ribcage and utterly flat belly, to the gentle swell of her hips and thighs. Only her black pubic hair interrupted the warm, promising snowdrift that was her body: and it had been cropped close and shaven into the shape of a heart, its tapered bottom disappearing between her thighs enticingly. Those thighs were clamped together tightly now, and her hands had flown to her shoulders is a vain attempt to cover her breasts; for a moment earlier, she had sensed a presence behind her, and whirled around to see six very large men standing in the entrance to the alley, leering at her. "Well, well," said the apparent leader, a tall, heavily-muscled black with a gleaming, shaven skull and wraparound sunglasses, "just what the fuck do we have here?" His companions (were there five or six? Blanche was too terrified to count), all similarly built, all wearing sunglasses and black leather jackets, laughed and hooted and smacked their lips. As they began to stroll into the alley toward her, she noticed that the group contained two blacks, one white, two Latinos, probably Mexican, and one enormous Oriental, who must have been at least 6'6". "Li'l white girl, d'you come all the way down here just to see me?" smirked the leader, coming closer. "Fuck no, main," laughed one of the Latinos. "Chica's come lookin' for some Latin loveeng!" His fellow-Latino slapped his arm playfully and laughed, "Si, mano, but she wan's eet from a main, so you can just step aside!" The second black, who remained silent, merely rubbed his crotch suggestively and waggled his hips at the terrified girl. It was at this point that Blanche's fear and confusion took over completely, and as her violet eyes rolled back in her head, her body loosened in a faint. But she never fell, because as her knees buckled, the black who had spoken first was there to catch her, and he swept her up in his leather-clad arms, where she lay insensate, head lolling back, thighs parted, her heart-framed pussy revealed for all the men to see. "Main, I don' care who goes first, but I'm gonna fuck thees girl in 'bout two minutes!" one of the Latinos exclaimed in a choked voice, overcome by Blanche's perfection. Then, for the first time, the huge Oriental, who had been bringing up the rear, spoke in a voice that would accept no contradiction: "Nacho, you not gonna do shit. Nobody touches that pussy 'till we get it back to the crib and see what the Chief says." Reluctantly, grudgingly, the others mumbled their agreement. One of the men slipped off his black jacket and covered Blanche's torso with it. The others formed a circle around the man who carried her, and they started out on their journey back to the secret hideaway of the Devil's Dwarves, where their seventh member and undisputed leader, the Chief, was waiting. *************************************************************** Anyway, that's the way one of the Dwarves described the scene to me later, and I've got no reason to disbelieve him. If It didn't happen exactly that way, it was very close. Suffice it to say that Blanche's virtue was not compromised by the Dwarves, not in that initital meeting, anyway: they were thugs, not animals, and they didn't simply fall on the girl as though she were a new bitch in heat. Poor Nacho was so excited that he actually came in his pants on the walk back to "headquarters;" and, if truth were told, several others came pretty close. But, except for a few surreptitious strokes and squeezes of the girl's unconscious body when they thought the others weren't looking, she was not molested. Meanwhile, even as Blanche was being abducted or adopted by the Devil's Dwarves, a menacing-looking man was driving a menacing-looking automobile out of the Watts District, headed for Hollywood Boulevard. It was our old friend Vitaly Arkhoff in his HumVee, who, having followed his Mistress Coyreen's orders only halfway, now found himself between a rock and a hard place. He had been ordered to take Blanche to a remote wilderness, kill her, and bring her heart back to the Porno Queen as proof of her death; but once he met Blanche, and talked with her, things had changed. There had been a time when Vasily could slaughter Afghan rebels with no conscience whatsoever, and he had been a valiant fighter when his hero, Yeltsin, had routed Gorbachev and established the Russian Republic. But now, he had been completely undone by this wide-eyed, trusting American teenager, and had been unable to kill her. So, in an act both noble and cowardly, he had simply dropped her into the "wilderness" of Watts. She would undoubtedly die, but Vitaly would not kill her. The job was only half-done, Vitaly kept repeating to himself as he slipped the evil-looking vehicle in and out of the Los Angeles traffic. He was very conscious of the Igloo picnic cooler on the floor behind his seat, half-filled with ice, awaiting Blanche's bloody heart. Vhat vill I tell Meestress Coyreen? he wondered. She vas insane! And she vould not take "nyet" for an answer! He had to persuade her that he had accomplished his assignment as ordered. And so it was that the necessary course of action came together in his mind. He waited until rush hour, killing nothing but time, and then proceeded to one of Sunset Boulevard's least-glamorous areas, an area almost entirely occupied by porn shops, massage parlors, and "working girls" on every corner. As the shadows of dusk began to lengthen, he cruised slowly down the street, assessing the various girls until he found the one that seemed most appropriate. He nosed the big HumVee in to the curb and rolled down the passenger-side window. Within 30 seconds, the girl he'd spotted had clattered over to the car on her platform shoes. Her bright-purple hair, done up in a punk-style mohawk, accentuated her garish purple eyeshadow and black lipstick; Vitaly could see, through the sheer fabric of her tank-top, that both her nipples were pierced. She was, to put it mildly, not his type of woman; but the important thing was that she was the same general height and shape of Blanche, and probably the same age. She would do. The girl leaned in the window. "Hi, babe!" she exclaimed around her bubble-gum. "Nice ride! You lookin' for a date?" She bent over a bit more, so as to reveal more cleavage. Vitaly, not entirely familiar with American social customs, replied, "No date, pliss. Am looking for blow chob." The girl squealed with laughter. "Well, okay, honey, that's fun, too! You got a hundred on ya?" Vitaly didn't blink an eye at the outrageous price. "A hundred, yas," he said. "Pliss to get in car. You geef me blow chob while I drive." The girl laughed again, opened the door, and plopped down in the seat. "Just don't drive too far, honey," she said, "I don't want to lose my corner.... Say, you don't sound like you're from around here. Where you from, babe?" "Zaint Petersburg," Vitaly mumbled. "Oh, Florida, huh?" the girl chirped. "I used to be married to a guy in Florida! It's a small fuckin' world after all, huh?" Vitaly reached inside his coat pocket and produced a hundred-dollar bill; the girl snatched it from his hand and stuffed it in her tiny handbag. "Thanks, big guy," she said. "Now, let's see what we've got to work with here." She leaned over and expertly popped the snaps and zipper on his trousers, and in a moment had freed his cock, which was stiffening at her touch. Vitaly may have lost his devotion to Coyreen, but his prick was still aching from her teasing lips earlier in the day. In a moment it had swelled to nearly nine inches. "Oh, baby," breathed the whore, "I think I know just what you need." She tugged her halter top down, freeing her pendulous, stretch-marked breasts, and then began to take Vitaly in her mouth. She knew what she was doing, of course, and it was not long before her slurping and bobbing and stroking had brought the Russian to the point of no return. As his cock began to throb, and he maneuvered the HumVee's steering wheel with his left hand, his right hand slipped inside his jacket again. This time, instead of money, he slowly withdrew a needle-pointed icepick, and he positioned it above the soft spot where the girls's skull met her spine. Then he began to erupt, his semen bursting into her mouth like a raging tide, and with many a faked moan of delight, she sucked and swallowed desperately until he was done. Finally, when she had gulped down the last drop, Vitaly muttered, "T'ank you," and, slipping his cock from her mouth so that she would not bite it off by reflex, he drove the icepick upward into the girls's brain. As she died, he pressed the icepick farther in, until its small wooden handle was flush against the entry wound. Even when his muscular wrist twisted the icepick back and forth, slicing her brain to shreds, there was very little bleeding. She wasn't really missed, of course; and when her body was found, rotting in the desert near Newhall, she was far beyond identification. The only thing that really puzzled the authorities was the savage trauma inflicted on the brain, compared with the neat, almost surgical precision with which the heart had been removed. Vitaly was off the hook, and Coyreen was very happy. ************************* A few miles away, a tall, lithe man in black Levis, barefoot and nude from the waist up, stood silently, his arms folded, gazing down thoughtfully on the still-naked and still-unconscious form of Blanche Snowe, who lay curled in a fetal position on a dingy mattress on the floor. The man's skin was the color of a newly-polished copper penny, and although he did not have the sculpted build of a weightlifter, his tough, resilient muscles shifted and flexed constantly beneath the skin. His hair was long and jet-black and pulled back from his face, and hung between his shoulder-blades in a single braid. From his forehead to his belly, where the jeans hugged his slim waist, he was marked with dozens of thin white scars, and a few that were thick and brown, remnants of deep wounds which would never be forgotten. His nose was slightly bent, his lips were thin and dry, and his eyes were black as polished coal. He was certainly no older than 30, and probably closer to 25. He did not speak a word as he studied the unconscious girl, but occasionally nodded slowly, as if agreeing with some conclusion that had just come to him. The mattress lay on the floor of an empty bedroom in a small abandoned house on the outskirts of Watts, once the dwelling of a young family, then a hippie crash pad, next a crack house, and now, finally, the secret headquarters of the Devil's Dwaves, smallest and deadliest of Los Angeles' aging street gangs. All the existing Dwarves had joined as young teens, but now, most were in their mid-twenties, unmarried, uncommitted, unemployed or underemployed, and utterly unwanted by society. But then, society hadn't wanted their parents, either, so fuck society. These were not the dancing comedians of "West Side Story" or the mindless young fanatics of the drive-by-shooting variety; these were simply the survivors of the survivors, understood perfectly by one another, but by no one else on earth. Despite their different skin colors, they were a tribe; and they were the last of their tribe. It was fitting, then, that their sole and undisputed leader was called "The Chief," even though there was another reason, as well. For now, as he stood pondering Blanche's fate, with the other six Dwarves gathered in respectful silence behind him, the big Paiute was understood by all to be the toughest, smartest, and most resourceful member of the group, and his leadership was unquestioned. When there were decisions to be made, his was the final word; when there were disputes to be settled, he was the one to settle them, preferably by suggesting a face-saving compromise; and when there were discipline problems, each of the Dwarves, including the massive Chinese, had been floored by a single lightning blow from one of his calloused, rock-hard fists. At the present moment, discipline had not yet become a problem, but he knew that decisions and disputes were imminent. Benny, the smaller of the two Latinos at 6'3", broke the silence. "'Ay, Cheef," he whined, "ain't you looked long enough, main? Thees girl's a Godsend, main. Let's fock her!" Several of the others murmured their agreement. Ernie, the smooth-skulled black who had carried Blanche from the alley, added in a low, thoughtful voice, "Ain't none of us touched her, Chief, except to carry her home. The brothers been real patient. Now, it's your call: who gets her first?" Slowly, the Chief turned to face the Dwarves. Ignoring their specific questions, he asked, "How long would you say she's been out?" Snap, the Caucasian Dwarf, replied hastily, "Well, she done fell out as soon as she saw us; I'd say she's been unconscience for about 45 minutes." The others muttered agreement. "That's an awful long time for anybody to be out, simply from fainting," the Chief observed. "I think this girl's in shock. And if we don't do something pretty soon, you guys are gonna be fuckin' a corpse. Maybe it was the sight of you that made her faint, but we don't know what happened to her before you found her. Whatever it was, it looks like her brain just couldn't take it." "We don' wan' to fuck her brain, main," said Nacho, the large Latino. "We wan' fuck that poosey, that ass, that mouth!" The other Dwarves laughed and cackled and high-fived while the Chief remained impassive, glaring at them silently. When their jests had died down, he spoke. "if you guys are so fuckin' horny, maybe you'd better have a circle jerk," he said coldly. "But nobody's fucking this girl when she's in this condition. Anyway, the Dwarves aren't about rape. Are they, Chang?" His eyes challenged those of the big Chinese, who turned beet-red, clenched his fists, and finally shook his head. All the Dwarves knew that Chang had been conceived when his Chinese Mother was brutally raped by a knife-fighter from the Moro Islands. "All right," the Chief said. "Chang, get some blankets and wrap her up. Nacho, go down to Jake's Pharmacy and get some aspirin and some vitamins and some of that shit that babies drink, that has all the electrolytes in it. Use your five-finger discount. Snap, go over to Shiela's crib (are you still seein' that bitch?) and get some clothes for this chick: they look like they're about the same size. Oh, and Nacho, grab some soap while you're at the drug store. She's gonna want a bath, and probably won't dig that Lava stuff that we all use. Now get your asses moving. We'll see who fucks who when she's got her mind right." And so the Dwarves scattered, to gather the things they would need to care for their new guest. ***************************************************************** It was just after dark when Coyreen, the Porno Queen, sat down at her dressing-table and began to brush her hair. She wore a sheer, thigh-length dressing gown that would be discarded as soon as she climbed into bed; she had already downed her evening's dosage of Placidyl, Valium, and Dalmane, and had begun washing the pills down with Beefeater gin. In a moment, she heard a soft, respectful knock on her bedroom door. "Yeah, come on in, whoever the fuck you are," she yelled. This better not be Miles again, she thought, hoping for "romance"....but thoughts of her beloved husband vanished when she saw, in the dressing-table mirrir, the stalwart form of Vitaly Arkhoff, immaculately clad in his servant's uniform, carrying in his hand the Igloo ice chest. "Vasily!" she cried, getting his name wrong as usual, and standing up in a graceful twirl to face him. "You're back! And you've got...."she stared at the ice-chest....."is that what I think it is? Is that the little bitch's heart?" Her eyes glittered; she was practically drooling "Yes, Meestress, iss her heart," Vitaly muttered, although not specifying just who he meant. In a second, Coyreen was by his side, greedily snatching the top off the cooler, and gasping with delight when she saw the still, stolen organ lying in the chest on a bed of slowly-melting ice. "You did it, Vasily, you did it!" she shrieked, plunging her hands into the cooler end pulling out the heart, which she held up before her face to examine. "The little cunt is dead, and I'm the Finest Queen again!" As she jabbered, dark, dead blood oozed from the heart, and, mixed with water from the melting ice, ran down Coyreen's arms and onto her jiggling, excited breasts. Vitaly looked away, his throat tight, tears forming in his eyes. This was not Miss Blanche's heart, but it might as well have been. He had delivered her to her certain doom. Suddenly, there was a wet "plop," and Vitaly saw the heart lying discarded on the carpet. Coyreen had ripped off her dressing gown and had dropped onto the floor on all fours, waggling her ass in Vitaly's direction, her pussy already open and dripping with excitement. "Well, come on, Vasily," she snapped, " a deal's a deal! Get down here and fuck my brains out!" No one can say, of course, what another man's finest hour is. Perhaps Vitaly's finest hour came when he clutched the steering wheel and allowed Blanche to escape. But me, I see it differently. I think his finest hour came when he looked down at his "Meestress," wiggling and squealing on the floor, and replied in a voice of great dignity, "Madam, Meester Arkhoff does not wish to fuck you. Meester Arkhoff suggests dat Madam go fuck herself!" And, with dignity, Vitaly Arkhoff, the free man, turned on his heel and walked out of Coyreen's house forever.