Mad Spaghetti Amazon Ch. 01

"C'mon. Ain't got time for no bullshit," the overseer groused, cracking his whip in the air. The slaves ignored him, for they had long since grown accustomed to Legless Luis' toothless threats. Their warden sat atop a platform on a swivelling chair, the sort of thing that was commonplace before the Sudden Catastrophe put an end to such simple luxuries; its age showed in the stains covering its leather surface as well as the shoddily patched holes, never mind the uneven surface where it had lost its comfortable stuffing.

Some people envied Legless Luis' position, that he got to sit around all day in a comfortable chair, wave his whip around and scream. The Kid didn't. From what he had observed in his time as a slave, Luis wasn't comfortable in his chair at all, always wiggling around like he might be able to find just the right position for his legless arse to get cozy. Sometimes he started screeching about how he had lost his legs in this or that great battle.

The Kid knew better. Legless Luis had never been a warrior, but rather a vagrant who had gone from community to community only keeping his belly full and his throat wet through the charity of those more fortunate than him, pushing himself along in his half-melted Fisher Price wagon with his rusty metal pipe as an oar. He called it his land boat. The Kid's father was one of the kind souls who had taken pity on Luis. It had been a grave mistake.

That pity had turned to rage when Luis had broken into their pantry and fled in the night with most of their food. The slavers rolled through not long thereafter, before they had starved. The Kid often wished he and his family had starved instead of being captured and put to work. Four years in he was the last one of his family alive. The cactus farms were not kind to their workers, nor were the cartels that ran them.

Luis was a coward, a traitor, an honorless cur. A thief. Nothing more, nothing less. In a way, the Kid pitied him, but he was sure he must have done far, far worse than steal from his family to earn his position with the most notorious group on this side of Old-Old Mexico. The Avila-Cruz cartel was not known for supporting dead weight. But the Kid shook his head and dismissed such thoughts from his head. It wasn't that such thinking was above him; thinking was his only real advantage in the world, and he had plenty of time to do it as he carefully picked faintly glowing fruits from the irradiated cacti. He minded the thorns.

There just wasn't a point to dwelling on Legless Luis. He was a nobody, another asshole in a world full of them. And while he deserved justice, it would have to be incidental to what the Kid needed to focus his energy on: his escape. Things would be hard enough for him as they were. The Kid had a name, of course, but no one had used it in long enough that it now sounded foreign to his ears. They called him the Kid because with his short stature and shrimpy musculature, he looked like just that: a kid. If his brain failed him, he was going to be stuck here until the day he died, and statistically that would be sooner rather than later.

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When the Kid really was a kid, he heard a lot of stories about the Avila-Cruz cartel. Everyone did. They were both a bogeyman and a fantasy; exotic but right around the corner. It wasn't their incredible cruelty that made them so notorious so much as their alleged beauty. Almost every member of the Avila-Cruz cartel was supposed to be a stone cold vixen, a goddess of lust and war. That was true to an extent; the Kid still had vivid memories of staring at the girls who had rolled up to his family's farm in their jeeps, all in varying states of dress, but almost all of them were hot as hell and fit, if not straight up buff.

Living in the cactus farm, he learned better. It was true most of the members were women with the men being few and far between, but their supposed beauty wasn't universal. He had seen plenty who had lost their looks to violence and a surprising amount who had it faded by age, if not outright devoured. Really old people were rare. He had never seen so many old people before becoming -- well, a slave. They were all over the 'village' that surrounded the farm, living their lives and making sure the free labour stayed put. If any of the old ladies were like his grandmother, he'd have an easy time slipping by them even if it came to a fight.

There was a reason this particular farm was known as the Retirement Home. But...

They might not have been pretty but some of them may as well have been bodybuilders, and they were all far crueler and far meaner than any of the younger women in the cartel. They were the only thing standing between the Kid and freedom. Well, that and a vast stretch of incredibly inhospitable wasteland. He'd been watching them for months now, memorizing when they changed their posts and what grannies were least likely to spot him sneaking out. Some of them started to sip hooch on the job or play games; others had vision impairments. The Kid had not chosen any of those old ladies. He had instead picked one who still had a libido and often dragged Legless Luis' wheeled swivel chair over so she could have a little legless fun.

He shuddered, putting the mental image of Buff Bertha using Legless Luis as a human dildo from his mind. In his short life he had seen a lot of fucked up shit, but something about that really took the cake. He'd seen it so many times while getting ready for his escape; it was almost seared into his mind. It haunted him every time he closed his eyes, whether or not he went to sleep. Or-- maybe it didn't bother him quite that much. Maybe he was just turning his mind away from what could happen if he got caught.

It wasn't like they were going to make him the next Legless Luis, left with a couple of stumps and an easy job with his most rigorous activity thereafter being Buff Bertha's sex toy. No, the old ladies were far crueler than that.

He had stowed a few bottles of water and some non-perishable rations in the preceding weeks. Tomorrow would be his night; he'd sneak past the two mid-coitus, scale the wall and make for the Land of the Free. It'd be a hard trek, but he had it timed. The old lady taking roll call the morning after was renowned for really not giving a shit about roll call. No one would notice his disappearance until he was long gone, and even then they'd probably assume he got up to piss in the middle of the night and blearily stumbled into one of the mutated cacti. Not a great way to go.

Freedom. He didn't dare say the word any louder than a whisper, but damn if it didn't have a great mouthfeel.

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Three days later, the Kid was rethinking this whole 'freedom' thing. Everything was going swell right up until... five minutes into his escape attempt, when Legless Luis spotted him. He'd never forget the look of baffled surprise on Luis' face after he cracked him over the forehead with one of the water bottles, denting his skull and killing him instantly. He was pretty sure he had the same expression on his face. And Buff Bertha...

The Kid kept walking.

Well, after that it was too late to turn back. Even if he chose to and managed to hide any evidence that would point at him, the violence would force the cartel to crack down on the camp. They'd punish every slave for what one did, and the punishment wouldn't be pretty. The words 'ball pit decimation'' got thrown around a lot and even though the Kid wasn't sure what it was, he knew it was something awful. If they figured out who did it, then they'd just send a party to hunt him down. Everyone else would be spared whatever the fuck a 'ball pit decimation' was. He didn't really have any friends or family left in the camp, but that didn't mean he wanted them all dead. Most of them were just like him: flat out unlucky.

The Kid kept walking.

Every part of his body was sore. His muscles ached. A few miles ago, he had to ditch a bag with half of his water and food to outrun a bull brushcock; he only had a quarter of what he initially packed left. Things were looking a little grim. The rocky hill he was about to hike over didn't help his outlook on this whole venture. Would it have been better to live in the camp until a mishap or a granny's wanton cruelty led to his death? He had to stop and seriously think about that for a minute. That sure life would, in fact, probably be better than his suicide march.

The Kid kept walking. The Kid kept walking, and walking, and walking. He had gotten used to the blisters on his feet. They didn't really hurt anymore. He hadn't quite gotten used to his dry throat or the hungry rumble in his belly yet. Having to piece out what little food and water he had left ensured he would before long. Things were looking bleak. Once he got over this hill, the Kid knew there would be another one waiting for him. How far could the Land of the Free be from Old-Old Mexico, really?

The Kid kept walking, one uncomfortable step after the other, until he was just short of cresting the hill. Far out in the distance he could see a sign. It was an old sign from the old world, so worn down that its damaged supports were clearly on their last legs. He stared at the sign, unable to believe his eyes.

"Now entering Texas," he whispered. The cracked road running alongside it drew his eye, and it was only then that the Kid looked to the side and realized he didn't need to walk up the hill at all. He laughed at himself, feeling almost delirious with joy. He had made it. Soon he would enter the Land of the Free, and all his woes would be left behind. "The Lone Star Region," he read off the sign once his laughter subsided. Those words weren't a part of the sign, at least not originally. Someone had spray painted them.

The Kid kept walking and walking and walking. He passed the sign and kept walking and walking and walking until all of a sudden, he was running. He was also screaming. It was a pretty natural reaction to massive trucks barreling out of seemingly nowhere on a clear path towards him. In Old-Old Mexico, vehicles unexpectedly pincering you meant danger. Maybe they were bandits. The last and only time this had happened to the Kid, they were slavers. What were the chances that he'd encounter slavers in the Land of the Free so soon after escaping slavery?

The Kid kept running, but his legs were flagging and the trucks were gaining. He glanced over his shoulder one way and then the other, noting a couple of women and far more men sticking out of the trucks. They weren't from the Avila-Cruz cartel. Maybe this was all just a big misunderstanding. Maybe they were friends or some kind of welcome wagon to greet people like himself. Maybe he should stop. Maybe, the Kid considered, I should pay attention to where I'm going. Figure this out with my eyes forward.

He looked forward. It was a good move. It would have been a better move ten or even twenty seconds earlier, when he would have had time to react to the otherwise pretty obvious rock on the ground that made him stumble, trip and fall, the rough terrain scraping him as he spilled out across it. The trucks rolled to a stop on either side of him before he even had a chance to pick himself up, much less dust himself off.

"Well, well," one man drawled, climbing out of his truck and hopping down to the ground. The Kid saw his boots first, mismatched. As he managed to sit up, he saw more and more of his attire, all crude leather armor with metal plates and spikes fixed to it with no eye towards aesthetic or even practicality. "What have we got here? A payday?" He glanced back at his fellows and grinned as they sniggered, then crouched down by the Kid to look him in the eye. "How old are you, kiddo?"

Apparently, the chance he'd encounter slavers so soon after escaping slavery were pretty high, even in the Land of the Free. He bit down on the side of his cheek and started to sidle away. Now that he had a taste of freedom, he'd rather die than end up in another cactus farm or whatever equivalent they had on this side of the border. And he'd rather die running than on his ass, almost feeling ready to cry.

"Oh, he's a real cutie," another woman tittered, coming up behind him and blocking off his escape. He might not have a choice. Dying on his ass was still better than being enslaved again, he just had to wrack his mind to find a way to--

A gunshot cracked through the air and in the same instant, one of the truck's windshields shattered. That drew everyone's attention towards the source of the unexpected shot. The woman in the distance was too far away for the Kid to make out any of her facial features. Her other features were impossible to miss; her tits had to be the biggest the Kid had ever seen, and he had seen quite a few enormous pairs amongst the cartel's fiercest warriors. They strained the red flannel top she wore the same way her powerful, thick legs seemed to strain her jeans. Her polished cowboy boots gleamed in the midday sun. She kept her hunting rifle raised and aimed as she began to move towards the Kid and his would-be captors. Her dark brown leather hat almost matched her boots, bearing a proud Lone Star patch front and center.

Something about all of this felt off to the Kid. He glanced around, taking stock of the slavers. There were nine of them but only one cowgirl. They were all transfixed on her. On her tits, maybe? No-- that wasn't it. It took a second to register. "None of you assholes have a gun?" he asked, looking between the man and woman over him.

"Shut up," the man snapped, delivering a swift kick to the Kid that had him falling back over. The next bullet the cowgirl shot made the offending foot spray blood and made the man howl out in pain. The Kid figured that served the bastard right. What kind of slaver didn't carry a gun? Seriously. Nine of them and not a single fucking gun. They deserved whatever they had coming from the cowgirl, who didn't stop her advance. As the leader of the slavers screamed and hopped around, the rest of them began to panic. Most of them took cover.

She was his knight in shining armor.

"Alright, you godforsaken varmints," she called out, shooting again and making one of the truck's rear view mirrors explode to emphasize her address. "I'm sure I ain't gotta tell none of you that we ain't like your kind around here. Bet all your asses are from Kansland or, I ain't fuckin' know, Mistersippi." There was nothing chivalric about her rustic drawl or her colorful diction. "Lone Star is still about freedom, you fuckin' hear me?"

"What are you on about, you crazy bitch?" The slaver who replied to her quickly ducked back down behind the truck's door, a bullet denting it seconds later. It was a close call, but not so close as to deter him from arguing with the woman who brought a gun. "Hiyooston is the slave capital of the damn country. Nobody believes that 'Land of the Free' shit no more. That American Dream bullshit is deader than-- fuck!" The next bullet did pierce the door, though by the way the slaver started squealing the Kid was certain he would live.

Now the cowgirl was close enough that he could make out her features. She was as pretty as she was scary. It wasn't just that she had a gun or that she had a deathly stare in her green eyes. Just the opposite of the latter, in fact. Her freckled face was growing flushed and probably not just on account of her undisguised gle, certainly not if the growing damp spots on the chest of her flannel top were any indication. "This ain't Hi-Us-Ton, partner," she grinned toothily. "Now, y'all can scram or y'all can dance with me a spell. I ain't care one bit either way," she lied.

She definitely wanted them to dance with her. A slaver popped up from one of the truck's beds, taking quick aim over the cab of their vehicle with a rusty revolver in hand, something that made the Kid feel the slightest bit better about his predicament. At least he would have been enslaved by slavers with a gun rather than no gun at all. Their shot surprised everyone, including the cowgirl, as it hit her...

Square in the hat, sending it fluttering off her head with a massive hole that rendered the once stylish and pristine piece of headwear damaged like just about everything else in the year 2082. "MotherFUCKER," she all but roared as she flew into a sudden rage. Her next shot took the offending shooter in the chest and laid him out flat on his back in the truck's bed. She didn't bother reloading again, simply throwing her rifle to the ground and pounding the earth with her spurred boots as she charged at the nearest slaver like a bull, tackling them to the ground.

As the female slaver who had cut him off ran to help her friend, the Kid rolled over and hastily got the fuck out of the sudden melee. The first hiding spot he saw was the other truck, not in it but under its carriage, well out of the way from any flying fists that might come his way. Or anything else that might come his way, for that matter. For several minutes, all he could hear was grunting and yelping and the occasional scream or cry. All he could see were the feet of the fighters and occasionally the faces of the defeated, if they fell close enough. Surprisingly, or maybe not so surprisingly, the cowgirl was the last one standing. She was the only one with boots like that. When it was all said and done, she went about grabbing the slavers and hucking them into the back of the truck he wasn't over.

The very last one seemed to be conscious and coherent. Rather than huck them, she set them on their feet. "Now, you go on and get. You tell all 'em other slavers what happened here today. You tell all of 'em the Lone Ranger ain't got no time for no slaver's bullshit. You hear?"

"Y-yeah." They stumbled into the truck and a moment later the engine groaned to life, rumbling off.

"Hey now, kid," the cowgirl called out. "Where are you after gettin' to? I lost my fuckin' hat saving you, so you best ain't not have scrammed before sayin' thank you, ma'am."

The Kid, still free, began to squirm out to greet his savior.