CHAPTER 342: GIVE TO A SLAVE A GUN [III]—BAD GIRLIE

[#nudity #gangbeating #hijack #drowning]

THE RED VIRGIN HAD A CREW of thirty and three, no official passengers in sight, but booked in its hull, aplenty. The crew, wildmen all of them—even the women amongst. More than once this morning, Eotigan had seen, when the sea breeze blew, some woman in white with a healthy bush down there, just striding on and about with no knickers. But it wasn’t pubic dilemmas that had him on this vessel. And oh well, a hairy pussy had its perks.

Like who could hate a woman with a perfectly trimmed box; not the Romans that’s for sure.

"Ahoy, ginger boyo!" a voice hit him like three ounces of spit. "—you and Rasta baddie part of disa crew here then, no?"

Shit. Eotigan thought fast.

This person’s accent was shit too, but whatever. He and Inaia were about to get found out, by a man with a mean head and meaner accent no less.

[Ding!]

[Let me handle this, sire.]

Inaia stepped up to the garish slave master. "Me and me broda here wanna do business with ya men. We met ya bangers at the harlots tents yester’night, remember, boy?"

[Ding!]

[System is currently planting memories in all human life-form minds within a 100m radius...]

[LEVEL: Anthropologic Meister.]

[DEITY: Dagon]

Eotigan watched the man put up a meaty arm and scratch his unkempt beard. "Yah, Rasta girl. Me remember dat ting now. You finna look diffarant today! Yester, you was all dolled up lak a pussy-slinging dame First-mate, and ya broda ’ere lak a naval Sergeant. You lookin’ lak real kin now. Banging, man! You too slippery!" The slaver enjoyed himself a corrupt once-over of both Inaia and Eotigan, in pirate colors. They had both changed before slipping in behind the crew twenty minutes ago. As he left, the bearded man kept staring them over and under, and almost keeled himself over a barrel; instantly bawling: "Man, who sister-fucker put dis goddamn ting on de road! Me almost break teeth on dis deck. Come on, man!"

He sucked in air through his teeth but Eotigan was glad his slimy gaze was finally averted.

Inaia drew back into his side.

"Sister? Really?" He told her.

"Yep." she sighed. "I needed to appeal to their fantasies." She let her golden-brown eyes run on him, "plus it could be the beginning of a delightful roleplay. What say you, Lord host?"

Eotigan looked down, meeting her smile. "Just keep the accent too for later."

[Yes sir]

She placed mentally, her cheeks already flashing pink.

Eotigan allowed himself a moment of their dangerous operation to feast his gold eyes wickedly on his delicious Subserviená, lusting in her slim-thick body. Inaia never ceased to amaze him. She was a Slavic-looking white girl with natural dreads and damning curves—and she spoke ruff patois? Damn! When that ugly slaver had been speaking it’d sounded like fucking concrete in Eotigan’s ears. But when Inaia had spoken—in that same broguish tongue. . .he just wanted her to keep talking. He wanted to fuck her mouth so good now, it was a rush against time.

Eotigan felt his dick bulbing and shifted his eyes from his lovely ’rasta girl’. He looked to the high yellow flag of the Red Virgin; the black sickle and hammer upon all its sails. And his straining cock dropped like lead in the sea. "Stay here." He instructed Inaia and started off. He had begun climbing the wooden steps leading to the upper deck of the vessel when he said psychically to her, "never leave the open area. These cunts are looking for an excuse to chain you too. And keep the [psyche bridge] open so you can listen in."

[Ding! Why, Lord host?]

"I am going to find the captain," said he, "I am a demon, but not without mercy. He shall get his chance to escape the brimming of Hellfire."

Inaia was smiling where she stood; she didn’t even know she was sapiosexual till she met her handsome devil—how she loved his forward mind.

[Standing by, Lord host.] She responded.

Eotigan breached the [psyche bridge] so it was one-way from her end as he vaulted the last step onto the upper deck. The winds had changed. The flag and sails began to billow. Eotigan knew it was nigh for the Red Virgin to break port.

This was his chance. His chance before the slaves were lost forever.

He approached easily the foreside, and was a bit gobsmacked when he found the hairy woman from earlier at the steers. She looked pretty confident as she gripped the wood bars; he supposed he’d be too if he had salty ocean breeze blowing over his nethers. With every whip and whistle of the wind, he could see her sex. The soft raising of her immaculate dress; the glimpse of stark white thighs; and the dewy triangle of curls.

Did she comb down there?

By Calypso, that was a full bush!

Eotigan was thinking: ’maybe I need to air my balls too.’ This woman looked so free—like even a Poseidon wave couldn’t knock her overboard. She sent him a little wave and Eotigan for sure knew that she knew he’d caught a bush. He nodded back and quickly looked anywhere else.

Eastward, his eyes fell on a tall, earringed brown man—the captain. He was facing the sea as Eotigan neared him.

"Silver from the Blights?" Eotigan’s bass announced his presence.

The brown man turned. "Ahh yes, the rings you mean," he fingered proudly the roundabout piercings on both his ears. "You must be the Naval soldier."

"Sergeant."

"Yes, pardon, Sergeant. Fresh on our decks and thirsty for some sinning, eh?" The Captain winked. Eotigan didn’t shift a muscle in his form. His hands remained tucked into his crisp Pirate tunic. The slaver Captain’s skin looked like a war between black and white; Eotigan could guess what won out in his case. He had the eyes of a serpent. Whilst the captain was thinking their new crew member was quite easy on the eyes, Eotigan was thinking the brown man had easily a bag of silver between both ears.

"The slaves," his voice dropped octaves, "show me."

And in that moment Eotigan had never seen a grin more like his Uncle’s. This slaver fucker would make imprisoned Lucifer mad happy. He already discerned there was no saving grace for the brown man; none in heaven, and certainly neither in Hel. The man did introduce himself as he led the way down a recluse stairwell of the vessel to a vast bunker-like space in the hull, but this is not of record as Eotigan intentionally forgot the name immediately.

The brown fucker stopped walking and Eotigan found they were in the Storage hold—Inaia was currently displaying blueprints of the Red Virgin in his minds-eye. In the initial darkness Eotigan could not see past five inches, but his vampiric side registered well over 200 heat signatures.

He prayed for the Captain’s soul it was swine locked up down there. Still, his stomach ran cold.

"Fuck, man! It’s ripe in ’ere." The brown man popped a window.

Rushing in with the morning sunlight was the unraveling spectacle of a human all-time low. Lars Eotigan beheld before him three hundred men and women, 300 slaves, bound tight to one another by huge iron chains on their wrists and ankles – their deep melanin was a refined black gold pouring out of sweaty skin; their naked muscular bodies carved of virile, velvety midnight, eyes dark and fierce. 300 fucking slaves!

This shit was banned across the Continent.

Eotigan blinked to be sure.

Did this super-pierced brown hobo cram 300 people into the hull of his ship in a space meant for fucking commodity?

The Captain slid up close—if only he knew the man beside him was half a second away from lighting him on fire, with his bare hands—and whispered conspiratorially, "I shall leave you be then. We’ve got about ten minutes before we break port. I recommend you do the lighter females first; they be really wild," he snickered, leaning in more, "pussy’s the juiciest." He licked his lips.

Eotigan’s [serpent symbiote] was snarling. He wanted to melt this fucker’s face off; see if he could still grin with sizzling lips.

The Slaver captain left the storage hold. And Eotigan was left staring into the blue midnight eyes of three hundred black faces. Jewels, in the rough. "Inaia?" He pschyed.

[Ding!]

[Still here, Lord host.]

"Good."

[Is it time to set them free?]

"Nay, Subserviená. We only give them the tools," Eotigan addressed, "it is they who set themselves free." He loosened his face as he looked upon them so they would know and see he wasn’t angry at them. Their countenance was brave. They were in fact the bravest bunch of earthlings to him—and he had fought in [Skyfall] against the Nephilims. Eotigan pulled off his tunic and showed his hands. Nothing in it. Still, the first female he approached; she was a lighter-shaded pretty young thing; crouched back from his touch.

"I mean no harm." He raised his hands higher. "See. No harm. No. Harm." He recited.

Only a slight warmth entered their collective faces. The girl did not look convinced. To her, he was just another ’spineless fire-haired white boy’. Eotigan wasn’t trying to change her mind about slavers though. He pondered upon her. Her hair was cut short, very close to the scalp; the women and men were alike in that aspect. But then, they were not alike in plenty other areas.

[Action, Lord host. Action.]

As Inaia’s honey voice streamed in Eotigan’s skull, he admitted. "Very well then."

And dropped only his left arm, palm facing upward. At once, three hundred tongues of red fire bloomed like plumes in the hollow of his palm and streamed out towards the bound slaves. They shrieked in unison, cowering, shutting out their eyes, their bodies used to expecting the trauma of pain. The tongues of fire did not hurl for them. But for their chains.

The iron on their wrists and ankles dropped like flax, burning off in the fires of Eotigan’s abyssal flame.

After several seconds of nothing, the 300 looked up.

Eotigan closed his palm. "No harm." He said again before their eyes. It was the fair-skinned black girl that stood first.

She was nude to her toes.

Her breasts balanced like soft pears on her chest—peaking and pointed. And the cleft of her legs held dewy brown, curly hair. She was real pretty.

Eotigan wouldn’t be caught eye-fucking a slave, no matter how hot, so he shifted back his stare to her face and her burgundy iris that seemed to say, "now what, fire-haired white boy."

"Now, vengeance!" He said aloud. His words they did not understand, but when he clicked his fingers; the snap thus materializing his [Helpocket], the slaves all peeked closer. This huge crimson dimension of his which vibrated out of thin air continued to hold their sight as he put forth a hand and pulled right out of it a gothic, very angry looking brass box. The [Helpocket] still loomed open behind, its unholy scarlet portal pulsing as Eotigan kicked the lid on the metal box.

Thraccc!

The lid went kaput! All 300 stretched on tiptoes.

This iron box was filled with guns.

"Courtesy of my Subserviená!" Eotigan doffed his dark hat, openly congratulating Inaia; he knew she was listening in. This loaded box of ammunition they had stolen off this very ship at their first landing in Röthmandu.

This box of bronze, heavy-duty discharge muskets.

A giant black man suddenly stepped forward and picked up a gun—muscles baked in sunset bulging. This statement of guns he did understand. He put the man in Mandingo. Unlike the girl, he was dark as a mine-lamp. Everywhere, he was dark, because Eotigan could literally see his BBC. He looked at the loaded gun, down at Eotigan, and then to his brethren. Then he lifted his musket high in a great roar. "YAAAHHHH!" Eotigan was pretty sure it rattled the deck above. "Mhmm. Grrrhh." He nodded at Eotigan and began marching up the steps that led out of the storage hold, buck naked.

The next moments were swift.

The thunder of chains rattling and hundreds pounding feet flooded the vessel’s hull, as tens of ripped, wronged black soul brothers hurtled past Eotigan, grunting as they picked up pound-heavy guns in milliseconds; the air was wet with the storm of iron and retribution. In heartbeats all who remained in the hold were Eotigan and the fair slave. She walked to him, close enough that he smelled the salt on the top of her short hair. "V-Ven...ven," she tried.

"Vengeance." He completed for her, nodding.

She did not give him a smile of gratitude bur her charcoal eyes eased on him. She bent forward and picked the last gun: a small brass pistol. And she was gone, like the flap of a naval flag, just as Eotigan heard the first shot blast up-deck.

—BOOM!

One slaver down!

BOOM! BOOM!

Two slaver motherfuckers down, man!

’I might make a song outta this.’ Eotigan smiled, shutting his [Helpocket] and starting off for the main event. Meanwhile, as the fair slave ascended those steps with her pistol, he really tried not to stare at those buttocks bounce. . .but damn, dat gal had one naughty behind.

He could already imagine his hands grasping that. Kneading the firmness. Groping the abundance—

[Ding!]

[Helpocket successfully used!]

[2nd Intra-volution reached]

[Host has acquired 3 Mission packs!]

Eotigan puffed back a loose curl of his orange Mohawk, telling psychically, "I’ll open them later, Inaia. Now, I just wanna watch this show. Don’t tell me you’ve seen better than 300 slaves shoot up a grand frigate."

[Sire?] He heard back.

"Yes, fine wine?]

[Get up here!]

The excitement in her sweet voice was insurmountable. And what a show it was.

The deck of the Red Virgin in chaos. Its proud golden sails and regal flag were on flaming fire. Cabins blazed here and there. Ash lifted in the air; gunpowder breathable as oxygen, with bullet casks raining on the brownwood. Crewmen, running helter-skelter from the splurge of furious gunshots, stumbled and fell over other dead crewmen. There was yelling and screaming and blood, just fucking blood, everywhere. And one sorry roper lad was impaled on the pole from which he was meant to be twining. His guts drained down like butter.

Eotigan and Inaia met atwixt, their boots slipping in fresh red blood. They could barely greet before another lanky dude’s head was blown completely off his shivering body 2m away from where they stood. Eotigan and Inaia looked at each other, and burst out laughing.

"Hahahahaha! Hahaha!"

It was a total assault; naked black hunks—swinging big junks, were chasing these utter cunts all over the place, hammering them with guns, barrels, fists, goddamn seashells. It was funny. . .if you were a demon that found humor in brains busting and intestines flying.

"You, S-Sergeant," the Slaver captain shouted, crouched over the corpse of the hairy snatch woman—she had a pin-hole in her head; Eotigan was guessing the Chocoleta got her. "—get the rescue boats! Ready them yonder!" The Captain shrieked more. Eotigan followed the path of his hand. "Oh you mean those boats?" He chuckled dryly, and instantly set the canoes aflame with a spark of [Darkfyre].

Billous, black and terrible smoke rose up to the morning skies, both of the burning ship and charring flesh. The slaves—glistening with heat and ardor, heaped up bodies upon anything that would burn.

"You! You’re one of them! These black pigs?!" The captain screamed at Eotigan.

All he got back was a smug chuckle. "You bet your earringed, cunty ass I am. And I bet your mama was one too."

This, for some reason infuriated the captain and he yelled loudly. "YOU ALOOF GOLD-EYED GINGER FUCK! I NEVER LIKED YOU—" He was cut off blindly by a mighty black fist. And before he could reconcile the direction of the hit, a gathering of huge men were upon him. Women too. Fists rose and fell. And when they were done with him, tossing his useless body overboard, all the Captain’s years of swimming could not save him—for all his bones had been broken.

Like a lump of gravel, he sank down the ocean, drowning into deep blue abyss.

All the while, Eotigan and his sexy Subserviená were sitting on a plump-ass bench outside a burning cabin on the vessel’s high deck, eating from the brown fucker’s own breakfast mutton, watching it all happen in slow motion, smiling from start to finish. Eotigan and Inaia enjoyed their weird visual delight for far more longer than should be legal.

And by the time the corrupt marshals of Pirates Haven finally left the beds of whatever whores they’d bedded last night, the Red Virgin had breached port and was well on her way. The idiot cops stood on the outer banks gazing at the smoking ship flee the island. It was perhaps this morning that the vessel finally earned her name, Red.

300 freed slaves had hijacked a full ship—with the help of an errant devil and his girlfriend? What a morning? And what a fucking goss it was gonna be?

Eotigan and the bronze-skinned brethren—their bodies unburnt by the tropical sun—ferried away into the Cold Sea. And all the ignorant cops on the port docks could make of their freedom flag was the roasted, hanging heads of their former slavemasters.

Eotigan was enjoying some happy villain time in company of some real bad bros and bitches when—

[Ding!]

[A possible new concubine detected!]

[Engage: Y/N?]

Eotigan looked to Inaia, puzzled, when he spotted the fair pretty girlie approaching, climbing down the forehelm; naked, thick, brilliantly decorated in her enemies’ blood, and hoisting one baaaad gun over her shoulder.