Posted by Ric delCampo on April 02, 2003 at 08:48:42:
A Season with the Dallas Cowgirl Cheerleaders
By Ric delCampo
Chapter One
Dallas Cowgirls vs. San Francisco Fairies
Raquel Ramos was apprehensive. She wasn’t afraid. She just couldn’t believe that she had been selected as a member of the Dallas Cowgirls Cheerleader squad. Today was the first day of spring training. All her life she had been put down.
“You’re too stupid.” “You’re too skinny.” “You’re ugly.” “No man would ever want you.” And most of that from her mother. And her three older sisters— breeders all.
She was surrounded by beautiful women. Stunningly beautiful women. Only the most beautiful women-- though non-breeders—were accepted into the cheerleading squads. Raquel could not believe she was beautiful enough to be a cowgirl; but she was!
A blonde goddess approached the milling girls. She was a pure Amazon. Six feet two, a long mane of honey blonde hair, firm breasts. Not an once of body fat on her finely toned body.
She wore the uniform of a Dallas Cowgirl: A bright blue blouse, long billowy sleeves, bare midriff, a white vest, tightly hugging her round breasts, exposing tantalizing cleavage. White hot pants. Knee-high, leather cowboys boots with high heels.
“My name is Christine Golden. I am your Captain. And I have one question for you: Who here wants to die?”
“OOH OOH! I do! I do!” A bubbly blonde with bouncing breasts was jumping up and down, raising both her hands. “I do!”
With one smooth, rapid movement, Christine drew a Colt .44 revolver and blasted a hole clean through Bouncing Betty’s chest. Hit her dead center. There was a spray of blood from her chest, and a gout of blood from her back. She seemed suspended in mid-jump, for just a moment, then fell like a puppet with its strings cut. She died with her eyes wide with surprise, her mouth gaping open. Her hands clutching her wounded body.
All the girls suddenly became very quiet. No doubt many of them, perhaps the majority of them, wanted to die. But not like this. They expected to go out in a blaze of glory, before a cheering crowd of thousands.
“Let me make one thing clear to you bitches,” Christine declared as with the voice of Goddess. “This is my forth year as a Dallas cheerleader. But my first as team Captain. Forget everything your fucking mothers taught you. Forget everything your damned schoolteachers taught you. Forget everything you ever heard about the squads. This year you’re playing for me. This year you’re playing by my rules. And this year you’re taking me to the Super Bowl!”
At this moment Raquel recognized something amazing, extraordinary was happening. And it wasn’t just that Christine had survived four years. The average life of a cheerleader was less than three-fourths of a single season.
No. Christine was openly challenging basic tenants of life. She was declaring her intention to win. Aggressiveness, competitiveness, the will to win—all manly traits. All outlawed since the war. All but erased from the human race— to ensure its very survival.
Christine could have been executed for merely suggesting their revival—except that cheerleaders were exempted from the law.
Other than that, the first day went as routine: Each girl was issued a Dallas Cheerleader uniform. She was assigned a penthouse apartment, with a staff of five servants to see to her every need. She was assigned a dresser, a hair-stylist, a make-up artist, and they met their dance choreographer. The coaches were introduced.
And high in the owner’s box, the team owner: Scott McKoy, the only male owner in the league, was pointed out to them.
The second day the changes began. The first three hours were firearms instruction—by trained, ex-military types.
There wasn’t a girl there who had held a real gun her hands. And most showed it by their sheer incompetence.
But for Raquel, the heavy metal instrument of death felt molded to her hands. It was the most delicious feeling in the world.
Her first six shots punched holes dead center in the bull’s eye fifty feet away.
“Very good!” her instructor said. “You’re a natural.”
The rest of the daily routine went as expected. There were hours of practice on their cheerleading and dance routines. Three hours in the gym, as each girl was required to maintain her body in perfect form.
Evenings were for fine dining and each girl had her choice of a masculine gigolo to satisfy her. (Non-breeders, of course.)
As the first four weeks of spring training continued, another aberration appeared: the coaches were teaching them strategy. They had a plan to win.
Christine divided the team into three categories. Runners: the fastest girls on the team, Shooters, the best shots on the team, and Cannon-Fodder, those that were good at neither.
Raquel was a Shooter. The first week target practice was with round bull’s-eyes. The second with human silhouettes. From then on the targets were full colored photographs of girls wearing the uniforms of opposing teams. Raquel delighted in placing her shots right where she wanted them.
In her mind’s eye she pictured her target as one of her sisters or one of the snobs in high school that had taunted her, and shot her dead.
About four week into training Christine gathered the shooters around her.
“By tradition we Cowgirls carry the Colt .44 revolver,” she said, “six shots. Most teams carry semi-automatics, with nine to fifteen shots. That puts us as quite a disadvantage. So we have to make up for that. We have to cheat. We have to make every shot count.
“By tradition we never shoot to kill instantaneously. That’s why head shots are against the rules. Belly shots are the preferred; they cause a slow, sensual death. Low shots into the cunts are also encouraged. Breast shots are real crowd pleasers. And that’s where we’re going. Especially the left breast. We’ll throw in a few cunt shots, a few tummy shots, just to mix it up and please the crowd. Confuse the ref’s. But we’re going for the kill with every shot. Nobody misses. Ever. No leg shots. No arm shots either. We don’t miss and we kill with every bullet.”
“You expect us to become proficient?” a girl asked.
“Yeah!” Christine smiled wickedly.
Raquel smiled back conspiratorially. She bet that nobody had ever asked any of these girls to become proficient at anything, ever. Proficiency was another of those evil manly traits that had gotten the world into so much trouble.
The Cowgirls trained hard for eight weeks. Like all the squads they became adequate at their dance routine. But like no other team before them, they became proficient with their firearms and tactics.
Their first match was against the San Francisco Fairies.
In San Francisco.
By tradition, all the Fairies were lesbians. (Naturally, no breeders,) But not a butch among them. All were Hollywood beautiful. The team captain was a token Caucasian. The rest were Asians, Hispanics, and Blacks.
Their uniforms were a transparent white blouse with billowy sleeves, billowy white harem pants, and gossamer fairy wings. No need for bras, each girl had firm, erect breasts. They carried Glock 9mms.
Their dance routine was like something out of the Arabian nights. Lots of belly gyrations.
The Cowgirls went through their routine. A more traditional march theme.
Now the crowd was really worked up. Not only had they been sexually stimulated—the very purpose of the matches—they all knew what was coming next.
Tradition had it that the very first Cheerleader gun-fight occurred after a cheerleading competition in which the judges refused to name a winner. The girls had decided to settle it for themselves, after the match, in the parking lot, with guns. History doesn’t record who won—only that the crowd was more exited by the shoot-out than by the competition. A record number of babies were born nine months later. And three months after that the cheerleader gun-fights were born.
The Fairies’s Captain issued the traditional challenge. The first twenty-five girls from each team lined up on the field. The Fairies lined up in one ragged, disorganized line on their twenty-yard line.
The Cowgirls formed up in three wide V formations. The first V were the Cannon Fodder: ten girls. They acted as human shields for the second V directly behind them: the Shooters. Four girls were designated as runners. Two on each side of the field, behind the shooters.
And Christine Golden, as team Captain, out in front of them all.
The referees called for the coin toss and Christine joined the head referee and the Fairy Captain in the center of the field. The toss went to the Fairies; they would take the first shot.
The captains stood back-to-back at the fifty yard line. At the whistle’s blow, they would each walk to their forty yard line, turn, and fire. To the Fairies’s captain would go the privilege of the first shot. Christine would have to hold her fire until fired upon.
The whistle blew. Christine marched toward her team. At the forty yard line, she turned and raised her weapon—and waited.
The Fairy Captain fired. Her shot went wild. In a wild panic she whirled around and fled for her girls.
Christine shot her in the back. The Fairy Captain stopped, she clawed at her back. Her back arched, her whole body stiffened as it shut down. Blood soaked into her silky uniform. She trembled, relaxed her dying body, and fell face first into the turf.
Christine waved her girls forward, then knelt and took up a shooting stance.
The Fairy line opened up. Most of the Cowgirls were still out of effective range—the pistols and revolvers were limited to a maximum range of eighty yards. Don’t want to kill the audience. But they even missed Christine.
The Cowgirls began their advance, slow, steady, fearless. They didn’t waste a round with a return shot. Yet.
Christine picked off a petit Asian girl, her silky long, black hair flowing, as if in the wind, as she fell in slow motion. A bullet in her left breast.
Most of the Fairies expended their first clips in a few seconds. They abruptly ceased fire as they all ran out of ammo at nearly the same time.
The Cowgirls resolutely advanced.
“Fire!”
Twelve of the Cowgirls fired their first round of the day. Seven Fairies clutched at bleeding breasts, stomachs, and cunts. They stumbled, staggered, and collapsed into the grass, bleeding, writhing in pain, and moaning in orgasmic ecstasy.
Raquel was in the second volley. She sighted in on an Hispanic girl. A tall, slender, dark girl who reminded her of one of her sisters. Raquel nearly had an orgasm as her bullet punctured the girl’s left breast and put her down. With the second volley, six more Fairies died.
Four of the survivors had reloaded, on the field, and returned fire. But the other six fled in a panic. They weren’t headed toward the reload zone, or even to their own bench. The crowd roared its disapproval.
The cannon fodder girl directly in front of Raquel stopped and hugged her belly. She moaned. Then she pitched head first into the ground.
She was the Cowgirl’s first loss.
The referees called a time-out while the cowardly Fairies were rounded up and returned to the field.
The Cowgirls were awarded six penalty shots.
One by one the cowards were marched to their forty yard line. A single Cowgirl stood at her forty yard line and took a single, free shot at the Fairy. Christine had chosen shooters to take the penalty shots and not one missed.
Raquel took the last shot. Her target was a statuesque black goddess with cascading ebony hair and huge, inviting breasts.
“Tit shot!” Raquel nonchalantly announced before aiming. Some one with a shot-gun mike picked up her announcement, and before she realized what was happening, one of the color-commentators announced: “The Cowgirl has declared she will kill her opponent with a tit-shot!”
While the crowd roared its approval at Raquel’s apparent assuredness, a Fairy coach ran to the head referee to complain.
Raquel couldn’t disappoint her fans. She shot the Fairy right through her left breast. The tall girl clutched at her wounded breast. Moaned for all to hear, and slowly, sank to her death.
“What the hell was that?” Christine demanded as Raquel returned to her place in the Cowgirl line. But her angry scowl was briefly interrupted by a smile.
“Foul!” the head referee shouted as she threw her handkerchief. “A Cowgirl has displayed self-assuredness. The Fairies are awarded one penalty shot.”
Raquel was marched out to the forty yard line while a Fairy was chosen to take the penalty shot.
Raquel wasn’t afraid, just disappointed. She had expected to die from the day she had been accepted on the squad. But Christine’s training had convinced her she would survive a few matches, perhaps the entire season. She had looked forward to killing many opponents, earning lots of money—which she wouldn’t leave to her ungrateful family—and enjoying the perks of being a cheerleader.
But now she wouldn’t even survive the first quarter. No, she wasn’t afraid, she was furious.
The Fairy’s shot went wild. By at least ten feet.
Raquel was so angry, she couldn’t control herself. “Missed me by a mile!” she shouted. Then, without waiting for the referees to call another penalty shot, she marched forward to the fifty yard line and waited patiently while the Fairy took another shot. This one whizzed by Raquel’s left ear.
The crowd roared enthusiastically as Raquel calmly returned to the Cowgirl ranks. They had never witnessed anything like this before.
The Fairies sent in all fifteen of their replacements.
The Cowgirls massacred the Fairies. As they reached the Fairy thirty yard line, Christine gave the signal for the runners to advance. On the left, one cannon fodder fell, then the shooter right behind her. But the runner behind her dashed across the goal line for six points. Right behind her were a cannon fodder, another runner, and their shooter, who paused at the goal line, shot the nearest Fairy in the back, then stepped across the goal line.
On the right side the two runners, and their cannon-fodders and runners were briefly pinned down.
But a fusillade from the Cowgirls center broke the Fairy line and six more Cowgirls scored.
Christine paused the Cowgirl center at the twenty yard line and her girls picked off the surviving Fairies.
With all forty Fairies lying dead on the field, the remaining Cowgirls could have easily scored. But Christine decided it was best not to run up the score. She picked one Cowgirl to make a symbolic run to the goal line, while the rest returned to their bench.
The final score was Cowgirls: 106.
Fairies: 3.
End of Chapter One.