Posted by Ric delCampo on April 04, 2003 at 08:01:00:
A Season with the Dallas Cowgirl Cheerleaders
By Ric delCampo
Chapter Three
Dallas Cowgirls vs. Tokyo Schoolgirls
A few days after their slaughter of the New Jersey Nuns, Scott McKoy, the Dallas Cowgirls owner invited Raquel to have dinner with him in his penthouse apartment. She was duly impressed by the apartment’s opulence, and the table was set with exotic foods Raquel didn’t recognize; but the fine wine tasted awful.
Mr. McKoy was an average looking man, not ugly. But no hunk either. Twenty-four years old, short for a man, average weight. There was nothing about him that would set him apart from the crowd, that would distinguish him as a multi-millionaire.
He was very polite and very soft-spoken, and, contrary to her expectations, made no sexual demands upon her.
“Miss Ramos, or do I call you Ms. Ramos?”
“Raquel.”
“Are you sure?”
“It’s the name my mother gave him.”
“It’s a beautiful name. Did you know about a hundred years ago one of the most beautiful and famous actresses in Hollywood was named Raquel?”
“I’m sure my mother didn’t know that.”
“You’re much more beautiful than that actress.”
The small talk continued as they dined. When they had finished Mr. McKoy escorted her into his library.
“I am very much impressed with your performance so far on the field,” Mr. McKoy said. “May I ask you a question? What do you think of Christine Golden?”
“I like her,” Raquel said. “She’s probably the first real friend I’ve ever had.”
“I’ve been watching you; you’ve been going out of your way to save her life. I’ve counted at least three times when you’ve saved her. I want you to know how much I appreciate that. There’ll be a little extra in your pay envelope next week. But that’ll be our little secret. Okay? Big Sister doesn’t need to know.”
“Who?”
“Big Sister. The government. Bonuses and incentives are against the law. We wouldn’t want any of our employees trying to excel over other employees, would we?”
“Nooo,” Raquel said, equally facetiously. “That wouldn’t be fair.”
“I have a confession to make,” Mr. McKoy said. “Can you keep a secret?”
“Yeah.”
“When my mother gave me the team, I didn’t want it. The whole Cheerleader gunfight thing disgusts me. It’s just another example of ‘Bread and Circuses’ and I wanted nothing to do with it.”
“Then I saw Christine. I fell desperately, madly in love with her . . .”
“Wait. Wait!” Raquel interrupted. “You’re in love with Christine? Does she know?”
“Yes, she knows.” Scott seemed very melancholy. “She’s amused; but she doesn’t love me. We’re friends, at best. I’m her willing puppet at worst. When she asked to be team captain, I gave her the job. When she told me about her scheme, I kept quiet and supported her.
“I can never hope to marry her, even if she were willing; it’s against the law for a breeder to marry a non-breeder. I don’t even hold out hope she’ll someday become my mistress. But I don’t want her to die. I want her to live!
“So I’m going to make you a deal. It’s illegal. I hope you’ll keep my confidence, even though I’m a real asshole for asking you this.”
“Go on.” Raquel could see he was quite sincere.
“I want you to keep saving Christine’s life. No matter what else. If it costs you the game, or even the Super Bowl.” He stopped. He stammered. “This is the real hard part to ask—even if it costs you your life.”
“Yeah, sure,” Raquel said without hesitating.
“It can’t be that easy.”
“I never expected to survive the year anyway,” Raquel said. “This way—what’d you call the government? Big Sister? This way I’ll be spitting in Big Sister’s eye on the way out.”
“There’ll be a bonus each time. And if you do die-- I’ll pay you for the whole season. Who’s your beneficiary?”
“I checked off the top three recommended charities.”
“Don’t you have a family you want your money to go to?”
“Not one that I want to give money to. Better strangers than my family.”
“Raquel, I feel like a real asshole. I really hope you survive the season. And I really hope you retire.”
Training continued on schedule, without let-up. Their next match was a home game against a team from outside the league, from Japan: The Tokyo Schoolgirls. Christine met with Scott in his box the day before the match.
“My spies tell me they’re a push-over,” Scott told her. “They’re really fixated on dying. Their government brainwashes them into wanting it.”
He handed her some video of previous games. “I don’t know how much this’ll help. All the girls on these videos are already dead. You’ll be facing a whole new team Saturday.”
“Any dope’ll help,” Christine said.
“Christine . . .” Scott stammered.
“Come on, Scott; we’ve already had this discussion. You’re a good friend. Can’t we leave it at that?”
“Christine, I just want you to know what you’re doing is really brave. The whole human race has been screwed up since the war and the plague. Every one is so afraid of repeating past mistakes, that we’ve become a race of cowards. Maybe it’s a good thing we’re breeding ourselves out of existence.”
“If we’re ever going to survive, it’ll be because of people like you: People not afraid of doing what you want, of achieving what you want, of daring to challenge the status quo.”
“Shut up, Scott,” Christine said. “I’m just a fuckin’ cheerleader, not the next Messiah!”
The home crowd cheered as the Cowgirls took to the field and went through their drills. The band was especially good today. When they were finished the Tokyo Schoolgirls raced onto the field.
The Schoolgirls were all young, twenty-one to twenty-three years old, petite, slender, delicate girls. All had surgically enhanced breasts and long, silky, black hair. Smooth delicate brown skin. Sparkling brown almond-eyes. All were Asian, mostly Japanese.
Their uniform were: White tennis shoes and loose, white cotton socks. Ultra-short, plaid mini-skirts. The mini-skirts were so short every time they bent over—which was often—you could see their white cotton panties. Tight, white dress blouses. A red cravat and blue blazers with a gold crest over the left breast pocket. Many of them wore round, wire-rim glasses. For their dance routine none of them were armed.
Their dance routine consisted of many bumps and grinds. They stripped off their blue blazers and threw them to the ground. Off went their cravats. They unbuttoned their blouses to show off their lacey black bras barely restraining firm young breasts. Each girl paired up with another to conclude their routine by French kissing and licking each other’s clitoris. The stadium was filled with the sound of forty moaning girls.
When they finished masturbating each other, they bowed to the audience, pulled up their panties, and partially buttoned their blouses. Most knotted their blouses to leave their midriffs bare. All left delicate brown cleavage exposed.
Then their Captain came out, she was a tall, stunningly beautiful girl of about thirty. She wore a pink teacher’s suit, custom tailored to accentuate her voluptuous body. Her skirt was as short as the Schoolgirls’, her legs long and athletic. She wore sheer black nylons and black, high-heel shoes. She had a blue tie and wire-rim glasses.
“You all ugly mongrels!” she shouted at the Cowgirls. “You no dance good. No mans want you. You no good sluts!” The she smiled, turned to the crowd, and bowed gracefully.
“Them’s fightin’ words, you whore!” Christine shouted back. “You ain’t good enough to lick our boots!”
“You die, slut!” The Japanese captain screamed.
“You first, cunt!”
They two women met at midfield. Christine won the coin toss.
A Schoolgirl ran onto the field and handed her captain a Nambu Type 14 pistol. The rest of the Schoolgirls armed themselves with Nambus, Samurai swords, and Ninja throwing stars.
The two teams assembled on their respective twenty yard lines.
“I can’t hardly wait to die, can’t you?” the Schoolgirl Captain whispered to Christine as they stood back-to-back. “I’ll die so sensually.”
“Where do you want it?” Christine asked.
“What makes you think you shall kill me?”
“I don’t think, I know.”
They began their march to the forty yard line. Christine reached hers first. She patiently waited for the Schoolgirl Captain to turn around.
Christine shot her right through her left pink breast pocket, right though her tight, white blouse and her lacey black bra, right into her juicy breast. The Captain clutched her breast with a grimace. Blood bubbled through her long delicate fingers. Her clean white blouse was stained deep red.
She gave three little, desperate gasps for breath, then slowly spun on her heels and sank to the ground. Dead.
Christine took a step back, took up a shooting stance, and motioned for the Cowgirls to advance.
The Schoolgirls milled around in confusion at the twenty yard line. Suddenly, another girl, dressed like a prim and proper teacher, raced onto the field and huddled with the Schoolgirls.
After a brief huddle, the Schoolgirls lined up in two ranks. The new Captain out front, her sword raised.
“Banzai!”
The Schoolgirls charged toward Christine.
Christine fired at the new Captain and missed. A girl behind her took it high in her chest and dropped out and dropped dead.
Christine fired all six rounds in rapid precision. She killed six Schoolgirls; but then she was out of ammo. By all rights she was permitted to withdraw to the safety of the reloading zone. But Christine was too proud to show her back to these girls and flee from them. She held her place before the onrushing mob.
Raquel saw that Christine was about to be overrun. “Charge!” she screamed. “Open fire!”
Christine wisely dropped to the ground as bullets zipped overhead.
The Cowgirls all fired simultaneously. Thirteen Schoolgirls clutched at bleeding breasts and tummies. They stumbled and fell and the others tripped over them.
The Banzai charge was broken up and the Schoolgirls backpedaled in retreat.
Raquel slowed the Cowgirls to a brisk walk. Christine stood up to await them.
“Time out!” The Schoolgirl Captain was calling for a time out. A ref’ blew her whistle.
A replacement Schoolgirl ran onto the field and handed her captain a short sword. The Captain turned to her teammates. “I apologize for leading you into such a disastrous charge.”
She knelt down facing her team. She took the sword, placed its razor sharp tip at her belly and shoved it in. The Cowgirls watched in amazement as the blade emerged from her back. She gave it a violent twist. Blood erupted from her belly and poured out her back. She convulsed, twisted, and fell onto her side, the sword handle protruding from her dead body.
Another girl, dressed in a crisp white suit, ran out onto the field as a replacement Captain as the crowd roared its approval.
The Cowgirls advanced to the fifty yard line and slowed to a snail’s pace. Christine was wary of what they would try next, and while she wanted to be in range, she didn’t want to engage in close quarter battle just yet.
The Cowgirls began picking off Schoolgirls one by one. This third Captain was struggling to organize her squad and became utterly useless.
A few Schoolgirls returned fire.
Raquel shot a Schoolgirl in her belly. She enjoyed watching the sexy, little girl squirm and writhe. There didn’t seem to be any hurry, so she shot another in her belly too.
A schoolgirl thrust her sword into the sky, and screaming like a banshee, she rushed at the Cowgirl line. A hot .44 slug dead center of her chest stopped her short and dropped her in her tracks. She died with an absolute stunned look on her face.
Another Schoolgirl, who waited till the first was down and dead, raised her sword for another solitary charge. She rushed right at Raquel’s cannon-fodder. The Cowgirl desperately fired off all six rounds and missed all six times.
“Behind me!” Raquel shouted and rushed forward to protect her human shield. She fired point-blank into the onrushing girl, who even as hot slug after hot slug tore through her lithe body, kept coming. Raquel fired her last shot right into the Asian girl’s heart. She dropped her sword and dropped dead at Raquel’s feet.
Raquel holstered her six-shooter, snatched up the sword, and without thinking, charged toward the Schoolgirls.
“Remember the Alamo!” she screamed at the top of her lungs, and had no idea why she had said that.
The home crowd was on its feet shouting and cheering in absolute ecstasy.
Raquel ran right up to the Schoolgirl Captain and thrust the sword into her bellybutton. The shocked girl gasped as the sharp metal blade cut and penetrated her smooth skin, sliced through her guts, and emerged out her back.
She moaned and grasped at the handle.
“Die! Slut!” Raquel snarled in her face.
Bright red blood poured out of her wounded body and stained her immaculate suit. “Ooooh! I’m dead!” she moaned and fell onto a heap at Raquel’s feet.
The whistle blew. The first quarter was over.
The crowd roared. “Raquel! Raquel! Raquel!” They chanted in admiration.
“You’re in deep shit now,” Christine whispered to her a few moments later as they reassembled for the second quarter. “They know your name. The Commissioner isn’t going to like this.”
There were only eleven Schoolgirls left alive to start the second quarter. The Cowgirls had yet to suffer a loss.
One of the Schoolgirls stripped out of her schoolgirl uniform and dressed in a sky-blue suit. She took up a sword.
“They seem to have a high turn-over in captains,” Raquel quipped.
“I wouldn’t want to have that problem,” Christine responded.
“Nor I.”
“Okay, girls,” Christine said, “take it easy. We’ve got ‘em fucked. Let’s not lose any one needlessly.” The Cowgirls started a slow advance.
A Schoolgirl dashed forward and hurled a throwing star. It sank into the forehead of a Cowgirl. Her eyes suddenly crossed and she dropped dead. Christine shot the Schoolgirl in her asshole.
No whistle blew. The match continued.
The Cowgirls advanced to the twenty yard line. Another Cowgirl took a shot in her left breast and went down trembling. Five more Schoolgirls bit the dust. Clutching at bloody holes in their sexy bodies. Hugging their guts in agony and pain and horror.
Raquel shot another Schoolgirl in her cunt and smiled as the dying girl tried desperately to masturbate one last time before she died. Maybe she was trying to alleviate some of the pain, or stanch the massive bleeding from her wounded vagina. But she died before climaxing.
The Schoolgirl Captain gave a signal. The last four Schoolgirls dropped their panties, thrust the muzzles of their Nambus up their pussies, and fired. All four girls dropped to the grass writhing in pain. One by one they bleed out and became still.
The Captain took her sword, held the razor sharp tip to her nether-lips, and thrust it in. Her eyes went wide. She gasped. And she fell dead, the handle of her sword protruding between her sprawled legs.
“Cease fire.”
The Cowgirls exchanged amazed looks.
“Runners! Forward. Go ahead and score,” Christine ordered. The four runners dashed across the goal line while the rest of the Cowgirls returned to the bench amidst the cheers of an admiring crowd.
Final Score:
Cowgirls: 64.
Schoolgirls: 2.
A Secret Service agent ushered the Commissioner into the Matriarch’s office.
“Madame Matriarch, it’s so good of you to make time for me,” the commissioner said humbly.
“I am always willing to meet with a fellow public servant,” the Matriarch said sincerely. When the Commissioner had taken her seat, the Matriarch asked, “What can I do for you?”
“I have terrible news,” the Commissioner said. “I have information that one of my teams is deliberately trying to win. They have ambitions to reach the Super Bowl.”
“Aren’t the teams playing in the Super Bowl there by random?”
“Theoretically. With no deliberate winners, teams reach the Super Bowl by sheer luck. But this team is deliberately trying to win all its matches in order to reach the Super Bowl. By their own planning and efforts. What’s worse is that they’re even planning to win.”
“Which team is it?”
“The Dallas Cowgirls.”
“That’s Scott McKoy’s team. I know his mother—a fine woman. We should never have let a man become a team owner.”
“I have even worse news. It’s not Scott McKoy; though I suspect he knows about the plot. It’s the team Captain: Christine Golden. And there’s also another team member, a Raquel Ramos. She is guilty of multiple counts of Grandstanding. I’m sure she’s in on it too”
“We can’t prosecute these traitors to womanhood; we’ve granted immunity from the law to the cheerleaders so they can kill each other.” The Matriarch sighed. “It was such a good plan: to satisfy the public thirst for entertainment, stimulating the unwasheds’ sexual appetites and increasing the birthrate, while killing off useless, non-breeding women. It’s hard to believe women are betraying us.”
“I’ll have them secretly brought in and executed. They’ll just disappear. We’ll find some deranged, non-breeder male to blame it on.”
“There’s one more problem, Madame Matriarch,” The Commissioner said.
“Go on.”
“After every Dallas match, the pregnancy rate goes up. It’s at least six times higher than when any other team wins. And it’s increasing with every Dallas victory. If the Dallas Cowgirls do win the Super Bowl, we could possible increase the population by several hundred thousand.”
The Matriarch found herself in a quandary. The national birth rate was lower than the national death rate. Nine out of every ten births produced a sterile, non-breeder. Female births outpaced male births by nine to one. All a result of the generic warfare, and subsequent generic plagues, of the last world war. Women finally controlled the world, but the men hadn’t left them with much.
The government desperately tried every method imaginable to increase the birth rate—as long as no male ideas or philosophies prevailed. Men had ruined the world. They would not be permitted to save it.
Sports had been outlawed decades ago. A previous Matriarch had instituted the Cheerleader Gun-Fights as a substitute for sports when it was discovered that watching women battling to the death stimulated the libido of the great unwashed.
The Matriarch herself often masturbated while watching the matches in secret. Though she could not admit this to her peers. Publicly, cheerleader gun-fights were beneath her.
The Matriarch weighted carefully two opposing goals. She desperately needed to increase the birth rate. However, she could not let her nation revert to primitive male philosophies.
“Kill Raquel Ramos in the next match,” she finally said. “But make sure no one knows it was planned. We’ll let Christine Golden lead her team to the Super Bowl. But they must lose and Christine must die. Kill all the Cowgirls.”
“Yes, Madame Matriarch.”
“Let know one know of this. The victories and losses must continue to appear at random.”
“Yes, Madame Matriarch.”
“And we must find a way to take the team away from Scott McKoy. Never again can we trust a man with a cheerleader squad.”
“Yes, Madame Matriarch.”
End of Chapter Three.