Vanishing Manhood: Part 14

Israel Jenkins and the Last Real Man on Earth.

Based on ‘One In Ten’ by FinalStand, adapted into 17 parts. Listen to the ► Podcast at Explicit Novels.

Your mind is your arsenal, fortress, and armory. Your words are potential weapons you give to your enemies to assault the citadel of your soul.

At the Sentinel Eloise gave me the plan for the day. Doyle was in the 'bull pen' with the other journalists. The President of the Federation was going to make a personal appeal for me to join the National Government in dealing with this crisis. In case I was feeling 'uppity', there was going to be a special taskforce of the FBI around to make me behave.

"Do you know who is in charge of this Watch Dog group?" I inquired.

"Some hot shot out of the Capital named Enola Treyvon," Eloise studied me. "I think you've met her." How did Eloise know all this shit?

"Yeah, we've met. She opted not to keep me in custody at the time," I replied in the least informative way I could think of.

"There has to be a story in there somewhere," Eloise pressed.

"Which you are not going to get," Capri intervened. "Did you miss Israel nearly getting killed in the shootout yesterday with your favorite mobster and the cops?"

"Since neither you, nor Mr. Jensen were questioned, I would discern you both made it out before things got too bad," Ms. Granger smirked.

"So, are you going to GNN this morning, Israel?" Eloise turned to me.

"Sure, why not?" I shrugged.

"What's your exit strategy this time? I don't think 'running down the stairs' will work out all that way with the FBI standing around waiting for you," she prodded.

How in the hell was I going to get out? Dimples would give me a head start, but what then? I needed something, a big distraction, that didn't involve people dying.

'Never be ashamed, of my best, efforts?'

The chaos that had haunted my life had me leaving multiple things undone, like laundry, and the Sexbook account Troy Berry had created for me.

Flash mobs had expired during the Gender Plague. A generation later, women rediscovered the spontaneity or activism of their parent(s). I had never participated in one. I had been invited to a few, but anything associated with women and the word 'mob' was a nonstarter for me. This morning, I was relying on a piece of social media I'd never used to do something I had avoided like death itself.

Here was hoping I still had fans.

I had to borrow Capri's tablet and off I went. I had over 32,000 'friends.’ There were 1,754 unanswered requests.

"Israel?" Capri asked gently. Both she and Eloise looked over my shoulder.

"Wow, you are a rock star," Eloise mused.

"I didn't know Sexbook had a Fan Fiction page," Capri noted. I was back to wanting to die of embarrassment. I didn't deserve this, as in I wasn't worthy of this level of attention.

"What's the plan?" Eloise prodded.

I began referencing locations and ages of my 'friends', created a list and launched this appeal.

I am the real Israel Jensen. I'm not promising anyone any sexual favors whatsoever. The last 48 hours have been a mess and I've done things you must all view as questionable. I regret only that I cannot do more for more people.

I have always been drawn to passion and I've been lucky to share that love with several women close to me. I am sick to my soul that I let my wounds keep me from the thing that turns out to have healed me the most. I owe Angel and Kuiko, whom you may know, and Freya and Venus whom you do not. Debra, I apologize I couldn't be more. M.

In an hour, I am about to do what I've done every other morning this week, something colossally stupid and definitely something that is going to piss people off. This is going to be my last hurrah, for some time, if not forever. Odds are I'm going to end up in either Metropolitan or Federation custody. I'm going to make a run for it anyway.

That's where all of you come in. I need your help. I have nothing to offer in return. If any of you are crazy enough to help, gather in front of the GNN building at 8:15 this morning. If you don't show up, never be afraid to say you had a chance to do something asinine and pointless then wised up in time. May whatever face of the Divine gives you comfort be with you.

Israel Jensen

I was hoping to hear something in ten minutes, or so. I had barely handed the tablet back when a message popped up.

“What is your favorite color?” GoldenDoe34 sent. Huh?

Kelly Green. My Mother had a recreation battle flag of the Irish Brigade in our living room at home I answered.

“That's not what your page says” she pressed.

That's because Troy Berry set up the page without consulting me I replied.

“Where did you and Venus have sex?” PandorSweets sent.

I'm not sure I should say. That was between us I countered.

“She said in her review of you” PandorSweets stated. What the?

My bracelet is broken. I didn't think women could post reviews I wondered.

“Hold on” GoldenDoe34 posted. Then,

Freya posted;

Thank you, Israel, for saving my life and the life of my Son. Remember, you were the man who cares deeply before you ever came to be at my side.

Venus added;

I should hardly need to say that the sex was wonderful. It was. As any woman who has ever had intercourse with him has said, Israel gave his all as if I was the only woman in the world that mattered. What was special to me was what came after we made love in the shower. As we dried off, he reached out and held my hand.

He took me to his bedroom then asked me to close my eyes as he dressed because at his core, he is a shy, gentle soul. This may not make sense to many of you, but at that moment I felt I was important to him. He let me inside his fractured world, told me I could stay by his side as long as I liked and I'm grateful.

"Less impressive sex, you dummy," Capri whispered. She was smiling. "I would have never guessed Venus could be so eloquent."

Thank you GoldenDoe34. I don't normally read my reviews. I don't engage in sex for the words that come after I am gone, but for the sight, sound, taste, touch and smell of that one woman at that one place and time.

I don't like being graded, or rated. I would certainly never degrade a woman by boasting to the world our deeply personal experience. I know it is common, accepted practice for women, I wish it was not so.

God! It is you! PandorSweets exclaimed.

“I agree. No one could be so enchanting, yet irritating at the same time” Verbena Queen joined in. “I'll contact my clubs”

“I'm texting my senior class” GoldenDoe34 added.

"Oh hell," Eloise snickered, "what have you done?" I had no clue what I'd done. Seriously, why would anyone assume I knew jack-all about a dating site? Why would I think I would know what I was doing? I'd avoided, or been kept isolated from, sexual encounters for most of my adult life.

I would not claim ignorance. I knew the basics of social media. I knew that I had an odd appeal and that Troy had preyed upon for his own sick desires. Now I was using the affections aimed my way for my own ends. The best I could say about my plan was that I'd told the truth about what I wanted and the total lack of reciprocity on my part.

I was using their sexual fantasies to urge them toward rebellion. I was walking into a feminine nightmare of my own creation. A horde of women (I hoped) was going to engulf Capri and I, shield us from our pursuers and then be abandoned to their fates. I would do my best to warn them before I ran. I didn't know what else I could do.

Yesterday had been a splash of water to the face. Today, the oceans were boiling. In New York City, a construction worker with a steel pipe went berserk. He killed two policewomen at a food truck, critically injuring two more and one bystander. Only after two other officers confronted and shot him fatally in the neck did they realize he'd added body armor and enough padding to negate the effect of tasers.

Yesterday, fewer than five thousand men threw themselves at the barricades. Today it was fifty thousand and counting. We only detected the rumblings at this early hour about what was coming. In Atlanta, men all over that city walked off the job at ten a.m. Thirty percent of the men walked. In Hawaii, the governor ordered that all gatherings of more than two men were banned.

The backlash was overwhelming. Eighty percent of all men on the islands boycotted, everything. Middle School and High School boys walked out of their classrooms. Local G E D departments 'detained' the organizers. That also backfired. Protestors swarmed G E D stations, staging sit-ins and getting arrested. Jails were flooded. Men and women signed a petition demanding the governor step down.

In Managua, sixteen male college students gathered in front of the Ministry of Justice building with two bolt cutters. Publically, they cut off each other's wrist bands. They made no attempt to flee and were promptly arrested. In Phoenix, college and high school boys attacked the metro system with stink bombs.

In Boston, men of all ages pelted Federation, State and local office buildings with Red, Green and Blue paint balloons; the colors of the Federation. In Calgary, they parked trucks in intersections, disabled the ignitions and abandoned their vehicles. Except for Hawaii, there was no rhyme, reason, or organization to it, beyond things at the very local level.

The gem of it all was that, outside of that one incident in New York, my brothers were taking my lesson to heart. It wasn't 'get the women.’ It was 'we will no longer sit silently by and be ignored.’ Things were about to get much worse. Congress had passed the 2nd Amendment to the Gender Inequality Act, to take effect in 90 days. Marriage was gone.

The women in Congress weren't morons, but they weren't men either. Even those who were wives didn't truly understand because they weren't husbands. The greatest burden to fall would be, again, on the men. On Sunday, the ex-husbands would have wept. On this Wednesday, they were fighting mad.

Whether you call it a Cyclone, Typhoon, or Hurricane, there was a forgotten element to this storm. Forgotten by almost everyone, even me. They were the daughters. Specifically, daughters with fathers who were now seeing their papas being ripped away and they weren't happy about this at all.

Only a small number of marriages had children of an 'effective' age, say, over the age of 12. The average family in this group had, on average, four daughters. If you also had a son, well, he was already working out his 'man' issues. These daughters, they understood. They had been marginalized and neglected. Their society had just pooped on them in a big way.

Their parental structure had been severed in twain. The parent they saw the most of, and in most cases, were closer to, was being forced out the door. No one had consulted with them in any God-damned way, shape, or form. With the bang of a gavel, their primary caregiver was told to vacate in 90 days, or else.

The law was very clear, men had to permanently abandon their shared dwelling and maintain their own domicile so they could be 'accessible.’ That's right, little girl. We are throwing Daddy into some sleazy bachelor pad where any skanky whore can use and abuse him. Oh, and lest we forget, Dad probably has a few 'nieces' as well, with Aunts Suzy and Karen coming by so often it should be of no surprise.

These young women were traumatized by the destruction being levied on their lives. They weren't sure about what to do, until the boys stood up and marched off to fight their little, hopeless war. Then the girls knew exactly what to do. It started with a trickle of support but quickly became a torrent.

There were still fewer daughters or nieces with Daddy or Uncles than the total number of men. The difference? Women felt entitled. They were not afraid of the cops, or repercussions. Yes, the Hammer of Justice was about to fall on their heads too. They just didn't see it coming so they swarmed into the streets in far greater numbers.

Yes, this meant the police and military reserves were about to use tasers, rubber bullets, tear gas and stun grenades on 14 and 15 year old girls on streaming video. Do you want to make things worse? Remember, the majority of marriages are in the top tier of society. No, that's not Josephine the electrician's little girl.

That's Augustine on the Board of Directors of your Bank who just saw her baby take a tear gas canister to the gut. Then you had Patty, the friend. She was watching Carmella heading downtown because they are turning Carmella's Dad, a nice guy, she's met him several times, into a man-whore (whom she couldn't possibly afford on her allowance).

She probably had some teenage fantasies about him too, though she'd never tell Carmella. The more she thought about it, the more Patty decided that she was not going to let some wacky old bitches, who didn't understand today's modern woman (like Patty), tell her how the world should work. She imagined Carmella's dad would be grateful, maybe really grateful.

The more she thought about it, the more Patty was sure he'd scoped her out a few times. Suddenly, joining Carmella and sticking it to some cops sounded like tons of fun with a 'real' possible pay-off at the end. Carmella's dad was going to see her as a grownup woman now. Yep. Patty gathered up two of her pals who were bored anyway and talked them into helping Carmella.

She showed them a picture of Carmella's dad working out in his home gym to seal the deal. Carmella was happy to have three of her buddies joining her. 'Do they think her Daddy will be happy with their protest?' 'Yes', Carmella assures them, 'her Daddy will be very happy she has such good friends.’ The three girls smiled.

In twenty minutes, one of those friends was thinking that calling a rubber bullet 'non-lethal' was patently deceptive. Dialing this all back to me, I had told all my fans where they could gather to do 'something.’ Somewhere along the line, they informed a pissed off daughter. Suddenly, all those pissed off girls whose sperm donor had hung around had a focal point for their frustrations.

They knew I would be at GNN. It stood to reason the cops would come and get me, it was my thing. The girls no longer had to storm a police station, or government building to get their message across. There were going to be plenty of police sitting out in the middle of the street with no walls to hide behind. This was about to give a whole new meaning to the phrase 'Daddy Time.’

With the coffin so full of nails, there was one more to go in. Even after forty yours of the Gender Inequality Act, men were still essentially men, especially teenage 'men.’ A hundred years ago women took to the streets in parts of the Federation, stood up for their equal rights, cultural liberty, took birth control pills and burnt their bras.

Men marched with them. I was sure a few actually believed in the cause, equal rights. Most believed in something else. Women had for centuries clung to a mythical virginal status. During the sexual revolution, women were giving it away. No ring, payment, religious conversion, or promise required. Hell, sometimes you weren't even required to say anything at all.

In high schools and colleges all across the country, hormone-racked boys were watching girls stand up and walk out of class. In many cases, the rich girls. These guys didn't care about marriage. If they only had sex once in a 14 day period, something was seriously wrong with them. They could get girls all the time, walk alone anywhere for fifteen minutes and they'll find you.

So why would they join these privileged young woman? Passion. These young women were passionate about an issue that didn't involve bondage of some kind for the boys down the line. Men, men who are not like me, liked passion. They liked it a lot. Now, my high school and college brethren weren't stupid. They weren't marching alone.

That's how you ended up naked, God-knows-where with fifteen different phone numbers and 'Call Me' scrawled over your body in lipstick. They did the socially conscious thing; my brothers called all of the brothers in their group and they traveled as a pack to join the girls. This became a twofold problem if you were a law enforcement official on the street outside of GNN.

Last night you gunned down, or otherwise eased into a terminal state nearly a thousand 30, 40, and 50 year old males. Now you are staring down bands of teenage boys interspersed in a sea of hostile girls. Using non-lethal dispersal means would 'normally' break up these children except, what would happen when the girls saw young men dropping next to them?

Fear would become fury. Shock would become rage. Why? If women had been part of the crowd at the  M A L Rally, something very different would have happened. Women would have died in droves because women defended men. They'd been doing it for forty years, in their cultural minds anyway. It was why they felt entitled.

Male economic input to the world was negligible. It was a woman's world. The provided for us, kept us safe (mostly) and if they took advantage of us a tidbit, well, they were doing all the work, right? These small knots of teenage boys had joined this female protest. The boys had become 'their' boys.

Sure, that meant many of them were going to be 'asked' later to perform, but that's pretty much why most of them were there in the first place. That also meant when a cop put one of 'their' boys down, the women got protective. It was what their culture had been beating into their skulls for forty years.

This did not mean the young women respected the boys, it meant they wanted to get fucked just as much as the boys did. Twenty girls see one boy go down and they suddenly realize he's going to the jail, or the hospital (no one dares think 'morgue'). That means no cock for them. Back to that passion those guys came sniffing after like the horny dogs they were.

Hormones don't play favorites. They erase reason and common sense in both genders equally, especially when you are young. That young lady knows that the boy those nasty evil bitch cops just knocked down was going to fuck her to the stars in a few hours. Sure, they'd never actually made eye contact, but she knew, she knew.

Now, you Evil Cop, you are about to experience why this frustrated teenage girl burned out her last two vibrators with her unrequited lust. If you are the cop in question, you realize that this teenager had nineteen friends in the same basic mind frame and they are all coming for you. If you are a Metropolitan Policewomen, the past 12 hours have been tough for you and it's getting tougher by the second.

Most likely you haven't gotten much sleep. Worse, you've seen the respect for your career start to plummet in the eyes of your fellow (female) citizens. 178 of your sister officers died, a few quite horribly. Nearly a thousand males died. There was no way to look at this in a positive light.

Yesterday's male demonstration had been an annoyance; so comical that she probably joked about it with fellow officers. Today there had been too many to hold back. As she knew it would, chaos had ensued. Allowed to their own devices, men had inflicted their own brand of discipline on the ride to work. Foreheads were getting wacked all over the city.

Women were learning some tough lessons. Using pepper spray in a confined area was bad. It is even less effective when men have 'tote' umbrellas that open on a moment's notice. They apparently made nice shields. Stun guns are nice, but dowels have a longer reach. The world turned full circle.

On Tuesday, women had swarmed men for their impudence. Today, most sat out the conflict on the sidelines. In a final irony, the cop was learning the lesson Israel had learned three and a half years earlier as Campus Security laughed him out of their office. 'If you let them get away with it, they'll try for more.’

Women: 'You went to a Sorority Party. What did you expect would happen?'

Men: 'We went to the Arena, as you told us to and then you slaughtered us.'

Without even considering my personal tale, if the first statement wasn't spoken, the second would have never have happened.

When women accepted the first statement, the second was pre-ordained and resistance was inevitable. The cop feared the third statement more than anything.

Men: 'We don't care anymore. We will fight until we break you, or you break us.'

Few women appreciated that pitted 300,000 men versus less than 12,000 cops.

With that calamity swirling around my periphery in time and space, I walked with Eloise, Capri and Doyle to the GNN building. We had trouble. In front of the building were three of those light personal transport vehicles (jeep or hummer). The closest and farthest had this 80cm wide hexagonal things on top with some sort of gunner or technician.

The middle vehicle had the biggest damn shotgun I'd ever imagined (an auto-grenade launcher I was later told). Ten other soldiers were in evidence. Across the street where six patrol cars, with officers holding the outer perimeter. Message, this was a Fed show. I was about to back-pedal my ass out of there. To be honest, I was going to break and run for my life. I didn't want to go to prison, or some secret lab.

Special Agent Sosa stepped out of the small gathering of cops, soldiers and suits at the door and headed my way. Gut check, acid test, prom night. I didn't know what the heck to think.

"Come on, Jensen," she beckoned. The two women and one man around me hesitated. I shrugged and walked to beside her as she led me into the building.

"Do you know Keyser Söze didn't actually exist?" I grinned.

"Oh freaking wonderful," she muttered to herself as we entered the elevator.

"Who was Keyser Söze?" Eloise asked.

"Some guy from an old movie. Tons of men die. It's not real popular these days," I informed her.

"But he didn't really exist?" Doyle wondered. "Huh?"

"It is the study of myth and the power it can hold over the human mind, in the movie's case, a fearful hold," I explained.

"So the man was a myth," Eloise mused.

"Yes, but the belief that he did exist made a band of rational men risk their lives out of fear that he'd hunt them to the ends of the earth and kill them," I stated. The doors opened and there stood Dimples with two of her people, Norris and Tambora.

"Mr. Jensen, this way," she pointed to her right. "The rest of you, over there, she pointed to the left and the way into GNN studios. Capri stuck with me.

We took a few steps, the two agents looking around cautiously while Dimples remained confident.

"The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist," Dimples quoted. We were temporarily safe.

"Are Fraklos and Vabishi back yet?" I asked.

"They are on the way. They had an issue to resolve. Now, how is this going to play out?" Dimples studied me.

"New strain of the Gender Plague broke out in China last week," I began.

"This strain attacks men and women with an insanely high mortality rate. It has been in San Francisco since Thursday, but with a three day incubation period, it is only now starting to appear. The antivirals in my blood do counter it, so there is that," I finished unloading.

"Are you absolutely confident in the source of this information?" she frowned. I nodded then Dimples made a phone call.

"This is Enola. I wish to talk to my Mother," she stated. There was a pause, "Mother, is the government about to engage in extreme action beyond Sierra?"

"Are you anywhere close to the target of your current manhunt?" asked the serene voice on the other end.

"Yes, very close," Dimples responded.

"Good. Keep it that way and Enola, I'm afraid I'll miss Christmas again this year," Dimples' Mother said. "Good-bye Enola. I have work to do." The connection died.

"Who is your mother?" I inquired quietly.

"Flora Treyvon, Deputy Director of Operations for the Ministry of Security," Special Agent in Charge Enola ‘Dimples’, Treyvon replied. The Ministry of Security was the counterpart to the Ministry of Justice. Security handled external threats; the combination of the pre-Plague foreign intelligence services.

Rumor had it that Operations was the section that toppled governments and assassinated people. No one official admitted to that, of course. It was perversely comforting that I continued to associate with the most lethal form of womankind available. Had I joined up with another gentle soul like Kuiko, the shock might have unhinged me.

All of that also made the word choices of the two of them made sense. No mention of plague, China, quarantine, or my name. It took me a moment to place Sierra, the Sierra Nevada mountain range west of the Rockies. I also had the feeling that Enola ‘Dimples’, and her mother had never missed a Christmas, but they knew they'd never share another. That had been their true and final good-bye.

"So that influenza outbreak in Shanghai isn't the flu," Special Agent Pamela Norris mumbled.

"Three days to incubate then four days to kill you, if it runs with the historical models," SA Lena Tambora added. "We are all going to get infected. It sounds like most of us will die."

"Why isn't there a nationwide quarantine?" Norris asked Dimples.

"Economics," S A C Treyvon said. "Examining global travel, trade flow, infection rates and time since inception, the whole world is going to be infected. The Federation economy is going to do more than collapse, it is going to die. The Government Executive is probably positioning key industries and resources so that they survive."

"Just like the Vanishers," I mumbled.

"Correct in both ways," Dimples smiled.

"How so?" I asked. I was thinking 'both?'

"They are both survival plans and they are both illegal," Dimples smirked. Now Capri giggled.

"Israel," Capri addressed my confusion, "the President is letting millions and millions of Federation citizens become infected when she knows better. This is murder on a grand scale."

"Enough," Dimples waved her hand. "Time to take Israel to face the press one last time."

"Dimples, are you going to let me go when this is over?" I timidly requested. Maybe I should have called her Special Agent in Charge Treyvon.

"Of course," Dimples smirked. "I can't hold you and I can't keep you hidden, so my best bet to meet with you later is to let you make a run for it. Please do not think I like you."

"Oh, you are still sore that a man outsmarted you," Capri mocked Dimples.

"That is incorrect," Dimples arrogantly dismissed Capri's charge.

"Liar," Capri smirked.

"No, I am sore that anyone outsmarted me. Being a man never entered the equation," Dimples smiled back in her oh-so-superior way. I leaned into Dimples, brushed her hair aside until my lips touched the rim of her ear.

"Mary Wollstonecraft," I whispered. It was all I could give her; she had trusted me, and all I could give was a name. On second thought, I could have only said 'Mary' and she would have found me. I was really worried about the wrong group of people. I needed to keep focused on me and Capri.

We were soon back in the studio. The mood was very different today. We were all looking down the barrel of a gun, politically speaking. There were even two members of the President's Public Relations Office on hand to make sure things went okay.

"Elvira Booker," one of the two officials introduced herself. I deviated past her.

I went straight at the woman who was eyeing me intently. I slipped one hand behind her back to pull her close and used the other to tip her face up for a kiss. We held it there for several seconds then I felt a quick series of stinging sensations against the back of my thighs and buttock. I kept my hand at her back, but backed off from the kiss.

"Bad boy," the little script writer scowled. "I didn't give you permission to kiss your Mistress." Huh? Oh, the stings behind me had been her riding crop. Well, this would definitely convince the people around me I was nuts. I lowered my head in contrition.

"I apologize Mistress for my hunger for your body, my thoughtlessness concerning your authority, and my willful ignorance of your majesty," I begged softly.

Her voice dripped with rapture.

"Kiss my foot, Dog," she commanded. I knelt down, there was no way I was groveling on my belly (I'd been forced to do that), lifted up her left ankle while she steadied herself by resting a hand on my head, and kissed the toe of her foot. I waited. She tapped my shoulder with the riding crop then I put her foot down.

"Back to work, Dog," she purred. "Your Mistress will punish you when it is more convenient for me. Scurry." As I stood up, I flashed her a quick peek. She was radiant, confident and vibrantly alive. For me, it was another spark of happiness given to another. It was also confirmation that I had to escape. Otherwise I could end up with a leash, dog collar and little else.

"Ah, ah," Elvira regarded us. "Is he going to be capable of a rational response?"

"Ms. Booker, are you prejudiced against alternative lifestyles?" Capri rallied to my defense.

"Oh, please," Elvira countered. "That was a bizarre form of workplace encounter in anyone's book."

"Absolutely," I nodded. "Normally I get a ball gag and she uses me as furniture. She is obviously in a good mood today. Let's not spoil it." Elvira stared.

"The answer to your question is 'yes, he really is off his rocker'," Dimples remarked dryly. "He is capable of intelligent conversation. That will not be your problem."

"Fine," Elvira finally turned back to me, "the President is going to ask you to volunteer to help your Nation in its time of need, to help with scientific research regarding a looming threat to our population. You need to understand that we need you to say 'yes.’"

"Okay," I nodded. "Can I stay in the city? I have friends here."

The rules for a verbal exchange are the same for a physical exchange. Intelligence, initiative, audacity, and application of power. I noticed what she wasn't saying. There was no mention of the coming plague. This was yesterday's battle. They knew better. They didn't seem to understand that I knew better as well.

"We will most likely have to take you to a facility closer to the Capital, initially," Elvira assured me. "After some initial research, we should be able to at least allow you some visitation."

She lied like the pro she was. It sounded like she actually had negotiating power, which I knew she didn't have. I was a PR guy too.

The last time I made a decision as a Public Relations Officer, they kicked my ass into Federation custody along with pushing me into the unemployment line.

"Thank you," I smiled. "If it isn't too much of a pain, I'd like Capri O'Hara here," I indicated my friend, "to stay close by. She's my legal counsel."

"You will be legally represented by the Ministry of Justice," Elvira informed us. "A special unit is being formed to handle your case exclusively." It took me a moment to realize this was a trap.

I was an asshole, a pain in the buttocks and the man who had proudly declared he'd never help another woman, much less the country.

"No way," I shook my head. "I'll help. That doesn't mean I trust you people. Last night I realized I had to do more, too many of us died. That is why we are even talking right now." That was laughable. We were talking right now because some moron on the Capital thought this would be good PR for the President.

Otherwise I'd be somewhere else and without even the illusion of control over my life. This wasn't the approach I'd taken with Dimples and Shelia. That had been a case of withholding information. This was a case of feeding someone, Elvira, the lies she wanted to hear based on her selfish desire to succeed.

If the Presidential plea worked, Elvira could chalk up a big one in the win column. Most likely that would lead to a promotion and hopefully Press Secretary one day. After that, she would retire and become a paid pundit until the end of time. Elvira believed I had a conversion experience when I was surrounded by all that death because she wanted to believe it.

Still, I was willing to bet that Dimples tipped things over in my favor. She was calm and in control. Elvira trusted Enola's judgment and Enola was giving every sign that she believed in what I was saying. Piercing the male psyche was Dimples' job. What Elvira didn't know was that while Dimples had done her job unraveling me, she was now, not only on my side, joined with me in fighting a greater evil, namely Elvira's boss.

"How about this?" Elvira proposed. "Before we take you out of the city, we define Ms. O'Hara's status as your legal voice?"

"Make that phone call right now and I'll do this," I replied after a few seconds of pretend thought.

This was the best of both worlds for Elvira Booker. She wasn't overcome by her prejudice against males. She was better than that. No, she was being taken in by the belief that, while she thought I was smart, she was smarter. She was going to put on a show in front of me, I'd eat it up and she'd come out of this smelling like roses. She'd win and personally trick me doing it.

Elvira made that call, was transferred and then went into her sales pitch on my behalf. She really gave it her all. I interrupted the call the same way I had with Capri's boss on Thursday. Sure enough, it was the President's Chief of Staff. I was suitably embarrassed, gave the phone back and the deal to include Capri was done.

Elvira tried not to look victorious. She'd suckered me good. She should have gone with her first impression. Hadn't Dimples told her that I was totally insane? I wasn't afraid of the President or her legions. The person I was most afraid of at that second was Mistress Script Girl. The lady was a woman on a mission that left me curious about how happy I wanted to make her.

They finally let me at Maribel Cartwright who seemed amused by the whole Elvira interaction. She reached out and covered my mic while also covering her own.

"This is going to be a complete disaster, isn't it?" she humorously whispered.

"Do you trust me?" I responded.

"Hell no," she giggled.

"Then I think you are right," I grinned. "What's next?"

"I think starting off with a few commercials would be wise," Maribel sighed. "Once this shit storm starts, we are seeing it through to the end."

"Thank you, Maribel. I know you haven't done what you have done for me. That's okay. I think you have helped the world in a way that really matters," I confided in her.

"God," her eyes grew wide, "this is going to spectacularly suck, isn't it?"

"And how," I chuckled. Maribel released our audio hook-ups.

3, 2- 1, and we began. Maribel began her spiel, opening up the issues for the audience as well as paving the way for the President. I was given a cursory introduction which was a nod to my celebrity status. My buddy from Ontario was there as well as that nice neurologist from Texas who hadn't thought I was a complete idiot. For five minutes we all danced around the subject.

The, blank, at the Blazer Arena was the 400 kg gorilla in the room. I wanted to say massacre. The women wanted to run with the word 'tragedy.’ We all agreed that far fewer men would have died if men hadn't panicked. They were less enthusiastic about concurring that death by led poisoning would have been eradicated if the cops had run first.

Elvira moved to the stage manager to let her know the President was about to come on-line. She also motioned for Dimples and her people to close in. She wasn't taking chances, or so she believed. If anyone at GNN was annoyed with Doyle Crane doing a simulcast, they didn't say anything about. There was an added benefit that, from his viewpoint, you could see the Feds closing in on me.

"Greetings, Madam President," Maribel smiled politely.

"Hello again, Maribel," the leader of the Federation gave out such genuine warmth and comfort. "Hello to you too, Mr. Jensen, or may I refer to you as Israel?"

"Thank you very much, Madam President. Whichever name works for you," I smiled.

"I apologize for this interruption, Maribel. A matter of national importance has arisen and I want to take prompt action," the President kept going. Huh? Yeah, like I normally have armed females closing in on me just out of camera range, wait, I do, oh fuck. My life really is a mess.

"The issue of the reduction of male reproductivity has come to the attention of myself and my administration and there is no time like the present to attack this issue. Mr. Jensen, your personal adversity has gifted the human race with a second chance to throw off the yoke of fear invoked by the Gender Plague," the President declared.

"I am personally inviting you, no, begging you, to help out your people, your nation and your race," she appealed. Hmmm, had I not despised her and everything she stood for, I might have been moved to actually help out. As it was, she hadn't used the magic word and it wasn't 'please.’

"Come to a research facility near the capital, run by the Ministry of Public Health, and we can start working today and figuring out what makes your antivirals so special that they may truly hold the secret to global human survival," the President mothered me.

"I can hardly say 'no' after an emotional appeal like that," I tried to look stunned. "But, I do have one request first." Everyone paused. Elvira was definitely starting to rethink what I'd told her. I hadn't said 'Yes'; I had said 'I'll do this', which was now open to all kinds of interpretations in her mind.

"I have a friend named Dara Castelo and she is going to die without your help," I pleaded. The President was a pretty good public speaker. She was capable. She was also tired. The President went for the rote response.

"Israel, my people will do everything possible to look into her problem and work to keep her alive. I promise you," she added.

She had, in fact, promised nothing, which was what I expected.

"Great," I beamed. "She's on the West Coast where a new version of the Plague from China has broken out. Since its mortality rate is somewhere near 100%, could you find her and get her out before the quarantine goes into effect. In case you can't, and if you are listening Dara, I never told you I loved you. I was too ashamed and I'm sorry for that."

By the looks I was getting there was only one thing worse than a babbling nutjob Prophet of Doom, and that was a babbling nutjob Prophet of Doom who was annoyingly correct.

To give credit where credit is due, the President's eyes barely flickered off-camera. You had to be looking for it. Off screen, some woman, phone in hand, was starting to run down the information leak I'd just used to urinate on the President's hopes and dreams. The Leading Lady was no slouch in the debate forum.

It took her about a second to unleash her inner attack dogs. The vector was formulaic, destroy your opponent's credibility by exploiting their vulnerabilities. She got high marks for information, education and experience but you don't get to be President because you take risks, or are imaginative. Voters don't like people in charge who have 'new' ideas. That's scary.

My most glaring weakness was my sanity, or lack thereof. An attack on it was obvious and the weapon was my history. Me having been sexually traumatized in the past was maternally endearing if you were a Mother and I was your 20 year old daughter's date she'd brought home. For a man acting as the harbinger of a pandemic, it was most likely fatal for my message.

"Mr. Jensen, Israel, I was afraid this might happen, that the accumulated stress that has been inflicted on you has unhinged your mind. I am so sorry," she played the Great Mother so well, "I am fearful that such a public appeal would be too stressful to your fragile mind. Trust me, I understand. You have been brutalized repeatedly in your life and none of it has been your fault. I beg you to find that thread of human decency that reaches back to the boy you once were, and break free of the vengeance-filled, trapped and battered young man you have become. Women have wronged you. The multitude of womankind have not. Find it in your heart to break free from your chains of madness and let us help you."

"Hold on, Madam President," I rallied, "are you implying that I've been raped, lost my mind, or both?" Come get some, Bitch. Make my case for me. By destroying my credibility, she was going to give me credibility. It was simply credibility that no one with political ambitions would want.

"It is too late in the day for evasions, Israel," she sighed. "When you were 16 you were kidnapped, raped and tortured. You went to,”

"Wait," I shouted. I turned to Capri, off camera, "how can she know that?" I wailed. No, I wasn't denying it and I was looking at Capri because, while my voice inflection was good due to my training in public speaking, I was afraid my acting wasn't up to par.

"Israel," the President kept coming.

"There is no record of me being raped," I interjected. "Who are you saying raped me?" I was hoping I sounded like a hysterical person trying not to sound hysterical. Capri later told me I did a good job, probably because I was terrified I would fail at this crucial moment.

"Israel, that's not the issue," she tried again.

"Yes it is," I insisted. "You can't accuse someone of being raped without proof, President Pillyere. That's immoral, and slander, I think." I had to put her on the defensive so she'd have to drop the kid gloves and really come at me. Please, please, please,

"Your tragedy shouldn't be exposed to public scrutiny, Israel," please, please, please; for all the needless cruelty I've suffered, let this once be something that helps me, "but you were kidnapped, raped and tortured by the Aurora Slasher for 87 days. That broke you as a man. With the help of women, some very skilled and devoted women, you recovered."

"Sadly, after you exited therapy, you were the victim of a truly barbaric act. You went to a Sorority Party and were viciously used as a sexual toy by the girls there," she poured on the sympathy. Barbaric was a nice touch, but I wasn't raped, I was used as a sex toy, at a party, according to the President, I'd gone to willingly. Well done.

"Saturday night, you fell into the clutches of a known underworld figure who inflicted all those bruises on your precious body we have all become familiar with. The Arena was a tragedy. You were beaten, lethally threatened yet still managed to save a life even though you were clearly falling to pieces on the inside," she added.

"Bravo!" I clapped. "Well done, Mrs. President. The problem is, Show of hands," I raised my hand. "Who here didn't know I was insane when I showed up today?" I looked over the studio. Virtually everyone, Mirabel included, raised their hands.

"Come on now, after Monday's career implosion and my plea to the police at the hospital last night, I am undoubtedly off my rocker. This doesn't mean my information is bad," I pointed out.

"Sure, I could be deluded, or you could be lying too. This is an easy bit of confusion to clear up. Why don't we contact the GNN affiliate in Shanghai? Or San Francisco? Have their journalists go to the relevant hospitals and observe how lethal this 'flu' outbreak is."

"You are causing needless and irresponsible panic, Mr. Jensen," the President firmly chastised me.

"Irresponsible? Perhaps, but I'm not paid to be responsible, you are and you are sucking at your job," I grinned. "Why? That's the 'needless' part. The people need  to be told that you are letting a pandemic spread across the country so you can isolate a few key economic centers so that some shell of a country can persist that you can rule. That's pathetic if you are a woman, or man, considered vital as you are all going to die off in a few decades anyway, and truly suctacular if you aren't one of the Chosen Few. They are about to catch a disease that kills both men and women in seven days, the last four are really unpleasant, I can assure you," I told them.

"Mr. Jensen," the President snapped.

"Shut up!" I shouted back.

"Madam President, you will have your chance at a rebuttal in a moment," Mirabel jumped in.

"Thank you, Ms. Cartwright," I nodded.

"For everyone else, here is the puzzle of the day: Why am I here? We all know I'm a nut and a troublemaker and if you believe the President 'happened' to show up, well, stick your head back in the sand, you'll be happier, believe me. For the rest of you, please recall what Dr. Vasco said yesterday on GNN."

"My antivirals kill the T1. She proved it which surprised me as much as anyone else. What you probably don't know is that I did not develop these antivirals on my own. As the President just confirmed, I was kidnapped by the Aurora Slasher. She experimented on me with a variety of things. One of them was Carabolix-37."

"It was stored at St. Jerome's hospital, which records will confirm was the place where the Carabolix-37 live trials were performed. Twenty years ago, it killed or caused every man who was given the drug to have their nuts cut off. I am the only survivor and no one knows why, save the Slasher herself. Why don't I know?"

"The Aurora Slasher did many horrible things to me, a sixteen year old virgin boy. They were so bad that the therapist had to suppress many of those memories so that I could be functional in the eighteen month timeline they were given.

Saturday night, along with spending a painful sexual encounter with said mobster and having my sexual liaison with the woman I love used as a marketing tool in the slave auction I was forced to participate in, Dr. Delilah Fremont, creator of Carabolix-37, woke up one of those memories. Yes, it was the torment of those resurfacing nightmares of being trapped in her cellar that broke me."

"There it is. I admit it. I was driven insane when I was sixteen and I'm close to being that shattered husk once again. That doesn't change the fact that I was in that basement, I was experimented on with something that has made me immune to the Gender Plague, and it doesn't change the fact that a new, updated version of that Plague is coming to kill you all."

"The how and why of Carabolix not killing me may be locked up in my head somewhere. With it would be a way to allow men to create antivirals to counteract the Gender Plague and this new horror coming for us all. This is why the President is making her appeal to me now on world-wide video."

"This is not some ego-driven fantasy. Think about it. This 'gift' from the woman who destroyed my childhood is nothing but a curse. Rape survivors don't want the limelight, we want to hide. Last time we were 'noticed' something bad happened to us. I agree I have had an egregiously unlucky life," I was winding down.

"Yet, I have managed to find love and compassion at this late date, and with that, hope. That's all I can really pass on. Spend the next week giving a damn about a total stranger, tell the person you love how you feel and follow your heart. If I'm wrong, you've blown one week of your hopefully long lives. If I'm right, how else would you like to go out?" I finished.

"Madam President," Maribel passed the verbal baton.

"Mr. Jensen, you are a lunatic," the President sounded so full of concern and sympathy. I really had to hand it to her. She was about to screw me royally.

"Agreed," I nodded.

"Wait your turn, Israel," Maribel cautioned me.

"You have turned an unfortunate influenza outbreak into an epidemic only you can cure. How realistic is that?" my current aggressor kept chiseling away at me. "I'm trying to bring men into the pending gender issue and you are jumping off the Cliffs of Reason."

"Mrs. President," the neurologist from Texas interrupted, "we know he has the cure to the  Gender virus, as he claimed on Monday. Can we at least find out the source of Mr. Jensen's information?"

"It comes from his imagination," the President was getting snappish. No more Christmases!!

"No, it comes from the Ministry of Security, Operations Section, as well as members of J SOC and certain satellite intelligence," I confessed. "The pertinent fact is not that I'm undeniably crazy. It is that your own administration has betrayed you, Madam President." Boom! Take That! It was no longer about my credibility or confidence, it was about hers.

The logical next step was to mock my access to anyone with their hands on such sensitive information. Except the military had made a grab at me an hour ago, it looked like her Attorney General had bungled the handling of the Jensen Investigation on Monday and her National Security Advisor had talked her into this public appeal fiasco this morning.

"Who told you these things?" she growled. "I want names." Even as those words poured out of her mouth she realized the enormity of her mistake. It was too late now. Her mental turmoil, brought about the disaster at the M A L rally, the on-coming plague, lack of sleep and her anxious efforts to save what she could, had eroded her poise enough to give me a ray of hope.

Whether you wanted to consider it irresponsible journalism, or a matter of the public having the right to choose, it was Maribel that landed the killing blow.

"Madam President," Maribel shot up from one of the elevated stools she, and I, were sitting on, "I have only this moment heard confirmation that there is going to be a quarantine that encompasses the San Francisco Bay Area in four hours. What is going on here?"

What was going on was a matter of human psychology and logistics. No one, not even the President, could simply order the cessation of all land, air and sea travel out of a location and have it happen instantly. You had to marshal forces, seize chokepoints and organize your internal resources for the crisis's to come, disease, hunger, lawlessness, and fear.

The last problem could be the biggest. When told that a horrific disease was breaking in your hometown, your instinct was 'I'm healthy, so I should get out while the getting is good.’ It was a very human reaction. If you were trying to contain a contagion, this was very, very bad. This virus had a three day incubation period.

People who felt perfectly healthy could be walking corpses and not know it. Sadly, none of this mattered to San Francisco. The infection had been spreading around the cities of the Bay Area for six days by this time. The path of the initial plague bearer was a nightmare. She'd been at the airport, as well as eating, shopping and clubbing for two days all over San Francisco.

As an act of kindness, the director of GNN San Francisco began informing the Emergency Managers of every city about to be affected that she had spilled the beans. By the time the listening audience made up their minds to tell their buddies before packing up and making for some means of egress, the wheels of the quarantine were rolling.

Rental cars were no longer available, trains and metros stopped running, and the ports, ferries and all airports, great and small, shut down. It was an imperfect containment, but it was something.

"This conversation is over," the President barked. "Who is in charge there?"

"Special Agent in Charge Enola ‘Dimples’, Treyvon, Gender Investigative Unit, Federation Bureau of Investigation, Madam President," Dimples stepped forward, cloaked in an invincible aura of purity. "What are your orders?" Camera's panned to her and she came on-screen for the masses.

"Special Agent Treyvon, arrest that man," the President commanded.

"I can't do that, Madam President. He is not in violation of any Federation Law," Dimples replied.

"His bracelet is malfunctioning," our Fearless Leader pointed out.

"Noted and explained, Ma'am. It was disabled in a police action, by an authorized law enforcement agent striking him accidentally. He has informed the proper authorities and has an appointment to remedy the situation upon leaving this building," Enola answered.

"It happened last night," the slightly exasperated President continued.

"Ma'am, the offices were closed last night and don't open for another thirty minutes. What exactly was Mr. Jensen supposed to do?" Dimples was a cool, sedate calm.

"Just arrest him!" the President's patience was wearing thin.

"Well, Madam President, if you declare a State of National Emergency, I could do that right now," Dimples pointed out.

"So ordered," the President commanded. Clearly the woman was exhausted from a long sleepless night. She was definitely worn down, stressed and not at the top of her game.

"Could you please clarify," Dimples requested monotonously.

"I declare a State of National Emergency, now take him into custody," she barked.

"Thank you Madam President. Madam President, I am placing you under arrest, the charge is Treason," Dimples announced.

"What?" the President shouted. "You can't do that."

"Yes Ma'am, I can. Page 37 of the Emergency Powers Act, Section 40, paragraph 1: 'Any authorized federal law enforcement agent, or armed forces member directed to act in a law enforcement role may arrest and detain any public officer, or employee, deemed to be acting against the public welfare, and interest, for 72 hours without a legal hearing.'

"You really should have read what you just made into law, Madam ex-President," Dimples remained totally neutral and comported herself with astounding gravitas.

"I'm going to call your boss, the Attorney General, and settle this matter right now," the maybe ex-President threatened.

"Mrs. Pillyere (the Quebecois former President's last name)," S A C Treyvon mused, "if the AG takes that call, she will be charged, quite legally, with Conspiracy to Commit Treason. I imagine your popularity is going down the toilet right about now, so please be cooperative. As we speak, Ms. Montanyard, of the 10th Federation Legal District is sending an arrest warrant to the Minister of the Treasury, directing her to order the Secret Service Presidential Detail to take you into custody."

"Aren't you at least going to arrest Mr. Jensen?" the stunned ex-President mumbled.

"Why? He's been totally cooperative and up front with everything we've asked him to do, unlike you," Dimples lectured.

"But, the cure," our former leader pressed.

"He doesn't have access to a global, or even national cure. He never has. Besides, he's not a public officer, or official," Dimples pointed out. "He isn't required to do anything to help anyone. To force him to do so would be unconstitutional, the 14th Amendment says so."

"Wait, he's a member of the staff at City Hall, isn't he?" the ex-Pres. kept trying to tread water.

"The world would be a much tidier place if everyone would simply read the handbooks created for such situations," Dimple sighed. "Mr. Jensen is under a termination notice by the Civil Affairs Review Board which, I quote, 'removes all duties and responsibilities from said individual until the time of their termination review hearing.’

"That is next Tuesday, if you are curious. To pre-empt your next suggestion, only Mr. Jensen can request a speedy hearing. The Civil Affairs department cannot request one because that violates his rights to mount a 'timely' defense," Enola remained outwardly detached. I didn't know this shit and I worked for the city.

A Grand Cosmic Law was being revealed to the world at large: Dimples wins. Dimples always wins. You see, there were only two outcomes possible. The President successfully resisted and the country descended into civil war because if the Chief Executive of the Nation was publically disobeying the law, why would anyone follow her?

Or, the ex-President went to the FBI, squealed like a stuck pig and took down her entire cabinet for their complicity, including the Vice President, and the country was decapitated. By issuing the State of National Emergency, she'd silenced and neutered the Congress for 72 hours as well, so neither the Speaker of the Assembly nor the President Pro Tem of the Senate could legally take over the country.

The Supreme Court was technically still intact, but what in the hell were they going to do? They had no enforcement powers and the government bureaucracy was running on autopilot. In theory, authority devolved down to the Joint Chiefs of Staff. More likely, it was in the hands of the Regional Military Commanders.

On paper, a million women warriors were theirs to command. In reality, the majority of these women were clerks, mechanics, armorers, medics and other support personnel. The minority were combat troops. Very few were actually military policewomen or shore patrol.

The military had three missions: military confrontation, police actions and training the next generation of women to fight effectively. Among other things, this meant a disparity of combat power between installations. South Atlantic Command had a plethora of Coast Guard cutters and frigates, several air bases of mostly reconnaissance planes, a combat air training facility and a dozen battalions of Reserves.

There were two Ranger Regiments in her area plus their training base, but they answered to a separate command, the J SOC.

In comparison, the Mid-Atlantic MC was a God of War. She had two fully functional combat divisions, six combat air wings, the world's third largest naval base, the Naval Academy and roughly two and a half divisions of reserves from various branches of the armed services.

While the commanders of the Mid-Atlantic and South Atlantic regions were theoretically equals, if South Atlantic did something Mid-Atlantic didn't like, or had something, like that nuclear power plant, that Mid-Atlantic needed, a major ass-whooping was in the offing.

To add to the fun, if a naval or Coast Guard vessel was at sea, it was under their various Naval Fleet commands. If it was in port, it was under the local Military Commander's command. The Chief of Naval Operations was ordering all naval vessels to bolt for the high seas. If you were a civilian in Halifax, Hampton Roads, Veracruz, San Salvador, San Diego or Vancouver, watching all those grey ships running for open water must have been a sight, and not a good one.

In a final cluster-fuck, there was the majority of one airmobile division and two Ranger battalions right outside the city that were not part of our Regional Military Commander's power structure. The Rangers belonged to Joint Special Operations Command and the Airmobile belonged to the Old Southwest Command, the old U S Southwest States and several northern states of old Mexico.

Their RMC was probably really, really curious when she was getting her only active service division back, too. I hoped she wasn't holding her breath. She had a shitload of territory to cover, a small number of support and reserve units to use and, oh yeah, there was a plague breaking out right over the border in California with the corresponding exodus.

While the Federation was in a really bad way, the Europeans were totally screwed. All morning long, their leaders had been standing up and telling their populations that things were bad, a deadly flu outbreak in China, but they were going to ride out the storm. The E U and the Federation were on top of the crisis. They could all breathe easy.

Somewhere between lunchtime and dinner, depending on which European time zone you were in, the Federation government was overthrown by a military coup, or so it seemed. Collectively, the citizens of Europe took a deep breath, and then totally freaked out. There were runs on the banks and mass migrations from the cities.

Factories, trains and overnight package delivery via the internet stopped. The Pope called for calm while quietly sending units of the Swiss Guard to protect a handful of boys' schools the Holy See had established on the island of Sardinia. In France, Italy and Spain there was a call for a General Strike. Some midlevel functionary ordered the evacuation of the Louvre, setting off more panic.

In Germany, a peaceful vigil turned violent and the Chancellor declared Martial Law. In Poland, Hungary, Bulgaria and the Ukraine, a State of Quarantine was declared along with a midnight curfew. There was a run on the stores. Ireland, the UK, the Netherlands, Belgium and Scandinavia appealed for calm.

You could see it in their leaders' eyes. It wasn't going to be enough. The European economy was going down the crapper in the next 48 hours and nothing could stop it. After Nigeria imploded at the end of the first Gender Plague, the only states in Africa that mattered economically where Egypt, Greater Ethiopia, Kenya and the Republic of South Africa.

Yes, there were states in West Africa. That was the problem; there were a lot of little states. In the center of Africa, southern Angola and Katanga had been gobbled up by the RSA. North of that was a No Woman's Land all the way to the Sahara, which has spent the last fifty years marching south.

The RSA had 'leaked' the information to its people about the oncoming Plague, so the official revelation wasn't crushing. They were talking quickly with their African neighbors, the few European powers that were still taking their calls and South America, trying to keep some kind of economy going. They needed India.

India's response was that they had Plague in 18 of their largest cities. India was one of those nations that came through the Gender Plague 'okay.’ Unlike China's One Child policy that had left them male-heavy, India always had plenty of women. She was sent reeling from all the deaths like everyone else, but she'd come out comparatively stronger world-wide.

India was one of the five great world economies along with China, the Federation, Russia, and the RSA. Everyone thought China was fading fast, now India was about to go the same way, Russia's biggest trading partners were the rest of Europe and China, in that order, and now the Federation was 'iffy.’ There was no way the RSA could carry the weight alone.

To be continued

By FinalStand for Literotica