Roland was visited by a mysterious man in a suit, and now can change minds and bodies at his whim.
Please read chapters 1 and 2.
A man receives unfathomable power.
Please leave a comment if you rate. Helps me do better.
Copyright 2022, Coyote Howard.
Roland drove up into the east end of town as that's where Christian, now Kristy, had told him this "Big G" was.
It occurred to him that he had no idea what he was doing. Not really. He'd never done more than a social hit of pot, let alone harder drugs like cocaine or heroin, as Big G was probably dealing. Roland had asked Kristy and she'd offered up Big G as one who did, and he had nothing else to go on.
He was driven forward though by the words of Kayla at his apartment. She'd cut him to his core, her truths pummeling his conscience and threatening to overwhelm him.
Would he feel differently if he hadn't allowed her to yell at him? Would he be blissfully ignorant?
He shook his head slightly as he drove into town proper. It didn't matter. He'd done what he'd done.
"You're a sick fuck Roland," he said, the self-loathing tone dripping off his voice.
He turned on to 5th St and anxiety gripped him. The realization yet again that he had no idea what he'd do when he got there was creeping in on him, and his fear was presenting itself as he gripped the wheel more tightly.
All that were going through his mind were questions:
5th and Gerald? That's not very specific.
What if they had guns?
What if they killed him before he could speak?
What if they didn't have cash?
What would he do with the cash once he had it?
How would he protect himself from all this? There's bound to be blow back.
The answer came in the form of resolve, as he came up to Leonard Ave and crossed it. He saw a girl on the corner, and while she was dressed in slim fitting jeans and a dingy white halter top, these hung off her body in an unhealthy way. He got a glimpse of her made up face from his seat, and her sunken, hopeless eyes didn't look alive, they merely looked at the world.
"Fuck it," Roland said to himself, pulled his 2002 Accord up to the curb and got out.
He walked to her, and it only got worse.
She was white. Had dirty, greasy, sandy blonde hair that was slack and touched her shoulders. She was tan, probably from standing on this corner, or others like it, all summer long. She had on Walmart-cheap, dirty white shoes. And her empty eyes looked at him as he came up to her.
"I order you to do as I say, but still act like yourself. You will not try to alert anyone. You will not try to run away. You will answer all my questions. Understand?"
"Yes master," she answered meekly.
He blinked, and took a breath.
"Why'd you call me that?" he asked her, putting his hands on his hips.
"Mr. H says that's what the boys like. And if I don't he hurts me," she said, barely looking up at him.
His temper flared.
"Where's this Mr. H?" Roland asked her.
"He's in that house over there. It's where I'm supposed to take the boys when they want to fuck me," she said, pointing to a house north.
"Take me there," he said, following her as she immediately started walking.
"Hey boy! What the fuck you think you doin'?" he heard from behind him, making Roland turn.
He saw the girl look back and finally there was an emotion on her face, abject fear.
"I order you to do nothing but as I say," Roland stated.
The man, latino, stopped in his tracks. He was thin, with dark skin and about five foot seven. He wore a deep blue tank top, tan cargo shorts with Cortez sneakers and over the calf white socks. He had no hat, but his hair was shorn almost in a buzz, with an attempt at a goatee on his face.
His eyes panicked though, and Roland realized, as his body began to convulse, what the problem was.
"You may breathe," Roland said, yet nothing.
Damn it.
"I order you to do normal things but do what I say," he said.
The man inhaled a large breath and hunched over. Roland looked around and swore again.
Damn it!
"Hey! Stop!" and the girl stopped, as she was about to step off the curb. He was going to have to get a system.
"What's your name?" he asked the man.
"Rodrigo Estebar Fernandez," he said.
"Come with me," he said, and walked towards the girl.
"What's your name?" he asked when they got to her.
"Rebecca- something- Symonds master," she said.
"What do you mean 'something'?"
"I'm trying to remember my middle name master, but can't," she said.
Roland's temper flared again, this time in his throat, making him want to scream.
"Rebecca, watch out for traffic, but keep going. Rodrigo, go with her to where Mr. H is."
They looked down the street, a car just passing, and crossed. Roland followed several meters behind them, following them up the sidewalk.
He needed to be specific. He needed to not have to micro-manage. He needed them to still use their brains and think. And in the situation he was walking into, he needed to keep himself and anyone else safe.
They approached a normal looking, two story home and walked up to the door, going right in.
Roland came up and in as he heard Rodrigo start talking.
"Yo, this guy is ordering us around-"
"Shut up!" Roland yelled, slamming the door behind him.
"I order everyone in this house to come down to the living room immediately and put any weapons on this table! I order you to not say anything unless I ask or tell you to. I order you not to do anything besides normal bodily functions unless I tell you to."
The house was a wreck. Unlike how it appeared from the outside, a normal rundown home, the inside was disgusting. Some of the wall's studs shown, there were holes in the floor, paint was peeling, and the smell was god-awful.
Several people were coming down the stairs, as a young black woman, in tan shorts only, came from another room, presumably the kitchen.
On one of the couches was a white girl with black hair, whose head had been bobbing in the lap of an overweight, ugly white man in his middle years. Her emmaciated frame immediately stopped and sat up, looking at Roland with those same empty eyes as Rebecca had.
As the men came in, they put all manner of knives and guns on the table betwen the stained and well-used couches. Roland saw several handguns, ARs, and shotguns.
After a few minutes, with no other sound, Roland looked at the room of people. Three men, two of which he'd seen and one had come from upstairs. He was white, probably mid-20s, and looked like he belonged in a frat back at the college. He'd made it with his pants around his ankles and still had his pastel polo on.
The girls though… Rebecca, the black topless girl from the kitchen, the too thin girl, and three others now.
One was under 5 foot, emmaciated as well with unkempt brown hair, and was in a t-shirt only.
The second was a tall white girl with a deep auburn head of hair, but was completely naked, covered in bruises from her face to her feet. Her nipples and what especially were an angry red.
The last was a latina, a hair over 5 foot tall and plump, wearing a ratty black skirt and red, graphic t-shirt.
"I order all of you to answer any question I ask, as best you can," Roland said.
"Who's in charge here?"
The ugly man with his dick still out spoke up.
"I am."
"Who are you?"
"My names Horatio, but everyone calls me Mr. H."
"All the girls, go upstairs and find clothes, then wait there," Roland said, and they all moved.
"How much cash do you have in this house? And put your dick away," Roland asked.
"There's about $42,000," he said, stuffing his cock back in his shorts.
"Where's Big G?"
"I don't know. But he comes by every week. He was here two days ago."
Fuck.
"Do you have a way of getting a hold of him?"
"Of course. I got his number."
Smartass.
"Text him that you need to see him right away. Don't say anything else."
"You, who the fuck are you?" Roland asked the frat boy as Horatio bagan typing on his phone.
"Jesse Stoups," he said.
"Get your shit put away. What are you doing here?"
"I come here every other week to get my hit of coke, and sometimes to fuck a girl."
"You have money?"
"Kinda. My dad gives me $3000 a week."
"The fuck? What kind of parent gives their kid cash like that? Jesus. Go with Horatio and put any money in the house in a bag, like a backpack. Go."
They came back minutes later with a simple Jansport bag loaded with cash.
"Okay boys, first thing. After I shut that door, Rodrigo is going to get extremely upset at how he's been treated. He's going to pick up one of these guns and force Horatio to suck his dick. Then he's going to make Jesse fuck Horatio in the ass.
5 minutes after I shut the door, he's going to make Horatio blow Jesse while he fucks Horatio in the ass. Then 10 minutes after I shut the front door, Rodrigo is going to cum in Horatio's ass, then shoot and kill both Horatio and Jesse.
Rodrigo, I don't care how you do it.
Rodrigo, after you kill them both, you're going to call the police, and once they arrive, you're going to shoot off your gentials.
Then after I shut that front door, you're going to follow my orders, but forget everything about me. All of the things I ordered you to do will be of your own decisions.
Jesse, Horatio, you two will make no move to alert anyone, at all. You're going to do as I say, then die."
Roland callously walked out of the room.
Roland went upstairs and found the six girls in what amounted to a bed room. He almost threw up.
It smelled of body odor, shit, urine, and other smells he couldn't place. There were piles of clothes here and there, there were blankets on the floor in what could loosely be called bedrolls. The walls had holes in them while the windows had some kind of blocking material over them.
"Girls, when the police get here, you'll tell them everything you've been through. You'll get counseling and while you'll always remember what happened to you, you'll find after several months that you're strong and this chapter of your life doesn't need to haunt you forever.
Until the police get here, you won't leave this room.
And after I leave this room, you'll follow my orders but forget I was ever here."
And he left. He heard them begin to talk amongst themselves, but his footsteps and pounding heart drowned them out quickly.
He hit the bottom floor and picked up the backpack, then, almost as an afterthought, he came over to the table, looking at the weapons. He reached in and found a simple black pistol and looked at the slide. A Glock 17, that'll do. He put it in the bag and without looking at the men, walked out, shutting the door behind him, using his shirt on the knob.
***
"Stop here," Gregory said, his man, Devin doing as ordered.
Up ahead were at least 10 squad cars, two fire trucks, and 3 ambulances.
He checked his phone, and saw Thomas' dots cycle.
God damnit. Gregory began typing, and Thomas was quick to respond.
Fucking hell. Robbie. Jesus.
Gregory heard Devin talking up front, then saw a white guy come around to the drivers rear door, the locks snapping open and he climbed inside.