Life as a New Hire Ch. 21

"This is your Uncle Carrig," Brianna - I thought it was Brianna - made the introductions. I dialed up my Irish. Carrig meant...meant...'rock'. Not 'the Rock' as in Dwayne Johnson. No, it meant 'rock' as in 'lump'. I had an Uncle Lumpy. How the fuck was I going to explain this at the next high school reunion?

The answer was obvious. I'd parade out my four lava-stoked volcanic aunt-hotties and no one would be able to see old Uncle Lumpy over their sexual radiance. Perhaps being created in the form of a disfigured Neanderthal made Lumpy furious with the world. That might be why he wanted Grandpa to stay dead. Maybe...oh hell, Lumpy had serious family issues, as in he wanted to hump my aunts who only wanted to hump me.

"Hello Uncle Carrig," I started out. "Thank you for..."

"Shut up," he sneered. "I came here to see your whore of a mother one last time, not listen to your prattle."

"Carrig, don't," Fiona intervened. "He is family."

He took a deep breath.

"I know why all of you want him in the Family," he snarled at his sisters.

"Behave, or leave," I relayed in a far calmer voice than I felt.

"I'll leave when I'm good and ready," Carrig turned his hate back on me.

He put a finger to his nose and cleared his sinuses. The resulting sputum he launched at my Mother's tiny rock reminder was dead-on the money, gooey, white and full of phlegm. I looked at that defilement. This red-hot poker of rage seared through my mind. Instead, I laughed. It started as a stuttered utterance but grew and grew into a rich, resounding conquest of death and despair.

"Wow, Unc...that was kind of pathetic," I chuckled. "It is impossible to imagine you ever breathed the same air, much less hold any genetic resemblance, to the greatest criminal mastermind of the past millennia. Seriously, spitting on a piece of stone was the most your orangutan-like, sloped-headed pea brain could come up with?"

"After that (cough) brilliant bit of diplomacy, he's probably glad he's still dead and didn't have to witness your infantile blunder," I added.

He was getting pissed; torn between his desires to pummel me, rip me to shreds, or storm off like a raging King Kong.

"You know, when they killed Grandpa, they told me he made a noise like a stuck pig," I mirthfully met his hateful glare. "For a moment, they thought they'd killed the wrong man."

"They suspected you and Granddad were in the next chamber, him ramming you up your sissy-ass for the umpteenth time because you are nothing but a ball-less wonder of a cast-off eunuch," I kept taunting him.

"Then they recalled that you always squealed like a piglet, not a full grown boar, so they completed their mission and left," I refused to flinch before his vile hatred.

"You think you are funny?" he leaned in and hissed.

"I think you need a breath mint - and I am hilarious," I grinned. "I also think I'm the son Granddad always wanted, not you." That was me being mean - really mean.

"We are not done," his eyes narrowed.

"Take your pulse," I mocked him. "When it stops, we are finished. Until then, brush, use mouthwash and floss between meals. Your halitosis is truly offensive and worse, I think you are aware of it, yet still you refuse to respect other people's personal boundaries."

"We should go brother," Deidre beckoned.

She couldn't hide her amusement at his discomfort and humiliation. Uncle Carrig pivoted and back-handed her. Deidre went flying, but my idiot kinsman didn't have long to savor his win. I hit him with two lightning blows.

My first thought was that I had dislocated a few of my fingers from hitting his jaw. Wasn't there a Bond villain like that? Carrig turned on me, a feral fury brimming just beneath the surface.

"That's a breach, you cocky, snot-nosed punk," he sneered. Mass carnage was in the offing.

"You remain painfully ignorant, Uncle Carrig," I took a half-step back.

"Take your punishment now, or later," he coughed. "It makes no difference to me."

"First off, Carrig, timing should be a poignant concern. Second, you have only now expended a great deal of your meager brain power convincing everyone here we are related - kin - O'Shea's," I explained. "Also, can I have my knife back?"

"Knife?" he blinked suspiciously.

"Yeah, the knife I left in your chest," I pointed. I said I hit him twice. Uncle Lumpy looked down and, sure enough, my handy little 10 cm blade was between his second and third rib on the right side. I hadn't wanted to kill him.

I had wanted to hurt him and apparently failed at that...while sticking a blade almost up to the handle (Amazon personal blades have no hilt) into him...

"What...how?" Lumpy was slowly clueing in that he might be in some trouble.

"Brother," Brianna stepped up - shooting me a sultry, 'bend me over the closest headstone and bang me like your Goth prom date' look.

I actually didn't go to my prom, Goth chicks are fun and Brianna didn't have panties on. Trust me; I have ESP concerning such things. Of more immediate concern...

"Carrig, don't pull out the knife," she placed herself between us, facing him. "You will bleed all over the place."

"I'm about to ram it down his ass through his throat," he snarled, clearly educationally challenged. I'd left the blade there for that very reason - not have him fountain blood all over the gravesite.

"How long is the blade?" Brianna asked me. She already knew the answer.

"10 cm," I was polite, "as is the knife every other Amazon carries."

"Reach around and pull out the blade when I tell you," Brianna requested. "I will keep pressure on the wound." I had serious doubts she had an MD associated with her name which meant she knew something I didn't. I also had a more pressing conundrum. Per instructions, I was about to be pressing against Brianna's backside with the added benefit of a free hand.

"So, do you want me to pat them, or give them a good rub?" I whispered to Brianna. I'd let he decide what treatment her ass was about to receive. "I figure if I reach around and massage your breasts, Carrig will lose it."

"Cáel, take a firm hold. Be doubly sure you are ready before we begin," Brianna instructed.

It wasn't the Di Vinci Code, but Carrig wasn't about to conquer a Denny's Kid's Menu (it has little games on it) anytime soon either. Brianna wanted double penetration and, in the name of renewing family relations and my inability to resist any available woman for more than a few days, I complied. Then the horror came crashing in - I hadn't had sex all day and it was almost 10 am.

"Don't move, Uncle," I cautioned him. I used those words to conceal the sound of Brianna's skirt zipper going down. I used my other hand to gingerly grab my weapon - the knife - jeesh. Brianna spread her legs wider so that the tension kept her apparel from slipping down. My free hand went inside and got to work.

Fortunately, Brianna's hands pressing above and below the wound distracted Carrig from her cute, precious whimpering noises. I must be a total dick. I was stroking my aunt/clone mother's labia with two fingers and teasing her bunghole with my thumb while pulling a knife from my uncle's chest. What is wrong with me?

For that matter, Ishara could stymie the ambitions of some poor 'Runner', yet decided her prime minion doing this was a good thing? I work for some fucked up people; dead and alive.

"Okay, I'm about to do it," I warned them both. Brianna was kind enough to roll her hips forward and ass up for more direct access.

The blade came out, two fingers thrust into her vagina, Carrig grunted more in annoyance than any physical distraction and Brianna gasped with piteous need. Before Carrig could start to connect A to B to C, I withdrew my fingers and zipped Brianna up. As I started to withdraw, Brianna acted like my loins were velcroed to her posterior.

"Bad Girl," I quietly gave her a risqué reproach. She let me go. Then it hit me like a meteor - I had caused Brianna to orgasm, and hard, with one touch. In fact, she was still roughly riding through it. The mental discipline needed to mask her arousal was impressive. She had no control over her aromatic qualities, Lumpy's nostrils were working fine and his hateful, beady rodent-like eyes latched back on me.

"I'm going to kill you," he screamed. Carrig definitely wanted to screw his sisters and they had certainly been denying him. I was curious how that had been accomplished. As he shoved Brianna aside, my suspicion about the seriousness of my wound to his chest was confirmed. I hadn't punched through his heavy corded muscle tissue...with a 10 cm blade. Fuck a duck.

If Uncle Carrig got those horrifically huge paws of his on me, I'd be paper-mâché in a hurricane - turned into veal; the very tenderized kind. That wasn't going to happen because of a little factor called crowd density. Most notably, he was in the midst of a passel of Amazons invested in my well-being. A sliver of the O'Shea family dynamic took hold.

As usual, it sucked to be me. The four O'Shea ladies rallied around Carrig, cautiously pulled him back then ushered him into the steely embrace of their security. Why did that mean it sucked to be me? In a momentary visual exchange, I understood what Lumpy instinctually sensed when he showed up today. His reign as the place-holder for me was coming to an end.

The second my Aunts recruited me over to their side, he was a goner. Obviously they had all the real intellect on that side of the clan. Poor Lumpy merely stomped around and acted like the socially maladjusted homicidal maniac he was. Once the journey to Grandpa's house began, he would cease to have any value whatsoever. Behind his animalistic, dull eyes, we shared that.

Tragically, but most likely by design, Carrig couldn't develop a new set of skills to adapt to the situation. The best example I could come up with was...

Imagine the last of the super-large amphibious predators confronting the first of the true dinosaur apex carnivores. Somewhere in that tiny amphibian brain, it knew it was fucked.

Evolution simply hadn't left it an 'out'. It couldn't get bigger, faster, or more ferocious. It had maxxed out those traits for that model. Nope, it was toast and nothing could save it. As I processed that, the rest of that train of thought came tumbling down. Lumpy was a dead man. He'd hit one of his sisters in front of me which was precisely what they wanted.

Deidre hadn't come by my place on Monday to warn me that Uncle Blockhead was trying to kill me. She was prepping me for the knowledge that they had killed Lumpy - to save me. Those incestuous nightmares had trotted Uncle Carrig out like a Barnum & Bailey Sasquatch, to loud acclaim and fanfare.

Before I could do some in depth research/check to see if this was the 'real' Sasquatch, he would vanish aka be killed to save me. Well played ladies. They should have taken into account I worked for Katrina Love. Katrina undoubtedly played three-dimensional chess on-line so she could lure out the true Vulcans trapped on Earth.

My aunts' straw man wasn't going to cut it. Back to the reality that included my father never again enjoying my meandering thoughts over dinner. Back to the other curious 'real' players as they moved in, having soaked up my ceremony and our O'Shea family struggle. If there as a benefit in that misadventure, it was the look on the faces of the two most distant groups.

The ambassadors had on their poker faces. I was two decades away from having a chance of deciphering them. Foolish mortals, both groups had brought women with them though. That was not to imply that women can't keep secrets - they are among the experts. It wasn't secrets they were defending though - it was the interaction between Brianna and me that opened them up.

If you are a woman and you see a man bring a different woman to orgasm with his fingers in under ten seconds and you are NOT intrigued, you have been sexually neutered. Even if you are a lesbian, you want your lover to pick up that technique. From the level of interest coming my way, I could tell what their bosses/associates really thought of me.

The lady who was already thinking how to pull me aside at the reception was also projecting that I had piqued her co-workers, despite their feigned disinterest. The one who was plotting out how to disguise herself as a maid, so she could hide in my bathroom closet until I came in for a shower this evening. Then the feigned interrogation/instructional demonstration could begin, which told me they had chosen to not leave Chicago today despite previous travel plans.

The three assholes won the social dare contest and approached me next. They were cool, somewhat disdainful and not a party to the murderous program that led us here today. They were still Condotteiri, thus my enemies and slayers of my Dad.

"Mr. Nyilas," a smooth talking Canadian male began, "I wish to pass on the condolences of..."

"I know it was you," I broke in. The Canadian - Ottawa, I thought - stopped talking, allowing me to vent. "You killed my father, you fucks. Now here is your 'I got drunk and stuck my cock in a meat grinder only to discover some other moron plugged it in' bullet to the brain. I am not only Cáel Nyilas, I am Cáel Ishara and Cáel, grandson of Cáel O'Shea," I narrowed my vision to menacing slits.

"I will let you figure out which Goddess is Ishara as well as the convoluted genetics that has resurrected male Amazons. I want you to know that my father was the Head of House Ishara. You killed a Factor of the Illuminati, the 'Voice' of one of the Nine Clans, one of your own Generals, a Grand Master of the Egyptian Rite, a Ba Wang of the 7 Pillars, or a Chosen Son or Daughter, of Earth & Sky

"That's right," I let the fear sink in. "This goes beyond a breach, Dumbass. You BROKE the Truce and have ended the Protocols by killing an Amazon leader. I'm sure claims of ignorance by your Generals will be taken for the empty blathering they are. It is time for your blood to soak the sacred soil of my father's place of entombment."

Having buried him and his two cohorts in a rockslide of truth, my final bluff passed unrevealed for the empty threat it was. I could see by the looks in their eyes. Amazons didn't care about law enforcement. They would kill those three, vanish into the surrounds then slink back to their secret compounds. It was how the Condotteiri thought Amazon's worked.

"Or," I grumbled, "Are you going to make me and my sisters hunt you down and work for it. Killing you with our knives is going to be..." I was saying when their retreat began. I was going to say 'messy'. Those three took a half-dozen steps back then ran for it. Now the stage was fully set.

The three members of the Nine Clans came next. I took a totally different tone. Selena stepped up to speak, bowing as she started to speak.

"We wish..." she started. There was a lot of interrupting going on today.

"Please do not bow to me," I requested softly.

"We have fought and it seems inappropriate to me that, without there being a martial decision, we cannot be sure who should be more respectful to whom," I suggested. Selena quickly switched gears. She and her two female companions were now openly staring at me.

"My Sith Lady is most likely preparing for trouble at my most vulnerable point," I told Selena.

"I'm much more trouble than I first appear," I added. A hiccup in the conversation took place.

"You are the male Head of an Amazon House...how?" Selena questioned.

"My father and the fathers before him carried the genes of the original Ishara. When Her daughters died out, the legacy fell to me," I explained.

Really smart girls - really, really smart girls.

"You do not have any daughters, so your first born daughter will be the next Head of your House," the Hashashin noted quickly. "Of any line?" Ah, the siren call of 'please have unprotected sex with me, Mr. Studmuffin. Not only will I walk bow-legged for a week afterwards, I'll have a political tool to use for a lifetime.'

"Yes, that is true. Please understand, unless you can catch a thrown tomahawk with your feet, I can't say you are at the top of the list," I sighed. "Speaking of the acrobat of my dreams, how are you doing Miyako?" I knocked away at the barrier between our respective groups. I could hardly be considered an Amazon if I wasn't stacking the odds against the Condotteiri, now could I?

On came that child-like Nipponese girl's smile that made me want to double-check her ID for proof of age.

"It is recovering nicely. Thank you, Ishara-sama," she smiled warmly.

"May I see?" I inquired.

Miyako nodded so I went down until I was balanced on the balls of my feet. She deftly slipped out of one of her shoe, placed her foot on my knee then began rolling up the pants leg until the bandaged was revealed. In the past few hours my medical knowledge had not increased one iota. I was pretty sure that Miyako knew what this doctor's visit was really all about.

I gently massaged her leg from ankle to knee, examining it for flaws and weaknesses. I received some manna from Heaven when I stumbled upon a muscle spasm in her foot arch. I worked it out in under thirty seconds and she gave me a musical murmur of relief when I was done. I put her shoe back on and rolled down her trouser leg.

"I would still like you to see our medic if you could spare the half-hour," I offered as I stood.

"If it would ease any misconceptions about our first encounter, I will do it," Miyako changed her mind from last night. My next neural misfire was 'Did I pack enough condoms to do all these girls I've been promising to fuck since I got here?'

"Estere Abed," the thinly-veiled applicant to be the mother of my first child introduced herself. I was at my father's funeral, I'd been hit with the realization that my incestuous aunts are going to emasculate the uncle I'd just met before they kill him, and I was talking to a woman with skin the color of well-seasoned Oak, eyes as dark as expresso-roasted coffee beans (so deeply brown they were almost black), a pale turquoise, virtually transparent pretend-burqa, with inner, skimpy clothing bits keeping her barely street-legal and visualizing what our daughter would look like.

"I am of Kurdish extraction," she lowered her head minutely. Ding-ding-ding-ding-ding! Not only was a-bed something I was seriously considering with this woman, Estere was a Kurdish name of Old Persian extraction. It meant Ishtar...who was the advanced incarnation of Ishara. Bitch - aimed up at my Matron Goddess and Ancestral Mother turned Dominatrixes of my soul.

"How...how mystically convergent that is," I grumbled. "I apologize. Me and my matron Ball-buster are exchanging psychic barbs at the moment. Had you somehow predicted this would have happened, I would be happier. With my luck though, this is accidental from the perspective of the mortal plane, thus a point of incredible annoyance to me right now."

"Do you often talk to your ancestors?" Estere inquired politely.

"Only after I've done something bad," I groaned. "Usually my Goddess is short on instructions yet always ready with 'I told you so'."

"How can she chastise you for doing wrong if she fails to give you direction?" Estere was so sincere.

I had to keep in mind she was a professional librarian with the nasty habit of misfiling people's lives.

"I can tell you don't deal with the Spirit World much," I gave a sad grin. "The last time she gave me a prod, I was staring down a life sentence in a dog cage - after I was condemned, not before."

"You escaped," she reminded me with a sparkle. I gave a harsh laugh.

"No - no, I didn't," I said. "I'll prove it." I lashed out at Estere. She turned my strike aside and was about to do something I assumed would be unfortunate for me when she restrained herself. "See, Estere, you've been doing this most of your life. I'm a college kid who had a good fortune to meet and be guided by a series of stellar women."