Secrets of The New World Order

"Ah, yeah, sure," I said. Seeing that car was probably the last thing I wanted to do.

I called Sarah and she said she'd drive me to the impound lot. There was no way I was going to let my mother see the car until I saw the damage myself.

I thought I had prepared myself to see where my father had spent the last few minutes of his life, but I was wrong.

The driver's side window looked like a million cobwebs with a single, round hole in the middle. Blood had seeped into the cracks. Dark red stains covered the driver's door and front seat. The passenger side window was down.

"You know," said 'Fred', "aside from the window and blood stains – the cars in good shape...a body shop can fix it right up for you!"

I barely heard him. I was feeling so sad I had to fight back my tears. Then something struck me as odd.

"Was the car like this when it was towed in?" I asked Fred.

"Yeah," he said. "I towed it myself."

"And there's nothing wrong with the passenger-side window?"

"Well, I don't know...it was down when I got there - I never thought about seeing if it works or not...the seat got all wet because of the rain that day, but the cops said to leave the car like I found it while they investigated."

A crushing wave of fear swept over me. I began to tremble.

"You know," said Fred. "If you want to sell it there was a woman who came here to look at it – she seemed awfully interested. She asked me the same questions as you...."

Huh? "She wasn't with the police?" I asked him.

"Nah, but she was busy scribbling stuff on her notepad...her name was 'Jennifer-something' – she took some photos, too – she might want to buy it."

He left me standing beside the car with the keys in my hand. The hair on my neck stood straight. Even though it was a warm afternoon a cold chill ran down my spine.

I thought to myself: There is something very, very wrong here.

I gulped down oxygen to calm myself. I closed my eyes, relaxed, and my head cleared.

My friend, Eddie, worked at his dad's auto body shop. I called him and said I was bringing the car to him.

It was all I could do to ignore the massive spider-web of shattered glass on the window. The bullet-hole was freaking me out, but I concentrated hard on more pressing issues.

Who was this 'Jennifer' woman, and why was she so interested in the car? I needed to find her. Maybe she had some answers.

None of this made any sense. My father was not the type of man to do this to himself.

I theorized and speculated but everything came back to one fact that bothered the hell out of me. It began as a nagging concern then grew to a high-pitched scream in my head. I couldn't ignore it any longer.

The damage to the car says my father held the gun in his right-hand when he pulled the trigger. The mortician told me the bullet had entered thru my father's right temple and exited out the left.

If that was the case, it would have been impossible for my father to have committed suicide – he was left-handed, and not only that but his right-hand was weak and arthritic. He couldn't hold a drinking glass in his right-hand much less an eight-pound-eleven-ounce magnum forty-four.

Oh my God – Oh my God – Oh my God....

My entire body shook with fear. It was all I could do to steady my hands and keep the car on the road.

There was no doubt in my mind that my father had been killed – murdered!

I left the car at the body shop and Eddie gave me a ride home.

"Sorry about your dad, dude," he said.

"Thanks, Eddie," was all I could say.

By the time I got home I was out of my mind. I paced back-and-forth in the living room desperately trying to figure out what to do next.

The coroner ruled it a suicide. The police investigated and found nothing to suggest otherwise. The cops aren't stupid. For some reason they're covering up the truth. The investigation was a sham!

I suddenly recalled Mr. Blank's statement: "The Better Business Bureau, the Chamber of Commerce - even the police are funded by corporations now!"

The police receive money from corporations? That's absurd! How can they possibly perform fair and unbiased investigations?

Why would someone kill my father anyway? Everyone respected him for his common sense, hard work and his dedication to his family. He was admired for his strength of character and personal integrity.

Every which way I looked at it, I came up with the same conclusion: Someone so powerful they could buy-off, or bribe the police into a phony investigation, had to be responsible for my father's death.

But why? And who was this 'Jennifer' woman? What did she have to do with this? Asking questions, writing notes and taking photos – it sounds like she was doing her own investigation.

Was she a private investigator? If so, who did she work for?

Maybe she's a reporter, I thought. Did she suspect it wasn't a suicide?

I sat in my dad's recliner and closed my eyes. I wanted my head to stop spinning. This was the most important moment in my life and I needed clear thinking.

After several minutes a thought came to mind. I sat at my laptop and went to the website of the town newspaper, 'The Flowerton Eagle'.

I began scanning articles, looking only at the bylines. I had gone back four editions when suddenly my eyes lit up. There was a story about Mr. Bagley being appointed the 'Town Manager' by the Governor.

The reporter who wrote the story was 'Jennifer McBride'.

I read the article. She was quite critical of the process that when a town was near bankruptcy, the Governor had the authority to disband the elected town council, and replace them with a 'Town Manager' of his choosing. It had been fashioned after Michigan's law, and was passed when the Tea Party won the most seats in the state legislature.

At the time I remember thinking, "If the council is so bad they nearly ruined our town, it's probably a good thing the governor intervened."

I found a phone number and called. A woman answered and asked "What is your party's extension, please."

"I don't know – her name is Jennifer McBride," I said.

"What department does she work in?" the nasally-voiced woman asked.

Really? The woman doesn't recognize the name of one her paper's reporters? Must not have a subscription, I thought.

"She's a reporter," I replied.

"I will transfer you to her extension – for future reference it is 321," she said with a snotty attitude.

"Jennifer McBride, how may I assist you?" she said. Her voice sounded young and energetic.

"Uh...hi...I'm not even sure if you're the person I'm looking for, but my name is John Strong and I was wondering if you might be able to help me...were you the woman at the police impound lot looking at my dad's car?" I quietly asked her.

There was such a long silence I had to ask "Are you still there?"

"I don't know what you're talking about!" she said. Her voice had suddenly turned icy cold; she sounded scared.

She lied. I knew she was the right person. Now I was frightened, too.

"Please, I need your help! My father didn't commit suicide!" I said.

Another long pause.

"I know...." She finally whispered into the phone.

My heart began pounding so hard it hurt my chest.

"Please, can I meet you some place? I really need to talk with you," I asked.

She continued whispering into the phone. "There's nothing either of us can do – you don't know who you're dealing with – this is very dangerous – don't call me again!"

"PLEASE," I cried out before she ended the call. "You're the only one who can help me and my mom and sisters...please help us."

And after what seemed like an eternity, with a tired and sad-sounding voice she whispered, "Alright...."

Suddenly her voice became loud and animated as she spoke into the phone.

"Mother, how many times have I said not to call me at work?"

Huh? I wondered. Then I figured someone was standing near her; someone she didn't want to overhear her conversation.

"Mom, I already told you I'd take you shopping on Saturday, remember? I said I'd pick you up at ten-o'clock...mother, we're going to 'Elaine's' to buy you a new brassiere – did you forget to take your memory pill this morning?"

Then she was quiet, as if she was listening to her mother.

Finally she said, "Oh, and thank you for the new blouse, mom, that shade of burgundy looks great with my black slacks...okay, mom, sure, sure – yes, mom...I have to get back to work, mom – I love you – see you Saturday!"

She ended the call.

I was both elated and scared out of my mind. The phrase she had used "This is very dangerous" filled my head with images of bad guys out to get us. This was heavy-duty intrigue; the likes you only saw on television or the movies.

Doubt and uncertainty crept into my mind.

Someone very powerful had gotten the police to perform a sham investigation. The coroner had to be in on it, too; he would surely have found my father's right-hand to be arthritic, and too weak to hold the heavy magnum.

A reporter was suspicious enough to ask questions at the impound lot. Since the whole affair had been kept quiet, how did she even know to go to the impound lot? She had to have been working on a story prior to my father's death. She knew he didn't commit suicide and it scared the hell out of her.

This was serious business and by poking around and asking questions, I could very well be setting up my mom, sisters and myself to the same fate as my father.

It briefly occurred to me not to meet with her on Saturday; to walk away and forget about this mess. My father was gone, and nothing could bring him back. What good could possibly come from this?

I thought of my father. His dedication to his family; his kindness and fairness to everyone he met; he was the man friends and neighbors could rely on for help; never said a bad word about anyone.

One definition of 'integrity' is doing the right thing even when no one is watching. That was my father.

I have to go through with this, I told myself. I can't allow my family and all the people in town forever believe he was a weak man who took his own life. I have to clear his good name and reputation.

I sat back in my dad's recliner and stared into space; thinking, wondering. How can I do this without risking the lives of the people I love?

My father had been murdered for a reason, and knowing him as I did, I knew it wasn't over something unimportant or trivial.

It was my duty to find out why this happened, and make sure the killer didn't get away with it. My father would never be able to 'rest in peace' without my help.

My hours at the hardware store would be 12:30-8:30. Earl, the man who'd worked there for thirty years, would teach me everything I needed to know. On my first couple of days, I followed him around like a puppy-dog. He was amused by this, but I wanted to learn his routine.

Mr. Jensvold opened the store at 8am, six-days a week. Mrs. Bailey, another long-time employee worked from 8-12:30, and waited on customers and stocked the shelves while Mr. Jensvold did the daily paperwork.

On Friday, I had put away the shipment we'd received, and went to the back office to give Mr. Jensvold the invoice. He was reading the newspaper, and he was slowly shaking his head.

"Something wrong?" I asked him.

"Here," he said, "read these...."

He pushed the paper in my direction and pointed. The pages were open to the employment section. He ran his finger down one column and I saw five ads that all began with "Personal Assistant Wanted".

I read the first one: "Wanted: Physically fit, attractive young woman, 18 or above. Generous, wealthy male willing to negotiate duties and salary with open-minded, qualified female. Signed contract is required." It went on to list a Post Office box where interested women could reply.

I quickly scanned the similar ads. They pretty much said the same thing. I'd never seen employment ads quite like these. They looked more appropriate for the "Personals" section.

"It didn't take long for the snakes to slither out from beneath their rocks...." I heard Mr. Jensvold say.

He must have seen the quizzical expression on my face.

He quickly added: "The Court's decision has opened the floodgates – we're going to see more and more 'ads' like this...may God help the young people who can't afford college or trade schools."

I was still confused why he objected to people negotiating their own contracts, but I wasn't going to say anything. I left the office and returned to work.

Judith lay naked, staring at the ceiling. She suddenly shivered and covered herself with a sheet. The motel room was hot and stuffy, but she felt cold and alone.

She remembered Mr. Bagley's command and slid her left hand down and felt her clean-shaven pubic area. Tears formed in her eyes as her fingers slowly stroked the nether lips.

She glanced at the clock on the bedside table. It was 1:59. Her heart began pounding. She fought to block everything from her mind. She'd already resigned herself to do whatever was required to protect her family.

The gentle movements of her fingers brought a sigh from her lips. She felt herself moisten 'down there'.

She tried to picture her husband's hard penis, but every time it was suddenly pushed from her mind by the image of Mr. Bagley's formidable cock.

She was overtaken with shame and guilt for thinking of another man's erection.

When she heard a key turn in the door, she threw off the sheet, spread her legs wide, closed her eyes and played with her pussy; going so far as to push a finger in-and-out of her now-wet cunt. Mr.Bagley would clearly see she was complying with his demands.

When he came into the room she heard him chuckle then say "Good girl."

She had never experienced such humiliation in her life.

I must look like a total whore, she thought to herself.

She could hear him removing his clothes. She felt her blood pressure rise. Then the bedsprings creaked as he climbed on top of her. She felt nauseous when his naked flesh came into contact with hers.

She suddenly couldn't feel his weight on top of her anymore; she opened her eyes to see he'd placed his knees to her sides, and was moving his body closer to her face. His hard cock was inches from her mouth. She didn't want to look at it and closed her eyes again.

"Give me a quick blowjob first...I've been thinking of those sweet lips wrapped around my cock all day – it won't take me long to blow my first wad into your mouth."

She cringed at his crude words. When his hot flesh pressed against her lips, she opened her mouth and he pushed forward until his cockhead hit the back of her throat.

She gagged and coughed; he laughed and pulled back until she was comfortable with just a few inches of his shaft inside her mouth.

"Look me in the eyes when you suck me off!" he commanded.

He had a smirk on his face when she locked her gaze onto his cold, dead brown eyes.

He gripped her ears and held her head still as he thrust his cock into her mouth. Then he withdrew to the tip and pushed forward again. He fucked her face as he gloated down at her.

"How does it feel, Mrs. Strong, to suck another man's cock while your dead husband isn't even cold in the ground yet?" he sneered down at her.

Oh my God – Oh my God....Oh my God....

Judith felt tears stream from her eyes and across her obscenely expanded cheeks.

Her crying seemed to excite him even more as he fucked her face faster. She felt his cock begin to pulse and throb. Then he cried out and the first salvo of cum struck the back of her throat.

"SWALLOW IT ALL, MRS. STRONG – EAT MY CUM, YOU SNOBBY-BITCH!!"

Mr. Bagley's hips and torso thrashed wildly about as he emptied his balls into her mouth. His grip on her head was so tight Judith's eyes bulged wide.

Staring at the panic on her face sent electric jolts of excitement from his spine to his head. He couldn't believe the intensity of his climax; or the huge flow of semen he was forcing her to swallow. He watched tiny rivers of cum escape from the corners of her mouth and rush down her cheeks.

The gulping noises she made as she swallowed were music to his ears; this haughty bitch who had barely acknowledged his existence was now eating his nasty spunk like a common streetwalker.

A perverse thrill shot thru his body when he realized just how much he loved degrading this beautiful and sexy woman.

When his body finally came to rest, and his softened prick was still between her lips, he made her lick him clean - one more demeaning act he could force his new slut to perform.

When Mr. Bagley climbed off the woman, Judith wiped the excess semen from her face and dried her hands on the sheet. She watched him bend over to open his valise and had a clear rear-view of his scrotum dangling between his split thighs.

Yes, she thought, his ball sac was larger than Jeffrey's, but still, how in the world could it store so much semen?

His slime was turning putrid in her mouth. It coated her tongue and she thought about running into the bathroom and drinking a gallon of water.

"Mrs. Strong," she suddenly heard him call out. "Come over here – I have a couple papers I want you to sign."

She stood beside him and stared down at the papers on the table acutely aware of their nudity. It felt wrong to be naked with a man besides Jeffrey.

"Mrs. Strong," he began. "I was thinking about our 'arrangement' and I thought it would only be fair to you if you were reimbursed for the time we are together. I am willing to hire you as my employee and not only will you and your family live rent-free in the house, but I will also pay you four-hundred dollars a week...would you agree to that sum?"

His offer surprised her. She would have had to go along with his blackmail to remain in the house anyway, she wondered about his sudden generosity.

"Uh...okay, thank you," she said softly, immediately regretting the fact she thanked him for forcing her to have sex with him.

He pulled from his suit coat a pen and four one-hundred dollar bills and set them on the table. Judith felt a surge of joy when she the money.

Between this money, free rent and Johnny's paycheck she and the kids may be able to make it after all, she thought.

"This is a standard contract for your services...my expectations of your duties are clearly spelled out here and, of course, you will receive compensation in the form of free rent, AND four-hundred dollars in cash, per week, payable every Friday, here in this room."

He decided including the money in their arrangement was a good idea when his attorney suggested it.

What difference does it make to me? He thought to himself. It's not my money – it'll come out of the bank's slush fund we use to pay bribes and hush money anyway.

The 'contract' consisted of two pages of small print. He flipped the page for her to see then left it open to the last page, where she saw spaces for two signatures.

"H-How long is this for?" she asked quietly.

"It's a standard two-year contract with a clause where I can cancel it at any time for any reason...."

He offered her a pen. When she hesitated his voice turned soft and ominous.

"Mrs. Strong, if you refuse to sign this you will still have to meet me here anyway as long as you want to live in the house...do yourself a favor – be a good little girl and sign this contract. Or don't you want the extra four-hundred dollars a week?"

She took the pen, and with slightly trembling hands, she signed the original contract, and the copy that would be hers. She briefly scolded herself for not reading it first; her husband would have been furious with her.

Mr. Bagley surprised her by producing a notary public stamp. He stamped the two copies then signed his name. He tucked the original into his suit coat pocket and gave her the copy.