Sugar Cane Babe

By Al Culler

A rare blend of sex, witchcraft and madness... Simon Greene has disappeared into the neon mist of Angeles City. Set up and arrested in the infamous go-go and sex zone on Field's, amid crazed hookers, police raids and thuggish locals. His cousin, Henry Greene, forced into retirement from his police job, persuaded against his better instincts to rush to his rescue. Henry soon convinced that the neon paradise is actually a kind of hell on earth. Marie a Filipina go-go dancer with a twist of evil in her soul and a smile that often caused the customers to fight over her. She's got her talons into Simon, with a little help from the local shaman, thinks she is into the big money, Then there's... then there's a mad tale of Angeles City as it shuffles through it last days of neon madness and insanity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Al Culler
• Release date: Nov 25, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463338490

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SMASHWORDS EDITION

PUBLISHED BY: Al Culler on Smashwords

Sugar Cane Babe

Copyright © 2018 by Al Culler

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

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Al Culler

Sugar Cane Babe

The shaman recalled that when he was a child he experienced the flutter of shame run through his mind after he killed an insect. Now there was the deadness of the act as he slapped an errant mosquito off his near naked body; felt the loss of that feeling. He lived in what the locals called the swamplands, infested by snakes, mosquitoes and even the odd creature that could not be scientifically identified. Heat warped nature to its own design. Snake blood his major nutrient, still heated from the recently cut snake it stirred corners of his being little else reached. His body pure muscular litheness, untended beard and hair a wild sight. In the badlands he looked like a creature more at home a thousand or so years ago.

Except that the plateau was disturbed by a modern Asiatic sight – a large, loutish Westerner on the back of a step-thru Honda motorcycle piloted by a diminutive Filipina... Simon Greene's obese body naked except for a pair of Union-Jack shorts obscured by excessive flesh that had been flashed by the sun from milk white to bright red. As soon as the bike stopped, the heat and humidity caused sweat to seep out of his body and an unruly mob of insects to dive-bomb him, frenzied by the free water and unknown fleshiness of a Caucasian body. They took a particular delight in his bald pate.

Simon scowled and muttered obscenities, wondering why he could not have spent the afternoon in the air-conditioned sanctity of his hotel room, drinking beer and watching TV. He had chosen the Angeles City hotel so that he could walk to the bars on Field's in the night and stagger over to the SM Mall in the day; between those two extremes he was happy with sex twice a day and keeping out of the terrible heat as much as possible.

Marie Clarke was twenty-three years old but had the body of an eleven year-old Westerner, save that she had spent her youth in Leyte cutting sugar cane; the muscle under the velvet skin wired with iron and heat and madness that sometimes came out in her eyes when she was pissed off with Westerners playing games with her life. To a certain kind of foreigner she was highly addictive - once enjoyed, never forgotten!

She spat at Simon,

Stay here. The place is full of snakes, so don't wander away. This guy is a shaman, a wizard, who is going to cure a problem I have with my stomach. You must stay here and not interrupt us!

Simon full of expletives but managed to hold his tongue, muttering under his breath about superstitious peasants before letting paranoid thoughts of the woman having AIDS enter his mind. He looked at the wiry native – the so-called warlock - with complete contempt, another useless piece of shit trying to live off the bar-girls. Given his size, he rarely felt physically threatened by the louts hanging out on Field's, whether they be con-men or merely pimps, but at the back of his mind there was always the thought that one of these bastards was living off Marie's money – his money! And that thought enraged him.

The heat haze fluttered the vegetation in the clearing – nothing had an air of solidity. Simon loved the city, the concrete and brick sanity where nature had been tamed and largely eliminated. When he stepped away from the bike towards the hut, he was convinced that there was a flow of snakes shuffling out from the hovel towards him. He stepped back behind the bike, the vegetation went quiet. The sun high, the sky a wiped out blue that matched only his eyes in hue, the heat burnt through his body making him feel light-headed... after a few minutes he wasn't sure how long he'd really been there; it felt, as far as his imagination could run, as if the world had ended and was trying to sear something new into the ether.

Some creature came out of the sky, drove straight down on to his head and sank fangs into his skin. He couldn't believe the lack of luck, here he was in the middle of nowhere suddenly attacked by an alien creature that crunched under his hand as he slapped at his head... some kind of monster-sized hornet that still buzzed on the heat-saturated ground. He felt his scalp, bulking out as whatever toxins that had been injected hit his blood stream, a keen pain flicking through his brain; sudden images of his head bloating until he resembled the elephant-man! He stamped on the hornet, grinding the life out of the bastard but feeling neither joy nor remorse. What a f..king country.

The only thing carrying him through the day, Viagra fuelled lust. Marie in awe of the vastness of his cock compared to the pitiful state of the natives and he was convinced she was madly in love with him, no way that kind of sex and affection could be faked. He couldn't get over how tight, wet and heated Marie went when he got inside her, it was like plugging into the mother-lode; electric shock therapy. She had muscles where he didn't think any existed. For that kind of sex he could take a lot of shit, even standing in the middle of nowhere with enough heat to suggest a post-nuclear death-zone whilst his woman consorted with some peasant witch who was probably feeding her boiled frogs and burnt bat wings.

Even the motorcycle agreed, clicking and clucking, seeping oil and giving off a burnt odour... he hoped it wasn't on its last legs or he'd have to pay up for a new one! There was a never ending list of things these girls wanted and he tried to slow down the process of turning into a walking ATM – a little treat and then some fiscal prudence for as long as he could get away with it. The promise of big money when he later got his hands on his fictional pension fund kept her interested.

Marie had no thoughts of money or greed in her mind, she watched the shaman, now naked and more animal than human in his litheness, as he crossed his legs and sat before her. His prick was all out of proportion to his body, jutting upwards in vertical erection; though Simon's member was similarly large it only ever flirted with the horizontal after he'd taken two blue pills and looked malformed in comparison to the smooth brown perfection... she would have done any kind of sex demanded but the shaman never indulged in mere fornication, he harnessed his sexual energy in pursuit of occult power, rumoured to nurture a constant erection!

When Marie ran her gaze up his svelte body she was met with eyes that had turned to red coals, burning deeply into her mind... the air wired with electric energy, suddenly the hut full of shadows and the murmur of voices. Marie supposed to be a good Catholic girl who believed in God but the Leyte folk had deeper roots than mere Christianity, in the darkness of the night an older religion ruled.

When the shaman reached forward and closed her eyes and then caressed her forehead with his thumb she felt her whole body jerk upwards, a rare exhilaration running through her veins... in her mind, the shaman levitated a good foot off the ground, taking her with him and then suddenly she was dancing though the air with the shaman holding her hand, swirling around Simon who was manically slapping at mosquitoes and swearing his head off.

The mamasan always referred to the customers as beasts who had to be financially slaughtered before being thrown away as if of no consequence and it took a brave dancer to go against the mamasan. Marie had never felt so free and energized, anything possible, in contrast to poor old Simon who looked exactly like a beast.

Simon had a black ether surrounding him with a light at his neck that bloomed when the shaman tried to punch his hand through the mist. The shaman wanted to pull Simon's heart right out of his body and give it to Marie but every time he tried the light fusing through the black ether held him off. Suddenly, there was a burst of light and Marie and the Shaman were back in the hut, flat-lining on the earth floor... Marie unsure if it had been a dream or a strange slip of reality. The shaman enraged, shouted at her to go, not to bring such a foreigner to him again. His erection abated, his cock suddenly reduced to that of a baby.

Back at the bike, Marie looked at Simon with new eyes, he seemed taller and broader. Somehow stronger than when she left. She ran a figure up his chest, stopping at the row of Buddhist amulets that hung from a black neck-string and gave him her best smile, the one that sometimes caused fights amongst the beasts in the bar.

Simon, I like your necklace, can I wear it for a while?

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Detective Constable Henry Greene could still, in that old fashioned way, be described as a fine figure of a man. These were not words that Chief Inspector Moce would ever utter or even think, having devoted the past six months to his expulsion from the police force.

Henry, you will be sixty in a couple of months and will have to retire. You have over forty years on the force, bravery citations and can congratulate yourself on a job well done. True, you must be the longest serving detective constable on the force but that is, perhaps, down to your disinclination to toe the line.

Greene determined to say nothing, every time he used the word Chief he found it impossible to keep out of the word an inflection that conjured up not reverence for his boss's status in the Wiltshire police force but of spear wielding Africans, screaming across the Massa and boiling their victims in oil.

That the Chief was a third generation British West Indian, half his age, of massive proportions and of Lesbian persuasion, provoked only the thought in his mind that all that was missing was a wheelchair and her appointment would've reached a rare pinnacle of political correctness. He would not have minded any of that if she was in any way competent as a police officer rather than as an administrator of endless forms, most of which he studiously ignored. It had always seemed strange to him that immigrants of African origin were so unattractive when compared to their brethren in places like France, not that their excessive size did anything to dent their confidence.

And there is all this holiday leave – months of it piled up that you will have to use up before you go. I know you have marital problems, most likely of your own making, but it is unhealthy to spend all your time on the job. So, shall we say a few days to clear up your paperwork and then paid leave until your sixtieth birthday? You can continue to use the room in the police station house, though god knows how a man of your age can tolerate such basic accommodation, until your actual retirement day.

The largesse of government minions knew no bounds even as the female members of the governing party resembled more and more prison warders rather than servants of the public. Greene knew if he started ranting there would be no stopping him until violence ensued and held his dignified silence in the face of such irrational nonsense.

He had no doubt that his policeman's stare, with forty years of intense practise, was making the Chief wet her knickers, not entirely sure if the strictures of the job would hold him in check. Greene still had no tolerance of wrong-doers and would, in a fairer world, have arrested his superior on first sight, on multiple charges of disturbing his view of how the world should be.

His sudden ascent to his full six-foot-one height, hinting at barely restrained violence, elicited what passed for a grin in his face when the Chief actually shrank back in her chair. He wondered how she had survived on the street as a constable; perhaps complete incompetence allowed fast-tracking to a position where she could do least harm to herself.

Once free of the pastel shades of the Chief Inspector's office there was little respite. Greene had long occupied a corner desk in an open plan office, much to the annoyance of some senior officers. Now they could fight over it. The room had the feel of a classroom, cat-calls and zoo noises echoed off concrete walls painted the hue of death. If these were supposed to be the upholders of law and order, Greene had little confidence in the future of his country.

The youngest male member of the crew transformed into a brassy young lady, part of a sting operation in the dodgy streets close to Swindon’s railway station. The lad so slim he looked more female than most of the women on the force.

Greene’s sexual dislocation resulting from his divorce, after thirty-five years of what he considered a happy marriage, so severe that for a moment he considered a brutal sexual assault on the transvestite. The short dress with