Drillmington: Covered

When the workers finally picked up the last kidnapped sex worker, Sate had already cleaned his nails. He was particular about getting the best care for his hair and nails. He moved like a creature who wanted to display power and finesse with all of his being.

“What’s with the hold up?” Sate asked one of his staff members. The worker looked astonished. A mixture of revulsion and admiration crossed his face.

“I, sir—”

“Don’t ‘ice, sir’ me. You get yourself to the docks and start moving units.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sate called the kidnapped women “units.” It was his act of dehumanization further expressing itself to the females who were snatched for him to perform the lowest of lowly acts on both men and women willing to pay. He picked up a burner.

“Yes, if you know any other route to take to get more products shipped, inform me of that. Quickly.”

He slammed the phone down again and massaged his temples. He showed how to best release tension and stress by smoking in his room all by himself. After the act, he rested and went back into the place where the tanks remained. He felt a heaviness on his brow though. He had to contend with the fact that his subordinates wanted to have sex with the women. He ordered them not to though some strayed. That’s why he considered docking their pay in the first place. He wanted to keep business and pleasure separate. He found one of his workers engaged in the act of raping a woman.

“No, finish up. Have your fun now, because you won’t be able to enjoy two days in the box for this.”

Stricken with fear, the young man involved with raping the woman quickly backed away like a buck dismounting from a mare.

“You can head that way now.” Two beefy Negroes then stepped in and carted him away.

Sate talked to the woman who was scared, visibly and shaking with furious tension. He encouraged them.

“It’s going to be alright,” Sate informed her. “You’re only going to have sex with a designated clientele. Okay?”

He then extracted a knife and sliced his arm like cutting into a mango. Blood slid down his arm and dripped on the concrete floor.

“This is my fault. I should have protected you. This is my sacrifice to you.”

The woman looked at him with incredulity.

She then scampered back to the tank and let Sate just stand there. He had not gone up the street on his wrists, just along the slender parts of his biceps, missing arteries or veins.

“Go on. All of you go on. This is my business! if any of you are going to test me, it’s better to reconsider. You don’t want me to be in a bad mood. Garden shears won’t be for branches, if you get my meaning.” Sate addressed his thirty or so workers. He returned to his office and looked at his calculator that was on one of the burners. He did the math on how much he would make off his trafficked women. He tapped in the figures. It read $2.5 million. He sat back and grinned. He looked at his arm and noticed that it was still slightly bleeding. He found a bandage and covered it.

TSL had another show in Wilmington. Backstage, Julisia controlled the numbers on the merch, issued orders to the security, all while monitoring the screens. The screams from the crowd and the lightning bulb lights from the camera phones ultimately showed her that her TSL was winning now.