Guns on the floor please.” Manser demanded as Steve covered the thugs. You remember my memoirs “As a Dodo” when I wrote about my time in Zimbabwe, when I rambled way off the story about torturing Victoria?
Well this is a bit gory, so I decided it was best to tell this tale or anecdote separately, I’m John Hanson by the way, I managed a bank in Harare for a while, before I came home to the UK, you may have seen me on TV racing the Aston Martin, or in the House of Lords, bloody good value that peerage only half a mill, thanks Gordon.
Sorry, back to the plot.
It was at Manser Smythe’s place, back in Zimbabwe, sort of a game reserve, I had agreed to let Manser have my old native girl Msala when she started screwing the Janitor, I had made up this sort of vaginal mousetrap, I told her it was a contraceptive coil, but it’s all in “As a Dodo.”
Manser’s place was way out on the plains, an immaculate little cluster of bungalows and stables cum cages among the trees by the river a short way from the river, accessed by the dry river bed in dry season, by speedboat if at all in the wet.
I was in the workshop when I heard a shout, Msala was lying on the bench as I checked my contraption, or is that “Cuntraption” fitted into her snatch easily when fully contracted, and I slipped it from her with an audible plop and wandered to the door.
I was making this fitting to hold her firmly in place on a saddle. I think you get the idea. up inside then it expands, I am sure you can see it in your minds eye.
A truck full of Mugabe’s guerrillas “Gorillas” I called them, had arrived popping off AK47 clips like it was chinese new year.
Their truck was in a bad way, pouring water from a smashed radiator and juddering from a severely bent propshaft.
“We need new truck, we take yours.” the lead thug announced.
Manser stood facing them, a white haired archetypal ex pat, the wrong side of seventy.
he faced down a thug half his age and twice his weight.
“Don’t be hasty my friend. That is a fine English Bedford Truck, and fair exchange indeed for my Landcruiser, but, where is the fault.”
“Are you blind, the whirling thing is Fukt and the water is steam.” the thug explained patiently using technical jargon.
His companions stood round, occasionally frightening an animal with a burst of gunfire.
Manser called me. “Hanson, look at the truck, something is wrong, see if it can be fixed for our friends.”
“Yes sir Mr Smythe sir.” I answered deferentially. old Manser was protecting me, Zanu thugs liked to torment those in authority not servants.
It was not too bad, a rock had bent the rear propellor shaft and the bottom hose connection was torn from the radiator, but she sounded sweet enough so I figured a bit of work, and they could be on their way.
“Couple of hours sir” I suggested, “I’ll work through, have dinner later.”
The shaft came off easily enough and there was a forge In Mansers workshop so I got it good and hot and got a Gorilla to turn it as I smashed it back to shape with a sledge hammer, I had a rest and had a look at the water leak, the radiator came out easily enough and I soldered the bottom hose connection back on using the gas torch and refitted it..
“Got any Antifreeze?” I asked to ribald laughter. “It protects the water pump bearings.” I protested, but they thought me completely mad so I just used river water.
They planned to kill us, steal anything worth stealing and move on but greed and the thought of their truck being fixed took their eyes off the ball, in fact it was not until I went to refit the propshaft and smashed the splined end into the Chief thugs eye socket as he stood watching me that they realised we knew what they had planned but by then it was a bit too late.
It is a funny sight a bursting eyeball, you really have to see it, splat, and as the great fool went down I guided the propshaft so the 200 pounds, (90Kg) of steel already jammed in his eye socket squashed what little brain he had against his skull as his head hit the ground. The rusty brain streaked spline exited the back of his head to pin him to the hard baked earth, then the falling shaft squashed his skull like an egg.
His lights went out pretty much instantly, almost no blood flowed the heart must have stopped instantly
“Guns on the floor please.” Manser demanded, as he pointed to Steve high above aiming his gun at them.
There was a stunned silence, I pulled the shaft out of the mans head and wiped the end clean.
Steve Akimboso stood on the balcony of the clock tower building with a pistol in one hand and the tranquilliser dart gun in the other. Manser’s native number two Steve had kept a watching brief in the clock tower and emerged quietly on to the balcony as I took out the thug.
Ten leaderless thugs stood around, I figured why the tribal loin cloth was such a good clothing choice, as the brown stains appeared in a couple of thugs pants as they shit themselves.
“Just stay still Gentlemen, if you please,” Steve advised in the cultured tones he had absorbed from Eton and Cambridge University.
An Ak47 spluttered, sending a row of holes across the clock tower. a second thug grabbed the barrel “No” he cried as the gunman looked puzzled then as blood oozed from the small new hole in his forehead the gunman sank slowly to the ground.
Manser returned his smoking pistol to his underarm holster.
“Guns on the floor please.” Manser again demanded as Steve covered the thugs.
“Check the Truck Hanson.” Manser ordered keeping in character.
I did a quick recce of the truck, I found several AK 47s some pistols and several cases of Ammunition, which I laid on the ground before I drove the truck across to the far side of the buildings, being a four wheel drive it did not matter that the rear prop shaft was disconnected on this level ground, as long as I selected the centre differential lock.
“Ah if you would care to step up into the lorry if you please,” Manser asked them politely.
They climbed back into their truck the low sides offering little protection while the canvas to cover the framework of metal ribs over the load bed was torn and useless.
Their leader lay still and nearby the gunman lay face down in the dust..
A row of interested black faces now peered from almost every window, Manser gave orders and natives appeared, soon one by one the Thugs were taken from the truck and tied securely hands and feet. then carried to a spare cage. iin stable number three, they peered through the bars like a pride of gibbons, their frightened black faces a stark contrast to their earlier bravado.
Manser selected two particularly truculent Thugs and ordered their feet untied.
“Your Leader lies dead, we must see to him.” Manser explained, but if they expected a civilised burial then they had no concept of Manser’s personality.
Manser’s friends Harry and Jennifer Wainwright were keeping a low profile throughout the incident and Manser invited them to see the show.
Harry was around fifty, white but suntanned mid brown, fat, lazy, overeducated, while Jennifer was slightly younger, white from keeping indoors and using a parasol, or wide hat, still slim, not pretty but pleasant for all that. She carried a Winchester Carbine as if she knew how to use it, her khaki shirt and shorts contrasting with her pink knees, she looked at me with interest. I guess I reciprocated because I had not fucked a white woman for months, and the prospect was not unwelcome.
We climbed into Manser’s old Land-Rover and as soon as the thugs had placed their leaders lifeless body on the tailboard we set off, initially at below walking speed the old machine ticking like sewing machine in its low range low gear as we crossed the boulder strewn track. The track led to a fork Manser shouted “Right” and we set off towards the river. The Thugs jogged along in front of us, Manser keeping scant inches behind their flashing heels, the thugs aimless lifestyle took its toll, they sweated under the unaccustomed exertions but soon the river came in sight.
Well it was called a “River” but in this dry season barely a trickle of water sparkled among the rocks but as we followed the bank the dilapidated fishing lodge and the wood and iron jetty of the fishing hole came in sight, and below the jetty’s spindly legs the cool inviting water of the fishing hole.
Fishing hole, a geological freak, twenty feet deep even in drought, an oasis where every living thing had to risk life and limb to drink in the heat of the dry season, and the predators queued up to dine on the thirsty meals who came to them.
Snakes, poisoned and constrictors, Cats, all sizes Lion downwards, Crocodiles, while the bleached white bones gave clues as to the meals enjoyed antelope seemed to predominate but the monkey skeletons looked horribly human laying a sense of fear over our party.
Everything was still, complete silence just the ticking of the engine cooling down, yet we could feel those thousands of eyes watching
“Take him to the end of the Jetty.” Manser ordered.
“I fort we bury him” the smaller thug challenged.
“No, along the jetty please.” Manser suggested.
They carried their friend slowly to the spindly jetty then cautiously walked to the end, faint ripples broke the surface of the water then the croc’s eyes could be seen,
Jennifer was intrigued, “I say is that a crocodile,”
“Yes best place for crocs for miles” agreed Manser, “Hundreds of them”
“Toss him in” shouted Manser.
They stood like dummies. “Bloody shoot them then”
Jennifer was a wonderful shot, with her short barrelled carbine she got a red stain spreading from one thugs crotch and the other one shot in the kneecap with single shots, the leg slowly buckled and the thug tipped into the water, suddenly the water boiled, crocs swimming furiously towards their meal and then horrifyingly the water turned a frothy pink stained with blood.
“Push him in there’s a good chap.” Manser suggested sending a bullet vaguely it the direction of the Jetty. The wounded thug eased the body over the edge and the water again boiled into a swirling malestrom as the crocs challenged for their meal.
The remaining thug knelt traumatised, facing death, was he praying? Manser invited Jennifer to try a headshot, the Carbine barked and the thug threw his arms wide and toppled into the seething mass of scales and teeth as the crocs fought over his friend.
“Yes,” she said punching the air indecorously.
Death must have been instantaneous but we watched until the waters stilled and peace returned to this little oasis of the parched plain before setting off back to the stables.
“Did you enjoy that Jennifer?” Manser asked. she nodded.
“You disgust me,” Harry muttered.
“I imagined it was you dear.” she replied.
The eight remaining thugs were a motley bunch, one lad looked about fourteen, he had not even stated shaving yet while mostly they were late teens and one old guy, probably thirty, toothless, scarred.
They looked hopefully. “They know where we are, the army will come” the old guy insisted plaintively.
“He may be right.”
Night was falling, the dinner bell clanged and we went to dress for dinner, I heard distant arguments from the Wainwright’s tent. They were still arguing when they arrived in Manser’s Dining room.
Jennifer’s black dress left nothing to the imagination, deep cleavage which barely covered her nipples, and split sides revealing flashes of her hips and showing she could not be wearing panties or bra.
“Its thirty years too young for you, you silly bitch.” he finally blurted out.
“Its beautiful, I gave my Fiancée one somewhat like it once” I admitted.
“Then you know my secret” Jennifer smiled,
“I think so” I smiled, the secret was the knickers and a rudimentary bra were sewn in to the dress, she was properly attired, but appeared to be a slut without underwear.
Over dinner we discussed Mugabe, the Lions the weather and the possibility of more soldiers arriving, “I think we have rendered this lot Harmless” mentioned Manser.
It must have been the wine, “Armless, yes” Harry nodded.
“Completely Armless” I muttered, I doodled on on napkin Harry Wainwright peered at my drawing.
“Bloody hell Hanson,” Harry exploded, “You are sick.” but Jennifer’s eyes shone with excitement.
I rather rushed the sweet ,and the coffee and biscuits and excused myself to head for Mansers workshop were I quickly found a thin mild steel plate, I bent the edges over to give some strength and welded the corners then burned an arm size hole in it and without setting the gas torch down I welded a yard long steel tube on ending in a down angle with a hook at the end. so the hook was central with the axis of the hole.
I heard a faint rustle behind me and went for my gun but then the soft voice and scent revealed it was Mrs Wainwright, She put her arm through the hole and allowed me to attach a manacle to her wrist.
“You have me at your mercy Mr Hanson.” she simpered.
She looked incongruous, with the sheet against her side so I gently bit her arm she wailed. “Yes” imagining the pain of an animal slicing her limb off.
I moved to her leg gently biting her thigh then I quickly released her arm and placed the steel sheet on the floor.
I slid the dress from her shoulders, helping her to step out of it and then sat her on the bench so I could get at the soft flesh of her belly, licking, biting, exciting her, my erection strained painfully, trapped in the leg of my safari shorts but Jennifer released me and guided me within her where I put out her fire with my cum.
She seemed tired but happy and satisfied. “Age catches up with you eventually,” she confessed breathlessly.
“Thank you” I said sincerely as I helped her dress.
We fed the Lions next morning, one at a time, the Thugs did not realise what the steel sheet with its arm did until it was too late.
We fed Zimba first, Manser had reared him from a cub, a magnificent specimen and highly intelligent, With the plate and metal arm holding his arm out straight Steve and I manoevered the Thug against the bars of the cage, his arm sticking invitingly into the cage, held by the manacle, Zimba circled cautiously, “Turn the plate so the arm thing is behind, let him get a bite,”
We could smell the fear, or had he shit himself, but with his ankles roped by a short belt and free hand tied to his thigh the Thug was unable to resist, the fear complete yet te shock of the first bite absolute, Zimba took a firm hold and tore at the limb confuced at his ridgidity then he worked it out and severed the hand at the wrist before taking a firm grip and wrenching the limb free from the shoulder.
We let the guy collapse to the ground blood oozed into the ground, then Zimba came across for more food, we reversed the plate so the arm passed behind the guy’s back and raised him so his arm dangled through the bars, Jennifer found some smelling salts and he came round as Zimba grabbed his remaining arm and wrenched it off to eat in the privacy of the back of the cage.
We fed a few more lions, an arm or two was really an aperitif for them, and then we threw the armless bodies on to the truck.
The sense of fear was overwhelming, these guys whose friends tortured and killed white farmers with impunity were not so keen on being the recipients of torture.
I had a look at the truck, It had a steel roof over the cab, which was a nuisance so I set to and unbolted it, leaving the driving seat open to the sky, I threw the roof section and the propshaft in the lorry bed and then we let the prisoners go, except one, a youngster, he looked terrified, smooth skinned, a child, perhaps he could be spared?
I grabbed his arm and pulled him away, his shirt pulled against his chest and I thought his breasts were unduly pronounced, tears streamed down his cheek. he spoke in a high pitched tribal dialect, he smelled funny, feminine, I realised the he was in fact a girl, and whisked down her shorts and underpants to reveal her sex, I made her strip, she was underdeveloped, under nourished or was it just young.
“Put her in the Baboon cage,” ordered Manser and Steve led her away.
The Lions gathered around the wire mesh gates of the outer perimeter fence, hungry yet tantalised by their snacks of limbs, the smell of blood attracted them as Steve opened the gates and the truck lumbered steadily through the gates with its cargo of dead dying and scared War Veterans.
They thought it was misplaced compassion that led us to release them but without its four wheel drive in working order the lorry had no chance of crossing the dry river bed and the Lions were already following.
We gave them about an hour head start and set off in a pair of Landcruisers, the show was all but over, when we arrived, Lions clustered around the Bedford truck we counted the bodies, accounted for all the thugs and watched the magnificent beasts feeding for a while.
It did not matter now if the soldiers came, the story was written in bones and scrap metal, the truck had stalled and the guys were overwhelmed, perhaps the missing guns would have caused questions to be asked so we returned them, after heating and subtly bending each one to make it not only useless but lethal to it’s user.
I don’t think anyone ever did find them, they may well still be there, at least the truck may be.