California here I Come






They had been arguing for hours now. Mark thought that she just didn't get it.
ÒYouÕve got to be kidding me."  Tammi exclaimed.  She eyed her (until now)
fiancŽe with mingled anger and hurt.  ÒYouÕre really going to break off our
engagement and go to Hollywood?Ó Although Mark was tall and muscular, (not to
mention devilishly handsome), he shied away from his enraged, petite girlfriend
as if she was about to attack him.  ÒLook, Tammi, I know itÕs not what you wanted
to hear."  He said soothingly.  ÒBut, you know IÕve always wanted to be an actor.
 Winning that hundred and fifty thou from the lottery finally gives me my
chance."  He sighed.  ÒAnd, IÕm not planning to break off our engagement. 
Just...  put it on hold for awhile.  If youÕre just willing to wait until I get
back...Ò TammiÕs eyes flashed.  ÒWell, I guess I now know whatÕs REALLY important
to you!"  she retorted.  She pulled the engagement ring from her finger and threw
it at him.  It bounced off his chest and hit the floor with a metallic tinkle. 
ÒFind yourself some other girl, buster!"  She said, spinning on her heel and
stalking out, her flaming mane of hair swirling about her shoulders.  ÒA louse
like you isnÕt worth waiting for.Ó The door slammed behind her.  Mark took two
angry steps towards the door, planning to get the final word in - then stopped,
fists clenched, and bent down and retrieved the ring.  He looked at it angrily,
then dropped it into his pocket.  As a red-head, Tammi sure lived up the myth
about their temper.  But he knew he was doing the right thing.  Not everyone got
a chance to fulfill a life-long dream.  Besides, it wasnÕt like they would have
made a great couple anyway.  They shared too much in common.  Like their short
and explosive tempers.  The often fought furiously for a short while, then their
thankfully quick tantrums would be over and theyÕd make up - until the next time.
And, regardless of his talent, Mark had the right ÔlookÕ for Hollywood.  He was
tall and muscular, with a strong-featured face and a full head of thick, sandy
hair cut stylishly.  The way he generally put it was Ôthe body of Arnie and the
face of Cruise, with SorboÕs hair.Õ And, at 25, he was in the prime of his life.
HeÕd known that Tammi wouldnÕt react well to the news, so heÕd waited until heÕd
had everything packed and ready before heÕd called her over to Ôdiscuss something
important.Õ Now, pleased with his foresight, he took one last look around the
small Loft apartment that heÕd called his home for the past four years.  Shutting
off the lights for the last time, he stepped into the hall and locked the door
behind him. Riding the creaking, open cage elevator down to the parking lot, he
looked around to make sure that Tammi had left already.  Reassured that the coast
was clear, he walked to the place where his aging, but well maintained Corolla
sat, and slipped behind the wheel.  The four-cylinder engine caught on the first
crank, more or less whining to life, rather than roaring. Slipping the car into
gear, Mark mentally said his final farewells to Detroit, Tammi, and his dead-end
job at the mall, and wheeled out of the garage, pointing the little car westward.
Mark blinked blearily, and cranked down the window, letting fresh air stream
into the Toyota.  His headlights broke the darkness ahead of him, reveling
the almoskt hypnotic play of light from the asphalt rolling beneath his wheels. 
Ever since his once-faithful little car had decided to wheeze to a final,
traitorous stop in Las Vegas, heÕd been pushing himself hard to get to L.A.,
just looking to put this whole trip behind him and get on with his new life.  The
news that Tammi had immediately gone from him to his once-best friend Steve did
little to improve his disposition. Between his sour mood, exhaustion, and the
darkness, he almost flashed by the stranded vehicle before he saw itÕs hazard
lights flashing in the darkness.  He barely caught a brief, hart-stopping glimpse
at the driver, standing half on the pavement and trying to wave him down, before
the person threw themselves out of the way of his hurtling vehicle. Horrified,
Mark stood on the brakes, the rear tires screaming as the car shuddered into a
long, four-wheeled skid, coming to rest sideways across the deserted highway. 
Shaking, it took a second for Mark to compose himself enough to guide the car
onto the shoulder and climb out.  Frightened by what he might have done, he
jogged back towards the stalled vehicle, hoping to find the driver uninjured by
his inattention.  His heart pounded in his chest, the adrenaline clearing the
last of the fatigue from his mind. He found the driver slowing pulling herself
upright, wiping gravel from her hands and knees.  For an instant, Mark was taken
by pure shock, seeing Tammi in the short, slender woman. The illusion passed as
the woman rounded on Mark, flushed with anger. Despite a similarity in builds,
this woman had close copped dark hair above a face that was stronger than TammiÕs
own pixie-ish visage.  She might have been considered cute in other
circumstances, but now her face was mottled with rage. ÒAre you all right?"  he
asked, trying to help her up.  ÒI didnÕt even see you until...  "  he began to
apologize. With surprising strength for someone of her stature, she shoved him
away.  ÒWhat the fuck do you think youÕre doing?"  she shouted at him. ÒYou
almost killed me!Ó Taken aback, Mark gaped at the woman, who was dressed in
loose jeans, now torn at the knees, and a baggy, shapeless gray sweatshirt, also
the worse for wear with itÕs encounter with the gravel. Rather then backing off,
the furious woman jammed a short-nailed finger painfully into his sternum.  ÒJust
another muscle-bound idiot in a big car,"  she said, jabbing him again.  ÒMen
like you get off on going so damn fast, you donÕt care who gets hurt.Ó Mark,
already on the edge of his patience, flushed with his own rising anger.  ÒLook,
Miss, I already said I was ...  Ò She shoved him - hard - against the side of her
car.  ÒDamn it, itÕs Miz, not Miss.  I donÕt need any of you macho chauvinist
apologies, you dumb fuck.  I want your name and you license.  IÕm going to make
sure you pay for you little stunt.Ó The tiny feministÕs threat broke his tenuous
hold on his temper.  ÒLook, you dumb bitch."  He growled.  ÒI donÕt care what you
do or donÕt want. For all I care you can go straight to hell."  He turned and
began walking angrily back to his car. Her blow came as a complete surprise.  The
tire iron glanced off his right shoulder, sending flashes of pain up and down his
arm.  He spun around as she raised the length of metal again.  He lashed out, one
hand grasping the tire iron as the other, clenched into a fist, took her on her
out-thrust jaw.  She stumbled back, somehow staying on her feet, but releasing
the tire iron.  Her tattered sweatshirt tore, revealing her firm, pointed breasts,
unencumbered by a bra. She spat, catching him in the face.  ÒFuck you!Ó All his
frustration, all his anger, and the fact she reminded him a little of his
ex-fiancŽe at crashed down on him.  ÒNo, fuck you."  he snarled, grabbing her
wrist painfully. She struggled like a wildcat as he pushed her down into the long
crab-grass along the roadside.  Pining her with his body weight, he tore at the
front of her jeans, yanking the heavy materiel down around her knees, and
literally tearing off her cotton briefs.  Ignoring her free hand, angrily gouging
at his arm, he undid his own jeans and quickly freed his engorged cock. Holding
her wrists, he raised his hips and thrust into her with a sharp, painful stroke. 
As she screamed at him and tried vainly to bite him, he used hard powerful
thrusts as he rode her angrily. Like always, his explosive temper was short
lived.  As he came, it was almost as if his anger was draining out of him along
with his gushing flow of semen.  Disgusted with himself, he rolled of the woman
and quickly straightened his clothing as he headed for his car, leaving her by
the side of the road. HeÕd only gotten a few steps when he was stopped dead by
the sudden wash of headlights over him.  MarkÕs stomach sank when it was
followed by a brief warble of a siren, with the red-and-blue flash of dome
lights. The door to the police cruiser opened, and a tall, heavily muscled female
officer stepped out, her gun drawn but pointed at the ground. ÒHold it right
there."  The female cop called.  ÒKeep your hands in the open, please.Ó The
petite woman painfully stood, half naked.  ÒShoot the bastard!"  she yelled,
pulling her jeans up. A short pause, then - ÒJenny? Is that you?Ó MarkÕs stomach
hit the ground as he realized just how deep the shit he was in actually was. The
short woman came stalking towards them.  ÒPam, this damn bastard nearly killed
me! But that wasnÕt good enough for him.  Oh no, he had to rape me too!Ó The
female copÕs face darken.  The gun came up, the muzzle centering on MarkÕs
chest.  ÒAll right"  she barked.  ÒKneel down on the ground, hands on you head!Ó
Sighing, Mark slid to his knees and clasped his hands behind his head. The
gravel under her feet crunched as the muscular cop came over, and roughly pulled
his hands behind his back, handcuffing him.  Yanking him painfully to his feet,
she leaned him over the hood of her cruiser as she began patting him down.
Finding his wallet, she opened it and checked his I.D. ÒChicago, huh?"  She
grunted.  ÒWell, welcome to California, Mr. Reese.Ó Then her baton came down on
the back of his head, and everything went black. Mark groaned as he slowly swam
back towards consciousness.  His head felt like it was ready to split in two.  He
opened his eyes, the gasped and shut them a gain as a bright white light seemed
to spear directly into his brain. ÒGood.  I see our subject is awake"  a voice -
female - said.  Slowly, he opened his eyes and looked around, blinking. He found
himself in an operating room of some kind.  White and antiseptic, a variety of
unidentifiable medical equipment and machines, all in white and stainless steel,
were laid in precise places around the severe black leather chair he was securely
immobilized in.  He was also completely naked.  He tugged at the wide leather
straps as he regarded the other occupant of the room. Tall and shapely, in a
strong, domineering way, she was dressed in the familiar white lab coat of
doctorÕs everywhere.  Her breasts, staining at the fabric, would have been very
large on any other woman, but only appeared slightly oversized on her frame, off
set by her broad shoulders and strong legs.  Likewise, her waist would appear
thick on a less imposing woman, but remained femininely slender with her wide
hips and her imposing height.  Her square-jawed face was saved from looking too
masculine by her full lips, sparkling green eyes, and massive mane of raven-black
hair.  She was regarding him clinically. ÒWhere am I?"  he asked, giving up on
the immovable restraints at his wrists and ankles. ÒA private clinic in Beverly
Hills, Mr.  Reuse."  She replied.  Again, she was clinical, not conversational in
her tone.  ÒPerhaps I should just call you Mark, as we are going to be spending
quite a bit of time together."  She continued in the same tone.  ÒMy name is
Doctor Emma Jefferson.  You may call me Dr. Jefferson.Ó Mark carefully stretched his
head to either side, little bullets of pain shooting down his neck.  ÒWhat do you
mean, weÕre going to be spending a lot of time together?"  he asked, half angry
and half frightened. ÒMark, you made a large mistake when you raped the local
spokeswomen for the Feminists of America party."  She informed him, as she used
her penlight to check his pupils.  ÒFortunately - for us - the officer who
arrived was also a member.  Rather than turn you over to an over worked and
chauvinistically inclined justice system, we have a chance to resolve this matter
ourselves.Ó ÒWhat? You canÕt do this"  Mark said indignantly. ÒActually, we
can."  Dr. Jefferson replied calmly.  ÒSandra - the officer - has reported that you
tried to run by diving into a nearby river.  Since that particular river is not
only famous for itÕs class-5 rapids, but by the fact that bodies of drowned
white-water rafters quite often never show up, or show up months later in the
Gulf, there is absolutely no question in anybodyÕs mind that you are dead."  She
snapped of our penlight.  ÒSo, now you are available to me.  I, and fellow
feminist physicians and psychologists, have developed a series of experiments
that lacked only a test subject.  Now, in you, we have one.Ó

Copyright ©1998 by SIC