How Does Your Garden Grow?
Copyright© 2017 by Mark Gander
Chapter 49
Science Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 49 - David Howard is fed up with his life in the Mafia-controlled state of New Jersey, even if it is the only state with a working government in the post-apocalyptic world that exists since Fireball Day. Between his mob-loving (literally) wife Andrea and his psycho gay ex-friend and boss with benefits, Steven, David is more than ready to call it quits. He just won't get to do it alone.
Caution: This Science Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Ma/ft Fa/Fa Fa/ft Ma/Ma Mult Consensual Gay BiSexual Heterosexual Crime Humor Science Fiction Post Apocalypse Paranormal Demons Cheating Sharing Slut Wife Incest Uncle Niece BDSM DomSub MaleDom FemaleDom Rough Group Sex Harem Orgy Polygamy/Polyamory Swinging Interracial White Male Hispanic Female Indian Female Anal Sex Analingus Cream Pie Exhibitionism First Oral Sex Petting Pregnancy Squirting Voyeurism Menstrual Play Public Sex Nudism Politics
0815 hours, local time
Saturday, 30 May, 2015
Dubuque County Courthouse
Dubuque, Iowa
“I, David Howard, solemnly swear, by Heaven, that I will faithfully uphold my duties of office and diligently seek the greater good of the Iowa Free State, that I will govern not solely for my own benefit or with favor to others, but fairly, justly, and honestly in all things, and that I will honorably acquit myself of this great stewardship, and zealously defend this commonwealth and steadfastly execute the laws thereof,” the Prophet David Howard repeated the words of the oath of office administered to him by Judge Lyman Brewster as interim Governor of Iowa Free State.
Flanked by his wives—Andrea, his first wife, standing tall and serene at his right shoulder; Serena, his sister-wife, her expression fiercely protective; Denise, his niece-wife, radiating youthful pride; and the others forming a silent, watchful semicircle behind him—the Prophet David Howard turned to face the crowd gathered on the courthouse lawn. The late May sun beat down on the patchwork assembly: farmers in faded overalls clutching rifles, Dubuque townsfolk in repaired but clean clothes, militia members in mismatched uniforms standing at uneasy attention. His voice, amplified by a jury-rigged PA system, cut through the humid air.
“Today marks not a victory,” he began, his gaze sweeping over the hopeful, weary faces, “but a beginning. A commitment to order, to self-reliance, and to the sacred covenant between this land and its people. The Fireballs shattered the old world’s chains of superstition, unnatural morality, and false authority. What rises from those ashes must be pure, rooted in faith and the soil, free from the corruption that doomed the nations before us.” A ragged cheer went up, met with scattered shouts of “Amen!”
Inside the courthouse chambers minutes later, the Prophet signed his first decree. The pen scratched across thick parchment, its ink declaring statewide legislative elections for a new Iowa Free State Assembly, alongside city council and county commissioner votes. Andrea placed a steadying hand on his shoulder as he signed; Serena watched the door, fingers brushing the grip of her holstered pistol. “Let the townships choose their own representatives,” David Howard murmured, “and the counties their commissioners. Power flows upward from faithful hands, not downward from tyrants.”
“Therefore,” the Prophet proclaimed, raising his voice to carry through the open windows to the crowd still gathered outside, “I decree a Constitutional Convention to assemble in Cedar Rapids! There, the Constitution shall forge our covenant—not as a shadow of the old, broken America, but as a testament to divine order and earthly justice.” A ripple of murmurs spread through the courthouse staff, public figures, and militia officers present. Cedar Rapids. A sop to the city fathers of that community.
The pen scratched again, this time on a separate, hastily drafted order. “And by this temporary edict,” David Howard continued, his gaze locking onto the county clerk recording the proceedings, “let it be known that all divorce courts are abolished. Henceforth, marital dissolution shall be resolved solely through mandatory arbitration by respected mediators agreeable to both parties and their legal counsel.”
The Prophet paused, letting the weight of his next words settle. “Further,” he declared, his voice sharpening, “in all matters concerning children, equal custody shall be the default standard. The presumption favors both parents equally sharing the sacred responsibility of raising their offspring in faith and community, unless compelling evidence presented to the arbitrator proves one parent unfit. This holds force until permanent legislation is crafted.” A stunned silence descended within the chambers, broken only by the frantic scratching of the clerk’s pen.
Then David Howard straightened, his eyes sweeping the room with unsettling intensity. “And now,” he announced, “we address the bedrock of our society: the family.” He lifted a third document, its ink still damp. “By this decree, polygamy—in both its forms, polygyny and polyandry—is formally recognized as lawful throughout the Iowa Free State.” He paused, letting the gasps ripple. “Furthermore, the age of consent for marriage is hereby established at fourteen years. The population has taken a drastic downward trend since Fireball Day and we need corrective measures to reverse the situation,” he adds to a standing ovation from the crowd.
The Prophet’s gaze hardened as he placed the polygamy decree aside and lifted a fourth parchment. “But disorder cannot be tolerated,” he stated, his voice dropping to a cold, resonant timbre. “Therefore, prostitution is hereby formally legalized statewide. However—it shall be taxed and strictly regulated. Establishments must be licensed. Workers must undergo health inspections. And pimps,” his voice sharpened like steel, “those parasites who trade in flesh without labor, who exploit desperation—they are banned utterly. Any found operating will face severe justice: death by guillotine.”
The Prophet tapped the parchment decisively. “Let it be written. Exploitation ends. Order begins.” The clerk’s hand trembled violently as he recorded the edict, the scratch of his pen unnaturally loud in the frozen air.
David Howard then lifted a fifth document, its crispness stark against the worn oak table. His gaze swept the room, lingering on the militia commanders near the door and the various public officials. “And now,” he announced, his voice resonating with unwavering conviction, “we affirm the sanctity of covenant. By this decree, marriage—the sacred union blessed by Heaven—is hereby recognized between any consenting adults, regardless of sex, throughout the Iowa Free State.” He paused, letting the profound shift settle. “Furthermore, adoption rights are extended equally to all married couples lawfully joined under this statute. Children deserve stable homes rooted in faith and community, regardless of the parents’ gender.”
The Prophet’s expression grew graver as he retrieved a sixth parchment, its ink dark and deliberate. “Yet,” he continued, his voice lowering to a tone of solemn necessity, “our path to renewal requires difficult choices. Therefore, by temporary decree effective immediately, abortion is banned after the first trimester of pregnancy, except for medical necessity.” A palpable stillness gripped the chamber. “This measure is not born of cruelty, but of stark reality. Our population teeters on the brink after the Fireballs. Repopulation is essential for recovery, for rebuilding our shattered communities, and securing our Free State’s future. Every life conceived beyond this initial period carries the weight of our collective survival.”
David Howard then gestured to the clerk, who presented a list of names. “To govern this nascent covenant,” the Prophet declared, his voice regaining its resonant authority, “I appoint trusted stewards. Tozroman, currently executing vital duties in Illinois, is named Secretary of War in absentia. His strategic mind is indispensable. My sister-wife, Serena Kurtz, shall serve as Secretary of State; her loyalty and resolve are unmatched. Clement Howard, my co-husband, is appointed Treasurer. Mayor Casper Novak of Dubuque shall be Lieutenant Governor, and Mayor Constance Buck of Cedar Rapids, Attorney General.” He paused, letting the appointments sink in. “These individuals form the core of our interim executive council, effective immediately.”
A young militia runner burst into the chamber, breathless, his uniform dusty from the road. He pushed past the guards, urgency overriding protocol, and thrust a folded, grimy piece of paper into the Prophet’s hand. David Howard unfolded it, his eyes scanning the tight script. A slow, predatory smile spread across his face. “Tozroman reports success,” he announced, his voice cutting through the lingering tension like a blade. “A significant cache of Justice Party munitions in Illinois lies destroyed. And more...” He looked up, his gaze sharp and triumphant. “The North Illinois Liberation Front, seizing the moment, has launched an offensive. They’ve pushed the Justice Party Militia ten miles back from Cicero. The pressure on our eastern flank eases.”
Before the murmurs of relief could fully form, a second runner, this one bearing the insignia of the new Iowa Free State Militia, stumbled in, his face streaked with sweat and soot. He saluted hastily, his voice cracking. “Prophet! Urgent dispatch from Captain Wilbur Jackson! The Wheaton Havenites ... they didn’t hesitate! They saw the Illinois offensive and launched their own strike south against the Justice Party positions near Savanna!” He gulped air. “They’re engaged, sir! Heavy fighting reported along the Mississippi bluffs!”
**A third report, this one delivered via crackling radio transmission hastily transcribed onto flimsy paper, was thrust into David Howard’s hands moments later. It announced that the Cairo Havenite Militia, emboldened by the news of Tozroman’s success and the North Illinois offensive, had launched a fresh, coordinated assault on the Justice Party Militia positions controlling the critical confluence of the Mississippi and Ohio rivers.”
“Cairo, my old haunt ... awesome work! Three simultaneous attacks ... no wonder Tozroman is just now getting back to me. Well done! The Justice Party might well be rolled up before too long at this rate. Excellent news! Heaven be praised!” The Prophet David Howard slammed his fist excitedly on the desk at the wonderful tidings.
The Prophet David Howard’s triumphant expression vanished, replaced by the focused intensity of a field commander. “This ceremony is concluded,” he declared abruptly, his voice cutting through the lingering murmurs about the reports. He gestured sharply to his wives, companions, and the newly appointed council members – Serena, Clement, Novak, Buck. “With me. Now. War council.” Without waiting for acknowledgment, he turned on his heel and strode towards the heavy oak doors leading to the courthouse’s secure inner chambers, the crowd parting before him like wheat before the scythe. The time for pronouncements was over; the time for strategy had begun.
The heavy door to the former judge’s chambers, now the Prophet’s war room, had barely slammed shut behind them when a frantic telegraph operator burst in, waving a flimsy sheet of paper. “Prophet! Urgent from the Milwaukee relay station!” he gasped, his face pale. David snatched the telegram, his eyes scanning the hastily scrawled message. The words were stark: “Wisconsin State Militia crossed state line 0900 hrs. Objective: Support Havenite forces in Illinois against Justice Party. Strength est. two divisions. Advancing south along Lake Michigan corridor. Signed, Milwaukee Watch.” A slow, predatory grin spread across David’s face. “Wisconsin moves,” he announced, his voice low and dangerous. “They smell blood in the water. The Justice Party is caught in a vise – North Illinois pushing them back, Havenites striking north and south, and now Wisconsin crashing down from the north. Their collapse is imminent.”
News arrived like a thunderclap, delivered by a dust-streaked courier on a lathered horse straight from the Evansville relay post. The man stumbled into the war room, gasping, “Prophet! Evansville Compact ... they’ve struck! All signatory militias – Posey, Vanderburgh, Warrick, Gibson – mobilized as one. Coalition force crossed the White River at dawn! Objective: Indianapolis! They’re pushing hard north against New Democratic Movement positions near Bloomington!”
The Prophet David Howard snatched the dispatch, his knuckles white. The map sprawled before him suddenly pulsed with new vectors. Evansville’s bold thrust against the NDM regime fractured the Hoosier Front’s stalemate. Indianapolis, already reeling from internal dissent and resource shortages, now faced a determined, coordinated assault from the south. “The Hoosiers are finally rising,” Serena breathed, her hand instinctively resting on her pistol. “The NDM’s grip on central Indiana is cracking.”
A militia aide burst into the room, skidding to a halt and snapping a salute. “Prophet! Priority radio message from Fort Wayne, relayed via Cedar Rapids!” He thrust a flimsy sheet forward. David scanned it swiftly: Reverend Jared Lytton, Mayor of Fort Wayne, reports successful joint operations with South Bend militias. Black Panthers decisively expelled from Rochester, Knox, Warsaw, and Plymouth. Coalition forces consolidating control. Gary stronghold isolated. Request guidance re: offensive operations against Gary or potential eastward push. A grim smile touched David’s lips. Lytton’s alliance had cleared northern Indiana’s flank, squeezing the Panthers back towards Lake Michigan. The strategic map was shifting by the hour.
David Howard traced a calloused finger along the Mississippi River on the large map dominating the war room table. From Cairo’s assault at the Ohio confluence, up through the Havenite push at Savanna, to the North Illinois Liberation Front’s gains near Cicero, and now Wisconsin’s armored columns plunging south – the pieces clicked with divine clarity. The Justice Party was being crushed in a pincer movement along the entire eastern bank. Control of the great river, the artery of commerce and power in this shattered land, was falling into Havenite hands. Dubuque, Cedar Rapids, Des Moines – his nascent Free State sat astride the western shore. The Mississippi corridor, from Wisconsin to southeastern Missouri, was coalescing under allied banners. Havenite dominance wasn’t just possible; it was unfolding before him, mile by bloody mile.
“The river,” he murmured, the words thick with revelation. “Heaven grants us the river.”
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