Chapter 170

1235 hours, local time
Sunday, 7 September, 2014
The Church of the Forward Path
Wichita, KS

The vows were said and now Dr. Ebony Chambers, Dr. Mallard Doyle, Dr. Frederick Hernandez, Dr. Arlen Schulman, Dr. Erica Simms, Dr. Wilmer Coast, Dr. Richard Warehouse, Dr. Rachel Have, Dr. Pamela You, and Dr. Celeste Marnier were now united in holy matrimony with each other. They had just been baptized and ordained earlier that same morning, of course, and while far from the only locals to be included in the clergy of the massive new first Havenite congregation, they were the chief custodians of that institution, followed by the city council and manager, who were also married to each other now.

Naturally, as always, these weren’t exactly monogamous, exclusive unions by any means ... far from it. Swapping, swinging, orgies, gangbangs, reverse gang action, etc. were expected, especially now that everyone present had contracted Schumacher Syndrome and knew that cross pollination was essential for better genetic diversity. The interracial aspects of these marriages helped as well in that respect. The marriages, though, established partnerships and cooperation in starting families to work together for a better community.

“So, what next? Lunch?” Dr. Chambers suggested.

“Sounds good to me,” I smiled as my tribe and I headed for the door.

That was when a dark shadow walked toward us and aimed a Colt .45 pistol at me, opening fire at point blank range. The bullets literally ricocheted off my flesh and I lifted my staff to slay the person at the other end of the auditorium with lightning bolts. Seven other people emerged and fired at us, forcing me to kill two more while Barry, Yitzhak, Ryan, Till, Jeanette, and Evie slaughtered the others. Sonali and Trish were busy with nursery work, of course.

I looked down at the ringleader closer now and instantly recognized him. He was an elderly, infamous white man with a goatee, a balding head, and a pair of glasses. He was the notorious serial killer Dennis L. Rader, better known as BTK. The other guys were quickly identified as escaped convicts like himself ... and the two ladies among them were apparently female prison guards who must have been duped by him somehow. Well, they were dead now and I refused to revive them. The Wichita Eight, as I now thought of them, would just have to remain dead. They would be remembered, but not how they wished.

“Well, that son of a bitch is permanently neutralized now. Let this be a cautionary tale, folks. The only way to truly get rid of murderers is to execute them. No more hand wringing over capital punishment and giving murderers their just desserts. As Ras Al Ghul said in Batman Begins, wrong as he was on some other issues, justice is balance. The lives of murder victims are devalued if the loss of them isn’t evened out through retribution. Life imprisonment just isn’t an adequate penalty for murderers at all,” I grimly urged the local authorities to fully reinstate the death penalty in their jurisdiction.

Half an hour later...

We all sat down to eat in the university dining hall, with plenty of students surrounding us. By us, of course, I meant my tribe, the local authorities (both civil and religious), and me. I couldn’t help but think back to that first meeting at the cafeteria at the Morgantown campus at West Virginia University, more than a year before. I had come full circle, right back in college in a way, never having graduated or received a degree, yet here I was. I was, not to be too cocky about it, the patriarch of a sizable clan of wives, futa wives, husbands, and our progeny.

I smiled as a group of students of all three sexes, male, female, and futa, approached me and served me my meal first. Then they served the others in my party and sat on our laps as I instructed them. We all shared our food with whichever person, regardless of sex or gender, sat on our laps, just as we shared food with the people next to us. We also kissed our lap companions and the people next to us as we devoured our meals, which had improved considerably due to the presence of my tribe and me.

“So, my name is Caroline, by the way. This is Heather. She’s my sister. Our mothers, yes, mothers, are lesbians ... or were until they got it on with us and some of our roommates. Now they have Schumacher Syndrome and they really want you to breed everyone in our household.

“In fact, they’re walking over to us right now, after sitting down and quietly eating as guests. Honestly, I think that it would be incredibly steamy to have our little quad, plus others on the side, just me, my sister, Mama ... and Mom. Yes, Mama is Asian, while Mom is white and our sperm donor was black. I think that he was gay, too,” the biracial girl from a few days back informed me.

“How old is Heather? She’s clearly not a college student yet,” I asked about the obviously younger, clearly part Asian girl next to Caroline.

“Fifteen. My big sister is eighteen. You’ve had her, but you haven’t had me yet. I’m ready to get bred, as our mothers. I never want to leave home. I just want to sleep with my sister, our mothers, and anyone else who’ll have me. Are you guys ready to do the job?” Heather spoke up now.

“I’m Evelyn and this is Tracy. She’s Korean, though born in LA, and I’m mostly Boston Irish, from Southie, of all places. To be honest, she’s got the sweetest, most delicious ass I’ve ever licked, and neither of us have experienced ‘lesbian bed death’ like so many of our friends. I fell in lust for her and her tush long before it turned into love. You’ve got to try it, babe! You’ll be hooked!” Evelyn planted her wife’s bum right in front of me, urging me to sample it.