Meet the Midnight Meat Train by Mr. Cage

I met Lionel Twain through one of my deep in the closet collectors, Mr. Political Hack. More on that later, but Political Hack had a collection he wanted me to view. He thought he might have found me a new associate.

The grey flash drive held a number of cell phone videos, cleverly named Train Fights 1, 2, 3, and so on. Incredibly the idiot holding the low-end cell phone had time and name stamped his product as well as identified the train it was shot on. I guess he was a good public servant and didn’t want to cause the district attorney’s office any extra work. Even more incredible Lionel Twain managed to capture his own face and cock in some of the videos as he fucked some badly beaten piece of ass.

I hate cell phone videos. They’re killing my low end “real street fight” videos. Everyone thinks they are a producer. So I had some doubts, but after the third fight I began to appreciate the consistent almost “artistic” lack of quality. Without original sound or even an annoying rap song in the background it was silent film night. Even so I was interested. What I appreciated was the set-up. I still wasn’t sure whether or not I wanted to go further.

Then I saw a blurry extra long brawl in which Lionel Twain had actually done some post production work. Computer generated white letters on a black background labeled crudely and wrongly, “Mexican Paired Sisters Fight.” To complete his meager post production he inserted notations above freeze frames of the four protagonists: Sisters Mina 5’5’’ 115 and Fatima 5’6’’ 125 versus Sisters Ann-Kam 5’6’’ 120 and Betty-Gita 5’7’’ 130. This wasn’t candid camera despite the piss poor quality. He actually had freeze frame pictures of their obvious fake ids showing they were all 21. I guess he thought they were all fraternal twins. I figured high school girls in a grudge fight; they might be twenty one someday after a few birthday parties.

I knew from experience I was looking at Americanized Pakistani versus Americanized Indian girls. I had done six of these fights around the same date as his fight, all in the weeks after some terrorist strike in India. People are so fucking predictable. Without any other information to go on I knew I was looking at a fight that started in some internet social network or perhaps face to face in school, but my money was the internet. I later found out from Lionel that it was indeed the internet and I had been right about most of the details accept they had been sisters, age differences of only a year in each case. Lionel whispered that he thought the IDs might have been faked. No shit Sherlock. Well I already knew Lionel wasn’t the sharpest tack in the box.

The two sets of sisters showed up with their boyfriends and crews in tow. Lionel had learned use three cars on his six-car nearly empty midnight train. Mina and Fatima had similarly dark brown boyfriends, but I assumed none of them were strictly religious or they wouldn’t have been there or dressed like typical sex obsessed teens. Ann-Kam and Betty-Gita were so Americanized they had dual names if they weren’t nicknames. The Indians’ black boyfriends dressed too expensively in “street” designer clothes to be anything but rich kids playing ghetto. Lionel hadn’t understood enough to ask for the details so I decided think of them as Kam and Gita. Hell, if I was going to enjoy ethnic violence then I would go with the flow.

Anyway, the Indian party was in the fourth car and the Pakistani party was in the sixth. Lionel and his transit cop flunky let the girls into the fifth car at either end and then used their keys to lock the doors; apparently the side doors were also frozen since they never opened when the train made stops at the empty platforms. They seemed to give a key to each set of sisters. I missed the transfer, but Lionel lingered on one of the Pakistani girls pushing the key into her pocket. Then Lionel and the transit cop stood up at either end of the car. Only Lionel used his crappy cell phones to record the fight, so there was no second camera for post production-strictly amateur hour.

Mina and Fatima both wore tight green t-shirts that showed their belly buttons and ass cracks. They had on expensive wide belt hip hugger jeans that cut off at the mid calf well above their shiny black ass-kicking low ankle hiking boots. Each had covered their brown fingers in gleaming face busting rings. I could see the outline of bras. They had tied their long, thick black hair in high buns on top of their heads. They had greased their faces with something like Vaseline. The time was summer and even at night the subway tunnels in New York City can be hotter than hell. Sweat stains showed under their arms and between their hard, high pointed conical boobs. They were relatively lean and thin, but their butts were big enough to fill out their tight jeans.

Kam and Gita were thick and busty by comparison. Larger and stronger looking, they were lighter skinned and shared green eyes based upon my guess from the freeze frame. Lionel confirmed it later. They wore dark black leather short shorts, thigh high black boots with fat low heels and orange half-shirts under un-buttoned black vests. They also had ringed their fingers with big head thumpers. Thick wooden bangles floated around their wrists. Each wore gold chains as belts in their shorts. Their weapons were slightly more impressive as were there fat heavy boobs and thick round asses. Their bellies were firm and sweat glistened sweetly on their light brown skin. They had tied their equally long black hair in a single tail down the back. Hair was going to come loose no matter what they did.

The fighters closed waving hands and screaming, all silent in the video. Mina lost control first and lunged forward swinging a wild right that connected with Kam’s left cheek and sent the light brown girl staggering back into a pole. Gita turned, screamed and punched Mina in the side of the face as she followed Kam. Mina staggered into a plastic seat and ended up sitting down. Fatima slammed into Gita and drove her back down the aisle. Gita hit a pole and twisted. Fatima slipped around her and straightened up to take a black boot to the back of her thigh. Fatima slumped against the pole on the other side. The fight was on.

Gita’s right ringed fist smashed Fatima right on the nose and sent the darker girl staggering backwards into a third pole. Gita followed with another kick, this time to the girl’s just bare belly. Fatima sat down hard on a plastic bus seat Gita rushed her and grabbed a handful of the bitch’s bun with her right hand. The hair untangled in a second and Gita had a long rope of black hair in her hand to jerk the Pakistani’s face up for an underhand left to the mouth and then the cheeks. Fatima was getting her ass kicked and seemed to be confused.

The camera suddenly jerked away from the fight and caught Mina and Kam struggling on a row of plastic seats, falling onto the floor and rolling back and forth. Fists, head butts, elbows, knees and boots struck. Kam’s vest was off. Her orange half tank top was ripped open. Mina had just rolled up the Indian girl’s white bra exposing a light brown round mound of firm tit flesh topped by a huge nipple. The Pakistani girl’s left hand went for the nipple. That freed Kam’s right hand and her black and green nails went straight for Mina’s dark eyes. Mina screamed and turned her face to the side. The Indian rolled her off and under the opposing plastic bench. I could see the struggle continue as Mina’s boot kicked over the top of Kam’s round ass or Kam’s leg moved back and forth kneeing Mina’s unseen cunt. Lionel didn’t think to change angles.

Finally the camera switched back to Gita and Fatima. The two were on their knees ripping at hair and tops. Gita’s orange top was hanging open, but she still had her vest on and her white bra still covered her big tits. Fatima’s green shirt was rolled up her sweaty back, but still covered her tits. A black bra strap across her back was all that showed. Fatima’s hair was loose and wild as was Gita’s and there were long tuffs of black hair all around them.

Gita got twisted off her knees onto her side. Fatima slammed down on top of her riding her hips. The Pakistani girl started trying to bang the side of Gita’s face into the dirty floor, but the Indian’s shoulder was broad enough that all Fatima accomplished was ripping hair and bending Gita’s neck. Gita freed her left arm which Fatima had trapped with her sweaty body. The left arm snaked around behind the Pakistani girl grabbing her by the black bra strap. The thing must have been welded because it didn’t pop. Instead it stretched. Fatima got rolled off Gita’s side by the unbreakable bra.

Then I groaned in frustration as the cell phone dropped out of conductor’s hand and bounced around on the ground. It didn’t break. I got to see some trash, a light, and then a big black hand. For a moment I could count the ridges on Lionel’s middle and first finger. Then I got a full view of his face as he peered into the camera, I guess to see if it was still working. Then he turned it around I guess to see the screen. His work shoes were in bad need of a shine. Finally there was a flash of metal and light. I could see all four girls for a moment. The picture shook so much I really couldn’t see what was happening.

Finally, I was looking at Gita sitting on Fatima’s belly. The green t-shirt was pulled up over the Pakistani girl’s face. Her bra was popped open, the catch had been in the front and two perfectly tight conical sweaty brown boobs were exposed. Gita was pounding both tits with hammer-like shots by her ringed firsts as Fatima struggled to get her shirt off or on. Lionel must be a tit man because I got to see a long methodical pounding of Fatima’s smallish cones.

As the pounding continued I wondered what might be going on elsewhere on the train car. The camera jumped again for no apparent reason. Then I realized the train was moving and having had the misfortune to ride the rails in New York I knew that keeping your balance was a sporting event. He got the camera back on Fatima’s battered boobs. I don’t know how many metal rings smashed those poor titties. Fatima had almost gotten her neck hole over her chin when Gita grew tired of pounding nipple. The Indian girl leaned over and used the huge wooden bangles on her wrists to grind back and forth across both swollen and wet looking nipples. Fatima’s legs kicked furiously.

The camera left the tit mauling and re-focused on the fighting pair further away. They were out from under the plastic bench chair. Kam’s forehead was split open and her face and now bare tits were red with her blood. However, at that moment Mina was the one in trouble. Kam was slamming the girl’s forehead against a metal arm rail on the bench. At first all I could see is the tangled black hair flying. Then Kam jerked Mina’s head way back to examine her handiwork. Mina was split open worse than Kam. My guess was that Mina had done the same thing to Kam first, but now the Indian was taking revenge with interest.

Just as Kam started slamming the head the cell phone view switched to the door of the sixth car. Mina and Fatima’s supporters were trying to break the window with a fire extinguisher. Damn, the window really was unbreakable. Just the same the transit cop had pulled his gun and motioned for them to step back. Then incredibly the cell phone moved down the rail car missing all the action. For a couple of minutes I saw the floor and the transit cop’s pants leg as the conductor argued with the Pakistani girls’ supporters.

I was about to go looking for Lionel Twain with a gun when finally he turned the camera around. Mina was sprawled on her back. Her face was a bloody wreck, eyes swollen shut and even her eyebrows looked busted open. Kam was busy removing the girl’s boots. Then she struggled to get the pants off. Mina didn’t resist, but Kam was hurt and tired herself. Frustrated she pulled the girl’s belt out. Once the belt was in her hand it took her only a second to begin to whip the Pakistani’s body. Mina tried to roll away. Moving got her a knockout boot to the face. Kam wailed away with the belt until Mina’s tits were crisscrossed with welts and bleeding from gashes made by the belt buckle. At least Lionel captured the whipping, but I was wondering what had happened to Fatima and Gita.

Suddenly Gita’s hand grabbed her sister’s wrist from off camera. They argued for a second. To punctuate her opinion Kam dug the heel of her right boot into Mina’s bloody tit and then grinded about. Gita leaned over her badly bitten tits dangling. What the fuck had I missed? I was going to shoot Lionel Twain! I still had no idea what had become of Fatima. Gita finally got the tight jeans off Mina’s hips and completed the stripping. I thought maybe that was the terms of victory for a moment.

I was wrong. Gita plunged her hands into Mina’s pockets and finally came out with a key. She held up the key and showed it to car six’s window. Lionel fortunately swung his phone to the furious onlookers. Then he flashed it around. When I regained my balance I found he was focused down the car to the door to car four. Gita opened the door. Her boyfriends and about dozen others came into the car yelling and celebrating.

Lionel moved to a plastic bench and stood up. I know because the point of view of a window showing lights flashing by raised by about twenty inches. When he turned it down on the floor I got my biggest surprise. The boys and girls supporting the Indian sisters were fucking the bloody nude losers every which way. Cocks went into asses and pussies. The girls jammed in their fingers, fists, lip sticks, hair brushes, whatever came to hand. It was as brutal a mob fucking as I had witnessed outside my motorcycle cage matches or race war matches.

Ten minutes of brutal fucking followed as the train rocked the camera and the fuckers. Then Lionel opened the car doors at a station and the winners left. The losers’ supporters were still trapped in car six. Lionel balanced his cell phone while he unzipped and pulled out a black worm of a cock. He held the camera down at arms length so he could convict himself showing his hard cock and grinning face in the same distorted angle. Then I got to see close-ups of his cock going into wet dripping asses and cunts. He and the transit cop enjoyed the hell out the meat that had been left on the bloody floor.

Finally the train came to the end of the line. Lionel poured something out of a canteen on what was left of Fatima’s face. Then he dropped a key on her belly. He and the cop left. I got a final view of the train stopped. The Pakistani sisters were framed in the open door of car five. Their supporters were banging on the still frozen side door. He stayed a bit until Fatima started moving. Then the cell phone cut off.

I figured the car washers would find empty cars ignore the red splashes as well as the smell of sex. High pressure steam would scour the cars down and put them back on line for the early morning. I wondered if any of the losers ever came back for Lionel’s ass. It wasn’t a secret where he was every nights five nights a week.

I called up the Political Hack and said, “You want me to go in business with this guy. Right now, I wouldn’t know which side of the proposition bet to take: which happens first, Lionel goes to jail or Lionel gets his ass killed.”

The Political Hack laughed and admitted, “Yeah, he’s pretty much of a disaster in the making. But this shit has captured the interest of some pretty wired in people.”

“OH, do tell.”

Political Hack was a political campaign manager who was hooked into a group of international speculators. They had just run a good game, shorted banks and insurance companies while their bought and paid for congressional committee chairmen wrecked the banks. Then they bought in at the bottom, organized a bailout and made more billions on the flipside. They took a fraction of their winnings and computer purchased a mass of prepaid credit cards from their captive banks to buy a President with thousands of under $200 “anonymous” contributions guaranteeing no investigations and a continued flow of taxpayer money into their accounts.

Since I long ago moved my spare money overseas accounts with reliable dictatorships and stored gold bars in small banks around the Midwest, what the fuck did I care if they ruined the world economy and turned everybody into beggars. I made my money pimping pain and suffering to the real rich and the real rich stayed rich no matter how much “change” there was. Mr. Political Hack was my ticket to big money perverts and gold-plated protection against the rare pain in the ass paladins of justice. Anyway, like most people high or low when Political Hack called I answered.

He told me how he had become involved. Narcotics cops had taken down a big dealer who had failed to pay off the Political Hack’s political party. The cops took their normal fifty percent of the cash and twenty-five percent of the dope to resell as their commission, but didn’t know what to do with the specialized video library of the dealer. The idiot dealer had protested about corruption and got shot sixty times while escaping.

Being in a criminal enterprise as well organized as New York City his belongings worked their way through the system. Low level bureaucrats stole the televisions and high end technology toys. But, someone who knew Mr. Political Hack snatched the dealer’s video hard drive and sent it along to the fixer as a “remember me” gift. The dealer apparently had been Lionel’s only customer and he had hundreds of fights, men, women, girls, boys, girls and boys, you name it. It wasn’t too hard to follow the trail of signposts back to Lionel Twain.

Lionel Twain was a fat black guy five years from a pension and if he was lucky ten years to a heart attack or stroke. Whatever else I could find wrong with the guy I had to admit he had a sweet racket worked out. He had found the perfect night train team: a drunken motorman and the drugged out transport cop, blind deaf and dumb cleaners and broken security cameras. When they had bodies to remove they dumped them on the rails. What the rats didn’t eat the underground humanoids did. For two hours Lionel Twain was captain of his ship and he had found a way to make some small change, get his jollies and some young pieces of ass.

What he needed was a partner to make some real money with. And so Mr. Political Hack did what he did naturally, put two scoundrels together to make a profit on the backs of others. Yes we can.

I thanked him for his consideration and told him no thanks. Then he grimaced, a sure sign he was about to call in a market, reluctantly of course.

“Well, I’m afraid it’s gone a bit further than that. I showed this to a couple of our friends.”

I moaned, “And they want more and they want Cage quality.”

“That’s part of it.”

“What’s the rest of it?” I asked becoming less and less happy, even losing my beat-down-rape-fight chubby.

“There’s this guy,” he said as he pushed his nose to the side, “who has a girlfriend on the side.”

“The Mafioso wants to see his girlfriend fight?”

He grimaced again and I felt my balls quake. “It’s a bit more complicated than that. You see his daughter married a competing Captain and she wants a piece of the girlfriend for what the girlfriend did to her mother in this elevator duel they had in the Empire State Building.”

“Don’t tell me anymore.”

“Listen Cage, this is going to happen. Thank of it as a public service. Some of your own customers and mine very much like these Meat Train Fights. And, they very much want to avoid an interruption in their bribes that a mob war typically causes. You are going to help keep the peace and make some money too. You’re doing it for the good of the community, a brass-plated patriot.”

“And if I don’t?”

He spread his hands and said, “Well, it’s a New Age. Everybody has got take part. Either you are part of the Community or you are outside it. We fire CEO’s who don’t go along. You wouldn’t even make a mess on our shoes. We still hold elections, but they don’t matter. You are going to be dealing with me or someone like me from now on. This country is bought and paid for. So think about it.”

I thought for a second. “You know I might like the Meat Train business.”

He nodded and said, “I see another body of work to add to “Cage’s Cage Fights, Race Wars Are Us, Back Alley Grudge Matches, Whore Fights, Sorority Row Rumbles and so on. Be proud, say it loud: Midnight Meat Train Fights by Mr. Cage. Lionel is expecting your call. Keep him on. He adds a certain flavor to the product.”

Who says the entrepreneurial spirit of America is tits up?

The End.

Thank you for reading! For more of Mr. Cage’s Stories: Click Here!

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