/lit/ - Literature

>>19428166
Surrounding the vehicles were about twenty tall, heavily armed black men. From the heavy plate armor they wore, and tribal face tattoos they had, Gregory knew these were no normal slave raiders. Each man stood at least six and a half feet tall, some more than seven. Their armor had custom cod pieces, and where their thighs met extended a massive Kevlar shaft of phallus armor.

He used his monocular to measure the size of the phallus armor on several. Not a one less than 10 inches... "Bix Nubians!" Gregor thought. But why? Why would these elite forces be deployed for a slave raid? Were these girls more than the usual spoils of a raid? Were they choice maidens bound for the elite of the forces of Globalhomo?

Gregory looked back at the Claws of Trump, slowly moving closer to the vehicles. His mission was to remain hidden at all costs, to watch the men fight. He was to vet their effectiveness. If they preformed well, they would be used for more dangerous and important missions in the future. Though the threat the elite Bix Nubians posed was great, Gregory still thought the Claws were up to the task. They were not significantly out numbered and they had the element of surprise. This would be a good proving ground for them.

He panned back to the slave caravan and extended his sound measurement cone towards what appeared to be the lead Bix Nubian. He appeared to be directing the others, and was now in an argument with a huge seven foot tall monster in tactical plate mail, holding a large .80 calibur "gat" in one hand and a 40 ounce bottle of malt liquor in the other. He spoke forcefully.

"I'm just sayin motha fucka, they don't be needing all dese chicken head snow bunnies, we can try at least some out. Dey won't know tha difference."

The leader turned to the large one. "Nah dawg. You heard what L'T'Marqus be sayin. Dese girls is for that rabbi dude, don't be trippin dawg, we'll be gettin some when we get back."