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The Agency Damn! He was a cute kid. Sure, he was black, but, still, he was cute. If he were white, Bowers would have no trouble placing him. Despite the depression, which had dragged on for over ten years, there was still a demand for cute white kids. Some couple would have adopted him even though they would have had to pay all the concomitant expenses. A black kid-no fucking way. It'd been three years since he'd had a black couple come in looking for a kid. Fucking do-gooder cops. Why did they keep turning these kids over to the Agency? Yeah, it was called Child Services, but, anymore, that was a joke-at least, if you interpreted it as services to the child. The Agency had become more of a brokerage than a child services agency, and he was an agent-a broker working for that agency. OK, he still found a place for the kids, but his job wasn't to find a place which would be best for the kid, but one which would earn the most money for the State. Hell, they'd even started paying him a commission. They called it a bonus-guess that sounded better-but, it really was a commission; and, if he wanted to make enough money to live on, he damn well better earn that bonus. Why did the cops even bother to pick up black kids? Hell, leave them on the street. Let the little fuckers starve, if need be. At least it'd make his job easier. It was just getting too hard to place them. Even the work farms-though they were required to take them-tried to weasel out of it, saying: they were overcrowded. He knew they were just trying to get out of paying for them. There was still profit to be made on black slaves. Just not so much; and not enough for it to be worth his time. Hell, he could sell fifty black kids to a work farm and still not make his bonus. And, forget about the high class slave dealers-the ones who paid the real money-the ones who would slip him a little something under the table. They only took the best looking black kids-but, they just might take this one. He was a real looker-this one. He had a light skin and features more like a real person, not a big nose and big lips like most niggers. The little fucker even had blue eyes! Bowers hadn't ever seen a nigger with blue eyes. The kid had kinky hair, though. There had definitely been a nigger in the woodpile. He wondered if the boy's mother had been white. Even though there were laws against miscegenation, it still occurred. Guess those white whores liked those big brown cocks. Thank God for the castration laws which had passed back in '16. At least any black kid who came into State custody was castrated-just as this kid would be-cute or not. Those fuckers bred like rabbits. Shit, if the law hadn't been passed, they would have outnumbered the Whites in a few years. If that happened, the fucking Blacks might be making the laws and have the Whites castrated. His hand cupped his balls automatically-as if to protect them from such a prospect. OK-Bowers knew what happened to the cute ones; and it kinda sickened him. He liked women-couldn't really understand why some men liked to fuck nut-less boys. Hell, some of the boys even had their dicks cut off as well, leaving them with a smooth, hairless crotch. If they wanted them like that, why didn't they just fuck little girls? God knows, there were plenty of them around. Oh well, there was no counting for some people's tastes-and it meant more money in his pocket. Bowers knew he was straight. He wasn't a fucking queer; but, looking at the kid, he wondered how the boy would look with a smooth crotch. He was bound to have a tight ass; and, after two kids-the legal limit-his wife's snatch was stretched out. It'd be nice to stick his cock into a tight hole-even if it were a little boy's ass. Shit, why was he having such thoughts and why was his cock hard? He'd never do it. They'd fucking fire him-if they ever caught him fucking any of his charges. He could cut off their nuts-or at least have it done-but he couldn't fuck 'em. Wonder what the kids would choose, if given the choice: "Hey, kid. Do you want to get fucked-or do you want to have your nuts cut off? It's your choice." Bet they'd choose the fuck every time. The kid was standing in front of Bower's desk where the intake officer had left him. Swiveling in his chair so he was facing his computer, Bowers asked, "What's your name, kid?" "Sam," the kid answered. "I need your last name, too, God damn it." It'd been a long day. He felt like he'd already processed fifty gadzillion kids-all black-and none of them really worth any thing. Most of them would end up on the shittiest work farms-and he wouldn't make jack shit on them. At least this kid-he would be worth something. Bowers went over the possibilities in his mind. Harold Atkins. He'd start with him. Atkins had some clients who might like a high yeller boy like this one. The boy's saying, "Sam Wilkins. My name's Sam Wilkins." interrupted his reverie. "Where's your parents, kid?" "I don't know." The little fucker started crying. Bowers hated it when that happened. "She-she left me. She-she never came back. I waited and waited, but she never came back." Bowers had already read the report. The kid's mother had ordered him a bowl of soup, told him she was going to the bathroom-then hadn't come back. She hadn't even paid for the God damn soup, for Christ's sake. The restaurant wanted the Agency to pay for it-but fuck them. If they're so stupid as to fall for that trick, they should absorb the loss. Damned if it was going to come out of his budget. "Where do you live, kid?" "On-on the street." Damn. Why did this kid have to keep repeating himself? Otherwise, he talked OK-more like a white kid. He didn't have that God damn nigger accent like most of them. Probably did have a white mother-who got knocked up by some nigger. The kid probably didn't even know his daddy. Well, he wasn't going to bother asking the kid about him. If he was around, the kid's mother wouldn't have left the boy as she had. The kid continued to stand. There was no chair for him. It wasn't Bowers job to make the boys comfortable. It was his job to process them-as quickly as possible. "What's your birth date, kid?" "September 12th." "What fucking year? What fucking year were you born in?" "'32," the kid answered. Bowers typed "09/12/2032," into the computer. Ten years old in one month. That was a good age. The slavers like to get them when they were ten. They were old enough to fuck, but hadn't hit puberty yet. Once cut, they never would. Yeah, Atkins would like this kid. He'd probably even pay extra to have his little cock cut off as well. Shit, he'd seen white kids who tanned darker than this kid. "Take off your clothes, kid." Bowers wanted to take a picture of the kid. Hell, he might even email it around to several different slavers-see which of them offered him the most-the most under the table money, that is. "Why-why do you want me to take off my clothes?" The kid seemed frightened by the request. Bowers wondered if the kid's mother had been pimping for him, renting his ass out to guys on the street. Shit, if he'd been fucked by those disease ridden street people, no telling what he had. At least they could cure most of them-even AIDS. Of course, no one bothered to provide health care for the street people. There were too many of them as it was. "I'm just going to take a picture of you, kid-nothing else. My tastes don't run to little boys." The boy stripped down to a pair of dirty, tattered, urine stained briefs. Bowers could see that they had once been white, but, now, other than where they were yellow from the piss stains, they were gray. Shit, why didn't they clean them up first? Bowers's head began itching. He'd probably get lice from the little fucker. It wouldn't be the first time. The boy stopped undressing after getting down to his underwear. "Those, too," said Bowers. "Take everything off." "You-you mean you want me to get...na-naked?" "Kid, you won't be showing me anything I haven't seen before." Though, he would be showing Bowers more than he'd have this time tomorrow. After being cleaned up and disinfected, he'd be taken to the clinic.. But, the boy wouldn't be told he was to be castrated. No sense getting him all upset. He'd just be taken into the Doc and given a shot; then he'd wake up a few hours later with no balls and a sore crotch. In this kid's case, probably with no cock either. Bowers was sure the slavers would want this kid to have a slick crotch. He would make some calls while the boy was in the showers. "Come on, kid. Take 'em off-now." The boy turned to his right so his back was to Bowers, who was still facing his computer, and, bending over, slid his underpants past his knees. He hesitated a moment, then released them. They fell onto his feet, gathering around his ankles. Bowers, looking back over his shoulder, saw that the boy had a cute ass-round like an apple. He swiveled his chair around so he was facing the boy, reached into a desk drawer, and pulled out a digital camera. "Step over there," he said, pointing to the wall across from his desk, " and face me." The boy did as he said, but, when he turned around to face Bowers, both hands covered his groin. Shit, the kid was modest. Usually these street kids weren't. "Put your hands down to your sides," he told the boy. The kid's face turned red. He actually blushed. Well, he's white enough that you can see him blush, thought Bowers. It was just a cock and a pair of balls, though-a little boy's cock and a little boy's balls. Nothing special-not deformed or anything. Nothing Bowers hadn't seen a thousand times before. He wondered why the kid was so shy about showing it. Raising his camera, he took a picture of the kid, then had him turn-a quarter of a turn each time-so he could take a picture from every angle. The kid was perfectly formed-a real looker. Bowers knew he could get a good price for this kid-both above the table and under it. After the boy had been taken to the showers, he called Atkins. "Check your email," he said. "I sent you some pictures of a boy that was just picked up. You're gonna like him." He waited while Atkins checked his email. "Shit, is that kid white?" asked Atkins. "Naw, he's a nigger-just got light skin. He's got a woolly head, though. He's a nigger all right." "But, he's got blue eyes," said Atkins. "Still a nigger. If they got any nigger blood, they're a nigger. You know that. Look, the documents I send over will say that he's a nigger. That's good enough for you, isn't it?" "Well, I don't know if I can move him right now. I'm kinda overstocked." Bullshit! Bowers knew better. Fucking Atkins was just trying to lower the price. "Fine," he said, "I've already got several offers for the kid. I just thought I'd give you the first shot. Talk to you later." He took the phone away from his ear, but didn't hang it up. He heard Atkins's voice in the receiver, "Maybe I can use the boy, after all." "What was that?" Bowers said, even though he had heard Atkins clearly. "I-I can probably use the boy." "This ain't no ordinary boy. Like I said, I've already got other offers for him." "Well, if the State price isn't too high, we might be able to come to some agreement." Bowers knew what that meant: if the official price wasn't too high, his under the table cut would be substantial. His commission on the boy wouldn't be as large, but Atkins would slip him enough under the table to make up for it-and more. They'd both make out on the deal. "OK," he agreed. "How do you want him cut-just his balls or both his cock and balls." "Both," said Atkins. The deal concluded, Bowers called the clinic. "That boy I just sent you-Sam Wilkins-do a full job on him." He looked at his watch. It was 1:45. The kid had been his first after lunch. In another hour-an hour and a half tops-the kid would be a eunuch. He wondered if the kid would miss his cock and balls. Too young to miss his balls, he guessed-but he'd have to get used to squatting to pee. Atkins had wanted the works. He even wanted the kid's urethra rerouted so it came out between his legs-down by his asshole. Oh, well. He was paying for it-an extra $5,000, which, with deflation, was a lot of money. Atkins was slipping him $2000 under the table-and he would get a commission on the cut job as well. A profitable day indeed! If every day was like this, he could retire in a year-never have to put up with any more of the snotty nosed brats. Every day-shit. If one came in like this every six months, he was lucky. His phone rang. It was Karen, the receptionist. "There's a lady here to see you. She says we have her kid." "White or Black?" Shit, all the black kids who'd been brought in today, had already been cut-and he didn't want to have to explain-even to a Black that they'd cut off their kid's nuts. Only the last kid-the cute one-Sam Wilkins, hadn't been cut yet; and he would be soon. "White," the receptionist answered. "She dirty-probably a streety-but she's white. "What makes her think we have her hid? "The cops told her they brought him here." "OK. Send her in; but buzz me after five minutes so I'll have a reason to get rid of her. You know the drill." The women shown into his office was pretty-thin to the point of emaciation-but pretty. Her dirty face was streaked with tears. "Do you have my boy? Do you have my son? Do you have my Sammy?" Your Sammy? Shit! Did she mean that boy whom had just been brought in? She was white all right. Bowers couldn't see any nigger blood in her. "We haven't got any white kid's in here today. Is your kid white? Indignant suddenly, she said, "Yes, he's white. Just a white as you and me." "No nappy hair-or any thing like that?" he said, probing. "You have seen him!" "I didn't say that-but, if he had nappy hair, how can he be white?" "He has tight curly hair which he got from his father-but he's just as white as you and me." "Sounds like the old man had a little nigger in him to me." Bowers could see that she was trying to hold in her anger at his words, but not having much success. "If he had any African American blood, I never asked him-and he never said. I wouldn't have cared if he had. Anyway, what does that have to do with my boy? Do you have him?" she asked again. Just as Bowers thought-another of those race mixing whores. "And, how did you lose this little boy of yours?" I just got a job today. It's just a maid's job, but we have furnished room for the two of us. My employer even gave me an advance so I could buy some clothes. Neither of us had eaten for two days-at least I hadn't. I'd been able to scrounge a little something for Sam, but he was still hungry, so ordered him a bowl of soup, intending to run to the store next door to buy him a present. It'd been so long since I'd been able to buy him anything. I wanted to surprise him." "So, what happened? asked Bowers. "I fainted-I guess. I was awfully hungry. I guess I just fainted. Anyway, by the time I got to the restaurant, Sam was gone. They told me the cops had taken him, and they wouldn't even tell me that until I'd paid for the soup. I was lucky that one of the cops came back to restaurant. No one would even talk to me about a lost kid when I called the station." "What's the kid's full name?" Bowers asked, even though he knew what the answer would be. "Samuel Adams Wilkins," answered the boy's mother. 1:55. They probably hadn't started on the boy yet. The Doc, a creature of habit, usually started his procedures on the hour-or on the half hour. But, the money: $2000 under the table; and his commissions would amount to $500 more. Shit, that was as much as he made in a month and a half from his regular salary. "Sorry. We don't have your boy." "But, you must. The cops told me they brought him here." "Lady, they made a mistake. No one brought in a boy like that." "You must have seen him. He's nine years-old, almost ten, about this tall," she said, holding her hand about at the level with her breasts. She was a tall woman. He has brown hair and blue eyes-the clearest blue eyes." "I ain't seen him, Lady-sorry." His buzzer rang right on schedule. "Excuse me," he said, picking up the phone. After saying, "Uh huh, OK," a few times, he hung it up. "Sorry, Ms...what was your name?" When she answered, "Sarah-Sarah Wilkins," he said, "I have another appointment, Ms Wilkins. I'll walk you to the door." Placing his hand around her upper arm, he led her-not too gently-toward the exit. She protested all the way, saying over and over, "You must have my son. You must have my Sammy. Please help me. I don't know where else to go." Bowers shoved her through the door. It latched behind her. Visitors had to buzz for entry. She did so-immediately. Bowers shouted through the door, "We don't have your kid. If you don't leave, I'll have you arrested." then walked away, stopping at the receptionist. "That woman's a kook. If she shows up here, have her arrested. If she calls, I'm not here." Bowers went back to his desk, swiveled his chair so he was facing his computer, opened Sam Wilkins's record, moving the cursor to his last name-to the first 'i' in Wilkins-and began typing, changing the name to Watson. When he was through, Sam Wilkins no longer existed. There was only Sam Watson, who was-at that moment-going under the knife in the clinic. ---------------------- I always appreciate hearing from my readers. Email encourages me to write more, so, if you like my stories, let me know. If you don't them, tell me why you don't. |