As Roger peered
into the cast iron cage, he captured the beautiful eyes of his terrified catch.
He gazed upon her physique and nodded his head in approval. The
strawberry-blonde hair coupled with the fairest of skins was a rarity in this
business. She was worth at least $7,000. And that was based on last year’s
rates. With the recent shortage of mail order brides, this one might even catch
upwards of ten grand.
Roger had been catching mail order brides for a little over 2 years now. It was a rewarding business, and Roger was quickly making a name for himself in a handful of circles. He continued to oggle at the entrapped blondie. She snarled viciously and started to shake the cage angrily, her supple breasts swaying like pendulums. Roger smiled. He knew that whoever the rich American businessman was that would be receiving this one would certainly have his hands full.
Roger was a hunter by nature. His father had been a poacher, long before poaching became illegal. As a child, Roger’s toys were all made of rhinoceros ivory. As an infant, the only baby powder Roger’s behind knew was that made from finely ground-up elephant tusks.
When the time came for Roger to pick a profession, it was right around the time when mail order brides were becoming a fad. Across the Atlantic Ocean, rich businessmen, greedy Mormon husbands and hopeless romantics alike suddenly all wanted mail order brides, and they were willing to pay top dollar for a postage stamped piece of holy matrimony.
It wasn’t hard to catch a mail order bride either. These feral women went after anything that was shiny, or mixed with alcohol. It didn’t take a master baiter to catch one. It simply took a strategically placed ring made of sterling silver, or a carefully placed martini to get a young and wild lass to crawl into the cage. All Roger had to do then was pull the string to trip the trap, tranquilize the caged lady, and then pay for shipping and handling.
The particular mail order bride-to-be that Roger was admiring was more than your typical mail order bride. She was a trophy wife. The Vince Lombardi trophy of mail order brides. Roger reached for his tranquilizer gun. Fumbling around in his pocket, he accidentally triggered the trigger, and he felt a sharp pain in his leg. Shit, he thought to himself. The world started to go dim, and the voice in his head suddenly began to slow down and become deeper and richer, like James Earle Jones’.
Roger woke up 72 hours later with a ring on his finger, deep in Russia. He couldn’t believe that this was real life.
“Karma’s a bitch,” Roger groaned to himself.
“You’re my bitch now,” growled a husky female voice next to him. It belonged to his new wife, who’s name also happened to be Karma. Karma was a retired Russian roller derby skater who had recently responded to an ad on Craigslist for a mail order husband.
“I’m the only Karma you’re gonna know from here on out” she continued. “Now you march your little tush into the kitchen, you make me a sandwich, and when you come back out I’m going to show you how us Russians like to keep warm during the winter.” She winked at him and slapped him on the back side.
Roger frowned, and then did as he was told.
Roger had been catching mail order brides for a little over 2 years now. It was a rewarding business, and Roger was quickly making a name for himself in a handful of circles. He continued to oggle at the entrapped blondie. She snarled viciously and started to shake the cage angrily, her supple breasts swaying like pendulums. Roger smiled. He knew that whoever the rich American businessman was that would be receiving this one would certainly have his hands full.
Roger was a hunter by nature. His father had been a poacher, long before poaching became illegal. As a child, Roger’s toys were all made of rhinoceros ivory. As an infant, the only baby powder Roger’s behind knew was that made from finely ground-up elephant tusks.
When the time came for Roger to pick a profession, it was right around the time when mail order brides were becoming a fad. Across the Atlantic Ocean, rich businessmen, greedy Mormon husbands and hopeless romantics alike suddenly all wanted mail order brides, and they were willing to pay top dollar for a postage stamped piece of holy matrimony.
It wasn’t hard to catch a mail order bride either. These feral women went after anything that was shiny, or mixed with alcohol. It didn’t take a master baiter to catch one. It simply took a strategically placed ring made of sterling silver, or a carefully placed martini to get a young and wild lass to crawl into the cage. All Roger had to do then was pull the string to trip the trap, tranquilize the caged lady, and then pay for shipping and handling.
The particular mail order bride-to-be that Roger was admiring was more than your typical mail order bride. She was a trophy wife. The Vince Lombardi trophy of mail order brides. Roger reached for his tranquilizer gun. Fumbling around in his pocket, he accidentally triggered the trigger, and he felt a sharp pain in his leg. Shit, he thought to himself. The world started to go dim, and the voice in his head suddenly began to slow down and become deeper and richer, like James Earle Jones’.
Roger woke up 72 hours later with a ring on his finger, deep in Russia. He couldn’t believe that this was real life.
“Karma’s a bitch,” Roger groaned to himself.
“You’re my bitch now,” growled a husky female voice next to him. It belonged to his new wife, who’s name also happened to be Karma. Karma was a retired Russian roller derby skater who had recently responded to an ad on Craigslist for a mail order husband.
“I’m the only Karma you’re gonna know from here on out” she continued. “Now you march your little tush into the kitchen, you make me a sandwich, and when you come back out I’m going to show you how us Russians like to keep warm during the winter.” She winked at him and slapped him on the back side.
Roger frowned, and then did as he was told.
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