The Closer

Dear readers

This is a stand-alone tale that has rattled in my brain for a bit and I decided to get it down quickly. My style of writing is fast, it is sloppy, is has dialog that may be difficult of follow. Rest assured, I know this. But I don't have an editor, so bear with me and hold any grammar and other criticism in your draft folder.

This story will become violent. The sex will be raw, it will contain aspects of Con/Non-Con sexual acts, Slavery, and Incest. It will also be a VERY slow burn with lots of background and mood setting. All the spicy bits happen in the latter parts of the story. So, get the vibe, then hold on. You have been warned.

- Rom -

=

I'm Jonah. Jonah Fritz to be precise.

I entered the world on the 19th of July, 2034 in Central Vermont. Born the third son of a prominent family among a strict community, now I mostly refer to as "The Community." My fate was sealed the moment I emerged sliding feet first from the womb. I'd spend my first 18 months with my birth family, and then be handed over to a caretaker family, known among The Community, but not of it. I don't use the term religious when referring to The Community, but certainly, strict works. Rather than follow gods and scripture, they saw divinity in numbers. The sect maintaining their numbers to 100,000 adult male members, spread across the entire US. No more, but OK to be slightly less. The logic being that there was limited land and resources, it could not support any more than that mystical 100,000. There was little said about how many women or girls the sect preferred, those zeros being all about men.

I grew up knowing much about them, playing with fellow students at the only K-8 school in our little corner of New England. The kids mixing and making friends both in and out of The Community and the greater Community not within the sect. We met and mingled while at school, but rarely did much beyond school-related activities. Lest I forget to mention this, it seemed that a ton of them shared my last name, Fritz.

My family, whom I still refer as mom and dad instilled my polite, nearly formal manners as well as my love to work hard, to enjoy all that life hands you, and an insatiable curiosity. My love to work hard, to practice, to "trust the process towards mastery" transferred well to the baseball field. David, my nearly same aged brother (and the biological child of my mom and dad) tore up the turf. From five-year-olds on the T-Ball field, through middle and high school, we were never more than a few feet from a bat, a ball and our gloves. When homework, chores, anything was done, we would be playing catch or honing our skills. David is and always will be my brother. I'd lay my life on the line for him, and I know he'd do the same for me.

My other love was learning. My curiosity led me to try to understand The Community of which we live so close, but always seemed to be just a bit elusive. My reading started early, maybe when I was eight or nine. I read about them from their own books, borrowed from the school or local library, from online searches, and my friendship with member of The Community during school. Where the two loves of my life combined was in the numbers. I loved baseball statistics, and the knowledge I gained from reading their books, gave me a completely different view on stats, and basically numbers in general.

David and I joined our high school baseball team as freshmen, having played on local travel teams after graduating from Little League. Our Springs through Falls for a couple years were endless days of driving around the region, weekend tournaments, seeing many mid and large sized cities along the way. We'd never miss any opportunities to visit a museum, a zoo, or even walk some of the fine universities in the region during this time. Mom and dad would keep us up on our homework, while also exposing us to as much as they could.

Our freshman year saw us up early every weekday taking the bus to the next town over that had the single high school for the area. It being fed from several towns other than ours, It was larger than any single building in our town, filled with a couple of thousand students. Early in the fall David and I figured out that we'd be trying out for spots on a team that had "the pick of the litters." Thus, we upped our daily practice and conditioning sessions in the afternoons and evenings.

Our Freshman and Sophomore seasons saw us on the Frosh team the first year and the Junior Varsity (JV) team the second. David had stopped growing taller that second year, topping out at a respectable 5-10. Where he lacked hight, he was quick, agile like a cat, and he hit for contact. He made his mark by playing amazing defense, while getting on base with singles and doubles, getting walked, and on occasion earning a drilling by opposing pitchers. He'd exchange a bruise for a base any day.

I on the other hand, seemed to never stop growing, hitting 6-2 at the end of my freshman year and 6-4 entering my junior year. We could not have been any more different. Me, the blonde, green-eyed giant, him the far more normal sized, brown-eyed brunette. My parents were more than open about letting me know that I was adopted, confirming my own thinking that I had been born in The Community. Along with my reading, I had figure out that I was what was called a Cast Off. A male. I knew their believes, their adherence to the numbers. So, I held not bitterness to the situation. Rather I embraced it! As had I been kept inside, I would certainly not be still playing ball with the possibility of playing into college, and wishfully beyond.

This level of baseball also taught us that if you weren't looking for an edge, you weren't trying hard enough. Some players and coaches might put this as "if you ain't cheating you ain't trying." As I always kept within the rules (math and baseball alike), my personal motto is that if it isn't in the rulebook, it's OK until they name a rule after you." I studied the rules, the sub-context, the discussions on how the rules of the game were made. Knowing the rule was good; knowing how and why the rule existed was gold.

Our junior year saw us among the Varsity team. David having secured his role as the second baseman and back up shortstop. His defense winning games, while his offense kept him on the field, but not getting much notice from any college scouts. I on the other hand had secured the second starter role behind a beast of a senior pitcher. He was the epitome of pissing vinegar, easy to temper, and quick to throw one of his 100+ mph fastballs at any batter that looked at him sideways, or that had gotten more than one hit off of him, ever. My style was far more cerebral. I studied game film, poured over game and pitch-by-pitch stats; my own and those of other pitchers and even other teams if I could secure them. The fact that my speed was just under his while being nearly two years younger infuriated him, making our relationship less that amicable. We were teammates and that was about it.

The other thing that changed our our junior year was that we now had fans in the stands when we played. The previous years teams had done well, so the baseball team was cool, and catching a game was a good way for students to socialize. The game being a bit less important than potentially find a girl or boyfriend.

Our mid-season brings an annual tournament to our high school where we invite the top teams in the region to play out of conference games in a short time as well as give scouts the opportunity to see a lot of top talent playing against each other. This tournament also brings a number of the local townspeople together to watch the home team, socialize, and maintain our local identity.

It was at this tournament that We, rather David met April. Yet another Fritz among hundreds. She was a freshman, tallish, blonde and blue-eyed, but shy, and reserved. He had caught her eyes staring into our dugout on numerous times, smiling and getting her to blush quickly and look away. Making sure he'd impress April, he had the tournament of the season, getting on base every at bat, stealing bases, and making himself a menace to the other teams. His defense was inspiring, with play after play that deserved nightly showing on ESPN. While we placed third overall, he had secured his place among our regions baseball elite by being named Player of the Tournament. That alone got his name and face in front of D2 and a few D1 programs up and down the East Coast.

Myself, I had what I considered pedestrian outings with three high quality outings with just two runs scored, four walks, and 24 strikeouts across 22 innings. While not watching the gun, I heard rumors that I had tipped 103 a couple times.

Within a couple of weeks, David and April were often seen walking together in the halls, spending lunches on a bench in our main quad, and seemingly growing together as best a couple of teenagers could, given their unique differences. April always wearing white. Never a dash of color. Just white on white. While wearing whatever he deemed clean enough for the day was my brother. A unique pair indeed. David also started taking night classes at the local community college. Dual enrollment, trying to knock out as many of the "cakewalk" lower-division classes as he could.

Our year crashed out the first week of the post season with the exiting of many of our starters. Our top pitcher, catcher and a couple of key position players got injured, another started arrested, and yet another just vanished from the school.

Over that Summer, David and I took somewhat different paths. He decided to take a little bit of time away from the game to recover and possibly get into the good graces of April's family. Thus, maybe allowing them to court, under their terms and customs. He and April also took a massive load of college classes. I thought that they had lost their minds.

My Summer was spent with the closest Connecticut League baseball team, just to get the experience among aspiring young collegiate ball players. While not yet pro ballers, they got everything but a salary. Free food, host family accommodations, pro-level training and top-notch coaching. Dad dropped me off mid-May, and with a giant hug wished me well and asked that I call mom often. With anther quick hug, he said that he'd be in this exact spot to pick me up the second week of August, just two days before school starting again. I got paid - seemingly not much, barely above minimum wage. But with the long hours, six or seven day work weeks along with meals, accommodations, as well as uniforms and laundry service covered, my expenses were minimal. I banked a LOT more than I thought going into the season and vowed to come back next year and the following ones. Only to hope that in my Junior or Senior years in colleges I might be wearing a uniform, not stitching their tears and getting the stains out.

Our last year in high school saw David, April - still clad in white, and me spending a lot of time together. They had settled into a comfortable relationship, not entirely boyfriend and girlfriend from my insider perspective, but certainly to the rest of the student body, they were a couple and if they had beef with April or David, they would have to go through me. Other friends, mostly teammates and their circles came and went. Collectively we had most of the student body among our first or secondary networks.

Winter try-outs had David and me among the fewer returning Seniors, the expected leaders to help the coaches determine who was in and who was out, as well as to model the expected conduct befitting the team and our traditions. Our head coach took me aside during the first day and expressed his expectations of me. I was to be the leader among leaders, to set the tone, to set the culture for the year. We had a great crop of pitchers, so Coach asked that I take the Closer role. Brought in to take a small lead at the end of the game and ensure we kept it. This is very high stakes, and higher pressure each time I'd step on the mound. Even though I'd be on the field every one or two games, he was expecting me to be his eyes and ears, to study each player, to know when to step in and let my teammates know when they were not pulling their weight or had simply fucked up. This was a role that surprisingly, I excelled and enjoyed.

David, myself and the other seniors amassed our list of players for the coach to review. With only one or two tweaks, our assessments matched well with the coaching staff's. This collaboration established a team that had a great mix of skills, a lot of areas for development, but entirely made of players who were humble, coachable, and above all, teammates. I had learned that I hated assholes, no matter how good of a player they were, we outright rejected any player who thought too much of themselves, or we knew was not trustworthy off the field. Our final roster had David cemented at Second Base, while I was now listed at a Pitcher, Right Fielder and at First Base.

For our official, state mandated physical my stats were entered as 17 years old, 6-6 (5 and 7/8ths, but who's counting), 235 pounds. My player profile for the year would also include that I throw and bat left-handed. The last item being kind of funny as I didn't hit much the past two years of high school ball, being a PO (Pitcher Only). I had taken hundreds, no thousands of swings against coaches and college players over the 13 weeks on the Connecticut league team, but those had been for fun, a perk - a good one to offset the Summer of crappy bus rides and hotels with questionable sanitation.

Our season's first half saw us mowing down our local competition. Ten games, ten wins, most close, so I saw plenty of time on bump. I closed seven of those games, amassing a line of 7 saves, zero blown, a 0.00 ERA, 15 strike outs and a lone walk. As a batter, I surprised myself with a batting average touching .600 with 15 home runs and 6 triples having started in the outfield or on first in all the games.

The mid-season tournament was a surreal experience. Every game saw packed stands and dozens of scouts. From our past experiences, we knew that many of us could secure our educations based on the tournament, so we played hard on the field, and carried ourselves with grace off it when talking with everyone. Family, friends, sports reporters, and even seemingly strangers (who we knew which were counts or not.) While a couple of the Seniors had early committed to schools, David and I didn't yet know our paths. He had a couple of solid offers from D2 programs, mostly because of last year's tournament performance, I had one solid D1 offer and a few letters of inquiry from some JuCo programs, offering a 'shorter path' to the professional ranks if that was my intent. They couldn't offer scholarships, so most of those emails got an uncommitted response from me. I also kind of knew where David was leaning. I knew he wouldn't leave April and head too far from home. His path was going to be local, away from the game, and probably a career in Law.

This years' tournament saw us on top of the podium. We battled through a stacked field of previous state champions, currently nationally ranked programs, and a depth of players that I thought could beat the crap out of the Connecticut League team I had spent the Summer. The teams and players across all the teams amazed me. Yet, our team had somehow silence them all. We had eight wins, no losses, no more than a few runs given up in any game. I closed every game, never having more than a two-run lead entering the ninth inning. My hitting and fielding also stood out among the many fine players that week. With 30 official at bats, I accumulated nine home runs, two triples, along with a dozen singles. My fielding percentage was perfect, no errors and a few web-gems to boot. Brothers being awarded the top player of the tournament in back-to-back years was a first, and I think David was prouder than myself when it was announced.

My interview with the regional sports reporter consisted of me thanking my team, my coaches and my family; all as cliche as expected. That was followed by a fun, in-depth discussion where the reporter, a few of what I presumed to be scouts, and I dove into stats, game preparation (we call them routines, my mom called them superstitions), my mental checklist for each at bat, and even my mid-game thoughts as a player. That resulted in a cool in-depth player profile piece, along with my picture top and center on an online high school sports subscriber only site.

The remaining part of our Senior year held constant. Early mornings on the bus to school, studies, placement exams, and socializing; all with the backdrop of baseball, the team, and April, well last least for David. She was his rock, his grounding. Myself? I had a few dates, a few exclusive weeks as a pair, but none that resulted in what might become a long-term relationship. The girls I dated all said that they were going to stay local, go off to this or that school, or those that were part of The Community, that they would find their partner among it. It never seemed like they had any choice in that matter. These girls seemed to see their lives as set, a fate, not to be changed or challenged. That information, along with what I had continue to read about The Community, planted the seed of distaste for that which I had been born, and seemingly what David was moving towards. Whenever I needed a little boost, a trigger to get me motivated, a touch of anger, I thought of their plight. It was my piece of the universe that never failed to fire me up. Deep in my seemingly calm demeanor, a fuse has been lit.

My season ended with a surprising no-decision. The state tournament scheduling had nearly exhausted out pitching staff, so Coach approached me with the idea of starting the championship game. He wanted four, maybe five innings from me and then he'd wing it from there. As both teams had experienced similar fates, he felt that he had enough players to be able to cobble together the last four innings. We just needed to be on top when I left the mound.

I and the opposing pitcher, him more of a long reliever, battled, each unwilling to give much more than a few solo singles and a couple of walks over the first seven innings. My high school playing days ended with a clap of thunder after the skies had started to darken. The field was cleared, tarps rolled out and loud announcement of an expected 45-minute rain delay. We won that game, as they truly had run out of pitchers, allowing us to stack run after run in the eighth, and they not being able to put up enough against our team. To say least, I felt that I personally had not finished the job. I yearned to be on the bump, throwing the final pitch. I buried that sting, a future source of motivation should I be in a similar position in the future.

High school graduation brought closure to our youth, even if David and I were still 17 for a couple more months. He had accepted an academic/sports scholarship with our local Liberal Arts college. They had a solid reputation for putting out future academics, politicians and public servants. It was a perfect match to his personality. He also continued his deep friendship with April. Still not boy and girlfriend in my eyes, nor seemingly so with what little information he shared while we discussed anything away from our parents or friends. I was again headed to Connecticut, this time doing the drive solo. I wanted to join my team, continue to be in my cult of baseball.

Mid-summer, the week after the 4th of July holiday, the team gathered in a hotel conference room 200 miles from home to watch the first day of the MLB draft. Several of our older players were hoping that their names just might be included this year. Our team's video team and the hotel's conference manager had set up a couple cameras on the players to catch their reactions should the unlikely event one of their names be called. A sat among them, they had embraced me as part of the team.

"With the first pick of the 2052 MLB Draft, the San Francisco Giants select Josh Fritz of..."

At that moment, the draft room in New York fell silent as none of the prognosticators had Josh Fritz, me, on any of their lists. At the same time, my world exploded. Our tiny band of players, coaches and staff jumped up and down, cheering, pouring copious amounts of beer on me, and at that moment, enshrined me as a professional baseball player with $2 suds.

My phone rang, a 415 area code, a number I didn't recognize, but knew was going to be the first of many calls related to my new identity. The room fell to a soft murmur.

Caller: "Josh?"

Me: "Uh, yeah, hello?

"Peter Z, General Manager of the San Francisco Giants here. I know this is a bit of a surprise, so please don't feel pressured or feel you need to be composed. I'd like to personally congratulate you. Your abilities on the field, and your poise, your composure and leadership made you a standout among the thousands of thousands of players we scouted. I've met with your parents, great people by-the-way. They have some important stuff for you to consider over the next day or two. Welcome to the team."

"Sir, I don't know what to say. I'm, I'm at a loss for words. Thank you, Thank you very much for the opportunity. Yeah, I think I must call home. Thank you. Yes, a thousand times, yes."

With that the end of that call, my phone exploded with texts. First a handful or so from my high school team, then my past Frosh, JV and Varsity Coaches, and then friends, many of which I didn't think followed baseball, much less me.

I stepped out of the conference room and into the hallway to call home.

"Dad, can you put me on speaker?"

"Of course, Josh, we are all here. Mom, David, and April."

The phone cracked with a loud "Congratulations!" and a round of laughter. "I love you" came from Mom, followed by David and April quickly adding that they knew I was headed for the Bigs.

Dad took me off speaker and got down to business. "We've already been in touch with a couple of agents. We've done a bit homework and have a couple for you to meet with in quickly. Even though you are not yet 18 Josh, this will be your call. Pick the one that you feel the most comfortable with. Both come highly regarded for their ethics and abilities when working with younger professionals like yourself."

I was still quite a bit in shock, so my responses were along the lines of "Ok, yeah, sure" and similar. We hung up after another round of congratulations and individual well wishes from my family.

Leaning against the wall, in the muted light of the seldom used conference center, I took a few breaths, smiled and headed back to the team, hoping that at least one of them would get the opportunity for the same experience. Late in the second round, we again were jumping up and down as two of our team got their names called. One going to the Athletics, a fate worse than death, and the other going to Yankees, a fate nearer to being touched by the hand of the gods. The team partied late into the evening, with the coaches hoping for a rain out the next day as there was little chance that anyone would be capable of playing well.

At 6:30AM my sleep was disturbed by my phone ringing and a not so light knocking on my hotel door. Our team manager, the man I reported to was smiling, holding his phone a small packet in his hand and a brand-new San Francisco Giants cap.

"Top of the morning Josh. I regret to inform you that your services to the team are no longer needed' His smile less than perfectly hid his true feelings. "Here's your plane ticket and $200 spending cash to cover your meals and any car services you need to get there. This is all courtesy of them" as he handed me the cap. "Wear that with pride young man, they are a class act organization." He turned to walk away and paused, "You've got van pulling out in 30 minutes. You and two other sorry asses are heading to the airport. Pack up, leave anything you want to be shipped back to you on the bed - We got you covered. Travel as light as you can, savor the moment and take pictures and videos. Your Mom and dad deserve to experience what you do over the next few days, weeks and years."

With that, he headed back down the hall, and I heard him singing "Take me out to the Ball Game" at the top of his lungs, probably just to annoy the rest of the team.

The next few days added new contacts to my phone. An Agent, an Attorney, member of the Giant's PR team, trainers, dietitians, and so many more. I reported to the team physician within a week, passing without any cautions for my arm or back, good vision, and zero history of concussions.

I signed my contract, worth a slot value of a $18 million dollars at the stadium that I hoped to play in maybe three or five years. I knew the journey as I had been in the game so long. I'd see the Rookie League, Low and then High A, AA and AAA. Possibly having to go back down. The path to the show fraught with possible injuries, a backlog of players ranked ahead of me and or even seeing me traded as "a player to be named" later or a footnote of "future prospects." For now, I had lots of money in the bank, a team that believed in me, a family that supported me, and my dream.

=

My path to bright lights and stadiums with 30, 40 and even 50 thousand fans happened far faster than I had dreamed. I was a perfect 8 for 8 saves on my Rookie team, and 5 for 5 in A-ball as the season ended in the early fall. I spent my winter in the Caribbean League where I learned to tolerate beer, and very much enjoy good whiskey under the mentoring of a not so conventional player development manager. My first Spring Training in Scottsdale put me in the presence of the MLB professionals. They were both the most intimidating and welcoming people that I have ever met. The pitching staff worked with me to understand the organization's fitness programs, while the coaches taught me a couple of new pitches and smoothed out several aspects of my delivery. We broke camp with me taking a picture for my Rookie card and being assigned to the AAA affiliate. There I settled in for what I expected to be a year of being so close, ready for the call, to prove myself among the top players. Along the way, I had a responsibility to continue to develop as a player, and as a person.

The first week of August, I was called to the Manager's office as I walked into the facility a few hours prior to game time. This was a solum-looking, and lower-level member of our coaching staff. The head Pitching coach was already sitting on one of the couches in the office when I arrived.

Skipper (what we also call the Manger sometimes) didn't look all that happy. "Hey Josh, have a seat"

With a giant grin, he then said "You've been called up - Sanchez took one off his knee and it doesn't look good. I know this is fast, but you've got what they need. The team could have easily gone for a trade, but they know deep down - you are the future. That future just happened to come now."

He stood and gave me a hug. More dad-like than manager. I got another hug from the Pitching coach, and he then handed me an envelope. "This is your info packet read it. It has the names of all the people you need for travel, housing, everything. The team will be back home tomorrow night, so you are expected at the field early. Head to your locker, grab what you need. Then head to your host's home, they already know and have your bags packed. Grab those and head over to the airport, a jet is waiting. A number of hugs and high fives later from the few players and staff who had started filling the locker room I was on my way to The Show.

=

I played six glories years in the MLB. Throwing 100+ MPH fastballs, wicked curves and impossible to hit sliders as I channeled my anger precisely and at will. After each time on mound, I'd slip back to my real persona. The polite, humble kid from a small town in Vermont.

We made the post season four times, bowing out two of those in the first and second rounds. I played in two National League Championships, and one incredible week called the World Series. We didn't hoist the trophy in the end. No, that honor went to our opponents. The only good I felt about that was that one of their players had been in the very same hotel ballroom, years ago getting the call that changed our life. He getting the call from the Yankees. Bitter and sweet, that night was, I still texted him my congratulations, sending him a picture of both of us in our old Connecticut League uniforms.

My playing days ended before my seventh professional season, as politics and economics tore the nation apart. While no actual military battles were yet fought, the core concept of what was meant by life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness pitted state against state, alliances against alliances. Battles for the next few years were fought economically. Cascadia was the first to emerge. What had been Alaska, Hawaii, as well as Washington, Oregon and California declaring their own union. Nevada and Arizona quickly joined, and surprisingly, Idaho, Montana, Wyoming, Colorado, Utah and New Mexico requested to join. Cascadia was a fortress with mountains protecting the Eastern and the Pacific on the West. As an economic force, Cascadia sat comfortably as the second largest economy in the world now that the USA no longer was.

The other nations included The Commonwealth of New England (the previous Virginia states and all those North to Maine), The Centra States of America (all what had been the rust belt, and the northern plains), and the instigator of the demise, The Confederate States of America (Yes, they even re-used the name!) along with the Republic of Texas (what had been Texas, Oklahoma and Kansas.

With less than easy travel established between the newly established countries, no national broadcasting, and dwindling viewership, MLB folded the second of January 2060. Guaranteed contracts were paid (including my recently negotiated one, teams disbanded, and thousands of ballplayers, staff and associated team personnel we jobless. There were rumors of a newly forming league, among all but the lower countries, but that was years away, if ever.

Having established my life in California and enjoying what was now my new country, I set about trying to figure out what a "retired" 25-year-old, ballplayer might do for the next 50, 60 or more years.

=

I spent most of that my first year out of ball working with my financial advisors. We built a portfolio that balanced returns with risk. Bought majority stakes (AKA invested in) early-stage companies that I felt had good, HighEQ, leaders, and products or services that made sense. Noting fancy, just good people doing good work in communities that needed them. Our financial models (remember, I like numbers) were pretty accurate, with our conservative estimates being our financial goals. Anything above that was gravy our minds.

I also spent a lot of time talking with family members back home. We discussed the new order of the country, the hardships they were experiencing, and how the various members of the family were doing. Mom and Dad were fine, as I had given them as significant portion of my initial sign-on bonus, with the added promise that they use some of it to pay for David's education; undergrad and onwards if he so chose. David took advantage of this newfound financial freedom and blazed through his BA in just under three years. He then took an early acceptance offer to Law School where he once again attempted to set a record by completing it three semesters early. I didn't know what possessed him do it, as he could have taken the full seven years, enjoyed being a student, and have the college experience I didn't. Instead, he was done at 23, a Lawyer, and upon passing the Bar Exam, a practicing Attorney.

At his law school graduation dinner, he announced among our family and April's family in attendance, that he'd accepted the role with the practice that represented The Community. That earned a more than just polite applause among all the guests. Thinking back, I distinctly remembered April, placing her hand upon my brother's arm. As PDAs were not often seen among The Community, and marriage outside of it verboten, this was certainly a sign I had missed. She always stayed close to him, he as well seemed to be her protector. I didn't know their relationship status, but from what I could see in his eyes. Those same eyes that had scanned the infield, watching runners, or peering into the eyes of opposing pitchers. Once, for just a moment, I thought I caught April's eyes also scanning the room, possibly once stopping on me.

His next couple of years was spent transacting much of The Communities business, while being mentored by their most senior internal counsel. At 25, David was doing well, he was happy, although he did privately let it slip that their clients, The Community across all lands were experiencing difficulties due to their now fractured nature across multiple countries.

=

February 2061 brought far greater stress among the new countries as most were becoming failed states. Power, water, and food had become bargaining chips of war across borders, several different waves of diseases and areas where crops failed entirely causing widespread decreases in some populations. It was also widely believed that a certain unnamed country had deliberately attempted to cause their neighbors to the north widespread infertility. To say the shit was real, would have been an understatement. The final breaking point, the dam breaking literally was a dam. Not a man-made one, rather a massive one built over hundreds of years by generations of beavers. The water they held back was thought to belong or at least be allowed to flow downstream and across a national border.

A stupid kid, barely 16 decided to take things in his own hand and blew up the beavers work with a couple of dozen pounds of explosives. The subsequent flood being blamed on the landowner, while the blowing up of the dam being called an act of war. Hostilities erupted with Texas and the Confederacy joining against the combined forces of the Commonwealth and Central States. All parties involved requested that Cascadia sit things out as they all knew what the result would be should we get involved.

For a year they battled, unleashing a level of savagery not seen for quite some time. Social norms broke down between the countries with civilian capture, conscription to fight, and stories of slavery percolating, here and there.

Cascadia had set up a strong Eastern border and maintained strict control over a buffer zone deep within both Texas and the Central States airspace. We were and knew we were safe to sit this one out. As conditions grew worse, governments increased their rhetoric, blaming non-believers, blaming differences in skin color, in everyone but their own failures. What we were not immune from was the news. Women, both young and old were being taken, while men and boys were rounded up to serve in the war or simply vanished. This happened to some degree on both sides and started an inside of Cascadia movement to become a sanctuary state for any girl or women as well as for males under the age of 14.

It is here where I was drawn into the darker aspects of The Community and where my career in baseball collided.

=

January 3, 2062, I received an email message that I had a secure package at the post office that required my notarized signature. As I lived a number of miles outside of town, and up a less than perfect gravel road, the post office had decided I wasn't on their delivery schedule. Not that it mattered, who the hell got mail delivery these days. As I had a few errands to run, a quick stop into PO the on my way back would be easy to add to the list. There I presented my Id, signed, and got my thumb stamp, all part of picking up the package addressed from my hometown in Vermont.

Returning to what a felt was now "home," the rest of my day was spent taking care of a few fixes to my ranch with the items I had picked up in town, and once done, I set about to make dinner and examine what I had been sent.

The package included an old book, maybe a few inches thick and in great condition I might say. On top of that was an envelope indicating to read its contents first, and a brand-new satellite phone.

The letter was gut-wrenching and written by April. She explained the true conditions in the now war-torn East, how the region had been selected for its abundance of food, and the tall and strong men of The Community. At the bottom of the letter she left a link to a webpage and said this is how you can help.

The sign off was,

"If we are to see each other again, I will be eternally yours, April"

The hairs on the back of my neck, rose, and I had an chill across my entire body. I grabbed my laptop, opened a secure browser session and typed in the address."

The page loaded to a video with David and April in front, besides April were my parents and on David's side where April's. The symbolism of this was not lost on me. They were presenting a true, unified front. This was one family, acting as a whole.

David started

"Hey Josh,

As you can see, we are reaching out to you for a favor. No, rather this is much more than that. This will be the greatest ask that anyone has ever put in front of you. We know what you will say, but we also want to say that you decline, we will completely understand.

Before you is a book. A rule book. The game that is being played is how The Community may or may not continue. Some of the contents may disturb you, I expect that. So, I want you to keep an open mind. be that coachable player I know you are, put your trust in the process, just like you have done so many times on the field."

Next spoke April's father, he looked tired, if not completely broken.

"Josh,

We are Fritz, a common name in these parts. That means we are and will always be family. I could only ask family to take on this task, as I am unable to do so myself. Not that I am unwilling, rather that I am simply too old and feeble. Please read the books, see what good can come from this situation." April's mom simply smiled and nodded. A woman of few words.

My Mother then took her turn.

"I love you Joshua, while this is something I had never thought possible, I beg you to consider this request. I know you are strong enough, and I know you have the cunning to see how you can find an advantage in this game. Please take this on, be the one who can help these girls."

OK, now we are getting somewhere. Thanks mom, you were never blessed with the ability to keep a secret.

Finally, my dad took center stage.

"Josh, the short ask is that you enable as many young women as possible The Community, escape to Cascadia. It isn't as simple as putting them on a train, or plane and getting them to you. No, they are, well lets be frank, they are owned from the day they are born to the day they pass." This got a bit of a gasp from April and her mom quickly looked down to the floor.

Dad went on.

"I know you will feel much of this is disgusting, and to be honest, so do I. Many of the traditions of The Community I find fault with. But I also feel that they are allowed to practice their beliefs regardless of how I feel. I know how you gained strength with your feelings around this. I am asking you to take on this task and use that fire to make things better for as many you can.

Read the book, I don't expect it will take you long, so do it twice. Read it like it is the rules of baseball, understand the rules, know what is and isn't said. Like you have heard before. If you ain't cheating... Well, you know the rest. Once you have a plan, call us. Any time, any day.

We love you Josh, and know you will figure it out"

The video faded out. I tried to replay it, even using a different computer and browser, but the page never loaded.

=

The book had many sections. The first was literally the rules related to how women of The Community could walk among the public, what to wear, how to present themselves, what vocations could serve the community, etc. Basically, how to be a female member of The Community. The details on attire caught my attention. Girls were assigned colors based on their family's place in The Community. When outside of the house, members of each "class" lacking a decent translation in my mind, girls and women wore shades of greens, others wore purples, reds, yellow, etc. Off white was the color to their principal officials, those that ran The Community, while pure white was exclusive worn by a single high princess. This wasn't a ceremonial designation. No, April, my friend was the purest of bloodline of their entire community world-wide. At this point, I could for the life of me, not understand how and why she had her hand on his arm at any time.

The book's next section dealt with the details of how young men and women could court, establish their possible spouses. Much of this was heavily advantaged for men, but not entirely that women could be without some choice for their spouse. There was some wiggle room, but not much. Again, Davids, position - An outsider made absolutely no sense to me.

Where things started to go dark was that the next chapter dealt with actual sexual acts, how a woman would either offer, or through signs indicate that they were willing or unwilling participants to sex with their partners. While they could never actually prevent the acts, they could convey their consensual or non-consensual participation. Most sex was done from behind, with the woman leaning over a table, bench or similar.

A woman could signal wanton participation by putting herself in this position and folding her arms under hear head, as if taking a nap.

If her husband initiated, she would hold her arms above her head, palms up, to show willing participation. If she held her hands palms-down, she was indicating that she was in fact, not a willing participant.

The custom for a couple's first time, the consummation of their joining surprised me. There, among family and friends, no less than two members of her family would be present! There to possibly hold her wrists palms down if needed.

Dad was certainly correct, I felt dirty just reading this and my view of my brother dropped pretty fucking low. Slamming the book closed, I had to take a break at this point. Grabbing two fingers of Canadian whiskey (Cascadia had banned imports from the confederacy), I took a walk to the back porch and sat to contemplate what I had just read, and knew what came next would possibly be worse.

An hour later, I returned, read that part again, and then dove into the final paragraphs.

There in black and white a woman could refuse to offer her vagina, offering her ass instead. She would lay arms spread outwards, not up towards those that accompanied her. Anal was literally on the table. The book stated a woman might offer this due to her time of the month, or if a virgin, signaling that she was not offering her first time to be done in public. Practical, but fucked up none the less. A note along the border, obviously in April's handwriting noted "this can also show willing, complete, surrender".

The remaining parts of this chapter dove deeper into some rather descriptive scripture related to other sex acts that were and were not permitted. The obvious being nothing that crosses species, nothing under than the legal age in the country of which the people were born (a good one - that prevents mail ordering a younger bride), and more. Lots, and lots of specifics, and how they were applied and when.

A later chapter held a bookmark. The bookmark itself was an old school business card of the main bank in town. Hand written was an account number. The chapter it was set to deal with how women and children could be moved (like property that my father spoke of in the video.) There were rules, most rather simple, old rules that in my early assessment had lots of modern interpretations that had not been considered. Children could only be transferred within The Community. Mostly among blood lines, but as I had been, sometimes outside. The Cast Offs.

That final chapter dealt with the transferring of adult women. The chapter heading alone had boiled up some of my deep anger. I was correct in my assumption. In olden times, and apparently still today, transferring which amounted to divorce and remarriage to the next male was done via combat. Supposedly non-lethal, but combat non the less. The rules of combat had notes along the edges, these were written by David, and possibly April. I recognized David's writing, and just presumed the others were April's.

David's notes referenced the other rule book I knew completely - Baseball. He annotated, gave suggestions and offered places where the rulebook had gaps. Gaps that I might want to use to gain an edge. To cheat, to win.

April's notes dealt with the ceremonies after combat, how the woman would act, how they would be expected to behave and her notes included subtle ideas on how one, I? could best make the process easier. I caught myself on occasion, wondering why I had already assumed that I would be fighting under these rules, could I? would I? Who would I be fighting for, and what happens after. Is this a one time, or am I expected to amass an entire community of women seeking a better life in Cascadia.

By Dawn, I had read the book five times; adding my notes and ideas in it's borders, another legal pad a third filled with notes and questions. But who do I ask?

At 7:00 AM I received an alert from my bank. Confirming a wire transfer with an mid seven-digit number. A second alert let me know that a $50 wire fee had been charged to my account. Having played ball and earned a couple of hundred million in contracts and endorsements, six million dollars popping up unexpectedly got my attention quickly. A text followed with "Sat Phone" as the only message from number I did not recognize.

Of course, I walked to the counter, turned it on and waited for it to synch with the network. I had just enough time to get a pod into the coffee maker, pour some cream and have the last two drops hit before the phone went off.

On the other side was David. My anger rose fast and my first words, biting into the air were "Have you ever hurt her?

"Absolutely not Josh, I swear to you, to our family, to the god I don't even believe in! Believe me, listen and believe what you hear from April. I will see you again, soon. Maybe in a few months or so. But I promise you will believe me when that day comes."

"OK, David - I'll hold my judgement. What is going on, and what is my place in all of this?"

The line was silent for a moment, and then April's voice filled my ear. "Hello, Josh?"

"Hello high princess, how may I be of service to you?" I responded. Her laugh was like wind chimes in spring. Light, musical, perfect.

"Oh, you read that, didn't you?" Her voice still light

"You, unlike many of my sisters in The Community have choice, whereas we don't. I ask you as a friend, knowing that you are a cast out of this very group, Josh, you were cast from away from me. Will you help? Will you help my me, your family and all the girls we can send to you? Can you possibly take them under your care?" At this point, her voice was much heavier, there was dread, fear in that voice. She was a hairs breath from breaking.

"Yes, April - of course I will do all that I can for all of you." At that moment I sealed my fate. The beast within, the closer mentality that had served me well came back to the surface. Baseball was a kind of war, a combat sport. I could and would do this.

Taking a woman, sexually that is. In broad daylight, among what might be crowd was something that I had no idea about. But it was part of the ritual, being the closer. That WAS something I was quite familiar with.

I spent the next week assembling my "uniform" and creating my tools of combat. I was exceedingly careful to work within the confines of the book, while also being as creative as possible where the book had overlooked, or simply lacked the depth of my imagination. My new look included growing out my beard as I had read one time that Roman soldiers had beards as a cushion against fits and objects. Further research, scientific studies had proven this theory with anywhere between 12 and 18% less force being transferred to the skull. An advantage not in the rules.

A week later, I waited in the sky lounge at O'Hare International. Apparently, transfers were becoming popular, as members of The Community were well known to be pure, to be able to have and raise children (mostly girls), and their submissive nature was prized by the leaches of what was left outside of Cascadia. There seemed to be a network of spies, looking for opportunities to interject in planned transfers. As such, since the possibility of violence was getting higher, transfers were all to be in public, so that there would not be any question to what started the melee and who "won."

The logic of the equal bounty being sent to me was subtle. I was being compensated for the risk I was being asked to take. The bounty, from the other side, was for engaging in the battle.

I had boiled down the rules in my head.

1. If approached, state the bounty the foe had to pay. (Hence that $6 million) and get that money deposited electronically before step two

2. Show the opponent the two weapon choices I had for them

3. Allow them to choose their weapon or back out, bounty not refundable

4. Confirm that all blows were to be above the knees and below the neck

5. Unleash fury

My own mental checklist included that I didn't actually kill anyone.

That first transfer happened without combat. A fairly good-looking woman, maybe in her early twenties accompanied a man. She walking on his left side, holding his left arm.

She was wearing blue, the symbol of The Communities "water". She was of the Engineering group, keeping the water, electricity's and all things infrastructure, humming along. Her husband, or maybe her brother looked a bit worn, obviously he was a laborer, befitting of their class. It took me a moment to understand how a lower to mid-level class might warrant this bounty. Hell, five mill is still a lot of money. Once could do well for a while.

My thoughts were interrupted as both the couple and another man approached my table at the same time. This man looked a lot more sinister, trying to project strength.

I indicated that the woman should approach me, go to my right side and wait, kneeling on the cushion I had moved from a nearby couch to the floor by my seat. I pointed to the seat, indicating that her travel companion best sit at the table and wait until we completed our transaction. He sat quickly, looking pretty nervous.

Directly my attention to our unwanted visitor, I gave him a secure card and instructed him to transfer the $6M so that we could then "get down to business" said with a wide smile on my face, not reaching my eyes - far more sinister than what he tried to project earlier.

As we waited for the money transfer to complete, I offered my potential foe a drink, to "calm his nerves a bit" to which he gladly accepted. Nodding to the bartender, I indicated two drinks which appeared quickly.

"To Baseball" I toasted, getting a questioning look from my foe before we both tipped out drinks and slamming them on the table. A few moments later with the money confirmed, I reached to my case where I pulled out two baseball bats and six balls. The two bats were not equal, one being quite a bit longer than the other. While all baseballs, three were clean, nearly new. The others looked bit rough, with what appeared to be blood on two of them.

I then stood up, allowing my foe to get a better grasp of my 6-6 frame. Him now understanding that should he decide to go through with this, that he'd most definitely get injured, possibly permanently.

We didn't get to the no head shot rule. The man saw his fate, a bad one at best, even if he miraculously won. His bluff called, he turned and walked away.

After he left, I sat back down, and took a deep, cleansing breath. I then turned my attention to the young woman who had already placed her head upon my thigh, a sign of submission.

"Tell me your story, this is just you and I in this moment" I asked. I also placed my hand gently on her head, stroking her hair.

"The Community is failing from the crush of war. I am the first of dozens, no hundreds of women who have been selected to seek asylum in Cascadia. I am your test as I volunteered, knowing that I could end up in far worse." She started to sob, mostly from relief, knowing her destination would be safety.

Looking to the man, I asked "Tell me what you can"

He looked terrified, as if I would turn my rage on him.

"I'm, I'm..." he stuttered before getting his voice. "I'm her second cousin. All of her family are lost due to the war. They were ambushed while outside of the perimeter. She needs a safe place as there isn't any that can be provided." He looked ashamed of that admission, as The Community had always been more than self-sufficient.

I looked at him, then to her and asked "What is your name, and do you plan on giving yourself freely. Or do you need him to hold you?" I dreaded the potential answers.

She looked deep into my eyes wile slowly stroking the inside of my leg getting the blood to quickly fill my cock. "I am Hope. I will give myself freely. I shall gladly tuck my hands under my head. I wish for you to claim me as yours."

And I did. There in the middle of day, the middle of a busy airport, Hope rose to her feet, lifting her dress and presenting to the world that she had not been wearing panties. As she had said, she crossed her arms, gently laid her head to the side, smiled, and waited for me.

There, under the eyes of everyone we fucked. The pent-up adrenaline, caused me to grip her small waste and pound her mercilessly for minutes on end. I roared on my release, holding her tight, me breathing into her ear as I collapsed on her back.

I heard "thank you, thank you, thank you" both happy, sad, and wishful at the same time from below me.

Our trip back to Cascadia involved customs, where she presented her documents, with freshly signed travel papers with my name on them. The entire trip, two planes, and my truck, Hope never left my side for more than a few seconds.

=

The next morning my phone buzzed again, confirming what I thought was going to be another bank deposit, with a similar amount and again the annoying, but funny wire transfer fee. Instead, my band stated that two deposits had been made 6 and 10 million this time. The Sat Phone was silent, but a ding indicated that I had an email.

=

My itinerary was set for a red eye to Philadelphia landing in a regional vs the international airport, a stop in Minneapolis, and then a last flight back home. All this via what I was to learn was a private jet, secured purely for my closing duties. Players had their walk-up songs, mine was the roar of a jet.

The Philly stop had me staring into the eyes of a girl, now a woman who I knew. She and I had gone to high school together. I didn't know if she recognized me, but I knew who she was immediately. Her companion was obviously her father? Maybe an uncle as he was significantly older then her, but shared some similarities. He sat across from me, and as before, while Cathleen quickly found her spot on the floor next to me. I introduced myself to the gentleman, he in turn said that he was indeed her father. He also said that he recognized my face somehow. That caused a slight giggle from Cathleen from below.

"Daddy, this is Josh Fritz. THE Josh Fritz" You watched him pitch in high school and followed him while he played in San Francisco. His brother is David. April's David.

The older man relaxed and smiled; a smile genuine in realizing his baby was going to be in good hands.

Cathleen's father was getting ready to sign-over his daughter when a man stepped to the table and asked what was the bounty. Cathleen tightened up in fear, me taking a few seconds to caress her head, assuring her that it would be OK.

"$20 million. A number befitting her stature as a healer." I stated. "Do you wish to pay the bounty and decide to battle?"

He seemed pretty sure of himself, well anyone brave enough to play this game HAD to be pretty confident and nodded his acceptance of step one. I handed him my card and signaled to the bartender who then brought forth our drinks. I suggested that she keep a tab open.

I again toasted to baseball, and my foe hit his drink fast. I too tossed mine back and smiled at its sweet taste. I drank apple juice, his being half a rather nasty tasting whiskey and the other half 151. As we sat waiting for the confirmation, I saw his eyes, start to dance, clearly showing the effects of the equivalent of four shots at once.

Upon the bing of the confirmation, I presented the weapons for the day - that being the bats and balls. His choice. He selected the former and specifically taking the longer of the two instruments. We chose an open area of the bar and for a few seconds I watched as he thought about how and where to strike. His decision made, he took a wild swing barely clipping my right arm, sending him tumbling a bit with the effects of the alcohol. Turning around he was met with my single swing to his ribs. A crushing noise rattled the onlookers as he dropped the bat, let out a grunt and fell to the floor. From his mouth came bubbling blood, a clear sign of a collapsed lung. Yes, a bit closer to life-threatening than I had planned, but hell, he chose his lot.

We completed the transfer, Cathleen nearly bouncing with excitement at the spectacle she had just been the focus of. Her father, gave her, and surprisingly, me a big hug, and stepped away from the table, walked to the bar where a drink was waiting, courtesy of the barkeep.

I again closed under the eyes of everyone in the bar save her father. He chose to look away, his back to us, and not leaving until Cathleen had uncrossed her arms from under her head, pulling down her dress, and she giving him a last hug and a kiss on his cheek. I'll admit as much as I tried, adrenaline was flowing through my veins when I took her, and I voiced, rather loudly my orgasm. Unknown to me, Cathleen had also shared to the world her experience under my pounding. We stayed for a light meal, her sitting, once again at my feet while taking the bites I gave her. Cathleen giggled when explaining that I might have to leave a larger tip because this cushion was a mess. She was safe and her eyes showed it.

=

The stop in Minneapolis was uneventful. Trudy was accompanied by both of her parents, something that I had not thought of. She wore the color of an educator. A teacher, probably elementary, or possibly pre-school. While she had a delightfully pleasant personality, she was not blessed with the beautify usually associated with The Community nor a fit or even tall stature. No one appeared, no one to potentially fight. This also meant no added bounty, which somehow got me to feel that Trudy might feel unwanted, unloved. So there while her mother held her hands, palms up, and her father away, "to go find a magazine" I took her gently, giving her love and assurance of a better life.

As the plane leveled off for our trip home, Cathleen held Trudy while they slept on the plane's sofa. Prior to arrival, much closer to home due to flying private, my phone buzzed with the simple message "Thank you. You will be rewarded in your future".

This had me wondering, what the fuck could possibly be a better reward. My closing role had me beating the crap out of people who I'd be happy to do so for free, and getting the girl, make that GIRLS in the end. Oh, and not to mention, the money was pretty crazy, even for an ex ball player like myself.

=

For the next months, every week was taken upon with three or sometimes four trips. Most were now linked, with two, and sometimes even three stops per day. Those were kind of interesting, and I had taken to certain supplements, to always be at the ready. Ten girls a week, I hoped we were making a difference. I had also spent this time with intense physical training. Going to a full 260 pounds of pure muscle. Yes, my fastball suffered but was still in the mid 90s. What I had gained was the ability to absorb punishment and still be strong.

I had one day that went sideways, nearly blowing the save record. My opponent got in a clean swing which I blocked with my left shoulder. That hurt like a bitch, so I unleashed hell in response, and an ambulance was needed. In a bit of a rage, I also subsequently took it out on the poor girl I was there to save. Not my best moment, I will admit. It took a number of days for her to feel comfortable in my presence again. The process was aided by the girls on the ranch as well as my explaining what I had experienced, my anger at myself for allowing my opponent the chance to possibly win her. Debrah's bounty had been set at an astronomical $100 million as she wore a deep purple - the sign of wealth among The Community.

I later learned that Debrah's family had owned all of the land on which they and several other Communities occupied. Her value was beyond my imagination, and the fact that she was beautiful made her nearly priceless. We came to an initial truce, and only later to become friends. She also let me know that I hand unlocked her sexual appetite, and that if I was willing, that she would submit to me any time I wished.

=

My experience with closing Debra brought certain changes to my uniform. I fabricated a sling for my right arm, made from two layers of padding sandwiching an inner layer of Kevlar. I'd be able to swing with ease and use the sling as my equivalent to a mediaeval shield.

I also modified the design of the longer of the two bats. I crafted what was essentially a half to maybe two-thirds as damaging instrument. The rules stated, "instruments in appearance, not that they had to be exactly the same." No one had dared to equip themselves with the shorter bat. No, only a moron would say "yup, I'll give this beast of a man the added advantage of a longer bat." Similarly, the balls had also gone through a bit of modification. Without fail foes would pick the cleaner, the newer looking balls. So, they got what amounted to be Little League balls. Those ones that are a bit squishier, designed to reduce injuries for the five- to seven-year-olds. I on the other hand had real MLB balls. We called them "the rock." Dirtied up, with a few drops of my own blood to get them thinking that they were soiled, maybe even a way for them to pick up some nasty disease. Again, a cheat, but not truly breaking any rules.

My trick with the bartenders, my apple juice to their triple our quad shot also continued. I had studied the rules, and as best I could determine I had not come close to breaking any. Did I set myself up with advantages, hell yes.

I learned the patterns of who were and were not high-value targets with the bounty being the most obvious indicator. High value rescues also resulted in smaller locations, whereas lower cost and lower risk flights were easily accomplished in regular airports. The game was offense and defense, pitchers and batters. Offense was who I called the hunters, those that wanted to take the women and make them their own. I was, as on the ballfields, always on defense. Occasionally a bounty didn't match the class, but those were not common. My thinking was that these were decoys, somehow designed to attract or deflect interest so that maybe another woman, somewhere literally was able to fly under the radar.

Good pitching and defense beats good batting - the pitcher has the advantage of knowing what they will be throwing, and in my case had made my career doing the math, knowing the stats. In baseball if a batter was successful three out of ten times at bat, they make the Hall of Fame. In this game, I made sure they struck out against me.

Battles were more common than not. With each, my anger, the well that I extracted my fury was filled. Each combatant who chose that route, received my anger. I have to imagine that word had to be out. Don't fuck with me, you will lose, you will get hurt, possibly be permanently injured. Yet, they still challenged me. The bounties went up as the war went on. Widespread losses meant that women, fertile women were valuable.

Over time, I also learned the patterns, the tendencies of the women. Very few placed their palms down, the sign of the con-consensual agreement. Those that did, quickly found other accommodations away from my ranch. Once in Cascadia, they were free, away from the rules of The Community. I would wish them well and provide the funding they needed to start fresh. Without fail, a card, a letter or call came weeks later, thanking me for the save. It was also not unusual to hear their story of prior trauma while part of The Community. I knew the women had built a support network for their sisters in misery, and I was fine, no, I was happy that they did this.

Surprisingly, far more offered their backdoors than I had ever thought would be the norm. Some were obviously saving themselves for future spouses, others did so to spite the very person who accompanied them on the trip. Others, well they wanted me in their ass on their own free accord, gladly, as they had experience or a love for anal. Still others may have done so as a way to symbolically rid themselves from The Community with a final act. Knowing this was always a possibility, my routine now included either ordering bread and butter, or some kind of Mediterranean appetizer, always with olive oil for dipping to be on the table. One very bad experience with an unprepared backside put that in place. The women also had somehow heard of this event. Thus, all future encounters with women's backsides were met with fully prepared bottoms. Clean and pre-lubricated, even if they had never taken a man's cock there prior. Anal was mostly an act of rebellion against The Community, or intended for their pleasure (or maybe this was a reward for me?)

=

I was nearing my 300th rescue when my phone buzzed with the rare Sat Phone message. I replied give me 5 min, and now with a lot of prying eyes and ears around, I took the phone out to the backyard and awaited the call while gazing at the stars above.

The voice on the other line was David this time.

"Hey bro, how are you doing?" A tone that was cautious. A tone that said something big was up, and that I had not yet fully forgiven him for his role in The Community, whatever that may be.

"I'm still standing. What do I owe to this call?

"The Community is disbanding" was his response "Tomorrow, your 300 rescue ends this madness." He paused. "David, this one is personal. This is the last out of your perfect game. The last out of game seven, the world series." Another pause to let that sink in. "I've got to run, you will get the itinerary in a few minutes. Your wheels will be up in an hour. Sleep on flight, I'll see you in the morning."

I drifted off to sleep with the words "I'll see you in the morning" repeating in my head.

=

The past months, was it six, seven? I had lost track, had conditioned me to sleep on my jet. The back had a more than accommodating bed for my size, and pilots were so skilled as to almost never need to disturb me unless there was the chance of a less than butter landing.

Our flight put us into Boston, a common airport for many of the lower to mid-sized bounty.

Oh, crap, I forgot to check that last night in my haste to get going. Flipping to my banking app, a message indicated that I needed to contact customer support regarding my account and that I was to call the number listed. As we taxied to our spot on the private aviation side of the airport, I noticed three larger, commercial sized aircraft among the smaller jets like I was flying.

Tapping my phone I called, looking for any markings on those airplanes. Who the hell owns more than one private, intercontinental jet?

The line was answered and my identity confirmed via voice ID and the old school process of answering my security questions. Quaint, but still effective.

"Mr. Fritz thank you for your call. This call is being recorded. We've identified pending deposits to your account that we need to verify." The agent stated. "Will that be OK with you?"

"Yes, go ahead" I responded.

"Please approve the following deposits"

The agent started. He ran off a dozen or so, then paused. "Um, Mr. Fritz, there are almost twenty more pages on this list. Would you mind if you simply state that you approve all, as a group? Otherwise this might take us a very long time and I believe you may have more important things on your agenda today."

The numbers had me shocked, both in the sheer number of them, but also the count sizes. They started in mid hundreds of millions each. Nearly a thousand of them? No, well over a thousand of them. This WAS insanity. My conversation with David coming back to me. The end. Was this all of them?

"Yeah, go ahead. I approve them all. Anything else?" I asked.

"No sir. Thank you for your time and we greatly appreciate you trusting us as your banking partner."

The line went silent, and I sat back thinking. How the hell could I defend, much less claim that many women. What the absolute fuck was going on?

I closed my eyes, taking practiced breathes, re-centering myself for whatever came next.

=

I put on my uniform, my disguise - feigning an injured arm, and my recently added Kevlar baseball cap. On my walk to the lounge, I always passed a couple of hangers where dozens of vintage aircraft were available to view. Kind of a mini museum for those that appreciated antique planes. Today, sitting all about them where bare floor usually allowed freedom to mill about them sat young women. Thousands of them, all kneeling and silent as I approached. All along the walls stood their chaperones. Yes, this was the end, and somehow, I had the closer role in a game that I was unsure of the score.

This time the lounge was mostly empty. Sitting at the table was none other than David. To his side was a face that I had not seen in some ten years, Carlos. The scrappiest catcher on our JV team. A great ballplayer and all-around good guy. Both of them wore similar looks on their faces with my now imposing size and full beard. I was the guy who you would fear in any bar fight. They barely recognized my looks and certainly didn't recognize the look in my eyes.

Sitting on the floor, awaiting me knelt April. Wearing the white befitting her bloodline. She, seemingly sat far more at ease in her position than I was at the moment.

I was ready to explode, but April looked at me, her eyes pleading. She raised her finger to her lips, giving the sign to be quiet, and then pointed to the chair.

"Josh" David reached out to shake my hand. As did Carlos. We sat.

Thus started the ritual. David pulled out the transfer forms, and as I had expected someone stepped forward and attempted to intervene. He was a big fella, a few inches less than me, and fit. Not elite athlete level but fit none the less. I had 15, maybe 20 years of youth compared to him. While not an easy close, my brain screamed that I would close this one. He was the epitome of a rich bastard, an ass-hole. He probably enriched himself as the war went on. He was the true enemy.

So, we danced.

The bounty was presented. April's worth was none other than 100 billion dollars. A number which he looked at twice. I saw him doing the mental gymnastics. He was thinking, calculating. Doing the numbers: "what percentage of my wealth am I willing to pay for this woman?"

I looked at him in the eyes and calmly stated "She is the High Princess, that number is an insult to her position."

The man nodded in agreement, yet still held his hand out for my card. Batter up.

I smiled the same smile to the bartender, she having seen me dozens of times had already poured our drinks.

We raised our shot glasses, toasted to baseball, and like so many times before waited for the approval. The sum, largest of all, took long enough to warrant another round. The arrogant asshole was two strikes down and had not yet even stepped into the batter's box. Like so many times before, he chose the longer bat. His thinking already clouded due to the drinks.

Our combat lasted less than a minute. He connected with my sling, causing me to smile. The smile of a closer, knowing that the batter didn't have a chance against me. I pummeled him. Blow after blow to his ribs, his back, his legs. Every word I read about The Community poured out of me in my blows. Every conversation in school exploded in endless swings on this pathetic human. My hatred, my disgust rained on this idiot. He who tried to claim April. MY APRIL. In the end, it took David and Carlos to drag me off his limp body as I held back nothing.

The scene in this little section of a much larger airport had been streamed. It was seen in the hanger, in the larger airport, across the no longer United States. It was over. There were to be no more transfers, no more Community. I had won their freedom.

With my final blows, dozens and dozens of planes filled with more young women were given the OK to depart on their way to freedom in Cascadia.

=

My breath returned to normal as my fury subsided. I was back in my chair, April's head on my thigh, she holding my hand against her lips. Serene. That is the only way I could describe her at that moment.

Before me sat David and Carlos again. The transfer papers, a small pile of ash in the middle of the table. Instead lay a marriage certificate, signed as witnesses by David and Carlos. Two bands, simple, shiny sat upon the papers. Also on the table was their hands. Intertwined, the sign of life partners.

My head scanned from their hands to their smiling faces, to April's eyes. It now made sense! They had never been a couple. April had always been the diversion; she was the trick play for David and Carlos. Their recent announcement to the families being received with resounding "about time!" Exactly not what they had braced for.

They were on their way to overseas, Carlos's heritage gave them citizenship in Portugal, and the ability to move and work in much of the EU. A new life away from here, never to return to this side of the Atlantic.

Gathering up my no longer needed Closing tools, our wedding papers and rings, we turned to the glass doors and the walk across down the tarmac to the waiting jet. The doors slid open to the cheers of all the women who had been kneeling in the hanger next door. They formed a path for us, to our waiting plane. Their next step being to board the large airplanes and follow us to Cascadia and their newly gained freedom.

=

April and I consummated our vows seven miles up in the blue sky. She gave herself freely, and I in turned made sure to please every inch of her body. April's hand-written note about complete surrender also confirmed on this flight. Her cries undoubtedly heard in the cockpit by our two female pilots. I had my April, my princess, my sister.

The transfers had been a success. I was responsible for thousands of women gaining their freedom. Other Closers with different methods, rules and people they helped, had secured the freedom for the married women along with their young children.

The program had also depleted The Community. There was no money left, nothing for the starving nations to steal and direct to the war efforts. No, a vast portion of that sat in the accounts of others like me. The Community, as an entity ceased to exist. It had laid its bat upon its shoulder and allowed me to thrown strike three.

Game Over - My final save as a the Closer.