Those Whole-Life Policy Blues

Tank Loader propped his enormous boots up on his desk, idly scratching his barrel-thick gut as he indulged in a rare moment of introspection. Exile, as it turned out, wasn't so bad after all. So he didn't get to squat in the desert with a bunch of rodent-eared assholes, how sad. So he was shamed in the eyes of his ancestors, boo-fuckin'-hoo. Sure, he'd been a bit concerned that living the outcast life in one of the Megacities was gonna be all uptight and boring and shit, and that he'd have to start wearing a tie and calling people 'Sir' or whatever. But Megacity Montalban turned those fears on their ear. He'd been thrilled to discover that the Lower Ninety-Nine were almost exactly like the desert, only with air conditioning and even fewer rules. All in all, Exile life was pretty fuckin' hot.

Take this club, for example. Any worries Tank had about a future of filled with name tags and mop buckets evaporated the moment the hulking Jerboan stepped foot into the Hoi Polloi and laid eyes on the pencil-neck dork who'd owned the place. He couldn't resist grinning in satisfaction at the thought, his long tufted tail thrashing as he remembered the look on that geek's face when he took his trip down the trash compactor. Fuck, what was it Tank yelled when he stuffed that chump in and pulled the level? Ugh shit it was so fuckin' great, what was--

He shot upright as his tiny brain flared in recollection. "You just got TRASHED!" The bruiser roared in hoarse laughter, slapping his hands on his hard light desk as he reveled in his own comedic genius. He was so amazing; he needed to find an excuse to shove someone else into that trash compactor so he could us that one again.

A quiet knock on the door reminded Tank that there were other perks to his exile besides opportunities to smoosh nerds. Jerboan pussy was fine, but it couldn't hold a candle to the buffet of strange the Hoi Polloi afforded him. And that smokin' hot piece of nayaling ass Whatevercup was Exhibit Fuckin' A. Tank was already starting to chub up as his limited imagination indulged in visions of jiggling pink tits, drool slobbering into his coarse beard. Today was the fuckin' day. He was gonna grab those horns like handlebars, and he was gonna smash that demon puss even harder than that trash compactor could manage.

Still. The dumb bint had already made him wait longer than he'd like. Best let her sweat it out. The Jerboan took a moment to swivel around in his chair, his thick fingers rubbing the full-on erection stuffed down the leg of his leather pants as he haltingly counted down from twenty. Then, having only missed two numbers on his descent, he cleared his throat. "Yeah yeah, it's open." He unzipped his pants as the door creaked open, trying to mask his eagerness as Bittercup poked her head in. "Bitch, what took so..."

He trailed off as the strangely nervous looking stripper stepped aside, making way for some whole other piece of strange. Tank furrowed his brow in confusion, rising from his desk to sized up this new woman as she glanced appreciatively around the office. "Nice," she offered before pausing to blow a green bubble, "All hard light and concrete. That's smart. What's your power bill like?"

"Uh..." Tank squinted in confusion, his little fist of a brain doing its best to catch up, "Dunno? I don't handle that shit."

"Ah." She popped another bubble, then dropped down into the office's guest chair. "Please," she elegantly draped one leg over the other, "Take your seat."

Tank had plopped down onto his chair before he knew what he was doing, an ember of irritation beginning to boil in his gut. What the fuck was going on? "Don't tell me to sit."

The woman popped another bubble. "Why did you sit, then?"

The ember was a full flame, now. "I tell you to sit."

Pop. "I'm already sitting."

Tank growled, slamming his ham-sized fist onto the desk. "You don't sit until I tell you to sit!"

The woman continued chewing her gum, a dark eyebrow arching over her sunglasses. "Then turn my chair off. It's all hard light, right?"

Uh, fuck. Tank didn't know how to work any of this nerd shit. Gotta turn this around somehow, quick. He shot his eyes towards Bittercup, annoyed to find the dancer doing her best to vanish into the corner of the room. That'll do. "Hey, you." He snapped his sausage-like fingers, then pointed to his lap. "Take a seat."

Bittercup hesitated for a brief moment, then snapped into performance mode. She sashayed across the room, tail lashing and hips swaying, putting just that extra little bit of bounce in her step to keep her plump breasts in an enticing wobble. She flounced down into Tank's lap, draping her arms around his thick neck as her clever tail wound itself around one of the bruiser's legs. The Jerboan smiled nastily at his presumptuous guest, finally feeling back to his rightful position of power. "See? That's how you're s'posed to do."

"Ah. Live and learn."

"Long as you know." Tank eyed his guest a bit more closely, trying to decide if he liked what he saw. Great pins, no question. Body's probably tight under that dumb suit, too. Face's good but way too hoighty-toighty; it'd definitely look better with those lips wrapped around some dick. All that was moot, though; the chick had two obvious deal breakers that were impossible to miss. "Look here, babe. You wanna work here? First we gotta fix that bitch attitude of yours. But then you gotta do something about those titties. You're what," the jerboan leered at the woman's chest, "Like, a C-Cup or something? That's basic. You've got basic tits."

The woman raised her eyebrows. "Oh dear. I do?"

"Uh-huh, real basic." He roughly hefted Bittercup's rounded boobs in his calloused hands, jiggling them around for his guest's benefit. "These are the minimum size allowed at my joint. An' she got grandfathered in. You wanna work at the Ho-eye Palowe-eye?" Tank's mouth mangled its way through the name of his own club, "Come back when you got a rack as big as that smart head of yours. 'Til then, I got no room for flatties."

"Well darn. Luckily, I have other business at the Hoy Paloy." Tank narrowed his eyes, certain there was something mocking in the very pointed way the woman had pronounced the name of his joint. But then she began to slip out of her suit jacket, and the Jerboan was taken aback at the sudden flash of colors revealed by her sleeveless dress shirt.

Tank felt himself wobbling off his seat of power again, squinting at the woman as she pulled a stack of papers from her briefcase. He already knew something was weird about her, but the reveal of twin arm sleeves of green and gold tattoos blooming with blood red flowers threw him for a loop. Who the fuck was this chick? Actually wait, he was a genius; he knew exactly how to find out. "Who the fuck are you?"

The woman sharply rapped her papers onto the desk, squaring them up before neatly arranging them on the desk. "My name is Tora, and I'm your insurance agent."

Tank could only stare at Tora for a moment. "My...what?"

"Your insurance agent." She snapped a crisp white card from her breast pocket, casually extending it towards the low-rent thug. "My card."

The meat head snatched it up, partially crinkling the thick cardstock with his clumsy fingers as he squinted down at it. "...I don't know what this shit says."

Bittercup craned her head around, her curiosity getting the better of her as she quickly scanned the card for Tank's benefit. "The...'Hoken Dantai' Group?"

Tora shrugged amiably. "Close enough." She helped herself to another stick of gum before continuing on. "Our main branch is in Nazzdack, of course, but we maintain several offices in the Cardinal Holdings. The Hoi Polloi has been under policy for three years now."

"I've only had this place for one year." Tank spat on the floor. "So what's it to me?"

"We provide an important service." Tora slipped off her glasses, affixing Tank with her dark blue eyes, "Megacity Montalban is a dangerous place. Losses of health or property can be devastating. Our organization provides the safety net necessary to live a relatively care-free life in such a city"

Tank snorted. "Didn't do much for the guy who bought your damn policy, did it?. Didn't keep him out of the trash compactor."

"On the contrary." Tora leaned back, crossing her legs again as she ran a hand over her buzzed head. "Mr Skeever's life insurance policy paid out quite handsomely to his next of kin. We'd considered that they might have hired you to that exact effect, but rest assured that our investigations conclusively decided the issue in the negative."

Tank's annoyance was really starting to get out of hand; this bitch used way too many tough words. "So what, I kill the dude and you don't care?"

"Well." A slight smile played at the corner of Tora's lips. "If Mr Skeever had purchased a **** Insurance policy as well, we'd be having a very different conversation right now. He didn't, however. Against the recommendation of my predecessor, I might add."

"Whatever." Tank crumbled up the card and tossed it at Tora, his annoyance only growing as it bounced off of her forehead without so much as a flinch. "Who cares what policy that guy had; he's a meat cube now."

"You clearly don't understand." Tora leaned forward, tapping a finger against a line on her stack of papers. "The club is under policy. The club is now owned by you. Ergo, you are now under policy."

Tank spat again. "Bullshit."

"It's all spelled out very clearly." The woman flipped over a sheet, reading a passage aloud. "'The Hoi Polloi, Owner: Mister Tank Loader, Deedless'. That's you, correct?"

Bittercup tensed in panic as Tank's dense muscles began to strain, his teeth clenched within his wild beard. "What did you call me?"

Tora raised an eyebrow at Tank, then glanced back down at the paper again. "'Mister Tank Loader, Deedless'."

Tank shot up from his seat, Bittercup tumbling from his lap. "My name is Tank Loader, Foesmasher, Bikehog, Chainwrapper--" His voice rose to a fever pitch as he retrieved a massive axe from under his desk, slamming it down onto the hard light counter as he reached a full roar. "--BANKbreaker, SLUTMASTER, NERDBANE!!"

"Hm." Tora lifted the paper with a flick of her wrist, unphased by the display of rage as she thoughtfully rubbed her chin and gave it another once over. "No, no; it definitely says 'Tank Loader, Deedless' here."

His anvil-like chest heaving with outrage, Tank raised one shaky hand to point to the door as the other squeezed the handle of his axe. "Cancel the fuckin' thing. Get out."

Tora allowed herself a humorless chuckle. "We can talk about cancelling your policy, sure. Right after we settle your account's balance."

"What?"

"You've been the sole holder of this policy for a full year, Mr Loader. You owe us a full year's worth of premiums. Plus a significant penalty for non-payment." Tora sighed, chomping regretfully on her gum. "I'm afraid your rates are going to skyrocket; there's just no avoiding it."

"I'm not paying."

Tora cocked an eyebrow. "If you'll read your contract, sir, you'll find that isn't one of your options."

"Fuck the contract!" The jerboan smashed his axe down into the stack of papers, sending the bisected sheets scattering into Tora's nonplussed face. "This is your last fuckin' chance, bitch. Leave right now, or you can join your precious policy holder in the fuckin' trash compactor." Tank raised his voice, calling out to the corner that Bittercup had taken refuge in. "Show this nasty cunt out. This is a classy joint."

Tora stared at Tank for a moment longer as Bittercup hurried to the door, throwing it open and darting outside. Then, she rose from her seat, casually draping her jacket over a shoulder as she took another glance around the office. "Hard light and concrete. Like I said: smart. And do you know the best part?"

Before Tank could decide if he was going to respond or just swing for the fences, he found himself staring at an empty chair as Tora's body digitized in a cloud of pixels and vanished. "Wha?!"

His eyes shot up at a whistle from the doorway, finding Tora standing there with one arm outstretched. "It's all non-flammable."

The Jerboan squinted confusedly at the ball of energy glowing at Tora's fingertip, but by the time he'd realized that maybe things weren't going so well that energy had already flashed from the woman's finger in a bright streak, striking the wall behind him before blossoming into a calamity of flame and heat.

Fuck. Maybe Exile life was a little too hot.