The big snatch, p.1
The Big Snatch, page 1
part #10 of Lady From L.U.S.T. Series
Lady from L.U.S.T.
For Eve Drum L.U.S.T. Agent Double Oh Sex, it's one climax after another...
The BIG SNATCH
by Gardner Francis Fox
Written as Rod Gray
Originally printed in 1970
Digitally transcribed by Kurt Brugel
2021 for the Gardner Francis Fox Library LLC
Cover Illustration by Kurt Brugel 2021
Copyright © 2021 by The Gardner Francis Fox Library LLC.
All inquires please contact gardnerffox@gmail.com
Gardner Francis Fox (1911 to 1986) was a wordsmith. He originally was schooled as a lawyer. Rerouted by the depression, he joined the comic book industry in 1937. Writing and creating for the soon to be DC comics. Mr. Fox set out to create such iconic characters as the Flash and Hawkman. He is also known for inventing Batman‘s utility belt and the multi-verse concept.
At the same time, he was writing for comic books, he also contributed heavily to the paperback novel industry. Writing in all of the genres; westerns, historical romance, sword and sorcery, intergalactic adventures, even vintage sleaze.
The Gardner Francis Fox library is proud to be digitally transferring over 150 of Mr. Fox’s paperback novels back into print.
7.5x7.5 softcover paperback book with 165 black & white pages.
This is the book that collects Kurt Brugel's first half of the scratchboard book cover illustrations he created for the new editions of Mr. Fox's stories.
I chose scratchboard as my medium for its graphic punch. The book cover is responsible for giving the reader an initial lead-in for what the story is about. Having all of the book covers based on the same motif will also unify the library as a whole. There is enough of a challenge with doing 156 of anything in art, but to have to illustrate the contents of the book using a “pretty face”, well then we have something special in-store. Purchase from- - -
www.gardnerfrancisfoxlibrary.com/art
Table of Contents:
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
PROLOGUE
The Laotian jungle was still, breathless in the humid night over which a pallid moon hung, speckled with the topmost, feathery branches of the tapang trees. Then a bush chat cawed somewhere in the blackness, and a leopard screamed with hunger in its throat.
In a little thatch hut, a girl moaned softly.
A man was bent above her full, smooth breasts, gently laving their sleek surfaces with his tongue. Her heavy young breasts trembled to the caress, she squirmed and moaned again, her hands fluttering about his cheeks, running tenderly through his long-uncut brown hair.
He whispered against her swollen nipple, “They will be here by dawn, the Pathet Lao. They are going to try and kill me. If they find you with me, they will kill you too."
“Yes, Johnee. I know.”
"You must run away before dawn."
"I do not want to live without you."
His lips pursed, browsed across her breast. The nipple slipped into his mouth, he kissed it hungrily like a babe at the breast of its mother. The girl shook to the pleasure spasms of her flesh, her palms caught his cheeks, lifting his head so her glowing brown eyes could look deep into his blue eyes.
"I weel die with you, Johnee."
“I don't want you to die, Ogum, I want you to live, to tell the man in the big building in Bangkok what I have done with the cylinder. You must live if you love me.”
Tears filled her eyes, brimmed over onto her cheeks. Mouth wide open, she drew his lips to her and kissed him, lashing his tongue with her tongue, her teeth grating against his teeth in the frenzy of her emotions. She squirmed her naked body against his nakedness, shivered when his hands went down her soft back to her even softer buttocks.
"Please, Johnee, let me die with you?"
"No, Ogum. For my sake—live."
In the moonlight that filtered into the hut, the man studied the girl so close to him. Her face was oval, framed by a spill of thick black hair that ran down almost to the buttocks he held in his hands, when it was freed of the clips and pins that normally held it atop her head. Her eyes were huge, brown and glowing. The lips he had kissed to a bee-stung heaviness were even normally full and generously shaped.
She was a Thailander, she came from a village close to Bangkok, called Nunn Kap. She had come seeking service with him on his trip eastward into Laos, she could cook, make camp, she knew the native dialects. Her father had been a trader and had taken her and her sister with him on his journeys to Vietiane and the little villages along the Mekong River in Laos, and so she knew also the territory where he wanted to go.
Ogum Tarang was pretty. Her voluptuous body was slimly curved and with out-sized breasts bare under a thin covering of striped cotton that held them tightly so they jounced a little when she moved. She had smiled when she first saw John Meadows looking at her breasts, and her eyes glowed with pride and invitation at their first camping site.
She had never asked what it was that brought this big American into the Laotian highlands, though she must have wondered. His equipment consisted, outside his small tent and cooking gear, of a high-powered hunting rifle, a canteen, two Colt revolvers, a wicked-looking dagger, and some fishing tackle.
"Just a vacation," he said once, when she hinted that the Laotian jungle was no place for an American to go in these times. "I want to do some fishing, some big game hunting, that's all.”
On that first night in camp, their relationship had been established for what it was. As she bent above the little cooking fire her cotton wraparound clung to her full buttocks and Meadows, who had been a long time without a woman, felt his mouth go dry and his healthy body respond to those plump moons. He stepped up behind her, pressed his loins into her behind and reached around her body for her dangling breasts.
She laughed softly, bumped her rump back into his maleness and cooed when his hands scooped her heavy breasts out of their covering. He caressed her soft flesh, tugging on her erected nipples until she began to sob softly in passion.
Since that night, she had been his mistress.
In the five weeks of their trip, John Meadows and Ogum Tarang had fallen in love. When he learned where it was in Saravane that the plans for the Pathet Lao takeover of Laos were contained, it was Ogum who bought a magnet in a store and watched as he tied it on a fishing line.
She watched too as Meadows cast his line through an open window of a house and dropped the magnet neatly on the metal box that contained those plans. Meadows returned the empty box, but the plans themselves he rolled up tightly in a tin cylinder—it was a small tin can, actually, that by soldering he had sealed—and hid it among his effects.
Somewhere along the line, something had gone wrong. Perhaps someone had seen him making his casts or abandon the box. Or perhaps it was just the suspicious minds of the Pathet Lao guerrillas infiltrating Laos at the moment. For, two days out of Saravane,
Meadows had seen signs that a small party of the Pathet Lao were following their trail.
He had cut northward in an attempt to shake them, using all his jungle knowledge, and that of Ogum Tarang. They had fled with laughter in their voices, considering it a game, at first. John Meadows had what he had come for, in the little tin cylinder, and a sense of satisfaction with a job well done gave him added confidence.
They had come out of the jungle onto the Bolovens plateau, running across the open spaces where they were visible, Meadows swinging his machete to clear a path through the tropical jungle for them when the forests closed in. Sometimes he put the machete into its scabbard and bulled his way between the tree ferns and hanging lianas. Sweat oozed constantly from their pores, for the humidity in this pre-monsoon season was frightful.
Yesterday morning they had stood and looked across the jungle treetops at a tiny glitter of gold in the near distance. Meadows had seen it first and had pointed it out in an excited voice.
"Look Ogum! Man built that thing, whatever it is. There may be sanctuary there."
"No, Johnee. That is the Temple of the Thousand Deaths. No man can enter that place without being killed. Why or how I don't know. But they are."
He grinned weakly. "Maybe we can lead the Pathet Lao inside it."
Her head shook sadly. "They are not stupid, they know the temple and the death it deals out to any who enter it. They will avoid it as they would a cobra snake."
They had plunged on into the rain forest, panting, near exhaustion, until they came to an abandoned thatch hut where they decided to sleep the night. Ogum prepared the evening meal before it grew dark, so that the following Pathet Lao guerrillas should not see the flames of their campfire. Meadows loaded his rifle and his two revolvers.
"I make a stand here," he said softly.
His eyes touched the girl where she moved about the fire, turning the three birds she had trapped earlier, plucked, and placed inside board leaves for cooking. Her body had grown even slimmer, he thought, without proper diet. Yet her breasts were just as large, and her hips as rounded.
Against the heat, she had discarded her striped cotton wraparound and wore only a cotton shift about her hips. Her dusky breasts swung to the movements of her arms, and where the shift hiked up, he could see the lower halves of her buttocks.
Ogum Tarang had shapely legs, the legs of a
He was aware that in these humid rain forests, he had become a sensualist. All he could see was this young woman, all he lived for were the nights when they both went mad with that almost divine rut-heat the French named avoir velleites. On broad fern beds, on the bare ground, rammed back into a tree-bole, they made their love, and never tired of it.
It was as if they both knew death was at their heels, and would find them at some unsuspecting hour of the day or night. They felt they had a short time to live, and they must enjoy life and its sensual pleasures now, while they could.
And so John Meadows tongued the hard breasts the sexually excited girl fed him, and kissed lower onto the broader plain of her heavy, sweat-soaked belly, there to pasture with his kisses until Ogum Tarang gave shrill little cries that were half-enjoyment, half-invitation.
He did not plead with her any more to run away and save herself, a part of him wanted her to die when he died, so they might be together after death, if what the priests and ministers taught was true that there was a life beyond death. The sensualism in his was at its full flowering.
From her mounded belly, his lips went lower.
Ogum Tarang opened her eyes, her lips parted to show her teeth. Back and forth went her head, feeling his kisses go closer and closer to the puff of brownish hair at her mons Veneris. She squirmed, letting her thighs fall open.
"Oui," she breathed. "Oui, monange. Baissez—moi!”
He kissed her, nestling close, using his lips and tongue on her flesh until she had to cram a little fist into her mouth to keep from screaming with delight. John Meadows had taught her this bit of love-play, had made her eager for it. If she must die soon, then let her die with the memory of this pleasure still surging through her flesh.
As though he shared her feelings, he let out all the stops this night. His hands squeezed her buttocks, lifting them, his lips and tongue fed on her minon until her thighs tightened about his head and her body went into convulsions.
Then he kissed his way back up her body, stroking her naked sides with his fingertips until she reached for him, guiding him. Their bodies joined almost savagely, and they bounced and thumped a pathway through the Elysium Fields of erotica until the sweet death overtook and claimed them.
They lay in their embrace for minutes, his lips kissing her soft throat, until she wriggled and laughed thickly, deep in her throat at his renewed strength. There was a madness in their flesh, caused by the threat of the unseen Pathet Lao guerrillas somewhere behind them in the rain forests.
For hours they enjoyed one another, their inventiveness of embrace equaled only by the desire surging through their flesh. Her hands caressed his body, kissed and tongued. His teeth nipped her buttocks, her nipples, her inner thighs.
Toward dawn, they slept. Hours later, they rolled apart. The sun was well up in the sky, and the guerrillas would have been long upon their trail. Ogum Tarang kissed his lips, then surged to her feet.
Naked, she walked outside the hut.
John Meadows smiled and rolled over onto his back, his eyes following that dusky body moving toward the dead branches in the cooking fire.
The jungle erupted around them with rifle fire.
Eyes wide, Meadows saw that beloved body jerk, convulse. It staggered three steps, still bucking, as tiny black holes appeared in her torso, black holes that ran red while she still stood, swaying.
Meadows screamed with hate, with despair.
His hand went for the revolver in its holster. His other hand grabbed at the tin cylinder that held those precious plans. It was death to go outside the tent—yet he crawled out through an opening in the hut wall on his belly, digging toes and elbows into the ground.
At all cost, he must hide that tin cylinder!
Perhaps another agent of L.U.S.T., the organization that paid him so well, would find it, and take it back to L.U.S.T. headquarters, to be turned over to the United States Government.
He was realist enough to know he was going to die here in the Laotian highlands, but death would only mean that the Pathet Lao could not torture him into revealing the location of the cylinder. Ogum Tarang was dead, and he wanted to be with her, anyhow. But first, he must hide the tin can.
He crawled, using the vegetation of the jungle floor as a disguise, hearing the tok tok of the barbet bird as it seemed to beat out time for him like the ticking of a clock. He crawled more swiftly, for the guerrillas made no sound, no shrill outcry of discovery.
In front of him, through the openings between the tree-boles, he caught glimpses of the Temple of the Thousand Deaths. Meadows grinned wryly. The temple would make the perfect hiding place, if what Ogum had said were true, that it dealt death to any who stepped inside its walls.
Let the Pathet Lao see him hurl the cylinder.
If they went into the temple after it, they would die. In a way, he would get his revenge on them for having killed the woman he loved. He was tempted to get to his hands and knees, to make a run for it, but the guerrillas were used to these jungles, they would surely spot him.
He dreaded being killed before hurling the tin can into the temple. He would play it safe, he would go on slithering along the ground and hope. For a moment he lay still on his belly, listening for any sound that might betray the presence of the enemy.
tok tok tok
The barbet bird again, telling him that time was moving, moving, always moving, as he should be, not resting, thinking about Ogum Tarang.
He crawled on.
The Temple of the Thousand Deaths was not large, as temples of Southeast Asia go. It was no more than half the size of the Banteai Srei temple at Angkor Wat. Its tiered spire rose upward, pushing through a growth of banyan trees, the roots of which had penetrated into its chambers and sanctuaries. The temple was walled, there had been a garden around it centuries ago, but now the garden was no more than a mass of wild vegetation and crumbled statuary.
The green patina of age lay over its stones, half-hidden behind the moss and creeping vines that had over grown its gardens. The walls were sculpted with figures of men and women—the Khmers who had built Angkor Wat?—and to one side of the entryway, a frieze of warriors armed with sharp swords was seen, perhaps stone representations of the demons who guarded the temple from desecration.
Meadows crawled over the first of the flat flaggings, humped and broken where tree roots had begun to take over the monument to mankind's gods. Looming before him was an avenue of seated figures perched upon coiled nagas, representations of the snake deity whom the early Khmers worshiped.
He could see the open doorway and the flaggings of the inner temple. There was an altar in there, and crushed stones forming a kind of pavement.
He got to his feet and ran, the tin cylinder in a hand. Five feet, ten feet, he raced, before a voice cried out behind him.
“There! He carried the cylinder!"
"Kill him before he enters the temple."
Meadows rose to his feet and darted forward, lifting his right hand. Ahead of him was the doorway; he must hurl the cylinder deep into the shadows of the temple, to give its curse time to work against any of the Pathet Lao guerrillas who dared to enter. He did not want a single one of them to get his hands on the little tin can.
He saw the flash of sunlight on the tin as he threw it. Then it was gone inside the temple, flying high and far. It hit the statue of a goddess, and bounced sideways. It rolled along the stone flaggings.
Then there was silence.
Meadows whirled, revolver lifting.
Three guerrillas in black pants and jackets, fatigue caps on their heads, stood at the end of the stone path say with assault rifles lifted. Flame ran from the barrels at him.
John Meadows died on his feet, emptying his revolver at his killers. A dozen bullets struck him almost as one so that he was firing in reflex action even as he pitched forward, spinning crazily as he fell.
