Revolution 2.1

Everett, WA, USA

2 June, 2030 1700 UTC-

The van was back where it belonged, behind the cultural center we'd “borrowed” it from. all the gear had been cleaned, packed away in water-tight pelican cases that had been secured to the pilings under a dockside warehouse somebody else owned. The squad was back operating under our legends as blue collar wage slaves and motorcycle enthusiasts.   Ensconced in the sprawling Victorian revival that Tobe and Mick owned everyone was decompressing, or at least trying to.

Mick was outside on the grill; steaks and salmon was the order of the day and I could smell the fragrant smoke all the way upstairs. I could hear Tobe in the kitchen cooking...something; probably everything else that wasn't meat. Bob and Jake were playing backgammon of all things, in the upstairs parlor so as to keep away from what they termed “noise”.

The noise was Fred on his 12 string and Sam on his U-bass attempting, with varying degrees of success, to wring out old Greta Van Fleet tunes. The air in the drawing room was hazy with reefer smoke, not improving their odds of success. Normally I would be down there with them, armed with my Harmonicas and enjoying the contact high and the fellowship that comes from a good jam session. But I had a problem.

My problem was a six-foot tall, 17 year-old Yupik kid named Ezekiel Bayayok. I sat in the armchair across from him on the bed. The thousand yard stare told me he was behind the recruiting station rather than in his room.

“Easy?” I asked.

“Yeah boss?”

“Talk to me.”

“I-I don't...”He trailed off.

“Consider it a hot wash. Tell me what happened up until the ball dropped.” The kid took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

“We- Jake and I,” he stumbled “We stacked up at the door, I was beside it and Jake was behind the dumpster. The music started and we waited just like you said. After a minute, man it must have been seconds because the music was still playing, the guy came barreling out the door. It opened away from me and I just stuck my foot out, kinda by instinct. He tripped and hit his head on the ground. Musta knocked him silly because he didn't try to get up.”

“Probably. The sudden impact after the sensory overstimulation probably shut him down like flipping a light switch.”

“And then you called clear and...” he trailed off again.

“And I told you to kill him.” I said gently

“Yeah.” He looked at me with a mixture of fear and disgust. I understood and didn't begrudge him the feelings.

“OK. How did that make you feel?”

He stared at me uncomprehendingly. “What?”

“What was the first thing you felt when you knew he was alive after he hit the ground?”

“Relieved.” he sighed.

“Because?”

“Because I hadn't really hurt him.”

“Killed him, you mean. You hadn't killed him.”

“Easy's hangdog expression said more than his whispered “Yeah.”

“OK, tell me about what happened next.”

His face went very still and he took a long breath. “You said to do it quietly, and in ACT they told us that a man with a cut throat make a lot of noise. So I took out my 'hawk and I thought about where to hit him. I thought hitting him in the body would cause him to make as much noise as a cut throat and make a huge mess.”

“Why not his neck?” I asked

“I didn't-I didn't want his parents to have to see that. I figured that they might have to ID the body or something and I thought how horrible it would be for them to come in and see his-his-his..” He broke down sobbing.

After a minute I passed him my handkerchief and he took it, using it to wipe at his eyes and nose.

After he calmed down I asked “OK, so why the back of the head?”

A shuddering breath and then “The occipital lobe in in the back. It controls all the autonomic functions, breathing, heartbeat, like that. If I hit him there- When I hit him there, he'd die pretty quickly and wouldn't make much noise. I set the blade against his head, just above his neck and then...”

“Tell me how it felt. Not emotionally, tell me about the physical sensation.”

“It was like...It was like splitting shakes for the barn roof when I was a boy. Just up and down with a snap of the wrist at the end of a the swing. Felt kinda like hitting a king crab with a seal club to make it let go of my coat. Just a crunching sensation with something soft behind it.” He looked sick. “And then-then it wouldn't come out.”

“The axe?”

“Yeah. I had to put my foot on his back and use both hands to pry it loose. That was the worst part. When I stepped on him, he didn't feel like a person anymore. It was like...like he just became a person-shaped machine that ran outta juice. The joints moved, but there was nothing there to make them go and I could see his-his..” He began weeping again.

“His brain. Yeah I saw.”

“Why did I do that to him?”

“WE did that to them because they are the tools with which the feds try to enslave us. He had to die because he made the choice to let immoral men dictate his actions.”

“Are we any better?” He asked in a hushed tone.

“Yes. We don't kill civilians. We don't enslave people. And we don't tell people how to live their lives. We want what any sane person wants; to be left in peace to raise our families and do our work and find our own happiness. That kid I ordered you to kill, he would have helped to recruit hundreds, if not thousands of people to murder us and people like us all over the world. The ONLY place we're fighting is HERE, for our freedom, so NAMDO pulls out of The Zone and leaves us alone.” I realized I was starting to rant and forced myself to calm down. “I know you feel bad for the guy, and I know you feel like it wasn't a fair fight.” 

Easy's face showed first surprise and nodded “You need to realize that there ARE no fair fights kid. Fair fights are for duels and kids on the schoolyard. This is about life and death, mine, yours, your family's, your tribe's, everyone back home's.”

He stared at me bleakly

“And when this much in on the line, “fair” don't enter into it. You do what you have to to keep your people safe.”

I could see him mulling it over in his head. “They- The instructors I mean, at ACT told us-”

“-If you ain't cheatin', you ain't tryin'” I interrupted and he smiled for the first time in hours.

“Yeah.”

“That was probably ol' Gunny Havisham, wasn't it?” I asked with a grin.

Easy's eyes widened a little “Yeah, it was. You know the Gunny?”

Now I smiled. “Who do you think taught me how to do this, lo, many moons ago.”

Easy sighed. “So what do I do?”

“With what?”

“With this...feeling.”

“Feeling?”

“I feel...dirty. Like I need a shower. Like I'll never be clean again. Like the dirt is under my skin.”

I leaned back in my seat. “Start by taking a shower. Then go downstairs and hang with Fred and Sam for a while. Do what they're doing. It's not a permanent fix, but it'll take the edge off. This is your first active operation, right?”

“Yeah. Six weeks ago I walked at ACT and shook the Commandant's hand and then I was here.” He said, looking me in the eyes.

“I've been telling them for a couple of years now to only put blooded troops into active ops. This is a different kinda war than the passive stuff they get up to in The Zone.”

“Whadda you mean boss?”

“I mean that fighting a defensive war, where it's you and your mates trying to keep THEM from getting in your home is a far cry from us being out here on the sharp end, surrounded my millions of THEM and ambushing people who think they're safe. Did you notice that not a single one of the civs had a piece today? And only one of the Tangos was under arms? When was the last time you saw 20 people in a room at home and there wasn't at least a dozen firearms?”

He thought for a moment “I think the last tribal meeting I went to was firearm-free, but there were more than a couple of harpoons and everyone had a knife on them.”

“High-trust society.” I said a little impressed. “Means your people don't worry much about being robbed or assaulted by each other. The knives are just tools and everyone carries one of those anywhere outside of A-Town or Squarebanks.”

He chuckled a little at my mockery of the big college town.

“The harpoons were probably a status thing. Whalers making a point that their voice is still heard, or at least that it had better be heard.”

“Yeah, my Uncle Charlie is a whaler and he was carrying one there.”

“But here, no one carries, not for years. Ever since the Dems made the hat trick back in 2020 and then managed to use their presence in both houses and the executive to stack the courts. No one has legally carried a firearm in the US since 2022.”

“So they have a high-trust society?”

“Not according to the crime statistics.” I said with a wry smile. “But that's neither here nor there. You take a shower and go get high and connect with your mates. I'll do what I can to help you get through this. Sorry this was your first op kid.”

His face fell and he nodded. “Sure boss.”

After Easy had gone into the head, I pulled my phone out and booted up an app that didn't appear on the screen. This brought up a security screen. If I (or anyone else) entered the wrong code, it would activate a thermite charge in the phone that would turn the entire thing into slag in less than 5 seconds.

The app allowed me to use the Polaris Secure Satellite Network that kept my  data stream off the local ISP's 6G network (and thus out of the NSA's grasping clutches). Then I booted up the Llolth darkweb app (fucking geeks, right?) and looked around for an outcall service in the Seattle area. After a couple of minutes I found exactly what I was looking for.

Revolution 2.0

Redmond, WA, USA

2 June, 2030

“ONETWOTHREEFOUR!”

The chant was deafening, literally. Mick had just thrown a perfect spiral through the closed glass window of the Marine recruiting station. Officially designated the “Multisensory Overload Device, Type 3 Mark 4”, the plummet-shaped object had fins to help stabilize it and to protect the strobes mounted behind the tail. The nose was a 16 cm HDPE blunt with a 12mm chisel-tip tungsten spike in the center. Overall the thing looked like what Warner Bros. thought an aerial bomb looked like. The sides were an HDPE screen that covered three highly efficient (meaning very loud) speakers that were currently blaring Pantera's “Fucking Hostile” at 200 decibels while the three tail-mounted strobes splashed 600,000 candelas of flickering red, blue and white light around the room. We called it a Party Bomb.
The remaining windows of the room, the entire front wall of which was a series of floor to ceiling windows, did not blow out. They did vibrate in time to the music though. Even through my “active protection” earplugs I could hear it as though I was at a concert. The screams of those inside were mostly drowned out by the beat and the sound of Phil Anselmo's rage.
“Go on three.” I subvocalized and the throat mike dutifully transmitted my words to the rest of my eight man squad. “One...Two...THREE!”

Bob and I leaned into the window's gaping frame from opposite sides, our Thompson M200's at the ready. I fired first as my sight picture settled on a back lit figure still wearing a dress cover. The three .460 Rowland hollow point rounds blew through the figure in a welter of black gore, the compensator flaring a dull yellow-orange against the blinding parti-color of the strobes. The figure dropped like a sack of potatoes and I started searching for more targets.

The ROE was “No civilians killed” so we passed over anyone not obviously in uniform. Orange flared in the corner of my vision as Bob Partridge fired on a target. I saw a figure with a pistol out crouched behind one of the flimsy sheet metal and particle board desks, just his weapon and part of his head visible.
I caressed the trigger twice with the front sight centered on the front of the desk about where I figured his body would be. The six holes appeared in the black metal and the gun dropped below the level of the desk.
“ITFITSTHEATTITUDE, IFYOUCOULDSEEYOURSELF, YOUPUTYOUONASHELF” the overwhelming blare of thrash metal overwhelmed even the sound of gunfire.

I could sense the flashing muzzles of the Tobe's team coming through the front door, firing at uniformed figures out of my field of vision. Today's op was about sending a message. And send it we would by God. Scanning from right to left and back again I could see no one standing and no one in uniform that wasn't leaking claret like a crushed tomato.
Mercifully the auditory and visual assault wound down after a few more seconds as the capacitor in the core of the Party Bomb drained. The party that rages twice as hard, rages for half as long.
Bob and I called out “CLEAR!” as the room returned to normal illumination and the whimpering and crying of the wounded and the partially deafened could finally be heard.

“Clear.” came the muted response from Tobe.

“One prisoner.” came a third response from Eazy. I'd stationed Easy and Jake at the rear of the building to catch anyone who tried to leg it out the back.

“Tango or Charley?” I asked

“Service. A lance corporal who understood the better part of valor.”

Christ, we're not set up to hold or care for prisoners.

“Kill him. Quietly.”

A pause, “Sir?”

“You have your orders Troop.”

“Aye-Aye sir.”

A few seconds went by.

Jake commed “Clear.”.

“Tobe, card the dead and distribute the gold. Mick, you and Bob start tagging the exterior. Easy, get to tagging the interior.”
I got an acknowledgment from Tobe, but dead air from Easy.

“Easy?” I asked.

Nothing.

“Easy god damn it, respond.” I tried to push as much of my command voice through the throat mic as I could. Subvoalization does not lend itself to a command presence.

“W-WILCO, sir.” came the stammered response from the young Yupik.

“Be quick people we have 60 seconds to wrap up and bail.”

Mick and Bob were already breaking out the cans of red and black spraypaint. I used the barrel of my piece to clear the remaining glass from the window, then hoisted myself through the gaping maw and into the cordite-hazed abattoir of the recruiting station.

Tobe's team was busy with Tobe checking the dead and making sure the civs were all alive and at least semi-conscious, Fred dropping death cards on the dead and stripping one rank insignia from each corpse while Sam pressed a one ounce gold heart into the hands of each civilian. The hearts were cast with bas relief words on he front;

IN SYMPATHY

AND WITH GREAT

SORROW FOR

YOUR TRAUMA.

.999 PURE

2 OZ

and on the back

THIS GIFT IS

UNTAXABLE.

THIS GIFT DOES NOT

CONSTITUTE AN

ADMISSION OF

LIABILITY FOR ANY

INJURY.

The death cards were all aces and eights and all spades. The backs were Alaska blue with gold bordering and a gold-limned faceless reaper on the back, a sword in one hand and a scythe in the other.

I started working my way through the back offices checking for hiding civs and marines. Easy and Jake passed me coming down the hall, having swept the rooms automatically as they came. Easy looked bad, like someone had just killed his puppy.

As they broke out their paint, I finished sweeping the offices, checking under desks and in cabinetry. I found a civ in the last office.

Thirtyish, dirty blonde and terrified; an ID card on a red lanyard stood out against her cream blouse. Her legs covered by a knee-length navy blue skirt as she crouched underneath her desk.

“Ma'am, can you hear me?” I said loudly.

Nod.

“Ma'am, I need you to respond verbally.”

“Y-Yes, I can hear you” she said with the slightly overloud tone of a person whose hearing hasn't yet returned to normal.

“Good, I need you to come out from there, slowly with your hands up please.”

She complied and I got a good look at her. She was tall for a woman, blue eyed behind the large-framed spectacles that had become fashionable a couple of years back.

“I'm going to look at your ID, please do not move.”

She nodded and held her hands up higher, but she flinched when I reached for her ID. It was pale blue and in addition to her mugshot it was printed;

SANDERSON, JUDITH

CIVILIAN EMPLOYEE

876541328

I let the card swing back to her as I backed away. “Judy? I need you to walk to the front room with your hands up, OK? No one will hurt you if you move slowly and make no trouble. OK?”

She nodded nervously, then caught herself and said “Yes. OK.”

I spoke into the throat mike “One Charley coming out. Unarmed, low threat, sit her down and pay her.”

“WILCO” came Tobe's response.

As I walked out of the room, I took a carbon fiber cylinder out of my warbag and placed it on the desk. Grasping the handle on the top, I twisted and pulled the top off, placing it back in the bag. From the open container I slid out a dingy white cylinder made of styrofoam, it was a little less than a half meter tall and 16 cm across and aside from the initiator and small blasting charge it was filled with 2 kilos of human excrement. The top was a clear plastic dome with a motion sensor and an RFID receiver under it.

I placed the shit bomb on the center of the desk and then put the container back in the bag. I closed the door on my way out and then flipped the switch on the activator. The next person to open that door would get a BIG surprise.

Returning to the front office I saw all the survivors lined up against the wall, each clutching, with varying degrees of trepidation and alertness, their golden hearts. The two largest walls were covered in sloppy spray paint letters;

NO MORE TOOLS

NO MORE WAR

and

WHO IS YOUR REAL ENEMY?

END THE INVASION!

I knew similar slogans were going up on the exterior of the building.

“Ladies and gentlemen” I shouted

“Boss we have Charlies inbound” Bob's voice sibilant in my earwig.

“We are sorry that you had to witness this today, please exit the building in an orderly fashion to reduce the risk of injury. Help each other and be safe. Do not return to or stay in the building, it is about to be unsafe for human habitation.”

Tobe's team and Easy's team were already on their way out the back, having delivered their shit bombs to the offices, break room and supply closet. Judy was up with her eyes streaming tears as she tried to help the less coherent civs up and chivying them out the front door. She seemed to be trying very hard not to look at any of the bodies.

I trotted out the back, passing the body of a young man in the khaki blouse and blue trousers of a Marine dress uniform, his head had been split open with what looked like an axe. I could see his brain through the rent in the back of his skull. The red smears on the back of his blouse showed where Easy had wiped off his 'hawk.

All eight of us loaded up into a white van with tinted windows, marked in maroon English and Arabic words identifying it as belonging to the Western Islamic Cultural Center and the crescent and star. As Tobe rolled off into traffic, Easy began to weep quietly.

In the Army Now, Chapter 2

June 1, 1944, Salisbury England

Tobey and I hustled into the company area, dodging others who were strewn about the area like flotsam on a beach. Some were sitting and talking, mostly quietly, with no small hint of fear. Some were sacked out like Olive Drab logs, catching as much shut-eye as they could, realizing that soon enough there'd be no time for sleep at all.

As we grabbed our packs from out squad's tent, Tobey asked “Hey Max, whaddaya think the sergent want's us for?”

“I dunno Tobey, you think he might have caught wind of the craps game?” We had been running a craps game behind the mess tent, and while not enough to get us drug up in front of the Captain, it was definitely enough to get the sergeant to discipline us on his own.

“Nah, even that asshole McGillicuddy, you know that guy from 4th that loses all the time, wouldn't let slip to the sergeant. He knows better than that.”

“Yeah, guess we'll just have to wait and see.”

By this time we were half way to the battalion armory, and we could see the sergeant standing out in front of the sandbag re-enforced tent. He was next to a jeep that had obviously been borrowed from the MPs, but manned by a definitely non-MP driver.

“Sergeant, Private Johnson reported as ordered with a detail of one!” I blared as we fell into line in front of the non-com, both at attention.

“Privates, you will find gear in the vehicle behind me. Once ordered, you will equip yourselves and then fall into formation behind the vehicle. I will then drive away watching you attempt to maintain pace with the vehicle. Do not fall behind. This exercise will continue until you learn to obey the rules. Do you understand?

Fuck no.

“Yes sergeant!” We shouted, knowing that to voice uncertainty would be worse that simply following instructions.

“Fall out.” he said.

Looking in the jeep, we found web belts with sidearms, magazine pouches for the pistols, retaining loops for truncheons and strange bulky pouches. Under the belts were wooden truncheons about 3 feet long and trench guns; M1897 12 gauge shotguns. Which explained the pouches on the belts, spare shells.

What the fuck is going on?

We armed up and fell in behind the jeep, while Sergeant Childers perched in the front seat looking backwards.

“Driver. At a medium pace if you please.” he smiled cruelly as the jeep led us out along the perimeter fence at somewhere between quicktime and doubletime. This lasted for about three minutes, until we were out of sight of the battalion area. The the jeep stopped, and the sergeant jumped down.

“At ease, Johnson come help me with this.” he motioned to a section of fence.

Now I really gotta ask what the fuck.

I moved to the fencepost the sergeant had motioned to and found that the whole section was held in place by rope, instead of the standard steel bolts. I quickly untied the knots and the sergeant and I carried the fence out of the way of the jeep, which the driver maneuvered through the hole. As we replaced the section of fence line and I retied the knots, I pondered the significance of what we had just done.

I, Private First Class Maximilian Johnson, in collusion with another private soldier and two non-commissioned officers deserted on the eve of battle from the United Stated Army.

I was going to hang.

What the fuck had I done?
                                                                             ***
 
March 19, 1942, Macon Georgia

When I awoke my head hurt. Not in a hangover kind of way, but in the “Sweet Jesus, kill me now!” kind of way. I opened an eye to survey my surroundings and immediately wish I hadn't. The cement wall and ceiling I could see were dingy and drab and illuminated by a bare, bright bulb surrounded by a wire cage mounted in the ceiling. The light was piercing, like a photonic icepick driven through my eye. I made a noise halfway between a scream and a groan, a scroan, if you will.

My mouth tasted faintly of copper and had a texture like it had been coated by a fine layer of velvet. I tried to clear my mouth and discovered that I couldn't generate enough saliva. I scroaned again from the effort. Realizing that my head hurt too badly to go back to sleep and that if I was going to be awake I needed to to rinse out my mouth I sat up, and immediately regretted it. The room spun, my head throbbed and my mouth slowly started to fill with a sour saliva. I leaned forward in an attempt to reduce my nausea.

It didn't help much. Suddenly my ears were assaulted by a booming voice.

“Good morning, Mister Johnson! Sleep well?”

I groaned and mumbled, each word a pain.

“Could you please not shout?”

“I'm not shouting, Mister Johnson.”

I retched softly and held my head. The booming voice chuckled and I retched again, trying to fight back the bile.

“Well you are about as sorry as a hound dog after he's been in the hen house. You want some water? Coffee?”

I nodded weakly, the movement sending shooting pains through my head and neck and eliciting another scroan.

There was a metallic rattling followed by a titanic crash, as if a bulldozer had run over a Packard, eliciting yet a third scroan, and suddenly a blazing hot hand pressed a few tablets into my clammy palm and a tumbler of water was pressed into the other. The pills were like chalky rocks in the dustbowl of my mouth, even drier than I was. But the water. Oh lord the water was sweet and cold and better than anything I had ever had in my entire life. I gulped greedily, swallowing convulsively to choke down the bitter pills and then relishing the cleansing tide of refreshing wetness.

Too soon the glass was empty and I felt slightly less like death. Well enough that I could look up at my benefactor without my head trying to fall off.

Crap.

My eyes fixated on the large and very shiny star pinned to the man's chest.

“Thank you sheriff. Umm...If it's not to much trouble?” I held out the empty glass.

The sheriff chuckled and took the glass. “Sure son. It's only fair I suppose, after how poorly Cletus treated you.”

Sipping at my refilled glass of life-giving water I started to feel more-or-less alive, and well enough to hazard a question.

“So, um, am I under arrest?”

“I'm afraid so son.”

“Oh crap. What's the charge?”

“ Well, Deputy Laughton booked you on a laundry list of offenses, but I'm dropping most of them, seeing as they're bull-shit.” He pronounced it as three words, bull-she-it. “But there is the one charge that I'm afraid I'm gonna hafta pursue.”

I groaned a bit and sipped my water. I think my headache was intensifying.

“Which one?” I asked, dreading the answer I knew was coming.

“Statutory Rape.”

My headache was definitely getting worse. I swallowed more water to keep from scroaning.

“Lemme explain sheriff....”

The big man held up a hand. “Hold your horses son. I'm feeling a mite hungry. I hate working on an empty stomach. You think you could eat?”

I was suddenly ravenous. “Sure.”

“Well come on then. Just remember, you try to run on me and I'll shoot you.”

I'm not sure I'm gonna be able to walk fast, much less run.

I just nodded, my head pounding.

                                                                                 ***

Breakfast turned out to be a lunch of fried fish, a lump of an amorphous boiled green thing and a small parfait-mound of an unidentifiable white substance topped with an unidentifiable yellow substance topped with a chopped mixture of green onion, tomato and crispy bacon. The plate was set down along with a glass bottle of an amber liquid that was stuffed with chili peppers. I eyed the food uncertainly as the waitress, a busty lady with a bright smile and a sweet Georgia accent to go with the wiggle in her hips that would make a priest cross himself, set down an enormous tumbler of something dark and laden with ice and a slice of lemon.

“Catfish, collards and grits, gentlemen, and sweet tea. Y'all just let me know when y'all are ready for pie, Sam made up a lemon meringue that's to die for.”

The sheriff smiled up at her. “Sure thing darlin'.”

As she walked off I poked at the mound with my fork. “Grits?”

“Ayup.”

I prodded the green lump. “Collards?”

He chuckled. “Ayup. Like spinach. Put some of the pepper sauce on it, It's good eatin' son.”

I debated only eating the fish but then my stomach filed a formal complaint against my brain, so I sprinkled some of the amber pepper sauce on the greens and was rewarded with a mouthwatering waft of vinegar.

The Sheriff spoke as I ate.

“What you need to understand is that Katy-Anne's not quite what you'd call a “good girl””

I almost choked on the bite of crisp catfish I had just taken. I nodded as I tried to swallow remembering how it felt when she grabbed my joint in the parking lot and when she felated me as I drove.

Yeah, I'd agree with that. Kitty's definitely a bad girl.

“You'll be the third fellah Cletus's caught with Katy-Anne. First one he's ever laid out though. You musta pissed him off something fierce, boy.”

I remembered with some satisfaction the sight of Kitty slumped over the trunk of my Packard, cum leaking from her asshole and nodded.

Yeah, you could say that.

“In fact Mr. Johnson, You'd be hard pressed to find 20 men in Macon county who, hadn't torn off a piece of Katy-Anne's ass, me included.”

Again, I almost choked on my food.

“But not Deputy Laughton. Which may explain the intensity of his displeasure with you. For all her other faults, Katy-Anne doesn't dabble in incest. She simply won't give him the time of day.”

I nodded as I forked a mass of dark green vegetation into my mouth, the bitter greens sweetened and offset by the spicy, sweet-sour vinegar.

Stood to reason, no one gets that pissed over a girl unless they're sweet on her.

“And fortunately for you, the judge is an understanding sort, especially since he's Katy-Anne's grandpappy.”

I didn't choke this time, but I did stop with a forkful of what had turned out to be very thick, crunchy, cheezy cream-of-wheat.

“Her grandfather?”

“Ayup”

I finished my bite, chewing slowly, I don't think I actually tasted it. My mind was racing.

“Your best bet is gonna be to plead guilty and throw yourself on the mercy of the court. Can you afford a lawyer?”

I shook my head no.

That means you'll be assigned one, probably that drunken reprobate, Lucious Thibedoux. Trust me son, you'll be better off taking your chances with the court.

I thought about it and when I looked down I noticed that my plate was empty.

The sheriff signaled the waitress. “You about ready for pie?”

                                                                                   ***

The time passed slowly in jail. I'd come-to on Saturday morning, court wouldn't convene until Monday, so I had about 40 hours to contemplate my navel before going before the judge. The few hours that passed after my return from breakfast (which had done wonders for my head, though it still ached somewhat) were tense and fraught with worry. I recounted my evening with Kitty, and I was so worried that I couldn't even enjoy the sordid parts. Then I parsed and re-parsed my conversation with Kitty, and then the one with Cletus and finally the one with the Sheriff.

After about 6 hours or so of worrying myself into an ulcer Sheriff McNamara escorted in the waitress from the diner who bore with her a tray loaded with food. Pork chops with applesauce (which I found weird until I tried it), a caldera of mashed potatoes filled with a rich brown gravy and curious green cylinders coated with a golden fried rime of something crunchy which the waitress identified as something called “okra” and of course, a quart sized mason jar of the ubiquitus iced tea. Desert was a a bowl of something that looked like a cross between bread pudding and some sort of yellow jelly with a scoop of vanilla ice cream on it.

When I sniffed it cautiously the waitress informed me happily “that's Sam's peach cobbler ala mode.” I stared at the food, my stomach a churning sea of acid.

“Thank you miss.” I said as I accepted the tray of food that I didn't really want.

“You willing to take a nickel's worth of free advice son?” said the sheriff, after the waitress had left.

“Sure.”

“Stop worrying about it. You can't change anything right now, so relax. Eat your dinner and put it out of your mind.”

“But...” I started.

“Stop. Worrying.”

“I could....”

“Nope, you can't.”

“But...”

“Eat.”

I looked at the food, it did smell good.

“Alright.” I said.

“Good. I'll be back in an hour or so for the dishes.”

“Thanks sheriff.” I replied, unwrapping the plate.

“Not a problem, son.” Said the sheriff, walking back out into the office, the door swinging shut on his words.

                                                                                       ***

I finished the last of the “cobbler”, which was delicious, and set the bowl on the plate, sliding the stack of crockery under the bed. The Sheriff was right, not worrying helped my appetite and eating helped me to not worry. I lay back on the less than comfortable bed and stared at the shadows on the ceiling, idly I wondered what Kitty was doing right now. Probably on the prowl. Setting up another innocent man to be beaten and berated by Cletus-the-slack-jawed-yokel and sent off to prison.

I heard the door open, and I wondered what the chances of getting the sheriff to get me a beer or a small bottle of bourbon might be. I sat up and swung my legs over the edge of the bunk.

As I straightened up, I spoke “Your hospitality wouldn't extend to a libation slightly stronger than tea, by any chance?”

“I can't manage that honey, but I think I can come up with something else to relax you.” came the reply, in a sweet soprano, rather than the sheriff's smooth baritone.

My head shot up and there she stood before me, a vision in a buttery-yellow summer dress.

“Kitty!” I blurted. “You can't be here.”

“Obviously I can be here. Maybe I shouldn't be here, Max, but I definitely can be here.” she said pertly, sashaying forward to the cell door. Her hips swayed and her breasts strained at the buttons of her frock.

“I can't believe you're here. After what you did to me...” I growled, suddenly angry, my initial shock melting away.

“I'm dreadfully sorry about that honey, but how was I to know that Cletus was gonna be all the way out there?”

“Cletus? THAT'S what you're sorry about? Not the fact that I'm gonna go to prison because you couldn't keep your knees together? Or at least stick to fooling around with the boys out at lover's lane.”

“The boys out at lover's lane are stupid. They're really bad at it. And they talk. A girl has to maintain her reputation after all. And you're not gonna go to prison. Not over lil' ole me.”

I hate to tell you this Kitty, but men talk too.

“It sure looks like I am going to prison. The sheriff's dropped all the other charges. I go before the judge, your grandfather, on Monday, charged with statutory rape.” I could feel the tension starting to build again.

“Oh pshaw! Pappy is not gonna send you to prison. Not once I tell him how much I like you.”

Oh fuck me, that is NOT gonna help my case.

“Kitty, do not tell anyone how much you like me.”

She looked worried. “But why not? I do like you.” She reached up behind her neck and undid the top of her dress, sliding it down, allowing her massive tits to swing free. “I like you an awful lot.”

I groaned inwardly, her tits were spectacular.

“Don't you like me?” she pouted, stepping forward, her tits pressing through the metal bars of the cell, her thimble sized nipples pressed up against my chest, poking me. “You liked me the other night. And I loved what you did to me, what we did together.”

“I..” I stammered.

“Don't you wanna do it again?” she asked softly leaning in, her lips just brushing against mine.

“That's beside the point...” I started, then she kissed me.

I knew it was wrong, her being just a kid, but damn did her tits feel nice and she sure didn't kiss like a little girl. Her tongue was wet and warm, her lips, soft. I didn't pull away, my hands convulsively gripped the bars of my cell.

“I knew you liked me.” she said pulling back, and smiled knowingly.

“Of course I like you Kitty but this is wrong, you're just a kid, I'll go to prison...”

“Would a kid do this?” Kitty knelt down and reached through the bars, unbuttoned my trousers and pulled out my flaccid John Thomas.

I was stunned, Here I was in jail for and the object of my “assault” was assaulting me!

“Oh, fuck it!” I sighed as she sucked on the head.

I was hardening rapidly, and she pulled off my cock with a pop. “I can't quite yet, honey, you're gonna need to be harder.”

Well, in for a dime, in for a dollar. I thought, if I was gonna go to prison for fucking this girl, I might as well fuck her as much as I can.

“You keep going on like that an I'll be hard enough in a minute.”

My Johnson was once again engulfed in warm, wet suction as my hips were drawn against the bars. This girl could suck a golf ball through a garden hose. As my cock hardened in her mouth Kitty made lewd sucking noises as the powerful suction occasionally broke through the seal of her lips and she moaned in pleasure. I sighed as she sucked and closed my eyes, my head tilting back as I concentrated on the incredible sensations this girl, young woman really, was causing.

By now she had a little more than half my cock in her mouth and I could feel the opening of her throat against the head. I grunted as she gagged slightly. She took a deep breath through her nose and then slowly forced my dick into her throat. It was very tight and I could feel the muscles in her neck massaging my joint. My hips bucked forward and she responded by shoving back, helping my to cram the rest of me in, until her nose was buried in my short and curlies.

After holding it for a moment she backed off, blowing and trying to suppress her gag reflex. Once clear, she looked up at me, eyes wide, mouth open, a strand of saliva connecting my cock and her lips. I looked down at her and realized right then that I wanted to look down at her swallowing my cock for the rest of my life.

“Get up Kitty.” I said, my voice firm for the first time since Cletus clocked me. “Take off your panties.”

She stood up and frowned “I'm sorry Max, I can't.”

“And why not?” I asked frostily. You'd better not be teasing my prick.

“I'm not wearing any.” she replied coyly as she finished unzipping her dress. It fell to the floor in a yellow pool around her feet and I was greeted with the sight of her golden thatch framed by a black garter belt . She stepped out of the material and gripped my Johnson, stroking it.

“You've been a naughty girl haven't you Kitty?”

“Just a lil' bit.” she smiled guiltily. “What can I do to be a good girl?”

I decided to take a chance and bring up something from the other night.

“You can start, by calling my daddy.”

She gasped and reddened, looking down. In a quiet voice she said “Yes Daddy.”

I smiled. “That's better. You really are a bad girl. Pretending to be a big girl and drinking in bars, no panties, three men sent to jail because you like to fuck, I think you should be punished, don't you?”

She stopped rubbing my joint, her bottom lip trembling. “Yes Daddy.” she whispered.

“Did I say you could stop stroking?”

“No Daddy.” She said in a small voice and resumed jerking me off.

“Now, what do you think your punishment should be?”

“I dunno.”

“When you were little, how would your father punish you when you were bad?”

“A spanking.” she whispered.

“What was that?” I asked, chuckling inwardly.
“A spanking.” she said a little louder.

“That sounds like a good start. But it's not like I can give you a spanking right now.” I tapped the bars. My cock was so hard it hurt. “Perhaps you can come up with something else suitable for right now.”

She looked up, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “I know just the thing Daddy!”

“What?”

“It's a surprise!” She practically bounced in place, which did interesting things to her anatomy. The glee with which she taunted me with her own punishment was strangely hilarious and I chuckled.

“Alright then Kitty, show me.”

“Yes Daddy.” Kitty said, turning around, bending over and backing onto my cock.

I drew in breath through clenched teeth. Her cunt was scalding hot and dripping wet.

“Ohhhhh Ddddaaaddy.....” she moaned as I filled her.

Her pussy was tight and gripped my tumescent member like a wet fist. But she only thrust back and forth a couple of times before pulling off my cock completely. She held herself with my cock just brushing the lips of her pussy, the whisps of hair tickling the head of my shaft.

“Please Daddy, put it in my bottom.” she pled. “Hump my bottom, punish me! I don't want to be a bad girl. I want to be good.”

Was she really asking me to buttfuck her? Damn.

This was one strange girl, but what the hell, you never get that kinda request, not even in TJ. So I pressed the head of my cock against her asshole and she leaned back, grunting loudly as it spread her tiny rosebud open.

Holy fuck, she was tight.

She slowly backed down my johnson, grunting and crying gently. It was too slow, I was ready to pop, I needed to get inside her fully so I could take a moment and get my orgasm under control. I reached through the bars and gripped her hips tightly, she looked back over her shoulder at me with fear and pain in her eyes and nodded slightly.

I pulled her tight against the bars and she screamed through her teeth and her legs started to collapse. I held her there, straining to support her weight, fortunately it gave me something to concentrate on rather than the wonderful sensations radiating from my cock.

“Daddy! Oh please Daddy, it hurts.” she whined.

“Do you feel sorry for all things you've done wrong?” I demanded.

She thought for a few seconds, then responded “Not yet Daddy. Punish me!”

“All right then Kitty, say you're sorry.” I commanded as I pulled back slowly, still holding her cheeks firmly against the bars.

As I pushed forward just as slowly, invading her rectum she wailed “I'm sorry Daddy!” her colon clenching and spasming along the length of my cock.

Goddamn but her ass felt good, maybe as good as her pussy. Maybe better. I rested for a few seconds buried inside her.

“Say you're sorry.” I again ordered as I drug my cock put of her.

“I'm sor-RY daddy!” she squealed as I rammed forward.

As I set up a steady rhythm, pulling back slowly, then thrusting in hard, she yelped with every thrust and began to chant “I'm sorry!” with every thrust and tugging on her nipples. After a few minutes of chanting with every thrust, she just sort of devolved into mauling her tits and mumbling “I'm sorry...” over and over. Meanwhile I had evolved from a slow and fierce rhythm to a fast, savage pounding of her anus.

There was blood crusting around the base of my cock. Her rosebud was red and angry looking and I was beginning to feel the creeping feeling of my impending orgasm. I decided that I didn't want to blow in her butt. I figured I'd add a cherry on top of this punishment parfait.

I yanked my Johnson out of her ass and pushed her to the floor. “Come here Kitty, time to take your medicine.”

She looked up dazedly, mouth agape and her eyes slowly focused on my cock, my dirty, bloody cock, and staggered to her knees. She crawled over and sucked the head of my dick into her mouth.

“That's right Kitty, be a good girl and clean my cock and drink your medicine.” I smiled down at her as she bobbed fast, sucking hard. I couldn't hold back anymore and gripped the bars of the cell in my fists as I fired a half dozen shots of thick spunk across her tongue.

She swallowed like a nursing calf and continued to suckle for a minute or so as I gasped and writhed in place. As I wriggled free of her vacuous mouth I spotted the door to the sheriff's office close.

Shit, did he see us? Fuck I'm definitely going to prison now. Well, at least it wasn't Cletus. Fuck it, nothing I can do about it now.

I gathered Kitty up and held her through the bars, my anger over what she had done somewhat mollified. Again I felt that unsettling feeling towards Kitty. I wasn't sure what it was, and I still wasn't certain how I felt about feeling it. I did know that I wasn't interested in letting her go. And with me going before the judge in 36 hours.

After a little while Kitty asked quietly “How did you know?”

“Know?”

“That I wanted to call you Daddy?”

“I pay attention Doll. You screamed it out the other night at the wall.”

“You must think I'm just horrible.”

“Nah, just....well, let's just say that some of the things I think and do might seem horrible to you. Besides, It's not like you're hurting anyone. Well, that you're 16 and keep sending men to prison for statutory rape is, but otherwise you're fine.”

“I know it's wrong, but I just can't help myself. It feels so good, and the men are such better at it than the boys at school. Besides, they never go to prison.”

“Wait, what?”

“Sure. Pappy just makes 'em join the service instead.”

“The army.”

“Yeah. Well, the last one joined the Navy.”

“Hrmm...that changes things.”

“Does it?”

“Yeah, it means I can relax.”

“It does?”

“Sure, the army will be a piece of cake compared to well...this.” I looked around the room, at the bars.

But would it? There was a war on for Christ's sake!

The Nazis had taken pretty much all of Europe, the Japs had attacked Pearl Harbor. The Italians and the Krauts were all over North Africa. I began to wonder if prison wasn't a preferable alternative.