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.

Revolution 1.0

“I'm too old for this shit.” Bobby looked like he didn't quite need to shave yet.

“Dude, you're nineteen.” I responded

“Yeah, and this is a job for a 12 year old. Someone who has no concept of their own mortality.” He wasn't looking at me, but out the rear of the modified F350 we were riding in.

He had to look out the back because the sides were covered with angled steel plates covered with canvas tied to cleats mounted on the body panels of the truck. The canvas was marked in direct contravention of the laws of land warfare and several international treaties with a large white square and a big red cross.

“Well, you're not wrong. I said ruefully. I was only 28 myself.

We were riding in an illegally marked vehicle one of a dozen that made up a convoy of similarly marked vehicles because with the exception of federal forces and humanitarian efforts, the feds bombed the shit out of groups of more than three vehicles or groups of more than 10 people. Violation of the regulations effected when martial law was declared a few years ago.

Between the drones and real-time satellite data being fed to the local air wing and army aviation moving between cities in convoy was a suicidal act. And moving en mass inside a city drew the attention of the white mice and the pigs. So usually we traveled in dribs and drabs. One squad at a time either in foot or in a couple of cars, and let me tell you son, spending 10 hours in a Honda Civic with four other guys is not an enjoyable act. But vans got inspected at every checkpoint and border. Ditto large commercial trucks. In the early days of the war we tried moving entire companies in semis but once the feds got wise any vehicle not inspected and RFID tagged by a federal proctor wound up with a 200lb bomb through it's roof or got cored by a tank or chewed up by an IFV at the next checkpoint. I guess losing a major urban center and the majority of the flag and field grade officer corps for a division will make you paranoid.

On the other hand, every innocent trucker killed as a result of the paranoia drove thousands of people to the cause.

Our current mission was to covertly insert a company of rangers into Seattle and pursue asymmetric warfare operations against the local government and any federal agents in the area. Since moving 200+ men and their basic combat load was not an easy task and the likelihood of losing half the force by moving in small units, we were disguised as a humanitarian convoy returning for resupply. I know, it seemed stupid to me too. But it had worked so far.

I turned my gaze to parallel Bobby's and saw that we were being followed by a Lincoln town car.

“How's it going buddy, see anything interesting.” I thought as I stared at the dark blue sedan. All the sedan's driver would see was the false wall made of a porous material that allowed us to look out, but no one else to look in decorated to look like a stack of crates and medical equipment cases. Bobby fingered a grenade.

“Terrible idea.” I said, watching his face out of the corner of my eye.

His eyes flicked downwards and widened slightly in surprise, as though he didn't realize that he was touching the 1 lb cylinder of scored cast iron and RDX. His hand shook a little as he swiftly moved his hand away from the grenade.

“I'm too old for this shit.” he reiterated.

Privately I had to agree with him, we all were.

It seemed like it never fully stopped raining in Seattle. My squad was based in an industrial park out in Redmond using a pamphlet stuffing scam as our cover. You know those “Make up to $500 a week from the comfort of your living room!” ads you see on the classifieds page? That was us. The scam was that you got paid five cents per pamphlet that you folded and stuffed in an envelope then dropped in the mail. If you really applied yourself you actually could make $500 a week.

Now most of the pamphlets would get tossed in the recycling by their recipients. Who opens junk mail, right? And of the few who did open them, most would toss them in the recycling too. But maybe three percent would open the letters and actually pay attention to the message within. Those three percent would be curious enough to check the website or call us directly. And that was where the money came from.

The website was black and had it's own IC to keep the feds and lesser LEOs out. Any name or ISP associated with a cop, fed or LEO office was redirected to the website of that company that makes anthropomorphic sex toys. The rest were given the usual pitch and shown how to use an anonymous browser client to purchase...well just about anything. The only things we didn't sell was child pornography and wetwork. People who paid for a murder, almost never got their hit fulfilled. Occasionally the order would be by an abused spouse to make the abuser dissapear. Those generally happened, everyone else we just kept the money.

People who ordered child pornography were sent a virus disguised as an order confirmation email that erased the contents of their hard drive then physically cooked the hardware. Shortly before the virus activated a discrete package was sent to their mailing address that that contained some racy photos of jailbait treated with a light-sensitive neurotoxin one of the research guys back home cooked up. The perv opened the envelope, handled the pics and then died of an apparent stroke. After a few minutes of exposure to light the toxin broke down and evaporated.

The rest of it was drugs, restricted electronics, weapons, illegal literature and kink paraphenalia. The “House” handled all transactions, took 5% off the top and guaranteed delivery. The receipts were a lot higher than you'd expect. Enough that each squad was able to support their activities in the field. After the first month we'd established ourselves enough to build twenty-five submersible drones. fifty quadrotors and buy an old fishing trawler.

I'd set Felix up with a lab on the second floor and he had been busily making RDX, PETN and the associated stabilizers and plasticizers.

“How's it going Felix?” I asked from the false safety of the hallway.

“Pretty good boss!” Felix sang out, his Afrikaaner accent making it come out as “Priddy goot bus” to my American ear.

“Got 135 Kilos of Semtex, 10 kilos of straight RDX and 5 kilos each of lead styphenate and lead azide in the magazine boss.” he said cheerfully.

I swallowed. It's not that explosives terrify me, but rather that I disliked the idea of having 145 kilos of HE as a roommate. I dislike loud neighbors of all types.

“Ok, well wrap up what you're doing and then start on the thermate charges. I want to be ready to go by Monday. Let me have the lead and the RDX and I'll take them down to Jeff.”

“Sure thing boss.” He said and walked away from what looked like a stand mixer with a plastic whisk attached to it. It was mixing something a rich brown color. I eyed it warily.

“Here you go boss.” Felix said as he opened the air-tight vinyl door and handed me a Pelican case about the size of a large attaché case. I was treated to a blast of chocolate scented air.

“You're not making food in the lab again are you?” I asked. He'd done that once before and the entire squad had been out of commission for 2 days with hallucinations.

“Nah, I leaned my lesson. You know how the sniffer dogs are trained not to hit on food smells?”

Oh shit...I couldn't help but laugh ”OK, so we're now blowing shit up and killing people with chocolate scented Semtex. I love this job.”

He laughed. Now you need to understand that Felix's laugh is...unique. I've never heard a “maniacal laugh” outside of a movie, but Felix's qualified. Now that I think of it, Felix may just qualify as a mad scientist, or at least as a mad chemical engineer. I waved as I left and walked downstairs to the electrical shop.

Jeff was working on one of the limpet systems for the submersibles. It was a PVC ring 18 inches across with six electromagnets spaced around it mounted to the edge of a copper bowl. The whole thing would be filled with Semtex, the magnets wired to a capacitor bank and mounted to the underside of a submersible for transport. Once at the launch site the initiator caps would be installed and water proofed then the sub would be in the water and away from us.

“Anything wrong kid?” I asked. One of the electromagnets was dissected and splayed out over the workbench.

“Nah, just not getting enough of a field out of number 4. I think it's a problem with the composition of the base magnet. Don't have the equipment to fix it so I'm just going to replace it.”

“Quality control in the Chinese magnet factories has gone to shit has it?” He looked up, his grin blinding in his coal-black face.

His eyes flicked down to my hand. “That the initiator materials?”

I nodded. “You gonna be done soon? I can take it back up if you're going to be a while.”

He shook his head. “I'll have this done in a jiff. Leave it over there in the plastic cabinet and I'll have them built by 1900.”

“Good man.” I said as I turned and headed for the door.

“You did what?” I stared in exasperation at JT and Bobby.

“We dismantle de engine on de Hurricane.” JT's Cajun drawl made it sound as though it were an everyday occurrence.

Bobby just smiled through the grease, oil, rust and grime that coated his face and torso except where the goggle had fit over his eyes.

“We're supposed to start operations in 4 days you damned Coonass! And the boat's named the Skipjack.” I shouted, visions of failing to make our exfil after the attack or worse, not being on time for the attack fogging my vision.

“Me an' Bobby decide dat stupid name. Hurricane much better. Beside, we already repaint 'er. Ain't no worry about de engine sergeant, me 'an Bobby have 'er in tip top shape come time for trials and have the bugs worked out before the op.”

I looked at him sceptically “You'd better. You need anymore hands for this evolution?”

Bobby snickered and JT just laughed “Mais no boss-man. None of the loose fellahs know the difference b'tween an injector port an' exhaust manifold. Bobby may not know boats but he know engines.”

“My people race stock cars Sergeant and back during the first prohibition we ran 'shine out of the Kentucky hollers. I grew up with a torque wrench as a rattle.” Bobby's delight at surprising me was evident in his boyish grin.

“Ok. What about the Q section?” I asked.

“Done.” came the reply “and the deployment crane is rigged and ready.”.

“Good.” At 2 feet wide and 4 feet long the 200 lb submersible drones were too heavy and bulky to manhandle overboard by hand. Thus the necessity of a 10 foot tall boom crane with a 15 foot arm that would allow us to winch the drones out of the hold and over the side into the water.

“And the scuttling charges?”

“Also done, 'do I really hope we don' have to use 'em boss. 'De Hurricane be a fine boat to go shrimpin' in after 'de war be over.”

“I hope so to JT. Carry on.”

Saturday came around and sure enough, JT and Bobby had the engine rebuilt and reinstalled. I sent them out with Thorson and Fuches to put her though her paces since they both claimed to have some boat handling experience..

Our part of the plan was fairly simple. At 0200 hours we were to maneuver our sub-drones away from our trawler and into the harbor at Naval Station Everett, lock two 5 Kilo limpets on to the hull of each vessel and set the timers to detonate at 0600 hours. One man would monitor the the area via another drone submersible outfitted with radio intercept and relay gear and a cleverly disguised periscope. The whole thing looked like a piece of floating driftwood.

Once that was accomplished, we would use the quadrotors to deliver several charges of thermite gel with an initiator onto every aircraft we could manage at NAS Whidby Island. Whenever the quadrotors were noticed or as soon as we managed to dope every aircraft was when we were to detonate all our charges. Expectation was that we would sink every naval vessel in the port and burn a foot wide hole straight through 50-75% of the aircraft. If we were lucky, we'd detonate or ignite some of the jet fuel and burn the hangars to the ground, taking all the aircraft with them. Once out attack was completed, we were to dump all our gear including the crane in the sound and then go back to our base. In case we were ordered to heave to for boarding we had the Q section in reserve.

The Q section consisted of an antique 40mm lvakan m/48 cannon we'd rigged on a platform in the hold. In less than 60 seconds we could raise her and get her into action, laying 240 rounds per minute onto any target to either side or the aft of the boat. The arms dealer had happened to have both contact fused shells as well as VT shells on hand so we took both. In case we had to fire the thing we'd outfitted the hull with scuttling charges and thermite charges to destroy the Hurricane's hulk entirely. Hard for the feds to trace us if they have nothing to work with for forensic evidence.

Simultaneously, 24 other squads would launch their own attacks on local military installations, federal Law enforcement offices, the office of the Mayor and his staff, and the FEMA branch offices. RoE specifically were to leave the Coast Guard, Fire Department and EMTs alone. No sense in targeting people who actually do good work.

44 hours to the jump off point.

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.