Belly of the Beast Pt. 02 - Gilded Cage

INTO THE BELLY OF THE BEAST: Pt2 The gilded Cage

I was sitting in the cab of a deuce-n-half, a 6.5 ton military truck, waiting in a parking lot near the service entrance of St Stephen Martyr Hospital. I had orders from my boss, companion and assistant driver Gunnery Sergeant Abby Meyers to stay with the vehicle and prevent it from falling into "opposing force's" hands. "Opposing forces,"

No, we weren't at war. Swept up along with my husband Jerry in a draft to curb youthful unemployment, I had drawn a local assignment in Support Services to the Induction Center; Jerry had been shipped out, returned to the Marine Corps.

I often joked with Sergeant Meyers that hell in this non-war was missing Jerry. Otherwise, with Meyer's help, I had permission to live off -- the installation in my house. I slept in my own bed, was driven to work in Meyer's official vehicle and drew rent money for renting rooms both to myself and to Meyers. In effect financially I was better off, with Meyers having replaced Jerry. While transporting our cargo of Rejects to SSM Hospital, Meyers warned that I was about to pay for all my blessings.

Ever the cynic, my husband Jerry said of this massive call -- up, "Ach, the politicians are engaging in social engineering, splitting up couples and spreading money around. They figure that splitting up couples will reduce the birth rate and political elites will be rewarded with freshly printed money for their own incompetency."

I remember so well what Jerry taught me from the way he put it in cute ellipses: "Social engineering // severing couples endearing // to render fecundity // a nullity."

Though Jerry was sent away, I resolved the two of us would not become an evolutionary dead -- end. I might have preferred having six inches of Jerry shooting warm man juice inside me. Jerry wouldn't touch me after we go those call -- up notices, but I knew how to collect, store and administer Jerry's man sap. Before the economic collapse, I had worked in a Fertility Clinic.

I would not have long to bask in the glow of having financially benefited from the call -- up in large part with Meyer's aid navigating the system. With our ebullient cargo of Rejects joyously singing on their way to processing at SSM Hospital, Meyers reiterated her warning that the time to pay for all my blessings approached.

This warning came at a time when I, along with Sergeant Meyers, was within two weeks of release from Service Support to complete my degree in Industrial Psychology, at government expense. "I'm sure your husband Jerry the Marine taught you that good invariably comes with the bad," sighed Sergeant Meyers.

"A dark cloud covers every silver lining," I quipped.

To get that release, Meyers and I had to give a commitment to serve 10 years. "Likely, the crisis will have died down by the time you get the degree and you probably won't be required to serve," the Commandant at the Induction Center told me as she approved the transfer. "The call -- ups give me more people than I can use. All this does is clear you and Meyers off my books."

The rejects I had carried in the back of the truck were also being written off the books.

On the drive to St Stephen Martyr Hospital's 13 story concrete tower with a cargo of naked Rejects, two women and a man, who thought they could avoid national service by simply laying on the ground and refusing to qualify, Meyers was uneasy.

"Listen up, Gunny," I deliberately used military slang for her rank when I called Meyer's attention to the chant from the rear, "you're morose but our cargo's spirits are undaunted. In their undampened spirits, our giddy cargo won't offer much resistance."

From the back we heard the cargo celebrating impending discharge -- prematurely: "Jumping off a deuce -- n -- half // bursting out with a belly laugh // escaping servitude our craft // waiting to beseech, implore // the doctor for an autograph // to send us out the door."

Chuckling Meyers commented, "I love the way you put things. You're writing my papers when we return to school. Taking a deep exasperated breath, Meyer through gritted teeth revealed, "Still, something in my gut tells me we're walking in on the exercise. Our cargo is short one cunt ..." Meyer's voice quaked as it trailed off.

I winced. Meyers may have used harsh language talking to inductees, but I never heard her invoke the most offencive word in the English language. "We pulled that stuck -- up chick -- a -- dee out of the shipment because she was such a bitch," I reminded Meyers.

"Ehhhr," Meyers growled, "Ehhhr -- I suppose losing that third female couldn't be avoided. Still, why did the Induction Center cuff naked rejects?" Meyers looked toward the back, "Rejects who think they're headed home should willingly cooperate. Besides we ship all the rejects raw; chances are few will want to run."

I chose calming words to reply, "Like you said, someone has to be taught a lesson."

"The lesson may be for you," Sergeant Meyers warned me that before my release, I faced one final test: Survival Escape and Evasion.

"You're being sent into the belly of the beast. You'll be taken without notice,"

Meyers informed me, "When and where, I don't know for sure," Drawing a deep breath, Meyers advised, "Your test is one of intelligence, integrity and commitment. You must escape from captors. Your task: the eh--warrior's duty: escape with your companion if you can. How you escape is up to you."

"My husband Jerry the Marine never spoke of this," I told Meyers.

"There are dangers," Meyers informed me, "The people you're dealing with may not know this is a game--expect them to fight back--"

"Maybe I shouldn't have spent my paycheck on these new boots," I quipped, "I'd hate to lose a new pair of boots -- They say this winter will be brutal.".

"As serious as things are," Meyers chuckled, "You can still make me laugh. Listen up: Bust out -- with your companion -- that's me and you'll have release papers in your hands and mine too. And we'll be back in school together."

As I turned into the parking lot, I noticed short perky, golden haired Dr Edna Velour, my former boss in "real life." A white lab coat with silver eagles on the shoulder straps hung over a simple white frock. Meyers snorted, "You know the Sadist of St Stephen's?"

"I used to work for her when she ran a fertility clinic before the economic crash," I recalled, "When I first met her, I thought her too pretty to be a doctor."

"Pretty?" Meyers questioned. "Things can get pretty ugly for our cargo, under her command," Meyers reported.

"Velour is a bit of a strange duck. She insists on examining patients, ungowned, naked. My pre -- employment physical actually was a stimulating encounter. I was on the verge of cumming after Dr Velour bent me over for a little finger fucking," I paused, "In polite society, that's called, a bimanual pelvic examination," I recounted my pre -- employment physical. "I was pissed -- she was nasty. She abruptly pulled out."

"Worse than a man," Meyers nervously laughed as Velour disappeared into the service entrance.

As soon as I had pulled the vehicle into the loading zone of the hospital, usually calm and impassive, Sergeant Meyer tensed up as if a bolt of lightning shot through her body. Her voice quivered. I touched her shoulder; her body shook. "I don't like this," Meyer's voice trembled, "No one on the loading dock to receive the delivery." Handing me the keys to the truck, nothing more than a cardboard card with an electronic disk in the center, small enough to fit in a wallet. Meyers reminded me, "Do not surrender the keys. Secure the property; keep it from falling into hands of 'opposing forces.' I have to take the rejects inside. Lose a prisoner, you serve their term."

I could feel Meyers shudder when she clinched my arm. Speaking in a calm reassuring tone, I reminded Meyers that I, not she, was being tested. "Let me help you off-load cargo."

"Stay in the cab. I'm sure it's going down," Meyers declared. To my protest that she might need help, Meyers informed me, "If we were taken together, `opposing forces' would have both of us and the vehicle too."

"`Opposing forces?'" I questioned.

"Whoever it is that will take you." Her voice was quivered, her hand shook. Pointing a finger, me, Meyers reminded me, "You can't allow our property to fall into hands of opposing forces. Hide the keys -- somewhere. The vehicle will be searched. So will you. After I off -- load the rejects, park the vehicle, hide the keys, stay with the vehicle, and wait for me. Remember to pass: not only must break yourself out, you must get me out and keep our property, this vehicle, from falling into hands of opposing forces."

During the wait, I carefully surveyed my environs, the parking lot. There were cameras everywhere. I started walking around looking for a place to hide the key, my wallet, and my phone too without being observed. If I were challenged by a guard or asked about it later, I'd say I was looking for a quiet place to pee.

I found a trash receptacle near a corner of the building out of the range of the cameras. Standing on feet, the trash bin provided a narrow space underneath in which I could secrete my phone and the key could be secreted. To cover my tracks as it were, I found another quiet spot to take a leak. "Damn, Jerry," I thought aloud addressing my absent husband as I squatted, "guys have it too easy."

Seconds later, I climbed back in the cab watching the service entrance and waiting. The man who had been on the back of the truck with the female rejects, tapped on the driver's side door. "How do you like the new duds they issued me to go home in?" The reject, modelling the white frock and booties of Humanitarian services, boasted, "I got my discharge."

"Full of glee // foot loose and fancy free!" I looked suspiciously at his frock, "you are a sight to see // you don't need to hear me preach// Liberated, why bother me // your instinct should teach // you'd better flee." A lot more of Jerry rubbed off on me, than I might have expected.

The reject climbed on the running board and rapped on the roof of the cab, answering in a lyric, "I'm off and gone. For me it's goodbye, but the black sergeant lady wants you inside."

The message sent a shiver went through me. Before I could press the Reject for further information, the Reject had disappeared. I walked up to the canopied rear entrance.

As I approached the entrance, the door was opened. A tall red-haired woman in the white frock of Humanitarian Services formally addressed me by title when she beckoned, "Assistant Clerical Specialist Amy Warbler, this way please."

Inside the Hospital, I found myself in an unfurnished concrete surfaced corridor lit by dangling pipes. Pipes hung from the ceiling. My booted footfalls echoed off the whitewashed cinderblock walls. My escort opened a steel door upon a waiting room. Though it was a little bigger than a walk -- in closet, the waiting area boasted of a black leather sofa, the size of a love seat.

"Have a seat." My escort Red pointed to the couch. "Reception will be with you shortly."

When I heard the click of the door locked behind me, I fought the impulse to panic in the confined area. Instincts particularly the fight -- or -- fight syndrome, my husband Jerry taught, are tricky. The untrained person in a critical situation will make all the wrong moves. Take a breath. Explore your surroundings and consider your options and alternatives.

Jerry put this gem in one of him memorable limericks, "Decisions which burden // the untrained person // without an inner voice // making choices // that are the worst."

I quickly surveyed my environs. For a holding cell, this room with finished walls and a drop ceiling, seemed rather nice, I discoursed on air. Shielding my eyes from the glare of the reflection of the intense overhead lighting on the freshly polished white tiled floor, I proceeded toward the plexiglass window where a receptionist would have been stationed presumably to control access to the premises through an adjacent entry door.

Entry to where or what? I wondered as I tested the door. Secured like the entry door, I should have guessed, but it was worth the try.

Leaning on the ledge under the plexiglass window, I peered into the unmanned receptionist station. Above the ledge, a horizontal slit about 6" high ran along the length of the plexiglass window. Directly beyond the window, there were several cubicles. All appeared to be vacant.

To my left there was an elevated podium. Against the wall were two palm prints. and a height chart. Camera equipment was on a movable table.

To the immediate left of the podium was a toilet, several inches higher off the ground than usual. Would my feet reach the floor if I were sitting on this throne? I doubted. Next to the toilet was a shower head, open to view. Whatever may happen, will happen there.

What had happened to Sergeant Meyers? When she left me in the truck, Meyers, taking a deep breath to steel herself, reassured me that she volunteered knowing what she had gotten herself into. With my kiss planted on her lips, Meyers swung out of the cab. Barking at our cargo of rejects to climb out of the vehicle and form up on the sidewalk, Meyers shouted in her firm voice, "All I want to hear is three cunts sucking in the breeze. Sweeties, you ain't out yet and you have no idea when you're in for at the hands of the Sadist of St Stephen's. The initials aren't S.M. for nothin.'"

What was I in for? I had no way of knowing. Should I be afraid?

Whizzing cameras followed me as I moved about the room. As I stopped to admire a painting of a covered bridge on the wall opposite the sofa, I could feel the cameras focusing on me.

I sighed. Hmm, the intimidation game.

How had Sergeant Meyers handled the waiting game? She had been shaking when she left the cab of the tuck, but in seconds showed bravado in front of the Rejects when she marched them into the belly of the beast. Why had she volunteered? The watch word was "Never Volunteer." What was the motivation?

Motivations were supposedly my field. In my two years out of school, I finally found a use for some of my learning in pursuing a degree in Industrial Psychology. What did Meyers seek: power, prestige and position: the degree would make her an officer. Schooling gave her time away from the Corps to have a kid. Where did I fit in? I could help her with both. I had worked in Dr Velour's fertility clinic and stored Jerry's man juice. I had planned to get pregnant; I had preserved enough of Jerry's man sap to impregnate both Meyers and me.

Before Meyers jumped from the cab, I promised her we'd get pregnant together at the same time from the same man's juice. "That way we'll make medical history: two different women having twins."

"One black, one white," Meyers laughed.

"A perfect pair!" I declared.

Cheered, Meyers jumped from the cab to face the rejects like an angry bulldog.

I hoped I gave Meyers the motivation to deal with the intimidation of the waiting game. Now what was the RX for my situation? Oh, I understood that the delay was a purposeful display of naked power, precedence and position. Days begin early at the Induction Center. I might as well enjoy the opportunity the waiting game presents by napping out.

I'm not sure how long I have been asleep when I was jolted into consciousness. My name was blared out over hidden speakers. The screaming voice sounded exasperated: "Warbler, I'm telling you for the last time: on your feet." Shaking myself awake, I struggled to get on my feet. "Warbler," the voice roared, "up on your feet and approach the receptionist's window."

Struggling to my feet and stretching with great exaggeration, I was urged to "get a move -- on." Feigning unsteadiness on my feet, I swayed from side -- to -- side as I mosied toward the window.

At the window, two women in the white frock of Humanitarian Services stood behind the reception desk. Behind them stood another person in the white frock whose sex was ascertainable by the stubble on his face. Chuckling I wondered aloud whether he shaved his legs.

"Warbler, you're entering a secure area of St Stephen Martyr's Hospital," the red-haired woman I had met earlier announced, "I need you to pass any weapons you might have on your person through the slit in the window." When I shook my head, Red demanded all my personal property. "That includes your phone, your money, your loose change, your wallet, your jewellery, your keys, pens, pencils, notepads everything on your person or in your pockets."

When I shook my head, Missy, the brunette on the right snarled, "You're representing to us that you're bring nothing in with you, not even a few loose coins. Is that correct?" I again nodded.

"Very Well! Those black boots look sharp against the tan bottoms. Pass them through," Red commanded in a calm voice.

"Which do you want," I asked, "the pants or the boots?"

"You might as well hand over both," came the reply from Missy, the brunette. "We wasted too much time waiting you out."

As I balanced on one leg to remove my boots, Red shushed her brunette colleague. Just as I congratulated myself that my tactic in handling the waiting game worked, Missy, the brunette snapped, "I got first dibs on those boots. All rejects from the Induction Center are shipped in plucked clean and naked."

"I do handle," the Red countered, "the runners, y'know, the deserters, the police bring in. They're clothed, but most of their stuff has to be burnt."

"Pity me," Whiskers, the man with bristles spouting from his face, interjected, "I have to search the runners. Shouldn't we make them shower before being searched?"

Passing my boots and trousers through the window and standing in my shirttails, I listened to the two women banter back and forth about who had the grimier job. While pulling my pants inside out to examine the seams, the red head interrupted the dispute to demand my socks, "White frilly edged anklets, I don't believe it! Hand them through too."

"I claim them too," the brunette Missy asserted as she banged my boots to see if anything fell out. To me, Missy demanded, "OK, sweetie, hand over your top."

Whiskers snickered, "over the top with the top."

Taking a deep breath, I carefully unbuttoned the small silver buttons on the sleeve before opening the front of the shirt. Removing my arms from the sleeves, I deliberately folded the shirt, and passed it, with a sigh, through the slit.

Hmm, I thought to myself, Jerry would have taught in a memorable rill: "Trapped, oppressed // in an ordeal // you can't resist // offer no protest // no cease and desist // docility feigned // your sense peak // in a game of nerve // listen, uncover observe // the spot of your enemy's weakness."

Nonplussed, I swayed modelling my underwear for Mr Whiskers, the man in the dress, whose eyes followed my every move. Hmm, he imagines females, I thought, he doesn't imagine being a female.

While the brunette Missy shook my shirt out, Red ordered, "hands on your head."

Pulling the breast pockets out, with the comment, "not even a speck of lint," Missy, the brunette grunted, "no need to be nasty. Unlike the other one, she's cooperating."

Nudged with an elbow, Mr Whiskers agreed, "that short black girl was one big muscle. It took all three of us to get her uniform off."

"I'd have given up and cut it off," Red admitted, "but Dr Eda Velour, our Bitch -- in -- Chief wanted that uniform intact."

To me the brunette in a syrupy sweet voice, asked with mock solicitude, "sweetie, you're not going to cause us problems. Are you?" Turning my blouse inside -- out, Missy, the brunette carefully inspected the seams, running her fingernails across every stitch. To the Red's quizzical look, Missy, the brunette muttered "Nothing, no keys."