Hard Time

Bob pounded Carol hard. She wanted to feel used, out of control, and completely owned, and he enjoyed giving her what she craved. The animal in him loved the sheer physicality of their rough couplings. He stood on the floor, lifted her stiletto heels over his shoulders and pinned her thighs to his chest with his broad, calloused hands. The bed shuddered and groaned. Again and again he plunged inside her, more and more excited by the sight of her jouncing breasts and the sheen of sweat beginning to coat her chestnut skin.

His gaze drifted to Carol's smooth muff. If it were possible, he would have gotten harder. "Tell me," he growled, "Who do your holes belong to?"

The door burst open. Two men in helmets and full body armor raced into the room, guns drawn. One went deep left, the other deep right. With a crash, the skylight shattered, sending shards of glass cascading onto the startled lovers below. Four more hulking men rappelled into the room to secure the premises.

"What the fuck?" Bob shouted. So startled was he that he neglected to extricate himself from Carol.

"Who the hell are you?" Carol shrieked. She had propped herself up on her elbows and was staring, wide-eyed and just a tiny bit excited by the room full of armed and armored men.

When one of the men who had entered through the skylight turned to answer Carol, Bob saw the lettering on the back of his jacket: GRAMMAR POLICE. "Grammar police," the man told her.

A tired man in a brown, well-worn sport coat, faded tie, and scuffed brogues entered the room. "Really, Bob, did you think you'd get away with it?"

"Get away with what?"

"Using the nominative case where the objective belongs. Ending with a preposition. 'Who do your holes belong to?' Come on, Bob. Try, 'To whom do your holes belong?'"

Bob realized he should probably exit Carol's midsection. He pulled up his pants and pleaded his case. "Listen, Detective. It was a mistake. I'm not the kind of guy that uses bad grammar."

"Jesus, Bob, don't make this harder on yourself. 'Who,' not 'that.' You're not the kind of guy 'who' uses bad grammar. And yes, you are. I'm afraid you're coming downtown."

Three hours later, Bob sat pondering the colorless floor of the holding cell in which he was confined. There was a desk, a metal bunk with a ratty mattress, and the stool upon which he now perched. How could he persuade the authorities he didn't belong here? Or was it, "How could he persuade the authorities that here was not where he belonged?" He realized he didn't know the correct sentence structure. He was doomed.

The door clanged open, and Bob looked up to see a guard admit two slender, well-formed women. They were dressed identically in trim, white blouses, pencil skirts, and heels. Both had their hair in tight buns. One wore cat-eye glasses. "Hello, Bob," said the bespectacled woman. "I am Mrs. Hampstead, and this is Mrs. Devonshire. Do you know who we are and why we are here?"

Bob shook his head.

The two women looked at each other, then at Bob. "We are English teachers," said Mrs. Hampstead. "We are also correctional officers. We have found that corrections pays better than teaching, and criminals are better-behaved than teenagers. So we moonlight in the county jail, rehabilitating individuals who commit crimes against language. Are you ready to be rehabilitated, Bob?"

"This is whack," Bob objected.

Mrs. Hampstead frowned. Mrs. Devonshire sighed. "Trust me, Bob," said Mrs. Hampstead, "We've seen tougher cases than you." She nodded to Mrs. Devonshire. The latter approached Bob, her heels clicking smartly on the cement floor. She sank to her knees in front of him, opened his trousers, and took him in her mouth. A few swishes of her tongue on the underside of his manhood brought Bob's staff sergeant to full attention. With her right hand, she gently cupped his jewels.

"Now then, Bob," began Mrs. Hampstead. "Had you paid attention in school, you would not be here. A little remedial instruction is in order. Finish this expression: 'I before E except _____?'"

Bob's attention and blood flow were elsewhere. "Huh?"

Mrs. Devonshire squeezed.

"Ow, fuck! You bitches are crazy!"

Mrs. Devonshire squeezed again, harder.

"Fucking Christ! Okay, okay! C! I before E except after C!"

"Very good, Bob," said Mrs. Hampstead. Mrs. Devonshire nodded enthusiastically toward Bob's loins, and the pain in his scrotum was forgotten. "Let's continue. 'I before E except after C, or _____?'"

"'Or'?" Bob didn't follow. "There's an 'or'?" Mrs. Devonshire gurgled.

Mrs. Hampstead sighed. "I'm going to help you, Bob, although I shouldn't. 'I before E except after C, or when sounded as A, as in _____?'"

Despite the expert service from Mrs. Devonshire, who was now humming a happy tune on his recorder, Bob knew he was in for it. "I don't know," he said. "God help me, I don't know."

Mrs. Devonshire withdrew to the tip of Bob's peninsula and bit down. He hollered until he cried. Mrs. Hampstead strode to him, grabbed the hair on the back of his head, pressed her cheek to his, and whispered in his ear, "Neighbor and weigh, Bob. Neighbor and weigh."

The two women retreated several steps and gave Bob a moment to stop crying and compose himself. Mrs. Devonshire wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Finally, he looked up at them. "I don't understand what's happening," he said, meekly.

Mrs. Hampstead cocked her head. "Why, Bob," she said, "You are being remade into a useful, literate member of society. That's what is happening. Now, penis on the desk, please."

Bob was beyond protesting. He stood and placed his injured, flaccid noodle on the desk. There were teeth marks. From the rear of her skirt, Mrs. Hampstead drew a yardstick, which she handed to Mrs. Devonshire. "No," Bob whimpered, "Please don't."

"Now, Bob," said Mrs. Hampstead. We're teachers. We want you to succeed." She drew his attention to graffiti on the wall of the cell. "Our last pupil was a melodramatic little vandal. Just look at what he wrote there." Bob looked at the wall and saw the words, BEWARE THE FINAL JUDGEMENT. Mrs. Hampstead sighed and shook her head. "We can only do our best. A student has to want to learn. You want to learn, don't you, Bob?" He nodded. "Good," Mrs. Hampstead continued. "Then I'm sure you can tell us how our last pupil erred." Bob looked at the graffiti again, then back at Mrs. Hampstead, questioning and not a little fearful. She frowned, and her tone became sharp. "The misplaced letter, Bob," she said. "What is the misplaced letter?" Bob shook his head. He didn't know.

Mrs. Hampstead nodded to Mrs. Devonshire. With an overhand smash worthy of Roger Federer, Mrs. Devonshire brought the yardstick down on Bob's mangled johnson. "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" His scream echoed down the corridor and sent the cockroaches in the officers' cafeteria scurrying.

"That's correct, Bob," purred Mrs. Hampstead. "Very good."

A week later, Bob was telling Carol the story of his captivity and "instruction" over lunch at the café. "You poor thing," she said. "It's awful how you were treated. They had no right, regardless of your infraction."

Bob made it to the end of the next block at a dead run before Carol even heard the sirens.