Mark squinted through the intense sunlight as he walked down the pathway of dead grass that ran from his front door to the mailbox at the bottom of the hill. He had always thought of the outdoors as a wasteland, full of unbearable solar radiation and the unfortunate people it had mutated into brainless self-obsessed monsters.
Two of the most especially young and blond and tan and brainless walked past on the sidewalk. One smiled and issued a polite hello as she walked, while the other giggled. He stopped for just a minute to pity them, especially their tight little asses as they wiggled away... such a shame.
He opened his mailbox with the usual expectations and was rewarded with a large stack of mail. There was always lots of mail, junk mail that is. Anna Kate, Mark's wife, had insisted on putting herself on every mailing list possible, refusing to listen to his pleas. 'It's garbage, it's killing trees!' but she insisted that she got valuable coupons this way, money saving deals and interesting things to read. Sure... if you believe that finding more things to spend money on actually saves you something in the long run.
Sorting through the pile on the way up to the house didn't soothe Mark's worries any; a coupon book from the price club, an ad for a furniture store, a stuffed envelope from the publishers clearing house. That was a nice change, at least he might have already won, and that was a step better than reality.
Not until he was finally back into his house, away from the lethal solar radiation did he relax, throwing his recently discovered postal treasure onto the kitchen counter. The variety of junk landed still neatly stacked, save for one letter that managed to flee from the middle of the stack and off the far edge of the counter. Not taking any extra seconds for worry, Mark made his way around the counter and reached for the piece of runaway mail, curious to see which shameless advertisement had been smart enough to separate itself from the rest of the trash-destined pack.
The envelope was a cute pink, with beautiful gold writing making up the address: Rhonda Dickson, 16235 Hillwood Drive, East Lyme, CT 06333. What was this for his lovely 12-year-old daughter? The return address just said 'The Girl's Club.' He eyed it suspiciously, it must have been one of those teenybopper stickers and poster, silly little girl things that he never quite understood, but still, it looked a little fancy for something so trivial.
Unable to restrain his curiosity, Mark peeled open the envelope. After all, he has a responsibility to make sure his daughter isn't getting involved in any trouble, or being hooked into some sort of scam. Inside the envelope is a neatly folded home-made newspaper, adorned with the simple title 'Weekly Newsletter of The Girl's Club,' he skims the article titles half-amusedly; 'The Myth of Equality,' 'How to Stay In Control,' 'Wrinkles Ironed Out In Game.' It sounded like some sort of young feminist newsletter, surely Anna Kate's doing, "A girl's gotta learn at a young age that she's worthy of power" she told him once. He slid the newsletter back in its envelope and tossed it aside.
A loud and steady ticking suddenly took over his thoughts and he looked up, now studying the big clock his wife had recently come home with. For some reason he couldn't understand roman numerals. It wasn't that he was slow or had some form of dyslexia or learning disability; he just didn't want to learn. He hated roman numerals, he hated the clock, and he hated the credit card bill his wife had "borrowed" in order to procure it. But despite his feelings he could see the hands were close enough to the very top to warrant a lunch, and he buried himself in the refrigerator. Anna Kate may have been loose with money and unsympathetic with his hate for unnecessary decorations but she was a great cook, and there were always leftovers of something delicious in the fridge.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Mark looked up from the refrigerator, curious to find the source of the noise.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
It was coming from the window in the living room. A very bad feeling washed over him that he couldn't explain. The front door was unlocked, any thief could have seen him go out to check his mail, would have known that, would have known he was still there... it was the middle of the day for crissakes.
What if it were some sort of psychopath or serial killer? He stepped back from the refrigerator, closing the door with a dull thud.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
He steps into the living room, but can't get any sort of view out the window from the doorway. He takes a few steps towards it and then thinks twice. He's seen too many movies with attackers jumping through closed windows, as strong as monsters, showering their prey with broken glass and landing on them with deadly force.
Mark made his way to the wall farthest from the window and edged over. As the glass came into view he was puzzled; it was dark outside... XI, that was eleven he realized now, it was eleven in the morning. He looked over his shoulder to the window next to the front door, sunlight poured in just like always. There was no solar eclipse or anything over the house, so why was that one window so dark?
He kept edging until he was finally directly across from the window. He squinted, making out the vague shapes of people moving in the darkness, but it was apparently too much darker outside the window to see anything clearly.
With a loud crash the window shatters, followed by a pop and an intense burst of light. Mark clutches his ears and squeezes his eyes shut, squiggles of white squirming in what should have been the pitch blackness provided by his eyelids.
A pair of hands lock on to each of his arms and he forces his eyes open, desperate for a look at his captors. They seem smaller than they should be, smaller even than himself, who was by no means a big guy. 'They're dressed in uniforms like characters from Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six,' he thinks to himself, 'What's going on here?'
One of his carriers looks down at him through goggle-shielded eyes and signals to the other to stop. Mark looks on curiously as the person withdraws a small pen-like object, with a red light at the end. He stares into the light, he can almost make something out inside it, like a tiny TV screen. He squints and his vision focuses deeper, there is another intense flash of light, and he passes out.
Mark senses movement when his consciousness returns, his movement. Not like he's being carried, but like he's in a car, going fast. He opens his eyes and confirms his beliefs. He's in the back of what would seem to be a limousine, sitting in handcuffs on a soft bench, facing two women on a similar bench across from him.
The woman directly in front of him is absolutely gorgeous, a tall blond, her long tan legs revealed beneath the skirt of her power jacket dress. Her hair was blond and held up tightly behind her head, her glasses had thin black wire rims and her lenses looked thinner, no light reflected off them whatsoever, Mark almost wanted to reach out and touch them, just to make sure they were really there.
The other woman was in a the traditional blue uniform of an East Lyme Police officer, her hair was long and dark, and wavy as it fell to her shoulders. She greeted him with a warm smile as he examined her, almost inappropriate for the situation.
"He's awake," cues the blond.
The policewoman begins, "Mark Dickson, you have been charged with the crime of reading a Girl's Club Newsletter-"
"You mean this is all about mail tampering?" He responded with shock to the accusation.
His outburst was met with an annoyed sigh, "No, this is about you not doing as you're told. That piece of mail wasn't addressed to you, signaling that you shouldn't have opened it, and you just couldn't obey."
"It was addressed to my daughter. I have a legal right as a parent..." Mark started and stopped again, small pieces of the puzzle clicking in his head one by one. "What exactly am I being charged with, if you're a policewoman, who is she," he gestures towards the blond. "And wouldn't you call that unnecessary force to arrest me? Police Brutality? And what is this car, its not a police car certainly, where are you taking me?"
The blond woman took her turn on an annoyed sigh. "You never have a right to open a woman's mail, Mark. A woman's property is sacred, if you were concerned you should have asked your wife to check it for you."
"I don't need parenting tips from you, thanks," he responded rudely.
"And yes, she is a policewoman, but she's not handling this arrest, so the protocol you're expecting is bullshit, and we don't have to tell you anything we don't want to."
"Well do you want to tell me then?"
The blond woman smiles an evil grin, "Beg." Her eyes seem to light up giving the command.
A tremor shot through Mark, a burst of fear clouding his mind. The desperation of his situation was revealing itself, like in those movies about Americans visiting communist countries who are arrested by secret police for trivial crimes and given outrageous sentences because they don't know how to defend their right; he had to obey.
"Please Miss, Please tell me who you are, why you arrested me, Please." He poured his heart into the string of words, the fear and need was apparent in his voice.
The policewoman couldn't help but laugh at his pathetic show, but the blond woman just frowned. "I don't like being called Miss," she grumbled.
Mark knew what he had to do, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I don't know what I was thinking, er... ma'am? No.. Ms.. Mrs.. er.." He stops, seeing the blond woman's glare only darken.
"You're digging yourself deeper," the officer chuckles.
The blonde's sour expression turns suddenly into a smile, "I like that, a guy who can't do anything but dig himself deeper into my debt, no matter how hard he tries. It's so... fitting."
He just stares at the pair in anticipating horror.
"Now sit back, we're done humiliating you for now."
Realizing how far he is leaning forward, Mark relaxes and lets his back reconnect with the soft upholstery of the seats, and separates his hands from their pleading gesture, stretching his fingers a couple times and letting them rest in his lap once more, as far away as the handcuffs will allow them to be from one another.
"I am a representative of the Girl's Club Bob, from now on you can call me..." she pauses for a moment, trying to add another kick to the suspense, "...Goddess Dawn, that is, if you choose to refer to me. I'll leave that up to you. For now I'm just here to welcome you to the game."
Dawn deliberately ignores the question and moves on. "The Masons, The Bonesmen, they are all babies in comparison with the Girl's Club. We have been around longer and are the end all be all of secret societies, mainly because unlike those others we are still a secret and always will be. We have but one goal, the empowerment of the female gender."
Mark tries to hide his amusement. If they've been around as long as they say they have they sure took a long time to act. The one thing women haven't been in history is empowered; even today equality was a stretch.
The policewoman reads his eyes and smirks. "He doesn't understand."
"Mark," Dawn begins, "Empowerment doesn't mean equality, or even making females the dominant gender in everyday life. The right to vote, women's lib, these aren't things we did, we're more behind the scenes."
"So what do you do?"
"You'll see, in time. Just for now recognize our basic message. Women are better than men. Women are more powerful."
"More powerful? Better? No offense, I mean, my wife is practically a feminist, but I think women and men are equal on the grand scale."
"If that were true, why is it that we have such incredible control over men? You just proved that with your pathetic display of begging. One minute you're angry, the next you're lapping at the palm of my hand like a trained puppy."
"I was scared."
"You're a man. I can show you again."
"I'm not going to play this time."
"See? You're angry again. But I still have control. I could put you in the most subservient position imaginable right now."
"Because you're hungry," she stared into his eyes, pronouncing the word hungry slowly, loudly.
"Wouldn't you like a snack Mark? What if it were right here in my lap?" She slid her skirt up slowly. She wasn't wearing panties; her bald pussy was exposed to him. She spread her legs slightly and used to fingers to pull her slit open, just enough to cause a little pink to become visible, glistening in the light. "Would you eat, Mark?"
He leaned forward despite himself, his mouth watering... hungry?
"Would you BEG, Mark?"
He would have, but right now for some reason, unknown to Mark or the policewoman or even Goddess Dawn, he passed out.
"They're always done before I even get started."
When Mark awoke he was once again moving, held on both sides by those hands. Had the car scene been just a dream?
"What happened," he moaned weakly.
Goddess Dawn's familiar voice greeted him. "You got a whiff of paradise," she said dramatically, "and you couldn't handle it."
"What did you do to me? Why do I keep passing out?"
"Well the first time was a trick of light, we managed to trap your nervous system into making a rash decision about external stimulus, causing you to pass out, but that episode back in the car was all you bucko."
The implicit joke failed to reach Mark as he hit the floor. His happy escorts, who this time were wearing nice solid sky blue (not police) uniforms, unloaded him into a small sterile white padded room.
"See you later," Dawn called, her voice just making through it through the door as it slid closed, and seemingly disappeared into the wall, making it impossible to determine where it had opened in the first place.
"At least yours is nice!" An angry male voice shouted at him. Mark was not alone in this tiny room.
Mark looked up at the white metal folding chair in front of him, then to the white table in front of it, then to the rather dirty looking man on the other side of it, sitting in a second white metal folding chair.
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Mr Double's Palisade A MrDouble Production:
Changes last made on: Thursday, September 20, 2001