Tales of the RAC: The Verdict

Tales of the RAC : The Verdict

Kathryn pushed the food around her tray in small circles. She knew she should try to eat the small bits of dry chicken or the weird grey grits that came with it. If she was found guilty, this might be her last chance for a meal that wasn’t prison rations or an intravenous protein bag. Still, it was nearly noon and her lawyer would be able to leave the courthouse and give her the news. That was one of the positive things about the revolution. When the USA became the RAC, they not only reset the economy, the education system, and the gender balance – they reset the justice system. Every court case from stealing gum to killing someone lasted exactly 30 minutes (ten for the prosecutor, ten for the defense, and ten for the all-male panel to decide on a verdict and give the sentence) and each trial happened within three days of arrest. No waiting, no backlog.

Had it only been three days ago that she had spent the day at work, putting the specs on a blueprint for the new Commonwealth Bureau of Correct Information, on the grounds of some bulldozed museum? Then a quick jog home, shower, luscious dinner with a gorgeous date – sirloin and salad - none of this dehydrated chicken nonsense – and back to her apartment where she wrapped herself around him and felt his velvet lips on her nipples as she opened her legs, inviting him into her body. His entry was clumsy, jagged and, truthfully, he was smaller than she expected. But he was a man, a real man, inside of her. The buzz of the taboo, having illegal sex without marriage, made up for his shortcomings. I mean, she risked six strikes with the cane for this ride. She should enjoy it.

Now she was in a prison issue gray skirt and button blouse, no underwear, no bra, no job, and no rights. As soon as Ron got out of court he’d be telling her if this was a temporary issue or a serious setback. In her denial, she still hoped he could plea her down to six with the cane – which she would gratefully accept as a gift. But she didn’t become a top architect of the Commonwealth by being stupid. The minute police found the box of books under her bed and took that wedding ring out of her lover’s pocket and fit it to his finger, she knew she was doomed.

A buzzer rang as the clock hit twelve and she jumped from her cot, hand over her heart, and looked at the flag painted on the small cell wall. She was a freshman in high school when the revolution took place. She remembered giggling with her friends when the new flag was unfurled, The large vertical stripes – red, white, and blue with the Washington Monument, the capital’s only monument left standing, smack in the center of the white.

“So we are pledging allegiance to the world’s biggest dick?” Karen whispered in her ear.

“Apparently so,” was all Kathryn would commit to say. Her parents assured her there was no whisper the Commonwealth could not hear.

Now the voice of Kathryn Wynn would ring through the cell block along with the voices of every other woman and man under arrest, each loud, clear and in unison.

“I pledge allegiance to the Restored American Commonwealth and to the natural order for which is stands. One nation, given by God to men, with supremacy and order for all.”

She stood at attention until the second buzzer sounded, then returned to her cot. Every building was different. The law was that each citizen must say the pledge once a day – but some places did it in the morning, others when it was time to close. Government offices, she discovered, did it at noon.

“Kathryn, hi,” Ron’s soft voice came through the bars. A guard knocked twice and the nervous woman moved to the back wall and put her hands straight out. She didn’t move until the door closed and Rom was alone in the room. “How are you?”

“I’m fine. Okay, I’m not fine, I’m…” the woman searched for the words – “I’m going crazy! Tell me the verdict!”

“Sit down, please,” Ron said in an even tone. Was that a good sign or a bad one? Ron looked at the six foot tall woman, imaging what she was going to look like in a few hours when they shaved off her beautiful red locks, and removed the rest of her hair as well. Would she still be so pretty, so feminine and alluring when her hair and her clothes were gone?

“Well?” Kathryn crossed and uncrossed her legs. Her parents spent a lot of their money paying for a defense lawyer. Most people just accepted the sentence and endured it. Better to take a public lashing than a prison term for going into debt later. But, Kathryn’s dad felt like the charges were bad enough that getting some help was the right thing to do.

Ron opened his RAC Legal Policy and Procedure folder and began to read from the approved script. He reached out and held her hand as he did so.

“Kathryn Wynn, it is my duty to inform you that a panel of five of your superior community members has heard your case. You have been found guilty of the following charges:

Unlawful sexual intercourse without marriage or a permit.

Unlawful sexual congress with a married man.

Possession of unlawful literature – specifically, history books from Old America.

Possession of unlawful literature – specifically, feminist theory.

Possession of unlawful literature – unapproved poetry and prose.

Treason against the RAC level 1 – preparing to incite unrest of the national order.

“What?” Kathryn’s hands shook as he read the verdict. Her heart sank and she felt like she was going to throw up or pass out any moment. How could this be happening? “I didn’t know he was married! I had some old books of my parents I kept because they reminded me of the old days, and I don’t even know what this treason business is about!”

“They were books on the banned list. They were feminist positive books. The prosecution played a video of a speech you gave about the importance of giving women a well-rounded education and equal pay. You quoted several people on the feminist prohibition list. Owning feminist books and the tape of the speech made it easy to charge you with treason. Personally, I think it’s overkill.”

“But those were some ideas I had in college. I don’t think that way anymore,” she whined.

“Well, ideas may be fleeting but You-tube is forever,” Ron looked down at the official paper. “I need to read the whole thing and then we can talk.”

Tears were already rolling down the young woman’s face, she grabbed his hand and tried to stifle her sobs so he could continue. “Go ahead.”

Ron cleared his throat and loosened his tie. This was the part of his job he hated the most. It didn’t bother him when he took the checks to the bank, but right now, it sucked. “The panel recognizes evidence that the accused was not aware she was violating someone’s marriage at the time of her transgression. However, ignorance is not an excuse. The panel finds the sexual offenses are minor and will be met with leniency.”

“Oh, thank God,” Kathryn gasped. At least they listened to reason, and the money her parents put out for a lawyer was well spent. But then, he continued.

“However, the persistent pattern of disregard for Commonwealth laws regarding thought, literature, and the potential for creating gender discord in the public order is by far a more serious charge. Treason cannot be ignored. The mind is as dangerous as a bomb. Therefore we designate Kathryn Wynn as an Intellectual Criminal of the Restored American Commonwealth and sentence her to enslavement to labor on behalf of the Commonwealth. She is hereby remanded to the custody of the RAC Department of Corrections to serve:  one month of RAC Corrections Training, including a Re-education Intensive Requirement, 3 years menial labor and physical conditioning at Punishment Block 6, then transition into the general labor force.”

“On my god,” Kathryn collapsed in the floor, her head on Ron’s shoes. “No, no, no I can’t. I can’t do this. Oh God, no.”

Ron waited until she could catch her breath before he tried to explain her sentence. “The panel did sign off on a waiver so that if you receive good reports after your first two years of prison you can skip the third year and go straight to the auction block.”

“Auction block?” The sobbing woman wiped her eyes again and tried to focus, even though her sorrow made the room spin.

“Don’t worry, sweetie,” Ron tried to be comforting. It really was a shame. She was sexy and smart.  If he had met her before she was arrested, he might have been interested in breaking the law with her himself. “You’re only 27. You’ll be just under 30 when you’re on the block. Chances are you’ll get bought by a family looking for a house slave or a corporation wanting an office slave. In fact, your old company might be willing to buy you. My law firm bought one of our lawyers from general labor. She was caught with a forged passport attempting to leave the RAC. After her punishment term, we bought her and put her right back in her office.”

“She’s a lawyer again?” Kathryn managed a small smile. She was one of the top architects of the Bradley, Lawson and Associates. Maybe Mr. Bradley would take her back.

“Well, no, of course not. She’s an office slave for one of the partners. She gets his copies, coffee, tea, waits under his desk for orders, sucks him off before meetings so he can concentrate, proofs his work then at night she cleans the building and services the night guards with the other slaves. But she’s not in a factory or on a farm and she gets the suggested 6 hours of sleep and two meals a day.”

“Oh.” Her voice quivered again as her dreams were shattered. Her career, the thing she worked so hard for, lived for, her source of income and pride, was over. “How many years will the general labor last?”

Ron lifted his eyebrows and stared into the red weepy eyes of his client. Some people really were ignorant about the cost of treason. “Until you die, of course. Well, years from now an owner may die without an heir or free you, but that’s very rare.”

“What are you saying?” Her mouth dropped open in sheer horror, but her eyes were finally clear. “I’m a slave? Forever?”

“Yes, Kathryn.” Ron stood up to leave, straightening out the crease in his pants. “You committed treason. You’ve been sentenced for life.”

###

As Ron walked through the small cell door two guards with her processing packet pushed past him. They couldn’t wait to get their hands on the leggy redhead. Department of Corrections code stated you couldn’t have sexual contact with an inmate until she was found guilty. Too many innocent girls walked out of detention crying abuse. But the packet in their hand meant she was fair game.

“Sorry, boys,” Ron called, hoping to keep the young men out of trouble. A fat, pimple-faced guard, no more than 23 turned to look at the lawyer and held up his hand for the muscular good-looking one to stop. “She’s got an intensive requirement scheduled.”

“Damn,” the muscular one said, zipping his pants over his obvious erection.  “Can you pretend you didn’t tell us?”

“You know the rules. They don’t want you messing up the intensive experience for the convict. No fucking until she passes intensive. If there’s a problem, it will bite you in the ass. Play with her, but don’t pay for her.”

Kathryn snorted, rolling her eyes. Three minutes ago she was “Kathryn” and “Sweetie” and now, she’s “the convict.” Piece of shit lawyer, she was nothing but a meal ticket to him all along. Before she could mention that, the fat guard who had a few onion bagels for breakfast pushed her up against the wall.

“HEY!” She shouted. An opened hand slap connected with her right cheek, rocketing her face to the side.

“Speak when spoken to, Inmate,” the fat one hissed in her face. The muscular one pressed her against the wall, lifting the grey prison skirt and grabbing her mound in his hand, squeezing as her eyes watered and she bit her lip.

“Just because we can’t fuck you, doesn’t mean we can’t fuck you up,” he chuckled, his finger dipping in between her nether lips. Kathryn swallowed hard as she was roughly fondled by these men younger than her, less educated than her, but clearly in power over her.

“Have you ever volunteered for Intensive Duty?” The fat one asked, licking Kathryn’s cheek as she shuddered and pressed her back as far against the wall as it would go.

“I did a couple times, but I don’t like it. I’m not high ranking or a veteran and they get first round draws. Twice I was the 5th guy in line and once the 6th and it was gross. They don’t wash the inmates out between rounds and they’re all covered in cum, blood and tears.”

“Yeah, that’s what I heard,” the fat one said, pretending to be in-the-know. “I’d rather have a fresh flower here.”

“Well, she’s certainly a daisy,” the muscle-bound guard said, pressing his hips against her humping her leg while his finger continued to arouse her. Tears fell down her cheeks, providing small relief from the saliva the fat guard left on her face. He reached over and looked at the packet, then ripped her blouse open down the center, buttons popping off and clattering on the floor.

“Nice nips,” the other said, leaning over to take one in his mouth, pulling and sucking at it, causing her wetness to douse his finger and her shame to rise as her hips began to sway. He patted her mound and removed his hand, wiping her juices on her upper lip so she could smell them. “Don’t worry, slut, you’ll get plenty of cock tomorrow.”

“Might want to hurry,” a female voice said from the doorway. A small young woman with a blond pixie cut, the same gray Department of Corrections skirt and blouse, and an inmate barcode tattoo on her wrist walked into the room, a push cart in the hall. “Warden Weems just pulled into verify her and then she is to be processed immediately. They have a spot for her on the lot tomorrow for intensive so she’s shipping out tonight.”

Kathryn blushed in front of the girl, as the muscle-bound guard continued to suck and pinch her naked breasts hanging out for everyone to see. Days later she would laugh at how good she had it in this cell with a few remnants of clothing left. She looked at the bar-code. Above the lines it said INMATE and below it said SA-2333.  Arrested for substance abuse, probably some synthetic pot by the look of her beauty shop persona.

“Me and Snake are waiting for her in Process Room 3. As soon as Weems certifies, bring her in. We have a quota you know.”

“You got more than that, Trinity.” the muscle-bound guard said, his eyes seeming to turn as jet black as his hair. He nodded toward the fat guard who lunged at the girl, both abandoning Kathryn by the wall. She didn’t dare move as she watched the fat one grab the inmate by the shoulder and flip her over the bed, while the other unzipped his pants again, probably to keep his cock from breaking through the fabric.

“Oh no,” the blond girl muttered. “Come on. I’m not even ready. Don’t hurt me, Reed, please. I got to process five more today. Look, I’ll suck. I’ll suck you good, Sir.”

The fat one straddled her back, using his knee to pin her against the cot. He looked to the other to see what to do.

“You can suck Monroe, there, Trin. But I need some pussy. Don’t worry, though. The slut over here is wet enough for you.”  Reed crossed the room, stuck his hand up Kathryn’s skirt and she lifted her eyes to the ceiling once more. She knew not to protest this time.

“Got plenty of lube down there, don’t you slut?” Reed asked with a gurgle in the back of his throat.

“Yes, Sir,” Kathryn whispered as tears of humiliation fell on her bared and bruised breasts.

He rubbed her moisture on his penis until it glistened, then went back to the small woman and lifted her skirt. Kathryn winced to see six clear red stripes across her buttocks, one going over the bar code tattooed to her right cheek.

“Well, well, Trinity went to the woodshed,” Reed chucked, rubbing his gleaming cock over her pussy lips, looking for entrance.

“I got six for not making quota yesterday and if you hold us up I’m gonna get the cane again,” Trinity whimpered, spreading her legs as much as she could and lifting her hips to make it easier for him. She was resigned to her fate. Monroe unzipped his pants and started wanking his cock, getting ready for her mouth the moment his partner finished inside her.

“You don’t need to worry about the cane, Sucky Ass,” Reed said, calling her by the nickname SA inmates endured, noted by the wasting effect drugs had on the posterior. “Cause here comes the rod.” 

“Owww,” the girl moaned as Reed crammed his dick in her tight, barely lubricated hole then grabbed her hips and plunged into her. It was rough at first and Kathryn could see the pain in the girl’s eyes as she bounced on the end of his cock. But, her body started cooperating and soon he was gliding in and out, riding her pussy and smacking his balls against her. Kathryn closed her eyes and tried to look to the wall. If it hadn’t been for Ron, that would have been her over that bed.

“Oh, oh, shittttttttt,” Monroe gurgled, too excited by the pain moans of the inmate to hold himself together. Cum spurted from his cock all over the girl’s back, soaking her blouse. “Damn, Reed, you took too long.”

“You’re the one-jerk-Johnny,” Reed laughed, then picked up his pace, slamming into the girl, as small grunts knocked the wind out of her. He put is head back and let out a sigh like that of a lion roaring after a fine meal. Trinity’s legs spasmed and quivered as he emptied his seed inside of her. He gave her a moment before her jerked her upright, the skirt falling in place. He half-dragged her to the scanner and ran the bar code on her wrist under it three times, producing three paper towels.

“Clean yourself up,” he said. She shook her head in dismay, knowing the cost of those towels was going on her tally. Maybe she could do some extra work and make up the money so she didn’t fall into debt at the end of the month.

Reed walked over to Kathryn and grabbed a long red shock of hair, causing her eyes to close and her mouth to open. “You clean me.”

“What?” She managed to say through the needles in her scalp.

He let go of her hair long enough to give her another slap on the face. “Sir! You call free men, ‘Sir’, slave!”

“Yes Sir!” Kathryn shrieked, shaking in fear as he grabbed her hair and began to pull her down to her knees.

“Clean my cock, Ignorant Cunt,” Reed said, positioning her mouth before his dripping, softening cock, as his word choice revealed he had seen her code as well. Slowly Kathryn put out her tongue and began to lick the dripping juices off of Reed. “Put it in your mouth!”

“Bet she’s never had a cock in there before,” Monroe laughed, using one of Trinity’s towels to wipe himself off and zip up. “But don’t worry, you’ll have plenty more in no time.”

Kathryn closed her eyes and moved her head forward, taking the sweaty salty rod of the guard all the way in her mouth and cleaning the cum off with pursed lips. She then rubbed him against her cheeks to dry him off. He pulled her back up as she gasped for air.

“You’ll never pass intensive that way,” Reed laughed, letting go of her hair and zipping his pants back up. Trinity looked over at the confused woman and felt a swell of pity.

“Do you know what the intensive is, honey?” She asked, her voice equal parts mocking and kindness. Kathryn didn’t know if she was supposed to call her “Ma’am” or not, so she shook her head.

“Aren’t you in for a treat?” Reed laughed, pulling her prison blouse open all the way again exposing her chest and fishing a Sharpie out of his pocket. He flipped over the packet they entered her cell with and looked at the number across the top.

Trinity lowered her voice. “It’s the rape yards. You have to last two hours in the stocks. If you don’t pass the first day, you have to do it every day until you do. It’s only a half hour that’s oral, but you gotta make it all the way through.”

Kathryn tried to push the girl’s news through her filter already damaged by the guilty verdict. She’d heard of the rape yards, the rows of women stocked and repeatedly violated, but she thought it was a myth – a story authorities told women to keep them in line – nothing more. Government sanctioned rape? It was too awful to be true.

Trinity nodded and turned to leave. She reminded Monroe to bring his charge to Process Room 3 and pushed her rolling cart away, slightly limping from her ill-use, with the stains from the guard’s cum clearly visible on the back of her blouse.

Reed slapped Kathryn’s right breast to get her attention. “Why do they call you guys ‘Intellectual Criminals’? I’ve never met one of you that wasn’t a dumb fucking slut.”

He took out his marker, looked at the folder one more time and wrote across the area right above her breasts, “IC-4072.”

Monroe put the packet on a clip outside the door while Reed smirked.

“Got any questions?” He asked, smiling as Kathryn was swallowing repeatedly, trying to get the taste of his cock out of her mouth.

“Yes, Sir,” she ventured, pointing at the letters written across her chest. “What does this mean?”

He let out a snort and locked her cell door behind him.

“That’s your name, bitch.”

###

Warden Tim Weems stopped at the door, flipping through the packet while Monroe fished for the keys to the cell. He wiped his nose of the corner of his sleeve. He didn’t know what antiseptic they used to wash this place down with, but it always smelled like urine, pinecones and despair.

Kathryn felt numb. She’d been lying on her cot sobbing, waiting for the next thing to happen, even though she wasn’t sure it was. She had herself under control for a while, the terrifying news of the rape yards taking a hazy place in the corner of her mind. She told herself she would deal with it later. Then, as she was reflecting on how all of this was out of her control, she realized she would never be in control. She was a slave – told what to do, how to do it, what to wear, how to eat, when to work, when to pee, and used in any way – every way – imaginable and there was nothing she could do but obey. That started her sobbing anew until, at least, there were no tears left – only a numb sensation that comes from emotional exhaustion.

“Warden entering,” Reed called as he opened her cell. “Inmate rise!”

Kathryn stood up, wiping her red eyes, and looking at the man who would be in charge of her life for the next three years. Middle aged with a government approved haircut, short and combed to the side, jet black except for a tiny line of gray at the tip. His shoulders were broad but his chest narrowed to his waist. On his lapel was a pin from the Department of Corrections, and a cross with the RAC logo beneath it that read, “Church + State For Glory.” She wondered if he took that jacket off when he held an inmate over his desk, kicking her legs apart and impaling her with his power as her knuckles turn white from her grip of the desk, or if he just fucked her with the cross still gleaming under the industrial lights.

“Stand straight.” The warden spoke in a normal voice but it was clear and severe. “Eyes down, legs even with shoulders, hands behind back. NOW!”

Kathryn hurried to correct her posture and demeanor, biting her lower lip and hoping she really was out of tears because she was ready to cry again. The warden stood back and looked her over, as all the free men now had the right to do. Long legs, well-muscled, beautiful red hair and hazel eyes, an angular face with full lips and luscious cheekbones. He could see right away how she got into trouble. He reached out and opened her torn prison blouse, then compared the number on her chest to the packet in his hands. He nodded.

“I know they will teach you proper stance and protocol in your training month but there’s no reason to stand like a sloth now. State your full name.”

“Kathryn Anne Wynn,” she said, standing at near military attention, her voice soft and shaking. If she had known it was the last time in her life she was ever going to say it, she would have spoken more clearly.

“I am Warden Tim Weems, Director of Punishment Block 6. I am here to certify you for processing and get the ball rolling on your sentence. I have three others to see after you, so listen to everything I say, do not interrupt and limit your questions to immediate needs. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Kathryn Anne Wynn, you have been found guilty by the Restored American Commonwealth of sexual offenses, forbidden literature and treason level 1. You are sentenced to an intensive requirement, 1 month mandatory training, 3 years in Punishment Block 6, and to be sold into the general labor force as a slave for the rest of your natural life.”

She gasped, loosening her posture and rubbing her nose before straightening up. It didn’t matter how many times she was going to hear those words in the next few days, every time was an axe to her heart.

“You are hereby stripped of your name, your rightful employment, your saleable assets and your status as a free citizen. Your assets will be auctioned off and the funds placed in your repayment account to go toward your punishment program. If you run out of funds to pay for your punishment while you are still in prison you will be placed on Department of Corrections rations. You are now a member of the slave class of the RAC. You will observe all proper respect to free men and women, and act according to your station at all times. From this moment on your designation is Slave 4072. Your category is Intellectual Criminal. Do you have any questions?”

“That’s my name, Sir? 4072?” She recognized it as the last four digits of her RAC Social Registration Number, but couldn’t imagine people would call her that in daily life. She envisioned herself sitting a bar telling a man, “My name is 4072 but you can call me “two-ey” if you like.” Then her head corrected the fallacy. She’d never see the inside of a bar again, unless she was bought to serve one.

“That’s your name. Of course, when your time in PB6 is over, your owner may give you a family or work name of his choosing, but Slave 4072 will be your legal designation from now on. Inmates tend to give each other nicknames, the processing clerk with all the threes in her number, they call her Trinity. But officially, 4072 is who you are and who you will always be. If you are ever caught saying, writing, or using your birth name at any time, the first warning is one lash of the single tail whip for every letter in your full name. That’s 15 lashes for you, 4072, and after the first time, it’s 15 times the number of times you’ve been caught. Forget that name. It’s not yours anymore. You have proven you don’t deserve it.”

“But,” she whined, forgetting her predicament. “I didn’t do what they say. I’ve never betrayed the RAC, Sir.”

Warden Weem’s hands first went to his belt buckle to lash her for such impudence, but he looked at her swollen, pleading eyes and decided one chance wasn’t too much to give a woman who had just lost everything. “Don’t speak out of turn again, 4072. And, I admit, I think this is a very harsh sentence, one of the harshest I’ve seen, for a level one offense, but I don’t make the rules. I just enforce them.”

“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.” She said, lowering her eyes back to the floor, letting the few tears she had left fall on the cement.

“After your intensive requirement and training month, you will be transported to Punishment Block 6. We are a menial labor facility with a medium level of security. Our population is made of females with the categories of Intellectual Criminals, Substance Abusers Unnatural Sexual Offenders, and Petty Criminals First or Second Offense. In other word, thinkers, drinkers, lesbians and thieves. Rehabilitation scientists have determined the best thing for an Intellectual Criminal is to be sentenced to a menial repetitive unrewarding task over a long period of time. It will dull your mind and destroy your curiosity. By the end of your sentence, you won’t even remember how to think about forbidden things.”

4072 nodded and bit her lip again. She told herself she’d do puzzles in her head, remember the books she had read, make up stories to pass time. She would find a way to keep her mind sharp.

“I know you’re thinking you can beat the system, 4072,” the Warden said as if he could read her thoughts. “But you will fail. Three years of mind-numbing labor for 12 hours a day, 7 days a week, combined with punishment assignments, mandatory physical exercise, complete structure and control, and forced messaging will wear even the sharpest mind down to compliance. You will get the required 6 hours for sleep and 2 meals a day, but it is not enough to keep you resistance up for very long.”

“Yes, Sir,” 4072 nodded.

“I’m not sure about your assignment, but we well have a place for you on a factory or floor line by the time you arrive at PB6, after training. Are you a Fundamentalist?”

“What?” 4072 looked up for a moment, then a warm stinging of her cheek left from the guards reminded her where she was. “Sir! Can you repeat that, Sir?”

“As a former citizen of the Restored American Commonwealth, you must know that Fundamentalism is the official religion of the RAC. You are free to believe anything you want, of course, but only Fundamentalism is allowed to be practiced in our facilities. Anything else you’ll have to keep to yourself. Will you want a cross or bible in your pod, 4072?”

“No, Sir,” she replied, hoping that wouldn’t bring her more negative consequences than she already was set to endure. Her family had been liberals, secular humanists, and stayed away from religion. After the revolution, they joined a Fundamental church, paid the offering dues, and her father bought one of those crosses for his work shirt because he thought it would help him get ahead. But they never really went to church. They never really believed.

“I see,” he said, scribbling a note on her folder. “If you change your mind, please let me know. I find those to be very comforting in times of pain, and you will experience times of pain.”

4072 stared at the floor nodding slowly, realizing her mistakes were adding up to quite a disaster.

“Get on your elbows and knees, NOW!” He said, slapping one hand with her process packet and startling her. She plunged to her floor, getting on her hands and knees first, then lowering herself to elbows and knees. The warden began walking around her in a circle. “Put your face on the floor! LOWER 4072! Put your ASS in the AIR! Spread your legs. FARTHER!”

He stopped in front of her face, only an inch from her nose. Her shirt, torn open, exposed her nipples to the cold hard cement and her whole body began to shake.

“This is position one,” he said, returning to the soft clear voice he entered her cell with. “This is the slave’s position. Face down. Ass up. Holes open. Mouth closed. It feels awkward to you now, but you’ll spend so much time in it that it will become second nature to you. When a guard or authority figure says, ‘Inmate rise’ you will stand at attention like you were a minute ago. When a guard or authority says, ‘Inmate down’ you will take this position without delay or question. I don’t care if there is boiling oil on the floor, you will do it. Do you understand, 4072?”

“Yes, Sir,” she whimpered to the floor, her back already hurting. He put his black leather work shoe under her chin and lifter her head about an inch.

“Clean my shoes,” he said, a calm chuckle settling in his throat. She tried to look around, knowing she didn’t have permission to stand but not seeing a rag or cloth. “With your tongue, Intellectual Criminal.”

4072 closed her eyes and stuck out her tongue, licking the dust from his shoe, tasting the grime, the polish and the leather all at once. It was still better than the sour odor of Reed’s cock, but more humiliating all the same. She licked both of his shoes attentively, using her hair to dry them until they shined. In her head, her mind had a single thought, “this is my life now.”

Warden Weems stepped back and commented on what a good shoe shiner she turned out to be. He did not give her permission to rise and watched as her thighs began to jiggle. Surely they were starting to burn as her knees felt the pain of the concrete below them. By the time she was brought back to PB6 she would be able to keep that position for hours. He always enjoyed watching their first struggles. A true believer in the RAC, he knew this was the beginning of showing her the light.

“I don’t want you to be confused, 4072.” He said, looking at his watch. She was starting to realize everyone had a clock and a schedule, but her. “Every woman incarcerated at Punishment Block 6 is an Inmate but only a quarter of you are slaves. All are treated the same until your term is finished. But we do use the names interchangeably sometimes. So, if you hear ‘Inmate’ they are talking to you. If you hear the word ‘Slave’ they are talking to you.  If you hear the word, ‘Ignorant Cunt’, ‘Whore’, ‘Bitch’, or ‘Hole’ they are talking to you. If you hear the word ‘Ma’am’, that is a word for free women. They are not talking to you. Got it, slave?”

“Yes, Sir,” 4072 said to the ground.

“Inmate rise,” he said softly, watching her struggle to stand on sore legs, the grimace from the taste of her first humiliation gritty in her mouth. She would have a lot worse, but she’d never forget this one. “Follow the rules, 4072. Do your work, and let the rehabilitation process do its job and you will be fine. The Restored American Commonwealth will restore you.”

“Yes, Sir,” she said.

“In the interest of full disclosure, I think you should know my wife and I are personal friends with Senator Steve Laren. We go to the same church. But, I will treat you the same as everyone else.”

“Thank you, Sir.” She replied, having no idea why he made the strange statement. She didn’t know Senator Laren. Other than seeing the distinguished older Senator on the news talking about reforming the country through religion, she’d never laid eyes on him.

He patted her exposed breasts as he stepped toward the door. “Let me know if you decide you want that Bible.”

“Excuse me, Sir?” 4072 asked right before he was ready to leave. She wasn’t sure this was a good idea, but other than Ron, whom she doubted she would see again now that he lost the case and the check cleared, he was the only one who might know.  “Can you tell me what happened to Brian?”

“Who?”

“The man I was with when I was arrested. I assume he was arrested too, although I didn’t see anyone take him away. Is he enslaved too?” She tried to sound worried, even though she merely wanted to comfort herself by knowing the lying bastard was in as much pain as she was right now. “His name was Brian.”

“Of course he wasn’t arrested. Are you insane? He will be sent on a marital retreat with his wife. He made a public apology and she forgave him. He’s gone on with his life, 4072. Might was well get on with what’s left of yours.”

###

The door to Process Room 3 opened and 4072 was shoved inside. Still holding on to a shred of the modesty she possessed on the outside (where politicians gave rallies and speeches on the topic of feminine modesty), she held her processing packet over her breasts as best she could. The door slammed behind her without another word. 4072 just stood there, unsure of what to do next.

SA-2333, the girl they called Trinity, was sitting in a chair with her feet on the long table that looked like a massage table with arms and straps (or, an execution table, but 4072’s mind just couldn’t go there right now). In the corner was a large biker with tattoo sleeves on both arms and a shaved head. Rough and grizzled, he wore blue prison issue scrubs. 4072 had never seen a male inmate before. They certainly got more clothing than the skimpy skirt and button blouse the women were issued. PC3-3920 was on his wrist and he had a toolbox full of electric equipment, tattoo supplies and gloves.

“That shithead Reed,” Trinity complained as she held out her hand for 4072’s packet. “He used three towels off my wrist. As if I don’t have enough worries about paying out this month, now I’ve got three extra charges to deal with. I’m going to have to skip a meal or two by month’s end.”

“Next time, pull your arm back.” The biker said without pity. “He can’t technically force you to scan.”

“Oh right, then I get some nice whip marks to go with my speared ass. No thanks.” Trinity motioned for 4072 to sit in a straight back chair. She took the packet from the shaken new inmate and handed it to the biker, who poured the contents out on a side table. There was a bar code template, a vial of some kind, and some paperwork with charts and places for the two of them to make notes. 4072 gasped audibly when she saw the bar code, a standard UPC with the word SLAVE across the top and her number on the bottom.

“Intellectual Criminal,” the man said, fiddling with a scanner gun that he pulled out of the box. “Sentenced for life. Wow, honey, what’d you do? Try to take over the RAC and screw President Parry in one big hurry?”

4072 bit her lip and stared at the floor. She’d been asking herself that since Ron gave her the bad news. How could her little mistake turn into a life sentence?

“It’s okay to talk, honey,” Trinity said, opening up a small kit that contained a needle gun. She placed an alcohol swab on the table and inserted the vial from her packet into the gun. “It’s just me and Snake. We’re all inmates here. And it’s not like you have anything left to lose.”

“I had a box under my bed with some books in it from Old America including a copy of My Body, Myself and The Handmaid’s Tale from Margaret Atwood. They are on the feminist prohibition list.”

“That’s enough to earn you a trip to the woodshed or maybe an vacation in the rape yards so you figure out your role in the RAC, but it’s not enough to take your freedom,” Snake said thoughtfully. He scanned the bar code template and watched as the machine began churning out patterns on special paper to be used for her tagging.

“I once gave an equal pay speech in college, and I was caught in bed with a married man, but I didn’t know he was married.”

Snake let out a whistle and shook his head as he looked through the court printout in the packet. He elbowed Trinity, almost making her drop the medical injection gun. She looked over and her eyes became baseballs.

“Jesus, honey, why didn’t you just fuck a statue of Mary on the altar? It would have been better than this!” Trinity shook her head. “You look like a smart girl. How could you do something so dumb?”

“I met him in a bar. We had a few dates. He had a PRV patch because he said he travelled out of the RAC for work so I wouldn’t get pregnant or diseased. A lot of people have sex without a permit if they have a PRV patch. I thought it would be fun. I didn’t know he was married. I don’t know how he really got the patch. I just wanted to have some fun.”

“Did you know his name?” Trinity asked, incredulously. She looked again at Snake as if he could explain the anomaly. She used the alcohol swab to wipe the number off of 4072’s chest. She didn’t need a sharpie mark. She was about to get the real thing.

“His name was Brian. That’s all I knew. He said he worked for TransWorld Monetary – you know that company that helps take RAC currency and turns it into something people can spend if they go somewhere else in the world? He said he made money working as a currency broker.”

“You really don’t know, do you?” Snake fished around in his box, pulling out bottles of small black ink. “You don’t know who he was or why you got screwed for getting screwed?”

4072 shook her head and watched Trinity open another swab packet and brush the muscle above her right elbow. The girl pulled another paper off of the stack Snake poured out on the table.

“I gotta read you this,” the little blond said, clearing her throat to sound quiet official, even if her voice pitch was of a girl on a playground. “Pursuant to RAC Penal Code 349 it is the inmate’s right to be told of all expensed going on their punishment account from the first charge to the last day of internment. As such you will be charged for the following:

1 PRV Primary Shot  - good for 1 year. Renewable every year of incarceration.

1 Hair and body shave and preparation.

4 Chemical tattoo codes for financial tracking and identification.

4 Personal tattoos for permanent designation.”

The new slave sat up and looked at the razors and scissors in the metal cart. “You’re going to shave my hair?”

“Just your head, honey. The machine will laser the rest of the hair from you. And, don’t worry. By the time you are out of training it will start to grow back. If you have good behavior they let you grow it into one of these cut bob cuts or top of the shoulders. But, if you get punished, they’ll shave you again.”

“Damn shame,” Snake muttered. “You’ve got some beautiful red curls there. Must hurt to be losing them.”

“That’s not something I guess you would know from experience,” 4072 said bitterly, motioning to his shaved head. The biker just snorted.

“At least I know who I fuck. Or who fucks me. Although in your case, those two might not be the same person.”

“What are you talking about?” 4072 shouted.

“Don’t move, sweetie. Here we go…” Trinity said, squeezing the trigger on the gun.

“OW! SHIT!” 4072 howled, trying to pull her arm back.

“Sorry, it’s a tough shot because it’s enough serum to keep you from getting pregnant or an STD for a full year. That’s the best way to mark time once all your days look the same. When you get another PRV shot, it’s been another year.”

“You want to watch the cussing though,” Snake said, taking a series of strange looking white electronic boxes from the cart. “Not only do they scan you for the soap they cram in your mouth, they usually decide to clean the other end out as well. No fun, huh Baby Girl?”

“No fun at all,” Trinity laughed, patting her rear.

“Well, as long as you two are having fun,” 4072 said bitterly as she watched Trinity pull out a pair of industrial hair clippers, and move behind her to shave one of her best features right off her head.

“Look, don’t be pissed at us, sweetie,” Trinity said, clipping off 4072’s luscious red locks to prepare for the razor. “I’m here because I got caught with 2 dime bags of pot in my shirt cuff. Snake’s here on his third incarceration as a Petty Criminal because he sold a gun illegally. You’re here for fucking the wrong guy.”

“The way wrong guy,” Snake added.

“And now you’re fucked.” Trinity laughed as she lined the clippers along 4072’s bang line and started to pull them back, erasing the hair and revealing 4072’s scalp.

“He was just a guy. I met him in a bar. His name was Brian,” she sighed. It was as easy as that.

“Brian Laren,” Snake huffed, getting up to sweep the mess of hair Trinity was leaving in the floor. The faster they worked, the more likely they would meet quota.

“What?” 4072’s mouth dropped open and she jerked her head toward the biker.

“Don’t do that. You want to lose an ear?”  Trinity complained.

“Brian Laren. You know, Brian Laren the married first born son of Senator Steve Laren, head of the President’s Council for the Union of Church and State and a minister of the Fundamentalist Church. The top pulpit pounder with power in the country, and you fucked his married son. You’re lucky they didn’t take your life, let alone your freedom.”

“Here you go, honey,” Trinity handed a mirror to 4072 for the first look at her bald head. Tears fell down 4072’s cheeks and she raised her hand rubbing the smooth skin. This was happening. This was really happening. She was bald. She was going to be tattooed. She was a slave.

“I didn’t know who he was,” 4072 muttered, unable to project any louder than kitten’s mew. “I didn’t mean any harm.”

Snake put the white boxes on the table. He spoke softly, trying to comfort the inmate. “You were set up, lady. Had to be. Someone wanted you to take a fall, and you’ve taken a hard one.”

“But why?” 4072 wrapped her arms across her chest and rocked back and forth, sobbing.

“That, I don’t know. But you’ve got to strip your clothes off and lay on the table. Your ass goes onto that tray, with the divider between your pussy lips. Each of these goes under and arm.”

Snake turned his back, even though he had seen million naked inmates in his job as a processing clerk. But, he always liked to give them to illusion of privacy. It made things go faster.

She stood up slowly letting here ripped blouse fall off of her shoulders. Her tits had been exposed all day anyway, what was the difference? She pulled down the small skirt with the elastic waistband, revealing her naked body, a triangle of red hair outlining what she used to call “the promised land.” Now her pubic hair covered what would only be described as “the killing field.”

She climbed onto the table and felt the discomfort as the plastic box spread her legs wider than she anticipated and a plate went up into her vulva, lodging between her lips.  Trinity quick-snapped the top on the box and put the inmate’s arms in the other two. 4072 began shaking again, her ankles bouncing off the table.

“Won’t lie, honey.” Trinity said, standing back from the table. “This is gonna hurt like hell. But it’s only a 2 minute hell. The box contains computerized lasers. It is going to remove every hair follicle from your pussy, under-arms and legs for the rest of time. Consider it a benefit. You’ll never have to shave again.”

“That’s not why they do it,” Snake added. “But, take what good you can get.”

“Why do they do it?” 4072 asked, hoping to stall the pain for just a few moments more.

“Ever seen a free woman who wasn’t hairy? Bald pussy is for slaves and inmates. So even if you got released, freed, or ran away and made it to another country – every man who ever looks at you will see the bald cunt of a convict.”

Trinity hit the button before 4072 could answer the biker. She screamed loudly, her body gyrating on the table as if someone had filled her core with a million fire ants all stinging her at once. She bucked and bounced on the table. Trinity looked away, but Snake watched with indifference. He’d seen it a hundred times before. He was always amused by how their whole body was burning, but they always grabbed for their crotch.

When it was over, 4072 fell back against the table, gasping loudly, her whole body trembling. Trinity patted the wounded woman’s shoulder as she took the upper arm boxes off. She remembered the day she was put on that table and the burning sensation that felt like her pussy was being given a million paper cuts.  The pain ended as suddenly as it began, but the memory lingered forever, along with her bald mound.

“Take a moment, sweetie, then sit up,” Trinity said. Snake looked at her and tapped his wrist where a non-existent watch would have been. The sooner they finished with the IC, the closer to their quota they would be.

4072 nodded and sat up, realizing she’d never be wearing a watch again. In a strange way, it gave her a reality check. Here she was, crying over her naked sex, when she had lost so much more.

Snake opened up his kit and took out the rest of the tattoo equipment. He explained the procedure to the new convict, while looking at anything but her eyes. He believed if he didn’t make eye contact with the women he marked for life, he wouldn’t carry the guilt of their pain in his soul and someday he might be able to dream of something besides their screams at night.

“Every inmate is tattooed with a bar code, status and designation in four places – the right wrist, left breast, right ass cheek and your mound right above your slit. Each code can be scanned by any device in the commonwealth. It will prove your identity and register payment for everything you use while you’re in prison. It’s done as a transfer chemical tattoo but it will last the length of your sentence. You can wash it, scrub it, put soda or paint on it, - nothing will take it off except acid, which will eat your lovely boob off too. At the end of your prison sentence, the Department of Corrections has a reverse process that will remove the bar code.”

“So my body will be clean again?” 4072 asked, wondering how many women had taken acid to their own flesh to erase the reality of life.

“Not yours. If you were an inmate, like Trinity or me, when you get released, the whole code will disappear. But you’re a slave. So I’ll be tattooing over the category and designation with this.” Snake held up a traditional tattoo gun. When the codes are removed, the word “slave” and 4072 will remain.”

The slave nodded, biting her lip. She didn’t speak or move until it was over. She could understand why they did the hair removal first. By the time she got to this portion of processing her body was too numb to feel the hot scratching of the tattoo, even as it stained her breast. Snake wiped the blood and ink away with loving motions. It was clear he had been a tattoo artist on the outside.

Trinity cleaned the equipment and packed up their cart. Snake produced a scan gun and set it “Test Mode.”  Just as he was preparing to offer 4072 his hand to help her up, Reed and Monroe walked through the door.

“Inmate rise!” Reed called, like a drill sergeant. Trinity and 4072 stood up in a flash, but Snake took his time straightening up. His bicep was roughly the size of Reed’s head. The two guards backed up for a second. Monroe put his hand on his taser baton.

“I just need to test her codes and she’s yours,” Snake mumbled. He only had another year in this zoo and he’d be released. As much as he’d love to bash these two playground bullies into the ground, there was no way he was giving up the chance to get back to his wife and little girl.

Reed nodded, crossing his arms over his chest. Snake gently lifted 4072’s wrist and clicked the gun. He showed the screen to the woman who was a free citizen that morning. It read:

“Test: SLAVE IC-4072, ACCOUNT 348027539. PURCHASE: NONE”

“If this was a towel or toilet paper or food, the cost would list,” Snake explained. “Always check the scanner when you can so you can see mistakes and report them. If you want til your monthly tally comes out, it’s too late.”

4072 nodded, trying with all her might to listen to the biker but the two guards staring at her naked, tattooed body – salivating at the number right over her mound, was still overwhelming. He scanned her breast, and the code on her pelvis, then tapped her hip to turn her and check the one on her butt cheek.

“Booty scan!” Monroe sang and wiggled his butt. Snake saw a patch of red form of 4072’s cheeks. He made a note of the heavy-set weak guard who only felt good about himself when he bullied captive women. One day the RAC would fall, and the common people would be in charge again. Women would have rights and power wouldn’t be able to hide behind a cross or a badge. On that day, He’d go looking for Monroe. Until then, he just packed his case and moved on to the next girl.

“Everything works. You’re officially processed into the Department of Corrections. Your charges start immediately. Welcome to the club.” Snake opened his arms and wrapped them around 4072 as if she was a long lost friend. She allowed herself to be taken into his large, clumsy hug and then closed her eyes as he whispered in her ear.

“You were a beautiful woman when you walked in the door to this place, and you are beautiful now. Nothing these bastards can do will take your beauty from your heart.”

4072 stepped out of his arms with wide eyes, shocked such poetry would come from a big, rough man. She bowed her head to him as a sign of respect, not simply humility.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Trinity pushed the cart through the door with Snake right behind her. They moved into Process Room 5 for the next woman on their list.

“You say that to every woman,” Trinity giggled, brushing her short blond bob. “Does your wife know you’re such a flirt?”

“Does your boyfriend know you’re such a tease?” Snake laughed.

“I’ve got a girlfriend,” Trinity mouthed. “But don’t tell anyone. I’ve got enough trouble without a sexual offense. I’ve never been to the rape yards, and I don’t want to go now. That last woman, the one who fucked Brian Laren, she’s got a rough road ahead. She’s not gonna make it out. She’s part of something big, and she doesn’t even know it.”

“We’ll see,” Snake sighed. “Maybe she’s stronger than think.”

###

“On the table, Ignorant Cunt,” Reed said with enough menace in his voice to send chills down her spine. 4072 got on the table, face up. She watched Monroe take the restraints off his belt and attached her arms to the side posts.

“You want her ankles?” The fat guard asked his partner.

“Pull them to the side, I need room to work,” Reed laughed, tossing Monroe his set cuffs. Slave 4072 was tempted to remind them she was not supposed to be used because her intensive was the next day, but she didn’t dare open her mouth.  Fortunately, Reed eased her mind before she spoke out of turn.

“We’re supposed to take you to the transport for your intensive,” Reed informed his prey. “And we can’t fuck you, because they want your holes nice and tight when you sing with the choir tomorrow. But there’s nothing that says we can’t say goodbye.”

Reed reached down and started rubbing 4072’s mound, watching the bar code move with the skin. She closed her eyes and tried to think of something – anything- that could get her through this moment. When his tongue ran up her slit, she opened them wide.

“Ohhhh,” she gasped, in spite of herself. The two guards just laughed as Reed plunged his face into her, his tongue lapping and slurping loudly. He lifted his head just long enough to see her natural juices on his chin.

“Damn, I love me a hairless kitty,” he laughed, diving back in and taking her clit into his mouth sucking rhythmically as her hips bounced beneath him. The last thing she wanted to do was give him the satisfaction of orgasming in front of him. There was no way in hell she was going to let him think there was any pleasure in his act.

But her hips kept moving, lifting her to his mouth, chasing his tongue, wanting the comfort, the suction, the lust. She was climbing the ladder to climax when Monroe grabbed her nose and pulled her head to the side, and stuffed his half-stiff sausage in her mouth. She gagged from the smell of it, but he held her bald head, rubbing the skin as he skull fucked her. She covered her teeth with her lips as best as she could. She realized she didn’t have to move her head. He was fucking her mouth just fine by himself. Meanwhile, the growing pain and need of her clit was stinging and throbbing under Reed’s expert tongue.

“I’m gonna cum,” Monroe blurted out.

“Shoot her boobs,” Reed commanded, clearly the leader of the two. Monroe pulled out of her mouth and tried to aim at her breasts, the red of the new tattoo fading into a sting, but he spurted his seed on her neck instead.

“Damn, I missed,” Monroe chuckled through his pleasure sigh, putting his cock in front of 4072’s lips for her to clean.

“Dumb fucker,” Reed hissed, the hot breath enlivening 4072’s pussy even more. She began to rock back and forth as much as her spread eagle body would allow. The guard just kept licking and lapping at her ravenously. She started the climb again. She felt her channel tighten, her hips now snapping off the table with a bounce as small snorts of breath came out of her nostrils.

“Come on, slave,” Reed growled, the devil’s smile on his face. “Cum for Daddy.”

“No,” she whimpered even as her thighs cramped and her juices poured over his tongue. “Please, Sir, no. Don’t make me. Not…that…please.”

That enlivened him further and he grabbed her hips sucking hard on her clit until it felt as if she may explode, the releasing with while he tongued around it. She gasped and gurgled, pulling on the restraints which only made them tighter. She was close …so close….she was…

“Oooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” She moaned her body convulsing beneath him, her eyes fluttered and her hands tensed in knots beneath the cuffs. She rose on the waves of her orgasm as they crashed against the rocks, feeling herself washed over the edge of sanity. When she opened her eyes, her face the color of beets and the temperature of a volcano, Reed as sitting on the table, his hard, dripping cock over her.

“Fucking slut,” he said, then leaned down and licked her cleavage leaving huge globs of spit. She felt the sting of his derision, and in her mind - she deserved it. She bounced beneath him like a common whore.

Reed slid up and put his cock between her breasts, pushing them together and gliding his hardness between them. “You ever been tit-fucked before, slut?”

“No, Sir,” She whispered, turning to the opposite side from where Monroe still stood, his limp cock hanging out of his pants. She saw herself in the mirror on the back of the door. Bald head, tattooed, covered in spit and cum. She forced herself to look at the woman she barely recognized as her punishment for cumming to amuse that asshole guard.

His breathing was rapid, and he began jerking and bucking on her chest. His purple helmeted ram kept rising and falling and she thought he might rub all the skin off of her boobs in the process. Then, without warning he gulped and a blob of thick cum landed right on her face. He finished up, leaving more splotches of semen on her cheeks and nose. Eventually, tears entered the mix.

“That’s your new mascara, bitch,” Reed said.

Monroe released her restraints and Reed pulled her up. He pushed her backward toward the paper towel dispenser, then slapped her ass, moving it across the scan screen two times. Two paper towels slid out. He handed her one to wipe the cum off her face and used the other to clean himself.

Suddenly a woman’s scream rang out from down the hall. 4072 felt her insides quiver and knew immediately what had happened. Another inmate was being laser shaved by the tormenting box. Although she wasn’t religious, 4072 said a silent prayer for her fellow convict in room 5.

“There’s another kitty,” the fat guard laughed cynically. How many times a day did they make jokes at the cries of the accused?

“Zip up, buddy,” Reed said to Monroe who seemed disappointed he didn’t get a towel, but replaced his saggy dick in his pants anyway. The slave looked at the scanner trying to remember what Snake told her. It read:

2 Towels: SLAVE IC-4072, ACCOUNT 348027539. PURCHASE: .10”

“Look at that,” Reed pointed down the scanner as he threw the towel in the trash. “Your first purchase as a slave of the RAC. What did ten cents used to be in Old America?”

“One dollar, Sir,” she answered like an obedient school child.  When Wall Street collapsed the only salvation was to pull out of the global economy, move the decimal on all money, costs, and paychecks one place to the right, and devalue the nation to keep the rich from leaving and the poor working. Suddenly, a person who made a thousand dollars a week made a hundred. A thirty thousand dollar car costs just three thousand. But, a fifty thousand dollar a year salary was now five thousand. A free person’s minimum wage went from $8.35 an hour to eighty-three cents. A female inmate’s wage was twenty-two cents, a day.

The world turned its back on Old America when the dollar was worth less than the paper it was printed on. That isolation lead to the revolution and the creation of the RAC. Patriarchy replaced political correctness and Fundamentalist Churches replaced the freedom of religion. IN order to restore the “Traditional Family Values,” women, like the dollar, were also devalued. A woman was worth exactly one-half of a man. Prison was reformed, schools were reformed, debt was outlawed and marriage permits were the only legal way to have sex. To deal with the debtors, crooks and anyone who complained they restored an ancient subclass of society – slaves. A slave was worth two women, or four men.

That’s what she was now. A non-citizen, an indentured servant, and one-fourth of a human being. Standing there – used, tagged, ravaged, shaved, and owned – she had truly become a slave. That was the verdict.