Message-ID: <20610eli$9903170430@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: MichaelD38@aol.com Subject: RP: {MichaelD} "The Subtleties of Justice" (nc, bd, viol, caution) (2/4) Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-transfer-encoding: 7bit Content-type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: ************************************************* The Subtleties of Justice Copyright 1998 by MichaelD38@aol.com Free redistribution permitted; no commericial use without authorization. ************************************************* III. Weasel awoke to a dull ache in the back of her head. She reached around, feeling a small shaved spot at the base of her skull. It stung when she touched it, and she realized there was an incision in the center of the shaved area. She opened her eyes and saw that she was still in the room with the reclining chairs, but the chairs had been wheeled into a circle while she was out. Around her, the other women were waking up, looking around dizzily. A steel tray had been attached to her chair on the left side. On it sat a pair of tweezers, a strange-looking curved needle, and three silver hoop earrings. As Weasel's equilibrium returned, she realized that she had been strapped down in the chair. Her arms were free, but her legs and torso were bound to the chair with broad nylon straps. She glanced up at the clock on the wall and realized that four hours had gone by. The door at the front of the room opened, and a beefy woman with a tight blonde bun entered. She wore the same khaki uniform that the other guards had worn. She stepped into the center of the circle of chairs, holding some short black object in her hand. "Good evening, ladies. We will now begin the next phase of your inprocessing." "Yo, what is this shit?" the girl next Weasel asked. "When are we going to get some fucking clothes?" Rather than responding, the woman turned and pointed the black rod at the girl who had spoken. The girl suddenly thrashed in her chair, throwing her hands back to her head, screeching in pain. After a second or two, the woman stopped and lowered the rod. "You will not speak unless spoken to. You are not here to make requests. You are no longer individuals with rights. Through the crimes you have committed, you have forfeited any right to be treated as human beings. You are here to be punished, and possibly rehabilitated. "All of you have been implanted with a neural stimulator at the back of your head. This device is wired into your central nervous system, and as you can see, it is capable of generating intense pain. That sample I just provide to your friend was merely level one stimulation. At maximum output, it is quite capable of killing you. This device is also the reason we have never had a successful escape from this facility. If you should ever pass beyond the boundaries of the prison, sensors at the perimeter will activate your neural stimulator. The further away you get, the worse the pain will be. The lethal range is approximately one hundred meters. So far, no one has gotten any further." Weasel glanced around, looking at the shocked reactions of the other girls. The woman continued. "All of you have prior prison time. Let me assure you that this facility is nothing like any place you have ever been before. Our mission is not merely confinement. Our goal is to punish you for your crimes against society. We are going to break you down to your basest essence. We are going to try to make you feel and understand the anguish and pain you have caused your victims. Some prisoners are able to get to that point; some are not. But I can assure you that until you do, you will never see the outside of this prison again." She paused again, looking around with a satisfied smile on her face. "In answer to your question, you will not be provided with clothing. From here on out, you will remain naked at all times." Angry murmurs greeted this revelation, and the woman raised the rod again. All at once, Weasel felt as if someone were driving a spear through her head. She cried out, clawing at the back of her skull where the pain was the worst. But as suddenly as it had started, it was over. She gasped for breath, holding the back of her head. Around her, she heard the other girls whimpering. "Try to understand this," the woman went on. "While you are here, your concerns and desires are irrelevant. Expressing them is a waste of effort, and will do nothing but draw you this sort of discipline. I am now increasing the setting on my control rod to level two. Do not make me activate it again." Weasel seethed in her chair. Had she been alone with this woman, she would have sliced her into tiny pieces, very slowly. No one had ever treated her like this and lived, not even in the other prisons she had been confined in. "You will notice the trays attached to your chairs. Please pick up the tweezers." Some of the girls hesitated, and the woman held up the rod. Flinching, Weasel grabbed the tweezers off her tray. "Using the tweezers, you will remove your pubic hair as completely as your are able. You have ten minutes. If I am not satisfied with the job you have done, you will be punished accordingly." Several of the girls, Weasel included, squawked in outrage. The woman raised the rod, and again, electric agony slammed into Weasel's head, noticeably worse than before. Then it stopped. She lay in her chair, shaking, as she tried to regain control of her body. "The rod is now set to level three," the woman said. "I can continue this as long as you like." Weasel glared at the woman. Had she been within reach, Weasel would stabbed her with the tweezers, neural stimulator or not. The woman noticed Weasel staring at her and raised the rod again. "You're wasting time." Weasel's hand went to a fist around her tweezers. No one, but no one, had ever treated her like this, not even other members of the Widows. But she had enough sense to realize when she had no choice. The woman would simply continue zapping her with that rod, most likely until Weasel was dead. She thought about making her do it, but Weasel was not ready to die. She still had a long list of people she wanted to kill when she got the opportunity. This woman had just added herself to the list. Steeling herself, Weasel looked down and fluffed her light brown pubic hair. She selected a hair near the top and plucked it out with the tweezers. The pain was annoying, but no worse than that. The indignity of this stupid operation was worse. She looked up at the clock a few minutes later, and realized that she was running out of time. She tried to pluck faster, but her pubic area was getting progressively more raw and sore. With a minute left, she cursed at herself. She had no idea she had so many pubic hairs. She gritted her teeth against the pain--it was beyond annoying at this point, but far less than what she would get from the neural stimulator- -and plucked as fast as she could. The woman walked around the circle, watching the girls plucking away. One Latina girl, cursed with a thick bush of hair and far from being finished, plucked frantically at herself. About half the prisoners were done now, rubbing at the sore skin between their legs. Weasel plucked out the last few hairs she could reach, and looked up at the clock. They were past ten minutes now, she thought, but the woman hadn't said anything. She stopped in front of the Latina girl, fingering the black rod, and the girl, whimpering, ripped at herself, tearing several hairs out together with each pluck, taking small chunks of skin with her. Weasel could see even from her seat that the girl was beginning to bleed. When the Latina was done, the woman stepped back into the center of the circle. "Place the tweezers back on the tray and pick up the needle." She looked around as the girls complied. "You will notice that the needle has a socket in the end. I want you to take one of the rings on your tray and open it up." Weasel suddenly realized where this was going, and did not like it at all. She could see from the looks on several of the girls' faces that she wasn't the only one. "Slide the prong of the ring into the socket of the needle. Once you have done that, you will take one of your nipples and insert the needle all the way through until the ring is in place." Gasps and whimpers greeted this instruction, and the woman raised the black rod. Weasel tensed up, waiting for the agony that was about to come. "The rod is now set to level four. I can assure you that this operation will be far less painful." The woman glanced at the clock on the wall. "You have ten seconds to comply." Glaring murderously at the woman, Weasel grabbed one of the rings from the tray. She struggled with it for a moment before getting it into the needle. Then she took her left nipple between her right thumb and forefinger and pulled it out. Trying to maintain control over her anger, she thrust the needle through her nipple. The sharp, agonizing pain made her weak, and for a second, she was unable to move her arms. She gave the needle a final shove and got the ring into place. She heard grunts and cries of pain as the other girls did likewise. "Hey, fuck this!" one of the girls yelled. Weasel looked up to see her throwing her needle and ring at the woman. "You can't do this shit! We've got rights." The woman pointed the rod, and the girl convulsed in agony, straining at the straps holding her down. She clawed at her head, pulling out clumps of hair, screaming in pain. Then it stopped. The girl shook, shivering in her seat. "Are you ready to comply now?" The girl only gasped, choking sobs preventing her from answering. The woman pointed the rod again, and the girl's agony began anew. She let it go on a good five seconds this time before stopping. Weasel felt weak simply watching it. The girl was sobbing now, bloody hands over her face. "Please . . ." she moaned. "Are you ready to cooperate?" "Yes." The woman picked up the needle and ring and set it on the girl's tray. Hands shaking, the girl picked it up and forced it through her nipple. She convulsed once at the pain, and struggled to get the ring in place. When she was done, the woman turned back the circle. "Now take another ring, and perform the same operation on your other nipple." Furious, but unwilling to undergo the torment she had watched the other girl subjected to, Weasel pierced her right nipple as quickly as she could get it done. Then she lay back, gritting her teeth at the angry throbbing on her chest. She knew there was one ring left, and she didn't want to think about where that one was going. When the circle of girls finished with their nipples, the woman spoke up again. "Now, take the last ring, and place it through your clitoris." Weasel had expected this, but still closed her eyes in fear. "Oh, God," one of the girls moaned. "The rod is set for level five. You have fifteen seconds to comply. You will place the ring directly through the flesh of your clitoris, not through the hood or the labia below it. If I am not satisfied with your placement, I will have you do it again until you get it right." Weasel had a momentary flashback to her days with the Widows, to a hot afternoon much like today. A dusty warehouse. A girl Razor had picked up hitchhiking. They had strapped her down on the bare cement floor. Razor--whose gang appellation was well-deserved--had slowly sliced off tender bits of the girl's body. Weasel could still remember how the girl had reacted when Razor had sliced off her clit, even though they were by then an hour or two into the torture. The room swam back into focus, the air stabbed by agonized gasps and cries as the other girls struggled to pierce themselves. Weasel clenched her fists and forced herself to pick up the last ring. She pulled her labia out, finding the bud of her clitoris. She positioned the needle as best she could, and shoved it through. The pain was mind-bending, but localized as it was, Weasel suspected it was not as bad as level five might be. She gasped for breath as she forced the ring into place. Then she collapsed against the chair, letting the needle fall to the floor. She opened her eyes a few seconds later to see the woman walking around, inspecting their work. She stopped in front of one girl, a heavy-set, pasty-faced blonde, and looked closer. "No good. Try it again." "Oh God! Please, no!" The woman raised the rod, thumbing a switch. "I now have it set for level six. It's that or try it again." Shaking in fear, the girl pulled out the ring and tried to pierce herself again. Weasel watched as she struggled to get the ring back into the needle, then tried to position it. "Is that right?" she mumbled. "Yes." The girl thrust the needle through again, convulsing in pain. She pulled the ring into place, and the woman stepped back. Weasel felt her stomach floating up her throat as the woman passed, inspecting her. She glanced over Weasel's body once, then moved on. Weasel gasped, finally relaxing. "That is all for now. You have five minutes to rest before we begin the next phase." The woman left, shutting the door behind her. Weasel closed her eyes and tried to get a grip on herself. When she got out, however long it took, she would find this woman, find where she lived, find the people she cared about, and kill them all very, very slowly. "What kind of place is this?" one of the girls moaned. "How can they do this to us?" "Shut up, bitch," one of the others said. "This ain't nothing. My boyfriend used to beat me worse than this when he got drunk." "Fuck you," the first girl said. "Fuck you, too." The second girl had a point, Weasel thought. She had seen far worse than this during her days with the Widows. She had just been on the inflicting end back then. She knew how bad it could get, if the people who ran this place really wanted to make it that way. What had the woman said about making them understand what they had put their victims through? Weasel's bladder grew weak at that thought. They couldn't really do to her what she had done as a member of the Black Widows. Could they? IV. The door to their room opened about five minutes later, and Assistant Warden Sandhurst reappeared, accompanied by the woman and another guard. "Jolene Crandall." The plump blonde girl spoke up. "What?" The woman and the guard walked over and freed Jolene from her chair. The pulled her to her feet and led her out of the room, shutting the door behind her. One by one, Sandhurst took the prisoners out of the room. After five girls, they got to Weasel. "Wendy Kinsella." "It's Weasel," she muttered. The two guards took her from the chair and led her through the door into another hallway. They stopped at table where another guard sat. On the table were several large cardboard boxes, filled with black nylon straps. "Hold your arms out straight," the woman said. Weasel complied, though she shot an acidic look at her and Sandhurst. The woman took two wristbands out of one of the boxes, and locked one to each arm. The bands had some sort of heavy metal blocks on the insides of her wrists. The woman drew two more bands from the same box, this time locking them to Weasel's ankles, with the metal blocks on the outside. Then the woman drew some kind of harness out of another box, and dropped it over Weasel's head. One strap locked around her neck. Four more, two in front and two in back, ran down to a waistband, which the woman also locked. The waistband had similar metal blocks at the hips, and another, flatter box in back, as did the collar. Finally, the woman ran two narrow straps around the inside of Weasel's thighs, locking them behind her across her buttocks. She checked the fit and stepped back. "Lower your arms to your sides." Weasel did, trying to act nonchalant, as if she couldn't care less about their stupid games. The woman pointed the black rod, and Weasel jumped in surprise. But instead of bringing pain, the rod activated something in Weasel's harness, and her wrists were suddenly pulled toward her waist, the metal blocks on her wrists locking against the ones on her belt. She squirmed in discomfort, glaring at the woman. "This way." Weasel followed the woman and Sandhurst down the hall to an office. The woman sat in a chair against one wall, while Sandhurst sat behind the desk. He took a file folder from a short stack in one corner of the desk and opened it up. He scanned it for a few seconds, shaking his head. "Wendy Kinsella. You have been a very, very bad little girl. My God, I haven't someone of your age with a record like this in years." He flipped through the sheets in the file. "Multiple counts of petty theft in grade school. Grand theft auto at age nine. Arson the next year, resulting in two counts of first degree murder due the death of your parents. You were acquitted of the murder charges thanks to your lawyer's speech about supposed child abuse. Multiple counts of drug possession. Picked up three times for solicitation. You began running with the Black Widows at age thirteen. Suspected of complicity in at least ten of the thirty Widow killings. Disappeared when the FBI arrested most of your friends. Finally arrested six months ago in Van Nuys. Convicted and sent out here for me to take care of. How you escaped being sent to Death Row at San Quentin is beyond me, but the jury must have had their reasons. Congratulations. You're only eighteen, and you've already completely fucked up your life." Weasel shifted her stance, looking up at the ceiling. "Fourteen." Sandhurst looked up. "What?" "Fourteen. I did fourteen people. See?" She twisted her right forearm around, showing him the fourteen spiders tattooed on the inside. Above them, "Weasel" was tattooed in elaborate script. Sandhurst stared at her, his blue eyes growing colder by the moment. A frisson of sudden fear coursed down her spine. Weasel had met only one other person in her life with eyes like his. That other person had been Razor, the leader of the Black Widows. "Wendy. Or Weasel, if you prefer. Sergeant Bannock has already explained to you that we do things differently here. One of the things I do not tolerate out of my prisoners is attitude." He glanced at Bannock and nodded. Weasel looked over just in time to see her pointing the black rod. The pain roared through her, causing her abused nipples and clitoris to howl in agony. Her legs gave way, and she fell to the floor, moaning in pain. The stimulation stopped after a few more seconds, and Bannock pulled her back to her feet. She wobbled for a second, dizzy. "Let me explain a few more things to you. As Sergeant Bannock told you, our mission here is one of punishment. The sorts of punishments you will undergo depend on your current behavioral status. We grade our prisoners on a merit/demerit system. The lower your balance is, the worse your punishments are. You earn merits by displaying quick and eager compliance with your orders and responsibilities. You earn demerits by behaving the way you have been tonight. "Now, because of the extreme nature of your crimes, you are starting out with a balance of two hundred demerits." "What? That's not fair! I just got here!" A split-second later, the pain blasted into her, knocking her to the floor again. Arms pinned at her side, she could do nothing but writhe and groan through her teeth. Finally it was over, and Bannock pulled her back up. "You were sent here for a reason," Sandhurst continued. "That reason is the offenses you have committed. It is my job to ensure you pay for those crimes. In addition to those two hundred demerits, you have already earned another three for your behavior tonight. I am happy to tell you that two hundred and three demerits easily qualify you for the most severe punishments we offer. Even if you earn one merit a day, which will be quite difficult, you will not rise to the next, lesser, level of punishment for at least three months. My sincere hope is that with your attitude, you will be stuck at your current level for years to come." He closed her file and stood up. "One last item. Because you have been sentenced to life imprisonment without the possibility of parole, I am required by law to make you aware of the following provision of the California Penal Code. You may, at any time during your confinement, should you so desire, volunteer for execution. All that is required is that you state your wish to be executed to any prison official. You will then be taken from this facility to the State Penitentiary at San Quentin, where you will be put to death by lethal injection as soon as provisions can be made to do so. Do you wish to make such an election at this time?" Weasel thought about that for a moment. Razor was on Death Row in San Quentin right now. If she said yes, they might be able to see each other again. Except that Weasel would then be executed rather swiftly afterwards, which would pretty much defeat the purpose of arranging a reunion. "No." He glanced at Bannock. "Get her out of here." V. Los Angeles International Airport July 24, 2006 McBride turned his car off Century Boulevard, following the dispatcher's directions to the warehouse. He saw several patrol cars parked outside and one officer stringing up yellow tape around the entrance. A forensics truck was already on the scene, and the white- coated techs were unloading their gear. He parked behind the truck and stepped out. One of the officers approached. "Detective McBride?" "Right." "I'm Sergeant Friess. Me and my partner were the ones who got the call about this." McBride glanced around. "Where's your partner?" "Uh, over there." Friess pointed to an officer who was leaning forward against the warehouse wall. McBride noticed a pool of vomit between the officer's feet. "You may want to brace yourself before you go in. This is pretty bad. Worst thing I've seen since I was on the force." McBride followed him under the tape and into the warehouse. The building was empty, apparently unused. "The place belongs to a company called Western Import Properties. They seem to be out going of business, because there's a big tax lien on it. Perps broke in by cutting the chains on the door." McBride saw a cluster of officers and techs in the far corner. As they walked over, they passed a broad circle of broken glass. He noticed that unlike the other scattered debris on the floor, the glass was not covered with dust. "What's that?" "Broken bottle of Snapple. Was here when we came in." "Have one of the techs check it for prints." "Right." McBride could see the victim, or what was left it--the sex was indeterminate. For all his years on the force, he felt his stomach tightening. The body was spread-eagled on the cement, arms and legs attached to long chains that ran out to several I-beams holding up the roof. A broad pool of blood surrounded it, and as he got closer, he could see dozens of bits of flesh on the warehouse floor. The body was scarcely recognizable as human. Much of its skin had been flayed off, along with all the fingers and toes. Much of the blood had dried, and the flies had already arrived. McBride squatted down next to the body, pulling on a pair of rubber gloves. "What do you think?" he asked one of the techs. "It's a woman. Beyond that, I can't tell. Making the ID is gonna be tough." McBride looked closer, seeing what he meant. The woman had long blonde hair, though it was now soaked in blood and difficult to see. He could make out the remains of the woman's breasts--her killers had used them to torment her. He had to look away for a second, steeling himself. Whoever she was, she had not died easily. "Looks like they got the chains from in here," the tech said. "There's a box of them over by the wall." McBride saw what he meant, a ragged cardboard box about ten feet away. A length of rusty chain, similar to those binding the woman, hung out of the top. When he looked back, he saw several long black needles in the blood at his feet. He looked closer, around the body, and saw more. Hundreds of them. He looked back at the body, and saw a few still sticking out of the woman's flesh. "Needles." "Yeah." "Another one." "Looks like it." A bloody knot of cloth had been shoved into the woman's mouth, apparently to silence her. McBride noticed a wad of denim a few feet a way. "What's that?" "Her clothes, looks like." McBride stood up, walking around to the other side. He poked at the pile of cloth with his pen. It was the remains of a pair of denim shorts. They had been sliced open up both legs. As he moved the cloth around, he saw the woman's panties, sliced apart the same way. Something on the shorts caught his eye. The label on the back pocket said "Limited Too." McBride closed his eyes, swallowing hard. He had a teenage daughter, though she now lived with his ex-wife. He knew the sort of people who shopped at that chain. "Jesus Christ." The tech looked over. "What?" "It was a kid. A teenage girl." ************************************************* The Subtleties of Justice Copyright 1998 by MichaelD38@aol.com Free redistribution permitted; no commericial use without authorization. ************************************************* -- +----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+ | | | | Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | ----