Language

the_chase_01_by_johnnyscribe.jpg

Friday mornings were the worst. There should have been some forethought to easing into the weekend for government employees that had difficult jobs, but it didn’t seem anyone had cared when legislation passed, and the Rehabilitation and Inclusion Policy was implemented. RIP, or Rest In Pieces as the opposition gleefully called it, was executed by various institutions and clinics around the country. In cases of emergency, even schools were called in to help out. What the public didn’t know—and she was determined to keep it that way for as long as she could—was that RIP included termination procedure for those tiny people that were found injured beyond repair, or too antisocial to join polite society. And all terminations were scheduled to occur on Fridays.

Maura sat in her car and drank her coffee. It was a very cold morning and she had been up early, peeling a layer of ice from her windshield. Doing that had felt like heaven compared to what her job was on Fridays. Every previous workday she took tally of new arrivals, newfound and captured tiny men and women that were brought in by volunteers, or had been abandoned by previous owners. Plenty of these tiny creatures (she didn’t dare call them people openly) could speak and understand language. Many could perform small tasks after some training. Quite a few found their way into new homes where they were cared for and maybe even loved. It was the rest of them that had really begun to bother them. The Friday lot.

The terminations, she thought. What a joke. Why don’t we call it what it is? Murder. Assassinations. Mass killing. Her stomach turned and she looked at the entrance of the clinic where she worked. Four of five days she sat with tinies in her workroom and evaluated them for possible mental or developmental disorders. She reached for them to see if they shied away from her touch or welcomed it easily. She spoke to them in English and ascertained how many of them spoke that gibberish they seemed to have invented for themselves a couple of centuries ago. If they talked, they could learn to speak properly. She trained, hugged, fed, taught, cleaned them. She loved those days of evaluations and care, but on Fridays she was obliged to terminate the ones that were deemed, by law, to be permanently unfit for placement.

She looked at the time, finished her coffee, and prepared herself for the stabbing of cold weather. She enjoyed the Winter months, but this temperature only woke her up even more, and she wished she could show up drunk for work. At least today. Today she knew two of the tiny men she had examined for days would have that nauseating diagnosis added to their files. She made the trek from her car to her office and sat down to look at her schedule. Yes, there they were. Two terminations today. Fantastic. She thought of buying a bottle of tequila during lunch.

One was an old man that could no longer walk. He had been found on a roadside by a volunteer, and all week he had cried out the same words, over and over again. She wrote them down, knowing what they meant: “hi-dey-tee-gee”. Hide the children. She read them again and thought of every hour she had spent with the fragile critter, trying to calm him down, watching him soil himself again and again, washing him as he struggled and spat at her, and getting nowhere fast. She knew it would be very difficult to numb him. She sighed, positively yearning for tequila, and looked at the other file. Yes, here, this was the reason she’d been unable to sleep.

She looked closely at his file on her tablet and stared at the beautiful face. He had taken her breath away when she found him in the cardboard box brought in by church workers. It had contained tiny clothes, sewn to impossible perfection by hands that only cared that the tiny people were not nude, as nudity was a sin. She didn’t mind because she loved to wash those little bodies and have them choose new clothes for themselves. In most cases, little people only wore rags and bits of plastic they fashioned into basic covering they never seemed to want to clean. To watch them wear garments made to fit them perfectly filled her heart with something close to joy.

The box had contained a stowaway she had only seen when she dumped its contents on the washroom table to clean and disinfect them, and saw the tiny body descend with a soft thud on the pile that soon continued to cover him. She stopped with a gasp and started peeling tiny pants and shirts and dresses from the pile until she found him. He screamed and charged her, and she was too amazed to stop him before he fell into her lap and started pounding and kicking at her thighs. After she placed him in a cage all by himself and made some phone calls, she found out that none of the people from the church knew anything about him. She then admitted him and started treating him. Nothing had worked, and after enough days her supervisor had determined he was mad beyond recovery. She was to kill him in a few hours.

She’d done it before. The clinic lacked enough funding for a Crusher, a newly developed, fully automated machine that took a tiny person from a living state into a deeply drunken or drugged stupor, and finally crushed them into a paste that was them marked “medical waste” and incinerated. Here, she had to do it all herself. Initially, there had been enough funds for drugs that stopped their tiny hearts, but after a few years all they could give her was tequila. She had to force the tiny drops into tiny mouths until they passed out, and then she had to place them on a medical mat, and wear a special bootie to cover her shoe as she crushed their unconscious bodies with it.

In the beginning, it had been easy. She was following the law and she knew when someone was no longer mentally competent. She had a degree that showed the world she could make that determination, but after years of seeing and hearing them, of touching them and talking to them, of teaching them words and seeing their faces light up when she treated them with civility, it wasn’t easy anymore. And she was afraid this little guy was going to be impossible to terminate. She didn’t care that he seemed rabid. There was something hiding in the gleam of his eyes that seemed more than she could understand. Something she wished she could reach. She didn’t care if it got her a Letter of Reprimand in her file; she was going to dip into that government tequila if she was to do her job today.

She left her office and went to the barracks, a euphemism for the room where the little people were kept in cages. She walked over to his cage and saw that he was still sleeping. The clothes she had put on him were torn to shreds, as had been every set of clothes she ever forced him to wear. She sighed and stared at his perfect little legs. His ass was the most adorable shape she’d ever seen, and she thought of how much fun it had been to clean it constantly as he made every effort to defecate in her presence and fling feces at her from his cupped hand every chance he got. She looked at the webbing between her thumb and finger and saw the tiny welts he had left there every time he bit her. It had required every ounce of patience she possessed not to shout at him or squeeze him hard. She thought only love would bring him around, but she had gotten nowhere, and she was out of time. He was out of time. Her eyes filled with tears, and she wept silently.

She wipes her cheeks dry after a few minutes, not knowing he was awake, his eyes blinking with hatred he could hardly contain as he stared at the wires of his cage. He heard her walk to a different cage, and remove the old man from it, the one that couldn’t walk. The Chief, as he called himself, of the Boyardee clan. A grandiose name that only meant his people were landfill folk. He listened to his feeble cries, and knew the man’s mind was no longer there. He kept crying out to people that weren’t there. Whatever reason there was to bring him out of his cage, it couldn’t possibly be a good one. He shut his eyes and ears to the plaintive sounds and waited for the woman to leave the room so he could keep on trying to figure out how to escape.

Maura pulled the paralyzed elderly man out of his cage, and placed him in her soft palm. She was supposed to wear gloves, but never did on Fridays. If there was any comfort to be drawn from the warmth of her touch, she wanted this old man to feel it. She left the barracks and took him to the Room With No Name, called that way and many other ways across the country, she was sure, because it wasn’t an official room. It didn’t exist. But it did.

She held the tiny man in her palm as she fetched the dropper, the bottle of tequila, a medical mat and a bootie for her shoe. As gently as she could, she sat at the wheeled steel table that had a drain and an attached water hose just like autopsy tables. After years of practice she could, using only her free hand, remove the cap from the bottle of tequila, pour a few drops in a shot glass, fill a dropper and leave it resting on the side of the shot glass while she removed the medical mat and bootie from their sterile covers, and placed them each on the floor and on her right shoe, respectively.

She then forcefully fed a couple of tequila drops to the old man, though after the second drop he demanded a third and a fourth one. She kept pressing the tip of her dropper into his mouth until every bit was gone, as was he. She didn’t wait to see if he’d recover and wake up to his surroundings before she placed his unconscious body on the math, and applied her protected shoe on his tiny shape. Adding pressure as quickly as she could, Maura felt his body give way and spread under her sole. Quick and painless. She placed it all, mat and bootie, now stained in deep red, in a hazardous-waste bag, and tossed it into the incinerator chute.

Damn it all, she thought, and downed three shots of tequila, fast and into a stomach that had only contained coffee up to this point. It hit her very quickly, so she braved her way to the second scheduled termination, and once again stood outside his cage. It seemed to waver in space as the barracks walls spun all around her.

”Hello, you cutie,” she said, and giggled when she caught a glimpse of his behind again. “Boy, you’re beautiful. Lemme look at ya,” she added, puzzled because he wasn’t moving. “Turn ‘round I said.” Slowly, his head rotated until he peered up at her over his shoulder. He leapt to his knees, and much to her shock, grabbed a hold of his little member. At first she thought he was going to masturbate his contempt at her, but the translucent stream rushing from his penis told a different story.

”You sure know how ta influence others an’ make friends, don’t ya? Well, I really wish it’d been diff’rent for us. For you I mean. You’re so gorgeous I just wanna… mmm!” She brought her lips together and made a smacking sound that could have only been translated as the lascivious regret of a delicious missed meal. She saw he was done peeing, and he saw he was done peeing. They both looked at his drained bits simultaneously, and he decided that the next offense should be a lewd demonstration. His hand flew to the tip of it, and back to its base. Once, and again, and once more, hard, like an insult.

She smiled and considered watching the show, earning a look of surprise from him she was too drunk to catch, and a reconsideration of his methods. He stopped what he was doing and flipped his body onto his fours, pointing his ass at her and pushing with all his might.

“Oh, no, little one. No more shit from you. You can shit when you’re dead. Now we drin’ to your health. C’mere!” She opened his cage, and reached for him, clasping his prone body tightly. She felt his struggles and she was sure he was screaming, but there was nothing he could do from the tight hold of her fist, and she returned to the Room With No Name with him.

Everything she did before, she repeated.She opened her firm grip on his body enough to release his upper body from her hold and turn him around so she could push drops of tequila down his throat. As soon as he had some freedom he went nuts, screaming wordlessly and scratching at her with fingernails too infinitesimal to inflict any damage. She ignored the nature of his anger and wondered how all that movement would feel between her legs. She considered terminating him that way for a moment, but shook her head at such a notion.

When she began to force the first drop of tequila into him, she had to pin him by the throat with her thumb, her palm cradling his thrashing body as she held the plastic tube tip against his tiny mouth, and squeezed tequila into it. For every drop he took, she swallowed a shot. After the third drop he started yelling at her in perfect English.

”You fucking bitch! I’m going to kill you. I’m going to kill all of you!” She thought it was the tequila in her making her hear things, but it was the tequila in him making him say things. He went on for a while, saying terrible things, calling her horrible names, but all she could do was smile until she couldn’t help herself anymore, and started kissing him.

”My precious lidl one, you get to live! I don have to kill you now! I can juss keep you forever. You’ll be mine and I’ll be yours!” She kept placing her lips on his angry face and fists until he stopped moving, lost to exhaustion. She smiled and looked at the door. She’d lock it, and have a little fun with his wonderful shape before taking him home for the rest of his life.

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4 thoughts on “Language

  1. What a delightfully contorted morality she’s got going there. She reluctantly but obediently follows the RIP when the tinies prove impossible to rehabilitate, but she’ll happily steal them from the clinic when they pass the competency test. And she’d be the first to admit that her sole determination is less than objective.

    I admire the subtle way you hint at the tragedies informing both of the tiny men’s lives. We don’t have to be told who the old man is crying out to, or why the feral man is filled with rage. We can all too easily imagine. That our protagonist cannot—or will not—says volumes about her and her society.

    I hope you eventually draw (or collage) this scene.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Maura is like me in many ways. I follow the law, help others when I can, have never committed a violent crime… but give me a shrink ray and I become a lethal sociopath.

      Also, I leave it intentionally hazy as to whether she steals him or not. Maybe she gets him reinstated as a tiny with potential for rehabilitation given he’s bilingual. All she has to do is stuff him full of tequila and it will be obvious to anyone he’s capable of speech.

      But yeah, rather than risk losing him, she probably steals him, which in my head is not a crime. Nothing that ends with the rightful possession of a tiny man by his true owner is ever a crime.

      Thank you for the encouragement, Olo. One day I might illustrate this story, and definitely future ones.

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    • She might have become desensitized if she had not been naturally inclined to feel affection for the tiny people she cared for and if through observation she had not learned how intelligent they truly were. In my world, she does get him home no matter what it takes, and she keeps her job. She’s like me, she’ll accept any risk to protect what belongs to her.

      Like

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