Wooman – Dennis Pells
November 27, 2018
The name’s Meinhof, Jack Meinhof, undercover investigative reporter. Freelance of course, and that’s the way I like it. No ties to the ‘Man’, if you know what I mean. I write what I want, I write the truth as I see it without influence or prejudice. As you may imagine my stories cut to the quick, no BS, and no soft shoeing around anyone or any subject.
The story I’m about to relate will initially shock and horrify, but if one were to follow the evolution of its premise to its natural conclusion, the truth it reveals will change your view of women as you know them.
I will say the gathering of this story was not without danger, just the preparation for this mission left lasting physical and emotional scars; now that it’s over and I am finally able take inventory of my loss; the price paid is incalculable. Regardless, I make you, the reader this promise; my observations were recorded without malice or prejudice although the subjugation, humiliation and acts of violence to which I was victim and witness could merit sanctions if not imprisonment for the perpetrators.
It was a scorching July afternoon and I had taken my niece and nephew to the local municipal swimming pool for a quick dip before a scheduled cook out with my brother and sister in-law.
Never had any kids of my own, never babysat, really, never any exposure to responsibility for anyone other than myself. It was my sister in-law Beth that suggest I take them to the pool. I think it was her attempt to show me what I was missing, show me the joys of family life. As for me I was a nervous wreck, watching a six and seven year old frolic in the water, two kids in a sea of kids nearly indistinguishable from one another. I thought I was doing a pretty good job when from across the pool I hear my niece Hattie call, “Uncle Jack.” Turns out the little girl I had been watching for the last half hour wasn’t her. I pulled my nephew out of the pool and sat him on a towel before hot-footing it around the pool to retrieve Hattie. And I do mean hot-foot, you could smell the flesh burning, the soles of my feet nearly adhering to the concrete like gum to hot pavement. I heard a short blast from a whistle, looked up just as the lifeguard shot me a look. I gave her a wave, took about three more steps when from my peripheral vision I saw her leap from her perch.
By her diminutive size and angelic face she appeared harmless; until she hit the walkway. Planted four feet in front of me, the whistle clenched between her teeth she gave it another blast. She had a cold ruthless grin on her face and her eyes looked like large dull black buttons that had been pressed into the soft flesh of her eye sockets.
She struck a menacing Khufu pose and I froze in place.
My sense was that of being dropped into a room full of cobras or rattlesnakes.
“Did you hear my whistle?” She asked and her voice seemed to project from her mouth with a steam-like hiss.
I said, “Yes,” my head foolishly nodding up and down.
“The first time?” She asked, her voice building a head of steam.
Rocking back on my heels I nodded again.
In a shrill voice she screamed, “Then why didn’t you stop running?”
I looked around, the little kids had stopped playing, the entire pool went silent. I wanted to tell her I wasn’t running, that I was merely walking fast but deep in the reptilian, survival part of my brain I knew it would be the wrong thing to say.
She took a slow step aside and with a grand sweeping motion of her arm indicated I should proceed.
I took no more than three steps and she blew the whistle with such force the pea inside shot out like a dart striking the back of my head. Next thing I know she’s in my face, her mouth twisting violently as she said,
“I told you not to run in the pool area, you want your pool privileges pulled for life?”
She cocked her head as she took in my expression.
It was like she just sliced both my Achilles tendons while simultaneously kicking me in the balls; she wanted me on my knees, she was a Marine drill Sergeant and Louisiana chain gang guard all rolled into one; she had an audience and I was the oafish bear jumping at every crack of the whip.
That experience left me shaken, replaying the episode in my mind I wondered what could have provoked such unwarranted hostilities? I remembered being mistreated at the hands of other women in jobs of little authority, a clerk at the DMV, a parking lot attendant, and it wasn’t until I thought of them collectively that a pattern began to develop. In my mind I tried putting a few pieces of this puzzle together but I knew if I was ever to make them fit I would need a woman’s perspective and there was only one woman I knew who’d have that kind of wisdom; Grace DeBone’. There was only one problem, the last time Grace and I got together my hangover cost me three days work and it took a month to work the kink out of my back.
Regardless, I called Grace, she agreed to meet and gave me directions to a bar called The Manhole; determined not to make the same mistake, before leaving I ate a loaf of bread and tucked two muscle relaxers in my wallet.
Did I tell you Grace is a head turner? When she strut through the lounge you could hear cat calls from one end to the other. To say Grace is good looking doesn’t do her justice, she’s six foot two and Saucy. She cozied up to the bar in a tight fitting red mini skirt, taking a stool she showed enough thigh to make me blush.
“Aren’t you cute,” Grace said and gave my cheek a pinch, “I just wanted to make sure you were interested in more than my brain.” She gave a shameless wink adding, “If you know what I mean?”
“You know it’s more than your brain,” I said and gave her muscular thigh a squeeze. “Only this time I want to be able to remember it, last time I got so drunk..”
Grace leaned in, “I can vouch for you Jack Meinhof, you had a great time.” Grace held up a finger for the bartender.
“The usual, Maurice.” She glanced at my half full Manhattan glass, “And bring Jack another one.” Grace fixed her large blue eyes on mine. “So tell me what’s bothering you Jack, on the phone you sounded frantic.”
Maurice set our drinks on the bar. I picked them up and motioned with my chin toward a booth in the corner. I began by telling Grace about the incident with the woman at the DMV, telling about the verbal abuse, the total disregard for common courtesy. Grace listened with a bemused smile on her face.
“I’m not surprised Jack, I’ve been to the DMV and I can’t say that I’ve been treated any better. So what’s your point? This can’t be what…”
“No no, I’m trying to lay a foundation; give you some background. The next time it happened I was in a huge parking lot and this woman attendant is flagging a line of cars into orderly rows, well, she’s waving the flag with one hand and pointing with her other hand which direction she wanted us to go. When I start turning the direction her hand is pointing she holds both arms up for me to stop and comes running over to my window. I roll it down and she tells me she said to go right and I told her she was pointing left. She takes a big breath and steps back, she gives me a hard look and says let’s try this again. So she points left and I start turning left and she comes unglued, she begins ranting and screaming and by this time the people behind me are getting out of their cars trying to figure out what’s going on. When I roll down my window the woman uses the flag like a lance and begins jabbing me.”
At this point the calm of Grace’s blue eyes turns stormy, she puts a finger in the air for Maurice and motions for another round.
“I don’t think I’m going to like where this is going, Jack,” Grace said. She place a Virginia Slim between her beautifully full lips and lit up, taking a short drag and motioning she was ready for me to proceed. It took a half pack of cigarettes and a dozen cocktails before we got to the lifeguard story.
Grace cupped my hand in both of hers cradling it like a wounded bird.
“Don’t tell me the lifeguard story Jack, I already know the script. They create a situation where there is no right answer, no appeasing them; am I correct so far?”
I knew the similarities between these situations weren’t my imagination, I knew with a different set of eyes, a woman’s set of eyes, she would see the pattern. Sensing the beginnings of a story I clicked on the recorder in my jacket pocket.
“That’s about the way it went in all three instances,” I said.
“They create a situation where they exert absolute control over you, it’s like they wanted to break you, bring you to your knees. Am I correct?” Grace asked.
“Well Jack Meinhof, it appears they were using you for practice.” Grace lit another cigarette, took a long pull exhaling a thin stream of smoke at the ceiling.
My eyes narrowed. “What do you mean they were using me for practice? Practice for what?”
“I was involved with this group quite a while ago, I got sucked in by their tag line, Today’s Women In Leadership. I attended a few meetings. After the group went underground I kept going, although I should have known better.”
Underground? That one word alone was enough to get the ink in my veins flowing. “Why did the group go underground?” I asked.
“If you read their original mission statement you would think they were the fucking Girl Scouts but you might just as well wipe your ass with it after Hillary got involved.”
“Clinton?” I asked, “Hillary Clinton?”
Grace glanced over her shoulder, turning back to me she narrowed her eyes. “That’s not the name she used but we all knew who she was.” Grace whispered. “I remember she introduced herself as Blue, at the end of the meeting someone asked her last name and she replied; Balls, then laughed like hell. Get it, Blue Balls.”
“When was all this?” I asked.
Grace took another pull off her Virginia Slim, as the smoke drifted up and around her sculptured cheekbones I saw a distant look in her eyes.
“This was years ago Jack, before Bill ran for president, I believe he was still Governor.”
“You said, when they went underground you should have known better than to stick around. Why was that?” I asked.
“At first they modeled their curriculum around the virtues of Joan of Arc, Florence Nightingale, Elizabeth Fry, Clara Barton,” Grace raised an eye, “You starting to get the picture? The idea was to apply those same virtues to politics and business.” Grace turned her face from me. I saw her reach into her purse and pull out a tissue. She took a deep breath waiting a moment before turning back around; there was a smear of mascara beneath one eye. Grace stared unfocused as if conjuring up a bad memory. In a haunting voice she said, “We were listening to Sara, the guest speaker for the evening; the topic was business ethics. Hillary was to my right and Nancy Pelosi to my left. I could see Hillary was getting upset, she was grinding her teeth, her hands balling into fists. Sara was concluding her lecture by reciting the Golden Rule, she looked down at her notes as she read out loud, Do unto others as you would have them… that’s all the further Sara got. Hillary flew onto the stage and punched her square in the mouth. Sara went down like a wet bag of sand. Then Hillary began kicking her and screaming, how’s this for doing unto others you stupid silly bitch! Hillary snatched the microphone from the podium, wiping the sweat from her brow she shouted; this is how you win in business, this is how you win in politics, this is how you win in life. Do unto others? Ha. Do to others before they can do You!
Sara was coming to and had made it to her knees when Hillary spotted her; she took two steps as if she were punting a ball and drove her foot deep into Sara’s ass. The audience sat in stunned silence when Pelosi rose from her chair and began applauding.
Now that I have time to reflect, Hillary must have had others planted around the auditorium because I heard a spattering of applause, soon there was more. I don’t know whether they were true believers or if they were doing it out of fear but within seconds the applause was thunderous.” Grace turned from me as she spoke these next words. “I was one of them Jack, I am ashamed to say this; I was on my feet applauding.”
I got up and slid into Grace’s side of the booth, reaching my arm across her broad shoulders I pulled her into an embrace; she wept tremulously but with little sound. Maurice came to check on us, to get rid of him I foolishly ordered another round of drinks.
“Hillary stood at that podium for the next five hours lecturing non-stop; she said we should model ourselves after women of real power, women like Boudica. And we were all like; who’s Boudica? It turns out she was a Celtic queen that stood up to the Romans and according to Hillary she knew how to win. Boudica would raid a Roman city killing everyone, men and women; she’d have them skewered, length wise pushing the rod from their rectum up into their skulls, the women, she would have their breasts cut off and sewn over their mouths then Boudica would have them stood along the sides of the roads.”
My hand went to my mouth and I could feel my lips forming the words; Oh my God! “This is the woman she wanted you to emulate? This is who she held up as a role model?”
“Her and others like her,” Grace said. “Hillary said in a battle, whether it’s in a boardroom or on a campaign trail there is the victor and the vanquished, that’s all; you can win through guile and cunning, or you can win through savagery and barbarism; no difference. But anything less than victory means you’re a loser.” Grace threw back her drink wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Jack, these encounters you had, those women were practicing some of the tactics they learned at the conference.”
“What conference?” I asked.
“As you can imagine there were a few in the group that didn’t subscribe to Hillary’s views and that’s when she established her own group and took it underground. She scheduled lectures one day a week and every summer there was a two day conference; at the conference they taught a variety of tactics, one of them being; how to cow your adversary.”
“I wasn’t their adversary,” I said.
Grace chuckled, “You’re a man, so yes, you were an adversary; they consider all men to be adversaries.” Grace let her fingers trace seductively along my jaw line and over my lips. “That’s why I quit, Jack. I love men.”
That was all it took, next thing you know we’re stumbling out of the bar and catching a cab back to my place.
The first time I met Grace, I’m ashamed to say, was under false pretenses. She had information I needed for a story I was writing and I used her like a two bit floozy in a ten-cent crime novel. Now it was time to come clean.
I held her hands in mine and looked her straight in the eye.
“Grace, I’m not a CFO, all of that was a lie so I could get the inside scoop for a story I was writing.” I felt her large hands unconsciously tighten their grip; a tear forming in the corner of her eye.
I could hear the hurt in her voice as she said. “Well Jack Meinhof, you didn’t have to lie, I would have helped you…” Grace buried her face in my chest. “Is this for another story you’re going to write?”
I nodded it was and went on to explain. “Grace, this could have huge implications, there is an election coming up in a couple of years.
Grace raised her eyes to mine, “Let me help, Jack. A conference is scheduled for this coming weekend in Arkansas, as part of the pageantry they employ men as, well… slaves. If you are willing I could get you in but I must warn you they only hire Eunuchs.”
I used to think I would do anything for a story, that is until… “You want to cut off my balls!”
Grace tipped her head back roaring with laughter. “Of course not Jack, but I will show you how to hide them.”
I don’t know if it was the drinks or my drive to get a great story, probably a good combination of both because that night as Grace is stretching my nut sack I’m thinking Pulitzer Prize my ass, after this story is published they will name an award after me.
I remember it wasn’t without pain; she placed one hand at the base of my scrotum, it might have been then that I took the two muscle relaxers but I’ll never know for sure.
The next morning I settled into the couch and turned on my recorder, I hit rewind then pressed play; I can hear Grace and I at the bar, listening carefully I jot down a few notes, next I hear us in the cab and can’t help but chuckle, we sound like high schoolers at a drive-in theater. What I hear next catches me off guard, I don’t remember having Boy George in my CD collection and truthfully I don’t remember hearing it play that night but in the background I can distinctly hear him singing, Do you really want to hurt me? Do you really want to make me cry? I thought I detected groaning in the background or it could have been part of the song but the yip and howl I heard next was not. And the voice, there was no mistaking it, it was mine. I can hear Grace now, her voice husky and low and I can’t tell whether it is passion or exertion.
“Relax Jack,” She said, “If we had more time this wouldn’t be so painful.”
Then there was silence and I can tell the recorder had been turned off. A few seconds later I hear Grace’s voice loud and clear as if she were holding the recorder to her mouth.
“Good Morning lover boy, sorry I had to leave. If I stayed the night I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off you so it’s best I sleep in my own bed.
They are having interviews for eunuchs at 3:00. They like masculine men so there is no doubt you will pass the interview, and the physical, as long as you have your balls hidden like I showed you, you will pass. If we had a few weeks to prep you wouldn’t be as sore, but you were the one that wanted to keep going.
I wish I could be there to help but if you use plenty of lube you should be able to get them into your anus with your fingers, if not.” There was a long pause and I could almost hear Grace thinking. “Try using the handle end of a baseball bat. I will text you the address for your interview,” Grace paused and drew in a breath, “Jack, I am having serious reservations about this, there is so much danger, if they find out you are not a eunuch and are actually there undercover…. They will try to break you Jack, they want strong men so they can abuse them, bring them to their knees, make them subservient. Let them do it Jack, don’t fight it, just let them win so you won’t have to suffer.”
The recorder went silent. With trembling fingers I switched the button to off.
We were handcuffed, tethered together by chain and led naked into a room that had the ambience of a police holding cell. The door slammed closed and a tinny voice came through the intercom, “Turn to your right and face the mirror; spread your legs and lift your cocks.”
We all complied, moments later the voice said, “Ok now I want you to play with yourselves.” I assumed whoever was talking behind the two-way mirror was watching. She must have forgotten to turn off the microphone because what we heard next was laughter then a new voice say, “Look at those nutless whores. Do you see that? It could be greenbacks or scraps off the dinner table and you can get those dogs to do anything you want.”
She was right of course and the ensuing laughter drove the point home like a dagger. Forgetting Grace’s admonition to cave easily I stepped forward, thrusting my hips I let loose a stream of urine at the mirror. From the silence that followed you would have thought I shot the Pope. The men panicked pulling at the chains dragging me with them as they cowered in a corner.
“Unshackle him,” a new voice screamed.
Two women hustled into the room and pulled me free of the pile.
“Check his nutbag,” the voice said. “That bastard has a set of balls somewhere.”
One thrust a hand between my legs and felt around. She looked at the mirror and shrugged her shoulders.
“He doesn’t have a scrotum,” she said.
“What are you some kind of hermaphrodite?” The voice called.
I knew I had to put this in check before they decided to do a cavity search. “I was born without one.” I said into the mirror. “Been this way since birth, no balls, no scrotum, nothing.” There was a long silence before the voice spoke again.
“I want the other twenty slaves fitted with bow ties and bunny tails. They will make good servers for the banquet.” I heard her put her hand over the microphone. A few seconds later she came back on.
“That last one I want on a leash.” As an afterthought she added, “Put a choke collar on him and a muzzle, he looks like he might nip.”
That was my introduction to the Today’s Woman in Leadership Conference. The pay was not inconsequential, by my standards it was downright extravagant, but I was soon to learn we’d earned it. I did have one point of concern, soon after I was fitted with what I thought to be a costume and found out to be a fully functional muzzle and choke collar, I was instructed to sign a 30 page personal injury waiver. The ink wasn’t even dry before I was dragged in front of what I assumed to be Hillary, although it was hard to tell. With her back to me she stood outfitted like a Viking warrior, complete with horned helmet and fur fringed tunic and boots. In one hand she held a sword, the other a shield. She turned very slowly; her eyes locked onto mine and froze me where I stood with an icy stare, hypnotic.
There are no words to describe what happened next, what she did to me, what she had me do to her. Maybe with therapy I would be able to put words to it; for now I’ll just say she broke me, broke my spirit and had me begging, pleading to be near her, to loop the choke collar around my neck and have me squat next to her. Upon reflection, the only term I could use for what she did would be: total mind fuck. For the next forty-eight hours I never left her side; I slept on the floor next to her bed, I squat beside the toilet when she crapped, when she spoke from the podium I would grovel naked at her feet. I was a broken nutless man.
The conference center was at a secluded ranch far from even the smallest of towns. An airstrip had been improvised in one of the pastures and the rutted gravel road had been freshly graded for the parade of limos that seemed to stretch to the horizon. Every major female CEO, CFO, mayor, senator and business owner were on hand.
There were several bars set up and the manslaves, clad only in bowties and bunny tails served drinks to an increasingly boisterous crowd. From a window overlooking the massive courtyard Hillary waited until all were assembled before harnessing me to her chariot. To the sound of trumpets and thunderous applause we bolted into the courtyard, her whip stinging my back, and to her shouts of encouragement we did several laps at breakneck speed. Hillary synched the choke collar tight and we screeched to a halt. Using the leash like a quirt she gave me a quick lash and barked, “Heal.” When I reflect back on this scene I remember setting back on my haunches, my head held high, shoulders back, feeling proud to be her steed.
The crowd cheering wildly Hillary snatched the microphone off the podium and pumped it in the air, then with both arms raised she slowly lowered them and the assembled fell silent.
“Women.” She shouted, “It was in God’s plan that you all be here today. And She thanks you for coming.” The women went crazy, jumping up and down, screaming, some tearing at their clothing.
“Most of you have been coming to these sessions for many years, some of you just a few but none of you would be here if You were not in fact the best and brightest this nation has to offer.” The women began to applaud when Hillary held up her hand and continued.
“You are all CEOs, CFOs, presidents of this and that, chairwomen of this and that, senators, congresswomen and I could go on and on but there is one thing you are not.” At this point you could hear a pin drop as the crowd collectively held its breath.
“There is one thing you are not nor will you ever be!” Hilary shouted then said softly and very seriously.
“You are not men.” The pause must have gone on for a full thirty seconds before she screamed.
“You Are WOOmen! You are what is right in this world.
You are the future, you are the salvation, you are the pinnacle of God’s majesty and She is proud of each and every one of you.”
The applause was frantic, the screaming and shouting, the gnashing of teeth, the beating of breasts, it swelled to a fevered pitch whose crescendo had no limit.
In the middle of this tumult Hillary looked down at me with her hand over the microphone. She bent low and said, “Do you see what I can do, I am their God.”
It was at this point I remember a stirring sensation in my loins only to find I had a huge erection, a blue veiner that looked like a sausage in the microwave.
Hillary raised her hand for quiet.
“You will be tested this weekend, I will not tell you how or when but by tomorrow evening you will better know what it is you are made of, where it is you are going and most importantly; how to get there.
Since Moses, men have been in power; and where have they gotten?” Hillary scanned the crowd, her eyes lazering anyone brave enough to return her gaze; she pulled the microphone from its cradle and walked out from behind the podium.
“Power? Who gave them the power?” Hillary took a few paces, cupped her chin in her palm and raised her eyes to the sky in contemplation.
“Power?” She said again then dropped her gaze, “Every one of you; at birth, has power, you were born with it.” With a broad sweeping gesture of her hand she said, “Some keep it.” She made the same sweeping motion with other hand and said, “Some give it away.” Hillary pumped a fist in the air and shouted, “Some have it taken from them.” There was a chorus of boos and hisses from the crowd until Hillary held up her hand for quiet. She slid the microphone back in its holder then moved her fingers over her chin as if stroking a small beard, next she walked from one end of the stage to the other all the while looking deep in thought. At the podium she stopped, gazed out over the crowd and said, “If we look at history, say Marc Antony and Cleopatra; he willingly gave her his power.” Hillary chuckled, “Don’t get me wrong, she had to lay some serious pussy on him but yes, he gave her his power then she led him around like a fifteen year-old pimply faced boy. You see, Marc Antony loved Cleopatra. That was her power over him.” Hillary paused for a few moments before concluding; “But that example is the exception. Most women are the victims of love, most women give their power away in the name of love, most women are subservient to love.” Hillary ripped the microphone from the stand and screamed, “And Where the Fuck has That gotten Us? Look at the state of our nation, the world; this is what happens when you give your power away.”
It was at this point I noticed the eunuchs walking amongst the crowd, their serving trays laden with cocktails and appetizers. Because of the dialogue I had concerns for their safety but they seemed to move about with immunity, although there was the occasional wiener pull and slap on the ass.
Hillary stood erect in front of the crowd, arms crossed over her breasts she took a wide stance straining the limits of her tunic; smiling she scanned the crowd.
She brought the microphone up to her mouth, pumping a fist in the air she shouted, “Can You Feel it in you? Can you feel the power?” The crowd went crazy, hooting and screaming; over the din Hilary screamed, “Tonight, I want you to love one another; let the power build, love one another and we can topple empires, love one another and WE will rule the world!” Over the roar of the crowd the words to Melissa Etheridge’s “Come To My Window” drift in, the guitar licks as tantalizing as a wet kiss. The crowd pulsed with the sounds, some women rushed the platform, reaching up stroking Hillary’s feet, others running their hands up her thighs as she thrust her hips to the music.
The rest of the evening is a blank, I think it may be some kind of a built in protective amnesia my brain engaged, shielding me from the raw truth of what transpired. I have had flashbacks, but audio only. There was chanting and laughter and now that I draw on those sounds, I remember a feeling of being smothered. Yes smothered, then the sound of water splashing, no, gushing and a sensation of drowning. I hoped chronicling this experience would have a therapeutic effect; it doesn’t. Regardless, the next morning I awoke naked on the cold tile floor, my leash tethered to Hillary’s bedpost. I was bruised, my face chaffed, the hair on my head matted to my scalp.
I was squatting next to the shower as Hillary bathed when I noticed in the full-length mirror what appeared to be bite marks on my backside, bite marks ranging from what could be considered a nip, to wounds that could only be described as savage.
Hilary’s dress for the day was that of Indian Chief; she wore a full-length feathered bonnet and had been intricately painted from her toes to her forehead. At Hillary’s direction three eunuchs worked for at least an hour putting on the finishing touches. Her breasts were painted as bulls-eyes, her nose had a white stripe down the center with black around the eye sockets, highlighted by flaming red over the eyebrows and cheekbones. The mouth once done, had an ominous cast to it, the only way I can describe it would be to say she had the sinister grin of the Joker in the Batman series.
Her grand entry was on my back, a bridle clenched between my teeth. For speed she allowed me to stand erect, her thighs clamped tight to my waist, my fingers interlocked behind my back creating a saddle. To the cheering crowd we made several laps around the courtyard; just when I thought I could do no more she lashed me, riding me hard for one more lap. Climbing onto the stage she dismounted kicking me to the side. There was a roar of approval from the crowd and Hillary snatched the microphone from its stand.
Chuckling she shouted, “Just because they give you a good ride doesn’t mean you have to be nice to them.” Slapping herself on the ass and making a giddy up gesture she yelled, “Ride em hard and put em away wet.”
I didn’t know if this was some kind of an inside joke but the crowd went crazy, women pointing at me holding their stomachs, some dropping to their knees in laughter.
She held her hand up for quiet and pointed out past the courtyard, “WooMen,” she said, “You see the large truck that just pulled up; that’s the lunch truck.” With those words the entire crowd turned just as the back gate dropped open and two massive black bulls leapt from the truck bed into the corral. There was a moment of stunned silence before Hillary shouted.
“But first you’ll have to kill it!” The silence was profound, lasting maybe sixty seconds before a woman shouldered her way through the crowd. Broad shouldered with a trim waist she had the appearance of a fitness coach.
“I’m the fucking governor of Arizona and I know how to handle this. Which one you want done up first.”
Hillary gave her a bemused, dismissive smile. “I thank you for offering but first I’ve got some ‘splaining to do; I’m glad you all had last night together, time to get to know one another, form friendships, create bonds.”
A few of the women glanced at each other shyly, others snickered and yet others embraced or held hands.
“These friendships, these bonds will be crucial to the outcome; this test will take all your skills of diplomacy, critical thinking, strategy, communication, it will take all your guile, your cunning and yes, your…savagery.”
The governor of Arizona kicked at the dirt with the toe of her boot, crossing her arms over her chest she said, “I already told you I’d take care of it.”
“Very well,” Hillary said and reached behind the podium. Pulling out an over sized pizza oven spatula made of bamboo, she handed it to her saying, “Have at it.”
The governor held it in her hand, her forehead wrinkling to a washboard.
“What’s this for, serving?” The governor asked.
Hillary ignored her, “I’ve heard it said; it’s not whether you win or lose, it’s how you play the game.” Pointing the microphone at the governor she said, “It is and-will-always-be about winning, and how you play the game is up to you. In your hand Governor, is your weapon.” The governor took a step back, her mouth gaping like trophy bass. Moments later the eunuchs were moving amongst the crowd handing out pizza spatulas by the dozen.
“The one who delivers me the first set of bull balls will be declared the winner.” Hillary looked over the crowd of nodding heads. “I don’t care how strong you are or how brave, to succeed you will have to work together, choose your teams wisely.” The women looked from one to the other and continued nodding.
It was at this moment I glanced at the two massive bulls milling about the corral, their well defined muscles rippling beneath their taut black shining hides, when I noticed their horns; they hadn’t been cropped. They were long bone-white instruments of death.
“You are all accomplished leaders in industry, politics, healthcare, the sciences but… this challenge, years from now when you look back on this day, for all its dangers, I want you to remember the lessons learned, the skills you’ve honed, the experience gained, the strength you have drawn from one another and most of all I want you all to be proud, proud to have taken part, proud to have taken this giant step, this important first step to being the WOOOOMEN that will rule this nation.”
Hilary stood back smiling sagaciously down at the crowd as they picked up the chant. WOOOMEN WOOOMEN WOOOMEN!
“Understand, the rules are simple; you have been issued your one and only weapon, the first one to lay a set of bull balls at my feet will be declared the victor.
I know all of you are aware we will have a new president two years from now,” Hillary said her eyes scanning the crowd, a cunning grin painted on her face. “I’m not saying I’m going to be running.” At these words the assembled began booing and hissing. “But if I were.” Hearing those words and not waiting for her to finish the women began screaming and cheering until Hillary quieted them. “But if I were to run,” Hillary winked outlandishly, “My running mate would be chosen from this group.” A hush descended over the crowd like fog and Hillary continued. “No doubt, I would pick one that knows how to win,” Hillary said then screamed into the microphone, “One that has a set of balls!”
To the screams and applause Hillary turned from the crowd, picking up my leash she ascended the steps to her elevated throne where I squat at her feet. The next words Hillary spoke were in some kind of eerie soliloquy as she watched the women begin to congregate.
“Don’t think I haven’t got my eye on you Representative Darling, I see you fanning your scent, I see you trying to entice the vulnerable with your pretty little ass.”
I followed Hillary’s line of sight and saw Representative Darling moving through the crowd. I had noticed her before, and who wouldn’t, she was this petite perky little blonde that looked like she belonged on Baywatch. She wore very short shorts with the most perfect cameltoe in the front and half her ass cheeks hanging out the back. But Hillary was right, as she walked she did this twerky little move with her butt, much like working a thurible to spread incense.
“Like bees to a flower.” Hillary said and chuckled.
Just then the Arizona governor raised the spatula above her head bringing it down hard on her knee splitting it in two.
“There you go Governor, I knew you would figure it out.” Hillary said and watched as she took the two halves and began honing the edge on the concrete, working it against its abrasive surface like a sharpening stone until the long curved edge was knife sharp. The governor commandeered a couple more splintering them lengthwise several times creating formidable daggers which she tasked a few of the women with sharpening.
Hillary rubber her hands together, “Oh, this is beginning to get interesting.”
I watched as a group they came together, from where we were you could hear what was being said but even if you couldn’t, from their body language you could tell a quorum had been formed and the governor was calling the shots. In the meantime Representative Darling seemed to be hanging back, floating around the perimeter of the gathering. You could see by her eyes she was paying close attention to what the governor was doing but those in close proximity to her weren’t; they had their eyes glued on Representative Darling’s ass.
“I see what you’re doing you little slut,” Hillary said, “You subversive little bitch.” Nodding her head in approval, she said, “Good strategy; divide and conquer.”
Just then a very tall regal looking woman made her way through the crowd with a bevy of acolytes.
Locking eyes with the governor she said, “I am Senator Worthington from the great state of Connecticut.” With a sweep of her arm she said, “As you can see I have quite a following.”
The governor narrowed her eyes, hiked up her pants and glared at her.
Hillary studied the two women saying quietly, “Well, I didn’t see that coming.”
“You’re one of those uppity democrats that likes putting their noses where it don’t belong, ain’t ya?” The governor said and took a step toward her. She paused for a second appraising Senator Worthington’s troops.
“Normally I’d just stroll on over and cunt punt you across the parking lot,” the governor said holding her with a hard stare, “And although I don’t have any illusions about us getting along,” the Governor jerked a thumb toward the corral, “I think we have a common adversary.”
Hillary chuckled to herself saying, “My enemy’s enemy is my friend. Looks like the Republicans and Democrats will finally be working together.”
“With nothing but daggers and hatchets made of bamboo our task will be formidable,” the governor said, “Our best bet is to isolate one bull, disable him then proceed to the other.”
Senator Worthington pondered this for a moment, “And how do you propose disabling him?” She asked.
“Stab him in the eye,” The governor said and casually scratched her ass. “The daggers are long enough, should be able to reach the brain and be fatal.” The Governor held up a shard from the spatula waving its fine honed point under Senator Worthington’s nose.
“I was thinking the same thing, about one at a time.” Senator Worthington said, “It just makes sense; my thought was to distract one, like a rodeo clown might do, then once he’s isolated we move in, say in a wedge formation herding him toward the fence where perched high I could deliver the fatal wound.”
The governor walked around and between Senator Worthington’s group slowly eyeing them up and down, “Then after you deliver the fatal blow I’m supposed to believe you won’t cut off his balls and shut me out of the game?” The governor asked.
Sensing a stalemate Senator Worthington offered, “You can sit next to me, actually having two of us will improve our odds of striking a fatal blow.”
I remember this part of the negotiations because Hillary’s attention suddenly shifted from Senator Worthington and the governor to Representative Darling. While the governor and Senator Worthington haggled over logistics and the techniques used for crafting the weapons, Representative Darling was working the crowd. Sometimes it would be simple eye contact, or a smile or if she caught one of them staring at her ass or lifting their nose to catch her scent it would be handled with a shy grin or a come-hither lick of the lips. I have witnessed what that kind of flirting can do to a group of men, I have seen with my own eyes, once administered, good, decent, loving men become drooling slathering mandogs that are capable of humping everything from cactus to keyholes. Of the several hundred women there, Representative Darling had the undivided attention of twenty; I had never known flirting to have that kind of effect on women, but each and every one of them walked around, slack-jawed, dazed, as if they’d just been slapped with a cast iron skillet.
Senator Worthington and the governor were finishing their plan and to this point, although there had been solicitations, no one had volunteered to distract the bull. That is until Representative Darling stepped to the plate. Seconds later, twenty women volunteered. Soon a fistfight broke out as to who would distract the bull. The winner, a well-defined muscular creature with cat-like reflexes talked it over with Representative Darling. Darling acquiesced and the job was hers.
Hillary had this starry eyed look of admiration when she muttered, “She’s good, real good. Sure you can lead by intimidation and brute force, but if you want loyalty, true loyalty, if you want them willing to lay down their lives for you, you have to make em love ya, make em ache for ya.” She chuckled, “That bitch has them eating out of her hands.”
The governor and Senator Worthington took their places on the top rung of the fence and the woman with cat-like reflexes leapt into the corral.
“Good luck with this,” Hillary muttered and I looked over to see the bulls in a fierce battle with each other.
“Just like a male, too preoccupied with protecting their own territory to see the real danger.”
The woman ran around the bulls screaming and hooting to no avail. I was thinking she might have to pry them apart with her bare hands when one bull finally looked over his shoulder with an expression of, what the….? Then he shot the other bull a look like, I’ll be right back, I’m going to go check this out.
As soon as she made eye contact with the bull she began kicking up dust, spitting and doing just about everything she could to irritate him yet the bull maintained this look of confused merriment. It wasn’t until the group of women filed out in wedge formation that the bull’s expression changed; it went from confused to mocking as he shook his head in disbelief. I caught the expression on the other bull. He actually looked like he was stifling a laugh.
The wedge of fifty women, all packed tightly together held their makeshift machetes at port arms as they advanced. There didn’t seem to be any malice in what the bull did next; he just lined up as if someone racked up the pins for a new frame. Putting his head down he went in for a strike. The action looked like that of bowling pins; women airborne, flipping and tumbling, bashing into one another, for all intent and purpose it was a perfect strike; except for the screams of terror and agony.
This is when I swear I heard the other bull laugh, it was low and gravelly at first, when I saw a tear form in his eye and it came out like a loud He Haw, He Haw, He Haw. He actually bent low to the ground, his chest heaving with laughter as his front legs folded under him. His hindquarters still high in the air, the bull’s tail wagged as he continued laughing. It was at this time I noticed the other bull; all the women were down, except the one originally sent in to distract him. Next it was as if he were on a mission to complete his task except she skillfully darted about escaping a fatal blow.
“That sneaky little shit!” Hillary said and I followed her eyes to see Representative Darling creeping up behind the laughing bull. With brutal force she skewered his nut sack with a long bamboo shard and pulled it up between his legs to his anus. The machete in her other hand, one powerful hack and the nut sack fell free. The scream the bull let out was almost operatic, it was a long ear piercing high note that could stop the heart.
Advantage Representative Darling, one would think at this point but not so; precisely at the time the laughing bull let out that ear piercing scream the bowling bull stopped dead in his tracks with a wide eyed Betty Boop look of ‘what the fuck was that.’ Unfortunately he happened to stop just as he was passing the governor and Senator Worthington. He was just out of reach but, undeterred, both leapt off the fence; sailing through the air, their arms flailing, they land on his back and neck. The governor was bucked off immediately but Senator Worthington having stabbed a skewer into either side of his neck clung to him like a dingleberry. I can only assume he was distracted, between Senator Worthington hanging on his neck and his screaming compatriot, because he tripped over one of the fallen women pinning the senator under him but also driving a skewer deep into his neck. It was a horrific scene, blood spurting, bowling bull thrashing about only to have the governor step over and stab him in the eye. The timing for this sequence took all of three seconds; just enough time for Representative Darling to gather her balls but nothing further.
It looked like Senator Worthington was about to wiggle free when the governor put a boot to her head, all but ending any chance this would be a three-way race. With the speed and skill of a practiced surgeon the governor eviscerated the bowling bull clean down to his penis and balls. I think the governor knew she was a second or two behind Representative Darling. Attached to the balls was a coil of hide and tissue, swinging it above her head like a bolo the governor raced in pursuit.
Representative Darling held her scrotum between her clenched teeth as she made for the fence. Using both hands she nearly vaulted the top rung when the governor’s lasso wrapped around her neck pulling her off her feet. The governor advanced and with a solid right hook punched the balls out of Representative Darling’s mouth. From the other side of the corral Representative Darling’s group sprinted to her rescue. From the opposite side the governor’s group sprung into action; in the ensuing melee of nipple pinching, hair pulling and eye gouging I saw Representative Darling emerge from beneath the sea of writhing bodies, one testicle clenched in her fist. Representative Darling began sprinting for the stage, seconds later the governor popped out of the pile holding the mate to her set.
Representative Darling jumped the stairs two at a time slamming the testicle at Hillary’s feet. Turning, she crouched in what looked like a martial arts pose and waited for the governor. The athletic governor wound up as she ran, the move having the symmetry of a Cricket pitch. The testicle caught Representative Darling between the eyes before bouncing directly back into the governor’s hands. Slamming the testicle at Hillary’s feet she turned and looked like she was going to finish Representative Darling off.
Hillary pulled a pistol from her waistband firing a single shot in the air. Looking them both in the eye she yelled.
“I declare you both winners. You define what it means to be a wooman, you are the epitome of strength and courage, guile and cunning. You have what it takes, you have what I want.” Hillary grabbed them both by the hand and led them to the podium.
“WOOOMEN!” Hillary shouted, “We have two winners. I did not expect this and truthfully I was not prepared for two winners but these Woomen, although their styles are vastly different, demonstrated they have what it takes to win.” There was polite applause from both sides but it died off quickly. Hillary continued.
“I know there is only room on my ticket for one vice president,” Hillary’s voice elevated to a shout, “But when I win in two years, when I have wrested the power out of the hands of man and elevated Wooman to their rightful place; I will have both of these Woomen at my side.”
Holding tight to both their hands she raised her arms in the air. The applause was thunderous, rolling like waves it buffeted ones senses.
I remember watching Hillary, observing her actions, reactions throughout the entire competition when the thought finally struck me; all her movements, all the words she spoke were choreographed, scripted, these weren’t honest emotional reactions to the moment. When she took the stage with Representative Darling and the governor she spoke the right words, she made the right moves but behind her eyes I saw jealousy, I saw malice and loathing, behind her eyes I saw evil intent. I remember thinking, this challenge wasn’t to find the most promising and honor them, this challenge was staged to flush them out and identify them; but for what? I had no idea at the time, the one and only thing I knew for sure; whatever Hillary had planned, I would be at her side.
The scene had been masterfully set for the evening’s festivities, there was the heavy thump thump thump of rap music blaring, the governor and Representative Darling breakdancing as Hillary shouted out.
We are Wooman, We haven’t come far
But look out Man, Now we’re driving the car
We don’t need your dick, it’s way to small
We don’t need your dick, cause we got your ballssss
We are Woo Woo Woo Woo, Woooo man
Get in our way, and we’ll kick you can
Yo snitches and bitches, that’s what you am
Cause you sure as hell aint, no Wooooooman
I’ll cut you and hurt you, and stab you in da eye
If you ever even look, at my hair pie
Yous a big man now, thinks you a stud
I’ll kick you and bite you, till I draw blood
Now you a tiny little man, that’s what you am
Cause you’ll never ever be, a real Woooooman
Next the governor and Representative Darling took their turn at the microphone rapping to the beat while the rest of the women, in some bizarre pagan ritual, hacked at the bulls tearing off large chunks of flesh, some rubbing it over there bodies and those around them, others grabbing handfuls of entrails and draping it around their necks like it was Mardi Gras at the meat market, and yet others consumed the flesh with pagan vigor. The likes of such barbarism I had never witnessed, the carnage and gore are etched into the memory plates of my mind and I believe that even after death, like many of those silver nitrate etched glass photographic plates of years gone by, mine will remain to haunt.
Soon the eunuchs were walking amongst them, some with finger bowls and napkins, others with cocktails and wine. The feasting and drinking went on until Hillary took the microphone in hand, with the National Anthem playing softly in the background she called to the crowd.
“What kind of celebration would this be if we didn’t have fireworks?” She pointed to the governor and Representative Darling motioning them onto the stage. “The honor of lighting the fireworks has been reserved for the both of you, my chariot awaits.”
A chant began, softly at first until it rose to a shout. “Wooman Wooman Wooman.” By this time I had already been harnessed to the chariot awaiting the whip.
They climbed on board and both lashed me until I was sprinting up the hill some two hundred yards from the stage.
By this time I had figured out Hillary’s plan. I knew why she wanted to identify the best, the brightest, the most ruthless wooman in our nation; they were her competition! These were the type of wooman that would never be satisfied with being vice anything, these wooman wanted it all and Hilary very wisely knew she should deal with them now or she would be forced to in the very near future.
At the time I remember feeling proud that I was part of her plan; that was the hold Hillary had over me. I was smitten, I was in awe, she was the most charismatic, ruthless, cunning, brave, patriotic, and vital wooman I had ever met. At that instant I was willing to die for her and this was her end game. Looking back she must have known I knew what she was up to; but she also figured out I had my balls up my ass!
The governor and Representative Darling, torch in hand, each lit a fuse and of course the fireworks didn’t go off but there was one hell of an explosion.
It must have been the chariot that saved my life for it took the brunt of the explosive force; Darling and the governor were blown to pieces.
The concussive force of the blast splintered the chariot and rocketed me fifty feet through the air. Upon landing, the impact popped my balls loose and it was like I had instant clarity of mind, like some terrible brain fog had lifted and the horror of what Hillary had done paralyzed me; but only for a moment. I knew Hillary considered me a liability and that I was in terrible danger. To save my life I had to flee but more importantly I knew the truth had to be told; the truth that women had learned from men only our most savage instincts, our most base and immoral behaviors, that women had not only emulated the worst men had to offer but had in fact perfected these vile traits and were willing to use them against each other.
Growing up I had become accustomed to the ruthless ways of men, the savagery committed upon one another in the name of personal gain or interests but in my heart I have always held women above mortal man, I considered men the weaker and inferior of the sexes and women our savior.
I don’t know about you but I’m scared.