fiction by Matt, 1999
I stand before the General’s desk, stiff, unmovable, hands at my sides. I have not been put at ease, nor am I likely to be. Without preamble the General addresses me.
“A hydrogen cylinder was found de-pressured during a routine pre-flight inspection. It had been removed and later replaced.”
I am not as impressed that he has this knowledge as I am supposed to be. As a matter of fact, I am not impressed at all. Very little about this organization impresses me - I know it too well.
“Men’s lives could have been lost,” he intones and bullshit, I answer, that’s what “routine pre-flight inspections” are for. But my reply is just in my mind.
“You purchased a package at an off-base store. Your location below the radar towers has been identified,” he explains, with rising frustration. “Don’t you know your every action is known to every member of my command?” He may have his temper under control, barely, but his volume could command a fighter under vertical take-off. The walls vibrate. I stand stock-still, my lips set in a hard line.
“The Commander-In-Chief was notified. He was on the phone with me. It was oh-three-hundred in Washington, D.C.”
I think, if he’s too old to be up at that hour, give the job to someone who can hack it. But I give no outward sign at all. None.
“We scrambled every available jet. Every one! For what?”
Yes, well, eternal paranoia is the price of war-mongering.
“Do you know I can bring the entire force of the United States Armed Services down upon you?”
For me. Just for me. Destroy a civilization to crush an ant. Vaporize a continent. A great way to show you care.
“How many balloons,” he asks through his set jaw, “did you release?”
“Ninety-nine,” I reply. The “Sir” is silent. We tried to use one as a makeshift condom, with humiliating results.
Ninety-nine. We stare at each other and both swallow hard. It’s too many.
Grimly, unwillingly, he rises and comes around his desk, picking up the side chair in his massive hand. Gray metal, thin pads covered in green vinyl at the back and seat. He sets it in front of me.
“Release your dungarees,” he orders.
I do so without looking at him. Underneath I am wearing purple panties. With both arms I raise my blouse to show him that my bra matches. Underwear to get fucked in. Does he know when, where, and how I got it? Perhaps he does.
I lean toward the chair without being told, stepping right up to it. I want the edge in front of my legs for when my knees buckle. I stretch my chin over the back, seeking every advantage, then reach back, pushing down my stretched panties. My hands wrap around the sides of the chair where they join the seat, almost lifting it to me.
Behind me, the General removes his belt, his usual decisiveness absent. It is as if things are moving in slow motion. The first stripe makes me jump, as it always does but it is not as hard as I expected. There is no bite; he must have folded his belt. I am confused.
He proceeds and it does get to me but I stand firm for now, staring at the gray carpet. As he takes his toll, my resistance declines, my legs begin to shake. Soon, I know, he will increase his stroke - he has to win, he has always had to, every time. And yet these strokes keep falling. I fight my rising panic. Maybe I will be sent to the stockade this time. There must be something more.
My buttocks flinch but my back stays straight and tears fall without my crying out. Near fifty I stop counting but he does not pause or comment and I have to guess at seventy. Still, nothing changes. My knees sag but my jaw remains firm. Droplets of perspiration trickle coldly down each arm.
When the beating stops, I wait. I question my resolve. I don’t know what to do.
“Stand up,” he commands. Without looking at me he removes the chair and replaces it at the side of his desk. My hands are at my sides. I refuse all thoughts. I focus on blankness. “Assemble your clothing,” I hear and I do so. Another wait passes.
“Turn around, Maureen. I have something to say to you.” There is a note of regret, of hopelessness in his voice. Suddenly, he seems like a very old man. Defeated. By me. And yet, I am more frightened than proud. “Colonel Thompson has been given a Pacific command. You will be in no further contact with Scott.”
My world disappears in total nuclear annihilation. I am overcome with my own sobbing.
Ninety nine dreams I have had
In ev'ry one a red balloon
It's all over and I'm standing pretty
In this dust that was a city
If I could find a souvenir
Just the prove the world was here
And here is a red balloon
I think of you and let it go
(as sung by Nina)
I stand before the General’s desk, stiff, unmovable, hands at my sides. I have not been put at ease, nor am I likely to be. Without preamble the General addresses me.
“A hydrogen cylinder was found de-pressured during a routine pre-flight inspection. It had been removed and later replaced.”
I am not as impressed that he has this knowledge as I am supposed to be. As a matter of fact, I am not impressed at all. Very little about this organization impresses me - I know it too well.
“Men’s lives could have been lost,” he intones and bullshit, I answer, that’s what “routine pre-flight inspections” are for. But my reply is just in my mind.
“You purchased a package at an off-base store. Your location below the radar towers has been identified,” he explains, with rising frustration. “Don’t you know your every action is known to every member of my command?” He may have his temper under control, barely, but his volume could command a fighter under vertical take-off. The walls vibrate. I stand stock-still, my lips set in a hard line.
“The Commander-In-Chief was notified. He was on the phone with me. It was oh-three-hundred in Washington, D.C.”
I think, if he’s too old to be up at that hour, give the job to someone who can hack it. But I give no outward sign at all. None.
“We scrambled every available jet. Every one! For what?”
Yes, well, eternal paranoia is the price of war-mongering.
“Do you know I can bring the entire force of the United States Armed Services down upon you?”
For me. Just for me. Destroy a civilization to crush an ant. Vaporize a continent. A great way to show you care.
“How many balloons,” he asks through his set jaw, “did you release?”
“Ninety-nine,” I reply. The “Sir” is silent. We tried to use one as a makeshift condom, with humiliating results.
Ninety-nine. We stare at each other and both swallow hard. It’s too many.
Grimly, unwillingly, he rises and comes around his desk, picking up the side chair in his massive hand. Gray metal, thin pads covered in green vinyl at the back and seat. He sets it in front of me.
“Release your dungarees,” he orders.
I do so without looking at him. Underneath I am wearing purple panties. With both arms I raise my blouse to show him that my bra matches. Underwear to get fucked in. Does he know when, where, and how I got it? Perhaps he does.
I lean toward the chair without being told, stepping right up to it. I want the edge in front of my legs for when my knees buckle. I stretch my chin over the back, seeking every advantage, then reach back, pushing down my stretched panties. My hands wrap around the sides of the chair where they join the seat, almost lifting it to me.
Behind me, the General removes his belt, his usual decisiveness absent. It is as if things are moving in slow motion. The first stripe makes me jump, as it always does but it is not as hard as I expected. There is no bite; he must have folded his belt. I am confused.
He proceeds and it does get to me but I stand firm for now, staring at the gray carpet. As he takes his toll, my resistance declines, my legs begin to shake. Soon, I know, he will increase his stroke - he has to win, he has always had to, every time. And yet these strokes keep falling. I fight my rising panic. Maybe I will be sent to the stockade this time. There must be something more.
My buttocks flinch but my back stays straight and tears fall without my crying out. Near fifty I stop counting but he does not pause or comment and I have to guess at seventy. Still, nothing changes. My knees sag but my jaw remains firm. Droplets of perspiration trickle coldly down each arm.
When the beating stops, I wait. I question my resolve. I don’t know what to do.
“Stand up,” he commands. Without looking at me he removes the chair and replaces it at the side of his desk. My hands are at my sides. I refuse all thoughts. I focus on blankness. “Assemble your clothing,” I hear and I do so. Another wait passes.
“Turn around, Maureen. I have something to say to you.” There is a note of regret, of hopelessness in his voice. Suddenly, he seems like a very old man. Defeated. By me. And yet, I am more frightened than proud. “Colonel Thompson has been given a Pacific command. You will be in no further contact with Scott.”
My world disappears in total nuclear annihilation. I am overcome with my own sobbing.
Ninety nine dreams I have had
In ev'ry one a red balloon
It's all over and I'm standing pretty
In this dust that was a city
If I could find a souvenir
Just the prove the world was here
And here is a red balloon
I think of you and let it go
(as sung by Nina)
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