by Jaid Black
“Wait a second!” Pence’s wife, Warren, bellowed. She shot to her feet. “We haven’t been given the chance to tell our side of events yet!”
“Of course you have,” the preacher replied. “You done told it when you answered Gowdy’s questions.”
“Those questions were rigged against us!” Warren spat back.
“That’s a specialty of this here patriot,” Gowdy said. The pride in his voice was unmistakable. “You’re welcome.”
Warren’s mouth worked up and down, but nothing came out. Snow said something to her friend—words the damn microphones failed to pick up!—as she gently tugged at the arm of Pence’s wife. Sighing, Warren sat down and murmured something back to Snow.
I frowned. Congress truly needed to consider investing in better equipment. I didn’t like not knowing what my wife was thinking. She was too cunning by half.
“Now then,” Angus continued, “y’all three commie libtard brides must stand as this here verdict is rendered.”
The trio of women shared a hesitant glance before taking to their feet. The men in the audience got their first good look at our wives wearing their classy, nearly see-through dresses. The resulting whistles, hoots, and hollers should have made me proud, but I felt pissed off and possessive instead. My muscles tensed and my teeth gritted as I forcibly tamped down on my rising temper.
“I don’t like this,” Gowdy grumbled. “Them’s our commie libtard wives they wanna bang.”
My eyebrows rose. Maybe Gowdy wasn’t as hopelessly stupid as I thought.
“Me neither,” I muttered back. “I wish Angus would hurry the hell up.”
“The way I see it,” Professor-Preacher Angus stated as he solemnly looked to our brides, “is y’all have been remiss in your wifely duties.”
Wifely duties. My dick got hard as I envisioned Snow performing them. I semi-hoped Angus prattled on as he was known to do because I could not stand up in my current condition. I shifted in my seat and cleared my throat as quietly as possible. Thankfully, his usual wordiness did not disappoint.
“All three y’all was patriotically repealed and replaced by your husbands. All three y’all was unpossessed of the demons by me.” Angus pointed at himself for emphasis. “All three y’all was then legally wed by the laws of Trumpgolia to your patriot husbands—again, by me.”
He kept recapping the obvious, giving junior more than enough time to shrivel. Now that I was capable of standing up, I wished the professor-preacher would hurry up and render the damn verdict already. It had been a long day. I was hungry, I was horny, and… well I was hungry and horny.
“By the power of this here congress, I sentence Snow Whitey, Hillary McKillery, and Warren Michaels to end their filibuster by week’s end.”
Week’s end?! I frowned at the semi-relieved expression on my wife’s beautiful but cunning face. The week’s end was another two days away!
“I got them bluey balls,” Gowdy said miserably. “I am not liking this here verdict.”
I grunted my agreement.
“Because I’m old enough to remember life when NSA and Trumpgolia was one nation,” Angus intoned, “I remember the ways of marriage were a bit different on the other side of the wall. Women had a choice,” he chuckled to a well-humored audience. “Can y’all believe it?”
Even I had to crack a quasi-smile. Such a notion was pretty damn funny—even if the humor was coming at the expense of my… what had Gowdy called them? Right. Bluey balls.
“Now then,” Angus continued, his demeanor growing official once again, “our three patriots will be given the following task…”
I stilled. My eyebrows knit together. I’d done everything legally and patriotically. What the hell kind of tas—
“You can do to your wives as you please after week’s end, but for the next two days y’all must engage in a NSA practice called something like ‘get to know them.’ Ordinarily I would not encourage such, but we must make a small allowance for the fact your commie libtard wives were raised on the godless side of the wall amongst possessed heathens.”
I shared a confused look with Gowdy and Pence. What the hell did get to know them even mean? Professor-Preacher Angus must have noticed our puzzled expressions because he explained it. Sorta.
“In other words, just kinda talk to them. It’s hard to understand, but for some reason the heathens raise their females to ask questions of their husbands. Questions like ‘what’s your favorite color?’ or ‘how old are you?’ or ‘do you like syrup on your pancakes?’”
I inwardly sighed. This was the dumbest ritual I’d ever not heard of. Who cared about shit like that? Snow would know how much I like syrup when she saw me drown my pancakes in it. Why did she want this kind of trivia before ending the filibuster? It was a good thing I got wood just from looking at her because I decided in that very moment that my newly bride most definitely came from a world of weirdos.
“Now then,” Angus intoned, “the verdicts have been legally and patriotically rendered. I—”
“Help us!” Gowdy’s wife, Hillary, shouted at the television cameras. Her eyes were wild, her expression one of fear. “For the love of God we only have twoooooo days!”
“Twoooo days!” Pence’s wife Warren interjected, sobbing. “In two days they will use our uteruses as unwilling hosts for their parasitic spawn!”
“We’ll be forced to squat in a field and give birth to window-lickers!” Hillary frantically wailed.
I frowned as my wife began to cry. She said nothing to the cameras, just sat there, her expression dejected. The sight made my heart twist a bit. I wasn’t giving her up, but I didn’t like how defeated she looked either. I supposed it wouldn’t exactly kill me to talk about syrup for two days.
“I say!” Angus intoned, pounding the gavel on his desk. “Silence!” When Hillary and Warren calmed enough to fall back into their seats, the professor-preacher continued. “The verdicts have been legally and patriotically rendered. I thereby declare this here session of congress commenced!”
Angus pounded the gavel a final time, making everything official. I felt a hunter’s chill of satisfaction, my prey two days away from being caught.
“Two days,” Gowdy muttered. “I ain’t got enough to say about syrup to last for two damn days.”
I didn’t either, but we’d all make do. In two days our wives would either end their filibuster or the nuclear option could be deployed. I hoped Snow would choose the former. I wasn’t the kind of patriot who liked to go nuclear.
Chapter 3: She Said
Our current domicile (if one stretches the meaning of the word far enough to classify a tin can on wheels as a home) possesses little in the way of amenities. Nevertheless, the ramshackle contraption Cro-MAGAnons call “a bigly double-wide” is at least something of a safety-pin bonus over the dorm we’d first been imprisoned in upon our unwilling arrival.
For over two months now we women have spent our nights squished into one small bedroom like three sardines in a can. Pence took up residence in the second bedroom, while my abductor holes himself up in the third. Gowdy commandeers the living room sofa every night for the sheer purpose of preventing our escape, apparently unaware my besties and I don’t have training in how-to-bust-down-doors-secured-with-five-locks-and-three-chains.
Warren, Hillary, and I have been filibustering for eight solid weeks. I could sense that our captors’ patience was wearing thin well before today’s farce of a hearing because the tension in the air had been growing thicker with each passing day. So had the sight of erections pressed against khakis. And now, according to the rules of this psycho nation, as of this morning the males and their ever-present boners have a mandate—or at least they will have one in two horrifically short days.
Paul Ryan had once threatened to starve us women into submission, but said intimidation tactic had proven to be an idle one. Truthfully, and as much as I hate admitting it, he’s been pretty okay as Cro-MAGAnon kidnappers go. Then again it’s not like I have a
ny other jihadist nutjob abductor to compare him against.
Today is the first day of summer. It’s a total electoral-college-sham that my besties and I are stuck indoors when we’re supposed to be outside with everyone else in NSA—dancing, drinking, and singing—in celebration of the Solstice. On this side of the wall, the longest day of the year is just another ordinary day. Nobody here seems to appreciate Mother Nature’s yearly signal, her indication that the days will now grow shorter and the harvesting season will soon be upon us.
As I sit at the kitchen table with my besties drinking the world’s grossest coffee, I have to wonder if there even is a harvesting season in Trumpgolia. Since none of us women are into cannibalizing the animals we share the planet with, literally all of our food comes from a can, jar, or bottle. The longer my imprisonment carries on, the less healthy I feel. Nothing here is fresh or natural. Even the animals the men hunt are hideously deformed and suffer from malnutrition. How can their meat possibly be healthy for them to consume?
I’m an artiste, not a scientist, but it doesn’t take a degree in anything save common sense to know the land here is poisoned. Paul Ryan hasn’t let me out of the house much, but on the few occasions when he’s taken me for a walk I’ve seen things I wish I didn’t now know exist. Deer with two heads, mosquito-beetles that can suck the blood out of a person faster than a vampire…
And never mind the mutated amphibian-fish that can walk, run, and fucking eat you. I can’t so much as think back on the day wherein a herd of them charged toward us without having the what if daymares.
The continuous dumping of toxic waste on this side of the wall created perversions of nature that are as depressing as captivity itself. The lack of regard for Mother Nature and her bounty just sucks the soul right out of me.
This morning, as my besties and I were removed from that Trumpian farce of a congressional hearing, I couldn’t help but notice the nuclear waste had also caused hideous mutations in some of Trumpgolia’s people as well. I saw a man with three arms, another who possessed only a single eye (which literally protruded from his cheek) and several men whose hands and fingers were severely deformed. I’d been ensorcelled in a daze during the entire walk “home” as I wondered if Hillary, Warren, and myself would eventually mutate too.
The Founding Thinkers of NSA had predicted this very result so our scientists’ number one priority after winning The Civilutionary War had been to prevent Trumpgolian toxicity from infecting our own atmosphere. Stephen Hawking had designed the revolutionary device that saved the planet from being forced to reap what the Cro-MAGAnons had sewn. Without him, earth would be largely uninhabitable.
“Snow,” Warren said, bringing me back to the here and now, “Are you listening?”
I shook my head a bit as if to clear it. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I was just thinking about that idiotic hearing.” I sighed. “And then about home and how much I miss it.”
“We all do,” Warren said quietly. “And I haven’t forgotten what today is. I just didn’t bring it up because… you know.” She blew out a breath as she twisted her long, straight mane of inky black hair into a sloppy-chic bun. “I can’t bear thinking about how sad my parents are this Solstice. This is supposed to be a day filled with family, friends, community, and nature.”
“Don’t forget nature’s herbs,” Hillary said, frowning. “I’d give anything for some hops and barley or, preferably, a medicinal bong.”
Warren and I grumbled our agreement.
“I can’t get my mind off those deformed men we saw this morning,” Hillary said softly. “What if—”
“No,” Warren cut in. She vehemently shook her head. “It must be something that happens to humanoid offspring during gestation. If mutations were contagious I’m pretty sure everyone here would have them.”
“That makes sense,” Hillary relented. “I hope.”
“You’re a doctor. Come on now.”
“My Ph.D. is in 4-D Holovision Science!” Hillary returned. “I know 4-D like the back of my hand, but this mess? Pffft.”
We could dwell on those terrifying thoughts—and undoubtedly would!—later. But for now…
I absently drummed my fingernails on the tabletop as I considered the time-sensitive predicament before us. We had roughly two days to end the filibuster of our own volition or the Cro-MAGAnons could go nuclear. I wasn’t entirely convinced they would, but I didn’t particularly wish to find out either. Employing the nuclear option would make an already unacceptable fate that much more heinous.
“They’ll be back soon,” I said, unblinking.
“Yep.” This from Hillary. “It doesn’t usually take them long to hunt down disease-addled animals. Poor, mutated things.”
Silence. Long and depressed silence.
“What can we really do?” Warren finally said. “I’m clutching onto my two days tighter than I would a runaway bong, but I’m ending my filibuster when the time comes.”
“Are you saying we should give up?” Hillary squeaked. “Just accept this as life?”
“I’m not suggesting we ever accept this!” Warren shot back. “I’m just suggesting we try to get along with them until we can escape.”
I quit tapping my fingernails on the tabletop and stared at their current coloring instead. I dejectedly wondered if my poor nails would be metallic green the rest of my life. I had a feeling Trumpgolia wasn’t exactly stocked with ordinary NSA items like nail gleamers. Until this moment, the handheld device that permitted men and women to instantly change the color of their nails to any hue imaginable hadn’t felt like a luxury item. On this side of the wall, nail gleamers would likely cause eyes to widen and mouths to drop—like the first time cavemen saw fire.
“Snow?” Hillary asked. “What do you think?”
She wasn’t going to like my answer which was why I hadn’t yet given it. Sighing, I looked into Hillary’s eyes, her almond gaze clashing with my emerald one. “I think Warren is right,” I said, feigning a calmness I didn’t feel. “NSA will never rescue us within two days—hell, it’s already been two months!—and we need to buy time until we can figure out how to escape.”
Hillary blew out a breath. “Escaping won’t be easy. We’ll have to steal those gun thingies and learn how to use them before we can even attempt to flee.”
“We don’t need those primitive weapons,” Warren scoffed. “We just need to figure out where the hole is in the Yuge Wall of Jina.”
“Hello?” Hillary said. “Have you already forgotten about that wild pack of amphibian-fish? Because I have not.”
“Right,” Warren muttered. “Point taken.” She chewed at her lower lip for a brief pause. “Now that we’ve seen all those mutated humans and animals we need to make sure NSA seals that damn hole up. After we bust through it, of course.”
“It’s invisible.” Hillary waved that away. “Dr. Hawking purposely made it penetrable by humans so defectors could get out of this toxic hell. It’s impenetrable to anything with non-human DNA though, which includes weaponry.”
“That explains why none of the female defectors have been deformed.” Warren frowned. “Their DNA isn’t all fucked up.”
I shivered. We couldn’t keep traveling down this roadshow of horrors or I’d never be able to sleep tonight. “None of this is fair, but it’s still our reality. We have to deal with it as calmly and rationally as possible.”
“Agreed,” Warren said, thankfully switching topics. “We end the filibuster in two days.” She nodded for emphasis. “All they want is sex so we give them sex. It’ll distract them and buy us time in the doing.”
“I don’t like tricking people,” Hillary sighed. “Can’t we be honest and flatly tell them we’re only making the best of this until we escape or are rescued?”
“I totally get how you feel.” Lying wasn’t a house specialty at Chez Snowflake. “But their guard will always be up if we’re honest.”
“And their guard won’t be up if we lie and all of a sudden are nice
to them?” Hillary asked incredulously. “Nobody’s that stup—” She grunted. “Point taken.”
“So we lie?” I could hear the hesitation in my voice so I know my BFFs heard it too. “We’re in agreement?”
“I have a bad feeling about lying,” Hillary warned. “Even stupid people are usually smart at something. What if that something is knowing when people are manipulating them?”
I frowned, conceding the point. I had no idea where we were, but it couldn’t have been more obvious we’d been sequestered inside a military compound of some sort. Given the fact our captors’ hold titles that sound fearsome whether or not they actually are (I have no idea what “Master Sergeant” even means) Hillary might be right to worry. I just didn’t know. I feel like I don’t know much of anything these days.
Sighing, I ran a hand over my micro-braided tresses. “Okay then we’ll be honest.”
“Let’s approach this like a business negotiation,” Warren suggested. “We’ll offer X, Y, and Z in exchange for A, B, and C.”
“I like it,” Hillary said. “I think.”
Silence. I resumed drumming my fingernails on the tabletop.
“Sex,” I finally said, “is our X.”
“Well…” Hillary hesitated. “What would our Y and Z be?”
“Please,” Warren said drolly, “Sex would cover every letter of the alphabet with those guys.”
I had to agree. At least I hoped that was the case. It was the best guesstimate I had in me seeing as how this was the first contact I’d ever had with Cro-MAGAnon males. Who knew what went through their small brains? Still, my alleged husband was definitely a walking, talking boner. “Quite frankly we have nothing but sexual willingness to negotiate with.”
My best friends pondered that over for a protracted moment. Hillary was the first to relent.
“We are inoculated,” she pointed out with her usual pragmatism, “so it’s not like they can get us pregnant.”