by Jaid Black
“Exactly.” I had already thought of that. “Well, we’re inoculated for another three months or so,” I qualified, “but that still gives us three months to either escape or be rescued in time for our annual birth control shots.”
“True,” Warren yielded, her eyes narrowed in thought. “And it’s not like any of them are ugly. Stupid, yes, but not ugly.”
“I hate to admit it, but yeah.” This from Hillary. “My so-called husband has a dumb name and a dumber everything else, but what a face and body.”
My flagging spirits were somewhat cheered. “We can choose to view this as an anthropological experience.” I splayed my hands, warming to the idea. “This could potentially win Warren a Pulitzer.”
Warren’s eyes lit up. “I hadn’t thought of that,” she murmured. “What better way is there to understand the sudden surge in female defectors than to live amongst their males for a little while?”
Hillary and I nodded.
“Then it’s settled,” I declared. “We just need to negotiate the terms of our semi-surrender.”
Chapter 4: He Said
When I walked into the house with Gowdy, Pence, and our provisions, this conversation was the last thing I had been expecting to have. I folded my hands under my armpits, leaned back against the closest wall, and listened to my hopelessly naïve wife list the women’s demands. I didn’t know whether to laugh, grunt, or glower. I suppose my expression was a mixture of the three.
Did she really think I wasn’t expecting her to try and run? I shook my head a bit, unable to believe she was flatly telling me she intended to. For all the fancy education she’d had in commie libtard school, she definitely hadn’t been taught The Art of the Steal. Fortunately, I had. It was required reading in Trumpgolia since it was also a chapter from the Really Terrific Newliest Testament of the Bible. Verses 45-50 immediately sprang to mind:
The Demoncrats are losers and haters because they’re losers, okay? They are totally into dumb stuff like fair play and caring about people, which is why they have bad ratings. Just totally take yuge advantage of how stupid they are and that makes you a winner. Anyway, where’s Ivanka? Tell her I’m ready for hair, wardrobe, and makeup so, like, send in my personal mortician. He’s the best—a really terrific guy—nobody knows makeup like my mortician—believe me.
“In conclusion,” Snow said, jarring me from my thoughts, “I’d like to recap the bullet points to make sure all of us…” She looked pointedly at Gowdy. “…are comprehending the deal we are offering you.”
“If I’m getting sex,” Gowdy returned, “I agree to all the conditions you have prevaricated upon me.”
My wife looked like she wanted to correct Gowdy’s misuse of the word prevaricated, but apparently deciding it was a waste of time, ignored him and moved on. She was a quick study—I’d give her that.
“Number one,” Snow continued, her index finger shooting up, “We require clothing that isn’t see through for when we leave the house and clothing that isn’t oppressively bulky and overheated while in here.”
I’d already taken care of the latter, though she didn’t yet know it. But the former? All ladies dressed like that in public! There were no other kind of dresses that I knew about. When Pence pointed out that fact, Snow ignored him.
“Number two.” Her middle finger joined the index one. “We must be provided the use of a clean, sanitary shower on a daily basis. Six people using one shower is gross.” She looked pointedly at Gowdy. “God only knows what you do while in it. We women want our own shower.”
I tried not to grunt. We weren’t barbarians for Ivanka’s sake! Why the hell did they need their own—
“I don’t do nothin’ in it,” Gowdy replied, “except take a shower and diddle my dong.”
Every muscle in my body tensed as my stomach roiled against the contents within it. My nostrils flared. “What the hell is wrong with you?” I growled at Gowdy. “Maybe we need more than two showers!”
“What I do wrong?” Gowdy asked. “Don’t you and Pence use the shower for that?”
“I don’t!” Pence shot back. “I use a damn tissue!”
“A tissue?” Gowdy muttered. “That ain’t no way for a patriot’s sperm to meet his demise. Them little buggers deserve a burial at sea.”
Snow looked ready to faint. At this point I didn’t blame her. Truth be told, my stomach was churning something fierce.
“Just don’t do it no more!” I warned, jabbing a menacing finger his way. “Pence and I don’t want to step in the remnants of your dead children any more than the women do!”
“Oh God,” I heard Pence’s wife, Warren, say shakily. “I-I’m not f-feeling too well.”
“Don’t do that anymore!” Hillary scolded her husband. She looked as exasperated as I felt. “Were you raised in a damn cave?”
“Well yeah,” Gowdy said. “All of us was. They wasn’t fancy like this here dream home we done got now, but they was decent enough.”
Three sets of female jaws unhinged as they stared at us without blinking. I heard a small moan expel from Warren’s lips as her eyes rolled back into her head. I watched, stunned, as she fainted dead away. Thankfully Pence reacted quickly, catching her limp body before it hit the ground.
“Woo wee!” Gowdy enthused, looking at me. Grinning, he rubbed his hands together. “I ain’t never seen no shit like that happen except for in the old timer movies! I hope she’ll do it again after she wakes up!”
Hillary gasped. “That wasn’t performance art! What the hell is wrong with you?” she shouted. She closed her eyes, raised both hands in the air, and did some neck swivel thing that, again, we patriots had only seen in old timer movies. At this point I was with Gowdy—who knew commie libtard wives would be more riveting to watch than a movie?
“I forgot,” Hillary mumbled, opening her eyes. One hand fell to her side as she plopped the other against her forehead. “The cave. You were raised in a damn cave.”
I could see my wife’s bottom lip tremble. I wasn’t certain what that signified, but I supposed I’d soon find out. Or at least I would have had Pence’s bride not chosen that very moment to groan as she regained consciousness. Damn it! Just when I was feeling like one of them anthromologists that studies other cultures by peep-showing in on them with satellites and drones.
The women turned their attention to a slowly rousing Warren. When she was steadily on her feet they pulled her away from Pence, toward themselves, and whispered things to each other none of us patriots could hear. I frowned, not liking it. Snow shouldn’t keep secrets from me.
“Can we resume your list of demands?” I said a bit too harshly.
My wife whirled around to face me. She took a long moment to calm down, muttering stuff to herself I couldn’t make out, as she ran a sexy hand over her braided hair—a habit she tended to unconsciously perform when nervous. “Yes,” she said dazedly, “yes of course.” She cleared her throat. Three fingers shot up. “Third, we require—nay, we demand—fresh fruits and vegetables in lieu of the jarred and bottled ones. And absolutely no fried meat from dead animal carcasses.”
“Fruits and vegetables instead of meat?” Pence asked incredulously. “What the hell is wrong with y’all?”
Snow ignored him. Her pinky finger shot up. “Our fourth stipulation requires you to adhere to the verdict and let us get to know you somewhat for the next two days.”
She looked straight at me. It became quickly apparent she wouldn’t move on until she’d been given my word. I hesitated for effect then nodded my concession.
Her thumb joined her fingers. “And five—which I forgot to state earlier—is we will not be treated like hookers. We only agree to give sex to our, uh…” She swallowed. “…Our, uh, h-husbands.”
I should have been offended by Snow’s implication I would share her—not to mention the fact she nearly choked trying to get out the word husband!—but truth be told I was bemused by the situation.
“Well,” Gowdy’s wife asked, “Do
we have a deal or—”
“Deal!” Gowdy shouted, interrupting her. “But just so you know, I ain’t letting you run away from me.”
His proclamation caused Hillary’s eyes to widen. I mentally sighed, wishing Gowdy hadn’t said that. She’d figure it out soon enough anyway. In the meantime, I wanted the two days to move along quickly so I could stake my claim and plant my flag.
“I appreciate your honesty,” Hillary said, surprising me. “But for the record, I will eventually escape.”
“You can try.”
“I will.”
Gowdy rubbed his hands together. “We’ve done made a deal! Now when do I get what’s mine?”
Snow fielded that question. “We want fresh fruits and vegetables, clothes that weren’t stolen from some dead Siberian, and everything else we agreed on.” Her gaze clashed with mine. Damn she was pretty. “Okay?”
I purposely hesitated before slowly inclining my head. Ordinarily I’d have done that so my opponent believed they were getting something out of me I didn’t want to give up. For some weird reason, I just wanted Snow’s pride intact. I figured my hesitation would suffice. As it turned out, I was right.
“Okay then!” she said, smiling. “Unless Pence objects I’d say we have a deal.”
Pence wouldn’t dare object. Gowdy and I would kill him where he stood if he did.
My stolen wife was mine. I had a mandate. My commie libtard wasn’t going any damn where. Not ever.
Chapter 5: She Said
After changing into much cooler if slightly scandalous clothing (which consisted of shorts made from something called terrycloth and skin tight baby doll shirts sans bras) two folding tables were quickly shoved together so all six of us could “get to know” each other. My besties and I were on one side of the makeshift table, seated on some type of metal chairs that couldn’t have been more uncomfortable without involving actual implements of torture. Our captors sat on the other side of the table, each one opposite his “wife”. None of them seemed bothered by the unforgiving metal beneath them.
“Now this here,” Gowdy said slowly as if talking to a group of mouth-droolers, “is called surrrup. Can y’all repeat that word for me? Surrrup.”
My nostrils flared. Hillary’s husband-from-hillbilly-hell was able to induce instantaneous headaches in me. Had his skill been less painful it would have bordered on impressive.
“It comes in a variety of flavors, but this here maple is the patriotic flavor of choice. Now let’s try to say syrup together, y’all. Surrrup. At the count of—”
“We know what syrup is!” I snapped. Sweet Jesus above, that man would likely drive me insane long before my besties and I could escape. I just prayed insanity wouldn’t adversely affect my DNA. “We use syrup on our pancakes too,” I said grandly, straightening in my seat. “But ours is organic. We only ingest natural foods!”
“This here is natural too,” Gowdy said, waving the bottle. “Not every patriot can get his hands on this stuff.” His chest puffed up. “It’s made for the richy people, but with your husband being a master sergeant and me being Trumpgolia’s most fearsome witch-hunter, the richy people donates the finer stuff to our commissary.”
I reached across the table and snatched it from his hands. Frowning severely, I scanned the list of ingredients on the Uncle Jared’s syrup bottle. Getting to know Gowdy was as much fun as—
I hesitated, my entire body going still. Blinking several times in rapid succession, I reread the ingredients. Or, more to the point, the ingredient:
100% pure maple syrup tapped from unpolluted Marla Maples trees in Tiffany Forest. No additives or preservatives. Made for the gentry class. Not for sale to those below a T-5 rank; not permitted for donation to non-military Trumpgolians and/or to military personnel below a T-3 rank.
“It’s pure,” I said, completely stunned. I didn’t know what half the words on the bottle meant, but neither did I particularly care. I looked over to Hillary and then to Warren. I swallowed against the dry knot in my throat. “It’s organic.”
Warren sucked in a breath. That small, telling sound punctured the daze I was engulfed by and forced me back to my senses. I quickly opened the bottle and squirted some into my mouth. As expected, Hillary and Warren lunged at me, both of them as desperate as I was for a taste of nature.
“Back off!” I threatened, standing up and brandishing the bottle like a weapon. “Finders keepers!”
“Bullshit!” Hillary pushed her chair away from the table and stood up. Her nostrils flared as she all but singed me with her gaze. “Losers weepers! Hiyyaaaahhh!”
I was momentarily caught off guard by the ninja-esque leap I hadn’t been aware she was capable of doing. Luckily, Hillary managed to surprise herself too, which gave me time for another squeeze of syrup. Angry, Hillary reached for the bottle. I moved it away in the nick of time.
Hillary and I fell to the ground, wrestling each other for control of Uncle Jared’s syrup. Neither of us had ever behaved with such indignity, but then neither of us had ever been forced into survival mode before. All of the cells in both of our bodies zinged to life as the battle for control of bottled nature turned us into our animal selves—an accomplishment I hadn’t thought possible without some Bill Maher in our systems.
“Give me some too!” Warren bellowed, bodily hurling herself at Hills and me. “I need something organic as badly as you two do!”
Warren yanked my braids, making me screech. “You know how tender-headed I am!” I fumed. “The bottle is mine! Miiiiiine!”
“It’s your fault we’re here!” Warren bellowed. “You’re the reason we’re all starving to death!” The three of us continued to wrestle. “All of this because of your stupid Affirmationology!”
The reminder knocked the fight right out of me. Tears stung the backs of my eyes. Breathing heavily, I let the bottle fall to the ground. Hillary and Warren continued to struggle for it, the former eventually winning. She squeezed the syrup bottle until a long stream shot into her mouth. Warren managed to snatch it away from her and down some of the amber liquid as well.
“I’m sorry,” Warren garbled out over a mouthful of syrup. “I didn’t mean it, Snow.” She took another quick shot. “I just needed some nature.”
The tears that had sprung into my eyes dried up as my mood did a 180 from guilt to anger. “Well you’ve got it,” I bit out. “But since you feel the need to blame me every time you get pissed off, I don’t want to speak to you ever again.”
Her eyes widened. She lowered the bottle as I scooted up to my butt.
“You don’t mean that,” Hillary said quietly, snapping out of the animalistic fever that had infected all three of us. Her breathing was as heavy as mine. “You know you don’t mean that.” She wagged a finger at Warren. “And you, Ms. Thang, need to control your mouth!”
Warren burst into tears. My anger immediately dissipated.
“I know!” Warren wailed. “I’m sorryyyyyy!” She cried a bit more before gasping. “I’ve never been like this before! It’s all because of this stupid country! I want to go hooooome!”
Hills and I looked at each other and then to Warren. We burst into tears with our crying bestie, the three of us hugging it out while promising not to turn on one another ever again. Each of us gave teary affirmations to our BFFs as we held hands, none of us so much as remembering we weren’t alone.
Had my gaze not wandered to the right for a brief moment, who knows how long it would have taken the three of us to recall the presence of our captors. I stilled as my eyes did a double take, Hills and Warren immediately following suit.
My neck notched back as I looked up at three incredibly confused looking men. No longer seated at the table, our abductors stood in a line, all of them staring down at us with wide eyes, semi-ajar mouths, and dumbfounded expressions. Embarrassment instantly flooded through me. For the second time in a single day I found myself hoping that my caramel-colored skin served as proper camouflage against the reddening of my h
eated face.
Gowdy was the first to speak. “Y’all act just like in the old timer movies,” he rasped. I could see him visibly gulp—and grow erect. “I just wish that Jell-O stuff the old timers made was around for you ladies to fight in.”
“D-does syrup turn y’all on?” Pence asked. He too was a combatant in the Battle of the Boners. “I ain’t never seen nobody get that worked up for some syrup.”
I hesitantly glanced at Paul Ryan. His heavy-lidded gaze and massive hard-on said everything his mouth didn’t: my besties and I had unwittingly reenacted some type of porno situation that was apparently popular on the maniacal side of the wall. The possessive, primal way he stared at me induced an instinctual reaction inside my body that I didn’t want to happen. A knot of arousal coiled in my belly, leaving me unable to conceal my stiffening nipples. I cleared my throat and broke eye contact, my gaze desperately fleeing toward my BFFs.
“Why would you think syrup turns us on?” Warren asked her captor. She rolled her eyes. “Does cannibalizing fried animal carcasses turn you on? Because I’ve seen how nutso you get when you’re hungry.”
Pence scratched his chin. “Y’all was carrying on like that because you’re hungry?”
“Yes!”
“Why don’t y’all eat?” This from Gowdy. “We got food.”
“Because none of it is natural,” Hillary huffed, over-enunciating each word. “That syrup was the first natural food you offered us that doesn’t have legs!” Her face scrunched up with frustration. “All the jarred and canned fruits and vegetables you bring us are contaminated with toxins to preserve them so in case you haven’t noticed all three of us are losing weight!”
Paul Ryan’s face flushed. With anger? With embarrassment? I couldn’t tell.
“Why did you fail to tell me you weren’t eating?” he bit out as his gaze bore into mine.
I swallowed past the lump in my throat. Yep, the redness was definitely born of anger. “I told you we needed fresh fruits and vegetables!”