A date with a devil, unloading on the press, and facing down interrogators?

Based on ‘One In Ten’ by FinalStand, adapted into 17 parts. Listen to the ► Podcast at Explicit Novels.

The

waitress came, took our orders then left. I steered the conversation

toward work, our co-workers and the Mayor. Bethany didn't have much

interest in policy. Politics was her expertise, who was who and who she

knew. Only when dessert came around did she drop a hint about the party I

had been invited to.

"I hear you have your first secret party coming up," she teased.

"Not if I can help it," I answered.

"What do you mean, 'not if you can help it'?" Bethany stared at me with no comprehension. "Why aren't you going?"

'None

of your damned business', 'I'd rather floss with razor-wire', or 'I'm

going to cuddle up with a good book in a non-extradition country' all

worked for me. I could scream out my rage over having her fucked-up

friends raising my sons to be slaves and my daughters to be as deviant

and uncaring as their mothers. None of those would work.

"We are going deep sea diving," I fabricated. "Heading out Friday night and won't be back until late Sunday."

"Ah,

ah, really?" Bethany blinked. "I didn't know you liked to do that.

Hell, I wasn't sure they let men do that anymore. Isn't it dangerous?"

"It

is no more dangerous than going out on a date with you," I smiled

wanly. Sadly, Bethany wasn't a total idiot and I should have picked a

better lie. She pulled out her phone and began doing some online

research. Me, I went to the bathroom, then through the kitchen and out

the back door. I flagged down the first cab I saw and was gone two

minutes when the phone rang.

"Israel, where are you?" Bethany sounded pissed.

"I couldn't control my emotions around you and I don't want to screw things up like last time, so I left. Sorry," I murmured.

"Damn it," she sounded petulant, "I was really hoping to get some tonight."

Uh-uh,

no way. Had Bethany tried to drag me anywhere for sex, it would have

been a murder or suicide and that would have still counted as a victory

for her.

"Maybe next week?" I put her off.

"What about tomorrow night?" she countered.

"Wha

as, at, I'm, you are, ing up. I'm, into, tunnel, bye," and I hung up.

The cabby looked over her shoulder and smirked at me but at least didn't

give me shit about the fact we were nowhere near a tunnel. I had gone

out with Bethany and made it through dessert, so had accomplished the

mission Francesca had laid out for me, in my mind anyway.

To

be safe, I cut off my phone. I paid for the taxi with money I couldn't

afford to spend. My instinct was to race into my complex, up the stairs

and get inside my condo as quickly as possible. Then it dawned on me;

could being murdered or kidnapped be that much worse than the life I was

currently living? I wondered how many of the two thousand missing guys

felt the same way.

After

getting cleaned up and dressed for bed, I found myself laying on the

sofa, bat on my chest and staring at the ceiling. Isobel Diaz was going

to crucify me, that was pretty much a given. If not, I'd have to date

Bethany again, eventually. Death really was preferable because they'd

already bludgeoned me as a person, stolen my children and gotten away

with it.

Me

ending up with Bethany as an attachment would be the removal of my only

weapon, denial. She'd pleased her sorority friends but lost me in the

process, or so I had told myself. Now it looked like she'd still end up

possessing me anyway. How was that worse than what Isobel had in store

when she finally got her hooks in?

To

dwell solely on my harsh reality was no way to nurture the desire to

fight on. I had to think about Angel, Kuiko, Roni and perhaps Francesca.

They didn't get me. How could they? They were trying, though, and that

put them head and shoulders above most womankind. I severely doubted

they would turn down an offer of sex, but they weren't making it the

focus of our relationships either. That had to count for something.

I

was still staring off into space when Angel rang the doorbell. The

first thing to occur to me was that it wasn't past midnight yet.

"Come in," I told her. She glided into my place, scanned the area then looked me over.

"You okay?" she inquired.

"Yeah, why wouldn't I be?" I answered.

"Bethany

Fremont has been squawking into the ear of anyone who will listen that

you got into a cab but didn't make it home and that you have been out of

communication since leaving the restaurant," Detective Angel Kristi

explained.

"That's none of her damned business," I groused.

"Take

into account that Ms. Fremont is connected and 28 men have disappeared

recently," Angel reminded me. "Give her a damn call."

"No," I muttered. "Why are you here anyway? Isn't this off your normal beat?"

"For

some reason Patrol thinks you are a pain in the ass and a

trouble-maker, so I volunteered to make this problem go away," she told

me. "Did the date go that poorly?"

"She

wanted to have sex. She told me I was the best sex she'd ever had. Then

she told me about the children I had with her sorority sisters,

children under the care of some of the worst women I've ever met," I

sighed.

"Beyond ducking out the rear before she could trick me back to her place for a fuck session, it went stunningly," I concluded. She sat down on the arm of the sofa by my feet.

"How do you feel about that?" Kristi inquired. I looked at her as if she was delusional.

"Like hell I'm telling you," I snapped. "You are still a cop first, a woman second and a friend a very distant third."

"Israel, I can't help you if I don't know what's going on," she grumbled. Arguing was pointless anyway.

"They

have my daughters. They are going to raise them to be the same kind of

horrors they are. God knows what they will do to my sons," I growled.

"You

want to know how I felt? I desperately resisted the impulse to put my

fork into Bethany's eye socket and scoop out her brains. Do I get to go

to jail now?" I glared at her.

"No, I, wait, did you say sons?" she stammered. Oh fucking hell. I was far more fatigued than I thought. If I didn't say anything, she'd just go looking.

"Yes, I have three sons. I also have thirteen daughters, if that matters," I groaned. "It does to me."

"God, how many women did you knock up?" Angel gasped.

"Eighteen of the forty-one. They were on a fertility drug regimen," I explained. Angel quickly did the math and jumped up.

"We

need to,” she suddenly stopped. She'd done the same mental calculations

I had in about .03 seconds. "We need to tell someone," she whispered.

"That doesn't work out so well for me," I pointed out.

"Israel, this is important. We can't just sit on this knowledge," Kristi insisted. "Don't you want to help?"

"Not really," I confessed.

"God damn it!" she leapt to her feet. "You can't hold onto this poison forever."

"It

is not poison, Detective Kristi. You see me helping the Human Race limp

along a few more decades," I related. "I see passing on my experiences

to my sons and their sons."

"This isn't going to make women change their perceptions or attitudes towards men," I added.

"If we do nothing, women will never have the chance to change," Kristi countered.

"Do you deserve another few decades?" I inquired.

"Yes, we are human beings and we deserve the chance to fight off extinction," Angel persisted.

"It

is not really up to me anymore anyway," I shrugged. "You know now and

forty-one sorority girls have known for over a year. Certainly people in

their families know, maybe some doctors as well." I figured nine months

for the children to be born and then twelve more months before the

abnormal number of males surviving was noted.

"That's

right," I chuckled ruefully, "Bethany and her clique knew this way

before I did and since I'm not in some lab somewhere, I have to assume

they aren't rushing to save the Human Race either."

"That doesn't mean we should make the same poor choices they have," Kristi stated.

"They

aren't going to help you, Detective Kristi," I regarded her. "You live

on the wrong side of the social dividing line. Hell, Bethany has already

told me that you aren't good looking enough, and too old, for me to

date. The people you want me to save have already written you off

genetically speaking."

"I'm

not doing it for them, but for my colleagues on the force and the girls

in this complex," Kristi kept on coming. "Don't they deserve a chance?"

"It

is too late for them," I responded. "It will take them a few years to

figure out if I'm anything special and what makes me so, if I am. Then

it is seventeen more years before the male children I help become

available."

"That

means the youngest woman here will be thirty-six or thirty-seven. There

will be many younger girls out there who have priority over them," I

did the math. "You and I aren't going to save anyone we know."

"No matter what, we have to try," she insisted.

"Go

ahead," I replied in a resigned voice. "You know we'll never see each

other again if you do. You are not naïve enough to think they'll ever

let me come back."

"Fuck

you," Kristi snapped. She paced back and forth. "Fuck you," she

repeated violently then stormed out of my condo, slamming the door. I

fell asleep where I was.

(Thursday)

Steve threw himself in front of the metro.

He

was behaving normally, mumbled to a few women, then gave me a slight

wave and stepped off into the void and whatever afterlife awaited

suicides. The ladies were screaming, crying and yelling. They were

aghast and surprised. They couldn't understand why he did it and a few

insisted he stumbled by accident.

One

girl said they had sex the night before and had a great time. He had

seemed happy. I knew exactly why he was happy and it had little to do

with the sex. The guy missed his dead wife and had finally resolved

after having intercourse with a total stranger that he would never

recapture the magic on this side of existence.

So he had exercised what little free will he had left and given his tormentors a final 'fuck you.’

I hoped there was a Heaven and he found his wife waiting for him there.

The triple downside of all this was that we were all going to be late

for work, I was now the only male in a two block radius and the women

were crowding in on me.

A

few were clearly worried that I might become inspired to join Steve by

ending my life. I wasn't sure how that would work, the metro had already

stopped and wasn't going anywhere until the paramedics removed Steve's

body. Some wanted to be comforted. A person had died and they were

suitably shaken by the event.

Of

course, there were always the ones who found this to be an opportunity

to grope me yet again. Ambrosia, Fatima and Carrie appeared to have

formed a coterie. I would have been more scared, but I'd seen this

behavior before. Girls could readily accept a three (or four)-way and

getting male enhancement drugs was insanely easy.

The

precautions were the same. Don't take food or drink from anyone (a man

could spike an offering just as well as woman), keep to public places

and don't let them into your house, or go to their house, ever. As it

was, we bought some drinks from vending machines and waited around for

the police to process us.

Detective

Somerset Trainer looked both physically tired and happy to see me. Not

happy as in 'hey, how are you doing' but happy as in 'I'm going to take

great joy in crushing your nuts', figuratively speaking. My testicles

were far too valuable to be ground into putty, but she could dream. She

had a patrolwoman retrieve me from my protective cordon of females.

"Mr. Jensen," Somerset greeted me intensely.

"Is this the cry-baby?" her partner chimed in.

"What, is your tampon rammed in too tightly?" I blurted out. What the fuck was I saying? And the area around us got quiet too.

"Detective

Gayle Seger," the woman extended her hand. I looked down at her hand

then up at her face once more. I didn't shake the offered hand because I

didn't feel like having my bones ground together. I couldn't win a

brutal handshake contest with a cop. If I prevailed, I had assaulted her

and if I lost and complained, I wouldn't be taken seriously.

"You talk a lot," Gayle commented.

"I'd be quiet if you'd let me," I bantered. "Hell, I'd never talk to a cop again if you would let me."

"We want you to talk. We'd really like it if you made sense from time to time as well," Somerset stated.

"In

our experience, bravado normally indicates the perpetrator is hiding

something," Gayle continued. "Are you hiding something, Mr. Jensen?"

"Clearly

not my dislike for you and your ilk," I glared back. "Are you here to

solve the mystery of what happened to Steve this morning or did you come

all this way to chap my ass?"

Somerset looked to Gayle, who shrugged. They would have a go at me later today no matter what.

"What happened to Steve?" Somerset inquired. I was glad I didn't blurt out 'he escaped.’

"He jumped in front of the metro," I told them.

"Are you sure he fell deliberately?" Somerset continued.

"Absolutely. He even waved good-bye to me before he did it," I tried not to smile.

"Why didn't you stop him?" Gayle interrupted.

"I don't normally tackle people who wave at me," I stated deadpan.

"Wasn't it obvious to you what he was going to do?" Somerset persisted.

"No,"

I looked at her as if she was an idiot. "The metro was pulling up.

Steve rode the first car while I rode the third. I assumed he was

preparing to board like every other passenger and like he had done the

three previous days I'd seen him. We never talked."

"I thought you men stuck together?" Det. Trainer queried.

"Drugs had rendered Steve a zombie," I reminded them. "He wasn't defending anyone. He couldn't even defend himself."

"Who would he have to defend himself from?" Somerset prodded me.

I

lowered my head and tried not to cry at the blatant stupidity of that

question. It was meant to annoy me and we all knew it. They were sex

crimes after all. They had no excuse for ignoring that segment of male

reality that include being groped in public.

"You are the detectives, detect," I replied. "As I said, we never talked."

"Yet you felt entitled to say he couldn't defend himself," Somerset recounted.

"You

have a gun. You can defend yourself," I pointed out. "He was a

fifty-five year old man on so many drugs he could barely stand up with

no obvious weapons, thus my observation was that he couldn't defend

himself. Maybe if your system hadn't given him so many drugs we wouldn't

be having this conversation."

"I didn't know you were an expert on our drug policies," Somerset sneered. That was stupid of her.

"You

are right," I sneered right back. In a very loud voice I added,

"Because it has been four years since I've been on your drug regimen

after I was raped by a police officer."

I was giving into my rage after all these years and it felt liberating. It was also death by slow suicide and I knew it.

"Keep your voice down," Det. Seger growled.

"How

about I do your job for you?" I stared. "Steve committed suicide. No

one was close to him when he jumped. He was smiling and that should be

attributed to him slowly lowering his drug doses so as to not set off

his bracelet's sweat sensors. His suicide note will be in an empty box

in the freezer."

"How do you know any of that?" Somerset regarded me.

"I

saw his face as he jumped. No one was closer than two meters. Having

been on the drugs, I know how hard it is to focus on a full dose, and if

I wrote a note, that's what I'd do because you never know if some

police swine is hijacking your security system," I ticked my points.

"That is very paranoid of you and sounds like you've contemplated ending your own life," Gayle smiled as if she'd tricked me.

"My

suicidal thoughts are in my therapy notes from when I was sixteen.

Don't give me any crap about confidentiality. I know you've already

accessed them," I shrugged.

"The

law states that the appropriate law enforcement agency is authorized to

spot check any person under a government controlled drug regimen,

including visual surveillance," I quoted from the Gender Inequality Act.

"That means you can and do peek in from time to time. To write a

suicide note and not get caught, you write it inside a box."

"You put it in the freezer so that someone will read it. An empty box in a freezer is weird after all," I reasoned.

"Wow, Summer," Gayle chuckled. "We should give Mr. Jensen all our cases. He's a freaking wizard. The rest of us can go home."

"I

agree," I bit back. "I'd make a great cop except for the fact that I'm

not greedy, venal, corrupt and or incompetent. I also have a cock, but

not a gun. If I had a gun, I'd be tempted to make you pay for your blind

arrogance and gleeful viciousness." I could tell the only thing

standing between me and an epic case of police brutality was the crowd

of over one hundred female commuters bearing witness to every word being

said.

"There won't always be a crowd around you," Gayle muttered.

"Let's go then," I shrugged. "I'm tired of being afraid of you and your breed. Get it over with."

"I'll

take care of this Gayle," Somerset ordered. "I'll take Mr. Jensen out

of here. Make sure the investigative unit assigned to Mr. Rosenberg's

(Steve's) house checks the freezer for an empty box."

"Are you sure you don't need a hand?" Detective Seger asked.

"You

wrap things up here and I'll meet you at the station," Somerset

replied. "Come with me, Mr. Courageous." I had to admit that when we

stepped out into the sunlight, I had to repress the impulse to run for

it yet again. Where would I go?

"Get

in front," she directed me as I went for the passenger rear door. That

would put me in easy reach, not something I was looking forward to. I

got in, buckled up and stared straight ahead as Detective Trainer pulled

out into traffic.

"You are not so mouthy now," she noted.

"Did you ever hold the illusion that you were a good person?" I responded.

"It's

going to be fun breaking you," she smiled at me. Oh shit. By my facial

expression, she knew that I got the veiled reference to Isobel Diaz, the

Mayor's Chief of Staff. Yesterday afternoon she had promised to 'break

me' too. "Did you really think you would get away with your

'illusions'?" Somerset laughed.

"Not really," I muttered after a moment. She huffed in amusement.

"Why

did you do it, mouth off?" she asked after a minute. "Not that it

really matters. Once she set her sights on you, you were pretty much

hers."

"It felt good," I answered with a rekindled passion. "I felt free. You wouldn't understand."

"What

a whiny little bastard," she snorted. "Right, life is so tough for

you," she mocked. "Can't you guys simply shut up and do your damn duty?"

"When

the alternative to masturbation is having sex with you, I'll choose

masturbation," I observed. "You are a lousy human being and most likely a

worse mother."

"I have two daughters, idiot," she grumbled.

"I guess they will either be criminals or cops," I mused. "What am I saying? Cops are criminals. You are living proof of that."

"You are throwing your life away," she taunted. "It is going to be nice to watch you go 'splat' when you hit bottom."

"For the first time in my life, I'm okay with that," I replied.

"Isobel is really going to have to give me a crack at you when she is finished," Somerset threatened.

"I'll either be dead or my mind will be gone," I admitted sadly, "so it won't matter to me."

"Maybe if you beg, she'll leave a few pieces of you alive," Somerset teased evilly.

"In

that case, I had better get lucky and be one of those guys that

vanish," I laughed. What else was I going to do? Only later did I

realize that Somerset didn't find that funny one bit.

Inside

City Hall, Somerset 'suggested' security do a full body cavity search

because I was now associated with an earlier male suicide. They were

happy to oblige the G E D officer and they even let her watch. They

threw in a few sexual proposals with their indignities and physical

violations.

"No

witty banter or snappy repartee?" Somerset teased me. A security goon

was probing, and probing my ass with her latex-gloved finger.

"I

once had a nine-inch vibrator shoved up my ass for three or four days,"

I replied through gritted teeth. "This hardly rises to the level of

creative sexual harassment."

I

knew a fisting was in my future when the intercom came on. Apparently

someone had come looking for me and the guards needed to produce my body

ASAP. Somerset told them to keep at it and she'd see what the problem

was. They must have thought I had an ICBM up my bum. I wasn't sure what

an ICBM was but it had to be huge.

Right

as the woman was about to shove all five fingers past my already abused

anus, she told me that I could avoid all this hassle if I simply agreed

to have sex with the guards a few times a week. They had a break room

and everything.

"What about Troy?" I suggested.

"The

ten-second popgun? No thanks," the guard muttered. My rectum prepared

for violation. I couldn't help it, I shuddered. When my sphincter gave

way, so did my bladder. I started to cry, my elbows gave out and I fell

face first on the table they had me leaning against. Courage only took

me so far. Eventually it was eroded by pain, the memory of pain and the

shame of it all.

If

there was any victory for me, it was that I didn't give them the scream

they wanted. Further desecration was avoided by Detective Trainer

returning.

"His boss says she needs him for news event," she sighed unhappily. "Get him on his feet." They dressed me rather sloppily.

They

wanted people to know what I'd been through as an expression of their

power. Ms. Silverhorn looked downright furious at the whole situation.

"If he can't work today, I'm calling your boss," Francesca snapped at Somerset.

"Knock

yourself out, Bitch," Somerset laughed. "Israel was in close proximity

to a probable suicide so we were required to check him out as well."

"Besides,

with the MRA incident in Denver, I doubt anyone will care about your

office pet getting adjusted," Trainer added. Francesca was apoplectic.

Feebly, I reached out and touched her arm.

"You are worth more than ten of her," I rasped to my boss. That seemed to reach her.

"I'll see you at one," Somerset regarded me.

"Yes,

you will, but in room 417 here, not at the Plaza, you Cunt," Francesca

battled back. "I have friends too and they say we need Israel here in

the job, not wasting his time cooling his heels in one of your

interrogation rooms."

"It

won't matter," Somerset grinned. "Your boy is falling apart. It is only

a matter of time before he's under constant supervision. Then he's

ours." Francesca bristled.

"Don't

make her angry," I mumbled. Somerset smirked. "After all, if she leaves

here angry, she might not use any lube when she uses her strap-on to

sodomize some cute, perky college girl, who happens to be connected.

What a pity that would be."

Somerset's smirk died but Francesca's frown turned into a vindictive smile.

"You've

already promised to destroy me, Detective. I believe you so that leaves

me free to do what I want until then," I gave a rather pathetic grin.

"You are more vulnerable than you know," Somerset hinted.

"Let's

get out of here," Ms. Silverhorn said as she steered me toward the

elevators. "Can you get your head on straight? Something has come up and

I need you on the job."

"What

happened?" I tried to concentrate. The accumulation of abuse over the

years, both active and passive, had trained my mind to submerge my pain

so that I could focus on the moment.

"There

was a daycare school attack in Denver less than an hour ago," she

informed me. "Details are sketchy, but from eyewitness reports, three

masked MRA terrorists broke in, rounded up sixteen preschool boys, took

them to the kitchen and blew themselves up."

I had to process that.

"You would have thought they would want to steal the boys and hastily exit," I noted.

"They

left their van running in front of the daycare," she filled me in. "No

driver." I kept thinking things over well after we returned to the

office. The Mayor was having her press secretary make a brief statement.

We had to prepare.

The

ladies gathered for a spit-balling session, tossing ideas and catch

phrases back and forth. It wasn't that they were callus over the death

of so many children, it was our job to put words to happenings. It took

Francesca to invite me over.

"You look like hell," Bethany whispered to me as I reluctantly wedged myself in.

"I

witnessed one of the few guys left in my district commit suicide today

and to show me how much the police force cared, they had Stella the

security guard gleefully fist me," I shrugged.

"What?" Wanda gasped. "How? Why?"

"You place your fingers into a sort of wedge then push forward with all your mass behind it," I showed her.

"Your

anus gives way and then they have their entire hand and wrist inside

your rectum," I added. Wanda looked like she was about to lose her

breakfast the hard way.

"God, doesn't that hurt?" Tabitha blurted out. She was our research wiz.

"Let's stay on subject," Francesca insisted.

"I

am," I stated. "Those guys weren't MRA. I doubt there is an MRA

anymore. The last confirmed arrests were in Atlanta eleven years ago and

most of those guys were old timers. You are looking at this all wrong."

"They claimed to be MRA," Selma pointed out.

"Brand

recognition. Had they told the truth, 'we are three mental cases with

knives', the tactical unit would have stormed the place," I explained.

"Not that it mattered too much. The second those bastards got those male

children isolated, they killed them."

"But why?" Bethany muttered.

"Those

guys hated you and your society, Bethany. They didn't see themselves as

killing those boys. They were freeing them from you and what you would

do to them," I told her.

"That's insane," Wanda gasped.

"Fuck

ya, it's insane," I agreed. "They murdered sixteen kids then killed

themselves. Add their deaths and that's nineteen men removed from the

reproductive pool."

"That's

pretty much the definition of madness. What won't be recognized is that

this is an act of hopeless desperation and is likely to be repeated

when men start figuring that things are only going to get worse for

them," I prophesized. None of them wanted to ask why I felt that way.

Either I was of the same, insane mindset, or I had an inexplicable

insight to what was going to happen.

"What makes you say that?" Francesca asked when she realized no one else would.

I reached out quickly and squeezed her breasts. Francesca screeched and recoiled.

Francesca didn't say anything, but Selma did.

"What is your problem?" Selma shoved me away from Francesca.

"I

go through that fifty times a day," I responded. "Every day I come to

work, or go to the store. Anywhere I have to stand still or in line.

Every day. Every day and I can't complain because no one cares. I have

to put up with it. Like most guys I like to think I can ignore it, but

it eats at us. Selma, how would you feel if every day I stopped by your

desk, leaned over you and looked down your chest?"

"You would have to unbutton two more buttons though. I'd want to see your bra," I met her glare.

"You are messed up," Selma spat back.

"I don't wear these pants because I want to, Selma," I pointed out.

"Ms.

Diaz made it contingent on me if I wanted to keep this job. Now all of

you need to think about is how much of that you could take before you

decided how much was too much," I questioned. I let that sink in.

"That's the angle we need to look at for our press release."

"You want us to say it women's fault because they pat men too much?" Bethany looked offended.

"No,"

you idiot, I thought, "we, you say this is a Doomsday Cult, not the

MRA, they are spurred on by the belief that this society is teetering on

the edge and this will happen again. You may want to ask the male

population to keep an eye out for any of their fellows who seem overly

edgy or strained. Asking women to help is pointless as they have never

cared to learn the difference between a man at his breaking point and a

guy having a bad day."

I

was hardly surprised they didn't use any of my suggestions. No one

wanted to admit that this was a calamity of their own creation; in the

blame game, you didn't blame yourself. I didn't care. I had to ready my

mind for the interview or interrogation with Detectives Trainer and

Seger. Today the press conference was given by the Mayor's press

secretary. This wasn't a local problem after all.

Monday

morning seemed so long ago. I had told Ms. Silverhorn that all I wanted

to do was do my job, collect my paycheck and go home. The first

question to the press secretary before she even got started?

"Where is Mr. Jensen?" Eloise Granger from the Sentinel inquired.

"Um,

Mr. Jensen is an employee of the Public Relations Department, not a

public speaker," she replied politely. We PR people were sitting at our

desks, but we always watched the conferences on our screens.

"Oh God, no," I muttered.

"So

basically you are going to regurgitate this garbage dressed up like a

press release," Eloise continued. "I'm outta here. Ladies, I'm off to

the Chantry (a local bar). First round is on me." There wasn't a

stampede for the door but maybe a third of the room was rising. Eloise

wasn't done yet. "Maribel, are you coming? This won't even qualify as

stock footage."

The

Sentinel was the largest news publication in the city, but GNN was one

of the most watched news sources on the planet. Maribel looked at the

press secretary as that woman's face slowly drained of blood then

shrugged and joined Eloise in her exodus. It was a colossal disaster for

all concerned. The call came to Francesca a second later. Ms. Diaz had

clearly been watching too.

I

didn't have to be clairvoyant to realize that Isobel was pissed and

taking it out on Francesca. It took Bethany hissing at me to get my

attention because I was trying to be as unnoticeable as possible.

"Get in there," Bethany whispered. "Francesca is waving for you."

A

dumber man would have slinked into Ms. Silverhorn's office. A smarter

man would have been hiding in the bathroom five seconds after

Francesca's phone rang. I was neither. I quick-stepped it to Francesca's

desk and waited.

"I'm putting you on speaker," Francesca grumbled. "He's here." I had no illusions about who 'he' was.

"What the hell have you done?" Diaz snapped at me. Francesca turned her monitor so the Mayor's Chief of Staff could see us both.

"What do you mean?" I shrugged.

"The rebellion at the damn press conference, you prick," Isobel sizzled.

"I

repeat, 'what do you mean'," I glared back. "In case you missed the

update, your buddy Somerset has been sitting on me since six-thirty this

morning. I was at the metro, a guy killed himself, she and her partner,

Ms. Giggles, pulled me out of the crowd and questioned me about the

incident. Then Somerset was kind enough to drive me to work and chat me

up."

"Then

she polished my early morning by having building security strip and

body cavity search me. I'm sure Ms. Silverhorn heard me crying in pain

and Stella's fist popping out of my ass when she came for me," I

related. "If it is any consolation, it hurt like hell. It also means I

had zero time to launch any conspiracy against you or the Mayor because

I've been in fucking custody all morning long."

"I

didn't know about the school shooting before Ms. Silverhorn told me,

thus I could not have known about any press conference this morning.

Best of all, when I made suggestions about the press release, all my

advice was ignored. Nor did I go to the bathroom or anywhere else

outside of the view of my office mates.

"See,

I pissed on myself when I was fisted and I'm not going to take a shit

until my sphincter un-dilates, which from my experience with women

violating my ass, will not be for another few hours," I finished.

"Whomever made those women walk out wasn't me."

"That was uncalled for," Isobel growled. Francesca was emotionally trapped between being amused and horrified at my outburst.

"If you don't want detailed answers, only ask me 'yes' or 'no' questions," I shot back.

"Francesca, discipline this asshole," Isobel demanded.

"I

actually think his asshole has had enough attention for today,"

Francesca successfully fought down a smarmy smile. "Is there any other

part of his anatomy you think needs taken care of?"

"Do

you find that response amusing?" Isobel asked Francesca. "Is his cock

truly so good it makes you want to throw your career away?"

"If you had an ounce of human compassion, you'd know why," Francesca replied.

"I

don't see the need to brow beat Israel into granting me sexual favors.

If we do decide to have sex, I'll let you know how good willing

intercourse with him is like," Ms. Silverhorn stated. "Providing you

ever have had willing intercourse with anyone that is." I had no idea

why Francesca was doing this. It was beyond all expectations.

Sure,

I knew women who had expressed all kinds of sympathy for me. Sympathy

never translated into action. Before this, the only women to stand up

for me were my Mother and Angel, and Angel was assigned to look out for

me. Francesca was a total mystery.

"You need a drug test," Isobel threatened.

"But

that's not why I called. The Mayor wants you to rectify this disaster.

We are going to have a press conference reboot at 12:30. Create some

sort of spin, give us a God damned head's up on what that is and get

Israel ready. He had better not cause us a single problem either,"

Isobel ordered.

"Considering the day Israel has experienced, I can't endorse that," Francesca said.

"I

don't give a crap how bad a day he's had, Israel had better keep his

shit together and get the job done or it will be your head on the block,

Francesca, clear?" Isobel snarled.

"He's my employee," Francesca snapped back. "After what he's been put through today, I should,”

"I've got this," I interrupted Francesca. "I'll do it for you."

"This

isn't your call, Israel, but thank you. The professionalism of my

department is my concern and you look like crap," Francesca assured me.

"That was not a fucking suggestion!" Ms. Diaz yelled then cut the connection.

"Israel?" Francesca looked me over.

"Doomsday

Cult, society on the edge, have men watch out for men because women

won't know what to look for," I read off my press points.

"I

shouldn't, you aren't, you do realize we are supposed to make people

feel better and make the Mayor look good, remember?" Francesca worked

things out.

"The

theory is by making bold statements, you develop a commanding

presence," I stated from one of my sociology courses. "Leaders gather

followers."

"We need to have something that is supportable, or at least something we can later claim to be misinterpreted," she clarified.

"That's your job," I smiled sadly.

"This is going to make it harder on men nationwide," Ms. Silverhorn noted.

"I

know," I shrugged, "but sixteen young boys are dead. No matter how much

I sympathize with those three men, what they did was wrong."

"I

had a son," she studied me intently. "He didn't make it. Had he grown

up, I would like to think he would have stood proudly and been strong.

Not like you, you are all kinds of fucked up, but like that man who stood up to Isobel yesterday."

"Thank you," I smirked then winced. I was still in pain. "I guess that was almost a compliment."

"Get

to work," she directed. After that, our office raced to put something

together that had a remote acquaintance with reality. Bethany wished me

luck as I left. Wanda, Selma and Francesca escorted me to the first

floor bathroom where I prepped myself yet again. From somewhere, the

office had miraculously produced a fresh set of clothes for me.

I

had to assume they broke into my house to get them. My time with

security had ruined the set I had. They'd pulled my pants down around my

ankles but when I pissed myself, they'd been splashed and those stains

would raise questions at the press conference too many people didn't

want answered.

"Are you going to follow any part of our script?" Selma touched my arm to get my attention.

"I honestly don't know," I responded. "It depends on what they ask me."

"Why is he still working here?" Selma addressed Francesca.

"I

don't know about you," Francesca mused. "This has been the most

interesting 72 hours on the job that I've had in over a decade. Sure,

Israel is self-destructing, but I still want to see how it ends."

We were all silent as I was handed off to the press secretary, Naomi List.

"Don't embarrass us," she whispered heatedly. By us, I guess she meant the Mayor.

"Too

late for that," I responded quietly. She looked to me to see if I was

joking with her. A fierce look crossed her dark eyes when she realized I

was dead-serious. A cold streak of fear passed through me.

We didn't even get the first word out.

"Welcome back, Mr. Jensen," Eloise Granger greeted me. I had given my reply to this some serious thought.

"I'm

going to get you for this, Eloise, if it is the last thing I do," I

stated deadpan. "If you make it to Monday, you will probably be in the

clear."

"Planning to have a tough weekend?" Eloise bantered. Naomi was about to bust a gut.

"You have no idea," I sighed.

"You would be surprised what I know," the reporter for the Sentinel grinned.

"Ah, shit," I groaned. I was told that went out live to twenty millions screens.

"How

about we let Naomi here do her job?" I recovered. No one objected so

Naomi stepped up and did her spiel, which boiled down to our city sent

its condolences to Denver, yay.

"Are we in any danger here?" a reporter from a conservative blog asked.

"No," Naomi assured the audience. "We are on the alert for any MRA activity."

"What do you think?" Maribel beat Eloise to the punch, asking me for my opinion. I groaned.

"I

don't believe this was an MRA action. That was a ruse and nothing more.

As far as I know, there is no MRA anymore. There hasn't been an

established action by the terrorists of the MRA in eleven years," I

pointed out. I waited a few seconds for security to come and whisk me

off the stage.

"I

believe these three deranged individuals used the guise of the, ," I

continued when security failed to gag me. "Those three men used the

guise of the MRA to buy time with the Denver tactical unit. They used

the time to ensure those poor young boys were unrecoverable. Those boys

were dead seconds after the last woman left the building. Those men blew

themselves up to escape arrest."

"What makes you say that?" Eloise grilled me.

"They

hated you, women, that is, and your society. They wanted nothing less

than the death of our species, a decision reached undoubtedly after

decades of female abuse," I explained.

"But what makes you make that assumption?" Eloise persisted.

"I

studied their actions, what they did and what they failed to do.

Coupled with my personal experiences, this was the only logical

conclusion, twisted as it is," I said.

"You have no police or psychological experience that we are aware of," a fourth reporter stated.

"No, I have something much better," I answered.

"I'm

a man and I am deeply in tune with their sense of hopelessness and

depression. I sympathize with their perceived plight, but I taking the

lives of those poor children was a pathetic gesture that will not make

the situation any better," I countered. "They didn't deserve to grow up

in this world, but they didn't deserve to die at the hands of androcidal

maniacs either."

"Are you confessing to being in the MRA," the conservative prodded.

"No,"

I shook my head. "I don't think there is an MRA and if there was such

an organization and I was invited to join, I'd run to the police," I

explained, "and that's saying something since I think the majority of

the police are a bunch of misandristic, brutal thugs."

"I

wouldn't join the MRA because they are murderers. The second I start

seeing my fellow humans as objects instead of people, I've become just

as bad as most of the women I've ever known," I committed myself to

blasphemy.

"You sound like you hate us," Eloise smirked. She was a smart cookie alright.

"I

don't hate women. I don't know most of you, but I can explain my issue

with your gender with three examples. For starters, empty both your

hands," I suggested. A few did. "Okay, reach out to the woman next to

you and put your hand on her crotch." I thought four or five actually

did it. The few victims swatted the hands away.

"What is that supposed to prove?" Maribel was losing her patience.

"Well,

most of you didn't do it, but if you were groped understand I go

through that fifty times a day, every work day. When I'm walking down

the street, standing in line or on the metro and even in this very

building," I told them. "Every day."

"I

noticed the few who were actually groped protested. I can't. No one

will listen. Theoretically it is against the law, but I challenge you to

cite the last time a woman was convicted of unwanted sexual contact," I

added. "As women, what do you do when you see a sister pat a man on the

ass or bump against his package? Do you call her on it? Do you ask if

he's okay? Do you assume that since she got a free feel you can get one

too?"

"That's

one. Number two, last night I went on my first date in three years,

sadly enough with the same woman who was my last date three years ago," I

related. "Among the other fascinating aspects of this encounter, she

was kind enough to inform me that during the two and a half day sexual

marathon she had orchestrated to milk me for the benefit of society, I

serviced 41 of her sorority sisters. Among the other fascinating aspects

of this encounter, was the revelation that eighteen of those women

became pregnant and I have sixteen children that I knew nothing about

until last night."

"It

sounded pretty insane to me too. If you don't believe me you can check

out the facts. It was the Theta Omega Sorority in the fall of my

freshman year. The membership and birth records should be public record.

That's not the point. The point is I wasn't even informed of my own

children's births. I wasn't informed because in your eyes, fathers don't

matter," I reasoned. "The decision to steal our children is totally

your fault."

"Example

three came this morning when Steve, I guy I barely knew, threw himself

in front of the metro at our station right in front of me. He waved to

me right before he leapt to his death. Why would he take his own life? I

think the poor, dumb bastard grieved for his departed wife. Your

society dictated his time to mourn. Instead of being given time to

recover and move on he was dosed with drugs to ramp up his libido and

primed him for harvest," I stated frankly

"The law decided that he was essentially a fuck toy. He decided to fuck you back and escaped by the only means available, death," I was growing both crazier and angrier.

"You

say 'escaped'," Maribel countered. "He sounds like a poor, sick man in

need of care. He was a suicide, not a failed romantic."

"Sick

implies that you will get better or die," I met her gaze. "He was never

going to get better. The cure for him was time and you weren't giving

him any. The fact is, Steve committed suicide. By now the police have

his suicide note and should be able to answer your questions about what

his final thoughts were."

"Steve's

suicide will continue to have impacts on the other men in our city. It

certainly had a major impact on me. I was questioned at the metro

station, I argued with the police, and was brought by a G E D detective,

Somerset Trainer, to City Hall," I scanned the room. "Because I had

witnessed a suicide, Detective Trainer instructed building security to

strip search me then anally fist me. Maybe they were afraid I had a bomb

up my ass."

"I

pissed on myself, cried and pretty much felt nearly worthless before my

boss rescued me," I related. "I'm sure you know Stella. It was her fist

and wrist inside me. Make sure to thank her for keeping you safe from a

crackpot like myself, but you might not want to shake her right hand."

"That

story sounds absurd," Eloise reminded the group. "Unfortunately for

some people, I find you interesting Israel. I know you left the station

with Detective Trainer and I know you were escorted to security room

three by guards Stella Richards and Barbra Nazari and held there for

over forty minutes. Afterwards, a sanitation engineer was dispatched to

the room to clean it up."

"That

doesn't prove anything, of course," Eloise murmured, "but it does beg

the question why you, one of only a handful of men in city government,

was singled out for special attention." Maybe it was the fact that we

were on the national stage, Eloise added, "Maybe it is because you

called Isobel Diaz a monster after she made you expose yourself in her

office."

I had clearly stepped into a shit pile and I had no idea how to get out.

"Well,

Mr. Jensen?" Maribel requested confirmation. "Did you call the Mayor's

Chief of Staff a monster after she sexually harassed you?"

"Excuse

me," I rubbed my forehead. "I need to go and clean out my desk now. Um,

support the Mayor. She is most likely the lesser of two evils."

"Oh my God," Naomi groaned. "You did not just say that."

"Mr. Jensen," several voices called out. Ironically, I chose that moment to forget I had a microphone on.

"I

flee with neither dignity nor poise," I muttered. I didn't know where

the quote came from but it felt fatalistically appropriate. Selma had

the presence of mind to disconnect my hook-up.

"Francesca, what angle are we putting on this?" Selma muttered.

"A

simple statement that Mr. Jensen became unhinged by the suicide this

morning seems reasonable," Francesca sighed. She was right.

"That won't counter what Eloise Granger said," Selma pointed out.

"Maybe we could ask Ms. Diaz to issue a formal apology," Francesca looked at Selma.

"Let's

try not to stray into the realm of fantasy," Selma sighed. "Israel, is

there any way you could simply disappear, forever?"

"Considering

that my brethren have been vanishing steadily for the past six months,

that's not a far-fetched prospect," I nodded.

"Shit," Selma muttered.

"Shit,"

Francesca echoed but for a different reason. We had exited the elevator

and walked right into Detectives Trainer and Seger. My first thought

was that they were going to shoot me. Then I recalled that I had an

interrogation coming my way.

"Come

with us, Mr. Jensen," Somerset commanded. I went along. I was hardly

brave about it. I was scared and sweating. Even then, I couldn't find it

in myself to regret the words I'd used earlier. The feeling that came

from speaking my mind felt too good.

"Mr.

Jensen! Mr. Jensen!" a short, young woman with big glasses and thick,

wavy russet colored hair came running my way as I reached the conference

room door.

"Miss," Gayle interposed her body between the woman and me, "this is a police matter. Back off."

"Well, I'd hope so," the woman huffed. "I'm Capri O'Hara from the Public Defender's office, Mr. Jensen's legal counsel."

Holy

Hell. Was this the lawyer Angel Kristi had steered my way? She looked

barely out of high school, much less law school. The four of us entered

the conference room and Gayle shut the door.

"We are recording this interview," Somerset began. "Interview one with Mr. Israel Jensen, age twenty-one."

"Oh yeah," Capri peeped. "I should do this too, record the conversation that is."

"Do this much?" I turned to her. She was to my left, Somerset was across from me and Gayle was opposite Capri.

"This is my first independent case," she admitted.

"Been a lawyer long?" I asked.

"Two months. I failed the Bar, the first time out, but most law school graduates do. Don't worry."

Worry? Why would I worry? The cops were going to gut me like a trout.

Fuck

getting put on a 72 hour psychiatric watch. I was about to be

institutionalized. By the smiles on Gayle's and Somerset's faces, they

were thinking the same thing.

"Why are we here today?" Capri grinned.

"We

are getting to that, Ms. O'Hara," Somerset replied. "Mr. Jensen, we

want to question you about the disappearance of thirty men in the city."

"What are the victims' names?" Capri interrupted.

"We are getting to that," Gayle growled.

"Provide my client with a list," Capri stated firmly. "He'll review it and let you know if he recognizes any of them."

"We

are trying to determine if he knows any of them right now. Since he is

in the potential victim pool, we need to question him," Somerset

explained in a chilly tone.

"So

you brought Mr. Jensen in because he is a male, aged between 18 and

25," Capri verified. "That's gender profiling. You can't do that. It is

illegal."

It

seemed that Capri was, despite her youthful cuteness and small size

possessed fearless, ferocious and an obstinate tenacity, the Jack

Russell puppy of lawyers.

"Listen

you," Gayle half-stood. "Men like him are vanishing and we need to find

out why. The fate of the human race is at stake. How dumb are you?"

"That's

a nice excuse," Capri responded calmly, "but hardly a valid legal

reason for detaining my client. Mr. Jensen, do you wish to cooperate

with the police at this time?"

"No way in hell," I blurted out quickly.

"We are done here," Capri stated with self-assurance. She stood to go as did I.

"You

are not going anywhere," Somerset sneered. "If Mr. Jensen doesn't

cooperate we have little choice but to put him under a 72 hour watch." I

closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

"I'll

have him out before you finish processing him and then slap you both

with an unlawful imprisonment suit," Capri growled right back. "You

can't put a person into what amounts to a prison on a hunch, Detective.

How has he acted irrationally or against the public interest?"

"Did you listen to that fucking tirade at the press conference?" Somerset stared at Capri.

"An

expression of free speech, no matter how unpalatable to the ruling

elite, is still guaranteed by the First Amendment," Capri noted. "A

swing and a miss. That's strike two. Care to try for three?"

"Listen up, you pipsqueak," Gayle trumpeted.

Whatever else she was going to say was lost as the Mayor, Ms. Diaz and two flunkies I wasn't familiar with entered the room.

"Excuse me," the Mayor gave us her best artificial smile. "I wanted to make sure that Israel was okay."

"He is not being very helpful," Somerset got out.

"We have established that there is no reason for him to be here in the first place," Capri jumped in.

"There

shouldn't be a problem," the Mayor smiled with a suspicious

satisfaction in her eye. "I talked to the District Attorney and she's

agreed to hold the review of this case over until Monday."

"Madame Mayor," Capri kept fighting, "there is no case."

"Miss?" the Mayor turned frosty.

"Ms. Capri O'Hara, Public Defender's office," Capri stuck out her chin defiantly.

"Ms.

O'Hara, Mr. Jensen is under investigation by a joint city or federal

task force over allegations of sexual misconduct with an off-duty police

officer," the Mayor's smile returned.

"I

remain his legal counsel until all such matters are resolved," Capri

insisted. "I hope law enforcement keeps that in mind before they detain,

transport, or interview him."

"It

shouldn't be a problem," the Mayor kept looking at me. "I'm sure the

District Attorney will clear up this matter on Monday. No charges will

be filed. I look forward to seeing you Saturday night, Israel."

There it was, the 'fuck you.’

If I refused to go the Isobel's freak show, not only were they coming

at me with the full force of the law, they were going after Angel as

well. I was emotionally confused where Detective Kristi was concerned. I

felt something for her, but I didn't want to. I'd lived in emotional

isolation for three years and it had become my status quo.

"I,

I look forward to it," I stuttered. It was a poor lie. Four of the

women in the room giving me smug smiles only added insult to injury.

"Glad to hear it," the Mayor smiled and nodded. She turned, took her people and exited.

"This interview is concluded," Somerset snickered. "Good job, Israel. You folded like a good little boy."

"Need a tampon for your ass?" Gayle chuckled. I looked away. The two G E D detectives were laughing as they left the room.

"Mr.

Jensen, Israel, what was that about? I'm your lawyer, you can tell me,"

Capri touched my arm. I nearly jumped out of my skin.

"What are you doing with this case?" I countered.

"All

I know is some rather frantic L O L E contacted the office. No one else

wanted it, but since it was an official notification, it rolled all the

way down the seniority chain into my lap," Capri informed me. "In case

you are wondering, I am the junior lawyer. I couldn't pass this off to

anyone else."

"Hmmm," I mused. "Thank you for your zealous representation, I guess."

"I

swear by the God, you would think those G E D officers had never seen a

lawyer before," she chuckled. "This was hardly a difficult case. Or

'is', as I don't believe this matter is over, despite the Mayor's

assurances. So, back to my question, what's going on?"

"I need to get back to work," I evaded. Capri dutifully followed along, all the way to my cubicle.

"I'm

not going to go away," she insisted. Since this was the first chance my

co-workers had to interact with me since the press conference, there

was double confusion.

Bethany came right at me.

"We need to talk," she hissed.

"Sure," I shrugged helplessly. "Oh, this is Capri O'Hara, my lawyer."

"Alone," Bethany demanded. I gave Capri an apologetic look then walked off a few steps with my current tormentor.

"You

shouldn't have said anything about the children," she whispered. She

meant my offspring. "I only told you because I thought you would be

discreet. Now there is going to be a problem."

"Don't

worry about it," I assured her. "They'll look at my public dating

record and realize that over half of my sexual encounters were with you

and you didn't get pregnant."

"I'm

not sure exactly how many times we had sex but it had to be close to a

hundred in just over two months. Then there was those forty sexual

encounters over a fifty hour period that weekend. Since that weekend,

I've had 27 bouts of intercourse," I related, "in a three year period. I

exhausted my Mother's life insurance benefit buying out of sex at every

opportunity."

"You

might want to be more concerned at what other women are going to think

about that," I told her, "when it becomes public knowledge."

"What do you mean?" she got pissed.

"I went from no recorded sex until I was eighteen, to a torrid affair with one woman, you," I outlined for her.

"Then

I had one extensive sexual encounter were I am recorded as having

sexual intercourse once every seventy minutes over a weekend. After

that, I went on to having sex once every forty days," I stated. "Women

who don't know us might assume something turned me off sex. A few

reporters are going to question you about our relationship and that

weekend at your sorority."

"Don't

worry, though. They are women and I'm sure they will understand that

whole sisterhood thing and how your sisters voted for you to share me

with them because that's a perfectly normal and acceptable way for women

to behave toward a man," I said patiently.

"You are twisting this all out of proportion," Bethany complained.

"Bethany,

you are acting like you did something wrong," I sounded confused, but I

wasn't. "Tell them exactly what happened and you'll do fine."

Realistically, Bethany was going to suffer no public repercussions over

this. She was too well connected. I could hope her society equals would

be less forgiving over this embarrassment.

"Israel, I was being nice to you and this is how you repay me? You are a bastard," Bethany snarled.

"If you never want to talk to me again, I'll understand," I tried not to sound too hopeful.

"I'm

definitely considering it," Bethany threatened. "Seriously, you've had

one bad sexual encounter and you are letting it screw up your entire

life. Oh, Francesca wants to see you too."

That's

right. Being chained in a basement, constantly pumped up with drugs and

repeatedly raped for almost three months was 'one bad sexual

encounter.’ I gave up on trying to explain anything to her. There was

nothing in it for me save anger and I already had enough of that in

spades. As I went to Ms. Silverhorn's office, Capri caught up but kept

silent.

"Ms. Silverhorn?" I called out as I stuck my head into her office. Her eyes flashed from Capri then back to me.

"How did it go?" she asked.

"I'm going to Isobel's function Saturday night," I confessed.

The look she gave me was virtually unknown to me, she looked as if she'd let me down.

"I'll get through it," I told her confidently. "I always do."

"You shouldn't have to, Israel," Francesca responded. "Take the rest of the day and tomorrow off. We'll see you on Monday."

"Thanks,"

I said. I wanted to gain the self-worth that came from doing a job I

had trained for, but I needed a break since my whole life had pretty

much been spiraling down the toilet since Monday morning. I

double-checked my desk before departing the office. No one said

'good-bye.’ I couldn't blame them. After the press conference, I was

toxic.

City

Hall security tried to shanghai me as I tried to leave. Capri went

after them like a weasel scenting blood. She threw so much legal code,

precedent, and Supreme Court ruling at them, I think they released me

just to shut her up. I couldn't even figure out why she was still with

me, unless it was sex, shit.

"I've got it from here," I assure her.

"If

you want me to go away, tell me what is going on. We can start with why

those two G E D detectives have it out for you, what in the hell was

going on at that press conference and finish up with why the Mayor has a

personal interest in what you are doing this weekend," Capri grilled

me.

We

were walking down to the Plaza metro station and I was contemplating

what I was going to say to Capri when Capri's phone rang.

"Hello,

yes, Mrs. Casey, but, I understand, but, I don't want to be reassigned,

but," was Capri's side of the conversation. I didn't feel like

eavesdropping but I was getting pissed.

I snatched the phone out of her hand.

"Who is this?" I snapped.

"Who is this?" the female on the other end regarded me.

"I'm Israel Jensen, Ms. O'Hara's client," I glared.

"I'm

Deputy Public Defender Tamara Casey. My unit handles male-related

cases," she explained in a thoroughly professional manner. "Since this

case has merit, we are assigning a more senior member of the Public

Defender's office to your case, someone with experience in these

matters."

"Thank

you, but no thank you," I replied. "You dumped this dog of a case in

her lap. She clearly didn't want it, but she's done her job admirably.

I'm keeping her."

"Oh,

that's not your call to make, Mr. Jensen," she related. "It is the

'Public' Defender's' office and we assign cases to our court officers

based on merit and experience."

"Now

Tamara, we both know that's bullshit," I mocked her. "I don't know who

has leaned on you and I don't care. Ms. Capri has faced down two G E D

sociopaths and kept me from my second security physical violation of the

day. What I also know is that I'm heading home. If Ms. O'Hara is

removed from my case, I'm not going home."

"I'm

going down to Eloise Granger's desk at the Sentinel and relaying this

entire conversation," I promised. "She's going to want to know why a

lawyer who has done a bang-up job for me and who I have requested to

stay on my case was removed." I had no clue how effective that threat

could be. As far as I knew, Eloise would laugh in my face.

"Mr.

Jensen, you have no idea what you are doing or the legal ramifications

of your actions. If you are refusing the P D O's help, so be it," Mrs.

Casey told me.

"I'm

not refusing help, Mrs. Casey. I'm requesting that you not take Capri

O'Hara off the case. Since it is painfully obvious that you attempted to

give me the worst representation possible and that backfired in your

face, I'm not going to take the chance that you replace her with someone

less competent or with their own agenda."

"We

are not a private law firm. We don't represent the public based on

personal preference," Tamara countered. "If you want a choice, hire a

private lawyer."

"With what? I'm damn near broke," I answered. "I'm the type of person you are supposed to represent."

"Then

let us represent you," she treated me like a small child. Capri held up

her tablet. On it were the words 'ask for a Change of Counsel hearing.’

If I used those words, I'd get Capri in trouble. I had to think quickly

to get my point across so it seemed like Tamara's suggestion.

"Listen,

Tamara, Ms. O'Hara is my counsel of record, right?" I ad-libbed. "Since

that is the case, I want a judge's decision on whether or not I change

my lawyer. What is it called?"

"It is a Change of Counsel hearing," Tamara snipped.

"Fine, before you replace Ms. O'Hara, I want one of those," I demanded.

"Very well, request noted. Give the phone back to Capri, please," Tamara sighed.

"Yes, Ma'am," Capri said after the phone returned to her grasp.

"No,

Ma'am, I have no idea how Mr. Jensen developed his legal expertise. His

juvenile records are sealed and he has no current legal complaints,"

Capri stated. "I was in the process of figuring out what the current

problem is when you called. Yes, Mrs. Casey, I'll have a report as soon

as possible, as soon as I know anything. Good-bye."

"You haven't done me any favors," Capri studied me.

"Lady,

I'm herbicide to every blossoming career I come across," I noted.

"Where do you want to go to hear my story?" It was an exhausting process

that led us back to my place. I didn't want to go, but the taxi ride to

my place after my date with Bethany had made going out to eat a

financial impossibility.

To be continued

By FinalStand for Literotica