“Our brains are shaped with the capability to care deeply but also to kill. This deep ambivalence is potentially problematic. A society filled with people who are inherently very compassionate and very violent might prove unstable.”1
1Emile Bruneau, Ph.D. “Understanding the Terrorist Mind.” Cerebrum. 2016.
“I’m still really not sold on the broomstick,” Marion said as she used the toe of her boot to urge said broomstick an inch or so further up the ass of the whimpering sack of a man at her feet.
“How are you, of all people, not in love with the symbolism of it?” Jennifer, Marion’s best friend, responded. “It’s beautiful.” She pulled the trigger on the Taser again—they’d splurged on one with a range of ten feet so they could stand comfortably away. The poor guy’s body convulsed in rigid little spasms.
Marion groaned. “Leave him alone.” She put her hand on Jennifer’s arm gently.
“Fine.” Jennifer released the trigger of the Taser, and the body went limp.
Marion had indeed argued against the broomstick when it was suggested during an early planning meeting. It seemed like overkill when there were other, softer options.
“We will polish it,” Jennifer had countered Marion’s argument. “We don’t want to leave anyone with splinters in their ass,” she had scoffed. “We’re not monsters.”
“I don’t think that’s the point Marion is trying to make,” Yasmine had defended, though she too was pro-broomstick.
In the end, Marion had been outvoted. She did have to admit that the symbolism was unmatched.
This poor guy, Marion thought.
Marion didn’t think of herself as aggressive or power hungry, but she did have to admit that she liked the feeling of subduing someone bigger than her, from taking someone else’s power from them and using it. That was the thing about power. It was a drug. You didn’t need a reason to want it. Once the feeling started in your limbic system, it fired across your synapses until it reached the part of your brain that controls pleasure. Then it stayed there, making you want, need, more. Not that Marion actually knew what drugs felt like, but she had a vivid imagination.
Someone threw a trash bag in the dumpster behind her. It made a thud as it hit before the lid slammed shut. Marion looked over her shoulder to see Alice—she worked at the bar and was one of theirs. Alice would make sure no one came out the back entrance tonight.
A crisp breeze blew through the alley. Little wind eddies encircled the group with the stink of garbage before carrying it away over the brick wall at the far end. A bottle broke in the distance. A group of women bundled up against the chill of the late fall got into a car at the other end of the alley without ever looking back. They’d never know the dirty work being done on their behalf this clear night.
Marion nestled into the collar of her sweater to warm her nose. She really should feel worse about this. But she didn’t have a single regret that she’d flirted with this guy, who had assumed she was harmless, and lured him into this back alley where Jennifer waited to help her tase, beat, and rape him. And then maybe beat him a little more, just to really drive the point home.
Jennifer pulled the trigger on the Taser again.
“Stop.” Marion hadn’t meant to raise her voice with her friend, but the situation was getting out of hand.
“Eeeewww.” Jennifer gagged. The smell really was terrible. Out of some strange sense of propriety, Marion did her best not to gag.
“Did he… did he poop?” Jennifer asked, dry heaving dramatically, like a cat coughing up a furball.
He had. It wasn’t his fault. Anyone who’s ever had something shoved up their ass knows that it’s a risk. Add being tased by a group of women when you just thought you were going to get head in the alley behind the bar, and the likelihood increases by… well, Marion wasn’t a math person, but let’s just say a lot.
Marion shivered. “Let’s go. I think he’s had enough.” Their target had indeed
