January/12/2006

               A cool autumn breeze brushed past Maria’s face while she waited patiently for her now former friend Cynthia to arrive. It was Thursday which meant that it was time for their weekly talk, and for whatever reason Cynthia felt the need to come all the way out to a coffee shop in Santa Monica.

               Outside was a caravan of military vehicles, patrolling the road. In the past this was the type of thing you’d never see in good old Los Angeles, but ever since what had been dubbed by the media ‘The San Antonio Prison Incident’ the amount of security in the city had quadrupled. Their entire presence was just a placebo; a large show of force to maintain order and convince the hapless citizens that everything was alright. It was none-direct way of saying that the government had no clue what was going on.

               Of course Maria and Cynthia knew; the price for bearing this truth being their friendship. Cynthia was no longer the cute happy-go-lucky person Maria had come to know; she had become a monster. Every week someone from the prison went missing, and either didn’t return or came back so broken that for the sake of mercy they needed to be put to death.

               To protect them Maria made the decision to make use of the blackmail Cynthia provided to her. By splitting the prison into parts and distributing them amongst the other girls; this way, at the very least, the cost of managing them was less. It also kept the other girls in line.

               “You know hun, it’s not like you at all to look so sad.” Said Cynthia taking her seat at the opposite end of the table.

               Maria rolled her eyes. In the past that flippant cutesy attitude of hers was something she enjoyed; however ever since she got a glimpse of the real Cynthia it seemed artificial. It was a flawless mask, designed to hide just how devoid of feeling she was.

               “Awwww c’mon! We used to be such good friends, are you really going to let something so small… no pun intended, get in the way of our friendship?” she cooed  taking a large clumsy bite out of a bagel.

               Maria leaned forward and looked her dead in the eyes. People like her preyed on weakness, and this was one area she couldn’t afford to slack off in, “You killed them Cynthia, innocent people. You think I can just… let it go, pretend nothing happened?”

               Cynthia checked quickly to see if anyone was looking. Like always Santa Monica was a crowded place, but it was early in the morning, and like she expected not a single person so much as batted an eye, “Innocent? Oh my god you can’t be serious.”

               Out of a side pocket from her purse Cynthia pulled out a small burlap sack which squirmed, between her fingers while the unfortunate person trapped inside fought desperately to escape.

               “Why are you doing this?”

               She tilted the bag upside down and with a cock-eyed smile poured its minuscule contents onto the desk. Just as Maria expected, a small naked man smacked hard against the vast wooden plane that was for them merely a place to put their food. His body was covered in cuts and small burns, so much so that he couldn’t even stand; instead he curled up into a fetal ball and wept silently to himself.

               “To prove a point.” Said Cynthia plucking the frail man from the desk.

               He tried to scream, but the second he opened his mouth Cynthia’s attenuated fingers clenched deep into his chest with the force of a compressor; the enormous girth of her thumb pressed hard into his chin until his neck snapped upward with a muffled pop.

               “These people don’t deserve kindness…”

****

               Gerome awoke to the smell of perfume and chemicals; as with every day he questioned where he was before once again remembering that like countless others he was moved into Maria’s closet. His head pounded, although he couldn’t remember why.

               Did the cunt leave me anything to eat? He thought, walking blind across an assortment of lipstick bottles and jewelry, his legs aching like he’d been forced to run a thousand miles, before finally stumbling upon the block of wood that served as the food station.

               Cold stale beans again.

               “Mr. Tillman. You aren’t authorized to leave your bed.”

               His memory was clouded, he had no idea what was going on, “Who the hell are you? Maria! Maria!” Screamed Gerome, shouting the only name that seemed to hold actual authority these days.

               Somebody turned on a light, which was nothing more than a small dollar store flashlight. In front of him were two guards and a man in a torn prison doctor’s outfit, “Dammit son, calm down before ye give yourself another concussion.” He said stroking his thick beard.

               “What happened to me? What’s going on!”

               A crippling pain shot up through his spine; within seconds he was in shock, “I told ye not to git outta bed. Now you’ve done undone them stitches.” He said in a thick western accent. “And if it’ll shut you up, the spick herself decided it be best for ya to rest up.”

               Casual racism aside, he seemed harmless. At the very least he could get some answers, “Are we… the only people here?”

               The portly man smiled and waved off the guards, “Hell naw. Ye just happen to be in this here medical drawer. If the wood was thinner you’d hear everyone else beneath us. Poor bastards.”

               It hardly looked like a medical area. The beds were made of tissue paper and cotton balls, and instead of a stretcher all they had was a broken nail file. The only thing that looked remotely professional was the laboratory computers recovered from the prison, all of which were powered by a jury rigged system of comically oversized double-A batteries.

               Gerome smiled in self-pity, they were living like animals. Huddling in the corners of a drawer and waiting for food. Meanwhile Maria, Cynthia, and all the other good sorority sluts were living their lives; content to stuff them with the rest of their dirty laundry, “I can tell by yer face that you ain’t pleased.” Said the doctor, “Truth be told, closest thing you’re gonna get to antibiotics is nail polish remover. But it’s all we got.”

               With one arm the bearded doctor pulled Gerome up on his feet and sat him down on a lipstick tube. His eyes were sullen and tired, his hair white; so much for bedside manner, “Listen boy imma give it to ya straight.” He said grabbing Gerome by his still bandaged shoulder, “Ye got brain damage. Your cerebellum’s gotten a bit messed up, see?”

               Just the thing Gerome needed more bad news, “Am I going to recover? Not that it matters really.”

               The doctor sighed and wiped his brow with a small checkered cloth, “The lord Jesus musta kissed you on the cheek or somethin, cuz as far as I can tell the damage ain’t permanent.”

               Despite the terrible pain he was going through Gerome managed to smile. He would get to live another day. Although looking back on his life and the decisions he made, it was a damn shame that he’ll never spend them with anyone he cared for again.

               Suddenly the door opened, Maria was back.

****

               Light streamed into the container for the first time in 2 days, during which none of the 70 people trapped in the shoebox ate, drank, or had any form of relief. They were exhausted, “Hurry up Nora; we need to catalog these prisoners before Maria gets here.”

               Of course it could’ve been a year, and it wouldn’t have made a difference; years of drug use had damaged his mind to the point that he couldn’t really comprehend the flow of time; things just sort of happened for him. One moment he was the best drug runner on the west coast, the next he was serving time in prison, and now he’s some college girl’s dirty little secret. Seems legit.

               “Fuckin-A Chelsea I’m doing my fastest here.” Said the black girl, who despite being already gigantic in proportions clearly would have towered over them all with her natural height, “Did she say why she was coming?”

               The brunette’s face wrinkled in annoyance, “She probably wants to see if I’m using again or not. Little does she know that I DON’T have a drug problem.”

               “Chel imma be honest, you’re an addict.” Snapped Nora grabbing people by the handfuls and depositing them on a table where guards their size were waiting. “If you weren’t as smart as you are you’d be in that box right now.”

               A large dark hand enveloped them and before they could react every person who was picked up was dumped onto the table. On the opposite side of the table, next to a stack of magazines taller than his old cell was a young guard sitting at a makeshift desk beckoned him over; must have been his turn, “Please state your full name, I.D, and nature of your crime. If you are found to have falsified your records, you sentence will be extended.” Said the guard in a bored monotone voice, “Failure to comply will result in transfer of custody to Cynthia.

               He smirked, “Who the fuck is Cynthia, and why should I give a shit. ¡tú hijo de la chingada!” shouted the man at the bewildered guard. “I’m covered in my own shit and you expect me to answer questions? Go to hell!”

               All the eyes in the room descended on him, including the two pairs of giant ones. Of course he didn’t mind, in fact he loved it. After three days without food, water, or light he was more than happy to get some attention, “My name is Ramiro Espinoza, inmate 2354. As for my sentence, 25 to life!”

               Silence, complete and utter silence; nobody was expecting a starved man to suddenly burst into rage like that. Chelsea approached the table, ever since her first encounter with Gerome she became fascinated with the idea of keeping them. Even after the incident in the basement, which left her traumatized for days, she found her self-drawn to concept.

               The reason why was simple, she could relate.

               “Anybody know where the fuck we are? My guess is Sacramento; that would explain the crappy apartment.”

               Well… sort of.

               Chelsea approached the table, and stood there smiling at the screaming little speck in front of her. In many ways she was no different from them, and not in the obvious mutual humanity type of way. For her, the similarities came from an understanding that she was as much a prisoner as they were; after all, at the end of the day we’re all trapped by the lives we lead.

               For the first time Ramiro had the chance to appreciate the severity of his situation. Back at the prison before he was knocked out he only saw a pair of legs. Now he could understand why everyone was so afraid.

               Her body dominated the room, taking up almost the entirety of his vision. Adding to that she was gorgeous, modest, and sweet-looking; however at his scale everything from the subtle curvature of her flushed cheeks to the noble glow of her pale skin seemed magnificent. To the recently freed Ramiro she was a triumvirate of raw physical power, sexual energy, and youthful curiosity.

               Ramiro was afraid, but unfortunately he was never a very smart man, “You gonna stand there looking at me all day? Huh, bitch!” he blurted out, his eyes widening the second his brain caught up with him.

               Surely if ONE of them went missing, Maria wouldn’t notice, right? Besides, who would miss this guy, “Either kill him or put him on ice, chels’.” Said Nora, “We ain’t got time for this crap.” 

               And just like that, an opportunity appeared. Nora was distracted cataloging the other prisoners, and everyone else below was scheduled to go to Keiko anyways. It was the perfect crime, and man did it give her a rush just thinking about it.

               She would have own sentient pet; someone who would love her unconditionally, and rely on her for everything.

               “I’m so sorry, but my friend is right.” Said Chelsea slamming her foot into the table, bringing everyone to their knees, “You’re too much trouble.”

                Ramiro could feel the force rush up his spine and into his head which shook so hard his vision was temporary blurred. The second he saw those plump thighs of hers raise he thought it was over, and he was very nearly right.

               Directly in front of him, so close that he could lean forward and kiss it was the polished leather tip of Chelsea’s red ballet flat; which was wrapped around a foot so large you could paint it yellow and call it a bus. The shoe was warm. Heat radiated out from the seams which were warped around the outline of each toe.

               He instinctively looked up, past the smooth patch of skin covered partially by a massive black and red buckle strap, past the gentle outward bulge of her calf and thighs, and past that voluptuous torso all the way up to her smirking face.  Did she miss?

               The black girl from across the room briefly glanced over, “H-He’s dead, right?” she said trying to put on a tough girl act.

               That’s exactly what Ramiro wanted to know, “Yeah, and he left a mess.”

               Her foot shifted past him, then turned sideways so that the top of her foot was horizontal. The other prisoners fled the scene, screaming as the gigantic shoe barreled forward like an angry elephant. Ramiro, who was still stunned, watched helplessly as she popped her heel out the back end of the shoe, and then shifted her leg backward. Scooping him inside her shoe, which righted itself just before he could make his escape.

               Once again he was trapped. Hovering above was a dry pale wall of grooved skin, covered in valley like creases and mountainous folds around the joints, below was a scratchy moist fabric insole surrounded by tall folded walls, and all around him was the slight smell of dirt and grass. Most people would have contemplated their own mortality, but again Ramiro was not a clever man, so instead he cursed and screamed in confusion as the world around him grew darker and smaller by the second.