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Assignment: Zilawe

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Loxuru

Graf von Kreuzigung
Joined
Sep 12, 2014
Likes
19,944
I'm still in New York, so I'll take the Fifth on that one. I don't think Zilawe has a Fifth Amendment, though...
You need to have a constitution before you can have amendments. :oops:
Barb keep up your resistance!! Remember Ohm's Law!!!
Ohm's Law : Voltage = resistance x amperage! Meaning : the more Barb resists, the higher the voltage they will apply!:eek:
 

Sharkman

Assistant executioner
Joined
Dec 30, 2013
Likes
1,465
11. Molabayo Airport, December 13, 2017.
...
As I stood there, arms wrapped tightly around myself, sputtering with indignant rage, they turned the hoses on me.

Hit full force in the chest, suddenly, with torrents of ice cold water, I staggered back a few steps and tried to turn my back to the men with the hoses. They followed, directing the powerful jets of water down my back to my ass, to my thighs and then to the back of my knees, where they knocked me off my feet. I sprawled on the floor. A jet of water hit me in the face. Gasping, I shook my head and struggled to regain my footing, but succeeded in accomplishing no more than getting to my hands and knees.



The hosing went on mercilessly. They felled me on my side, and flipped me on my back. Then they circled around, hosing my struggling body from every direction, I slithered and flopped around on the floor like a freshly caught fish tossed in the bottom of a boat. No matter what I did, I could not escape the punishing blasts of chilling, ice cold water. They enjoyed themselves immensely at my expense ... laughing at my discomfort ... at my howls of indignation ... at my frantic, but hopeless, efforts to protect my face, breasts, and crotch as they directed the nozzles from one to the other.
Remembers me on the hot scene of 'Tarzan The Ape Man (1981)' ... great, Madiosi!

https://movienudes.files.wordpress.com/2015/07/bo-derek-in-tarzan-172.jpg
 
Last edited:

Wragg

Chronicler of Crux
Staff member
Joined
Aug 31, 2011
Likes
55,855
Location
Blighty
11.

Molabayo Airport, December 13, 2017.

I arrived extra early, after a sleepless night in my hotel room, for the flight that would get me out of Zilawe. I couldn't shake from my mind the horrible images of Meghan Shanahan writhing and screaming on that frame, nor of my parting view of her being dragged away, half-conscious and nude. I was left depressed and worried by the little interview I wrangled with her afterward in the Detention Center sick bay, in which she had precious little to say ... indeed, she was all but unresponsive! I couldn't imagine how I could possibly cope, if I were in her shoes, with what she had to look forward to over the next ten years.

Mr. Masippa's warning to me was also a cause to worry. I really didn't want to remain in that hotel any longer than necessary, so I checked out at 4 am and caught a cab to the airport, which was virtually deserted when I arrived 15 minutes later ... everything there was closed ... no place to buy breakfast or even a cup of coffee. I wandered around a bit and then found a place to sit and wait, checking the time every few minutes until people, mostly airline personnel, finally began arriving.

As soon as passport control was manned and opened, I jumped up, eager to get from the main terminal hall to the relative safety of the transit lounge. As I stepped up to the desk, I saw that it was manned by the same woman who was there when I had entered the country. I already had my passport open and ready. She took it, and mechanically checked the photo against my face, then turned to her scanner and computer monitor. I held my breath apprehensively.

After studying the monitor and tapping on a few keys, she grunted and slid from her chair. "Wait here," she said, and disappeared behind a partition.

I shifted from one foot to the other, feeling very uneasy. Then I heard voices. She was conversing with others. As the minutes ticked by I fidgeted and cursed under my breath. From time to time, I turned to those waiting impatiently in line behind me and shrugged my shoulders.

Then there was the scraping of chairs, and one voice that I recognized.

From behind the partition appeared my Zilawean nemesis, Tuma, accompanied by two goons. They set off in my direction, the woman trailing behind.

"Oh Shit!" I muttered under my breath.

"Ahh, Ms. Moore. So we meet again," he greeted with a smirk on his face. "Would you be so kind as to please accompany me?"

With a sinking feeling I followed him through a door and down a familiar corridor and into the same room where I had been strip searched on arrival just a few days earlier.

"Not again?" I groaned as we entered the barren chilly room.

"You know the routine. Remove your clothing, please, Ms. Moore."

I had nothing to hide, and only my dignity to lose ... so, without further ado, I kicked off my shoes, reached behind to unzip the sleeveless little black dress I was wearing, wiggled out of it, unhooked my black bra and tossed it aside ... and then after a pause, bent over and slipped off my black kinis. I straightened up and without being told, ran my fingers through my hair, opened my mouth wide for inspection, turned and faced the cinder block wall behind me, bent halfway over and placed my open hands against it. As an afterthought, I spread my legs.

"Make it fast, please," I said. "I've a plane to catch!"

"You're wish is my command," he replied playfully as he crouched behind me.

It was déjà vu. I gasped and grimaced as he jammed his pudgy finger inside me and felt around farlonger than was reasonably necessary. And I grunted when he forced his digit through my tight sphincter.

Satisfied at last, he withdrew and gave me a good slap across my buttocks.

"You're clean Ms. Moore," he said, straightening up and removing a latex glove.

"Of course, I am! What did you expect? May I please go now?"

"Not so fast. There is another matter to clear up."

"What could that possibly be?"

"We have a witness who claims you made a video of Meghan Shanahan's flogging. You knew that was forbidden, I believe?"

"Whoever told you that is lying. I did no such thing. My editor in New York can confirm that. In fact, I am sure you know exactly what I sent to my newspaper."

"Well, there is the rub, Ms. Moore. We were, in fact, able to trace the transmission of a video last night from your hotel room to New York. We believe it was sent by you! And on the basis of that suspicion, I am placing you under arrest!"

"Oh no, you don't. I know a set-up when I see one. You are trying to frame me. I want to make a phone call. I have the right to make a phone call!"

"That may be so in your country, Ms. Moore, but not in Zilawe," he replied, extracting my cell phone from my bag and slipping it into his pocket.

At that moment, the door opened and Mr. Masippa was ushered into the room. He did not appear to be his usual self-assured self. Indeed, he looked a nervous wreck ... and the sight of me standing naked in front of him, didn't help!

"Good of you to make an appearance, Masippa," said Tuma. "As you have been told by my people on your way here, we are arresting Ms. Moore for violating her agreement with the court not to take a video of yesterday's flogging. She did in fact made a video and has sent it off to the international press. It's your duty now as prosecutor to try her for this crime!"

"I'll n-n-need a confession." Masippa stammered. "The evidence I have been shown by your people seems circumstantial."

"She is guilty, Masippa, and I am sure the good folks at the Detention Center know well how to extract the confession you need. And if I were you, I would pursue a conviction with all the vigor you can muster, Masippa. It was you who took full responsibility for Ms. Moore's conduct, in case you have forgotten."

Masippa bowed his head. His eyes darted side to side ... he was weighing his chances and his options.

"Looks like I have no choice but to detain you, Ms. Moore. Please come with us to the Detention Center now," he ordered in a low, but even voice.

"But what about my clothes?" I whined, as a male guard and a female matron slapped a pair of cuffs on my wrists.

View attachment 555042

"You won't be needing them where you are going," snapped Tuma as they led me away.

I was escorted to a parking lot outside the terminal where a police vehicle was waiting with its engine running. Travelers headed for the terminal stopped, dropping their baggage, to gawk at the sight of a naked young woman being led away with in cuffs. My escorts glared at them, and they quickly reached for their bags and hurried on their way. Everyone wanted to look but no one wanted to get involved.

On reaching the car a security man opened one of the rear doors. I was swiftly shoved inside. Masippa climbed into the front passenger seat, and one of my escorts got in the back with me. The driver gunned the engine and drove off.

View attachment 555044

We rode in silence. Masippa seemed lost in thought and the guard sitting next to me only stared straight ahead.

"Is this really necessary?" I snapped. "You know I didn't make that video. Why can't you just let me leave the country."

"Shut up!" was his only reply.

On arrival, the door to the car was quickly opened. I was dragged from the vehicle and hustled by two guards through a side entrance, and then down a flight of stairs leading to the cellar.

We waited there at the foot of the stairs until Tuma caught up with us. I looked for Masippa, but he had vanished altogether. It was just Tuma, me and his thugs. He pointed at a doorway about halfway down the corridor and said curtly, “in there.”

I was led to the doorway and shoved inside. I found myself in a room with a tiled floor, and was guided to the center of the room. There was a drain under my feet, and several hoses coiled on hooks along the far wall. The guards removed the cuffs from my wrists and stepped away.

"This is an outrage!" I stormed angrily. "You can't do this to me!"

"I think Ms. Moore could use a little cooling down," smirked Tuma.

As I stood there, arms wrapped tightly around myself, sputtering with indignant rage, they turned the hoses on me.

Hit full force in the chest, suddenly, with torrents of ice cold water, I staggered back a few steps and tried to turn my back to the men with the hoses. They followed, directing the powerful jets of water down my back to my ass, to my thighs and then to the back of my knees, where they knocked me off my feet. I sprawled on the floor. A jet of water hit me in the face. Gasping, I shook my head and struggled to regain my footing, but succeeded in accomplishing no more than getting to my hands and knees.

View attachment 555045

The hosing went on mercilessly. They felled me on my side, and flipped me on my back. Then they circled around, hosing my struggling body from every direction, I slithered and flopped around on the floor like a freshly caught fish tossed in the bottom of a boat. No matter what I did, I could not escape the punishing blasts of chilling, ice cold water. They enjoyed themselves immensely at my expense ... laughing at my discomfort ... at my howls of indignation ... at my frantic, but hopeless, efforts to protect my face, breasts, and crotch as they directed the nozzles from one to the other.

View attachment 555046

Then they abruptly turned the water off.

“Get up! Stand up!" Tuma demanded.

Slowly, shakily, I got to my feet, turning to face him, shivering with cold ... sodden, tangled hair covering my face.

“Get her to the interrogation room.”

I was seized and led out to the corridor again, and through another doorway.

I had almost no time to take in the layout of the interrogation room because I was immediately lifted off my feet and slammed down hard, flat on my back, on a long metal-topped table. My wrists were cuffed behind my back and my ankles similarly secured to the legs of the table. My head hurt from when it struck the table top.

A bare bulb, hanging from the ceiling directly overhead, glared in my face. Beyond it I noticed the paint on the ceiling was peeling. The room was cold and I was still sopping wet. I couldn’t stop from trembling uncontrollably.

The overhead light was suddenly blotted out by the bulk of Tuma's body as he leaned over me, his face just inches from mine.

“This might be a good time to confess, Ms. Moore. To resist will only make things worse for you.”

“Go to Hell!” I hissed.

“Just as I expected,” he said. “A little persuasion will be necessary. Ms. Moore has already proven herself to be a slow learner.You know what to do, boys!”

With that he stepped back. I immediately raised my head to see what he may have meant by ‘persuasion’, only to see the two guards advancing on me carrying coils of wires and what looked like some kind of electrical generator.

“Shit no!” I exclaimed.

My breasts were immediately seized and mounded by rough hands. I gritted my teeth as they pinched and teased my nipples to erection, and sank sharp alligator teeth into each of them. I screamed! It hurt like hell!

Then their attention moved down my body. Sensing what they were thinking, I clamped my thighs tightly together, but strong hands easily pried them apart. I squirmed and struggled in my bonds, but there was little I could do to prevent them from probing around and finding a nasty place down there to attach a third clip. I screamed again as the alligator clip bit into my clit.

Satisfied, they stepped back and looked to Tuma. He, in turn, looked at me inquiringly. I shook my head no. He nodded to his men. I braced myself. Someone threw a switch!

Nothing could have prepared me for what happened next. My piercing scream literally echoed off the walls and ceiling as an electrical current surged through me. I went completely rigid, back arched clear off the table top. I lost complete control of my body, which jerked and twitched spasmodically.

View attachment 555043

After what seemed an eternity they switched the current off. I collapsed back on the table, too shaken to move, my mind spinning. Slowly I opened my eyes, focusing on the steady light of the overhead bulb. I was panting heavily, chest rising and falling, drool running from my mouth. My breasts ached. My head hurt. A lingering burning sensation radiated from between my thighs.

Tuma’s ugly face loomed overhead again, blotting out the light of the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling.

“Reconsidering now?” He asked, raising his eyebrows.

I stared up at him, teary eyed, and gasped a ragged, “no.”

He stepped back. I turned my head to watch as he took my phone from his pocket and looked at it thoughtfully. A wicked smile spread over his face.

Turning to his men, he said, “I’m going to step out in the corridor and make a a call. In the meantime shock Ms. Moore again. And if that doesn’t cause her to have a change of heart, crank up the juice and do it again, and keep doing it until the stubborn little bitch finally breaks!”
OK.

That's done it.

:mad::mad::mad::mad::mad::mad::mad::mad::mad::mad::mad:

That's 11/10 on the loathometer for Mr Tuma. With one more for good measure. :mad:
 

Eulalia

Poet Laureate
Staff member
Joined
Jan 1, 2011
Likes
84,984
Location
The Northern Forest

windar

Governor
Joined
Apr 3, 2007
Likes
18,497
12. New York, December 13, 2017.

I slept fitfully that night. The Chief and I had agreed that if we heard nothing from Barb by the morning New York time, he’d contact a high-level guy he knew at the State Department, but that we didn’t have enough to go on right now to justify waking him up at this late hour.

Finally, around 3 AM, I dozed off, only to be awakened by my phone interrupting my dream, in which Barb was stripped to the waist and I was attaching her to a whipping frame, only it was in my office rather than in the courtyard of the Molabayo Detention Center. I glanced at the screen. It was Barb’s number.
Madiosi-2018-043-imagine.jpg

“Thank God, you’re OK, Barb. I was very worried. Why didn’t you answer my email?” I said, happy to hear from her but a bit peeved that I had worried for nothing.

A voice, definitely not Barb’s, but rather, male, fluent in English but with an accent that sounded African replied, “Is this Jerry Goldman?” he asked.

“Yes, it is. Who is this and how did you get Barbara Moore’s phone?”

“It is a pleasure to speak with you, sir. I used to read your newspaper all the time when I lived in New York. Rich businessmen would often leave it in my taxi and I like to keep up with things that are going on in the world. I believe I remember some stories you wrote from Afghanistan, or was it Iraq. Your country is so violent, always getting into wars, is it not?” he cooed.

Now I was very concerned. “I am guessing you didn’t call me up at this hour on my private phone to discuss US foreign policy. So who are you and where is Barbara Moore?”

There was a pause. “My name is Tuma. I am with the Security Services here in Zilawe. Ms. Moore is safely in custody. Or in custody at any rate.”

“Listen, Mr. Tuma,” I said, annoyed now. “Ms. Moore is an accredited reporter with this paper covering the case of Ms. Meghan Shanahan in your country, a case, which, may I say, was a gross miscarriage of justice.”

“I read your editorial the other day, Mr. Goldman. Your paper can bloviate all you like, but Zilawe is a sovereign country. We have our laws and Ms. Moore has violated them and must face the consequences.”

“What laws has she violated?” I demanded.

“She was admitted to cover the flogging of Meghan Shanahan on the express condition that she not film it. However, not only did she film it, she sent a video file to you. You did receive it did you not?’

There seemed little to be gained in denying it. “I did.”

“And did you watch it?”

“Yes, I watched it,” I admitted. There seemed nothing to be gained from telling him how many times I watched it nor what I did while watching.

“And what did you think about it?”

I thought for a moment. If he had Barb, I needed to be careful. “It was brutal, horrible by our standards. Nevertheless, I understand that different countries follow different paths.”

“That is indeed so, Mr. Goldman. At least you have been wise enough so far not to post this video on any public web site, including that of your paper,” Tuma said. “If you care about Ms. Moore’s welfare, I suggest you do not publish this nor leak it to the outside world.”

“OK, I won’t.” I said. “But I don’t think Ms. Moore filmed that video and I don’t think you do either. Nor do I think she sent that email to me, even though it was from her account. Email accounts get hacked all the time, as I’m sure you know. I’m going to have our IT department look at it as soon as it’s morning here and I’ll bet they’ll find she was hacked.”

“Possibly,” Tuma replied, “But it doesn’t matter. Ms .Moore will very shortly confess to having shot the video and sending it to you.”

“Why would she confess to something she didn’t do?” I asked.

“In Zilawe, the Security Services have wide latitude to use extraordinary methods to solve crimes.”

“Extraordinary methods?” I asked, though I was pretty sure he didn’t mean serving them stale donuts.

“Permit me to show you, Mr. Goldman.” A video image came on the screen. Tuma was passing through a doorway into a small tiled room. The camera panned around the room before coming to rest on a metal table, bolted to the floor. On the table lay a female body, naked, arms over her head, shackled to the table at the wrists and ankles.

Tuma approached the prone prisoner and focused the phone camera on her face. Although her hair was wet and plastered to her face, whether with water or sweat or both, I could not tell, her features were unmistakable. It was Barb. She was muttering something unintelligible her eyes staring blankly into the distance.

Tuma panned slowly down to her breasts. I had long wondered what Barb’s breasts looked like and I was not disappointed. They were quite lovely, smaller than Meghan Shanahan’s, but nice. What was not so nice was the jewelry that adorned them-attached firmly around each nipple was an alligator clip, each trailing a wire which no doubt led to a control box that would deliver a controlled shock at the whim of the interrogator.

Tuma panned down further to Barb’s crotch. It was neatly trimmed, the hair the same color as that on her head. Another wire led away from her slit, at the end of which I could make out the top of an alligator clip. I couldn’t see for sure where the business end was attached, but I could imagine.

Tuma panned back to Barb’s face. “Ms. Moore,” he said, “I have your editor in New York on the line. Perhaps, you would like to say hello.”

“Jerry,” she groaned. Her voice was hoarse, no doubt from screaming in agony at the shocks to her most sensitive places.

“Barb, what have they done to you? I know you didn’t shoot that video and we are going to prove it. Stay firm and don’t confess to anything you didn’t do.”

“Respectfully, Mr. Goldman, I do not think that will be possible,” Tuma said. He took a step back from the table and I saw Barb’s body go completely rigid. Her entire torso rose from the table shaking wildly, her legs and arms pulling desperately at the shackles that held her in place, even harder than Meghan had pulled on the whipping frame. Wild, wordless screams came from her mouth. The terrible torture went on for what seemed like an eternity, but was probably not much more than five seconds. Finally, she collapsed limp on the table, panting desperately for breath.

“You see, Mr. Goldman, I have great experience in these types of interrogations,” Tuma said. “It is very easy for us; all we have to do is press a button, so we can go on for as long as it takes. Everyone confesses in the end and Ms. Moore will do so as well. She can be brave and suffer or she can give in quickly, but the end result will be the same.”

I wanted to tell him he was a disgusting perverted bastard and that he wouldn’t get away with this, but I didn’t think that would help Barb, so I held my tongue. They let Barb catch her breath and then they shocked her again, eliciting the same paroxysms and ghastly screams. I suspected Tuma was right and that Barb wouldn’t be able to take much more of this.

Finally, the current stopped and Barb lay exhausted on the table. “You are a smart man Mr. Goldman and I think you get the picture. She won’t be able to take too much more. We will have her sign a confession for the trial. The international press will not be able to say much about a confessed criminal. In fact, you are welcome to come and cover her trial and see Zilawean justice in action.” Then the screen faded to black.

I made myself a pot of coffee and sat in my kitchen in the dark thinking. I had sent Barb to Zilawe and bore some responsibility for her suffering. I couldn’t just sit here at home and leave her to her fate. I showered, got dressed and packed a small suitcase, then boarded the train for the office. I sat in The Chief’s office and gave him a summary of the situation, leaving out some of the gory details.

“I don’t like your going Jerry, but I understand where you’re coming from. For God’s sake be careful. I got a reporter in a jam and having an editor in one as well won’t help things. I’ll keep it quiet for as long as I can, but there’s no way it will stay secret for too long in this day and age.”

“Tell me about it,” I said. “I have to go Chief, you know that.”

“Yeah, Jerry, I do. I’ll speak with my contact at State and have the Embassy keep an eye on you. There are limits to how much they can do, but it can’t hurt, right?” He stood and shook my hand.

I took the elevator down to the street and walked to the next block to my bank. I withdrew $ 10,000 in $100 bills and stuffed them into the travel pouch with my passport and credit cards. Out in the street, I waved down a taxi.

“Where to, sir?” the driver asked in African-accented English.

“JFK,” I told him. I sat back and watched the steam rise over the East River on this chilly winter morning as we crossed the 59th Street Bridge.
 

xso

Assistant executioner
Joined
Jun 17, 2011
Likes
4,525
12. New York, December 13, 2017.

I slept fitfully that night. The Chief and I had agreed that if we heard nothing from Barb by the morning New York time, he’d contact a high-level guy he knew at the State Department, but that we didn’t have enough to go on right now to justify waking him up at this late hour.

Finally, around 3 AM, I dozed off, only to be awakened by my phone interrupting my dream, in which Barb was stripped to the waist and I was attaching her to a whipping frame, only it was in my office rather than in the courtyard of the Molabayo Detention Center. I glanced at the screen. It was Barb’s number.
View attachment 555321

“Thank God, you’re OK, Barb. I was very worried. Why didn’t you answer my email?” I said, happy to hear from her but a bit peeved that I had worried for nothing.

A voice, definitely not Barb’s, but rather, male, fluent in English but with an accent that sounded African replied, “Is this Jerry Goldman?” he asked.

“Yes, it is. Who is this and how did you get Barbara Moore’s phone?”

“It is a pleasure to speak with you, sir. I used to read your newspaper all the time when I lived in New York. Rich businessmen would often leave it in my taxi and I like to keep up with things that are going on in the world. I believe I remember some stories you wrote from Afghanistan, or was it Iraq. Your country is so violent, always getting into wars, is it not?” he cooed.

Now I was very concerned. “I am guessing you didn’t call me up at this hour on my private phone to discuss US foreign policy. So who are you and where is Barbara Moore?”

There was a pause. “My name is Tuma. I am with the Security Services here in Zilawe. Ms. Moore is safely in custody. Or in custody at any rate.”

“Listen, Mr. Tuma,” I said, annoyed now. “Ms. Moore is an accredited reporter with this paper covering the case of Ms. Meghan Shanahan in your country, a case, which, may I say, was a gross miscarriage of justice.”

“I read your editorial the other day, Mr. Goldman. Your paper can bloviate all you like, but Zilawe is a sovereign country. We have our laws and Ms. Moore has violated them and must face the consequences.”

“What laws has she violated?” I demanded.

“She was admitted to cover the flogging of Meghan Shanahan on the express condition that she not film it. However, not only did she film it, she sent a video file to you. You did receive it did you not?’

There seemed little to be gained in denying it. “I did.”

“And did you watch it?”

“Yes, I watched it,” I admitted. There seemed nothing to be gained from telling him how many times I watched it nor what I did while watching.

“And what did you think about it?”

I thought for a moment. If he had Barb, I needed to be careful. “It was brutal, horrible by our standards. Nevertheless, I understand that different countries follow different paths.”

“That is indeed so, Mr. Goldman. At least you have been wise enough so far not to post this video on any public web site, including that of your paper,” Tuma said. “If you care about Ms. Moore’s welfare, I suggest you do not publish this nor leak it to the outside world.”

“OK, I won’t.” I said. “But I don’t think Ms. Moore filmed that video and I don’t think you do either. Nor do I think she sent that email to me, even though it was from her account. Email accounts get hacked all the time, as I’m sure you know. I’m going to have our IT department look at it as soon as it’s morning here and I’ll bet they’ll find she was hacked.”

“Possibly,” Tuma replied, “But it doesn’t matter. Ms .Moore will very shortly confess to having shot the video and sending it to you.”

“Why would she confess to something she didn’t do?” I asked.

“In Zilawe, the Security Services have wide latitude to use extraordinary methods to solve crimes.”

“Extraordinary methods?” I asked, though I was pretty sure he didn’t mean serving them stale donuts.

“Permit me to show you, Mr. Goldman.” A video image came on the screen. Tuma was passing through a doorway into a small tiled room. The camera panned around the room before coming to rest on a metal table, bolted to the floor. On the table lay a female body, naked, arms over her head, shackled to the table at the wrists and ankles.

Tuma approached the prone prisoner and focused the phone camera on her face. Although her hair was wet and plastered to her face, whether with water or sweat or both, I could not tell, her features were unmistakable. It was Barb. She was muttering something unintelligible her eyes staring blankly into the distance.

Tuma panned slowly down to her breasts. I had long wondered what Barb’s breasts looked like and I was not disappointed. They were quite lovely, smaller than Meghan Shanahan’s, but nice. What was not so nice was the jewelry that adorned them-attached firmly around each nipple was an alligator clip, each trailing a wire which no doubt led to a control box that would deliver a controlled shock at the whim of the interrogator.

Tuma panned down further to Barb’s crotch. It was neatly trimmed, the hair the same color as that on her head. Another wire led away from her slit, at the end of which I could make out the top of an alligator clip. I couldn’t see for sure where the business end was attached, but I could imagine.

Tuma panned back to Barb’s face. “Ms. Moore,” he said, “I have your editor in New York on the line. Perhaps, you would like to say hello.”

“Jerry,” she groaned. Her voice was hoarse, no doubt from screaming in agony at the shocks to her most sensitive places.

“Barb, what have they done to you? I know you didn’t shoot that video and we are going to prove it. Stay firm and don’t confess to anything you didn’t do.”

“Respectfully, Mr. Goldman, I do not think that will be possible,” Tuma said. He took a step back from the table and I saw Barb’s body go completely rigid. Her entire torso rose from the table shaking wildly, her legs and arms pulling desperately at the shackles that held her in place, even harder than Meghan had pulled on the whipping frame. Wild, wordless screams came from her mouth. The terrible torture went on for what seemed like an eternity, but was probably not much more than five seconds. Finally, she collapsed limp on the table, panting desperately for breath.

“You see, Mr. Goldman, I have great experience in these types of interrogations,” Tuma said. “It is very easy for us; all we have to do is press a button, so we can go on for as long as it takes. Everyone confesses in the end and Ms. Moore will do so as well. She can be brave and suffer or she can give in quickly, but the end result will be the same.”

I wanted to tell him he was a disgusting perverted bastard and that he wouldn’t get away with this, but I didn’t think that would help Barb, so I held my tongue. They let Barb catch her breath and then they shocked her again, eliciting the same paroxysms and ghastly screams. I suspected Tuma was right and that Barb wouldn’t be able to take much more of this.

Finally, the current stopped and Barb lay exhausted on the table. “You are a smart man Mr. Goldman and I think you get the picture. She won’t be able to take too much more. We will have her sign a confession for the trial. The international press will not be able to say much about a confessed criminal. In fact, you are welcome to come and cover her trial and see Zilawean justice in action.” Then the screen faded to black.

I made myself a pot of coffee and sat in my kitchen in the dark thinking. I had sent Barb to Zilawe and bore some responsibility for her suffering. I couldn’t just sit here at home and leave her to her fate. I showered, got dressed and packed a small suitcase, then boarded the train for the office. I sat in The Chief’s office and gave him a summary of the situation, leaving out some of the gory details.

“I don’t like your going Jerry, but I understand where you’re coming from. For God’s sake be careful. I got a reporter in a jam and having an editor in one as well won’t help things. I’ll keep it quiet for as long as I can, but there’s no way it will stay secret for too long in this day and age.”

“Tell me about it,” I said. “I have to go Chief, you know that.”

“Yeah, Jerry, I do. I’ll speak with my contact at State and have the Embassy keep an eye on you. There are limits to how much they can do, but it can’t hurt, right?” He stood and shook my hand.

I took the elevator down to the street and walked to the next block to my bank. I withdrew $ 10,000 in $100 bills and stuffed them into the travel pouch with my passport and credit cards. Out in the street, I waved down a taxi.

“Where to, sir?” the driver asked in African-accented English.

“JFK,” I told him. I sat back and watched the steam rise over the East River on this chilly winter morning as we crossed the 59th Street Bridge.
Another very good episode! I envy the editor's job, it seems to give him plesant dreams and he is provided with enjoyable film clips! Hope he will have a good trip to Z:land! Maybe he will get the opportunity to watch Ms Moore being hanged naked in a dull execution chamber?

images.jpg pretor1.jpg
 

thehangingtree

Proconsul
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Location
Near the coffee shop, Pacific, Mo
Another very good episode! I envy the editor's job, it seems to give him plesant dreams and he is provided with enjoyable film clips! Hope he will have a good trip to Z:land! Maybe he will get the opportunity to watch Ms Moore being hanged naked in a dull execution chamber?

View attachment 555339 View attachment 555340
If she is lucky enough to be hanged I hear in Zilawe they do it outdoors.
hang 372.jpg
You don't want the wench to pass out from heat stroke...
 

windar

Governor
Joined
Apr 3, 2007
Likes
18,497
Another very good episode! I envy the editor's job, it seems to give him plesant dreams and he is provided with enjoyable film clips! Hope he will have a good trip to Z:land! Maybe he will get the opportunity to watch Ms Moore being hanged naked in a dull execution chamber?

View attachment 555339 View attachment 555340
And he gets paid to do it.:D But Zilawe is a dangerous place and who knows what will happen...
If she is lucky enough to be hanged I hear in Zilawe they do it outdoors.
View attachment 555342
You don't want the wench to pass out from heat stroke...
I don't know. The sun is free, but rope costs money...
 

Loxuru

Graf von Kreuzigung
Joined
Sep 12, 2014
Likes
19,944
“It is a pleasure to speak with you, sir. I used to read your newspaper all the time when I lived in New York. Rich businessmen would often leave it in my taxi and I like to keep up with things that are going on in the world. I believe I remember some stories you wrote from Afghanistan, or was it Iraq. Your country is so violent, always getting into wars, is it not?” he cooed.
Tuma is a good representative of 'the Zilawean dream' : from taxi driver to a high and powerful assignment!:cool:

If she is lucky enough to be hanged I hear in Zilawe they do it outdoors.



Hanging outdoors, maybe!? Question is how? But Jastrow has posted a good suggestion in :

http://www.cruxforums.com/xf/threads/wip-women-in-peril.4736/page-90

 

xso

Assistant executioner
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Jun 17, 2011
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Wragg

Chronicler of Crux
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Blighty
12. New York, December 13, 2017.

I slept fitfully that night. The Chief and I had agreed that if we heard nothing from Barb by the morning New York time, he’d contact a high-level guy he knew at the State Department, but that we didn’t have enough to go on right now to justify waking him up at this late hour.

Finally, around 3 AM, I dozed off, only to be awakened by my phone interrupting my dream, in which Barb was stripped to the waist and I was attaching her to a whipping frame, only it was in my office rather than in the courtyard of the Molabayo Detention Center. I glanced at the screen. It was Barb’s number.
View attachment 555321

“Thank God, you’re OK, Barb. I was very worried. Why didn’t you answer my email?” I said, happy to hear from her but a bit peeved that I had worried for nothing.

A voice, definitely not Barb’s, but rather, male, fluent in English but with an accent that sounded African replied, “Is this Jerry Goldman?” he asked.

“Yes, it is. Who is this and how did you get Barbara Moore’s phone?”

“It is a pleasure to speak with you, sir. I used to read your newspaper all the time when I lived in New York. Rich businessmen would often leave it in my taxi and I like to keep up with things that are going on in the world. I believe I remember some stories you wrote from Afghanistan, or was it Iraq. Your country is so violent, always getting into wars, is it not?” he cooed.

Now I was very concerned. “I am guessing you didn’t call me up at this hour on my private phone to discuss US foreign policy. So who are you and where is Barbara Moore?”

There was a pause. “My name is Tuma. I am with the Security Services here in Zilawe. Ms. Moore is safely in custody. Or in custody at any rate.”

“Listen, Mr. Tuma,” I said, annoyed now. “Ms. Moore is an accredited reporter with this paper covering the case of Ms. Meghan Shanahan in your country, a case, which, may I say, was a gross miscarriage of justice.”

“I read your editorial the other day, Mr. Goldman. Your paper can bloviate all you like, but Zilawe is a sovereign country. We have our laws and Ms. Moore has violated them and must face the consequences.”

“What laws has she violated?” I demanded.

“She was admitted to cover the flogging of Meghan Shanahan on the express condition that she not film it. However, not only did she film it, she sent a video file to you. You did receive it did you not?’

There seemed little to be gained in denying it. “I did.”

“And did you watch it?”

“Yes, I watched it,” I admitted. There seemed nothing to be gained from telling him how many times I watched it nor what I did while watching.

“And what did you think about it?”

I thought for a moment. If he had Barb, I needed to be careful. “It was brutal, horrible by our standards. Nevertheless, I understand that different countries follow different paths.”

“That is indeed so, Mr. Goldman. At least you have been wise enough so far not to post this video on any public web site, including that of your paper,” Tuma said. “If you care about Ms. Moore’s welfare, I suggest you do not publish this nor leak it to the outside world.”

“OK, I won’t.” I said. “But I don’t think Ms. Moore filmed that video and I don’t think you do either. Nor do I think she sent that email to me, even though it was from her account. Email accounts get hacked all the time, as I’m sure you know. I’m going to have our IT department look at it as soon as it’s morning here and I’ll bet they’ll find she was hacked.”

“Possibly,” Tuma replied, “But it doesn’t matter. Ms .Moore will very shortly confess to having shot the video and sending it to you.”

“Why would she confess to something she didn’t do?” I asked.

“In Zilawe, the Security Services have wide latitude to use extraordinary methods to solve crimes.”

“Extraordinary methods?” I asked, though I was pretty sure he didn’t mean serving them stale donuts.

“Permit me to show you, Mr. Goldman.” A video image came on the screen. Tuma was passing through a doorway into a small tiled room. The camera panned around the room before coming to rest on a metal table, bolted to the floor. On the table lay a female body, naked, arms over her head, shackled to the table at the wrists and ankles.

Tuma approached the prone prisoner and focused the phone camera on her face. Although her hair was wet and plastered to her face, whether with water or sweat or both, I could not tell, her features were unmistakable. It was Barb. She was muttering something unintelligible her eyes staring blankly into the distance.

Tuma panned slowly down to her breasts. I had long wondered what Barb’s breasts looked like and I was not disappointed. They were quite lovely, smaller than Meghan Shanahan’s, but nice. What was not so nice was the jewelry that adorned them-attached firmly around each nipple was an alligator clip, each trailing a wire which no doubt led to a control box that would deliver a controlled shock at the whim of the interrogator.

Tuma panned down further to Barb’s crotch. It was neatly trimmed, the hair the same color as that on her head. Another wire led away from her slit, at the end of which I could make out the top of an alligator clip. I couldn’t see for sure where the business end was attached, but I could imagine.

Tuma panned back to Barb’s face. “Ms. Moore,” he said, “I have your editor in New York on the line. Perhaps, you would like to say hello.”

“Jerry,” she groaned. Her voice was hoarse, no doubt from screaming in agony at the shocks to her most sensitive places.

“Barb, what have they done to you? I know you didn’t shoot that video and we are going to prove it. Stay firm and don’t confess to anything you didn’t do.”

“Respectfully, Mr. Goldman, I do not think that will be possible,” Tuma said. He took a step back from the table and I saw Barb’s body go completely rigid. Her entire torso rose from the table shaking wildly, her legs and arms pulling desperately at the shackles that held her in place, even harder than Meghan had pulled on the whipping frame. Wild, wordless screams came from her mouth. The terrible torture went on for what seemed like an eternity, but was probably not much more than five seconds. Finally, she collapsed limp on the table, panting desperately for breath.

“You see, Mr. Goldman, I have great experience in these types of interrogations,” Tuma said. “It is very easy for us; all we have to do is press a button, so we can go on for as long as it takes. Everyone confesses in the end and Ms. Moore will do so as well. She can be brave and suffer or she can give in quickly, but the end result will be the same.”

I wanted to tell him he was a disgusting perverted bastard and that he wouldn’t get away with this, but I didn’t think that would help Barb, so I held my tongue. They let Barb catch her breath and then they shocked her again, eliciting the same paroxysms and ghastly screams. I suspected Tuma was right and that Barb wouldn’t be able to take much more of this.

Finally, the current stopped and Barb lay exhausted on the table. “You are a smart man Mr. Goldman and I think you get the picture. She won’t be able to take too much more. We will have her sign a confession for the trial. The international press will not be able to say much about a confessed criminal. In fact, you are welcome to come and cover her trial and see Zilawean justice in action.” Then the screen faded to black.

I made myself a pot of coffee and sat in my kitchen in the dark thinking. I had sent Barb to Zilawe and bore some responsibility for her suffering. I couldn’t just sit here at home and leave her to her fate. I showered, got dressed and packed a small suitcase, then boarded the train for the office. I sat in The Chief’s office and gave him a summary of the situation, leaving out some of the gory details.

“I don’t like your going Jerry, but I understand where you’re coming from. For God’s sake be careful. I got a reporter in a jam and having an editor in one as well won’t help things. I’ll keep it quiet for as long as I can, but there’s no way it will stay secret for too long in this day and age.”

“Tell me about it,” I said. “I have to go Chief, you know that.”

“Yeah, Jerry, I do. I’ll speak with my contact at State and have the Embassy keep an eye on you. There are limits to how much they can do, but it can’t hurt, right?” He stood and shook my hand.

I took the elevator down to the street and walked to the next block to my bank. I withdrew $ 10,000 in $100 bills and stuffed them into the travel pouch with my passport and credit cards. Out in the street, I waved down a taxi.

“Where to, sir?” the driver asked in African-accented English.

“JFK,” I told him. I sat back and watched the steam rise over the East River on this chilly winter morning as we crossed the 59th Street Bridge.
Buy him a beer, Jerry. You can sort most things out over a beer. Or a frothy coffee. ;)

Especially if it happens to contain cyanide! :mad::mad::mad::mad::mad::mad::mad::mad::mad::mad::mad::mad::mad:
 

Barbaria1

Rebel Leader
Staff member
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a blue state
“You see, Mr. Goldman, I have great experience in these types of interrogations,” Tuma said. “It is very easy for us; all we have to do is press a button, so we can go on for as long as it takes. Everyone confesses in the end and Ms. Moore will do so as well. She can be brave and suffer or she can give in quickly, but the end result will be the same.”
How prophetic :confused: