Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
Bugger!
All that water has shorted out my loathometer!
Already a miracle it survided the electroshocks!
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Assignment: Zilawe
- Thread starter windar
- Start date
Already a miracle it survided the electroshocks!
Already a miracle it survided the electroshocks!
Miracles? What miracles? I saw nutting!
geolier
Tribune
Where the hell is James Bond to get her out?
14.
Molabayo Detention Center, December 14, 2017.
I was awakened after a fitful night on the concrete floor by the creak of the cell door. I had spent the night sandwiched between the bodies of Masippa and Meghan. I was naked and they were clothed, and I suppose I should have been thankful for the warmth the close presence of their bodies afforded me, but I was in a foul mood to say the least. The day before had been a total disaster. My plans to skip the country foiled at the airport, where I was strip searched, arrested, carted off to the Detention Center, interrogated with electric shocks and waterboarding in order to force a confession, and then ... to add insult to injury ... brutally raped ... twice!
A guard entered our cell and quickly withdrew, leaving a tray with three slices of bread and three dirty mugs on the floor. I scooped up my portions, retreated to the wall and ate sullenly.
It was the day I was to go on trial. I had witnessed Meghan's trial just a few days earlier and knew fully what to expect. They had my confession. Justice Zilawean style would be swift and unjust. My only hope was to get no more of a flogging than Meghan had, and that Jerry would somehow find a way to get me out of this mess before they shipped me off to the dreaded prison farm.
It wasn't long after breakfast ... if one could call it that ... before they came for me. I stood up as they unlocked the cell door, and was grateful to see that they had brought some clothing for me. The door swung open. A guard entered and handed me a small bundle of cloth and curtly told me to get dressed. I wasn't expecting much, but what he handed me was not exactly what I had in mind ... it was just a thin gray t-shirt.
"There must be some mistake!" I blurted out, holding the tee to my chest. "Where are the pants to go with this?"
"No mistake. Get dressed," grunted the guard.
I slipped the tee over my head, and wriggled it down. The hem came to slightly above my crotch. I tugged at it experimentally, attempting to stretch the fabric to cover a bit more.
"Stand still!" he ordered.
I complied. He knelt to shackle my ankles.
"Come!" he ordered, standing and heading out into the corridor.
I followed, shuffling along as best I could with ankles shackled and both hands engaged in holding down the hem on the front of my prison tee shirt.
"Good luck!" called Meghan as the guard slammed the cell door shut.
"Won't do you a bit of good," said Masippa.
We passed through the interrogation wing, and the pitiful sounds behind its doors, up a flight of stairs and to a door leading into the very same court room where Meghan's trial had taken place.
The guard opened the door and guided me through. The place was just as hot and stuffy as I remembered it. The judge was already seated and, unlike Meghan's trial, the place was packed with onlookers. I imagined that had something to do with me being a foreign journalist from a major newspaper as opposed to a mere tourist.
A nudge in the back reminded me that I was supposed to cross over to the docket, so I began shuffling across the floor, trying harder than ever to pull the hem of my tee down to a level that afforded me at least some degree of modesty.
Halfway there, my shackled feet got entangled and I tripped. I went sprawling forward onto the floor, letting go of my tee to break my fall. The entire courtroom rose to its feet, and bedlam ensued with everyone talking at once. The judge was on his feet, banging his gavel and calling for order. I rolled over on my side and frantically tried to adjust my tee which had ridden halfway up my back. From somewhere in back came a few catcalls and a whistle.
Two guards helped me to my feet and into the docket, where the bailiff instructed me to stand facing the judge, who now turned toward the prosecutor's desk to have the charges read. I turned around to look, and to my great shock and surprise, saw the great bulk of Tuma lounging in the prosecutorial chair.
"Oh Shit!" I exclaimed, dropping my hands to my side.
"Silence!" roared the judge, glaring at me threateningly.
"No wait! This is not fair! He can't be the prosecutor! And where is the defense?" I complained at the top of my voice.
"He can, and he is!" snapped the judge. "And there is no defense, given the fact that we already have a signed confession. Now be quiet, Ms. Moore! No more outbursts! Prosecutor Tuma, please read the charges."
"Yes, your Honor. The accused, Barbara Moore, age 34, of New York, is charged with conspiracy against the government and people of Zilawe. We have irrefutable evidence that she illegally made a video-recording of the flogging of state prisoner Meghan Shanahan and then sent said video-recording to the editor of the New York newspaper that employs her ... with the express intent of defaming and slandering the government and people of Zilawe. We have in our possession, copies of said video recording, electronic evidence of its transmission from the accused's hotel room to the offices of her employer in New York, as well as a statement, signed by the accused, confessing to the crime. This is an open and shut case, your Honor. Ms. Moore's actions took place while Ms. Moore was here in our country, and are in clear violation of several statutes of Zilawean law. The prosecution demands the maximum penalty for the criminal behavior of Ms. Moore, which is according to Zilawean criminal code a flogging of 40 lashes followed by 20 years hard labor at the State Prison Farm."
"It's all a frame up, your Honor! There was no video. He's lying! And my confession was coerced under extreme torture." I shouted, waving my arms ... and while stepping to the front of the docket ... neglecting to hold on to the hem of my tee.
"Sit down and shut up, Ms. Moore!" roared the judge, rising to his feet and pounding his gavel. "And kindly cover up! This is a court of law!"
"I would if I was given enough clothes to cover up with!" I retorted angrily.
"Enough! The court will not stand for such talk! Guards! Restrain Ms. Moore!"
"Fuck you!" I shouted, as a guard grabbed my elbows, pulled them back, and lifted me off the ground while his sidekick planted his fist in my midriff, knocking the wind from me. I was dragged gasping for air to the center of the docket and forced to stand in the grip of the two guards.
"Ms. Moore, I think you should be aware that I was prepared to show you the same leniency in sentencing that I did with Ms. Shanahan, given that you are both American citizens. Your angry and intemperate outbursts have caused me to change my mind! Bailiff, please call for the verdict and sentencing."
"All rise," commanded the bailiff.
Everyone took to their feet. The guards released my arms. I stretched the hem of my tee down over my hips in the hope that a small gesture of docility and respect at this point might not be a bad idea.
"The Court rules," intoned the judge solemnly, "in the case of the State of Zilawe vs. Ms. Barbara Moore that the defendant is guilty of crimes as charged. She is hereby sentenced to be flogged in the courtyard of the Molabayo Detention Center at noon tomorrow, the 15th of December, 2017. She will receive 30 strokes with a standard number 7, multi-thonged whip, and will be sent thereafter to the Zilawe prison farm sentenced to do 10 years hard labor. Please note that this sentence is less than the maximum allowed by Zilawean law, but more than she might have received had she the good sense to comport herself properly before this court of law."
With that he banged his gavel, turned and left, and I was promptly hustled toward the door, but not without having to pass Tuma, who smiled wickedly at me as I passed by the prosecutorial bench. He looked very pleased with himself.
I was returned to the cell still occupied by Meghan and Masippa. She rose to greet me. He sulked in the far corner of the cell.
"What happened? Did they convict you?" she asked, a deep look of concern in her eyes.
"Of course they did, as expected," I replied ruefully.
"Oh I am sorry, I feel partly responsible."
"No, I tend to get myself into trouble without outside help."
"What was the sentence?"
"30 lashes, and ten years."
"Oh my God, that's 10 more lashes than they gave me!"
"I know. It's my doing really. I couldn't keep my mouth shut and the judge didn't like it. I tend to do that too."
"Is the flogging tomorrow, here, in the courtyard?"
"Yes, high noon, same as yours, Meghan." I sighed resignedly.
"Again, I'm sorry."
"It's going on noon. When do they serve lunch?" I said brightly, attempting to change the subject.
"Not for at least another hour."
"OK, let's sit down. I need to get some rest. It's been a bad morning."
"Sure."
I retreated to the corner of the cell opposite Masippa's, pulled my knees up under my chin, and started to brood. Where the fuck was Jerry? Was there anyway out of this mess? Could Tuma be bribed? How would I ever manage 30 fucking lashes? What would life at the prison farm be like? Why didn't I keep my big mouth shut in that court room? So many questions, my head was spinning, and I was feeling pretty sorry for myself too.
Lunch finally came around. We were treated to some watery broth, half a piece of bread, and some tea. We ate in silence, each of us in a separate corner of our cell. The afternoon went by slowly. We all had to use the pail to relieve ourselves, which I thought was both embarrassing and disgusting.
Dinner consisted of the same as lunch. I really wasn't hungry. In addition to being cold and damp, the place smelled badly, which for me did little for my appetite. After dinner, we were ordered to exercise which meant running in place while the guards watched. Meghan took off her long peasant skirt to do it so it wouldn't get in the way. That wasn't a problem for me in my short little t-shirt. Masippa was still wearing his street clothes, although they had taken his belt and shoes. He ran in place alongside us and for the first time smiled at me. I smiled back. Wasn't much, but I think we both felt better for it.
Then we settled in for the evening. I tried not to think about my whipping the next day, and thought maybe the best thing was to start a conversation. I was about to try talking to Masippa, thinking maybe I could gather some useful material for a story, when one of the guards appeared at the cell door.
"You have a visitor." he said. "A Mr. Goldman from America. Will you see him?"
Molabayo Detention Center, December 14, 2017.
I was awakened after a fitful night on the concrete floor by the creak of the cell door. I had spent the night sandwiched between the bodies of Masippa and Meghan. I was naked and they were clothed, and I suppose I should have been thankful for the warmth the close presence of their bodies afforded me, but I was in a foul mood to say the least. The day before had been a total disaster. My plans to skip the country foiled at the airport, where I was strip searched, arrested, carted off to the Detention Center, interrogated with electric shocks and waterboarding in order to force a confession, and then ... to add insult to injury ... brutally raped ... twice!
A guard entered our cell and quickly withdrew, leaving a tray with three slices of bread and three dirty mugs on the floor. I scooped up my portions, retreated to the wall and ate sullenly.
It was the day I was to go on trial. I had witnessed Meghan's trial just a few days earlier and knew fully what to expect. They had my confession. Justice Zilawean style would be swift and unjust. My only hope was to get no more of a flogging than Meghan had, and that Jerry would somehow find a way to get me out of this mess before they shipped me off to the dreaded prison farm.
It wasn't long after breakfast ... if one could call it that ... before they came for me. I stood up as they unlocked the cell door, and was grateful to see that they had brought some clothing for me. The door swung open. A guard entered and handed me a small bundle of cloth and curtly told me to get dressed. I wasn't expecting much, but what he handed me was not exactly what I had in mind ... it was just a thin gray t-shirt.
"There must be some mistake!" I blurted out, holding the tee to my chest. "Where are the pants to go with this?"
"No mistake. Get dressed," grunted the guard.
I slipped the tee over my head, and wriggled it down. The hem came to slightly above my crotch. I tugged at it experimentally, attempting to stretch the fabric to cover a bit more.
"Stand still!" he ordered.
I complied. He knelt to shackle my ankles.
"Come!" he ordered, standing and heading out into the corridor.
I followed, shuffling along as best I could with ankles shackled and both hands engaged in holding down the hem on the front of my prison tee shirt.
"Good luck!" called Meghan as the guard slammed the cell door shut.
"Won't do you a bit of good," said Masippa.
We passed through the interrogation wing, and the pitiful sounds behind its doors, up a flight of stairs and to a door leading into the very same court room where Meghan's trial had taken place.
The guard opened the door and guided me through. The place was just as hot and stuffy as I remembered it. The judge was already seated and, unlike Meghan's trial, the place was packed with onlookers. I imagined that had something to do with me being a foreign journalist from a major newspaper as opposed to a mere tourist.
A nudge in the back reminded me that I was supposed to cross over to the docket, so I began shuffling across the floor, trying harder than ever to pull the hem of my tee down to a level that afforded me at least some degree of modesty.
Halfway there, my shackled feet got entangled and I tripped. I went sprawling forward onto the floor, letting go of my tee to break my fall. The entire courtroom rose to its feet, and bedlam ensued with everyone talking at once. The judge was on his feet, banging his gavel and calling for order. I rolled over on my side and frantically tried to adjust my tee which had ridden halfway up my back. From somewhere in back came a few catcalls and a whistle.
Two guards helped me to my feet and into the docket, where the bailiff instructed me to stand facing the judge, who now turned toward the prosecutor's desk to have the charges read. I turned around to look, and to my great shock and surprise, saw the great bulk of Tuma lounging in the prosecutorial chair.
"Oh Shit!" I exclaimed, dropping my hands to my side.
"Silence!" roared the judge, glaring at me threateningly.
"No wait! This is not fair! He can't be the prosecutor! And where is the defense?" I complained at the top of my voice.
"He can, and he is!" snapped the judge. "And there is no defense, given the fact that we already have a signed confession. Now be quiet, Ms. Moore! No more outbursts! Prosecutor Tuma, please read the charges."
"Yes, your Honor. The accused, Barbara Moore, age 34, of New York, is charged with conspiracy against the government and people of Zilawe. We have irrefutable evidence that she illegally made a video-recording of the flogging of state prisoner Meghan Shanahan and then sent said video-recording to the editor of the New York newspaper that employs her ... with the express intent of defaming and slandering the government and people of Zilawe. We have in our possession, copies of said video recording, electronic evidence of its transmission from the accused's hotel room to the offices of her employer in New York, as well as a statement, signed by the accused, confessing to the crime. This is an open and shut case, your Honor. Ms. Moore's actions took place while Ms. Moore was here in our country, and are in clear violation of several statutes of Zilawean law. The prosecution demands the maximum penalty for the criminal behavior of Ms. Moore, which is according to Zilawean criminal code a flogging of 40 lashes followed by 20 years hard labor at the State Prison Farm."
"It's all a frame up, your Honor! There was no video. He's lying! And my confession was coerced under extreme torture." I shouted, waving my arms ... and while stepping to the front of the docket ... neglecting to hold on to the hem of my tee.
"Sit down and shut up, Ms. Moore!" roared the judge, rising to his feet and pounding his gavel. "And kindly cover up! This is a court of law!"
"I would if I was given enough clothes to cover up with!" I retorted angrily.
"Enough! The court will not stand for such talk! Guards! Restrain Ms. Moore!"
"Fuck you!" I shouted, as a guard grabbed my elbows, pulled them back, and lifted me off the ground while his sidekick planted his fist in my midriff, knocking the wind from me. I was dragged gasping for air to the center of the docket and forced to stand in the grip of the two guards.
"Ms. Moore, I think you should be aware that I was prepared to show you the same leniency in sentencing that I did with Ms. Shanahan, given that you are both American citizens. Your angry and intemperate outbursts have caused me to change my mind! Bailiff, please call for the verdict and sentencing."
"All rise," commanded the bailiff.
Everyone took to their feet. The guards released my arms. I stretched the hem of my tee down over my hips in the hope that a small gesture of docility and respect at this point might not be a bad idea.
"The Court rules," intoned the judge solemnly, "in the case of the State of Zilawe vs. Ms. Barbara Moore that the defendant is guilty of crimes as charged. She is hereby sentenced to be flogged in the courtyard of the Molabayo Detention Center at noon tomorrow, the 15th of December, 2017. She will receive 30 strokes with a standard number 7, multi-thonged whip, and will be sent thereafter to the Zilawe prison farm sentenced to do 10 years hard labor. Please note that this sentence is less than the maximum allowed by Zilawean law, but more than she might have received had she the good sense to comport herself properly before this court of law."
With that he banged his gavel, turned and left, and I was promptly hustled toward the door, but not without having to pass Tuma, who smiled wickedly at me as I passed by the prosecutorial bench. He looked very pleased with himself.
I was returned to the cell still occupied by Meghan and Masippa. She rose to greet me. He sulked in the far corner of the cell.
"What happened? Did they convict you?" she asked, a deep look of concern in her eyes.
"Of course they did, as expected," I replied ruefully.
"Oh I am sorry, I feel partly responsible."
"No, I tend to get myself into trouble without outside help."
"What was the sentence?"
"30 lashes, and ten years."
"Oh my God, that's 10 more lashes than they gave me!"
"I know. It's my doing really. I couldn't keep my mouth shut and the judge didn't like it. I tend to do that too."
"Is the flogging tomorrow, here, in the courtyard?"
"Yes, high noon, same as yours, Meghan." I sighed resignedly.
"Again, I'm sorry."
"It's going on noon. When do they serve lunch?" I said brightly, attempting to change the subject.
"Not for at least another hour."
"OK, let's sit down. I need to get some rest. It's been a bad morning."
"Sure."
I retreated to the corner of the cell opposite Masippa's, pulled my knees up under my chin, and started to brood. Where the fuck was Jerry? Was there anyway out of this mess? Could Tuma be bribed? How would I ever manage 30 fucking lashes? What would life at the prison farm be like? Why didn't I keep my big mouth shut in that court room? So many questions, my head was spinning, and I was feeling pretty sorry for myself too.
Lunch finally came around. We were treated to some watery broth, half a piece of bread, and some tea. We ate in silence, each of us in a separate corner of our cell. The afternoon went by slowly. We all had to use the pail to relieve ourselves, which I thought was both embarrassing and disgusting.
Dinner consisted of the same as lunch. I really wasn't hungry. In addition to being cold and damp, the place smelled badly, which for me did little for my appetite. After dinner, we were ordered to exercise which meant running in place while the guards watched. Meghan took off her long peasant skirt to do it so it wouldn't get in the way. That wasn't a problem for me in my short little t-shirt. Masippa was still wearing his street clothes, although they had taken his belt and shoes. He ran in place alongside us and for the first time smiled at me. I smiled back. Wasn't much, but I think we both felt better for it.
Then we settled in for the evening. I tried not to think about my whipping the next day, and thought maybe the best thing was to start a conversation. I was about to try talking to Masippa, thinking maybe I could gather some useful material for a story, when one of the guards appeared at the cell door.
"You have a visitor." he said. "A Mr. Goldman from America. Will you see him?"
Well, that's true. Self knowledge is a marvellous thing.
Well, it's usually good to know these things about oneself before going in front of a judge, especially a corrupt judge in a kangaroo court.
That's it. Stay busy. Keep your mind off your problems.
And Goldman arrives in the nick of time. Well, he arrives at the nick, where Barb is being held.
Whether he has any time to do anything remains to be seen.
Building up the suspense nicely here now. Between your impending flogging and Wragg's tragedy of Alicia in the other thread, we are getting some nice emotional tension building up.
That should be a warm and cosy chat!
Ted Parry
Governor
Barbaria1 said:
You have a visitor ... "A Mr. Goldman from America. Will you see him?"
Well if Goldman has a grain of sense he will bring Delta Force, Navy SEALs and a few SAS for company ......
You have a visitor ... "A Mr. Goldman from America. Will you see him?"
Well if Goldman has a grain of sense he will bring Delta Force, Navy SEALs and a few SAS for company ......
windar
Teller of Tales
Damn, I knew I forgot to pick up something on the way to the airport
It depends how you define "do anything"And Goldman arrives in the nick of time. Well, he arrives at the nick, where Barb is being held.
geolier
Tribune
Hmmm, seems James Bond is not enough to get them out. But I am pretty sure the R.E.D.'s (Retired Extremely Dangerous) (Fill with Bruce Willis, Hellen Mirren, Morgan Freeman and John Malkovich) could convince Tuma that he is , let's say, not quite up to standards.
Damn, I knew I forgot to pick up something on the way to the airport
And I am depending on this clown to get me out of this mess?????
This is a horrible turn of events! Barbara's only hope for for rescue is Goldman who seems more interested in seeing Moore whipped. And since Moore is wearing only a T-shirt and will have strip to the waist it should be a revealing session indeed!
There is less justice here than in a Tree story!
Tree
...yes, Ulrika, make sure our RR Video Production feed picks up Zilawe!!!
There is less justice here than in a Tree story!
Tree
...yes, Ulrika, make sure our RR Video Production feed picks up Zilawe!!!
See!!!! It wasn’t me! It was Tree and RR who produced that video! Just like I told the judge ... I was framed! No fair!!! I protest! They have no right to have me whipped. I should be sent home with an apology! Meghan too!
Quit whining and take it like a lady, Barb!!!See!!!! It wasn’t me! It was Tree and RR who produced that video! Just like I told the judge ... I was framed! No fair!!! I protest! They have no right to have me whipped. I should be sent home with an apology! Meghan too!
windar
Teller of Tales
Alright, let's take a poll. How many here would NOT watch Barb get whipped given the chance? All answers will be checked against previous posts.
She confessed.
Lady Barbara was our last story. This one is a professional reporter, always open to new experiences to write about, right, Barb?
Sure but Barb is to be whipped tomorrow. That seems like a long shot.
Tree and RR, you say. If they ever come to Zilawe, we'll whip them and send them to a labor camp too, Will that make you happy?See!!!! It wasn’t me! It was Tree and RR who produced that video! Just like I told the judge ... I was framed! No fair!!! I protest! They have no right to have me whipped. I should be sent home with an apology! Meghan too!
RacingRodent
Consul
RacingRodent
Consul
Only hare-brained leaders speak lightly and loosely of war
Are of the opinion I am bluffing Ms Moore?