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BARB’S DYSTOPIAN DOLCETTISH DEMISE

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Barbaria1

Rebel Leader
Staff member
It’s been some time since I’ve independently authored a story to post on CF. I’ve tried to put my mind to it lately, but nothing has inspired me until today when I thought back to some of my earliest kinky fantasies, generated by my encounter years’ ago with Dolcett’s art. So, here goes. Please enjoy, if you will, BARB’S DYSTOPIAN DOLCETTISH DEMISE.
 

Barbaria1

Rebel Leader
Staff member
Barb’s Dystopian Dolcettish Demise

1.

With the scrunching sound of rubber on gravel, the red-white-and-blue-liveried Federal Nutritions Procurement Agency (FNPA) van entered the long drive leading up to the stately Georgian-style two-story red brick home at 631 Maple Drive. Chief Procurement Officer Jake Clemens steered the van into the turnaround space near the end of the drive before backing and bringing it to rest on the apron before the residence’s triple garage.

Madiosi-2020-022-BDDD-01.jpg


While the usual crowd of curious neighbors began to gather on the lawn, Clemens remained behind the wheel, attending to routine data entries, which he punched into his tablet. Next to him on the van’s bench seat sat his two blue-uniformed agency assistants, Mike Greer and Sophie Miller.

‘Log out: 11:19 am, July 8, 2052,’ flashed the screen as he tossed the tablet aside and reached for the cup of coffee Sophie was holding for him until he was ready for it.

“Fourth pick up today, and it’s getting awfully warm out there already,” said Mike, staring out the passenger side window.

“Yeah, going to be a scorcher,” agreed Sophie. “Be nice if we could get home early and get out of the heat.”


“As long as everyone cooperates, it just might happen,” allowed Jake. “Number three certainly had the potential to cause us trouble. That was quick thinking the way you put her down before things got dicey with your stun, Mike.”

“T’was nothing. All in a day’s work, sir.”

“Right! So, let’s get to it. Time’s a wasting.”

“What’s her name?” queried Sophie as they clambered out of the van and headed up the front walk.

“Barbara Ann Moore, Procurement Registration ID: 7284 Charlie Baker 5534,” read Jake from his tablet as they gathered at the front door and Mike reached out to press the doorbell button.

Moments later, the door was opened by a tall, gray haired man, dressed casually in jeans and a t-shirt.

“Mr. Moore?” said Sophie.

“Yes?” he replied, noticeably thin-lipped and wary.

“I’m Officer Sophie Miller. This is Officer Mike Greer, and behind me is my superior, Chief Procurement Officer, Jake Clemens. We’re from FNPA. You received notification and have been expecting us, right?”

“Yes, of course. Please come in.”

“Thank you.”

They entered the foyer. Before closing the door behind him, Jake turned to the gathering crowd of onlookers, asking them to please stand back and to refrain from interfering in any way with official FNPA business.

Mr. Moore led the way into the living room, and rather stiffly introduced them to his wife, Mary, who was more formally attired and seated on an upholstered love seat and whose puffy red eyes and pile of Kleenex on her lap betrayed the fact that she had been crying.

An awkward silence ensued before Jake spoke.

“Mr. and Mrs. Moore, I do regret this, but as you are well aware, the nation relies heavily these days, due to the deleterious effects of climate change, on the maintenance of our red-meat food supply through my agency, the FNPA. And that, under law, all young females are registered in a national database, through which a chosen percentage are culled each year from those who turn eighteen and have completed their final year of secondary education. You were duly notified earlier this week that your daughter, Barbara, was among those to be culled, and were ordered to have her present this morning to be taken away to one of our facilities for processing. I know how difficult this must be for you, and you have my deepest sympathy. Please remember, though, that surrendering your daughter is a patriotic duty, and also that you are entitled to be compensated financially for her loss in accordance with the grading of your daughter’s meat qualities, to which my assistants and I will be duly attending to in the next few minutes. Do you have any questions?”

Another awkward silence ... at the end of which Mr. Moore spoke, saying quietly, “I have a few.”

“Yes?”

“Well, I’m curious about the selection process. How many are selected, and how is it determined who must ... ummm ... die?”

“I can answer both questions. The current cull is about twelve and a half percent. So the odds of being culled are around one in eight. As for the selection process, it’s basically random, although we do rely on school and police records to make some necessary adjustments. Your daughter’s school records, for instance, probably increased her odds as she had shown herself to be a bit on the rebellious side ... quite contemptuous of authority, in fact, on a number of issues. Indeed, she was identified by school authorities as one of the ring leaders in a recent protest staged at her school against the annual red meat cull.”

“I see, and what exactly will happen once you take her away?”

“She’ll be taken to the local FNPA Center and held there until it’s her time, which could be immediately or up to almost a year from now.”

“And then?”

“She’ll most likely be spit-roasted live. Most sows, as we call them, are.”

“I see. Can we visit her during the time she is incarcerated?”

“Yes, there are visitation hours, of course, and the viewing stands above the spit-roasting pits are always open to the public, if you so desire. Some loved ones do like to attend, saying that it brings closure. Now, if there are no further questions, we must get started. We already have three sows out in the van and the day is going to be a hot one. We also have four more to pick up. So, where is Barbara?”

“Upstairs in her room.”

“Did you prepare her?”

“If clean clothes and freshly bathed is what you mean, yes. Should I go up and bring her down?”

“No, given her rebellious reputation, it’s probably better to send Officers Greer and Miller up to do it.”

“Yes, perhaps so,” agreed, Mr. Moore with downcast eyes. “I have spoken to her and don’t anticipate any trouble, but it’s true one never knows with our Barbara.”

“Ok, Greer and Miller. Go up there and bring her down here.”


TO BE CONTINUED
 
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Madiosi

Depictor of Dreams
Staff member
With the scrunching sound of rubber on gravel, the red-white-and-blue-liveried Federal Nutritions Procurement Agency (FNPA) van entered the long drive leading up to the stately Georgian-style two-story red brick home at 631 Maple Drive. Chief Procurement Officer Jake Clemens steered the van into the turnaround space near the end of the drive before backing and bringing it to rest on the apron before the residence’s triple garage.
Madiosi-2020-022-BDDD-01.jpg
 
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