Here’s the most recent installment of Attack of the Lesbian Activist Squirrels. A designated page with the full story puts the pieces in order.
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The van was starting to overheat from the abuse they were putting it through. Eugene was humming to Abba in the back. Eventually, the phone rang. Goon #2 had already been instructed to answer with speakerphone activated, so Eugene would hear.
“Yeah?” Goon #2 answered in his best impression of what Mafia sounded like on TV.
“Bring him to me.” It sounded less like a pretty woman than Ming The Merciless.
“Yes, we will…” The phone went dead before Goon #2 could finish. He shuddered. He glanced at Goon #1, who was tapping the steering wheel in time with “Fernando”. The fool had no idea the kind of evil they were dealing with. Perhaps ignorance is bliss. In the back of the van, Eugene had nearly forgotten the entire “terror over being kidnapped” angle and had been enjoying happy music mixed with the interesting feeling of having a hood strapped over his head.
Half an hour later, Eugene had been roughly (but not too roughly) hauled to the hotel room and tied to the bed. His head was still covered.
Velma nodded in approval, reached into Eugene’s pocket (causing Eugene to thrash worriedly) and extracted the Kruggerand with a piece of paper attached to it. She kept the paper and handed the Kruggerand to Goon #1. Then she handed over a small box with a series of lights to Goon #2. It looked like something a nerd would solder together in their basement, which is exactly what it was. She glanced at the “FitBit” strapped incredibly securely to one ankle, flipped a switch on the box, and smiled. A small green light glowed merrily.
She leaned in close, so Eugene couldn’t hear. Her instructions were concise if a bit vague. “One knock on the door if it goes yellow. Two if it goes red. If it goes blue, get in here and start bagging the body. Press this button for ten seconds to completely melt the internal circuitry, should that be necessary. To your posts gentlemen.”
The Goons strode out the door. Goon #2 was smart enough to grab a couple chairs from the room. It was going to be a long night. On the way out he glanced at Eugene; poor bastard.
With a flourish, Velma whipped off the hood. Eugene blinked in the harsh light, then focused on Velma. She was dressed in full dominatrix regalia and was the absolute last thing on earth Eugene expected.
He was however a genius and adapted quickly. “You exist!” He mused. “And… “ He stopped himself, nobody who looks like that and dresses like that needs to be told they look hot. They know.
Velma clicked a transmitter and a hidden MP3 player began playing a raucous song from 1984. Eugene, so recently released from the pleasant warblings of Swedish disco, winced.
Speaking over the din, Velma explained what would come next.
“People of your intelligence rarely use their full potential. They fall into the trap of matching the normies around them, or at least trying to avoid standing out too much. This causes them to be weak and eventually they suffer the atrophy of a barely used intellect. One must struggle to break free of the limits imposed by a lifetime of self-limiting behavior.”
Eugene recognized the song now. The lyrics worming their way into his already overworked mind. A long forgotten rocker was shouting them: “I brought my pencil, gimmie something to write on.”
“You need to develop, or rather regain, the lost ability to… think.” Velma continued, as she opened a large plastic box on a table nearby. “To do that, I’m going to put you under stress. Time stress. Sexual frustration. Pain. The usual.” She smiled. “But the difference is, I’m not a regular teacher and you’re not a regular student. I’ve tested you. I know you have the capacity…”
Eugene smiled to himself.
“…barely.” Velma cut short his revere. “Not all can fully use their mind once it’s been so long neglected. Some succeed, others don’t. For an extreme case like yours, the stress must be equally extreme. So, you will rise to the occasion, or I will torture you until you die or the sun rises and I tell the goons to drop you off the bridge. This is what you wanted, this is what you’re going to get.”
Eugene recognized the song. Was that Van Halen? “I think of all the education that I missed, but then my homework was never quite like this.”
Velma held up a paper. It was Preamble and Articles 1 & 2 of the United States Constitution, complete with the original old style script.
“You will translate this into Sanskrit.”
Eugene blanched. He’d only learned enough to read the contract. The Constitution had the verbiage of a 200 year old document. This wasn’t a simple task like translating a basic conversation. What the hell was the Sandskrit word for “insure domestic tranquility”? This would take all day.
“You nave twenty minutes.”
“That’s impossible.” Eugene complained.
“For most people it is.” Velma agreed. “You’ll have to think hard. And fast. With distractions making it so much harder.” As if to demonstrate what a distraction was Velma used a magic marker to draw a bullseye on the crotch of Eugene’s slacks.
Van Halen was still screeching in the background. “I’ve got it made, soooo great, I’m hot for teacher…”
Velma pointed to a clock on the table. It was a countdown clock. It read 18:56 and was clicking down. She hefted a nailgun from the plastic box, and then (as if Eugene had any doubts) drove a sixteen penny nail into the wall. Ker-CHUNK!
There was a subtle tap on the door. Condition yellow. Velma smiled.
Eugene started stammering out his best guess. “We the people… I think the word for people is prajaa. How the hell do you say ‘United States’?!? Nation is raashTra.”
Velma leered and caressed the nailgun. “Tick tock.”
Eugene began to sweat.
Van Halen was wrapping up. “OH MY GOD!”
Outside the door, Goon #2 watched the light. It had flickered briefly to red but then settled back to yellow. “That poor bastard.” He muttered. “It’s so much safer to be stupid.”
