Stryker particularly had it in for me: ordering other girls to shit on me, piss in my mouth, fist-fuck me. His favorite move was to buttfuck another chick and make me suck his jizz out of her ass. And what could I do about it? Jack shit. Any time I pitched a fit, he’d whip out his sending unit and activate my UV nodes. You learn fast in this place….
But don’t worry. No way in holymotherfucking hell was I gonna take this shit for my whole hitch.
See, I had a plan.
A three-part plan. I had to do it just right, and it took months to get ready. Busting out of this shithole wasn’t good enough. I had to get the rest of the Grubs out too, not to mention a few scores to settle.
Once a week it was my job to empty the trash in the Booking Unit. There were a lot of used tubocurarine darts in bottom of the can. Any chance I got I’d pinch a few, hid ’em in my cell later. Why? Because there was still a little curare left in cartridges…
Next was the geek in the Implantation Lab—and when I say geek I mean GEEK. This wuss made Mr. Rogers look tough, and it was a good bet he’d never been laid. Next time I got mop duty in the IL, I put the make on him hard. I mean, I ain’t bragging but ya gotta admit—am I good-looking or what? Once I stepped out of my cellblock overalls, I had this guy worshipping me, wound up fucking his brains out. Wore his virgin pecker out, I did.
And when the asshole wasn’t looking, I pinched one of his scalpels…
Part Three was the toughest part. See, in 2003 the NRC authorized liquid-plasma isotope reactors for industrial use, and they had one of these little Three Mile Islands providing all the power for the prison.
If I could get a key to the Fuel Core Station…
At night, when the gang bangs and kink parties were over, I’d just sit in my cell and dream. Even dead people dream. I’d think back to the way things were when I was working the street. Didn’t ask for much, and I never ripped off a john in his life who didn’t have it coming. Sure, I killed some pimps and baddies, but they had it coming too. All I ever wanted was to do my thing, mind my own business, and live my life. But the Feds and the pigs and the U.S. Marshals came along with their Dr. Strangelove Big Brother bullshit. What I ever do to them? And—what?—it’s my fault their fuckin’ nuke-powered plane crashed and turned 10,000 people into Grubs? Fuck that.
And fuck them.
I knew I had to make my move just before LockDown. I wanted as many government bigwheels in here as possible. But I knew I had to get Stryker alone.
So when they were taking us to chow before LD, I hocked a lunger right into Stryker’s face and said, “Your mother sucks cocks in hell.”
Stryker grinned. He was glad I did it. “You’re a ballsy little whore, ain’t ya? Like to run that cocksuck zombie-whore mouth of yours.”
“Your daddy must’ve had shit on his dick when he knocked your mama up with you.”
His grin turned demonic. “Baby, I’ll cut your head off and jerk off in your mouth.”
I cracked out a laugh. “Man, all you can do is jerk off. Can’t lay any serious dick on a woman to save your life.”
“Think so?”
“Gimme a break? A peter-licking, panty-wearing, no-hard-on little candy-ass like you?”
“Yeah, maybe I’ll activate you till your tits pop and your hair burns off. See how the smart-mouth Grub Girl likes that action.”
“Talk is cheap. You can light me up with that pissant UV thing all you want. I like pain, pig. Gets me horny, you know, for a real man? Too bad there ain’t any in this armpit. I’ll bet you ten bucks your dick wouldn’t last a minute in my pussy.”
He stared me down, nodding. “You’re on, bitch. I’m gonna fuck you so hard your brains’ll be squirting out your ears, and when I’m done I’m gonna throw your whore ass into Isolation and leave your transponders on for a month.”
“I hear ya talking, Liberace.”
“Get the rest of these dead bitches to chow,” Stryker barked to his sergeants. “I’ll be taking this one here back to her cell for a private consultation.”
He dragged me by the hair to my cell, and then I knew I had him.
By then, see, I’d collected enough curare from the used cartridges to fill an entire dart. Stryker didn’t even have time to get his pants down before I had that baby stuck right in his fat red neck.
“What… what did you… do?”
He came to about an hour later, and an hour was plenty of time to do the job. I held up the scalpel I jacked from that nerd tech. “See this, asshole? I cut the UV implants out of myself.”
Eventually his crossed eyes began to focus, incomprehension on his face.
“Whaaaa….”
“Then I sewed them back up in your nutsack.”
Now the incomprehension turned to slow horror. He reached down to his ballbag, felt around, and then moaned. You could hear the little nodes clicking in there. “God in heaven… please don’t—”
“Guess we better test ’em huh?”
“Noooooo! Pleeeeeease!”
I tapped my own ID into the sending unit and lit DO Stryker up like the fucking Fourth of July. Yes sir-ee. 60,000 nanounits of ultraviolet-band energy right smack-dab into his family jewels.
The fat fuck screamed louder than a truck horn, and I gotta tell ya, it was fun watching him flop around on the floor like a tadpole out of water. I had a mind to just leave him there like that, but…
There was still work to do.
“Punch in the passcode,” I ordered.
I’d marched him down to the Utility Wing. Shiftchange was over so the halls were clear.
“No way,” he said. “I can’t. It’s a security breach. The core’s running—”
“Punch in the passcode and open the door, motherfucker, unless you want me to cook your nuts again. By the time I’m done, they’ll look like a couple of fried chicken gizzards.”
He was crying now, blubbering like a baby. I showed him the sending unit, and that was all it took. He plipped in the code and the vault door sucked open.
WARNING, one sign read. NUCLEAR FUEL CORE IS ON. FATAL RADIOACTIVE DOSE AFTER TWENTY MINUTES.
Fatal? Sure. But not to somebody who’s already dead.
I threw Stryker aside and jacked the fuel rods right out of the core chassis. The evac alarms went off immediately. “Don’t leave me in here!” Stryker bellowed. “I’ll die!”
“Buddy,” I said, “five minutes from now you’ll be praying to die.” Then I activated him again. It was tempting not to stay there and watch awhile—no, the meltdown wouldn’t hurt me, but I had the other Grubs to get out. I took one last gander at Stryker: screaming, shitting and pissing himself, blood leaking out his eyes, ears, and mouth, his hair baking off and his crotch smoking. Man, it was sweet.