Choices, choices

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Choices, Choices

I know there are people out there who would disagree with me but I firmly maintain there is no fun at all in being tied to a chair. Of course, I could always pull the lever in my right hand and I would be instantly released. So pull the lever already, you say. Well, I’m thinking about it. The trouble is, if I do a set of clamps will close on the tubes that run to my testes, bloodlessly castrating me and this will be taken as my irrevocable and legally binding consent to be given a sex change and spend the rest of my life in indentured labour – or slavery, as they used to call it.

On the other hand if I don’t pull the lever in the next thirty seconds a razor edged curving blade will chop my head off. Ever since the entire Supreme Court mysteriously committed group suicide during the second Trump Presidency allowing a clean slate of the President’s personal flunkies to be appointed, criminal justice in the US has gotten downright freaky.

The reasoning behind my particular sentence can be traced back to President-for-Life Trump’s Milwaukee speech of 2027, reputedly prompted by a shortage of women parading the streets of midwinter Wisconsin in skimpy clothing at the time of the President’s visit, popularly known as the “What this damn country needs is more hot chicks” speech. It is widely believed he was high on cocaine at the time and nothing might have come of it if it hadn’t given one of his aides an idea.

Ever since then anyone of suitable age and appearance to make a convincing and attractive girl (and advances in medical technology had made that category much wider than it would have been even ten years earlier) who was convicted of a crime which would have otherwise carried a sentence of five years or more could be sentenced to this. The “convincing and attractive” stipulation had been added after the disappointing (to Trump) results of Bernie Sanders’ conviction for high treason. For anyone responsible for the death of a young woman, whether by murder, negligence or accident, the sentence was mandatory – cost the nation a hot chick, you had to fill the gap yourself. Or reduce the competition by dying. Since I’d been sentenced for running over a teenage beauty queen whilst drunk that brought me to today’s dilemma by a fairly direct route.

Ironically, I was completely innocent. Frankly that didn’t matter in most courts unless you had serious money, but in my case even the honest witnesses said I had been in the driving seat of the car on the fateful night and the DNA evidence says they’re right. Sometimes having an evil twin really sucks! I’d actually been lying on the back seat trying to stop the world going round in circles. By the time I realised what had happened the police had arrived. The one consolation was that one way or another, the next time the son of a bitch did something like this there would be no way to mistake me for him. If I was alive.

I know, I know, it says something about the male psyche that given the choice between dying and being a woman lots have chosen to die. It says a lot about the male psyche that anyone even has to think about it. The trouble is though, it’s not just becoming a chick, it’s what that chick is expected to do.

Twenty seconds

I knew I’d been bought in advance. There was a new government frontier programme offering free land in Alaska or the new US colonial possessions of the Pacific and the Carribean. It was a tough life but a successful pioneer could hope to make good on such a scale that their grandchildren would be great magnates. With hundreds of thousands of young men idle there were always volunteers.

Unfortunately the President had chosen the new territories as pilot areas for his view of a woman’s role in life. Any woman incautious enough to go out as a colonial wife would find herself with fewer legal rights than her predecessor of two hundred years before. So one particular young man’s parents had put their life savings into equipping him with tools, farm gear, seed corn, prospecting equipment, stout clothing – and a woman! Me. If I pulled the lever. Otherwise they were out the cost of one mail order chattel bride. Ten seconds.

It seemed sort of mean to waste their savings that way. On the other hand, for all I knew the young man would be a sob who deserved it. Or maybe not. I might be lucky. Surely fate owed me a stroke of luck. Five seconds.

Four seconds

Three seconds

Oh what the Hell! While there’s life there’s hope! Pull!

It hurt a lot more than I’d been warned about. I formally departed manhood with an appropriately high pitched girly shriek!

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Comments

While there's life there's hope

littlerocksilver's picture

What a nightmare. I'm much too old. Off with his head. Not much hope there.

Portia

if Trump or AKA Gen Buck

if Trump or AKA Gen Buck Turigison from Doc Strangelove gets in this wont come about as the rats cockroaches and muites wont be to bothered in the rad land ruins of the last world war would be bother by which sex you are but do you taste finger licking good.But it is the sort of bampot thing president Loney toon would come up with.Not saying wont get our hair mussed but say no more than 10 20 million killed tops depented onthe breakes. Buck turigsion /trump sort of thing

.

Well. After further thought I can't stifle myself.

***

So - I imagine myself in this situation. (Ouch. Ow ow ow. Ouch.)

***

Suppose, after saving myself (and living to fight another day), I found the person or persons that had put me in that situation.

I submit that no REASONABLE God would do anything less than smile in enthusiastic agreement if I murdered (not killed - murdered, in full premeditation with malice aforethought) each of them.

I'm pretty sure that even the God of the Christian's would be pleased, but also likely a bit conflicted ; - ).

T