Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 If the following story is real in any way, I offer my sincere pity to the
participants and urge them to seek counseling.  The following work is a
piece of fiction in a world without diseases, where people are free to care
about each other, and to destroy each other.

   The following text should not be read by anyone who isn't ready for it,
and I will take no responsibility for anyone catching you with it.  It may
be freely passed around so long as this entire introduction is kept intact,
and that it does not appear, in any fashion or method, on a site that takes
money for membership or benefits.  I retain full rights to any other form
of publication, and it may not appear in any compilation or other printed
form, aside from a single copy for the reader to enjoy at their leisure.

   The story contains graphic sexual encounters between adults and
children; or at least what the law recognizes as being children.  All
participants are of what any objective scientist would consider to be of an
'adult' grouping, IE they have all reached sexual maturity.

   It deals with the darkest of human actions, that of rape, of
manipulation, of greed and the journeys through a world that can be at
times cold and uncaring, but can be adjusted by the actions of others into
a better place.  In other words, it is a fantasy.  The author neither
condones nor encourages such activities; and reading this story in certain
locations is against the law.

   I was inspired to write this story from reading a few news stories, and
from reading some of the vast collection of erotica on http://www.asstr.org
If they could go to such lengths to create, maintain and expand such an
archive, I could do my bit and add to the pile.  If you liked this story,
the best way you can demonstrate it is by donating to asstr.org.  Your
applause is nice, put your money where your hands are.

   If you have any comments, post them onto the alt.sex.stories.d board, or
wait until I have a comment form up on asstr.org (pending approval, of
course.) Address the comments to me, I'll be looking.

   FastCat

   **> The following story is (c) 2004 by Fastcat, all rights are reserved.
Reposting is permitted so long as the above notice is included.  **<

   The Village in the Wooded Glen Written by FastCat Version 1.0 February
2004

   Part one: Intro

   The shame of contacting the financial aide office wasn't half as
embarrassing as I had thought it would be.  No, the real shame came from
the form I was required to fill out, outlining just how rotten our
financial situation had become.

   But I had figured everything out; with a little bit from my mother, we
were just barely short of the money needed for summer camp.  It would take
cutting more than a few corners from our budget, but it was just possible.
I was, well, vaguely proud to put $69.72 on the line for amount of aid
requested.  That was exactly how much we needed, not a penny more.

   I hung my head in the office, waiting for the form to be processed. 
Every form came with a helpful waste of time; an interview so that I could
say that yes, I was sure that I couldn't scrape up another penny to send my
kid to summer camp.  Finally my name came up - hardly a surprise since I
was the only one waiting, and I was ushered into the office.

   Greetings were exchanged, a firm handshake, and I sat down in the chair.
I had to admit, she didn't waste any time.  "I'm sorry, Mr.  Fastcat, but
we're going to have to deny your request.  You're welcome to reapply, but
the need outlined on your form just isn't enough to qualify."

   "Look," I replied, ready to fight the rejection, "I went over the budget
over and over again; we are cutting out all the extras.  If I hadn't had to
change jobs recently, it wouldn't be a problem, but it is.  We already owe
our friends and neighbors some money from that time, we just don't have any
extra..."

   She held up her hand in such a casual manner that I ground my teeth. 
"Mr.  Fastcat, we understand you have a problem, and we'd love for your
daughter to come to summer camp this year, but my hands are tied by our
policies.  Now, if you'd just change the amount requested, I'm sure that we
can accommodate you."

   A sigh of frustration.  "I suppose if I put off the oil change again, we
could do it for fifty," I offered.  The damn clunker would likely die from
the lack of transfusion, but if this was what the bloodsuckers demanded...

   "Mr.  Fastcat, we know you're trying your hardest to pay as much as you
can for the tuition," she replied patiently, holding up her hand again as
if I was a truck trying to enter an intersection.  "I meant that you just
have to request more money on the form.  From our calculations, your family
qualifies for full funding.  You don't need to cut so many corners; that's
all I was saying."

   "We don't need charity," I replied bluntly.  "We just need a little
boost over the top of the wall.  We are just requesting what is on that
form."

   "Our policy is that we don't even consider financial requests for less
than a hundred dollars," she replied, trying to be pleasant in tone.

   "If we needed a hundred dollars, that would be what was on the form," I
snapped back in a much less charitable tone.  "You say we qualify, just do
whatever you do to approve such things, sign whatever it is that needs to
be done, and I'll drop off the money order for the remaining balance."

   "No," she replied flatly.  "Here, I have some white out, we'll just
change the line, you can initial it, and this will all be settled.  Give
the extra to your daughter to spend at camp if you feel guilty about it at
all." She started digging around in her desk.

   "Never mind," I replied, rather annoyed.  "Thank you for your time,
we'll just hold a couple garage sales and make up the difference." Yeah,
what was left to sell at this point?  Something, I suppose.  People buy all
sorts of trash at yard sales.  Perhaps I could pad the display by checking
out some of the things people leave out on the curb for the trash man.  I
stood up and started making my way to the door.

   "Mr.  Fastcat, you're being completely unreasonable here, we are just
trying to help..." she called to my back.  Yeah, some help.

   *>

   A few days later, the budget situation was a little worse.  The
insurance on the car was being raised, the water bill was up by half again
as much due to a 'lighting fee.' What?  They have lights in the water now?
The garage sale didn't cover the increases, and the budget, even sans oil
change, was now short $114.22.

   I made a few craft projects and hawked them around to a few of the local
stores; that covered the increase in the premiums for the health plan, and
the doctor's visit for my daughter's cold.  Medicines made the peak of the
hill climb to $143.88.  Gas prices went swooping up, and I was spending
half the night making things to cover the difference.

   I lucked out, finally, in finding a store that liked my work, and paid
well enough for the pieces.  The hill was for the first time in months a
valley.  I had a huge smile on my face as I proudly paid the fees for
summer camp, knowing that the family could afford a bit of celebration
afterwards; a whole half gallon of whatever ice cream was on sale.

   I was even looking forward to buying her a new sleeping bag; on sale, of
course.

   *>

   Twelve days makes a difference; the bad news rolled in like a black
tide. The woman who liked my work passed away, no more getting paid for
what the items I made were worth.  My job lost a contract and was laying
off people rather than cutting back on the CEO's bonuses.  And I was in the
awkward situation of trying to scramble for any job, anywhere.

   The downward spiral continued; we were eating dime bags of noodles for
breakfast and dinner, sold the car..  About May I faced the hard fact that
my daughter's summer camp wasn't going to happen; I needed to ask for a
refund, hoping that whatever fees and fines they charged wouldn't reduce it
too much.  Camp or rent; one needs some priorities in life.

   I made my request and shuffled in to the office at the appointed hour.
Three months hadn't made the woman any different; just a change from one
desk to another.  She smiled pleasantly enough, handed over a check for the
whole amount of the camp fees, and asked if I wouldn't mind staying a few
minutes and talking over the situation.

   Why not?  They were being nice, I could give them a few minutes.  We
chatted for a few, and then she asked me to meet with the agency director.
I didn't quite understand why, but I had a couple hours before going to go
wash dishes at a local restaurant.  I agreed, and we tromped on over to her
office.

   *>

   I walked in and was rather surprised to see, in a frame mounted on the
wall behind the director's wall, one of the bags I had sold earlier that
year.  "Mr.  Fastcat, so nice to meet you at last," she gushed, holding out
her hand.  I shook it politely and took a seat, unsure of what was going
on. In the hanging silence, I tossed in that it was nice to meet her as
well.

   She looked between me and the finance director, raising an eyebrow.  "I
take it that the buck is being passed to me?" she asked rather cryptically.
I steeled myself a bit, I wasn't about to give them back their check.  The
woman next to me nodded slightly, and across the desk a sigh was the
precursor.  "Mr.  Fastcat, you made the bag behind me, right?"

   I nodded.

   "We've heard a bit about your problems, and we're sorry." I nodded to
that as well.

   The woman next to me popped up with, "The offer to pay your daughter's
camp fees is still on the table; especially after the problems you've been
having, I'm sure your daughter will love spending the..." I cut her off by
replying that we don't take charity.  I stood up and said I had to get
ready for work, offering my hand to whichever woman wanted to shake it.

   "Mr.  Fastcat," said the woman behind the desk, declining to rise
herself, "I would ask that you give us a few more minutes.  We're not going
to try to convince you to accept any charity." Huh, well, at least she was
polite, and I sat down again as my reply.

   "Mr.  Fastcat," she continued a moment later, "your skills at crafts is
something that we find of value; and something that we could use. 
Especially in our camp."

   "I suppose I could supply what you're wanting," I replied, falling into
a tone of negociation.  "How many bags were you thinking of?  And mind you,
it takes time to make them."

   The women exchanged looks and the director leaned forward a bit.  "We
were more thinking of offering you a job at the summer camp if you had no
better job prospects.  Part of the payment we offer to councilors is free
summer camp tuition for their children."

   "I'm too old to be a camp councilor," I replied.  "That's for college
kids," I added to make things a bit clearer.

   "College students," she replied patiently, "are not interested in these
positions as often as they used to be."

   "The type of crafts I do is a bit beyond the abilities of kids at camp.
That bag behind you, for example, took me half a month to bead.  I don't
even know how to make a bracelet, much less teach a kid to do it," I
argued.

   "Did anyone suggest that you'd be teaching them how to make such
pieces?"

   "Then what are you suggesting," I snapped back, rather irritated at the
whole process.

   "We operate two camps; one you're familiar with, it is the one you
wanted to send your daughter to.  The second is much more exclusive;
parents generally pay around five thousand a week for their offspring to
attend.  It is at the second one where we would like you to work.  During
the day, you can work on your crafts.  Some may be drawn to your work, and
we ask that you answer their questions.  Some of the multi-week campers
might even want to learn how to do the craft, we'd want you to show them.

   "We'd also like you to oversee one of the cabins at night.  It is an
overflow cabin, you might go weeks without anyone sharing it with you.  If
someone does share with you, you'd pick them up after dinner and return
them at breakfast."

   I scoffed.  "What, no tipi for me to play Indian in?"

   "If that's what you'd prefer, we could handle that.  It'd have to sleep
several people, just in case of overflow."

   Damn, it actually sounded like she was being serious here.  "A
twenty-four foot lodge can sleep a lot of people."

   She considered it for a moment.  "We'd have to get it painted; nothing
too gaudy, but something, well," and here she gave a half hearted smile,
"something you can appropriately play Indian in.  We'd have to deal with
such issues as heating and plumbing, and furnish it in a semi-modern form.
Perhaps use futon beds that convert into couches for daytime use."

   I laughed and mockingly suggested putting radiant tubing under a clay
floor, and a second lodge to hold a hot tub.  She brightened at the
suggestion and I heard the click of a pen next to me.  The finance woman,
who had been relatively quiet, added "A third lodge could hold the toilets.
Make it into a village type set up.  We've a wooded glade that would work
perfect for it and enough time for grass to re-grow over the pipe
trenches."

   I looked between them and said outright, "You've got to be kidding. 
What, a forth lodge with a giant showerhead and steamers to make a
sweat-lodge shower?"

   "A wonderful idea, Mr.  Fastcat.  Jan, we'll need at least four large
lodges, make sure the spa is one of those good whirlpool types and see if
you can get everything to match nicely.  The grounds people will just love
us for this," ordered the director.  Jan nodded and then scampered out of
the room.

   "I'm not doing it," I said as the door closed.  "Getting my daughter to
camp was important, but I have to pay bills.  Thank you for your time, I'd
best get this to the bank before my rent check bounces."

   She smiled and nodded, "One moment," she said as she flipped a large
black binder open.  She wrote something down, ripped the paper and slid it
over across the desk to me.  "That's your initial consulting fee for this
morning.  If you feel up to doing some more consulting, we'd be happy to
contract for your services, and I do hope you rethink your refusal."

   I raised an eyebrow and reached forward to grab the paper.  A check. 
Three times as large as the refund in my pocket.  As my wide eyes were
inspecting the check, she added, "it is a Very Exclusive Camp.  We were not
expecting your services for free, and I believe this beats washing dishes."
I looked up and asked how she knew...  "We always run background checks on
those we're interested in hiring.  Well, I won't take up any more of your
time, if you're in a rush to go somewhere.."

   Rush?  Perhaps to the bank.  I'm certainly not about to go rush off to
wash dishes..  What would it be, fifty hours of dishes to equal the hour of
time she'd taken?  "Perhaps we should talk a bit more about the position,
and to give you some more ideas about the American Indian village?"

   I've read about smiles that imply the cat ate the canary; all that was
missing was the little yellow feather sticking out the corner of her mouth.

   *>

   I looked over the chart of the glade they were considering using, and
plotted out the positions of the various lodges.  I made some suggestions
about moving some other facilities over into the same area.  The archery
range seemed to me a natural match, and there was a nice washed out
hillside to use as a backstop.  At a V angle to the archery range, the
rifle range would fit in nicely and finally separate the shells and clays
from the bullets.  On the farther side of the rifle range would be a musket
practice area, and between the two would be a place for black powder
revolvers and pistols.

   By five o'clock, I had carved myself out a bit of an office, a desk
covered in charts, and a phone that had been in use most of the day to the
grounds people.  I returned to the director's office and noted for the
first time the name of my new employer, Deborah McConway.  I knocked on her
door frame before entering with the modified maps.  "I just finished the
conference call," I said, unrolling the charts onto her desk.  "They
suggest that the expansion would require four additional staff members, and
the move could be done within a few days.  They have some issues with the
engineering staff about power requirements for space heaters and other
creature comforts, but expect that most of them can be solved with a little
wrangling."

   Her green eyes flickered over the drawings, notes, and then closed.  I
half expected it was in preparation of being fired, but it turned out she
was simply imagining the setup in her mind.  "It'll work wonderful, and
would handle some issues we were having, not to mention making a rather
nice image for our brochures.  I hate to ask you to work late, but here are
some improvements I would like to see added to the design.."

   She outlined some bunkhouses, a blacksmith forge and a second stable for
the camp, as well as another dozen staff positions for a 'western' town. 
At the end, she leaned back and untied the silk scarf she used to keep her
auburn hair in check.  "Our time is limited, and these improvements need to
be installed within weeks, not months.  Find some set construction group;
there must be many in the area, and arrange for them to travel and put in
the cosmetics.  I'll speak with Jan about increasing the number of guests
to cover the costs."

   "If I might make an observation?" She nodded her approval.  "With the
implementation of the bunkhouse, why not introduce a few of the guests
parents to the new design, say, in late June with a 'cowboy' barbeque. 
Perhaps also make sure that there is a modern conference center available
and see if some might want to use it as a worker retreat; that should
improve the number of guests, and offer a financing opportunity."

   She let out a light chuckle and nodded, "and I know just the right
people to approach.  There's a nice group in Japan that sends over a few
young people every year who just love team building excursions, and has the
money to send their children to the camp.  Make the calls, wake people up
if you need to, and get Jan's home number in case you have financial
questions.  I'll meet with her before she leaves to talk about the budget,
but make the general assumption that while cost is not of zero importance,
it is rather low on the list of considerations."

   I nodded and left the office, asking Jan's secretary to forward her
number to me.

   In four days, everything was arranged.  A build crew from, get this,
Survivor, was to design and build the village decorations and lay out.  A
crew that handled most of the buildings from Open Range and Cold Mountain
dealt with the details of the cowboy side, and I contacted an acting agency
who lined up dozens of actors who looked forward to playing western for the
summer.

   It was rather strange that I would be the lone Indian, but hey, such was
the situation.  I made the choices for items to go into the lodges,
including the sweatlodge shower.  My section was ready for the first
inspection two weeks after I went, hat in hand, to ask for a refund.  I
flew out to the camp to look it over.

   *>

   My past experiences of the East Coast was limited to the costal areas,
and I honestly hated the place from the moment I had disembarked from the
plane.  This trip was similar, but my opinion began to change as we went
inland towards the low mountains.  As we went each mile inland, the
humidity and the smell of the place drasticly improved.  By the time we
reached the camp, we were deeply into wooded lands, granite hillsides, and
green pastures.

   The windshield told the only negative tale, being covered with the
squashed bodies of insects.  I fully expected to be eaten alive the second
I exited the car, and was mildly shocked that there wasn't an insect
welcoming committee.

   The camp director met me at the car, and he quickly started striding
towards the location of the village.  He was a nice enough fellow, perhaps
twenty-five, with the full shorts and boots look that camp leaders
everywhere seem to prefer.  The only difference was that it appeared that
everything had recently been ordered from an LL Bean catalog; my own
luggage contained much the same outfit, just newer.

   We followed a clay path into the woods, made a turn, and I saw the
painted tops of the lodges.  The huge tipis were what many would refer to
as 'family homes' where I came from and were surprisingly not over the top.
The trees were all of the right scale that it just, well, looked right.  My
guide stopped so I could appreciate the creation.

   "Two weeks," I said, marveling at the results.

   He nodded and laughed, "we thought you people were nuts when you called,
and then Jan e-mailed out some images from a website.  When we saw the
artwork, we not only knew it could be done, but it would work out great,
and so it did.  The set crew just packed up, so mind that there are some
places still drying, but everything is fully functional.  If I ever leave
here, I'm buying one of those for my property; well, perhaps more.  That
shower is one of the favorites of the staff now."

   Being the favorite, it was the first thing showed off.  A plumber had
arranged twelve huge flat showerheads that sent rain cascading down, and
around the edge were rock hoppers with gas heaters below them.  "The water
heaters are on the other side of the woods; we had to lay down a huge
amount of insulated pipe to make sure the water didn't get cold before
arriving, and there's even a pre-heater to ensure the water in the pipes
stays warm." We stood at the entrance flap and he reached in to push a
button.

   "It's all controlled from a single panel," he noted as the shower heads
started their rainfall.  The water cascaded down, hitting the rock floor
and just melted away while overspray hit the rock hoppers and started the
steaming.  "The drains are under the rocks, there's holes in the grout that
prevent any puddling," he explained as we watched.  Wow, that certainly
worked.  Huge for one person, which I noted.  "Community showers aren't
something that is unusual at a camp, and you'll soon become the most
important person, since you'll control what happens at the village.  I
advise you to make a bit of a schedule to assure some time for staff to use
it, lest there come a riot."

   The next stop was the hot tub lodge, with lighted whirlpool and a
projector that tossed up stars on the inside.  "Day or night, it is as if
you're out in the middle of nowhere.  A second favorite; hopefully we can
get permission to build a second set somewhere else on the property, though
I'm not sure that it would improve productivity.  Morale, yes."

   The third lodge was set up as a bathroom, with toilets along the sides
in a circle, and in the center a basin for washing.  Privacy panels of
canvas separated each toilet from the neighbors, and it appeared that there
were curtains that could be slid across the front of each 'stall.' I again
nodded approval and we went to the sleeping lodge, which was to become my
home for the summer.

   I noticed a fire ring and stones that were just the right height for
sitting.  "They took the inspiration of tribal council and made it so that
if someone was so inclined, there could be storytelling around the fire. 
There are enough 'seats' to hold one group, or with the use of the planks
stacked in back, it can expand to hold up to four groups.  I nodded,
knowing that the camp viewed a 'group' as eight guests.  He showed me that
the large stone next to where Jeff Probst would be comfortable held various
audio/visual equipment, as well as the controls to the fire.

   The sleeping lodge was set up with a huge futon that would be my bed (or
the home for a rather large, if not close, family) and four other futons to
hold an entire group, should the need arise.  Cabinets separated each of
the futons to hold whatever I needed, or the group needed.  The back frame
of my futon concealed a fridge and small microwave for snacks, as well as a
wet bar and the controls for the lodge's fire pit.

   Behind was my 'garage' and 'tool shed' which concealed my electric
vehicle for traversing to and from the cookhouse, as well as additional
storage for any activities I wished to hold or demonstrate.

   All in all, it was a dream.  HGTV could go shove their contest; this was
amazing.  He grinned and asked me what I thought of the place.  "It's
marvelous," I confided.  I was still a bit speechless - I gave wacky ideas,
these people actually made them work.  The sleep lodge ended up being a
thirty-two footer and dominated the glade, the other tipis were of the
twenty-four footers I originally outlined.  To be honest, I wanted to ditch
the leader of the camp, dive into the shower, and then relax in the hot
tub, then try out my bed.

   Turned out that my guide was eager to get back to his work; the cowboy
town was coming along but had a lot more construction, being as they had to
make buildings as well as plumbing, and he showed me where my computer and
telephone were and beat a hasty retreat.

   I put down my luggage on one of the unused futons and considered the
setup.  I admit, I felt greedy; I didn't really want to share the setup
with anyone.  But first things first, I could really use a shower.  I
changed into a robe and wandered over to the shower, pushing the button on
the panel and noting that there was a 'dry' area near the door with bins to
hold clothing.  I tossed my robe in, found the soap dispensers and enjoyed
probably the best shower of my life.  Billows of soft steam shifted through
the water which was just right and wow, I loved it.  I finished and went to
turn off the waterworks, noting a button that indicated 'dry'.  I punched
off the shower and pushed dry, and was dazzled by the columns of warm dry
air that started coming from all around the lodge.

   I was dry just about as fast as the rest of the lodge was and slipped
into my now warmed robes to head over to the whirlpool.  Some
investigations there turned up a fridge with a selection of beers and soft
drinks, a slide out mini-bar with a selection of harder liquiors as well as
an audio jukebox with a pretty good selection of music.

   *>

   Well lubricated with a bit of booze, well warmed by the whirlpool, and
mentally refurbished by the music and star display, I returned to the
sleeping lodge.  A note on my couch/bed indicated I was invited to dine
tonight with the camp leader, and there was a light flashing on my new camp
laptop.  Opening it, I found out that I had some voicemails welcoming me to
the camp, a full map of the grounds, e-mail requests to 'borrow' my shower
and bath, choices for tonight's menu, and other various digital
housekeeping chores.

   The laptop had a box on the desktop as a shortcut to dump music onto the
deck in the whirlpool, another for the 'council fire' and a third for the
village itself.  I pulled out the laptop I had brought, an embarrassment
compared to the one I was given, and started dumping my collection into the
proper piles.  I then grabbed the shiny keys to my 'car' and enjoyed the
music of the village as I walked around the lodge.

   The electric vehicle was a blast to drive, with enough pep to make the
journey fun, but not so much that I had to worry about belts.  Signs
clearly marked different regions of the camp and where places were and I
soon arrived at the leader's cabin.

   I thought I had luxury?  If a quarter million wasn't spent inside those
logs, I'll eat my shorts, even dirty ones.  It was an open layout designed
in quarters - Office, dining area, sitting and reading area and sleeping
area.  Formal casual would be the best description; muddy boots would be as
welcome as loafers, though the mud would be embarrassed.

   The table was set for dinner, and the salad and soup already laid out. I
apologized for being late (I must be if things are already prepared) and he
waved it off.  "I set them out when your car was pulling up; all vehicles
have a radio tag that can be tracked." He waved over to the office with the
many LCD screens.  "My staff, as I like to refer to those computerized
monsters, notified me that you were nearly here, what the meeting was
about, and how long it was expected to last." He leaned forward and spoke
quietly, "I'm the slave to them; they control everything about my life,
when I'm supposed to be somewhere, and for how long." He lifted a wrist and
showed me his wristwatch.  "They're linked to this display as well, giving
me a quiet buzz when it is time to move onto my next task."

   Fair complexion, curly dark hair, and likely a profile chosen shortness,
the 5'8" director pretended to be the prisoner in the gilded cage.  We sat
down at the table and made light talk over the salad and soup courses, a
chime noting to change to the entree, and another chime to indicate desert
was called for.  The food and wine completed my earlier relaxation and I
joined him in a chuckle as the chime indicated it was time to go to the
seating area to converse.

   "Your staff really does control all," I noted lightly.  "Will they be
chiming in as to what topics to discuss?"

   He laughed and shook his head, "No, or rather, yes - they already
determined what I needed to speak to you about.  I'm half surprised that
they don't require me to read everything off of a hand held screen." He
picked up a remote and aimed it at a large plasma display, pushing the
button to awaken it.  The screen came to life with a map of the camp, then
it zoomed in on the village and cowboy areas.

   "Work is progressing fast on the ranch," he said, pushing a button to
zoom in on the overview area.  "The cookhouse is completed and will be
staffed in a couple days," he said, as the display matched to show interior
views, shots of the kitchen and larder.  As he went through each part of
the ranch, the display changed to keep up, marking off percentage of
completion, estimated dates, and proposed staffing.

   I nodded, for the most part, with little to say.  I had outlined the
ideas and lined up people to complete the task, and if the shots were to
believed, everything was progressing properly.  Well, actually, ahead of
schedule.

   He brought up my budget for beads and supplies, encouraging me to order
first, figure out what to do with it later.  A bit wasteful, but this
wasn't the type of place that bothered counting change.

   He paused, looking at the remote for a moment, and I made appropriate
noises about making sure I ordered to fill my budget.  His watch chimed, as
if goading him, and he picked up the remote and once again aimed it at the
screen.  A click and my booking photo was up there.

   "Where did you get that," I said, my face draining of any color.  My
past had been expunged, or so I had thought.

   He shrugged.  "Staff research; they got it from someone who had it." A
couple more clicks went through police reports, booking sheets, and hand
written notes.  If there was a past I never wanted brought up again, this
was it.  Soon followed the pictures of the children I had molested.

   I slumped.  "I'll go pack," I said bleakly.  He shook his head, and I
didn't have the energy to do anything, much less argue.

   "Twelve accusers," he said as soon as the display was done, his words
popping up on the screen.  "Boys, girls, ages from 11 to 19.  Charges
ranged from statuary rape to sodomy with a foreign object.  Oral copulation
with a minor.  Exposure.  Not one trial, not one conviction.  No guilty
pleadings.  Under most circumstances, all told, the charges leveled against
you would mean you'd live in a jail for the rest of your life." The screen
displayed 185 years in jail.

   "Yet," he continued, the screen changing, "when we did a standard
background check, we got back none of this." The words 'No Record Found'
appeared on the screen.  "The reply was curious; if there's nothing in
someone's record, it usually just tosses back 'No File' or something
similar.  Sealed juvenile records are usually indicated by 'No Record
Available.' Yet you had a record, and it wasn't there anymore.  A curious
thing."

   Images switched to show people talking to young adults, a couple of
obvious reporters, the sheriff who arrested me, now retired.

   "We checked with your family doctor, there's no evidence that your
daughter has been molested.  I'm curious, Mr.  Fastcat, everyone knows that
pedophiles are never cured; how is it that your child has escaped your
clutches?"

   How does one respond to such a question?  I didn't know, which was
pretty much what I said.  "It just never happened."

   "Your daughter, or all these?" he asked, as images played across the
screen.  "Most of the young adults; well, you knew them as children, would
admit to you having been charged.  Not one leveled a complaint against you.

   "I told the prosecutor he should file child pornography charges against
the reporter," I replied, my voice having a bit of a mechanical flat tone.
"I'd best go pack; I don't think I belong here."

   "Sit, stay, be good man," was the reply.  "I'm not showing this to you
as blackmail, or to compel you to resign.  I am asking that you help me
understand what happened."
   **> End of Part One <**