Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 The Re-educator 01

   By Katzmarek

   (Part 1)

   Hammond carefully pinched out the contents of the cigarette ends into
his tin.  This was a good haul and would keep him going for a few days. 
There was perhaps enough to swap with the other down-and-outers outside the
mission.  Yes, he was quite pleased with himself.

   The bar had always provided rich pickings.  It was one of the few that
didn't lock up their trash behind wrought iron gates topped with spikes. 
He didn't need any more tears in his Salvation Army provided clothes.

   He took a last survey of the back alley, just to make sure he hadn't
missed anything valuable, and made his way back to the street with his tin
full of dank, smelly, pre-owned tobacco.

   The alley opened on to King George Street, one of the main uptown
shopping districts.  It was glittering with the signs of frenzied commerce.
Respectably dressed people thronging past, and in, extravagantly decorated
shops, frantically buying those last minute presents before Christmas.

   As he made his way down the street, everyone called it KG, the shoppers
parted like the Red Sea around him.  Occasionally someone would glance
pitiably at him, but most just looked away, prescribing an arc in his or
her progress.

   Hammond hated KG and all the streets like it.  It reminded him of what
he'd once been, or still could have been, if he hadn't been fired.  Sure,
he'd embezzled a few grand from the Company but it was sweet revenge for
the way they'd treated him.  The resentment had built up over the two years
since he'd been shafted by that bloody manager until finally, he'd worked
out a scheme to get his own back.

   So how was an Accountant going to find work after being canned for
embezzlement?  Word got around pretty fast and soon he couldn't get any
work.

   So it was the meagre unemployment benefit, the cheap boarding house and
meals at the city mission.

   "Hey Prof.'," Doc' yelled at him when he arrived outside the mission
building, "I've got something you might like."

   Hammond followed the old tramp around the back of the building.  He
wished folks would use his real name but they called him `Prof.', because
of his glasses, and `Prof.' it became.

   "Look!" the old man, said, "interested?"

   `Doc' extracted a cigar from his bundle and showed it to Hammond.

   "This old guy stops next to me... big limo it was... he passes it to me
out the window... says `merry Christmas'... you want to trade?"

   "Sure," said Hammond, "what do you want?"

   "That old flask you have... the shiny one... I like that."

   Hammond took out his old hip flask.  He'd found it in a trash can and
taken a fancy to it.  He handed it to `Doc'.

   "Done," he said.

   `Doc' ran his fingers over the chrome flask, caressing it, a smile broke
over his grubby, wrinkled face.

   "Shiny... very shiny," Doc' said, wandering off.

   Hammond stood in the dim light at the back of the Mission and took out
his old lighter.  With a smile of pleasure he puffed on the long
`Churchill'.  Blowing a smoke ring into the still night, he said to
himself,

   "Havana... hand-rolled... Manzanillo, if I'm not mistaken." He prided
himself on his knowledge of the finer things of life.

   On the other side of town, and a world away from Hammond, a sleek
limousine pulled into the driveway of a large mansion.  It paused while the
ornate high gate slid aside, then whisked its occupant towards the
Romanesque porticullo.

   The chauffeur sprang from the driver's door and stood rigidly as Harriet
alighted.

   "Thank you Frederic, that will be all tonight.  I have the hairdresser's
at eleven then you may go home to your family."

   "Yes ma'am, than you ma'am," the chauffeur replied and closed the door
with a soft click.



   As she climbed the three steps the elaborate door swung open to reveal
the bowing figure of her Butler.

   "Good evening ma'am," he said.

   "Thank you Graham," Harriet said, nodding at the man, "I think you can
lock up... has Georgette gone to bed?"

   "Yes ma'am, Mr.  Tempsky is in the parlour."

   "Thank you."

   Harriet believed in treating the staff in a civil manner.

   Having finished his meal at the City Mission, Hammond decided to seek
treatment for an infected cut he'd received in last night's forage.  The
only free clinic available, nowadays, was the `People's Health Centre,'
down near the docks.  This had recently been set up by the Communist Party
and was staffed with volunteers.

   The old public health service had long been sold off to private
enterprise.  Although subsidies were available to the unemployed, costs had
outpaced those to the point where many still couldn't afford minor medical
treatment.  Until, of course, the Party stepped into the breach.

   The only problem at the Health Centre was, having to wait.  It was
always busy, day and night.  It took him an hour before the doctor saw him.
While he waited he began to talk to some of the young Party activists that
always hovered around.  Young types with fire in their eyes and passion in
their hearts that would bore the crap out of him as long as he waited.

   "Property is theft," the young guy was saying, "rocks are worth nothing
in the ground.  It's the workers who provide those rocks with value with
their sweat and the ruling class who get rich."

   It was a message he'd heard a thousand times before, but this time
something snapped.  He was bored to death with life.  He was resentful
towards wealth and privilege and this democracy really was only a sham. 
He'd had enough living from day to day and living off the crumbs of the
rich.  It was time to change society.

   During the next year Hammond rose quickly through the Party hierarchy to
become Branch Secretary.  He was a natural organiser and his accountancy
and managerial skills stood him in good stead.  He soon gained the respect
of those above him.

   Society was beginning to unravel for both Harriet and Hammond, but it
would have diametrically opposite effects for each of them.

   For Hammond, the global economic crisis brought unprecedented support
for the revolutionary movement and the Party became a major player in the
political scene.

   For Harriet, it brought her husband's companies to the brink of
bankruptcy and their personal fortunes began to tumble.  Strikes at the
factories were finishing off the work of the worldwide depression.



   5 years later Harriet and her 13 year old daughter Georgette lined up
with all the other women and girls as they alighted from the buses.  They
stood staring at the bleak surroundings and barbed wire that would be their
home for the next year.

   They had been told that `re-education' would require a year but Harriet
had a foreboding that they would never be allowed to leave or see Mr. 
Tempsky, her husband, ever again.

   The camp guards were a mixture of women and men, all wore the same
shapeless, olive fatigues.  Their caps all displayed the red star.  Each
guard had a sub-machine gun slung over their shoulder.

   Harriet noted what must be the officers.  Their uniforms had a better
fit and each carried a collar patch denoting their rank.  She particularly
noted a rather average looking man wearing cavalry boots with rather more
stars on his patch than any of the others.  He carried a riding crop that
he tapped impatiently on his left leg.  His glasses made him look like a
jumped-up bank clerk.

   Harriet didn't like his eyes, or rather the way he was scanning the
crowd of women and girls.  It seemed to her that he was like a farmer
appraising a heard of cattle.  As his eyes drifted towards her she decided
to stare right back at him.  She hoped she would show this bank clerk that
she, Harriet Tempsky, wasn't going to be intimidated.

   Hammond and Harriet stared at each other for an uncomfortable period of
time.  Harriet poured as much hatred as she could into her stare and at
first it startled the Camp Commandant.  Hammond's face finally broke into a
grin,

   `That one's going to be fun,' he thought to himself.

   Later, Hammond read through the personal files on the new intake.  He
stopped at Harriet and her daughter's and read it carefully.

   `Harriet Tempsky,' he said to himself, `husband, Theodore Tempsky...
steelworks... shipping... government adviser to industry... insurance
brokerage... retail chains... hell!  Personal fortune estimated at 1.3
billion... or was,' he noted, smugly.  `Harriet... various charities...
tennis club... school committee... living the life of the idle rich.' He
set the file aside.

   The attached photo showed a rather imperious face of a woman in her
mid-forties.  She was staring at the camera in the same manner she'd tried
to stare him down outside earlier.  Defiance, hatred perhaps arrogance, it
touched his nerves, reminding him of the way his managing director looked
at him the day he was fired.  He had the word, disdain, yes, that was it,
disdain!

   He read the daughter's file,

   `Georgette Tempsky, silly capitalist name,' he thought, ` 13 years
old... private girl's school... pony club... oh boy, has she come down in
the world.'

   Hammond stared at the photo of Georgette for a time.  He noted the
bewildered, rabbit eyes straining to look down, away from the camera.  He
could picture the cameraman demanding she look up into the lens for the
photo.  She was hoping that this was a nightmare and she would wake up soon
and the nanny was bending down to her, comforting her, telling her that
everything was all right.  Hammond decided that she was the key to the
mother.

   He set the files aside, marking them, HOLD.

   `Let them stew for a while,' he said to himself, `listening to the camp
rumours.'

   During lunch with his fellow officers the talk was on that afternoon's
initiations.  This program was especially devised by Hammond and proved
very popular with the camp staff.  This was the beginning of the `breaking
in,' the humiliation of the internees to make them pliable and receptive.
Indoctrination would only start after their capitalist airs and graces had
been hammered out of them.

   `The stick and the velvet glove,' Hammond liked to say.

   In truth, Hammond loved the power and control he had over these people.
He could do pretty much whatever he liked short of execution, which would
require a tribunal.

   "Shall we get started?" he announced to his officers.

   Many were grinning as they left the officer's messroom.

   Two guards brought the first batch of 5 to the punishment room.  The
confused looks of the internees turned to fear as they saw the range of
whips and canes hanging on a rack on one wall.  In the middle of the room a
leather belt hung down with two leather straps attached to the end.

   The women had already changed into sweats and pants and it seemed that
the prettiest had been selected first.  Two guards and three officers were
present, 3 women, 2 men as well as Hammond himself.

   Wordless, Hammond nodded to the guards and they brought the first
candidate forward.  She was a blond in her late twenties, slim and pale,
her braless boobs wobbled as she was escorted to the middle of the room.

   "Sarah Rowntree, 10 strokes," Hammond announced formally.

   The two guards strapped her wrists to the leather belt in the middle of
the room while a woman officer selected a cane from the rack on the wall.

   The woman emitted a frightened, whimpering noise and looked likely to
burst into tears.  Hammond hoped she would, he liked it when they cried.

   The woman guard glanced at Hammond and he nodded in reply.  She went
behind the woman and snatched down her pants.

   The internees gasped and someone said,

   "Oh god, no!"

   "SILENCE!" yelled Hammond, sternly, "LISTEN, you have all been judged
criminals by the Revolutionary Tribunals.  You all deserve stiff prison
sentences, but we are humane people, unlike yourselves.  I hope you will
all become good citizens but you must atone for your past behaviour.  This
will remind you that you are no longer in control.  You must pay close
attention to what is happening.  If you turn away I will see and note your
name.  Then you will receive twice, I repeat TWICE the punishment.  Do I
make myself clear?"

   The women looked at him with fearful expressions, silent.

   "DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?" he repeated, loudly.

   Some nodded, some said `yes,' in small, frightened voices.

   Satisfied, Hammond ordered the punishment to commence.

   Sarah Rowntree shivered in fear and embarrassment.

   "You don't need..." she started to say in a little voice.

   The Lieutenant leant forward, flexing her cane and spoke to her,

   "You will count off each time until 10, firmly so I can hear you.  Don't
twist and move about or it will be worse for you, understand?"

   "Please don't... I haven't done anything..." Sarah whimpered.

   Hammond sat down at the desk in the corner of the room.  He always got
noticeably aroused at these times and he used the desk to hide his
erection.

   Some of the women were looking at him through the corners of their eyes,
not wanting to be caught not paying attention.  As Hammond scanned them
they hurriedly looked to the front.  He loved the game.

   The Lieutenant extravagantly lined up Sarah's pale, round bottom.  She
made sure to brush the cane lightly over her cheeks watching them flex in
anticipation.  Staring fixedly at a spot on the swell of her quivering
cheeks she swung the cane back.  Hesitating for a second she then brought
it down with absolute accuracy right across the middle.

   It connected with a solid `SWACK' making the woman's arse ripple with
the impact.  Recoiling, Sarah shrieked in pain.

   "COUNT!" the Lieutenant demanded.

   Sarah was now sobbing loudly, the officer repeated the demand.

   "One," she said, barely audible.

   "LOUDER."

   "One," she said, louder.

   Hammond watched the faces of the other women as the officer prepared the
next cut of the cane.  They were in stunned silence.  He knew he'd had them
as soon as they entered the room and saw the implements on the wall.  This
was not much of a challenge.  He'd wish some of them would put up a fight
or go all-haughty on him.  This group was broken already.

   `SWACK', went the cane again.

   "OW... OH... two... ooohhh... (SWACK) OOOOWWWW... thr', three... ooo. 
(SWACK) OOOOOHHH... AAAHHHH... f' four..."

   By the time ten came up, Sarah was slumped in the hanging belt.  She had
no energy even to howl anymore and was just grunting as the last few
strokes came down.  Hammond was beginning to lose interest.  There comes a
point when it just becomes torture, the purpose already having been
achieved.

   The two guards took the woman down from the belt and escorted her to the
side room.  Hammond followed them.  The guards left her slumped over a
table, sobbing to herself.  She offered no resistance as he unzipped his
pants and took out his throbbing dick.

   As he slipped on a condom he watched the battered, red arse of the
woman. He grabbed her hips and thrust himself into her.  She just grunted
as he pounded away.