Lister nervously sat down. He was faced with Dogmeat Marone, a sight that could put anybody off his lunch. His parole officer was a frightening sight. From the large, jagged scar that ran down his face, to the crisply, almost painfully clean and starched uniform that he wore, it was apparent that Marone was one bad mother...
Who liked to crochet.
Lister threw the officer a wan smile. Dogmeat looked Lister over like he was a small fish that had, one week previously, winged it's way to the land where dead fish were eternally welcome.
After a moment of awkward silence, Lister cleared his throat and said, "So, what's on the agenda, mate? Do I have to tell you all about me mum and how I wanted to kill me dad and all... that... smeg..." He trailed off. Dogmeat was staring at him, with murder in his eyes.
The officer said gravelly, "No. I'm not a p-uh-sigh-key-a-trist." He actually pronounced every single syllable. "I'm just the dude who's going to make your life a living hell for the next six months."
Lister gulped, and unconsciously sank a little further down in his chair.
Dogmeat stood up abruptly, manilla folder in hand, and circled around the table so he was standing over Lister. Then, he slapped the folder down on the table, bent forward at the waist and gripped Lister's jacket by the lapels, and pulled him up out of the chair. Then he threw him back down and said, "You sit up straight when you're in the room with me, you hear me, scumbag?"
Lister tried not to faint. "Yes sir," he replied in a squeek.
"Good! Now I've just one thing to say to you, banana breath. . ." He trailed off, pinning Lister with a stare that could have peeled the paint off of the wall.
His brain had decided that NOW was a really great time to say, Well, tough break man. I'll see you later, I'm running off to Baja. Lister could only widen his eyes in fear.
Dogmeat inched closer to Lister's face and said in a growl, "Do you have a light, man?"
"Do I what?"
And Dogmeat burst out laughing.
"Oh, man, you should have seen the look on your face! It was classic!" And with that confusing remark, Marone pulled a dishevelled pack of cigarettes out of his breast pocket and proffered it towards Lister. "Do'yer smoke?"
"Yeah, but. . ."
"Great!" Marone pulled out two smokes and handed one to Lister. Lister took it, trying to cover the way his hand was shaking. He failed. Marone looked at him and said, "Oh man! What a jape! You looked like you were gonna wet yer pants!"
"I think I did," responded Lister. He lit the cigarette and took a long, nerve steadying pull. What the smeg was that all about, anyway? Lister thought.
Marone must have seen the look on his face, and answered the unspoken question. "Sorry 'bout that, man. It's my way of testing the waters. A real bastard usually tries to out 'badass' me. You didn't. So you pass. No hard feelings, eh?" He extended his slab of a hand and grasped Lister in a finger-cruncher of a handshake. "Security Officer Vandross 'Dogmeat' Marone."
"Dave Lister, Third Technician." Lister pulled his hand away and sureptitiously massaged it.
"Yeah, I know. Nice to have a real face to put to the name. Your picture don't do you justice." He picked up the folder and opened it, so Lister could see his photograph. He looked like something the cat had dragged in in it. He remembered when that photo had been taken. He'd just come off shore leave, and was so hung over that he couldn't even remember Peterson's name. He'd called him Roger.
Lister looked up with a grin. "So what are we to do, eh? Seriously this time, all right?"
Marone returned the grin. "I just gotta take a blood sample, make sure that you ain't doing any illegal subsances, re-scan your retinas, take your fingerprints, get your inseam measurements..."
Lister boggled at the security man. "Whoa, whoa. You gotta take me inseam?!"
"Nah. Just joshing."
Lister glared at Marone. Marone held his stare. Lister blinked first. "Ha. I win," giggled the big man.
Lister could tell that this was going to be a loooong day. . .
Hollister settled back down in her chair, manilla folder open in hand. She started flipping through it again, a shit-eating grin on her face. Rimmer could only stare at her. After a long pause, he finally got his vocal cords back under control.
"What?"
"I'm. Your. Pah-role. Off-eh-cer." She enunciated every sound, like she was speaking to a mentally challenged child.
Rimmer ignored the insult to his intelligence and went for the direct assault. "How? You hardly look old enough to vote, let alone be an officer!" We winged her, captian! Permission to go back for another try?
"RHP," she answered, taking evasive manouvers.
"RHP?" Incoming!
"Relatives Have Privilages." Fire main gun. "Being the only and especially beloved neice of the captain does wonders for a couple of failing marks. Shame you never thought of that." Direct hit! Man the bilge pumps, we're taking on water!
Now this was too much. Here, embodied in the plump figure sitting before him, was everything Rimmer despised about the Space Corps specifically and about life in general. She had all the lucky breaks he never did. Relations in the Corps, a privilaged background, a good education, a good sharp mind, youth... and... beauty.
Oh yes. Rimmer admitted to himself that she was beautiful. Under that ridiculous get-up was a woman who was quite beautiful. If he were a poet, and in a better mood, he might compare her eyes to a sea at storm, her hair to the yellowest corn, her skin to a bottle of cream. But he wasn't a poet, so as it was he rather compared her eyes to a wet rat's fur, her hair to jaundice and her skin to a tin of yogurt.
It really was unfortunate that her personality was so nasty to boot.
Hollister didn't notice Rimmer's long stare, as she was too busy glancing through his file.
"So, you stole top secret personal information, used it to try to smarm my uncle into promoting you. . ."
"I did not smarm him!"
She shot him a cold glance. "If your middle name wasn't Judas, it would be Smarmy. Now shut up. I am talking." Rimmer pursed his lips together, which made him look like he was sucking a lemon. Hollister continued, "And when you were caught, you tried to pass the buck off on Lister, who, if his story is to be believed, is actually totally innocent of any information theft. Yes?"
Rimmer remained silent. After a good ten seconds, which were filled with them glaring at each other, she continued again. "You were in the Canaries?"
Rimmer remained silent. She raised an eyebrow at him and said, "Real mature, Mr. Rimmer. I suggest that you cooperate. I can send your ass back to Floor 13 like that." She snapped her fingers on the last word.
Rimmer sighed. "Yes."
"Yes what? You want me to send you back to Floor 13?"
"Yes, I mean no! I was in the smegging Canaries."
Hollister leaned forward. She dug a pristine pack of cigarettes out of the side pocket of her cargo shorts, took a smoke out of the pack and lit it up. She didn't offer one to Rimmer. Which annoyed him. Well, yes, I would have turned her down, but she could have at least asked! he thought.
"Mr. Rimmer, I highly reccomend that you drop the attitude. It does you no good." Rimmer bit back his comment, which was something along the lines of You first, you little bitch. She went on, "If I wanted to, I could make your life a living hell for the next six months. But I'd prefer not to go there." She took a drag on the ciggie. "I'm actually a very nice person, all reports to the contrary not withstanding."
Marone moved forward and wrapped a strap around Lister's upper arm, and was fiddling with the bulb attached by a long, rubber tube. Marone was taking Lister's blood pressure. Lister spoke up and said, "Hey, what's that thingy called anyway? The blood pressure taker, I mean?"
"The blood pressure taker machine?" grinned Marone.
Lister rolled his eyes. Forget a long day, this was going to be a long six months.
Now, two of Rimmer's left fingers were held in small metal clamps, and there were two diodes attached to his upper bicep. "What's this for?"
Hollister tilted her head at Rimmer. "Polygraph. Now try not to get too nervous. Or I'll think you're lying through your teeth. Which you probably are." She glared at him as she pulled out a sheet of paper the length of her arm. It was covered with questions. Rimmer noticed the first one had to do with Communism, of all things.
Rimmer rolled his eyes. This was getting ridiculous.
"Are you now, or have you ever been a member of the Communist Party?" Marone sat back in his chair, giggling softly to himself.
Lister began to realize that this bloke was several sandwiches short of a picnic. "Awwright, that does it. . ." he began, pulling on the clamps on his right hand. Marone cut him off, placing a beefy hand over Lister's, all gaiety gone from his face.
"You gotta answer all these questions. And don't touch those again, Lister. I like you, and I'd hate to see you get electrocuted."
Lister yanked his hand away, his mouth dropping in amazement. "Say what? Electrocuted?"
"Yeah," answered Marone. "Basic security measure. You try to escape from this room, or do anything unauthorized, you'll get a nasty little jolt." Suddenly, Marone's entire demeanor changed. Glancing down at his hands, he squirmed uncomfortably. Then Lister watched in flabbergasted shock as Marone reached behind himself and pulled up a tangle of pink and baby blue yarn and a crochet hook. He looked almost furtive, as this were a nasty habit that you had to hide from your Mum.
He began to crochet.
Lister sat, mesmerised, watching the hook wrap round, and through and over and under the yarn, making knots. Marone didn't even glance over at the list of questions at the table. As if he was doing it from memory.
"Are you now, or have you ever been, a member of the Communist Party?"
"No."
Hollister was filing her nails, the very picture of boredom. She did not look at the list. "Can you whistle Dixie?"
"What?" asked Rimmer. "No. What a stupid. . ."
"Is your mother's name Marie?"
"No." That question made more sense, but was still damn stupid.
"Which came first, the chicken or the egg?"
"I don't know! Look, you're making these up, aren't you?" With that, Rimmer yanked the clamps off his fingers.
As soon as the clamps left his skin, he felt the force of several dozen volts fly up through his arm, across his chest, and run the hundred metre dash around the track of his body. It was as if he'd been hit with a tazer. He slumped to the floor, still shaking from the jolt. Trying to figure out how it had been done, he realized stupidly that he'd not removed the diodes from his bicep at the same time, and had closed a circuit, or something. And then he hated his brain for calling up such inane trivia when he was in such considerable pain.
Hollister didn't say a word, she just put down her emery board, stood up, crossed over to Rimmer's limp form and clamped the device back onto Rimmer's fingers. Then, she hauled him bodily back into the chair. Rimmer weighed at least 190 pounds, and Hollister slid in under 130. She's strong! thought Rimmer through a haze of agony. She sat back down at her chair. She said, "Whenever you're ready, Mr. Rimmer."
It took a moment for Rimmer to regain his senses, and when he did, he gasped out, "You could've warned me."
"What, and spoil my fun?" She picked up the nail file and began on her left middle finger, which was obscenely high and alone and aimed at Rimmer.
"Which came first, the chicken or the egg?"
The questions went on for several hours. The gist of them were, basically, to make sure that the parolee wasn't psychotic, deranged, unstable or a pathalogical liar. They were to get a general feel of the workings of the minds of the freed prisoners.
When they were finally over, Lister felt as if he'd run a marathon in 105 degree heat and near 100 percent humidity. He was sweating, shaking, and breathing hard. He felt totally drained. He could only imagine what Rimmer had gone through with the captain.
"So, Lister, who's your big eared mate across the hall?"
"That's Rimmer. He's got the captain, right?"
"The captain? Naw, mate, he got Hippolyta Hollister. She's one nasty little slitch. Don't cross her."
Lister couldn't believe his ears. Marone thought someone was tougher than himself? Then it hit him. "Wait, hang on? Rimmer's parole officer is a woman? That bastard!"
Marone gaped at Lister. "He's a bastard, all right. A miserable one, unless I miss my guess." Marone leaned in and said, "Look, she's had ten prisoners in the last three months. Of those ten, three are re-incarcerated and four others went space crazy. The other three are too scared to talk about her. I hope your friend likes prison food, because odds are he's sure to be eating a lot more of it."
"No way, eh? She wouldn't just up and re-can him for no reason?"
"That woman is so cold that she makes the Arctic look like a temperate zone. She's so tough that she could fight a rabid wolverine, and win hands down. She's so mean that if you lay dying in the street, she'd kick you in the ribs for being in her way in the crosswalk."
Lister tried very hard to feel bad for Rimmer. He managed a small twinge of pity, but that was it. Really, it was Rimmer's fault after all that they landed in prison in the first place. And would it really be so smegging bad to get rid of Rimmer once and for all?
Yeah, it would. Damn it, when did he turn out to have a real concience? "Well, is there anything you could do? I mean, get him re-assigned, maybe?
Marone looked at Lister out of the corners of his eyes. "I can't promise anything, Dave. Look, keep your nose clean, and I'll see what I can do." Marone stood up, cracked his back, and handed Lister a small silver dangly thing. It looked like a miniature pocket watch. "You wear this at all times, right? Like round your belt, or summit. It helps me keep track of you. If you ever need to get in touch with me, or vice versa, just turn it on like this," Marone toggled the dial on the side, "Talk into it and I'll come a-running."
"This isn't going to be too intrusive, is it?" asked Lister, toggling it back off, with his mind on the liasons that he had with Kochanski were sure to have later. He definitely didn't want any interuptions duing those little outings!
"Naw, mate. I'll only contact you if there's any problems, and I don't expect any from you. You're a good bloke, Lister. You'll be just fine."
Lister got the impression that Marone was saying this for his own benefit. Then Lister realized he had it all wrong. Marone was saying this to warn Lister. To tell him subtly that if he ever stepped out of line, the officer would be all over him like a cheap suit.
Lister nodded, and made his way towards the door. Marone fell in behind him.
Rimmer felt the hours of his life slipping away like the proverbial sand through the proverbial glass. He was positive that Hollister had asked him the same question at least three times. Maybe she had. She was such a little brat that she could very well be doing it to spite him.
Finally, it was over. She glanced at him and said, "There now. That wasn't too bad, was it?"
Rimmer could only moan. His vocal cords were shot. How she managed to sound so fresh, so pristine after hours of interogation was beyond him. And she was a smoker, too! She suddenly smiled, which instead of making Rimmer feel more cheeful, depressed him immensely. She said, "This is for you." She handed him a silver thing that looked like a pocket watch, only much smaller. "I will be making surprise inspections. Consider yourself lucky that I warned you. I usually don't. But I think I like you, Mr. Rimmer."
Rimmer could only imagine what she did to people she hated. Maybe she just shot them.
"So off you go, 'Mi'laddo.'" she said, doing a spot on impression of Rimmer's voice. "Don't let your soup get cold." She added the last with another one of her shit-eating grins.
"That was just mean," whined Rimmer. He knew that she was refering to the Gazpacho soup incident.
"Life is mean, Mr. Rimmer. Get used to it." She stood up and grasped Rimmer's hand, intent on helping him up, showing him out.
At that moment, he felt a thrill of something like electricity run through him. He thought for a second that he was being shocked again, but then he saw the look on her face. She looked genuinely startled, as if her whole world had suddenly gone from black and white to blinding technicolor.
As for Rimmer, he felt as if the Universe took a left turn. She was holding his hand. She was holding his hand, and he was enjoying it. And from the look of her, she was enjoying it too.
She had touched him hours before, when she had pulled him back into the chair. But that was a touch that was only appropriate in an ambulance. There had been no thrill there, no spark of recognition.
Like there was now.
Then, suddenly, she yanked her hand away. She blinked for a moment, and shook her head to clear the cobwebs away. Then she said, "I'll see you to the door."
Coldly. Aloofly. As if the last thirty seconds had never happened.
Rimmer adopted her attitude. He couldn't possibly let her see the whirlwind of emotion that was blowing through his mind. "I can see myself out, thanks."
"Fine. Have a nice evening, Rimmer. I'll be checking up on you soon." She stalked out of the room before him, leaving Rimmer in her tobacco scented wake.
But he noticed that she had dropped the "Mister" off of his name.