Chapter 2: Guilty by Sloth

DISCLAIMER #1: I don't own any of the comics mentioned.

DISCLAIMER #2: This story is about uncomfortable issues such as abuse in correctional facilities and the consequences of bad choices on the part of parent and child. If this sort of thing offends you, or you're the sort of person who can't watch an entire episode of Law and Order SVU, leave now. Hit the back button. We'll both be better off for it. You have been warned.

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Some people in charge find it easier to condemn than examine the facts- who needs the truth when you've got a scapegoat for your problems?

The scary part is it works all too well on too many people. Few people want to admit the problem goes beyond a few select persons, that it will take effort to remedy, or that maybe part of the problem looks back at them from the mirror every morning.

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"The one thing a minister of our justice must remember, as all of our members and those sympathetic to us must remember, is that we are not here to restore. We are not here to guide. We are not here to aid or help or comfort. These children of this day are evil from birth, and must be punished. Punishment is the primary purpose, Unquestioned Obedience second. Remodeling a child to fit our code so as to be acceptable in the new world we will bring is at best an ancillary goal, and only after careful consideration of a subject by our highest overseers is the process of neoidentification to be considered."

"This being said, there are, as said earlier, adults who are intrigued by our ideas and wish to become one of us. Wary as we must ever be of intruders and interlopers, Rod and Whip constantly needs new disciplinarians to usher in our ideals."

"This does not, however, give our members the authority to invite anyone they see swat or slap their child. In fact, parents are rarely if ever fit to wholly understand the virtues of perpetual punishment and may even sympathize with both captives and research subjects. More appropriate potential members are those who have taught and been dismissed for use of excessive force, those society has branded 'child molesters' or 'child abusers', those who society has cast out for being 'abusive' or 'violent'. These sorts of people understand all too well the repercussions that come about from a light-handed society, and, more often than not, are willing to learn what we teach."

-Rod and Whip Manual, Introduction

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Mary Gathwells did not consider herself an evil person.

When she began teaching at age 30 at a private, highly-religious Christian elementary school, she realized that pain was an excellent discipline tool, attention getter, and memory improver. It was also efficient- one did not need waste time explaining why a child was wrong when one could simply backhand or paddle them.

The pain was the explanation- if they had been doing what was right, she wouldn't have had to hit them.

Repercussions occurred when mistakes were made, and the repercussions had to be painful- she did not consider a student properly punished if they were limping, wincing, and sobbing inconsolably for several days. More often than not, her tools- belts, paddles, and her personal brew of insults and soul-shattering words she'd carefully formulate to break the spirit of her target got the desired effect. It was, she admitted, fun while it lasted.

Then the parents begin to complain. It was small at first, and she'd brushed it off as a single couple who did not see the beauty in the control she had. "There's idiots in EVERY group", she'd assured herself. They would learn to accept the consequences of their children's failures.

Then, multiple parents. Students rioting when she tried to punish a child in front of a class, screaming and yelling for help, teachers pulling her off of her target before blow ten…

And ten blows with a paddle did not suffice as sufficient punishment. No way, no how. But ruining a punishment session wasn't enough, no, the idiots went beyond taking away her control!

They called her a child abuser!

She'd made her rebuttal that she did not do such disgusting things, because she was in no way attracted to children- she wasn't a sicko, she was a disciplinarian! An artist of punishments! She'd explained that the more humiliating and debilitating a punishment session was, the less chance a child would repeat the sin! That the student's only choice was to accept the consequences!

Her words fell on unsympathetic juror ears, ears already clogged by the sobbing testimony of those she'd punished. Eyes blinded with tears of outrage as they viewed medical pictures depicting the injuries that were the result of her righteous discipline.

Were they all insane?! Punishment was supposed to leave permanent scars, permanent consequences for falling short in the judge's- that was her- eyes! Everlasting reminders to say "You fucked up, bad, and now you hurt forever. Don't do that again. Accept the consequences."

But not even the judge was sympathetic to her holy mission.

Ten years? In prison?

For doing her job?

What was it the principal had said during the trial? "We hired you to teach children- you humiliated them. We hired you to discipline them, if need be- you maimed them. We hired you to care for children- and you beat them to the point where they couldn't even sit for days at a time."

Educating them? Teaching them the sciences and arts? It was meaningless! The children of the day couldn't understand concepts of math and art and religion- generations of lax discipline had seen to that! What children needed- NEEDED!- was to be taught to accept the consequences doled out without question and with a contrite heart. To accept they are beyond redemption and thus must be punished.

Her first week in prison was not pleasant- the other inmates had been infected by the insanity spouted by those fools, and beat her to a pulp, breaking bones, her face… her beautiful judge's face was ruined…

She wondered if there was anyone who understood her methods.

Then, she'd found the society of the Rod and Whip. Or, was it more that they had found her?

And they had shown her the FLAW in her plan, humbling her. It was a moment of zen for her, a lightning bolt of clarity that tore apart the mist that had obscured her to the reasons others had rejected her plan.

It was not that she had gone too far. She hadn't gone far ENOUGH.

In refusing to kill them, she had shown weakness, and they, the ones who had condemned her, had attacked her for it. Like sharks drawn to bleeding prey. They did not lie to her, she would give Rod and Whip that. They had warned her that those willing to seek retribution on the monsters of the day would be seen as monsters themselves. They had told her upfront hers would have to be a quiet campaign at first.

"When the brats are cowed into obedience, when the world's children obey us not out of want of reward or fear of punishment, but simply because they are made to obey, then we can be open. Then they will see us as messiahs. Then we will be loved."

And so she'd begun. She'd started small, first. Her ideas flawed, her concepts outdated, Rod and Whip had to instruct her in the arts of finding her prey's weaknesses. They taught her psychology, to find the weak points in a youth's psyche and how to break them not just once, but many times over. They had her educated in physiology and anatomy- showing her pressure points where maximum pain could be inflicted, where crippling injuries could be delivered.

They weren't short on 'practice dummies', or the Rod and Whip's term for many of the children who were sent to the facility by their parents for discipline. Thanks to an entire team devoted to analyzing injuries and inventing creative explanations as to how the injury occurred due to the child's own fault, or the fault of another child, and yet another team devoted to ensuring prosecution would end in failure- by means legal or not- there was no need to pull any blows during research exercises.

She had her own room now- small, functional, a place to rest in between practice and her duties to Rod and Whip.

Finally, after all these years of trials and tribulations, she understood- if the children would not accept the consequences, she and Rod and Whip would bring consequences to them.

A page came over the intercom. Something about an assembly, commanding all personnel to drop all current activities and report.

Mary examined her face in the mirror. Once beautiful, once perfect, it now was a marred visage, torn apart by fist and foot and nail by fellow prisoners outraged over her righteous crusades.

Battle scars. No point in dwelling on them.

She walked briskly to the meeting room, already suspecting what the cause for the abrupt gathering was- recently a student had been signed up for the Rod and Whip's Boot camp façade, only to have met his parent's stipulations and got off scot-free. The agent responsible for the gathering did not follow protocol, getting himself arrested and casting suspicion on Rod and Whip's boot camp division. To make matters worse, the child in question had not shown fear, had not cowered, and now had posted criticisms of the boot camp ideal on the internet.

Other organizations might allow such babbling to go unquestioned, but Rod and Whip had strict protocol for such assaults on their name- Mary knew too well the danger letting small protests grow into large ones posed.

But she was not worried- from what she had been told, many had come before this boy- young and old- and their bodies were never found. The boy was a problem, yes- but a minor one- a stubborn pebble to be ground to dust underneath the march of the saints of Rod and Whip.

Death, she felt, would not be too harsh.

There were consequences for talking back.

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Calvin opened his eyes but a crack. 8:01 AM.

"Hobbes?"

A brief growl and movement of covers answered him.

"I didn't dream up that bit about graduating from school did I?"

"No."

"Then I don't have to get up, do I?"

"Not unless you keep yakking." Hobbes answered, clearly needing a solid 12 more hours of beauty sleep.

Calvin yawned. It wasn't a dream, and he didn't have to get up. He settled back in for more dreams in which he wielded a lightsaber and fought ninja-demons over lakes of molten lava…

Three explosions in succession made him clench his teeth and wince. At first he'd thought a small salvo of rockets had been launched into the side of his house. Then, as he realized that it was simply his grogginess amplifying the noise, he lifted his head up from under the covers.

"Morning sunshine!" his mom called as she entered.

Calvin gave what he hoped was a friendly mumble as she came in with some laundry.

"You intending to sleep through summer vacation?" she asked, regarding her son.

Calvin tried to open his eyes, and, when that failed, cleaned the sleep-dust off of them to allow himself to see. "Just give me five more millennia and I'll be up."

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Betty Halgins regarded Calvin with some concern momentarily, then dismissed it. The boy had busted his ass for the whole semester to get the grades- let him sleep. He had earned it in every sense of the word.

Her thoughts shifted back to yesterday, the intrusion by the Rod and Whip agent who had, despite protests, attempted to whisk Calvin off to the boot camp, and failing that attempted to assault him.

She and her husband had discussed the issue at length later that night, agreeing to file charges against the agent at least- if not Rod and Whip itself. Discipline was what she signed him up for had he not followed through, not brutality.

Had Calvin made mistakes? Certainly!

Had he been a brat as a kid? Undoubtedly!

Did he need a strong incentive to learn how to make it in this world? Absolutely!

Would they still have sent him to Rod and Whip had he not the grades? No, but they'd find someplace!

But hadn't he proven he could change from a brat to a better person? No question about it.

And for the agent to say that trying AND doing your best to be better didn't matter, that he should still be punished despite meeting expectations… that made no sense.

She wondered if, in his dreams, Calvin dreamed in hatred of her and his father for signing him up for such a brutal program.

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Fortunately, Calvin dreamt not dreams of telling off his parents or running away, but of soaring over a metropolis, wielding two katana made of solidified fire, fighting off ninja-robot-dragon-zombies with sword moves and bizarre metaphysical blasts of energy from his elbows.

"Calvinor," hissed one rotted draconic assailant. "How I have heard of you, the legendary "Tyrant Slaying Messiah of the Blazing Lotus"! You have had your day as the mightiest of warriors, but now the Clan of the Poisoned Steel-scaled dragon shall claim your head and fiery blades as our prize!"

Clad in red and black armor that was on fire for no reason (or, in this case, needed no reason to be aflame) Calvinor assumed a fighting stance, crimson trails of fire tracing the movements of his katana. "Sorrowfang… the infamous "Tiger-heart eating son of the demon king Homwurk". How am I not surprised you require an entourage of assassins to aid you in your futile endeavor to annoy me again? Have you not forgotten how it was I who bested Moemore the ogre with but a flick of the wrist when you set him upon me? What then gives you or your assassins reason to believe you stand more chance against me than a match-flame stands against the great tsunami, or the sapling before the iron axe?"

"Because this time, I have numbers! You may be able to see a hundred moves ahead by simply reading the breath of a man, you may be able to fight blinded and deafened with both arms bound and still win, but against multiple trained assassins not even you can stand forever!"

Calvinor shifted his foot ever so slightly, resting on a cloud as if it were solid stone. "So you and your clan have decided on mass suicide, then." He sneered, surveying the nine thousand and two ninja-robot-dragon-zombies who surrounded him in the air, forming a crude spherical barrier of bladed death between him and escape. "Fine then- come, and let your demise be a lesson to all- no injustice stands before Calvinor unscathed!"

The zombie dragon raised its left arm- a grenade launcher that shot hellfire bombs- to gesture at the crimson and jet clad samurai. "KILL HIM! RICHES AND PRESTIGE TO HE WHO MAKES HIM SCREAM THE LOUDEST!"

As the horde closed in on him, Calvinor sighed. Not out of concern for his life or limb, but because he did so hate to rain gore on the civilians. It was so impolite.

Outstretching his katana, Calvinor abruptly shifted his stance. "Forbidden death formula Delta- Liquid Sun Cyclone!" he scream, spinning round and around, his fiery blades slicing through the air…

CRASH.

Multiple queries raced through Calvinor's mind. Where did his katana go? Where'd the ninja-dragons head off to? And why, instead of soaring atop the clouds, was he face down in his bedroom carpet?

Peeling himself off the floor, he looked at the alarm clock on his dresser. 11 AM.

He stood, stretched, went over to his window and opened the blinds. Instantly the searing rays of the summer sun enveloped him. He would need to withdraw from the fiery embrace lest he bake eventually, but it felt good.

So this was what it meant to earn one's freedom.

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"What is the worst enemy Rod and Whip has to face? Some may say it is the judges who come down hard on our kind when discovered, labeling them dangers to society and locking them away forever if not executing them outright. Others may say it is the parents who shield their children from our Holy and Perfect Judgment, yet others will say it is the admittedly terrifying idea that yes, even now, spies are amidst our ranks, reporting in secrecy to those who would strike us down."

"Yet none of these are our mortal foe. Judges can be bribed. Parents can be swayed. Spies can be slain. No, our deadliest foes, those who are anathema to us and our Holy and Perfect Judgment, are intelligent children."

"The craftier the child, the more they have at their disposal to evade us. Some may know methods of elusion via electronic tampering or engineering of facades. Others cower behind layer upon layer of laws, creating a literal barrier of red tape that at the best means more resources must be wasted on attempting to capture them for punishment, and at worst means attempting to capture them is suicidal and detrimental to the welfare of Rod and Whip."

"Some are so diabolical that, even once captured, they can feign a broken spirit and helplessness, waiting for the attention focused on them to slacken, waiting for a chink in the armor we bear to slip through and escape. One such child had placed paperclips into a self-inflicted injury so that when ignored but for a second she could pick the lock and escape. Fortunately, the girl in question was caught and executed, but the lesson stands- never assume our prisoners are helpless."

"On the same topic, all door locks are now being upgraded to electronic. Metal detection sweeps are also now mandatory for all incoming prisoners, and any prisoners deemed to have abnormally high IQs are to have their arms and hands broken on a regular basis. Of course, taskmasters are not required to lessen said prisoner's workloads to account for this …"

-Rod and Whip Memo regarding a recent escape attempt.

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Somewhere else, another youth struggled desperately for his freedom.

There were some minor differences between this boy and Calvin- one being that this youth wholly embraced education as a place to prove intellectual superiority, having been blessed with what some might say was a mind balanced on the thin line that separated genius from madness.

Here, his grades were not the issue- being a longtime honor roll overachiever, he was not in danger of failing any time soon. Nor was his behavior in school up for judgment.

Rather, however, his parents were concerned that he wasn't getting enough time with other kids his age, and so the idea of sending him to a summer boot camp- 'Camp Grindstone'- to build relationships and character- was put forth.

The youth in question, Jason Fox, thirteen and a half years old, had his own opinions on the idea, but they involved the use of many, many expletives and he felt somewhat indebted to his parents to the point cursing them out was not an option, and so he made an abridged statement.

"No. Way."

Andy Fox, his mother, did not hear the rejection as she looked over the brochure. His father, Roger, however, did, and sighed.

"Are you sure? Because military stuff aside, this place sounds great."

"Clever ruses." Countered Jason, adjusting his pair of glasses. "Plenty of jargon drenched in sugar-coating to lure parents into sending their kids to a death camp. This isn't a stricter Camp Bohrmore, it's a Gitmo for young adults."

This did get Andy's attention, and she set the brochure down. "I hardly think a regimen of discipline and exercise in addition to fun activities qualifies as a "Gitmo", Jason."

Jason snatched up the brochure. "Look at this and analyze what they're really saying. 'Daily exercise regimen and carefully constructed meals' translates into "We will run your kid ragged and feed them slop that has no nutritional value and tastes as if predigested." 'Professional staff skilled with dealing with teens from all backgrounds' means "We have people who were fired from being Drill Sergeants for excessive force who only know chokeholds as their means of communication." And don't tell me the stuff like "High security campgrounds" and the fact they mention 'rigorous discipline'… five… seven… thirteen times through here doesn't set off at least a few alarm bells."

Andy sighed . "Look, maybe it will take a few days to get used to, but it will be a lot of fun, and…"

"Mom, this isn't a summer camp, it's a prison for kids who break into cars and plot Columbines! Kids like me have DIED in these things!"

Finally this seemed to put at least a momentary stop to the flow of praise for the camp.

"This isn't like the camp I went to a few years back- it's one of those military camps for kids who really messed up- and this is the kind that DOESN'T work. There's no focus on rehabilitation or correction- it's just kicking kids around until they comply to avoid getting hurt."

His father and mother gave him a sort of incredulous look, concerned for their child's welfare but wary of a bluff.

"Don't believe me? Get on the net. Look up 'Grindstone Incident'. That place has had several lawsuits against it for assault and battery with a deadly weapon and endangering of a minor. One kid couldn't run the laps she was told to, so the counselors chucked rocks at her to make her move fasters. You get three guesses as to how that brilliant idea worked out."

Roger blinked. "…she died?"

Jason shook his head. "Fortunately, no. But it was close. "

"Didn't her parents sue?"

"That's the creepy part. They did file a lawsuit, but none of them showed up for court. No one has seen them since."

"Didn't they investigate-"

"Yes, but since everyone who worked at the Grindstone camp was present and accounted for during the span of it all, they weren't charged. Eventually they filed for dismissal on the grounds the girl was faking it, her ploy went wrong, and she and her family went underground to avoid embarrassment. Full of holes, but without any witnesses…"

Roger stood up. "You'll forgive me if this sounds a little bit suspicious…"

Jason shrugged. "Like I said, look it up if you don't believe me. And if nothing else, if you're so concerned about my physical wellness, why not just sign me up for karate?"

"Because last time you took an interest in the martial arts it cost us all the wood we were using to make the Trellis." Andy deadpanned. "But nevertheless…"

Roger headed over to the family computer. "I'll look it up in the meantime."

Inwardly, Jason let out a sigh of relief. The seeds of doubt planted, combined with the fact that for once he was being completely honest, would work things in his favor.

A genuine fear had gripped him when the camp idea was put forward, for such camps were the stuff of dark rumors among teens and adolescents- get shipped off and come back beaten, raped, maimed… or dead.

A expletive from his father. He'd found the links Jason had hoped he would. Words of outrage and disbelief. Jason allowed himself a smile.

Mission Accomplished.

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"We expect professionalism and zeal from our agents in all endeavors, capture or not, but it must be admitted that sometimes, through no fault of the agent, a snag occurs. The parents back our and are adamant about not sending their child with us. Legal issues arise. In some cases a trip to one of our facilities is used as a threat to shape up, and the child performs to the parent's standard."

"In such cases it is important not to force the capture- doing so can be disastrous for both the agent and Rod and Whip. Rather, subtlety and deception are the tools to be sued in place of brute force and blunt coercion."

"Appealing to the 'big man' mentality and an authoritarian mindset can often reverse an unfavorable decision, particularly with certain fathers. Promises of weeding out any and all traces of rebellion can also work with parents who have had children who have "shaped up" after a long period of disobedience and/or mischief. In the event of male targets, promises to "make a man out of him" can be incredibly effective."

"In an event that none of the above works, there is one final last ditch effort- the oft-mentioned "Paid trial" in which an agent offers money to parents in exchange for a month of their child at camp for "research on techniques to focus the mind, strengthen the body, and discipline the spirit". The sums offered are typically $3,000-$4,000, and in some cases where all else has failed can turn the tide for the better."

"Agents need not be concerned about Rod and Whip running dry- we have resources dedicated to ensuring any funds expended in this way are reclaimed with interest…"

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Some people had talent to get them by.

Some were blessed with charisma to allow them to influence others. Others had minds capable of unraveling mysteries in mere seconds. Some were athletic. Some were sneaky. Some were simply so likable they got what they wanted. Others had friends in high places.

All Curtis Wilkins felt he had was hard work.

Life for him was an eternal uphill struggle, it seemed. After the inauguration incident he'd tried to redeem himself in his parent's eyes for God only knows how long, yet they always seemed to find new flaws to pick at. Music choice. Grades- when he passed everything, they wanted B's or better. When he achieved that, they wanted honor roll. When he did that, they wanted all As. And when that incredible feat was accomplished they badgered him over a 91 for over an hour about doing things half-assed.

When he had managed all high A's, they wanted him to work more around the house. When he did that, they wanted him to get a job. And now, even with his grades and cleaned house and a job that combined sapped him of all energy, still his parents ground down on him with what seemed ever increasing harshness. No longer was his birthday celebrated. No longer did he get gifts at Christmas. And when family came over he was locked in his room on the premise he had been 'in trouble at school'. Mistakes were worth badgering and belting. In short, there was no longer any pretense on being on his side at all from his family.

And yet, that brat could bring home an 80 art project and be taken out for dinner while Curtis cleaned the bathroom.

At age 11, Curtis had wondered if his parents favored his brother Barry over him. At age 13, he wondered if his brother Barry could ever get in trouble again without the majority of the blame falling on Curtis' head. Now, at age 16, Curtis knew as surely as the sun was hot and his dinner would be cold, Barry had been the favorite even before that damned trip to see Obama inaugurated.

He had finished sweeping the barbershop floor when Gunther cleared his throat. "Quittin' time, Carlos. Good work today."

Curtis didn't bother to correct him anymore. He was a decent boss who paid decent wages, and he didn't tear into every flaw and insecurity every five minutes.

"They still giving you flak over that incident?" Gunther asked.

"Is water still wet?" Curtis replied, replacing the broom back in its place and clocking out.

"God's sakes, man… it's been five freaking years-"

"They say it's just yesterday to them."

Curtis turned, and saw Gunther give him… a look. Sad, pitying, grim faced yet eyes conveying a message of 'this isn't right'.

God, he HATED THAT LOOK.

"But hey…" Curtis said, turning to not meet the gaze, "two more years and they can have Mr. Wonderful Perfect sunshine-pissing miracle-shitting Barry to themselves and I'll be outta their lives for good."

Gunther started to say something, paused, withdrew. Past debates over whether or not there was still compassion in Curtis' parents for him had ended badly in the past and he didn't want to start the summer off on that train of thought. Finally, he reached a safe topic. "Where are you going to go after graduation?"

Shrugging as if the decision was of no consequence, Curtis started out the door.

"Somewhere else."

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The walk home was uneventful. Boring. Thankfully cooler now that it was the evening, but there was nothing to pass the monotony of his march home.

No longer did he even have looking out for Derrick and Onion to stave off the ennui. One shakedown after Curtis had just received a vicious slapping and dressing down from his father for yet another false accusation from Barry had ended the string of extortion.

After being thrown to the ground once and seeing Derrick pull a knife, Curtis had grabbed a nearby loose bit of brick and used it to beat Derrick and Onion to bloody pulps, smashing teeth and noses and likely fracturing a few ribs. To this day they still walked funny, and ran whenever they saw Curtis coming.

The sensation he had received after the encounter, the feeling of having come close to beating two lifetime enemies to death with only a bit of building material left Curtis with something resembling joy that he did not wholly accept as wholesome.

But neither did he wholly reject it.

And so his family criticized him about the odd souvenir of broken brick, never grasping its significance.

He broke out of his thoughts to realize he was home.

For perhaps a minute and a half he wondered if he had to go in, if maybe just once he could use some of the money he saved to rent a hotel room and spend the night there… anything to get away from the double standard for a few hours. It was his summer vacation after all…

Yet, the reasonable part of his mind reminded him he needed that money if he was going to move out and go somewhere else, and that the luxury of escape was not his.

Not tonight.

Not this year.

His hand moved to his pocket to retrieve a key, which even now felt like it had the weight of a small mountain of lead to it. He walked like a prisoner condemned to the door, unlocked it, opened it.

And he began to scream, at the top of his lungs, "YES, I am home late, because we had customers who can't understand what a 'closed' sign means and I had to help clean up, it's summer, I worked my ass off all year to earn all As, so if you want to give me shit about something, SAVE IT FOR FUCKING TOMMORROW, because right now I am fresh out of damns to give about your never-ending whining!"

But seeing as how the tirade was screamed only in his mind and not spoken aloud, the shock and awe of his outburst of rage had none of the effect he'd hoped it would.

He wondered how quickly he could take a shower and go to bed. Maybe they wouldn't hear him and he could go to sleep without a round of berating… he wasn't all that hungry-

"Curtis." His father spoke from a hallway.

Damn it. Spotted.

"Come into the kitchen. We… we need to talk."

"You want to talk? Okay, let's talk about belts. They're for wearing around your waist, NOT for beating up your kid because he flushed your cigs because he was afraid you would die! Don't wanna talk about belts? Okay, then how about family support? You know, this may be news to you, but when a guy busts his ass to meet people's wants and they keep ragging on him for a mistake he made FIVE FUCKING YEARS AGO it wears a man down! Oh, don't wanna talk about that either, huh? Well then, FUCK YOU, I have nothing to say to you. Go talk to Mom about how horrible I am and how wonderful Barry is if it makes you feel better, because I couldn't care less right now!"

Again the tirade raged only in his mind and Curtis followed his father in silence.

His mother was also at the table. He was moderately relieved to see Barry was not in attendance.

He sat, as did his father. He glanced at his watch. Had it been a whole minute?

His mother spoke first. "…ever since the incident, we know we've been…"

There was a pause.

"The word you're looking for is assholes. Or tyrants. Hey, even bitchy would work well here."

"…hard on you."

"Annnnnnd the understatement of the year award goes to Diane Wilkins!"

"What you did was wrong," "and here I thought you were just both cranky" "but it didn't warrant us being angry and berating for this long."

Was this an apology? He glanced at his watch. Two minutes.

His father spoke. "…you tried your damndest to redeem yourself,"

"You mean, did my damndest."

"and we just… we… we just wanted to keep being angry with you. It was easier that way- one good kid and one bad kid."

"God forbid parenting involve any decision making."

His father hung his head. "I tried to give myself an excuse for the beltings. I couldn't. All it ever accomplished was hurting you and making you angry."

"It took you five friggin' years to figure this out?"

"…and… you still kept trying. You made all As. You got a job. You did more than your fair share of housework, even when we spent days at a time not talking to you. I know praising Barry over everything and ignoring all the stuff you did couldn't have helped your morale any."

"It didn't." Curtis spoke finally, with great effort holding back the deluge of acid that threatened to burst forth.

"For five years, I came home, and it was like the first hour after the incident every minute of every day."

"You pieces of shit, you give me five years of hell and you expect one little chat to make everything all better?"

"Do you have any idea how much it hurts?" Curtis choked, biting his tongue so as not to cry. "To come home and hear, instead of "I love you", stuff like "What'd you do now?", "You shithead", "Try not to screw up today"? Do you have ANY idea how many times I'd lay awake crying on the sofa, because if I woke Barry up he'd whine and you'd get angry and I COULDN'T EVEN SLEEP IN MY OWN BED, and I'm thinking that all I have to do is jump on the roof or down some pills, and I never have to deal with this again?"

"You are nothing more than child abusers. Anyone else would have called the cops on you a long time ago. I'm not sure why I didn't."

His father opened his mouth to speak. Curtis, however, was not done- something ugly now snapped inside him, raged, roared in all its unchained fury, and the outrage that he felt for all these years poured forth. The barrier that separated his thoughts from his speech snapped with all the terrible rumblings of, perhaps, a volcano, no longer capable of containing the destructive forces within, exploding in a cloud of fiery rage.

"DO YOU REMEMBER SLAPPING ME FOR MISSING A SPOT ON THE KITCHEN FLOOR, DAD?!" he screamed, causing his parents to jerk upright at the sudden outburst. "DID THAT MAKE YOU FEEL LIKE A BIG MAN, BEATING UP YOUR KID WITH YOUR HAND AND YOUR BELT?!"

"Curtis, please, calm d-"

"NO, I WILL NOT FUCKING CALM DOWN!" something very much like a soul wrongfully imprisoned in hell raged in Curtis, years of indignation and fury no longer checked now formed a howling maelstrom of rage that had wrested free of its owner's control. "All the curses, all the sighing, all the badmouthing, all the slaps, all the demands, all the anger… we didn't even celebrate my birthday." Tears poured down his face, contorted in rage. "Do you know…" he spoke low, straining each word as if it cost him a year of his lifespan, "Do you know what that says to a kid?"

If either Greg or Diane had a reply to this, it never had a chance to be spoken.

"IT MEANS, "WE REGRET YOU WERE EVER BORN!" HOW WOULD YOU LIKE FOR YOUR MOM AND DAD TO TELL YOU "YOU'RE A MISTAKE AND I WISH YOU WERE NEVER BORN", HUH?! 'CUZ THAT'S WHAT THAT SAID TO ME! AND YEAH, I MESSED UP AND I CRIED AND I APOLOGIZED AND I REPENTED AND I TRIED FOR FIVE-FUCKING- YEARS-"and here he punctuated by bashing his clenched fists on the table with each word, "TO MAKE IT RIGHT, BUT YOU COULDN'T BE BOTHERED TO SHOW ME YOU STILL LOVED ME!"

He stopped, unable to give more words to his anger, save for maybe expletives, and in the absence of his rage or his parent's voices there was a harsh, grating silence broken only by the soft hum of the refrigerator.

Curtis forced a smile, the tears mercifully slowing, but in place of a proper expression of mirth he only managed a sort of smile-shaped wound on his face that showed nothing, but, perhaps, teeth and a rage that could not yet take life- what had been displayed here was but a fragment of the resentment.

"But hey-" and his voice was calm, disturbingly serene, as if they were perhaps discussing something as trivial as the weather, "just two more years, and I'm gone for good. Then you can have perfect person Barry to yourself and never worry about me again. You'll need to find someone to do the housework, of course, but I'm sure you'll manage."

Finally, Diane found the power to speak. "But honey, where will you go?"

Curtis laughed, a short, clipped bark that struck the walls like a fist and rattled bone and soul alike. He shrugged, still wearing that not-really-a-smile façade. "Who cares? Not me. Definitely not you or dad, especially not Barry… all I know right now is 'somewhere else'."

His mother reached out to touch his hand, still clenched into a fist, "Honey, we know this is hard, and that you're still angry about what's happened, but we need to talk and work this out-"

The façade of a smile dissolved as Curtis jerked his hand back as if burned. "You think one night of apologizing is going to make up for five years of not being welcome at the dinner table? Five years of glaring at me every time I enter the room? It won't." He got up and headed upstairs. He still wanted a shower…

"Honey, please!" he could hear the sobs in his mother's voice. "Could we just talk?!"

Curtis didn't break stride. "You've both said enough for a lifetime, mom. "Shithead. Irresponsible. Dumbass. Idiot. Slacker." I don't think there's anything left to be said."

He closed the door and turned the bathroom fan on to drown out the sobbing from downstairs as be prepared to bathe.

They had considered his tears an irritation in years past.

Now he repaid in turn.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….......

The speaker for Rod and Whip's meetings was a bald man in his 40's, powerfully built, dressed in military fatigues. To his subordinates, he was simply "Sir Father".

He held up a thumbtack- flat head, sharp point, nothing intricate. "If someone told you the new dress code included jamming one of these into each foot and both eyes, you'd think they were crazy."

"'But come on', they may say, 'It's just one little thumbtack! It's not too bad!'" he paused to let the words sink in.

"If we allow dissent- especially from outsider children- to linger unchallenged, it is just like maiming ourselves with this!" he thrust the thumbtack out so his subordinates could see it.

"Oh sure, it's not going to kill you. But it slows you down- hampers you, distracts you and leaves you more vulnerable. You're trying to go about your business and all you can think about it the metal needle in your eye. There is a reason we use pain- it's effective at getting and keeping attention."

"And keep in mind, we're just talking about one thumbtack. What if this said idiot asked you to jab yourself full of over eight thousand? You'd call him a fucking idiot to his face, and you'd be right! But that's our situation, soldiers-" and here he flipped on a projector screen. "-as of right now there are some 8,234 and change shit-for-brains hippies talking trash about us and our programs. And every time they insult Rod and Whip, they insult you."

Cries of outrage quickly stifled. Father suppressed a smile. The berserker zeal he was hoping to instill was taking root.

"Some of these shits are kids, like this Calvin punk you've heard about- Make no mistake, the agent responsible for that screw-up just got put on the corpse burning crew- but others are adult sympathizers from all walks of life- educators. Psychiatrists. Police and Military, yes, you heard me right, the very people who are supposed to keep order are preventing us from enforcing it. There's even boot camp directors who are calling us "dangerous perversions of a tool meant to correct troubled youth"."

"I want you to look around you, right now." Instantly and obediently heads swiveled, confused. "These people and those still on duty in our other bases are your only allies in this war against the youth of today and their corrupting influence. Everyone else is potential enemy until they join us."

"These naysayers, however, are our open enemies. In a war, someone shoots at you first, you shoot back. They're firing salvo after salvo on us. Right now, their ammunition is just a post here or there. But some of us know all too well the danger of letting criticism of any degree go unchallenged."

He looked, briefly, at Gathwells with what passed for sympathy for a man of his kind- a rotund woman, curled red hair missing in clumps where it had been forcibly torn out, face scarred and dented and marred from what many could only assume was a beating she was not meant to survive, yet did.

"It is not lightly that I say what I will say now, because for years now I have preached to stay your hands from outright action until the time is right. I have taught you to draw in your targets rather than go out and seek them actively, for the good of Rod and Whip, and for the good of the future we will bring."

He let the silence spiral uncomfortably for several seconds.

"But our hands have been forced. We must deal with this now, and no longer do we have the luxury of complete subtlety."

Sir Father sighed, and then straightened himself, the action of a man about to make a desperate move.

"You will be dispatched to deal with these naysayers. Kill the adults. Capture the children, they will serve as examples first. As for Calvin Halgins… loathe as I am to order special treatment, his witnessing of an agent's failure, his parents' impending lawsuit, and his evasion of being sent to one of our correctional facilities warrants he be made a strong example of. Mark my words- I am not ordering leniency. He will suffer like none have suffered before. Any questions?"

Mary cautiously raised her hand. "…and if the adult targets have children of their own present?"

Sir Father suppressed a smile at the eager look, however deformed it was. "…if their progeny are unfortunate enough to be in reach during your hunt, then, well… the sins of the father and mother do pass unto the son and daughter…"

A palpable unholy glee filled the room as the implications of this subtle approval sank in.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….......

Calvin was getting ready to go out with his family to eat in celebration for his good grades, when he heard Hobbes growl and stir from his rest. Fearing a pounce, he spun-

But Hobbes was not growling at him… rather, he looked about frantically, teeth bared, eyes wild.

"…Hobbes?" Calvin spoke cautiously. "Buddy, something wrong?"

Hobbes sniffed the air, looked about him, confused. "…thought I felt something. Nauseating."

Calvin was distracted by his mother calling.

"Be careful." Hobbes warned, muscles untensing ever so slowly. "I think something rotten just woke up."

Calvin nodded. "Right." And with that he headed down, outside to the car-

-and stopped as soon as he set foot outside. There was something wrong with the air, a pollution not generated by smog or cars or anything mechanical… it was colder, too, as if all at once the very heat and energy had dispersed… or fled.

He ignored it, got in, buckled up.

Numbers of reasons came to mind. Cold front. Nerves from the school year catching up with him. Delayed reaction from what happened only yesterday with the idiot in the fatigues. Illness.

But none of these satisfied him, and so, to and from the restaurant, Calvin kept a wary eye out for more psychotics in fatigues.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….......

Roger Fox's hand slapped the alarm clock to make it stop ringing so he could sleep in.

Twice. Three times. On the fourth he realized it was not the clock at all but the phone.

He glanced at the clock- 3:14 AM. Fearing the worst- a dying relative, Peter being in an accident after going for a midnight run, he fumbled for the phone…

"Hullo?" he asked in a voice he hoped wasn't too slurred.

"Mr. Fox?" A voice, pleasant, energetic, female replied. Disarming yet disturbing. Who the hell was happy to be making calls at 3 in the morning?

"Speaking." He sat up. "Who's this?" He was not feeling overly civil.

"I'm calling on behalf on Camp Grindstone- recently you expressed interest in applying your son for a summer at our facilities, but we haven't heard back from you, so-"

"We decided not to." Roger said, patience strained. Being woken up at this hour for what amounted to telemarketing was grating on his nerves.

"But sir, by depriving your son of our rigorous discipline and exercise regimen, you're leaving him woefully ill-prepa-"

"No."

"Sir-"

"NO."

"So when can we come pick up your child for camp then?" she asked sweetly.

"I said no. Are you-"

"We recommend a night-time retrieval." She pursued. "It delivers a little bit of shock and catches them by surprise, and helps set the tone of who is in charge, and-"

"Listen, you sick little bimbo," Roger snarled, patience worn thin and paternal guardian instincts kicking in, "I read about you and your sick little Gitmo camp. He's not getting anywhere near it. Come near my house or my kids and so help me God, I will sue you and whatever pedophile pals you dug up to help you. Goodbye."

Roger hung up. The phone rang again, and this time, he simply yanked the cord out of the wall.

Then the full implications of what was said hit him, several minutes later- the sick freaks knew where he lived.

Jumping out of bed, Roger replugged the phone in, and immediately it rang, Had the same people been calling all this time? He answered, daring to say nothing.

"Hello, Mr. Fox?" A different voice. Pleasant, male. "I understand you heard some disquieting rumors about Camp Grindstone, and we were wondering what would be a good time to come over and-"

He hung up, and dialed the police. He could deal with whatever irritation the authorities would have for him bothering them at this hour. He ignored the persisting beeps that indicated another call was trying to go through.

He didn't know exactly how many children these sort of camps had maimed or killed.

But he did know no child of his would join their ranks.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….......

The sports bar was a haven to those weary of the weight of the world outside. Cold beer, hot meals, attractive female waitstaff, and sports blaring on multiple TVs. Appropriately named "The Antidote", it was a cure, however momentary, for the pains afflicting those whom the daily grind had ground down too much.

It was here Greg Wilkins discussed his problem with someone who proclaimed to have experience with such matters.

"…ever since that one mistake we've been hard as hell on him." He said, shakily lowering his beer glass. "I know before we were hard on him and soft on Barry, but after this… after that he couldn't do any right by us- we wouldn't let him. We tried apologizing last night and now he's just angrier and won't even talk to us."

The man, clad in Italian suit, Blonde hair neatly combed, listened intently.

"What'd, you whack 'im across the head when he screwed up afterwards? Maybe for something minor?" Greg just looked into his beer glass. "Listen, from what I understand, that kid got off way too easy. Endangering your one good kid? I know plenty of fathers who found a good solution- juvenile hall."

Greg looked up. "…My good kid?"

The man shrugged. "I hate to break it to you, but comparing Barry and Curtis, well, it's not hard to see who the villain of this story is. Curtis is playing you, Mr. Wilkins. He knows that if he does a few good things and keeps doing them even when you are rightfully still angry, he can guilt trip you into apologizing and trying to make amends… when you've done nothing wrong in the first place. It's psychological warfare, pure and simple, and it's the first of many steps towards a future where he's using this as leverage for everything- money. A hideout from the cops. Getting you to lie to authorities on his behalf. He's what's called 'parasitic progeny', and unless you nip this in the bud and show him who's boss, show him he is wrong when you say he's wrong, and right when and only if you say he is."

Greg took all this in. Was that what his eldest son had become? A con artist, setting up all of this to create a constant stream of undeserved support? Was he chuckling even now, looking up expensive merchandise that he wanted as peace offerings?

As if aware of the torrent of "He would nevers" that were forthcoming in Greg's mind, the blonde spoke. "I know you never expect an enemy to develop in your own home. No parent does, because when you grew up you obeyed, you bent over when you were told to bend over, you said 'sir' and 'ma'am', and you did not throw a temper tantrum when your carelessness got you punished. But that was a generation of respect, Mr. Wilkins. This generation… well…" the blonde smiled sadly. "Let us simply state that I am no longer of the desire to live forever. Not with the children of the day growing up into walking entitlement complexes."

"But I digress. Yes, Curtis has put on a good show- an excellent façade of what appears to be genuine redemption to get back into good graces so his hostile behavior would go ignored for a little longer. When you didn't fall for it at first, he fell back on Plan B, which is to play the low-blow crybaby game of 'you don't love me anymore'. It's dirty fighting, plan and simple- genius in its own sinister way, but that doesn't change the fact he is undermining you and your wife's authority to try and get his way."

Greg's mind raced. Did Curtis have the capacity to do this? He did make all high A's when pressed- was he simply slacking off, trying to freeload, only to call on sinister reserves of cunning when the situation warranted it?

And this question brought up even more damning queries- he hadn't looked closely at those grade's Curtis had earned, dismissing them in his anger. How genuine were those A's?

Finding the courage to speak, he raised a painful query. "…how difficult would it be to make sure it looked like someone was getting all A's?"

The blonde sighed. "…do you really want the answer to that question? Because with all due respect, you do not look like you need another punch to the gut."

Greg downed the rest of his beer. "Forewarned is forearmed." He said grimly.

The dark look on the man's face did not speak of a pleasant reply. "If what I heard is correct, you never paid much attention to his grades during this period, right? If that's the case- which I'd bet good money he was counting on- he could have done ANY number of things."

"Such as?"

The blonde groaned. "Where to begin, man? There are sites run by slackers that have papers on every subject ready for download- change a few verbs, add your own personal touch, and BAM. Some sites even have editors where you can print fake report cards tailor made to match the same kind your school uses. If he was REALLY serious, he may have learned to hack the school's system- or got someone to do it for him. A few quick keystrokes and the school truant suddenly has the highest GPA of the whole school. Some get caught when teachers sense something's up, but the majority slip through unseen, and that's just OUTSIDE the classroom. Inside, there's all manner of schemes. Drawing pity from the teachers- did any of your physical punishments leave a bruise or draw blood? Then that's material he can use to tilt the odds in his favor. Do-overs on missed assignments, make-ups of make-ups, on and on. Even when sympathy fails, he's still got an arsenal. Stealing answers, writing answers on the inside of a sleeve or hat…"

Fury flared in Greg's heart at the idea of Curtis using the cap he gave him as a tool to cheat his way up.

"…conspiring with other students, or, in worse cases, threatening them to get answers. And the teachers… well, some try to weed out the cheaters. But it's like trying to hold back a flood with a leaky bucket. Eventually they become so worn out that they just cease to give a damn, and that's what leaves us with our problem today- a nation full of young cheaters, liars, thieves, and thugs, all waiting for the right moments to up the ante."

The blonde mercifully paused, and Greg reeled. Had Curtis, all this time, known exactly what to do in each scenario? Was he raising a son, still- or a conman in training?

"He may still be salvageable. Maybe not. I'm not going to lie to you here; some really horrible people were born to really good parents. Right now, he's conning you out of your dignity and authority. Next, your money. Next, your home. How long until you have nothing left to offer him, and he takes your life, then pleas when caught that your punishments, your attempts to break the evil inside him were what made him bad?"

Greg started. Could Curtis go that far? Could he, like some horrible parasite, drain him and Diane dry and discard the husks when depleted?

"If not for his sake, then for Barry's." the blonde spoke again. "If he gets rid of you, Barry will have no one to turn to but his corrupt big brother. And let me assure you, from what I have seen in my line of work, that sort of relationship- the good little kid seeking mentorship from a bad big brother- always ends in tears. Every time."

Already his eldest son had carelessly more or less abandoned Barry to the harsh night-time streets, Greg realized. Curtis could not care less for his own flesh and blood- he was truly capable of murder in his current state, and if he and Diane were gone, how long until Curtis tired of Barry's limited uses as a go-fer and lookout, and simply got rid of him?

All this time he'd had an enemy assembling an arsenal under his nose. What had started Curtis' progress as the family nemesis? One too many punishments with a belt or hand? Favoritism? Was it like the blonde said, and Curtis was a soul gone rotten from day one?

Despair washed over him. To give up on Curtis and have him arrested for incorrigibility or to simply exile him from the house would mean, to him, admitting defeat. Letting Curtis go unpunished for his plotting would mean that he'd be condemning his own wife and youngest child to a slow death. Did any fragment of good remain in Curtis?

"…what do I do?" he asked, pleadingly. "I'm living on a tight budget. I can't afford to send him someplace like the camp you mentioned to get straightened up…"

"I understand entirely." The man said. "What if we paid you?"

Greg looked up. He could not have heard correctly. "…Pardon?"

"…my company, Rod and Whip, is testing a new method to, quite literally, make a person 'forget' how to be evil. The mind is, essentially, a big fleshy computer- it may simply be that all that Curtis requires is a reformat. Regretfully, however, few are willing to take the risks with their child, and so… well, I'll be frank. Right now we need a test subject."

Greg closed his eyes, resting his hand on his chin. "…what are the odds it will work?"

"In brutal honesty, 70-80%. If we can make the prior moments before his 'reboot' traumatic and painful emotionally, it would help boost the success chance, and make him less likely to revert- it's easier to make someone forget what they want to forget, but… it would involve creating the worst day in Curtis' life."

Creating the worst day in his son's life. Part of his screamed he had hurt Curtis far more than enough already and now he was punishing for the sake of punishing. Another part spoke of the dark scenario described to him- better safe than sorry.

"How much?" he heard himself ask.

"$3,000 sound fair? You and your family can go on a vacation, relax, and come back to a better kid."

Greg sat in silence for almost a whole minute.

"I hope he'll forgive me for this, someday." He said finally.

The blonde smiled. "Sir, why would he need to forgive you? He won't even remember anything, and even if he did, you're the parent here, not the other way around! It's time to show Mr. High-and-mighty who wears the pants in this family, so to speak."

Greg nodded. "Deal. What do we need to do, Mr.-" He paused. "I didn't catch your name?"

The blonde smiled as he sipped his beer. "Harry will do. Just Harry."