POLITICAL MISFORTUNES

                                                                                PART 2

                                                                            By Shorterbus

  With ten minutes left to his shift, Herb Snell inched his mop bucket towards the The Panda Room.

  He dipped his mop in the bucket and slopped it around the floor a few times.

  He could see Heidi, a drink tray perched in one hand, leaning out over a customer to collect an empty glass.  Herb could see the Slurpee's logo – a long, wet tongue dangling from a pair of grinning lips - tattooed to her ass. Purposely, she brushed her naked breasts across the customer's cheek. Touching was frowned upon, but the girls had to make quota.

  Heidi wasn't her real name, of course. All the girls were given stage names: Crystal, Amber, Muffin; that sort of thing. Whoever Heidi really was, she looked like she could be earning thousands of dollars prancing up and down fashion runways in New York or Milan. Instead, she was here, in Tyler, Texas, in foot-high heels, neon green hair, silicone-filled tits and a tattooed ass, serving drinks and dancing naked.

  Herb had seen his share of Slurpee's girls, and except for sizes, shapes and color, they all looked the same: stunningly beautiful, with bouncing, surgically enhanced breasts and hair dyed some neon color. They wore shoes with heels and soles stacked a foot high, and each sported a permanent Slurpee's logo on her ass. The girls had costumes, of course, a nurse, a cop, a school girl, that sort of thing, but usually the costumes were on the floor. The only other thing they wore was a smile. Always.

  Before Slurpee's came along, Herb frequented other clubs. Some of the girls were marginally attractive, but most were downright skanky.  Pretty or not, they were all temperamental, unreliable little divas. But Slurpee's girls were  incredibly beautiful, wantonly willing and fiercely loyal. It was a mystery how Slurpee's managed it. But Herb knew. He had stumbled upon the secret.

In Walden, a town more than a thousand miles away, in a life that seemed more than a thousand years past, Herb had owned a less-than-successful insurance agency. More importantly, he had happened to be on the city council when Slurpee's made its push to open shop in the community. There was little hope of succeeding, of course; Walden was a very conservative area and most of the voters were appalled by the idea of having a strip club in town, especially one as brazen as Slurpee's. Besides, there were lots of long-standing laws prohibiting adult related businesses, But as soon as the envelopes stuffed with cash started arriving, Herb and his fellow councilmen went to work.  

  That was when Catherine Sedgewick-Vanderfell stepped into the picture. Herb had known Catherine – known of her – all his life. Daughter of the wealthiest man in town, Catherine was intelligent, cultured, educated and above all else, breathtakingly beautiful. Now a wife and mother of two, Catherine was determined to prevent Slurpee's from moving in. She appeared one morning at Herb's office with some very compromising photos of he and his underage secretary and made a thinly veiled threat to expose him if he did not cooperate. The minute she left, Herb raced to the site where the new Slurpee's was under construction. The manager there took Catherine's name and address and assured Herb he had nothing to fear. At that moment Herb heard the unmistakable sound of a sneeze coming from inside one of the crates being forklifted onto the dock. When Herb asked, the manager had given a vague smile and said, “Talent.” A few weeks later Catherine Sedgewick disappeared. Despite an intensive search and wide media exposure, she was never found. It didn't take Herb long to assemble the pieces.

  “Herb? Where are you going?” said Agnes, his wife, as Herb hurriedly tossed a few clothes into a suitcase.

   “Hunting!” Herb had replied, annoyed, “Bear hunting!”

  “Hunting? You don't hunt”

    With a map clutched in his hand marking the location of every Slurpee's in the US, Herb hit the gas. “Don't wait up!” he shouted as the Taurus squealed out of the drive. Ten days and ten Slurpee's later, in Tyler, Texas, he found her.

  Herb had spent the next three weeks watching her, funding himself from one of the many ATM's, reluctant to leave his seat even to eat or go to the bathroom. When sleep overcame him he simply plopped his head on the table. Thankfully, Slurpee's never closed. No telling how long he might have gone on like that, but somehow Agnes managed to shut off his access to the bank accounts, so Herb had to resort to shoplifting food from a nearby convenience store, then sneaking back into Slurpee's to avoid the cover charge. When that no longer worked, he applied for a job. You would think being a  business owner and city councilman would equate to something significant, but no, they made him a janitor, and reluctantly at that. But Herb didn't mind, the position gave him access to almost any place in the building. The work was hard and the pay was for shit, not even enough for Herb to afford one the most squalid rooms at the nearby motel, but no matter, Herb wasn't going anywhere. Each day, when his eight-hour shift was up and he was off the clock, he continued to work anyway, for free, for another ten, twelve hours, until he was too exhausted to stand. Then he would stumble out to the far edge of the parking lot to his car, the tires long ago gone flat, and crawl into the back seat to sleep. He bathed and shaved from the mop bucket. Herb avoided mirrors because the person he saw in them looked like the living dead.

 

  Herb glanced at his watch, realizing his shift was over. He scooped up the mop and bucket and headed straight for the Panda Room.

  The Panda Room was one of the private areas of the club, exclusive and more finely appointed, by invitation only, a place most patrons didn't even know existed. It was where Catherine now worked.

   All of the girls were beautiful, but it had taken management almost no time at all to discover Catherine Sedgewick was special. She was not merely another bright-eyed bouncing beauty, she was educated, intelligent, refined and keenly perceptive. So they moved her up. At this moment she was standing on a table, not dancing really, just swaying seductively to the music, deep in discussion with a well-dressed man on the effects Putin's social reforms would have on the burgeoning Russian economy.

 

   Though thirty-one...no, wait, thirty-three now, she still had the body of someone ten years younger. Originally, her breasts had been on the small side, but now she sported a pair of silicone cantaloupes. Her hair was neon pink. The shoes she wore added another twelve inches to her nearly six-foot frame. Other than the shoes, she was naked.

  The discussion reached a pause. The customer took a big puff from his Cuban and smiled up at her. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Tiffany,” she said, turning her smile up a notch. Tiffany was the name management had assigned her, the only name she went by.

  Herb, working his mop across the floor, inched a few steps closer.

  “How do you know so much, Tiffany?”

  She shrugged, “I read a lot. Most babies come out screaming, Mama says I came out reading.”

  

  “You a local girl?”

  “Denton,” she replied without hesitation, her voice a false southern drawl. It was a lie, of course, Denton was a town a few hundred miles east. Herb knew without a doubt she was from far away Walden.

  “What brings you here?”

  “Life,” she said with a shrug, and went instantly into a long, spiel about growing up in Denton, describing the little house she lived in with her mother, how in winter they slept on the floor near the steam heater because the insulation was so poor, listed her favorite places to hang out as a teen, named the high school she attended, and her eventual transfer to the new school when its construction was complete, how the fresh paint in the science lab often made her nauseous and she knew she could never be a nurse because dissecting frogs made her just a sick, then progressed into the subject of not really knowing her dad, her mom passing away two years ago after an arduous battle with the cancer, how Denton just didn't seem to be home anymore, so she and her best friend Carol moved here to Tyler, where they shared an apartment and took classes at  the local Jaycee until Carol returned to Denton and married her old boyfriend and she could not afford the apartment alone so she took this job dancing. All of it said in about two breaths.

  It was her story. She had several much longer, more detailed versions of it, which she could deliver flawlessly for hours on end, if thats what the customer wanted, with nary a mistake or contradiction.

  Every Slurpee's girl had a story, a false history rich in detail and so thoroughly memorized and practiced it sometimes seemed even to them to be true.

  That was how Slurpee's did it. Find a suitably beautiful girl, abduct her, transport her to a place a thousand miles away, pump up her tits, dye her hair some shocking color, put her in shoes that added a foot to her height, mask her with false eyelashes, glitter, and heavy make-up, giver her a new name and a new life history, and then hide her in plane sight – naked.

  Herb had even overheard a few close calls. “You look just like the girl that was in the news there a few months back. What was her name? Karen, something. A college student in Boston. She was missing. Her family was offering a big reward.”

  Herb could almost hear the girl's heart quicken. “Boston?” she said with a dismissive wave, “I ain't never been there! My name's Lola. I'm from Fort Lauderdale. Moved here a year back, when my dad and me had this terrible row. All on account of my boyfriend. Oh, how Daddy hated that boy. Well, me, I figured I had my fill of both of 'em, and I come here. But Shayna, she was my best friend – my ex-best friend, she let the beans slip about where I was and Danny...” On and on the girl went, reciting her story until the customer was no longer suspicious.

  Or perhaps it wasn't a close call at all, but a plant Security had placed to make sure the girl would not take the bait. That was Security's primary function, keeping the girls in line and on task. Any girl who strayed paid a brutal penalty.

  The man took another puff of the cigar. “What about that?” he said, pointing to the Slurpee's logo tattooed to Catherine's naked ass.

  Catherine Sedgewick put her hands on her hips in mock defiance. “Can't a girl be proud of her job?”

  “Sure,” said the man, “Just seems a tad permanent for part-time work.”

  “All the girls get them,” she replied with a sniff. “Besides, I think its cute!”

  “I suppose.” he said, taking another puff. “Is that your plan? Spend the rest of your life dancing?”

  “Of course not! Well, for a while, sure. But later...” she was staring off, her face a wistful expression, then her eyes moved pointedly back to the man, “When the right guy comes along...”

  It was the thing all the girls did, in one way or another, give the customer false hope, keep him coming back, keep his money flowing.

  That was precisely why management had moved Catherine here, to the Panda Room, where the customers were shakers and movers and men of importance; because Catherine offered such promise. Strikingly beautiful, amazingly refined and cultured, well versed in finance, opera, literature, fashion, cubist art – almost any subject imaginable; yet with a small-town innocence, always in awe of his position and accomplishments, she would make the perfect mistress, better still, the perfect wife. Each man envisioned her at his side, the ideal accessory to his success.

  “Why don't you climb down from there, sit in my lap and you and I get to know one another better.”

  Catherine's smile got even brighter and – no easy task in those shoes – she hurried to comply . But Herb knew how false her smile and her eagerness truly was, for as she did, her eyes cut quickly - so quickly, so imperceptibly that you had to be watching ever so closely – which Herb was – to notice, to a man seated alone in a distant corner. The man was an officer at the nearby Air Force base. He was a frequent guest, especially here in the Panda Room, and management took extra care to assure he was always happy. After all, many of the customers were airmen from the base and management did not want someone in authority to have reason to declare Slurpee's off limits.

  Herb watched as slyly,  the young officer returned the glance, then looked away. An instant later he was up and gone.

  Herb knew what was up, had known for some time. Ever so cautiously, Catherine Sedgewick was orchestrating her escape.

  “You are a pretty young thing,” said the man, a plume of his cigar smoke drifting across Catherine's face.  With a feigned shiver of delight, she settled into the man's lap.

                                                                           POLITICAL MISFORTUNES

                                                                                          PART 3

                                                                                    By Shorterbus

  When Catherine's twelve-hour shift was done. she snatched up the tiny costume she wore for only moments in a day and hurried out of the Panda Room through a back exit. Mopping as he went, dragging the bucket behind him, Herb Snell quickly followed.

 

  Grimacing, she thrust out her chest and dug her fingers deep into the small of her back. Carrying those huge tits around all day took an agonizing toll on her spine. When she had found as much relief as she could, she tossed her costume into a bin, unbuckled the shoes and pulled them from her feet. A look of sheer relief crossed her face when the shoes were off.  She placed the shoes on one of the shelves, careful to put them in the space provided for their size, then hurried on.

   Her next stop was the communal shower. Herb followed her in.

  Slurpee's never closed, so the girls worked in staggered shifts, fewer girls in the morning, progressively more as the day wore on. Catherine's day was ending, but for some of the girls it was just starting, so the showers were crowded.

 

  “I see you got your shadow with you,” said one of the other girls. Catherine turned on the water, ignoring the girl's remark.  It was true, though, that was exactly what Herb was, Catherine's shadow. Every moment of every day, except for the hours he was on shift and the snatches of sleep he caught in his car, he was her shadow. At first people laughed at him, but soon it was no longer funny and they began to eye him with scorn and disgust.

  Catherine used to scream at him, demand he leave her alone, called him a sick fuck and begged Security to make him stop. But he would not stop. Could not stop. She was his addiction, his drug. Despite her complaints, management did not interfere. As long as he kept his shifts, remained unobtrusive and worked during this free time without pay, he was free to follow her wherever she went.

  None of the other girls complained, not even about his presence here in the showers. After all, it wasn't like they weren't used to people seeing them naked.

  Catherine knew who he was, of course, and had good reason to suspect her being here was in some way his fault, but she had long ago decided he was neither help no harm, so when her shouts and complaints failed to work, she decided to just ignore him. She refused to acknowledge he was there, or even alive.

  From the goosebumps on her flesh and the way her nipples hardened into little knots, it was obvious the water was cold.  It always was. It wasn't like the girls were going to complain. Or quit.

  She peeled off the false eyelashes and let them wash down the drain. She snatched up a bar of soap from the floor and began scrubbing at the glitter and heavy make-up. A few minutes later she was done. She could have lingered longer, as long as she liked, but Herb could tell she was exhausted and in need of sleep. There were no towels, of course, she had to rub herself dry and wring out her hair as best she could.

  He followed her into the dorm, a large room with narrow bunks stacked four beds high. Most of the beds were already full, but she found an empty slot near the back and climbed in. There were no sheets or bedding, of course, another pointless expense, just a thin, dirty mattress that reeked of stale sweat.

  It was not dark, for the lights never went out, nor was it quiet, for several of the women continued to talk, many of them to themselves. Others snored or muttered in their sleep. Still, she closed her eyes and was soon fast asleep. Herb mopped at the floor and waited for her to begin dreaming. A few minutes later she did. She twisted and flailed in her sleep and cried out for her children.

  Exhausted himself, Herb stashed the bucket and mop and headed for his car.

  Nine hours later, when she awoke, Herb was there. She sat up, yawned and stretched.

  Suddenly, Deeks, a member of Security, strolled in. The dorm went instantly quiet.

  He moved across the room and stopped at the bunk in which Catherine lie. His eyes ran up and down the length of her naked beauty. Catherine was smiling, of course, but Herb could almost smell her fear.

   “Mister Alford is in town,” said Deeks. “He's called a meeting. He wants you there. One hour. Don't be late.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Catherine stammered. “Thank you.”

   When Deeks departed, the whole dorm let out a sigh.

   Catherine sprang from the bunk and hurried to the showers. Mop and bucket in tow, Herb followed.

  She gasped as she stepped into the stream of water, which was in the mornings always particularly cold. She sorted through the bottles of hair dye scattered about until she found one that was pink and then applied it to her hair, rubbing it in thoroughly then rinsing it out. She reached down and grabbed one of the razors littering the floor and ran the blade across her thigh. Finding it too dull, she tossed it aside and snatched up another. First she shaved her legs, then squatted down and went at the more difficult task of shaving her sex and anus.

  Herb watched as she worked, marveling.

   She was only ten when Herb first noticed her. She was stunning, even then. But more than that: graceful and self-assured. She crossed a room and everyone watched. Even the men. And the women.

  Her school days were spent at an exclusive girl's academy in Paris, but each summer she returned, always more beautiful than before. Herb didn't know her, of course, he was too old and his family certainly did not move in those circles; but Walden was not big and if you discovered the right places you could catch glimpses: through the fence, her long tan legs gliding across the tennis court; through a gap in the shrubs, the chauffeur opening the door and those same perfect legs stepping from the car; through a chink in the garden wall, she on a bench, absorbed in a book, a maid approaching with a glass of lemonade on a sliver tray. Herb lived for those glimpses and relished every one of them. Stolen glimpses was all he imagined he would ever have. Yet, here she was, right in front of him, squatting naked, a dull razor scritch-scritch-scritching across her bald cunt.

  She tossed the razor aside and hurried to the make-up room where table after table was piled high with every grooming product or device imaginable: cosmetics, creams, combs, brushes, hair curlers, hair straighteners, hair dryers. And mirrors. Usually this room was packed with girls and she had to jockey for position and claw for the items she needed, but it was mid-shift now and the room was empty. Catherine went quickly to work. Twenty minutes later she had transformed herself into the sexually charged caricature Slurpee's demanded. Herb could hardly breath. She glanced at the clock. Only ten minutes left and it was important to be early.

She raced down the hall and grabbed a pair of shoes. Herb could tell she wanted a costume as well, but there was so little time to find one that fit and besides, they would only make her take it off, and somehow that was always worse. She strapped on the shoes and clomped the rest of the way.

  She walked in smiling.

  A dozen or so men and women, all of them in suits and business attire, sat around a conference table. All heads turned in her direction. The clock had been wrong.

  “Tiffany, you're late.”

  “Sorry, Mister Alford,” she said, her smile wavering a bit before forcing itself back into something wide and brilliant.

  Herb took up a spot in a distant corner and began mopping.

  Alford was Vice President of Marketing, in from Birmingham, where Slurpee's was headquartered. He sat at the head of the table. Catherine hurried to his side.

  “As you can see,” said Alford, punching another slide onto the screen, “Despite a considerable amount of spending, market trends in the Northeast are down almost two percent.” Some of the people around the table nodded, others were taking notes. “Admission in both Portland and Seattle are up nearly four percent, but tips and miscellaneous are off.” Alford paused to get input and opinions from around the table.

  “Tiffany?” he said, when the everyone else had had their say.

  “The housing crunch has hit that area particularly hard,” she replied, “As well as an unusually unseasonal winter, meaning higher heating costs and lost production. We're doing a good job of drawing them in, but they've got less disposable income to spread around.” She pointed up at the chart on the screen. “Credit card receipts indicate we are drawing considerably more customers, only getting few repeats – typical in a stressed market – which means we are only getting one shot at them. I suggest we institute a two-drink minimum, only make no mention of it until after the customer is inside. He'll be too embarrassed to ask for a refund. That should increase your miscellaneous a good five percent, plus, tipsy customers will be more loose with their cash. Also, program the ATM machines to dispense cash in increments of fifty rather than twenty. That should stabilize your tips.”

   That was why she was here, of course. She had a degree from Harvard Business, and she worked for free. Of course you used her.

  While someone at the table added to Catherine's remarks, Herb studied her face. You had to know her to see it behind her bright smile,  but on the inside she was dying, dying a thousand times over. She hated being the only one standing, hated a thousand times more being the only one naked. Especially in front of the well-dressed women. It was taking every ounce of effort not to collapse to the floor in shame.

  There was more discussion, with the entire room eventually agreeing to implement Catherine's plan.

  “Now,” said Alford, “On to a more important matter.” A face flashed onto the screen. “Senator Quinlan Smoot, champion of the Moral Majority and the Religious Right. He has vowed to drive us out of business.”

  The table erupted into a chorus of hisses and boos.

  “Not to worry,” said Alford, “Tiffany is on it. She's already got him hot to trot, and he's scheduled for another visit next week. This time we stiffen the drinks and give them all the privacy they need. Smoot is the author of the toughest sodomy laws in the nation, so when Tiffany gets him alone she's going to convince him to give it to her up the ass.”

  From the look of horror that rippled for an instant across Catherine's face, Herb could tell this was the first she had heard of this.

  “Of course, our cameras will be rolling. When we threaten to release photos of Smoot with his dick up the ass of a cheap little stripper, he'll change his tune!”

  The room erupted into cheers. Catherine was markedly late to join in.

One of the women raised her hand. “Supposing he claims the photos are fake?”

  “I'm way ahead of you, Miriam,” Alford replied. “I've arranged for a fertility doctor to be on hand. He'll collect the sperm out of Tiffany's ass and use it to impregnate her. The moment Smoot claims the photos are fake, we march her out, knocked up to here and ready to pop. The paternity test will prove Smoot is the father. The public will assume that if he fucked her one way, surely he fucked her the other.”

  While the rest of the room was marveling at the sheer genius of the plan, Catherine was gripping the back of Alford's chair, trying hard not to faint.

  “That concludes our meeting. I'd like to thank you all for coming.” He turned to Catherine. “Tiffany, I'm disappointed you were late. Go see Mister Spurger. Tell him you need some motivation.”

  Catherine was already doing everything she could to control her emotions. The prospect of a session with Spurger was more than she could bear. A sob erupted from her throat. “Please, Mister Alford!” she begged, “I'll not be late again. I swear!”

   Alford's face hardened. “Tiffany, are you questioning my judgment?”

  It was with inhuman effort that she managed to pull herself together. She forced the smile back across her face. “No sir. You are right. I apologize for my lapse. I'll go see Mister Spurger immediately.”

  “See that you do.”

  Catherine staggered out. Herb followed her. One thing he was certain of, Catherine had just ratcheted up her timetable for escape.

“Tiffany!” said Spurger when Catherine walked through his door. “Imagine my surprise!” He sprang from his desk, obviously delighted. “My, my, my!” he said, rubbing his hands together with relish, “How the mighty have fallen!”

  Herb pushed his bucket into a corner and started mopping.

  Spurger was with Security. He was in charge of administering “motivation”. Spurger was the reason the girls worked so hard, the reason they always smiled and never complained, the reason they dared not tell anyone who they really were. A session with Spurger left a girl crippled for days after, both physically and emotionally. Of course, that did not mean she was allowed to miss any shifts. If a girl missed a shift, or failed somehow in her duties, it only meant the session had failed and she needed another, more severe one.

  Catherine stood naked before his desk, her face streaked with tears, head, down, unable to raise her eyes to him. “Mister Spurger, Sir,” she managed between sobs, “I require additional motivation.”

  “Indeed, you do, child. Indeed you do,” purred Spurger. You could drive a truck through his smile. “I'm busy at the moment, so go fasten yourself in as best you can and wait for me.”

Weeping even harder now, Catherine stumbled into the next room, to Spurger's ”Motivation” machine. Herb followed.

  She positioned herself in the device and started with her feet, stooping to buckle the straps around her ankles. Herb could tell it was somehow much worse, having to lock herself in, having to cooperate in her own torture. When her ankles were securely fastened, she buckled her left wrist to the frame. Both ankles and one wrist now secured, she just stood and waited and sobbed.

  A few minutes later Spurger entered. “Ready, are we?”

  She jumped at the sound of his voice and began sobbing even harder.

  Spurger hummed while he fastened her remaining wrist.

  “Please!” she said, “Not too much. I beg you, not too much!”

  “Only what is needed. Nothing more. Nothing less.” He slid around behind her and stood a moment, watching her shiver, then ran his fingers down her sides. At his touch, she gasped and shuddered violently.  He leaned in and licked the nape of her neck, then attached an adhesive electrode over the moistened flesh. He leaned down and this time licked the base of her spine, attaching an electrode to this spot as well. He moved around to face her. He paused again, drinking in her gloriously naked, beauty. He took one of her breasts in his hand, lifted it to his lips and licked her nipple. He stuck an electrode there as well. He did the same to her other nipple. Finally, he stuck one to the flesh beneath her breasts. This, he did not bother to lick, it was to monitor her heart. He gazed into her wide eyes. “Mind the teeth,” he said, stroking her cheek, “Wouldn't want to lose your tongue.” Then, calmly, he reached over and flipped the switch.

  Catherine's body went instantly rigid. Her hands balled into tight little fist, her toes curled under to her heels. Well-honed muscles knotted beneath her suddenly sweat-sheened flesh, tendons stood out like taut cables. A groan lurched up from deep in her belly, a noise both ugly and animal. Spittle spewed out her clenched teeth.

  Spurger folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the wall and watched.

  This was more than Herb had seen him give anyone, ever.

  Sweat poured off her body now, like fat drops of rain. Foam gushed out her mouth, spilling over her chin like soap suds. Her eyelids fluttered open and her eyes rolled back. Her body was vibrating violently now, like a tuning fork struck hard enough to shatter. Her joints creaked and moaned as her muscles spasmed. Her pink hair began smoking. The line on the monitor went flat and her heart stopped beating.

  Herb wondered if her life was flashing before her now, wondered, if, at this moment she was that startlingly beautiful, icy-eyed ten-year-old girl staring out at the world as if she owned everything in it. Was she seeing her graduation? Her marriage? The birth of her children? Was the girl surprised to learn she had come to this, a naked puppet dancing her life out on four thin strings?

   Spurger reached out and flipped the switch.

  She hung there, lifeless and limp, not breathing; the only sound the steady drip, drip, drip of sweat hitting the floor.  Then the monitor gave out a small, half-hearted chirp. Just one. And then finally another. Then, after what seemed an eternity, another. Suddenly she gasped and heaved a breath so deep it seemed to suck all the air from the room. And then her heart sprang alive, beating furiously.

  Spruger moved to within inches of her, again drinking in her beauty. Her hair was drenched and hung over her face in pink ropes. He brushed it aside and peered deep into her eyes. It was obvious from her face that shards of agony were still coursing through her, but also, there was infinite gratitude that if was finally over.

  “Two more just like that,” said Spurger, stroking her cheek, “And we're done for the day.”

  Her eyes widened in disbelieving horror just as he flipped the switch.