Chapter 01 - In Which Damon And Sgt. Peppers Interrogate Three Female Journalists

Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.

- Sylvia Plath

"You know, this was always one of my most favorite operas," the tall man in the black uniform said while wiping the knife clean on one of their white blouses, refilling his glass with some water and then pulling one more dog treat out of a bag in his pocket. "The sextet in the third act, ah! Marvellous, just marvelous." He held in for a moment, silently smiling and enjoying the music while the guard dog next to his boots was silently snarling and leerily eyeing the three females in front of him.

"Do not," he continued, "look up the plot, though, and what they're actually singing about." He laughed out loud. "Oh, I promise you, you will be so disappointed, it's just such a bummer! But such was the case before the Romantic era when they put more emphasis on the libretti, the texts." He then shifted his gaze to the dog and speaking sharply he said, "Beeeeg!" The beautiful young woman in the dog costume, naked except for gloves and boots that ended in furry puppy paws, a collar, dog ears and a buttplug with a tail attached to it, begged like a dog, her paws hanging limply in front of her fat tits. Looking up at him she whimpered obediently. He smiled and held the treat in front of her nose, looked down strictly into her eyes for a moment while she continued to beg with her tongue hanging out; and only once she softly shook her fluffy tail, he gave her the desired treat to eat. 

"Still," he continued, turned to his prisoners again while tapping the tip of the knife to test its sharpness, and then quickly cut away the blouse and bra of the last of the three women in front of him. "Mozart, at his best, is like," he held in for a moment, holding his knife at the throat of the woman whose bra he had just removed, "he is like wonderfully beautiful but there's always a tender depression in it, such a sweet melancholy, you know?" Content with the way he described Le Nozze di Figaro, he smiled to himself and nodded, quietly singing along the sextet. "Riconosci in questo amplesso," he hummed, while the women were still gagged, had their ankles confined in close chains and their cuffed hands attached to another chain that led to a hook in the ceiling above them and forced them to carefully balance on the tip of their toes.

"In that regard," he picked up the topic of Mozart again, "his music is like life itself, like love itself. So many shades of grey here, to love what is mortal and so on, there is the beauty of the moment and yet this fragile melancholy in it. What is pretty," he continued and gently stroked over the soft brown hair of the girl to his right, who was the most petite, most attractive and the youngest of the three of them, "and what is ugly, depressing" eventually turning to the two fat women, a pink-haired black one and a blue-haired white one. "And I think," he just wanted to go on again when the fat black female suddenly groaned and her eyes were rolling back, revealing nothing but white for a moment. Damon stepped closer to her, reached out and slapped her hard across the face, with his palm over her left side first and with the back of his hand over her other side. "Don't you lose consciousness on me here, fucking cunt," he rebuked her. "That's for me to decide when you go," he stated and slapped her again, this time even harder until some blood came running out of her nose. The submissive petgirl barked approvingly.

"Now, you," he said, turning to the pretty girl to his right again, she being the only one whose body was not covered with bruises, whip marks and blood. "How did you end up in this bad company here?" he asked softly, tenderly stroking her hair again and her cheeks. He took the gag out of her mouth and reached for a glass of water behind him. "Sir," she just mumbled, stuttered, "Sir," she tried to say something, but noticing that she was too weak yet to speak, he patiently hushed her and put the glass of water at her lips, allowing her to drink. She whimpered silently. "Slowly," he said comfortingly, then put the glass down again, brushed a drop of water away from her lips while his other hand explored the side of her body. He bent over her, towering over her, and whispered, "I can't believe that you are with these journalists here. Such a pretty girl in such an ugly profession?

"Hm," he made and then stroked over her round breasts, her hard nipples and reached down to her pink panties, the only piece of cloth she was still wearing, grabbed her by the pussy and then lightly stimulated her clit before pulling her panties down, revealing her smoothly shaved little pussy. With his knife, he then brushed over her pubic area and then held the flat side of it against it. It was cold, and she whimpered. "Please," she just whispered and then started to cry. He bent forward and kissed her head. "I like that you shave," he commented, pointing at her smoothly shaved private area. "Not like those cunts there," he added, grimly looking at the two fat women next to her, also naked, but with feminist bushes spreading between their short legs.

He sighed, walked up to the blue-haired white bitch to his left, grabbed her hair, yanked her head back and started stabbing her viciously in her throat, blood shooting out, sprinkling over him and her and the other ugly woman next to them. He stabbed her two or three or thirty times until her whole throat and her neck, her shoulder and her jaw were almost wrecked, covered with deep, gashing wounds and her dead body hung lifeless in the chains. Damon took a deep breath and stepped back again. The other fat woman was screaming into her gag and heavily yanking her chains while the pretty one lost her consciousness for a moment before coming back and continuing to whimper and sob.

The man put the knife away and then rummaged in the females' belongings until he eventually pulled out the pretty one's smartphone. He pushed some buttons, looked for something and then finally read out her name. "Jessica Evens," he said. "Journalist, feminist media critic, blogger, and public speaker. Bachelor's degree in communication studies from California State University, master's degree in social and political thought from University of Portlandia." He then continued to read out the title of some of the articles she had written, "Toxic masculinity is probably destroying the planet; Boys can't be boys. Here's how to fix our toxic masculinity problem; Watch out, manspreaders: the womanspreading fightback starts now; Why I'm both a," he blinked with his eyes and looked to her, raising an eyebrow, pausing and then continuing to read, "Why I'm both a feminist and a sexual masochist."

He smirked. "Well, well, well," he made and then read what the article said. "While millions of women around the world made 'Big, Black Storm of Passion' one of the highest box office grosser till date, the story of sadist billionaire Chad Thundersteel and his virgin secretary Dolly Littleone does not depict the kinky world of BDSM correctly. According to Shoshana Silberstein," he emphasized the name, sighed and rolled his eyes again, giving her a knowing look, "Professor of postmodern gender studies at the University of Berkeley, real BDSM is about consent and champions feminism and the empowerment of women through consensual rape play and..." he groaned and rolled his eyes again, throwing the smartphone away.

"And this is why I hate BDSM," he finished the sentence himself. "Essentially, it's a faux-surrogate for actual dominance and actual submission. Instead of a sweet, warm and submissive helper whose cheeks blush upon receiving a playful slap on her bum, men in Portlandia have to deal with ugly, boisterous feminists who want their boyfriends to spit in their faces, whip and abuse them, and simulate rape like conditions. The faux 'dominance' of consensual sadomasochism is outright pathetic. Women just want to reduce men to the status of dogs; dogs that look dark and dangerous and threatening when they bark, and are yet on the leash of the female, who only has to snap her fingers once to make him roleplay as a 'dom' in the bedroom, and then snap her fingers twice in order to transform him back into her little beta boi. Men deserve better than that. Isn't that right, Sgt. Peppers?" he then asked the dog who barked approvingly, looking obediently up to her male superior before gnarling at the wicked feminist. 

Damon looked at the two female prisoners left and eventually, he turned around and picked up an old revolver that looked like it was almost a hundred years old. He placed a single round in the revolver, spun the cylinder, placed the muzzle against the fat female's head and pulled the trigger. The bitch yanked her chains again and screamed into her gag. No bullet came out of the revolver, though, but a puddle of piss began to form between her legs. "Daddy," the pretty one began to cry. "Help me, Daddy." Damon rolled with his eyes again. "So now you're calling for your father! Now you want the toxically male authority figure to come in and save you. And now look what you bitches are doing to my shoes!" he shouted, noticing the puddle of piss on the floor. He groaned in disgust, put the revolver at the fat one's head again and pulled the trigger a couple of times until she finally lost the Russian Roulette, a bullet came out and smashed through her skull. Her dead body fell back limp into the chains.

The pretty girl started to cry and scream so loudly that Damon had to take a gag and put it into her mouth. "Don't you fucking fool me, cunt!" he shouted. "I know that you've been sent here from Portlandia to support the terrorists! You cannot fool me. And you know why? Because I can think like a woman! I am large, I contain multitudes," he quoted Whitman in his strange accent she found hard to locate before he continued, "and actually, it's pretty easy to think like a woman! I just take a man and then take away reason and accountability." Sgt. Peppers, the young woman dressed up like a German Shepherd, kneeling next to his boots, woofed approvingly again. "Isn't that right, Peppers!" he asked the dog, scratching its head.

"You know, women often used to pride themselves on being like cats, comparing man to dogs. But personally, I think that it's the other way around. Cats have character, they are unique, are independent. Whereas dogs, well, they can be lovely creatures who bring joy to your life, as long as they are leashed, collared, housebroken and obey your every command. If they're let loose, however, they eat until they're fat, piss on your rug, destroy themselves and your home." Sgt. Peppers happily barked in cheerful approval again, she was trained and housebroken and had already learned that women are best off when treated like the animals they are. "Also, women aren't as unique as they claim to be, quite the opposite! There is far more diversity among men while women, well, let's just say that if you know one of them, you pretty much know all of them.

"I mean, there is so much variability among men, for better or worse. The great artists are all men but the 'reading's just for faggots'-types are also mostly men. IQ tests: people with IQ above average are usually men but people with IQ below the average are also mostly men. The funny people are all men, the super serious preacher, depressed poet types are also men. There are men who are into tall or fat women, but there aren't any women into short men. There are men into dominant women, but there aren't any women into submissive men. Many men would be fine with women outearning them, women, however, are not. And so on. With women, ah, there is so little variability among them. They all have the same social attitude, hypergamous, the same sexual preferences, submissive and masochist, the same opinions and views, the same interests, the same non-existing humor, and so on. The only really interesting women are actually creations of male writers.

"Male writers have gotten so much shit from feminists, although feminists should actually be flattered. Because these women from male writers are always the most interesting women, whereas real women mainly just differ in their ability to be a good slave." Sgt. Peppers bent forward, softly shaking the tail that was attached to her buttplug and gently kissed her wise Master's boots. Damon kicked the dog away, then reached out and quickly took the gag out of the female prisoner's mouth before wildly slapping her across the face and her head a couple of times. "Now, for the last time – are you simply here to write about modern culture in New Albion, or were you sent here to give the feminist terrorists here pieces of information and money?"

"We're sent here!" the naked female finally confessed with tears in her eyes. "It's all true, they've sent us here to help the feminists," she sobbed, "Portlandia has sent us here."

"Thank you!" Damon said loudly, clapping in his hands and feeling relieved that the bitch had finally confessed. He was an important man and had many other things to do than torture second-class journalists and spies. "You know," he chuckled, "the funny thing is that I actually do believe that Marx, the man you worship so much there, was actually right about most things! Like, consider that what we colloquially call Marxism, Marx and Engels themselves called historical materialism. Marxism has obviously an ethical dimension to it, looking at how monopolies are formed and how all capital being monopolized in the hands of a few affects those who do not own capital and so on, but it's first and foremost about analyzing history and not about the working conditions of English coal miners.

"Criticizing Hegelian idealism, this whole idea of the 'power of ideas', they pointed out how history is not the struggle between great men on great horses or great philosophers with good versus bad philosophers with bad ideas, but class struggle. The Protestant Reformation, for instance, didn't happen because it took more than 1000 years for someone to finally realize that Catholicism didn't have much to do with the Christian Bible, but because new means of production were developed that then came into the hands of a class that had slowly gained more capital and independence in their guilds: the citizens in the free cities of the Holy Roman Empire.

"This class then used Luther and Co. as their mouthpiece against another class: the aristocracy and the Catholic church that was attached to it and that claimed political power over them. But necessary were new means of production in the hands of an advancing class. Or remember the printing press! It's always about new technology resulting in new capital resulting in new power. And this is actually what has happened with us in New Albion! Since it was our society who got their hands on new medicine and new sources of energy, we were eventually able to kill off the old American ruling class and establish New Albion where we were able to enslave women and pretty much rule the world, if I may say so.

"You might have become a happy girl here," he noted, "You're pretty and cute," he stroked over her cheeks again, wiping a tear away and then smiling down to the dog who looked up to him with love and submissive devotion in her eyes, softly swaying her tail and with her tongue stuck out. She stared at his groin and then up to him, woofing hungrily for cock. "This is how a girl is supposed to be," he complimented the female animal before turning to the prisoner again. "Pretty and cute is not enough," he stated and then rammed his knife into her blue eye deep into her skull.

"Heel," he commanded the dog, and then turned around, Sgt. Peppers happily following her Master, content and confident in her knowledge that as long as she utterly surrendered body and mind to her Owner, she would be treated like a dog and not end up like the dead women behind them.