



                        TICKED OFF

                            by 

                         Joe Doe


WHEN THEY STOPPED LINDA'S CAR AT THE ROADBLOCK, THEY SAID THEY 
WERE LOOKING FOR TICKS.  POOR LINDA SOON LEARNED WHY THEY CALL 
IT "THE DEPARTMENT OF THE INTERIOR."



I had been driving for about an hour when I encountered the 
roadblock.  The friendly officer asked me where I had been that 
day and if I was traveling alone.  When I told him that I had 
been hiking in the woods with some friends, he asked me if I 
could pull over into the rest area for "just a couple of minutes." 

I was a little confused about what they wanted, but the officer 
had a badge and a gun, and he certainly seemed nice enough, so 
I complied.  Another officer in the parking lot directed my car 
into an empty spot in front of a large cement building that 
looked like an abandoned rest stop.

When I got out of the car, the officer explained that there had 
been an outbreak of ticks in the area, and several people who 
had been bitten in the last week had died.  They wanted to do 
a check of my car and also give me a quick "once over" to make 
sure that I hadn't been bitten.  I assured him that I was careful 
about such things, but he said that the Department of the Interior 
was now requiring these "routine checks" for all campers going in 
and out of the wooded areas.  The officer wrote down my name and 
personal information on a form.  Then he took the keys to my car 
and asked me to step inside the building.

There was one woman ahead of me in the waiting room, a stunningly 
attractive redhead with a nervous smile.  While I waiting, I read 
the pamphlets on the table that described the ravages of Lyme 
Disease and other tick-related maladies.  While I always took 
precautions against being bitten, I have to admit that, after 
10 minutes of reading those brochures, I was starting to wonder 
if I had been careful enough, and I was glad they were going to 
check me out.

When it was my turn, a cheerful nurse took me into what looked 
like an examination room and asked me to remove all my clothes 
and put on the exam gown.  I protested that I thought they were 
just going to check my arms and legs, but she explained that 
ticks can "crawl anywhere" and a "more thorough search" was 
required.  The nurse was plump and swarthy, and not the sort of 
person I would normally undress in front of, but she was nice to 
the point of unctuousness, so I complied.

When she returned to the room the nurse explained that I needed 
to remove my brassiere and panties as well, so that the doctor 
can do a full search.  I said that it hardly seemed necessary, 
but she insisted that "it was regulations," and so I complied, 
slipping off my underwear and quickly putting the gown back on.

When the nurse returned again, she asked me to leave my purse 
and clothing where it was and then step into another room for a 
"preliminary search."  I walked into what looked like a large 
department store dressing room, with one side of the room 
completely covered by a mirror.  The nurse came up and whisked 
my gown off, leaving me standing absolutely naked and facing the 
mirror.  I'm not used to standing totally naked in front of a 
mirror, so I covered myself as best as I could with my hands.

She ran her fingers through my hair, examining my scalp, then 
carefully arranged my hair attractively around my shoulders as I 
faced the mirror.  She directed me to put my arms out at my sides 
so that I formed a human "T," and then she slowly ran her hands 
over my arms and legs.  I could feel my face grow flushed as I 
stood there in nothing but a nervous smile.  I was also starting 
to get the strangest feeling that I was being watched.

It was an unusual exam.  She was careful to never cross in front 
of the mirror, so that I could always see my own reflection.  
When she wanted to examine my back or sides, rather than simply 
walk around me herself, she had me turn so that the side being 
examined faced the mirror. 

Then she asked me to put my arms at my side and turn very slowly 
in a circle.  It was almost as if I was modeling something in 
front of the mirror, but of course that idea was ridiculous, 
because I didn’t have a stitch of clothing on!

The nurse said that I needed to "loosen any ticks," and she asked 
me to jog in place while I continued to turn slowly in a circle.  
I meekly complied and was soon bouncing and jiggling in a tight 
circle while the nurse kept commanding me to get my knees up 
higher.

At the conclusion of the exam she had me turn away from the mirror, 
spread my legs, and then bend over and put my hands flat on the 
floor so that my exposed bottom and vagina faced the mirror.  It 
was certainly a position that lent a whole new meaning to the 
designation, "Department of the Interior."  The unusual part was 
that she stood in front of me and kept her hand on the back of my 
neck.  This struck me as strange, because this pose made it 
impossible for her to see anything, except in the mirror.

It was then that a horrible thought crossed my mind.  Was there 
someone watching me on the other side of the mirror?  I shuddered.  
It couldn’t be!

When the phone on the wall rang, the nurse abandoned my search.  
Her phone voice was very different from the cheerful, happy tone 
that she used when she was talking with me, and she was suddenly 
gruff and business-like.  I assumed it was a personal call, 
because it certainly didn't seem to have anything to do with 
medicine.

"Yes, I agree," the nurse said, curtly.  "Well, she IS very 
beautiful, but we are going to need a shoe horn to get them 
all in....  No, she’s the last one....  Okay, bye."

I was about to ask her what the heck was going on, but she 
immediately resumed her cheerful sing-song tone and told me 
that I was free to go, after I signed the forms in the next 
room.  When she buzzed me through, I entered the next room 
through a door opposite the one I came in by.  I was amazed 
at what I saw.

It was a large concrete room, empty except for a few wooden 
benches and a couple of very worn picnic tables.  There were 
dozens of other women in the room, and all of them were as naked 
as I was.  Some were crying softly and some looked confused, but 
no one was speaking. 

I didn’t have long to wonder about this.  A few seconds after I 
arrived, a steel door in the back of the room opened, and two 
mean-looking men with Uzis starting herding us out. 

The nurse was waiting by the door.  As each naked woman stepped 
out the door into the chilly evening air behind the building the 
nurse would ask her name and check it against a list on her 
clipboard.  Then the nurse would use a large red marker to write 
a number on the naked girl’s right butt cheek.  Then one of the 
armed men would playfully slap the girl on the bare butt to show 
her it was time for her to move on. 

When it was my turn, I told the nurse my name was Linda Williams, 
and that I was Director of Marketing for a Fortune 500 company. 
"This is a horrible mistake!’ I pleaded.  "You don't seem to 
realize just WHO I AM!"

The nurse simply smiled, kneeled down behind me with her red magic 
marker, and scratched the humiliating identification on my bare 
bottom.  "I know who you are, Linda," she said, sympathetically.  
I looked at her hopefully.  "Does she recognize me from 'Fortune' 
or 'Business Week'?" I wondered.  They had done an article on me 
in the 'Wall Street Journal' just a few days ago; maybe she DID 
know who I was.  Was I saved?

The nurse smiled mockingly.  "You're number 92!" she said and 
then burst into laughter. 

I felt a sharp, painful slap on my bare bottom, and then the armed 
guard called, "NEXT!"  Embarrassed by my own stupidity, I dutifully 
trotted forward across the picnic grove, making room for the next 
girl.  As I looked back over my shoulder, the nurse playfully 
winked at me and waved her hand in a childish "bye-bye" gesture.  
Then she turned her back on me, giving her full attention to 
the next girl to be processed.

As I scampered across the lawn, naked as jaybird, I noticed a man 
driving my Mercedes onto a huge semi.  There must have been at 
least 10 other cars, of various makes and models, already loaded 
-- though it looked like my car was going to be the last one for 
today.  On the other side of the yard a group of men stood around a 
raging fire burning in a steel drum.  I watched in horror as they 
casually pawed through my possessions, pocketing the money and 
jewelry, and then throwing everything else into the flames.

We were herded towards a large truck with a steel ramp attached to 
the back.  The men near the truck prodded us up the ramp and into 
the cargo bay.  The truck had diplomatic plates, and it was totally 
sealed, except for a small opening near the top.  Unfortunately, 
the opening was a good 15 feet above our heads and was also covered 
by a grille of crisscrossed steel bars.  When they slammed the door 
closed, the only light inside the truck was the moonlight through 
the grille. 

As a Harvard MBA, I had to admire their efficiency.  A few minutes 
ago, I had been a wealthy and carefree young marketing executive, 
basking in the warm glow of her day off.  In less than 30 minutes, 
they had taken my car, my money, my clothes, and my identity.  
They had induced me to prance around butt-naked and even perform 
a humiliating little jig for the entertainment of my new owners.  
When they were satisfied that I was worth keeping, they had crammed 
me into the back of a truck with a horde of other naked babes.  It 
was a slick operation. 

In no time at all, I had been transformed from a successful 
career woman with a limitless future into a butt-naked bimbo 
with a processing number on her bare backside.  And they had 
done it with nary a word of protest from any of us, with less 
fuss than it might take to trap a mouse in the basement. 

I had been upper management.  Now I was just another piece of 
inventory, awaiting shipment.  And I knew the diplomatic plates 
would mean that no questions would be asked when this shipment 
crossed the border.

The odor in the truck was a noxious mix of an endless variety 
of perfumes combined with cold flop sweat.  We were packed in 
ridiculously tight, and I could almost take both feet off the 
floor and still not move an inch.  I could feel the breasts and 
abdomen of the woman behind...and her hot breath on the back of 
my neck.  I was almost nose to nose with the woman in front of 
me, a gorgeous blonde Marilyn Monroe lookalike with a breathy 
voice and a vacant look in her eyes.

"GOLLY!" she exclaimed, breathlessly.  "Wherever they're taking 
us, I sure hope they do something about those darn TICKS!"

And then the truck started forward with a rattle and jerk....



Edited by C. Lakewood


