

 
                     THE NEGLECTED NOTE 

                             by 

                          Joe Doe


THE BIG ONE HAS HIT LA, AND INVESTIGATIVE JOURNALIST TERRI LONDON 
IS ON THE SCENE TO INVESTIGATE A MYSTERIOUS NATIONAL GUARD REFUGEE 
CAMP FOR BEAUTIFUL WOMEN. 



Terri London knew it would be the scoop of the century. 

Although, miraculously, there had been no loss of life, the 
property damage from the LA quake had been enormous.  But all 
of the news and television coverage had focused on the massive 
relief efforts and the many city landmarks that now lay in ruins. 

Terri alone had uncovered the shocking truth about an isolated 
prison camp known as "Camp Hollywood."  Clearing the camp's endless 
security checkpoints had taken her almost 3 hours, but her passes 
and papers were in immaculate order. 

She could almost taste her next Pulitzer Prize.... 

As she waited in the Major's office for her interview, Terri again 
reviewed her questions: 

Q: Although this is classified as a "women's refugee camp," it is 
clearly a military prison camp.  Have you used martial law as an 
expedient excuse to strip beautiful women of their basic legal 
rights and imprison them against their will? 

Q: Why does this prison house only attractive women, and why are 
these women prohibited from having legal representation or contact 
with the outside world? 

Q: Numerous young women have been arrested for "looting" when they 
could not produce a receipt for the clothing and jewelry they were 
wearing.  Other women have been arrested in their own homes and 
charged with "squatting" if they could not instantly produce a 
title to the house.  Other women have been arrested for trivial 
curfew or travel violations, and still others have been detained 
as "suspected plague risks."  Do you think such flimsy charges 
warrant indefinite confinement with no counsel? 

Q: Although you are a major in the National Guard, in civilian 
life you were a janitor at a posh Beverly Hills Health club.  
During our phone conversation you admitted that you used the club 
roster to draw up arrest lists of the "pampered, spoiled babes" who 
snubbed you during your career as a janitor.  Do you think this is 
an appropriate use of your authority? 

Q: You have issued uniforms and guns to a large number of 
"irregular" soldiers who have formed so-called "pussy posses."  
One group of illegal immigrants arrested all of the women on their 
lawn care route; another man was "deputized" simply because he had 
a map that showed the homes of beautiful female celebrities.  Is 
it true that you'll enlist any man who is willing to arrest women 
and bring them back to your camp, regardless of his qualifications 
or criminal background? 

Q: When the women are arrested, you seize their cash and destroy 
their ID.  You frequently sell their personal possessions, such 
as their clothing and jewelry, to "help pay for their upkeep."  
Does martial law entitle you to strip these women of everything 
they have, including the clothes on their backs? 

Q: Although there are numerous empty barracks here with indoor 
plumbing, you have forced the female prisoners to live in primitive 
huts of their own construction.  The women are also forced to dig 
and muck latrines, haul logs out of the forest for construction, 
and engage in endless hours of hard physical labor.  Does "sweating 
the fat off their lazy backsides" (as you said on the phone 
yesterday) justify grueling hours of manual labor and primitive 
living conditions? 

Q: Female "volunteers" dance day and night in the posh 
"entertainment club" you have set up here in the camp.  
Is stripping butt-naked in front of a cheering throng of 
horny soldiers an appropriate "work assignment" for female 
refugees?   

Q: The skimpy prison uniform consists of nothing but sneakers, 
revealing camouflage short-shorts, dog tags, and a midriff-baring 
t-shirt.  However, the women who dance on stage are dressed as 
cheerleaders, nurses, and businesswomen.  One policewoman was 
forced to dance a striptease wearing the very police uniform that 
she had on when she was arrested by your men for a bogus "curfew 
violation."  

How can you claim that relief efforts prevent the purchase of 
proper prison uniforms when you are wasting money on sexist and 
demeaning costumes for the strip club? 

Q: Isn't the large brick "hotel" adjacent to the strip club really 
a prison brothel? 

Q: The military brass had planned to shut down your camp.  Are 
the frequent "inspection tours" involving "private interviews" 
with female celebrities bribes to keep you open?  

Q: Several of the female military officers who tried to shut down 
this camp are now prisoners here.  Are you forcing female officers 
to "entertain" the men they once commanded in order to frighten 
other women into silence?  

Q: During our phone conversation you stated "the opportunity to 
order a pretty movie star to her knees builds loyalty and boosts 
morale."  You also claimed that your brothel is in the "fine 
tradition of Hollywood entertaining the troops."  If the camp 
serves a noble and legitimate purpose why is its existence a 
closely guarded secret? 

Q: Is it true that you and your cronies pocket the proceeds from 
the strip club, prostitution ring, and underground "celebrity 
videos" you produce? 

Q: Although you claim that the club assignments are "voluntary," 
women who refuse to work in your bordellos are given strenuous 
work assignments and bare bottom strappings at the punishment 
block in the center of the camp.  Does "maintaining discipline" 
justify spanking grown women in front of hordes of cheering troops?   

Q: Is it true that the women are sometimes spanked in the 
courtyard during cocktail parties as an "entertaining 
diversion" for your guests? 

Q: The walls to the prisoner shower area have been removed, and 
the prisoners are forced to shower in full view of the male 
soldiers.  Because of alleged "overcrowding" you have instituted 
the "shower buddy" system, where female prisoners are forced to 
share a shower nozzle and lather each other under the close 
supervision of the guards.  Why were the walls taken down, and 
why aren't the women allowed to wash themselves? 

Q: Upon entry to the camp each prisoner is given a series of 10 
vaccination shots.  Given the painful nature of the primitive 
forced-air injection gun the military uses, is it necessary to 
administer all 10 shots at once?  Is it necessary for all of the 
shots to be administered in the full view of the soldiers while 
the women are bent over a bench? 

Terri winced as she recalled the two vaccination shots, one in 
each arm, that she had been given before being allowed into the 
martial law area.  Although the air guns reduced the risk of 
infection, needleless did not mean painless.  The doctor explained 
the forced-air gun he was using was far gentler than the military 
version, but Terri still felt like someone had hit her in the arm 
with a baseball bat.   

She knew that TEN such shots in her tender fanny would be agonizing. 

She paused and wrote down another question.   

Q: While I was walking to your office, I noticed a sign your men 
had posted outside the prisoners' latrine.  It said: 

	Just because you're a star of the screen,
	Don't think you're too special to scrub a latrine. 

Another sign said:  

	Julia and Brittany, if you want to be fed,
	Then get down on your knees and give us some head. 

Do you think that mocking the female refugees in this way is 
appropriate?  

Terri put down her notebook and walked over to the large picture 
window behind the Major's desk.  The window offered an unobstructed 
view of the "reception and processing area" for female refugees. 

This area was flanked by the Major's office and the large brick 
"entertainment center."  The area was completely exposed, and, to 
her discomfort, Terri noticed that a number of "early birds" had 
already gathered with their drinks inside the entertainment center 
in front of the large picture window that overlooked the reception 
area.  A few enlisted men sat on lawn chairs on the patio, while 
others casually sat in the bleachers and sipped their suds and as 
they waited for the show to begin.   

There were 50 women packed inside the small barbwire enclosure 
that marked the holding area for "reception."  All of the women 
were beautiful, and Terri recognized a few of them.  One was a 
star from a sitcom Terri occasionally watched; she had paid $75 
to see another in concert.  And she had seen a few of the others 
in "People" magazine. 

In front of the primitive barbwire cage was a row of cardboard 
boxes, each of which contained the name and "refugee number" of 
one of the women.  The names had been written on the sides of the 
box in large block letters, using a red magic marker.  The women 
had been forced to leave their purses, jewelry, and all their ID 
in the boxes.  

A number of the women stared blankly at the military dog tags that 
were now dangling around their necks.  The tags were the only proof 
of identity that they had left. 

Other women read and re-read the huge sign in front of their 
enclosure: 

	FEMALE REFUGEES MUST PLACE ALL CLOTHING AND 
	PERSONAL PROPERTY INTO THE CONTRABAND BOX 
	BEFORE PROCEEDING TO THE EXAM AREA.  	
	EXAMINATIONS ARE HELD AT 1200 AND 1800 HOURS. 

Although the women had been forced to surrender their watches, a 
large clock in front of the processing sign thoughtfully allowed 
the terrified women to count down the minutes until their forced 
striptease.    

The women were silent; one elegantly dressed lady sat in the dirt, 
clearly indifferent to the cleanliness of the "contraband" clothing 
she would soon be forced to surrender.  A few wrapped their dainty 
fingers gingerly around the barbwire as they stared first at the 
sign, then at the box with their name, and finally at the clock 
that slowly ticked away their last remaining moments of dignity. 

Terri smiled in spite of herself.  There was something amusing 
about watching a group of powerful, elegantly dressed women, 
staring in abject terror at a cheap clock. 

A number of the women were also staring at the "reception building" 
immediately to the left of their cage.  The building appeared to 
be normal, in that it had a clearly marked cement foundation and 
plumbing.   

But the building had no ceiling...and no walls.   

The first "room" was a makeshift doctor's office, complete with 
sink and medical cabinet.  To the left of the cabinet was a large 
gynecological exam table with silver steel stirrups.  The table 
was mounted on a large device like a "lazy-Susan" that allowed 
the doctor to rotate the patient in a complete circle.  Thus, the 
device allowed a woman's most intimate secrets to be completely 
revealed to any portion of the enormous male audience that 
surrounded the reception area.   

The next "room" contained a long wooden bench.  The women would 
be required to kneel over the bench with their bottoms raised 
submissively in the air while the soldiers walked down the 
assembly line and administered their shots.  

One soldier gleefully described to her how the women's bare bottoms 
wiggled and jiggled as the shots were driven home.  "Booty duty" 
was one of the most coveted assignments an enlisted man could 
receive; as the soldier told Terri, "It's like giving them a 
spanking, only they make a lot more noise." 

She glanced at her watch; it was only 4:30.  The women would have 
to wait like caged animals for another 90 minutes, staring in 
helpless anticipation at the boxes, the brazenly exposed exam 
table, the bench, and the agonizingly slow clock. 

The final section of the reception area was the shower.  Terri 
clenched her teeth in anger as she noted that every other nozzle 
had been removed, doubtlessly to justify the "shower buddy" system.  

She scowled as she imagined the lewd comments and raucous laughter 
as the humiliated women soaped each other's naked bodies.  The 
Major was obviously determined to give the spoiled women of Beverly 
Hills a lesson in humility.   

Terri looked back at the boxes arranged neatly in a row in front 
of the barbwire cage.  Although all of the boxes looked identical, 
it was the box on the end that drew her attention....

		********************************

That day she had taken particular pains to make sure her military 
passes and transportation papers were in meticulous order: each 
document had the proper seal and was countersigned by the area 
commander and the General.  Terri's medical record was perfect, 
and she had a notarized receipt for everything in her possession. 

The Major had insisted that she bring all of her research materials 
to the camp for the interview, and she suspected that he planned to 
ensnare her in his web.  But the clever reporter had outsmarted the 
Major at every turn.  At each checkpoint, she had watched with 
amusement as the increasingly agitated guards attempted to trump up 
a reason to arrest her.  But she had always been able to deflect 
their clumsy attempts with the perfect document, explanation, or 
credential. 

Terri's suspicions had been confirmed when her escort guard had 
walked her past the barbwire enclosure holding the female prisoners.  
The officer sitting at the card table in front of the enclosure had 
recognized Terri immediately. 

"Well, if it isn't the crackerjack investigative journalist, Terri 
London," the young lieutenant chortled.  "We have your box all 
ready for you, Miss London." 

"Uh...she isn't here to be processed," Terri's escort explained, 
nervously.  "She's here to interview the Major."   

"Are you sure?" the lieutenant replied, scratching his head in 
confusion.  "I have her box right here on the end." 

To her horror, Terri saw that the last box in the line did indeed 
have her name boldly written with a red magic marker:    

	TERRI LONDON
	REFUGEE NBR: 138388
	WORK ASSIGNMENT: ENTERTAINMENT CLUB 

"I know," her escort responded, sadly.  "Unfortunately all her 
papers are in order, so we have to let her through."  His voice 
was heavy with regret. 

The young lieutenant smiled.  "Well, the day isn't over.  I'll 
leave her box here, just in case." 

She looked askance at the smiling young man.  What did he mean, 
"just in case"?   

The young lieutenant gave her a playful wink as her armed escort 
reluctantly led her on past the cage and into the Major's office. 

		********************************

Now Terri was peering out the large picture window and staring 
anxiously at her "processing box."  She couldn't believe that the 
brazen box with the shameful label had been left out in the open 
for everyone to see! 

She knew had violated no laws.  But the Major was so confident in 
his power that he had prepared her box anyway.  It was as if the 
charges were irrelevant; the important thing was to strip her 
naked, scrub her down, and put her to work at the club.  Bogus 
charges could be trumped up later. 

Terri imagined the pampered women at their luxury estates, calling 
their insurance companies and conducting their mundane business, 
blissfully unaware that their fates were sealed.  They did not 
realize that they had been scheduled for "pickup," and that 
processing boxes were already reserved and waiting for them at 
the camp.  

Occasionally the insolent young lieutenant would look up from his 
papers and watch knowingly as she stared nervously at her box.  
The impertinent officer would look at the box, and then give Terri 
a playful smile before returning to his work. 

Terri peered into the portentously empty box and swallowed with 
difficulty.  Could it really be THAT easy to strip her of 
everything she had?  Could Terri London actually be transformed 
into a prison camp pixie simply by scribbling her name on the side 
of a cheap cardboard box? 

She unhappily reviewed her questions.  The Major's responses during 
yesterday's phone interview had been openly hostile, and today 
would likely be no different.  The real story was out in the 
compound, and she knew she had to figure out a way to talk to the 
female inmates.  Although she had numerous sources, her editor had 
warned her that he wouldn't publish until she had confirmation from 
at least one of the women "refugees."  

The Major had expressly forbidden Terri to talk to the women, and 
since they were helplessly imprisoned in the camp, there was no 
way for her to communicate with any of them.... 

Except one. 

Terri considered the situation.  She had an appointment with the 
General on Saturday.  Even if the Major did take her into custody, 
he would have to release her before then. 

Of course, once Terri was in custody, she would be totally at the 
Major's mercy.... 

During yesterday's phone call, the Major had been openly 
contemptuous of Terri's "half-truths" and "scandal-mongering."  At 
one point, he slyly asked her if she knew how to dance, "because I 
have a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader outfit that's just your size." 

But Terri was not going to be deterred by empty threats.  Although 
the work assignment on the side of her box read "Entertainment 
Club," she assured herself that it was a mistake.  After all, she 
was a Pulitzer Prize winning journalist with an international 
reputation.  Surely a respected journalist wouldn't be required to 
earn her meager rations flat on her back, with her legs in the air. 

Would she? 

Terri looked around the office.  Behind the Major's desk was an 
endless series of crates filled with carelessly stacked papers.  
Terri knew her story wouldn't be found in an infinite paper 
blizzard.  The answer was in the compound.   

Was she brave enough to get the story? 

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.  Once she crossed the 
line, there would be no going back. 

She used her gold Cross pen to scribble a note: 

	Major, 

	I noticed that you had a processing box waiting for me. 
	Since there seems to be some confusion, I've decided to 
	wait with the other women in the intake compound. 

	I have left my security clearance, passes, ID, and story 
	notes in the in-box on your desk.  Please review my papers 
	ASAP. 

	Terri London 

Terri paused, and underlined "ASAP" four times.  The timing was 
crucial, and she did not want to be caught in the compound when 
"processing" began.  

She slipped her identification papers and passes inside her 
notebook and put her note on top of that.  Then she placed 
the entire stack of papers in the empty in-box on the Major's 
otherwise pristine desk. 

As Terri placed her hand on the doorknob, she paused and looked 
over her shoulder. 

The identity papers that were so casually lying in the Major's 
in-box were her only chance of escape.  Without them, she would 
be indistinguishable from the other women in the compound....   

She shuddered.  What if the Major didn't notice her note?  Without 
her identification papers Terri would have no recourse when the 
grinning young lieutenant ordered her to strip.... 

Terri rubbed her bottom gingerly as she imagined herself kneeling 
over the block with her butt raised high for the first injection. 

She looked at the prisoners in the enclosure.  The women were 
beautiful, but Terri didn't want a "shower buddy." 

She walked back and carefully moved the in-box to the dead center 
of the desk.  If the Major didn't notice her note, the consequences 
would be too shameful to contemplate.... 

Then she went out the door.

She flinched as she heard the lock to the Major's office CLICK 
shut behind her.   

There was no turning back now. 

She quickly regrouped and strode confidentially into the compound. 
She felt a small chill run down her spine as she once again saw the 
degrading words written on the side of her box: 

	TERRI LONDON
	REFUGEE NBR: 138388
	WORK ASSIGNMENT: ENTERTAINMENT CLUB 

Terri hesitated for a moment before defiantly dropping her purse 
into the box.  She carried her box over to the table the young 
lieutenant was sitting at and boldly slapped the box down directly 
in front of him. 

The smiling lieutenant appeared unimpressed by Terri's bravado.  
"Jewelry too, Miss London," he said, mockingly.  "And then into 
the cage with the rest of the little birdies.  I'll process you 
last.  That way you'll get to watch the others go first." 

Terri glared down angrily at the smiling officer as she dropped 
her watch, earrings, and pearl necklace into the box.  The officer  
casually dropped the box to the ground and kicked it back into 
position at the end of the row.  His bored expression and 
nonchalant manner emphasized the routine and bureaucratic 
nature of the "processing." 

Terri London, world-famous journalist, was now nothing more than 
the box at the end of the row.  

The lieutenant resumed his seat and mockingly dangled a plain 
metal necklace in the air. 

She shuddered as she realized it was her dog tags.   

The lieutenant smiled up at her and continued to playfully swing 
the demeaning ID tags like a hypnotic charm.   

Terri snatched the charm out of his hand and obediently slipped the 
silvery chain around her slender neck.  As she felt the cheap tin 
brush against her tender skin, Terri suddenly realized the term 
"dog tags" was all too appropriate. 

"Don't worry, Princess," the lieutenant sneered, as the armed guard 
shoved the dazed reporter towards the cage.  "I called ahead, and 
your cheerleader costume is waiting for you.  Your stage debut will 
be right after dinner." 

Terri stared back at him in stunned silence.  It was a mistake.  It 
had to be. 

She'd planned on using the time to interview the other women, but, 
when the cage door locked shut behind her, the plan evaporated.  
Terri found herself gripping the barbwire and staring anxiously at 
the large glass window in the Major's Office.   

She could see the in-box with her note and security passes sitting 
alone and unnoticed on top of the large empty desk. 

Five minutes passed...then ten.  Terri anxiously eyed the exam 
table and the showers beyond.  Where was he? 

Her toes curled as she imagined her bare feet in the icy steel 
stirrups.  She imagined lying on the table, eyes clenched tightly 
shut, listening to the men casually evaluate her body as they 
predicted delicious moments for her at the club.  She could almost 
feel the cool breeze drifting up between her legs and stiffening 
her nipples as the table slowly swiveled into position.... 

She looked back at the office.  No one was there. 

She watched tensely as a soldier with a gas mask carefully refilled 
the enormous tank of delousing fluid and tested the water pressure 
in the shower. 

Another 10 minutes passed. 

She looked back at the office.  Where the hell was he?  He was 
supposed to interview her an hour ago. 

If he didn't arrive soon, it would be too late.... 

At long last the light in the office switched on, and Terri's death 
grip on the barbwire relaxed.  Salvation! 

The Major seemed puzzled to find the in-box in the center of his 
desk, and he quickly moved it back into position.   

Terri felt her pulse quicken.  Didn't he notice the folder?  Didn't 
he see her note? 

Was he BLIND? 

She watched the Major casually sit down in his big leather chair 
and leisurely open up the humidor behind his desk.    

Terri clenched her fists in helpless frustration.  Precious seconds 
were ticking away, and he was choosing a cigar. 

Her heart raced as the Major closed his eyes and slowly ran the 
cigar under his nose.  She could actually feel the tiny rivulets of 
sweat running down her back as he slowly savored the aroma. 

At last, he reached over and took the note and folder out of his 
in-box. 

She watched intently as he casually skimmed her note.  He looked 
out the window and scanned the barbwire enclosure. 

Terri smiled and gave him a tiny wave as she finally made eye 
contact. 

The Major did not wave, but he did smile.  He picked up the folder 
and indifferently riffled through Terri's carefully prepared passes 
and identification. 

And she watched in horror as the Major casually tossed her vital 
documents into one of the large crates that littered the floor of 
his office. 

Terri stared at the Major in disbelief.  Didn't he realize how 
important those documents were?  If her vital papers were mixed 
in with the thousands of other discarded reports in his office, 
they might be lost forever.  How could he treat her carefully 
crafted credentials with such brazen contempt?

The Major put his feet up on the windowsill and lit his cigar.  
He leaned back and took a long, luxurious drag on his stogie. 

Terri gripped the barbwire tightly as she looked first at the 
smiling Major and then at the examination table nearby.  She 
closed her eyes and tensely bit her lip as she tried to ignore 
the nerve-wracking sound of the loudly ticking clock just a few 
feet away.



Edited by C. Lakewood



