Anger Management, Part 5
“Hey!” Emma said brightly. “That brought you back. So I have here with me the standard AMRD mediation kit. As we move into Stage 1, and I quote: ‘The case worker is authorized to encourage the subject’s compliance through sensory means to be applied with approved Stage 1 kit materials as described in subsection A to this document. Such encouragement must be applied in 10 second increments. If the subject remains compliant during a full increment, this will be followed by a 10 second respite, all time disputes to be resolved by the case worker. If the subject fails to comply at any time during the 10 second increment, the increment shall restart at 10 seconds. If Stage 1 is unsuccessful, the case worker may proceed to Stage 2 at their discretion.’”
Monica’s eyes narrowed. “Emma, what the fuck do you mean by ‘encourage,’ and what are 'kit materials'?”
Emma rolled her chair back to the shelf at the foot of the table where she’d placed her valise. Then she opened the case with its lid toward Monica.
From her reclining position, Monica could now see Emma over the tops of her knees as they spoke, as if she were in counseling and Emma was her therapist.
Emma continued. “Basically, Monica, the mediation process is based on a far nicer version of – now don’t let this freak you out – military enhanced interrogation techniques. Don’t worry, it would be illegal and of course unethical for us to inflict pain or injury on a subject in any way. That’s why you’re so heavily restrained.”
Poker face, Monica thought. This is a bluff. Or a joke. There is no way she can actually do anything.
“We have two objectives here, Monica,” Emma explained. “The primary objective is to non-violently induce you to show remorse and sign the documents, even if you choose to ignore me. The second, which supports the first, is to passively encourage a compliant mindset.”
Monica gave Emma a thin, weary smile. “Compliant mindset,” she mimicked contemptuously. “Right.”
“I’m just glad we’re talking again, Monica. Some very smart people designed these stages…see how it’s working already?
Monica rolled her eyes.
“I just need to get a few things ready,” Emma explained, “and then we can start.”
In a flash, Emma flipped the straps off the backs of Monica’s heels and removed her shoes.
"HEY!!!" Monica cried out in shock. "What the FUCK?!" She frantically waved and kicked her suddenly bare feet.
"Monica, now Monica," Emma coaxed gently. "Please settle down. This is all part of Stage 1."
"FUCK YOU!!!" Monica strained furiously in the wraps, her face turning bright red as another tantrum took hold. "LET ME GO!!!"
"Of course I will," Emma replied. "As soon as you sign the forms."
"Gahhhh…" Monica sighed, calming herself through force of will. Emma was quietly impressed by both her client's temper and her ability to master herself under such insane conditions. However spoiled and privileged she might be, this was a formidable lady.
"Get it through your thick head, Emma." Monica seethed. "As a matter of personal principle I will never, under any circumstances, sign your ridiculous forms. This is an abuse of power and I will see you held accountable for it."
"That strikes me as a touch ironic," Emma observed. "Your views on being held accountable for abuses of power."
"I have no intention to debate you on the topic while strapped to this table." Monica replied.
"I wasn't inviting a debate, Monica," Emma countered. "This interaction is purely transactional."
Monica paused to reconsider her ‘case worker’. She looked and acted the prosaic bureaucrat, but occasionally, flashes of wit and intelligence showed through. And was that a touch of smugness in her attitude since this whole ‘Stage 1” nonsense had started?
“Oookay,” Emma breathed, back to the task at hand. “On with Stage 1.” Her eyes angled down to Monica’s bare feet and she thoughtfully bit her lip, as if sizing something up.
“Wow, you have really nice feet,” she observed absentmindedly. “What are you, a size nine? Maybe nine and a half?”
Monica fumed in silence.
Emma gave a small decisive nod and leaned in to tinker with something Monica couldn’t see. Then she reached over and pulled a tangle of dark wires from her valise. She fiddled with the wires for a bit and leaned back in.
Monica only caught glimpses of Emma’s tinkering and hadn’t the foggiest idea what she was doing, especially since she was feigning indifference. Maybe… YIKES!!!
Monica heard a zzzt! and abruptly her feet were held together fast, trussed by something binding her big toes. She yelped, but before she could react further, Emma leaned forward and with another zzzt! pushed her feet back into the shallow recesses of the apparatus above her ankles.
“STOP THIS!!!” Monica screamed, thrashing wildly. “Goddamn it!”
But now in addition to the wrappings, Monica’s feet were secured against the frame over her ankles by the ties around her toes. Her feet were neither stretched back nor pushed forward; they were simply forced upright and held comfortably but firmly in place.
Monica bucked and growled in frustration, wiggling her trapped toes. Emma seemed efficient and task focused as she busied herself at the end of the table, and as her plight became clear Monica found it subtly humiliating that the young girl could see the bare soles of her feet tied and exposed this way.
At once Monica had an almost funny realization: her current dilemma seemed unprofessional, and left her feeling oddly vulnerable and self-conscious, as if she’d been dropped into the corner of a formal black tie power event wearing nothing but gym shorts.
She stopped her toe wiggling, imagining how it might look desperate or pitiful. And the last thing Monica wanted now was to appear weak or out of control to Emma. She needed to salvage whatever dignity she could to preserve any negotiating leverage at all with this girl.
Emma plugged something in and suddenly the LED display lit up, showing a bright red 00:10. It immediately began counting down, to 00:09, 00:08, 00:07… Monica found that she could trigger the timer to restart at 00:10 by tugging slightly on the toe cuffs. She did this a few times as Emma reached over and powered on a large screen at the nearby computer workstation. She angled it so Monica could see.
As if she weren’t already humbled, Monica turned to find on the workstation’s display a larger-than-life, hi-res, live image of…her own feet. They were nice, as Emma had pointed out earlier. Like Monica herself, her feet were long and narrow, soft and pampered, and elegantly formed. It was odd to see them like this. The screen’s detailed resolution showed fine webs of intricate creasing in the pale linen texture of her soles, suspended beneath the sharp black band pinning her toes into place.
Somehow her feet on the screen looked forlorn, disembodied and trapped as they were. She couldn’t help but wiggle her toes again, just a little. When she did, the timer reset.
With another flourish of keystrokes from Emma, Monica watched as a series of “picture in picture” images blinked to life along the bottom of the screen under her hapless soles. One showed her whole body on the table from above and to the side. Another showed only her head and shoulders. A third focused exclusively on her hands, and the fourth was shot from over Emma’s left shoulder showing the girl's workspace with Monica’s trapped feet flexing in the background. The fifth and final PIP image in the screen’s lower right corner showed the LED display.
“You’re recording this?” Monica asked Emma incredulously as the case worker leaned back in her seat.
“Of course,” Emma replied. “As legally required.”
“Well you’re doing me a big favor then, bright girl,” Monica chided. “Get ready to produce these files in discovery. They'll be perfect for the trial. I can see the headlines now: ‘Has the City of Chicago Developed a Foot Fetish?’”
Emma smiled thinly. She reached into her valise again, and Monica watched on the video screen as she set what appeared to be two thin pencils on the table by her heels.
“I see you’ve already noticed the timer, and how to reset it,” Emma intoned. “It only takes a soft tug from your toes.”
Monica was shaking her head, incredulous. “This is the most fucked up…”
Emma went on. “The first step in Stage 1 is for me to ask you to voluntarily hold your feet still for 10 seconds, as the timer counts down to zero. In other words, please don’t tug your toes. Do you understand?”
Monica rolled her eyes and her voice dripped with scorn. “Is this to encourage my ‘compliant mindset’?”
Emma ignored her. “Do you understand, Monica?”
“Fuck you.”
Emma glanced at the LED readout on the screen, jumping back to 00:10 every second or two, and then looked meaningfully at Monica.
“You just need to Hold. Still.”
“Fuck. You.” Monica maintained her glare and rattled her feet in the toe cuffs. With some satisfaction, she saw the display simply stayed at 00:10 and flickered.
“Okay,” Emma said. “I guess that's the end of this step.” She looked up to find Monica regarding her contemptuously with a hint of smug satisfaction. Is that all you got? the look seemed to say.
Monica watched both Emma and the monitor as the young girl picked up the pencils she’d placed on the table earlier, one in each hand. What fresh hell is this? she wondered.
Whatever it was, she needed to stay on top of this girl. She would not give an inch.
Emma fixed her client with a patient look, waiting to catch Monica’s eye. Monica made Emma wait a few beats and then met her gaze with a haughty tip of her head and a smirk, her third best glare. “Now what?” she asked.
Emma smiled with a hint of mischief. "I have a question.”
“Of course you do,” Monica sneered. "What is it?”
Emma raised her eyebrows a fraction. “Are your feet very ticklish?”
Monica’s toes twitched, resetting the timer again, and her expression changed instantly from contempt to straight horror.
Gotcha, thought Emma. Defenses breached.
Monica’s mouth dropped into an O and she blushed, followed almost comically by two slow blinks. Finally she found her voice.
“WHAT??!?!”
Emma raised her hands where Monica could see, revealing that the pencils she held were in fact two small, pointy liner brushes. She waved them back and forth, an unmistakable sparkle in her eyes.
“I’m going to tickle your feet, Monica, and I’m wondering how sensitive they are. These little brushes are very stiff and it will help me get the pressure right.”
“ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FUCKING MIND??!?!”
Monica began to squirm vigorously in the wraps and against the toe ties, straining and grunting with the effort, her face reddening further, but she was trapped as securely as ever. Emma waited patiently for her to tire.
Finally, panting, Monica stopped and glared. Hate boiled off her like steam. “Do NOT do this, Emma,” she said. Her voice had that low and dangerous edge.
Emma smiled patiently. “Not an option, Monica. Now here are the new rules. The clock is programmed to count down from ten to zero so long as its reset is not triggered. Once it hits zero, it will flash for ten seconds, and then start over. Are you with me?”
Monica remained silent, almost quivering with rage. Never had Emma seen anyone so furious. Her feet pulled restlessly at their ties.
“Your job,” Emma continued, “is to comply with my instructions and hold perfectly still, as I previously asked you to do politely and voluntarily. But now I will be tickling your feet, and I will continue tickling them until the timer hits zero, no matter how many times you reset it. So the more compliant you are, the less tickling you get. Clear?”
No reply. Emma could sense wheels turning, but Monica remained silent and fuming. Despite the coolness of the room, she could also see a light sheen of sweat glistening on Monica’s forehead.
“Whenever the timer reaches zero, you will get a ten second break from the tickling before we begin a new cycle. You can end the process at any time by agreeing to sign the forms, or I can end it by moving to Stage 2. Do you understand? Your silence is still assent, by the way.”
Monica took a breath shaking with anger. “I understand that you’re enjoying this, you sadistic little bitch.” Monica snarled. “And I understand that this is state sanctioned torture, pure and simple, whatever you choose to call it. But you should understand that no matter what you do, or whatever ‘stage’ we’re in, hell will fucking freeze over before I sign your motherfucking forms.”
“Noted,” Emma replied. “So did you want to tell me how ticklish your feet are? Or should I just find out for myself?”
Emma watched as her words triggered the biggest tantrum yet. Monica flailed as if possessed, her hands and feet shaking and straining as she cried out in raging helplessness. Her fit ended with a loud angry scream, eyes boring furiously into her tormentor.
Monica was exhausted, and finally at a loss for words. “I don’t…you…you can’t…” Emma caught the first dim flicker of uncertainty and panic as the attorney's eyes cut to her vulnerable feet displayed on the workstation's screen, and then back to Emma again.
“Remember,” Emma said helpfully, “you need to hold them still.”
Emma settled into position. "Before we begin," she said, “I'm curious.” She held the tips of the two brushes close to but not touching Monica’s arches, looking her in the eye. “Have you ever in your life been in a position where you couldn’t get your way by bullying, threatening, bribing, or seducing someone?”
Monica glared and set her jaw.
“I didn’t think so,” Emma said.
“Well, lady, welcome to the world.”
To be continued…