The Department of Corrections, Book One
Chapter 5: Level NegThree - Processing.

E30541, with every short-chained step, shuffled his PVC-sandaled feet across gritty concrete. His shackles’ heavy steel chain tap-dancing on the hard concrete floor beneath him; someone’s heavy steel chain tap-dancing behind him; someone’s heavy steel chain tap-dancing in front of him. Bowed heads watched metallic sparks escape their flailing chains. Every pair of hands handcuffed, extended in front, fingers splayed—like guilty jazz hands. The long orange line of flawed impounds, a rhythmic troupe of fifty-four men and women, who looked either homeless or like hardened criminals, were quickly shuffled single file through the dusty Earth. Metallic echos danced on the hard concrete ceiling, danced on the hard concrete block walls, and danced on the hard concrete floor—forming a rhythmic sound like a round of applause. The impounds danced an ancient dance: the dance of the enslaved.

The huge “female” processing officer shouted “Halt!” over the loud sparking chains, stopping the long orange line of flawed impounds, arresting their awkward performance in a murky and downward-sloping corridor. Her yellow teeth snapped wildly; her words screamed ghetto ignorant: “Threes ata timez y’all, intada damns Hygienez Departments!”

All five of the processing officers watched impatiently. All five remained inside the corridor. Each praying for one of the impounds to break rank or protocol. Each looking for any excuse to justify beating a scumbag to death.

Three flawed impounds—their chains singing the blues, shuffled into a well-lit, high-tech, three-seat prison barbershop. Had their heads shorn and faces shaved by three mindless corrected impounds in black jumpsuits. Then, at the same time, each flawed impound stood inside of a separate clear-glass tube—an IRT (ink removal tube), for a targeted, full-body, laser tattoo removal: a quick but painful process targeting each pigment’s iron and titanium levels; the technology required only one twelve-minute session and the orange jumpsuits and heavy steel restraints did not have to be removed. The barbershop’s armed guard stood alert; her vigilant eyes sensors scanning the three flawed impounds nonstop as if they were bar codes.

Three years without a haircut or a shave. I feel good—lighter, cleaner, younger. My head and face feel funny—thinner, prickly, cold, Malyj thought to himself, and a lifetime of tattoos erased, my slate wiped clean. Yet, my identity, my individuality, somehow feels reduced, lost. I feel naked, like I’ve been robbed of something, robbed of my past. Malyj’s appearance had transformed from Rasputinesque Orthodox monk to clean-cut marine recruit.

Updated (hairless/tattoo-less) 2D mugshots were taken, entered into the system, reference solely for the human element. The previous 3D facial recognition scans and calculations were valid and each one was simultaneously/constantly being triangulated and monitored by VIL-EN: the latest in OCT (omnipresent corrections technology).

Then, the three selfsame flawed impounds were lined up single file, back out along the dismal corridor’s cold, damp/soaked, and rust-seepage-stained concrete block wall. The five giant processing officers smirking at the scumbags’ forced Karpian makeover.

“No individuals detected,” VIL-EN’s mechanical voice soothed from somewhere beyond the damp concrete ceiling as if God had spoken.

This process repeated eighteen times, three impounds at a time, until fifty-four flawed impounds, male and female, resembled one another. Resembled the Karpian State’s hygiene and image conformity regulations.

“There can be no ‘I’s’ . . . only ’We’s,’ ” VIL-EN’s motherly voice soothed from a long line of perforated speakers, each speaker like a round nipple dotting the corridor’s ceiling, each nipple gently feeding her newborns’ (flawed impounds) minds a formula of Karpian propaganda.

Further down the dank corridor, the fifty-four flawed impounds, male and female, one by one, stopped in front of an open cell door as if it were a checkpoint: the munition cell a makeshift storeroom where an armed, green-uniformed processing officer threw each one of the “Oranges” their State-issued bedroll and hygiene bag to carry (Oranges—the flawed impounds’ nickname because they were all arrayed in orange and they all looked identical—like their state’s main crop: oranges). Each bedroll was musty and heavy with moisture. Each hygiene bag was a small, crumpled, brown paper bag which contained a cheap roll of toilet paper, a small tube of tooth paste, a blue-rubber fingertip-device in lieu of a toothbrush (eliminating a possible shank), a paper-thin bar of grayish soap, a miniature roll-on deodorant, and if the bag was issued to a female . . . a few other necessary items; and everyone received the Karpian State’s pamphlet full of propaganda/brainwashing: The Corrections Manifesto. EVERY flawed impound was also issued corrective vision: Karpian goggles. The goggles were wirelessly connected to VIL-EN: each pair identifying its wearer/flawed impound using BMS recognition; each pair was made of a flexible clear rubber embedded with tiny silver electrodes and thread-thin neon-orange wires, having clear-glass lenses and a bright neon-orange, adjustable, elastic head strap. The flawed impounds were required to wear their goggles at all times. The goggles (technology colliding with flesh) served two purposes: vision, and, implanting Karpian State propaganda, brainwashing, and for-profit commercial advertisements into the flawed impounds’ minds using subconscious persuasion/mind manipulation (tachistoscopic projection/strobonic injection). There were only four Rx’s (prescriptions) available: zero, weak, medium, and strong. Contact lenses were classified as contraband: every pair confiscated and destroyed.

“March!” the huge “female” processing officer snarled like a rabid K-9—after receiving a hand signal from another processing officer that all fifty-four of the flawed impounds had been processed and had received their State-issued gear. “An’ . . . no talkin’!” s/he barked at the perps. One hundred and eight PVC-sandaled feet shuffled across gritty concrete—stirring up a stormy cloud of cement dust.

The orange-clad flawed impounds, each wearing their Karpian goggles, carried their heavy bedrolls and small, crumpled, brown paper bags while shuffling downward (still handcuffed in front and shackled below like violent prisoners; still herded along by five processing officers wearing cryptic-symboled, commie-red armbands and skull-scuffed steel-toed jackboots), shuffling down the dank concrete corridor toward the PODS.

A neon-orange line of digitized text scrolled across the inside, bottom, right lens of Malyj’s clear-glass goggles (neon-orange text only he could see, read, and hear), paused, then flashed repeatedly: BRAIN MAPPING SCAN IDENTIFIED. E30541. ONLINE.

The dim, dank, descending concrete corridor slowly leveled off, eventually becoming horizontal and bright. The vertical concrete block walls, on both sides, transformed to block on only the bottom four feet, above that, large triangular panels of see-through bulletproof plexiglass framed in shiny triangles of indestructible steel. The futuristic bulletproof-plexiglass portholes giving the long line of shuffling impounds a hellish view into the flanked PODS.

Some of the already housed impounds in PODS D and E were communicating uncouthly across the corridor with silent mouthings, head gestures, and secret hand signals (flagging); any/all communication between PODS was a violation of the Karpian State penal code. Others were trying to memorize the ridges across the guards skeleton keys. Most DOC male guards were feminine, most DOC female guards were masculine.

The concrete corridor, now well lit by the light generated from within the encircling PODS, dead-ended in a large concrete circle: the access point(s) into the already overcrowded and unisex Impound PODS A, B, and C. A two-story panopticon.

A stainless-steel MedCart and a s/he nurse in a skin-tight white uniform—who seemed to be posing suggestively, were standing erect in the center of the circular section of the concrete corridor. “One at a time—step up to the fabulous cart my hairless darlings,” an effeminate voice screeched, “his” delicate/manicured hands fluttering in the artificial air and artificial light like beauteous white butterflies queerly gesturing for the impounds to approach “his” shiny fashion accessory.

Each flawed impound was given an injection, a sedative, to calm them before entering into their POD. They also had to swallow a little yellow pill (a tiny white paper cup of recycled urine-water was also provided), another sedative that contained an E-numbered NanoChip alerting VIL-EN to when/if the drug was properly ingested: an alert activated by the impounds’ digestive enzymes.

The five muscular processing officers maintained order: each trained to use attitude, intimidating body language, humiliating comments, and violence; each making sure every flawed impound felt conquered and was compliant with the overly flamboyant s/he nurse. The holstered 9mms, ammo clips, telescoping steel batons, pepper spray canisters, stun guns, steel handcuffs, plastic zip ties, and staticky two-way radios bursting with angry voices hanging from their sweaty, sagging, black-leather utility belts were also a visible, and audible, reminder to submit or be liquidated.

Malyj’s goggles flashed a neon-orange message: IMPKIB IS DELICIOUS. A color image of what appeared to be a small metal bowl filled with a dry dog food appeared for only a split second. Then, a mind-whisper only he could hear: Delicious.

What the f . . . ?! Malyj thought bewildered.

“E30541s medication ingested,” VIL-EN’s motherly voice soothed inside of the echoey, womb-like corridor; she continued to randomly roll call other E-numbers’ statuses. This conditioning process repeated for every impound. A soothing voice for instruction and correct (profitable) behavior. A booming voice for correction and incorrect (unprofitable) behavior.

“Yo’ may talks once inside of yo’ POD!” the huge “female” processing officer’s leathery jaw snapped like an animal trainer’s whip.

The first-third of the line (eighteen orange-clad flawed impounds), were herded into POD A, the second-third into POD B, and the remaining-third into POD C. Fifty-four flawed impounds divided by one flawless panopticon.

E30541s orange wristband’s bar code was scanned as he entered POD A. He could already feel the two sedatives kicking in: his mind clouded—carefree, his body relaxed—cold, his mouth dry—a metallic taste, and his tongue a speech impediment—novocaine numb. He could feel his soul, his individuality, slowly draining from his drugged flesh like blood from a kosher slaughter, like the first moment a shot of bloody heroin is plunged back into an addict’s subcutaneous vein.

After all of the new flawed impounds were sedated, housed, and secured, the processing officers’ tasks were completed. The five departed, marching upward, back into the murky concrete corridor carrying the newbies fifty-four handcuffs and fifty-four shackles; their ten legs pumping like the bony pistons of some iron-heeled war machine. Murmurous voices, jangling skeleton keys, clinking steel restraints, and the urgent synchronized-stamping of steel-toed jackboots echoed of oppressive instruments. Their dark music filled the shape of the unseen architecture, eventually fading away, leaving a silent and hollow concrete shell behind.

POD A was quiet—except for the staticky Muzak filled with subliminal messages dripping from the rusted speakers in the waterlogged concrete ceiling. You could almost hear a pin drop. There was no wall clock—time was fluid—elusory—now measured in MedCart materializations. Every orange-clad flawed impound was wearing their Karpian goggles. There was zero anarchy in general population: no eye contact, no flagging, no talking, no screaming, no tattooing, no shakedowns, no screens, no spearing, no gassing, no flooding, no mechanical restraints, no fighting, no shanking, no gang/race riots, and no raping inside of the overcrowded and unisex POD. Not even one broken jaw wired shut. There was also zero canteen and zero exercise yard. Drugged impounds lie cataleptic on their crumpled bedding, some sat slumped trying to read The Corrections Manifesto, others drooled while attempting to play cards (fifty-two cards disseminating fifty-two different brainwashing “quotes” and “facts” from The Corrections Manifesto), a few occasionally murmured in a secret code—or a drug-induced gibberish, the rest silently staring through their dusty goggles at clear see-through television sets spewing Karpian propaganda, or staring off into space, seeing a distant place like they had all been lobotomized. The old, nuclear-bomb-proof concrete construction a SCIF (techno-eavesdropping-proof area) and as texturally rough as a new sharpening block. There were zero colors. Its echo a dead echo. A rusted metallic sign of TEN RULES hung from the ancient wall, each rule starting with “NO . . .” and each rule ending with “. . . OR YOU WILL BE SHOT DEAD!” Every impound a for-profit product of the system (the only good impound is a profitable impound), each subservient to the State, each doin’ hard time (solitary confinement) inside their drugged mind, each denied basic human decency/dignity and treated/fed worse than an animal. No need to build the perfect (expensive) supermax prison when you administer the perfect (economical) supermax drug: Bogonarkodenotikos-19-66.67®. Control the impound’s mind, not the impound’s environment. The most cost-effective method of for-profit incarceration: Bogonarkodenotikos-19-66.67®. One-party rule (a political dictatorship), undemocratic corporations (political puppeteers), and revenue-generated injustice (impounds)—for the greater good/greatest profit.

Weird! This is not what I am used to, not how inmates, POD mates, usually behave, at least not in a county jail POD. Malyj knew something was terribly wrong, a high-voltage electric-chair-shock shot! down his wrongly-violated spine.

POD A, a two-story mini-prison (one third of the panopticon) ran along the back, arching, poured-concrete wall. By design, at all times, every square inch of POD space was visible from anywhere inside of the concrete POD. Especially visible from within the uniformed POD guard’s observation room: a circular room of clear bulletproof glass, with a 360-degree view of PODS A, B, and C, located above the circular section of concrete corridor. A circular bulletproof-glass room filled with non-lethal weaponry, lethal assault rifles, and the latest Karpian technology designed to simultaneously monitor the flawed impounds of PODS A, B, and C—and the three POD entrances below and within the circular section of the panopticon’s concrete corridor. Signs posted on the curving bulletproof glass threatened:

NO WARNING SHOTS FIRED

The lower and upper levels of POD A were connected by a set of rusted steel stairs located in the far-left corner. Rusted steel railing edged the stairs and upper level’s concrete ledge/catwalk. Each level was divided into five open cells, concrete block walls formed their partitions. Between every two partitions—or open cell: one stainless-steel wall “mirror,” one stainless-steel sink, and one stainless-steel toilet (where you did your business in front of everyone; there was zero privacy, not one blind spot anywhere inside of the unisex POD). There were four, metal, cantilevered frames (two two-tier metal bunks), one tier on each internal partition, built into the gray-painted concrete block walls of each open cell, all four metal frames designed for use as beds. Four flawed impounds were assigned to every open cell, forty flawed impounds total. The remaining sixty-plus flawed impounds had to take a stackable plastic bed frame from beneath the open steel stairs, replace an available spot on the crowded concrete floor, and claim their territory.

Due to overcrowding, new impounds had to sleep on the cold, damp concrete floor; each flawed impound unrolling their bedroll and stuffing it into their plastic bed frame, creating a makeshift bed too short for most men. A makeshift bed that was intentionally designed to be hard and uncomfortable on the delicate human body; intentionally designed to be divergent with the human form.

POD A looked like a two-story mini-prison cut in half, laterally, like a child’s ant farm allowing a view into a subterranean world normally hidden.

There was one wall phone, broken, probably never worked. Five, round stainless-steel tables—each integrated with five, round stainless-steel stools: all lined up horizontally, all bolted to the concrete floor, all covered with yellowed, century-old magazines and newspapers. And an open unisex shower having three heads—but offering zero privacy, was to the far-right corner of the comfortless concrete POD.

Small, black houseflies were crawling and flying all over the subterranean POD; their high-pitched buzzing everywhere. Maddening. This seemed strange to drugged Malyj.

How did they get so deep inside the Earth? And only inside the PODS? He asked himself: Are the drugs making me hallucinate? If E30541 had looked closer, had squinted through the dusty high-tech goggles pressed against his miserable face, he would have realized the flies were really miniature mechanical drones—just extra eyes and ears spying on the flawed impounds for VIL-EN. Each drone assigned its own E-number (impound).

A flickering, life-size hologram of a sexy, red-headed, black-uniformed, female POD guard (the State’s Computer’s chosen representation) patrolled the POD/PODS. Marching back and forth, back and forth, turning on “her” pointed bootheels—leaving no/zero digital footprint. “She” was smacking! a pink telescopic baton in “her” pixelated hand, monitoring all speech and all behavior, correcting flawed impounds when necessary. A female voice seemed to sound from the hologram’s mouth and ceiling speakers in unison when it spoke. “Her” pink name tag read: VIL-EN.

Malyj set his plastic food tray on a stainless-steel table, then sat down. A beautiful, pasty-skinned, buxom woman, about forty-two, was already seated at the round table. The two sat alone in silence. Both slow to establish eye contact as if still terrified into submission. A quick peek into her gray eyes. He recognized her from the temporary holding cell, even with her long cinnamon-brown hair now shorn off.

Their orange trays held a white styrofoam cup of hot water (with packets for instant coffee, tea, or beef bouillon), a small carton of vitamin D milk, a cup of bluish jello, a dry bologna sandwich, a white plastic spork wrapped in a white paper napkin (no luxuries like salt, pepper, sugar, or creamer included), and inside of a tiny white paper cup—another highly-addictive-and-usually-fatal-to-withdraw-from NanoPill: the yellow pill one third of their daily ration of psychopharmacological manipulation and control.

“Sasha Malyj, E30541,” he introduced himself, slowly unwrapping his sandwich. Though now free to speak, his drugged mouth found it hard to form words.

“Sylvia Black, E121867,” she whispered back, revealing a slurred Irish accent. She stole a quick look around the POD. The light in her eyes dulled by the drugs in her system.

Her angelic voice mathematical, colorful as a stained-glass icon, painting beautiful mental pictures in Malyj’s drugged mind by psychedelic words made paint-by-number.

There was an instant connection, a comfortable attraction between the two drugged impounds. Their dusty orange uniforms casting long orange streaks across their goggles’ clear lenses.

“Violation! False identifications uttered! Violation!” VIL-EN’s flickering hologram speed-glided over to their table, warning the two flawed impounds, correcting them to forget their FreeNames while aggressively smacking! a pink telescopic baton in her pixelated hand. Every miniature mechanical drone in POD A swarmed over their dusty goggled heads like curious spy-flies, forming a dark mesocyclone, a screaming cyclonic mass of electronic eyes and ears all turbulently monitoring the two flawed impounds.

Malyj’s goggles flashed a neon-orange message: YOUR NAME IS E30541. A color image of his hairless/tattoo-less mugshot appeared for only a split second. Then, a mind-whisper only he could hear: E30541.

Empty stomachs grumbling like full paddy wagons. The two ate their fodder voraciously; secretly communicating with their hungry eyes.

A table over, black-clad corrected impounds sat together eating in mindless silence: crunching away. Their meals were served on a gray-plastic food tray: a yellow NanoPill, a metal bowl of water, and a metal bowl of ImpKib (impound kibble: a dry dog-food-like kibble made on-site from recycled/edible materials). Only the corrected impounds’ stomachs could tolerate the ImpKib’s smell and oily taste. The dry, stinky, terrible tasting kibble was designed by the Karpian State to be nutritionally sound and to maintain optimum weight (every calorie counted), health, and performance—while scientifically calculated (costed) to reduce medical costs, food costs, and water costs (reclaimed urine) by their now regular toilet usage (flush count/gallons per flush). A healthy impound is of great economic importance to the State. A physically healthy State is an economically healthy State.

Crunch! Crunch! Crunch! echoed inside of empty lobotomized heads.

Malyj’s goggles flashed a neon-orange message: IMPKIB IS DELICIOUS. A color image of what appeared to be a small metal bowl filled with a dry dog food appeared for only a split second. Then, a mind-whisper only he could hear: Delicious.