(Originally published in Bear Creek Gazette, Sept. 2021 no. 5)
In Jocko’s trade, repeat customers were rare. His service was one-off by design. Occasionally, past customers did refer folks to him, but he suspected their motives ranged from a malicious prank to blatant revenge. Of all his customers, though, he had only one regular — Shiloh.
He figured she must be severely psychopathological. He liked that about her.
Jocko flipped through the paperwork. “Looks good,” he said. “But I got to ask once more. Are you absolutely, positively certain that you want to do this?”
(Some backed out at this point. He could always tell the quitters. Their dampness gave them away — sometimes sweat, sometimes tears or runny noses, and sometimes visible bladder leakage.)
Shiloh said, “Yo.”
“Be advised that this is being recorded. Per written agreement, you, Shiloh Rowe, having been informed of all potential consequences, consent to being tased by Amazing Tasing, Inc. You waive any resulting liabilities.”
(Jocko felt it prudent to have audio backup. He distrusted his customers. They were crazier than anybody he met in jail, and more reckless. He’d have to be nuts to trust anybody willing to submit to electrocution as a recreational activity.)
“Yo.”
“You further indemnify and hold harmless Amazing Tasing, Inc for any damages resulting from being tased, up to and including the remote but still statistical possibility of death.”
(Amazing Tasing, Inc. advertised truthfully that law enforcement categorized tasing as non-lethal force, which was the technicality that made his business legal, at least in Las Vegas. But, like everything else legal in Vegas, that didn’t mean it couldn’t kill a person. So far, so good, death-wise. Alas, what else was an ex-felon to do?)
“Yo.”
“If you accept these conditions, please affirm by saying, yes.”
(In this business, satisfaction was not guaranteed. No matter how thoroughly he enumerated the conditions of their agreement, many customers were disgruntled afterwards and claimed he cheated them. Some complained “That’s it?” in apparent disappointment, while others sobbed, “I haven’t been able to sleep [or see straight, have sex, etc.] ever since.” What did they expect would happen — enlightenment? Sometimes he missed selling cocaine to tourists. At least they were appreciative.)
Shiloh rattled off, “Yo, yo, yo.”
“Yes, then?”
“Yes, already.” Shiloh rolled her eyes, as if she thought Jocko was a moron. “This ain’t my first rodeo, buckaroo.”
Indeed. The first time Shiloh patronized Amazing Tasing, Inc., she was so impatient to get started that she seemed combustible. Shiloh was weird on several levels. First, since Jocko’s clientele was about 90% male, Shiloh stood out just because she was, in her own words, a “cowgirl,” dressed in flannel and denim, with a lasso over her shoulder, like a drifter blown in from the Mojave Desert. Second, she was alone. Jocko mostly catered to bonded pairs or cohort groups, as a test, a rite of passage, a trust building exercise, or a profession of love, faith, submission, penance, whatever. From the start he conceived of tasing as a group activity; it seemed pointless to do it without a witness.
On that occasion, Shiloh arrived right at closing time but refused to leave without being served. She fidgeted while he explained to her how it would feel, what would happen physically and neurologically, how long it would take to recover, and possible warning signs to watch for. Finally, exasperated, she said to him, “Skip the legal mumbo jumbo and get ‘er done.”
Get ‘er done they did. He shot her, and when the electrode probes made contact, she flapped her arms and yodeled — actually yodeled, in lilting falsetto like Patsy Montana on the lone prairie. It was kind of beautiful. It was also totally bizarre.
This was the fifth time she had visited Jocko’s business. He kind of dreaded but kind of looked forward to seeing her. Each prior time, her reaction to being electrified was more outrageous, from howling like a coyote to neighing and scratching the floor like a horse.
“Okay, then,” Jocko said.
Shiloh didn’t need to be told what to do next. She counted off fifteen feet and entered the padded booth, then stood facing the back wall.
Jocko gripped the device and waited for her to assume position, forward facing with feet planted and arms braced against the padding. Instead, with her back still turned to him, Shiloh dropped her lasso and began undoing her Texas sized rodeo belt buckle.
“What are you doing?”
“What’s it look like, buckaroo,” she said, letting her jeans fall to her ankles. “I’m dropping trough.”
“I, uh, don’t think that’s a good idea,” Jocko stammered.
Shiloh pulled down her boxer shorts. Looking over her shoulder, she smacked herself on her bare, fleshy butt. “Give me the juice right here,” she said, and then bent forward, ass over head.
“I don’t think…”
She looked back at him between her legs and said, “Just do it, buckaroo.”
Jocko tried to shake off the devilish voice in his head urging him on — She wants it, give it to her; but he could not take his eyes off the target. What the hell, he thought, what happens in Vegas…”
“I’m a-waitin’,” Shiloh cried.
Jocko was still debating with himself when his finger usurped his free will by pulling the trigger. The probes hit the bullseyes, one on each buttock.
Shiloh dropped to all fours, shaking her head and ululated, “yodel-lay-eee-hooo.”
“Are you okay?” Jocko asked.
“Yeeeee haaaaaw,” Shiloh exalted. “You’ve done branded me.”
She did, in fact, have distinctive, bluish, bullet-shaped markings on her backside. Jocko felt rather proud of his handiwork. He felt excused to take a closer look.
“You’ll be sore for a while, but the marks will fade,” he told her.
“Fade?” she hollered. Standing to face him, she said, “I’m yours now.”
Despite her declaration, Jocko felt like he was the one who was owned. Shiloh twirled her lasso and hurled it over him, pulling him close.
“Now it’s your turn,” she said.
Gregg Sapp is the author of the Holidazed series of satires.
