Emily Norton was preoccupied. She had a dinner party coming up for her associates at work and anything at all interesting was so darned expensive. Fresh vegetables were bad. Meat was the worst. Laura's Market was the best, but quality and reliability always demanded a premium - and got it. Up against the front window were racks of freshly baked breads. Colorfully packaged, rare spices and exotic condiments were displayed on the center shelves that divided the store in halves. In the back of the store, one could watch the butcher retrieve a side of meat from the walk-through refrigerator and prepare one's special order. Shiny white coolers lined the whitewashed walls on either side of the central display. Under the glare of brilliant fluorescent lighting, the coolers on the left offered premium beef, pork, and lamb. In the coolers on the right, closest to the door, the best of poultry was offered.

Once men had been the Lords of Creation. They had ruled the world for millennia but they had betrayed their trust at every opportunity and nearly destroyed humankind with their institutionalized destructiveness. Some said that civilization itself was women's response to male strength and alacrity for violence. Ultimately, civilization itself stood on the brink of chaos and women finally banded together and found their deep-rooted strength. In the aftermath of the Revolution, they discovered that a simple reduction in male numbers had finally ended war and markedly diminished violent crime. The challenge for the new order was to restrain male numbers in the face of the male birth fraction and women's vast sentimentality. Nature, it seemed, abhorred a vacuum and the percentage of male births inched upwards past 65%. Males might recover their lost numbers in a generation. However, no one could deny the dividend that came to all with the end of war and violent crime. Allies were readily found among the women who had picked up the reins of power, long held by men,and had quickly come to enjoy their new prerogatives.

Initially, an annual Hunt was established. This was supplemented by more systematic procedures later. Disposal of so many carcasses, initially a challenge, ultimately became an opportunity. Creativity and the search for novelty expanded the envelop of the conceivable. The once unthinkable became fashionable and old-fashioned tests of common sense no longer applied. The desire to be chic had once almost eliminated the beaver and the fur seal. Human males or jacks evoked much less sympathy in the end, being competitors for sovereignty rather than simple dumb creatures available for rational exploitation. Just as the meat from cattle is termed beef and the meat from swine is termed pork, so the meat from jacks is termed jacques. A joey is a younger jack.

In the coolers on the right, closer to the back of the store, one found the prime cuts of jacques for which Laura's was famous. One found larger cuts, such as rounds, rumps, saddles, racks, shoulders, and tenderloins, and barons and smaller cuts, such as roasts, steaks, back ribs, stew meat, hommeburger, and soup bones. Cured hams and pickled tongues were there too, along with organ meats, like livers, kidneys, and testes. Every offering was clearly labelled, neatly packaged in cellophane wrappers, and dated for freshness.

Sometimes, Emily caught a glimpse into the walk-through on the right. Once she saw a pair of flayed entire carcasses hanging in the cold and on another ocassion, a side of jacques, waiting to be butchered. A layer of white fat protected the rich, red meat beneath. Once, she had seen a freshly slaughtered jack, hanging head down by his heels. Emily winced when she thought about the stainless steel meat hook that cruelly pierced his heel but soon reassured herself that he was well beyond pain. His skin was bright red from his scalding in boiling salted water that eased the hair removal process. His hands and lower arms had been removed at the elbow, but his head and genitals were still in place. She had glanced into his reddened upside down face. His lifeless eyes were open wide, but stared blankly at nothing at all. His expression was surprise, not fear or pain. His tongue lolled out one side of his mouth. Emily almost laughed out loud as she studied his almost comical expression. His penis and scrotum, once the haughty symbols of male pride and power, hung forward limply now, emphasizing male vulnerability. In the bad old days, the silly things were some sort of weapon that jacks used to terrorize people. Now, they seemed just pitiful and sad. Carcasses were usually aged for several days before butchering to allow rigor mortis to pass and the meat to stretch on the bone.

Emily knew that she wanted to serve jacques to her guests. Jacques was the choice of the most thoughtful and discriminating of hostesses, if she were willing and able to bear the cost. However, this far from the Hunting Season, the prime cuts, the rounds, the rumps, the barons, and especially the tenderloins were terribly expensive. She might have to make do with a plain shoulder and even that was dear. She had time, though. Time to think and to plan. She decided to retreat across the street and sit down with a latte at Comet Coffee and review her options.

Comet Coffee was a popular gathering place on quiet weekend mornings. A substantial queue snaked back from the counter and several parties were in line waiting impatiently for tables. Quickly, Emily spotted a friend, Valerie Borge, already seated with an open chair beside her. Still a bit discouraged, Emily mumbled a greeting, and Valerie looked up and gestured for her to sit.

Sipping her latte, Emily shared her disappointment at the steep prices at the market. Valerie nodded in agreement. This far from the annual Hunt, jacques was scarce so the most simple workings of supply and demand raised the ante prohibitively. Many families still opted for the Hunt, rather than taking advantage of the government bonus.

"That's all the more reason to serve jacques," Emily explained. "My guests won't expect it and will really appreciate it."

"Win the lottery," Valerie suggested wryly. "Or rob a bank - I don't think that you'd get enough from a gas station heist - especially in this age of debit cards - from the sound of the prices that you're describing."

"I don't want to do anything that illegal! My life of crime hasn't gone much beyond overstaying my welcome at a parking meter to date and that only once in great while."

"Perhaps you know someone who hunts who has a side of jacques stashed somewhere in her freezer." Valerie suggested.

Emily thought for a moment and shook her head.

"Excuse me?" the waitress interjected and the women looked up. "Icouldn't help but overhearing your conversation. Jacques really is terribly expensive this season. Actually, everything is terribly expensive when you're a waitress at Comet Coffee and trying to go to college at the same time. Do you know what books and tuition cost? We're certainly better off now, but I've heard that males were much better tippers in the bad old days."

The women looked up, a bit surprised to hear anyone express an open preference for the days before the Revolution, however qualified. However, the young woman's eyes revealed her intended irony. She was a pleasant-looking petite young woman, neatly groomed and dressed in the aproned, miniskirted uniform that Comet Coffee inflicted on all of its employees except perhaps the likely boy who more than likely washed up in back. Her hands were meticulously manicured. Only her finely worked leather belt distinguished her from the other pert, pleasant young women that Comet Coffee hired. The two older women both nodded in agreement and encouraged their waitress, Ashley, her name tag declared, to get on to her point.

Seeing a positive reaction in the faces of her audience, Ashley shook her head to free her blonde flip from her collar and went on, "A friend of mine at school has a ranch nearby - actually her mom does. She gave me this jack-hide belt - see. On occasion - I can't promise you absolutely, positively for sure - if you know what I mean - she's been able to get a side or quarter of jacques at wholesale prices. It's much less for you but still a step or two better than the price that she gets from the meat packers who supply the markets."

"I thought that all jacks were registered by the government and the ranches were under contract to supply only government-approved meat packers." Valerie asked.

"I don't know exactly, but I think that there's some sort of exception for home use, you know. My house is your house, if you know what I mean." Ashley winked. "Give me your phone number and I'll pass it on to her. Maybe, just maybe, she can help."

Ever since Camp Stanton had taken on the responsibility, Route 12 never looked better. The superintendent may only have wanted to improve her relations with the larger community which still had not resigned itself to her facility, but now one could really enjoy the unspoiled beauty of the pastures and woodlands that bordered the road. The Revolution had decreased population, increased available resources diverted from war and crime, and removed the pressure for sprawling urbanization. The shoulders were free of litter these and the rest areas were neat, tidy, and safe - both day and night. Several times a day, one might see a jack carrying a large canvas bag walking the shoulder of the road up against traffic, collecting trash. Each would walk about ten miles right through town where Route 12 became Main Street for a brief stretch and then on up to Grady's Gas Station. There he would cross the road and walk back down to Camp. In the winter, he might be wrapped in a heavy shapeless easily- seen orange parka with warm moon-boots. In the summer, he would as likely be naked except for a nondescript t-shirt and a large straw hat.

Mike walked up the road, on the first leg of his journey, enjoying the warm sun, fresh air and most of all, the solitude after the crowding of Camp Stanton. The warm spring sun felt good against his bare legs and arms. He was allowed an oversized t-shirt that reached his mid-thighs and a large floppy hat when he left the camp. He picked up the occasional piece of trash that marred the beauty of his surroundings and carefully deposited it in his sack. He did his job gladly, three days a week. Almost anything was better than confinement in the Camp. When the occasional car hurtled down the road, he looked up and stopped for a moment. He wondered briefly what it would be like to have such freedom and go wherever and whenever he chose. However, his thoughts quickly returned to the more practical matters at hand.

He always looked forward to reaching Grady's up the road and his turn around place. If he cleaned the bathrooms, they gave him lunch and more often than not, someone there offered him a soda and a snack before he set back down the road and spoke to him of her hopes for her brother or her son.

Several things did bother him about his task. When he walked down Main past the Park and crossed Wittig Boulevard, he came to Laura's Market. He kept his eyes pointed straight ahead and marched forward at a brisk pace. He knew that inside one would certainly find the flesh of males like himself neatly presented in cellophane wrapped packages for up-scale shopper. However, every so often, the corner of his eye captured some discomforting sight when he walked past. Once he saw a pair workers wrestling a carcass from their truck, through the open double doors and into to the market's waiting coolers. He had had to wait to let them pass. Another time, he had inadvertantly turned his head and peered through the glass to see a butcher break down a decidedly human carcass into quarters - a carcass human in his eyes at least. He stood perfectly still, frozen in his tracks, until a police officer had warned him kindly but firmly to move right along.

At Grady's, he tried to ignore the rack of hunting magazines and hunting paraphernalia. One poster showed a woman standing proudly beside her kill. He hung head down and her head reached the level of his groin. Her arm circled his muscular thigh and her hand rested possessively on his genitals. Mike felt naked and vulnerable despite his covering. The Janie knife display had a loop video showing two women field-dressing a magnificent jack who must have weighed more than 100 kilos when alive, talking and laughing all the while to show how a proper tool made a once- bothersome task a lark. The video played over and over again in a loop and no one seemed to pay it any attention. He could not help but see the small cellophane packages of jerked jacques on the rack.

The pictures reminded him of the Hunt last autumn. He was proud of his ring. His mother had admonished him to come out alive or make himself a hard-won trophy and not find himself cowering among the cravens who had refused to participate in the Hunt, who stood in their own excrement, cringing from the taunts of the women and returning jacks who stopped to marvel at their worthlessness, and waited for thier shipment to the slaughterhouse. However, he and his fellow survivors had returned from the woods proudly at the end of the day, only to have their triumph soured by the celebrations of hunters and the grotesque display of the broken bodies of those of their former comrades who had fallen prey to them.

He knew his lessons well. He knew how his gender had ruled the world for thousands of years and betrayed their trust at every opportunity. He had been taught that in the old days before the Revolution, brave young men had marched off to war gaily at the behest of their male elders, knowing very well that only the bravest and strongest would return to take their places in society and father the next generation. However, war changed and armies inflicted more and more damage on those whom they were pledged to protect than on each other and soon men would return to no one and no thing.

Now, young men faced the test of the Hunt. Coach Skooban had taught them that only the weak and stupid were taken. What happened to them was no worse than they deserved and of no particular concern to the real men who survived. By courage, cunning and fortitude, real men would always survive. The Coach had himself survived himself, but spoke only rarely and vaguely of his personal ordeal. Those taken had shown themselves to be something less than human and would serve society - like other dumb creatures - with their flesh and skins.

Biology was destiny. Where all women had a full genetic heritage, 46 whole chromosomes, men had only forty-five intact chromosomes with a stunted "Y" chormosome. For generations, mothers exhorted their sons to be "Men." No one had ever insisted that a girls be "Women" because girls became "Women" naturally, while "Manhood" was a goal only sometimes achieved. Mike was afraid for himself, but he knew that wit no limit on male numbers, society would be drown in the violence of a horde of failed boys.

To Mike, it was self-evident. However, he had known of young males who refused to go along. "Mentally defective," Coach Skooban had called them. They were so stupid or so twisted that they would not see where their duty lay. No one was sorry when they disappeared from the Camp. Mike heard said that they were sent to the ranches with the boys whose families had cashed them in for the bounty and would not be afforded the chance to participate in the Hunt. It made little difference anyway. Coach Skooban said that they hadn't a chance to survive with their thinking apparatus so fouled up.

Sometimes, little children waved at him excitedly on his way. He smiled and waved back. He tried his darndest not to look scary. Sometimes, cars slowed to match his pace and the women, inside, usually teenagers, his own age or younger, taunted him, shaping their fingers into pretend guns and shouting "bang, bang."

Once a car had stopped up ahead and four young women climbed out, half drunk he guessed, to see if they might have a little fun with him. They surrounded him and herded him a bit into the brush away from the road. In the eyes of the authorities, he was likely to be wrong whatever he did and that was more frightening.

"Show us your boy-parts, buckoo!" one had ordered, more coherent than her friends. "You got boy-parts?" Mike had raised his t-shirt over his head. Between the cotton shirt and his straw hat, he no longer saw exactly where his assailants were standing. His fear grew.

"Make yourself big."

Holding his shirt up with one hand, Mike trembled and touched himself. He wished that they would leave him alone. In an instant, his hand was displaced by another less familiar. A second hand roughly cradled his balls. The first hand rubbed him alternately too hard and too softly. She never found an effective rhythm and soon cursed his failure to respond.

"Looks like the chicken's all choked up today, guys." she announced.

Luckily, just then several more cars came by and one even stopped to see if anything were the matter. The four women climbed quickly back into their car and left him standing there.

"See, you in my stew-pot next Hunt, buckoo," one called.

"See if you can grow a penis by then!" taunted another as they drove away.

He tried to avoid any reaction which might encourage them further. He simply refused to be provoked. He had rightly earned the trust of the camp guards and refused to risk his hard won privileges for a moment's satisfaction.

Once, most frightening of all, he had come upon a blonde cyclist walking her bike as if it were broken. He couldn't see a flat or broken chain, though. He overcame his shyness and offered to help but she refused his help politely, and just walked along side him. She admired his ring and praised his success in the Hunt. Then she asked him if he had ever thought of freedom. He was too shocked to speak. Not at all daunted by his silence, she continued. She had heard, she said, that there were certain women - not her certainly, but certain women - who were willing to help a fine buck like him escape. He had survived a Hunt and shown his mettle, not like some untried bird jack. Mike began to perspire all out of proportion to the gentle morning sun and perspired again whenever he recalled the enounter. Somewhere, she wasn't sure where, there was a sanctuary for males and he could live out his life in peace. Mike tried to close his mind to her enticing words, but troubling images kept intruding on his consciousness. He was not a rebel - not really. Just then, several vehicles approached from the other direction. The petite blonde looked about quickly and then, without another word, she hopped up on her bike - suddenly in full repair - and sped quickly away. He never learned anything more of her intentions. He just stared straight ahead and kept walking. One day perhaps, he would see her again.

Other women had been more friendly, Mike thought much more fondly. The town was crawling with college girls. Most had too much time on their hands.

Sheridan topped the filled slop trough with the remains of dinner from the night before and checked the locks once again. Her mom always added household scraps to the scientifically defined diet of her jacks. The jacks ate noisily. She walked outside and found Tommy, one of her newer charges, and old Billy, waiting for her patiently with Ashley just where she had left them. Sheridan always enjoyed the new arrivals who still believed that they might somehow win themselves preferential treatment and avoid the unavoidable.

With Ashley's help, they had washed themselves from head to toe, shedding the sour stench of the pens. Ashley was almost as wet as they; her wet t-shirt clang to breasts and became translucent. Her nipples and areolas showed clearly through. Her blonde hair was soaked. Washing was a challenge for the jacks since their manacled wrists were secured to the collars that ringed their neck. Billy knelt and held as still as he could, altering his position from time to time while Ashley shaved his face. Then he stood and Ashley went to work on his body hair industriously. Tommy had already been shaved. He had been frightened, but gained confidence from Billy's good humor and apparent lack of fear.

Sheridan stepped up behind Billy quietly and firmly placed a hand on each of his shoulder. Startled, he jumped. Ashley crouched before him, finishing up her task, jumped back and fell hard on her butt, laughing.

"Careful, Sheridan! We almost lost his most interesting parts." Ashley held up the keen straight razor for her inspection in the fading light of evening. Her job was done - well enough - and she stowed the razor for next time.

Billy relaxed. Sheridan lifted her right hand and bent his right ear forward to expose the number tattooed there. Then she nuzzled the back of his neck with her lips and ran her hands over his well-muscled back and flanks and then over his high, tight, now smooth and hairless rump. It felt good, very good. Sheridan slipped her hand between his buttocks and cradled his scrotum. Billy sighed and almost fainted from the pleasure. Tommy looked on with evident interest. His cock stood as erect as Billy's. Sheridan smiled at her success. She pulled one hood over Billy's head and secured his collar to a chain fastened to the side of the building. She pulled a second hood over Tommy's head.

"Well, Ashley, okay. Let's take care of Tommy now!" Sheridan said quietly.

Unable to see, Tommy was stumbled more than once as they led him away. He had been terrified and confused ever since his arrival two days before. Billy didn't seem scared and that made him more confident. The first night, he shared a pen with twenty others. They had been offered beer and he drank a bucket or more, like the others. At first, it was fun. It made him giddy and his fears disappeared. Later, he puked several times just like many of the others too. He had never drunk so much beer in one night. In the morning, he was sick and his bowels simply ran uncontrollably. He couldn't even wait long enough toget to the squatters. A young woman and and older woman had checked on them in the morning. Their obvious disgust with the filth was tempered by a certain good humor. After all, what might one expect from jacks? The younger one had hosed off all of the males while the older one looked on thoughtfully. Tommy had welcomed the frigid, clean water. He drank the water gladly and quickly felt somewhat better.

He had been singled out for some reason. When he saw the prod in the older woman's hand, he chose to comply with her orders. He found himself alone in a smaller pen.

"His name is Tommy," the older one read from her inventory.

.He had paced back and forth that first day, drunk water that he was offered. He was at a ranch, he knew, one step closer to the abbatoir, but still one step away. A chance to escape might still appear. His malaise was gradually replaced by a growing hunger. Still, he was offered only liquids. At night, he was offered beer again. He drank again but in moderation and quickly became sleepy. He woke the second morning, hungry and thirsty. He did his business in the squatter in the corner of his cell. All day, he had had beer in his bowl. He drank to check his gnawing hunger and slept well on a low wooden platform. Keeping track of time was a challenge, but today, the third morning, he had been awakened at dawn.

Ashley dragged on his lead and Tommy stumbled after her, clumsily and not resisting on purpose. She stopped when they entered the killing room. Tommy strained to see through or around the hood. He saw nothing at all despite his efforts. Sheridan reached for her bolt pistol with her right hand and felt for his forehead through the sack with her left hand.

"Do you want to fuck him first?" Sheridan asked Ashley. "Last chance?"

Ashley, thought for a moment. She shook her head, no. He was cute, but she wasn't really in the mood. She shook her head, no, again.

Sheridan smiled tightly, aimed, and pulled the trigger, and Tommy collapsed as the heavy bold crushed his skull. "Perhaps, we can play later, once we get this fellow gutted and hung. Billy's always up' for it, if you know what I mean."

Ashley always liked to get her work done before she played. "We have so many orders, Sheridan, old Tommy here won't hardly be enough."

"We're only allowed two jacks a year from the ranch stock. I guess, it's time to go back to the well." said Sheridan, with a grimace.

It wasn't a half an hour before Tommy was hog-dressed and hanging in the cooler. "Well, Ashley. Looks like we're ready to party now. "Sheridan said after she had washed her hands and stowed her cleaned tools. "See the rural life has its attractions. We need not fool with those spoiled, used- up boys they have back in the city." More than a few women retained an atavistic interest in the male gender. "Let's party!"

"Sheridan, we have a couple of orders still and we need to make plans."

"I know. We'll get to it later" said Sheridan. "But there're a few things that I want to do with Billy first. In fact, three things, that I can think of right now."

Officer Sarah Ponsonby patrolled Route 12 and she could remember the time before the superintendent of Camp Stanton volunteered to help and the roadside had been littered with fast-food containers, old newspapers, discarded soda cans, and broken beer bottles. She appreciated the change and didn't mind her minimal extra responsibility to help mind the jacks. When she spotted one, she pulled over and checked his registration number against her master schedule, searched him for contraband, and, as likely as not, gave him a candy bar or piece of fruit that she kept in her car expressedly for that purpose. After all, no one asked to be born a jack. Personally, she watched her weight and tried avoid sweets.

On Tuesday, May 4th last, she was driving north toward Grady's and to her surprise failed to spot the jack who should have been walking south by this time according to her schedule. He was called "Mike" according to her list. He was a regular, she recalled. Jacks were not known for punctuality or precision, but minimally, they followed clear instructions in a general sort of way. She remembered this one and shook her head. Mike was no exception. At first, she thought that she would spot him just on the other side of this rise or the next or perhaps find him indulging in some sort of mischief or other at Grady's. The day was warm and balmy. To her surprise, she found herself all the way up at Grady's without having spotted the wretched creature at all.

From time to time, jacks working at road side details had been struck by cars, usually more to their disadvantage than to that of the car that struck them. Cars were easier to fix than jacks and generally had better insurance. She knew of jacks who had tried to escape from work details from time to time, though rarely. The few who tried had been more successful at causing some local consternation about rogue jacks on the prowl than winning any sort of liberty. Where would they go? Somehow, though, it was always national news and an embarrassment. Mothers kept their children indoors and so on. No one for whom she had been personally responsible had even tried to escape. Recently, she had heard that a number of jacks had been spirited off by abolutionists and that was more of a concern. Several jacks had disappeared right here, in town and in the surrounding townships.

Still, she wasn't particularly concerned. She stopped at Grady's, enjoyed a coffee and a doughnut, and asked around. The hunting displayed reminded her of last summer when she had taken her biggest jack ever. Even with help, dragging him out of the brush had been hot, sweaty work that still made her friends and her laugh, even now when they had long caught their breaths and their strained muscles long had healed. When they finally reached the staging area, Jan quipped that the miserable creature - hog dressed with his rib cage jammed open by a stout stick - looked somewhat better than they or certainly better rested at least. Mandie, half-blinded by her sweat drenched hair that stuck to her head like a plaster bathing cap, replied that they - after all - had carried him out of the brush. If he had carried them over the rough ground in all the heat and humidity, she suspected that they would look better than he. It was all so ridiculous that it still made Sarah smile. The next season was only three months away.

Mikey had made it at least to Grady's, it seemed. Several reported seeing him cross the road and head back down south about an hour before. One teen hardly looked up from her video game. She swore, though, that she had seen him continue up north.

Officer Ponsonby refilled her thermos and headed north up Route 12 for at least 10 miles before she headed back down. She searched the fields and woods to her left for the motherless creature. If he had been injured, one might expect to find evidence at the roadside. Escape was possible but unlikely. Most likely he was wondering about in typical male confusion. Possibly though, he had been spirited away. Where would he be? No haven existed for escaped males or jacks as they were now called.

As she approached the barbed wire perimeter of Camp Stanton, she called in her concerns. Camp Stanton was neither a military base nor a summer camp. Camp Stanton was one of twenty such camps in the state. Beginning the Spring following their 18th birthday, every male was assigned to a camp for 27 months of National Service. Some were housed within the camp itself and others were leased to individuals or businesses. For three years running, every male was subject to the Hunt in late Summer. Those who survived three Hunts, graduated to some sort of freedom but only one of ten survived. The method seemed drastic, but simple limitation of the male population had abolished violent crime and ended war. The guards had heard no word of their errant jack. Nothing. He had never been known to harbor any thoughts of rebellion.

Officer Ponsonby was heading back south when she got a call about someone lurking around Grady's Gas Station. She arrived to find a college girl wandering around almost stark naked in some sort of sorority prank. Her friends' did leave her her socks and magenta tennis shoes. They would have done well to leave her some insect repellent. Ponsonby lent her a blanket to cover herself and some calamine lotion and took her back to campus. A girl could catch a hell of a cold traipsing around the woods without any clothes. Smiling to herself, Ponsonby said less than she might. She had been young once and had indulged in her share or more of adolescent pranks. She hoped that her passenger appreciated her restraint.

Ponsonby sped back north towards Grady's again when she got the call from a hiker with a cellular phone. She had seen a pair of coyotes digging through a pile of leaves. There, off in the bushes on the right, the officer spied the hiker standing by the side of the road and waving excitedly. She drove up to the next place where the road widened, turned around sharply with squealing tires and rushed back up the road. Officer Ponsonby pulled over onto the shoulder, set her flashers, and called in her position. By habit, she checked her weapon, checked traffic, and stepped out of her cruiser.

Ponsonby wrote down the hiker's name address and phone number and only then searched the site. She found him fifty yards back in the trees, not visible from the highway. Mikey or what was left of him lay strewn around, half buried in dead leaves. His face was smashed by a single bullet, his spine had been sawed through at the small of his back and his loins and hindquarters were simply missing. His ears were gone to impede identification. Intestines draped out in a tangle from the ruins of his abdomen. Ponsonby found a stick as long as her arm and chased away the flies. She identified the kidneys hanging down on their blood vessels and traced the ureters to the bladder. The genitals were missing as she expected. She then poked through the bowels until she found the very end where his rectum had been neatly tied off. Searching around the leaves, she found one roughly amputated foot. The other was no where to be found. Ponsonby shook her head sadly, and hoped that he had died before he had been so terribly mutilated. This was the second case that she had heard about in town and three more in surrounding townships. This was the first one that that she had seen herself, and it matched the photos exactly. It was time to put an end to this. She searched poor Mikey's face for an answer. No answer was forthcoming. Ponsonby hated when things happened on her watch, but Tuesday was bowling night. Mandie was waiting for her and she didn't want to be late again.

The party was a roaring success. Emily's best friends from work had come, Kim, Mandie, Allison, and Martha. All had brought their S.O.'s. The roast was quite excellent and well received. Emily was glad that she had stopped for that latte. More than one guest had asked her how she was able to obtain jacques at this time of year.

It was fun to match the people whom she saw every day at work with their partners. Kim came with Whitney. Allison brought Jennifer. Sarah came with Mandie. She hadn't met any of them before this night. Emily was glad of the opportunity to show off her significant other and let her meet these individuals from her work who so populated her small talk and anecdotes. Only Martha came alone, having recently broken up with Michelle.

Emily was about to serve dessert, when Sarah asked her for one more slice of roast. Emily gladly complied.

"This buckoo's as tasty as the bull that Mandie, Jan and I took last Fall. Where did you find him?" Sarah asked pleasantly.

"I found him all wrapped up in white butcher paper, just waiting for me," Emily feigned a pout. "Give some credit to the chef, please!" Emily smiled warmly, mocking her own words by her expression. "You know, I've never hunted. Somehow, I don't have any problem cooking jacques or eating jacques, but I can't imagine hunting jacks. It all seems so cruel."

Sarah smiled. "I'm sure that no one treated the poor bugger more lovingly than you did in your kitchen." Emily beamed back warmly. Sarah shook her head at the popular hypocrisy. "Hunting isn't cruel either....if you know what you're doing." Emily's feelings were so self-contradictory that she couldn't imagine telling her otherwise and so ubiquitous, that she couldn't condemn her for sharing such a widely held delusion. "Where did you find the roast? Jacques is terribly expensive this time of year."

"Are you looking for a purchase too? To tell you the truth, just by chance, a young waitress at Comet Coffee told me about a rancher who was willing to sell off a bit of her home supply.

Really, Sarah Ponsonby answered, her official demeanor emerging despite her bright civilian attire. Being a police officer is a 24 hour, 7 days a week job.

"We're busted," Ashley whispered to Sheridan who sat beside her at the large oaken table.

Sheridan nodded in agreement, all the while biting her lip to keep from smiling at Ashley's desperate visage.

Sheridan' mother sat at Sheridan's right and shushed Ashley to a respectful silence when she heard the impertinent banter. The hearing officer had judged the case and found them guilty. Officer Ponsonby had testified against them as had Emily Norton. Then the judge had retired to her chambers to consider an appropriate sentence. Between them, Ashley and Sheridan had taken 5 jacks out of season. However, Officer Ponsonby had explained that her jack -at least - had been killed cleanly before he had been butchered and likely suffered little. They were wrong but they weren't abolutionists, she pointed out.

Four women cruised Route 12 with little to do. One pointed out a forlorn figure up ahead in an over-sized Camp Stanton t-shirt and a large floppy straw hat walking down the right hand side of the road, stopping every so often to pick up a piece of trash and deposit it in a large sack. They were energized by their discovery of new vulnerable prey.

The driver grinned fiercely and pulled over sharply, literally knocking their target into a deep puddle at the edge of the shoulder of the road. Before the Camp Stanton t-shirt rose out of the mud, the four were out of their vehicle.

"Show us your boy-parts, buckoo!"

The straw hat fell from a blonde head. Once up and standing, well manicured fingers raised the hem of the oversized t-shirt to reveal decidedly feminine undergarments, plainly soiled by her plunge into the mud, but undeniably female. "Fuck off! You cock-suckers!" Ashley screamed. Her four attackers quailed at her ferocity despite their numerical advantage and Ashley's petite size. They fled back to their car. Fuming, Ashley continued her walk down to Camp Stanton.

Sheridan did not mind her punishment all that much, she thought as she walked up toward Grady's. It gave her an excuse to pass on her chores at the ranch. No one would likely recognize her in the nondescript straw hat and t-shirt. This was Sunday of their third weekend already and they had seven to go - two weeks for each jack and they had had to pay back the money they earned as restitution. She would have to wait five years before she could apply for a Hunting license. Her mom's attorney had bargained them down to a misdemeanor and, believe it or not, her mom took some maternal; pleasure in Sheridan's entrepenurial zeal. She even paid half of Ashley's share of the fine. The permit for her ranch was safe as not one of her jacks was ever taken illegally.

Sheridan passed Ashley on the other side of Route 12. She had seemed exceptionally out of sorts and fairly filthy Sheridan wondered if a passing car had splashed her as it went by. Ashley had lost some of her shifts at Comet Coffee in addition to her fine and was obviously pissed in a major way.

All right, Sheridan acknowledged that she had been wrong to take the jacks, even though each had taken her offer voluntarily and in fact had tried to escape. She was taking her punishment. Right? Sheridan was ready to go straight. She was an intelligent and energetic young woman and the world was her oyster.

Sheridan even enjoyed the walk. She enjoyed Grady's and the hunting paraphernalia. She could tolerate the good natured teasing. Once, they tried to get her to use the foul rest room reserved for jacks. She just when in and pissed on the floor - like any jack. No one could tell the difference anyway. She liked Main Street with famous Laura's Market and the park with its Memorial fountain where the girls floated their toy boats or chased their joeys and each other in the grass. A great hommeburger stand provided her with her welcome lunch. Only Camp Stanton bothered her and bothered her deeply. Despite its sturdy gates, orderly buildings, and superficial calm, she sensed a great brooding anger, a rage building that one day might spill out over its well trimmed lawns and into the peaceful countryside. The gains of the Revolution might someday need defending once again.