“If the public education system successfully teaches women how to hate men—what kind of pedagogy could reverse this process?” Gregson mused. He was curious about the Governor’s methods…

“If the island is a reeducation center, why are the women going back to feminism on the mainland?”

Gregson toweled off—enjoying his masterful body in the mirror. “It boils down to beliefs. Just like fat positivity. We buy into things that make us feel good, even if there’s an enormous cost.” He enjoyed talking to himself in the bathroom. Some men sing in the shower. Gregson was intellectual— in his own way. He considered the facts, while clipping his toenails.

The Governor was making serious money from the wealthy 1%. He was getting government funding, approved by the president, so that sitting senators could enjoy obedient housewives.

Now, reeducation wasn’t working, and enrollment numbers were down. It was costing the Governor an ugly penny.

“When cultural messaging overpowers brainwashing, what does a head of school do?”

“Surgery. That’s it!” Gregson put-on his cargo shorts, and went to find Murphy. His buddy was entertaining two blondes with enormous boobs.

“Those aren’t natural,” Gregson murmured.

“Oh—buddy, pull up a chair. I’m teaching Cindy and Samantha strip poker. They’re not very good at it.”

“Apparently,” Gregson said. They were already down to their underwear.

“Does two of a kind beat a straight-flush?” The girls asked.


“Oh well.” They started to unclip their straps.

“Stop using your little head to play poke-her,” Gregson said. “I just cracked this case wide-open. Where does the Governor do plastic surgery?”

“By the lighthouse,” Cindy and Samantha said in unison.

“We don’t have a moment to lose. Load your revolver Murphy—and I’ll grab my flashlight.”

“It’s already loaded, man.”

Gregson spotted the military jeep by the barracks with the key in the ignition.

“What about the girls?” Murphy asked. “Shouldn’t they come?”

“Damn it! I told you to stop thinking with your little head.”

“Gregson—they’ve been to the lighthouse. For all we know, they’ve had boob surgery and brain surgery. I wasn’t challenged one time, while playing a competitive game. It was like they wanted to lose.”

“You do have a point. Bring them along,” Gregson said. When he got behind the wheel, he felt like a General in World War II, shifting his stick into second. The muddy road was full of potholes. Murphy was wearing his dress uniform. It kept getting splashed by dirty rain. The girls screamed every time. They were wearing trench coats, with nothing on underneath, like female mall flashers, and Gregson steered for more mud-puddles.

The peaceful Atlantic was turning grey, like an old man, disturbing what was once beautiful. Clouds were turning in circles, like windmills.

“Hurricane,” Murphy said. “We don’t have much time.”

The trees were clawing at their Jeep like angry women. The cliff threatened them with violence. The lighthouse was staring into the storm like God.

“Are we there yet?” The girls giggled.

2 thoughts on “Chapter 8 “Are We There Yet?” The Girls Giggled.

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