Primal Scream by Michael Slade Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Michael Slade
whipped this macho man's cockiness.
The Force had first recruited women in 1974, and Spann had topped the original troop trained at Depot Division in Regina. Most men back then were hostile to her being in the ranks, so when her barracks trunk was sent ahead to her first posting, detachment Members held a lottery to guess her bra size. When she arrived, a suitable pair of plastic breasts were waiting on her desk, regimental number penned around both nipples. The way Spann viewed life, breasts were the battlefield of feminism. Whether it was fashion flaunting them for ages, or Hefner launching Playboy with Monroe's pair, or bra burning hi the sixties, or Barbie implants, or Madonna's side show, or Hooters restaurants—tits were it. The Mounted's first uniform for women had been designed to show them off. Unlike men, who wore cotton shirts with pockets, she was issued a silky top without pockets that clung like Handi-Wrap, so all could see "her high beams" when she was chilled. Women's trousers were also pock etless, so notebooks and other equipment were tucked in her belt. The hat looked like an inverted flower pot.
Spann had fomented a vote among women to have that changed, prompting a reprimand for "aggression" from an inspector who, the only time she phoned in sick, marked her file with a circle colored red. The passing of that vote quashed the sexist uniform, and now women wore the same working dress and Red Serge as men, forage cap and Stetson included.
In 1992 women finally reached the select ranks of commissioned officers who ran the Force. Since she came in laterally, the deputy commissioner didn't count, but that same year saw women rise to the rank of inspector, and if—as Spann was confident—De-Clercq promoted her the head of Administration at Special X, then she, too, would soon be among the Brass. With zero tolerance the rule for sexual harassment, the only all-male bastions left were the ERT teams.
How Kathy yearned to crash them!
A brawny loner with a heavy-browed scowl, Mad Dog Rabidowski was the meanest-looking Member in the Force. He was the sort of sexist who believed "harass" was two words. There had been a tune when people said h e looked like Charles Bronson ( I was too rough on Hollywood , thought Spann), a likeness he welcomed until Bronson went soft, so now he echoed the screen moves of Harvey Keitel. The Mad Dog made a point of dating only whores, for—as he put it—"Why mess with amateurs if you can blow with a pro?" Alone with him in the ERT command trailer at Zulu base, Katherine Spann could smell testosterone awaft in the air.
"I'm hurt," said the Mad Dog, "that you find me so crass. I'm engaged to Brit, and was gonna ask you to be my best man."
"You! Getting married?"
"Sure. Why not? You're a not-bad-looking broad. So why aren't you hitched?"
"Never found the man who was man enough for me."
"Must break your heart that I'm outta circulation, huh? And speaking of broken hearts, your rib cage seems okay." He buttoned up her shirt and said, "If you're so hung up on tits, you oughta see Brit's."
"As I recall, everyone saw her tits after the bomb blew at the Red Serge Ball."
"So with such beauts at home, what makes you think I wanna gawk at yours?"
Trust the Mad Dog to take a hooker to the regimental ball, and boast to one and all about the fortuitous way they met:
"I'm on the Lougheed a few years back, driving up valley to an ERT meet, when I see the car ahead weaving down the road, crossing the center line and then veering toward the shoulder, back and forth, this way and that, gotta be the best impaired I ever snagged, so on go the wigwags to pull the drunk over."
The Mad Dog offered Spann a cigar to accompany her glass of port. "Don't stop now," she said. "I'm hanging in suspense."
"Sitting behind the wheel is a naked babe, jutting the best set you ever did see, not a stitch to hide the buff before my eyes except a flimsy G-string around one ankle."
"You ask her to blow?" said
The Force had first recruited women in 1974, and Spann had topped the original troop trained at Depot Division in Regina. Most men back then were hostile to her being in the ranks, so when her barracks trunk was sent ahead to her first posting, detachment Members held a lottery to guess her bra size. When she arrived, a suitable pair of plastic breasts were waiting on her desk, regimental number penned around both nipples. The way Spann viewed life, breasts were the battlefield of feminism. Whether it was fashion flaunting them for ages, or Hefner launching Playboy with Monroe's pair, or bra burning hi the sixties, or Barbie implants, or Madonna's side show, or Hooters restaurants—tits were it. The Mounted's first uniform for women had been designed to show them off. Unlike men, who wore cotton shirts with pockets, she was issued a silky top without pockets that clung like Handi-Wrap, so all could see "her high beams" when she was chilled. Women's trousers were also pock etless, so notebooks and other equipment were tucked in her belt. The hat looked like an inverted flower pot.
Spann had fomented a vote among women to have that changed, prompting a reprimand for "aggression" from an inspector who, the only time she phoned in sick, marked her file with a circle colored red. The passing of that vote quashed the sexist uniform, and now women wore the same working dress and Red Serge as men, forage cap and Stetson included.
In 1992 women finally reached the select ranks of commissioned officers who ran the Force. Since she came in laterally, the deputy commissioner didn't count, but that same year saw women rise to the rank of inspector, and if—as Spann was confident—De-Clercq promoted her the head of Administration at Special X, then she, too, would soon be among the Brass. With zero tolerance the rule for sexual harassment, the only all-male bastions left were the ERT teams.
How Kathy yearned to crash them!
A brawny loner with a heavy-browed scowl, Mad Dog Rabidowski was the meanest-looking Member in the Force. He was the sort of sexist who believed "harass" was two words. There had been a tune when people said h e looked like Charles Bronson ( I was too rough on Hollywood , thought Spann), a likeness he welcomed until Bronson went soft, so now he echoed the screen moves of Harvey Keitel. The Mad Dog made a point of dating only whores, for—as he put it—"Why mess with amateurs if you can blow with a pro?" Alone with him in the ERT command trailer at Zulu base, Katherine Spann could smell testosterone awaft in the air.
"I'm hurt," said the Mad Dog, "that you find me so crass. I'm engaged to Brit, and was gonna ask you to be my best man."
"You! Getting married?"
"Sure. Why not? You're a not-bad-looking broad. So why aren't you hitched?"
"Never found the man who was man enough for me."
"Must break your heart that I'm outta circulation, huh? And speaking of broken hearts, your rib cage seems okay." He buttoned up her shirt and said, "If you're so hung up on tits, you oughta see Brit's."
"As I recall, everyone saw her tits after the bomb blew at the Red Serge Ball."
"So with such beauts at home, what makes you think I wanna gawk at yours?"
Trust the Mad Dog to take a hooker to the regimental ball, and boast to one and all about the fortuitous way they met:
"I'm on the Lougheed a few years back, driving up valley to an ERT meet, when I see the car ahead weaving down the road, crossing the center line and then veering toward the shoulder, back and forth, this way and that, gotta be the best impaired I ever snagged, so on go the wigwags to pull the drunk over."
The Mad Dog offered Spann a cigar to accompany her glass of port. "Don't stop now," she said. "I'm hanging in suspense."
"Sitting behind the wheel is a naked babe, jutting the best set you ever did see, not a stitch to hide the buff before my eyes except a flimsy G-string around one ankle."
"You ask her to blow?" said
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