|
Historical Gassings: Military CRACKdown WARNING March 4, 1859 Young Serjeant Wallace Hunter was charged with the interrogation of the woman recently arrested for the particularly foul string of murders and robberies in the Kensington area of London. Out of the hands of the Metropolitan Police Force, the Army now had to take care of it. It was about nine at night when Wallace pried open--and entered--the heavy wooden doors of the Police Station, which were painted blue on the outside. The streetlamp lighters were going home, long, brass staffs slung over their shoulder, gleaming in the soft glow of their handiwork as they strolled in trickles down the cobblestone street, passing in front of the white gas lamps that read 'POLICE' in black on the porch of the station. It was here that Wallace had entered, the doors closing with a soft cough behind him. The 23 year old was dressed in his regular uniform, the red tunic and white summer trousers of the 69th Regiment of Foot. He had doffed his coal black shako, and was now standing in front of the tall mahogany front desk, where a gruff, bearded Metro Policeman glanced up at him, took one look at his uniform, and thumbed him to the back. Wallace nodded and gracefully stepped to the open doorway in the back of the sterile entry hall, while the policeman returned to filing paperwork. There seemed to be no one else here, as the station was technically closed for the night. In fact, the man Wallace had met on the way in was just about to shut the place officially and head home--there was another, larger station that would handle claims throughout the night. Wallace stepped into a different world when he turned the corner into the hall of holding cells. This part of the building was much more dank and darker than the rest. In fact, the hallway was pitch black, and Wallace grabbed the lantern hanging on the wall, a match, and struck it into the oil-soaked wick inside the glass container. The features of the jail were steadily revealed as he moved down the corridor. The walls were made of a solid grey brick--concrete, and in some places, brick. Wallace passed by the crumbling facade of the siding, strolling confidently by several empty cells. The iron bar doors were rusted heavily, as well as the padlocks that kept them closed. The interior consisted of nothing but a small, wooden cot--the bowed planks splintered and rough--and a tin bucket in the corner. All of these were identical, and Wallace stopped for a moment to admire the effectiveness of the London justice system. Continuing on, he stopped in his tracks suddenly, wafting the air in front of his face, as it had been greeted with an awful smell. However, due to the incompetence of the Army-Police relationship, he had not been filled in with all the details of the arrested, and assumed that it was just the scent of the unkempt prison, finally getting through to him. Indeed, Wallace had not even been informed of the detainee's gender, and assumed that he was going to lay down the law with a man of ill repute. Reaching the last cell, he retrieved a metal key from his pocket and inserted it into the keyhole of the padlock. The minuscule light still emanating from the entry hall was snuffed out, and the near silent sound of the door opening and shutting signaled that the Serjeant was alone now, with his prisoner. The lock opened with a click. *** Wallace sat on a small barrel and leaned on the slightly larger wooden table, staring coldly across the splintered expanse, fingers clasped over his mouth. In front of him was the accused. 27-year-old Polly Morrowwood, resident prostitute, and in the employment of a Mrs. Huggins, the director of the bawdyhouse. Known throughout the community for catering to the seedier portion of the population, currently, she was dressed in a simple corset and short, filthy white skirt, that barely reached her thighs. Within itself, that was a violation of Her Majesty's sumptuary laws--dresses above the ankle were taboo, and resulted in a fine. Her considerably sized cleavage pushed up and out of her corset, the very tops of the fleshy orbs looming over the stretching fabric. Her dark hair flowed over her shoulders, and her face was glaring right back at Wallace, defiantly. "I told you goddammit! I didn't do it!" she hissed, leaning forward. Wallace sighed and facepalmed, recanting the same statement he had repeated in the exact same tone over ten times. "Miss Morrrowwood, we found you at the scene of the crime that morning...." "That's bullshit!" she yelled, the angered tone carrying the length of the darkened corridor. "Please," sneered Wallace, who was getting quite done with Polly, "we've been casing the place for weeks. Plus, your offhand comment to Major Sutherland was pretty obvious." There was a moment of silence, where she slowly looked him over, then, scooting back the crate she was sitting on, stood now, at her amazonian height of 6'0", in the Imperial system. "Alright..." she began slowly, starting to circle the table over to him, "Suppose I am responsible....what are you going to to about that?" Her sultry voice, however, did not move the Serjeant. "You will be promptly thrown into the paddywagon and hanged by the neck until dead. I don't think the public'ld much care about due process. After all, you are a whore!" He had to chuckle at his last comment. She only glared at him, creeping over to him until she was only a foot away from his face. Instinctively, he drew his service pistol, thrusting it into her chest, the barrel being swallowed by her mounds of flesh. Polly didn't even flinch as she stared into his eyes. Instead, she gave a slasher smile. "Come any closer," Wallace cocked the flint, "and I'll shoot." It was her turn to laugh as her eyes locked onto the weapon he held. "Flint's damp." she commented. "It won't work." "Try me." he countered, poking her with his flintlock. That's exactly what she did, as she leaned in further. True to his word, the Serjeant engaged his weapon. However, to his dismay, (and Polly's delight) the powder didn't catch. This was when the prostitute had her chance. Quickly, she slapped the now-useless piece of equipment from Wallace's hand and, placing both hands on his shoulders, shoved him into the wall behind him, hard. The soldier was knocked out instantly, slumping to the floor. A rat skittered by in the outer hallway as the maniacal laugh of Polly filled the otherwise empty police station. *** The first thing that woke Wallace up was the vile stench. It permeated every sense of his being. It smelled like the slums of the inner city, combined with the horrible methane quality of the Thames of the summer of last year. The second thing that snapped his eyes open was the piercing sound of a kind of paper ripping, and along came another wave of this smell. He then discovered that his face was, in fact, stuffed into a very tight space, with no room to turn, and no clearance to look up and down. To Wallace, the feeling of slime was on his face, and he appeared to be staring at a small, brown hole about two inches in front of him. Suddenly, he realized what this was, and frantically tried to escape. "It's no use, sir. You've fucked up." This was the voice of Polly, who was sitting at the table, using Wallace's face as a rather comfortable seat for her rather significant behind. She mocked the Serjeant further by grinding her nasty ass into his face. In response, the body under her groaned in indignation and squirmed about. Her intestines gave their all-too-familiar groan. "That's my cue!" hummed Polly, as she grunted to push out some of the gas that had built up inside of her while she was incarcerated. PRRRRRrrrrrrrrrttt..... A great rumbling fart slowly deposited itself into Wallace's face, and he had no choice but to inhale it, in lieu of any clean oxygen. His struggle increased, futilely, as her huge, fleshy ass clamped him to the cold, bare prison floor. Inside of her sweaty prison, however, the gas was heating the area up, causing Wallace to violently cough. As he watched, the hole above him opened up again, and another gust of wind blasted into his face, soundless, but packing quite a punch. He gagged, and tried not to throw up at this development. He opened his mouth to protest, but was promptly shut up, when another gaseous emission was expelled. BLlllrrrpppt.... "Oooh! That one might've soiled a bit!" Polly squealed excitedly. Wallace was not as excited. The asshole he stared at was now dripping with her anal fluids, brown in color, carrying the disgusting scent of cabbage and rotten beef. Worse, some of the juices had managed their way into his open mouth, and he was forced to swallow, to keep from choking. Another loud fart ripped past Polly's ass, this one reeking of manure, mixed with the contents of a garbage pile left in the sun. It bubbled out of her like a mighty rocket and directly into his nostrils. Wallace's vision was going blurry... BRRAPT! Yet again, Polly lived up to her colloquial street name of 'Arsemaster'. The smell leaked out, and began to fill the cell, wafting out into the hall a ways. Wallace's mind was beginning to go blank.... Polly now geared up for her finale. She repositioned on his face, much to his displeasure. Her insides bubbled as she set up, straining and groaning. The next toxic bomb she dropped would actually send tremors into the ground, and could actually be heard through the thick walls of the prison, albeit faintly. BLRUUURRRRRRRPPPPPPRRRRTTTTT!!!! The gas lasted for at least two minutes, where, at the end, the Arsemaster lifter her weapon of choice from the unconscious Serjeant's face, patting her now-emptied belly. Sniffing the air, she smiled with approval, turning to leave. Stopping short, she turned back around and grabbed the pistol from the far corner. Exiting the cell, she twirled the ring of cell keys around on her index finger, which she had relived from the soldier earlier. "Sweet dreams..." she cooed, as she shut the cell door and locked it, pocketing the gun, and sauntered down the corridor, into the entry hall, and out of British investigations records. It was now 2 am. The Metropolitan Police guards wouldn't do a search of the cells until Monday, which was still three days away. They would have assumed that he had transferred Polly to Army custody. When they find him, however, he would have an incredulous story to tell him, as well as a uniform to clean. Thoroughly. *** Polly "Arsemaster" Morrowwood was born on February 5, 1832 in Sheffield, England. Growing up in a lower class neighborhood, her family barely scraped by with the savings they had, taxes taking a heavy toll on them. So much so, that by the age of seventeen, Polly was a full-on prostitute, at first helping support her family with her income, then--after her mother died in a coal mine accident, and her father in the Crimean War--used those funds to travel to London, where she gained employment in a whorehouse in Kensington. There, she engaged in numerous deviant acts, which earned her infamous middle name. She was allegedly involved in disappearances across the city, involving mostly those of the male demographic. These were believed to have taken place directly after being paid for "fringe sexual acts." The Metropolitan Police found her to be an elusive suspect, even losing an agent to her schemes. Then, on February 9, 1859, a detachment of the 69th Regiment of Foot surrounded the bawdyhouse at which she worked, where she was summarily arrested, charged, and taken, in secret, to the Kensington Precinct. Curiously, the night before she was supposed to be tried, she escaped from her holding cell, knocking out the Serjeant (Sergeant) Wallace Hunter. When the latter was discovered, locked in the cell the next day, he reportedly smelled of "human fecal matter", with his uniform disheveled. To this day, Polly's whereabouts were never discovered, however, multiple sightings were reported in France, Prussia, and Austria. It is estimated that she continued her profession until 1871, whereupon she retired. |
||