The Horse’s Ass
Chapter 2: The Intake
Jennifer woke slowly, her head thick and heavy with the remnants of whatever had been used on her. She lay still for several seconds, eyes closed, trying to make sense of the chemical taste in her mouth and the dull ache behind her eyes.
When she finally opened them, the first thing she ed was that she was no longer in the car.
She was in a small, bright white room. The walls, floor, and ceiling were all the same seamless, clinical white, with no visible seams or ts. The air felt cool and sterile. A narrow bed was bolted to the floor against one wall. On the opposite wall hung a simple black-and-white poster of a horse, held in place by two small metal hooks.
She pushed herself upright and saw him.
John sat in a wooden chair against the far wall, a stainless-steel clipboard resting on his lap. When their eyes met, he gave a small, polite nod.
“Good morning, Jennifer.”
Jennifer stared at him. The word morning caught in her mind like a hook. It had been late afternoon when she got into the car. She ed the light outside, the angle of the sun through the windows. Hours must have ed. She had no memory of anything after the car.
She narrowed her eyes.
“Morning?” she said, her voice rough. “It was afternoon when I got in your car. How long was I out?”
John didn’t answer the question. He simply continued as if she hadn’t spoken.
She stared at him for half a second longer, suspicion and unease tightening in her chest.
“What the fuck did you do to my clothes? They’re a mess.”
Then she lunged.
Jennifer came off the bed fast, driven by rage and confusion. She didn’t scream — she simply moved toward him, hands reaching. John stood and took one calm step to his left. Her momentum carried her past him and straight into the wall.
She hit it hard.
The impact knocked the air from her lungs and sent a jolt of pain through her shoulder and head. She stumbled, tried to catch herself, and went down to one knee. For a moment she stayed there, dazed, one hand braced against the floor.
John had already moved. He stood near the door now, keeping the same careful distance, watching her without expression.
Jennifer pushed herself up, breathing hard, one hand still pressed against the wall for balance. Her head was ringing. She turned to face him, slower than before.
John spoke before she could move again.
“If you continue to approach me,” he said, “I will leave. You will remain in this room with the lights on and no further . No food. No water. No one will come for you until I decide you are ready to be spoken to again.”
Jennifer stopped. The image made something twist hard in her stomach. She hated the idea of giving in, but the thought of being left alone in this room felt worse.
John sat down again.
“We will begin with your intake inventory,” he said. “Please remove your coat.”
Jennifer let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Are you serious?”
“I am.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
John made a note on his clipboard.
“Refusal to comply with divestment request. Subject resorts to profanity when denied control.”
He looked up at her.
“The coat is damp and stained,” he said. “You can remove it yourself, or I will have it removed while you are unconscious. If I have to sedate you for this, it will become standard protocol for everything that follows. That will make the process significantly longer and more unpleasant for you.”
Jennifer pulled the coat tighter around herself. “You’re not taking my clothes.”
“I have no intention of touching you,” John said. “But the coat will be removed one way or another. The only question is whether you retain any agency in how that happens.”
Jennifer stared at him, suspicion tightening her face.
“What the fuck does that mean?”
John answered without hesitation.
“It means you can remove the coat yourself right now, while you are still conscious and in control. Or I can have my assistant come in and remove it for you. Those are the two options available to you.”
The words landed with cold clarity. Jennifer felt a flicker of genuine unease. She had expected threats. Instead, he had simply presented two clear outcomes.
She didn’t move at first.
John waited.
Finally, Jennifer yanked the coat off her shoulders with sharp, furious movements. She threw it at him — hard. The heavy fabric struck him across the chest before sliding to the floor.
John didn’t flinch. He didn’t react to being hit at all. He simply bent down, picked up the coat, and laid it across the table.
“Max Mara camel-hair coat,” he said, already reading from his notes. “Approximate value: three thousand four hundred dollars. Water damage on the left shoulder and hem, plus heavy coffee staining across the front and sleeves from when you spilled your drink in the car. The stains have significantly reduced its value.”
He continued speaking as he folded the coat and placed it into a clear evidence bag, sealing it as if nothing unusual had occurred.
“Next,” he said evenly. “Your boots.”
Jennifer let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “You’re really going to keep doing this?”
“Yes.”
She took a step back. After what had just happened with the coat, something in her had hardened. She refused out of pride, but also because giving in felt like letting him win completely.
“No. You already took the coat. You’re not taking these too.”
John made another note.
“Escalating resistance following divestment of primary outer garment. Subject attempting to establish new boundary after previous compliance.”
He looked at her.
“The boots are ruined,” he said. “You can remove them yourself, or I will have my assistant remove them while you’re unconscious. Decide.”
Jennifer felt her anger spike. She hated how calmly he threatened to strip away even more of her control. She glanced down at her boots. The expensive suede was soaked dark with rain and coffee, the soles caked with mud from the street. The sight only made her angrier.
She stood there for nearly thirty seconds, jaw tight, staring at him.
Then, with visible reluctance, she sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off her boots one at a time. Instead of dropping them, she suddenly stood up, turned toward the far wall, and threw both boots at the poster.
The boots struck it hard. Mud from the soles splattered across the black-and-white image as the poster slipped off its hooks and fell to the floor, the boots landing on top of it.
Jennifer stood there, staring at it. The name Tempest was now clearly visible at the bottom of the fallen poster, streaked and partially obscured by fresh splatters of mud from her boots.
John walked over and picked up the boots from the floor. He placed them in another clear evidence bag, then glanced briefly at the fallen poster, now splattered with mud from the soles.
“Even the poster gets marked,” he said quietly, almost to himself.
He made no further comment. He simply collected the two sealed bags containing her coat and boots, turned toward the door, and took them with him.
Jennifer remained standing where she was, barefoot on the cold floor. Her arms hung loosely at her sides, still trembling with leftover rage, her face flushed and tight with anger.
John paused at the door, the bags still in his hands.
“In this facility,” he said, “resistance during intake is expected. How you resist determines how long this process takes and how much agency you retain. We will speak again when I decide you are ready.”
He opened the door and stepped out, taking the sealed bags with him. The door closed behind him with a soft, final click.
Jennifer stayed where she was for a long time.
A few minutes later, the large screen embedded in the wall behind thick protective glass flickered to life.
A title card appeared first, white text on a black background:
“Horse’s Ass” as performed by Jennifer
Behind the words was a frozen image from the recording: Jennifer leaning over the counter, her face caught in an ugly shape of contempt. The barista stood behind the with wet eyes and hunched shoulders, one hand still wrapped around the cup as if it were the only thing keeping her upright.
Then the video began.
Jennifer’s own voice filled the room, sharp and condescending, louder than it had seemed inside her own body. She watched herself correct the barista, interrupt her, talk over the apology, check her reflection in the pastry case glass between complaints. In the background, the other customers stared or looked away.
The recording looped.
At first, Jennifer stood frozen in the center of the room, unable to tear her eyes away from the screen. Her own face stared back at her — twisted in anger, voice booming through the room at full volume. She watched herself berate the barista with a kind of sick fascination.
Then she turned toward the fallen poster. Mud from the boots had splattered across the horse’s black-and-white body. She picked it up, stared at the name “Tempest” at the bottom for a long second, then deliberately dropped it back onto the floor.
She ed reading The Tempest in school — a story of a powerful man who summoned a storm to shatter and control his enemies. Here, barefoot in this locked white room while her own voice boomed from the ceiling speaker, the name felt far less literary.
Beneath her recorded tirade, faint but unmistakable, came the slow, droning drumbeat of shod hooves clopping rhythmically on concrete.
Jennifer remained standing in the center of the room as the video began again.
Just outside the door, John watched her reaction on a small monitor. His expression remained calm and calculating. After a moment, he reached forward and pressed record.