He brought two cattle prods with Him this year. A full-sized one that you might imagine when you hear those words, and a smaller, stun-gun sized one. Both with the high pitched whine of charging. Neither with the tell-tale crackle of a stun-gun. The first day He brought them out, He said He wanted tears. But He stuck to thigh shots on me, asking for pain level gauges. Five of ten on the outer thigh, seven on the inner when held against while pressed. Much lower if the button was pressed away from the body and then tapped – just a violet wand style spark. Though the full-sized was a sharper discharge than the small in that case. Fortunately, he had several targets to torment with these, but that meant no tears that first day. Just swearing, shrieks, and twitching.
He would not be satisfied with that, however, not forever.
Friday night at the fire, I was wandering back and forth, waiting on SF to be ready. He pulled out the small one, having taken to carrying it around on His belt as it was easily hidden by His shirt. Several of our younger campsite neighbors who had seen it used were standing nearby.
Put your palm on this, He said, holding it up, prongs up.
No? I whined, twitching back from him a step or two.
Come here. Put your palm on this. His voice firm.
My eyes flitting around, I stepped back toward him. My left hand immediately flapping in the air, breath coming in gasps.
Please no?
Now.
I couldn’t. I started crying, Hand still flapping forward and back, rocking on my feet.
He waited, a grin on his face.
This is how you get tears, eyes flitting from his to the prongs.
I know. Put your palm on it.
Starting to breath too hard, flailing still, rocking. It takes what feels like minutes.
I stop. Make a fist, take a deep breath, tears still falling, and open my hand He knows I’m almost there.
Taking slowing breaths. I put my hand on the prongs.
Look at me. Breathe In.
I do.
Breathe Out.
I’ve already taken two breaths, but I breathe out.
Breathe In.
Breathe Out.
Sobbing, but holding firm, still breathing a little too fast, holding his gaze.
Breathe In.
I hold it.
Breathe Out.
ZAP!
I shriek and spin, but it is over. Shaking my hand like a wet dog, swearing. Every inch of my hand electrified and tingling.
One of the young observers asks if he can compliment me.
Yes.
Speaks of my control with admiration.
He answers for me, explaining our breath control exercise, that the third is when the pain comes. It doesn’t help, it is always still a shock, and in those moments of terror, I had forgotten. I just knew it would come when He thought I was focused enough.
Everyone is entertained, and He asks for a number for the pain. It’s not just the pain, but the sensation as a whole, filling my hand, I tell Him nine.
—
The next day, getting ready for the Burn, one of our neighbors doesn’t scream loud enough at the zap, and he calls me over again, wanting a better reaction. Our drummer friend is driving by.
Put your hand on it. You can use your other hand if you want.
Sir… I can’t, that elbow is cranky today. I’m starting to flail.
Now, she doesn’t have all day.
That seems like a her problem, it’s daylight, I’m in snark mode. Staring only at the prongs before me.
Put your palm on it.
Bopping my hand back and forth, closer and closer. I know what it feels like now, for better and worse. It’s not super horrible, but it’s not pleasant either.
Keep it there, he chides.
I’m Trying!
Finally landing, and there is no breath, we’re in a hurry, and I’m not crying. It was too sudden, too lighthearted.
ZAP!
Shriek and spin and swearing as everyone else laughs, and our drummer is on her way.
Shaking my hand again. Not as bad this time, but I pulled away faster, and he didn’t follow. Intention always matters, and state of mind was very different in these two moments.
In conclusion, cattle prods suck and can, with proper intent, draw tears without even touching me. It’s not the pain, but the fear that is so delicious with these types of toys.
