Pony Boot Camp
Prologue (Law and Order)
It was either this, or two years without probation or parole. Maybe I’d really pushed it too far this time. My latest stunt crowned a dubious career that had started when I’d been fifteen, and with a true classic: shoplifting. Breach of the peace, public nuisance and damage to property had followed; they had even busted me once for hacking the server of the public library (don’t ask what reason I’d done that for).
I forgot to introduce myself: My name is Alexia Wert. But you can call me Alex.
I consider myself intelligent, have never done hard drugs, never shown violent or otherwise deviant behaviour. I never was rebellious as such, never wanted to fight the system. I was just bored, wanted to test myself and my environment alike, wanted to know what I could get away with. And with what not.
This time they had dragged me out of a stolen car. It had only been a joyride, nothing more. I may be a troublemaker, but I’m not a liar – and I stand by my actions. However, the prosecutor not only claimed theft, but felt free to spice things up with intent to resell. And if that wasn’t enough, he added abscond from justice for good measure, since my silly self hadn’t stopped the car immediately when spotted by the coppers (a circumstance that had earned me a healthy bite of tarmac sandwich, a rib contusion and two pissed policemen’s knee prints on my back – not to mention the titillating experience of having a nine-mil pressed against the back of my head). To top it off, I was over eighteen by now, and considering my mighty criminal record the judge refused to show lenience by once more applying law related to juvenile offenders.
It dawned on me that I was running fresh out of luck.
“Salvation” came in form of a one-time offer near the end of my trail: three months in a special boot camp – that, or the prosecution would aim for two years in prison. By then I already stood under the impression that the judge would go for the requested twenty-four months pour encourager les autres. Which caused me to listen to the offer. They were somewhat thin on the details, yet “educational techniques also used for the dressage of animals” didn’t sound too hot. Would I be taught how to fetch and play dead? But three month to have my spirit broken and reshaped into a form useful to society was still better than sticking my tongue all the way up a bull dyke’s minge for the next 730 nights.
So the verdict came to pass that I, after the complete healing of my rib contusion, was to be transferred to the Deepfall Advanced Correction Centre and kept there for a term not shorter than ninety days.