Confession Blues

This story contains adult themes of sexual acts.

She threw her head back dramatically, a visual indicator to no one in the government filing cabinet attempting to pass as an office, of the game of fourth dimensional chess being played in her mind. Every question and every possible answer had been considered. They call it game theory; she read a few articles about it. Moves and countermoves.

The degeneracy is way more prevalent than you'd think. Only the most skilled interrogators are able to bring it to light. Johnson got seven. Knoll's at five. Hell, even Romano got one, and he's got shit for brains. Detective Jones was still at zero, the big goose egg, and the pressure was mounting. Jones exhaled like a true yogi, steadily brought her head down from the zenith like a hydraulic release, and held a middle distant stare towards the door. The symphony of revelation is ready to begin. She rose to her feet suddenly, purposefully. Weight is redistributed to the left heel and ball of the right foot simultaneously, full left turn. Real maritime like. Standing up straight, shoulders back, mouth closed, she marched out of the office to get her subject nervously sitting in the lobby.

"Good afternoon. I'm Detective Jones. You must be Mr Thompson."

"Yes, ma'am. It's a pleasure to meet you." replied the square jaw, twenty something in the hand me down suit.

It's hard to tell who began the process of extending first, but Jones did the over the top wrist roll when shaking hands. Subtle signs of dominance. Subliminal. He followed her back to the confined space, more closet than office. She did a most perfect about face at the door and positioned herself to funnel the subject into the room. You never enter the room first when you're the alpha. Can you feel the big clit energy?

Bestiality is as old as time, at least written time, where humans and animals were depicted performing sex acts on cave paintings. Not only was this worth writing down at a time where not much was, it was seen as a godly act in classical mythology: Zeus himself took the form of a swan and made sweet aves love to Leda. Prohibition of bumping cross species uglies was a legacy of the Abrahamic religions, a capital punishment for both the human and the animal as a "crime against nature." Ever notice how much of religion is just veiled acts of hygiene? Alas, our earthly laws are no match for raging boners and pussies en fuego. The internet has served as the vessel for the zoophile community to tilt their collective heads back, much like old Jones herself, and imagine being the human in one of those cave paintings.

Subject Thompson, or recruit as he thought, took a seat as instructed in the bureaucratic confine. Right angles, neutral colors of gray and beige, manila folders. Artificial light of course— Jones is so many confessions away from a window view. Thompson's back was at the door. Subjects, or recruits or whatever, should never feel trapped or cornered. They should always feel free to leave. It's all in the manual. You should see Jones. 5'4", 5'7" in heels, shoulder pads, mid length brown hair worn down; she's way past having to wear it in a bun. Thompson had to feel the power of this woman, how could he not?

The skilled interrogator, or investigator, will begin by establishing rapport. In doing so, you build trust with the subject. Things like hobbies, interests, hometowns, and families can all be used as fodder for when the interrogation actually begins. We're only getting warmed up. Small talk relaxes and disarms the subject. You're being friendly, but not making friends. Move to the next phase: asking baseline questions. This is where you establish a behavioral norm. Ask factual, verifiable questions like his or her name, date of birth, home address, marital status. Now you know what it sounds like when the subject is telling the truth. You're building to the crescendo.

Make sure you pull out a manila folder thick with papers (they can be blank) with the subject's name written in large print on the top when you move to the next line of questioning. The subject has to believe you know the answer to the questions you're about to ask, or that you will damn sure find out. Begin interrogation. Will he or she admit to the underage drinking citation they got at 19? You've got the subject's employment history. Has he or she ever been involuntarily terminated from a job? Will the former employer say the same thing? This interrogation will cover everything the subject has ever done. It will take hours. And the subject will leave feeling violated. Once the pencil pusher questions are done, the skilled interrogators, the ones with the windows in their offices, attain confessions for actions that cannot be corroborated through government documentation. Subjects tell the skilled interrogator about the time he or she caused a crash by throwing rocks onto the freeway when they were thirteen. Or a general estimation of the number of unsolicited dick pics sent electronically (whatever number they give you, it's at least double). These are the confessions of bureaucratic glory. But Jones wanted the holy grail of confessions . . .

Jones had studied the manual like she was preparing for the SAT or the Bar exam. She was a real blue flamer and read the Art of War by Sun Tzu. While everyone was else was watching reruns of The Office, she was watching old department interrogation videos on VHS tapes with a glass of wine. Much to her chagrin, she still couldn't hasn't found the holy grail though. Not even once. Alfred Kinsey says that something like 8% of men and 3.6% of women have done it . . .

Jones: "Mr Thompson, I am Detective Jones and I will be responsible for completing your background check through the rest of the recruitment process. Based on this interview, the results of your your psychological evaluation, and your polygraph examination, I will either endorse you for the policy academy or disqualify you from the process." Monologue nailed.

Thompson: "Understood, ma'am. Thank you for the opportunity."

Remember, according to the manual, this is when you move into building rapport. Something came over Jones though. A stroke of genius was plucked from the heavens. Einstein would say that the definition of insanity was to do the same thing a million times and expect a different result. Jones went off script.

Jones: "Now I don't know what it is about guys your age these days, but you'd be amazed at how many of you, your age, have let the family dog lick peanut butter off of their genitals."

Thompson's mouth opened slightly, his brow furrowed, his expression turned quizzical. His brain couldn't process the situation quickly enough. Was this a joke? Should he laugh? She wasn't laughing. In what was only a matter of seconds but felt like an eternity of internal deliberation, he responded.

Thompson: "Yes, ma'am. Understood"

Jones: "Recruit Thompson," she said with subtle indignation as she set the large manila folder with Thompson's full name written in block letters onto the desk, "how many times have you let your dog lick peanut butter off of your genitals?" Notice how she didn't ask if he did, but rather how many times he did. Jones is no amateur.

Thompson didn't detect a hint of facetiousness in Jones' voice. Play it straight, he told himself. Answer her questions. Let her laugh first.

Thompson: "Zero times, ma'am. I loved my family dog growing up, but not like that. I knew one kid who let his dog lick peanut butter off of him, but he was a loner and no one associated with him. It's wrong, but it's really weird too."

Jones was of course not kidding and pressed to the point of extreme discomfort, but Thompson stuck to his story. Eventually she conceded defeat and moved on to the pencil pusher questions. How many citations have you received in the last three years? Blah, blah, blah. The proverbial wind was gone from both of their sails, and neither of them would leave that room feeling a sense of accomplishment.

No one knows when it started, but we know it goes back to at least the John Wayne days of law enforcement. Some recruit bought into the notion that the detective was all knowing and confessed in great detail about where all the household peanut butter was going in his mother's household. The dog got a snack and he got pleasure, no one was harmed he rationalized: a real win win. It was comedic gold amongst the department, and word spread. Most of the officers knew at least one guy who had done this as a horny coming of age teen. It became regarded as the holy grail: get a police recruit to admit to having sexual relations with an animal.

Jones saw Thompson out. Thompson quickly scanned a cork board in his peripheral as they walked, seeing columns of officer names with varying numbers of magazine cutouts of dogs underneath. A leaderboard of sorts. He didn't put two and two together, but one day he might as he's sure to relive this experience many times for the rest of his days. Jones opened the door for Thompson, told him that she would contact him about progress in the hiring process (not the other way around), and wished him a pleasant rest of his day.

Jones paused to reflect as he held the door open, feeling the spring warmth on her face. Her element of surprise audible didn't work. But she had followed the manual to the letter hundreds of times. Ultimately feeling content with her Einstein inspired audible, she said to herself: "You'll never know unless you try."