Fox Hunt---Texas Style

Forward

The year is 2021. The economy which began its decline in 2001 has become worse. There is a world wide depression. To provide funds to operate essential services such as prisons and to provide diversion for a depressed and economically deprived populace, sports have become much more violent. Instead of spending money on long-term incarceration of prisoners, those that would be sentenced to death, or to life imprisonment, are forced to participate in gladiatorial contests which, not only eliminate most of them, but provide entertainment for the masses. As in ancient Rome, admission to the coliseums is free, but the television rights are sold to the networks to provide operating revenue for the prisons. Although sex offenders are castrated in most states, Texas has taken it one step further. They castrate anyone sentenced to prison for longer than one year. Instead of entering them into televised contests, however, Texas uses convicted felons as game for what has come to be known as “The Texas Fox Hunt.” Wealthy sportsmen pay to hunt them from horseback. When caught, the prisoners are hogtied, castrated and branded on the right buttock with the sportsman’s unique brand. Large sums are wagered by the sportsmen on which of them will catch and castrate the most.

The Hunt

The glare of the overhead light woke up Alex. It surprised him because-during the night-he hadn’t thought it possible that he would get to sleep-thinking about what was to happen today. He looked across the cell at his brother, Daryl, who was rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He and Daryl had been sentenced to life in prison for the murder of their father. They had, while being interrogated by the police, confessed to the murder-but later recanted the confession. Although an adult, who the boys said was responsible for the crime, was involved, Alex and Daryl were tried as adults, found guilty, and sentenced. They would spend their lives at Huntsville, a Texas state prison, and, today-they would lose their balls. Alex was thirteen; his brother was fourteen. The murder had happened a year before.

Alex was small, with the appearance of a boy much younger than thirteen. He was only now entering puberty. Hair was just beginning to appear at his crotch. He had ejaculated for the first time the night before, when he had masturbated, more to take his mind off of what was to happen today-to pass the time-than for sexual gratification. He had a morning erection, and wanted to masturbate again, but a guard, at that moment, rapping his baton on the bars, said, “All right boys, today’s your big day. Up and at em.”

Looking up at Daryl, who had jumped out of bed when the guard rapped on the bars, Alex said, “I’m scared. Are they going to castra...cut off our nuts?”

“I don’t know, God damnit. Why are you asking me for? I don’t know anymore than you do, “ but, when Alex began crying, he added, “Aw-don’t cry. Don’t let them see you cry. I’m just as scared as you.”

The boys, dressed and standing at the cell door when it slid open, stepped out into the passageway and lined up with the other prisoners. They were marched to the dinning hall, where they had breakfast with ninety-eight other inmates. There would be one hundred foxes in the hunt today. Ten hunters, who had each paid $1,000,000 for the privilege, would be hunting them. The guard who had rapped on the bars of their cell, the one who had kept leering at them through the bars, spoke. “How’re they hanging today, boys? Better enjoy them while you can. You won’t have them much longer.”

His laugh, more of a bray than a laugh, resounded in the brothers’s ears. Too scared to be hungry, the boys were picking at their food. “Better eat up, boys. You’re going to need your energy today. If you want to save your nuts, you’re gonna have to be able to run.”

It was 5:30 AM, and just becoming light when the prisoners were marched outside. The ten hunters, with their assistants-mostly cowboys who could rope- stood to the left of the head guard who was at a microphone in front of the assembled convicts, speaking to the men.

“Every one of you is to remove all his clothes-even his underwear. You may retain your shoes.”

Amid much grumbling and complaining-with encouraging shocks from electric cattle prods wielded by the guards- the men began removing their clothes. Alex hesitated until he saw one of the guards begin walking toward him. It always embarrassed him to be naked in front of others. When he had first been strip searched at twelve-before he had entered puberty-the guards had made fun of his little cock. Even though it was larger now, he was still embarrassed to be naked in front of others-and, until now there had only been a few watching. Today, there were over 100. It seemed to Alex that they were all looking at him.

Naked, except for his sneakers, he turned toward his brother, attempting to hide his nakedness with his hands and his brother’s body. Suddenly he doubled over in pain. The guard from the dining hall, reaching between Alex’s legs with a cattle prod, had zapped him in the nuts. Laughing at his reaction, the guard said, “Straighten up kid. Stay in your place.”

Tears poured from Alex’s eyes. He was hurt and humiliated. “Hell, if you think that hurt, kid, just wait till later.” The guard pulled Alex’s hands away from his aching balls. “So, that’s what you were trying to hide? I don’t blame you. Not much of a cock, is it? Don’t worry, kid. You’ll probably get to keep it.” He quit talking when the guard at the microphone resumed his instructions.

“Men, you’re on a ranch owned by the Texas penal system. There are 5000 acres surrounded by two twenty foot high wire fences with razor wire at the top. There are sensors between the fences. If anyone should make it through the first fence, he will set off the sensors. Helicopters and patrol cars will be there before you could possibly make it through the second fence.”

“Armed guards will accompany each of the hunters. Anyone trying to harm one of the hunters will be shot. You will have one hour’s head start before the hunters come after you. I advise you to use it well. If you manage to hide out until dark, you won’t be castrated-as long as you surrender yourselves peacefully. If we have to come looking for you, we’ll take your penis as well. Go.”

Men started running in all directions-except back toward the building. Alex and Daryl stood, watching-confused; then Daryl tugged on Alex’s arm. “Let’s go-run.”

“Which way?”

“I don’t know-just run. Follow me.” Daryl took off running toward some trees he could see across the clearing.

Alex hesitated, but, not wanting to be left behind, followed. “Wait for me,” he yelled as Daryl began to draw away from him.

Daryl, slowing, looked back. “O.K. Hurry up, though. We’ve got to find someplace we can hide. We’ve got less than an hour.”

They didn’t stop at the trees, which were too close and would be the first place to be searched, but continuing across another clearing, they climbed a hill, then went down into the gully on the other side, following a creek for over a mile. The hour had almost passed when the boys discovered a hollowed out place beneath a rotten log. They crawled in it, pulling some brush in after them. As they lay there, after some time had passed, they began to hear screams-in the distance-as prisoners were caught-and castrated.

The older men, the larger ones, the fatter ones, were caught first. The trees on the ranch, being sparse, didn’t provide many hiding places. A South American, who was rumored to have drug ties-a gaucho in his youth-caught the first one with a bola. It wrapped around the convict’s legs, the last ball striking him in the nuts. He fell, rolling in the dirt. The ex-gaucho was off his horse before the 300 pound inmate stopped rolling. Since the felon’s legs were already entangled by the bola, the South American rolled him over, tying his hands behind his back with a few quick wraps of the short rope he carried. Then he flipped him over onto his back, reached down, grabbed the bottom of the convict’s scrotum, pulled on it, and sliced off the bottom, revealing the whitish nuts inside. Grasping both in his right hand, he pulled, ripping them out of the convict’s body. Many runners’s hands went to their nuts when they heard the fat felon’s shriek.

“Jesus...,” said an accompanying guard. “You didn’t cut them. You just ripped them out.”

“That’s how we do the calves at home. Less bleeding that way.” He took the electric branding device from his assistant and branded the new eunuch on his right buttock. He left him hogtied and went looking for another.

From their hiding place beneath the log, Alex and Daryl observed many hunters crisscrossing the small clearing in front of them, but they were so well hidden that no one found them until one-the South American, after riding across the clearing, came back, got off his horse, and began walking toward the log, leading his horse. Both boys panicked-but in different ways. Alex froze-paralyzed. He couldn’t move. Daryl ran.

Darting from beneath the log, Daryl ran at a tangent across the clearing. The gaucho, leaped onto his horse, grabbed his bola, and began swinging it over his head as he spurred his horse after him. For a moment, as Alex watched it swirl through the air toward Daryl, the bola seemed to be suspended in time, frozen in mid flight toward Daryl’s legs, but then it continued, wrapping around his legs, bringing him crashing to the ground, knocking the wind from him; he grunted. The gaucho, off his horse in an instant, rolled Daryl over, pulled the short rope from his belt, and tied Daryl’s hands behind his back. Rolling him over onto his back, he looked down at his prey.

“Hey, it’s only a kid. Well, kid. I hope you’ve made use of these,” he said as he cupped Daryl’s testicles in his hand, “because you’re not going to have any opportunity after today.” He squeezed the bottom of Daryl’s sack forcing his nuts farther up into his scrotum, then pinching off the bottom third of it, sliced if off. Daryl’s balls glistened in the afternoon sunlight as they dropped free. Having caught his breath, Daryl’s shrieks intensified as the gaucho grasped his bare nuts in his hand-then yanked. The cords stretched-then snapped. Blood splattered as they came away in the castrator’s hand. Daryl fainted. The gaucho dropped the testicles into the dirt beside Daryl’s head, reached up, took the branding iron from his assistant, and branded Daryl on the right buttock; then he looked-again-toward the log.

But...at that moment, another runner, who had been hiding on the other side of the clearing, giving into the panic caused by the scene he had just witnessed, ran. The gaucho, after jumping back on his horse, gave chase, but the runner, by that time, was already into the trees. It took the gaucho thirty minutes to run him down. By that time, he’d forgotten about the log.

Alex lay under the log, looking out through the narrow gap between the log and the ground-through the brush-at Daryl, who was lying, whimpering on the ground in the middle of the clearing. Alex was crying softly, lying in his own piss. His fright had caused him to void his bladder. After what he had witnessed, he was too scared to go to Daryl. It was almost dark before prison officials came to collect his brother.

“Hey, here’s another one that didn’t make it.”

“Hell,” the second one answered, “you know that none of them ‘make it.’ Even the ones who come in after dark are castrated. They just tell them that they won’t be castrated so they’ll come in on their own.”

“I know. But, it gives them hope.” They loaded Daryl into a cart that was pulled by a tractor.

It was midnight before Alex worked up enough courage to move. He didn’t know where to go. If he turned himself in, according to the men he overheard, he would be castrated anyway, and because it was so late, his penis would also be removed. Walking until he came to the fence, he followed it. It was a formidable obstacle, twenty feet high, as the instructor had said, with razor wire at the top. Alex could see no way over it, but continued walking along it because he could think of nothing else to do. They would be out in force in the morning to look for him. Eventually he came to a culvert through which a creek flowed. It was barred, with a wire screen over the bars-but someone had pried loose the wire screen. Some of the prison officials had noticed, but, figuring that the bars were too close together for anyone to escape, hadn’t bother to repair it, and they were right. They were too close together for any normal sized person to squeeze through-but not for a child as small as Alex. With difficulty he managed to squeeze through the bars. Luckily, at the other end of the culvert, there were similar bars, but no screen. He squeezed through them as well. Free of the ranch, he took off across country.

After walking for a couple of hours, having little sleep the night before and exhausted from the day’s ordeal, he fell asleep in some woods. Fortunately it was summer, when, in Texas, even the nights were warm. He was still naked.

Because he had been exhausted, he awoke late the next morning, then started walking across country once again, avoiding any signs of civilization. It would have been difficult to explain why he was naked. Once, when he came to a busy road, he had to hide in the ditch-in the weeds-beside the road until it was clear of cars. For food, he ate some raw ears of corn from a farmer’s field. He got his water from streams and from windmills which trickled water into livestock watering troughs. On the second night after he had escaped from the ranch, he came across a farm house that had clothes drying on a clothes line. He stole a pair of jeans and a T Shirt. They were too big for him, but he cinched up the jeans with a piece of rope-and he’d always liked his T Shirts large anyway. He had been badly frightened by a barking dog, when he had taken the clothes, but, although the farmer had turned on his porch light and opened the door, he hadn’t seen Alex.

On the third day, tired and hungry-he hadn’t even found a corn field the day before, Alex decided to hitchhike. He was picked up by an older man, about sixty, who had a kind face-but a kind face can easily hide a pedophile or serial killer. When Alex got into the car, he saw a newspaper on the front seat between them. His picture was on the front page. The headlines said, “Police hunt escaped killer.” The driver, after looking over at Alex, glanced down at the paper, then reached down, picked it up, and threw it into the back seat.

“Are you hungry, Alex?”

Panicking, Alex grabbed the door handle, intending to jump out of the car, even though it was already moving, but the driver, despite his age, was too quick for him. He wrapped his fingers around the boy’s upper arm.

“It’s O.K., Alex. I’m not going to turn you in. I’m going to take you someplace where you’ll be safe. You look like you could use something to eat, a bath, and a soft bed.”

“What do you want from me-sex?” During the last year Alex had become suspicious of anyone who was kind to him. He wasn’t looking forward to having sex with the old man, but, if that’s what it took...anything was better than going back to prison.

The old man laughed. “Sex? No, Alex. I don’t want to have sex with you. I want to help you. I’ve been driving these back roads for two days-looking for you. I belong to a group that believes it’s wrong to send kids to prison. We’re going to do whatever we can to help you.”

“Then you don’t believe that I’m a murderer?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter to us, whether you are. A twelve year-old kid-that’s how old you were at the time-shouldn’t be sentenced to life in prison---If I let go of your arm, will you stay in the car?”

“Uh...yeah, I’ll stay.” Although still suspicious, he had no good alternative.

“O.K., Alex. I’m going to turn loose of your arm. Don’t jump out. We’re going too fast. You might be killed. And, put your seatbelt on.” The car was approaching 50 mph.

When he let go of Alex’s arm, he half turned toward Alex, and, glancing at the back seat, reached back, opened a small cooler, and pulled out a paper sack. “There’s some sandwiches, an apple and cookies. I thought you might be hungry. Oh...by the way, my name is Harry.” He smiled.

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When Daryl was castrated, he felt a sharp, burning, pain when the bottom of his scrotum was sliced off; then the man’s callused hand on his exposed testicles caused him to gasp, but the agony he felt-when his castrator yanked, tearing off his balls, snapping their cords, was the worst pain that he’d ever felt. It was like getting kicked in the nuts-but a hundred times worse, a pain that he felt deep inside his abdomen-a more intense pain than when he’d broken his arm. It had felt as if more than his balls had been torn out-as if his intestines had been as well. He fainted. He was unconscious when he was branded. When he awoke he was only aware of the pain that he felt. He didn’t think about Alex-about whether he’d been captured. He was only vaguely aware of being loaded into the cart.

Daryl was probably fortunate that the South American had torn out his testicles instead of cutting them off. Many of the prisoners had bleed to death. The trauma, caused to Daryl’s blood vessels, had closed them, limiting the loss of blood. He, as were the other convicts, was given only perfunctory medical care. If he had died, there would have been one less inmate for the taxpayers to support. It wasn’t until the next morning, when he looked at Alex’s empty bed, that he wondered about his younger brother.

When a guard came by-the same one that had taunted them before-he asked, “Where’s my brother? Where’s Alex?”

“I don’t know. The scrawny little runt probably died. Lot’s of them did. They bled to death before they were picked up.”

Distracted by the thought of Alex’s death, Daryl had more to worry about than his continuing pain, or the loss of his balls. It wasn’t long, however, until he found out that Alex wasn’t dead. The guard returned, bringing along a wheel chair-Daryl wasn’t yet able to walk-and took him to a room, where he was interrogated by two unfamiliar guards.

“Where’s your brother?” the fat one with the mustache asked.

“My brother? I don’t know. That guard,” indicating the one that had brought him to the room, “said that he was probably dead. I haven’t seen him since I was caught. I don’t even remember much that has happened since then. You mean that you don’t know where he is?”

“Where were you hiding?”

“I don’t know-in some brush somewhere.” Daryl didn’t want to be specific-didn’t want to give them too much information.

“Well, we’ve got the dogs out looking for him now. When we find him, he’s going to lose his penis as well as his balls-and you will, too, if we find out you’re not telling us everything.”

It was the next day before the dogs picked up Alex’s trail. They had been confused by the scent of 100 prisoners, the hunters, and numerous guards traversing the ranch. Eventually they traced him to the culvert, but, until the dogs picked up his scent on the other side of the fence, the guards had difficulty believing that he could have squeezed through the bars. Using the dogs, they continued to track him, but it was slow work. Alex had a day’s head start, and, instinctively, he had followed creeks, wading in the water when he could, even though he hadn’t thought about being hunted with dogs. Still, they were only an hour behind him when he was picked up by Harry. Using different dogs and different men, they had hunted him throughout the night. When the guards, accompanied by the State police, lost his trail at the road, they assumed that he’d been picked up by a car. Daryl was summoned for another interrogation.

“Who was waiting for you and your brother?” asked his questioner from the previous interrogation.

“No one...I don’t know what you mean. You didn’t find, Alex?”

“You’d better answer me. Pull down his pants, Harv.”

Daryl was shackled; he couldn’t resist. The guard pulled Daryl’s pants down below his knees, then pulled down the diaper-like covering on his crotch. His chopped off scrotum hung empty below his penis. Some blood and other fluids were still seeping from it.

“You’re going to tell us what we want to know, or we’ll cut off your cock right now.”

Daryl screamed when the guard, Harvey, grabbed his cock and placed a knife at its base. He would have told them anything. He was just beginning to recover from the pain of losing his balls. His screams, his pleading, must have convinced them that he didn’t know anything, because they didn’t cut it off, although it bled from a slight cut that the guard had made.

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Harry’s car, a tan Oldsmobile, was stopped and thoroughly searched at a police road block, but neither Harry or Alex were in it at the time. Harry hadn’t been the only one searching for Alex. After he had found him, he had phoned other members on his mobile phone, arranging a rendezvous. A half an hour later they met others of the group who were in a motorhome. Harry entered the motorhome with Alex. Tom, another member of the group, drove Harry’s car back in the direction from which Harry and Alex had come. Harry went along in the motorhome to provide a relatively familiar face for the boy. The motorhome was also stopped at a roadblock, but, by then, Alex had been hidden in a compartment behind some cabinets, and, fortuitously, there were no dogs at the checkpoint. Hours later they arrived in the small East Texas town that Harry and Sam, the driver and owner of the motorhome, called home.

Sam pulled the motorhome into the carport at his house; then, after giving the sleepy Alex a baseball cap to hide his shaved head, took him from the carport through a side door into the house. Alex didn’t later remember Sam’s wife, Thelma, taking off his dirty jeans and T Shirt, then dressing him in pajamas and putting him to bed. He might have been embarrassed if he had. When he awoke the next morning, she was standing over him, smiling.

“Hi, Alex,” she said, “my name is Thelma.”

Alex barely remembered his own mother. She and his father had been divorced when he was two years-old and he’d spent most of the time since in foster homes, until he had been returned to his father only months before the murder had occurred. He had occasionally seen his mother in the intervening years, but she seemed more like a stranger to him than did some of the foster mothers that he had. Although usually pleasant enough, the foster mothers had seemed more interested in the payments they had received, than in him. There was something different about Thelma, however-she had a warmth that none of the others, including his mother, had. He wanted to throw his arms around her, but, of course, didn’t. He hadn’t that kind of trust.

“Get up, lazy bones-and take a bath. You sure need one. I’ll have breakfast for you when you’re through.”

He followed her to the bathroom. Water was already in the tub. She handed him a washcloth.

“And don’t forget to wash those ears. Gosh, I hope you’ll come clean. I’ve never seen such a dirty kid.”

His feet were black; mud was caked to his knees, and his face was filthy from lying in the dirt beneath the log. He smelled of urine from having peed on himself.

“Here’s a towel,” she said, pointing to a folded towel on the sink, “and here’s some new clothes.” She indicated new jeans, shirt, underwear, socks, and shoes that were next to the towel. “See you in a few. I don’t guess that you want me to scrub your face? No...I can see you’re too big for that.”

Throughout, Alex hadn’t said a word. Now, he stood, for a moment, looking at the bathroom door which had closed behind Thelma, then undressed and gingerly stuck his foot into the bathwater. It was hot, but not too hot. He hadn’t had a real bath in over a year. The jails only had showers. The best part of it though...no one was watching; no male guard, salaciously watching while he bathed.

When he finished bathing, he dressed, combed his hair and went to the kitchen where Thelma was puttering, waiting for him to come out.

“Wow,” she said. I can’t believe it’s the same kid.” His cheeks were pink from scrubbing. Even his ears were clean. Thelma checked. “Sit down, kiddo. I hope you like pancakes. Here’s some orange juice,” she said, handing him a glass. “It’s fresh squeezed, too. Not that ‘from concentrate’ junk.”

She just had time to pour on the syrup before he attacked the stack of pancakes with his fork. “Hey, you are hungry. Well, I like a hungry kid. There’s more if you want them.”

Alex had a second stack, along with several links of sausage and two glasses of juice.

Thelma spent the day doting on him, but not clinging to, or smothering him with affection. By the time Sam arrived home from work, Alex had warmed up to Thelma, even talking about things he liked, about boy things-things he hadn’t been able to think about during the year he’d spent in adult jails. He had even laughed at times.

After Sam had been home for a while, he and Thelma went into their bedroom, leaving Alex in the livingroom watching TV.

“Can we keep him, Sam. I just love him. I can’t believe that they’ve kept a little kid like him in jail for over a year, and that they meant to keep him in prison for life.”

“That’s not all,” replied Sam. “I’ve heard that they castrated his brother-and would have him, too, if he hadn’t escaped. God...I don’t know how he did it-how a little kid like him got away. I’d like to keep him, but we don’t know that much about him. He might be a murderer.”

“I can’t believe it,” said Thelma. “He’s just a kid-a scared little kid and a sweet one at that.”

“In any case, it’s not safe for him here. They’ll be looking for him all over the state of Texas. It’s all been arranged. You and I are going to drive him to Canada tomorrow. There are people there that will take him in. Canada refuses to extradite kids to the United States. Their judicial system hasn’t become as barbaric as ours-no adult prosecution of kids and no capital punishment.

The three of them, Sam, Thelma, and Alex, left for Vancouver, BC the next day, but took their time getting there, stopping at several tourist attractions along the way: Grand Canyon, Yosemite, Trees of Mystery, Crater Lake, and others. Three weeks had passed by the time they arrived in Vancouver, where Alex would be staying. The couple, Fred and Susan, who would be providing a home for Alex, were nice, but he had grown fond-maybe more than fond-of Sam and Thelma-especially of Thelma. He cried when they said goodbye. So did Thelma. Even Sam’s eyes were moist.

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Back in Texas, the publicity of Alex’s escape, and the news of the castration of his brother-with the help of groups with members like Harry, Sam, and Thelma-had put a face on the kids that had been sentenced as adults. A backlash occurred, and although, the laws-at least for now-weren’t changed, the sentences of Daryl and Alex were vacated. They were granted a new trial-but the state declined to try them again. Even the jurors from their first trial claimed that they had been mislead-that the boys shouldn’t have been found guilty. Sam and Thelma applied for-and got-custody of Daryl and Alex. They packed up the motorhome and-with Daryl-made another trip to Vancouver. This time to get Alex-to bring him home.