Consciousness came slowly, on the installment plan, one sensation at a time.

I groaned and opened my eyes to a room full of sunshine. Dancing clusters of sparkles and glowing dust motes drifted in the sunbeams filling my field of vision as I attempted to focus and give the optical center of my brain a chance to sort out the dazzling array of visual information. For several seconds I stared at the ceiling and tried to remember where I was. Naked, comfortable, and warm in bed with my partner next to me; her bare bottom pressed against my crotch and her erect nipples pressing into my back.

Wait a minute; it's physically impossible to be in two places simultaneously. Darlene lay before me with the innocent smile of a sleeping angel.

"Morning, SkyWolf," the sweet voice of Seraina whispered in my ear. I turned my head and found myself nose to nose with a smile and a set of laughing eyes. She rapidly kissed my cheek. Speed being her defense against morning breath.

My Lord! That woman brought "bright eyed and bushy tailed" to an absurd level: No sane person is so chipper in the morning.

"No time, I gotta pee," I touched my lips against her forehead as I clamored over her on my way to the bathroom.

"Need any help?" she asked as she reached for my genitals.

"No thanks, I'll handle it." I brushed her hand away and dashed for the toilet.

Someday I'm going to have to write a book: Zen and the Art of Elimination. I usually mediated when I took a dump. Hey, we’ve got to think of something when we do our business. I figured I might as well use the process of voiding to find enlightenment along with relief.

The morning chill had left the toilet seat so cold my balls wanted to climb back inside my body. I squirmed and tried to find a warm spot as shivers ran up my spine and rattled my teeth. What the fuck happened last night? How did I end up naked between those two sexy women? I racked my hung-over brain and stumbled through a misty fog bank of blurry memories filed away in last night's memory folder.

Exhibits A-D: Four steaming and delicious mugs of hot buttered rum and homemade brandy (a federal offense).

Exhibits E-F: Two contests to determine who could take the most hits from a marijuana-filled hookah in sixty seconds. It became the loser's task to match the winner's toke total. I won the first round and lost the second.

Exhibits G: Seraina and Darlene shuffling a deck of cards and suggesting we relax by playing a round of strip poker.

Then the record fades to gray, too blurry to read or recall. I wonder, did I have a good time?

Hangovers are major impediments to thoughtful contemplation. A hangover is also a significant impediment to meditation. Instead of contemplating my navel, I stared at the ceramic tiles between my bare feet and tried not to throw up as I attempted to make sense out of the fast forty-eight hours. I held my head between my hands and stared at the bathroom tiles between my bare feet. I was startled to notice the Colony's toilet paper carried designs which matched the natural floral patterns baked into the ceramic tiles.

In the sport of survivalism, you win if you don't die. While I'm miles away from mastering details of play, I have a hunch there are no sections devoted to designer toilet paper in any Prepper's Manual. My head hurt thinking about it.

The joy I felt at no longer being Sheila's "guest-prisoner" quickly faded as the ongoing war in my gut went nuclear. I sort of recall a post-midnight kitchen raid as Darlene, Serena, StarShine, and I foraged for snacks and goodies. Anything to feed a wicked case of the munchies. Kitchen-Karma got its revenge as my stomach bubbled, gurgled, and churned like a science project gone bad. I clamped my jaws shut and fought the urge to hurl.

"Oh my fucking word, this sucks," I groaned. I couldn't think of a worse way to start a day. Foolish me. Diarrhea, the third Rider of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, hangover style, took its turn next to Nausea in a neck-and-neck run for the finish line first.

As I knelt before the porcelain throne, twin fears overcame me. First I thought I might die. Then I was fearful I might live. For the next fifteen minutes, I bent double, maybe triple, as I wrung myself out and drained the swamp from both ends.

Memo to self: booze is not your friend.

When I stepped under the hot shower to help me to take my mind off my misery, Darlene called out, "You better hustle, Sheila wants to see you in her office in thirty minutes."

Ninety minutes and four cups of coffee later, feeling like a wide-awake dishrag, I knocked at Sheila's door and waited for an answer.

"You're late," Sheila announced with a frown as I entered her office.

"Better late than never," I stood before her desk.

"Better never late, take a seat," Sheila replied as she shuffled and arranged the stack of papers on her desk."Congratulations, you're now a citizen of Liberty Mountain's Sisterhood. Welcome to our society," Sheila gave me an ironic smile.

Sheila wore her casual attire like a uniform. Her faded jeans were a perfect match for her lumberjack flannel shirt. She looked like a poster child from L.L.Bean's latest fashion catalog.

"Care for a nip of brandy to celebrate?" She reached into the desk drawer and produced two shot glasses followed by a flask of amber-gold homemade liquor.

"Yes, and thank you."

Maybe a little of the hair of the dog which bit me would help take the edge off a crappy day. It was years since my last hangover. I took a tentative sip of the homemade brew, my stomach approved. With a sigh I relaxed as the warmth of the spirits seeped into my tired bones. There is a heaven.

Sheila held the glass in both hands as she took a sip and studied me. "You look like shit, too much party?"

"Yeah, something like that. Too much weed and booze." I took another sip of the beverage I tried to find a comfortable position in the seat.

"Too much sex?" Sheila asked with a wink followed by an odd grin of inquiry.

“I don't know. You'll have to ask them. I passed out in the second hand of strip-poker," I said pointing my thumb over my shoulder in the general direction of our sleeping quarters.

"Interesting," Sheila said with an amused smile as she scribbled a note on the old-fashioned, green, ink-felt blotter that covered much of her desk. A maze of cryptic notes covered the surface.

Sheila's eyes were unblinking and unashamed as she leaned back in her chair and gazed at me. Like twin moons orbiting an alien world, her eyes peeked over the rim of her brandy glass. Two can play this game; I leaned forward and put my elbows on her desk and rested my head in the palms of my hand, and stared into her eyes.

"You'll do just fine," Sheila said with a grin as she broke eye contact and took a long, slow sip of her brandy. "You're hired."

"Uhh, what's my new job?" I sat upright in my chair. At some point, the conversation had shifted from idle chatter to a job interview. I missed the transition and found myself on an exit ramp to the unknown.

"Congratulations, you're my new Administrative Assistant. You're to start work the first thing in the morning,"

"What happened to the old Administrative Assistant?

"You're the first. Now, go back to your quarters and get some sleep. I'll fill you in on your duties when you report in the morning,"

"What happens if I don't take the job?" I didn't plan to turn her down. However, my curious nature wondered what the alternatives were.

"The only other job opening is mucking out the stables. Would you rather do that?"

"No thanks, what time should I report?" I asked.

"My day starts at 5:30. Do the math." Sheila motioned her arm in a wave of dismissal.

WTF? Administrative Assistant? Why the hell would she want me to be on her admin-team? Most admin types I knew were gophers, about two levels below indentured servants. Becoming the administrative assistant to a powerful individual is a type of bondage. Assistants serve at the beck-and-call the boss. Essentially, I would be on duty around the clock. As a survivalist group, the Sisterhood operated as a Para-military Democracy.

In many ways, Sheila's choice of jobs made perfect sense, at least from her perspective. Notwithstanding the society's vote, I remained an unknown commodity. What better way to keep an eye on an unknown then to keep the mysterious under observation twenty-four seven? Sheila put me in a position of maximum exposure. I would be under her microscope and the watchful eye of a judgmental Sisterhood. I had no place to hide and nowhere to run.

My trial hadn't ended; it had only just begun.