Love In Virginia
                          ----------------
                          by the Poison Pen
                           copyright 1997


In a small house in Wheeling, West Virginia, Brian sat reading the
evening newspaper.  He shook his head from time to time as he scanned
through the stories about wars and famines, murders and rapes, as if
disgusted with the barbarity with which one human could treat another.
The doorbell rang just as he tsked sadly at the lastest violent crime
statistics.

"Delivery for B. Goode," said the man in the white uniform who stood
on Brian's porch.  The delivery man carried a small box in one hand
and an electronic clipboard in the other.  Brian blinked a few times
in surprise; he had not been expecting any deliveries.  And besides,
he wondered, what sort of delivery person wore all white?

"That's me," said Brian, accepting the clipboard from the man.  In
something of a daze, he scribbled his name on the signing pad and
handed it back.

"Great, thank you sir," said the delivery man, double-checking the
label on the box he carried.  "This is yours then," he said, and
thrust the box into Brian's hands.  Without waiting for whatever Brian
might have said, he turned on his heel and walked back to the white
delivery van that idled by the curb.  Brian felt a sudden chill as he
read the 'Department of Euthanasia' sign on the van's side.

It had been thirteen years since euthanasia had become a universally
accepted solution for rising medical costs among the elderly, and
seven since the Farewell Clinics had opened in major cities for those
who had simply tired of living.  Few dared to openly oppose freely
available and assisted suicide but, like India's untouchables, the
bringers of death who worked at the clinics were still objects of
dread.

Brian watched the van depart, bemused, and closed the door before he
allowed himself a good look at the package he held.  It was a plain
white cardboard box with a number of small holes in the side and on
the top.  The label listed simply his name and address.  A small red
sticker read: "Fragile -- live freight -- do not drop."

"The heck?" said Brian with rising confusion.  He pushed the newspaper
aside and placed the box on the coffee table, settling himself onto
the couch.  The single piece of packing tape which held the box shut
was easily sliced with a fingernail.  Hoping no one had sent him a pet
tarantula, Brian gingerly lifted the lid open.

Inside the box was a sheaf of creamy, legal-looking paper, a brightly
coloured booklet, and a tiny, six-inch tall woman in equally tiny
black lingerie.

Brian's head jerked back with a snap.  "Holy Mother of God," he said,
his eyes bugging out of his head.

The tiny woman, who had been sitting on top of the booklet with her
legs tucked underneath her, climbed to her feet and shaded her eyes
against the light that had banished the near-darkness.  "Hello,
Brian," she chirped in a tiny cartoon-like voice.  She wore a wide,
if slightly nervous smile on her face.

"Ida?" said Brian incredulously.

"Yes, it's me," squeaked Ida.  She spun around in the box on her toes
like a ballerina, laughing, giving Brian a view from every angle.  "Do
you like it?"

"Ida, what the hell did you do?" said Brian, panic in his voice.

"I've been dee-peed," said Ida, "it's all in the papers here."  Her
eyes sparkled with excitement.

The governments of the world had been desperate.  An ever-rising tide
of humanity threatened to overwhelm the entire planet.  Statistics had
shown a rapidly-approaching collision between the population, and the
ability to provide sustenance for all those people.  With their hands
tied by the unwillingness of their citizens to give up their basic
rights as human beings, the politicians had reacted with a clever bit
of sophistry -- they had simply made provisions to take away the legal
humanity of an individual.  This was known as being de-personed, or,
in the popular lexicon, dee-peed.

At first, only criminals and the insane had been dee-peed.  No longer
legally human, they could be disposed of in whatever way was most
economical.  When this was found to be insufficient, advertising
agencies were called in to make being dee-peed more attractive.  The
result was a whole variety of ways in which a person could willingly
surrender their humanity.

Among the most popular methods of having oneself dee-peed involved a
process that had been discovered nearly fifty years earlier, but kept a
strict military secret; namely, the quantum molecular reduction of
mass in an organism -- shrinking.

Brian reached into the box with a shaky hand for the sheaf of papers.
When Ida touched his finger with one of her tiny hands, Brian jerked
his hand back as if he had been stung by a scorpion.  Ida, startled by
the sudden movement, fell down on her backside.

"Brian," said Ida, hurt in her eyes.  "What's wrong?"

Quickly, before Ida could climb to her feet, Brian reached into the
box again and snatched out the sheaf of papers.  He unfolded them and
began reading, the disbelief mounting.  There it was, in black and
white.  A death certificate.  As of this day, Ida Neid as a legal
human had ceased to exist.  The twenty-six year old non-human
biological entity heretofore known as Ida Neid was now the legal
property of one Brian Goode, to keep, sell, or dispose of as he
so desired.  Everything was duly notarized, and signed in eighteen
places by Ida herself -- back when she was a person and was allowed
to sign things.

Brian turned back to see Ida standing quietly in the box, watching
him with anxious eyes.  The booklet, Brian noted, was entitled 'Care
and Feeding Instructions.'  "I don't believe this," said Brian.  "I
can't believe you'd do this.  Why would you do such a thing?  Ida,
have you lost your mind?"

"I-- I did it for you, Brian," said Ida, her little face pale, "for
us.  Please, Brian, you're frightening me.  Aren't you happy?"

"Happy," repeated Brian blankly.  "Happy.  Good God, Ida, you've
turned yourself into a... a freak.  What am I supposed to do with a
six-inch girlfriend?"

"I'm cold," said Ida, wrapping her arms around herself.  "Would you,
would you... hold me, Brian?"

Brian made no move, he simply continued to stare into the box at his
diminutive lover.

"Brian, please," said Ida, "I need you to hold me.  Touch me.  Tell me
you still love me.  I'm frightened, Brian."

"I'm supposed to take advantage of a doll-sized woman," said Brian in
monotone.  "I can't believe this.  What kind of sick bastard do you
think I am?  You think I like little girls or something?"

Ida wilted under Brian's gaze.  "You could do anything you want with
me.  Anything.  I'm your toy, and you can play with me however you
like.  I, uh, I've heard some things we could do.  I mean, you could,
you could tie me up with scotch tape.  I couldn't stop you, and I
wouldn't even be able to move."  A shiver of excitement passed up
Ida's spine.

Brian blinked a few times, but said nothing.

"I'm not even really a person any more," said Ida.  Her nipples were
painfully hard and pressed against the thin lace of her teddy.  "You
could punish me for being bad.  You could crush me in your hand like a
tiny bird," she said, swaying her hips in a sensual dance, rubbing
herself through the damp crotch of her teddy.

"That," said Brian, "is sick.  That makes me sick.  That is utterly
disgusting."  With each word, Ida reeled back as if stung by a blow.

"I'm sorry," said Ida, a tear making a track down one of her little
cheeks.  "I'm so sorry, Brian.  I thought you loved me."

"Of course I love you," snapped Brian in an angry voice that lashed
Ida like a whip and made her cringe.  "What am I, some kind of sick
pervert?  Why would I want to hurt you?  God, just the thought of it,
it turns my stomach.  Have you no respect for life?"

"I've made you angry," said Ida.  Tears streaked her face and her
squeaky voice was broken with emotion.  "Will you punish me?  Please?
My little bottom is so tiny and soft, and it would hurt so much if you
gave me a spanking like the bad little girl that I am."

The look of horrified disgust on Brian's face was enough.  Ida covered
her face in her hands and crumpled down into the bottom of the box,
her body wracked by sobs.

Brian watched the tiny woman for a minute, then closed the box again
so he wouldn't have to see.  He lifted the phone book from under the
table and began flipping through it, looking for rest homes.  He'd
find some nice, safe place to take care of her.  Imagine, he thought,
the very idea that he would want to hurt her.  How could she have
thought that he would be so thoughtless and cruel?

As Ida's tiny sobs floated out from the darkness of the box, Brian
began making calls.