The commotion up ahead, whatever it was, had just abated, and the crowd of women leaving the conference was finally able to move foreword. After having been stuffed unceremoniously into the rather narrow hallway following the final symposium, the women were no longer the well mannered elite of society that had entered more than an hour ago. Ill tempered faces and sharp, irritated quips characterized the well heeled assembly, which was not hard to understand, considering the unfortunate failure of the air conditioning.
The shouting up ahead had lasted for about ten or fifteen minutes (being packed in so tightly with other women, she couldn’t look at her watch without poking some other irritable woman). The raised voices started out mostly male, shouting in impatient sternness. But soon the ratio hanged. More and more women’s voices could be heard. Angry voices. Impatient voices. But then the shouting had stopped. And, blessedly, the crowd, now on the brink of becoming an angry mob, surged foreword.
She watched the heads of the scores of women ahead of her. Evidently there was a step-up a few paces from where she was. She continued walking, trying to watch the floor in front of her. But as she neared the step-up, the women behind her closed in and pressed her to the backs of the women in front, causing her to walk on with an uneasy sense of blind trust.
The noise of the bickering women,mixed with the continuous scraping and clicking of their shoes, was loud enough to drown out her thoughts, which was just as well since her thoughts were better left dead. She had to feel with the toes of her red high heeled pumps for the step-up, and finally she found it. She placed her right foot firmly on the step and brought herself up, but almost lost her balance as the ground beneath her foot seemed to squash down under her. But the crush of women behind her would not be denied and prevented her from doing anything about it, so she kept on treading the uneven floor. And about five seconds later, as she was stepping on a rather flat bit of floor, she felt something give under her shoe, and heard a muffled man's scream of agony.
Shocked, she tried to look down, knowing with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach what lay beneath her feet. But she couldn't stop, and as the three or four women directly behind her passed over the same area, she hear the screams again, and as more women walked over the same spot, the yells became weaker until they stopped.
She called a warning to the other women, telling them to watch were they walked, and to help the men up. She was met with angry looks on the faces of most of the women, and one told her, quite impolitely, to “shut the fuck up.” Other women chimed in at this point, and rudely informed her that the men “down there” were the ones who wouldn’t let them out unless they were shown conference tickets. Some women punctuated their point by throwing their tickets down between them, looking down at the men below, and shouting “see my ticket?”
On she went, and suddenly the pressure lessened. So she looked down and immediately regretted it. She was horrified to see her right red shoe straddling the face of a supine man. His eyes were bright with fear and pain, as well they should be, she thought as she looked to her left and saw that other women were also stepping on him. She tried to lift her foot off the poor man's face, but she was forced foreword. She felt the man's face wobble underfoot, and felt the vibrations of his scream tickle the sole of her foot, which, she thought guiltily, felt really good.
Now she was acutely aware of the carnage going on right beneath her own feet. She felt every bone crunching under her shoes, and winced every time she knew her heel had ground into body. She hoped that the wounds she was inflicting wouldn’t get infected by the dirty heels of her shoes, but then she realized that every scratch on the men's bodies was getting ground under the dirty shoes and boots of every woman behind her. She felt sorry for the men and wondered what they felt like, being trampled by all these women. Surely they would see the shoes and boots coming down on their faces, and even though they yelled for help, the women didn't care.
She continued to look down, and every time she saw herself stepping on a face she yelled "sorry!" down at the man underfoot, and passed on, knowing it didn't make a difference. Those men would feel hundreds of women stepping on their faces, high heels squishing down under women's feet. Soon she stopped trying. She just continued on stepping on chests and faces and feeling bones crunch under her feet.
A few steps later she was aghast to see dozens of women jumping up and down and singing and laughing as they forged ahead. When she reached the men who had been present at the celebrating women’s unbelievably cruel behavior, she looked down andsaw a teen aged boy with his shirt torn off and footprints all over him. Given no choice by the irresistible force of the crowd, she added her footprint to those of the other women, on his wide eyed face.
He had opened up his eyes just in time to see a stunning dark-hared women in a red dress with red high heeled pumps put her right foot on his face. He watched her foot land on his nose (it seemed like slow-motion) he noticed some scuffs on the side of her shoe as she stepped harder and harder on him. He also noticed that her shoes were relatively new, the soles were only slightly worn. Her weight was unbearable now and he tried to yell. But when he tried to inhale he found that he couldn't. Two women wearing spiked heeled boots were standing on his chest, scuffing around, dragging their heels across his already trampled body. he felt another woman walking over his groin. The woman in red finally stepped off his face and the two boot women walked off of him. But as soon as they left, another wall of women’s shoes cascaded down to crush him. He felt heels on his chest, a woman's foot was crushing his neck, he could feel her nylon rubbing his chin. A woman wearing strappy sandals stepped heavily on his face, his nose fitting under the arch of her shoe, but her heel dug into the side of his face. He could smell some sweet perfume on the young woman's foot, and he looked up. He saw the face of the woman who was treading his face underfoot. She was looking down at him and smiling with a strange kind of lust flashing in her eyes. When she saw him looking up at her from beneath her feet she ground his face under her foot and spat on him. But as soon as her foot left his face the spittle hit his forehead and was immediately trod under the foot of a fine-looking blonde woman who wore flats.
"Good," the young woman with the sandals thought to herself. "I never thought that this would ever happen, but here I am! I'm walking all over people!." She looked down and saw another teenager with a ripped shirt and lady's footprints all over him. She looked for his face and found it. "I'm going to walk all over your face, kid!" she shouted down to the unfortunate young man, and stepped heavily on his face. She saw him look up at her, and she ground her foot harder into his face. "Take that," she spat on him again, "you little piece of shit!" She walked off of him and immediately stepped on a man's neck. She could feel bones crunching underfoot. But she wasn't paying attention to the people being trampled to death right beneath her own feet. She was looking for another woman or a group of women with the same lust for walking on people that she had.
There! She found 3 such women together jumping up and down. When she got there she joined the women in their tight little group. She looked down under her sandals and saw a young man with bruises all over him and footprints on the bruises, and feet on the footprints. The first woman, a stunning blonde in a blue summer dress was jumping up and down on his face. She saw his eyes flash in terror each time her feet pressed off his face, and he'd yelp a little as she came back down with both feet. A little yelp was all he could manage because the other two women, one a brunette, and the other a blonde, were trampling his body under their spiked-heeled boots. The brown-haired girl stood on his chest and stamped on him, shouting down at the man she and the other women trampled underfoot. "From now on!" she yelled, "You won’t need to see our tickets, right?” With this, she and the blonde girl began to wipe their boots on the man, leaving streaks of dirt and blood on his bruised and trampled body.
The blond that was crushing his face underfoot now stood with her left foot on his neck and the toe of her right shoe on this lips, commanding him to kiss the sole of her shoe. He began, with foot-torn lips, to kiss the sole of her shoe. She felt his neck giving under her foot, but did not step off it. Instead, she brought her right foot down on his neck and began to grind his neck under her shoes, feeling his bones crunch beneath her feet. The man tried to scream, but only gurgled, which made the girls laugh at his pain.
At this point the girl in the sandals started in on the fun, jumping up and down on his groin, landing with her heels in hard. He could no longer breathe. He looked up and said, hardly louder than a whisper "Please!" The women stopped trampling, grinding, and stamping on him, and just stood in place. They looked at each other questioningly, looked down at him with cruel smiles on their faces, and spat on him. Then they ground their spittle under their feet, and the blond on his neck said "O.K." and stepped on his nose and mouth, closing them shut so that he could not breathe.
The women patiently stood on him, to feel his struggling for breath, and his laboring heart. Soon, as he looked wildly up at the blond who's shoe deprived him of life, he knew that he was going to die in this humiliating way. He was a doormat for these women. And as the circle of his peripheral vision closed around him, as everything turned to black, he began to weep. The blond, seeing this, smiled and waved down at him, mouthed "bye bye," and blew him a kiss.
A minute or two after he stopped struggling, the blonde looked up and said to the other women "Let's go." And with that, the women stepped off him, leaving his remains to the tender mercies of the dozens of women behind them.
After the ambulances had borne away the injured (and worse), the police had a chance to interview all the women remaining at the scene of the “incident.” But the police went away unsatisfied. Not one of the women could (or would) agree with the surviving men that the men had been trampled intentionally. “After all,” as one fetching blonde woman innocently put it, “We were so crowded together, and it was so noisy, that I didn’t know what had happened until after the ambulances arrived.”
By Ken (Trample Babe’s Rug)
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