Every so often there comes a moment when we see ourselves through another person’s eyes. Determining whether that’s good or bad depends entirely on what we see. Most of my epiphanies are delivered in the form of my sister telling me my ass looks fat in my jeans, whether I ask for her opinion or not.
Commentary on my fat ass or bad breath I can handle, but what I wasn’t prepared for was the reality of personal feedback in the form of reviews for my novella, Reapers With Issues.
Before I begin I’d like to state that every reader who reviewed my work negatively did not condemn me personally for what I’d written, despite not particularly enjoying the book. I’ve read reviews of other books where the reviewer took the author to task, and I am happy to say I’ve been blessed with a classy group of readers who didn’t feel the need to blast me.
I guess what confounds me most is that I expected there to be more blow back for subject matter. Portraying Jesus as a closet homosexual and writing a scene where Genghis Khan violates a shi-tzu wasn’t going to win me an audience with the Pope, and I knew that going in. I also prepared myself for a critique of the quality of the writing itself, which as it turns out I didn’t receive much of. What I did get was essentially the same question, asked in so many words, of what kind of person could conceive of the Reapers idea at all. Again, good or bad depends entirely on what we see.
[enter the dreaded introspection process]
The first thing I did was try to answer the question of what kind of person I am. Despite an obscene amount of navel-gazing I am no closer to that answer now than I was when I began. My motivation to write Reapers With Issues was just as strong and the subject matter just as easy to conceptualize as Gods of Asphalt’s was, so identifying a specific default in thinking didn’t pan out. The truth is that I’ve got a hundred different stories buzzing around in my head; everything from harmless children’s stories to British comedies to even more Reapers sequels (oddly there’s nothing milling around in there that remotely smacks of Erotica, but that’s a post for another day after an hour on a couch).
So after an even more shameless bought of self-contemplation I began to ask myself a different question, “Why do any of us write what we write?”
Do we choose our genre or subject matter because of who we are, or because of what we make of the world around us? I imagine it’s no coincidence that Reapers With Issues was written during the darkest hours of a friend’s battle with cancer, or that Gods of Asphalt was written while stuck in bed, listening to my two teenaged sons bicker amongst themselves and argue with their father.
It is also not lost on me that I wrote Reapers With Issues from a third-person point-of-view, allowing me to observe at a distance the story of a Reaper whose best efforts to gather souls are thwarted by a Savior, or that the overall theme of Gods of Asphalt is how brothers cope when their mother isn’t around.
I suppose in the end what we choose to write comes from the harmony of both who we are and what we see. I’ve learned that whether my writing is received as harmony or dischord depends entirely on who’s doing the reading, and no amount of alteration of my “music” will accommodate everyone.
For the record, I’m fine with that. I am a Jazz fan, after all.
Hello Everyone, it’s me, Hellis, live and in person. Well, in spirit. I’ve been away from our little corner of this virtual Utopia we call Blogworld because I’ve been spending time with the new love of my life. Yes, people I am in love, and have decided to use Edward Hotspur’s ROMANTIC MONDAY post as an opportunity to introduce him to my world.
The latest object of my affection is a man like no other; he is fun-loving, free-spirited and young at heart. His childlike innocence attracted me immediately and before I knew it I was hooked. Today I’d like to introduce you to the man who captured my heart and is sure to steal yours. Without further ado I give you…Randy Pan.
Now, before some of you start sending emails to a certain tall, SciFi-loving Cowboy let me explain. Randy isn’t your ordinary, everyday Pan-fan. He’s living his dream everyday in a way that shames me as a writer. It took me a year to work up the testicular fortitude to query agents with my GOA novel while this guy was laying it all out there for the world to see. There was no fear of judgment or harassment on his part. He exposed his life and his soul in an act of bravery that humbles me. And while I will admit that it is taking every bit of self-control to not mock the living shit out of this guy; I have decided a better use of my time would be to honor him here.
So here’s to you, Randy Pan. May your tights not chafe, may your loafers be light, and may every jock who beat you down in high school scratch himself to death because of a raging, unchecked venereal disease.
Like every good middle child, Junior was beyond not happy when he found out that I wrote a post about his brother, Prince Charming and not him. Not wanting to tempt fate with another phone call from his school as a result of his attention seeking behavior, I promised Junior I’d write a post about him today. Yeah, easier said than done.
First, he insisted there be pictures because as he puts it he’s, “dead sexy.” The problem is I can never keep the boy in clothes (he’d be naked 24/7 if I let him), so pictures of him are hard to come by. I decided to include these pictures from when he was nine years-old as they do a great job of summing up the first half of Junior’s personality, which is an all encompassing love of music.
Now, onto the second half. It would take all day to list every consequence of his thrill seeking, sometimes oppositional, always comedic personality. So I think the best way to sum up Junior’s second half is to list every creature that has ever bitten, pinched, snapped or stung him (I left off obvious ones like black flies or mosquitos).
Wasps, yellow jackets, hornets, etc.
Scorpions (small Florida scorpions, not the big evil ones)
Fire ants (fell into a pile of them. It was awful).
Grub (I think. He was digging in the dirt and pulled this small, white circular thing off his finger. It bled like crazy).
Gila Monster (needed shots for this one)
Non-venomous snakes (not sure what kind. It was a friend’s pet)
Baby snapping turtle
Crayfish (crawdads, mudbugs, etc).
Shark (not a great white but a Florida sand shark. It left a small, dog sized/shark mouth shaped bite on his foot. He hates that the scar faded).
Horseshoe crab (stepped on its barbed tail).
Sea Gull (tried to rescue it and it snapped).
Barracuda (caught it fishing, stuck his finger in its mouth on a dare).
* If you ask him he’ll tell you that this was the one that hurt the most. Miraculously lifeguards identified it as a Portuguese Man-O-War and not a jellyfish, because first aid differs greatly between the two.
Luckily he’s never been bitten by simple things like bats, chipmunks or squirrels since a bite from one of them requires rabies shots. I’m sure there’s more, but this is all I can think of at the moment. He’s also been impaled on bicycle handlebars, but reckless teenage injuries are a post for another day.
Just in time for the holiday season comes the latest installment of our F*CKED UP FAIRY TALES courtesy of the one and only Sparklebumps!
The Emperor’s New Clothes (otherwise entitled A Woman Scorned)
Once upon a time, there lived a very beautiful boy who longed to be king and live in great finery. This would have been all well and good, except for the fact that he was the bastard son of a peasant, and there were no chances for boys such as him. So he grew up always looking in shop windows and coveting the fine silks and satins that were displayed in them.
One day, the boy (who was becoming a young man by this time) was hauling cow dung to the nudey community on the other side of the village, and as he passed the shop window, he looked inside. This time, instead of wishing for the fabulous duds inside, he spied the shopkeeper’s daughter, who was also very beautiful, and fell instantly in love with her because she produced in his pants the same reaction that fine fabric did.
He entered the shop, went right up to the gorgeous girl, and planted a kiss on her berry-colored lips. At first, she was taken aback by the force of his passion (and the fact that he wore d’odour du cow shit)but then she realized what an amazing kisser he was and her knees became weak with want. She kissed him back, and when they were both breathless, she took his hand and led him to the back room of the shop. The young man looked around and saw that he was surrounded by garments of the chicest style and materials. He was so overcome with desire, from the kissing and the clothing both, that he prematurely ejaculated.
“Aaaaahhhhhrrrrgggh,” He groaned as he shivered with pleasure. The shopkeeper’s daughter looked at him curiously.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” She held out her hand to steady the man.
“Um…er. It’s nothing. I just find you so sexy, and I have a passion for fashion, so I’m just overwhelmed.” He flushed bright red and his eyes darted nervously around, as he hoped she wouldn’t notice the wet stain on his pants. Her touch was already making him hard again, so she hadn’t noticed his deflated… ahem, ego. He pressed his body against her once more, and gripped her buttocks so firmly that she cried out, and responded by loosening the ties on his breeches.
They proceeded to fuck each other senseless throughout the night, and the girl only wondered about the wet spot on the man’s pants for a moment before drifting off into a perfectly-sated, sexy-dream filled sleep.
As the sun rose, the gorgeous boy awoke with a start and realized he had never delivered the shit to the nudey community.
He jumped up, and ran out of the shop, to where his wheelbarrow of crap sat, undisturbed. He hurried on his way, never once letting the girl he’s just de-virginized know where he was going, or if he’d be back.
On the way to the nudey community, the boy passed a grand procession, and as he maneuvered his shit out of the way, the Empress inside one of the wagons admired his beauty, and also his ass. She stopped the procession with a slight snap of her fingers,and whispered something to her head man.
“Hey, you! Pretty boy! Stop right there!” The man cried out in authority.
The boy froze, certain he was about to be beheaded for offending royalty with the stench of his cow dung, and turned slowly to face the wagons. He was too afraid to speak.
“The Empress is pleased by you. Come forward.” The boy stepped gingerly toward the ornate carriage, but stopped when he heard a voice like the tinkling of bells.
“Do you long for power? Wealth and finery? Do you dream of having loyal subjects to do your bidding?”
The boy’s jaw dropped, for these were the very things he daydreamed about.
“Yes!” He said vehemently.
There was a giggle, adn then the curtain was drawn back on the wagon and the lovely exotic face of the Empress appeared.
“And what would you do, my sweet boy, to gain all of these things? Would you be willing to be tied up and allow me to paddle that beautiful bottom of yours til it’s pink and sore? Would you allow my teeth to graze your nipples and your innocent member without promise of your own release?” She raised an eyebrow.
The boy contemplated an S and M relationship with an Empress, and couldn’t see any bad angles of the arrangement, so he responded with a confidence he didn’t necessarily possess.
“My queen, my all, I would allow even the largest of your strap-on dildos to invade my anal crevice if you could make me powerful and wealthy.”
The Empress grinned broadly, for she had every intention of doing that very thing to her next submissive. With only a look, the boy was shepherded into the carriage, and the Empress wasted no time in beginning her training. The boy was shackled to the roof of the wagon, and he watched his wheelbarrow of crap and the shopkeeper’s daughter fade into the distance as the Empress sucked furiously on his cock.
The boy did so well as a submissive, that when the Empress died, she bequeathed to him the whole kingdom, and he became so obsessed with fashion that he would spare no expense to obtain every style that arose.
Because the boy was so beautiful, and so obsessed with his wardrobe, he would spend every moment in his dressing room admiring himself in front of many mirrors, front and back. While in most kingdoms, when someone would ask where the Emperor was, the normal response was, “He is in his statesroom.”, in this kingdom, the servants would say, “He is in his dressing room.” The Emperor was so self-obsessed that he would host fashion week, and insisted on modeling all the newest fashions himself. Masses of horny women and gay men would flock to the kingdom to admire the fine Emperor and his fabulous duds.
Our story truly begins as the Emperor searches high and low for the most daring and creative of clothing designers to feature at fashion week. He shook his head ruefully when his servants suggested such designers as Betsey Johnson and Alexander McQueen. He wanted someone who would shock the masses and make them insanely jealous of his frocks. His servants whispered amongst themselves while the Emperor racked his brain.
“What are you idiots muttering about? Do you realize that fashion week approaches , and I haven’t one designer who’s designs make my prick hard? What are we to do?” The emperor raged.
One brave lad stepped forward. “My lord, there is one who may be just the designer you seek, though there are stories that all who hire her are susceptible to her spell. She has left a string of broken-hearted royalty across many lands.”
“Pshaw,” the Emperor scoffed. “You needn’t be concerned on that front. Do you not know by now that my desire is only for fashion? I think not even a magical pussy would cause my manhood to rise. Find this fabled designer, and bring her to me.”
The servants scurried like mice in every direction then, embarrassed for the Emperor and the fact that no woman could get it up for him.
An envoy was sent out to find the talked of designer, and returned with her in no time.
Now this designer, when presented to the Emperor, DID in fact create a reaction in his pants when he gazed upon her. He found her oddly familiar, yet couldn’t recall where he had seen her before. Years of being tied up and spanked by the Empress had made him forget his first sexual encounter- that with the shopkeeper’s daughter. If he had remembered this, he would have realized she and this lovely designer were one in the same.
After she had been de-virginized and left alone, the shopkeeper’s daughter vowed to shame the boy who had popped her cherry just as he had shamed her. She worked day and night, becoming a well-respected maker of high fashion, fueling her designs with the rage she felt at being abandoned that day.
Her hard work was about to pay off, because she saw that the emperor did not recognize her. She gave him a flirtatious smile and bowed graciously. The Emperor beckoned to her, and insisted at once that she show him her latest designs.
The woman tilted her head and spoke.
“Dear Emperor, I have no designs to show you, for the collection I’ve been working on is very magical indeed. It must be made of the finest cloth, from the richest silk worms in the world. And it must be encrusted with the most shining of gemstones. But once the design is woven, it can only be seen by the man that is worthy of the position he holds. If he cannot see it, it proves that he is indeed an unworthy fool, and must be fired.”
Now any unfoolish person would know that this story sounded like complete poppycock, but the Emperor was so vain that he could not distinguish truth from a lie. So he sent his men to the furthest reaches of the land to procure the finest silks and clearest gemstones to provide the designer with. Upon receiving the goods, the designer would secretly tuck everything into her trunks to save for her real collection, and then she would set to work on her sewing machine without a stitch of thread strung though it. The Emperor’s servants saw her working on the clothes that weren’t there, and became distraught at the idea that they were fools unworthy of their station, and so remained silent.They murmured amongst themselves, until the whole kingdom was murmuring about the invisible clothes. The emperor was so impatient after hearing the rumors, that he insisted on checking out the clothes immediately.
When he entered the sewing chamber, the designer smiled delightfully, so that the Emperor’s manhood grew quite hard.
“Have you come for a fitting, my lord?” She asked innocently.
“Ahem… er, ah, yes. I’m ready to see the fine designs.” The Emperor began to grow nervous, because he was seeing no clothing to try on, and was a bit afraid the servants would notice his raging boner if they couldn’t see the clothing either.
“Here.” The Designer pretended to hold out a piece of clothing, when in actuality she held out nothing at all. “It is a fine tunic, is it not?”
She couldn’t help but admire the tumescent member of the Emperor as he stripped and held out his hand to accept the garment she offered. She scooted closer, and as he slipped the non-existent clothing over his head, she slid her hand down and gently grazed his manhood.
It had been so long since the Emperor had been touched in such a way that he squealed and spurted his hot baby gravy all over the imaginary clothing.
“Now look what you have done!” The designer cried in dismay, though she was laughing inside to herself. “There is no way to clean such dirtiness out of such a garment! This will have to be re-sewn with new fabrics!” She turned away from the Emperor in feigned disgust.
The man was so embarrassed he couldn’t speak, and he covered his face in shame. This was exactly the reaction the designer had hoped for- she wanted him to be degraded as she had been. After many minutes, the Emperor spoke.
“Oh please do not be upset, my dear. I will send for more fabric and more gemstones, only please do not divulge what has happened here to anyone.”
The designer pretended to think on this for a moment before bowing her head in respect.
“As my lord wished. I will work on the other designs while I wait for the things I need.”
The Emperor knew he was being dismissed, and though he normally would not allow someone to treat him thus, he was too afraid she would announce his surprise discharge to the masses, so he said nothing. He left the room in the clothes that weren’t there with his jizz dripping down the front of him. The servants in the halls whispered behind there hands, surprised at the Emperor’s nakedness, and admiring it as well. The emperor went to his chambers and did not come out again until word was sent that the collection was completed.
The Emperor, still being very vain, had decided he would be the only person to walk down the runway during fashion week in the designs made for him. Since it was only twelve hours before the first show, he sent word to the designer telling her this decision. When she heard the news, she smiled to herself, because the Emperor would be walking in the nude down the catwalk in front of the entire kingdom exactly thirty-two times. Finally, her honor would be avenged.
The following morning, the emperor arrived in the dressing room, and was immediately worried because once again he saw none of the fine garments he was supposed to be modeling. The designer entered the room and waved her arm in the direction of the clothes that weren’t there.
“Is it not the finest wardrobe my lord has ever seen? Is he not pleased?” She looked at the Emperor expectantly.
The Emperor was momentarily distracted, because the designer was provocatively dressed in a skin-tight gown that was cut down the front all the way to her navel. Her breasted were perfectly shaped underneath, and the Emperor’s memory was jogged about a similar pair of hooters he had seen long ago. His manhood once again grew to abundant lengths, and his regained memory was gone as quickly as it had appeared.
“Ahh, yes, er… fine indeed. The most splendid I’ve ever laid eyes on.” He fibbed, for his eyes for not laying on anything other than a pair of perfectly shaped bosoms.
The designer seductively smiled and sauntered close to the Emperor. Her breast brushed his arm, and he jumped.
“Now, only payment must be made, and everything shell be yours.” She whispered invitingly.
The Emperor could not resist, and stuck his hand down the front of the designer’s dress. She peeled his clothes away and climbed onto his ridged cock, riding him until she found release. She did so quickly enough that the emperor was left unsatisfied, and with a boner still.
“Mmmm, that was great. Now, you must get ready have the entire kingdom admire all you have to offer.” She dressed so fast he hadn’t a chance to utter one word about his remaining boner, and was suddenly left with many servants trying to look busy and ignore his manhood.
The fashion show began, and the emperor hadn’t even enough time to take care of himself before it started, so he donned the non-existent finery and hoped that no one in the front rows would notice the bulge underneath. Out he went on the catwalk, naked as a jay bird.
The masses oohed and aahed, not because of the grand garments as the Emperor thought, but because they were so surprised at the largeness of his member, and the fact that he was completely naked. Not one of them said a word, but continued to admire the emperor as he strutted back and forth for half of the show. It was not until a child in the audience cried out, “Mama! The Emperor’s peepee is sticking out!” that the Emperor realized he was really and truly naked, and at that point he had already been in front of the audience for so long without clothes, that he thought, “What the hell? I look good,” and continued to strut his stuff. Upon realizing that the Emperor had just spent a good forty-five minutes nude in front of children and adults alike, the police came and arrested him for indecent exposure, and he was sentenced to one year in prison for every count, which ended up being… well, a really long time since there were so many people there. He became the bitch of a burly black man during his stay in the kingdom’s penitentiary and spent the rest of his life getting it up the butt.
What happened to the designer, you may ask? She road away with her trunks of silk and gemstones in tow, laughing out loud at the Emperor and his insane vanity. She now lives in Aruba and designs red carpet duds for the likes of Angelina and Salma Hayek.
Anyone who knows me knows that I am an extremely restless individual, and that every now and then I’ve got to switch things up. It could be something as easy as driving a different car for a while, or something as epic as painting my bedroom hot pink.
Since I’ve taken on more hours at work, the switching up has been happening at my desk, or more specifically, my desktop, to the amusement of my many co-workers. So for the amusement of you all, I share with you today a gallery of my ever-changing desktop wallpaper.
Ah…yes. The General Lee. My first love.
Next we have two pics that are the perfect marriage of humor and music, Tenacious D. and Dethklok. If you don’t know who they are, I suggest hitting the Google immediately. If you don’t like them, well…we can’t be friends.
Now we have the two greatest bands I’ve ever had the good fortune of hanging out with backstage. Lit and Godsmack. Boys and their tattoos. Dreamy.
Why Lemmy? Because Lemmy is God, that’s why.
Because I can’t download porn.
Next are two pics of my seldom seen daughter, Babygirl. The one above was taken on Halloween when she was two years-old. Her father wanted her to be a princess, but she wanted to be a “basketball boy.” You see who won. (Yes, that is a regulation sized basketball. She was, and still is, very tiny). The one below was taken in our backyard with my nephew. I plan on writing a story just so I can use that pic as a book cover.
Last but not least, for reasons that I cannot begin to comprehend, my all time favorite desktop wallpaper pic ever!!!!!
Doesn’t this pic just say it all?
This time last year I put up a post entitled Why No NaNoWriMo which chronicled my need for self-distraction whenever I sit down to write. How I accomplish writing a blog at all I’ll never know. Needless to say, this year has been no different and I’ve yet to finish the second novella in my REAPERS WITH ISSUES series. What’s got me blocked this year is:
The Oakland Raiders – Walking Dead – Firefly’s 10th anniversary re-release – Coconut Rum – my promotion – Tom Elias – raising a daughter as stubborn as me – learning to love Scifi – wristsaroundtheworld – Junior’s shenanigans – Frank Stallone’s faulty brakes – Prince Charming’s charm – and this little ditty right here:
Today I’d like to welcome a newbie to our little corner of blogworld, g00dg33kranting with his timely take on the classic THE ANT AND THE GRASSHOPPER. Not only is our new friend a contributor to our F*cked Up Fairy Tale project, but he is also a novelist in his own right. You can pick up a copy of his book, RISE OF THE DRAGONS through a link at the bottom of the post.
KID! Yeah you… get over here. Put that stupid video game down for a few minutes and come listen to me. I have a story to tell you. You and your lazy generation playing video games and texting on your phones and facebooking on everything; it’s SICKENING.
Listen to this story and you will rethink how you act. I’m going to tell you about the Ant and the Grasshopper.
DON’T GIVE ME THAT LOOK! This is more exciting than your Twilights and your Spidermans and your Thors with their actors who are too good looking to be real people.
So you see, there was this Ant and a Grasshopper and they were married as any good Grasshopper will end up married to an Ant at some point in his life. Now the Grasshopper went to work but he mostly slacked off a lot when he was there and then said he was too tired to help out when he got home.
This made his Ant wife very mad since she had to take care of their 437 children all day. Then had to cook dinner, get all 437 children to get their baths before getting them to bed. As you can imagine it is very challenging to get 437 children to bed by 8:30 P.M.
The Grasshopper would drink a lot of beer and watch football. This infuriated the Ant even more. Eventually the weather got cold at the end of the year and the Grasshopper wanted to get intimate with his Ant wife.
But she just ignored him and went to sleep. In the middle of the night she cut off his Grasshopper junk and threw it in a field, leaving the Grasshopper, and took her 437 children to LA and married Matt Damon just to dump him and take half his money.
And I miss your father every day… NOT, now go clean your room or I’ll cut yours off too.
PICK UP A COPY OF HIS BOOK AT AMAZON:
Ladies and Gentlemen- I have no words. Let’s let today’s F*cked up Fairy Tale speak for itself.
The Passion of Suspiria and Mister Dead
(extremely loosely based on The Elves and the Shoemaker)
There was a time when everyone believed in freedom and happiness, long before societies and matrimony came along and made everything boring. The couple in this story certainly believed! And this couple truly lived that belief.
This couple, though not mortally or morally tied to one another like they would be today, ran a sexccesories shop called Master and Servant just outside the stodgy town of Stuffingham, founded just as the freedom of sensuality began its sticky end. Their shop was nondescript from the outside, by design. Regular Stuffingham citizens passing by wouldn’t have thought anything of the storefront – but irregular folks knew all about the place, and they frequented the shop in droves.
To keep up appearances, and because they really had nothing else to wear, nor would they want to, Jack and Sarah nearly always dressed in their ‘work’ clothes. The man wore a pin-striped suit dark blue pins on light blue, impeccably pressed and perfect in every way including being perfectly accessorized, with the exception of two holes cut out for the cheeks of his rosy ass, and two holes in the shirt for his nipples, both of which were pierced and connected by a chain. The woman wore an all-leather ensemble of high-heeled stiletto boots with glittered toes, pants that were as tight as a second skin and showed off her curves and crevices quite nicely, a leather eye mask and luscious red lipstick, and a corset of black with red trim that pushed up and proudly displayed her breasts, with holes for the nipples which were clamped – the whole thing leaving little to the imagination, save the belly button piercing complete with chain that fell down into her pants, linking to lower and hotter regions. While the two of them were not hunting eggs or opening gifts with their extended familes, they were known as Mister Dead and Suspiria, respectively.
On one fine day, the shop door opened and a couple entered. The ‘gentleman’ of the couple was wearing a leather cap, a leather vest, leather bikini bottoms and thigh-high boots. The ‘lady’ of the couple had a hot mess of tiny flowers throughout her hair, a powder blue prom dress with corsage, and some dainty white mary janes with powder blue polka dots on them. They make just a smashing couple, thought the shopkeepers, and Suspiria stepped up to assist them.
“Hello, my lovelies. How can I be helping you today?”
The gentleman stopped to admire Suspiria’s outfit, though he was not of a proclivity to necessarily admire Suspiria herself. “That is stunning! How would I come by an outfit like that?”
“I do it by pulling on this chain ever so slightly for about three or four minutes,” Suspiria said slyly. The couple giggled, and the prom queen looked back and forth for a moment.
“Honey, I would love to see you in that outfit – though it would need some adjustments in some places.”
“We can make something similar for you,” said Mister Dead. “I have a picture of it right here.”
Mister Dead showed them the picture of the male version of the outfit. The bustier of the corset was reduced and came below the nipples, while the front of the skin tight pants had a special attachment for placement and display of the penis, that flexed depending on the area needed.
“OH my GOD! That is perfect! We will take two of them.”
“Honey! Two of them!”
“Yes, dear. It’s so fucking hot that I want to see you in one too!”
“I worship you.” The happy couple waited as Mister Dead worked his bare ass off to make the outfits, and left arm in arm, hands all over each other.
Suspiria smiled as they left, until she saw the look on Mister Dead’s face.
“What troubles you, my love?”
“I didn’t want you to worry, my goddess, but all is not well.”
“My love? You can tell me anything. You know that, right?”
“Yes, mistress. You see, this season has been much colder, and fewer people have been coming by, and…well, to be honest, after the happy couple, we only have enough leather for one outfit. Just one. I shall have to leave the leather on the workbench. In fact, I fear crafting anything until the next guest commissions an outfit. I have nothing to do.”
“Oh, my. That is terrible, my lord, but I can think of a way to save some money on heat and give you something to do.”
“Is that so? I would love to listen to you tell me about it, and then perhaps attempt to save money all evening.”
“First, we need to get together, very close, like this.”
“And if my lord would kindly undo my corset, we might get closer and share body warmth under yon blankets.”
“Precious, if you would turn around, I could help you do just that.” He gave a gentle tug on her chain, sending thrills through her body.
“You will pay for that later, my lord. I can promise you that.”
Suspiria turned around, and Mister Dead slowly loosened her corset, laying it gently on the floor by the bed, which was a medieval rack with a mattress on it. Mister Dead knelt before Suspiria and closed his eyes as she teased him with her nipples, brushing them across his lips. She reached for a blindfold that lay on the nightstand and put it on him, which brought a smile to his face. She put one finger under his chin and raised it, kissing him passionately, and then nudged him up gently until he stood, kneeling herself. She turned him around and kissed and nibbled each cheek of his rounded ass, and then around again as she slowly unfastened his leather belt and slid off his pants. He gasped as she brushed her lips against his penis, and a shiver ran through his body as she slid up against him slowly. She sensuously removed the rest of his clothes, fastening his nipple clamps back on and pushing him onto the rack, cuffing him and tightening the wheel just enough.
“Are you feeling warm, my love?” Mister Dead just nodded and smiled in bliss.
“I do not believe you are warm enough yet, lord.”
Suspiria took a candle from the window, pulling the drapes down as she did, and walked back to the rack. She took her left hand, starting at his feet, and gently brushed his skin with her fingertips, slowly, sensuously towards his manhood, coming closer but never quite touching. His body tensed with anticipation, but the touch never came. She kept moving up his chest, slowly, until she reached his lips. He took her fingers into his mouth as she whispered into his ear.
“For you, my love.”
Suspiria pulled back, and with the candle in her right hand she dripped hot wax over the lips of Mister Dead. He gasped in delight as she dripped the wax down his chest, over both nipples, across his stomach and down his thighs. She took his cock into her mouth just once, and then replaced it with the steaming wax from the candle as Mister Dead shivered with pleasure.
Suspiria removed the rest of her clothing except her boots, and climbed onto the bed, standing over Mister Dead. She slowly lowered herself down to the wax-covered lips of Mister Dead and rocked back and forth as he moaned and hummed for her. She slid her clit back and forth over the still-hot wax, becoming wetter and wetter until she climaxed in a shivering bodystorm. She collapsed onto Mister Dead’s chest, sliding down and breaking the wax with her fingers and tasting the juices that remained there, and letting Mister Dead taste them.
A noise! Suspiria whispered into Mister Dead’s ear.
“My lord, did you hear that?”
“I did hear something, but fear not, goddess. It is likely the sexual electricity crackling between us. Do you not feel it?”
“I think you are right, my love. I shall not stop!”
Suspiria had her suspicions, though. She slid down until Mister Dead was right at her slit, and then slid down even further, making them both cry out in pleasure.
Suspiria was right, for there was indeed a noise. Out in the shop proper, two eyes watched the couple make passionate love. The eyes belonged to a truly unusual creature – a being made of sexual energy and passion, given shape and form. This creature watched the couple with wide eyes and excitement, touching herself (for such a being could only be female) as the couple played out their games of submission and sex, bringing herself to climax ater climax, nearly to the point she could take no more, until the couple themselves grew blissfully satisfied, weary, and warm after all. She caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror, and she was somewhat of a mess, but she certainly looked happy. This was the most passionate, sensuous and sexual event she had ever witnessed since her creation – and she hadn’t remembered until this very moment, but it was here that her energy first coalesced, her mind filled with passion and love, and she had sprung fully formed from the love between Mister Dead and Suspiria.
She sat on the workbench, recovering from her countless orgasms, when she looked over and saw the leather. And an idea formed in her head as surely as she had formed from sexual energy: she would repay Mister Dead and Suspiria for granting her life and giving her sustenance. She began crafting as the idea took life just as she had. Sharp heels, six inches. Soles of obsidian and mahogany. Leather fasteners. Cold iron eyelets. Diamond and pearl inlays. Obsidian and sapphire shards. Leather up to the thighs, and beyond. She finished, admiring her work, and left the most stunning and incredible leather boots ever made upon that workbench, before disappearing, exhausted from the evening’s events.
The next morning, Mister Dead woke up tangled in the wet sheets, and tangled in Suspiria’s chain. He gently tugged it, and Suspiria woke up with a smile. She pulled Mister Dead in for a kiss, and he moved on top of her, but just as he was about to plunge deep inside her, her eyes went wide and she pointed behind him. And then, thinking better of it, she dropped her hand to his back and her eyes went wide for an entirely different reason.
Several minutes later, their morning fast broken, Suspiria finally told Mister Dead what she had pointed at earlier.
“My love, I would never interrupt a morning of lovemaking such as this, but look what lies on yonder table!”
“There is nothing I would rather look at than your body, from head to toe, stopping at all the naughty bits, of course. But for you, goddess, I will.”
Mister Dead looked – and gasped! He could not believe such a pair of boots could exist in this mortal world. He leapt from the rack, Suspiria close behind, each wrapped in sheet and blanket, and together they looked upon this marvelous pair of boots. They were multifaceted, like gemstones, each one glimmering brighter than the other.
“My love! How did such a pair of boots as this come to be on our very workbench?”
“I know not, my lord. We were quite busy last night, and my attention was all on you. But it occurs to me, my love, that this may have something to do with that noise we heard last night.”
“My lady, that was the heat and sparks from our very bodies, surely – but still, perhaps you are right. Perhaps someone was here last night, watching us!”
“Oh my lord, how exciting! I am getting wet just at the possibility. Then, shall we consider this a gift?”
“I would not have chosen to make just a pair of boots out of our last leather, but this is not just a pair of boots. They are the finest boots I have ever seen in my entire life! I would love to see you in them, even if for just a moment, but in our current state, I feel that we should perhaps place them in the window and see what we can get for them.”
“Aie! It pains me to do so, but I must admit you are right. I will try them on, though, just for you, my lord.”
Suspiria, wearing nothing but a smile, put the boots on. Suddenly, as if by magic, leather tassels covered her nipples, a leather bikini bottom covered her sexy ass, and a whip appeared in her hand! These were some magical boots indeed! Mister Dead immediately became more aroused than he had ever been, but with no small amount of difficulty, he managed, barely, to decline.
“We must put them in the window, my love. Should we experience the full onslaught of these boots, I fear we could not bear to part with them.”
“Again, with great pain and sadness, I know you are right. I will take them off, but promise me you will remember this moment for later.”
“There is no doubt in my mind that I will remember this always, goddess.”
Suspiria took them off and placed them in the window, and the two of them reluctantly dressed themselves to receive guests. Just as they had finished their makeup, the door to the shop opened, and in walked the most alluring and sexual woman either of them had ever seen. She was completely nude except for the tattoos covering her entire torso, some fishnet stockings and ballet slippers. She glanced at the couple, raising her eyebrows slightly, and then turned to admire the boots up close. She looked at them from above and from below, bending over and arching her back as she did. She placed the boots on the floor with approval from Mister Dead, and walked around them like a succubus circling her prey. She reached behind herself and absentmindedly slid a finger inside, aroused by the look and feel and smell of the boots. Mister Dead and Suspiria looked at each other and smiled as the woman stopped circling the boots and walked up to them.
“Don’t you look luscious, dears. Those boots are incredible – the best I have ever seen. Which one of you made them?”
Mister Dead looked at Suspiria, and said “We are both responsible for them, together. Just as the pair could not be separated, neither could we. We belong together, the two of us, and the two of them.”
“Could you be separated for brief periods of time? Seconds, or minutes, perhaps?”
“That depends on many things, but we are not opposed to it, Miss…”
“Sushevane. I would love to come between you for a moment. But first, I would love to come between those two boots. May I try them on?”
“Of course, Sushevane. Let us help you.”
Mister Dead reached around Suchevane and lifted her up into a tight embrace, as Suspiria pulled one boot on, caressing her thigh gently, and then the other, giving her other thigh equal time, and then slowly standing up, kissing her silky white ass and blowing warm breath into her crevice. Mister Dead and Suspiria pressed Sushevane between them, holding her up with just their bodies and covering her with kisses. But as her skin became wet with excitement, she slid down until the boots touched the ground. A cold fire overcame Mister Dead and Suspiria, and they dropped to their knees as Sushevane grabbed their faces and pushed them over her wet clit. They lapped up the wetness, happy to serve her pleasure as the fire gently burned that part of their minds that made sensuality grow. Sushevane felt herself losing control of her body even as she had total control of the inseparable couple, and she came over and over, mindlessly and blissfully.
After some time, the couple opened their eyes, unaware of having closed them, to find Sushevane slyly staring at them. Sushevane kissed each of them passionately, and then reached deep within her box and produced a large glittering diamond. She presented it to them happily.
“This should be sufficient, don’t you think?”
“Oh, certainly, Miss Sushevane,” said Suspiria. “More than sufficient, as we are happy to see a lovely woman such as you wearing these boots. You were made for each other, as we are.”
“Then it is yours, and I thank you for not just this day, but all the glorious days to come. You have given me fulfillment beyond my dreams, and I only hope some of them come true. I misspeak – some more of them.” She winked at the couple, and then turned and left the shop.
Mister Dead smelled Sushevane’s scent on the diamond and was aroused all over again. Suspiria took advantage of Mister Dead’s state, gracefully and magically.
As they had nothing else to sell, they closed the shop for the rest of the day, but they still had to acquire more leather. But Suspiria, being an exquisite gemcutter, cleaned, carved and cut the diamond into a glittering masterpiece, taking care to save the shards, for an idea had formed in her head. She and Mister Dead went out into the world, and dined, danced and enjoyed each other’s company and the company of those around them. On the way back home, they stopped at the tanner’s and purchased another supply of leather, enough for three complete outfits complete with accessories, and more. They carried their purchases home and placed the leather once again on the workbench.
As exhausted as they were from the day’s activities as well as those of the previous night, Suspiria had some surprises. She had purchased a bolt of silk and some lace and silver buttons, and she set about making an outfit from them. Mister Dead watched her for a moment, but with a kiss and a caress, he understood his role in this outfit, and he began making a pair of silk and leather slippers suitable for an elegant night out. By the time he had completed the slippers, Suspiria was finished with the outfit. She lay the outfit on the workbench and placed the leather over it.
“My love, allow me to admire your handiwork, if you would.”
“I cannot let you see it until the moment is right. Trust me, my lord. But there is handiwork I can show you.”
“Your words are difficult to counter, goddess. I would see this handiwork.” Mister Dead smiled wolfishly.
Suspiria led Mister Dead to the rack, gently tugging on his nipple chains as he sighed. She placed the blindfold on again, and bent him over the rack, kissing his cheeks and thighs. Suspiria reached up and undid the buckle of his pants, and with a swift motion she had Mister Dead stripped from the waist down. She returned to his ass cheeks, running her tongue from cheek to cheek and pausing to tongue his crack. She reached around and stroked his cock as she licked between his cheeks, and then moved to his balls. She twisted around until she faced his cock as he leaned against the bed, and took him in her mouth. He thrust into her mouth again and again, but she stopped him and flipped him over, lifting him onto the bed. She stripped until she was also naked from the waist down and placed a strawberry-flavored candy just inside her opening. She climbed onto the bed facing his stiff cock, licking the shaft up and down. He smelled her pussy, smiled and began to lick her clit, tasting the strawberry mixed with her juices. She responded by moaning, and with his cock in her mouth, the vibration of the hum sent a tingle down his spine. She thrust her wetness against his lips and tongue, and he happily licked and sucked her clit, making her shake.
The same noise from the night before! Suspiria spun around and whispered in the ear of Mister Dead.
“My lord, did you hear that?”
“I did, indeed. That time it was unmistakeable. Whatever shall we do, goddess?”
“I believe we should peek into the workshop, my love. I do so want to finish with you, but my curiosity is tingling.”
“As is mine, my lady. Shall we look?”
Mister Dead and Suspiria stood up from the rack, not bothering to put any clothing on. They touched each other and kissed in a passionate embrace, making promises their bodies would keep later, and crept towards the curtain separating the bedroom from the workshop. What they saw was amazing! A being aglow lay on the workbench wearing the outfit Suspiria had sewn just an hour before. It was a brilliant red silk kimono with cutouts for the breasts, and silk stockings with lace garter ties to hold everything together – plus the gorgeous leather and silk slippers. This glowing female with pointed ears and long flowing honey brown hair was furiously pleasuring herself with one hand, and pinching her nipples with the other hand, first one, then the other, eyes closed tight. Occasionally, blue energy would arc off her hot and gorgeous body and dissipate into the air.
Mister Dead and Suspiria could barely take their eyes off her, but for their love for one another. With a look, they made a wordless plan. Suspiria took the blindfold from the nightstand and a strip of lace, and Mister Dead sneaked around the workbench, patiently. They looked at each other once more, and as Mister Dead held the creature’s hands, Suspiria tied on the blindfold, and then tied the beauty’s arms to the workbench above her head. She reacted in surprise, but not with fear. She struggled by reflex, but not to get away. She cried out, but wordlessly. Suspiria and Mister Dead started with her dainty feet, kissing them and smelling the lavender and jasmine scents coming from them, and indeed from her whole body. The couple moved up her legs, licking, nibbling and kissing them, and she relaxed and tensed at the same time.
She knew her captors. She was borne of them. As they neared her luscious wet mound, she had never felt such peace and tranquility, and yet such excitement. Mister Dead and Suspiria each reached up a hand and pinched her nipples, sending chills and sparks through the lot of them. The couple was surprised, but not slowed. They began taking turns licking her clit and her wet opening, sliding in fingers, stopping to kiss each other, and managing a three-way kiss.
The energy and tension built, and when she felt she would explode with wetness and pleasure, the blindfold flew off, and her hands became unbound. As she climaxed, she placed her hands on Mister Dead and Suspiria, one each in the middle of their chests, and then drew them to her by some mysterious force. As they all joined in embrace, the crackling blue energy filled the air and their bodies with a pleasure like none of them had ever known. They came over and over, orgasm after orgasm, tingling with pure pleasure at every touch, until the beauty took all the energy into herself and Mister Dead and Suspiria regained awareness.
They held each other with tears of happiness at what they had just experienced. They thought they had captured her, but she had truly captured them. They included her in their embrace for several minutes, until Suspiria found the strength to whisper.
“Who are you?”
“Suspiria, I am you. And I am you as well, Mister Dead. My name is Evanine.”
“What do you mean, you are me?”
“I was borne of the love, the passion, the intense sexual energy between you. Every look you shared, every touch, every glance, every embrace, all went towards my creation. I am the manifestation of your love.”
Mister Dead was moved to tears. “I do feel nothing but love for you, yet I love Suspiria no less. She is my goddess, my one true love, my passion. How can this be?”
“To love me and to love her is the same thing. And for you, Suspiria. The best way to explain it is that your love for one another was so great, your passion so immense, that it could not be contained within your mortal bodies.”
“I am in awe, Evanine. We would welcome you into our homes and our lives forever – but we do not possess others, we only control or submit with trust, passion and love. We would not presume to possess even you, who are borne of our love.”
“My lord means to ask whether you will leave now. Whether you will make your own way in the world. Our hearts would now break, but we cannot ask you to do something against your will.”
“Mister Dead, Suspiria – I am yours forever. I know I am free, and with that freedom I choose to belong to you, to touch both of your hearts, for all time.”
They embraced with tears of joy, but as they were all emotional and passionate creatures, these soon turned to tears of passion, if indeed there are such things. There were many more nights, many more passionate embraces, and many, many more outfits created. Soon after their lovely union, the ensembles created by their passion and skill were the envy of all who did not possess them, and the Master and Servant became the most popular shop of any kind in the land. Even the townsfolk of Stuffingham loosened up with a few parades every now and then.
And there were many more stories made, dreams fulfilled, romances romanced – but that is for another time.
They lived happily every after. VERY happily.
People, I am disillusioned. No, I am more than that- I am traumatized. Because my innocent little British Sweetie Pie just wrote the raunchiest retelling of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves that I’ve ever read. Hang on to your caps chaps, because I bring you Snow White and the Seven Strippers??
“I am leaving tonight!” thought Snow as she packed her bags cautiously. All her step mother cared about was her father’s money and she got it when he passed away. Snow knew the woman was jealous but banning her from going to university, this was a whole new low! Any boy Snow brought home her step mother convinced her they didn’t like her and Snow had never had a proper relationship. Leaving was the only way she could live her life how she wanted.
As Snow stormed past the beautiful ruby Red Mercedes Mclaren SLR her father had bought her for her seventeenth birthday, she backtracked for a moment. It was hard to leave when you had everything but she couldn’t stay for luxuries. Snow tapped the car and forced herself to leave. Marching down the street Snow bumped into a street advertiser who offered her a leaflet. It read ‘New VIP Bar Opening Tonight, All Drinks £1” she thought for a moment. Her step-mother had never let her go clubbing. Snow was going to do it; she was going to get smashed!!
Snow walked up to the new bar and walked through the doors; she stormed straight to the bar and asked the bartender for a double vodka and cola because that is what her step-mother ordered when she wanted to get drunk. She took the drink and gulped it down in one. She smiled; she had never felt this free before.
A friend from University was sitting across the bar, Snow couldn’t remember her name but she ordered another drink, downed it and walked over to her friend “WANT TO DANCE,” she shouted but the girl couldn’t hear her, then Snow remembered her name was Zoe, Snow walked closer to her and said “Zoe, do you wanna dance?” Zoe smiled and said “Yes actually, I have been stood up and could do with a friend,” Snow led her to the dance floor and they started dancing. They were shortly joined by a very good looking man who passed them a leaflet “I would love you girls to join us later,” he said before winking and walked over to another crowd of girls. The man had jet black hair and beautiful blue eyes; he had stubble on his face and walked around the club with a cheeky smile. The leaflet said “TIME OF YOUR LIFE, a club with a difference,” Zoe looked at Snow and pointed at the opening times “It doesn’t open till eleven,” Snow looked at her diamond incrusted watch and it was only nine but she was determined to have a good time “Let’s get plenty to drink before then,” she said pulling Zoe back towards the bar. At 11:30, Snow and Zoe stumbled to ‘time of your life’. Snow looked at the man at the booth at the door and said “How much do you want?” the man laughed and said “The shows has already started but if you still wanna go in its £15 each,” Snow passed the man £100 and said “Keep the change,” Zoe giggle as they walked into the club barely holding each other up. They were both shocked when they walked into a revamped theatre; they took a seat at the back near the bar and waited for the next part of the show to start.
A tall, gorgeous lady walked onto the stage and said “I hope you ladies enjoyed the first act but now onto the second, you all know this guy, give it up for Friendly!!” The women around them screamed in anticipation. A woman next to Snow had a huge stack of five pound notes on the table in front of her so Snow presumed she knew what was going on. Suddenly a beautiful man’s voice sang “You know I know how, to make them stop and share as I zone out,” he slowly danced onto the stage in a suit and took his jacket off “The club can’t even handle me right now,” as he stopped singing the women went wild. Snow had never seen anything like this but she was captured by what she was seeing.
“Watch you, watching me I go all out,” he sang as he sat on the edge of the stage and the women closest to him stroked his muscly chest and abs. “The club can’t even handle me right now,” he finished singing and the music started. He started dancing but really dancing, he was amazing. His shagging blond hair was dancing with him and his muscle rippled as he delivered every move with passion and precision. He slid across the stage and jumped onto a girls lap, he was dancing on her and she was gridding on him. He jumped onto the table and ripped his pants off. Snows jaw dropped as he used his hat to cover his dignity. As he left the stage the women came back on and said “Did everyone enjoy that?” Snow was too shocked too scream and she needed another drink. As she sat back in her seat, the most beautiful man she had ever seen stepped onto the stage in a camouflage trousers and a white vest top. The white vest top didn’t leave much to the imagination as all of his muscles protruded through the material. He man danced down the ales of the theatre, pulling girls to their feet and dancing with them. Snow bit her lip as he dance towards her, he was her perfection. He had dark hair and dark eyes. As he danced back towards the stage, women sighed and pleaded for him to dance with them.
Seven acts and nine shot later, Snow was on cloud nine. As the club emptied Snow found a nice comfortable bit of concrete and fell asleep.
“We should really wake her up,” said Flirty as he stared at the beautiful girl asleep on the road. Frisky nodded at him and kicked her. Flirty shot him an angry look but Frisky simply shrugged back. The girl looked around and realised she was asleep on the road outside a strip club. Her hair was stuck up in the air and her clothes were on backwards (Meaning at some point last night she must have taken them off). Flirty looked her up and down, he didn’t know what to say. “Are you alright?” Frisky said as the girl squinted at them both. She looked at him but the only thing she could remember from the night before was running away from home. She was confused but asked “Do you have a place for me to stay?” Flirty and Frisky were taken back, Frisky shook his head “Erm no, no girls allowed,” but Flirty had a different idea. “How long do you want to stay?” Flirty said before Frisky could stop him. The girl fluttered her eyelashes and said “Only till I can find myself a place,” Flirty smiled and added “What is your name?” the girl blushed “Snow White,” she whispered in embarrassment, Flirty smiled “I am Flirty and this is Frisky,” The girl looked at the both before nodding. Frisky pointed down the street and said “Come on then.”
Snow slowly realised she was going home with too strapping young men. She started staring at them and taking in their feathers. Flirty was tall, dark and handsome but Frisky had long brown hair and rough stubble on his face. When they arrived at the block of flats, Snow asked “Which one is yours?” the men turned around and smiled, Frisky answered “All of them, all seven flats,”
“For all seven men,” Flirty added with a big grin on his face. Snow suddenly felt warn inside, seven absolutely gorgeous men in one building, she was glad she ran away from home.
Snow placed the one bag she had with her on the table and sat on the sofa. The flats looked awful from the outside, dull and run down but on the inside they were luxurious. Snow wondered why the men lived here and how they got the money for such expensive things but she didn’t want to be rude and ask. Flirty walked in the room with another man with Blond hair and striking green eyes, he was very muscly and very attractive. He walked over to Snow and said “I am Friendly, please to meet you,” Snow just nodded but she had a feeling she had seen him before. He blushed and sat on the other sofa, Flirty looked at Snow and said “You will have to come to work with us, Fancy doesn’t want you here alone but I think I have a job you can do,” He winked which also seemed familiar to Snow. Flirty got his car keys and encourage the others to show Snow to the car. Snow was in the car with Flirty, Frisky and Friendly but she was told that Funny, Fancy, Funky and Fizzy were in the other car.
When they reached the place they had called work, Snow noticed it was a dance studio. They walked into a huge studio and Snow sighed at her reflection straight away. Her usually neat hair was all over the pace, she combed it with her fingers back into a Black bob it usually was and felt instantly better. As soon as Friendly started dancing, Snows memories from the night before came flooding back “OMG YOU’RE MALE STRIPPERS!” she screamed as the seven men stared at her. The men just laughed “I am guessing you can now remember last night then,” Funny said as he finished laughing “No,” Snow answered and she was mortified. Flirty looked at her and said “You stayed after the show and was drinking with us, you were telling us what you would do to us behind closed doors, and you were being pretty…”
“Erotic,” added Frisky as Flirty struggle to finish his sentence. Snow was shocked; she was not usually like this at all. Flirty looked at her “Our front lady quit last night, I though you could fill in for her,” he whispered as reality suddenly dawned over Snow and she turned to leave. Fancy, one of the wiser of the young men then stepped up and said “Look Snow, you came here looking for something else, you ran away from home and you have nothing to go back too, it’s do or die for you so why don’t you just give it a shot?” Fancy’s word rung in Snows ears. Snow had gone from being a pampered princess to being a widow’s slave, a life which she only ran away from last night and was willing to go back already. She needed to prove to herself that she didn’t need that life, that she could earn money for herself, she turned around and nodded at fancy
“Yes, you’re right,” she said and the men smiled “Welcome to the team,” Fancy stated before handing her over to Funky who was going to teach her the ropes. Funky had short curly ginger hair and lovely blue eyes, he seemed to be shy compared to the other but the man could dance, all the men could dance!
The first thing Funky did was pull out a costume, it was a sexy ringmistress costume and it was lovely. The jacket was blue, the waistcoat was yellow, and it had a white shirt, it also came with black skin tight shorts. When snow tried it on and she felt absolutely amazing. Flirty wolf whistled from the back of the studio as Snow studied herself in the mirror. Funky then went through how the night flows. Funky sat down next to Snow as she watched the men rehears “We open Thursday, Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays, 11:00 till 2 but the show is only 11:15 till 12:45, Ten minutes per set, opening, all seven of our acts and a closing set, go it,” Funky said and Snow nodded, Funky watched as Snow seemed mesmerised by the dancing the men were doing. He looked at her and said “Can you dance Snow?” she shook her head and said “My dad took me out of dance classes when I was younger and pushed me into maths,”
“Did you still want to dance?” Snow turned to look at Funky but didn’t reply. Funky dropped it and continued teaching Snow “So your job is to introduce us and keep the crowd pumped so they give us more tips,” she nodded and Funky went to join the others rehearsing.
Flirty ran over to Snow, pulled her up and said “We are finished now and better go get ready for tonight,” Flirty pulled her really close and Snow could fell his muscles on her body, she didn’t want to admit how aroused Flirty made her feel but he was perfect. Flirty turned and walk away as if he knew she would follow, as if he knew he had her screaming for him on the inside.
Friendly walked out to the car with Snow and she wanted to know more about the man who had fascinated her so much the night before. “You are an amazing dancer,” She said trying to start up a conversation with him “Thank you,” He said before blushing. Snow was amazed by his modesty; she didn’t think he knew how good he was. “As dancers go, I think you are one of the best I have ever seen,” Friendly shook his head “The women don’t come to see me dance, they come to watch me take my clothes off and then they push for me to take them home to fulfil their fantasies,” Friendly said while getting in the car. This filled Snows head with more questions “Do any off you have girlfriends?” the three men in the car shook their heads “Who you want to share your boyfriend with hundreds of other women?” said Frisky with a smiled on his face. Flirty shook his head “Frisky likes to take his fans home and give them what they want, Friendly and I stopped doing that a long time ago,”
“Why did you stop?” Snow asked.
“Because women come home with us, get everything they want, a night of passion and pleasure then in the morning they go back to reality, a family, a husband and a perfect life, they just use us to live on the edge for one night,” Friendly said with heavy heart. “They want more, I give them more, its how I want to live and it keeps me full,” Frisky said, he said those words in a like he was a hunter and women with dull and repetitive sex lives were the pray, he finished his sentence with “I aim to please,” and chuckled all the way back to the flats. The men spent the rest of the afternoon getting costumes ready and packing the car but Flirty took time out too come see Snow who was having a nap ready to stay up most of the night.
Flirty gently knocked on the door and walked into the room topless. His muscles rippled as he moved and this made something inside of Snow sing. Flirty sat on the bed next to Snow and she sat up straight so she was fact to face with him, his gorgeous brown eyes gazed into hers as he said “We are setting off soon, I thought you might want to get ready,” Snow smiled at him but what she really wanted to do was just jump on him. Snow was very caged at home, she had only ever kissed a boy when she was younger and she hadn’t really thought about it since but these men turned her on, they really set her going and she had to think twice about kiss Flirty. Flirty react over Snow to open a draw on the night table. He pulled put a wallet and slowly brushed his hand against Snows legs as he put the wallet in his pocket, if she was going to do it, she was going to have to do it now. Snow lent in really close to Flirty’s lips and bit hers, to do it or not but Flirty took things into his own hands and kissed her. She was shocked at first but as he licked her lips with his tongue she started to relax. Wearing only one of Flirty’s old shirts Snow was already half naked and Flirty took advantage of that rubbing his hands all over her body, teasing and pleasing her until she wanted to beg for him to do it, to just fuck her but he had other ideas. He slowly got up and started walking away “What are you doing?” said Snow disappointing and pining for more “If I just gave it to you, the excitement is lost; I have to keep up the tempo,” he whispered before walking out.
Snow got dress into jeans and a t-shirt ready for the car ride to the Club, when she walked out onto the street she realised an ex-boyfriend shouting her. She walked up to him and asked “What are you doing here?”
“Your step mother wants you to come home,” He replied as he opened the car door. Snow shook her head and walked away “You don’t belong here Snow,” the Ex shouted “You are from a land of millionaires and socialites, this is a few pounds and drop outs,”
“Everyone can change,” Snow shouted back as the Ex got in the car and slammed his door.
Snow washed her face in the toilets before the show; she was really nervous and didn’t want to go out onto the stage. She saw a shadow behind her and she turned around. It was only Flirty, he picked her up and pinned her against the wall, Snow could feel something hard pressing against her legs and it was making her excited. Flirty kissed her and Snow kissed him back, slipping her tongue in and out of his month gently. Flirty was struggling to contain himself and pressed her harder against the wall. He placed his hand on her thigh and slowly stroked her up to the top of her legs, just before he used his fingers to stroke her insides Flirty backed off. He placed her back on the floor and gently kissed her on the forehead “See you after the show Snow,” he said before giving her a cheeky smile and leaving her desperate for him.
Snow leapt onto the stage and shouted to the rowdy audience “Are you ready ladies?” they screams as they knew what was coming. Snow was dazed by all the women, there were hundred and they were all waning one things, these seven men to take their clothes off for them. As the seven men ran onto the stage in their cowboy uniforms, the women screamed even louder and threw money onto the stage. Women stood up from out their seats just to get a touch of the men or an acknowledging wink. All the women wanted to be danced with as the men picked women out the crowd. This was what they paid for. All night the women were throwing money at the seven men and all night Snow had her eyes on her prize, she wanted Flirty and she wanted him bad.
When they finally got back to the flats, some of the men had invited women to come back with them and hurried into their bedrooms. Friend said goodnight and walked into his room alone. Once Flirty and Snow were alone he picked her up and walked into the bedroom with her in his arms. When he got to the bedroom he threw her down on the bed and took his shirt off, his beautiful body was something he used to turn ladies on and it worked at charm with Snow. She lay back on the bed and waited for him to crawl on top of her. He hovered over her and pulled her top off, and then he kissed all the way up to her lips before rest his body on top of hers. Snow smiled with delight as he kissed and nibbled on her neck and pushed his hips against hers. He pressed the hard bulge in his pants against her jeans which she just wanted to rip off. Somehow Flirty seemed to know what Snow wanted and he pulled down her jeans in hast while she unbuckled his belt and threw it to the ground allowing for his jeans to just slide off. At this point Snow was ready to beg for it, which gave her an Idea. She stood him up and got on her knees, now this she had never done before but she was ready to give it a try, she downed his boxers and exposed the only part of Flirty that the women at the club didn’t see. She took it in her hand and slowly paced it into her mouth. When she looked up, Flirty had the biggest grin on his face. This was what made men happy. The fact that snow was completely naked and giving a man a blow job that she had only met two days ago didn’t embarrass her, it excited her! She could defiantly get used to this new life. As Flirty started to find it hard to hold onto his load he pulled her up and kissed her quickly, he pushed her onto the bed and stroked her with his fingers. She didn’t know what to do, she wanted to scream and just before she did Flirty filled her mouth with his tongue and gave her something to concentrate on other than the pleasure she was feeling. As she felt the pleasure growing inside her Flirty placed himself inside her, just a little bit at first, he trusted slowly and gently but when he felt Snows muscles relax he got faster and harder. Snow felt the pleasure bubble over inside and she let out a little whimper. Flirty smiled before dropping onto the bed next to her. Snow rolled over and hugged him, they fell to sleep and Snow was happy for once.
The next morning Snow woke up but the men were gone. Flirty had left her a note on his mirror “Make yourself at home, we will be back after rehearsal” Snow sat in the living area and turned on the TV. Suddenly there was a buzz from the door. Snow walked up to the intercom and asked who it was “Snow it’s me, we need to talk,” The sound of her step-mothers voice tore through Snow like a hurricane but she knew she had to let her in, so she did.
Snows step mother sat across from her and said “I will make us some coffee,” Snow just let her do it because she knew she wasn’t going to go home with her. Snow took a sip from the drink her step mother had given her and immediately felt funny, before she knew it Snow blacked out.
When the men got home they found the door open and they ran inside. They found Snow on the floor and instantly took her to the hospital. The doctor told the Seven Strippers that Snow White had been drugged and she might never wake up. The other men left Flirty to watch over her while they piece together what had happened at the flats. While Snow was unconscious, the seven men pieced together what had happened and her step-mother was arrested. After 3 months the doctors discussed how unethical it was too keep Snow White on life support and decided to turn it off. Flirty walked in the room and said goodbye to Snow. “I hope you can hear me Snow because I want you to wake up, I was to talk to you again, I want to watch you dance and I want to make your life better, please just wake up,” Flirty kissed her on the lips and walked to excite the room. Unexpectedly with a cough, Snow uttered the words “I am awake,” Flirty spun around filled with joy. The doctors ran into the room followed by the other six strippers. The doctors looked at each other “This has never happened before,” they mumbled between themselves.
When Snow was finally allowed home, she couldn’t feel anymore content with going home with the seven strippers.
Snow and Flirty lived happily for around two weeks before a new act joined the group called Prince Charming and Snow fell madly in love with him. It turns out that Prince Charming was happy to share and Snow got the best of both worlds.
She was a very happy girl!!
I’d like to take a moment to step outside of the humor box and use my blog post today as an opportunity to spread awareness for a cause I truly believe in.
There comes a time in the lives of all bloggers when we find a need to step back and reflect on our journey through the virtual utopia that is Blogworld. Some of us have come here to broaden our horizons and to find inspiration within the photo or travel blogs that pepper the Freshly Pressed page. Many of us find comfort and community amongst the animal lover or mommy blogs of WordPress. Still others use their blog to extract humor from the banality of the workday life and to share their plight with the blog world around them.
But once in a great while there comes a blogger who stands out among the rest- a blogger who effortlessly straddles the line between tragedy and comedy. A blogger who bucks convention with his often times controversial opinions on the validity of religion or the sanctity of marriage or the awesomeness of Star Trek. A blogger who challenges the status quo, strives to enlighten both men and women alike, and who boldly laughs in the face of clowns.
It is this singular blogger who I believe can deliver us all into an era of change and lead us down a path of righteousness and light. That is why I, Hellis of Bloggerland, am asking its citizens for their support and their vote for EDWARD HOTSPUR as champion of the BLOGGER IDOL contest.
“Amongst the weeds of the world, a flower grows…”
CAST YOUR VOTE FOR EDWARD HOTSPUR HERE:
At first you’re thinking of writing a novel and you’re all…
But then you have an idea!
And you go…
But then you hit page 50 and you’re all….
And then you hit page 75 and you’re all…
But you power through!!
And then you’re finished!!! You have finished a novel!!
Only then find out you have to start querying agents.
So you write your query letter…
You obsess over it…
And then you send it out to agents and you’re all…
Then a couple of days go by and you’re all…
But then you hear from your first agent!! And you’re all…
And it’s a rejection. But it’s just your first one so you’re all…
Then you get a few more and it’s more like…
But then! An agent calls! And they love your work! They want to represent you! And inside you’re like…
But you don’t want your agent to think you’re crazy so instead you’re like…
And you love your agent! When you say “yes” you want to…
But instead you go…
And then it’s time to submit to publishers. You are back on submission, and you’re like…
Then the editors start saying….
And your inbox starts looking like…
But then your phone says your agent is calling. And you want to be like…
But instead it’s more like…
And it’s an offer! You have an offer! And you feel like…
And then you go celebrate with your friends and they’re all…
And on the car ride home you’re still like…
But it’s time for revisions. And you pretend you know what you’re doing…
And it’s back to…
But then you’re done! You’re really really done! Only your book doesn’t come out for another year. And so you’re like…
You get your cover and you’re all…
But then publication day approaches! And your reviews start coming out and it kind of feels like…
But some of them are good! And you’re like…
And then your book is out there! People are reading your book!
And it feels pretty good!
And there’s only one thing to do. Start the whole thing over again.
We are going to switch gears here for a take on a classic fairy tale brought to us by author in residence and my writing companion, Tom Elias.
Although Tom may be new to blogworld, he is no stranger to the SciFi genre. So sit back and enjoy a version of Beauty and the Beast that is truly out of this world.
Bika Carlton stared out the widow port at the austere Lunar landscape. One of the wealthier residents of Luna Seventeen, he enjoyed the luxury of this view because he could afford the monthly payment. The view would end soon, Bika knew, because he could no longer haul enough water for the payments.
Were he alone and responsible for nobody but himself, this problem would be simple to overcome. As a self-made shipping success, Bika understood what it meant to go without, tighten his belt, and continue to struggle on toward success. No longer could he take refuge in the ease of self-reliance. Around him, the trappings of wealth and comfort mocked him for his complacency and foolishness.
Out on the stark surface, someone in an enviro suit bounced along in the familiar gait particular to Lunar dwellers, and Bika thought, “Probably a repair crew, now that it’s safe.” The massive, unpredicted solar flare that wrecked his shipping fleet also caused significant damage to the unprotected portions of the Lunar infrastructure that had been turned sunward at the time. Thoughts of the revolving Moon reminded him of the time, and Bika collected his personal effects and stepped out of the apartment just ahead of Belle’s morning alarm.
He had resolved to not broach the subject with his daughter until he knew for certain that he could lay out a coherent plan of action for her with confidence. He wanted her to feel taken care of, no matter what, because that is what daddies did. Bika loped through the hallways of Luna 17, steadily connecting downward to levels below the gray and airless surface. He was surprised that his meeting would be in The Below. Anyone rich as The Beast could surely afford a domed office with a fountain.
“Bika Carlton,” he said to a receptionist who barely acknowledged his existence in The Beast’s Spartan offices.
She barely nodded and continued to subvocalize dictation into her desktop AI. Bika lingered momentarily and then seated himself. After close to thirty minutes past his appointment time, a group of executives dressed in the latest nanofiber enviro suits. Their clumsy stride told Bika that they came from a deeper gravity well, but he guessed Mars because they didn’t walk like complete Earthlings.
As if choreographed, a flock of administrative types disgorged from a side door as it dilated open. The receptionist stood up and indicated that Bika would follow her. She stood at least four inches taller than Bika. Willowy-thin like Belle, the woman showed all the signs of being a Lunar native, her moves effortless and unconscious.
If the reception room he sat in had little by way of decoration, The Beast’s office displayed even less. Bika thought it looked more like a cargo hold than an office. A simple credenza sat centered on one unadorned concrete wall and held only a box that clearly functioned as a speaker. The receptionist touched a pendant communicator at her neck and her mouth moved silently. A light on the box lit green.
“Mr. Carlton, thank you for coming,” the disembodied voice of The Beast sounded.
“Thank you for having me,” Bika answered with a knot building in his gut. The Beast, wildly successful beyond what Bika earned in his life, wielded massive power. Always the shrewd businessman, The Beast frequently extended help in the form of financial assistance to smaller freight companies like Bika’s. The Beast earned his company’s success as well as his nickname. Reflecting on the man’s cutthroat reputation did not help alleviate Bika’s nausea.
“All right,” The Beast’s voice echoed in the spare room, “Tell me the background.”
Bika nearly launched a soliloquy on the misfortune of the solar flare and his fleet sitting in tatters in high Martian orbit. Sadly, those fine vessels now had more in common with Mars’ two lumpy moons than they did with flight-worthy spacecraft. Around him, the dour flock of administrative specialists ran through a litany of dry data on balance sheets, profit and loss tables, and estimates on targeted markets around the Solar System. Each one spoke in turn as if rehearsed. Clearly, they performed this number often. Soon enough, they concluded the flow of raw data, and a silence hung in the office air.
“Carlton,” The Beast’s gritty voice sounded, “You know what all that means. You’re dead in the water, and what’s more, I own the papers on most of those hulks. They’ll take at least a year to overhaul, and what I just heard tells me you cover one month with what you make the previous one. Nothing wrong with that. It’s ballsy. Not many like you anymore. But facts are facts. You could ship twice your annual haul for five years and not come close to being in the black with me. You owe me.” The man let the statement hang.
“Yes,” Bika said, “Yes, I do. I don’t know what to say.”
“Oh I know how you’ll pay me back, don’t worry,” The Beast said with humor in his voice. “You have one old bucket left, and I have just the project for it.”
Bika swallowed and prepared himself for the worst.
Belle finished setting the table while dinner sat in the warmer unit of the tiny kitchen behind her. Meals on Luna, regardless of relative wealth, were not elaborate, flavorful or large. Overeating in low gravity could have embarrassing side effects. Belle managed to keep up her share of domestic tasks while she finished her university schooling. She knew her father would be home within minutes since he remained a creature of habit.
In spite of being absent for long periods after her mother died when Belle was small, the young woman turned out remarkably well-adjusted and bright. She made honors marks in her courses to be sure, but remarkably never took the wealth her father earned for granted, somehow driven by the same innate need for personal achievement that her father used to carve out his life.
She whipped her thick, black braid over her shoulder and returned to the kitchen unit to retrieve the plates of warm food. She met her father just as the apartment hatch cycled.
“Hi Daddy!” she enthused.
“Hi, Peanut,” Bika answered, dejected.
Belle immediately sensed the trouble in her father, set the plates down, and hugged him. Bika felt relief, and held his daughter tight until his eyes dried. Later, each of the two had mainly pushed their tasteless food around their plates, and Belle understood the entire problem. In spite of it all, she could see hope.
“Daddy, this isn’t so bad,” she soothed, “I mean, we’ll just get a different apartment, and cut back, and while you’re gone on the mission for this Mr. Beast person, everything will be fine. I’ll finish school while you’re gone.”
“I know you will, Peanut,” Bika agreed, attempting a smile and a convincing glance into Belle’s bright green eyes. “I just have to make sure I get everything set up for you. The rent and such, I mean.”
Belle nodded in agreement and much later, Bika stared out the same window port. The scenery scarcely changed, but in the darkened apartment, the light pouring in highlighted the tracks of tears on his face. Nobody could ask for a better daughter. Bika told her most of his plan, but not all of it. In his mind, there could only be one workable solution.
The Beast had arrayed the facts and then put down his trump card that morning. Bika would commit his one remaining functional ship to a special mission for The Beast. He claimed he needed the old scow because the plasma jet engine would not interfere with the cargo he planned to haul. The hitch was, Bika would pilot the ship, alone. Relativistic effects of the old bucket’s drive included, Bika would age almost twelve years, and his Belle would wait for fourteen on her side of Einstein’s frame of reference, at the least.
None of this truly concerned him, though. Bika had much to do, because he planned on engineering this imposed duty upon him. He would start tomorrow and talk to all the people he needed to. He saw his solution as the only way out, and Belle would be taken care of for life. The Beast would get his due, his project destroyed for trying to take away the rest of his life. For Bika, it only meant dying.
One week later, Bika again stood in the undecorated office of The Beast, again regarding the speakerbox.
“Carlton,” the voice of The Beast came clear from the device, “Do you think I got where I am by being a fool?”
“I don’t think you’re a fool, and I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Bika said, nervous.
“Try and bluff me all you want, it makes no difference. Did you think I wouldn’t find out about you blowing up your ship and the additional insurance you’ve bought up this week? Hmm?” The Beast said with cutting sarcasm.
“I… I don’t know,” Bika said.
“You’re the fool, Bika, for signing the contract you did without reading it well, and for assuming my absence would insulate you from my awareness,” The Beast lectured, his tone now cutting. “You have some balls, though. I can’t deny that. I also can’t let you out of this so easily.”
“What now?” Bika said with anger and a sense of nothing to lose.
“Change in plans. To ensure you don’t pull something funny, Carlton, your daughter will travel on the ship with my cargo, not you,” The Beast explained.
“You bastard,” Bika whispered.
“I hear that a lot,” The Beast said, “I know what you’re thinking. I’m not without a soul. She will ride in stasis. I’d take the rest of your life for squandering my investment, but not hers. Have her at the Luna spaceport tomorrow.”
Bika, overcome with a dizzy spell, teetered and then repeated himself, screaming, “You bastard!” The indicator light on the speakerbox, however, was dark.
Belle wore her concern well-hidden. Only the smallest of creases between her eyebrows gave away her emotion. Bika, her father, read it clearly, and the tiny furrow might as well have been a furrow cut into his heart.
“I have failed you,” Bika said, eyes wet and boring through the deck plating of the port’s shuttle dock.
“Daddy, you always tried hard. Nobody’s lucky all the time. I’d rather sleep for twelve years to be done with this than lose you,” Belle said.
Bika shook his head, unable to speak in the face of his daughter’s kindness and grace.
“Besides,” Belle continued, “This is the least I can do to repay all you gave me until now, Daddy.”
Belle hugged and kissed her father, took her small bag and walked into the shuttle’s airlock. She turned and smiled, and that image of Belle remained burned in Bika’s mind for the guilty years that followed.
Bika’s remaining freighter powered through deep and unforgiving space. Being old and outdated became an advantage on this journey, and it also meant that the components rarely failed out of wear. The deck plates and deep structures vibrated with the power of the engine that rammed them along at a large percentage of the speed of light.
Magroodian pulled himself along one access corridor, trailing his ruined leg behind him. His opposite arm, twisted and weak, provided a stabilizing point and occasional anchor despite its apparent ruin. Magroodian tended ships in flight and the low gravity in the older model freighters proved ideal for him for this and other reasons. He could tend on newer and slower interplanetary routes, but those often involved other passengers. Magroodian preferred solitude because he could avoid the stares and the questions.
One year into the journey to Centauri Alpha II, Magroodian felt the comfort of a well-worn routine. He exited the cargo bay after checking the precious device it held. His next task involved checking the telemetry and guidance. All of the panels indicated that systems onboard were ticking along perfectly. He logged all of this faithfully, and turned his attention to his favorite task.
The stasis unit self-diagnosed and rendered a report of nominal metrics. Magroodian peered through the glass, trying to see past the fog. He purged the interior atmosphere, clearing the viewplate. Inside slept the Angel. Magroodian had seen beautiful women, even slept with a few before the accident, but this creature plucked every heart string Magroodian possessed. Belle Carlton’s raven hair and porcelain skin remained unchanged, of course. Only the occasional lead stuck to her head in places disrupted the perfect vision of beauty. Magroodian felt pangs of hunger, and realized he had stared at her again for hours.
Two years later, Magroodian’s routine had evolved. One task taking several months’ time enabled him to speak with her, in a way. Cobbling components of unnecessary or redundant systems, he had devised an input channel to the stasis machine, and by reading a message he could communicate in a way with the perfect beauty laying wrapped in cold, artificial sleep. The improvised device would feed her these messages back through her monitoring leads, slowed for her reduced awareness. Magroodian’s first love letter, when read, ran to ten recorded minutes and then required his agonized patience for over a week while it slowly trickled into her mind.
The fact that Belle could not answer never slowed Magroodian down. From his lonely, disfigured point of view, having half of a relationship to him was more than he had hoped for to begin with. He wrote poems, random thoughts, and love letters to her, not knowing if his words registered or were merely expressed as slow, cold dreams. Today he carefully read a short but deliberately-crafted note to her.
“My Perfect Little One,” he read, “My mind is filled with thoughts of you. They are thoughts of nothing but love, caring and kindness. In my mind, we are together, and we have finally found our Someday. I cannot tell you how much joy these thoughts bring me, and I have them because of you in my life.”
Magroodian wiped the saliva from his mangled jaw, not wishing to slurp it back into his mouth while reading. He fed the file to the device he’d built, and set about waiting. At the moment the slow-trickle device finished an unknown, random chunk of interstellar matter struck the hull, detonating a maneuvering thruster fuel unit.
Months passed, and Magroodian struggled mightily to keep the freighter intact and functional. He felt tired in his bones, unable to recall a night of rest not interrupted by a new crisis. Ever resourceful, Magroodian shifted power sources, rewired entire systems, and kept the engines humming. Yet, system failures moved through the ship like a malevolent poltergeist.
Now he feared that he could save no more systems. He had already cut life support to much of the freighter, and what the remaining areas had ran at minimal levels. Nonessential computer systems were offline. What remained beyond navigation, stellar drive and life support were the circuits for Belle’s stasis pod and the cargo package. With mysterious faults cropping up still, Magroodian could choose between maintaining the cargo or Belle.
He agonized this before realizing that the system load for the stasis unit took more resources than an additional, conscious human would. Magroodian realized while he watched the stasis unit cycle down that the fear of having to face Belle for real outweighed the fear of having to sacrifice her outright. While she slowly floated up to consciousness, Magroodian moved his possessions from his room into the galley.
Belle slowly realized that she no longer slept in stasis. In fact, someone moved her to a comfortable bed and saw to her recovery regimen before she regained consciousness. She felt cold, deep down, and she shivered. Something in the room smelled funny, and it took Belle several minutes to understand that she caused the odd odor. Her limbs felt heavy and rubbery, and sitting up caused pain everywhere. Breathing deeply caused her to rack herself coughing.
Gradually, though, she felt a little better. She thought standing might be useful, but somehow doing that was impossible. At the hatch to the room, a chime sounded. She could barely croak out a sound, and the door opened. The ugliest man she had ever seen stood there holding a tray. She quickly realized even with her eyes that refused to focus well that this poor man had suffered a grave injury somehow. His hair grew in patches, and his face hung misshapen and jumbled on his head. One eye drooped, sightless, and ropy scar tissue laced up his neck. Belle’s heart broke for Magroodian simply looking at him.
“Here is some food,” he said, placing a small tray with a smaller cup of broth near her. “You should eat very slowly. Your stomach has not processed food for three years. I will explain everything when you’re ready.” He turned awkwardly on his atrophied leg to leave.
“Wait,” Belle managed, stopping Magroodian. “Tell… me… please.”
Magroodian sat in a chair – his former furniture – with his face mainly averted. He told her of his struggle to keep the ship under power, save the cargo, and her life. Belle absorbed it all. She had missed so much, and the few ounces of broth in her stomach felt like gallons. She grew sleepy, and Belle later recalled broken images of Magroodian bent over her, gently tucking her under a blanket and arranging her pillow.
“Tell me your name,” Belle said at some point days later. She recovered quickly, and the two of them walked the decks to build back her stamina.
“Magroodian,” he answered, looking down and away. “I run the ship while it flies.”
“My name is Belle,” she said, “I bet you know why I’m here.”
“Yes,” Magroodian said.
They walked together a bit. The induced gravity made each of them tired in spite of remaining low. Belle, used to half what she struggled with now, felt exhausted. Magroodian mentioned it would be good practice for Centauri Alpha II, and then remained silent while Belle breathed hard and thought.
“You don’t ever look at me when you talk,” she said, and Magroodian did not answer. Belle lunged ahead and whirled in front of him, preventing him from limping further. “Look at me, please.”
He did, reluctantly turning his mangled face to her but keeping his working eye locked on the floor. Belle said nothing for a long moment.
“It hurt very much,” she finally said, more a statement than a question.
“Yes, very much,” he answered and wiped his chin. He felt something like a pressure on his cheek, and looking up saw that he sensed Belle’s perfect, graceful hand touching his face. He felt dizzy because of this act of gentleness. He dared to look at Belle’s face, and stopped breathing when he saw the tears flowing down her soft cheeks. In that moment, he would have given his own organs to keep her alive, or sacrificed himself for her, merely for her touch and her tears.
Later, the freighter was only months out from Centauri Alpha, and Magroodian managed to get the deceleration phase configured in spite of the patchwork quilt of circuits and fixes. He grew comfortable with Belle, and she with him. They shared an easy friendship. He never mentioned the love notes or the system he devised to communicate them. Over dinner, without warning, she alarmed him with a statement.
“I had such beautiful dreams while I was in stasis,” she said, then asking, “Is that a common phenomenon?”
“Dreams? How do you mean?” Magroodian said, defensive.
“Oh! They seemed to go on forever,” Belle smiled, “And there was this amazing man who read me beautiful poetry. Sometimes he wrote love letters. It was so vivid that I can’t get it out of my head.”
“Well, I will check the library, but I’m sure it’s connected to the stasis effects or the medications,” Magroodian said.
“Too bad, almost,” Belle giggled, “I would love to meet whoever could say those wonderful kind of things to me.”
“Perhaps someday you will, or someone like him,” he answered quietly.
The lights went out at that instant and the entire freighter shuddered. Magroodian, twisted and bent, sprang into action like a cat.
“Stay here, Belle!” he said and hobbled through the dark by memory. His instincts told him the engine main power relays were failing, and he headed that way. The emergency lighting finally kicked in, flickering and red. In the drive compartment, Magroodian saw that he guessed correctly. He brought the main power grid off line. He now owned about two hours of time to spend on figuring this out before the backup generator systems expended their chemical fuel. The backup battery system he disconnected long ago in the process of saving the freighter.
Magroodian quickly determined that it came down to a choice. He used the standard procedure and added key systems one by one to the recoupled power grid. No matter how he did it, or in what order, it still came to a choice. He left power to the cargo bay and its cargo online. The life support systems remained on backup. Belle found him hunched over a computer much later.
“You fixed the problem,” she said with amazement.
“No, far from it,” Magroodian spat.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“Life support is on backup power, and that system can run life support by itself for about…” he glanced at the computer, then finished, “Six more hours. Then the backup system is out of fuel.”
“That would give you six hours to find the problem, right?” she asked.
“Yes, but the fuel runs out. We don’t get more. If something bad happened later, we would have no backup power system at all. Besides, the support system damage is in part of the ship I have sealed off. We don’t have suits that support that kind of vacuum work anyway.”
“Oh,” Belle said.
“Our cargo takes power, but I cannot even uncouple it from the master relays or it will be worthless,” he explained.
“So what do we do?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Magroodian lied, thankful for the fact that his twisted, ugly face could not convey deception.
The next hours contained few conversations. Magroodian existed in an agitated state of activity, most of it spent at the helm. He sat in earnest silence, only wiping his chin and surrounded by technical manuals. He had some piloting experience because the job required it. Because of this, he knew there were some operations a navigation program could not execute. Planetary orbital insertion happened to be one of them, so Magroodian did the best he could.
Belle saw him many times, limping along as quickly as he could in his race against time. He went in and out of the cargo hold frequently. She assumed his task of saving the ship consumed him completely, and willingly stayed out of his way. She distracted herself by investigating the ships’ systems using the computer terminal in her room. Magroodian did in fact have most of the ship completely shut down. She wondered why he had not just taken the cargo hold off line months ago. Looking for anything to answer that, Belle found some audio files, hundreds of them. She only played three before she bolted from her small berth to find Magroodian. When she found him near the airlock, their eyes met and both knew what the other thought.
“Why?” she said with a quavering voice and tears on her cheeks.
“It is the only way one of us will survive all the way to Centauri,” Magroodian answered, now suited up and clearly set to walk out of the airlock.
Belle shook her head. “No, no. Why didn’t you tell me? About the recordings? It was you all along. My poet.”
Magroodian’s world stopped. Tempted to just walk into the airlock and cycle it without a word, he ultimately dropped his hand to his side. He felt defeated.
“You could never love anyone as… hideous as me,” he said, indicating his face with his good hand. “It was easier.”
Belle was speechless for a moment, tears flowing. Then she shook her head again, a puzzled look on her face. “You’re wrong, but what were you about to do?” she asked.
Magroodian explained the trade-off quickly, concluding the explanation by saying, “So I’ve cut the life support down to accommodate one person, programmed the insertion at Centauri Alpha, and I was about to… walk out.”
Belle dissolved into waves of hard, sorrowful tears. She staggered against the bulkhead, rocked to her core. Magroodian had no idea what he had done or said that caused this. He only wanted to save her life. She stopped sobbing abruptly and wiped her face. She looked into Magroodian’s eyes and strode to him. In an instant, she stood inches from his face with hers. The fire in her eyes softened, and he felt the sensation again that meant her hand rested against his ruined face. Then she leaned in and placed one soft, loving kiss on his lopsided mouth.
“You silly man,” she said in a whisper, “I’ve loved you for months now. And if I had known you wrote me such beautiful words, that those were more than dreams… that they came from your heart…”
She cried again, softly, and this time into his neck. Eventually his arms took her and held her. They stood that way for a long time.
Later, Magroodian decoupled the cargo hold power system from the main junction. Belle watched as he reconnected the life support and recalibrated it to account for two humans instead of one. Then she asked to see the cargo, and Magroodian walked with her on his uneven legs to the hold. The backup lights illuminated the device in a surreal red light.
“It’s a kind of communication device. I’ve been sending reports back to the owner with it,” he said, and Belle saw the keyboard and screen, now dull black.
“Why is it special?” she asked, intuiting the uniqueness of it.
“It uses entangled quantum particles. Whatever messages I type here, or whatever data I send, is instantaneously reflected back on Earth with no delay.”
“Oh God,” she gasped, seeing the point.
“Yes,” Magroodian said, “It’s one of a kind and took trillions of credits to research and build. But it takes a lot of power. It would have made the owner richer than any man in the Solar System.”
“He’s going to be furious with you,” Belle said.
“You could say that,” he answered, wiping his lip.
Some months later, Magroodian initiated the braking and entry sequence. Both he and Belle struggled under a full Earth gravity for weeks, and then he increased the braking thrust. By the time the external cameras showed them the bright, yellow disk of Centauri Alpha, both had adapted to two full Earth gravities as best as they could. They helped one another, adapted to each other, and grew close.
Magroodian maneuvered the freighter manually now, Belle watching in fascination as he caressed the controls with his one good hand and expertly put the ship into a stable orbit of the second planet, an Earth-like world far from home. Planetary systems detected and relayed a standard query message. When the colonial authority learned their identity, the next message was a sharp and directive. The Beast’s Centauri office expected him to come in person, immediately.
“You’re in trouble,” Belle said.
“Oh yes. I ruined the company,” Magroodian explained.
Belle, catching her breath loudly, said, “Oh no! You should have pushed me out the airlock, stasis thing and all.”
“I could never have done that, Belle,” Magroodian said, “You know that.”
His words seemed to calm her. Then she stated without room for debate, “I am coming with you.”
“All right,” Magroodian acceded.
Within two hours, a corporate shuttle hailed them and instructed them to extend the docking posts.
Magroodian sat in the office, sweating and breathing heavily under almost twice Earth normal gravity. Beside him, Belle reclined in a gravity chair designed specifically for offworlders unused to such a deep gravity well. Her breathing came hard, and some motions made her groan, but never once did she complain.
An administrative functionary breezed into the room on muscular legs. This functionary collected the bills of lading and other necessary documents, to include each of Magroodian and Belle’s identification files. The man broke the electronic seal on the case, flipped casually through the packet, and then pulled a scanner out to upload the identity information on their cards. It matched the logged mission data, and he then swiped a special, textured area of the device first down Belle’s arm, then Magroodian’s. Belle’s swipe earned a green diode light, as did Magroodian’s. The readout for Magroodian, however, made the functionary double-take and then fly from the room.
Seconds later, a cadre of other administrative types flooded the room. Belle lay there confused as the team made her more comfortable and brought food and drinks. More teams arrived, these equipped with data pads and earpieces. Magroodian sighed and then groaned as he stood. He whispered something in the ear of one aide, who vanished. All of the rest he waved away. He and Belle were alone again in seconds.
“What is going on?” Belle asked.
“Belle, you may hate me for this, because I’ve not been totally honest with you,” Magroodian said.
“Go on,” she said with hesitation.
“Belle, I am The Beast,” he said without decoration and waited for whatever response he earned. None came, and he continued, “Everything else is true except I don’t work for the man, I am the man. The company is now in the red, this destruction of my face and body is not makeup. I was and still am a hard and shrewd businessman, but once I fell in love with you, and you returned it to me so well, I changed completely. I’ll understand if you leave and hate me. I can have you back on Luna on one of my fold ships in two weeks. I regret making you my insurance for our trip. I do not and will not regret falling in love with you, Belle.”
He finished his statement and stood ready for whatever Belle had to say. Minutes passed, and tears again brimmed in her eyes. Then, slowly shaking her raven-haired head, she raised her arms to him, inviting him to her for an embrace. The Beast, Magroodian, accepted it gladly
Somebody pinch me because I must be dreaming. It seems our very first F*CKED UP FAIRY TALE has come in! Thanks to my ever trashy but always wise blogmate Kevin Jorenby of TRAILERTRASHDELUXE fame, we are treated to a fairy tale every bit as f*cked up as promised. Ladies and gentlemen, please to enjoy…KRISTERELLA!
Kristerella awoke and stretched to the pleasant sounds of birds singing a happy tune. Her head was thick from last night’s debauchery, but still she felt okay all in all. She laid her head back down and soon was dreaming about her “main squeeze”, R-Patsy; he was just about to enter her when: “Cock-a-doodle-doo!!” went the damn rooster.
“Ohhh, that cock”, she lamented, “always waking me up when I get to the good part.” Then she remembered a little of last night’s “after-party” with R-Patsy. “Ohhhh, that cock”, she purred this time. A little smile broke across her face at the recollection. “Ouch”, she said, as her facial muscles, unaccustomed to smiling, or any emotion at all for that matter, entered unfamiliar territory. She’d had small parts in the village plays, but never showed emotion in any of them. Her vaguely good looks, and the fact that everyone felt bad about her orphaned status, were all that kept getting her roles. Oh, there were some nasty rumors going around that she was overly friendly to the play director, and R-Patsy’s feelings were hurt by this, but Kristerella assured him, and anyone else who asked, that nothing much really happened and she still loved R-Patsy.
The thought of smiling made her sit bolt upright in her shabby straw bed. She hid her face in her hands as she recalled more embarrassing details of last night. She dimly recalled laughing at one of the jokes that one of her “backup squeezes” had told (was it Mandingo? or Bubba? she couldn’t remember; one was black and one was white, but all she knew and cared about was that they were both sure-handed coachmen and sure good lovers, and they always had weed).
“Please tell me I didn’t show emotion,” she sighed into her hands, “I just can not show emotion.” Her father had taught her that showing emotion was for common folk, just as he had shown her how to pick the best pot, just before he was murdered by a rival drug gang. She hadn’t kept up the family business, but she kept some of her dad’s connections, and either “traded favors” for enough weed to get her by, or scrounged together enough allowance from taking care of her mean-ass stepmother and ugly-ass stepsisters, to buy enough to keep her happy. She loved sitting on the front porch when she thought no one was watching and getting high. She also got a little income from a deal she had worked out with the mice, fencing things they stole from the ugly stepsisters.
God, but those were some ugly women. Her stepmother had probably been sort of striking in her younger days, but her features were a little too sharp to be considered beautiful or even pretty. The relentless aging process, as well as her unbridled greed, had taken away any pleasantness about her features, giving her a permanent, ugly scowl. That is, except for when she felt like she was “putting one over” on someone, then she got this hideous satisfied smug look on her face, like one would get if they thought they’d denied someone their favorite shoes or something. As for the stepsisters, they were a new and improved kind of ugly. Kristerella, for the life of her, couldn’t figure out why God decided to strap a pair of vaginas on as homely and dumpy a couple of bodies as were ever formed. Their mom was bad enough, but their dad must have made Sasquatch look like the royal Prince.
Oh, the Prince. She would love to get a piece of that. If R-Patsy only knew how she felt about the Prince, he’d really whine like a little baby. It wasn’t just the money, the position, the way he could dance and sing; it was, more than anything else, the way he played the lute. He did a lute solo during his song “When Dodo Birds Cry”, that sent her through the roof.
“Speaking of birds”, she thought to herself. She took a couple quick hits off her pipe, threw the covers off her nude body, moved down and put her legs up on the footboard of her bed, and clapped twice. Seemingly from everywhere, mice and birds appeared. The birds first grabbed a sponge out of the wash-basin, dipped it in a huge bowl of honey, and flew in tandem over her body, squeezing out the honey-filled sponge all over her. The mice spread the honey around on her and nibbled playfully at her neck, her nipples, and the entrance to her own honeypot. Once the birds were done with the honey, they lined up in the rafters of her little garret. At a whistled cue from the lead bird, they took off and lined up in an attack formation, diving down from the rafters and swooping in and out of her gaping gash, fluttering their wings at the entrance, like she had taught them to. After a few minutes of this, she clapped her hands again, the birds and mice all backed off, and she shoved the giant heel of a glass slipper inside herself, crying out, “Oh my Puhrincccce!!!!” as she shuddered mightily in ecstasy.
Completely satisfied, Kristerella giggled a little stoned giggle, thinking to herself: “If R-Pats only knew who I really wanted.” Then a horrible thought occurred to her–”Oh my God, he better have pulled out last night. I don’t want to pop out a kid with that big fucking ugly forehead like R-Patsy has. I mean, his eyes and his body drive me crazy, but that forehead is Uggggg-leee.” “And the little bastard’s head would probably tear me in two coming out, if he has that same freaky forehead. And where is he anyway?”
She got up and went to the window. “Oh, now I get it”, she exclaimed. There was a long, bright yellow rope hanging all the way down to the top part of the lower floor of the decaying manor house, the house that her pops had lovingly built up and Old Wartface herself had hatefully let go to rot while she spoiled the Ugly Twins with the last of her dad’s money, drug money that was rightfully Kristerella’s. The rope was actually braided together out of human hair, from her longtime rival for R-Patsy’s affections, her slut of a distant cousin, the bitch that Kristerella liked to lovingly call “Ra-Cunt-Zel”, an even bigger pothead than Kristerella, who sold half of her hair years ago to Kristerella’s dad to pay for a couple pounds of weed. The shit was so straw-like already from too much blonde hair dye, that it made a very sturdy rope. Kristerella had to hand it to R-Patsy–he only needed to use the rope for the steepest part at the top of the house, the last section going up to Kristerella’s room, and the lower part he scaled like he was some sort of vampire or something.
After the birds and the mice helped her dress, Kristerella made her way down the long stairway toward the second-floor bedrooms of the Uglies. On the way down, she spied a disgustingly obese mouse which she promptly named Gus, since she was a big “Lonesome Do-do bird” fan. She put some undersized clothes on him so that everyone could ridicule his obesity even more. She made Jean-Luc, the lead thief in her gang of mice-thieves, explain to Gus that if he wanted to keep on salting away the table scraps he’d have to pull his considerable weight as a thief.
She cracked open the door to her evil Stepmother’s room, the smell of the old lady’s gas nearly knocking her down in the process. She whispered for the nasty cat, Aguilera, to follow her down to the kitchen for breakfast. When they reached the kitchen, Kristerella started a fire in the woodstove while Aguilera farted, stretched, screeched some awful high noises, waved her paws oddly up and down as she screeched, then plopped down on the rug and promptly fell asleep. The horse and the dog, two of the dumbest creatures Kristerella had ever met, but who magically seemed to communicate, with short neighs and barks, complicated messages to each other whenever the birds told them someone in the house needed rescuing, were sleeping in the morning sun. The mice all came out and stole most of the corn from the chickens in the yard, pooled their strength and stole a broom off the wall, and bashed Aguilera over the head with it, just for fun.
The mean stepmom and the ugly stepsisters all finally woke up and rang their bells for breakfast. Kristerella made them wait while she smoked a couple joints, blowing pot smoke into the nostrils of the unconscious Aguilera. After a while, she tired of this and took the now-lukewarm porridge and tea up to the bitches, the now-groggily awake Aguilera close behind. Aguilera spied Gus hiding under a teacup, grabbed him and threw him at the ugliest sister, who shrieked at her mother. The evil stepmother then gave Kristerella 3 days worth of work to do before lunch, as punishment. Kristerella didn’t care; she had plenty of weed, and the stepmother would be too busy trying to make ladies out of her clumsy, ugly daughters to bother checking on Kristerella’s work. She still found time to beat Aguilera with her mop bucket, though.
As she was busy cleaning, Kristerella heard a knock on the door. It was a representative from the royal palace, inviting all the women from the household to a ball in honor of the Prince that night. The King was worried that the Prince was a little “light in the loafers”, since all he wanted to do was ride horses, play the lute, and dress in frilly purple sportcoats, so he made the Duke organize a dance so that the Prince could find a mate.
Kristerella took the note up to the so-called “music room”, where the step-mother was assaulting the piano in accompaniment to the Ugly Twins doing their best to out-screech Aguilera. “At least Aguilera’s screeching is usually in tune”, sighed Kristerella as she opened the door. She interrupted the Uglies in what appeared to be some sort of sisterly foreplay. Kristerella would’ve steamed open the letter, but the King’s official seal was on it, and she dared not break that. Besides, when she had snuck out earlier for a midmorning puff, she ran into Bubba, who’d told her about the royal ball. He’d heard it from the widow lady down the lane, the one who lived in a shoe (which she called “The Shaq” for some reason) and who traded Bubba killer blowjobs for his killer “chronic”, so that she could keep her sanity while raising 23 of the laziest kids on the planet (except for the ugly stepsisters, that is). The old woman was sending all 9 of her daughters that were over the age of 11 to the ball, along with one of her sons, Percy, who liked to design and sew all his sister’s clothes (“if you know what I mean”, she’d say), “just in case”, since, like everyone else, she’d heard the rumors about the Prince. It was really assumed that Percy would go anyway, even though the ball was for young ladies and their adult chaperones, because he had designed most of the gowns in the kingdom, and treated all the dances as if they were his own personal fashion show. His mother was pretty redneck about Percy, but she had to admit that he had the only ambition in the whole bunch, and his dress designs brought in much-needed income. Percy’s “gaydar” didn’t really go off around the Prince, but he, like Kristerella, had many fantasies about the Prince and held out hopes that perhaps one day he could convince the Prince to “bat for the other side”. Besides, he had a purple paisley sportcoat that he knew the Prince would like.
Kristerella quietly stood while her mean stepmother read aloud the note about that night’s upcoming ball. The ugly stepsisters snorted and farted gracelessly with homely excitement as their mother tried to calm them down, fully realizing that it would take the whole 10 hours to try to scrape off the outer layer of ugly and make them marginally presentable. Still, even a bitchy mother can dream.
“What are you looking at, ‘Second-hand Rose’”?, sneered the ugliest sister, setting both of them into gales of clumsy, snotting, spitting, choking laughter. Kristerella did get their hand-me-downs, and got some cash too, from the clothes and jewelry (that the stepsisters forgot they had, or didn’t like but thought they were in too good a shape to give to the hated Kristerella) stolen by Jean-Luc and his gang of mice-thieves, right out of their closets.
“Surely I can go to the ball too,” cried Kristerella. She was bound and determined to get the Prince out of his paisley knickers for real, not just in fantasy. Her mean stepmother agreed that, if Kristerella remodelled the entire west wing of the manor, and resodded 5 acres of lawn, she could go to the ball also.
Kristerella quickly went to the stables and serviced both Bubba and Mandingo in exchange for a buzz and their help with the extra work. She then beat the birds and mice mercilessly, forcing them to resew her late mother’s frumpy old gown and to steal some jewelry and accessories from the ugly stepsisters to complete her outfit. Her plan worked beautifully until she made the mistake of modelling her outfit in front of her evil stepmother and her ugly stepsisters. It just so happened that the sheriff, who once upon a time had a little affair with Kristerella’s evil stepmother during her first marriage, chose that moment to stop by and bring some zucchini. The evil stepmother, even as she was making eyes at the sheriff, spied some parts of Kristerella’s outfit that looked familiar. She pointed them out to the dimwitted stepsisters, who slooooowly realized that the items had been stolen from them. They demanded the sheriff immediately arrest Kristerella for receiving stolen goods; he hauled her off to jail.
As luck would have it, another distant relative of Kristerella’s, Magda, was in jail doing time for insider stock trading. Magda could do magical things in the home; people used to say she could “make a tea party out of a horse turd.” In return for Bubba throwing some weed to her through the jail’s outside window, Magda took some old rags that happened to be lying around in the jail cell and sewed them into a fine gown that would’ve made Percy proud. Before she had gone off with the sheriff, Kristerella had managed to whisper to Mandingo, who was standing nearby, that she would be ever-so-grateful if he’d bring her glass slippers to the jail so that she’d have something to do that night. Mandingo rolled his eyes at her nymphomania, but complied anyway. The slippers, and some spangles and jewelry taken off a nearby passed-out “lady of the evening” in the same cell (who’d made the mistake of being so drunk that she propositioned the parson in front of his wife) completed the outfit. Mandingo and Bubba, being close friends of all the “shoe” family, convinced a couple of the oldest daughters to stop by the jail and model their gowns for the sheriff. Mandingo then stole the cell keys while the sheriff was thus distracted, freeing Kristerella. Meanwhile Bubba laced the sheriff’s pipe tobacco with some powerful weed. The sheriff, unaccustomed to the stuff, lit up a bowl, took a few puffs, and slept for 24 hours. The “shoe” girls, being used to doing each other’s hair and makeup, slightly altered Kristerella’s hair and makeup, knowing that would be enough to fool the dimwitted stepsisters at the ball; they had to rely on the dim lighting at the ball to help fool the evil stepmother.
The ball went as you would imagine; the Prince shuddered at the raw ugliness of Kristerella’s stepsisters, which caused Kristerella to wonder how the Prince would look shuddering in ecstasy with her, and the Prince took one look at Kristerella and fell in love. R-Patsy (who unbeknownst to everyone was way older than he looked) had suffered a heart attack while climbing down from his 3-hour performance with Kristerella the night before, and fallen to his death, hidden in the ivy until found several days later by the dog, and was a nonfactor in the rest of this tale. The Prince and Kristerella danced for hours, then slipped outside for a quickie on the footbridge in the moonlight. They pledged their undying love for each other and Kristerella showed the Prince how to pleasure her with the heels of her glass slippers, which she’d had custom-made to resemble a sizeable dildo. After awhile they decided they should go back in, as it was getting late. At precisely midnight, one of the servants, who had been playing catch with his friend with garden produce, accidentally beaned the evil stepmother in the head with a pumpkin. As the stepmother shook her head to clear it, her evil ugly eyes lit on the Prince’s new flame, who she suddenly realized was her servant girl, her late husband’s daughter Kristerella. She cried out “Thief, thief! Get her–she must have escaped from the jail.” Kristerella ran off, breaking a jagged piece off one of her dildo-heels in the process, which the Duke promptly picked up.
The next day, the King sent the Duke to match up the broken piece of dildo with the rest of the heel of the slipper. Only the King, the Prince, the Duke and, of course, Kristerella knew that the pieces were part of the slipper, not just some random dildo. The Duke travelled the kingdom with the broken piece, claiming to have found it at the ball, and that the Prince really wanted to meet the woman who had the most similar dildo to it. The Duke had to inspect dildoes of all sizes and shapes. When he got to the house of Kristerella and her stepfamily, he found that the stepsisters had dildoes as ugly as their owners. Meanwhile, the evil stepmother had found Kristerella hiding in the wardrobe in her room, locked her in, and hid the key in her pocket. Gus and Jean-Luc managed to steal it, but Gus had a heart attack and died on the way up to bring it to Kristerella.
Aguilera, who found that she now loved pot almost as much as Kristerella did, was high as a kite, singing and moving her paws oddly up and down on the stairs up to Kristerella’s room. She thought Jean-Luc was a toy, so she started to toss him and the key up in the air. The birds saw this, quickly realized what was going on, and somehow magically passed this information on to the horse, who with one loud whinny, magically passed the entire story written down here to the dog, who dashed into the manor, up the stairs, scared away Aguilera, grabbed Jean-Luc and the key in his jaws (instantly breaking Jean-Luc’s back and killing him) and delivered a slobbery key and a dead mouse under Kristerella’s door. She ran downstairs to show the Duke her broken slipper, but of course the evil stepmother tripped her, causing the slipper to fall to the floor and break into a thousand little pieces. Kristerella wiped the smug smirk off the evil stepmother’s face by producing the other slipper, identical dildo-heel and all, to the Duke.
Kristerella and the Prince lived happily ever after, until he moved her to a place later called Minneapolis, where he did nothing but write songs for his lute, and became so in love with himself that she dumped him. The stepsisters and stepmother became so lazy and despondent that they laid in bed all day, until an earthquake happened one day, further breaking down the decaying manor, and stirring up so much mouse piss and so many mouse droppings (from the vermin that Kristerella had used as partners in crime over the years), that they all contracted hantavirus and soon died horrible deaths. Bubba and Mandingo set up a pot-growing operation with “Mama Shoe” and married a couple of the daughters. Percy moved to Paris and became a huge success. Kristerella was last seen muttering to herself and walking through the American wilderness, for some reason heading towards the Pacific Northwest, still showing no emotion whatsoever.
Attention all you shiny folks from the ‘Verse! Today is the tenth anniversary of the first episode of the uber series that hardly was, FIREFLY. You don’t have to be a Joss Whedon fan to appreciate his dystopian western turned cult-classic.
For anyone who’s read my novella REAPERS WITH ISSUES and enjoyed the antics of a horseman named War, you may want to pay close attention to a character named Jayne Cobb.
Here’s a big thank you to a young uber fan-friend of mine for her awesome video below.
WEDNESDAY! WEDNESDAY! WEDNESDAY!
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! WITNESS THE SPECTACLE THAT IS DESTINED TO BE KNOWN AS THE DUEL OF THE CENTURY! WATCH IN AMAZEMENT AS BLOGWORLDS’ OWN LILY-LADEN LOTHARIO EDWARD HOTSPUR MATCHES WITS WITH THE ENIGMATIC CLOWN PRINCE HIMSELF- LE CLOWN IN A DUEL SO INTENSE IT’S SURE TO MAKE HAMILTON AND BURR LOOK LIKE A SLAP FIGHT!
BUT WAIT…THERE’S MORE!!!
WATCH AS TEAM EDWARD’S OWN LOVELY AND TALENTED GINGERSNAAP OF OHMYGODJUSTDOWHATISAY FAME, FLANKED BY THE VERY HANDSOME EL GUAPO FACE-OFF AGAINST LE CLOWN’S OWN WORDSMITH EXTRODINAIRES MADAME WEEBLES AND SPEAKER 7.
The winning topics:
- Furries (fetish), suggested by Carrie Rubin (16 votes);
- Group Sex in Retirement Adult Community, suggested by Rutabaga (10 votes);
- Protection Identities, suggested by The Ringmistress (9 votes).
The face-offs will be as follow:
- September 19 – Furries: Ginger Snaap VS Speaker7;
- September 20 – Protection Identities: El Guapo VS Madame Weebles;
- September 21 - Group Sex in Retirement Community: Edward VS Le Clown.
All posts written by Team Iron Gonads of Iron Fire will be published on Le Clown‘s blog; posts from Team Dachshund will be published on Edward‘s blog. Winners will be crowned by the amount of LIKES each post will get. So you, readers, will have the final say as to who’s this blogosphere’s force to be reckoned with.
TICKETS AVAILABLE FOR THE EPIC BATTLE ROYALE AT THE DOOR FOR A LIMITED TIME ONLY!!!
THEY’LL SELL YOU A SEAT BUT YOU’LL ONLY NEED THE EDGE….
I got this idea from fellow rockin’ chick Darlene at THE DAILY WOMAN. Make sure you check out her post which is witty and insightful as opposed to mine which is…well, you’ll see.
You know how you are absolutely certain that you are going to take off to New York and become a dancer/artist/photographer after high school? Or how you are NEVER going to get married or have children, ever? Well here’s some advice I’d like to give you from the future to make your impending reality bearable.
1. Get off your high horse and date a nerd. Trust me on this.
2. Start studying for the S.A.T.s NOW.
3. Yeah, don’t get attached to all the awesome. Or to your ass, because in twenty years it is going to expand into epic proportions.
4. Your English Lit teacher is NOT correct. What you write will not forever be considered, “the sub-moronic ramblings of a semi-functioning illiterate.”
5. Teenaged boys lie. Even the nice ones.
6. Don’t listen to your father.
7. No, your hair does NOT look cool like that.
8. George Michael is gay. Don’t waste your time.
9. What makes you popular at fifteen doesn’t mean shit when you’re forty. Grow a personality now.
10. DO NOT MARRY THE HOT ROMANIAN GUY BECAUSE HE LOOKS LIKE ONE OF THE LOST BOYS!!!!!
For more “Dear Me” letters visit CHATTING AT THE SKY.
I had planned to run a silly interview in support of my book REAPERS WITH ISSUES today that featured God and Jesus, but have since changed my mind. Because no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t find a way to write the interview that didn’t come off as offensive. This bothered me more than I had expected it to. For what it’s worth, here’s why.
I was raised in a strict Roman Catholic household that adhered to every dogmatic practice you’ve likely heard of. Naturally that formed some of the rebellious attitude I have adopted in my adult life. Despite all that oppression I did take away some of the good, namely the teachings of Jesus Christ.
Now, before you get all concerned that I am going to show up on your doorstep in a toga, let me explain. Throughout my childhood I was taught that Jesus was delivered to Earth by God because he felt mankind was drifting both morally and spiritually. I was taught that Jesus wanted everyone to love each other, to help each other and to practice tolerance. As I became an adult, I discovered that the name of God, and specifically Jesus, was used as a weapon of moral judgment by some against others. To me, this flies in the face of everything I was taught that Jesus stood for.
When I decided to write REAPERS I knew that I would have to face the obstacle of characterizing Jesus. I did some research and a lot of reading and came to the conclusion through what I’d found that Jesus was either portrayed as completely sinless or terribly flawed. Neither one of those polarized examples fit my image of Christ, so instead I went with “grown home-schooler.” I chose this defining character trait for Jesus because he sees only the good in others, and believes all humans are as capable of love and forgiveness as he is. He soon discovers in my book that he is very, very wrong.
The reason I’ve elected to revamp this post is because my dear friend and blogger (who shall remain anonymous until he gives me permission to update this post with his name) passed along some eloquent words on the topic of Gay Military marriage that I felt compelled to share. I believe his thoughts sum up why I was reluctant to post my tongue-in-cheek interview with the son of God. I am confident, however, that readers will be as moved by his words as I was.
“I’ve found that rational, sound thinking individuals aren’t threatened by gay marriage or gays in the military. It is people raised on fear and hatred and ashamed of themselves that have the most problem with any other person’s pride, confidence or overt contentment. I wonder how many people realize that the most decorated soldier of the Vietnam War was a gay man.
Being gay and being a good soldier, citizen, or person aren’t mutually exclusive, though the hate mongers make a point of grouping all gays in the same ranks as criminals, pedophiles, and the lower immoral elements of our society. That old saying that “no man is free until all men are free” isn’t just about slavery. The USA consistently touts its greatness and how we who live here are free. This society is no more free and egalitarian then those who actively subjugate their people and it is just as likely to force individuals to perform in ways that are detrimental to themselves as well as their fellow countrymen and women. If the Christian God is so busy protecting the people of America over any others on this planet, why is it our current situation as a country is so fucked up? Allowing same sex couples to have happiness is such a trivial issue it boggles the minds of sane people at how the issue has captured the minds and sick thinking of so many simpletons.
Just as Nazis found scapegoats among Jews, gypsies, intellectuals, and gays our country is now plagued with right wing extremists who strive to thrive by applying ugly pressures to those who are willing to question their radically bigoted agenda. An insidious virus has brainwashed a sizable amount of the American population to accept violence and bigotry as normal and believe that love is to be denied to any but the supposedly chosen.”
Today’s REAPER WITH ISSUES interview comes to you live from scenic downtown Hell, because today we sit down with none other than the Devil himself, Lucifer.
HE: Good morning, Lucifer. You look nice today.
LUCIFER: *runs hands over Italian silk suit* Yes, yes I do. And might I say that you look lovely as well. I cannot remember the last time I saw polyester blend worn so tastefully.
HE: *sighs* How was your trip to Earth? I noticed you didn’t travel by bus the way the Horsemen did.
LUCIFER: I will admit there are certain perks to being an Archangel. The ability to apparate is one of them.
HE: That’s right…I almost forgot. You are an Angel. So does that mean you are lacking in the… “meat department” or is that just a rumor?
LUCIFER: Let me be clear- I am an Archangel and as a rule we do not have “junk” as it were. Sadly, when my Father reassigned me to Hell he equipped me with said apparatus as a punishment. His plan worked beautifully, as this particular appendage is more work than it’s worth.
HE: You’ve stated that you were “reassigned” to Hell by your Father. Is there any truth to the rumor that this demotion came from a falling out over a woman?
LUCIFER: Oh how little birds love to chirp.
HE: So, I take it you aren’t going to answer the question?
LUCIFER: My lips are sealed.
HE: Alright, moving on. What confounds you most about mortals?
LUCIFER: Your overwhelming desire to know the sexual predilections of others. The mind boggles at the effort put toward investigating the bedroom habits of your would be politicians. These same politicians then refuse to represent the rights of their constituents based on their sexual predilections. How you mortals manage to accomplish anything is beyond my comprehension.
HE: On that note, if you were mortal, what job would you want to have?
LUCIFER: Literary Agent.
HE: No explanation necessary. Tell me, is it hard working for God?
LUCIFER: Working for my Father? Oh what to say, what to say… I suppose when inspected in the proper light the idea of working for God may seem appealing, but I haven’t found that to be necessarily true.
HE: Really? In what way?
LUCIFER: The man lacks vision, for starters. The first thing I would do if I were to take over Heaven is rewrite the Bible. Too many contradictions. No wonder mortals are confused as to what is expected of them.
HE: Rewrite the Bible. Interesting. So now tell me- what do you think of the Horsemen?
LUCIFER: Ugh. You want to talk about the ponies. *sighs* So be it. Where do I begin? Pestilence is an insufferable know it all, Famine is a stickler for standards, War is a sexual harassment lawsuit waiting to happen and Grim, well…Grim has his moments.
HE: Your dream date is?
LUCIFER: Bjork. There’s a lot of pent up hostility in that frigid little body. I’d love to melt her-
HE: Got it. Pick one- Beatles or Elvis?
LUCIFER: Why the Beatles, of course. The late great Mr. Lennon sent Jesus off the deep end with one simple statement. I’ve always admired him for that.
HE: Favorite sports team?
LUCIFER: I am sad to say that I am a former fan of Tampa Bay Rays baseball. They disappointed me a few years ago. I haven’t forgotten.
HE: Where do you see yourself in five years?
LUCIFER: North Korea.
HE: What would mortals be most surprised to learn about you?
LUCIFER: I refute the claim the a fore mentioned politicians have made that I, indeed, am the entity to blame for their succumbing to their baser instincts. No such whispering into ears was committed by me or any of my demon henchmen. We simply do not have the time.
That concludes our interview with the Lord of the Underworld, Lucifer. Stay tuned tomorrow for back to back interviews with God and his golden boy, Jesus!
WE INTERRUPT OUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED INTERVIEWS WITH BREAKING NEWS:
Today marks the 46th anniversary of the airing of the first episode of Star Trek!
As some of you may know, I’ve been introduced to the world of SciFi, and more importantly, to Star Trek fandom. As a Red Sox fan myself, I respect and appreciate the dedication fans have to their chosen genre and television series. More than that, I applaud the voracity with which they defend their beloved Star Trek to Star Wars fans everywhere (Yankees, anyone?).
Although still somewhat new to the genre, I have grown to understand the subtle nuances between different franchises. For example, I prefer Star Trek over Star Wars simply because they have more people and less creatures. This blends perfectly with my abhorrence of animals. And let’s face it- James T. Kirk got more celestial tail than Han Solo ever knew existed. If I were Chewbacca I’d have jumped ship and joined up with Scotty on the Enterprise in a nanosecond (how’s that for some nerd speak?). And if we’re talking Star Captains, how can you beat Jean Luc Picard? Even space villains can’t help but take a bald man seriously.
Despite the fact that I won’t be writing SciFi anytime soon (REAPERS WITH ISSUES is about as close to SciFi as I get), I have come to enjoy reading it. For those of you who have yet to join the genre bandwagon I would suggest starting with Robert A. Heinlein’s STARSHIP TROOPERS. Put aside some time with this one people- once you read the opening you cannot put it down.
Another great author to both the genre and the series is our own Dayton Ward, who combines his writing prowess with his Trekkie fandom and pens some of the best SciFi reads out there. STAR TREK – VANGUARD is a good place to start. Keep an eye out for up and coming writer Tom Elias as well. I see good things in his future.
Then there are the super fans in the form of bloggers who rally their support in posts. Our good friend from the Great White North Sightsnbytes has a hilarious take on the series that will leave you in stitches, and of course the enigmatic Edward Hotspur who turns the genre upside down in his series STARSHIP INNERTHIGHS.
As for my experience with the genre, you can follow my journey here:
WAR: Freakin’ awesome! I missed the bus transfer in Purgatory, so I had to walk a some, but then this carful of female rodeo clowns gave me a ride in. Say…do I have white makeup anywhere fun?
HE: *struggling not to look* What confounds you most about mortals?
WAR: Uh…nothin’. Well, I guess sometimes I wonder why they go and hack and bludgeon the shit outta one another. Y’all are so fucking good at it, I almost don’t need to try.
HE: Where is your favorite place to reap?
WAR: Battlefields, hands-down, and the bloodier the better. Your inner cities aren’t bad these days either, on a small scale.
HE: If you were mortal, what job would you want to have?
WAR: Shoot, do we have time for my list? Porn star – that’s an obvious one. I was thinkin’ doctor since I ain’t scared a blood. But the good kinda doctor like one of them Gyno…cogo-ologists, you know, the kind that looks at lady parts. Not one of them human butthole doctors. That shit ain’t right. I was also thinking a vet might be awesome but only because I think the idea of having your entire arm up an elephant’s ass is fucking hilarious… [actually rolls on floor laughing]
HE: Has a mortal ever escaped you?
WAR: Just one. Fucking Lazarus. I’ve had some reclassified out of my reach, like Caesar. He got too big for his Rubicon-wading britches, so he got moved from my domain over to Grim’s. Same with Napoleon, that little Frog pantywaist. You might think Saddam Hussein escaped me by livin’ all up in his own asshole there, but in the end, that was MY noose.
HE: What’s the most negative aspect of wearing a meat suit?
WAR: There ain’t no downside, Sugar Britches (winks). Uh, they’re kind of fragile. Do you know how fucking painful bending your boner is? [shudders] Maybe the random need to back out a stinker.
HE: Is it hard working for God?
WAR: Fuck yes! Think about it: “Now War, you’re supposed to go and reap souls lost to conflict… but don’t be too messy… and don’t break shit… and don’t be too noisy, I’m resting… and that blood will stain, so don’t get it on you!” Seriously, I’d rather be married to a Human woman with control issues.
HE: Is Lucifer as bad as they say?
WAR: Lucifer is a card-carrying dickwad. If he weren’t one of them special creations of God, I’dve pummeled the piss out of his silk-suit-wearing panzie ass millennia ago. What I hate about Lu is that he won’t just come out and fuck with you like a man. He’s got to be all passive-aggressive and shit, so you’re just cruising along thinking the everything is cool and BAM! You’re asking yourself, “Hey, how’d this dick get all the way up my ass?”
HE: What do you have to say about the Mayans?
WAR: Oooooh! Those are so good with cheese! Or fried! I once had them barbecued and then smothered with pilates. Fuck, I’m hungry. Is there a taco place close?
HE: Your dream date is?
WAR: You. Those puppies real?
HE: [ahem] Can you just answer the question?
WAR: Guess I shoulda worn the tattooed rocker meatsuit. I’ll say my dream date was Catherine the Great. You think that story about her dying underneath her horse was true? The only thing close to being horse-like in that rumor was my epic fuckin’ …
HE: Alright, alright, moving on. Beatles or Elvis?
WAR: Fuck that hippy shit. I’m straight up old school metal dude, er, dudette. I do my best reapin’ to Disturbed. They ain’t metal but I love that shit. Makes me want to go hack something with a dull blade. Or bone them in half…
HE: Favorite sports team?
WAR: You know the Mongols used to have this brutal sport played on horseback… I don’t know. I have to admire teams that suck ass but have loyal fans. The Red Sox come to mind. I hang out with fans mainly for the fun, and of course cheerleaders.
HE: Where do you see yourself in five years?
WAR: Kicking ass and taking names, baby. Humans are always coming up with new reasons to go schwack each other, and yours truly will be there to enjoy the fuckery.
HE: What would mortals be most surprised to learn about you?
WAR: I have a sensitive side… no shit. One time, I was out reaping and there was this little kid who got shot. So I was all, like, “Aww, that’s sad,” and then I jerked his little soul out – *ssschwaap* – just like that. Sensitive an’ shit.
This concludes our sit down with War, the last of our interviews with The Four Horsemen. Stay tuned tomorrow for our exclusive on site interview in Hell with the ever stylish, ever evil, Lucifer. Then we’ll round out our weekend with an interview with the Big Man himself, God and his favorite son, Jesus! Stay tuned…
PEST: Good morning, Miss Ellis. Considering I had to get a bus transfer, it wasn’t bad. Once you make the transdimensional leap from Purgatory to the mortal realm several times, it’s old-hat. Little known fact: Purgatory started as a sort of safe zone for travel from Earth to and from either Heaven or Hell. It’s a sort of pressurization chamber, like divers use.
HE: What confounds you most about mortals?
PEST: Body odor [makes face]. I have no idea how God managed to create Humans in his image yet chose to have them excrete smelly substances. And this is coming from me, the Bacteria and Virus King. Eew [shudders].
HE: Where is your favorite place to reap?
PEST: Tropical climates are by far the best for reaping within my domain. I mean really, I almost don’t have to do anything except follow the molds and fungi around and pick up after them.
HE: If you were mortal, what job would you want to have?
PEST: Oh, I don’t know. I’m not sure I could be mortal and sit in my own cloud of stench all day. In fact I need a shower now. But I’ll be fair and answer your question. I guess perhaps a lab technician at the CDC. That or a postal worker.
HE: Has a mortal ever escaped you?
PEST: Yes and fiddlesticks! Those Humans are so goshdarned clever that sometimes I think they’d do a better job than I would at reaping a la Pestilence. Do you know why viruses mutate? [waits for answer]
HE: Oh, you’re actually asking me [rolls eyes] – why do viruses mutate?
PEST: They mutate because I’m constantly having to make new strains to keep ahead of your best efforts to counter me.
HE: What’s the most negative aspect of wearing a meat suit?
PEST: Body odor. I’m sorry, am I obsessive here? A little Freudy-Doidy? Haaa ha hah ha… ahem. But seriously, body odor. I also tend to be very disturbed by no-reason boners.
HE: Is it hard working for God?
PEST: I’d like to say yes, and I’d like to say no. The sad truth is, he tends to come up with awesome creations but then inserts middle managers between him and his creation when he finds it too difficult to manage. So for in-the-trenches marks of performance, I have to give him an ‘F.’ However, for his strategic vision, nobody beats him.
HE: Is Lucifer as bad as they say?
PEST: He’s a doodie head. He does wear nice clothes though.
HE: What do you have to say about the Mayans?
PEST: I’d say they were pretty susceptible to infection just like everyone else.
HE: Your dream date is?
PEST: Hmm… so many to choose from. I think the day the Black Death started in Europe has to be number one, and the Spanish Flu thing there I did wasn’t bad either…
What? Oh THAT kind of date… uhm, well… I’ve never been on a date [hangs head].
HE: Beatles or Elvis?
PEST: Oh, I’m sorry. Neither? Okay, truth is I love classical music. You Humans got that right. I like most of what your composers created, and I am particularly taken by the Baroque artists. Rock and roll sounds like… sweaty Humans.
HE: Favorite sports team?
PEST: I’m not really into sports so much. I like watching Kasparov play chess – now that is exciting!
HE: Where do you see yourself in five years?
PEST: Reaping, of course, but can I sort of qualify that? Okay. I want to be better at what I do in five years, you know. Like perhaps I’ll make a better form of Ebola. It just kills me that after all that time and effort, that virus is only about 95% lethal. I think I can get it up into the high 98% range. Sometimes I secretly dream of creating some whole new type of pandemic… I mean, there’s bacteria and there are viruses… what if there was a whole new thing out there. I have dreams too!
HE: What would mortals be most surprised to learn about you?
PEST: I like to collect stamps, and macramé.
Thanks for stopping by and visiting with the Reaper better known as Pestilence. Tune in tomorrow when we sit down with everyone’s favorite Horseman, War. Stick around this weekend when we’ll be sitting down to chat with some of the upper (and lower) members of the Office of Heavenly Affairs. Until then, stay well and avoid the Reaper!
FAMINE: You assume I left, ha, that’s… that’s funny. I haven’t gotten away from Earth in what seems like eons. Just when I think I might get away, some jack-hole gets me involved in another bunch of crap that I can’t delegate out and I can’t pass on higher up the chain. Story of my fucking life… uh, death… existence.
HE: What confounds you most about mortals?
FAMINE: Toy dogs. Fucking ‘Toy’ dog breeds. The women and gay guys carrying these things around are the same ones freaking out and jumping up on chairs when they see rats and mice. What the hell, man? And cocaine. Why the hell would anyone want to do ANYTHING faster and with more sweating?
HE: Where is your favorite place to reap?
FAMINE: Depends, easiest or most fun? Easiest: L.A. Just ask a broad if she’s expecting or if she just had a baby, *BAM*, job is done for you! Not only will she stop eating, she’ll puke up Thanksgiving dinner from three years ago! Most fun? Suburbs of Atlanta. Have you ever watched a 350 pound guy looking at a plate of ribs or chicken and waffles and suddenly realize he isn’t hungry? Funny as shit! They get mad. Rumplestiltskin mad. I could do that all day!
HE: If you were mortal, what job would you want to have?
FAMINE: Sales associate at Abercrombie. Every time some skinny bitch walked out of the dressing room I could say, “Uhm, Honey, you want me to get you the next size up?” I think I could be pretty happy with that.
HE: Has a mortal ever escaped you?
FAMINE: Victoria Beckham. But the game ain’t over yet.
HE: What’s the most negative aspect of wearing a meat suit?
FAMINE: Grooming. I mean, the showering, the cleaning, the de-stinking. Really a lot of work.
HE: Is it hard working for God?
FAMINE: A boss is a boss is a boss, you know? They give you bottom lines and you’re just supposed to run with them. My budget barely not-feeds the westernized world! Don’t get me started on trying to juggle maternity leave rotations for those slutty Succubi!
HE: Is Lucifer as bad as they say?
FAMINE: No. We get each other. He’s got a job to do, he’s got to get it done on time and under budget just like the rest of us.
HE: What do you have to say about the Mayans?
FAMINE: Fucking nutty. I mean, I like a good party, but, to quote a well known space cowboy, “Eating people alive? Where’s that get fun?”
HE: Your dream date is?
FAMINE: Tina Majorino. Freaking adorable, I love her. She’d finally notice me, in the bushes, with the camera and be all like, “Hey! Are you the one sending me those letters? You wanna hit the Olive Garden with me?”. And I’d be like, “Olive Garden? Really?”. And there would be this split second of us looking at each other and we’d both screech out “UNLIMITED BREAD STICKS, SUCKER!” It would be awesome, you know? Magic…
HE: Beatles or Elvis?
FAMINE: Uhg. Uhm, Elvis, if I had to choose. If I got to pick, Cheap Trick. I’ll take Elvis because Zander kicked ass on Don’t Be Cruel. Why always Beatles or Elvis? Beatles or Stones? What about The Clash or Abba? Iron Maiden or Prince?
HE: Favorite sports team?
FAMINE: The Eagles.
HE: Where do you see yourself in five years?
FAMINE: Probably doing the same fucking job, but with a three and a half percent increase in pay, those cheap mother-fuckers…
HE: What would mortals be most surprised to learn about you?
FAMINE: Hmm. Not sure… Oh! Okay, I got one! No one ever believes me, but I had nothing to do with Karen Carpenter. Seriously, that was all just fucked up psyche and shit. Hell, do you have any idea what I went through over that? Jesus loved her. I swear, that’s the reason I haven’t even been considered for a promotion! Hell! I was sending her fruitcakes and candy grams just to save my own ass! And I do I ever get the credit for Mama Cass?
That concludes our interview with the Horsemen known as Famine. Tune in tomorrow when we sit down with Creeping Death himself, Pestilence, followed by War on Thursday and a special mystery guest on Friday. We round out the weekend with back to back interviews with the Big Man himself, God on Saturday and a one on one exclusive with Jesus on Sunday. Stay tuned!
The enigmatic Tom Elias has insisted on doing an interview with me, of all people, in tandem with the release of our book, REAPERS WITH ISSUES. I’ll warn you, this interview is not one of the usual freaktastic Adventures in Bloggerland that I usually like to take. For once I decided to act like a grown-up and answer his questions like a professional. But never fear, because tomorrow my blog returns to its regularly scheduled blog absurdity with an INTERVIEW WITH THE GRIM REAPER.
1. Your first book, Gods of Asphalt, was told in a First Person format. How difficult was it to shift into Third Person to pen Reapers With Issues, and what was your motivation to do this?
Switching gears was extremely difficult, which is the reason why I did it. I attempted to write GODS OF ASPHALT – BOOK TWO in the third person but struggled to make progress since I’d never tackled that POV before. I had also planned on writing REAPERS in the third-person because as much as the story is about the Grim Reaper, I was committed to the idea that it should revolve around the odd cast of characters. I suppose in the end I decided it would be better to write REAPERS first since it is a novella and I could use the practice before tackling the novel that is to be GOA2.
2. You’re a self-described 40-something mother of three. What techniques do you use when crafting your writing day to day that keeps you so well focused on the plot and storyline?
I find it difficult to focus on anything in my day to day life whether I write or not, so I whenever I do I put on my headphones and listen to music. It’s why GODS OF ASPHALT has its own soundtrack written into it. I listened to a lot of Wagner, Mussorgsky and Metallica while I wrote REAPERS.
Another thing I like to do is to carry a Sharpie around with me wherever I go. As soon as I am out and about an idea will hit me that I need to jot down quickly, so I write it on my forearm. I will just misplace scrap paper so I don’t bother bringing any. I’ve tried texting myself, but most of the walks I take are deep into the New Hampshire forests, and I rarely get cell reception there. Not to mention that I am a Gen X’er, so the art of texting is lost on me.
3. Many readers will probably be offended by the Reapers Series. What is your message behind the irreverence?
I never doubted I would write REAPERS, but I did debate over whether or not I would publish it. I was afraid that if people only read snippets or heard what it was about they might think that I set out to slam Christianity, namely Jesus. Nothing could be further from the truth. I took great care in portraying Jesus as who he was purported to be- kind, compassionate, and tolerant. It’s the rest of the world who uses his good name to lend credence to their own sinning. REAPERS blasts the Hell out of those people, and I couldn’t care less how they feel about it.
Another misgiving I had was that REAPERS WITH ISSUES is as close to a written manifestation of my sense of humor as you could possibly get. Since I don’t take myself too seriously, I am hoping readers don’t find anything remotely serious about my book or the message behind it.
4. You favor using dialogue over exposition to advance your stories. What makes this your favored technique and what do you feel you sacrifice?
I am an extrovert, so I find comfort and familiarity in the voices of others. I do live in my head at times, but when I do I am always eager to share what goes on in there with others, whether they want to know about it or not. Case in point, REAPERS WITH ISSUES.
I suppose what suffers most is either action or plot. Maybe both. The largest obstacle I face when I write is ensuring that my books are more than just a bunch of comedy skits strung together.
5. What is the most challenging aspect of the mechanics of writing for you, and how do you overcome it?
DIALOGUE TAGS!!!! I hate them with every fiber of my being. If I thought for a moment that I could get away with writing a novel that existed as nothing more than an overheard telephone conversation I’d be the happiest little writer in the world.
The other obstacle of mechanics I faced with REAPERS was writing an inverse of what I normally consider my comfort zone. As anyone who has read my blog will tell you; I am a writer who takes something commonplace and mocks it, pointing out the hidden absurd. What I worked to accomplish in REAPERS was to take something fantastic, and transform it into something that resembled the everyday in order to make it absurd. To quote my cohort Tom Elias, “That’s about as natural as a quarterback throwing off his back foot.”
6. There is art and science involved in writing. What is your favorite aspect of writing in the context of its art?
As a writer in the twenty-first century, it is impossible to come up with anything new, plot-wise. That leaves us with the challenge of conceiving of something new. All any writer can do is take a spent storyline and put a new spin on it to make it their own. If a writer can bring their own perspective to their writing they will create something no one has ever read before.
7. Ten years from now, what is H.E. Ellis writing?
Children’s books. I find that the older I get, the more enamored I become with all things innocent. I’m slowly beginning to abandon the angst of teendom while I am fast embracing the playground. Yes, I am a literary Benjamin Button. Although I imagine I will always take time out to write something completely out there like REAPERS WITH ISSUES, because if I have to know about it, then so do all of you.
The story behind my Super Secret Project begins like any good story begins; with lobster and beer. Or as they say in Portland, Maine where my good friend and partner in crime Tom Elias lives, “Lobstah and a rack a pounders.”
It was during this fateful drunken weekend spent at his beach house with my best friend Quinn and the infamous HR Nightmare that my latest writing project was born. That project, ladies and gentlemen, is a four novella collaborative series entitled:
YEAR: 2012, mainly
POPULATION: 7 billion Human souls and counting…
From Purgatory –
The Grim Reaper and other three Horsemen of the Apocalypse are stretched to their limits reaping souls, and more drop dead every day. With his department near the breaking point, Grim requests a team of five thousand Lesser Angels to serve as Deputy Reapers.
To Hell –
Lucifer is faced with overcrowded prisons and work camps. He petitions the Board for permission to break ground on the 667th level of Hell.
To Heaven –
Gabriel, president of the Board of Archangels, denies both requests, citing budget restrictions. Grim, determined to get what he wants, goes over the Board to the Office of Heavenly Affairs, otherwise known as God. God denies Grim’s request but assigns a Heavenly Liaison to assist Grim, a liaison with a singular solution to the issues facing both Grim and Lucifer.
And back again -
The liaison’s name: Jesus.
REAPERS WITH ISSUES is the first in a four book novella series that chronicles the Grim Reaper’s struggles in middle-management. Click on Grim at the end of this post to visit our companion blog to learn more about the authors and the sequels to be released over the next few months. Don’t forget to sign Grim’s “Death Book” before leaving.
This series is meant to poke good-natured fun at the topics of Chrisitanity, homosexuality, recreational drug abuse and office politics. If you are at all easily offended, we, the authors, will not be offended if you choose not to read our work. Please do not chuck hate bricks through our windows.
Please to enjoy the following opening of Reapers With Issues:
REAPERS WITH ISSUES
Death killed time rereading God’s memo while he waited for his dealer to show. Semi-baked, he decided, would be the condition necessary to inform his staff that their department would not be receiving the help they so desperately needed and that someone else, an outsider, would be put in place to oversee their operation. As far as Heaven and the Archangels were concerned, the Horsemen were officially on their own.
There had been a time when Death, Grim to those who knew him, could singlehandedly reap his entire department’s quota of souls and still have time left over to indulge in some high quality herbal recreation. The reality of reaping a population closing in on seven billion left Grim no choice but to seek his recreation locally. It didn’t take long for him to discover that local weed, like local Purgatory, was mediocre at best.
Lack of free time and quality pot were merely symptoms of a larger, growing problem. Reaping while short-staffed had robbed his Horsemen of any kind of life outside of the job, and lately Grim had noticed cracks beginning to show.
Pestilence developed a nasty habit of calling in sick with a new exotic illness at least once a week, and an incident over a cage dancer forced War into court-ordered anger management classes. Only Famine had been able to withstand the pressures of the job, although Grim did notice that he’d been shedding copious amounts of hair lately.
It was on behalf of his Horsemen that Grim requisitioned the Archangel Board to reassign five thousand Angels to his department for Reaping duty. A requisition that Gabriel, Head of the Archangel Board, repeatedly denied. Grim’s decision to go over the Board’s head to the office of Heavenly Affairs yielded nothing but a Heavenly Liaison, and God only knew who the Hell that was.
Unable to make sense of God’s decree, Grim stuffed the memo back into his pocket as he scoped out his surroundings which were, at the moment, in the alleyway behind his office building and the home of the Office of Human Death (OHD for short).
Talk about shitting where you eat, Grim thought to himself as he checked for souls milling about. The last thing he needed was for word to get out that the once great Reaper of Death had been reduced to buying sub-par pot behind his office building in the lamest ‘burb of the Universe.
Paranoia getting the better of him, he walked to the end of the alleyway which emptied into Purgatory’s corporate district, a massive office complex comprised of row after row of generic steel buildings, each one an exact replica of the one that came before.
Finding no one, Grim laughed to himself. Total waste of time, he thought. He couldn’t remember the last time anything bad happened in Purgatory. Then again, he couldn’t remember the last time anything good did, either.
Just the same, Grim thought it best to cloak himself in a human disguise, namely the dead body that until an hour ago belonged to the organic hemp farmer that was his latest reaping assignment. “Meat suits,” as the Horsemen liked to call them, were a necessary evil now that the Archangel Board cut the OHD’s travel expense budget, forcing Grim and his staff to reap by bus instead of horse. All it took was one bad road trip on a bus bound for Newark to make him rethink wearing his cloak while on assignment. Mortals, he discovered, were a lot faster and stronger than they looked.
Grim listened as the clock tower in Purgatory Square chimed one o’clock. Pedro, his dealer, was late. Out of both time and patience, Grim walked back to the rear entrance of the OHD just as the door swung open.
“Jesus Christ, Pedro!” Grim shouted. “Scare me to death why don’t you?”
Pedro stepped out into the alleyway, his eyes darting up and down the length of it. “How’d I scare you?” Pedro asked. “You’re the one in the Jesus suit.”
“Jesus? Really?” Grim asked as he smoothed down the late farmer’s long, sandy locks. “I kinda thought he looked like Clapton.”
“Clapton or not that’s some scary shit, man,” Pedro said, looking Grim up and down. “Someone said they saw Jesus walking around here this morning. You know he’d tell my Pops if he caught me dealing again. My old man believes every word that fool says.”
Though he may have been known throughout the Universe as Saint Peter Junior, “Pedro” earned a reputation in underground circles as the prime procurer of black market merchandise. It didn’t hurt that having a Father who manned the Gates of Heaven gave him access to all the best incoming contraband.
“I don’t know what to tell you, kid. Apostles die hard. Now are we going to do this thing or not?” Grim asked, hoping to get back to work before he was missed.
Pedro stepped away from Grim, eying him suspiciously. “First tell me why you’re wearin’ a mortal in Bland Land. You ain’t reaping.”
Grim pointed to his chest and said, “Lungs.”
“Ah…makes sense,” Pedro said, relieved.
Lungs and pockets were two of the three attachments Grim thought made wearing a mortal’s meat suit bearable. The third attachment he hoped to utilize later on that night.
“Are you serious about Jesus being here in Purgatory?” Grim asked, peering over his shoulder. “Because he is the last person I need to deal with right now.”
“Hey man, all I know is what I heard,” Pedro said. “Why? You gonna kick his ass? Let me know now and I’ll give you odds.”
“Thanks, but no thanks. I’ve had enough run-ins with Skippy Christ to last an eternity,” Grim said, remembering a certain spring day two-thousand years ago that didn’t end well for either of them.
“Skippy Christ,” Pedro chuckled. “I’ll have to remember that one.” Once he was sure they were alone Pedro opened his robe, pulled out a baggie and handed it to Grim. “This stuff’s fresh from Mexico. Lucky for you my old man doesn’t shake down nuns. Mother Superior came in loaded.”
“I guess this is my lucky day after all,” Grim said as he dug the farmer’s wallet out of his back pocket. “How much for the bag?”
“For you? One-fifty. Cash.”
“One-fifty?” Grim asked as he thumbed through the thin wallet. “What can I get for…sixty-five dollars and a condom?”
“Sixty-five’ll get ya’ an ounce.”
“An ounce? That’s it? You do know I’m Death, right?” Grim punctuated his question by slashing the air with an invisible scythe.
Pedro laughed. “Yeah, you keep swinging,” he said. “Everyone knows you work a pen better than a blade now a days.”
“Is that so?” Grim asked, knowing all too well it was.
“Oh yeah it is,” Pedro snickered. “Hey, I got an idea- how ‘bout you write me up? Oh man, I can see it now, ‘Dear God, Pedro wouldn’t cut me a deal on weed, the stingy pendejo. Kisses, Death.’” Pedro doubled over laughing while Grim stood there and seethed.
“Just give me the ounce and shut your piehole,” Grim said, finally.
Struggling to catch his breath, Pedro handed Grim the entire bag. “Throw in the rubber and the bag’s yours. I’m heading down to Lucifer’s club tonight. I’ll put it to good use.”
Grim’s eyes flew open wide. “Are you shitting me? Lucifer’s got a club now?”
“Hell yeah, he does,” Pedro answered.
“Of course…” Grim said in a sigh.
Ever since God in his infinite wisdom promoted Gabriel to President of the Archangel Board, Grim’s budget had been sent to Hell, literally. While he and his Horsemen had to make due with meat suits and bus passes; Lucifer and his crew of demons enjoyed a new office complex with an onsite gym and spa, and apparently now, a club.
Nepotism ad infinitum.
“Hey man, you should come check it out,” Pedro said as pocketed the condom. “Music sucks but the women are hot. Bring a rubber or your pecker’ll burn like Hell for a week.” Pedro dug deep under his robe and scratched.
Grim opened the bag and inhaled. “Kid, if this shit smokes up as good as it smells I’m not going anywhere.”
“Well let’s find out,” Pedro said as he pulled out a lighter and let Grim sample the merchandise.
Grim took a hit and quickly put his lungs to work. In no time the smoke made its way to his brain, filling cracks that had become chasms created by supervisors with agendas and employees with complaints and a Universe dependent on him to hold shit together. Grim took another hit and released the stress of his middle-management Hell along with the sweet smoke he blew out in a slow, steady stream from his lungs. For one perfect moment, Death was happy.
A snapping sound by his ear pulled him back to reality.
“Hey, wake up. You’re vibrating,” Pedro said, pointing to Grim’s hip.
Grim reached down to his pager and saw that he had a message from his secretary. His absence had been noted. Grim paid Pedro in cash as promised, making a mental note to start reaping in more affluent neighborhoods in the future. “Let me know the next time you get another haul like this one,” Grim said, regaining focus.
“Hey no problem. I’ll even cut you a deal if you hook me up with your secretary. That is one fine lookin’ chica.”
“Fran? Sorry kid, but you’re not her type.”
Pedro rubbed his ample belly and asked, “Oh yeah? What’s her type, then?”
Grim stepped through the door and said, “Bony,” just as it closed behind him.
Another urgent page from Fran rolled in as Grim tore down the vacant hallway that led to his basement office. Stopping at the janitor’s closet, Grim pulled the memo from his pocket and then removed his meat suit, swapping it with the cloak he’d stashed there earlier.
Officially in uniform, Grim took a minute to compose himself before he opened the door to his office. Though he knew for a fact he was in Purgatory, Grim couldn’t shake the feeling that he was about to open the door to Hell.