For those of you who just can’t get enough of the holiday spirit, consider purchasing the collaborative blogger eBook:
ICONIC INTERVIEWS - The world’s most beloved holiday icons presented in a collection of irreverent interviews that take on the backstory of their imagined existences.
Your favorite bloggers are interviewed as iconic holiday characters, each one zanier than the next. All proceeds from the purchase of this book are donated to the bloggers collective project known as Wrists Around The World. For a free copy of this eBook as well as additional works from H.E. Ellis visit: www.wristsaroundtheworld.com
AVAILABLE IN EBOOK FORMAT THROUGH SMASHWORDS
AVAILABLE IN EBOOK FORMAT THROUGH AMAZON
AVAILABLE IN PAPERBACK THROUGH AMAZON
I’D LIKE TO THANK THE FOLLOWING BLOGGERS FOR THEIR GENEROUS CONTRIBUTION:
BrainRants as Santa Claus, Mrs. Claus and Lipschitz the Elf
THANK YOU ALL AND MERRY CHRISTMAS!
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?
Once upon a time (because this a time-honored way of beginning fairy tales), there was a swan, and she was pregnant. She didn’t want to be, because she wasn’t in love with her swan boyfriend, and the egg made her fat and almost totally ruined her bitchin’ prom dress. So after she laid the egg in the bathroom of the Sheraton that her high school had rented, she scooped it up and snuck outside, making tracks for the hospital a couple blocks away.
She’d managed to fit the egg inside her clutch, so no one at the hospital knew what she carried up to the second floor, the neo-egg unit. She also managed to sneak into the nesting room and stick the egg in one of the cribs. Birds aren’t very good at security.
They’re also not very good at math, because none of the nurses noticed that where once there was one egg, now there were two. Luckily for them, the mother was a duck, which meant that she was stupid.
The mother and father duck went home the next day with their two new additions, and the mother duck sat on the eggs until they hatched. The hatching day was a big deal in the duck household. There was cake, and soda, and balloons, and cousins and uncles. When the eggs cracked open, everyone gathered around the nest to watch. The duck, the real duck, emerged from his egg first.
“Aww, he’s so cute,” said some distant aunt. No one really knew who she was related to. She smelled like moth balls, though.
Next was the swan.
“Holy shit,” said the distant aunt, “He’s fucking ugly!” And even though no one was sure if she was supposed to be there, or if she’d wandered in off the street, everyone agreed with her. That second duckling was fugly. Seriously, have you ever seen a baby swan? Bow-wow City.
The swan grew up thinking he was a duck, and he was constantly tormented. At school, he was pushed into lockers. His lunch money was stolen. His head was dunked in every toilet in the school. Ducks made gagging noises when he walked by. No duck chick would date him.
At home, his parents ignored him and doted on his duck brother. This brother was the duck version of David Beckham. When he entered a room, angels sang. Little old ladies helped him cross the street. Even blind ducks knew how good-looking he was.
In a situation like this, it can go two ways: the ugly duckling (even though we all know he’s a swan, let’s stick with this for the time being, hmm?) can rise above his tormentors and graduate and go to college, where things might not necessarily improve, but maybe he’ll turn out to be a whiz with computers and get wicked rich, or he can go on a shooting spree at his school and make the papers.
It went the third way: the ugly duckling decided to cut off his brother’s face, wear it, and take over his identity.
Did I mention that ducks were stupid? Well, swans are fuckin’ crazy. Like Mexican cartel crazy.
One day, the ugly duckling stole a scalpel from his science class. That night, he slipped some sleeping pills into his brother’s milk and waited until sleepy times. Then he cut off his brother’s face. Bill and all. He spent the rest of the night cleaning up the blood and figuring out a good way to attach it to his own vile mug. There wasn’t one. He ended up stapling it on. Then he dressed in his brother’s clothes and ate breakfast looking like Duck Leatherface and his parents had no clue. Ducks are so stupid.
Fortunately, most of his teachers were geese. Geese are very smart. They let him go to his first period class, then called him to the principal’s office, where the police were waiting. The cops were also geese.
His lawyer was a goose, too, and once he got a look at the duckling’s real face, he knew he was dealing with a swan. He also knew that all he needed to do was file a bunch of legal papers and get the trial delayed a few months. Because, you see, teenage swans are butt-ugly, but young adult swans are like David Beckham times a thousand.
And thusly, once the trial finally started, the judge and jury and all the court people saw this gorgeous swan waddle into the courtroom. The judge (a duck) was confused. He wanted to know where the filthy psychopath was.
The lawyer, not missing a beat, said that the psycho duckling had escaped, and this poor beautiful swan had been imprisoned in his place. Injustice! cried the jury (also ducks). So they let the swan go, and a manhunt (duckhunt?) was launched for the psycho duckling. They never found him, of course. But a lot of unattractive ducks suffered some vigilante justice.
And the swan, meanwhile, started a new life, but because he was a swan, and therefore mentally unstable, it wasn’t too long before he strapped a few homemade bombs to his torso and waddled into his old high school. He blew himself sky-high and died a virgin.
As a kid growing up I had lots of crushes on boys and sometimes men, most of them actors on television. One of the earliest crushes I had was on a certain Latin actor named Erik Estrada, better known as Officer Francis “Ponch” Poncherello on a little show called CHiPs.
Anyway, what I remember most about that time were my prepubescent fantasies of a chance romantic encounter with Senor Estrada. Seeing that he is Puerto Rican, I had always imagined learning to speak Spanish in order to impress him when we finally met. I envisioned a mall scenario where my bilingual ability would impress him enough to set me apart from all the other adoring fans. Enough for him to invite me into his van (Note to all you youngsters out there- all sexy guys in the 80′s had vans. And mustaches, but that’s another blog post). So for my weekly offering to Romantic Monday I bring you:
AN ODE TO ERIK ESTRADA
I stand in a line that stretches the length of the mall, sipping my Orange Julius, waiting patiently for the Latin object of my preteen desire to sign my copy of Dynamite Magazine. I size up the competition standing between me and my love while I wait. I count ten blonde heads in all.
They must have known someone to get in line in front of me, I tell myself in consolation. I’ve been here since five a.m. goddamn it. No one loves Erik Estrada more than I do.
I do little to hide my glee as I watch girl after eager girl dismissed with an autograph but without a second glance. Little by little I inch closer to the man who I am convinced will someday make me his bride. Anticipating a kiss, I pop a stick of Zebra Stripe gum into my mouth as I wait patiently for him to notice me.
Finally I reach him- sitting behind a table, his glorious dark hair feathered just so. My heart races as I pass him my magazine, intentionally brushing my hand against his as I do. He doesn’t look up as I ask for his autograph, and I can tell he thinks I am just another groupie only interested in the celebrity that surrounds him.
Oh Erik, my love, I am determined to prove you wrong!
He heaves a heavy sigh as he scribbles his name and without looking up says, “Is this it?”
He slowly raises his eyes to meet mine and we stare deep into each others eyes for what seems like forever…the two of us locked in a gaze of pure intimacy.
“You speak Spanish?” he finally asks, clearly impressed with my dedication to learning all that I can about him.
I answer clearly. “Si.”
In an instant he’s up and around the table. He grabs my hand and pulls me quickly through the crowd of jealous teenage rejects to the exit doors that empty into the alley behind the mall. There awaits a van, his van, the site of my soon-to-be epic deflowering.
He slides the door open and hops in, reaching a hand out to pull me inside. Once I’m in he slides the door closed and tells me to make myself comfortable. I lay down on a purple silk bed built into the rear of the van while he twists the cap off a wine cooler and then pushes play on a cassette tape. David Bowie’s China Girl pours out of the speakers as he hands me my Bartles & James and says, “I want you to be my only Chica…”
My voice trembles as I say, “Si.”
He takes the drink from my hand and sets it down before he pulls me in close to him. The intoxicating scent of Aqua Velva mingled with Latin machismo emanates from his skin leaving me dizzy and breathless. He breathes in deep my own scent of Jean Nate and teenage lust as his hands move slowly to my back, working their way under my shirt. My skin is soft to him and smells “delicious.” He asks if he can taste me.
My breasts heave as I say, “Si.”
Sliding his hands up my body, he brings them to my face and then leans in to place sweet, gentle kisses at the corners of my lips, his tongue working its way into my mouth, tasting me as promised. His kiss is passionate and deep and makes me feel like the woman I am desperate to be. He asks if I want more.
Our breath mingles as I pant, “Si.”
I feel the beat of his heart racing with mine and the intensity of his desire through the denim of his Jordache for Men. My hand finds its way to his manhood straining against his jeans. I let my hand linger, teasing him. He begs me to set him free.
I whisper, “Si.”
I let loose the top button just as strong hands stop me, holding me in place. My beautiful Latin lover stares down at me with dark brown eyes and whispers, “You’re eighteen, right?”
I smile as I lie.
FOR EVEN MORE ROMANTIC MONDAYS VISIT:
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.
Now that I’ve got your attention I’d like to make you aware of an ongoing project I’ve been spearheading that I am hoping you’ll want to be a part of. It’s a project to benefit a cause that’s close to my heart called LIBSTRONG, a community of friends who have gathered together in support of Libby, a dear young friend who is battling cancer.
We’ve put together a surprise project called WRISTS AROUND THE WORLD not only to raise money but to raise her spirits as she battles her illness. Keep reading to find out what it’s all about and to learn how you too can be involved:
From the WATW site:
Our latest endeavor is called WRISTS AROUND THE WORLD- a fun global project designed for people everywhere to show their support for Libby and her battle against cancer. Bloggers and non-bloggers alike are invited to purchase her LIBSTRONG wristbands and then snap pictures of their wrists against an iconic landmark of their city, state or hometown. Once the photo is taken it is emailed to us and then posted to our GALLERY.
The message behind our project is to show the world how Libby’s strength and determination touch more than just those around her. Her positivity reaches around the world!
When sending a picture please include information noting where the picture was taken. We would be happy to post your name or a link to your blog, although that is not necessary and we will respect all wishes for anonymity. We are requesting snapshots be of wrists wearing wristbands only, so even the most camera shy supporter feels comfortable enough to be involved.
LIBSTRONG wristbands are available for sale individually or in package deals combined with items donated from various blog supporters. Visit our MAKE A DIFFERENCE page for information on how to purchase the package that’s right for you!
To be a part of WRISTS AROUND THE WORLD send your snapshot to:
I am asking my fellow bloggers everywhere to purchase at least one wristband not only to raise some much needed money for Libby’s cause, but to show her your support from your very own hometown. Package prices include shipping within the United States only. Since I would like the wristbands to actually go around the world, I would be willing to donate both of my ebooks for free to anyone outside of the United States who purchases even just one LIBSTRONG wristband to offset the cost of shipping which would be the responsibility of the purchaser.
As of the writing of this post, Libby doesn’t know about this project. We’d like to get as many pics around the world as possible and then reveal her site as a gift.
As for my part in the WRISTS AROUND THE WORLD project I’ve decided to donate both my REAPERS WITH ISSUES and THE GODS OF ASPHALT ebooks and paperbacks to be included in wristband package deals. I am also including the blog compilation project F*CKED UP FAIRY TALES for donation once it is completed. Each contributing author’s name of that work will receive an honorary mention on the FRIENDS OF LIBSTRONG page with links to their blogs.
Additionally, if you are an author you can contribute by donating your own books for package deals to be included on their site. For ebooks simply donate a free coupon for your book that others may purchase to raise money for our cause. For information on paperback donations, please contact firstname.lastname@example.org for more details.
Thank you everyone for taking the time to stop by Wrists Around The World!
Today must be our lucky day because we have another F*cked-up Fairy Tale! Rounding out our Northern Trifecta of Canadawesome is none other than that island dweller herself, Kayjai! Go on and pull up a chair and then settle in for a retelling of Sleeping Beauty as you’ve never imagined it…
Once, in a land far far away in suburbia Canadia, there lived a King and Queen. The King was very happy to be surrounded by his surely court and bemused by his jovial court clowns. He loved how the clowns and jesters could humiliate themselves for pennies and took great enjoyment in dispensing insults and heckling their comedic monologues. The Queen, who usually enjoyed watching her husband disintegrate into a testosterone filled idiot, now became bored and humiliated for the jesters. Her tone in response to their obvious torment puzzled the King and he questioned her one afternoon following an unusually sophomoric attempt to embarrass one of the clowns by throwing a pie in his face. Her eye roll was obvious.
“What is wrong, my fair Queen? The pie routine usually sends you into fits of joy. Perhaps we should call in the Royal Clown and get him to do his infamous Choke the Mime routine?” “NO! God, no not that. ANYTHING, but that” she stated then saw the disappointed look on her husband’s face. “I’m sorry, dear I just can’t bear the constant boredom and routine of the court. I would so like to have someone to share our joy with. I so want a baby” At these words the King, overjoyed to have finally discovered the true reason for the Queen’s despondent nature, leapt to his feet. “A baby you want and a baby you shall have!” He swept the Queen off of her feet and um…set to work. (Any further details required should be directed to the Snow White and the Seven Stripper essay. This ain’t no Fifty Shades, people)
Months later, the Queen now thrilled with the prospect of finally becoming a mother, prepared the nursery for her new baby. The nursery was a large room decorated with pastel colors and warm blankets with a rocking chair in the corner. She sat in the chair and dreamed of her new baby, when suddenly a vision appeared. She was a woman dressed in black and warned the Queen that her impending arrival was in danger.
“Be afraid, Queen Winnifred. There are forces afoot that will put your little one in danger. Beware of the Tearful Clown. He cannot be trusted”. Queen Winnifred, frightened by the vision, summoned the King and demanded all clowns be cast from the castle and banned from performing in Canadia. The King, obviously pissed that there will be no further entertainment, asked the Queen regarding their banishment. “A vision came to me warning me of The Tearful Clown. She said he would harm our baby! What else was I supposed to do?!” The King, seeing his wife distraught sent her to bed to get some rest. He reluctantly sent all the clowns packing, save for one. His favorite clown, the one who could choke out a mime in less than a minute, was directed to appear without his makeup when in the presence of Queen Winnifred. If only in the King’s presence he was able to perform his routine. The clown agreed and snuck away to the towers until summoned by the King.
The baby girl was born a few weeks later surrounded by the royal midwives and handed gently to the King, who with tears in his eyes, promised to always protect her. Weeks later there was a Royal party to celebrate Princess Aurora’s arrival. Many royals from around the country lavished the fair princess with gifts and well wishes. Suddenly, over the crab cakes, came a most heinous laugh. The vibrant red hair, the red nose the floppy red shoes, Oh No! A clown. The absent-minded King had forgotten all about his favorite clown and he had been locked away in the royal towers for too long. He now appeared in the main foray, looking for a stray mime to choke out. Security was called but not before the clown appeared, tears streaming down his face. The Queen screamed in horror at the apparition of the Tearful Clown and before he could be taken away in shackles he screeched “Upon her sixteenth birthday, that beautiful baby girl you call Aurora will fall into a deep peaceful slumber…FOREVER!!!” Before he could be taken away, six fairy godmothers appeared, apparently having just come from Cinderella’s place and a little hammered from all the champagne.
She lived the good life. The Fairy Six, as they were usually called, placed their wobbly wands together and blessed Princess Aurora with six gifts: Beauty, Grace, Intelligence, Compassion, Curiosity and A Kick Ass Right Hook. That last one was from Fairy Godmother Number Six who was the most inebriated but aware that a good hook is more useful than Fairy Godmother’s blessing of ‘beauty’. ‘What the hell was that?’ she murmured under her breath. ‘Dolt!’
The clown was carried away, stripped of his makeup and banished to the dungeons to live out his days faceless and without a mime to choke.
The next sixteen years were blissfully happy ones for the Queen and King. Princess Aurora gave them endless amounts of joy and endless days of happiness , blah, blah, blah, yadda, yadda…she’s perfect and all that. On her sixteenth birthday instead of a Royal Convertible that she was hoping for, Princess Aurora was sent away to live in the forest. “Gee, this sucks royally”she exclaimed. “I mean, really. Who DOES this? Sends their kid away to live among the squirrels and chipmunks? Some weird ass clown ate one too many crab cakes and got carried away, who cares? I got a mean right. I can take care of myself! I’m outta here!” she exclaimed and packed her royal bags and headed to the castle.
Upon entering the doors, she could hear frivolity and jokes emanating from the court entrance. Curious, as she was given that one trait from the Fairy Six, remember? She snuck in to see what the commotion was all about. To her horror she could see clowns, so many it was difficult to tell them apart, laughing and squirting lapel flowers in people’s faces, riding bikes that were too small for them, throwing pies and generally making asses out of themselves. As she entered the room she seemed swallowed up by all the activity and at first, didn’t notice her mother and father asleep in their royal chairs. Upon seeing their lifeless forms, she went quickly to their sides and tried to wake them up. She shook them, slapped their faces and tickled them under their arm pits, (that used to work) but to no avail.
“WAKE THE FUCK UP!” she shouted in their ears, but they didn’t respond. Bereft and saddened that she couldn’t wake her parents, she turned to run to find the servants. She stopped abruptly and came face-to-face with a clown. His prominent tears stood outlined in black running down his face and she let out a laugh. “Hahaha..oh, God you scared me! You shouldn’t sneak up on a girl like that! Hey, do you know what happened to my parents? I can’t seem to wake them up?” The Tearful Clown, realizing the Princess was unaware of the curse, led her away into the foray of clowns and began reciting a knock-knock joke. She didn’t get it. He wasn’t surprised, but still disappointed. Suddenly he spotted a mime trying to escape the melee and he pounced. The Tearful Clown grabbed the mime by the throat and began the routine.
Princess Aurora confused by all the merriment and the astonished look on the mime’s face suddenly felt very sleepy. Before she could see the end of the routine, she fell swiftly into a deep sleep. The Tearful Clown, triumphant at the Princess’s sleepiness forgot about the mime and let him go. The mime in a sudden mime attack, blitzed the clown with his infamous climbing-the-non-existent-rope routine and sent the Tearful Clown into a state of confusion. He was suddenly singing Smokey Robinsons’ ‘Tears of a Clown’ and wandered aimlessly around the castle until finally, he stumbled onto the royal grounds and fell haplessly into the deep mote. His nose and floppy shoes were all that were left and floated silently downstream.
The Fairy Six, walking home from yet another party at Cinderella’s happened upon the devastation and carnage left by the clowns. They were devastated to find Aurora and all the castle staff sleeping soundly and upon approaching the princess shouted the royal command. “WAKE THE FUCK UP!” Alas, it was no use. They placed Princess Aurora into a bed strewn with rose petals at the top of the tower and stripped the castle of all clown apparatus. The King and Queen eventually awoke to find their daughter in a deep slumber. Queen Winnifred, distraught by her husband’s obvious lack of good judgment and bad taste in comedy, divorced his royal ass and sent him packing. She visited her daughter every day and wished for the day when she could see her awake and happy again.
One day while tending to her garden, Queen Winnifred spotted a young handsome man walking distractedly down the path. She called a greeting to him and asked him in for tea. She asked him if he was from a good family, if he had a fast car and what education he had. He said he wasn’t well educated but had a lot of money which proved good enough for her. Her last question was the most important. “How do you feel about clowns?” she asked and he looked horrified. “CLOWNS!? I HATE CLOWNS!! ARE THEY HERE??!! WHERE!” He suddenly began to panic and it took some time for her to calm him down. She gleefully led him up to the tower room where Princess Aurora continued her sleep. The handsome young man was overcome at her beauty and asked why the princess was sleeping. The Queen detailed the evil curse and suggested to him that he could perhaps attempt to break it by kissing the young girl. He looked a little perplexed by the suggestion, but gave it a whirl nonetheless. He knelt beside the Princess and kissed her softly on the lips. The Queen and young man waited breathlessly, but she did not wake up. “Try again” said the Queen. This time the young man kissed her passionately. Again, the two waited for Princess Aurora to stir. Nothing. Finally, in frustration the Queen asked the young man to shout the royal command. He shrugged his shoulders and shouted “WAKE THE FUCK UP!” Suddenly, Princess Aurora began to stir. Her dark eyelashes began to flutter and she opened her eyes. She spotted the smiling young man and her right hand flew out and decked him squarely in the jaw. “That’s for kissing a sleeping woman. WTF?”
Today we’re treated to another F*cked-up Fairy Tale offering from the Great White North. Take a new look at the classic RUMPELSTILTSKIN as seen through the eyes of everyone’s favorite Canook, SIGHTSNBYTES.
THE CURSE AND THE GIFT
THE CURSE AND THE GIFT
What would you give to have things remain as they are? Nice home, new car, wonderful kids, loving wife, good job, friendly neighbors; you get the picture, lucky guy, huh?
What if someone could take this all away with a snap of his tiny, grubby little greedy fingers? What if some miserable, jealous little dwarf could make your life go away and there was nothing you could do about it?
Well, there is something you can do, but that would require making a deal with the little monster, and who really wants to shake hands with the devil? Not me, that’s for sure!
Think back twenty years ago. I was a man like most men, alone in this world, circulating bars and looking, searching for someone who could make this desolate living go away. I found that person in a little man, a mystery man, a miserable man.
He was sitting at the end of the Dead End bar. The place was so gloomy, I am not sure what led me in here in the first place, but I was here, so I did what I had to do to change my life…forever!
In my drunken stupor, I sat next to the guy. Before I got there he was surrounded with beautiful women, women that I would kill to get to know. I wanted to be this little guy. I wanted to know his secret, and I would pay dearly to find it.
He spoke in riddles.
Heute back ich, morgen brau ich,
Übermorgen hol ich mir der Königin ihr Kind;
Ach, wie gut, dass niemand weiß,
dass ich Rumpelstilzchen heiß
What the hell did he mean by this? What the hell was this song, and why is it digging deep into my mind, driving me crazy?
He continued reciting the rhyme, his voice growing lower each time until it was but a whisper and then it was gone.
He looked at me. “Another loser wanders into my bar, in search of something better. What brings you here loser? Why would you want to talk to the man whom nobody remembers?”
“I just…I just noticed your company, these women, who are they?’ I asked.
“They are people who wanted more, wanted beauty and success, and I delivered, simple as that!”
“How, how did you give them what they wanted? Plastic surgery?” I asked.
“No surgery, just magic, and one more important thing, a handshake” he said.
“A handshake? That’s it? I want in” I said, too drunk to make a better decision.
“No problem, but there is more, I can give you anything you desire, but in return, I want your most prized possession, that which you hold dear, and I want it when I come to collect!” He said.
At the time, the one thing I prized was…nothing. My life was in a downward spiral. I had just been fired, then the girlfriend left, then I was evicted from my apartment, what was left?
I shook his hand, half believing him, half believing this was some drunken nightmare that would be gone by morning. With the handshake, he recited a poem in a language I did not understand. I told him I wanted happiness and success, he just laughed and then ‘poof’ he was gone. I closed my eyes, and the morning, I woke up here.
Somewhere in my heart I cannot believe any of this happened. My reality is that this is my reality. That other life is a mirage, a vision of depression, and gone forever.
This morning I began to notice differences. My kids stared at me this morning, like I was someone else. It was like a stranger had taken control of my life. My wife acted scared of me, like I was a threat to her. At work, my boss came down on me for my behavior as well. “There is something about you that I don’t like. I have not seen this side of you before, but you seem to lack confidence” He said. Confidence, the gift of the deal. Without it, I would still be living the deadbeat life I led, still cruising bars and coming home drunk, that is of course if I was still alive.
With this new revelation, I discovered that which I prize most. All those years ago, when I made the deal, I figured that there was nothing in this world that I prized, but now I know.
With this, I seen him. He had been standing between the two offices in the front of the building. Standing at under four feet, with a long red beard and leprechaun-like clothing, I wondered why nobody else commented on his appearance. Curiosity being what it was, I approached the little guy.
“Aha, my loser friend. You did quite well with your gift. I assume you have figured out the gift…and that’s why I am here” he said.
With the power I now possessed, I ordered the guard to remove this vagrant, but the guard just looked at me like I was delusional. “Sir, there’s nobody here but us guys” he said, to my horror.
I am the only one who can see him, that is clear now. Nothing more I can do but walk away.
“Walk away and all will be gone. You will wake up in the same bar you passed out in, twenty years ago. A few hours from that moment you will be dead, hit by a drunken driver. Nobody will care if you are alive or dead. This wonderful life you now lead will be gone. But you can change this, and make me go away forever.”
“All you have to do to make me leave is to recite my name. This is not an easy task, as nobody knows who I am.”
With that, he laughed loudly and recited the song once again, this time in a language I did not understand.
Heute back ich, morgen brau ich,
Übermorgen hol ich mir der Königin ihr Kind;
Ach, wie gut, dass niemand weiß,
dass ich Rumpelstilzchen heiß
At least he thought I would not understand it. Little did he know that with all the confidence I received from ‘the gift’, I enrolled in university, studying languages from the world over. I am proficient in over thirteen languages, one of them being German. The translation was loose, but I managed to make out a name at the end.
Today I brew, tomorrow I bake,
And then the child away I’ll take;
For little knows my royal dame
Rumpelstiltskin is my name!
I know it, I know it, you creepy little bastard, your name is Rumpelstiltskin!
And with that he was gone. My life returned to normal. My wife and kids loved me, I got a raise at work, and I continued to be a success in whatever I done with my life. I never seen the little guy again.
I was recently honored by the United Federation for the advancement of Little People. That’s right, before the little guy disappeared forever, he instilled on me a curse. The curse took me from a man of over six feet to one of four foot tall. The strange thing, nobody seems to care. It is like I am the same person I have been since the deal, except for the confidence, it grows more each day!
Today we have an offering from the Great White North in the form of a fable told by the illustrious Archon’s Den. Here is his take on the classic fable The Tortoise and the Hare!
THE TORTOISE AND O’HARE
Once upon a time, just outside New Haven, Conn., a little rabbit was born. His parents lovingly called him Bunny, though, as he got older he felt he outgrew that name. Bunny was very smart. He worked and studied hard at school and got great marks. Bunny wanted to make something of himself, so with outstanding SAT scores, he applied to Yale.
His parents paid for his education with bags of plump, juicy carrots that they saved up over the years, and the occasional sack of beets. Bunny applied himself and graduated from the Business Management course with flying colors.
He told his parents that he was going to get a job as a financial advisor, and hopped his way down to New York City. After waving his diploma under a few noses, he got himself hired by no less than Merrill Lynch. Here, he insisted on celebrating his Irish Rabbit heritage, and began going by the name Seamus O’Hare.
While all this was occurring, just south of the border in Mexico, there was a young turtle named Diego Tortuga trying to follow the same path. His parents traded mescal to pay to have him attend a decent community college. At least it was a real school, rather than just one of those diploma mills.
When he graduated with marks as good as O’Hare’s, he kissed his mother and father goodbye….verrryy sloowwlyy, and floated across the Rio Grande. Then he managed to hitch-hike his way all the way to New York with a trucker, hauling back a semi, loaded with Corona beer. With great good fortune, he also managed to obtain a position with Merrill Lynch, and began working in the same division as O’Hare, who was immediately dismissive of him.
O’Hare was a high energy broker, often leaping at new investments without doing enough research. He made money for his clients, and for himself, but was often distracted, by a new girlfriend or a car-show at the Gardens. He made fun of Tortuga’s slow, plodding, but steadily productive methods of money management.
One day, after Diego had defended his careful planning, Seamus O’Hare suggested a “race.” The first one within a year to achieve a personal worth of $1,000,000, would receive another ten thousand dollars from the loser. Tortuga accepted the challenge, and the Race was on.
Shortly afterwards, the firm was joined by a Chinese weasel, named Wun Raht Gai, educated in Beijing. As he ensconced himself within the firm, and learned of the competition between the two youngsters, his was disdainful of them. “Silly amateurs.” he said.
Time passed, and the competition proceeded, with the fortunes of both Tortuga and O’Hare increasing, Diego’s steadily, and Seamus’ by leaps and bounds. One day, unbeknownst to each other, they both received a letter from Wun Raht Gai, offering to help them cross the one million dollar finish line.
Tortuga’s letter said that the Chinese weasel had got wind of a new process to remove Melamine from baby food. O’Hare’s letter told of a new system to get the lead out of children’s toys. If they would just invest a quarter million dollars with him, he would double it for them within thirty days.
Wun Raht Gai’s letters also said that he didn’t want these investment opportunities to be overheard at the office, so they should each bring the funds in cash to his apartment, to ensure privacy.
No-one seems to know exactly what happened to O’Hare, and Diego the tortoise. They each just stopped coming to work at Merrill Lynch. The Chinese weasel prospered in their absence, taking over part of each of their *books*. He moved into a beautiful penthouse apartment. There were some rumors of him throwing a banquet and soiree for potential investors, where the featured dishes were rabbit stew and turtle soup.
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:
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
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.
F*CKED UP FAIRY TALES is a compilation project for bloggers who wish to take up the challenge of writing their own spin on a classic fairy tale. Bloggers are invited to choose one of the tales below and leave their choice in the comments. Only one tale per blogger, please. I will update the list as soon as the choices roll in. Tales are assigned on a first come, first choose basis.
Each tale is to be no more than 5000 words in length, and can be as funny, sick, twisted, erotic or vanilla as you wish. Once your tale is finished feel free to email it back to me where I will run it in a feature post as well add it to the page above. When all the tales are complete, I will work with a publishing company who is volunteering to publish the compilation of works in both ebook and paperback formats. All proceeds from the compiled works will be donated to a participating charity, with sales records made available to contributors annually.
UPDATE – ALL TALES ARE ASSIGNED. IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO PARTICIPATE AND HAVE NOT RECEIVED A TALE, LEAVE AN IDEA IN THE COMMENTS AND I’LL ADD IT TO THE LIST.
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:
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!
TODAY IS THE FIRST ANNIVERSARY OF MY BLOG! TO COMMEMORATE THIS AUSPICIOUS OCCASION I HAVE DECIDED TO RERUN MY VERY FIRST BLOG POST.
PLEASE TO ENJOY…
So yeah, I wrote a book.
I must have been high when I wrote it because there’s no other explanation I can give for my 120,000 word upper YA novel where the only noun I used more than “boner” was “blood.” It goes without saying that I’m self-published. I didn’t even try to submit it traditionally. Can you just imagine the poor agent who gets my query letter?
“My novel, THE GODS OF ASPHALT is complete at 120,000 words and is the first in a series of five books that for some reason I’ve decided to write out-of-order. Each one is told from the point of view of a teenage male protagonist who has exactly zero supernatural powers (unless you consider perpetual erections a superpower). Oh, and it also has Spanish subtitles.”
On the good side, if you’re like me and are just a little too into music, motorcycles and all around badassery this is the book for you. If you’re not, I’m sure Jodi Picoult’s got a blog somewhere. You can find the opening to chapter one at the top of the page under the tab GOA REVIEWS and you can find my book on line at:
Today I have decided to pay homage to the late, great Gene Roddenberry on what would have been his 91st birthday by conducting an interview I believe he might have enjoyed. Now I ask you, what better way to pay tribute to one of the greatest contributors to the SciFi genre than to have a face-off of Starship Captains? Ladies and gentlemen I give you…
JAMES T. KIRK VS JEAN-LUC PICARD
Q: Which species makes a better First Officer, Human or Vulcan?
KIRK: A Vulcan makes the better officer because they use logic rather than emotion to guide their decisions.
PICARD: Generally speaking, Kirk’s right. On the other hand, I cannot speak highly enough of my very human first officer. Once he finally was able to remove that giant stick from his ass and relax a little bit, he turned out all right.
Q: What is the most important quality a Starship Captain must have?
KIRK: The most important quality a starship captain must have is the ability to love females of any species.
PICARD: Diplomacy, which basically is the art of telling someone to suck your cock with such tact and charm that they actually apply lipstick first regardless of gender or race, they sell tickets beforehand, and thank you when it’s over.
Q: The better date: Green Orion Slave woman, or hot human?
KIRK: Green Orion Slave women are the best! Man, there is nothing those girls will not do! Did you know that Green Orion Women have two vaginas? Little known fact!
PICARD: So, you fail twice? By the way, they have an ointment for that rash you’ve been complaining about. As for who makes the better date….have you *BEEN* to Risa? Jamaharon to the Bone, yo.
Q: The worst thing about dealing with Starfleet Command is ___ ?
KIRK: Starfleet Command are a bunch of pussies. If they let us annihilate the Klingons like we wanted to, the Romulans would think twice before attacking us again.
PICARD: I don’t know that I’d have phrased it quite that way, but I’m forced to agree with the good captain. Oh, fuck it: Starfleet Command is run by a bunch of spineless twat-waffles who can’t find their balls with both hands and a tricorder.
Q: Which is the better ride: The classic NCC-1701 or the NCC-1701D?
KIRK: The NCC-1701 of course! The 1701D is for pansies! Scotty would never be caught dead in the engine room of that bomb!
PICARD: The Constitution-class starships are beautiful vessels from a bygone era that I for one believe to be full of adventure, wonder, and excitement. To have been alive in those days, exploring the vast, unknown frontier? I envy those like James Kirk and the ships they commanded. That said, have you *seen* my fucking ship? It’s got phasers and photon torpedoes out the ass! It comes apart so it can kick your ass *twice* as much. And it’s huge! Don’t believe your girlfriend, Kirk, even if she is Orion: Size does matter.
Q: Marooned on a deserted planet, the three things I have to have are?
KIRK: A Green Orion Slave woman, Yeoman Janice Rand, and Cloud Dweller Droxine. Need I say more?
PICARD: A whole planet to myself? Wonderful! I’m overdue for a good vacation. I’ll take my Collected Shakespeare book, my tea, and my flute. On second thought…I’d like to meet this Droxine. And change my book selection to the Kama Sutra.
Q: I’d rather take on in a bar fight: a Cardassian or a Romulan?
KIRK: As easy as it is to beat the crap out of a Cardassian, I would much rather fight a Romulan. Romulans put up a much better fight. Can’t trust those Cardassians, they fight dirty as hell.
PICARD: He’s right about the Cardassians. Sneaky bastards, every single one of them. Romulans can fight well enough, but they’re always so worried about mussing their hair. Now, if you want a real fight, try taking on a Nausicaan. I’ve never lived that one down. And don’t even get me started on the Borg. *THOSE* guys were assholes.
Q: Which is more technically challenging, slingshotting a starship backward in time or dislocating it to an alternate universe?
KIRK: Neither actually. You want technically challenging? Try listening to Spock and Bones for five consecutive years, now that is a challenge!
PICARD: I must side with my esteemed colleague on this matter. Time travel or having your ship flung to the far side of the universe is nothing compared to having to deal with a snotty teenager who thinks he knows everything, and whom you can’t toss out the nearest airlock because you’re trying to get in his mother’s pants. Awkward.
Q: Which is more irritating, tribbles or Ferengi?
KIRK: The Ferengi are okay, they remind me of my Uncle Wilbur. Tribbles can really annoy you, and they multipy faster than Romulian rabbits. God I hate those furry little creatures! Do you know that they ate five years worth of grain? Try exploring the universe without your daily fiber! I was constipated for three years. Damn Tribbles!
PICARD: Can I reuse my snotty teenager answer here?
Q: You’re approached by Q, who is feeling generous and unmalicious – what gift of ability do you ask him for?
KIRK: Ah Q. I heard John Luc complain of the guy. A gift? well for John Luc, he can give him the Shatner 2000, the most futuristic hairpiece in the universe. Oh, and ability. I was sidetracked with the Green Orion Slave woman…she was a barrel of fun. I guess if I met this Q guy I would ask for the ability to give those Green Orion Slave women an orgasm. Did I mention that they had two vaginas? Try giving one of those women an orgasm. They don’t need one orgasm, they need two, one for each vagina.
PICARD: I require no hairpiece, young man. I’m quite comfortable with my appearance. Besides, chicks dig the smoothness. As for a gift, if I was forced to limit myself to just one thing, it would be the ability to go back and correct certain mistakes I’ve made during the course of my life. Barring that, I’d settle for just being able to go back and hide the evidence and bury the goddamned bodies. Oh, and I’d ask Q to give Kirk that ointment for his rash, which seems to be flaring up just now.
By the way, Kirk…get with me after the show. I can teach you what you need to know about those Orion women. Two words: “Vulcan Shocker.”
CLICK ON ALL THE PICS OF THE STARSHIP ENTERPRISE FOR AN ADDED BONUS FEATURE
Resident blogger and uber audiophile Edward Hotspur recently penned (typed? keyed?) a post entitled: AN ANALYSIS AND DISSECTION OF THE UTTERLY STUPID SONG “ALL I WANT TO DO IS MAKE LOVE TO YOU” in which he deciphers the twisted meaning behind Heart’s atrocious lyrics.
Naturally that got me thinking, and no good ever comes of that. So in the spirit of his blog post I offer up this challenge to the great EH:
What the hell was Manfred Mann trying to say when they released BLINDED BY THE LIGHT? I mean, WTF??? Just how prolific were drugs in the seventies?
Something must be in the air, because not only am I working on a four-book compilation of short stories, my friend Dayton over at THE FOG OF WARD has just completed a joint effort himself entitled ReDues: Divine Tales.
FROM THE BACK JACKET:
The gods have returned.
All of them!
The change promised by the ending of the Mayan Calendar in 2012 manifested itself in an unexpected manner. Every pantheon of gods and goddess, from every belief the world over, have returned … changing the world forever.
As the pantheons settle into their ancestral lands, they vie for worshippers, gaining or losing power along the way. They find the world of man a bewildering, crazy quilt, and each wishes to remake their lands in their own image.
Come and meet some of the inhabitants of this strangely familiar world in eleven new tales that explore what it means to worship in this new reality. A Knight Templar hunting mysteries. A rookie pitcher with a unique belief system. A wounded solider returned to battle by a goddess. A reporter who isn’t sure what to believe. A homicide detective on the Manhattan beat. A man out to kill the gods. A single father trying to survive in a world without Santa Claus. And many more!
Chronicling this new tomorrow are Dave Galanter, Allyn Gibson, Phil Giunta, Robert Greenberger, Paul Kupperberg, William Leisner, Scott Pearson, Aaron Rosenberg, Lawrence M. Schoen, Dayton Ward, and Steven H. Wilson. Join them and discover a world where everything old is new again—even the gods themselves.
ReDeus: Divine Tales, published by Crazy 8 Press, will premiere at the Shore Leave convention in Baltimore the weekend of August 3-5, and will be available in both trade paperback and electronic format on or around that time, as well.
I woke up this morning to a typical hangover text sent from my best friend, Quin. As usual, there came with it an attached picture that made her laugh at 3am the night before. I will share that pic/text with you all now:
This is a Carvel Ice Cream cake with the caption “It’s What Happy Tastes Like!” Quin, ever the existentialist, begged to ask the question, “What does happiness taste like? Wouldn’t it taste different for different people?” Then she went on to describe her taste of happy, and it looked something like this:
You see, Quin’s “Happy” tastes remarkably like Jared Padalecki. So that got me thinking, what would MY happiness taste like? I can think of quite a few men that I’d like to see wrapped in an ice cream loincloth. But I guess when it comes right down to it, my “Happy” would taste like this:
So, what does YOUR happy taste like?
This seems really odd to say, but today is the birthday I assigned the character of Sawyer in my novel, The Gods of Asphalt. His birthday features prominently in the book so I thought I’d answer some questions I’ve been asked over the past year about his character.
1. Why did you pick April 30th for his birthday?
I knew from the beginning he would wreck a motorcycle on his birthday so I needed it to take place during warm weather– but before his high school graduation. Research revealed that Nebraska high schools let out the first weekend in May so there was my time crunch. I wanted the added insult of him screwing up his life the instant it became his to own. Besides, Sawyer shares his birthday with someone pretty awesome.
Sawyer is sort of a default name. In my real life there is a real River, although he is nothing like the River character (I based the River character on someone elses life entirely). I always knew that I would name the character of the blonde older brother River, so I had to think of a name that was in the same vein for the younger brother. Thus Sawyer was born, and not Steve.
3. Why is Sawyer so tall?
Sawyer is tall because it allows him to be good at basketball. Sawyer needed a way out of his father’s life so I gave him basketball because it offers scholarships as well as being the perfect sport for a kid who lives on the road. Football requires gear, baseball requires a team, track requires good weather but basketball can be played anywhere, anytime with anyone. All you need is a ball.
4. Why do you describe Sawyer looking the way you do?
My kids helped with this one. My son Junior HATES being called pretty when compared to his good-looking, blonde older brother Prince Charming. I described Sawyer to my daughter and she instantly pulled up a television show called BIG TIME RUSH and said, “I think you are describing this guy.” In that moment James Maslow became my vision for Sawyer. I even wrote a little snippet in my book for him. I’m my daughter’s hero for that.
5. Why is Sawyer’s jersey number 13?
Because number 13 belongs to Steve Nash, my all time favorite basketball player.
6. How come Sawyer can sing?
Because I can’t. No, seriously; basketball was what Sawyer was good at, but music was what he loved and what his mother robbed him of.
7. Does Sawyer ever get Sarah?