Tagged: food

“I Would Kill For a Cup of Coffee”

  • by jen“You’re supposed to know!”
  • not using a pseudonym
  • the baffled animal beneath me
  • so cheesy and dramatic
  • Jennifer’s wedding band

Tune in next time part 183                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

“I would kill for a cup of coffee,” I said. Those scorpion donuts made me thirsty.

The strip-tease waitress just looked at me askance and moved away, shimmying her hips and not pouring any coffee. Mother smacked the back of my head. “That was a code phrase!” she whispered angrily. “You’re supposed to know!” She whacked me again like I was a puppy that piddled on the carpet. “After all that tuition I paid to the Academy you’re supposed to know ALL the spy stuff! And here you are, ignorant of even the most common codes, running around Harmonia, not using a pseudonym or anything!”

Oh, Mother wanted spycraft did she?

I pushed past the patrons gathered around the stage, all of them hoisting tiny pitchers of maple syrup, ready to “make it rain” for the dancers. I leapt onto the stage, my saddle shoes skidding in a pool of melted butter. I caught myself on the gingham stripper pole and looked down at the baffled animal beneath me, Mother’s ape-like henchman standing stupidly at the edge of the stage.

The music that was playing was so cheesy and dramatic I couldn’t help but do a little bump and grind. I’m sure you know the song. It’s by that weird group Jennifer’s Wedding Band. The audience erupted into hoots and boos, and in the ensuing chaos I was able to run backstage. I almost made it out the back door, but was stopped in my tracks.

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My Lace Jumpsuit Was So Tight

  • by jenThe tongue action is explicit
  • We are not moving
  • in a very satisfactory manner
  • all the men were much too stupid and ugly to mate with
  • “It’s gonna match. It’s gonna match. It’s gotta match.”

Tune in next time part 171                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

My lace jumpsuit was so tight I could only indulge in one Scorpion Angel donut. My captor watched me eat it with unseemly glee in his eye and a bit of drool at the corner of his mouth. No matter how much I cajoled, he himself did not partake. When I had finished the last bite, he put his gun away and licked the powdered sugar from my fingertips. It was very unsettling, but my training had prepared me for things like that and I reacted calmly. The tongue action is explicit and precise in this kind of code, but you have to pay close attention to pick up the nuances.

“Well,” his tongue said. “Time to get going. Tessa is waiting for you.”

Tessa!

I allowed the man to herd me out of the donut shop. If he would lead me to Tessa, I would follow him practically anywhere.

Memory Lane was clogged with tourists on their way to the bachelor auction. My companion and I were trying to fight our way upstream.

He grabbed my hand and licked a message on my palm. “We are not moving in a very satisfactory manner.”

Suddenly the tide turned and all of the women surged in the opposite direction. From what I overheard, the bachelor auction was a bust because all the men were much too stupid and ugly to mate with, especially if you were expected to pay.

One of them, an Asian woman with green hair and cotton candy stains around her mouth, spotted a numbered tag fluttering from the zipper of my jumpsuit. She shrieked with delight and pulled a raffle ticket out of her pocket. She compared the numbers, chanting, “It’s gonna match. It’s gonna match. It’s gotta match.”

What would I do if I was this woman’s prize? I had to get to Tessa.

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My Stomach Growled

  • by jen“Tell us more about these scorpion angels,”
  • got married just a month after they met
  • a lie from start to finish
  • his accomplice killed him
  • been required to eat cold meat

Tune in next time part 169                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

My stomach growled. Donuts sounded amazing right now. The last time someone with a gun foisted food on me I’d been required to eat cold meat off the body of a lithe young man. He’d been sent by the White Faces mime syndicate to infiltrate the ninjas while disguised as a platter of sushi, and his accomplice killed him after discovering that his life story was a lie from start to finish. He must have been a very convincing liar because he and his accomplice had got married just a month after they met.

My trip down memory lane ended abruptly when my gun-weilding friend directed me to turn down Memory Lane. There, between a hot pink wedding chapel and a stall selling furry handcuffs was a donut shop. We entered and perused the very unusual menu board. There were flavors here I’d never heard of.

We approached the counter. “Tell us more about these Scorpion Angels,” my captor said to the clerk, who was dusted from head to toe with powdered sugar. “Are they made with real scorpions?”

“We couldn’t very well call them Scorpion Angel Cremes if they weren’t,” huffed the fastidious donutmonger.

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Based on the Similarity

  • by Kentthe Three Stooges sitting with a salad bowl
  • (Vehement cheering.)
  • therein they differ from those of Switzerland and Norway
  • The wine was excellent.
  • you know how when you make hard boiled eggs

Tune in next time part 166                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

Based on the similarity in note-taking styles, I thought this man must have graduated from our rival academy. But when I flipped to the cover of his book, I saw an unfamiliar school crest: the Three Stooges sitting with a salad bowl.

Wasting no more time on academic nostalgia, I consumed his text as fast as I could. This was obviously where the plans of Svetlana and Heinrich were all leading. Some kind of coalition that they meant to disrupt, or maybe join. I held the minutes of their last secret meeting.

“This assembly will now come to order. (Vehement cheering.) Our quail egg parfaits include gold leaf, and therein they differ from those of Switzerland and Norway. (Quizzical laughter.) The wine was excellent. Sorry there wasn’t enough for anyone else to have any. (Disappointed whistling.) Back to the parfaits, though: you know how when you make hard boiled eggs you need to adjust the time to your altitude?”

I smiled, as the lacily attired man on the floor groaned. I knew who was behind these political machinations!

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This Was Not Part of the Plan

  • by jensufficiently versed in the stranger’s system of stenography
  • sealed in a test tube of acid
  • you’d have to pay pounds and pounds and pounds
  • One September morning
  • a traveler’s worst nightmare

Tune in next time part 165                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

This was not part of the plan. It was in fact a traveler’s worst nightmare. Forgetting for a moment that I wore only a dog collar, a spiky codpiece, and the tinsel still clinging to my thigh hair, I was surrounded by a busload of school children on a field trip, all of them hyper from the cotton candy they ate by the fistful. One September morning, during my first year at the academy, I’d gone on a field trip much like this one, only instead of visiting a whimsically saccharine paean to love we had taken a tour of the recently excavated mime settlement. The looks on the faces of our chaperones were burned into my memory and you’d have to pay pounds and pounds and pounds of either British Sterling or Swiss chocolate if you ever expected me to participate in another field trip in my life. And even then I’d probably rather sacrifice a body part and see it sealed in a test tube of acid.

What I’m saying is I don’t really like kids. Especially not in groups.

The pink, sticky horde took up the entire walkway through the heart of Valentine Village. To avoid them, I vaulted up onto a heart-shaped sign hanging over a shopfront, and from there clambered through a window.

A man dressed entirely in lace frills was seated at a desk, scribbling something in a small notebook. Upon my arrival he leapt to his feet. Before he could sound the alarm, or even cry out, I applied a nerve pinch to his neck and he collapsed.

If I was quick, I could escape this ghastly place. I began to strip the lace costume off my victim, but my eye was snagged by his abandoned notebook. Luckily I was sufficiently versed in the stranger’s system of stenography that I could decipher his notes with little trouble.

What I read shocked me. If it was true, it would blow this whole operation wide open!

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The Young Waiter Flambeed the Smores Tableside

  • by jendied to a faint murmur
  • only trying to protect her son
  • strange, but harmless enough
  • because of their stormy marriage
  • in his velveteen uniform

Tune in next time part 127                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

The young waiter flambéed the smores tableside, as is customary in Contraria. In his velveteen uniform he had to take care not to set his sleeves on fire. As he dished our individual portions I studied his face, trying to place that magnificent chin. Beneath my tuxedo jacket, Tallulah began a new series of peculiar pulsations. These squeezes were short and businesslike, not erotic, and in just a few moments I realized she was communicating through Morse Code.

Because of their stormy marriage, Tallulah and her husband often resorted to giving each other the silent treatment. But, being in the line of work they were, they still needed to communicate, so they mastered non-verbal techniques such as this one. It was strange, but harmless enough.

Her message to me was a desperate explanation of all of her prior bad deeds and how she was only trying to protect her son. My son. Our son.

I looked up at the waiter in shock and said, “Is it true? Am I your father?”

The conversations around me died to a faint murmur as I awaited his answer.

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As I Lumbered Around the Table on My Way to the Loo

  • by jenan extremely rare bluish black color almost unheard of in the US
  • all five of them
  • Boom.
  • when I first let Nathaniel move in
  • in a series of digital manipulations

Tune in next time part 123                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

As I lumbered around the table on my way to the loo, I was compelled to exchange greetings with a great many people. I knew that Tessa’s bladder was about to burst, so I shook hands in a series of digital manipulations so blindingly fast I got cramps in all of my fingers.

At last I burst into the little gentlemen’s room. After ejecting the attendant, Tessa and I had the space to ourselves. Tessa let go of my neck and slithered out the bottom of my jacket to stand on her own feet again. Her eyebrows rose when she took in the room.

“This reminds me of when I first let Nathaniel move in and he brought his porcelain doll collection,” she said. “Their creepy eyes follow you everywhere.”

As she peed she went on talking about how creepy Contrarian bathroom design is, but I couldn’t follow her. At her mention of Nathaniel my mind broke. Boom. Just broke.

“I thought you hated Nathaniel and all his brothers,” I interrupted. “Last I knew, all five of them were your mortal enemies.”

The person on the toilet, who I was now convinced was not really Tessa after all, stopped talking. She blinked, dislodging one of her tinted contacts and allowing her natural eye color to show through. The eye told me everything I needed to know. It was an extremely rare bluish black color almost unheard of in the US and it could only belong to one person. The most dangerous person I’d ever met. Tessa’s sister.

“Tallulah,” I breathed.

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“I Don’t Have a Son, Tessa.”

  • by jeneating a bite of the brown-and-white lumpy food
  • on such gleaming skin
  • this wasn’t the Paul Gruber he knew
  • clasping her hands together in dismay
  • she periodically scrunches as she talks

Tune in next time part 121                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

“I don’t have a son, Tessa,” I said, pinching my nose to stop the bleeding. “At least not yet. Are you talking about one of the children Fleur is carrying?”

Tessa has these muscles in her pelvis that she periodically scrunches as she talks. I’d never been aware of them before, but our current intimate embrace made them very obvious, even with our clothes separating us. Picture someone clasping her hands together in dismay, only, you know, not her hands. I tried to ignore it and focus on what she was saying.

“I’m not talking about your wife’s babies, dumbass. How would I know if they were boys or girls? I’m talking about your son.”

Before I could get her to explain, we were approached by Harry, the amphibian-faced object of Isolde’s affections. “Paul Gruber!” he shouted. “Where is Isolde?”

Paul Gruber was the name of the bodyguard whose jacket I was wearing as a disguise. Harry stomped up to me and his greasy visage underwent a remarkable transformation when he realized that this wasn’t the Paul Gruber he knew. It was as if no expression could gain traction on such gleaming skin.

I tried to run away before he regained his composure, but Tessa clinging to me like a baby marsupial slowed me considerably. Harry stumbled after me down the street, spluttering.

“You are practically useless,” Tessa grumbled, pelvic muscles clenching. “Why do I even bother with you?” In one fluid motion she detached herself from me and vaulted over my head to land on poor, hapless Harry. By the time I turned around she had him in a headlock and, much against his will, he was eating a bite of the brown-and-white lumpy food she always kept in a zipper baggie in her pocket. It had an oatmeal-like consistency, and I knew from personal experience that it was laced with strong narcotics.

She tucked Harry, now snoring, into the space between two storefronts and, quick as the wind, resumed her place under my jacket.

Her muscles rippled again as she said, “Now, about your son…”

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As Soon As the Airship Docked

  • by KentI spit it out.
  • “When the Stars Weep Blood”
  • out of touch (at best) and disgusting (at worst)
  • until it actually grows too hot to bear it
  • in her uncle’s yam garden

Tune in next time part 99                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

As soon as the airship docked we proceeded among hanging gardens and colonnades to what looked like a temple. At the entrance we were served ceremonial wine, and in keeping with tradition I spit it out. My research into Contrarian customs hadn’t included any of their medical practices, however, so I was interested to see how a pregnancy test would be conducted.

I should not have been surprised that it consisted of trial by combat. My opponent’s rabbit costume was something I felt I could legitimately find surprising. Another surprise was the music, death metal blaring over hidden loudspeakers, a song titled “When the Stars Weep Blood” by a band called Not Particularly who had been exiled from Contraria the previous year.

“Now we will find out if the rabbit dies!” bellowed Fleur’s father.

“Symbolically,” came John’s voice from behind the rabbit mask. “If you win the fight, that’s good enough.”

I grimmaced. Even knowing that the beliefs in Fleur’s homeland were out of touch (at best) and disgusting (at worst) I couldn’t convince myself this was something I’d really have to go through with.

My father-in-law handed me a large axe, and a net and trident were presented to John. The weapons looked real.

“Ready, set, DIG!” declaimed Fleur. I raised my axe in anticipation of a charge from John, unsure I’d heard correctly. But he attacked not me, but the ground. I chopped at the soil around my feet, trying to figure out the objective.

John scooped up a lump of something and ran with it around the edge of the temple courtyard. I kept hacking at the ground as I watched his progress. Before making it halfway around, he began tossing the lump up and catching it again, bouncing it from hand to hand.

“You must race with the yam until it grows too hot to actually bear it,” Fleur coached. “It’s like that game from your country, ‘hot yam.’ Of course you need to find one first!”

The tubers we unearthed reacted to air exposure, quickly bursting into flames if they weren’t quenched in a pot of water. Such pots were positioned around the courtyard, and our score was calculated by how many yams we deposited and how far we ran with them.

Fleur continued my education, telling the story of the young unwed princess who blamed her pregnancy on the hares in her uncle’s yam garden. My hands blistered from the heat of the yams as well as the inefficient digging tool I had to use. I had no idea who was winning, or what would signal the end of the contest.

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The Warlord Turned to His Daughter and Said

  • by jenthat’s kind of for your gynecologist
  • looked vacantly upon the crowd
  • with the slavish tenacity of a lapdog
  • bump around awhile
  • rallied in an instant

Tune in next time part 90                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

The warlord turned to his daughter and said, “Fleur, replace your doily please. My servants will be bringing refreshments in a moment and,” he waved his hand, “that’s kind of for your gynecologist.” He looked at me. “Or your husband.”

Fleur replaced her doily in her lap and only then did her father turn off the sappy music. A small parade of teenagers, male and female, dressed in traditional Contrarian garb entered the tent bearing platters of honeyed fruit and small casks of wine. Fleur looked vacantly upon the crowd of servers while they gazed at her with the slavish tenacity of a lapdog.

The warlord clapped his hands and the teens all filed out of the tent. Before following them, Fleur’s father said, “You two have a little snack, and then bump around awhile. The next Question and Answer session will be conducted by Isolde.”

Isolde! At the thought of my nubile sister-in-law, my flagging genitals rallied in an instant.

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