Tagged: tune in next time

The Blue Panda Swayed

  • by jenmud of an Alabama bayou
  • protective layers of bubble wrap
  • undergarments, sneakers
  • on the right thumb
  • discard his signature footwear

Tune in next time part 369      Click Here for Earlier Installments

The blue panda swayed from side to side, crooning “Hush Little Baby” in a southern accent thicker than the mud of an Alabama bayou. My twins, strapped to his chest, cooed and burbled. I had no idea my brother Jim had such a way with infants.

While Harry gathered up the cheese and shoved it into his toad-like mouth with a great deal of lip-smacking, Fleur snapped her fingers for the waiter. When he arrived at the table she said, “You will procure several protective layers of bubble wrap and use it to fashion carrying harnesses for these four babies.” She turned to me. “It was very foresighted of you to conceive these children. They will make splendid additions to my royal brood. Of course they are outside the line of succession, and must remain unnamed until after our twins get their names several months or years from now.”

“Of course,” I said. Having the quads raised in the Contrarian court meant they would be well-protected, which was an enormous relief to me.

Fleur finished feeding the second set of babies and handed them to a nearby busboy. She buttoned up her top and turned back to me. “Your morning suit is a disgrace.”

“It looks exactly like the one my husband wore at my wedding!” Isolde simpered, “Only dirtier and much, much damper.” Harry nearly choked on his cheese.

I thought of Isolde on her wedding night, when I’d acted as proxy husband. She’d danced for me wearing only undergarments, sneakers, and a ring on the right thumb, her left thumb as nude as the rest of her soon became.

Fleur snapped again and another waiter scurried over. “Get my husband something dry to wear,” she said. “And discard his signature footwear into the incinerator.” Once more she turned her attention to me. “Now what’s this you were bellowing about your ejaculate?”

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I Told Fleur Everything

  • by Kentbecause nobody is willing to deal with it
  • I stole the shopping bag
  • you also have to get naked
  • a feature sorely missing in regular marriage
  • , so that’s ominous

Tune in next time part 370      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I told Fleur everything I knew about the situation, vis-a-vis my semen, and in the telling it was a tale that felt like a mere list of other women I’d had sex with recently. If any of this bothered my wife, she didn’t let it show.

“The ones who seem to almost know what they’re doing are Tessa’s sisters,” I concluded. “Titania, aka the Crystal Clown, in particular seemed very confident.”

“Ugh,” Fleur said, “this kind of conspiracy just spirals out of control because nobody is willing to deal with it. You don’t need to worry, Hubby dear. Your spunk won’t tip the balance of world power. It’s all a big misunderstanding.” She chewed her nail, staring into space. “This all began fifty years ago, when Rinaldo XI stole the shopping bag where Rinaldo X was keeping the ceremonial cufflinks. Who could have predicted that it would lead to you, and your baby batter.”

Isolde said, “The soothsayers should have known. But to survive as a soothsayer you need to know which visions to keep to yourself. And, you also have to get naked out in the snow all the time, so a hardy constitution helps, too. Come to think of it, are any of the soothsayers still surviving?”

No one seemed to know.

“So, you’re telling me there’s nothing to worry about with the mimes and the clowns and who knows who else all fighting over my… output?”

She took too long to answer. So, there was something to it. “The fact that they believe they can weaponize it is potentially destabilizing.”

“Weaponize it?”

“So they think. But it’s just a myth, something borne of rumor and innuendo that’s taken on a life of its own. I mean, your sperm count must be through the roof, it would seem, but otherwise it’s just normal stuff.”

The waiter returned with clothes for me. A red uniform much like the one he wore, only fancier. The jacket had gold epaulets.

“Perfect!” Fleur said. “I was about to make you a general, so now you’ll look the part.”

The ability to confer rank onto her spouse was one of the nicer aspects of our royal marriage, and a feature sorely missing in regular marriage.

“All of the mountain garrisons are now under your command,” she went on. “Well, as soon as you change your clothes. Come now, don’t be shy.”

Harry scowled around a mouthful of cheese while I stripped off the soggy morning suit. But Isolde barely glanced at me, so his jealousy seemed misplaced. The dry clothes felt nice, even if they did make me look more like a bellhop than a military commander.

“Incidentally,” Fleur mumbled, “no one has heard from anyone at the mountain garrisons for several months, so that’s ominous. Don’t worry over that, though. Just don’t let the vying factions form an alliance against Contraria.”

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“You Need a Hat”

  • by jenwith a turned-up nose, and rather turned-in legs
  • got to the edge of a very big wood
  • Oh God, Paul. Elevators!
  • a circular muddy mark
  • We can have the ceremony at once

Tune in next time part 371      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“You need a hat,” Fleur said. “Contrarian generals always have hats.” She deftly folded her white linen napkin into an origami hat that rather resembled a paper boat. “Perfect!” She held it aloft. “We can have the ceremony at once.”

“But a white hat,” said Harry. “Surely not.”

“Quiet, Harry,” Fleur said. “You’re just upset because my husband will outrank you.”

Harry pouted froggily under Isolde’s doting gaze.

Fleur directed me to kneel, plopped the napkin hat on my head, and used coffee grounds to make a circular muddy mark on my lapel. “This insignia shows your rank, General. Congratulations.”

I bowed my head to kiss her hand, careful not to let my hat slip off. I felt rather ridiculous in my new getup, like a country bumpkin arriving in the big city for the first time. The type of rube who would be amazed by the most mundane things. “Oh God, Paul. Elevators! Like in the movies!” That sort of thing.

“Ooo Harry!” Isolde cooed. “You should buy your commanding officer a drink!”

With a prodigious scowl, Harry stood from the table and marched across the restaurant until he got to the edge of a very big wooden bar that was on the opposite side of the fountain from where we were seated. He returned shortly with a turned-up nose, and rather turned-in legs that accentuated his toad-like qualities. With a curt salute he handed me a tall glass full of a frothy green substance. It didn’t smell like anything I’d ever encountered before. Could I trust that he wasn’t trying to poison me?

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The Alleged Beverage Harry Handed to Me

  • by Kentexcept for their own wives
  • and it caused… issues
  • First of all, go fuck yourself
  • mementos of that intimacy
  • I had stuff to do.

Tune in next time part 372      Click Here for Earlier Installments

The alleged beverage Harry handed to me had a strange, vaguely medicinal aroma. The froth made a snakelike hiss. The glass seemed to be growing colder in my hand.

“Tell me about this drink, Harry.”

“The world-renowned Inimical Gin and Tonic,” he proclaimed promptly, like he’d hoped I would ask. “The bartenders share the exact recipe with no one except for their own wives, who had to be let in on it by decree because the bartenders otherwise had to keep secrets from them and it caused… issues.”

“But the approximate recipe would be gin and tonic?” I pressed.

“First of all, go fuck yourself, sir. And second of all, that’s inimical gin and inimical tonic, in mysterious yet precise proportions. Each night, the bottles are stored together in a particular geometry according to ancient tradition, a secret stacking method that brings them nearer to one another. The richness of the flavors and the crispness of the effervescence are mementos of that intimacy.”

“Sounds very strong,” I said. Harry smiled thinly. “And I’d hate to start issuing commands with my judgment impaired.” I set the glass on the table. Harry seethed at me, but I couldn’t worry about that right now. I was a general, and I had stuff to do.

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“About Those Mountain Garrisons”

  • by jenWhenever I eat grapes near her
  • the pantsless hug thing
  • ring of dried blood
  • decorated with blue, pink, yellow, and green frosting
  • wiggled my fingers at him

Tune in next time part 373      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“About those mountain garrisons,” I said, ready to embrace my new military responsibilities.

“They are in the Paradoxica region, on the three-way border between Contraria, Harmonia, and Melodia,” Fleur said. “Far, far away from here. Sit down, General. It’s time for the fruit course.”

As a general I had to obey the Warlord’s daughter, and as her husband doubly so. I sat in the empty chair between Fleur and Isolde, and moments later a parade of waiters carried out trays and trays laden with grapes of every size and color. Fleur’s blue eyes grew hooded. My wife has a very particular fetish. Whenever I eat grapes near her, she has the uncontrollable need to do the pantsless hug thing. You know — sex.

After my very recent assignations with Olga and the Crystal Clown, I wasn’t sure I was up for what she undoubtedly had in mind. Perhaps I could decline the grapes. Their mere proximity was probably not enough to get her fired up.

Isolde scooped up a handful of plump maroon Inimical grapes and began to feed them to Harry. He was not a neat eater, and their juice soon made it look like he had a ring of dried blood around his froggy mouth. I shuddered and chanced a look at my wife.

Fleur had arranged a platter of grapes in front of me. The luscious fruits were decorated with blue, pink, yellow, and green frosting, in the Inimical fashion, and arranged to spell out the words “Eat Me, General.”

“I’m quite exhausted Fleur,” I murmured to her. “And you’ve so recently given birth.”

“You see that man over there in the sequined bodysuit?” she replied in a low, breathy voice, pointing across the restaurant at a slim, silver-haired man who was indeed dressed for the circus. “He’s a spy.”

“A spy?” He certainly wasn’t dressed to blend in.

“I know it to be true because I wiggled my fingers at him in a way that most people would take to be a wave, but which was really the Acrobat’s Code, and his eyebrow twitched, so obviously he’s a spy.”

“Or he had a tic.”

“He’s a spy,” she said forcefully. “We must provide a distraction. Now eat your grapes. That’s an order.”

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“Time’s A-Wasting, General”

  • by Kentpartially filled with wine
  • does not mean I can’t recognize a sad French clown when I see one
  • running towards us with a test-tube in his hand
  • “Who says I have intentions?”
  • over and done with before happy hour

Tune in next time part 374      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“Time’s a-wasting, General,” my wife said. “Eat up. I want to have this over and done with before happy hour.”

I looked at the grapes, knowing it had been she who arranged them to spell that message. “Think of your station, Fleur. This is a public place. Perhaps not an ideal venue for me to comply with your intentions.”

“Who says I have intentions?”

“I do,” I replied wearily. I gestured to the plate in front of me. “And the grapes back me up on it.” I sighed. “And with the way my luck has been lately, we’ll no sooner get started than some zealot will come running towards us with a test-tube in his hand, trying to intercept my delivery.”

“You are no doubt correct,” Fleur surprised me by saying. “It will be him, the spy I pointed out to you. I haven’t been to Paris in many years, and of course he’s wiped away his face paint, but all of that does not mean I can’t recognize a sad French clown when I see one.”

The last clown I’d seen up close had been Titania, who was neither sad nor French, at least not when she left.

“Eat the grapes, husband. You’ll like them. Being grown in the Inimical vineyards, they are already partially filled with wine.”

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I Scraped the Green Frosting Off a Grape

  • by jentake a long shower
  • It’s funny!
  • I wonder if all the chickens and pigeons
  • I fantasize about the hospital
  • married 11 times to 9 different men

Tune in next time part 375      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I scraped the green frosting off a grape and looked at my wife. “Don’t you want me to at least take a long shower first?”

“You Americans are so hung up on hygiene,” she laughed. “It’s funny!” She guided my hand to my mouth and inserted the grape. Her lips parted and her breath grew heavy as she watched me pop the fruit with my teeth to release the wine inside. “More!” she cried, and shoved another grape in, this one still encased in sickly sweet icing.

For the next ten minutes Fleur fed me Inimical grapes, until I was quite drunk and she was quite breathless. My wife is lovely, and seeing her so aroused sparked my own desire. Despite my earlier protestations I found myself ready, willing, and able to do as she commanded.

“We must, of course, observe tradition,” she said. “I’ve been reading the ancient texts concerning the first sexual congress following the birth of twins, and it’s quite specific.” She stripped me of my new uniform and shoved me down onto a platter of grapes. The tiny fruits burst under me and soon I was laying in a puddle of their cold juice.

“I wonder if all the chickens and pigeons we need as witnesses will fit on the table,” Fleur said. “Or if we’ll need to pull another one over.” She doffed her gown while a string of chefs appeared, each carrying a live bird which he nestled onto the table around me. Contrarian rituals are often surreal, but this was beyond anything I’d seen before.

I tried to tune out the poultry, the glowering Harry and the rest of our audience, but it was difficult when Isolde was so nearby. She kept her eyes glued on my nakedness as she leaned her head toward Harry and said, hand on her stomach, “I fantasize about the hospital where I will give birth to our child, darling Harry. Don’t you?”

Harry growled.

Fleur climbed onto the table and stood over me as a crowd formed around us. The alleged clown spy said, in a heavy French accent, “I always thought the women of Contrarian royalty had to be married 11 times to 9 different men. Where are the other 8?”

Fleur’s toes tapped against my hips, imparting a coded message about her plan to thwart the clown.

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Fleur’s Scheme

  • by Kentin true carny fashion
  • allegations of a conspiracy
  • some little sinful thing I’ve done
  • wear dead cats on their heads
  • don’t want to continue the alliterations

Tune in next time part 376      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Fleur’s scheme for dealing with the francophone aerialist intelligencer was predicated on her surmise that he was not a circus clown, but a carnival clown, and thus relied on him behaving in true carny fashion when presented with allegations of a conspiracy. But not accusations directed at him. No, my wife was about to declare that she knew some little sinful thing I’ve done, and by “sinful” she’d mean “treasonous.” By his accent I judged him to be from the Lorraine region, and a rural part of it at that, probably a backwater where they wear dead cats on their heads. I hoped Fleur was taking that into consideration when calculating what crimes to charge me with.

Meanwhile, she had lowered herself into a crouch over my supine form on the table. She had, after all, just watched me eat a whole platter of grapes. The table’s uneven legs played a stately heartbeat in time to her motions.

“You’re a dog,” she growled. “A dirty delinquent, a deserter devoid of devotion!” The table’s thump-thump, thump-thump filled a lull, then she went on. “Desperation drove your despicable deeds. Don’t doubt my determination, just because I don’t want to continue the alliterations.” Her voice was climbing, the thump-thump accelerating.

“Could you be, perhaps, more specific?” asked the leotarded interloper. “What has this man done?”

Fleur arched her back, holding up one index finger to tell the clown spy to wait. The table fell silent as she poised motionless at the brink, and then her face lit with transcendent pleasure.

“I’ll tell you what he’s done,” said Harry. “He’s a traitorous dog, all right.”

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“Harry,” Isolde Said Warningly

  • by jenwait for it to burn itself out
  • undoubtedly he had been
  • I have and it’s not fun.
  • his loins captivated by her sheer roundness
  • with an hour or so to kill

Tune in next time part 377      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“Harry,” Isolde said warningly, “ignore the jealousy that enflames your heart and wait for it to burn itself out. The General has always performed his duties well and faithfully, even before he achieved his rank.”

Her husband spluttered. “I’m certain he had been biding his time, waiting for his chance with you.”

“Undoubtedly he had been.” Isolde laid her hand on his froggy cheek. “And if you hadn’t been so seasick you would have been present for our wedding. It’s certainly not the General’s fault he was called upon to act as your proxy. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s yours.”

Harry’s broad face turned bright red. He snorted through his nose. “Have you ever vomited during a marriage ceremony, Isolde? I have and it’s not fun. Not fun at all!”

Isolde gasped. “You’ve been married before?”

“It didn’t count,” Harry said, paling. “Because of the vomiting. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how strict Contrarian law is about such things. If the groom vomits, the marriage is annulled, and due to double jeopardy it can never be redone. The groom’s brother or uncle must step in and wed the bride, and the vomiting groom may never bed her, even if his loins, captivated by her sheer roundness, are on the point of bursting.”

While this minor soap opera played out mere feet from us, Fleur began to move atop me again, at the stately pace of someone with an hour or so to kill. The Frenchman had not reacted as she had anticipated, most likely due to the distraction Isolde and Harry provided. Was that part of her plan? I tried to ask her, without using words.

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Fleur and I Were Fluent in Some of the Same Codes

  • by Kenthe likely plunged in deeper
  • “It’s like, lady, have you really never been called a whore before?”
  • I’m not a big fan
  • I was very vulnerable
  • Oh, crikey.

Tune in next time part 378      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Fleur and I were fluent in some of the same codes, despite her not having gone to the Academy. I could only speculate what forms of covert communication the spy knew, so keeping him from intercepting the message ruled out anything audible or easily observed from across the room. So, no whistling or yodeling, and no barehanded semaphore.

I tried regulating my thrusts to a dot-dash-dot pattern, but she didn’t alter her own rhythm or otherwise show any sign she was listening. The last option I could think of under the circumstances was toespelling, and as we were both barefoot it seemed it might work. I contorted and clenched my toes, pressing each shape against the sole of her foot to impart the message: what is your plan?

She replied via Kegel/Morse — which meant she must have been listening after all — saying merely: wait and see.

As she conveyed those words, her eyes fluttered and her mouth hung fetchingly slack.

“What is happening to her face?” I heard Harry ask.

Isolde tittered. “He likely plunged in deeper. That’s how I recall our wedding night.”

Harry growled.

The Frenchman in the leotard sniffed haughtily. “I have witnessed sufficiently your barbaric comportment, and will take my leave of this place.”

“Barbaric?” Fleur’s eyes flashed and she stopped moving. I tried to send her more coded messages but she definitely wasn’t paying any attention to me now. “Barbaric!” she repeated, “You dare…”

The man shrugged, and spoke again in his ridiculous accent. “It’s like, lady, have you really never been called a whore before?” Another shrug. “I’m not a big fan of ill-behaved royalty, you know? Next what will you tell me? That I should eat cake?”

Now Fleur and everyone else around our table were rising to confront this rude stranger. I was very vulnerable, lying on my back in the middle of the incipient battle.

Oh, crikey.

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