Tagged: tune in next time

The Hall of Mirrors Didn’t Slow Ulrike Down

  • by Kentleaned over my sleeping wife
  • their colored turbans
  • Right?
  • sat down lumpily
  • planted a big kiss right on Hopfrog’s mouth

Tune in next time part 81                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

The hall of mirrors didn’t slow Ulrike down as much as I’d hoped, but I had a good head start and the chaos of the midway to conceal me. I got on the carousel, riding a giant amphibian and checking on my would-be pursuer on each revolution. The clot of teenagers outside the funhouse distracted her, and by the time my warty steed, Hopfrog, brought me back around she was sashaying away with one arm around a boy and the other around a girl. They weren’t even putting up too much of a fight.

To celebrate, I swung out of the saddle and planted a big kiss right on Hopfrog’s mouth. But I was a little dizzy from the ride and sat down lumpily on the floor. It’s normal for adults to be more susceptible than kids to this kind of circular motion. Right?

Hopfrog winked at me. I smacked my numb lips and tried to stand up, but it was no use. I knew now that the frog’s kisser had been coated with real bufotoxin, by someone who knew me well enough to anticipate that I’d choose that mount, and that I’d lay one on it.

There was only one person on Earth who could predict my actions so uncannily. Her agents were easy to spot by their colored turbans, not that I had any hope of evading them now. As I blacked out I felt strong hands loading me into a crate.

I came to in a tent, a gentle ocean breeze coming in through the open flap. I leaned over my sleeping wife and tried to guess why she brought me home.

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My Wife is a Very Dangerous Woman

  • by jenthis really is the end
  • “I am fucking drunk.”
  • covered the back window with the mattress
  • adroit little fingers
  • Open your eyes.

Tune in next time part 82                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

My wife is a very dangerous woman, but in sleep she looks quite peaceful. I prefer reality over the tranquil lie. It keeps me on my toes. I shook her shoulder and said, “Open your eyes.”

Her baby blues popped open and she hooked her adroit little fingers into my ears in a move I remembered well, and pulled me down into a kiss. Presumably she’d had one of her lackeys wipe off the residual bufotoxin earlier.

When she released me, I said, “Hello, Fleur. To what do I owe the honor?”

Her smile was as cold as I had ever seen it. “It’s that time of year again, darling. My underlings covered the back window with the mattress. I know you prefer privacy in these matters” She gestured to the rear of the tent where an air mattress was indeed covering the only window.

“Your father still insists you produce an heir?”

“You know Daddy.”

I thought of Svetlana’s claim that I had impregnated her on the train, and what my warlord father-in-law would think of a bastard child.

“I am fucking drunk.” Fleur informed me. “Let’s get this over with.”

She pinned me on my back and used her fingers, both adroit and not-so, to strip me out of my ceremonial pajamas. When she reached my feathered sock garters she said, “This really is the end of this silly costume, finally!” She snapped the garters three times in the prescribed manner, then removed them and laid down on her voluminous pillows. It was time for me to perform my half of the ritual.

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Fleur’s Attire

  • by Kentsomeone other than Mother Nature
  • she’s not your typical Russian.
  • quantify my luck
  • took a large pinch of snuff
  • sleep through a blizzard

Tune in next time part 83                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

Fleur’s attire was as elaborate as mine, and considerably heavier. The dense brocaded fabric once allowed her to sleep through a blizzard when our tent blew away in the mountains. That year was memorable, but this promised to be a new high-water mark.

I unraveled the complex laces of her jodhpurs, reciting the proper chant. When I got to her belt I took a large pinch of snuff from its hidden compartment. When I sneezed onto her sleeve I created a speckled pattern to divine our procreative chances, to quantify my luck as a father as it were.

But my mind was still on Svetlana. She’s not your typical woman, and she’s not your typical Russian. Was her claim valid? How could she be so sure, unless she consulted with someone other than Mother Nature.

I blew a fanfare on each of the six pennywhistles sewn into Feur’s bodice. It was time.

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As Dictated By the Customs of Her Clan

  • by jenthe sciences which keep men alive
  • producing a special voice for the occasion
  • wrist and knee
  • expression of the most abject and hopeless misery
  • the organic kind

Tune in next time part 84                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

As dictated by the customs of her clan, Fleur chanted passages from an ancient scroll entitled The Sciences Which Keep Men Alive while I made love to her, producing a special voice for the occasion. I concentrated my caresses on her left wrist and knee to increase our chances of producing a male heir. Neither of us wanted to face the expression of the most abject and hopeless misery her father would wear if a girl were born instead. It did not bear thinking of. Existential misery made him dangerous.

Soon our tent was filled with the organic kind of scent that comes from vigorous sex in hot climates. Fleur sighed happily and rang the gong. We barely had time to cover ourselves with the ritualistic doilies before her father strode in, flanked by his bodyguards.

The post-coital question and answer period was my least favorite part of this entire weeklong ceremony.

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Fleur’s Father Settled on the Satin Sheets

  • by KentWe’re living in the golden age
  • even without feathers
  • and now so am I
  • God I love you. You’re so pretty.
  • trembling with paralysis

Tune in next time part 85                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

Fleur’s father settled on the satin sheets between us, clipboard in hand. He smoothed the curling points of his mustache and then plucked a quill from the crest on his turban.

“True or false,” he began. “We’re living in the golden age of calligraphy.”

“False,” Fleur said confidently. Her father chortled indulgently and marked her response with an ironically elaborate symbol. Penmanship remained the most vital way for warlords of their clan to command respect, and any aspirant factional leader learned how to fashion suitable styli even without feathers for quills. Learned young.

He looked at me sternly for the next question. “You’re full of blank, and now so am I.”

I found myself unable to think of anything except the responses I should *not* say out loud, until finally I stammered, “C-cracker crumbs?”

The leathery face of my warlord-in-law leaned closer. “God I love you. You’re so pretty. But, no. That’s wrong.” One of his bodyguards raised a slender tube to his mouth and I felt the blowdart’s sting on my neck. “And as you’re fully aware, incorrect responses must not be permitted.”

I sat there, nude, with a doily on my lap, trembling with paralysis and dreading the penalty I must pay.

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My Second Drugging In Less Than 12 Hours Brought Back Vivid Memories Of My Wedding

  • by jen“You don’t have to eat it.”
  • We’re going to make it look accidental.
  • the site of an extraordinary event
  • so soft and so elegant
  • stern, judgmental, and bossy

Tune in next time part 86                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

My second drugging in less than 12 hours brought back vivid memories of my wedding to Fleur. Her family made liberal use of narcotics and paralytics in all of their ceremonies.

You might think that the days of marriages arranged to strengthen political ties were long gone, but you would be wrong. During my mother’s second term as president she desired an ally amongst the stern, judgmental, and bossy warlords of Contraria, and so Fleur and I were forced to marry. I was assured that she would be so soft and so elegant, so unlike her father. I was lied to. Fleur was indeed elegant, but she was not soft. And while she did not resemble her father much physically, she was his protege in matters both political and temperamental.

I tried to convince Mother that my twin Jason would make a more appropriate groom, but she insisted that he had to be available to rap throughout the fortnight-long reception. And so for two long weeks the White House lawn and rose garden were the site of an extraordinary event, a bombastic celebration that resembled Burning Man more than a state wedding reception. Fleur and I exchanged our vows wearing only the floral headdresses of her people. Upon consummation of the marriage, our first Contrarian tribal question and answer session was broadcast on C-SPAN. Through the haze of drugs I overheard my mother and Fleur’s father plotting the bombing of Contraria’s eternal rival. “Don’t worry,” Mother assured the warlord. “We’re going to make it look accidental.”

Everyone knows how that worked out, of course.

And now, even after that debacle, and the sex scandal that killed my father and removed my mother from office in disgrace, I was still wed to Fleur, still subject to the violent traditions of her clan, still expected to produce an heir.

As the blowgun poison wore off I became aware again of the stuffy tent and the scratchy doily adhered to my groin. Fleur stood before me with a giant cicada pinched between two chopsticks. My punishment for getting my first question wrong.

“You don’t have to eat it.” My father-in-law fixed me with a smirk. “But the alternative is even worse.”

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Fleur’s Wicked Grin Told Me She Hoped I Didn’t Eat the Cicada

  • by Kentuncomfortably on all fours yet unheeding his discomfort
  • like an illusion of the vision
  • “Magnificent!” I replied, with a good imitation of enthusiasm
  • exhaustively trained monozygotic twins
  • Like his lips were made of chocolate

Tune in next time part 87                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

Fleur’s wicked grin told me that she hoped I didn’t eat the cicada, that she relished picturing me as a vanquished foe uncomfortably on all fours yet unheeding his discomfort in his fervor to please her. I opened my mouth, resolved to get this ordeal over with in the least of unpleasant ways. My determination disappointed her. Ordinarily I don’t fantasize about harming other people, but the vexation creasing Fleur’s brow was like an illusion of the vision of how she’d react if I turned the tables. Stoic to the last, my wife.

I chewed, willing away any and all awareness of the taste, texture, and especially the sound within my own mouth.

“How is it?” my father-in-law asked.

“Magnificent!” I replied, with a good imitation of enthusiasm.

Fleur surprised me by providing a goblet of red wine to wash things down. I reminded myself that she wasn’t a monster. She only wanted to be a good daughter.

“Next question,” her father said. “What is the proper manner to perform our tribal anthem?” He and Fleur exchanged nasty smiles.

I smiled back. “On a barge, held in place against the current by a team of thirty-one albino goats, the melody produced by a single bagpipe played by exhaustively trained monozygotic twins.”

The warlord had been certain I couldn’t know this. He frowned deeply. Like his lips were made of chocolate and my satisfied grin was a blowtorch.

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Fleur’s Next Question Was Easy

  • by jenargue about the size of each other’s genitals
  • planning to get married
  • they hide behind trees
  • have escaped unscathed
  • that’s the name of the game

Tune in next time part 88                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

Fleur’s next question was easy, but that’s the name of the game with Contrarian tribal customs. The women always get the easy questions, but few men have escaped unscathed from these mating rites. Fleur once told me about a splinter faction of young tribesmen who rejected all of the formal questioning and ceremonial garb. They hide behind trees and waylay anyone who looks like they are planning to get married to try to talk them out of it.

My thoughts were interrupted by Fleur’s father. He posed my final question of this round, an easy one I had no trouble answering correctly. The warlord must be anxious to move on. I wondered what he had planned.

“This is the Contrarian Year of the Monkey,” he announced. “That means it is time for you lovebirds to argue about the size of each other’s genitals. Do so loudly please, so that everyone can hear.” He exited through the tent flap with his bodyguards, leaving me alone with Fleur and her devilish grin.

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Although My Heart Wasn’t In It

  • by KentQuick, grab the beer!
  • his hobgoblin smile
  • some names have been changed
  • That’s the whole fucking point of having a twin sister
  • you know I hate pop music

Tune in next time part 89                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

Although my heart wasn’t in it, I had to commit fully to Fleur’s Contrarian customs. I yelled the first thing that came to mind, wanting to score points by speaking up before she could.

“Look! It’s a cave where we can party! Quick, grab the beer!”

“Tequila would be more appropriate, since you’ve already brought the worm!” she bellowed.

Unfazed, I retorted, “Wait, looks like some kind of vermin already lives here — I see his hobgoblin smile!”

“Believe me, there’s nothing for that poor creature to smile about,” she shot back.

The rest of our battle of slights has become part of the Contrarian Canonical Wedding Vows, although some names have been changed. The revision to the traditional reading did strengthen the treaty between Contraria and the US, or, as the president put it, “That’s the whole fucking point of having a twin sister,” leaving out the part about actually being the twin sister in question.

But we didn’t realize we were reshaping political reality, we just got lost in our duel. Eventually her father came back into the tent to make us stop, carrying a boom box with horrible, bland melodies blaring.

“I wouldn’t have done this if I didn’t have to,” he said. “You know I hate pop music.”

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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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