Contribute to the Neverending Fragrance Story... - Page 4

Sorry, I can't get this post off.

Help! I don't know how I got four of these up here and I can't get them off.

Certainly, we can go another round. It'll take a bit ...

By the way, if spelling my handle is giving you fits, just use the English version, "Sotnikov". Just so long as you don't call me "Sot" for short, haha! That would not be flattering in one language or another.
--------------------------------------
"Now, i know you are probably provoked," said Miss Pinch, looking at me with slitted eyes. "Men are violent and unreliable. Therefore, we cannot begin upon the removal of the bag until certain precautions are taken."

With her left hand, she undid my overcoat. She reached to my waist and undid my belt. I would have kicked out but it looked like the gun was going to hit me in the teeth. I sat back.

She pulled off my shoes.
She shucked off my trousers.
She pried off my underpants.
A chain rattled!

She was fastening a steel cuff to my right ankle. It was held to the right-side bottom of the bed with links.
She clamped a steel cuff to my left ankle. It was connected with a chain to the left bottom post of the bed.

Miss Pinch got up on the bed behind me. She pulled my overcoat, jacket and shirt up over my head and down on my arms. She then hauled me backwards to the center of the bed. From the right-hand upper post of the bed she pulled a steel cuff on a long chain. She put it on my agonized right wrist. She did the same from the left-hand upper post and put that steel band on my left wrist.

Going to the posts, she shortened the leg chains until my feet were securely fastened wide apart.

She took up the slack on the wrist chains as far as she could with my hands still in the bag.

"Now, I know those traps must be quite painful," said Miss Pinch, sounding very congratulatory about it, "but we will have to free them. But only if you promise not to strike out. Men are so violent!"

Begging, I promised.

Working on the outside of the purse bottom, she effected the release of something. She drew off the purse.

Two huge rat traps!
They had teeth and were gnawing deeper with every movement!

Standing very clear of possible strikes, she got the sleeves off the right hand and trap after she unfastened and refastened the steel cuff. She then tightened the chain so the arm was extended nearly to the right side bedpost. She repeated this operation on the left side.

I was naked and spread-eagled, chained face up on the center of that bed!

Miss Pinch removed her overcoat. She took off her hat. She smoothed out her hair before a mirror in a frame of daggers.

"You forgot the traps!" I screamed at her, driven by the agony of my mangled fingers.

"Everything in its own time and place," said Miss Pinch.

Candy danced back and looked at me, spread-eagled and naked on the bed. She pretended coyness. Then she said, "He isn't very big, is he?"

"Oh, my darling Candy," said Miss Pinch. "You are not pleased."

"No, no, sweet Pinchy. Please let us not quarrel. He will be just wonderful! Have I offended you, dear Pinchy?"

They embraced with croonings of endearment.

"Take off these god (bleeped) traps!" I screamed at them.

Miss Pinch said to Candy, "I thought that you, just this once, might like to ..."

Candy drew back in horror. "Oh, no, no! I could not bear to touch a man. What must you think of me! Oh, dear Pinchy, how could i be so gross? Never, never would I be unfaithful to you even by a fingertip."

Miss Pinch smiled at her indulgently. Then, humming a little tune without words, she moved over and, in the most painful way possible, began to take the trap off my left hand. Believe me, I screamed!

"Ah," said Candy. "Ah, dear Pinchy. Kiss me!" Her eyes were shining.

Miss Pinch kissed her. Then she came back and finished the left hand with maximum agony. I screamed myself hoarse!

Candy had sat down on a sofa. She was panting. Her mouth was wet. Her knees were wide apart. She was beckoning urgently to Miss Pinch.

Miss Pinch grabbed her, crushed her to her flat chest and then carried her to the other room and slammed the door shut with her heel.

Through the pink mist of agony, I could hear urgent beggings in the next room. Then little moans. Then groans of ecstasy. Minutes. And then a gasping shriek!

What was going on in there?
More minutes.
A low muttering.
The door opened.

Miss Pinch still had her coat and shirt and tie on. But she was nearly naked from the waist down. She was breathing hard.

Candy was wearing only a chemise now. Her face was red and flushed and wet.

Their eyes were hot.
What could they possibly have been doing?

Miss Pinch went to an Iron Maiden and opened it. It was serving as a fridge. She got out some beer. They lolled down on the sofa, drinking from their beer cans thirstily.

"Take off the gods (bleeped) trap!" I screamed at them.

Miss Pinch looked at Candy. "How do you feel, dear? Ready?"
"Oh, yes," trilled Candy.

Miss Pinch put her beer down.
She walked over to my right hand. She began to remove the trap with twisting motions. I screamed!

"It seems to be stuck," said Miss Pinch with thin-lipped satisfaction.

Candy's beer began to run out the sides of her mouth. She was starting to pant.
Miss Pinch gave the trap a more dreadful twist. I screamed my head off!
Candy dropped her beer can. It frothed in a puddle on the floor. She put her heels out straight. Her mouth was open, her eyes hot.
Miss Pinch was beginning to breathe hard. She closed the trap tighter. I almost tore my lungs out.

"Oh, god," panted Candy.

Miss Pinch tore the trap off. I yelled so hard I deafened myself.
Candy had her legs straight out, her head back. She was beginning to buck up and down on the sofa.
Miss Pinch seized her in her arms and, pressing hot kisses on her throat, bore her into the other room and slammed the door.

I could hear moaning and begging. I could hear an urgent scramble. The more begging.
Then small moans.
Then a shriek!
Minutes passed.
A low snarling. The voice of Miss Pinch.
More minutes.
What were they doing?

The door opened. They came out. They were both practically naked. Miss Pinch had no breasts at all. She had a tattooed dagger in the middle of her chest. Her short hair was ruffled and wet.

Candy had lipstick smeared all over her face and stomach. Her large breasts were shiny and wet.

They plopped down on the sofa, legs outstretched. Candy had her head back. She looked quite spent.

Miss Pinch was staring at me, thin-lipped and calculating.

I began to be afraid.


(... to be continued)

OT: Tomorrow is a busy day and i may not have time to post, so may do another installment later tonight, depending. This story's barely starting.

edit: spelling, minor clean-up

Yes, beautiful raven haired aunty Alberta, how could he forget her even in his lucid dreams and the time he and his uncle picked her up from the state mental hospital, the time he found an entire closet filled with the Thorazine she was supposed to have taken....the smell of L'air Du Temps.

... it was good so good to drift off 'pon the buoyant clouds of Jicky, but harsh reality intruded with the stern sounds of Wagner emanating from the mouths of devil masks on either side of a brick fireplace evidently used for heating torture tongs ...

Candy listened for a while. Then she began to massage her very ample breasts. The nipples began to stand up.

"Oh, Pinchy," she said, "would you think me forward if I said it's time we really began to prepare for the evening's sex?"

Miss Pinch petted her head and kissed her on the cheek. "Whatever you say, my darling."

I flinched at the look in Pinch's eyes.

Miss Pinch walked over to a closet, her naked body moving like a man's. She reached inside. She was selecting one of several somethings.

She stepped back. She was slapping a fourteen-inch rubber truncheon against her palm. She walked over to a hidden record player and selected a vinyl with the picture of The Man in Black on the cover.

Candy was sitting up, eyes bright. Miss Pinch checked the chains that held me spread-eagled.

Her eye was moving up and down my nakedness with calculating selection.

Candy had her legs apart. She was all bright attention.

The masks spoke ...

FROM THE BACKDOOR OF YOUR LIFE YOU SWEPT ME OUT DEAR ...

Miss Pinch chose the sole of my foot.
WHACK!
"Go ahead and scream," said Miss Pinch. "It's no good without screaming."
I vowed that I wouldn't give her the satisfaction. I clenched my teeth.

IN THE BREAD LINE OF YOUR DREAMS I LOST MY PLACE ...

She aimed for my foot again.
WHAP!
Tha pain shot through me. It stung!

AT THE TABLE OF YOUR LOVE I GOT THE BRUSH OFF ...

She chose my stomach.
SPLAT!
Then she got to work.

AT THE INDIANAPOLIS OF YOUR HEART I LOST THE RACE.

Teeth bared, laying on with all her might, she began to hit my body everywhere!

I'VE BEEN WASHED DOWN THE SINK OF YOUR CONSCIENCE...

She hit my (bleeps)!
I screamed!

IN THE THEATER OF YOUR LOVE I LOST MY PART ...

Candy was panting. Miss Pinch's eyes glared with hate. The rubber truncheon rose and fell in rhythm to Johnny Cash.

AND NOW YOU SAY YOU'VE GOT ME OUT OF YOUR CONSCIENCE ...

Agony!
I screamed and screamed and screamed!
Miss Pinch had descended now to fists!

I'VE BEEN FLUSHED FROM THE BATHROOM OF YOUR HEART.

Candy was whimpering. "Pinchy, Pinchy, Pinchy! Oh, my god, Pinchy, take me, take me quick!"

Miss Pinch whirled. She seized Candy's nakedness in her arms. She raced with her into the other room and slammed the door behind her.

IN THE GARBAGE DISPOSAL OF YOUR DREAMS I'VE BEEN GROUND UP DEAR ...

Gibbering moans. Then shrieks and shrieks and shrieks!

ON THE RIVER OF YOUR PLANS I'M UP THE CREEK ...

Silence. Had Miss Pinch killed her?
At length a low snarling. It sounded like curses.
Then silence.

UP THE ELEVATOR OF YOUR FUTURE I'VE BEEN SHAFTED ...

More silence.

ON THE CALENDAR OF YOUR EVENTS I'M LAST WEEK.

Minutes later, the door opened. Miss Pinch came in carrying Candy. She dumped her on the sofa and then got down and began to massage her wrists and ankles.

Candy came to and flung her arms around Miss Pinch's neck.

Miss Pinch said to me, "You're a dirty (bleepard)! You have an evil mind. Get your lustful eyes off this poor, innocent girl."

Oh gods, they were going to do it again!
The truncheon was even worse!
I passed out.
When i came to a long time later, they were on the couch again but Candy was collapsed on her knees, her hair against Miss Pinch's lean belly.

"Ah," said Miss Pinch. "Decided to stop faking, did you?" She spat at me.

The music had run out. But the beer hadn't.
After a while, Candy was stroking Pinch's hair. She said, "Music. I must have music. Dear Pinchy, something soulful, please."

Miss Pinch found a medley of death marches and put them on. Then she went and found an even bigger truncheon.

I didn't even wait for her to hit. I passed out cold to the mournful strains of a dirge. From way off somewhere I could sense the slaps and thuds of blows against my body in funeral cadence.

It was probably hours later that I came to. Candy's body was draped across the end of the sofa. She had designs drawn on her in lipstick. Her hands flopped over on the floor. Her mouth, wet and smeared, was half-open in sleep.

But Miss Pinch looked deadlier than ever. She saw I had come to. She stood up and with her feet apart and hands on her hips, she said, "You owe me an apology."

That was enough to startle me into wariness.

"You weren't very good tonight."

She stood there, legs apart, shameless. She held out one hand. It had a hundred-dollar bill in it.

"This," she said, "will pay your taxi fare home. It will also pay your taxi fare back here again, tomorrow night."

She dropped the bill on me in contempt. "And maybe tomorrow night, I may take pity on you and give you even more."

I gazed at this monster in horror!

"Now promise, if I let you loose right now, you won't kick up a fuss."

I wanted to kill her and she could see it.

"There's a bank camera up in that corner of the room," she said, "so don't get any ideas about murder. Promise?"

What could I do? I promised.
She undid the wrist and ankle cuffs. As I rose, aching and wounded, she kicked my clothes toward me.
I dressed. I picked up the hundred-dollar bill.

She opened the front door and wrought-iron grate. She stood there, naked and thin-lipped in the icy blast.

I would have slapped her but my fingers were too sore.
I staggered outside into the cold and cheerless night.

But I was not without hope, no matter if dim. The next time I saw this (bleepch) I would kill her.

I flagged down a cab. "281 Lafayette Street, between Prince and Houston, driver. Drop me off at Pravda."

But first, an icy cold vodka drink. Then medical attention. And then ...

... REVENGE!

(... to be continued)

(... maybe)

OT: Someone find the Goose in Denmark, the US, or that other place and bring her back here! i miss her quirky mind. Oh, and convince her to show me her face - i'd like to know why she was considered model-worthy by so many photographers.

edit: spelling, minor clean-up

Basenotes, Closed down for a few days! Good god almighty, what have I done to deserve this? I've lost four wives, several kids, a dozen jobs, 556 colognes, but this? This is taking it a bit too far, and where's that blasted coffee?

All those wives and brats, jobs and colognes ... but i swear, my third piano concerto will be played on the fourth of May by my fifth wife!

Looking out the plate-glass window, Tibbe saw a woman unhurriedly walk by. What an infamous ass she was dragging back there, he thought. Such flabby, disgusting buttocks! It must have taken many powerful kicks on her behind to arrange things that way.

And just then he realized that the decaf and lack of nourishment was making him hallucinate.

"Waitress!"

" Sir I'm sorry but you will have to get in line to place your order" a young fucshia haired women with more piercings than a microwaved baked potato said. Tibbe vaulted over the counter and threw himself at the young Barista in a demented frenzy brought on by his subtheraputic caffeine level. Just as he landed he slipped on a dollop of whipped cream , striking his head on the corner of the Frappaccino blender. As he slipped from conciousness his last thought was " my God is that girl wearing Pink Sugar?"

So there Tibbie lay with his black wig drenched in whipped cream reminding him of CSP's Vanille, yummy. As he looked up he kept seeing teeth coming at him as the PinK Sugar got stronger and stronger. "Who spiked my decaf!?" he yelled.

Sealed those lips may have been, but perhaps not for long under the proper circumstances and with encouragement.

Feeling undignifed, recumbent as he was, Tibbe stood up, blew a kiss to the wench ... and trotted off to the WC. Opening the door and seeing the usual puddle of urine on the floor accompanied by the stench of Aqua di Gio ... his eyes fell upon the bidet.

What the f***? This wasn't a usual porcelain fixture in American establishments. Whatever happened to proper architecture of the bathroom - the application of form to space in regard to outhouse design? Still, his cold heart was gladdened to see it ... now he could properly brush his teeth.

If, that was, his toothbruush had been in its proper place. As he glared about, seeking an explanation from the mute fixtures, he became aware of a soft scrubbing sound coming from behind the shower curtain that concealed the corner.

Flaring his nostrils, he strode forward as possible under the circumstences, and tore back the sheet of transluscent vinyl.

Crouching on the floor, wearing nothing but combat boots, a boot-knife, and what seemed to be a combination of chrysanthemum, sweat, and L'Instant de Guerlain, was Mjx. She was carefully and vigorously scrubbing the shower-area tiles with Tibbe's toobrush, and seemed displeased to see him.

Ah-ha! That's all i have to say about that. And welcome back, of course.

TAKE it from her? Surely, you jest ... (and don't call me Shirley).

"Mjx, hand over the toothbrush speedily ... after you've licked it clean, of course. If you do not, i shall ... i shall do something so unbelievably horrid, so vile ... can only shudder when i think of it. Yes, i will spray you down with Estee Lauder's Pleasures."

edit: 1. Airplane fix, and 2. keeping it simple

Suddenly a cloud of comme des garcons' Zagorsk enveloped both of them. what the hell?? Was it wafting in from the ventilation system? As they both turned to look, a Russian Orthodox priest was rushing to the toilet, waiving his censor before him.

"Pah" snarled Mjx "I spit me of your stupid Lauder-fragrance! Let's SEE it compete with Zagorsk." And defiantly stepping forward, the heal of her left Grinder hit a slippy patch, and she fell heavily to the floor in a waving tangle of limbs.

Tibbe's lip curled, and he strove to restrain a giggle. "I see your waxer does nice work."

"I was in the rush, okay?" Mjx scrambled to her feet and began disinfecting herself.

"But", Tibbe was now tittering helplessly "just one side...?"

The priest halted in the doorway, dumbstruck by the sight in front of him. He was particularly mesmerized by the tattoo on Mjx' buttcheek, which said: This end up.

"Observe, old man."

And toward Mjx, "Right then, no worries. We'll have you fixed right up. Assume the position, we're about to rain terror on your netherparts."

Tibbe reached into the multiple pockets of the priest's voluminous robe and produced the instruments of destruction: liquid wax, cloth strips, and a box of Kleenex (for Mjx' eyes).

"So then, the Brazilian ees when everything goes, even where the sun don't shine. The French, however, ees when you leave a leetle strip. Or, perhaps you would prefer a colder, more conservative country, say, Poland? Oh, no, wait, i see that's what you have right now ..."

Mjx briskly kicked both gentlemen in the genitals, and left them wide-eyed on the floor, grasping themselves in an unseemly fashion.

"I'm terribly sorry, but I never permit anyone else to do my waxing" she threw over her shoulder, as she stepped out into the moderately crowded Starbucks with well-simulated nonchalance. Feeling that she might perhaps have been discourteously abrupt to the lads, she went back, and elaborated "It's nothing personal, really, but I'm a bit obsessive about the whole hygiene issue." Nodding to their curled forms, she sauntered happily out into the thunderstorm outside. She felt terrific. No clothing to get wet, and her feet were nice and dry. Plus, she'd neatly evaded a dosing with Pleasures.

The downpour rinsed the words "This end up" from her skin, where they'd been transferred from a cheaply printed packing case earlier that day.

Ugh, well that was certainly an ouch-ful response, thought Tibbe. He remembered when his grandmother kicked him in the (bleeps) once ... once.

The ache passed, and using the still-moaning clergyman for leverage, Tibbe stood. Thank the gods his toothbrush was still here! After completing the ritual, he looked out into the moderately crowded Starbucks.

What's this, now? A woman, long dark hair, (bleep)-me pumps with the price tag still stuck to one of them ... sitting in the corner, alone at a table, with her nose in a book. A script on the jacket in a language he doesn't recognize. Hmmmm, intellectual depth. There's more to her than just the potential for nudity. Besides, learning a new language is like a whole new workout for the mouth ...

"Here, you don't mind if i borrow this, do you, Greg?"

Reaching into yet another pocket, Tibbe fished out a black bottle of Van Cleef & Arpels. "Thanks bunches. Get well soon."

He walked out toward his quarry. With a straight face, he said, "Ah. You can read."

The eyes beneath the Bettie Page wig regarded him evenly. "And I see that you CAN'T".
Mjx grinned at him. Closer inspection revealed that the unrecognisable language was, in fact, English, upside-down. She lay the book flat, to reveal the image she'd been inspecting, and which had led her to hold the book wrong-way up.

It was a picture of a brick. The very brick the militant Mjx was going to lay down personally in rebuilding the Ungdomshuset.

"For god's sake, woman, cover yourself! Here, take my trousers."

<Tibbe grinned and took a step back, he was still smarting below the belt>

"Tib, what's with the bad wig, the... clothing, the... <snif-snif> christ-in-a-sidecar-what-ARE-you-WEARING?" She kept a friendly but wary eye on him. She knew about men like him, men who ruined the innocent by spraying them with banal fragrances, and left them to their shame.
"And, erm, well, your pants... keep 'em, you can't really run about with your bits flopping about. Just not done. D'you know what this is?" she added, jabbing her finger down on the book.

A closer glance showed that that image was actually quite complicated. Evidently not a brick. He flushed, realising that he could no longer distinguish plant cells from animal cells at a glance.

(I feel like I'm monopolising this thread horribly, if someone else doesn't join in soon, I promise to stand out for a bit )

His gallant gesture rebuffed, and after tucking in his privates and making a few adjustments, Tibbe looked at the diagram.

He recalled the years at <CENSORED> High School in Brooklyn where a teacher of German extraction forced him into the Marine Biology program.

"Something about walls and membranes, nay? Or lack thereof."

OT: Shycat & Co., come on back all of you - we just had a good run at it for a bit in your absence. Shycat, i promise you can talk about detergents if you wanna.

"Tibbe", the sound of Mjx's voice brought Tibbe back from his little trip down memory lane. Mjx was looking at him with her piercing eyes and he felt his face flush with warmth. Tibbe could see the slightest look of distaste shadow her face when she spoke his name. Tibbe had a sudden epiphany that any women who could sit in the middle of a busy Starbucks with nothing on but a precise application of Guerlain KIssKiss lipstick in Folie De Grenat, a kick-ass pair of Jimmy Choo pumps and a spritz of Agent Provocateur was a women to be reckonned with.

The fact that the spritz of Agent Provocateur had been directed with unerring aim at his eyes did not in any way lessen its impact.
Tibbe looked vaguely hurt, but not surprised: "Why?"
Mjx had the decency to look embarassed, "HotDAMN, I don't know how that got in there..." she looked perplexed "I thought it was mace. That was really nasty of me... here."
She leaned forward, and carefully sluiced his eyes with the industrial eye-wash station the bag's erstwhile owner had thoughtfully tucked in beside the 3 tampons, single stocking, book on meeting Mr. Right, book on why a women doesn't need a man, list of things to buy during next trip to Guantanamo, keys to nephew's lover's mother's time-share in Bayonne, NJ, dental floss, tongue cleaner, manicure set, shoe repair kit, bottle of valium and old thorazine, smashed packet of marmite flavoured crisps, nipple petals, roll of duct-tape, tooth bleech, knotted-up pair of used knickers, box of Wallace and Grommit plasters, a carob pod, deodorant, packet of Pocky, lipstick, and of course, the Agent Provocateur.

Piercing eyes, eh? Then why was one of them starting to water? And why had she acquired a facial tic on the right side of her face? Surely, it couldn't be a reaction to his cologne!

A book of his own dropped to the floor. He kicked it under the table.

"Why, i'm wearing the smell of sincerity of course, which only comes from self-knowledge."

He picked up her treatise on why women don't need men. Hmmm, Chapter 1: "Why men are useless bastards". Chapter 2: "Why you should wake him up with a blowjob". Deep.

"Wig? What wig?"

This conversation was nothing like he'd expected. Animal and plant cells? Just what was this bespectacled old man in front of him trying to say? At Cornell they have a most powerful electron microscope which can nearly see into the space between atoms. And yet if he looked at this topic through it, surely he couldn't find his interest in it.

With great sadness, he looked down. Indeed, his weiner was floppy. He sighed. In the distance, he heard the sounds of a rhumba ... time to go to a happy place on the shores of the Med ...

--> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5KebM6S4Kpg

Tibbe realised that Mjx had glanced up from the bag, into which she had been peering with the intrigued expression of a guest contemplating a midnight raid of her host's refrigerator. "You know... I honestly thought that this sort of thing was a chauvinist cliché. No wonder she was carrying her shoes, and such an easy mark!"

Tibbe tried to look attentive, intelligent, or at least conscious. It had been one of his rougher days, and having arcane insights and fragrance slung at him by this nude, freckled brat, with her boy's haircut (the wig now tidily stuffed into a used cappuccino cup), stilletto heels, and gnawed lipstick, was hideously wearing. He badly needed couple of Advil®, a bathe, and a nap. He bag to weep gently, and mumble tearfully in one of the Slavic languages.

The words coming out of his mouth were:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bJxR3mF47_Y


OT: Vezerne, get in here! Bed can hold six you know.

Mjx couldn't understand a word, her slavic vocabulary being more or less limited to "dura/k" and "bistra", but they resonated deep within, bringing tears to her eyes, and silent, but nonetheless eye-watering flatulence. She brooded on the meaningless of life, the dubiousness of the existence of god, and the soul-destroying distress experienced when being forced to eat magenta borscht by her aunt Lotte. Still, there was Cabochard.

Snapping out of her funk, she spat,"fool" - " I refuse to learn any language that is not written in the Roman alphabet!!! And why do your lips move when no sound is coming out, and vice versa??? Bozhe moi, and Grigory Rasputin as well."

Tibbe surely could feel the love on all sides now! And just as his bottle of vitamin E ran out, too ...

He turned to catch the program on the telly suspended from the ceiling of the dining area. This man's lips surely appeared to be synched with his words, and yet the whole thing was very droll. Who was this man? He couldn't recognize the face ... was it someone who just fell off the turnip truck and suffered a mild concussion?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N8ZI7FVVRpU

With a laugh, he reached towards his neck and pulled out a bottle of Pi. Gods. The only reason he was not infected by this virulent substance was surely that the bottle of gypsy tears hanging around his neck had warded it off.

The Pi 'accidentally' slipped from his fingers onto the hard tile floor and disintegrated in a shower of broken glass. Oh. Oh no. Someone gifted him this bottle, yet he'd never wear this cologne. How terrible. Devastation. Desolation.

And yet ... he knew he'd find the courage to go on living.

"What's this Mjx, Russian was not required learning in school? Who's responsible? I'll have them shot!"

Kidding. Here, have a gummy bear ... it's a peace offering.

http://vids.myspace.com/index.cfm?fu...oid=1278557911

She took the packet from him cautiously, and tipped out several of the sweets. "Not much continuity to my schooling, to be honest. May I take a bunch? Thanks."

She stood there looking serious, chewing at the rubbery mouthful, and absently scrubbing her lipstick off with a paper napkin. "Erm, so, what IS the deal with the hole in your neck? And can we get out of here? Starbucks over-airconditions, and neither of us is exactly overdressed."

By this time, the Starbucks lackey with the Elvis Costello glasses had ambled over and begun to mop up the spilled Pi. A volume of Baudelaire (translated from the French) stuck out of his back pocket. As he mopped, he wept.
"Ah, such a waste, such a waste...such a wonderful fragrance, whispering of the melancholy of life, hinting at the infinitude of the ratio of circumferance to diameter - REFORMULATED!!!!!"

Translations! Pfft.

La véritable tête, et la sincère face
Renversée Ã* l'abri de la face qui ment ...

All things should be read in their original language, you don't want the translator interfering. Tibbe was still trying to get proper teachings in German, as he really wanted to get to Goethe.

A most unusual thing happened. The elevator music coming from the Starbucks audio was momentarily overtaken by:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9G3yh6fhup0

... and Tibbe thought, "i've shagged and shagged and shagged all across the world and i've never met a woman like this. Did they all die out around the time i was born? What the hell happened?"

And then, to answer J's wishes, a number of grey and black sedans with blaring sirens screeched to a halt outside the Starbucks! Spray-painted on their sides, in crude lettering, were the words "unmarked police car". Helpful chaps from the Bronx, god bless ya!

"J.! The IRS & the SEC have finally caught up to you. Quick, up the ladder to the Starbucks attic! In your state of undress ... i'll be gentlemanly. You first. I'll follow."

Mjx took the ladder to the roof in several bounds. As they sat panting on the tar-paper, Mjx asked "J.? Who's J.? What's the SEC?! I think, really, they're just here because we're violating the city's indecent exposure laws." She paused "Tibbe?" She too began scanning the sky. "A well-timed helicopter would be much appreciated, about now."

"M. has lots of angles. i felt J. was curvier and so i used it! Don't nitpick! Did you have to scale the ladder so very quickly? You've denied me the opportunity for a really good beaver joke, dammit!"

Tibbe punched a few numbers into a little device ...

... while agents in cheap suits, overcoats, and sunglasses were spilling out of their vehicles and making a dash for the doors. A little old lady with a walker was blocking the doorway.

One of the public servants produced a megaphone, put it an inch before her face and screamed: "You old bag! i'm police inspector Bulldog Grafferty, get out of the way!!!"

And facing the street: "Government business, we're here to apprehend ... THE ONE. Please disperse, nothing to see here! Move along, move along!"

At that moment, an Mi-24 Hind armored gunship glided over the rooftops. The throp-throp of its blades was making the vehicles in the street vibrate. Chaos! Grafferty looked up and shielded his eyes from the downblast of air. He was peppered with used condoms, used tampons, cheeseburger wrappers, newspaper, as well as anything and everything which could be found strewn about a busy Manhattan street.

The gunship positioned itself over the roof and a rope ladder dropped towards Tibbe and Mjx.

"Ladies first."

He whistled in appreciation, "Niiice beaver ..."

"Thanks, i just had it stuffed."

... she pulled out a taxidermy piece (a beaver as it so happens) from the transport module and dropped it on the roof.

Tibbe stuck out his tongue and yelled down to Grafferty, "Take the subway next time! Maybe someone will jerk off on you! i'm sure you'd enjoy that."

"Wherever did you get this thing?" asked Mjx.

"Oh, i blew Pittsburgh on a lazy Sunday afternoon - people were lining up." Tibbe shrugged. "Had to do something with the money. Seemed like a good investment. We're pretty safe in here, this gunship is armored."

He pulled out an habit rouge from a storage compartment. Here, you must be a bit cold ...

"Thanks, but I'm fine, actually... my thoughts are keeping me warm. No, really," she protested, in response to his suggestive smirk, "there's this exercise you do, you picture yourself submerged in flames..." she came to a halt. "Okay, fine, it's really that, with your dress is ripped up the back, a pink thong trailing from your ankle, and the tufts of hair sticking through your mesh stockings... you really need that more than I do."

She slipped off the stilletto heels, and, after pulling a pair of turquoise socks and a small black bundle from the combat boots she'd grabbed in her flight, proceeded to lace them up. The bundle turned out to be a pair of neoprene shorts and a kevlar t-shirt, both smelling lightly of Harissa.

Taking careful aim, she shot first one, then the other Jimmy Choo out through the floor. Distant yelps came to their ears: "I do just love those early-season rooftop sunbathers", she grinned.

(CoTHukoB, you mentioned something about leaving a sort of "Matrix" setup, but I only saw part 3, and have no idea of what you mean; I'm really hoping someone else will pick that up and dance with it!)

"So," he queried softly, gazing off into the distance, "you like cabbage, Mjx?"

"Cabbage!? You think of cabbage at a time like this!?? You forgot the Patriot missile battery on Governor's Island, you nitwit!", Mjx screamed.

"Flattery will get you everywhere, m'dear ..."

Alarms began to wail in the cockpit, accompanied by flashing LED and a mechanical voice, "Warning, warning, warning. Incoming, grab hold of the nearest ass and kiss it good-bye! Was good to serve you, Tibbe."

"No problem, we'll jam and deploy coutermeasures. Don't tell me my business." Flipping a coupla switches ...

"Uh-oh. It has infra-red capability. We're going down ..."

Flashbacks to Afghanistan ...

"I only hope the natives of Manhattan leave my (bleeps) intact."

There was a thump and a gout of flame port side. A cloud of jagged metal bits careened past their faces, the cockpit window acquired a crack and shattered. Fishnets, garters, Manolo Blahnik strappy sandals et al vented out into space over Manhattan.

Tibbe lovingly patted the wall of the Hind. "Be seeing ya, Betsy."

"Mjx, grab this parachute. Right ... out the side you go!"


Off-topic: Just part 3, eh? Hmmm, maybe we can all stretch and do the Frenchman's Club Hel scene. On the other hand, we don't really have enough characters and it'd be a nightmare sorting it all out. Oh well, let's keep going with what we've got.

"-one-thousand, three-one thousand, four-...shit." Mjx abruptly realised that perhaps this wasn't the time to fulfil a longstanding desire to do a HALO drop, after all. Sighing, she pulled the cord, and concentrated on affixing the false moustache, instead.

They were carried by the prevailing winds to the southern side of Brooklyn and landed on Brighton Beach Ave.

"Tibbe," whispered Mjx, "were we blown off course into a slum of Odessa in Eastern Europe?"

Before Tibbe could reply, there was a strange commotion but three feet away.

A little boy, aged about four, was clutching his mother's arm and pointing at Mjx. "Mommy! Mommy! Look ... Poland!"

Tibbe grabbed Mjx' arm, "Now look what you've done! You're scaring the children! Quick, come with me. These are southerners ... they're a tricky and devious lot, stay close."

He pulled her into a nearby nightclub and headed straight for the coatcheck. Tossing a packet of greenbucks at the grizzled orderly (who smelled vaguely of Cuir de Russie, momentarily this gave Tibbe pause), he said:

"говоришь по русски?"

"... ещё как!"

"Quick, we'll take that sable!"

And to Mjx, "You don't care for red coats. Fine, choose your color then, and stop being so difficult. It's only 40 Celsius outside, this'll be a perfect disguise ..."

She noticed an army great-coat of the colour only attained by selectively blending recycled yak hair with the finest virgin acrylic. Wrapping herself in this hastily, she said "I like this, it goes with my moustache." Faint notes of tobacco and jasmine wafted from its folds.

Off-topic: Vezerne & Tdi, you're up! I need more to work with ...

The only thing that comes to mind is a High Church Episopal priest and that model over on the Fendi thread.

The thought of clumsily rushed, but genuinely arousing fumblings in a coat room was made even more attractive by the prospect of being caught by the Nashville square-dancing team disembarking from a Greyhound bus and entering the speak-easy. They were leading three giraffes by long leashes. The giraffes were on fire. In the distance, sirens could be heard.

"Regretfully, we'll have to cease and desist, Mjx. Here, let me pocket that last kiss so i can examine it later at my leisure."


PS: To the orderly, "пачку Беломора and that Egoiste over there!"

(OT: can we rename her, this is breaking my tongue Also, i've taken too much lead in the last few posts, Goose - you've gone a bit passive, take over. Btw, kbe your color's always great! It's just a little hard to work with sometimes.)

She snatched off her moustache, and, with tears in her eyes, gently but firmly pressed it just over Tibbe's eyebrows. "I'm not certain why you're making those peculiar sounds before you speak to me, but... if it's my name you're trying to say, it's pronounced "meesh"; and you know, your tongue piercing is STILL caught in a hair-plug".
Swinging a leg over the nearest giraffe, she galloped off into Loch Ness, leaving Tibbe no choice but to follow, hair ribbons streaming behind, as he fought off the enraged mermaids with blasts of Angel.

I've never been to Florence but when i swing by, i'll be sure to be standing in front of David wearing this t-shirt.



I've been to Rome, however. And i much like the PietÃ*. I like pyramids and i like how he took the axe to proportions. I know i do. I just take it a whole lot further! Muahaha.

Okay, okay, but save it for when you're standing in the Accademia Meantime... are you going to write something or what?

And where'd everyone else GO?!