Saturday, December 13, 2008

Really officer, she forced me to eat her, er, virus!

Belyeve I cannot that thou hadst the audacité of hope to re-infect me, and aftyr Bubs and thee made outsyde insyde with that tubbe of I Shant Belyeve It's Not Butter! Hast thou been forgettynge alreadye of my slaying of the Dragonne of Dordogne for thee and the lusty half-assed blog proposall? Sob, sob, sob. Verily, by the grayce of Ower Lordd and Right Kynge, I shall proceede nonethelessère.

[Okay, I'm pretty drunk right now -- a toast to you, Beach Bum, and the rest of us assholes who had a shit week and even you fuckers who had a good week, so I want all you fuckers to take a step back and appreciate the fact that I cleaned up quite a few typos above and below, that means a lot, especially above with that made-up Anglo-Norman-English fuckery. Wait, A-N uses a bunch of Zs and Ks I think. Just be happy because it's harder than you think when you're all fucked up.]

The bus was more crowded than usual. It was bitterly cold outside, and I hadn't prepared for it. I noticed that a fair number of the riders were dressed curiously. As I glanced around, I stretched my feet and kicked up against a large, heavy cardboard box laying under the seat in front of me. (Splotchy)

I couldn't believe my eyes. Surreptitiously, I tried to establish, without giving it away, if anyone else had seen what I had. For ten years I had been looking for that box. What looked like an ordinary cardboard box to most contained something most precious. Only by the small golden "P" was I able to identify what I was looking at. (Freida Bee)

How the box got here, or how I happened to be on this bus with it now--these questions were immaterial. I just had to get that box. The bus slowed to a stop, so I steadied myself. Just as I was about to make a grab for the box, however, it moved. Someone else was picking it up to take it away! I had to stop her! (Dguzman)

What? This couldn't be happening--to get this close and watch some quick-footed little dwarf just up and snatch it away from! I got up and just as I did the sweaty hillbilly in front of me stood up and stepped into the aisle. Moving like a bad mime imitating a man in a box he extended his arms and stretched, looking up at the ceiling as he did so. The dwarf with the box--I couldn't be sure if it was a man or a woman, but something about her seemed feminine--slipped out the front door and off the bus. I took a deep breath and slumped back down into my seat. (Bubs)

I sized up the chances of getting bodily fluids on me for a few seconds before I decided to risk it. I needed to get that box back.

"Sir, do you think I could get past you?" I ventured, standing stiffly, hoping to move near the front door to catch a quick exit at the next stop.

"Ah's gettin' off a' tha nex' stop," he said as he wiped his brow and placed his hand squarely on my shoulder.

"Well, fuck," I thought, getting more and more irritated each second his residual touch seemed to burn itself permanently into the fabric of my sweater. "I need to ask the bus driver about the next stop, really quickly. Do you mind?"

I could see he was challenged. His size alone made the bus an unfortunate place for him to endure, but I was concerned I would not be able to catch up with the thief who stole my box this time.

"Ah know these parts real good-like an' kin tells you anythin' you wants ta know."

"Sir, I really just need to be ready to step off the bus as soon as it stops," I said irritatedly now, as the bus jerked to a stop in its typically abrupt manner. I fell forward smack dab into his chest, catching a whiff of a strange smell that simultaneously made me gag and feel groggy only moments before I felt my head spinning as he caught my fall, grinning knowingly. (Freida Bee)

A maelstrom, an undulating circle of dwarven moustaches twirling faster and faster, was the last thing I saw before I passed out. Or at least that's what I seemed to recall upon waking up -- and it had to be the truth for I hadn't taken a hit of acid since the Great Acid Scare of '78, which later became a major made-for-television event starring Christopher Plummer, Fred Gwynne and a young and vivacious Halle Berry.

Upon regaining my sense of direction, I directed my eyes directly around the room. I saw neither the ordinary cardboard box with the golden "P," the miniature thief nor Halle Berry.

What I did see in the wretched gloom that would have otherwise been black as pitch if not for the faintest light whose source I couldn't locate despite using the entire repertoire of my faculties was a series of immense, framed images on the wall whose dull sepia tones were so reminiscent of a daguerreotype yet were obviously painted -- painted with violent, erratic strokes as if applied, not by a brush, but with a quivering tentacle.

I also saw that I was lying on my back on something large, flat and comfortably plush. And that I was tied up. And that I had been stripped of all my clothes.

"Admiring the Order's past presidents, are we?"

Half-expecting -- for when can one fully expect anything when faced with a frightening yet alluring oddity such as the situation I found myself in -- that broken voice spewing forth its hideous patois, deeply stirred were my loins when I heard instead the sultry sound of a woman. The nauseating stench of greasy, sweaty hillbilly was nowhere to be sniffed either, in its place a lovely, yet understated perfume reminiscent of wildflowers on the steppe.


"Oh, so sorry dearest," said the sultry voice from an unseen mouth in the darkness engulfing everything save the taper of a single finger and its radioactively neon nail drawing blood from my bare chest.

I blinked. And there she was, her unnaturally green eyes piercing me, her breath rolling over my mouth as she moved to speak, causing me to shiver despite its warmth; whether from fear or arousal, I was afraid to know.

"You really must save every last drop of strength." Her lips brushed against mine as she languorously formed each syllable, moving away as quickly as they came. A kiss from this strange woman, for that is what I now wanted, along with an answer as to why, would have to wait.

"For the wild, cosmic sex orgy?," I nervously deadpanned in a feeble attempt to avoid solving my unspoken query.

"You watch too many made-for-television movies. If you had watched too many made-for-cable movies, my sweet, sweet morsel, you'd know that you're destined for something much greater." (Randal Graves)

Some of you have been tagged 73 times already -- and I'm trying to miss those who've recently been; you're welcome -- but for the lucky few listed below, here's a 74th. Muahahahahaha, etc.

Madam Z, dusty, JNRR (because you need something to do when you get back home), LBR (here's your chance to Cthulhu-ize L.A.), and Freida of the Bees (you didn't think I'd pass up a chance for re-re-infection, did you?)

Image from here.


Melissa B. said...

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Freida Bee said...

Whatever else would you verily
Have me, even if it be imaginarily,
Do with this unrequited lust
And a pound of butter? Must
I wait an aeon in line
At the post office and to be thine?

What, oh what, will I do
With a bound and aroused you?
If your apologie arrives hastily
Then you shall be rewarded tastily.

How dare you question my virtue.
To all of my bloglovers I am true,
(Though, do not tell Mr. Bee,
When I rock his world, I think of thee.)

Betty Carlson said...

Where the hell did your Petula Clark post go? I was just about to comment on it and now it seems to be missing...

Utah Savage said...

I think the Splotchy virus has finally killed me. Not quite sure yet, but probably. Losing readers and friends due to unwanted tagging. This virus has infected me with a snarky madness that may end up being a real honest to god depression that could last years. Thanks a lot you Splotchy bastard. My strain of it is entirely alienating everyone. If I die of it, I coming after Splotchy to pay for my obit.

Distributorcap said...

with fingers like that maybe she should play for the Indians

Beach Bum said...

Just realized that I have to go back to work tomorrow and deal with the knives in the back again. Ah, with the kids out of the house I'm going to watch you porn and drink some more.

susan said...

The title reminded me of a nasty story told by Hunter S. Thompson in 'Hell's Angels'. It's a wonder he lived as long as he did when you think about it.

Great story and I hope splotchie is happy. I am too for not getting retagged so please refrain for at least a year :-)

Bull said...

Very good Randal, I'm somewhat in awe of your talents.

Trying to think of what could be greater than a cosmic sex orgy...

Anonymous said...

There you go posting pornography again..heh heh... Yeah. I saw that coming.

KELSO'S NUTS said...


Go over to Raw Dawg Buffalo and represent for Cleveland.

Must name all your favorite Cleveland musicians and groups but you MAY NOT include rappers.

La Belette Rouge said...

I am remembering another encounter with you on the bus with a guy with rotting pumpkin and 5day old ash tray breath. Is that what inspired your porn public transportation tale? Whatever it is I am not at all sure on where to go with this. And, I have been tagged by this meme three times now and I am telling you that the mere idea of me writing three pieces of fiction is the kind of thing that inspires me to start asking you where are your new shoes? So, where are they? Hmmm, perhaps karma does exist!

Non Je Ne Regrette Rien said...

god damnit, I'm gone a week and now I'm completely lost ... I came over here to try and catch up, knowing that I would not have a fucking clue what was going on until I start where I left off and read in chrono order.

but OH NO I didn't do that and now I've read this and was morbidly fascinated and simultaneously confused and then ... towards the very end ... I see my initials and cower in fear at what might lie ahead.

but the stripped naked and tied to something plush-thing kind of turned me on. I'll give ya that.

Dean Wormer said...

Kinky. I like it.

Trivia: I believe they call those made for t.v. thingies MOTWs in the biz.

Randal Graves said...

melissa, no large cash award à la Ed McMahon? I even sent the reply card in!

FB, this apologia hath arrived too late
Verily I would comprehend your hate
Compounding that of the world -
Hast thy delicious lust been hurled?

What of the intertubes now?
Does Zeus demand slaughter of cow
or another wonderful treat?
Alas and alack I have lost thy sweet-

-ness, and if I was bound, undressed
if thy were to come, would be best.

betty, copyright infringement, so I had to take it down.

utah, bah, you can't control who visits and who doesn't. Sure, you could go all political and get a bigger headcount, but where's the fun in that?

dcap, The Fucking Yankees would probably outbid everyone.

BB, I hope you plenty plastered! In fact, bring some booze to work. I bet that would go well, no?

susan, I think people like him and Keith Richards and Ozzy have to be the result of some diabolical genetic experiments.

bull, a cosmic sex orgy with nachos!

spartacus, gotta give the proprietor what he wants. ;-)

kelso, shit, that requires actual thinking. Wait, I'll just use The Google.

LBR, je n'ai pas encore acheté de nouvelles chausseures.

And no! The pumpkin guts and ashtray lady was not attractive. Sure, this acolyte of Cthulhu is probably going to literally eat me for breakfast, but at least she's a babe.

Karma? George W. Bush. I win.

JNRR, the way I see it, you have three options: 1)don't do the meme, in which case you'll make me sad which will result in crying and potential crime spree; 2)do the meme and follow logical progression and have the tied down person get destroyed by cosmic evil or 3)get extra funky wink nudge.

dean, I didn't think there was enough kinky on the internets. MOTW? Sounds like some military acronym.

"Sarge, the Huns are over the next ridge!"

"Bring up the MOTW!"

"We're going to kill them with Dick Van Patten?"

Freida Bee said...

Let's pretend I'm so super kinky, I left you naked and bound for a week on purpose, as your "punishment".

I have ended all this!

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