The History of Gin
or
A Fox's Tail
Is Life Existential? You Decide.
by ' Colorado ' Gumi
...I n s p i r e d By T r u e E v e n t s...
Chapter 7
Thanks for the Memories
Partis Unus
Prologue
Manhattan has heaps of Starbuck's. Literally thousands, quite possibly millions and perhaps even gazillions of the coffee-spewing bistros carpet the island landscape; occupying avenues, streets, alleys, stream beds and cow paths -- sometimes packed solidly, cheek to jowl, from corner to corner. The problem is not finding a Starbuck's in Manhattan but rather not finding one. Anyways, at Christmas break during her second year at Cornell Law, Ginger Mullins was sitting with her knees tastefully together in a Manhattan Starbuck's (which, as already established, is not hard to do) in her least favorite ADolce & Gabbana suit and Manolo Blahnik brown alligator halter back heels.
Quietly sipping her current favorite coffee, an extra-large grande double-decaf triple cappuccino, with quadruple nutmeg-sprinkled foam, in a commemorative, special-issue "Prada" designer paper cup, Ginny's thoughts wandered idly from this to that. She first decided, for the third time that day, that her father, a former delinquent with a tenuous grip on reform, was completely clueless. Also in her thoughts was her attire -- the previously mentioned ADolce(et al) outfit of a cotton jacket with crystal logo on back, notched collar, two-button front, side flap pockets and long, button-cuffed sleeves; a cotton pant with regular-rise waist, boot-cut legs, and flat front with fly closure; and the alligator shoes. Needless to say, it was a "Dry clean only" ensemble. She had just concluded debate, in an internal dialog, on the merits of just ditching the thing rather than bothering to drop it at the cleaners -- it was three weeks old AND off-the-rack after all. However, when it came time to put the decision to a vote, a quorum was not achieved and the matter was tabled temporarily until tomorrow afternoon, at the earliest. Besides, the debate had grown half-hearted because her mind kept wandering to the sexy pink Victoria's Secrets bra and panty set that so erotically caressed her body beneath the suit. If she loved the sensation of the gossamer bra as it cradled the firm mounds of her breasts, teasing her taut nipples with every breath she drew, then she adored the tug of the silky thong panty where it rode along the tender valley between her tight buttocks. Occasionally she shifted position in the chair just to feel the heavenly thong draw across her skin in that delectably enjoyable manner.
And all the while, as she sipped coffee and thought, Gin's eyes had wandered discreetly about the Starbuck's, taking everything in. Her attention eventually paused on one of the employees behind the counter, the obligatory 300-pound young woman working at every Starbuck's. While studying this person Gin finally discovered the secret of how such people manage to weigh 300 pounds; she saw the woman take a surreptitious gulp, sometimes two, from every coffee she prepared. Gin had just mentally verbalized an "Ah" and was continuing on to the concluding "-ha" when she found herself standing in stark sunshine on a roof garden, her hand upon the bricks atop a parapet wall as she leaned forward to peer at the pageant winding along the lane below...
As often happens with Alien abductees, Ginger was experiencing a spontaneous flashback; only in this case it was not a flashback of the abduction but rather a flashback caused by the abduction. Thing is, even with so-called Super-Intelligent Space Aliens, the actual classification of intelligence is rather tricky, with lots of footnotes concerning ranges, means and standard deviations. As it turns out while most of the Super-Intelligent Space Aliens that abducted Ginny earlier really were Super-intelligent, if somewhat cowardly, some of the Super-Intelligent Space Aliens were just plain dumb. And the poster child for "Dumb Super-Intelligent Space Aliens" was the little he-Alien named Greg who was polishing the shiny levers, buttons and knobs on the Inner-cranial Neural-synapse Flocculator while the other Aliens had doggedly probed Ginny's memories. Turns out that Greg, rather like a 3-year-old, invariably crammed his mouth full of chewing gum (Yes, even Super-Intelligent Space Aliens chew gum - In fact it's presence is indicative of higher intelligence, with this Greg being a notable exception.) and when startled by a sudden bright flashy light, he coughed a huge slimy wad into the more sensitive whirling components of the Flocculator. Suffice it to say that the machine's usual flawless operation degraded precipitously; the net result being that several of Ginger's genetically-encoded ancestral memories were fed back directly into her subconscious, where they quietly awaited a chance to pop out at some inopportune moment.
Gin Ben-Her
That is how Ginger, while sitting with a cup of Starbuck's cappuccino to her lips and gazing at the fat woman, suddenly found herself reliving the memory of a distant maternal ancestor in first-century Jerusalem. At the moment the flashback began Ginger's ancestor, Gin Ben-Her, was drawing back from watching the passage of the new Roman governor of Judea, Maximus Phallus, to admonish her Greek slave on his failure to set out her newest Manolous Blahnikium sandals from Antioch.
This particular Greek, strangely named Mullincles, was a rare piece of work; barely sentient and competent only at total incompetence. Mullincles aspired to become famous by inventing something that everyone would love. He currently was working on a new game played on a board with live ants as playing pieces. For some reason he planned to call it "Doomium" but the only part of the idea that was going anywhere was the ants. Obviously for Mullincles being a slave was a big promotion. Anywho, as Gin Ben-Her lifted her hand from the parapet to have a heated word with the fellow, a loose brick (which Mullincles had been told three times to fix) sailed from the wall into the crowd below, braining Phallus on his way to receive a crown of laurels.
Now most times people are happy, even ecstatic, to see a crowning. But in this instance the crowd, and particularly the spear-studded cohort of legionnaires, objected to Gin's premature crowning of their leader with a common brick. Needless to say, doors were forced, stairs ascended, accusations thrown, arrests made, estates confiscated and Gin Ben-Her quickly found herself on a slow boat to Rome chained to an oar. Beside her, but for the moment facing the wrong direction, also sat Mullincles. Corrected in his confusion vis-a-vis the principle behind an oar by several lashes from a stout whip, he eventually assumed a proper orientation relative to Gin, the ship and the universe, and the pair began their new life... (see Part II)
Manhattan has heaps of Starbuck's. Literally thousands, quite possibly millions and perhaps even gazillions of the coffee-spewing bistros carpet the island landscape; occupying avenues, streets, alleys, stream beds and cow paths -- sometimes packed solidly, cheek to jowl, from corner to corner. The problem is not finding a Starbuck's in Manhattan but rather not finding one. Anyways, at Christmas break during her second year at Cornell Law, Ginger Mullins was sitting with her knees tastefully together in a Manhattan Starbuck's (which, as already established, is not hard to do) in her least favorite ADolce & Gabbana suit and Manolo Blahnik brown alligator halter back heels.
Quietly sipping her current favorite coffee, an extra-large grande double-decaf triple cappuccino, with quadruple nutmeg-sprinkled foam, in a commemorative, special-issue "Prada" designer paper cup, Ginny's thoughts wandered idly from this to that. She first decided, for the third time that day, that her father, a former delinquent with a tenuous grip on reform, was completely clueless. Also in her thoughts was her attire -- the previously mentioned ADolce(et al) outfit of a cotton jacket with crystal logo on back, notched collar, two-button front, side flap pockets and long, button-cuffed sleeves; a cotton pant with regular-rise waist, boot-cut legs, and flat front with fly closure; and the alligator shoes. Needless to say, it was a "Dry clean only" ensemble. She had just concluded debate, in an internal dialog, on the merits of just ditching the thing rather than bothering to drop it at the cleaners -- it was three weeks old AND off-the-rack after all. However, when it came time to put the decision to a vote, a quorum was not achieved and the matter was tabled temporarily until tomorrow afternoon, at the earliest. Besides, the debate had grown half-hearted because her mind kept wandering to the sexy pink Victoria's Secrets bra and panty set that so erotically caressed her body beneath the suit. If she loved the sensation of the gossamer bra as it cradled the firm mounds of her breasts, teasing her taut nipples with every breath she drew, then she adored the tug of the silky thong panty where it rode along the tender valley between her tight buttocks. Occasionally she shifted position in the chair just to feel the heavenly thong draw across her skin in that delectably enjoyable manner.
And all the while, as she sipped coffee and thought, Gin's eyes had wandered discreetly about the Starbuck's, taking everything in. Her attention eventually paused on one of the employees behind the counter, the obligatory 300-pound young woman working at every Starbuck's. While studying this person Gin finally discovered the secret of how such people manage to weigh 300 pounds; she saw the woman take a surreptitious gulp, sometimes two, from every coffee she prepared. Gin had just mentally verbalized an "Ah" and was continuing on to the concluding "-ha" when she found herself standing in stark sunshine on a roof garden, her hand upon the bricks atop a parapet wall as she leaned forward to peer at the pageant winding along the lane below...
As often happens with Alien abductees, Ginger was experiencing a spontaneous flashback; only in this case it was not a flashback of the abduction but rather a flashback caused by the abduction. Thing is, even with so-called Super-Intelligent Space Aliens, the actual classification of intelligence is rather tricky, with lots of footnotes concerning ranges, means and standard deviations. As it turns out while most of the Super-Intelligent Space Aliens that abducted Ginny earlier really were Super-intelligent, if somewhat cowardly, some of the Super-Intelligent Space Aliens were just plain dumb. And the poster child for "Dumb Super-Intelligent Space Aliens" was the little he-Alien named Greg who was polishing the shiny levers, buttons and knobs on the Inner-cranial Neural-synapse Flocculator while the other Aliens had doggedly probed Ginny's memories. Turns out that Greg, rather like a 3-year-old, invariably crammed his mouth full of chewing gum (Yes, even Super-Intelligent Space Aliens chew gum - In fact it's presence is indicative of higher intelligence, with this Greg being a notable exception.) and when startled by a sudden bright flashy light, he coughed a huge slimy wad into the more sensitive whirling components of the Flocculator. Suffice it to say that the machine's usual flawless operation degraded precipitously; the net result being that several of Ginger's genetically-encoded ancestral memories were fed back directly into her subconscious, where they quietly awaited a chance to pop out at some inopportune moment.
Gin Ben-Her
That is how Ginger, while sitting with a cup of Starbuck's cappuccino to her lips and gazing at the fat woman, suddenly found herself reliving the memory of a distant maternal ancestor in first-century Jerusalem. At the moment the flashback began Ginger's ancestor, Gin Ben-Her, was drawing back from watching the passage of the new Roman governor of Judea, Maximus Phallus, to admonish her Greek slave on his failure to set out her newest Manolous Blahnikium sandals from Antioch.
This particular Greek, strangely named Mullincles, was a rare piece of work; barely sentient and competent only at total incompetence. Mullincles aspired to become famous by inventing something that everyone would love. He currently was working on a new game played on a board with live ants as playing pieces. For some reason he planned to call it "Doomium" but the only part of the idea that was going anywhere was the ants. Obviously for Mullincles being a slave was a big promotion. Anywho, as Gin Ben-Her lifted her hand from the parapet to have a heated word with the fellow, a loose brick (which Mullincles had been told three times to fix) sailed from the wall into the crowd below, braining Phallus on his way to receive a crown of laurels.
Now most times people are happy, even ecstatic, to see a crowning. But in this instance the crowd, and particularly the spear-studded cohort of legionnaires, objected to Gin's premature crowning of their leader with a common brick. Needless to say, doors were forced, stairs ascended, accusations thrown, arrests made, estates confiscated and Gin Ben-Her quickly found herself on a slow boat to Rome chained to an oar. Beside her, but for the moment facing the wrong direction, also sat Mullincles. Corrected in his confusion vis-a-vis the principle behind an oar by several lashes from a stout whip, he eventually assumed a proper orientation relative to Gin, the ship and the universe, and the pair began their new life... (see Part II)
To Be Continued
No comments:
Post a Comment