The History of Gin

Chap. 29 - 'Treasure of the Sea Aura Mod Dress' Pt. 1

2010-03-01T00:00:00.002-05:00

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 29

Treasure of the
Sea Aura Mod Dress

La Parte Uno

The trio came across each other in a Peet's coffee shop far (a whole block) from their usual haunt, the Starbuck's carved into the base of Trump Tower. Funny thing is, the three women were so immersed in Starbuck's culture (this week featuring the "Plus Mocha Triple Carmella-ccino-licious Grande") they barely could read the Peet's menu. . .What's an "Espresso"?. . .much less understand the clientele gibbering away in the background. It was lots like people from one country, say the United States, being in an entirely different country, say Mexico. Irregardless, the three were drawn together to the same comfy couch in this foreign spot by the natural force of cultural gravitation. It also helped that they already were acquainted.

In fact the prettiest of the three, Ginger Mullins -- whom we all know well and perhaps too well for her preference (I haven't even mentioned her latest fav. dream where she, Jon Stewart and Jim Cramer are a heaving knot of tangled arms and legs in the backseat of her BMW) -- long had dated the stupefyingly inadequate son of the oldest; Mrs. Howard, the mature (to Gin's eye. . .elderly) wife of a big time Wall St. Broker/Trader. Rounding out the band was Fredericka C. Dobbs, a former middle-school chum of Ginny's and, like all Gin's old schoolmates, seemingly decent enough but below the surface a certifiable sociopath looney with decks awash in tidal waves of paranoia.

As the compatriots sat, chatted and sipped something tasting strangely of coffee, they found each was far from home (a ten minute taxi ride at least) on the same quest. . .pursuit of treasure buried deep in the inventory of the trendiest boutique in town, the Sea Aura Mod Dress, located in the isolated hinterlands of the Upper West Side, an inhospitably arid and mountainous region of Manhattan.

The Sea Aura Mod Dress shop is owned and operated by two transplanted Southern-California-hardbody chicks who are best friends and occasional fuck-buddies. Years ago they got their start in the business working for the dress shop's original owner when it was located at Venice Beach, west of L.A. No explanation ever was given for the name -- Sea Aura Mod Dress -- other than it opened off a beach in the sixties selling the horrifying "Mod-ish" fashions of the time, like the stuff featured so chillingly in "Rosemary's Baby." Oddly, customers local to the region claimed the shop's name was vaguely familiar, but no one could put a finger on it. Anyways, the pair sorta inherited the place when the owner, a longtime devotee of the Maharishi, suddenly walked away (some say floated) from the shop into the ocean without looking back. Ultimately tiring of Southern Californian lawlessness, the two relocated their shop to Manhattan's West Side, where they found essentially the same lawlessness. . .plus SNOW.

But the place is a raving success among the Cultural Elite (that is. . .the rich) of the Upper East Side. The females of that social stratum count coup more voraciously than American-Indian warriors, and the ultimate coup is to find treasure in the Sea Aura Mod Dress; to find couture gold marked down to a rock-bottom low, low price. Multitudes of Junior League types and their ilk listen to the stories of treasure awaiting discovery in the Sea Aura Mod Dress. Some brave the wilds of that corner of town to find it. Most return dripping disappointment like sweat. A few never return -- maddened, they turn up in The Village or, worse, New Rochelle.

Rehashing all this and knowing the challenge, the three women at the coffee bar threw in together, promising to share both tribulation and reward as equal partners. The fact they wore the same sizes helped cement the deal; what fit one would fit all when the loot was divvied.

So they loaded up on essential supplies (three Biscotti each, with Dobbs financing this grubstake) and hit the dusty trail -- actually it was more smoggy than dusty -- in search of fashion fortune. It is written that the journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step. . .only this was Manhattan, so they were only going a few dozen blocks and they took the subway train (as Rich Manhattan Foxes are wont to do when slumming). The subway ride was pretty uneventful -- that is. . .as strange as it may seem. . . except for the Bandits attacking the train. At such times Ginger always wished her fav. gun, a smooth-triggered Smith&Wesson stainless-steel Model 686 .357 Magnum revolver with 6-inch barrel (picture what Dirty Harry packed only a teeny bit smaller) was compact enough to carry but, in the event, she managed to pop a couple Bandit dudes at close range with the tiny .22 magnum derringer thingy she keeps up her knickers. In fact all three ladies bagged one or two, and the Bandits were driven off. At the end of the line, which in Manhattanese is called a "Subway Station", the partners left the train and hoofed it for the Sea Aura Mod Dress.

Dobbs, who was particularly whiny (and had been since the first grade), kept saying they should have gotten donkeys for this leg of the trip but no one paid her any heed because she didn't make any sense -- it's not like they were prospectors trudging through jungle and desert bound for a mountainous goldfield. Even Ginny, who was wearing rather too much heel for so much walking, eventually got a little pissy (an extreme rarity). But Howard's resolve and wile got the party to it's destination, just like Walter Huston (director John Huston's pop) did in a movie I saw once.

In the Sea Aura Mod Dress the old-timer, Howard, found the first nugget; her long life experience again besting her young companions. You see she knew of the old trick where store clerks secret the best deals behind restroom toilet tanks, kinda like that time in 'The Godfather', for later retrieval to either buy for themselves or offer to favored customers. When the trio walked into the boutique, Howard beelined for the powder room. As she excused herself, Ginny smiled and told her to hurry back. Dobbs only radiated suspicion.

Just like Micheal Corleone, Howard found what she sought behind the toilet; a darling Prada crocodile-skin clutch bag, pink with adjustable shoulder strap marked down from $8,889 to $2,499 ...it even had Gold-tone metal hardware. Howard returned to her companions, not to shoot them both dead at a table (this isn't that movie), but to share news of her find... (see Part 2)

To Be Continued

Chap. 28 - 'Ginny's Rodeo Song'

2010-02-01T00:00:00.003-05:00

Not-Exactly-Chopped-Liver Fiction™
a could-be-worse division of None-Too-Shabby Enterpises, Ink

PRESENTS :

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 28

Ginny's Rodeo Song

(to a Western beat)

I went to the Rodeo when it come to town.
Know what I seen there. . .know what I found?
With all of that action swirling around...
Right in the middle, a Rodeo Clown.

Ragged attire and a painted-on frown,
Beaten-up derby set low on his crown.
Hopping about in a dirty nightgown;
Horse-laugher heralds - the Rodeo Clown.

I seen lotsa cowboys throwed to the ground,
While hoof, horn and muscle all flew around.
With an iron nerve and bravery profound;
Always salvation - from a Rodeo Clown

I'm from a big city where wonders astound,
Where bankers and doctors and lawyers abound,
Where money is common as dirt from the ground.
But I'ld trade it all in for that Rodeo Clown.

So I flashed him a smile n' he circled around,
Then I batted my eyes and he was in-bound.
We got along swell and now I propound -
That the best place for love is a Rodeo Clown.

Life goes in a rush, sure to confound,
When home is a place where people surround;
Here on Manhattan, up high from the ground,
Where I give all my love to a Rodeo Clown.

He's smart as a coot. . .lean as a greyhound,
And I am delighted with what I have found.
I hitched up my wagon to the best stud around,
Cuz I planted my brand on a Rodeo Clown.

Yep, I done put my brand on that Rodeo Clown.

To Be Continued

Chap. 27 - 'A Hello to Arms'

2010-01-01T00:00:00.002-05:00

Not-Exactly-Chopped-Liver Fiction™
a could-be-worse division of None-Too-Shabby Enterpises, Ink

PRESENTS :

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 27

A Hello to Arms

Ginny was tickled pink (a fav. color) on discovering she was flying one of those cute P-38 fighters. Although she'd never done it before, Ginger had no problem piloting the plane. . .She'd learned how to fly ages ago from the Microsoft Flight Simulator, Combat Edition, computer program (which her father co-invented) and was an Ace of Aces with 1,300 hours combat flight time and oodles of kills. So the real thing came to her naturally.

She glanced over at her wingman (also a woman) and saw her particular close friend. . .you know, the blond one. . .grinning like a 'possum in another P-38. I guess flying a fast and deadly war bird. . .like driving a BMW M3 or Mazda Protege. . .can really be a kick.

Anyways, Ginger was delighted to be popping her pilot cherry with this super cool plane, the Lockheed P-38 Lightning, variant G -- You know the one. . .that two-engine, long-range fighter-bomber with the distinctive "twin boom" fuselage bridged in the rear by the tail and having a bobsled-like cockpit slung forward on the wing between the engines. Aside from jets and a couple other things those damned scheming Nazis cobbled together for special missions, it was the most distinctive airplane of World War II. It was neato alright -- tricycle undercarriage, 1,400 hp turbo-supercharged 12-cylinder Allison engines, counter-rotating propellers. . .and a darn good radio. But the best part for Gin was the armament packed into her plane's nose; two Browning .50 caliber machine guns with 200 rounds each and two .30 caliber Brownings with 500 rounds each. The 37 mm "Oldsmobile" cannon with 15 rounds Ginny could take or leave. . .Oldsmobile could barely make a car, much less a cannon.

Actually, clustering all the armament in the nose rather than the wings (where the projectile trajectories had to be set to criss-cross at several points ahead of the plane in a "convergence zone") meant P-38 Lightning pilots must aim more precisely. But then the useful ranges of these nose-mounted guns weren't limited by pattern convergence, meaning good pilots like Gin could shoot much farther. A P-38 could hit targets reliably at any range up to 1,000 yards, whereas other fighters had a convergence range between 100 and 250 yards. The Lightening's clustered weapons had a "buzz-saw" effect on the receiving end. . .which means that any dirty totalitarian henchmen crossing Ginny's path would end their days in a flaming smear of metal, plexiglas and petrol arcing across the clouds. The very idea gave her goose-pimples. . .a surprisingly pleasant sensation she enjoys, as do I.

Only thing was the cockpit was very hot and Ginny realized she was wearing the typical P-38 pilot's summer flight suit. . .just tennis shoes, skivvy shorts and a parachute -- she seriously considered shucking the sweaty shorts but didn't (her wingman, who was a woman, already was flying barefoot and bare-assed).

While Ginger was quite at home in her aircraft, she wasn't quite as at home with where it was because where it was was a complete mystery. Noting the extreme heat and several seemingly jungle-encased islands on an expansive ocean below, Ginny was a smidge disappointed to realize she wasn't in the European Theater of Operations. Given her druthers, she'd prefer to deliver Goring's fly-boys, flambé, to their own private corner of Hell. In fact, she'd resolved to personally ensure the Krauts were taught their lesson good this time and returned permanently to making cuckoo clocks and Hummels. She believed if they were smart, the Hun (to use the catchy British nickname) would scrap these dopey wars and instead establish a European Hegemony peacefully under cover of a confederation, or union, laced together by shared economic policy and regulation. . .kind of like a big bazaar, or market, on a village green, or common. But that could never happen, especially given the Germans' pathological inability to pick good allies, say the UK and US, over goofy ones, like the Austro-Hungarians and Italians.

Regardless, given the topography and the fact the P-38 was used most extensively and successfully in the Pacific, Ginger quickly figured she'd be facing a different enemy of democracy entirely. And speaking of the Japanese Empire, what was this thing they had always starting wars with sneak attacks. Gin thought they should do it the shrewd way, like America, by either stumbling into an ever expanding quagmire or being pulled into it to save the goofy Limey's chestnuts. But out here, high in the sky where the rubber meets the road, such geopolitical concerns were not her hunt. . .All Ginger needed to do was help the enemy dudes die gloriously for their country.

Returning to the tableau before her, Ginny concentrated on getting her bearings and, thanks to many happy hours pouring over Google Earth, quickly recognized the Solomon Islands, with Bougainville peeking from the horizon. And when she saw the flight of Japanese airplanes, including two Mitsubishi G4M "Betty" bombers, a ways below in the distance she knew exactly what to do.

Scrupulously maintaining radio silence, Ginger caught her wingman's attention and told her, via hand signals, that for some seemingly unfathomable reason (though totally explainable by Chaos Theory) they found themselves not chatting in a Manhattan Absinthe bar, but in one of the cleverer missions of World War II. . .the ambush of Admiral Yamamoto, architect of Pearl Harbor, during his morale building front-line inspection tour of Japanese bases in the Solomons after Japan's Guadalcanal big-time butt-kicking. Some savvy American code-breakers learned his itinerary and sixteen P-38's sortied from that newly-won toehold in the Pacific on a 435-and-a-half mile race to catch and dispatch him. Continuing to sign her message, Gin told her friend she didn't know why nor how they were there, nor where the other P-38's -- which had flown at wave-top to avoid detection -- were; but it was April 18, 1943, the admiral was in one of the two Mitsubishi G4M's now arriving at Bougainville Island and they needed to get him. . .on the personal side, Gin added that her wingman's hair looked awesome fixed that way (kind of a wind-blown, wet look) and asked to borrow her Manolo alligator mid-heel halter-backs later. Her friend, smiling wide, flashed an enthusiastic "thumbs-up".

With that -- and seeing something had distracted the screening Zero's -- Ginny dropped wing tanks and barrel-rolled the plane in a screaming dive to the ocean. Pulling up level with a yard of air to spare, her P-38 skimmed the waves like a sharp stone thrown at Yamamoto. ...Her wingman flowed with every move, like a shadow.

At precisely the perfect moment Ginny angled up at the soft belly of a "Betty", unleashed her trigger finger and, from wingtip to wingtip, raked the fat prey to tatters with long streams of hot leaden slugs. Her wingman did exactly the same to the other plane.

Both Japanese planes already were coughing smoke and dropping from the sky when Ginger noticed more P-38's beginning their attack. . .one "Betty" crashed in the jungle; the other hit the water. Rocking her wings in victory, Ginny arced back up to altitude where she and her wingman disappeared into a cloud with none the wiser that they'd even been there. An immediate controversy brewed, and simmered for decades, among some of the P-38 pilots as to who had shot Yamamoto from the sky.

Ginny hoped the next time she turned up in World War II, it was in a P-51D Mustang.

To Be Continued

Chap. 26 - 'Ginger Writes to "Penthouse" Forum'

2009-12-01T00:00:00.006-05:00

Not-Exactly-Chopped-Liver Fiction™
a could-be-worse division of None-Too-Shabby Enterpises, Ink

PRESENTS :

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 26

The Harry Potter "7th Book" Special
Edition Chapter 26

Ginger Writes to 'Penthouse' Forum

"June 20, 2007

Dear Penthouse Forum,

I confess to being, from the age of 12, an avid reader of letters to the Penthouse Forum who often has doubted such improbably lascivious stories possibly could be true. My Internet friend, a shrewd and intelligent gentleman, says the letters are composed by crack teams of certifiably celibate writers working round-the-clock in 8-hour shifts and cites Jon Stewart and Jim Cramer as famous people who started that way. But now, after my own recent experience, I no longer have doubts. . .such escapades DO happen to ordinary Joe's like me -- every day. Even sometimes twice a day.

Therefore, I'm writing to share my own incredible recent experience with your Forum readers. And as unlikely as it may sound; I assure you every word is absolutely true.

The day started like most others with the sun peeking from the east precisely at dawn in a totally unremarkable way with no portent of future events. I stirred from a satisfyingly sound slumber nestled in a comfy cocoon of silken covers piled deep on a soft, yet fully supportive mattress. On first glance at my surroundings one might have thought it strange that everything was pink. . .but then it is my favorite color, and I was after all in my own bed where the evening before I'd drifted into a peaceful sleep while rereading "Sophie's World." So nothing remarkable so far.

Firmly re-centered in my own world after a couple blinks, I hopped from bed to start yet another "first day in the rest of my life" -- took a shower, did my hair and put on my face (to use the totally gross idiom). While dressing I nearly went nuts looking for my favorite bra and panty set (I believe every day must start on a solid foundation) until I remembered getting an interstellar email on my iPhone from Grandma saying she'd popped in yesterday from Sirius -- actually the transporter makes more of a buzzy "zip" noise -- to borrow it.

My old granny -- who's 30,021; going on fifteen -- sometimes may be a smidge adolescent but is loads of fun. . .Only don't cross her cause she'll tell you to go to Hell; then make you long to be there.

And I can assure your Forum readers that having an ancient Cro-Magnon granny who lives in a time-stasis so she's still nearly your same age and size sometimes can be an incredible pain. Sure she's got loads of Fendi and Prada to share, but so far the outfit exchange has gone only one way and she has an insatiable appetite for my beloved Victoria's Secret lingerie. Worse, a few months ago she just got her tits "done" in a BIG way so now the bras come back all baggy.

I also might add that my new iPhone is GREAT. . .I love it. But I don't love it like this one woman I know of who ELOPED with hers, settled with it in a bungalow on the Spanish coast and raised a big pod of Borg-like kids with her brains and its build. Weird huh?

Anyways, I settled on enveloping my privates in a different Victoria's Secret intimates set (the shear panties felt especially delicious against my freshly hot-waxed flesh), topped my day's outfit off with a Nanette Lepore Ruched Corset Top (in black) and Tulip-Print Skirt off the rack from Neiman Marcus, slipped my feet into some darling hot-pink Crocs (my fav.) and made my exit for a refreshing walk on Manhattan's sunny streets. Of course by "walk", I mean I took a taxi. And by "sunny", I mean shadowy.

Nonetheless, I arrived at my destination -- the Starbuck's at Trump Tower -- full of vim, vigor and zest for Life; blissfully in Grace and at Peace with all aspects of the world (except those parts that ever vexed me. . .you listening, Cornell??). I ordered my usual, paying with a 100 dollar bill I always keep in my right Croc, found a comfy chair that went well with my outfit and, given my prior experience with Starbuck's, observed the tide of humanity (and others) with a warily watchful eye. After an unusually placid twelve minutes with no hallucinations, fits or out-of-body experiences, I decided to hazard a trip to the Starbuck's unisex restroom. Just to clarify (though surely everyone knows) this unisex restroom isn't one of those creepy places like in France where strange women and men stand together and pee in the same dingy trough. Rather it is just a room either a man or woman can use, solo. Leave it to the French to turn the unavoidable call-of-nature into an opportunity to ogle other people's packages. . .but I digress.

Unfortunately, I often have problems with Starbuck's restrooms. It's not a "handicapped" issue so much as a "suddenly-finding-yourself-at-an-unknown-place-and-time" thing. For instance, this time I entered the restroom to find yet another wide plain, framed in the distance by a towering ice sheet, rather than a toilet. And since I also had just stepped calf deep into a mushy manure mound, I knew the obligatory Mastodons were close at hand. Wishing their pooh wasn't always so close at foot, I gingerly extracted my legs, found a conveniently bushy fern and transacted my personal business. . .all the while praying I could find the door again.

If I had a dollar for every time I've rinsed Mammoth pooh off my legs in a Starbuck's uni-sex restroom washbasin, my Croc would be so stuffed with $100 bills there wouldn't be room for my right foot. Actually this wasn't as bad as the time with the Brontosaurus. . .imagine belly-flopping into a meadow muffin the size of a Cooper Mini. And this time I was able to scoot right back to normal because a helpful monkey-thing was holding the door for me (I hoped he'd also been gentleman enough not to peek at me behind the fern). I tipped him a five anyway. After thoroughly rinsing my legs in Mr. Trump's fanciest fountain, I reclaimed my seat and sipped a refreshing Starbuck's beverage while analyzing the fashion prowess of the bistro's clientele.

I'd just spied a pair of Crocs go by in a luscious new hot-magenta color when a stranger plopped down beside me and winked. If I had a dollar for every time talking to a stranger at Starbuck's had led to something really weird, I'd need a branch bank in my left Croc to stow the extra 100's. But then I had spent the prior night in a tizzy drinking cheap scotch on a dirty linoleum floor while fretting about a recent investment in Bear Sterns (that's the last time I invest based on pillow talk from a hedge fund guy) so I was grateful for a little company. In the event, it turned out we had lots in common. . .I anticipate graduating from an Ivy League school, he went somewheres else. . .I'll be a lawyer, he's an engineer. . .I like Starbuck's coffee, he doesn't.

Actually, we were totally different EXCEPT for a shared passion for "Women Behind Bars" movies as typified by those 1930's Barbara Stanwyck films that Turner Classic Movies shows all the time (in case your Forum readers don't know the inside dope, the particularly scruffy women smoking cigars in those films are lesbians).

My new friend was older than me, with a trim physique (nicely muscled but not bulky) from lots of swimming and playing in the surf with a Frisbee all summer. Also, he was incredibly witty in an easygoing, self-effacing way -- And extremely humble. I quickly surmised he was a tiger with the lights off. . . but also gentle and sympathetic, willing to talk about feelings and fashions once the heavy rogering was done.

We talked for a long while -- he was so entertaining that time became meaningless for me. Next to my father (who by the way is NOT popular fiction writer, Stephan King), he was the most fantastic man I've ever known. . .And I found his profound humility romantically endearing. Well into my third coffee, I suddenly remembered about the "Chicks in Prison" film festival in the Village featuring, among others, the classic 30's prison film, "Ladies They Talk About." When I mentioned it, he said he'd love to go with me. So needless to say we had a marvelous afternoon and evening together. . .and an even better night.

BUT I could NEVER share the private and intimate details of what happened after we got back to my place with the demented wackos reading your magazine.

Sincerely,
Ginger Sue Mullins, P.C.

P.S. OH!!! (lol) I almost overlooked the whole point of writing this letter, to tell your Forum readers about my wildly bizarre experience that day. . .the type of thing everyone's dying to read about in your magazine!!!!

Well, before going to the film festival, my new friend said he had to check the appreciation of Apple stock he'd astutely acquired in 1983 so we arranged to meet again later for lunch at the great Italian place a couple blocks over across the street. After he left, I stayed a while to finish my coffee then got up and headed for the exit. I know no one will believe this actually happened, but as I approached the door this scruffy, mouth-breathing guy chewing gum opened it for me and waited for me to pass through -- Can you believe it??? He had Bronx written all over him AND he was polite, even gentlemanly.

I was floored and knew, then and there, I must share that incredible experience with your readership.

Tootles...GSM"

To Be Continued

Chap. 30 - '2nd Annual Hallowe'en Special'

2009-10-01T00:00:00.006-04:00

Not-Exactly-Chopped-Liver Fiction™
a could-be-worse division of None-Too-Shabby Enterpises, Ink

PRESENTS :

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 30

2nd Annual Hallowe'en Special

Heavy Metal 2007

Everyone may not know -- but will after reading this chapter -- that Ginny's absolute fav. music genre is "Heavy Metal." Yes, she has an ear for other music. . .Country/Western (especially tunes about the country or the West). . .Blue Grass (after surmounting an inner conflict about grass actually being green). . .Classical (particularly from the time of Plato) -- but none of those comes anywheres near being as pleasing to her ear as Heavy Metal music emitted by the greats; Grand Steppenwolf Railroad, Led Butterfly, Black Zeppelin, Deep Funk Sabbath, Iron Purple. To this list Ginny also had added, perhaps eclectically, The Carpenters and Starland Vocal Band (of Heavy Metal anthem, 'Afternoon Delight', fame). Oh, she might have one or two tiny criticisms of SOME Heavy Metal... the overemphasis of guitar and drums, the highly amplified distortion and the fast guitar solos. The extreme volume, the bizarre theatrics and the dripping testosterone (though personally, I exude puddles of testosterone and highly recommend it). The scruffy musicians, the scary lyrics and use of any bass guitar. But aside from these minor quibbles, nothing could please her more than spending an afternoon (especially in Contracts class) listening to Heavy Metal. And as for going to a Heavy Metal concert; that was pure heaven -- Or at least will be when she goes to one. So with all this in mind, it was appropriate that about this time Ginny found shoe-horned into her life an adventure during which Heavy Metal music could have blared in the background throughout, like in that one movie and it's sequel that are kind of famous in a "cult-y" way.

Ginny has received many missives from her old granny -- the 30,021 year-old Cro-Magnon one -- usually by Interstellar Email on her iPhone (yes, Apple is THAT good). But Gin never before had received a letter asking her to wait with bag packed at a particular time and place for pick-up by a starship dressed in a peculiar outfit (that is, Gin dressed peculiarly, not the starship). Not one to disobey her forebears, even an ancient one prone to spells of adolescence, Ginny set out immediately to get the stipulated attire and supplies. The supplies were a cinch, just stuff she already had at home, but she was certain the outfit would be hard to find. In the event, Ginny was extremely surprised ...and very concerned... at how easy it was to find a chain mail thong and metal-plated brassiere in The Village -- there's something about the place that just isn't quite part of our shared Space-Time Continuum.

Anywho, at the appointed time and place she was standing there dressed in chain mail and armour plate -- what little there was of either -- with her treasured 'She-Ra' backpack (the one left over from 3rd grade) stuffed full of stuff. But there was a problem. No stranger to wearing armour. . .when not running around buck naked, she often wore breastplates and such about the apartment. . .Gin found the mail thong particularly yummy against her sensitive flesh -- No, the outfit wasn't the problem. The problem was the place was very public and her granny was very late (is that two problems?). So she had to stand around in one spot in essentially nothing clutching a backpack for three hours. Believe me, she looked especially nubile. . .if not completely randy. And it was worse than one of those "naked" nightmares some people get because it wasn't night and it wasn't a dream. Eventually Gin's Grandma Tina did arrive -- turns out, like many visitors from space she got the timezones mixed up -- and a huge flashy saucer hummed in, picked Ginny up and zipped off to space. Strangely, the starship's coming and going caused less of a stir than Ginny had standing there essentially 'au natural' for several hours.

Hugging her granny hello in the cargo bay of a starship, Gin had a feeling this was going to be weirder than that time she started World War I. What happened then was Ginny found herself standing on a corner in some European city or other (things were kind of confused, I think Absinthe was involved) when an old timey car packed with VIP's swerved to the curb and a guy leaned out to jabber at her in some language -- In fact he was asking the way to the hospital; there had been a big ruckus and they wanted to visit the injured but got turned around. Ginny, having no clue, merely smiled and shrugged. Unfortunately...in the local idiom that means "Take the next right." On making that turn the car just happened to drive by a dude loitering outside some delicatessen who was part of the problem earlier. At that point the Archduke was history; as is the rest of the story. Actually, I'll pretty sure she didn't mean to do it; I mean The Great War and everything...

[Author's Note - Before I get a mountain of mail (and I do receive loads of mail. . .mostly addressed to 'Occupant') about the injustice of involving Ginger with the origin of World War I -- the greatest Human Cataclysm since that time one-quarter of the world's population, Cain, obliterated another quarter, Abel -- let's agree that we all know Ginny never could have started World War I. . .and even if she could, I reiterate my near conviction that she wouldn't mean to. For me to imply, or even somewhat emphatically state, that SHE started it really is just a very clever writer's embellishment because ...well... I'm very clever.]

...Irregardless, Ginny was tickled to see her old granny and get a big "Grandma" hug; even if the senescent grandma giving it appeared 3 or 4 years her junior. Her Grandma Tina was dressed even more lasciviously than Gin; wearing a nearly transparent loincloth cinched low at the hip with a silky golden cord and a short chain mail chemise that just barely failed to completely cover her ample, firm bosom -- she'd got them done recently by a genius who knew his tits. Thick chestnut hair flowed in wavey cascades down her back, with stray wisps attractively animated by the starship's ventilation. Hands and feet were bare though finger and toe nails were painted "I'm Not Really a Waitress" red. If she was aiming for the "robust-buxom-voluptuous Amazon" look, it worked. A nearby pile of equipment implied an entire "well-armed robust-buxom-voluptuous Amazon" ensemble. And, indeed, that inference was correct.

Turns out there was an "incident" involving the Super-Intelligent Space Aliens of the Sirius star system, where Ginny's grandma hangs her thong. One of their bigwigs, a High Mucky-Muck of something, had the misfortune of being grabbed by a gang of stellar badguys while on a joy ride in his new BMW SE Roadster near Barnard's Star (yes, BMW is THAT good). To recover their dude the Siriusians (whose motto, oddly, is... "We Are Serious") figured they could send a battle-hardened cohort of tough-as-nails Space Marines at great expense and with 99.6 percent fatalities, or send Ginny's little old granny. . .They decided to try Tina.

And she happily agreed as Ogg's back hair was resprouting with a vengeance and she ached for a vacation from the old apeman. Until recently Tina, who is a Community College Certified Cosmetology Professional, always had removed Ogg's heavy thatch of body hair in a long ordeal of hotwax agony. . .that is, until he realized how much she enjoyed his screams. Now he insisted on having the job done on Earth by someone less vicious and even that he put off as long as possible; usually requiring her escort at gunpoint. Plus Tina figured she hadn't "done enough" with Ginny and an afternoon with her in body-armour devoted to mayhem would be good "quality" time.

Hence the letter and starship pickup. On hearing all this Ginny was dubious but willing. As "operative insertion" was imminent -- that's the part where Ginny and her granny get comfy in a cramped capsule, eject from the starship in high orbit over the bad dudes' planet and plummet in a screaming arc of sparks that's really cool -- Gin's grandma armed herself, then helped get Ginny ready. Atop her loincloth and chemise Tina wore an indestructible nano-carbon breastplate. Fastened over her shoulder were a sword, battleaxe and round shield and a large hand blaster rode low at her hip. She wore a Corinthian helmet in the heroic way, pushed back high on her forehead, and hefted a long blaster rod that looked like a spear. Heavy combat boots encased her feet and cute red-tipped toes. Not wanting a single hair mussed on her favorite granddaughter, Tina enclosed Ginny in two full suits of titanium-infused armoured ceramic skin and a stout pair of pink Crocs. The Mullins ancestral Claymore nestled happily in a scabbard slung across Gin's back and at her hip in a tiny holster was a "Cricket" hand blaster. In a much larger holster strapped securely across her chest was Gin's Smith&Wesson Model 686 .357 Magnum revolver. Tina looked like Athena. . .Ginny looked like The Terminator.

The badguys looked like ET; of movie fame. Gin always was suspicious of that smarmy "phone home" alien dude and his sunshine hype. She felt great that she'd been right all along and glad they were giving him something really big to phone home. Which raises the point that the aforementioned terrifying free-fall from orbit. . .which Ginger reckoned was patentable as a weigh-loss regimen. . .had plopped the two women not just in the middle of the badguys compound nor just in the middle of the badguys' headquarters, but rather smack in the middle of the badguys. For a time the two were surrounded at close quarters by a pressing hoard of bad dudes. Fighting back-to-back, Gin with Claymore and Cricket and her granny with a sword in one hand and battleaxe in the other, the pair slashed, hacked and blasted from the centroid of a clambering melee of ET's -- who were mowed down in growing heaps like hapless Confederates in Pickett's Charge. The whole time Gin's granny gave loud voice to a running narrative, in extreme detail, of exactly what was totally endearing and what was completely disgusting about Gin's hirsute Grandpa Ogg. For instance, there was the time he was going to cook supper shortly after their marriage. . .it was so sweet. . .until Tina sat down to a "romantic" dinner of boiled Cave Bear testicles. And the time he snuck off to be Casanova. . .Tina nearly served him his own testicles that time -- then afterwards he apologized with the prettiest flower imaginable. . .which also turned out to be the smelliest thing on Earth. But she swore she always loved the goofy son-of-a-bitch; lucky for him. Ginny was wondering how much more she should be privy to when the cascade of bad guys petered out and the pair bounded down passages and corridors to rescue the hostage dude. Ginny's Grandma Tina raced in the vanguard, blasting the bejeebers out of everything bad that moved. Gin followed and dealt with anything creeping up from behind. . .not surprisingly there wasn't a whole lot of that kind of thing happening -- anything left alive in Tina's wake was not anxious to renew the aquaintence.

As they neared the nexus it was obvious the bad dudes, unaware the attack already had penetrated so deep, had marshaled forces and were rushing to defend the perimeter. With the fog of war totally on her side, Ginny's granny grew stealthy. She dispatched the remaining badguys using Zhongguo wushu with a few shuriken thrown in besides -- it was Tina who thought up Martial Arts, and later, coined the word "ninja".

Outside the final portal the last guard got the 'surprise of his life' when she held a heart. . .his own infact; ripped from his chest and still beating. . .before his eyes.

With that Ginny wondered how much more gruesome this would get, but actually it was pretty much over. The door before them opened at a signal from one of the multitude of gizmos her granny had been using all along and they both peeped into a cavernous hangar. Inside was the captive guy all tied up with rope (stellar bad dudes always use plain old rope), sundry piles of bric-a-brac and a space vehicle parked to the side.

They entered. The door shut behind them. Gin's granny hustled over to the erstwhile Mucky-Muck to examine his bonds -- the bonehead trussing him up apparently figured twenty granny knots were equal to one good one. Ginny waited, with some relief, a bit to the side between the closed portal and space craft. It was not a good place to stand. Out of nowhere there was the whine of a revving star drive and a slight flash. Then a beam of pure plasma erupted from points on the craft and enveloped Ginger in a fireball that carbonized everything in a fifty-foot radius. . .but had absolutely no effect on her other than making her sneeze and drop the Cricket down a grating. The beam did blow the door to smithereens, though. Gin weathered the direct hit thanks to her granny, who after many far-flung perambulations of improving travel, had a few things in her brassiere even the serious fellas of Sirius didn't know about. One of those things was a field generator no amount of destruction could get through. Having instantly sensed real peril, she had thrown such a field around Ginny with plenty of time, several seconds, to spare. Unfortunately after such a blow the field must regenerate and this dude didn't seem finished nor willing to wait. The craft -- actually a small starship -- already was traveling, mere inches above the deck, for the open portal and Ginny was in the way. Though she could have dodged to safety, Ginger figured if this bucko wanted to escape, he'd have to go through her -- He figured the same thing. She stood there with sparkling brown eyes fixed on the advancing craft. As it built speed and closed distance with her, Gin saw the ship's blaster points spark, the prelude to firing again. This was getting serious. Smiling sweetly, Ginger set her feet shoulder width apart, straighted her back and calmly unholstered the Smith&Wesson revolver. With a two-hand grip and fully extended arms, she held the weapon motionless, drew a bead and smoothly squeezed the trigger, firing one shot into the on-coming starship. Nothing happened but a tiny belch of smoke. Then the craft's insides blew out through it's skin in a whooshing sneeze of flame (yes, Smith&Wesson is THAT good). The charred hulk skidded to a stop before her, dusting the toes of her pink shoes with a thin coat of phosphorescent grit. Seeing all this, Ginny's granny broke into a happy grin as her dear old heart swelled with pride.

Next they untied the dude (all 436 knots), called for extraction and headed home. Both Ginny and her grandma were tickled to share such an adventure and have some "special" time together -- although Ginny had heard all she needed about testicles for a while. They got back in time to go to the big Halloween party that night. As they already had the outfits, they went as Amazons. But first they had a bite out to eat and shopped some. . .Ginny bought an awesome new halter Tankini swimsuit on sale at Victoria's Secret. Her elderly granny asked to borrow it as they left the store (yes, Victoria's Secret is THAT good).

To Be Continued

Chap. 25 - 'I Love Ginny'

2009-09-01T00:00:00.004-04:00

Not-Exactly-Chopped-Liver Fiction™
a could-be-worse division of None-Too-Shabby Enterpises, Ink

PRESENTS :

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 25

I
Love
Ginny

Too Many Crooks

A long while later Ginny, sleeping soundly in her Upper East Side Manhattan apartment, was awakened by the buzzing doorbell. She had been dreaming of making animal love with Jim Cramer, the chair-heaving nemesis of financial types infesting New York City. Cramer, who hates communism and being called Jimbo -- but who, strangely, looks loads like that blood-soaked Bolshevik dude Lenin -- would be tickled to sell anyone the rope they use to hang him (he'ld make a gob of dough and, cause he ain't stupid, the rope would break). Ginny has no idea why her dreams currently are drenched in ferociously mindless lust with this particular CNBC on-air personality. . .it's as if someone is making this stuff up as she goes. But it does get her through the night and is a welcome change of pace from Jon Stewart, who looks more like an elderly Marlon Brando every day -- she's even started to wonder when the aging comedian also would descend to French-kissing Larry King on-camera.

Anyways Gin, who'd straddled Cramer's lap and was just beginning a bouncing ride when roused, erupted from her downy pink nest and rushed to the door, typically 'au natural', to see what the big deal was. Undoing the multiple chains and locks, Ginny stared across the threshold at a hallway full of people outside her door. And the hallway full of people outside her door stared back at her exposed, perkily-firm bosoms for a long, silent moment... then entered her apartment in a chattering rush. Bringing up the rear was Gin's best friend and landlady, Ethel Mertz and Ethel's prickly husband, Fred.

Ginny's friend Ethel was a bit of a puzzle. Though only two years older than Gin, she cultivates an aged, dowdy appearance as if bound by contractual terms stipulating plain, ill-fitting attire and superannuated demeanor to ensure she appears much older than Gin and more compatible with her improbable husband. As for him, Fred is clearly many years Ethel's senior, if not outright elderly. In fact it's painfully obvious the words "old-goat" and "Fred" long ago assumed cozy companionship through continuous juxtaposition.

Unirregardless, the crowd made themselves at home in Gin's apartment -- milling about in clumps, eating her leftover Sam's Club rotisserie chicken, flushing the toilet, drinking her scotch. . .one guy with severe gingivitis even used her toothbrush -- while Ethel explained the hubbub. It turned out a burglar was in the neighborhood and had just broken into an apartment nearby. As if to answer the perennial question, "Where's a cop when you need one", a policeman piped up and said the department knew little about this perpetrator, whom they called "Madame X", except that it was a woman dressed in men's clothes and they had her fingerprints at the Station. Ginny, who enjoyed dressing as a man (and in her adventures even relished having the correct associated plumbing on occasion), was flabbergasted by this news. What was she to do?

Incidentally, it's no fluke this cop was in the vicinity -- for days he'd maintained a furtive stakeout of the hallway, reinforced by several dozen donuts, specifically in hopes of seeing Gin open the door naked. Emboldened by his remarkable success, he wandered in with the crowd to see more then stayed for the Sam Adams and chicken they liberated from Ginny's pantry.

The next morning at breakfast with a guy named Ricky who seemed to be her husband, but wasn't, Ginny talked about the prior night's excitement. After listening attentively (positive proof he wasn't her husband) Ricky, a burly Irish dude who endured constant kidding about his heavy accent and supposed poor grasp of English, said that Fred's birthday was coming soon and he wanted to buy the acerbic old goat a new suit for a present but didn't know his measurements. Gin, who thinks as well on her feet as her back, said she'd sneak down to their apartment and swipe one of Fred's old suits so they could go by it's measurements. And she did.

Unfortunately, an antique busybody neighbor soon told Ethel she'd seen Gin break into the Mertzes' apartment and steal Fred's suit ...it all was very suspicious. When Ethel told Fred, they fixed upon the only plausible explanation. . .Ginny is "Madame X." And the only viable response was to mount a vigil on the fire escape outside Gin's bedroom window that night to catch her on her next caper. And they did.

Thing is Fred, a misanthropic crybaby, got chilly during their watch despite wearing a heavy overcoat and hat so he left the hat and coat to keep Ethel warm (one of the few kind gestures of his life) and went back home. And of course when Ginny grew tired after reading a chapter of "Sophie's World" and turned out the bedside lamp she saw Ethel in the dark dressed in men's clothes through the window. For some reason. . .at that moment. . .Ethel being "Madame X" seemed credible to Ginny.

With the premise now ripe for harvest, both Ginny and Ricky, and Ethel and Fred sparred to get the fingerprints needed to prove Ethel on one side, and Gin on the other, was a Cat Burglar...

Which begs the trenchant observation that though attending an Ivy League law school, most of Ginny's classmates never could fathom why someone would risk long incarceration to enter a home and steal a cat. . .but then these same people spend untold hours dreading the prospect of having to pass a bar -- without going in. And it only made things worse when one of the more resolutely senile Professors of Law, in trying to dispel the confusion, told the class that not all burglars are "cat" burglars. Some are human beings.

...Anyways, what a hoot as Ginny and Ethel both tried to get the other's prints while avoiding leaving her own -- it was just like the episode in that popular old Fifties TV series where one woman, an ersatz redhead, tries to get her friend to handle a silver cigarette case or drinking glass as the friend adroitly avoids leaving her fingerprints while trying to get those of the other woman. In the end, the friend sees the woman did finger the case so she pockets it on the way out but her husband, a stupid old goat, wipes the prints off before they get it to the Police Station. Granted that episode probably isn't as familiar and popular as some others from the series but I just now enjoyed seeing it on DVD. And it was just like that with Ginny and Ethel -- an undeniably remarkable coincidence.

So, frustrated with the lack of progress in bringing Ethel to justice, and certain her best friend in the whole wide world was itching to rob her, Ginny decided to tip Ethel off that she wouldn't be home that evening then lie in wait for her. In a tragedy bringing to mind "The Charge of the Light Brigade", the real Madame X picked that night to break into Gin's apartment.

It's a proven Scientific Law that when Ginger Sue Mullins "gets her Irish up", Israeli Commandos quake in their boots while mere ordinary men are know to soil themselves (at such times even her father's steadfast faith in a genially benevolent God is tested). And any hope this proposition was only an "iffy" Theory or "dodgey" Hypothesis rather than an algebraically proven fact was lost long ago. Even worse, the combination of Ginny feeling her Irish PLUS chugging premium single-malt Scotch is a Krakatoan event no one should endure without benefit of a priest, as a pathetic former paramour who was dumb enough to provoke such supreme apoplexy found to his misery.

But bad as that all is, it pales in comparison to the primordial cataclysm unleashed when Ginny caught Madame X in her apartment rifling her Victoria's Secret undie drawer. If the Gaming Industry had made odds on whether a person could be thrown through a closed, double-glazed window, clear the sidewalk below, sail across a city street, clear the other sidewalk and slam against the opposite building, everyone would have bet against it. . .and in the event, lost their money. On reflection Ginny -- an enthusiastic fan of defenestration, particularly as perfected in the window-full city of Prague -- was proud of her feat, though she actually had been aiming for the bedroom wall with Madame X. And in the interest of her treasured friendship with Ethel, Gin never mentioned that at the time she still thought her best friend was the burglar.

When Ricky got home that night from his job as leader and singer for his own Celtic band, all he could say was, "Ginny. . .you gotta lotta s'plaining to do."

As for Madame X, she survived the "Defenestration of Manhattan" when the awning of a Starbuck's in the building she struck broke her fall. . .and most her bones. Cured of crime forever, the reformed burglar took a nun's vows and pursued a cloistered life of piety and good works -- she had a real talent for Gregorian Chants, mainly because impact with the building lowered her voice four octaves.

To Be Continued

Chap. 24 - 'Adventures of Huckleberry Gin'

2009-08-01T00:00:00.002-04:00

Not-Exactly-Chopped-Liver Fiction™
a could-be-worse division of None-Too-Shabby Enterpises, Ink

PRESENTS :

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 24

Adventures of Huckleberry Gin

Prologue

YOU don't know about Huck without you have read a book by the
name of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer; but that ain't no matter. That book was made by Mr. Mark Twain, and he told the truth, mainly.

It ain't no matter cuz that's a different Huck; this here is about Huckleberry Gin. This book is made by me, and I tell the truth, absolutely.

I. The Arrival

At 19:00 hours, ship's time, Ginger made her way to the launching bay. The men around the shaft stood aside to let her pass, and she climbed down into the capsule. Waiting inside the narrow cockpit Gin felt this seemed more like the start of Stanislaw Lem's "Solaris" (at least the English translation of the French translation of it) than a job interview.

But the site visit to Nevada was all-expenses-paid and the guys at the jobs fair said she could crash in Las Vegas afterward. She didn't realize they meant literally. Anyways, she'd soon gotten an email telling her to stand on a patch of dirt beside a particular light pole next to Delta Kappa Epsilon house close by the Law School wrapped completely in aluminum foil (her, not the law school) at a specific time. She did all that and for her trouble got her atoms disassociated then re-associated on this mothership thingy -- The good part was she was three pounds lighter (and the missing mass wasn't from her important bits). Now the space dudes were in geosynchronous orbit over Las Vegas' McCarran International Airport and ready to jettison her capsule. She thought a JetBlue flight from New York would've been easier. . .plus she'd have a bag of yummy peanuts and not be out five dollars for foil. . .but like they say in the movies, her's was not the reason why.

Ginny's descent consisted of long stretches of stark terror interrupted by brief moments of stark terror -- actually, not much different from ValuJet -- but she landed safely AND with TWO extra pounds scared off so all-in-all, it was worth it. Now she just had to clamber out of the capsule, strip off the spacesuit, smooth her Prada outfit a smidge and find "Janet" Terminal for the flight to Area 51, a Federal government facility no one knows about. The rest of Gin's adventure is a classified "ultra" secret and cannot be related here; although the Trilateral Commission, the Council on Foreign Relations and the Bavarian Illuminati all were briefed (the Gnomes of Zurich were there, as was Jim Cramer). Suffice to say that Ginger was met at the Area 51 runway tarmac by a Martian ("His Exalted Potentate of the Canals and Master of the Vortex", Pekoe-Auk_42 -- the equivalent Earthly rank is Army corporal) and that her interview included participation in an alien autopsy.

Gin decided not to accept the job offer when she heard spiders in Nevada grow bigger than a large man's hand.

II. Civilizing Huck.

So that was nearly a week ago. Now Gin was busy in the dark with a companion (whose name starts with "J" -- hint, hint ... nudge, nudge) putting final touches on a raft they'd cobbled together using sawn planks and such culled from flotsam along the river bank. After slapping a bumper sticker reading "Yield to the Princess" on the back Gin pulled the unraveling straw hat down firm on her head, tugged her droopy drawers up six inches, tightened the rope about her waist a couple yanks, spat in her palm and declared their work "done and lookin' dam swell." Slipping off her favorite camouflage-pattern flip-flops so her bare feet squiggled deep in the black mud, she and her confederate heaved the raft into the torpid water and jumped on for an adventurous drift down Manhattan's East River.

Life on the river was slow and easy. Their raft, which was twelve foot wide and about fifteen or sixteen foot long, floated above the murky water about six or seven inches, making a solid, level floor. To that she and her sidekick had added a small foyer, kitchenette, breakfast nook, conservatory and sleeping loft -- It was as nice as her Upper East Side apartment and the plumbing worked better. Behind they towed a beauty of a canoe, an Old Town worth ten dollars Ginny figured, that she'd catched drifting down the river earlier. This canoe, about thirteen or fourteen foot long, rode high like a duck and was piled full of their provisions, mainly Osetra caviar and Sam Adams.

That first night Ginny drifted to sleep serenaded by the wail of ambulances and prowl cars. The next morning she was awakened, fresh as a daisy, by her companion holding a breakfast tray -- Yes, for this adventure Gin had conscripted her father's Gentleman's Gentleman, Jeeves, whom her dad sometimes loaned her as butler. Setting the tray before her and tidying the loft a bit, Jeeves reported the current situation: The weather was clement, the river had fallen a trifle and he reckoned they'd drifted south along the river bank about three blocks.

The rest of the day Ginny spent in idyllic languor, watching the world inch by and working on her all-over tan. Supine in the somnolent sun, Gin heard the old River calling her name. . .catfish were jumping, a paddle wheel was thumping and black water kept rolling on past just the same. And if it rained she didn't care -- didn't make any difference to her. Indeed, she'd just take that street car that was going up town. . .she'd like to hear some funky dixieland and dance a honky tonk and she'd be buying everybody drinks all around. As the sun set and moon rose, the old black water kept on rolling. And the moon kept on shining on her, making everything all right. Ginny had no worries as she wasn't in a hurry at all.

Perhaps more than Ginny, her crew ...ever an unflappable edifice of rectitude... slipped deep into the comfy lassitude of a drifting raft. Quickly relaxing into relative effusive confession, Jeeves -- who had left a good job in the city working for the man every night and day -- admitted to having never lost one minute of sleeping worrying about the way things might have been. Moreover in his time he'd both cleaned a lot of plates in Memphis and pumped a lot of propane down in New Orleans, but he'd never seen the good side of the city until he hitched a ride on a river boat queen. Free to opine, he related the conviction that if one came down to the river, he bet you would find some people who live. . .But you don't have to worry cause you have no money, people on the river are happy to give. Ginny, delighted to see the faithful family retainer embrace their gestalt, swore that she couldn't agree more. Why a couple times Jeeves even helped her keep the Proud Mary burning. . .BUT still to his own self true, he never, ever presumed to bogart.

In such lazy haze many days passed on the big easy East River until the raft had drifted down Manhattan Island several dozen blocks and Ginny spied their destination docked in the distance. It was a house boat. . .or rather a unique residential community within a cruise ship named "The World."

It seems that Ginny's father had seen a program on the Travel Channel about a company named ResidenSea that conceived, constructed and managed this ship comprised of just 160 or so luxury apartments that people bought to live in as they sailed all over the world. The idea appealed to his simple seafaring ways so he plopped down seven million dollars, plus about a half million in annual fees, for Residence 1000, which just happened to be for sale (no pun intended). The 3,200 sf, Style "E" apartment he bought -- which was on Deck Ten at the ship's left, back corner -- had 3 bedrooms, 3-1/2 baths and was fitted out in the very popular and tres chic Italian TMT decor designed by Di Pilla. It even had TWO balconies, one on the port side and one that wrapped around the back corner from port to aft. When she heard all this Gin thought the raft adventure would be a really awesome way to get in the nautical mood ...for a while she'd considered going with a bloodthirsty pirate motif but canned the idea on learning the ship was well prepared to repel boarders.

III. Yours Truly, Huck Gin.

When the intrepid (and exceedingly under-dressed) pair guided the raft to the gargantuan ship's gangway, Ginny and her valet were helped aboard their new home by several scrambling seamen. Gin found the heady mix of fresh sea air and maritime man musk a tantalizing combination. Soon she was reclined in a fancy deck chair on her aft balcony chugging beer and -- as New York City sank in the sea -- munching buttered toast points heaped with rare caviar by Jeeves using a mother-of-pearl spoon. Off the stern a ways bobbed their raft in tow, bravely riding The World's wake as the titan ship made for Funchal, Madeira ...their first port-of-call.

To Be Continued

Chap. 23 - 'Ginny Hears from Her Granny'

2009-07-01T00:00:00.001-04:00

Not-Exactly-Chopped-Liver Fiction™
a could-be-worse division of None-Too-Shabby Enterpises, Ink

PRESENTS :

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 23

Ginny Hears from Her Granny

It was about this time that Ginger found herself skirting the periphery of a new religious movement building rapidly in the college scene. In actual fact the hype was winding down -- Madonna had converted to it with much ceremony and hoopla about a month ago then left for a hipper religion last week. But anyway, it was named "The Celestial Wank." Wankers, as they self-identify, don't worship a god nor even gods, per se, so much as a big crater on the planet Venus that was revealed to the World eight weeks ago in a splendid National Geographic photo spread. They call it "The Holy Hole." Then they also worship a mountain peak on Mars (not the one with the goofy face). They call it "The Pokey Peak." They believe that at some time in the rapturous future The Pokey Peak and The Holy Hole will... well, you get the idea. Suffice to say when it happens, things on Earth will change lots. But the good news is fungi finally get their big chance to rule the planet. Gin was dabbling in this religion to placate a friend who was dabbling in it to placate a friend who was dabbling in it to meet chicks -- kinda like the way people got "sucked" into the American Communist Party back in the Thirties ...at least that's what they said in the Fifties. She had even recently attended a worship service as her friend's guest. She found it similar to a Frat Party at Cornell, only with less drinking and more fornication (if that's possible) -- as far as the comparative amount of drugs done, it was a wash.

Now as Ginny sat reflecting by a window in her law school classroom she resolved to forego further immersion in The Celestial Wank -- it seemed awful avant-garde, plus it was misnamed since the whole thing is predicated on a cosmic rogering, not a wank. Anywho, the more traditional religions ...even rattlesnake handling in the backwoods of Appalachia... were more her cup of tea.

With that decided, Gin's reverie was disturbed suddenly by the bright flashy lights that typically herald arrival of either a flying saucer or Donald Trump. Wondering if anyone else noticed, she glanced quickly about the classroom but everyone was obliviously busy applying makeup, gabbing on the phone or cybering in Yahoo chat rooms. Ginny watched warily as the boxy brown spacecraft settled on the meticulous Cornell landscaping a little ways from the building. She continued watching warily as a doorway slid open and a small, gray-toned alien dressed in brown shorts, brown short-sleeve shirt and brown baseball cap hopped down, paused there on the new-mown dirt then looked straight at the very law school window framing her wary and watchful face. She maintained the watchfully wary vigil as the entity disintegrated with a 'pop' and instantaneously reintegrated with a 'sizzle' beside her in the classroom, winked -- only it's eye closed sideways -- and proffered a large bubblewrap-padded envelope along with something to sign. Once Gin had scrawled her signature along the line, illegibly to thwart identity-thief, the alien popped and sizzled his way back inside the craft, which disappeared with another flash or two. She was stunned to see her classmates, occupied yet with their study of law, still had noticed nothing. Ginny decided not to hazard opening the envelop until she got home.

For the past year Ginger had been researching her family history. She had put off examining the Balkan side of the family ...generally, one isn't in a big hurry to know "Vlad the Impaler" is your granddaddy... but rather was pursuing her roots amid the relatively passive Viking and Celtic hoards of her paternal forebears. Just the night before she had stumbled on the obscure fact that the iconic British "Tommy" helmet of World Wars I and II, known as the "'Brodie' Helmet", was invented and patented well before WWI by her father's great-grandfather (her great-great-grandfather) in Ireland as the "Irish Drinking Cap." He developed the heavy steel helm because his son (her dad's grandfather and her great-grandfather) consistently came home "falling-down-drunk" with head injuries requiring a doctor's care. As at the time a majority of the Irish nation suffered the same "disability", the new headwear (aka "Paddy's Derby") was an immediate sensation and success ...among both sexes. This was the origin of the Mullins family fortune -- since he sold the rights to an Englishman at gunpoint for the price of a pint of bitters -- and is a fine and proud legacy.

In fact we with shared Irish Heritage are uncommon lucky the English came over and subjugated the island. . .emasculated the men. . .ravaged the women. . .murdered the children. And it was good when they took all the food as it left more room in the cupboards for other stuff -- like air and dust. They were doing essentially the same thing in their own country so it was like one big happy family.

Irregardless, when Ginny got home she cleared the desk of this research, gingerly lay her alien "express mail" upon the blotter and, having armed herself with the ancestral Claymore, warily opened the envelope’s seal. Nothing dangerous happened, which is always a good sign.

Wary and watchful, she removed a letter typed in hot-pink 'Comic Sans' 12 pt. font (also my fav.) that read as follows:

"Dearest Darling Ginny,

Probably the last thing you expected ever to get is a letter from your ol' Granny Tina who tread the Earth a thousand generations ago. Nonetheless, here it is.

First I want to send my love and apologize for all the Birthdays I missed, but then I DO have 712,345,988 great-great-great...great grand daughters after all. Regardless, I am very, very proud of you and hope you can forgive my oversight.

Your Grandpa Ogg and I both are alive and well and living in a comfy Inter-Dimensional Time-Warp on a pleasant planet circling the binary star system you know as Sirius, the Dog Star. Funny thing is. . .after I married your grandpop and had a couple babies, I was grabbed by some Super-Intelligent Space Aliens in one of the first instances of Alien Human Abduction. You might wonder at the astronomical odds against this sorta thing happening to your grandma but it all makes sense cause we were some of the first humans -- the Laws of Statistics dictate that when there are only twelve interrelated human women in Europe, if a Space Alien flies down and grabs one, chances are it'll be your granny. And they never have been able to explain to me why they do this abduction thingy. ...I believe they just get some kinda lame, kinky jolly out of it -- once they get back home again I think they're kinda embarrassed about it, like a Spring Break in Panama.

Anyways, they brought me here where I had the run of the place. After a few years passed on Earth we returned and picked up Ogg, who was managing to fornicate himself to death in the absence of my firm will and sharp tongue. Under the influence of the Inter-Dimensional Time-Warp here and the portable Temporal-Stasis Flocculators we carry off the planet, neither Ogg nor I have aged more than a few weeks -- I had my 30,021st birthday last month but am really only just 21 years old (on my next trip to Earth I'm finally getting my ID then I'm getting totally wasted - WOO HOO!!!).

By the way, we do travel far and wide and often visit Earth. In fact, for a giggle, I got a job at a nearby Starbucks and served you coffee several times ...I always give you extra foam and sprinkles (LOL - I'm the one who flashes you that big, happy smile !!!). I must say you've blossomed into a beautiful woman, which you get from my side of the family. THANK GOD you didn't inherit your Grandpa Ogg's Hairy Back. NOR, for that matter, his crude humor. Talk about a throwback to the apes. . .sometimes I'm tempted to run him through a Transporter, realign his atoms, and bring him back as a young Jon Stewart. But I DO LOVE that old Cro-Magnon.

<<< Sudden Flash of Insight >>> We're the same size and age -- except I'm a couple years younger (gloat...gloat) -- so's we can share outfits next time I'm there. . .I have tons of awesome Fendi and Prada, do you like them ???

I must say, just between us girls here, that Grandpa Ogg and I both were a little wary and watchful when your father showed up years ago. . .You see, we knew his family. His great-to-the-thousandth-power grandfather and grandmother, Br-o and D-ee, were our next-door neighbors, living in the hollowed-out dead tree beside our comfortable cave-home overlooking the Black Sea. They were Neanderthal, which explains it all -- We, of course, are Cro-Magnon. Anyways, they inhabited the tree for a long time until a near-sighted mastodon knocked it over one moonless night while backing up to pooh. They lived under a rock for a short time thereafter while Br-o worked on something. . .he called it "Do-m", then pulled up stakes and moved south to settle in Peloponnesia. I think the children eventually became Greek, or maybe it was Macedonian. One thing I do know is all THAT family's menfolk were definitely "Roamin'." Regardless, your dad seems to have straightened out fine with only occasional lapses of Vandal-ism and other old family ways. I admit we were just being over-protective, as is a parent's wont, even parents orbiting Sirius.

And I'm one to talk... you know what that old dog Ogg did one time ?? ?? He snuck off and played "Leonardo da Vinci" for several Earth decades while I pursued a perambulation of improving travel about the Galaxy. When I returned to find out, I zipped to Earth (I mean literally "zipped", that's the noise the Interstellar Transportation Flocculator makes) and caught him in the middle of something I won't describe with a greasy tub-of-lard named Lisa he was supposed to be painting (and he was; matter of fact). Needless to say, the reason for that famous enigmatic smile is I knocked her frikking teeth out.

Anyways, I better wrap this letter up and send it. Hope the delivery isn't too much of a shock -- Space Aliens seem to cause such a trauma on Earth.

Again I send my deep love and sincere hope that you meet a nice Homo-Sapiens boy and raise a big family of humans just like Ogg n' me.

With Endless Love,
your Granny Tina and Grandpop Ogg

P.S. Isn't Britney Spears a Skank ???!! love again, Ur granny"

Upon concluding the letter, Ginny blinked a brimming dampness from her eyes, released a wistful sniffle and retired -- lots happier -- for the night.

To Be Continued

Chap. 22 - 'Gin Puts the Great in Alexander'

2009-05-01T00:00:00.005-04:00

Not-Exactly-Chopped-Liver Fiction™
a could-be-worse division of None-Too-Shabby Enterpises, Ink

PRESENTS :

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 22

Gin Puts the Great in Alexander

Ginny was delighted to be in Greece.

However, truth to tell, given her druthers she’d have preferred to be there some time like a week from next Tuesday, not 2,300 years ago. You see, she had dreamed of escaping and losing herself in the Land of Zorba, where the poet Homer was a vague memory. . .not the Land of Socrates, where Homer was the bug-eyed dude walking by just now. In any event, she'd always wanted to go and didn't question the series of circumstances that had landed her there a couple millennia too soon. As always, she resolved to make the best of the situation -- At least the Iron Age was well along.

Thing is, Ginny wasn't exactly in the Greece. She was in Macedonia, which though decidedly "Greekish", wasn't considered "Greek" by the "Greeks". It was all "Greek" to her, but not to them apparently. Anywho, Gin found herself a welcome guest in the court of King Philip II of Macedonia, who was doing very well at uniting Greece and had all kinds of Greeks and Greek wannabees hanging around. It was amazing how easily she fit in -- She attributed her ability to speak and understand ancient Greek to all the Frat parties she'd gone to at Cornell. When asked, she said she was from Ithaca, which was true enough.

Gin was immediately adopted by the "In Crowd" at the Macedonian court, who greatly appreciated her New York City temperament and fashion prowess. It also helped that law school had trained her to remain docile while blowhards pontificate. It was a lot like listening every evening to the George Burns standup routine delivered by a somnolent professor-emeritus draped in a sheet, only not as funny. One fellow, a struggling former student of Plato named Aristotle, was smitten by Ginger and developed feelings best described as an embarrassingly pathetic mix of puppy-love and hero-worship wrapped in resolute cluelessness.

It was Ginny who inadvertently taught Aristotle to think like Aristotle. He hung about harvesting her every word like a crop of grapes; gently mashing them around in his head and carefully fermenting them in his thoughts over time. The invariable result was vinegar. Early on she made a big boo-boo with him. One day she was trying to get away from the hubbub for a few hours by hanging out at the amphitheater, which was empty at the time. She was lying nude on an upper bench working on her tan when Aristotle stumbled on her ...he was quite clumsy... bearing a perplexed expression. Pretending to run into her by chance -- he'd really been scouring the country for her all morning -- he exchanged pleasantries then stood there getting a brimming eyeful of Gin 'au natural.' Suddenly he blurted that he was stumped and it was driving him nuts. Turns out he was trying to get his head around a real puzzler... if a stone and a feather are dropped from the same height, which hits the ground first. His distress was such that he contemplated drastic action to resolve the question by actually testing it and observing the results ...he called it an "experiment", or something similar. Gin, who was dreamily watching clouds drift across the sky, told him not to bother; to just think about it calmly for a minute and work it out in his head -- A feather was lighter, ergo, the stone would land first. Aristotle seized upon this logic, developed a philosophy around it (without crediting Ginny at all) and crippled the Scientific Method for many, many centuries. Now while it may be true that Ginger didn't pay strict attention in High School Physics, the blame was entirely his for being such a dimwitted glory hound in the first place. ...Unfortunately, there was a similar incident involving that Sun-versus-Earth Orbit thingy -- That took two thousand years to sort out right.

Aristotle served Philip's court as the un-notable tutor to Morris, the least notable son from one of Philip's less notable wives. This pair, Morris and Aristotle, were easily the most angst-wracked persons in the Ancient World... beside them Woody Allen looks like Teddy Roosevelt. Invariably Aristotle would approach Ginny (a person who kind-heartedly avoids telling people to fuck-off) and confide to her the neuroses Morris constantly confided to him.

First, it was that Morris got no respect and people made fun of his name. So Ginny suggested changing it to something cool, like Alexander.

Next it was that he was the second-rate son of an "also-ran" wife. Ginny suggested telling everyone his father was a god, Zeus would be good.

Then the problem was that Philip didn't pay him any attention. Thinking for a moment, Ginny reminded Aristotle that Philip was getting married yet again in a couple of days and perhaps the best way for Morris, now known as Alexander, to get in his good graces was with a really killer wedding gift. When Aristotle said Philip was a big-time dagger aficionado and always loved getting a new one for his collection, Gin suggested Alexander get a really keen one and give it to his father at his wedding for a big surprise.

Of course she meant to give the dagger to Philip in a box wrapped with pretty pink paper and a ribbon... not thrust deep between his ribs.

With Philip of Macedonia's death Ginny reckoned either Aristotle or Alexander, or both, to be a couple amphorae short of a full trireme. Deciding some improving travel would add welcome distance between these numb-nuts and her, she quickly embarked for Italy to see all the famous sites ...before they actually became the sites of anything famous.

Some time later Ginny stood calf deep in water on the edge of a beautiful wave-dappled estuary with her toga, introduced by her that season in Rome to great acclaim, pulled safely above her knees. She looked over the water at several low islands where Venice would be -- she was somewhat concerned that even now the place stank. Presently her thoughts were interrupted by hoots from some guy hoofing it hell bent for leather toward her. It was Aristotle yet again. Over the past several months this dude had been running relays between the erstwhile Morris and Ginger bearing, for her consideration, every little problem furrowing Alexander's increasing noble brow. As he'd become the King of Macedonia mainly by her unwittingly Machiavellian advice, Gin felt obliged to help.

Problem was, too much seemed to get lost in the translation between what Ginger said and what Alexander heard from Aristotle. Ginny really regretted the time not long after she settled in Rome that Aristotle showed up to report Alexander was going stir-crazy cooped up in Macedonia. Ginny, who found her travels remarkably refreshing and was totally stoked by the successful premier of her design boutique near the Temple of Vesta, ventured innocently that Alexander also might benefit from improving travel by leaving stodgy Macedonia and touring Greece. Not long after Alexander followed her advice; only he took an army, subjugated southern Greece and rampaged roughshod over Thebes -- Gin felt like the poster child for the "Law of Unintended Consequences". But it was encouraging at least that Alexander finally was showing mettle -- On reflection she believed probably the name change from "Morris" had kicked off his career. And considering that his mother, Olympias, was a psycho bitch (who distinctly reminded Gin of someone she knew well at Cornell), Alexander was coming along really fine, if not great. Aristotle on the other hand still was a complete schmuck. . .thing is, he seemed also to remind her of someone she had known. And then there was his lame obsession to invent a popular new game -- all he'd come up with was a name... "Doon".

Anyways, the time just before this Aristotle had found Gin outside her Roman villa as she strained to figure out the best way to ride a large Nubian stallion that caught her fancy earlier in the day as he drank from the fountain near a stable just off the Forum. Borrowing the steed for a trial ride, she couldn't get comfortable because he was so big and had tried adjusting her mount several times. She'd finally decided to do it just sitting up straight in his saddle when Aristotle popped out of the bushes and spoiled everything. Gratefully giving up on the Nubian (as it was, she was sore for 3 days after) Ginny listened to Aristotle's recitation of Alexander's latest problem. It turns out Alexander had cleverly clobbered the Persians thru Anatolia and along the eastern Mediterranean shore. However, he now was stuck in Tyre and going flat. His initial offensive was punctured on the defenses of Tyre and the campaign was loosing air fast. Alexander needed something to pump up his army and get it rolling again. Thing is he'd committed all his phalanxes to take Tyre and didn't have a spare. Frankly he was tiring of Tyre. Gin understood Alexander's predicament perfectly. . .she once had much the same problem on the New York Turnpike with a Michelin. She carefully explained the solution to Aristotle -- in a nut shell, Alexander had to build a giant mole, a causeway accessing the island, to flatten Tyre. Aristotle was happier than a pig in slop as he hustled off to deliver the clever stratagem to Alexander. Strangely, Gin fancied she almost could see misfortune, misery, misadventure and mayhem trailing in his wake, like a line of baby ducks.

That was several months ago. Now as the proto-Venetian wavelets gently lapped her shins, Aristotle approached Ginny in a dither. He told her they'd done at Tyre exactly what she advised but it was going nowheres fast and Alexander was begging her to come quick. Gin had planned on next seeing where the Leaning Tower of Pisa wasn't, but immediately agreed to come along to help Alexander -- She was beginning to feel a profound sympathy for Frat House Mothers.

When Ginny, accompanied by Aristotle and Alexander, broached the summit of an intervening hill for her first glimpse of what they had constructed over many months on the shore before Tyre she had to admit it sure looked like a mole. Made of huge beams and planks; covered with raw hides, fitted with wheels and filled with soldiers, this giant mole looked exactly like the lawn munching critters cats drag in. Obviously, these guys had "The Iliad" too much on the brain. And the only effect this "giant mole" had on the defenses of Tyre was that the Tyrian guards kept falling off the walls from laughter. Livid from exasperation, Ginny immediately invented the drawing board. . .then went back to it with these two. Soon the mole was reconstructed in strict accordance with her plan and Alexander nailed Tyre in a blowout reminiscent of some Firestones.

With this latest cock-up resolved, Ginger decided it was time for a heart-to-heart with Alexander. She began by relating the story of Martin and Lewis, only for Alexander she couched it in terms of a fable involving a heroic pair of Cretan bull-leapers. Bottom line was she told Alexander it wasn't him... he was coming along absolutely fabulous, even great. But Aristotle was "Special" (a term with the same connotation then, as now) and Aristotle's specialness was holding Alexander back from his destiny. She advised him to break up the team, just like Martin and Lewis, and go his own way to greatness. She assured him that Aristotle would be OK, his "genius" eventually would be appreciated by somebody somewheres, maybe the French. Alexander greatly appreciated Gin's counsel and swore an oath by Zeus and Ares to follow it to the letter. Fortunately, the very next day Aristotle was diagnosed with leprosy and immediately shunned by every rational being in the Mediterranean Basin.

For his part, Alexander strove greatly to merit the adjective Ginny had kept using. And he soon did.

Relieved of babysitting Ren and Stempy, Ginny continued her perambulation, striving still to miss the crowds by visiting all the famous places ahead of their fame. Remarkably enough she eventually came to a famous place crammed chock full with famous stuff she knew very well. She was back home exactly when she had started.

Refreshed from this Grecian sojourn, first thing she did was buy her car a new set of Pirelli tires.

Epilog

As it turned out, Aristotle didn't have leprosy at all, just a severe case of scabies contracted from his young son, Brodicles. This Brodicles, son of Aristotle, had a son named Brodicles, son of Brodicles, who had a son, Brodicles, son of Brodicles, son of Brodicles, who had a son, Brodicles, son of Brodicles, son of Brodicles, son of Brodicles. Things continued in this vein for many more generations until eventually, after a couple centuries, the pattern in it all became discernible even to the descendants of someone as "Special" as Aristotle and the name just "Brodicles" became a family fixture.

To Be Continued

Chap. 21 - 'The Unbearable Lightness of Peeing'

2009-04-01T00:00:00.012-04:00

Not-Exactly-Chopped-Liver Fiction™
a could-be-worse division of None-Too-Shabby Enterpises, Ink

PRESENTS :

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 21

The Unbearable Lightness of Peeing

"You unlock this door with the key of imagination.
Beyond it is another dimension -
A dimension of sound.
A dimension of sight.
A dimension of mind.

You're moving into a land of both shadow and substance.
Of things and ideas.
You've just crossed over into;

The Twilight Zone."

A young woman, smiling in anticipation, stands with garden hose at lawn's edge, surveying a thirsty patch of plump watermelons. She begins twisting the brass nozzle to drench the green orbs of saturated sweetness in a spewing stream... From this vantage, through a wide kitchen window, the faucet empties noisily into stoppered kitchen sink. Clear water rises slowly to the porcelain rim; it crests in a surge but is not released. Rather the fluid tumbles into the empty side of the double sink, which also is stopped. Once more inching up, a watery volume now threatens to overflow to the floor -- the water surface bulges with tension as it nears escape... In a nearby brook a liquid ribbon trickles along the bed, babbling happily on its way. The watery sound is engaging and hypnotic as the flow bounces along, tossing fat, noisy drops against stones and leaves... Farther down a fresh beaver dam impounds this fluid, which is going nowhere. . .just building and building; steadily pressing against confinment. All day long the pond's level has risen, creeping slowly up the frail embankment that blocks the sweet satisfaction of release... Overhead roiling waves of pregnant clouds race to blanket the sky; bellies obese with swelling burdens of rain. Though aching to release a torrent, the swollen clouds must wait and hold fast against mounting pressure; not a drop can escape before it is time...

"Submitted for your approval. Ginger Sue Mullins,
portrait of a dreamy young woman.

Ginger has many dreams.

Some are the literal aspirations of consciousness.
Others are the idle longings of daydream.

Then there are the frilly pink thingys that bubble up
when she is really into a good snore . . .
snuffling softly as she floats on a satin bed,
wrapped in downy covers,
soft brown eyes darting behind tight lids.

But the dreams this time will be different.
Because this time Ginny is dreaming
...in 'The Twilight Zone'."

From her car a woman scrambles to a nearby house after a long trip from the city. -- Failing to go before embarking, she drank an extra-large Dunkin Donuts coffee, a 24 oz. bottle of some fancy water and a Coke while driving. Upon the first twinge from protesting bladder she stopped at a gas station toilet. It was filthy; she refused to go in. Back on the bumpy road her kidneys soon throbbed in time to the slow click of tire treads as the car barely inched along in an interminable traffic jam. With fresh memories of that nasty gas station, she'd resolved not to stop again, in spite of the agony. Her back teeth were floating as she slowly rolled through several School Zones in town, only to wind up behind a school bus packed with bouncing kids. Her kidneys still throbbed, now in sync with the bus' flashing red lights at each excruciating stop. Finally she reached the driveway.

At the door, entry is barred by a lock set to keep her home safe from intrusion. She fumbles to open a zippered bag, scrabbles to find an elusive key, dances before a wavering keyhole and resistant new lock. The deluge looming in the sky over her shoulder just adds to the tension, slowing fingers and legs. All the while she's tormented by the image of a dark, damp spot appearing suddenly on an expanse of pristine white cotton fabric; the darkness spreads, corrupting everything with humiliating wetness -- She can't allow that. Her entire intellect - at that moment - condenses to a single thought stomping with heavy boots through her being ..."NOT YET! NOT YET! NOT YET!"... as she fumbles with the lock.

The Wal*Mart is nestled close by along Routes 34/13 amongst the web of channels connected to the ripply waters of Cayuga Lake. Strolling the aisles of this mega-store can, and did, take an hour or more. Now the woman looks for the ladies' room; itself a daunting quest in such stores. Anguished minutes later the restroom is found. . .to be closed for cleaning. Summoning the reserve of will that always must be there, she continues gawking at merchandise, making every effort to appear nonchalant while straining to keep a protesting bladder sealed watertight. Her universe collapses into a pair of opposing elemental forces; a throbbing demand to release the pressure and the stronger need to fight the urge. Preoccupied by the conflict raging deep, she maintains a mindless orbit close by the restroom, awaiting its opening. She stops in a daze, staring at lines of shelves before her. The nature of the products on these particular shelves eventually penetrates the stupor. Adult incontinence products. Stack upon beckoning stack of adult diapers ...of every type and description. And close by, bulging packages of thick, absorbent bed pads. They call, bewitching her thoughts; telling her she's wearing one now; that it would be OK; the pain would drain with the flow; every drop would be caught; no one the wiser. JUST LET GO. NO. She fights the urge that MUST be controlled for one to live with dignity in any culture on Earth. She would wait for one more minute. . .two more minutes. . .three more minutes. . .for lingering second mounted on second after lingering second...

Far away and a while ago, the "Prague Spring" ends in a blizzard of invasion. The streets of Prague often have echoed the sounds of armor... clanging shields, clinking chainmail, clomping knights, clattering calvary, clanking panzers. Now the clunk of Russian tanks. Tereza was desperate. Stuck on the streets at night amid the mounding tension her concern was not the tanks nor the infantry nor some other danger. Her concern was the fact she had to go bad and couldn't find anywhere. She cursed herself for drinking so many delicious Czech pilsners at the bar. She castigated herself for not going before she left that place. She condemned the curfew that closed everything between the bar and the long way home. Where could she go? She had to find someplace... But she refused dishonor -- Her whole life she always had gone with dignity, on a proper toilet, with her knees discreetly together and when done, wiping from front to back. That wouldn't change now, and it never would! But her taut bladder was about to explode. As she scampered along, a dangerous thought washed her repeatedly... "Any minute I'm gonna leak". . ."Any minute I'm gonna leak". . ."Any minute I'm gonna leak"; it pressed on her with unstoppable and irresistible certainty. The tormented muscle holding it back was on fire. One cannot permit desperate thoughts a toehold, they become self-fulfilling. But her dammed kidneys were throbbing.

Where was she now, anyways?? Wait -- That building down the next street and over one block. . .the Train Station, with a sweet multitude of Water Closets. She could make it if she squeezed tight -- tighter then she ever squeezed before. She hurried forward in a strange, stiff shuffle. Drawing closer she knew she could make it. Yes, she had the power to make it. . .just around a corner and across a street. Closing on the goal, she then noticed the military vehicles parked at intervals along the street. . .the soldiers stationed at intervals between the vehicles. . .the people roughly turned back from entering the Station. She stopped, knowing she would lose control at the mere thought of explaining all this to a Russian. Tears welled in her eyes as she realized the tired little muscular ring was relaxing against her will.

Back in New York City a woman sits in an important meeting of her firm; important not particularly in a business sense, its more a "Beauty Pageant" of office politics. Although the meeting definitely is not about her, she and the other young aspirants there are on display for judgment by their elders, like Rockefeller children round the dinner table -- Behavior must be perfect to remain "Partner-worthy." Only thing is. . .she has to pee.

Oh yeah... all day long she happily gulped the juice and soft-drinks provided gratis by the firm. She sent the office gophers out for flavorful frappuccinos that on arrival gurgled quickly down her gullet. And she guzzled fancy foreign waters from recyclable designer bottles. All this was done with giddy abandon. Then she rushed to the late afternoon meeting without first ducking into a Ladies' Room. She was smiling when the thing started; even sipping from another delicious cup of coffee.

Now the piper is being paid. She squirms deeply into the chair as a newly-minted junior partner continues the excruciating Power Point presentation he dreamed up at home late yesterday sitting before his original Dali. Through the night the presentation expanded in concert with his inflating ego as he contemplated the opposing wall where an anticipated Van Gogh would hang. ...Slide follows slide in super slo-mo. She visualizes her kidneys rolling up sleeves and warming to their task; wringing even more moisture out of her insides, drop by drop, and merrily sending it all downstream to her bladder, which seems to float in her chest. "Row, Row, Row your boat" plays on an endless loop through her head -- She curses their diligence and wishes those pesky little fellas would slack up a bit; maybe even call it a day. ...Meanwhile this presentation grinds on and on.

In extreme distress, pain and boredom, she drifts somewhat from full consciousness and imagines herself on a toilet. This image becomes reality. What a hoot... the meeting is a daydream and she actually is in a restroom after all. GREAT!. . .It's OK. . .She can let go. . .End the pain. . .It's now time. . .Everything will be fine. . .Just a moment more to finally unclinch the knotted little muscle. She sighs with relief, happy that the first drops soon will flow free...

In an apartment back at school, a young bleached-blond woman reclines in the empty bathtub. A second women, naked except for a pink pullover sweater, stands in the tub over the prostrate woman. During the long evening the second has imbibed several potent pilsners imported from the Czech Republic. Her bladder is distressingly taut with the fluids efficiently processed from that lager. She doesn't understand why Stacey always craves the thing she is about to do, but she does know she has come to enjoy doing it -- It seems appropriate; even deserved.

She plants a foot firmly on the edge of the tub to spread her legs. Her hand descends to the place between, where fingers spread the skin a trifle and pull up a tad to ensure the stream flows freely and directly on target. Tilting her hips a bit to perfect the aim, she begins to telegraph the enabling command, willing it to race along a familiar nerve to the protesting ring of muscle. Soon the dull ache in her belly will rush in an arching flow that strikes the eager, upturned face she sees there beneath her...

Far to the north in a small rented cottage, two women are gabbing, as is their wont; sharing female confidences about. . .feelings. . .relationships. . .Oprah... One of the women is a particular fox. As they wax philosophic they share something else, which they smoke. -- Call it a Marlboro for the sake of discussion. And in the bathroom, which has gone unused for an inordinate time considering we're talking about women here, the toilet leaks; noisily trickling water into the bowl as is the watery way of leaky toilets. But this harbinger does not penetrate the smoke about their heads.

Instead they chug lots more Sam Adams and lite another Marlboro. "Puff, the Magic Dragon" now is playing on the radio. The song before that was "Don't Bogart Me." The next song probably will be "Norwegian Wood." Things are really getting groovy. If the hallmarks of the "Love Generation"; Hippy tie-dye. . .daisies. . .incense... aren't actually present, they are there in spirit. And in the bathroom, calling with a Siren's insistence that is ignored at peril, incessant streams from both the shower head and tub spigot splash on the slick porcelain like waves against Scylla, then gurgle down the dark Charybdian drain. But the bathroom's call hangs in the air, unanswered.

Both women smile when the foxy one bogarts the Marlboro. Actually, the funny part was she didn't "Bogart" so much as "Gable" it; meaning that when confronted about a perceived inequitable distribution of the item, she replied; "Frankly, my Dear, I don't give a Damn." And in the bathroom, drops of water form at the sink faucet, grow fat quickly, bulge with gravity and fall free into space, mimicking, in reverse, the globular boil of a lava lamp. The escaping drops plop loudly in the sink below, which is clogged with the long hairs of countless co-ed vacationers -- the water level mounts inexorably in sympathy with the growing pressure in the women's bladders. But all this goes unperceived, for now.

Instead, the foxy woman starts to giggle -- who knows why, maybe the broom or the fan on the ceiling caused it. The giggles escalate to chuckles, as amusement often can. Again who knows why, perhaps a sudden realization that the broom and the ceiling fan that ignited the whole thing aren't even there. . .At this point answers are not possible nor even important. What is important are the involuntary muscular gymnastics in the fox's abdomen as her laughter evolves into one of those wrenching doubled-over bellylaffs that force tears from squinting eyes and empty lungs with unstoppable brays and hoots of humor. Of ancillary pertinence is the mounting pressure and flagging control downstream of her kidneys. When she manages to pry an eye open against the incredible weight of this funniest moment on Earth and sees her companion rolling backwards from her seat with sympathetic horselaffs, the mirth increases beyond all human endurance.

Just as foretold by the classic cinematic Cassandra, "Reefer Madness", consumption of Marlboros consistently conceives cruel cacophonies of cascading crazy cackles culminating in catastrophic consequences. Wracked by convulsive laughter, the foxy one's grip on things slips momentarily and the iron-willed ring of muscle that confines pulsing pressure and staunches fouling flow twitches for an instant. That's all it takes. A dark spot appears at the crotch of the woman's blue jeans as the hot liquid jet escapes like the spew of misfortune from Pandora's Box.

Dark blue wetness spreads over the lighter jean fabric like Mongols across Eurasia, only funnier. And like the hapless souls in their path, the fox couldn't stop it if she wanted. So there she was, marked with embarrassing oblongs of chilling moisture staining her jeans from the crotch. Although one might expect such an event would reinforce the shrill warning that casual indulgence in Marlboros inevitably leads to more serious things, such as peeing one's pants, the two friends continue to hoot over it for another hour or more. Perhaps they still are laughing about it...

Warned of impeding calamity by increasingly strident dreams, Ginny bolts fully awake in bed. Absently rubbing her pert bosoms, she scuffs to the bathroom and has a really long and satisfying pee. Giddy with relief she climbs in bed and returns quickly to slumber. Her brown eyes again dart behind lids rimmed with graceful, dark lashes. Snoring softly and drooling a lot, she now dreams of going to Starbuck's, ordering a medium cappuccino, meeting Jon Stewart at the condiment counter and seducing him in a hot tangle of arms and legs. It was better than she had ever hoped....

Stay tuned for a word from our sponsor.

The word is:

"iPhone!"

And now, Mr. Serling...

"Next week we'll take yet another heady
draft from the brimming talent-laced goblet of
"The History of Gin." The author promises a
treat with a special twist. Be sure to join us.
You'll be glad you did."

To Be Continued

Chap. 19 - 'Ginny's Country-and-Western Song'

2009-02-01T00:00:00.004-05:00

Not-Exactly-Chopped-Liver Fiction™
a could-be-worse division of None-Too-Shabby Enterpises, Ink

PRESENTS :

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 19

Ginny's Country-and-Western Song

(to a drawling beat and twang)

Manhattan Rodeo

I never been to Dollywood,
...I just never felt the call.

I don't drink rot-gut whisk-key,
...I ain't like that at-tall.

I always ride in taxicabs,
...and sometimes limosines.

But I'm still a true blue country gal
...'Spite 'a the way it seems.

You don't gotta be in the country,
To be Country don't ya know.
I'm a gen-u-wine Uptown cowgirl queen
in a Manhattan rodeo.

I never wore my cowgirl hat,
...To a formal chair-tee ball.

I live in a highrise 'partment house,
...with Eye-talians down the hall.

I goes with fancy rich kids,
...to a fancy rich kid's school.

My cousins ain't got rickets,
...and my daddy, he don't drool.

You don't gotta be in the country,
To be Country don't ya know.
I'm a gen-u-wine Eastside cowgirl queen
in a Manhattan rodeo.

I don't flip folks the Fing-ger,
...and go to bars to fight

I ain't gotta LadySmith '38
...with handgrip laser sight.

I don't got no plastic Jesus,
...on the dashboard of my car.

I never seen 'Jerry Springer',
...nor think that he's a star.

You don't gotta be in the country,
To be Country don't ya know.
I'm a gen-u-wine Society cowgirl queen
in a Manhattan rodeo.

I once rode me a pon-ny,
...I think his name was Wayne.

I love hear-rin' a KYE-oat call,
...n' the whistle of a train.

I'll always stand there, by my man,
...that's the Country way to be

But if he tomcats 'round at all,
...well -- He won't be kissin' me.

You don't gotta be in the country,
To be Country don't ya know.
I'm a gen-u-wine New York cowgirl queen
in a Manhattan rodeo.

I think ig-nore-RANCE is stupid,
...and also just plain dumb.

I'll be an IM-portant lawyer,
...once I grows-s up some.

I will buy me sever-ral villars,
...at least two just in Spain.

I'll live in London mosta the time,
...n'tour the World, in my plane.

You don't gotta be in the country,
To be Country don't ya know.
I will always be your cowgirl queen
in a Manhattan Rodeo.

I say - - -

I'll still be a rawhide cowgirl queen
in a Manhattan Rodeo.

To Be Continued

Chap. 18 - 'Gin Meets Captain Kirk'

2009-01-01T00:00:00.005-05:00

Not-Exactly-Chopped-Liver Fiction™
a could-be-worse division of None-Too-Shabby Enterpises, Ink

PRESENTS :

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 18

Gin Meets Captain Kirk

It wasn't that Gin actually met Captain James T. Kirk of the Starship, Enterprise, so much as she became him.

It's alright -- Ginny had grown used to leading the wild, exciting and glamorous life of "Uptown Gin"... then blinking and finding herself somewhere or someone entirely different. At least there's always a logical explanation (which won't be given here) and she didn't wake up a cockroach like the guy in that story everybody has to read and can't stand. As long as she walked away from these things without having six legs or leaving a slime trail it was OK by her.

Anyways how she got there wasn't her biggest problem. Nor was her biggest problem the two Klingon Battlecruisers and Romulan Bird-of-Prey that had the Enterprise surrounded. Even the fact that all the "redshirt" guys were dead and the dudes in blue shirts were going to have to start catching the caps wasn't her biggest problem. No, these problems were nothing next to her real biggest problem, which was that apparently even Starship captains fret about "panty lines" and the thong Kirk had worn that day was riding up her seat like dental floss.

Gin knew instinctively what to do -- she told Spock he was in charge and made a beeline for the elevator. Telling the elevator to take her to Deck 3 (as good a place as any), she immediately dropped the tight Capri pants all Star Trek dudes wear so she could get at the underwear attacking her from the rear. When the elevator door unexpectedly opened wide Gin had her pants in one hand and the aggressive thong in the other. And there before her waiting to enter stood the Captain's orderly, the lovely and blond Yeoman Rand who, though somewhat startled by the tableau before her, mainly was checking out his exposed "package" with an experienced, and appreciative, eye. Blushing vivid red, Gin bolted past the woman for the nearest restroom where she tossed the thong in the toilet and pulled the handle labeled "Flush to Space." With pants restored, Gin opened the restroom door a crack and peered into the corridor with a single blinking brown eye. And Yeoman Rand was just outside peering back with a single blinking blue eye. It was a Mexican Standoff, except neither was Mexican. . .nor anywhere near Mexico. Gin didn't need an Ivy League degree to figure what was coming next if she didn't act. Thinking fast she uttered the magic words... "That will be all, Yeoman." The woman responded with a crisp "Yes, Sir", turned on her toe and marched off. Watching the curvaceous Rand disappear down the corridor dressed in an utterly revealing and strictly by-the-book micro-mini skirted uniform, Ginny thanked god for Star Fleet dress regulations.

As always, Capt. Kirk's command decision (as issued this time by Gin, if you're following along) was masterful. Spock handled everything. By the time her wardrobe malfunction was resolved and she'd returned to the captain's chair the enemy starships and crews were a shimmering veil of disassociated atoms, a fresh supply of red-clad cannon fodder had been located in Engineering where they'd hidden and the ship was on its way to the pleasure domes of Rigel II for an overdue vacation. The bad part was the troublesome thong she'd jettisoned to space somehow had drifted in front of the Enterprise and plastered itself across the view screen like a huge bug. They had to look at it there the whole way to Rigel -- Ginny pretended not to know what it was.

Once on Rigel it was the same old story. Spock, who was a gooey center of Human sensuality wrapped in a hard Vulcan shell -- like an M&M -- fell hard for one of those steamy green-Orion-slave-girl chicks. Scotty got stupefyingly drunk on antique single-malt Scotch and began hunting the English members of the crew for revenge and sport. The more Dr. McCoy relaxed the more he sounded like, and dressed as, Scarlett O'Hara in "Gone with the Wind." Yeoman Rand worked on her all-over tan, which was easy given that Star Fleet had just changed the regulation female uniform to a Brazilian thong bikini bottom with no top. Finally, and yet once again, in all the excitement everybody had transported down to the planet and forgotten to leave anyone on the Enterprise -- It was going to be a long shore leave.

And it didn't help when the Klingons captured the planet.

Life under the disgusting Klingon overlords was brutal. Planet-wide they immediately exterminated ...disease and poverty. They dismantled all indigenous government and imposed the rule of ...individual freedom. They empowered puppet monarchs who were chosen ...at random to spend a day in sumptuous luxury like in that old "Queen for a Day" show, only better. Already at confiscatory levels, they increased taxes on ...nothing, but rather eliminated taxation entirely. And the savages made sure all the little kittens and puppies had happy, loving homes. It was an inhuman regime and the enterprising Enterprise crew, at least those not constantly fornicating amongst themselves on the legendarily libidinous Rigelian beaches (leaving a total of maybe 5 people), rushed to topple it.

The Enterprise Liberation Front (Elf) consisted of: Mr. Spock, whose capricious green paramour had ditched him for Nurse Chapel. Scotty, who had annihilated the English contingent of the crew and contemplated starting in on the Irish before this chance to kill Klingons came up. Dr. McCoy, who was stunning in an Antebellum formal gown. Yeoman Rand, who always was "Where the Boys Are." And Lt. Uhura, who never missed a chance to pretend to work a radio. Lt. Sulu was too busy chasing a reluctant Ensign Chekov down the aforementioned beaches and Nurse Chapel was otherwise occupied with her gamey green girl-toy. At the first meeting of the Elf resistance they realized no one had seen the Captain for quite a while. They sent Rand to find him. Many days later they realized no one had seen Rand for quite a while.

Jim and Janice -- they quickly dropped military rank for first names (except when playing "General Patton slaps Private Kuhl") -- had settled in a little grass shack off a secluded beach. Days earlier when Rand found the Captain he was innocently flying a kite and playing in the surf. She quickly enticed him to abandon the winsome toys of boyhood and indulge in the winsomer toys of manhood, as supplied by the gorgeous and double-jointed "Try-Sexual" yeoman. Not long thereafter Little Jim was in command of the good ship "Kirk", the Captain was on auto-pilot and Ginny, somewhat agog, was just along for the (very long) ride.

When Spock finally stumbled across the Captain (literally stumbled, since Kirk was hogtied in the sand) the sun-bronzed Yeoman Rand was waving an enthusiastic good-bye as Nurse Chapel and her green sidekick disappeared down the beach. The two couples had just finished Rand's favorite S&M game called "Khan Takes the Enterprise and her Crew", which explained Kirk's bindings and the yeoman's flushed and thoroughly sated demeanor. Afraid to know any more than that, Spock immediately apprised Captain Kirk of the situation and led the pair back to Elf HQ to plot the Klingons' demise. As it turns out, the surprisingly small Klingon contingent on Rigel was stationed in a single headquarters complex housing a huge transporter facility connected directly to the Klingon homeworld. A successful attack at this site would clear the planet of Klingon Oppression. The whole thing seemed strange to Ginny since this Klingon "Oppression" appeared to be a good thing, but who was she to question these highly-trained professionals.

Elf struck a few days later. The Klingons, preoccupied with transporting tons of supplies from their homeworld in preparation for a worldwide pizza and ice-cream surprise party for the Rigelians, were overrun quickly. With his bare hands Scotty personally strangled the four bestial Klingon subjugators of the planet. Then they sent their own surprise back to Klingon; a globe-shattering mega-bomb constructed by Spock and Scotty from some wire, a battery, one of Yeoman Rand's unused tampons and 16 tons of enriched cobalt-uranium antimatter. The explosion, which was heard back on Earth, reduced the Klingons to a scheming, destructive, murderous, empire-crazy scourge that threatened galactic civilization for centuries thereafter. ...Once again the Enterprise crew had cleverly cleaned the Klingon's clock.

It wasn't long before a Federation ship (called for by the Rigelians) arrived to extract the Enterprise crew from the planet (at the Rigelians' insistence) and return them to the Enterprise. Restored to their beloved starship, flush with victory, and thoroughly infested with the Rigelian version of pubic lice, the Enterprise crew warped out of orbit just before the Rigelian ultimatum expired. It would be many, many years before the Rigelians cooled down.

And the Enterprise zipped along the galaxy, continuing its mission. That is, they made a pretense of being on a scientific voyage of discovery but actually they were dying to give the Romulans a dose of what the Klingons just got. Frequently the vigilant Ensign Chekov, sitting as far from Sulu as possible, detected an anomaly on the bridge... a disgusting, creepy presence that sent a shiver up everyone's spine. But it always turned out to be Spock stepping out of the elevator. Meanwhile, Mr. Sulu (who though Japanese, had Roamin' hands) kept inching his chair closer to the ensign's. Every five or ten minutes Uhura would walk before the view screen, drop her pen and bend to pick it up while aiming her tush in Sulu's direction. Dr. McCoy was doing the same thing, only he skipped rather than walked. No one saw Scotty -- He was locked away in Engineering busy building the Romulans’ bomb (rumors flew he was making one for Earth, too). Gin spent her time watching these whackos and hoping Kirk hurried back to his body, which had gotten very itchy thanks to the promiscuous Yeoman Rand...

When Gin and Captain Kirk finally switched bodies their consciousness overlapped for a brief moment and they communed. Kirk complimented Gin's collection of Victoria's Secrets -- the thongs, especially, felt divine. In fact, he'd taken the liberty of buying a new VS body-suit, pinky-purplish with shorts, that he'd seen and just had to have; it was totally awesome. He had put the outfit on her Visa ...he was sure she didn't mind... and suggested she might have it well cleaned before wearing it again. Just before they separated he added (sotto voce, so it was very hard to catch) that the big ding on her green beemer's door wasn't his fault. For her part Gin didn't mention his own thong nor the Rigel thingy but did warn that Yeoman Rand kept a set of manacles and leg irons between the mattress and box springs.

Ginny was tickled to be herself. Interstellar travel was much better in theory than practice, especially in the company of a swaggering clique of vainglorious yahoos.

And when her next credit card bill came in the mail she hit the ceiling.

To Be Continued

Chap. 20 - ' A Christmas Kal-El'

2008-12-01T00:00:00.004-05:00

Not-Exactly-Chopped-Liver Fiction™
a could-be-worse division of None-Too-Shabby Enterpises, Ink

PRESENTS :

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 20

A Christmas Kal-El

Stave I - "LOOK!"

If Clark Kent hadn't moved from L.A. (which, oddly, he kept calling Metropolis) to New York City (which oddlier still, he called Gotham City) Ginger probably never would have met him. Even so it was an unlikely coincidence that she ran into him when exiting -- Gin preferred to think of it as "fleeing" -- the restroom at a Starbuck's off the corner of 56th and 5th Ave. (The Donald's corner).

It's not that Gin minded the "spells" she experienced occasionally in Starbuck's restrooms. No, it's not that at all. Actually she hated them.

Just the time before she'd popped into the restroom to check her make-up after spying Jon Stewart at the counter ordering a Triple Espresso Grande with extra foam and wound up standing ankle-deep in warm Woolly Mammoth pooh ...while wearing flip-flops. And this time she really, really had "to go" bad after chugging two Tres-Plus-Gross Frappuccinos. Hazarding another visit to the Starbuck's restroom, she found herself way back in Elizabethan England in a public house dandily dressed like a dude in doublet, slashed leather jerkin, paned trunk hose with codpiece and a stiff, circular ruff that jutted horizontally at least eight inches from her neck. Across the greasy table sat a guy, the spitting image of young William Shakespeare, pretending to study badly scrawled text on a paper but actually surreptitiously inching his toes up her leg. Instinctively she knocked his foot away while muttering a woman's timeless curse on the universal prevalence of "Ancient Roamin'" genes among men (thing is Shakespeare thought she was a dude, which says more about him than her). Realizing, thankfully, that the codpiece was empty this time but rather fancying the spiffy male attire, Gin had decided to play along. Corrected in thoughts about getting "lucky", Shakespeare returned to his writing and soon handled his scribblings to Gin, whom he apparently considered a good friend, and asked her opinion. Scanning the page -- having been schooled in speed-reading at Cornell and having always known Early-Modern English -- Ginny quickly realized she held the outline of a poorly-conceived gay pornographic treatise. First suggesting he title it "Hamlet" rather than "Hambone", Gin further advised her companion to forsake an uncertain future in "Adult Entertainment" (he was before his time) and urged him to direct his talents (such as they were) to the mass market by becoming a thespian/playwright/theatrical-producer/poet ...and thereby, aspire to honorificabilitudinitatibus (ironically, she had to define the word for this so-called "Bard of Avon").

Ginny then related the story of "Hamlet", which she remembered perfectly from high school, to get him started. And during her several week interlude in his time she also told Shakespeare the plots of other stories she knew including a movie she once saw called "Forbidden Planet" (he loved "Robby the Robot") and a play named "West Side Story." Truthfully. . .she didn't expect he'd amount to much -- Heck, if her improvements didn't take he wouldn't make a good "Dogcatcher of Avon", much less "Bard" of it.

Stave II - "Up in the Sky."

Gin was in the middle of telling Shakespeare the history of Julius Caesar, Cleopatra and Marc Antony, of which he was totally ignorant, when she found herself back standing at a toilet. Reacting quickly, she erupted from the restroom before Mastodon pooh reappeared and ran slap up against a dour dude at the door.

He was one solidly built fella. In her haste she'd plastered against him like a bug on a windshield and he didn't give an inch -- Gin thought it almost like running into a man made of steel. Apologies were followed by introductions (He was Clark Kent, she was Ginger Mullins) which were followed by invitations to sit, chat and imbibe deliciously refreshing cups of yummy Starbuck's coffee (their words, not mine). Sitting together drinking coffee it wasn't long before Clark was spilling his life story, including the really weird parts -- Gin has that effect on people ...must be her warm smile and jurisprudential wisdom (or maybe its just the fact she doesn't interrupt).

The short of it was that he'd just lost his job as a featured reporter at a paper in L.A. -- some scandal about disrobing down to his blue longjohns in the office -- and had moved to New York City to take a minimum-wage reporting job with some obscure rag of a community newspaper (I think it's called "The New York Times", or something). When he told her he actually lived in New Jersey for the cost-of-living Gin paused, colored a bit, then said she'd never been there. His wife, named Lois, had divorced him during the uproar and taken the dog, kids and house (which he kept calling his "Fortress of Solitude). Then he started in on the really strange stuff; exploding planets, fleeing rockets, crash landings, super powers, Kansas, corn as high as an elephant's eye... When Ginny (who definitely didn't believe the corn part... that was in OKLAHOMA!) piped up and said "Oh yeah, like in the comics.", he regarded her with blank incomprehension and continued. Turns out he was very depressed and lonely, especially with it being Christmas Eve -- He wasn't sure he could break on through, to the other side (Yes, Superman is a Doors fan.). Plus it had been snowing heavily all day and he admitted to being stranded on Manhattan. So Gin invited him to spend Christmas at her Upper East Side apartment... on the couch, of course (the same one I have to sleep on when I visit ...though I'm not necessarily alone).

As they walked to her apartment, Ginny -- who had a serious philosophical bent -- asked Clark about something she'd always wondered... was Superman at all akin to German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche's Ubermensch, which translates from the German literally as "overperson" but also means "superman"? Clark explained that Superman and the Ubermensch differed in many, if not most, ways. Nietzsche's human Ubermensch transcended that philosopher's claimed limitations of society, religion and morality and was not constrained by the bounds of ordinary human society. On the other hand Superman, though a super-powered space alien, chooses to accept the codes and mores of humankind and holds himself to a high standard in their adherence. The very fact that he lives life as the "human" Clark Kent, not Superman, proves his extreme deference to Human ways. ...Plus there was the fact that Nietzsche was a drunken asshole.

Gin felt it was kinda a pat answer -- maybe he'd seen that same "Kill Bill" movie, too -- Anyways, it didn't explain the brand-new Starbuck's mug he'd palmed and slipped in his jacket as they walked out. Regardless, the main thing was the mores of Clark's homeworld, Krypton, were basically the same as on Earth (except for the part about mandatory ritual group-sex orgies). And when you think about it, the similarity is a lucky break for us cause over at "The Twilight Zone" set they dreamed up Space Aliens that EAT humans and Superman just as easily could have been a people-eater like that if the guys who created him had been having a bad day. That consideration gave Ginny goose-pimples (which she actually finds a pleasant sensation, as do I).

Stave III - "It's a Bird."

The first thing about Clark Kent is... he's not "mild-mannered" at all. In fact, when he's hungry or tired he's damn mean. Fortunately he never pulled that stuff with Gin because she would've busted Superman's ass if he did. In fact, the whole night he was pleasant company. They even watched Ginny's old tape of "The Care Bears Movie" together and both cried at the same spots. Then they watched the old-timey movie of Charles Dickens' "A Christmas Carol" on Turner Classic Movies.

One cool thing was Clark using his "heat vision" superpower to make the popcorn -- When Gin said how awesome that was, Clark didn't mention he'd been using his x-ray vision all night to look through her clothes and see her naked. It also was special when Clark, just before retiring for the night, thanked Ginny for her Christmas kindness and in his gratitude even asked her to call him by his real Superman name from Krypton... Kal-El.

Unfortunately, the other thing about Clark Kent is that Superman has a superhumanly loud snore, as Gin soon discovered once they'd wished each other Merry Christmas and parted. Eventually she drifted to sleep after plugging her ears with tampons. Thus insulated from the world, Ginny was unaware of the unusual proceedings in her apartment that night until Clark gently shook her awake at the crack of dawn and began a strange story.

Stave IV - "It's a Plane."

Clark first asked if her apartment had ghosts. She told him no, there weren't ghosts... except for the little dog named "Sam" that sometimes strolled through and talked to people in their dreams -- But he was more a demon than a ghost. Sam only tormented the guy down the hall and belonged to THAT apartment, but like all dogs, sometimes he wandered off. And Ginny wasn't surprised when Clark said that while he was undressing a strange man with a Celtic build had walked through the door...that is, through the door without opening it! Gin explained that was just her dad. It seems years ago her father had thought up a "transporter" thingy for his classic blockbuster video game, Doom II. Funny thing was, it worked in real life, too. He kept quiet about it because Paramount Studios holds the patent on transporters (these days Patent Law is a world of its own) as a legacy of purchasing Desilu and Star Trek and if anybody knew, he'd have to fork over huge royalties every time it's used. It all may sound far fetched but then her father IS a genius and (aside from me) the most brilliant man Ginny knows. Anyways, Clark told Gin that this guy walked through the door, tapped him on the shoulder and told him three ghosts would visit before morning. ...As he thought about it though, Clark admitted it had to be her dad because when he left the apparition said to turn off some of the lights, he wasn't Con Edison. Then at one o'clock the visitations started.

It wasn't anything like "A Christmas Carol." The ghosts appeared all together and they were the Three Stooges -- Larry, Curly and Moe -- not the ghosts of Christmas. And their visit didn't have much to do with rekindling the Christmas Spirit (after all, Clark was just a little low, not a Scrooge). In fact, instead of doing anything at all worthwhile the Stooges bickered the whole time. They also fixed her apartment's plumbing (a Stooge speciality) -- meaning that the plumbing doesn't work as bad as it used to, because now it doesn't work at all. Anywho, bottom line is now when you turn on the stove, water sprays across the kitchen and the toilet flushes. One good thing was that Clark couldn't sleep in all that commotion so he sat on the couch, had a good think and climbed out of his depression aided by reflection on Ginny's eager smile and warm heart -- Having secretly seen her firm bosoms all night long didn't hurt either.

Stave V - "It's SUPERMAN!"

On concluding his tale of the night's doings Clark pulled out the gift he went and got her after the Stooges left with Sam (the little dog). Gin's present was a ticket to Canada for a ski holiday including reservations for a week in a small rented house with two fireplaces. He'd also included tickets for several of her friends. Then he called out and a dude sauntered in (it was Manolo Blahnik!!) carrying a pair of high-fashion designer ski boots the fella had just custom handcrafted for her (they still exuded fragrant Mediterranean man-sweat). The boots fit perfect and felt dreamy.

Stave V-1/2 - The End of It

Ginny looked marvelous the whole week skiing ...although most the time she was sitting in snow.

To Be Continued

Chap. 17 - ' The Goddaughter'

2008-11-01T00:00:00.002-04:00

Not-Exactly-Chopped-Liver Fiction™
a could-be-worse division of None-Too-Shabby Enterpises, Ink

PRESENTS :

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 17

The Goddaughter

Ginger Mullins inherited her father's legendary crime family when he foreswore the Western lifestyle and retired to a Himalayan Monastery, devoting his life to three quests... achieving Nirvana, developing the ultimate first-person shooter video game and humping hot Nepalese chicks.

Ginny was all of nine years old.

In spite of her tender years Gin was a natural at the job and had no problem simultaneously running her family's international rackets and completing Grade and High School. She often issued orders to her Capos while playing "dress-up rodeo" with her Barbie dolls and Breyer horses. And in meetings with all the other Dons, Junior Gotti invariably asked to hold her second favorite Care Bear, Good Luck Bear, which she'd bugged with a wire.

From the very start Gin succeeded with a three pronged strategy gleaned from old Bruce Lee movies ...Anticipate the enemy, Strike fast, Hit hard. To this recipe she added her own secret sauce ...Dress fashionably and expensively.

Gin had only one Hot Button, vulgar fashion. It made her nuts. In fact, she was so incensed by Sharon Stone's famous "Ten Dollars at The Gap" outfit (a low in high fashion) at the 1996 Oscars that she seriously considered having the bitch whacked. Ultimately, Gin's Consiglieri, her former second-grade teacher, managed to cool her down and avert bloodshed. And luckily Ginny was too young for firsthand knowledge of the Demi Moore 1989 Oscar fashion train wreck (Bike Shorts for god's sake) because no one could have stopped THAT hit.

The ascension of Gin's underworld star always was accompanied by inspired fashion choices...

The day the Families told Coppola not even to think about making "The Godfather Part IV" -- they feared, the way his work had degenerated, it probably would be a cartoon animated by his grandson -- Ginny attended the sit-down at the "Il Tinello Ristorante" (just don't ask for a Caesar salad WITHOUT anchovies there) in gray-gold Fendi Metallic Flannel High-Waisted Trousers of 65% fleece, 30% angora, 3% polyamide and 1% polyester with pleated front, wide leg, belt loops, zip fly with hook-and-eye closure, front slant pockets, back flat pockets with hidden button closure, front and back leg crease details and a V-cutout with cinch-belt featuring a gold and crystal Fendi buckle at the back. Her top was an ivory Fendi Puffy Sleeve Silk Blouse with Jabot in 100% silk with traditional collar, removable silk tie having pleated ends, button down front fastened by intricate golden F buttons, buttoned flap chest pockets, puffed and pleated 3/4 sleeves, elasticized cuff band and curved shirttail. To the pants she added a red Fendi Leather Belt of 1-3/4"-wide smooth waxed leather. The belt was two piece. The longer, which covered most of the waist, had a Fendi logo engraved rectangular golden buckle at each end. The shorter piece fastened to those buckles so it's filigree-engraved antiqued-golden hardware centered at her waist front. Her shoes were a black patent Tod's Jodie Tronchetto Bootie with suede V-cutout detail and polished gray metal T-stud at the ankle, rounded toe, driving-shoe-sole detail heel back, padded leather insole, rubber sole, and 3-1/2" wooden stacked heel. Of course, everything was made in Italy -- Ginny loved the heady fragrance of garlic and Mediterranean testosterone that clung to Italian-made fashions, even after several cleanings.

And when Gin became Donna of Dons, successfully consolidating the five New York crime families under her organization's control, she wore a dark-gray Fendi Silk Bubble Skirt of intricately woven 100% silk with wide elasticized waistband accented by ruffle trim and ballooned hem. As Fendi tends to run small, she wore one size up from her usual. Gin's top was a mauve Fendi Silk Chiffon Blouse, also of 100% silk, with hidden button down front, tiered Peter Pan collar (punctuated by two silk-covered buttons), pin-tucked panels on either side of the placket, long silk chiffon sleeves with pleat detail at the elbow, long bell cuffs with curved slit, curved slits at the sides of the hem and pin-tucked panel at the back panel. A vivid splash of color came from Gin's fiery red Fendi patent-leather medium shoulder bag with oversized aged-brass buckle details and suede-lined flap closure with magnetic snap (it was plenty big enough for a Glock .45 with extra clips and a Marine KA-BAR fighting knife). Her shoes were matching mauve low-heel, closed-toe leather slingbacks that she found in a little boutique just off the Park after three days of shopping for the right ones (at one point in her search Gin figured she'd find Jimmy Hoffa first).

As she matured in her job Ginger brought a woman's kinder, gentler touch to the murder and mayhem of organized crime. Just one of her many innovations was pioneering the use of frangible bullets, which disintegrate after striking the lowlife being whacked, to reduce collateral damage when the lead flies -- a positive step toward protection of the elderly, children and the environment. Plus she instituted use of high-occupancy, alternative-fuel vehicles in all gangland hits. Early on she promoted education (perhaps because she still was in Sixth Grade), requiring a High School diploma of her associates and a college Associate Degree, at the minimum, before being Made; then she actively helped her wiseguys attain those goals with work-study programs and tuition assistance. And she made everyone go down to the Animal Shelter and adopt either a fuzzy kitty or flop-eared puppy.

All in all, everyone thought Ginny was a swell mob boss and constantly remarked how her ready, beaming smile always brought sunshine to their day. Cash flowed in rivers, turf wars disappeared and even the Feds and local cops participated in the general spirit of goodwill and bonhomie. The famously extravagant and frequent mob funerals atrophied to the point where attendees could carpool to the cemetery in a Cooper Mini. It was all good.

And capping off these good times. . . To his great surprise Gin's father accomplished the quests of three lifetimes quicker than most people pay off their car. He found Nirvana to be a feeling akin to sneezing after getting water up your nose and decided he didn't like it. He developed a neato FPS game and called it (big surprise) Doom 3; it made billions (also big surprise, duh). Truthfully, he never finished nailing all the hardbody Nepalese foxes -- there simply are just too many. Done with his Himalayan sojourn, her father returned to New York City and goofed-off for a while.

Ginny had met him at the docks when his ship arrived. In deference to his newly expanded consciousness and Buddhist inspired "beinglessness" he'd worked his way across the Indian and Atlantic Oceans on a Nigerian tramp steamer so she dressed "waterfront tough" for the occasion in a chicly scruffy D&G Dolce-and-Gabbana Striped Sweater and Denim Skirt ensemble. The cheerful sweater, striped green, blue, fuchsia, purple, yellow and brown, had a ribbed bateau neckline and lower half. The sleeves were long, with banded cuffs. The tiny indigo wash Denim Skirt was faded and whiskered with frayed edges, front slit, five-pocket style, button-flap coin pocket, front zip-fly, extended double-button tab, studded side pockets, belt loops and super cool gold logo stitching on the back pockets. She accentuated the tough look by wearing brown oiled-leather Dior Rebelle Biker Boots with round toes, side zippers and antiqued silver-buckled leather strap details at the top and ankle. The rubber sole had a 1" heel and the lining and insole were leather. And her bag was a brown Etro Suede Paisley Hobo of signature paisley-print suede with brown grained leather trim, shiny brown leather piping, aged-brass hardware and zip-top closure. The shoulder strap was flat leather with two signature teardrop-shaped links and a 16" drop. The lining was teal satin and there was a zipped pocket just big enough for her Smith&Wesson Model 36LS "LadySmith" .38 revolver with Crimson Trace Lasergrip integrated laser sight. She thought about wearing a brown Fedora, but decided not. As she drove them back to the family compound in her new Porsche 911 Carrera, both Gin and her father confided how proud each was of the other (except she did wonder how many half-pint Himalayan Mullins he might have spawned...).

Although for a long time he put up a brave front, it eventually was obvious to Gin that her father pined for his larcenous legacy. I mean after all, how long can a middle-aged guy just sit in an old La-Z-Boy starring at his Dali original before you gotta figure he's going nuts. And although being a criminal mastermind was not burdensome -- she still had plenty of time to play the coquettish co-ed at Cornell -- Gin was developing an overwhelming interest in Advanced Physics (Unified Field Theory, Quantum Mechanics, Chaos Theory), Mathematics and UFOlogy, especially comparative alien xenobiology). She really wanted to devote more time to these electrifying and personally fulfilling fields. So her father's funk formed a fitting fortuity for him filling in as foreman of his former fellow felonry.

The monster blowout party Trump and Playboy Enterprises threw celebrating her father's return as Underworld Czar was formal. Gin wore a Carmen Marc Valvo black taffeta Crocheted-Trim Dress with neutral crochet-trim down the front, strapless seamed bust and a full skirt below the knee featuring a peek-a-boo tulle underlay. Her bare shoulders were covered by a red Ilana Wolf Layered Shrug with front closure and layered trim. Once again, Gin had a little trouble selecting the right shoes; desiring a sparkling jewel detail at the toe. She settled on a black Manolo Blahnik Crystal Satin Pump with a sparkling crystal-studded ankle strap, pointed toe and 3-1/2" covered heel. She drank a little too much Dom Perignon '96 and chattered away in the back of the taxi all the way home.

The next morning, free to pursue her passion in Physics, Gin finally purchased Strogatz's "Nonlinear Dynamics and Chaos" and spent the entire day reading it.

To Be Continued

Chap. 16 - ' 1st Annual Halloween Special'

2008-10-01T00:00:00.005-04:00

Not-Exactly-Chopped-Liver Fiction™
a could-be-worse division of None-Too-Shabby Enterpises, Ink

PRESENTS :

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 16

1st Annual Halloween Special

Ginny Babysits Rosemary's Baby

Ginger was not big on babysitting -- In fact there's no evidence she ever did it before. After all, when one is the daughter of a corporate cabal's key cog, not to mention inventor of Doom, one doesn't crave babysitting money (except for maybe a Rockefeller).

Rosemary, a neighbor down the hall in Ginny's Manhattan apartment, knocked on Gin's door just around dinner time. Her butler Jeeves being out for the evening to celebrate that obtuse English holiday called Halloween, Ginny just had made herself a sandwich using 'dolphin free' tuna. Setting aside her meal, Gin answered the door in an outfit she’d worn since morning... the white Fendi Puffy-Sleeve Cotton Dress with scoop neck, tonal topstitching, Empire waist (with vertical seams and fine contrast stitching), 3/4 puffed blouson sleeves with contrast band, side pockets, inverted pleats creating volume in the skirt and a discreet rear zipper. The dress, crafted in Italy, was 98% cotton and 2% elastane with a 100% cupro lining. Gin's shoes were comfy Juicy Couture Dove Satin Ballerinas with Crystals. Made of white satin with grosgrain ribbon trim accented with grosgrain bow and three cute crystals at the toe, the shoe had a 1/4 inch stacked heel, round toe and leather insole (to her delight the leather soles were imprinted with "Smells Like Couture" -- she only wished they came in pink). Needless to say she looked like a million bucks though the outfit only cost about $1,500 -- the remaining $998,500 of added value was all Gin.

And when Ginger opened the door, there Rosemary stood stuck still in the Sixty's. Its not that the gaudy tent dress with a huge floral print and the skimpy JC sandals she always wore were dated, they just plain looked bad... and had since 1965. And the Vidal Sassoon haircut was a hoot, she’d look better bald (or decapitated). Ginger always had to stifle a horse laugh. Heck, Goldie Hawn let the look go, why couldn't Rosemary? At least she could advance a few years to an "Easy Rider" ensemble, which will never go out of style. But when Gin thought of how Rosemary's first husband had kinda sold her out to Beelzebub and his Demons of Darkness and of how she later had settled on something even worse, one of the neurotic borderline-pedophile "Woody Allen" types that infest New York, Ginny's heart always kinda melted for the woman.

Anyways... Once invited in, Rosemary for the first time asked a favor. It seems that she had tickets for what had to be the six-hundred-and-sixty-six-billionth "Fantasticks" performance (Rosemary was always going to, coming from, or talking about "The Fantasticks") and a strange concatenation of circumstances, involving lightning, had incapacitated her babysitter (actually he was dead). As both Seinfeld and Kramer, who lived in the building, were busy (something about waiting for a table at a Chinese restaurant), and Rosemary didn't trust Carly Simon (who reportedly had a gazillion dollars but had lived in a rent-controlled Trump apartment); she asked if Ginger could fill in and watch her baby. Of course Gin knew the Fantasticks part was a fib Rosemary always used when she was attending an important conclave of her Witch's Coven (supposedly she'd fallen into that Lifestyle after Captain Howdy knocked her up). Shivering at the thought of being touched by someone even remotely like Woody Allen, Ginny felt sorry and agreed.

Anywho, given Ginger's attitude that all children are Spawn of Satan, looking after Rosemary's baby -- who if you believe the movie, literally is the issue on Earth of the Lord of the Flies -- didn't seem a problem. Only thing is, the movie was made 40 years ago so this dude isn't exactly a toddler; but still it was only a few hours. Plus it's not like he's Michael Jackson or something.

With effusive relief Rosemary quickly returned home and hurried back with her darling baby. Strangely, one might expect Hell's Progeny to look something like Freddy Kruger, but Rosemary's Baby, who was named Andy but went by "Junior", actually looked like Brad Pitt, who is really creepy; though not as bad a Val Kilmer. After telling Gin that Junior liked a glass of warm milk before bed, Rosemary left... fancifully tripping down the hall like Audrey Hepburn in "Breakfast at Tiffany's" (itself a disturbing horror film from the 60's).

Closing the door -- and thereby sequestering herself with the Soulless Seed of Satan -- Gin led Junior over to the TV and her video tape collection where he selected her newest, and personal favorite, "The Care Bears' Big Wish Movie", to watch. Although Rosemary's baby was a perfect angel during the movie, like all young boys (and especially like all 40-year-old boys) he grew restless once it was through. Gin knew when babysitting it's paramount to establish who's in charge. Adhering to the Joe Pesci School of Conflict Avoidance (as typified by his bar fight in "Goodfellas"), Ginny immediately took Rosemary's baby to the nastiest bar she knew where she quickly provoked and utterly demolished the biggest thug there. As they left the bar, Gin promised Junior that she’d get him a yummy ice cream if he was good and beat him to a pulp if he wasn't. Then since it was Halloween and they were outside anyway, Ginger thought she’d show him how thrilling Manhattan can be on October 31st so they started off for the Village. It was after Rosemary's baby chased a stray dog down the street, caught and eviscerated it, then returned with entails dangling from his hands that Gin decided this child wasn't yet ready for trick-or-treat ...and even the Village wasn't yet ready for this child. She changed her plans. Instead she took him to an illegal cock fight in an obscure alleyway near Columbia University. They both had a splendid time and Gin made loads of dough betting on the long shots.

About the time Ginger was ready to leave, Junior tugged her skirt and said he had to pee-pee. She quickly led him to the nearest Starbuck's where he peed outside against a brick wall, then they stopped at Baskin-Robbins' for ice cream and headed back to the apartment house. Rosemary and Gin had decided Gin would put Junior to sleep in his own bed then wait there for Rosemary's return. So Ginny gave the Unholy Heir of Hell his warm milk and tucked him in. As she sat on the living room sofa in Rosemary's apartment, in essence the Cathedral of Evil on Earth, Gin idly gazed about and noticed signed pictures of Hillary and Bill Clinton hanging on the wall, in separate frames, facing in opposite directions. Rosemary came home shortly and Ginny, refusing all offers of payment, returned to her own apartment, happy to have helped a neighbor in need.

To Be Continued

Chap. 15 - 'Moby-Gin'

2008-09-01T00:00:00.003-04:00

Not-Exactly-Chopped-Liver Fiction™
a could-be-worse division of None-Too-Shabby Enterpises, Ink

PRESENTS :

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 15

Moby-Gin

Call her Ginger Sue. Ginny wasn't a dolphin very long before deciding she really liked it.

It certainly wasn't as bad as that time she'd been a Barbie doll -- She'd hated that. Life as Barbie was pathetic; filled with phony people and plastic things. Plus Gin found that though Barbie is supposed to come with Ken; she really came best with GI Joe ...and most the time Ken was in the closet with The Incredible Hulk anyways. But the worst part was having to be friends with that psycho twat, Malibu Stacey. Yes, life as a dolphin was much better than being the bulimic bleached blond bimbo, Barbie. (However, Gin did agree with Barbie that Math class is tough.)

It all started when Ginger was at her favorite place, Coney Island, considering the looming Bar Exam -- where aspiring lawyers must pass a bar without going in. Not paying much attention, her adjectives got confused and she took a long walk on a short pier. With too little pier and too much walk, the immutable Laws of Physics decreed that she tumble into the sea and become a dolphin, kinda like "The Incredible Mr. Limpet." It happens all the time at Coney Island, which is part of the place's charm -- In fact it's a popular local spectator sport, like "Dwarf Tossing". . .only not as potentially demeaning to dwarfs.

Gin was happy to be a Bottlenose Dolphin. She was very gray... Dark gray at the top near the dorsal fin varying to light gray and almost white on her underside. Though on first blush this motif might be thought pedestrian, Gin felt the style was classic -- refined and dignified like gray formal Morning Dress (she always had a "thing" for top hat and spats). Such coloration, in addition to being fetching on Ginny, made her harder to see both from above and below when swimming, kinda like the combat paint scheme on a B-52.

Elongated upper and lower jaws formed her "rostrum" or "beak" (it did take a while for Ginny to come to grips with the thought "I have a Beak" in her internal dialog). Her real nose was the blowhole on top of her head. She rather liked having her nose up there, it wasn't in the way so much. Of course her face showed that warm "Flipper smile"... but then a radiant smile is characteristic of Gin in all her manifestations and possibly is the part I like best (not to imply that Ginny is composed of allocable "parts", like a chicken at the dinner table).

Dolphins don't sit around on couches or La-Z-Boys watching TV and "vegging-out." Gin was always swimming, a great exercise, and easily kept in shape without having to drop big bucks at some spa. She didn't have thighs, hips or waist to fret about ...And only weighed 460 pounds. Plus she found that dolphins weren't as hung-up on the images concocted by Madison Avenue and didn't bother at all with cosmetics. Ginny did miss her tumbling tresses, but then she had a neato dorsal fin instead, and as a dolphin she never had to have her tail hot-waxed. All in all she found her new lifestyle healthy and suspected she might even be smarter than before, probably from eating so much fish, a scientifically documented brain food.

Meals were a cinch; eat a nearby fish. No agonizing or arguing over cooking in, going out, or having delivery -- no disastrous home cooked meals with heaps of dirty dishes, no disappointing meals at supposed good restaurants, no gawking pizza delivery boys when answering the door ...Plus she'd had a particular taste for raw fish ever since the night little 4-year-old Ginny ate all the guppies in her father's aquarium while he was at the Broadway premier of "Miss Saigon."

Dressing was a breeze, too. She just went around bare-assed all day long. Ginny didn't miss Prada or Gucci or Manolo. Actually the only thing she did miss was Fendi... that and bubble baths.

As for entertainment... In their aquatic domain dolphins are like 6 year-old boys on Christmas that play all day in the cardboard box while a big expensive gizmo it contained sits neglected in a corner. There was no great quest for entertainment -- it was everywhere; readily assessable. No need for theaters or TV's... If Gin wanted to see "The Little Mermaid", she just swam over and said "Hi." And she didn't need nightclubs, she could dance with her pals on any wave.

All this with no expenses... Any dolphin in the sea is richer than Bill Gates, who would be way over his head in the ocean.

After acclimating to the ways of cetaceans and the sea, Ginny (with time on her flippers) decided to embark on improving travel and set out for the Mediterranean tour she long had craved.

As she blithely pursued her perambulation, Gin frequently came upon friendly pods of Bottlenose dolphins, typically groups of females and their young. Gin always stopped to gossip or ask about local attractions, but as young dolphins are even more annoying than human children, she never crashed with them long except when they were going her way for a fair distance. The males hung out mostly alone or in tiny groups, but occasionally she came upon a mixed pod. That was always loads of fun. Dolphin dudes were really cool, reminding her lots of James Dean, Marlon Brando (in "The Wild Ones") and even Jon Stewart. Strangely, the one or two bothersome ones reminded her of Jon Lovitz.

As a dolphin Gin remained celibate, mainly because she always had dreaded getting water up her nose during sex. But she often observed other dolphins together -- they did it right in the open and didn't seem to mind voyeurs. Ginny noted the courtship behavior of male dolphins. . .clinging along and "posing" for the gal dolphins as well as stroking, rubbing, nuzzling, mouthing, jaw clapping and yelping. . .was just like human males. Unlike men though, dude dolphins love loads of lengthy foreplay before doing it. Ultimately the courting couple get belly to belly, then his thingy comes out and slips into her. Again like human males, the act lasts only 10 to 30 seconds -- It reminded Gin of watching a pickpocket. But afterwards male dolphins don't succumb to immediate drooling sleep or scuff into the living room to watch baseball; rather they do it over and over and over, with breaks of several minutes in between (I must be part dolphin). If Ginny HAD joined in, it definitely would have been with the "Jon Stewart" types; thinking about them made her tail wiggle.

It was no time at all before Ginger was approaching Gibraltar; gateway to the romantic Mediterranean. Passing through the Straits, she took a leisurely tour of all the sights from Morocco to the Greek Islands. Gin even ventured thru the Bosporus to the Black Sea where she really enjoyed the caviar... while still in the sturgeon. Along the Romanian coast she had fun traumatizing tourists in the water, especially Hungarians, by pretending to be a shark. Although she strictly avoided hurting anyone, near a beach in Italy she bit this one guy on the ass because he reminded her of some Italian jerk she'd known.

Gin saved the best, the French Riviera, for last and thoroughly enjoyed Le Cote d'Azur -- at least the parts covered by water. In fact, one morning several days after arriving she became somewhat too enthusiastic in her enjoyment while playing in the surf. Momentarily forgetting she now was a dolphin, Ginny decided to leave the water to work on her tan and inadvertently beached herself. Disaster was avoided because once free of the water she returned to her human form; a result unexpected by Gin but predicted by Chaos Theory nonetheless (seems she really should've paid attention in High School Physics). Ginny, in her modesty, initially was embarrassed to find herself butt-naked on the sand but a glance told her it was a nude beach and she resolved for once to just enjoy the moment. Basking in the sun, surrounded by naked Frenchmen wearing sandals and black nylon socks and by au-natural Frenchwomen with hairy legs and armpits, Ginny reflected on dolphin life and concluded they really are more intelligent than humans and particularly smarter than the people she knows at Cornell. However since life in the ocean is so easy, dolphins and other cetaceans aren't obliged by difficulty and struggle to manifest this superiority thru invention -- basically, they're on a Club Med vacation their entire lives. As her philosophic reflection waned, Ginny spied a mackerel darting about beneath the waves a short way off. Feeling a bit peckish, she instinctively plunged back into the sea for a nice snack. Finding herself a dolphin once again and now aware that she could go back home and be human, she high-tailed it back to New York and her final year at Cornell.

To Be Continued

Chap. 14 - 'Cool Hand Gin'

2008-08-01T00:00:00.024-04:00

Not-Exactly-Chopped-Liver Fiction™
a could-be-worse division of None-Too-Shabby Enterpises, Ink

PRESENTS :

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 14

Cool Hand Gin

Ginger Mullins had been drunk before. In fact, Ginny had been stumbling drunk before. Even completely-tripping-and-falling-down drunk before. And most certainly chattering-away-in-the-back-of-a- taxi drunk before.

Wasted; Plastered; Blotto -- Yes, yes, yes; she had been that drunk ...and more... before.

But till now Ginny had never been so incredibly, monumentally, mind-bogglingly drunk before that she found herself in Arkansas in withering heat and humidity in totally unbecoming boots in a line of convicts in a prison work camp and being told she would be there for some several months by a gruff character called "Cap'n" who was in charge and didn't seem the type to appreciate failure to communicate in any form.

It must've been some 6-pack of Sam Adams she'd chugged because the funny thing was... she couldn't remember anything leading up to this. She had only her usual "Uptown Gin" memories; meaning she remembered NOT being in Arkansas and NOT getting drunk, arrested, tried nor convicted and NOT arriving at a highway prison work camp. She also distinctly remembered being a woman, but no one seemed to notice that, even during the shower before she got her camp clothes. When she looked in the mirror she still saw the familiar soft curves and gentle valleys but judging by their reactions, the other men obviously saw something less alluring. It was all very strange indeed. And she didn't have to pinch herself on the bum to make sure it was real either because one guy in the shower had already done that. Fortunately she hadn't had to hurt him too bad.

Now there is a tendency to over-analyze great works like this chapter. Some people ...mainly mousey men and shrewish women... are compelled to look for and find more than is there; ethereal permutations of thought, shades of meaning, wheels within wheels, and conundrum wrapped puzzles inside enigmas. But sometimes the words "I am the Walrus" are just the words "I", "am", "the" and "Walrus" jammed together with no deeper meaning (Although that particular Beatle's song is noted for, when played backwards, declaring "Ringo is an Alien" over and over -- But then Ringo wasn't quite like the others).

Sometimes there is no more basis and explanation for something than the fact that it just plain is. So most likely if you stand outside in a thunderstorm conversing with God, you're just talking to yourself (like in that famous movie). That's the way of the Universe and of this chapter, so shake it off; get over it. The fact that Ginny found herself in an Arkansas chain gang just is and we have to go from there. Actually, it all can be explained by Quantum Theory but regular people could never understand it anyways.

As she stood there in line, Gin felt the Cap'n possessed a remarkable rough-hewn eloquence and was downright poetic concerning the subject of convicts getting "rabbit" in 'em. He had several helpers, just like Santa Claus. These helpers, called "Bosses" rather than Elves, were like counselors at summer camp, only with more attitude and lots of guns. They made life exciting for everyone.

As Gin was ushered to the barracks with the other "New Meat", the trucks returning to camp disgorged sweaty work gangs for the evening. A rabble reminiscent of her ancestral Celtic hordes streamed toward the buildings as Gin stood inside her new home looking down the long double row of bunks and listening to the Trustee-in-charge recite the house rules. There really was only one rule; doing anything earns a night in "the Box." When she raised her hand and asked where the nearest Starbuck's was, the Trustee glowered, then growled that he hoped Gin wasn't a hard case -- It all would have been very impressive if he hadn't been a dead ringer for Fred Flintstone. Anywho, Gin found an upper bunk that suited her very well and then it was time for dinner. She could hardly wait to take her new spoon and "git at them beans." She hoped the condiments included "Newman's Own" salad dressings.

The food was just like at Cornell. Considering that victuals in Arkansas prisons are bought with what little remains after the politicians, officials and contractors -- and all their Mamas' nephews and cousins -- take a cut, she wondered if Cornell used the same system.

Actually Gin wished just once she could be in one of these "situations" where the food and accommodations were 5-star. -- I mean really; she had yet to find herself inexplicably having to choose between a diamond-encrusted bracelet or a new Rolls-Royce as an esteemed houseguest of the Sultan of Brunei. On the contrary, she was always having to sidestep Mastodon pooh or thwart being kissed by a weirdo (although coincidentally, these particular precautions also are necessary at the Sultan's).

At dinner Gin made a new friend. Well, actually a series of circumstances obliged her to beat the hell out of the guy next to her and from then on he was her buddy ...people are like that. Irregardless, his name was Dragline and he was a tough, hulking dimwit who looked lots like George Kennedy. Dennis Hopper, Joe Don Baker, Wayne Rogers and John-boy's daddy all were doing time there with her, too.

Ginny found she liked working on the chain gang. There were heaps of fresh air and sun. Plus swinging a sling blade at the weeds along roads really toned the muscles, especially those difficult places in her upper arms that stayed so wiggly. She figured she was saving loads of dough being there rather than a spa in Palm Beach. And calling it a chain gang was a slight misnomer. Everybody wasn't all chained together, that would be kinky... just the guys that got rabbit and ran for it wore leg irons. The fellas also called the convict work crew a "bull gang", and that's no bull.

Gin had lots of swell adventures. The time the gang was shoveling mud from a drainage ditch was a real hoot. There was a house a little ways up ahead with a '48 Chevy in front. Well, as the gang was working along the road toward the home this curvy chick, who looked poured into her skimpy cotton dress, came out with a bucket and started washing the car. She was spewing soap and water all over herself, leaning into the streamline curves of the car, pressing against the windows and putting on a show that would cost a dollar cover at a titty bar. It wasn't precisely Gin's cup-of-tea, but the actual guys there sure enjoyed it.

And one evening she was playing poker in the barracks before bedtime. In the last hand she and another guy were betting like maniacs, raising each other over and over; the pot got really huge, maybe 75 cents. When he finally showed his hand no one thought she could beat those two 7's. Smiling, Gin fanned out her winning cards, six Aces. Everyone thought it was a pretty cool hand and that's how she got her bull gang name... "Cool Hand Gin."

Then there was the time everyone in the barracks was talking about what a great heap of anything Gin could eat. Gin reflected for a moment, then announced she could handle 50 hardboiled eggs in an hour. No one believed anybody could eat 50 eggs so they arranged a contest; the betting against Gin was fast and furious. On the day of the contest the 50 eggs were cooked up and delivered to a table before her. For a while she picked each up and put it back down, apparently inspecting them all. At the end of the hour, someone remarked that she didn't eat any eggs. Gin agreed, but noted that she HAD handled each and every one. After pulling out a dictionary, the fellas conceded the point and paid up their losing bets. After this Gin was the idol of the camp.

Of course from the beginning Gin resolved to escape... five months was a long time (two fashion seasons) and no prison could hold her. She decided a tunnel was the ticket out. A wood stove covered the hole in the barracks floor, they could move it aside to access the ground below. She organized teams who worked in shifts digging a tunnel intended to extent beyond the camp fence. They put the excavated dirt in their pockets, then when no one was looking, dropped it in the vegetable gardens they started for that purpose. Other prisoners where put to work tailoring stylish suits of clothes and forging documents, passports and such, for everybody. Even the quiet loner guy who spent his time in the cooler throwing and catching a baseball helped out. Several times she snuck outside the camp so she could align the tunnel with its destination beyond the fence and ensure their work was on course. While outside she also would stop in at the nearest Starbuck's for a refreshing Frappuccino before returning to camp. Usually she brought plenty back for Drag and the boys, too.

The day before the great escape, and a week before her sentence was up, the Cap'n approached Gin kinda sheepish and told her there was a terrible mistake of identity. The guy she was mistaken for was some actor fella in California that they'd just rounded up. Cap'n said she would be released immediately and if she wouldn't sue, she could keep her spoon, no charge, even though it was property of the State. Gin had enjoyed her time in the work camp, aside for the nights in "the Box" and the time she had to dig out that grave-like hole over n' over, so she readily agreed. It was no time before she was saying bye to her chain gang buddies; Dragline, Gambler, Society, the Birdman, Papillon, Dreyfus and those three dumb yokels who always palled around together. Finally, Gin said a lingering goodbye to the huge, kindly fellow who brought the dead mouse back to life and cured her bad bladder infection with a touch. As the camp gate slowly swung shut, Gin started down the road clutching her treasured bean spoon tight in her hand. On her journey home Ginny unwittingly managed to backtrack the Space-Time Continuum and return to life just where she'd left it in the third year of Cornell law school.

The boys in her bull gang fondly reminisced about Gin, especially remembering her ready, beaming smile. In his trademark deep gravelly voice Dragline called it "that ol' Gin smile."

To Be Continued

Chap. 13 - 'Close Encounters of the Fourth, Fifth and Sixth Kind'

2008-07-01T00:00:00.015-04:00

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 13

Close Encounters of the Fourth, Fifth and Sixth Kind
or
Eine Kleine Nachterzählung

     First Movement - Sonata Allegro

Analyzed logically -- from a Super-Intelligent Space Alien's perspective -- the most likely place on Earth to meet such an entity would be, of course, at a Starbuck's. I mean... First... No-Brainer... the word "Star" IS in the name. Plus, Starbuck's restrooms house Trans-Dimensional Portals -- as Ginny discovered to great delight and ongoing pleasure. These "Potty Portals", though little known by Earthlings, are widely advertised throughout the Galaxy by Starbuck's parent company, the Pan-Temporal galactic conglomerate "Berkshire-Hathaway" (the same timeless corporation that financed the Egyptian Pyramids, the Roman Empire and Richard Burton's bar tab), and are wildly popular with trendy critters throughout the Universes.

In fact the portals make up for Starbuck's decidedly mediocre coffee. The ambivalence across Creation concerning Starbuck's actual coffee is reflected by a new slogan the company is testing in the Milkyway Galaxy, "Come for Our Potty, Stay for Our Coffee." The truth be told, Starbuck's coffee IS considered delicious on one planet... BeeBow... which orbits Sirius. But the inhabitants of that world are noted for their cast iron stomachs -- Literally. Stomachs made of cast iron. -- so that could have some bearing on the brew's popularity there. Anyways, the point none can refute is that Starbuck's ARE jam-packed with a huge assortment of strange, unearthly beings who spend inordinate amounts of time in the restrooms. It was not just a matter of fate, but a statistical certainty, that Ginny would wind up having sexual relations with at least one of them.

Now... There are two categories of Space Aliens that frequent Earth: The ones that use the wonders of highly evolved societies to get kinky jollies from doing weird stuff to humans. And the ones that work on Wall Street. It's a toss-up which variety is more aggravating. Suffice to say that after the unfortunate convergence already described herein, the first type of Super-Intelligent Aliens go out of their way to avoid Ginny. In fact a whole race of such beings transcended themselves to an entirely different plane of existence after scientists calculated that their planetary system one day would pass within 500 light years of Earth and Gin. As all the other Aliens (particularly the ones traveling with children) find Earth too vulgar to visit, that leaves some random joe from the second group as the only likely candidate for Ginny's particular close encounter.

Pekoe-Auf_25, otherwise known as Murry, was big in Hedges on Wall Street. Since the planting and pruning of hedges is demanding work with much washing of hands and scrubbing of nails, Pekoe-Auf_25 always was eager to kick back and cruise for Earth chicks at his favorite Starbuck's. He considered Earth girls "easy"... especially compared to his homeworld where one must study algebra for decades AND "ace" a killer math test just for a date. Murry had discovered early in his Earthly sojourn that Starbuck's was a magnet for foxy female Arithmetic groupies and he always managed to lasso a frisky filly with his highly-developed Mathematical prowess.

In that vein, there is no pat rule for pre-determining what will turn a woman "on." For a female in the fifth dimension the means is an actual switch located beside the auxiliary power outlet on her shoulder. But for other entities, Earth women included, the process is more esoteric and fraught with uncertainty. Take Ginger Mullins for instance. I assure you ...and you can trust me on this... that Gin maintains consummate scruples in determining "worthiness" of prospective partners and insists upon a minimum of tentacles, slime and scales. She also has other criteria concerning grooming, decorum and intellect that most males, high on chutzpah and testosterone, would find unfathomable.

     Second Movement - Romanza: Andante

For Gin it was a day like any other at Starbuck's (meaning it was totally bizarre). She was at a high table perched on a stool smiling devilishly behind her laptop screen while tormenting some guy as he roguishly strove to peek up her skirt from across the room. "Innocently" crossing and uncrossing her hot-waxed legs, she marveled as rising color and bulging jeans betrayed his thoughts. When a woman (apparently a significant other) suddenly appeared, surmised the situation and gave the dude hell, Gin choked with stifled laughter until coffee ran from her nose into the keyboard. Still leaking coffee, she beat a giggling retreat to the restroom.

Gin had learned from hard experience to approach Starbuck's toilets with extreme caution. Unaware that across the Galaxy the Trans-Dimensional Portal angle was a popular enhancement to the powder room experience, she saw entering a Starbuck's restroom as a potential ordeal of survival that might include dodging mastodons and arrows. Therefore Murry, who was inside the unisex toilet at the time, was surprised to look up from the sink and see Gin open the door a crack, peep with a single blinking brown eye, then rush in swinging a mop with deadly force. Satisfied that the restroom was, this time, just a restroom, Gin apologized for barging in; she didn't realize it was occupied. She said someone had mentioned there was a spider behind the trashcan to explain her determinedly aggressive entry. Murry smiled expansively, showing the standard human issue of 32 teeth in even rows, and excused himself. Alone, Gin completed the usual female potty ritual, dabbed the coffee stains from her nose and upper lip and returned to her table to toy with the libido of some other hapless "dink."

As he waited to order yet another container of the bilious vitriol Starbuck's spews, Murry, a knowing judge of women, reflected on the one he had just met. She reminded him of the Space Marines they trained on the planet Granite... soft eyes, gentle curves, luxuriant tresses, hard as basalt and deadly as a leaky space suit; just like his dear mother. Plus, in their fleeting encounter he had taken her measure and knew her secret fetish for Mathematics -- perhaps better than she did. Purposefully taking his coffee and sitting right behind her, Murry started to woo Ginny in his practiced manner.

As she sat there it was several moments before Ginny was consciously aware of her burgeoning arousal. For somewhere behind she heard a whispered recital of the times table; quickly progressing from four 4's is 16 to five 4's is 20 and beyond. Multiplication always was her favorite arithmetic operation and this almost subliminal chant had the blood steaming in her cheeks, and elsewhere. Looking behind she discovered the romantic mathematic calculations were coming from the Wall Street type she nearly clobbered in the WC. It was like the first time she saw the movie "Rainman" and experienced that explosive spontaneous orgasm when Raymond instantly calculated the number of matches spilled on the floor. Best part was... she instantly appraised that aside from an inexplicable hint of dirt beneath his nails, this bucko definitely was "worthy." By the time Murry had completed the multiplication table and started enumerating the Fibonacci Sequence Gin was seated next to him on a nearby couch with her tongue in his ear. When he started solving algebraic word problems for the value of "X", she erupted. Heading for the seclusion of the restroom as demurely as possible while running with him in tow, she bolted the door and locked her lips on his. As her tongue dancing a waltz in his mouth, she felt his confident fingers gliding along her back, gently kneading the kinks from her muscles and draining the tension from her body.

This was a Close Encounter of the Fourth Kind.

     Third Movement - Menuetto: Allegro

As is the way of the Universe, one thing led to an avalanche of others and Ginny soon found herself immersed with Murry amidst islands of expensive bath foam in her apartment's Mediterranean bathtub (so-called because it is only slightly smaller than the actual Sea). As he rubbed her back while citing the mathematic principles of modern plumbing (emphasizing Bernoulli's Equation), Gin reflected on the coincidence of this wonderfully arithmetical man stumbling over her deep rooted, but vaguely perceived, fetish for mathematics and throwing the switch on the sexually intense predilection for numbers and formulae that only recently had bubbled to the surface of her own awareness. She didn't ponder the concatenation of circumstances long though because every time she heard the word "Bernoulli" her insides turned all gooey and she again had to kiss those hot cupid-bow lips and squeeze her firmly muscled arms round his naked body.

With "Bolero" playing in the background (Mozart isn't great fucking music), Ginny first surrendered to him on the "northern shore" of her bathtub (somewheres near where Greece would be). The experience was like a Minuet -- slow, ceremonious, and graceful -- that lasted a really, really long time. She wrapped her arms and legs about him as he literally danced within her.

Ginny rode an undulating tide for an age until engulfed by a tsunami of sensation that left her spent, tingling and, momentarily, blind. When she returned to her body Gin's sole coherent thought was "Do that more."

And he did.

This was a Close Encounter of the Fifth Kind.

     Fourth Movement - Rondo: Allegro

After the third such interlude that evening, Murry somehow let slip that he was a Super-Intelligent Space Alien and Gin's Close Encounter of the Sixth Kind soon followed.

On learning his name really was Pekoe-Auf_25 (P-Auf for short) and that he wasn't human at all but just played one on Earth, Ginger quickly decided she didn't care. When, together, they removed the many layers of P-Auf's disguise -- including human-form isolation casing, pressure-equalizing encounter suit, exoskeleton padding, shrinkwrap and, strangely, a Victoria's Secrets pink silk panty and bra set (which she owned herself) -- Gin saw that, aside from a couple extraneous parts, he had a masculine beauty that was nearly human... kinda like that Elf guy in "The Lord of the Rings" who got the womenfolk so wet in the panties.

Once certain he was naked, the question in her mind was NOT whether what she intended to do with a bare-assed, self-confessed Space Alien was appropriate but rather which were the naughty bits. She ultimately resolved the question by trying them all. Gin started by first mounting, and thoroughly enjoying herself upon, a stout projection at P-Auf's hip. She later was chagrined to learn that this was not a body part at all but his sub-space radio, which he forgot to remove in the excitement. He never dared admit that the thing was on and transmitting while she was... occupied... by it. The resulting broadcast garnered the largest audience ever known in the Galaxy, if not in the Universe. While some of the beings who caught the broadcast didn't understand exactly what Ginny was doing, everyone (and, indeed, everything) enthusiastically applauded the vigor with which it was done. In this way, one naughty bit quickly followed the other through the night until all were minutely examined and thoroughly tested. The pair then descended into a profound slumber in Gin's bed amid her treasured collection of Care Bears. By morning she had unconsciously wrested possession of all the pillows and covers from the comparatively defenseless P-Auf.

These events were repeated many, many times over the following weeks.

For his part, P-Auf was completely smitten with Ginny, believing she was "The One." However he suspected his mother might not approve. If the two ever should meet he doubted either could seriously harm the other but the collateral damage from such a clash, including numerous dead bystanders, would be unacceptable. For this reason, combined with a real fear that Gin might actually fuck him to death, he very reluctantly cooled their relationship and soon left Earth forever.

Ginger genuinely liked P-Auf. But while appreciating (and making copious use of) his many talents, she had other priorities... not the least of which was an odd mix of jurisprudence and shopping. It just so happened that the very week P-Auf made his sad assessment and reluctantly retired to the background, Gin had a killer Contracts test plus Manolo came out with a spectacular new collection so she didn't really notice until he was gone.

To Be Continued

Chap. 12 - 'The Manolos of Wrath'

2008-06-01T00:00:00.005-04:00

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 12

The Manolos of Wrath

Ginger Mullins shopped for shoes with the explosive predation of a crocodile erupting from a pool to lock jaws on the head of some hapless gnu drinking at the water's edge. Only difference is... Ginny didn't subsequently eat her shoes, preferring instead to stop at Starbucks for a yummy Frappuccino after "the kill."

This time was no different.

It was the summer after her second year at Cornell law. A week or more ago Gin had bought a new gingham frock and sorely needed a cute pair of mules to go with it -- As usual nothing in her closet, even the shoes she had in mind when she bought the dress, would do at all. Craving a kill to sate her mounting appetite Gin began the pre-hunt ritual that tunes mind and body for the task at hand.

Like a lioness sniffing the air for scent of game afoot, Ginny first called her particular friend... the blond one... to elicit hints of prey in her territory. After enumerating a half-dozen brand-new totally-disgusting sounds and emissions her boyfriend had released in the past 24 hours, Gin surreptitiously pumped her friend for information and learned there were several fresh opportunities involving unadvertised discount sales to the west of her lair. Clutching this intelligence coup to her bosom, Gin continued the conversation only as long as was politely decent and hung-up quick as she could. She was more excited than the American naval cryptographers when they figured the Japs where headed for Midway. Now it was bath time.

Gin's apartment is only somewhat larger than her bathtub. In fact her tub is a veritable Mediterranean Sea of a bath, with gentle tides of crystalline water lapping picturesque shores. Water tumbles... no, Ejaculates... from two impressively curvaceous faucets situated about where Libya would be. These faucets -- shining a golden hue except where encrusted with some green stuff that really should be cleaned off -- spew twin cascades that arc gracefully o'er this yawning sea to splash somewheres east of Sicily. She launches into these waters from the Gibraltar end -- Truly the only things missing are Greek tankers and nude French persons.

Ginny doesn't just "take a bath" here. She offers her lithe, naked body to the gods upon this aquatic altar and the gods, gawking the whole time, gratefully accept. Also in the process she gets clean. It's really something to witness.

Gin drifted in these serene Mediterranean-esque waters for several extra minutes as stress and tension oozed from her body before emerging, a Venus, to towel her bronze skin and chestnut hair into beaming vitality. Stopping to pluck copious lint from her belly button, Ginny then completed the myriad tasks typical of a woman preening in the bathroom. Cheerful as a lark, she did "The Hustle" to some 70's tune on the radio all the way from the bathroom to her bedroom and began to dress. Though not wanting to wear panties, she did anyway... selecting a pink thong from her much envied collection of Victoria's Secrets. She put on her particularly flattering denim skirt; it fit tight through the hips then draped with a decided Western flare. She didn't wear a bra, just a tight pink bare-midriff top with spaghetti shoulder straps. Perhaps the thong was a little too daring with the skirt but she didn't care today; anyone who saw her buns would be blinded by their searing naked beauty anyways. Slipping into her favorite closed-toe sandals, she was locked and loaded.

Ginny didn't shop for high fashion so much as stalk it. Approaching the environs of her most productive hunting ground, she caught the scent of fresh leather in the air... leather stylishly tooled by swarthy Italians exuding garlic and testosterone. Following her nose she padded up to a new place named "Chez Shue."

Gin entered the boutique and politely inquired if Manolo Blahnik had a low, wedge-heel casual mule. Looking her up, then looking her down and deciding here was a fair target for his personal blend of venom the clerk responded that Manolo Blahnik was a House of Design, not a piano bar. "Signore Manolo" didn't take personal requests -- One buys the styles he creates, not the styles one wants. He suggested Wal*Mart might have what she needed, probably for less than ten bucks.

Gin's smile bared gleaming teeth... she savored prey that offered sport before it was brought down. Casting about with an acute feline eye, she spotted a low Blahnik ballerina slipper that struck her fancy. The clerk, sensing opportunity to snub her further, had turned his back and scurried off on the pretense of helping another customer. Ginny calmly followed his sinuous track, licking her lips in anticipation. Now sensing a fatal miscalculation of her aggression, the clerk scampered from customer to customer to avoid the pounce, but in seeking a receptive audience his fawning inquiries merely urked everyone. He eventually found himself cornered by Gin, who fixed him with hungry brown eyes and inquired about the slipper. With the irritating hauteur of someone barely living above poverty who thinks serving the nobility makes one their superior, he responded something along the lines of "Sorry missy, we don't have your size."

At that moment if Gin had been a samurai and the clerk a cheeky peasant, her long sword would have sung from the scabbard tucked at her waist and swiped through his body -- entering on the right side were neck meets shoulder and exiting on the left below the armpit -- in a fluid motion barely perceived before death. But being a New Yorker, she performed essentially the same act with a few choice words. She then called the store manager on deck and harranged her like Lord Nelson dressing down a junior officer he found especially repellent, punctuating each point with a fist pounding the counter like a broadside. She concluded with a tirade to the effect that the "Illuminati" lay awake nights quaking at the international machinations of her powerful father and his cronies. The clerk, emasculated by Gin's devastating tongue, fled to the back for a good cry. On returning, red-eyed and docile, he bore the shoes she requested in the size she specified along with the offer of an additional 10% "employee" discount. Just to pull his chain Ginny feigned a change of mind, running him through several other styles, in a wide assortment of color and size, before returning to her original choice.

Whistling "The Battle Hymn of the Republic", Ginny swaggered from the store with her prey, intend on concluding the fine hunt with a refreshing Frappuccino. In her wake the clerk was busy matching a jumbled mountain of empty boxes to the associated mound of rejected shoes.

To Be Continued

Chap. 11 - 'Of Mice and Gin' Pt. 2

2008-05-01T00:00:00.002-04:00

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 11

Of Mice and Gin'

De Secunn Pahht

(see Part 1) ...Like the guy said in "Kill Bill Volume 2", Superman is unique among all the Super Heros (at least for illustrating his rather lame point) because he was born Superman and always is Superman. Clark Kent is a disguise Superman wears that reflects his take on the foreign society in which he must hide. That's the way it became for Gin, except kinda the other way around. Ginny became "Jersey Gin" all the time and only assumed the disguise of "Uptown Gin" when she had to hide. One might think it sorta confusing and even a little metaphysical, but believe me that's the way it was, so there you go. Anywho, the point is Ginny's reborn spirit continued to flourish in New Jersey's rich soil, even with all the heavy metals.

As is common in life, it was often the smaller things that lifted her the highest. One delight for Ginny was the "inside" knowledge that hardly anyone in Jersey really pronounces it as "Joisey." Also she relished going to the Jersey shore, slipping her feet into a stout pair of combat boots and walking amongst the medical waste and Haz-Mat bags that washed ashore. And she loved driving through Camden in a very expensive car; she even bought a Glock .45 with plenty of ammo. Such secret delights helped Ginny feel like she really was on the inside looking out at all the numbnuts who didn't know Jersey.

And in this way she lived in Nirvana for several months.

Episode V - "The Empire Strikes Back"

The plot against Gin spawned when two of her acquaintances ran across each other near the stuffed Mastodon at the Guggenheim and compared notes on her in the ensuing conversation. One, the middle-aged wife of a hedge fund GP, related how she had heard Gin humming "Volare" during a shared Hamptons weekend. The other, a former private school classmate who thought her subsequent education at Bard wasn't Bolshevik enough, mentioned seeing Ginny in a deli just off the Park buying an assortment of Italian cold cuts and wearing an oddly patterned blouse that must have come off the rack at JC Penny.

That was all it took. The school of sharks had noticed one of their number moving erratically and Ginger's fate now was as inalterable as the certain swift destruction of that nonconforming fish. Ginny was born to and circulated in a stratum of American society that takes a dim view of variation from the current party line and is noted for using their money to relentlessly pound a square peg until it fits the round hole. Making everyone toe their particular line is one of their hobbies... and only the Hollywood Establishment does it better. The details for remediation of the problem solidified quickly during debate by the interested parties as a sidebar at the next Junior League meeting. The action plan was reviewed and blessed as an "Other Business" agenda item in a conclave of the Lincoln Center Board of Directors.

Ginny had a secret pleasure she only rarely allowed herself. She would daringly ditch her uptown alter ego while still in Manhattan, sneak into Jersey, and drive the length of the NJ Turnpike, all the way down and back. She stopped at every rest area to shop the marvelous treasures, all inscribed with the magic words "Garden State", and to mix with the wonderful people found there (she also loves Roy Rogers). She turned off at each exit to ensure she hit every tollbooth and contributed her fair share for this wonderful highway that has waged a noble and selfless struggle over the last 50+ years to pay for itself via the meager tolls.

One night, on returning to her Upper East Side apartment from one of these Turnpike pilgrimages, Ginny stepped through her doorway and turned on a light. Distracted by her vigorous "peepee dance" as she impatiently removed several hair extensions and the huge earrings dangling to her shoulders, Gin didn't notice the others present as they rose from their seats and moved toward her like ghouls from "Dawn of the Living Dead." Finally getting the stubborn back off the last earring, Gin turned to confront an unexpected rush of faces and unleashed a scream that shattered several Waterford crystal goblets in a kitchen cupboard. Recovering quickly, Gin realized that the apparent apparitions were merely some of her closer friends and acquaintances. Without waiting for an explanation (she really had to go bad), she rushed to the toilet to relieve that stridently throbbing urge in a sweetly satisfying stream.

Her emission completed, Gin cracked open the bathroom door and peered with a single blinking brown eye at the visitors, who now sat facing her refuge in a semicircle of folding chairs borrowed from the nearby Episcopal Church. In a soothingly singsong voice the spokesperson, who oftentimes had a heavy dusting of powdery white substance on her upper lip, explained that this assembly was an intervention on Gin's behalf over concern for her recent self destructive behavior. The group then gently urged her out of the bathroom and eventually Gin stood before them, still dressed in skintight pinto-pattern Lycra Capri pants, hot-pink sequined tube top and high-heel clogs with buckle bedecked faux-leather uppers.

Needless to say, Ginny was subjected to the litany usual at such events. She was injuring herself by sneaking off to the toxic dump across the river and by wearing animal print garments on clearance from God knows where. She was hurting others with bizarre behavior, including talking as with a mouth full of equal parts marbles and Play-Doh and consuming unsuitably spiced foods. She must assess and modify her ways or she quickly would end her days fretting over her credit rating and the repo-man. And Ginger had to listen and obey. Though nobly born, she had no more control than Anne Boleyn, Lady Jane Grey, Mary Tudor or innumerable other victims of their own upper strata.

Epilogue

Like the Titanic, Jersey Gin struck an iceberg, upended on her bow and slid into an abyss. But there remained flotsam to mark her passage. In particular, Ginger waited until the uproar subsided, then indelibly registered her quiet defiance by having a particularly sensitive and secreted portion of her person prominently tattooed with the words "Bada Bing."

To Be Continued

Chap. 11 - 'Of Mice and Gin' Pt. 1

2008-04-01T00:00:00.008-04:00

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 11

Of Mice and Gin

Duh Foyst Pahht

Prologue

Ginger Mullins led the life New York City expected of her. The daughter of a mercurial genius well connected in the cabal of Princeton alumni actually in charge of things, she occupied her niche in Manhattan's nobility with panache. No one suspected her secret.

It all started with a party... a small collection of friends gathered to celebrate a holiday. Perhaps a little too much alcohol was imbibed. Maybe a little too much Federally controlled substance was inhaled. Irregardless, that night these ladies decided to walk on the wild side, to pitch themselves head first down the rabbit hole, to cross the road for what's on the other side -- And that road wound its way up to and over a bridge into Jersey.

Episode IV - "A New Hope"

Like the ill-fated World War II assault on Arnhem, the bridge these friends took was "A Bridge Too Far." But Gin didn't find an unexpected, battle-hardened Panzer Division on the other side of this bridge, that would be ridiculous, if not deadly. What she found on stepping through the looking glass was a Wonderland in Meadowlands.

This first time was merely a joyride in a fast car and Ginny was just a passenger peeking out the window at a flying tableau. An auto body shop rushing by initially caught Gin's attention. Three minutes later she was flushed with a ruddy glow and sweating profusely as the car zipped past the ninth body shop and fifteenth junkyard. The heady perfume of New Jersey infused Ginny with something akin to sexual arousal but actually much more; it was rapture. The tank farms passed like rusty clouds. In the street under the moonlight, cracked windshields aside abandoned automobiles shimmered as diamonds. Like mystic cathedrals, shuttered industrial complexes whispered to her soul, enticing her to their sagging chainlink gates. Everywhere were mountainous warehouses, anointed with runic graffiti. When the car stopped for gas, the attendant's voice was a melody sung by a unibrowed angel with a mullet. Gin was stupefied. . .on Manhattan, looking across the river at Jersey she never had imagined Shangra-La was a tollbooth away. Spiritually exhausted, she eventually succumbed to a serene slumber.

Once back home Gin could not be roused from her rapture so her friends, in the true spirit of their friendship, left her slumped unconscious in the backseat of the car. That morning Ginny unfolded from a tight fetal position and exited the car in glory like a Blue Morpho butterfly emerging from the chrysalis. She was reborn -- Enlightenment beamed from her face and danced in the shining silky locks of her chestnut hair. Every fiber of her being throbbed with the conviction that New Jersey was a wondrous, wonderful, wonder filled place.

The first time Ginny shopped at the mall in Paramus she lied to herself. She insisted the trip to Jersey was necessary to find the particular stores she wanted; but of course, Manhattan had Victoria's Secret, Bloomies and all the rest. Anyways, that day when her car crossed the state line, she nearly swooned. The next time ...and all the many other times that followed... delusions weren't even needed -- like a native Jersey female, her heart was captivated by the garish rhinestone gleam of New Jersey retail, especially the neon-lit nail salons found next to plumbing supply stores. Oh Gin kept up the front, pretending for her friends and acquaintances still to shop on the Upper West Side at those trendy designer boutiques, exclusive shops and "name" stores she was expected to frequent -- But it disgusted her.

This first step led to a succession of many others that rapidly carried Gin from her Upper East Side enthrallment. She gladly gave up evenings at five star restaurants and Broadway opening-nights to pass her time at suburban Jersey multiplex cinemas where she dreamily watched the couples -- his teeth clinching a toothpick, her head piled with big hair and both of them chewing gum -- as they waited for "da frikkin moovie" and chatted incessantly about family; Little Joey, Aunt Carmella, Big Pauley, Cousin Pussy... At such times Gin always hoped she could extract herself someday from the clutches of Broker/Traders and "rising star" Lawyers and fall, like the women she saw here, into the arms of a union pipe-fitter with a soft beer gut and wavy black hair.

She bought the entire 5 season DVD collection of "The Sopranos" and watched them in a personal ritual she termed "Special Time." First she would surreptitiously drive into Jersey and take a room in a Newark motel; she chose a different one each time. Inside the room she opened her overnight bag and laid garments out on the bed. Energized by a baptismal shower in refreshingly chlorinated Jersey water, she would spray, tease and traumatize her flowing locks into the glorious cascade of big hair she so admired; then she applied lots and lots and lots of cosmetics. When everything was perfect she would return solemnly to the bed to don her vestments... red thong; white garter belt, black fishnet stockings, black leather micro-skirt, leopard-pattern strapless bra, pea green Lycra decolletage top, open-toe stiletto heels with ankle straps, extra large hoop earrings -- or some similar variation of these ceremonial habiliments; all purchased, as much as possible, at TJ Maxx in Hackensack. Now properly centered in her universe, she would wire the TV to the DVD player she brought and watch an episode of "The Sopranos" while chewing gum and downing Sambuca shots.

Watching the show, Gin clapped with delight and hooted every time the North Jersey mob whacked a New York guy. When Johnny Sack or Carmine appeared, she spat at the screen. She booed the FBI and cried uncontrollably whenever one of Tony's guys caught a cap. When Gin heard Tony Soprano speak -- words like "Muttah", "Fahduh" and "Fukaweyuhz" -- her heavy heart sank low in her chest because she knew English could never dance so melodically on the tongues of pathetic preppies. During the scenes featuring meals and eating (and "The Sopranos" has lots of those) she took detailed notes of exactly what the various foods were so she could cook or order them, too. In this way she watched every episode, one by one, and melded with the culture she craved... (see Part 2)

To Be Continued

Chap. 10 - 'The PETAnic Verses'

2008-03-01T00:00:00.004-05:00

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 10

The PETAnic Verses

At odd times in odd places over the past several years remarkable rhyming couplets have been found that appear to be related parts of a supremely sublime poetic work. The first verse was found on the floor under a table in a library associated with a Ivy League university in the United States of America. The table was oddly askew and appeared to have been leaned against or sat upon (or both) by party, or parties unknown. Another was found by the night doorman in a big city apartment building when he investigated an elevator alarm. Tracing the alarm, he opened the elevator's outer doors to find it stopped between floors, empty except for a verse scrawled tissue that drifted like a feather to settle at his feet. The other couplet pairs were discovered in similar circumstances.

There is no apparent connection, nor even reason to suspect a connection, between these verses and Ginger Mullins. However, in all probability she would deny any association, and if pressed, somehow might even manage to convince a lie-detector concerning her veracity.

These are the verses in order of their discovery:

A Guinea Pig's a cinch to skin.
Just slice the hide from tail to chin.
Tug a bit and pull a lot.
Then pitch the carcass in a pot.

A Frenchman loves his horse it's said.
He loves them live, he loves them dead.
He loves them saddled so he can ride.
He loves them grilled, or lightly fried.

A Korean's dog has cause to fret.
Cuz there's the chance he's not a pet.
Not a companion that's true and blue.
But just part of the Korean's stew.

A lobster leads a happy life.
Loves his parents, adores his wife.
He knows much joy and smiles a lot.
Until he sees the boiling pot.

Buying a mouse at the pet store.
They have a sale so we buy four.
Returning home, each one we take.
And feed it live to our pet snake.

Everyone loves a kangaroo.
The way they act, the things they do.
The Aussies sure do think them nice.
Smothered with gravy and served on rice.

One never knows quite what to do.
When served a dish of guinea stew.
Is this a pig that one has met?
Is this, perhaps, the cook's ex-pet?

A Guinea is a wondrous beast.
Fun to pet and good for feast.
Buy just one to give a try.
Then buy more for guinea pie.

A total of eight related pairs of couplets have been discovered and authenticated. Claims for dozens, perhaps hundreds, of other verses have been advanced but they always have proved to be, at best, unrelated or, at worse, outright fraud. The following discredited claimant is typical;

I really think it would be neat.
To spray whipped cream there on your seat.
To bend you o'r a comfy chair.
And lick it up as you rest there.

In the case of this verse, though originally judged to be genuine, laborious linguistic analysis determined that while it shares some superficial traits with the authentic verses, the subject of these couplets is something else entirely.

When the verified verses first made their piecemeal appearances the "animal rights" organization PETA trumpeted them as indictments of animal exploitation and anthems of their cause. However long study has proved the verses, so dripping with sarcasm it puddles on the floor, actually glorify the consumption of animals, even beloved pets that might have cute names like Sparkle and Mopsey. Stung by humiliation, PETA reversed it's stand and issued a death sentence for the composer of the verses, offering to reward the executioner with a pair of Birkenstock's, size 9-1/2, a bag of Goody unisex ponytail elastics and a $35 gift card redeemable at the website of a well-known Vegan e-tailer. This organization's harsh response led to the rhyming collection's current popular moniker, "The PETAnic Verses."

A disturbing aspect of The PETAnic Verses' accepted celebration of meat-eating are persistent rumors concerning a "lost" verse claimed to have been discovered but never released. This verse, supposedly the terminating rhyme that binds the others together (kind of like the "Lord of the Rings", huh?) into a collective definition of Humankind's ultimate position in the Universe, is said to be suppressed by a party, or by parties, unknown. Some experts charge that the United States Federal Government has buried the verse under a massive cover-up centered on Area 52 (that legendary black facility just down the road from Area 51 and next to the equally ultra-secret trailer park containing Area 69-and-a-half). Others blame the Council on Foreign Relations and Trilateral Commission; which certainly deserve condemnation, irregardless. Local legend in Manhattan reports that the "lost" verse was found on the sticky floor under a particular pair of seats in a Village movie theater. One thing is certain, the legendary lost couplets have never been published until now:

Aliens land and things are great.
They leave a book that we translate.
It's simply titled, "To Serve Man."
And serve they do, hot from the pan.

Again, there is no reason to associate Ginger Mullins with "The PETAnic Verses", separately or severally. However, it is very suspicious that this name invariably arises in discussions of the mysterious couplets (heck, it's been mentioned here twice already). Several experts in the field, while grudgingly granting the assumption of some theoretical innocence supposedly required by the American Constitution, steadfastly maintain that Ginger Mullins (third time) has complete and total knowledge of the verses and the circumstances of their origin.

To Be Continued

Chap. 9 - 'De Amazon Ain't Just a River in Brazil' - Pt.III

2008-02-01T00:00:00.002-05:00

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 9

De Amazon Ain't Just a River in Brazil

Part III - "Don't Let The Sun Go Down On Me"

(see Part 2)...Ginger revived beside the Blonde's body. The Amazons had carried their three fatalities from the fortress and placed them side-by-side at a shady turn of the creek. The wizard, who had laid Ginny next to her friend, now urged her to hurry and catch the others, who were quickly ascending the trail back to their horses -- he had other business to which he must fly. Put off by the Amazons' abandonment of their sisters, Gin had no wish to leave but the wizard assured her this was their way and she did as asked. Looking back through wet eyes she noticed the women had washed the bodies, wrapped each up to the chin in a sheet of their silken fabric and placed a cushion under each head.

The Amazons returned to their peaceful valley (not a soul tried running), struck camp and traveled the long way round back to the battleground. One reason for their assault concerned what the half-men kept in the fortress, which the wizard took care of. Another reason was that it commanded the road through this valley and the Amazons intended to travel to the rich towns upstream, spreading news of their liberation and recruiting a cohort of Amazons to garrison the fort. Again approaching the empty fortress the company passed the three bodies, still there in the shade. Ginny, in a pit of depression, rode close by but was discouraged from stopping. A ways up the road the first town, which had endured rough treatment from the brutes, erupted into celebration at the news. The inhabitants were just like Hobbits, if you can believe it, so there was no trouble between the resident males and the Amazons, who were welcomed heartily and quartered in the finest public house.

Surrounded by a drunken celebration in the pub's dining hall, Ginny was crying quietly in her beer, though the drink tasted more like alcohol infused coffee. She was jostled several times in the wild exuberance, but at one point someone started poking her hard in the ribs repeatedly. Figuring it was one of the munchkin hobbit-men prodding with his stubby finger, Ginny whirled round to give him a genuine New York City brush off when she saw the gold hair, provocative eyes, happy grin and near-naked body of the blonde Amazon. Turns out, the wizard could not negate the wounds of one too far from his aura but he could prevent the death. The seemingly dead women merely needed time to absorb their wounds and, with his help, restore their life energy. The other Amazons knew this but in their ignorance of what her grief was, didn't bother communicating it to Gin. The wizard didn't mention it because he enjoyed being perverse. Still, he had placed Ginny beside her companion because he sensed the extraordinary bond between the two and knew Ginny's proximity would speed the healing process so he wasn't a complete jerk about it.

Reunited with the Blonde, Ginny now joined the celebration by getting very drunk very fast, a particular talent of hers. With her head engulfed in a pleasant buzz, she grew reflective; first wondering whether she had walked into an extended episode of "Xena: Warrior Princess", and then pondering the irony of finding a comforting friend (no easy thing in her old world) in this strange new world she'd dropped into. Feeling the call of nature in the urgent way women do, she excused herself and headed for the privy. Touching the collar still round her neck, she could not deny the depth of her bond with the blonde Amazon and resolved to spill her soul to the woman in a most forthright manner. Smiling, Ginny remembered that old catchline "Denial ain't just a river in Egypt" as she pushed past the curtains serving as a door in this place and stepped into...

...a brightly lit Starbuck's restroom complete with gleaming toilet, sink, mirror and towel dispenser -- no woolly mammoth-like thingies, no expansive plain. Looking back the way she'd come, she saw only a closed Starbuck's restroom door. Looking forward she saw herself in the mirror, bare-chested and somewhat smudged, with a leafy twig knotted in her hair. Cursing fluently and lamenting her exit from that fantastic world -- better than multiple weeks spent last year in Cancun, London and some Caribbean island where a cellphone call cost $3.75 a minute -- Ginny broke down before the mirror and cried a river at the loss.

Why women follow each other to the restroom is unfathomable. My own theory is that deep in their brainstems women, as members of a competitive and predacious species, view all other women as rivals. Women instinctively accompany other women to restrooms with the subconscious intent of violently reducing the competition when it's most vulnerable. However after eons of socialization, women no longer have the conscious ability to strike once in position, so instead they gossip, preen and listen to each other pee. Or perhaps they just go there in packs to smell one another. Regardless, Ginny was in the midst of a heartwrenching sob when she heard a scrabble at the door, looked up in the mirror and saw the Blonde materialize through it.

They both smiled broadly. With a knowing hand, the gentle Amazon reached forward and smoothed the tangles from Ginny's chestnut hair...

Fin - Chapter 9

To Be Continued

Chap. 9 - 'De Amazon Ain't Just a River in Brazil' - Pt.II

2008-01-15T00:00:00.000-05:00

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 9

De Amazon Ain't Just a River in Brazil

Part II - "Stand By Me"

(see Part 1) ...With hands finally unbound, Gin found it easier to participate in this new world. Although the days consisted mainly of travel, riding in or walking beside the cart, the evening camps were a bustle of activity. Observing her guardian occupied with the many duties of a warrior, Gin tried to lighten the load by helping with some of the mundane chores she saw the woman perform. Her first effort in this direction was to help with the staple food the Amazon's prepared at night and ate at various times during the day. Having watched the Blonde prepare the dish; a round, flat, unleavened loaf smeared with a spicy goo, sprinkled with dark, chewy bits and baked till crisp in the fire -- which to her tasted, for all the world, like lizard gizzard pizza -- Gin offered to help with the task. The Blonde received this offer with a happy smile and beaming eyes. Gently explaining the process by soft words, hand gestures and pictures scratched in the sand, she quickly had Ginny performing all the necessary steps to perfection and they both greatly enjoyed preparing and consuming the result. With this success, Ginny made a point of offering help with any task she thought she could handle; pitching and striking camp, tending the fire, and furbishing equipment, including the Amazon's singularly shiny sword.

Aided by such interaction, the two quickly developed a rapport that transcended the barrier of incompatible speech; understanding was effected by gestures, expressions and quiet words that became a private language between the two. Their facile communion stemmed mainly from the Blonde's heightened ability to communicate, although such talent was not surprising since the Amazons, always in combat, led lives dependent on exchanging volumes of meaning tacitly.

Occasionally the Blonde would ride out on picket duty at night, leaving Gin to her own devices in the camp. One such night, as Gin attempted to sleep, naked, under the stars on a scruffy hide spread near her guardian's gear, she noticed the commandress of the troop squatting restlessly by the fire. Gin knew this Amazon, named Thay-zee, to be especially vulgar, with an insatiable appetite for sex play. Now in the flickering flames the Amazon's dark brown eyes glowed at Gin, who could see the woman was touching herself and making seductive tongue gestures. Gin tried to overlook the advances by feigning sleep but the Amazon eventually rose, swaggered over, lifted Ginny by the hair and regarded her with open lust. Deflecting her eyes to the side, Gin anticipated the rough press of lips against her own -- death to resist -- but the first kiss never came. Daring to look again, Ginny saw the Amazon now was staring down at her own chest, bewildered by the gleaming dagger hilt that had sprouted there between her breasts. The woman died with a roll of her eyes and folded in a heap at Ginny's feet. The Blonde walked up from where she had cast the blade, calmly drew it from the body, wiped it clean against the corpse's thigh and retired to her bedroll. The next morning the troop continued on its way with a new commandress.

On this day the topography of the prairie, which had been flat and featureless, began to change. To the trail's left a dark smudge appeared at the extreme horizon and eventually resolved into a band of hilly ground that, over the next days, steadily drew closer and higher until the company was skirting craggy outcrops. Gin had noticed a change in camp activity: patrols rode forward often, returning with artifacts that were discarded after examination; the Amazons often clustered in councils, though the discussions were unintelligible; and an elevated militarism bubbled to the surface, replacing the prior mask of carefree distraction. The Blonde spent most idle moments practicing with her weapons and Gin shared much time with her preparing armor, pointing arrows and edging blades. They even began ritualistic sparring together with light weapons, at first almost clownishly, but with increasing seriousness as Gin learned the choreography of the exercises. Gin, who always considered herself more an Athena than a Venus (but refrained from actually carrying shield and spear in Manhattan), delighted in the exhilaration of this training and responded well under the Blonde's encouragement. Eventually her protectress shared details of the imminent mission, storming a fortification held by brutish man-things that were something other than human or animal. One afternoon the blonde Amazon returned from a patrol leading a spare horse, which she presented to Gin with an invitation to ride with her from that moment on. And so Ginger found herself conscripted into a mounted troop of loin-clothed and bare-breasted Amazon warrior women; with long swords, stout bows and flowing hair, who meant to assault a fortress of brutal, apish man-things. Soon thereafter, the company made a permanent camp, well hidden in a peaceful valley just off the plain, and made final preparations. The captives (the fleeing woman being the only serious casualty) were manacled together and provided a supply of food and drink -- there was no concern over their flight. That night, fifteen battle-hardened Amazons and one spunky New Yorker rode out for battle.

The troop made a short, hard ride to a box canyon (no pun intended), dismounted and picked their way, fully armored, along a trail running up a ridge and descending into a narrow valley cut by a tumbling creek. Straddling most of the valley a short way upstream stood a stone fortress, it's high walls punctured by a fortified gateway. The Amazons halted at the end of the trail, which was shielded from the fortress, and waited. Gin was startled to perceive a dark figure materialize in their midst. This apparition was taller than the women and shrouded in a black hooded cloak; the glow of green eyes was the only evidence anything was really there under the garment. The entity radiated an aura of masculinity, which was reinforced by the low pitch of its voice in muted reply to the warriors' own whispered greetings. Though to Gin's knowledge the Amazons respected no man, they did this one. From her place beside Gin, the Blonde somehow managed to impress that this was their secret weapon, a wizard arriving to support the assault.

The next moment the group crept forward to attack the gateway. Gin saw things at the parapets looking toward but not seeing the Amazons; apparently the wizard was screening the party from observation as it advanced toward the arched stone entrance and that gate's stout door. The Blonde had just asked Gin to stay close by the wizard from now on, it was a place of absolute safety, when several Amazons hefting battle-axes moved forward to crouch in a line before the entrance. At a silent signal the warriors heaved their axes at the door where they embedded in a staggered line running to the top; then the Blonde left Gin's side, sprinted to the entrance, climbed the axes hand-over-hand and disappeared into a gap between the door and the arch. There was silence, then several strangled cries followed by mechanical clicks and whirs announcing release of the door and portcullis. Hinged at the bottom like a drawbridge, the door thundered to the ground with the rattle of heavy chains. As a body, the Amazons sprang through the entrance to strike their foe; the wizard and his new shadow followed closely. Passing through the gatehouse, Gin heard the sound of a massacre above as the Blonde easily dispatched the brutes swarming upon her along the ramparts. Once inside the walls, Gin got a close look at the defenders. They were hulking, hairy slobs, full of themselves and evil intent. Even looking at death incarnate, they hooted, beat their chests and taunted the Amazons -- in fact the drooling brutes reminded Gin of the Broker/Trader financial types she often saw near Wall Street. The Amazons were outnumbered at least ten to one but they remained in a tight unit and simply slaughtered everything around them. Gin thought the wizard must be having some influence, casting a protective aura about the band and accelerating the women amongst their foe. Several times she saw weapons seem to pass through a woman with no effect. Two or three times an Amazon who apparently had moved beyond the aura fell with potentially mortal wounds. The troop's violent attack quickly overwhelmed the enemy and in no time they were mopping up the remnants. With the heat of battle abating, Gin scanned for the Blonde, who was not near the wizard. Looking back, she saw her protectress unharmed outside the gatehouse, smiling, with her left arm outstretched in a wave. Raising her own hand to reply, Gin had a clear view as the crossbow bolt flit under the blonde Amazon's arm and skewered her chest, entering at the unprotected left armpit and exiting below the right shoulder blade. The momentum of the blow spun the woman round against the stone structure and a second bolt through the back transfixed her to the wall like a butterfly on display. The dark stains of death already soiled her loincloth.

In horror, grief and shock, Ginny crumpled at the wizard's feet. Stooping, he plucked her up and bore her easily as the Amazons annihilated the last resistance...(see Part 3)

To Be Continued

Chap. 9 - 'De Amazon Ain't Just a River in Brazil' - Pt.I

2008-01-01T00:00:00.000-05:00

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 9

De Amazon Ain't Just a River in Brazil

Part I - "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun"

It could have happened to anyone; no way could Ginger Mullins have known the door to the Starbuck's unisex restroom was a Trans-Dimensional Portal. On passing through, she expected to find the hot Italian who worked the espresso machine; what she got was something else entirely.

Figuring that one shouldn't see a broad plain with Woolly Mammoth-like thingies in a Starbuck's restroom, Gin drew back for the comfort of Manhattan behind her. Thing is... the Starbuck's, and everything else in New York City, was replaced by even more expansive plain. And the naked women emerging with drawn weapons from the cover of nearby brush probably weren't serving cappuccino to stylishly dressed and coiffured New Yorkers.

It seems that the young Italian, Serge, had preceded Ginger through the portal and arrived in the middle of an encamped troop of Amazon warriors who, after quickly subduing him, were just beginning to enjoy his company. Now Italian men may think they're God's gift to women but Amazons know they're the Goddess' gift to men; with the general attitude being to use 'em, then lose 'em. As there were sixteen of them but only one of him, Serge's libido soon drained and the majority of the company had to satisfy themselves by beating him with rawhide crops as he squirmed in the dust. That introduction was but the first of many humiliations the Italian would endure from the Amazons.

As for Gin, her appearance only briefly interrupted the Amazons' revelry with the Italian. She was captured and held, of course, but without abuse other than removal and distribution of most her clothing, which was strange and much coveted by her captors. Also, Ginny's hands were firmly bound with a tough silken cord. The other end of her tether was entrusted to one of the Amazons, a blonde, who was relaxing apart from the others in the cool grass under a shady tree. Aside from knowing she no longer had control, Gin was in no discomfort and smiled in reply to the occasional appraising glances the comely Blonde cast in her direction. Wise enough not to make trouble, she sat quietly near her guardian and looked around at her strange new world.

Meanwhile, the Italian often squealed like a pig as the women continued their entertainment.

As she acclimated to her captivity that first day, Gin studied her guardian. The blonde Amazon was attractive, with honey-colored hair, blue eyes and smooth alabaster skin. Her only clothing was a scant loincloth. She was taller than Ginny, with a slender, yet fully muscled frame. Her lips, colored pale pink like her nipples, were thin; her smile was modest but attractive and infectious nonetheless. The Blonde's tendency to punctuate her smile with a forward tilt of her head and wicked flash of bold eyes spoke volumes about her playful humor and provocative spirit. Her ears were fetchingly elvish and she often tucked her long golden hair behind them; in fact her cool eyes, high cheeks, lithe build and fair color hinted at a mixture of Human and Elven blood, if such things were possible -- Ginny fancied the contrast between this pale Amazon and her own nut-brown hue. The other Amazons' seemed to call the Blonde "Uhn-nuh."

When the Amazons struck camp to continue their trek, Ginny actually had it pretty good. Attached, like six other female captives, by her silky cord to a heavy metal chain strung behind a donkey cart, she walked, bare-foot and thirsty, across the dry prairie in her bra and panties. At least she wasn't freshly flogged, butt-naked, and yoked to the cart, pulling it with other men in lieu of a donkey, like her erstwhile assignation, Serge.

Later that day the Blonde rode up behind the cart, dismounted onto it, tied the reins to a cleat on the side, and sat at the rear so her legs dangled over the end. This Amazon had a tough demeanor but an easy, relaxed way evidenced by the playful back-and-forth swinging of her sandaled feet as the cart rocked along the dirt path. On seeing Gin stumble two or three times, she hopped down, cut the cord from the chain, motioned Gin to climb into the cart, jumped back in herself and returned to her seat. Gin, her back against the side of the cart, sat cross-legged a short distance from the Amazon, who idly toyed with the free end of the cord as she held it. The Blonde occasionally offered Ginny water from a bag slung from a shoulder strap passing between her naked breasts. Though traveling, bound, in a troop of savage women, Gin felt an inexplicable ease in the company of her guardian as they rolled across the plain. In this way, the day passed comfortably.

The company traveled on for several days. Gin, who was allowed to stay in the cart, was treated kindly if she didn't resist. The wisdom of demure behavior was impressed on her the second day when a captive tied to the chain -- apparently an Amazon from another band -- slipped her bindings and ran for it. Though the mounted women were widely spaced and seemingly oblivious, the escapee soon collapsed with a tight cluster of six slender arrows in the back; then one of the troop rode to the body, dismounted and sliced through its neck with a single singing sweep of sword. Observing this scene from the rear of the cart, Gin glanced to the side and saw the Blonde, who had unleashed one of the six arrows, in what had become her usual location, riding within earshot of the cart. On the fourth day the Blonde rode on the cart for a while as she had the first day. Seeing Gin's panties hopelessly tattered by the rough planks upon which they sat, the Blonde drew her horse up to the cart, reached into a bag for something and offered Gin a light loincloth to wear. Gladly wiggling from the shredded panties, she smiled as the Amazon tied the gift low round her hips -- This was the first time the two touched. That night, as camp was pitched, Gin's silken bindings, which were merely a symbolic leash, were replaced by an equally symbolic collar. This thick leather collar had pointed studs around the circumference and a metal ring securely riveted in front. The Blonde herself gently tied together the ends of the collar with a soft pink ribbon. Thereafter, at night her old cord was tied through the ring and the free end pinned to the ground near her guardian's bedroll. Gin felt strangely secure to be staked near the Blonde in this manner and suspected it was more a signal to the other Amazons than a gesture of captivity... (see Part 2)

To Be Continued

Chap. 8 - 'Jules et Gin' Pt. 2

2007-12-15T00:00:00.000-05:00

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 8

Jules et Gin

Partie Deux

(see Part 1) ...Jules subsequently was raised by his bachelor uncle Robert -- yes, Bob's his uncle -- who lived in Tours. At the time Robert's passion was the life of Charles (the Hammer) Martel, the illegitimate son of Pippin the Middle and his concubine Alpaida, who defeated the Moors at Tours in 732 (that is, Charles defeated them, not the lovely Alpaida).

Jules' paternal grandfather was captured northeast of Paris during the Fall of France and spent the war in Germany as a POW. He stayed in the army after the war and subsequently was killed in Indochina by one of those nasty Viet-Minh bamboo booby traps.

Jules' maternal grandfather was a minor Vichy official who was arrested by the Free French shortly before the end of the war and spent some time in prison for his rather unavoidable collaboration with the Germans. After his release he moved his family, including Yvonne, from their home in Algeria to France when the trouble started. He invested in a winery and spent the rest of his life in relative affluence.

Jules studied at L'Ecole Technique in Tours, graduated from the University of Paris as an Engineer and decided to study law at Cornell. His family was well-to-do, thanks to his mother's inheritance and his father's investments in telecommunications and German industrial corporations, so they could well afford to splurge on his whims. He really just wanted to come to America to play and make useful contacts...

Jules also has some fairly close relations in Quebec, whom he visits occasionally.

Gin met Jules at a Frat party. . .Delta House or something. . .on the 5th of November, 2004. She maintained a casual acquaintance afterwards, mainly just running into him at Starbuck's. . .once with her car, actually.

Although he is not interested in Gin sexually (leaves more for the rest of us), he shares several interests with her, not the least of which is ladies' fashion. They both know some of the same models in the NYC scene.

He also is a cross dresser. Moreover, Jules sees no humor in the "French Castle" scenes of the movie "Monty Python and the Holy Grail."

Jules took up smoking as a teenager, mainly just to be cool, but stopped soon after his 19th birthday because it affected his endurance in the amateur bicycle racing that had become his obsession shortly before that time. He drinks like a fish.

On coming to America Jules made a point of buying the gaudiest American car he could find. He drives a red Ford 350 Crew-Cab Pickup truck that gets 11 mpg in city and 15 mpg in highway driving. It could have been a Hummer but that tired cliche clashed with the quirkiness central to Jules' character. The point is for his car to be something no one expects a Frenchman ever to want and everyone knows all Frenchmen love hummers.

At Starbuck's all Jules orders is a large, black House-Blend coffee. He feels the coffee at Starbuck's is worse than mediocre (this isn't legendary French snobbery. . .the coffee at Starbuck's really is worse than mediocre) but he goes there anyway because there's always a crowd he can work to his advantage. He often poses as Euro-trash.

Two of Jules' great-grandfathers were killed at Verdun in World War I -- oddly enough. . .by each other -- oddlier still. . .on different days.

Another great-grandfather actually fought on the German side. He was French but got confused in all the excitement and enlisted in the wrong army -- He always had a lousy sense of direction. No one held the treason against him very long. . .he was released from prison in 1925 and by 1932 family, friends and neighbors all had forgiven him. Eventually when the subject arose everyone got a good giggle over his dopey mistake during "The Great War" (World War I). They joked, with prophecy probably unintended, that he'd learned his lesson and wouldn't make that same mistake again. And he didn't at the outbreak of World War II ("The Even Greater War"). But alas he was caught up in a Vichy sweep of "volunteers" for German industry and spent the duration in Munich making Coo Coo clocks, apparently a vital war resource for the Nazis.

Just to round out the history, Jules' fourth great-grandfather was an Irish World War I pilot in the Royal Air Corps who had an affair with, and knocked up, Jules' fourth great-grandmother (she liked this wiggle thing he did right at the end, especially when she wiggled back) although she, a French woman, was married to a quite inattentive Frenchman working at the French Colonial Department. The scandal was know to the family but hushed and never discussed. The cuckold husband, the ersatz great-grandfather, was later discovered in bed with another man by that man's wife, who shot them both dead where they lay using a Colt's .44 40 Peacekeeper revolver. She managed to avoid the guillotine and in fact, was acquitted at her trial. The revolver had been a gift to someone in her family from 'Buffalo Bill' Cody during a performance of his famous Wild West Show on European tour.

The man-killing wife's name was Sophia Helene DeCarlo and she had red hair. Sophia killed the two with just one shot -- preoccupied at the time, they didn't notice she'd entered the room. It was a Tuesday.

Gin figured her dad might suspect the bachelor uncle, Robert, who raised Jules after he lost his parents, also was homosexual. In fact this is not the case. Rather the unfortunate Robert was, and still is, an eunuch thanks to a tragic accident at l'ecole when a classmate, a best friend, accidentally sliced Robert's testicles off with a Napoleonic era sword the friend had brought to school to share with the class -- He shared rather too much of it with Robert. The sword had been carried in the wars by his friend's ancestor, who was an admired officer, named Guy, on Napoleon's staff. Robert's puberty had advanced sufficiently for him to develop and retain some manly traits but he never was the same afterward and didn't marry. To this day no one really knows what happened. Jules' Uncle Robert has no memory of the event and his friend, realizing what he'd done, went quite mad.

In reaction to the accident, which received some press, the French government enacted legislation forbidding the removal of Napoleonic era swords from their scabbards in French public schools and libraries. Scabbardless Napoleonic era swords could not be taken to school at all. The day the story hit the papers it was rainy in Paris, with a hope of clearing skies toward evening.

Although during the French Revolution Jules' ancestors were a mixed bag of Royalist and Republican, in the Napoleonic Wars the ones left were all staunchly pro-Napoleon. . .funny how that works out.

Jules' current paramour... actually for the last 5 months or so... is named Travis Astor. He's a cowboy type from a big-time ranching and wheat farming family in Manhattan who is studying business. . .that is, the kind of finance stuff Broker/Traders do.

Until 5 months ago Travis believed he was straight -- as did we all. And until that time he had a girlfriend. . .a beautiful and engaging young fox with ready smile and flashing brown eyes from New York City; she has a studio apartment near where Seinfeld and Kramer live. However Travis was inept around women; wavering between clueless and Victorian when push came to shove, so to speak, in the relationship (if you get my drift). After Travis was spectacularly dumped (with due cause) by his girlfriend in an Oscar-worthy performance precipitated by a particular moment of relationship incompetence, Jules stumbled across the wreckage somehow and they've been bosom buddies ever since. It's a wonder, though, how a guy who didn't know what to do with a woman in a short skirt does know what to do with a dude in the same outfit. (...but now I'm lost myself -- is Travis made-up or real? I think he's real.)

Jules once admonished Gin for the "ambiguous use of pronouns" in her conversation. She found this criticism unacceptably cheeky. . .especially coming from HER figment. . .and she cooled their acquaintance for a short while to drive home the point.

Anywho, she tested the Jules identity with several school friends to see if the profile held water, which it did in buckets. In fact -- though they never met him -- everyone liked Jules better than any of the real people they knew, which is a sad commentary on her friends but a big tribute to Gin's imagination. Not surprisingly one friend, someone or other's roommate, claimed to know he wasn't a bit gay because she already had slept with him several times and he was hot.

To Be Continued

Chap. 8 - 'Jules et Gin' Pt. 1

2007-12-01T00:00:00.000-05:00

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 8

Jules et Gin

Partie Un

There is nothing remarkable about the so-called "Imaginary Friends" of childhood. Sprogs, Ankle-Biters and Rugrats of all stripes and persuasions routinely conjure these figments from the collective subconscious for whatever reasons. No indeed, there's nothing at all remarkable about imaginary friends. And even if there were something remarkable about imaginary friends, it's impossible to assess the damage such apparitions may do to the afflicted Sprog because by the time the "friend" appears no one can reconstruct what the Brat's normal life would've been had it never been imagined... Once conjured, the damage has been done. Yes, it definitely may be as much as 65% certain there is no harm done by such flights of fancy, assuming of course that it is a fancy and not some Pan-Dimensional Being, Super-Intelligent Space Alien or outright Demon that is trying to hijack the Rugrat's psyche for it's own nefarious agenda, like in that Star Trek episode (starring William Shatner as Captain Kirk).

However, Ginny's imaginary friend WAS remarkable because she was 21 and in second year at Cornell Law when Jules first made his appearance.

[Author's Note: Truthfully, it's unfair to juxtapose the first silly discussion of the proverbial "Imaginary Friend" of childhood with the second unrelated discussion of an identity Ginny allegedly made up. The first discussion segues expertly into the second as if they are related, and by this association, the absurd flavor of the first permeates the second, adding to it an unwarranted taste of the ridiculous. Probably there is a scholarly lawyer term that I don't know for such tricks of rhetoric.

In fact, the entire exercise is a skillful ploy to be funny. Probably there is also a scholarly comedic term that I don't know for such tricks of humor.

Yet cleverly twisting or better still, completely fabricating the truth is my way. And like the guy said in that 'Dangerous Liaisons' movie, "It's beyond my control" anyways...]

Jules grew from a discussion Ginny had with a particular friend (who's identity is irrelevant, especially if it was me) concerning that person's desire to know Gin's father's opinion of certain Wall Street investments. Everyone knows that Mr. Mullins, though staunchly recalcitrant, is a Certified Genius with the Midas touch -- like Lex Luthor.

As anyone with casual knowledge of Sherlock Holmes, M. Poirot or Nero Wolfe knows, one must be circumspect when dealing with geniuses because they quickly deduce everything from one or two facts and wind up knowing all your business, even what happened in the elevator. (I know this for a fact, as I do it all the time myself.) So Gin was wary of just coming out and asking her father's opinion on anything since one could fill a large Japanese trawler with tuna using all the cans of worms it opens. Besides what's the point of studying law if one's going to approach things in a simple, direct and open manner; that's the way engineers do things.

Sitting there with her friend, mulling over the request, Gin figured she could start by asking her father if he thinks a person... without naming names... should put money into Google now that it's pulled back some or if it's better to wait because it's going to drop even more. Then under the inevitable pressure of his interrogation -- at such times being prepared and not blinking are paramount -- she could drop a name. . .Jules. . . which just popped into her head, as random names often do.

Working through the scenarios she figured the next time her dad called -- for whatever, maybe to ask if she had the 24K service done on the Beemer -- she'ld open with something along the lines of, "No I didn't get it serviced because the dudes at the dealership undress me with their eyes. By the way. . .Google has dropped quite a bit lately. Do you think it will recover and if so, is this the low or will it drop more before jumping back up."

He might say, "Well, with the skimpy skirts you wear I can't imagine it takes much for anyone's eyes to remove them. But surely you aren't interested in investments. . .why are you asking?"

Artfully controlling the conversation, she replies "Ah well... Yes I am interested but actually I was going by Starbuck's where I ran into my friend..."

He interjects, "OHMYGOD WITH YOUR CAR!!"

She continues, "NO, NOT with my car! ...My old friend, Jules, an exchange student from France that I know (whom, for those already lost in the intrigue, she made up), and he was talking about Google and it got me interested, what with it's spectacular rise and fall. And anyways, I can't just be a pretty face and sweet smile my whole life (...as her adoring father, he ignores rather than concedes this point)."

Undoubtedly he would respond, "Is this Jules a boyfriend?"

And she shrewdly moves her next chess piece, "Oh No... no way. He's homosexual." In his mind this changes Jules from being a person that he might actually have to meet someday to a theoretical entity. . . the kind of young dude a daughter's father can really like.

At this point Ginny assured her friend she just needs to sit back and take copious notes as her dad waxes expansively on his profound understanding of Google's potentiality.

Then she would add, "And you know, the girl behind the counter at Starbuck's, who by the way must weigh at least 300 lbs., was talking about the New York Stock Exchange IPO... Is that something to jump on now? Because when she mentioned it, a guy behind the counter, I think his name was Seth, said that the Chicago Mercantile Exchange went public a few years ago and it's stock has soared 3 or 4 times in the last year or two."

And again he would expound, up and down, about these investments. In closing he might even let slip the prospective release date for "Doom 4." It was a most cunning plan -- a piece of cake or as Brits say, Robert's your father's brother. Ginny beamed in all her sagacious splendor.

But the more she thought about it -- brainstorming the many scenarios and wheels within wheels -- the more she believed the character of this phantom French person should be expanded in case of probing questions during the cross-examination. In this way Jules was born...

His full name is Jules Claude Moulin. He is 5'10" with curly auburn hair and green eyes. He wears contact lenses and has one front tooth expertly capped as a result of tripping on a cobble stone at the age of 12 during a visit to Rheims with his family.

His father is named Henri Claude Moulin and his mother, Yvonne Marie -- with the maiden name DuArtie. She had her tits "done" in the 70's. . .pretty good work for that era, although a tad too firm.

During a holiday trip to Spain in the 1990's, both of his parents were killed in the explosion of a bomb planted by Basque Separatists. The Bomb was built by Stephan Catillia and left in a bag beside a Post Office by Carlos Sanchez. Afterwards Sanchez agonized over the bombing because he'd slipped the phone number of a really hot chick he met that day in the bag without thinking and it was blown to bits... (see Part 2)

To Be Continued

Chap. 7 - ' Thanks for the Memories' Pt. II

2007-11-15T00:00:00.000-05:00

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 Duos

(see Part I) ...Fortunately for Gin sea captains invariably are proud of their vessels and the captain of this ship lunged at any opportunity to show it off and brag. In no time at all he was escorting his distinguished passenger, a balding Roman Senator named Donalcus Trumpio, through the ship. As the pair strutted below deck between the rows of oars the Senator fancied he recognized someone seated beside a particularly stupid-looking Greek... ...Gin Ben-Her, buck-naked but for a rag stylishly draped low at the hips, had just started to break a sweat sweeping an oar in time to the catchy two-note tune played loudly on the big drum by a hugely barrel-chested guy when a guard approached, removed her chains and escorted her to a cabin in the First-Class section of the ship (where she'd thought she belonged all along). Skillfully guided through the doorway by a rude kick to the bum, Gin blinked at the occupant as he motioned her to draw closer.

A few questions confirmed Trumpio's suspicion that Gin, indeed, was related to his old college roommate at Athens University, ol' Ken Ben-Her, Gin's father -- Several years ago Ken journeyed with a large caravan to Parthia where he disappeared and was figured dead (originating the popular catch phrase "They Killed Kenny!"). With much batting of brown eyes and shaking of luxuriant tresses Gin explained her current predicament; which Trumpio waved off as the merest trifle. Swearing a massive oath that in her place he would have heaved Mullincles at Phallus, the Senator gave every indication that Gin's life soon would resume its prior positive track. While telling Gin about the time her father had gotten a particularly nerdy underclassman named Archimedes drunk and sold him into slavery a commotion broke out all about the ship. Rushing to the top deck Trumpio and Gin saw the ship was swarming with Sicilian pirates. Six of the thugs immediately fell upon the Senator with every intention of killing him and, incidentally, ending the prospect of Gin's restoration. She also saw the pirates were looting the ship's cargo, large crates of Victoria's Specialis merchandise, her favorite knickers. ...Now bullying her father's old school chum is one thing, but coming between Gin Ben-Her and haute couture is suicide.

Although she preferred the traditional weapon of her ancestors -- the House of Her long ago elevated the cleaving of skulls with jaw bones of asses to an art form -- she grabbed what was at hand, the ubiquitous Roman short sword. In a whirl of action that anticipated the Bruce Lee Gung-Fu movies by two millennia, Gin quickly sliced, diced and pureed her way through the toughs hectoring Trumpio and then laced into the others as they fled back to their vessel after dropping the loot helter-skelter. Resolved to avenge such vulgar treatment of accoutrement, Gin rallied the ship's crew to a blood-drinking frenzy and, like locusts, they flowed en masse onto the pirate ship where. . .in the extreme biblical sense. . .they smote every single living thing aboard. White with shock, Trumpio stared agog at the curvaceous dynamo responsible for bathing the decks of two large ships in more blood and bodies than the apocalyptic final level of the blockbuster video game, "Doom 3." Her anger abated, Gin Ben-Her again batted pretty eyes and waved demurely.

Needless to say Senator Trumpio was much impressed by Kenny Her's little girl and for the remainder of the voyage Gin was treated like a princess. Once in Rome Trumpio revealed his desire to adopt Gin as his child and heir. Such adoptions were common among Romans, though this instance was complicated by several laws and traditions limiting adoptions to sons. However, Gin had no problem with assuming the identity of a man. She always liked short skirts, fancying the feel of fresh air passing between her warm thighs with particular relish, and would prefer the short male tunic to her long womanly fashions. So in no time at all the deed was done; Gin Ben-Her bobbed her hair, added the surname Trumpio and assumed a male identity in public (she used the name Jim).

The Senator also offered to do something nice for Mullincles but all he could suggest for the hapless Greek was to take him on in his kitchen. Foreseeing death slathered thick all over this idea, Gin replied it would be best if Mullincles was just released from his oar and allowed to melt into the Roman Rabble. Shortly thereafter Gin and her new daddy stood on the front steps of his palace and watched, with relief, as the departing Mullincles blended into the milling mob and moved with it down the Appian Way. One could almost see misfortune, misery, misadventure and mayhem trailing in his wake, like a line of baby ducks.

...Although it would be a score of centuries before the scummy puddle of Mullincles' gene pool was flushed sufficiently for the House of Her, this was not the last the Hers saw of the Mullincleses...

Now a Roman citizen, Gin frequently returned to her hometown for long visits. On her first return she was relieved that the reported infections of her mother and sister with leprosy were, in fact, just severe cases of scabies they contracted from Mullincles. And a year or so later she was delighted when returning to be greeted by her lost father, who had emerged suddenly from the desert fit as a fiddle. Turns out that during a rave celebrating the caravan's arrival at the Parthian capitol, he had returned to his rooms for a nap. Feeling peckish upon awakening, he searched his belongings for a snack and had been either foolish or drunk enough to consume some stuffed grape leaves that Mullincles had made and packed for him. Relieved of his memory and sanity by the resulting illness, Ken Ben-Her wandered Asia in a delirious ramble that made Ulysses' Odyssey look like a stroll across the Boston Common. Years later he awoke from dementia to find himself completely bare-assed and humping his way in alphabetical order through the Emperor of China's huge harem - he was up to the "X's"...again. Thanking the Emperor for his hospitality, Ken immediately beelined back home.

So now she had two adoring fathers who, though fast friends, competed fiercely to make Gin Ben-Her's life as happy as possible.

Epilogue

Ginger Mullins returned to sensibility with a start, as if a balloon had popped. Although the flashback of her ancestor's memories had spanned mere moments, two or three minutes at most, her frozen posture was attracting attention, especially from the fat girl behind the counter. Unfortunately Ginny's original casual glance at this person had matured into an unintended blank stare and to Gin's horror, the morbidly obese woman now was responding with flirtatious winks of an eye and lips pursed into coy blown kisses. On rising to leave, Ginger also was mortified to see the coffee she'd held so long in mid-sip had dribbled in her lap, looking vaguely like she'd peed her ADolce & Gabbana pants. Wondering why these things always happened to her, she exited the Starbuck's by the closest door.

As for Mullincles, he headed north (something hard to do from Rome on the Appian Way). After inadvertently unleashing a series of events in Gaul amongst the Franks and Germans eventually culminating in World War II, he headed farther north still. In the end he settled in (or was chased to) Hibernia, that Emerald Isle one over from Britannia, where he took a wife and badly piddled the pool with progeny.

To Be Continued

Chap. 7 - ' Thanks for the Memories' Pt. I

2007-11-01T00:00:00.000-04:00

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)

To Be Continued

Chap. 6 - 'Seinmullins'

2007-10-15T00:00:00.000-04:00

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 6

Seinmullins

In New York City Ginger Sue Mullins hangs her thong in a one-bedroom, one-bath apartment she keeps on Manhattan's Upper West Side. If one is hell-bent on living in the heart of a reinforced-concrete snake pit, then this abode is a nice enough place.

From the perspective of a hypothetical TV audience Ginny's NYC apartment is laid out with a large multipurpose living area in the center and to the left, and with a small kitchenette on the right. To the extreme left is the apartment building's outer wall, with a double window looking out on some Manhattan street. The windows have the old style, wide venetian blinds. Old fashioned cast iron radiators sit under the two windows and a desk with Ginny's IBM thinkpad on it fills the corner beyond windows. In the foreground the living area has a small sofa, a coffee table and a large TV on a low stand. However, one rarely notices the TV unless it happens to be part of the action in the apartment. Eventually the sofa grouping came to include an end table with a lamp and upholstered chair. To the extreme right, the kitchenette is bound by the inner wall of the apartment. On the other side of that wall is the apartment building's corridor. Looking from the elevator at one end of this corridor, the apartment is on the left at the opposite end. The apartment number is "5 A." The kitchenette has cabinets along the wall, usually filled with Ginny's cereal collection, an island in the foreground separating the main living area from the kitchenette and a refrigerator in the background. The kitchen seems vestigial, as if largely unused for cooking or other productive work -- As if the kitchen's only purpose is to be a place to stand that isn't the living area. The door to the apartment, with the typical Manhattan collection of locks, is behind the refrigerator nook. In the extreme central background is an alcove that leads to the bathroom, which can be seen into on direct line of sight beyond the alcove entry. The bathroom window looks directly into a brick wall. There is more of a hint, rather than hard evidence, that the bedroom door is on the alcove's left side wall. When looking into the alcove along the centerline of the apartment, the bedroom cannot be perceived. People rarely, if ever, see inside the bedroom and not much ever happens there. A bicycle hangs from the ceiling in the alcove and in the main living area, against the wall to the left of the alcove's entry, is a bookcase filled with Ginger's stereo components and entertainment media.

On reflection, the proportions of the apartment seem out of whack, with the angles between the walls greater than 90 degrees, as if the whole thing was constructed on a stage with a foreground of extreme width that diminishes to a narrow background.

Ginny's life in her apartment always has seemed strangely episodic rather than progressing in a continuum; the closest analogy would be a weekly television sitcom. These episodes revolve around tableaus of the antic interactions among a small cast consisting of Ginny and her three particular friends: Wayne Bemes, a former lover but now platonic friend; Georgina Costamza, whom she's known since high school (or before), and Kramner, the lovably odd neighbor across the hall.

The following personal profiles provide insight to these friends of Gin's:

Wayne Bemes - Like Ginny, much of Wayne's life revolves around trying to arrange relationships with attractive individuals, although some of his last longer than Ginny's. His most memorable is his on-again, off-again relationship with a boy named Sue, whose parents were big Johnny Cash fans. He has held jobs as an "Idea Man" for Little Golden Book Publishing, a copy writer for Adam and Eve Adult Toy Catalog (specializing in dildo descriptions), and a personal assistant to the wealthy Ms. Carley Simon, who according to Donald Trump had the chutzpah to live in a rent-controlled apartment. Wayne and Gin dated and broke-up, but remain good friends. The couple rekindled their romance after watching the "Seinfeld" episode entitled "The Deal" and they slept together (to save their friendship, which was deteriorating due to the revelation that Wayne faked his orgasms while they dated) after watching "The Mango" from that same series. The relationship reverted to platonic in both instances without any significant explanation.

Wayne is from Maryland (isn't he lucky), went to Princeton University (his luck is boundless) and usually works as a writer-editor. Wayne is most often a victim of circumstance, usually coming into conflict with inadequate boyfriends or the arbitrary demands of his eccentric employers. He usually is fairly apathetic to the problems of others, unless of course they affect him directly. He can be surprisingly ruthless, and seems to be inwardly bitter about the state his life is in (which is New York, so the feeling is understandable). In a discussion about what he had wanted to be when he grew up, Wayne once said he didn't remember, but "it wasn't this." He also occasionally remarks that he needs to find new friends, but try as he may to fit in, usually they reject him. He also is known for his unusual, spastic dancing style, described by Georgina as a "full body dry heave".

Georgina Costamza - A short, stocky, slow-witted woman who, inexplicably, is balding. The neurotic Georgina is a self-loathing, pathological liar domineered by her parents, Frank and Estelle. She is also best friends with Ginny, and seems to have been so since their school years. She has held many jobs, including that of Starbuck's latte-foamer and assistant to the fluffer for porn star Ron Jeremy. She also worked briefly as president of Cornell Law School, was a mechanic at the BMW dealership in Ithaca, NY, and nearly acquired a job as a bra saleswoman for a friend of her father's. Georgina also was a hand model for less than a day.

Her relationships with men always have been unsuccessful, although ironically, her most disastrous relationship, an engagement to a woman named Susan was one of the few that ended "well" for Georgina. She feared marriage and the death of Susan bailed her out, although Susan's parents continued to torment her after there daughter's demise. Her talents include lying, the video game Frogger, parallel parking, finding good deals, making "good" time, knowing whether someone's uncomfortable at a party, the ability to recall the best public rest room near a given location in Manhattan, and the ability to correctly spell unusual last names. She also has excellent hearing.

Georgina often manufactures elaborate deceptions at work or in her relationships, usually to gain or maintain some small or imagined advantage. Most of Georgina's reprehensible actions are the result of taking the advice of others too seriously. For example, Ginny once jokingly suggested she should only do the opposite of what her instinct tells her, as her instincts seem to lead only to misfortune. This comment led Georgina to try and center her whole life around the principle. Her disastrous engagement to Susan also began with a remark made by Ginny. (In fact it was the result of an impulsive pact for both to plunge into matrimony with the persons they were seeing at the time.). Thus it is arguable that Georgina is not really a bad person, but just easily swayed by others. Coincidentally, many of Georgina's predicaments mirror those that Larry David, of "Seinfeld" and "Curb Your Enthusiasm" fame, had found himself in at one point or another in his own life. For example, Georgina once quit her job in a fury only to realize her actions were a mistake. She goes back the next day as if nothing happened; which, remarkably, is identical to an incident when Larry David, working as a writer for Saturday Night Live, quit and returned to his job in the same manner. That's some coincidence, huh?

Kramner - Tall, wild-haired, and almost always wearing pants too short for her, Kramner is the most eccentric and animated of Ginny's friends. Looking even more like an over-grown weed than Emilia Earhart, Kramner often enters Ginny's apartment by violently swinging open the door and sliding into the room unexpectedly. For the first six years Ginny had her apartment Kramner's first name was unknown; once her full name was revealed by her mother, Babs Kramner, everyone forgot it. I think it was something like "Cosmo", but I might have it mixed up with the magazine. Initially, Kramner was referred to as "Kessler" by Ginny, but no one knows why... It's not as if Kramner was a TV show character based on a real person and the writers were concerned in the pilot that person might object to use of the name. -- Again coincidentally, "Seinfeld" co-creator Larry David had a New York neighbor named Kenny Kramer, which sounds lots like Kramner but there is no connection.

Kramner has been perpetually unemployed after going on strike from a bagel shop that she worked at before meeting Ginny. Nine years after meeting Ginny, Kramner briefly goes back to work at the shop after six years of striking only to go back on strike a few days later. She frequently pursues hare-brained, money-making schemes -- nearly all of them her own invention. Despite the failure of the majority of these schemes and her unwillingness even to apply for a normal job, she always seems to have more than enough money when she needs it; once George made a comment about Kramner "falling ass-backward into money", suggesting she could have inherited some money or won some kind of lottery, but there is no evidence to support this theory. Kenny Kramer, the previously mentioned neighbor of Larry David's, supported himself with the residual profits that he earned from a patent that he developed in the 1970s for the disco ball. At one point when Ginny was being audited, Kramner stated that she had stopped paying taxes years ago, prompting Ginny to quip "that's easy when you have no income".

One of the more popular of Ginny's friends, Kramner is often described as an "action character" who draws onlookers with her wild and unusual antics in a display of skillful physical comedy. She usually enters Ginny's apartment very suddenly, bursting through the door, sometimes hitting someone. In contrast to the other friends, her eccentricities lead her to be almost always painfully honest. She is friends with another acquaintance of Ginny's named Newman, who had a supporting role as dinosaur chow in the mega-hit movie, "Jurassic Park". It always is very funny when Ginny and Newman meet because she invariably acknowledges his presence by sneering the name, "Newman", with a hilarious tone of disgust as if she just met a cockroach -- but that would be impossible because this isn't even that book.

Kramner's Inventions and Ideas

1.) A coffee table book about coffee tables. The book has diminutive fold-out legs so it looks like a coffee table when set on a coffee table.
2.) A pizza place where you make your own pizza from scratch.
3.) Cologne that smells like the beach.
4.) The Bro, a bra for men with man-boobs.

[Author's Note: I must thank Wikipedia for feeding my plagiaristic mill. . .although actually acknowledging the act and citing the source in advance perhaps dilutes the spirit of intellectual theft -- For that I apologize.]

To Be Continued

Chap. 5 - 'Silence of the Care Bears'

2007-10-01T00:00:00.000-04:00

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 5

Silence of the Care Bears

Ginger Mullins had several surreal experiences while attending Cornell Law School. One such interlude occurred during Second Year Spring Break...

Carefully observing the legal speed limit and keeping both hands on the wheel, Ginger drove down a narrow country lane through a dark and empty corner of upstate New York. Her seatbelt was securely fastened and she neither made nor answered cell phone calls while driving, because to have done otherwise was against the law. Not coincidentally an Alien spacecraft -- which, after several years of intricate planning and many decades of travel, had crossed trillions of miles at the speed of light (12 million miles per minute and that's the fastest speed there is) specifically to enable the vessel's crew to pluck her (as opposed to anyone else, say Carly Simon) from a dark-green BMW convertible (as opposed to any other type of vehicle, like a yellow Yugo) -- skimmed behind her totally trashing several local, State and Federal ordinances as it went...

...Securing her to a table by means she did not know and could not understand, the Aliens rudely shone bright, unflattering lights in her eyes from above and got their lame Super-Intelligent Alien jollies doing all kinds of weird stuff, including; stripping her naked, making small incisions in the skin, removing strange stuff from her body, inserting even stranger stuff, poking and prodding, extracting several eggs while giggling at a joke one of their number made in poor taste at her expense and scaring her out of her wits as she lay helpless, rather dazed, and wondering what was going on and why on earth any sentient being would travel so far to do it.

It was what they saw as the Inner-cranial Neural-synapse Flocculator sifted through her memories that so upset the Aliens they dropped everything, Gin included, and beelined back to their home world, carefully reweaving the fabric of space in their wake to keep any Earthling from ever knowing who they were, where they were from or where they went.

Now again in her car, which the terrified Aliens had washed, hot-waxed and meticulously detailed, Gin continued driving in strict adherence to the law, passing trees and occasional opossums, with no conscious memory of an interruption. She knew not that when the Super-Intelligent Aliens saw her ingrained ancestral memories of distant kinfolk brutally clobbering enemies with the jawbones of asses, they laughed as if watching a Three Stooges' short. With the Flocculator on fast-forward, they yawned through countless gruesome images, both inherent genetic memories and history Gin had absorbed, without a care in the world. Even on reviewing her impressions of World Wars I and II, the Aliens smirked amongst themselves at such puny manifestations of mayhem.

However... when they came to the tantrum eight-year-old Ginger threw at a Toys-R-Us when her father refused repeated demands for a Barbie doll she craved in a particular way, several Aliens nervously cleared their throats. The one who earlier had made her the butt of his crude joke paled visibly, excused himself, retired to his cabin and moved a heavy chest of drawers against the door. -- Coincidentally, her father had incorporated his own recollection of her behavior that day into one of the more manic and difficult levels of his popular video game, Doom. Then when the Aliens saw the stark predation and lust with which an older Gin shopped for expensive designer fashions, they squirmed in their seats and glanced sheepishly at each other. But it was after they fished out an obscure memory, hidden deep in her brain stem, that the Alien's went ape-shit with fear. No sentient being would trifle with a race possessing gods clothed in such mind-warping pastel colors, uttering such high-pitched abusive sounds, bearing such fearsome hallmarks... rainbows, flowers, puffy clouds... on their bodies and capable of Olympian acts such as making Timmy care that his ill-considered words hurt little Chrissy's feelings. Caution was warranted all the more with a species comprised of members as mercurially passionate as this specimen they'd collected. In despair each of the Super-Intelligent Aliens loudly damned the ancestors who conceived their cursed mission. Many wanted to make Gin their queen and expend the balance of their lives in service to her. But cooler heads prevailed and they all just plain got the hell out of Dodge.

Driving on, unaware that once more she had thwarted Humanity's annihilation, Ginger spied a cafe and stopped to eat; ordering liver, with some fava beans and a nice Chianti.

To Be Continued

Chap. 4 - '12 Angry Men Meet One Pissed Woman'

2007-09-15T00:00:00.000-04:00

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 4

12 Angry Men Meet One Pissed Woman

Ginger took to law like a raccoon to garbage pails. After coming across the second volume of Sir William Blackstone's four-volume "Commentaries on the Laws of England", she taught herself the law... before leaving High School. Initially stymied by an inability to pass a bar without going in -- and staying for several hours -- she finally passed the bar exam by selecting each answer with her eyes closed. It also helped that she bought several rounds for the house and was drunk herself. She considered moving to Springfield, Illinois and practicing law with Stephen T. Logan, just like Abraham Lincoln, but ever the iconoclast, she decided instead to attend the elite Cornell Law School in a brazen experiment to evaluate that institution's ability to teach law. She found they did an adequate job, although the cafeteria salad bar could have been better.

Ginger's first case, which was tried during the week of winter vacation in her junior year at Ayn Rand High School, caused a local sensation. Her client was a lady who had bitch-slapped and emasculated a shoe clerk that, at the time, had the balls to insist she try a size 9 Rene Caovilla sandal when she had said she wore a 7-1/2. Needless to say he no longer had those balls and Gin, incensed by such gauche, made it her "raison d'etre" to prove the act of removing them was completely justified.

Knowing of Gerry Spence and his trademark fringed leather coat, Gin decided to establish a signature outfit from the start. Briefly considering Oshkosh overalls, she finally settled on Day-Glo pink boob-tube, Hawaiian-print string bikini bottom and Cornell logo flip-flops. Far from being found in contempt when appearing in court thus attired, the judge, who was a closeted cross-dresser, bought the same outfit after the trial and secretly modeled it in his chambers for the bailiff and court reporter.

Gin's court manner was a mixture of the blind aggression and mindless bloodlust of her early Celtic forebears tempered with the stealth, surprise and mindless bloodlust of the Viking raiders who had introduced themselves, intimately, to her Irish kinswomen. ...She felt it better never, ever, to tap the passions of the Balkan side of her family.

Just to be perverse, she arranged for an all-male jury; twelve ostensibly honest citizens who had no idea what lay before them. As the trial unfolded, suffice it to say that Ginny not only had them eating out of her hand, they were trained to the leash, would do clever tricks at voice command, and were reliably housebroken. And although in her summation she did not specifically threaten anyone present with the massive claymore used by her Celtic ancestors to separate the heads from Englishmen, she did mention four times that it was outside in her car.

In the end these twelve men, who started the trial genuinely happy with the world, quickly transcended anger and settled on blind fury for the injured clerk. After the first ballot the jury reported that there was one holdout juror, whom they had hog-tied and gagged. After the second ballot they passed a note to the judge asking that the shoe clerk be sent to the jury room so they could kill him. At this point the judge felt obliged to give the jury additional instructions to the effect that the mob forming outside in the streets would deal with the clerk if he left the building alive, and after the third ballot, the defendant was acquitted, given treble damages and awarded the Nobel Peace Prize.

To Be Continued

Chap. 3 - 'My Little Ponies n' Gin'

2007-09-01T00:00:00.000-04:00

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 3

My Little Ponies n' Gin

As wrenching as the parturition was for Ginger, she thrived after the first shock and quickly began copious emission of happy burbles, coos, grins, twitches and yawns, as well as discharge of the obligatory liquids, solids and gases. Driving home from the hospital everyone noted that lil' Ginny's manifestations of delight seemed to peak as they passed trendy boutiques, exclusive jewelry stores, and BMW dealerships. Failing to grasp this omen of the future, these reactions were passed off as the coincidental gurglings of gas in her tiny tum-tum.

Time passed and Ginger grew from gassy seedling to potty-trained young tree. Not sickly and stressed like a tree grows in Brooklyn. Nor cramped and stunted like a tree in a pot in The Plaza's lobby. But vigorous and grand, like the annual Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center; that is before they knock it over, ship it far from home and nail it to a stand for people to loaf around and gawk at.

And throughout this period, Ginny's life revolved around the icons of the age; Strawberry Shortcake, Teddy Ruxpin, Lady Lovelilocks, The Cat in the Hat, She-Ra, Pound Puppies, Ronald Reagan, Margaret Thatcher, My Little Ponies... She adored the Care Bears, those care-full citizens of Care-a-lot. Enraptured by their antics, Ginny would clap with delight whenever they let the Care flow from the cute emblems on their noble tummies. She watched the Care Bears' TV Shows, she went to the Care Bears' Movies, she sang the Care Bears' Songs, she memorized the Care Bears' Creed, she craved the Care Bears' Merchandise, she ate the Care Bears' Cereal. Had the Care Bears had one, she would have drunk the Care Bears' Scotch. She really cared for the Care Bears.

One shouldn't think young Ginger's life was all play however, she was eager to contribute. Early each morning she would awake in the drafty loft of her family's cabin, scamper down the rough-hewn ladder to the ground floor and fan the banked embers of the prior night's fire back to life. Occasionally, especially on cold morns, if she found the fire had died overnight she knew to slip her frock over her gown, slide her bare feet into the buckskin moccasins her father made and hurry the mile to Jones' farm, the nearest neighbor, to get a live coal from their hearth. In spite of the effort, Ginny liked these trips because the Jones kept bees and always would offer her a steamy biscuit dripping with honey.

After a breakfast of liver, with some fava beans, Ginny would wash up, tug a comb one lick through her hair and start her two mile walk to school. The journey wasn't a burden because her pet opossum, Percy, usually kept her company. They would walk along happy as larks and both grinning, for all the world, like 'possums. In winter however, with knee-deep snow and roof-high drifts, the daily trips resembled Himalayan ascents, especially when she had to carry little Percy, who tended to ice up when his fur got wet in the cold. At school, young Miss Tendermercie, a warm-hearted school marm, made sure Ginny learned her three R's and even loaned her real store-bought books to take home and read. Ginny often would read long past dark, lying on the dirt floor beside the fire for light to see by.

As the years passed, Ginger grew into a strapping young gal who didn't mind working hard to bring in a little extra money, usually by splitting fence rails. Her ability to split a long rail, straight and true, with a few blows of the axe was a wonder of the county, where she was known as "Rail Splitter." She also was know to be a good wrestler.

Ginger soon was considering her destiny as an adult. Recalling her Irish father's barbarous youth, many suspected her natural aptitude might be running -- bare-breasted and painted blue, hair flowing wild and bloodstained sword carving gory swaths -- at the head of a charging horde of Celts. But those people weren't being quite fair. Her father hoped that she would become a Broker/Trader, mainly because it was easy for him to spell.

For her part, Ginger secretly harbored a childhood dream of driving a Monster Truck competitively at county fairs and in civic auditoriums across the country, and during the off-season, pole dancing in a Vegas titty bar for tips. However, it was probably memories of the land-title litigations her family endured repeatedly in Kentucky and Indiana that supplanted a career as eye-candy with one in the legal profession.

To Be Continued

Chap. 2 - 'Ginger in Wombderland'

2007-08-15T00:00:00.000-04:00

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 2

Ginger in Wombderland

The interlude prior to birth was very productive for Ginger who, while certainly a precocious child, was an infinitely more precocious fetus. Undistracted by the vulgar outside world, her little light shone like a supernova.

Within the first hours of conception prepartum-Gin independently discovered and cataloged the Human Genome using stray bits of DNA she found drifting about; a task as yet not completed by hordes of scientists and legions of engineers spending piles of lawyers' steamy dough.

A day later she cracked the elusive Unified Field Theory and opened the door for humanity to faster-than-light speed, time travel and transmutation of matter. Incidentally she found and corrected several arithmetic errors in Albert Einstein's work on Relativity and communicated her progress to him via a permanent conduit for communion with the spirit-world that she established for that very purpose.

Reportedly, Dr. Einstein was tickled to receive the update and wished her all the best. Having mentioned he had been totally occupied in the years since his death with trying to balance his old check book, she did that for him, too.

Never a shallow thinker, prepartum-Gin devoted a few minutes to creation of the Unifying Precept for all religions and philosophies to guarantee unending peace, harmony and happiness amongst all beings, and indeed between all things, in each of the twelve universes she had mapped by that time.

Insisting that her work be known, she devised a means to transfer her wealth of discovery to the world at large. Forever a dependably clueless parent, Mister Mullins, in one of humanity's more notable lapses of perception, missed the point entirely by thinking prepartum-Gin's communication from the womb via Morse code was mere random kicking of her tiny leg. Undaunted and ever resourceful, she nonetheless maintained copious notes for posterity encoded in the molecules of the surrounding embryonic fluid.

At the very point of completing work on a time travel device to enable her to go back and undo all the bad ever done -- she had just added final notes to the engineer's fabrication drawings for the Interspatial Dimension-wide Flocculator subassembly and was discussing a prospective launch date with Bleezzzak-aug_53, the project's Pan-Temporal Architect -- the shakings, rattlings and rollings that herald commencement of birth in the human animal started. Caught completely unaware, having been inattentive during the Lamaze classes her parents attended, prepartum-Gin was not prepared for the subsequent rush of events.

With no recourse but to go with the flow, she found herself forcefully evacuated from her research complex in a jumble with all her work, notes and other achievements, including invaluable original art doodled during idle moments, her compendium and critique (composed in Middle English) of all human literature, and the final proof that Elvis was still alive. Thwarted in repeated attempts to return to her lab, Ginger found herself squirming naked on a stainless-steel tray; displayed under stark, unflattering lights for the amusement of onlookers and lay-abouts. Injury quickly followed insult when she was hoisted rudely by the ankles and a latex-encased hand drew back to strike.

As the traumatic slap on her tender tookus forever erased her prepartum memory, Ginger gaped in horror at the irreplaceable record of her research splashed pell-mell across the floor and dripping from the grubby doctor's loathsome hands. Terrorized, she emitted a first cry that curdled the blood of every soul in the hospital.

The last coherent, albeit incomplete, thought of prepartum-Gin had been, "I shall certainly sue that son-of-a ."

To Be Continued

Chap. 1 - 'Proto-Gin'

2007-08-01T00:00:00.000-04:00

The History of Gin
or
A Fox's Tail

Is Life Existential? You Decide.

...
... Inspired By True Events ...
...
by
Kongo ' Colorado ' Gumi

Preface

"In the Beginning God Created the Heavens and the Earth."
(Genesis 1:1)

"In a Minute, You're Going to Hear... the R-r-r-rest of the Story!"
(Paul Harvey)

Chapter 1

Proto-Gin

Ginger Sue Mullins entered our world as an immature sperm in the left testicle of a bouncing baby boy and as an equally immature egg in the right ovary of a beaming baby girl at two distinct points in the midst of the Twentieth Century.

The early years were troubled for Ginny. Living for decades in the Proto state as separate and extremely randy bits within two different persons, the word Schizophrenia is too mild for the division and angst she endured. It truly is miraculous, and an inspiration to everyone, that she emerged with any sense at all.

Little is known of the eggiol Ginger. It is speculated that this half of proto-Gin was well-behaved, courteous and always would have sat modestly with her knees together, had she possessed them. Moreover, research has traced her forebears along this line directly back to the cave persons, Ogg n' Tina.

This cave couple is noteworthy in history because Ogg is credited with Humanity's first use of crude humor to bemuse, enrapture and seduce his intended mate sufficiently to tolerate him. In fact, in 1997 an archaeological expedition in its third year near the Black Sea discovered in the original cave of Ogg n' Tina a remarkable wall drawing depicting the inaugural event; Ogg swaggering home from a hunt with the private parts of a Mastodon to impress his betrothed. The archaeologists subsequently discovered local legends to the effect that this act led Tina to delay the nuptial union for two additional years.

More is documented for the spermatozoidiol proto-Gin, primarily because the unruly young Master Mullins' behavior was so bestial people cannot forget him. Of particular note is the prophetic declaration of his Third Grade teacher -- Miss Beatum, a blue-haired septuagenarian spinster who looked exactly like Winston Churchill in the Blitz -- that his path certainly would lead to Doom. It was the estate of this Miss Beatum that received several million dollars in compensation when a court determined Mullins used her likeness, without permission, for the grotesque monsters depicted in the blockbuster video game he eventually invented.

Aside from the general discomfort associated with living several years as a single cell possessing only 23 chromosomes, this proto-Gin's life prior to college was uneventful except for the shocks of two near-tragedies. The first brush with oblivion occurred when the still youthful Master Mullins -- whose predilection for misbehavior already is noted herein -- caught his crotch on the top of a chain link fence and nearly castrated himself while fleeing a wrathful neighbor after maliciously tying an empty Campbell's soup can to the tail of that person's beloved Calico cat. In the second event proto-Gin, who had fallen in with a bad crowd at the time, narrowly avoided a trip down the bathtub drain with millions of her companions when culmination of the pubescent Master Mullins' particular act in the shower was interrupted by his mother knocking on the bathroom door.

Remarkably, these two events so indelibly marked proto-Gin that today Ginger possesses otherwise inexplicable attractions to Kitties, Andy Warhol paintings and showers.

While attending college at Princeton. . .the teenaged Master Mullins somehow having avoided incarceration, murder, or both. . .it was noted by those responsible for keeping track of such things that proto-Gin was an indifferent student prone to gazing dreamily out windows and analyzing the fashion sense of nearby students and faculty. In fact, the point generally is conceded that proto-Gin depended heavily on the vacuous academic talents of the barely maturing Master Mullins rather than actually apply herself while at Princeton.

Nevertheless the fact remains that, with only minimal conflict between Mullins and the local authorities, proto-Gin eventually did graduate from that august institution -- on the whole, an extraordinary feat for a single-celled organism.

After college the adult Mister Mullins buckled down, regrouped and hit his stride. Foreseeing the need for more readily accessible pornography, he first invented the Internet. However this invention languished initially -- like an Information Superhighway with no traffic. With the foresight of a delinquent schoolboy composing an alibi while being questioned about his crime, Mullins eventually perceived that a thing to connect TO needed something to connect WITH and created the Personal Computer, which he sold by the millions on street corners to passersby. After a respite to pilot several Space Shuttle missions Mullins ultimately became the father of Doom, to universal acclaim.

He also somehow managed to romance a young woman, unite the proto-Gins and conceive the squiggly blob of protoplasm that today walks amongst us.

To Be Continued