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

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'

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'

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'

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'

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'

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'

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'

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'

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'

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.


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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