Author: Tonio

The Glibening, Part Nine: A Stranger in a Strange Land

Previously…

Ramesh came to a Tee in the corridor. He stopped, looked and listened. Identical corridor in each direction. From the right he heard a muffled chorus of screeching, from the left he heard peppy Latin music.

The choice was obvious.

Today’s Story…

Ramesh turned left and once he was around the corner shrunk up against the wall. He pulled out his phone and found it had powered itself off. He hit the power button and nothing happened. He could have sworn he had decent charge. He tried again. Nothing.

Here he was locked in an underground dungeon with a kinky gay Troll who could punch a dent in a metal door. His NYPD escort didn’t know where he was. His phone was dead. He was being used as a drug mule. At least he could skate on the last part if he ever got out of here.

Ramesh prayed silently – first to his Hindu grandparents’ multi-limbed gods, then to his mother’s crucified god, and for good measure recited the Bene Gesserit Litany Against Fear.

“I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.”

He began to feel better. On the positive side there was a good chance he could pass as a respected member of the community, although that carried its own risks. Today seemed to be some kind of special costume-wearing day which provided further cover. And then there was the weed which could be used to explain strange behavior, and win friends.

Ramesh heard a commotion from behind. He turned around and saw three men and a handcart approaching him. The commotion resolved into an annoying electronic beeping “preet, preet, preet,” followed by a voice announcement “Gangway, Gangway. Please move aside so that your WartCo technicians can bring you the finest service anywhen.”

The cart contained a large spool of thick cable. The foremost crewman was an older athletic man who stood on the front of the cart turning the spool and yelling back at the other crewmen, two chubby younger guys. The crew were all wearing white coveralls and hardhats, each bearing a logo consisting of a stylized “W” inside a circle. The second crewman was pushing the cart from the rear. The last crewman was taping the cable to the floor with a rolling device on a stick.

Manually laying floor tape is one of the most tedious, time-consuming and painful jobs many of us have to deal with. But with the high cost of a trip or fall, safety has to be a priority. Finally, there is a better way: introducing the GaffGun™. No longer do you have to be on your knees or use excessive tape to make your cables secure.

“Dammit Corey, put some muscle into it,” yelled the chief to the crewman working the taping machine. “And keep that cable as close to the wall as she’ll go. Steady Brian,” he said ducking down to avoid a light fixture, “and a warning would be nice.”

Brian smirked, and pantomimed jerking the cart sideways which the chief ignored.

Ramesh decided to ask for directions. “Hey, how do I…”

The crew chief shook his head. “Sorry Sir, we’re just techs. Your site POC should have all your destination info. Someone named Fist of Etiquette”

Corey giggled.

“Remember lads, we’re here to lay cable not to judge our clients.”

“Yeah, we all know whose cable you’d like to lube up and conduitize,” observed Brian, aping the posture and gait of a Troll.

“Shut your piehole and push the cart. His Growlr pic is totally hot, but it’s a decade and a hundred pounds out of date.” The WartCo crew receded down the corridor.

Something really big was about to happen at Thought! Magazine, at least with the commenters. Ramesh wondered how many of the handles he had seen while lurking were, well, whatever these people were. Was this somehow related to the music video? Thought! had the most notoriously rabid, snarky and informed comment section in the political arena. And it was well-known that there was no love lost between the commenters and staff. The boss had asked Ramesh to look for a weak point that could be exploited to further alienate the two sides from one another, but it appeared that was happening on its own.

“Hello,” said a close by voice.

Ramesh shrieked and started. Standing next to him was a man wearing a red and black checked flappy hat, matching flannel shirt, and loose-fitting jeans semi tucked into unlaced work boots.

“Hey, sorry about that. I didn’t hear you come up.”

“Good one, Doc.”

So apparently he did look like Doctor Bombay.

“Hey, I’m glad you’re back, eh. I’m headed over to Mario’s. He’s taking this really hard. Can you spare a second to help cheer him up?”

“Sure, I need to drop off something from Godwin, anyway,” said Ramesh as he started walking again.

“Thank God, he’s frantic. I wonder how long he can make that last? He’s going to Holland, but decades before the green cafes – if they even exist in that timeline. Where are you going?”

“To be a junior federal prosecutor working for Preet.”

“Beauty. Wreak havoc. The Squirrels really have a hardon for him, eh?”

“Sounds like.”

“And speaking of whom.” The Canadian paused and opened a door which somehow Ramesh had failed to notice. On the door was a sign reading “Data Processing.”

The room contained a complicated, multi-level structure of of small ramps, chutes, hamster wheels, spinning levers with balls attached, all now silent and still – a Sciuriac, an antique Indian squirrel-powered computer which used acorns to encode and store data. The Indian Museum of Digital Computing had an exhibit with part of a unit and a brief film loop of countless squirrels running to and fro along the ramps and wheels, taking acorns from the various output cups then dropping them into the various input chutes.

“Let’s not leave Mario hanging,” said Ramesh.

“Right. Good point.”

As they walked down the corridor the peppy Latin music started up again, and grew louder as they walked. They passed a door labelled “Men” and from around the next corner Ramesh saw a man in a black dress and low-crowned, broad brimmed hat approaching, as he got closer Ramesh saw the simple wooden cross on the twine around his neck, and the notched collar on whatever the dress-type garment was called – some sort of clerical outfit.

“Hello, Your Holiness,” giggled the Canadian.

“Hello Rufus, Heathen. I’ll pray for you both. Better get to your boy, he’s crying like the sissy bitch he is.”

June 12, 2019
The Glibening, Part Eight: Curiouser and Curiouser…

Tu musica

Previously…

The door opened and Ramesh found himself face to face with a Troll, a Troll like in The Hobbit. The Troll was doing a dope deal with a chunky young Korean dude.

“Oh shit, the cops,” shrieked the dude.

And at that moment Ramesh remembered that he was wearing a badge.

Today’s Story…

The Troll stood about six foot eight even with his slouchy posture, with a bald head and gray goatee, and several obvious piercings. He was fat, like three neckrolls fat, and dressed in Doc Martens boots, calf-length baggy black jorts, and a black t-shirt with the Thought! Magazine nameplate over his left breast. And large and surprisingly shapely breasts they were, which was a bit unnerving for Ramesh. The Troll looked at Ramesh and grinned widely. His teeth weren’t as fangy as Ramesh expected, and were clean and some had silver fillings.

“Look who’s back. Hi Doc,” said the Troll to Ramesh before turning back to the dude.

“Stuff it, Cho. Doc Bombay ain’t no more a cop than me.”

“Nice suit, Doc,” said the Troll, turning back to Ramesh. “Big change from your usual outfit.”

“Hi. Thanks.” said Ramesh, very curious but deciding his best action was to play along. He recognized the handle “Doctor Bombay, You Know from Mumbai” from lurking on the Thought! website at his boss’ behest. Perhaps all South Asians looked alike to Trolls, and obviously the dude didn’t know Doctor Bombay.

“Hey, can you drop something off with Mario,” the Troll asked Ramesh.

“Sure.”

“Great, I’ll make it worth your while. Here’s his zee,” said the Troll producing a sealed plastic bag of weed.

“Alea iacta est,” thought Ramesh and stepped through the door.

“Here’s a bud for you. Pineapple Express.” The Troll unpalmed a smallish colita and handed it to Ramesh along with the bag.

“Pineapple Express combines the potent and flavorful forces of parent strains Trainwreck and Hawaiian… This hard-hitting sativa-dominant hybrid provides a long-lasting energetic buzz perfect for productive afternoons and creative escapes.” -Leafly

Ramesh had smoked quite a bit of pot before becoming a federal prosecutor. His gift bud appeared to be from the same batch as the weed in the bag. He gave the megabud a good sniff. It was indeed the Express, and of a most fragrant character. “Thanks,” he nodded appreciatively to the Troll and dropped the pot into his suit coat pocket.

“What are you going to be, Doc? Detective? Which timeline?”

“Junior federal prosecutor, working for Preet,” said Ramesh, remembering that the truth was the best lie of all.

“Hurr-Durr,” laughed Godwin. “No way…”

Wow, so Trolls really did laugh like that, thought Ramesh.

Godwin’s laugh degenerated into a long, nasty series of lung noises which culminated in the production of a sizeable loogie which the Troll expertly spat into a short, widemouthed brass vase sitting on the floor. The loogie hit with enough force to cause the vase to tip slightly, whereupon it started rotating making a wuka-wuka noise before finally coming to rest. The oyster, which had been sitting on the lip of the vase covering the opening, slowly burbled up then burst with a wet “plorp” and oozed slowly into the vase.

“Hey Godwin, my bags look kind of light,” whined Cho holding up two anemic snack baggies containing shake, stems, and seeds – the worst sort of schoolyard schwag.

“Take it or leave it, Cho. And tell Mr. Rico Suave he’ll get a nicer bag if he came down himself instead of sending his fanboi interns, and buy more than a dime bag at a time. You’d think he could afford that, right? Your bag is light because of the risk I’m taking,” said Godwin hooking his huge thumb at the sign on the door. “I’m doing good in commenter training and don’t want to fuck it up. Why are you still here?”

Cho stuffed the bags in the pocket of his skinny jeans, and hustled out the door and up the steps, shaking his fulsome rump in its stretchy denim cradle to Godwin’s obvious enjoyment. “Doctor Gilhooly is right, you people are all just one step away from Nazis,” called Cho petulantly over his shoulder.

Ramesh expected Godwin to pursue and catch Cho, and subsequently dismember and/or eat him. Instead, Godwin just slammed the great door shut and began beating on it with his huge fists. “That little shit,” bellowed Godwin. Ramesh now understood how the dimple had formed in the door.

“Hey, could you have the Paw do me one last time,” asked Godwin, still slightly tumescent from his scene with Cho and subsequent raging.

Ramesh didn’t know what Godwin meant by “do me,” but he was about to find out. He had nothing against gay, but working a zombie monkey paw to give a Troll a telekinetic handy was just a bit out there.

“Sure,” he said, playing for time.

To Ramesh’s surprise, Godwin turned his back and bent over slightly cupping his knees with his huge palms. There was ample buttcrack showing. The troll was wearing a black jockstrap with “NASTYPIG” woven into the waistband fabric in red, along with a pig snout logo. Ramesh suddenly felt queasy, like an hour after Chipotle queasy.

Ramesh slowly reached into the purse and extracted the Paw by the stump and held the hand upright, palm towards Godwin. He knew it was best to be very specific with tulpas, but he also didn’t want to risk giving the wrong instruction. And Godwin had said “one last time,” so presumably the paw knew what to do.

Monkey Paw, Monkey Paw,
Make Godwin happy.
Monkey Paw, Monkey Paw,
Just like before.

Sad monkey hoots. The Paw slowly formed its tiny hand into a claw and started flexing its fingers. Ramesh noticed a twitching lump underneath Godwin’s shirt in the vicinity of the shoulder blades. He waved the Paw around with a vigorous circular motion and as he did so the shirt lump tracked the movements of the Paw. Godwin began making a series of happy grunts. Ramesh started moving the Paw down then up, from as high as his arm would reach down to the point in space where the jockstrap waistband began to move. He didn’t want to risk taking the Paw below the equator. Dark spots appeared at several places on Godwin’s shirt, as the Paw popped pustules and expressed bullae.

“Right there,” grunted Godwin in a voice an octave below basso profondo.

Ramesh worked the paw extra special hard and wondered what he had done in a past life to deserve this. He finally finished everything that could reasonably be considered Godwin’s back, and paused.

Godwin straightened up, as much as one could with his physique. “Thanks, Doc. I haven’t had one that good since Lützi Steegenwould was here. She took the MTA out to Brooklyn to buy a garden rake with her little intern stipend just to scratch my back. Godwin became lachrymose, which eventually caused the production of another loogie and another ringing of the vase.

Ramesh had worked up a bit of a sweat. That was the difference between Western magic and Eastern magic – wizards just waved their wands and shit happened; shamans had to expend energy equal to the effect they achieved. The Paw waited for a few seconds after Ramesh stopped moving it, then started cleaning under its fingernails using its thumbnail, then vice versa. Finally the Paw balled its tiny fist then unballed it quickly three times in succession then shook its fingers out. Funny that something dead and rotting, and animated by the darkest necromancy, should be so fastidious. Ramesh dropped the Paw back into the purse.

“I guess I’ll head over to Mario’s now,” said Ramesh.

“Yeah, I know you all have to get ready. I’ll miss you guys,” snuffled Godwin.

“Hey, you’re going to make a fine commenter,” said Ramesh, extending his hand.

“That means a lot, you being a William and Mary graduate.” At that, Godwin pulled Ramesh in for a big hug, and Ramesh found himself smothered in Troll moobage.

“Thanks,” said Ramesh once Godwin relaxed his embrace.

Ramesh turned and walked down the corridor, trying to be nonchalant as if he did this every day. He wondered if Godwin was checking out his butt. But even more disturbing was how Godwin knew he was a William and Mary alum. Unless Doctor Bombay was also an alum, but that would be suspiciously coincidental.

He came to to a Tee in the corridor. He stopped, looked and listened. Identical corridor in each direction. From the right he heard a muffled chorus of screeching, from the left he heard peppy Latin music.

The choice was obvious.

June 5, 2019
The Glibening, Part One Million Seven: That’s How You Troll

Previously

Music

“Sergeant Brown, since it’s going to be a while may I go inside and use the bathroom,” asked Ramesh.

“Sure,” said Brown. “Just stay on the First Floor.”

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” said Murphy.

They walked through the glass doors and into the building lobby. Behind the empty security desk a grimy Panasonic CRT monitor slowly cycled through different security camera feeds. They reached the elevators and Murphy paused.

“You going to be long,” asked Murphy.

“No,” said Ramesh feeling as if he was eight years old on a roadtrip with his parents.

Murphy stopped to read the Vandersnatch Building directory signboard. Ramesh hurried past Murphy, grateful that his surveillance didn’t extend to pee breaks.

Ramesh returned to the lobby with his badge better mounted so as to flash out from behind his jacket as he walked. He found Murphy smoking a cigarette in defiance of the “No Smoking” sign posted in the lobby just above a well-used ashtray.

“Damn, this place has gone downhill. Cryptid Quarterly, Tinfoil Times, ReptilianWatch, Orgone Research Foundation – whatever the fuck that is. I remember when Thought! was the most crackpot thing here. Back when your fashion and lifestyle magazines were still here, before the wacko crowd started moving in.”

Ramesh’s curiosity was piqued. What the fuck was an Orgone? He pulled out his phone to look it up on the internet.

“Hey kid, I’m gonna go drop a deuce. You going to stay here or go back outside?”

“I’ll go back outside,” mumbled Ramesh without looking up from his phone.

“Okay.”

While Ramesh was lost in his research he became vaguely aware of someone else in the lobby. His eyes flicked up and he saw a man pushing a housekeeping cart towards the back of the lobby. Ramesh returned to his phone. Reich was a badass. Kicked out of the Communist party, books banned and burned by the Nazis, kicked out of the psychiatric association, then the whole Orgone thing. The FDA enforcement action against Reich sounded like the type of crusading work his boss did, but they’d never get a ruling that sweeping today.

“Yep, they sure put him through the spice grinder,” said a voice in Gujarati.

Ramesh started then looked around. The man pushing the maintenance cart was now facing him as he towed the cart through a door at the rear of the lobby; it was the shaman from the bad production number which had started this whole thing, now dressed in khaki slacks and mustard uniform polo embroidered with a sun logo. The shaman disappeared through the doorway, followed by the cart, and the door swung quickly shut and clanked.

Ramesh sprinted to the door. He worked the bar and charged the door only to have it open a few inches then stop, jammed by something. Ramesh looked through the opening and saw the landing of a stairway. The cleaning cart had been placed so as to impede his progress. He stuck his hand through the door and rotated the cart so it would allow the door open wider. He pushed the door open as far as it would go and slid sideways through the doorway to find himself at the top of a stairwell with cinderblock walls, concrete floors and stairs, and metal railings and trim. The stairwell was lit with dim yellow lights in metal cages. Ramesh headed down.

He reached a landing where the walls changed from cinderblock to dark gray stone blocks, black stone stair treads with noticeable wear at the centers replaced steel-edged concrete, and the railings became more ornamental and antique looking. On the landing floor was a camel scrotum leather pouch with a flap closure – a purse. His instincts, honed by countless hours of dungeon crawling games, kicked in and he scooped up the purse.

A powder flask made from a camel scrotum.

He trotted down the next flight of steps to a landing with a door. Ramesh grabbed the handle and gave it a turn – it was locked. Maybe the key was in the purse. He opened the flap and looked inside, he didn’t see anything. He shook, then palpated the scrotum but felt nothing inside. Finally he turned the purse upside down and tapped it out. A small cascade of sand, dust and fluff tumbled to the floor, but no key.

The only thing he could do was continue downwards. He descended to the next landing and turned the corner to see a tall, thin table made of carved rosewood atop which lay a silvery plastic tray containing a small lavender colored packet – a Twinings Darjeeling teabag. He opened the purse and dropped the packet inside.

After the next flight down he reached a large metal door without a handle or keyhole. The center of the door was dimpled outward. The area where one would expect the handle to be had been reinforced with plates to deny access to the slit between the door and its frame and to cover the area where the lock mechanism presumably was. There was a yellowed sign on the door – “Absolutely NO Thought! Magazine Interns Past This Point. -R Kestrel, ed.” The sign had been adorned with a penis graffito.

The purse and the teabag had obviously been left for him to find, and were somehow related to his getting through the door. The logical thing was to put the packet inside the purse, which he had already done. He opened the flap and peered inside. Nothing discernible had happened. He had no water and no heat source, hence no means of making tea. He removed the packet and tore it open and found that it contained the expected teabag. He dropped the teabag back into the purse and closed it and squeezed it. Again, nothing.

And then it dawned on him that he was being trolled to no lesser a degree than his boss had been. The teabag was a clue, not an artifact. He rubbed the purse on his forehead, first shyly, then more enthusiastically. He had, after all, gone to Woodberry Forest, and wasn’t one of the athletic or popular boys; he was no stranger to the feel of a scrotum on his forehead.

Suddenly he heard the vocalizations of a langur monkey and felt something stiff and bony moving around inside the purse. Ramesh shrieked and reflexively dropped the purse and stepped back. The purse hit the floor, lay still for a moment and began pulsating. The flap opened slowly, and a small furry hand emerged crawling on its fingers and pulling the stump of its lower arm behind. The monkey paw was mostly mummified, yet some fleshy parts remained and those were in a liminal state between putridity and mummification; two small jagged bones poked out of the stump. The paw picked up steam and swarmed up Ramesh’s leg and onto his shoulder finally hopping up onto his head where it started grooming his scalp with its nails.

Unbidden, a childhood memory rose up from the depths of his mind, and he blurted out a nursery rhyme he had been taught by Bhagavaandaas, the old man who lived in a lean-to built against the outside wall of his family’s compound in Gujarat. The old man had no discernable job, yet was respected by all. He sat outside his house all day and received visitors with whom he had long, quiet conversations and served tea. Once young Ramesh had learned that it was only okay to approach the old man between visitors he found that Bhagavaandaas was an endless source of tales.

Monkey Paw, Monkey Paw,

Be now my servant.

Monkey Paw Monkey Paw,

And me defend.

At that, the Paw did a little dance across Ramesh’s shoulder, then ran down his leg and over to the door. The Paw then turned around and ran back to lie down beside Ramesh’s foot. Its small hand formed into a fist and the Paw twitched then went limp.

The Paw was telling him he needed to knock on the door. Kind of obvious, but whatever. He picked up the Paw and the purse from the floor and dropped the Paw into into the purse. He heard the sound of a monkey shriek and the teabag and its wrapping came flying out of the purse and fluttered down to the floor. Apparently the Paw was particular about its lodgings. He looked down at the teabag and wrapper and tried to decide what, if anything, to do with them. The decision was made for him as they became first translucent, then transparent, then disappeared altogether. He approached the door and heard muffled voices coming from inside. Ramesh raised his hand and rapped twice with his knuckles. He waited, but nothing happened. He balled his hand into a fist and beat on the door four times, producing a loud booming which echoed through the stairwell. Still nothing.

Ah, he needed to use the Paw to knock on the door. Ramesh retrieved the Paw from the scrotum, and held it so as to knock on the door. The Paw was not cooperating – the wrist was limp and the hand was no longer formed into a fist. He waved the Paw at the door causing the nails to scritch on the door to the accompaniment of an angry series of monkey barks.

The Paw was totally being a bitch, but that was the nature of tulpas; they were not mere automatons like golems, but had agency. Ramesh had first heard the word “tulpa” during a Cultural Anthropology course at William and Mary, long after Bhagavaandaas was dead. The old man had given him a thorough education about tulpas and Ramesh had thought it was merely a bunch of rhymes and stories. He decided to wheedle the Paw.

Monkey Paw, Monkey Paw,

Open the Door,

Monkey Paw, Monkey Paw,

Give me good luck.

The Paw formed into a fist and thrashed five times, miming a fist knocking on a door, then paused, then thrashed twice more. Each thrash of the wee fist was followed by the sound of a hearty rap on the door. “Tap, tappa, tap-tap… tap-tap.”

The door opened and Ramesh found himself face to face with a Troll, a Troll like in The Hobbit. The Troll was doing a dope deal with a chunky young Korean dude.

“Oh shit, the cops,” shrieked the dude.

And at that moment Ramesh remembered that he was wearing a badge.

To be continued…

May 22, 2019
A Chronicle of the Insurgency, Part Four: Quid Pro Quo

“This is Lisa Fletcher reporting from Capitol Hill where there have been reports of sewer explosions and of giant sewer rats emerging from toilets. DC Water and Sewer Authority is on the scene, and here we see a DC Fire and EMS ambulance leaving leaving the Dirksen Senate Office Building. We don’t know who or to where because of patient privacy laws, but we have reason to believe it isn’t life threatening.”

“Thanks, Lisa, and now to a live press conference at City Hall with Mayor Bowser and DC Water and Sewer Authority director Gadis.”

§

The staff at Le Diplomate were shocked when their normally-punctual senator didn’t show for her standing Friday evening reservation. The hostess then somehow managed to mention that to Mr. and Mrs. EJ Dionne of The Washington Post as she was seating them. On Monday a messenger brought her two orchestra-level Orange Section seats to the matinee performance of “Avenue Q” at The Kennedy Center.

§

Imelda Ramos checked the calendar for the days appointments. “Senator K” was written in big letters for the 9:30 slot. She always took care of the senator herself, as much for the prestige as to avoid the complaints from the girls. She made sure Maria the cleanup girl parked in the spot just outside the front door so she could move when the senator arrived. Hopefully the senator was having a good day. If it were anyone else, Imelda would have fired her as a customer, but in DC a senator was a rare prize and having her as a regular drove up business.

Nine twenty arrived and Imelda sent Maria out to wait in her car. The senator was usually punctual, and always had someone call if she were delayed or had to reschedule. Nine forty-five came and went. At eleven she waved Maria back inside. When Judy Woodruff came in, Imelda mentioned that the senator was no-show today and how unlike her that was.

“Your daughter is in college, right? Have her call my office about an internship.

§

Jayne Sandman’s Saturday evening soiree was as full of awkward groping as a teen party with no parents. Those who had heard the rumor were trying to make sure everyone else knew that they were in the know. Yet, nobody wanted to be the first to just blurt it out like a yokel from Manassas or Frederick. Many hints were dropped about a probable forthcoming announcement from a Senator from flyover country.

§

On Sunday morning the Tim Russert Memorial TV Studio at the National Press Building was abuzz with rumors that Amy Klobuchar was missing. Tasha the makeup artist whispered that to Kamala Harris while she was getting her ready for her appearance on “Meet the Press.” Fortunately she had time to text her campaign manager. “AmyK disappeared from DC. Suspect she’s holed up with declaration imminent. Be ready.”

“You know, I’ve always wanted to go on a campaign tour as like someone’s personal makeup and hair girl.”

Credit: Mythical Libertarian Woman

He hadn’t heard her come in. It had been two nights and he’d been baching it. He’d assumed that she’d been holed up in her ratty little apartment on Capitol Hill; her own fortress of solitude. He rustled the law student’s paper ostentatiously. Nothing. One of The Iron Rules was: No papers, bills or briefs (ha, ha) in bed. She must want something very badly, and there were few things for which she needed his participation or assent. He decided to troll harder.

“Jenkins in my Con Law class argues that the Second means an individual right to keep and bear arms.” That should get her going.

“Oh,” she responded, shrugging off her satin peignoir to reveal a sheer babydoll nightie with nothing on underneath. “I’ll bare more than that…”

She was going to run for president, he thought. Because it wasn’t his birthday where he got a “blowjob” which was really just her taking his cockhead into her mouth for five seconds of unconvincing moaning, then giving him a handy; their anniversary where they had perfunctory sex recreating their wedding night; or Valentine’s Day where they awkwardly and often painfully enacted the trendy eroticism of the moment, as defined by Cosmopolitan and Teen Vogue.

She let the peignoir drop do the floor and simultaneously crouched down and hiked up the babydoll to place first her left knee on the bed, then her right. Her pendulous, teardrop shaped breasts swayed in rhythm with her movement as she crawled towards him on her hands and knees. She had a predatory look in her eyes which he had never seen before. Her eyes were fixed upon his crotch.

By now she had reached him and stopped. She was on all fours with her shoulders lowered and her head tilted up to look him in the eye. She licked her lips awkwardly yet greedily.

“Who are you,” he asked, reflexively drawing up his knees to protect his manhood.

“I am your wife.”

He woke up the next morning with her tightly snuggled in as the little spoon. Usually she was on her side of the bed like a sarcophagal statue of a Roman matron in repose.

Her eyes opened and blinked and her tongue darted out. “Good morning, Dear. Shall I make breakfast?” Without waiting for an answer she slithered off the bed and put on the peignoir and headed downstairs.

Breakfast was coffee, bagels and lox. She sipped at a single cup of black coffee, picked at a bagel, but devoured the fish. He decided to try his luck and groped her from behind when she was bent over the sink, something she hated. Surprisingly, nothing was thrown or stabbed.

“You really should go to the cabin, you know…”

“What? Are you displeased with me?”

“No, but I know you’re planning to announce and you need to be ‘found’ back in Minnesota so you can credibly claim to have been on retreat. Doris will see you and then call Ollie who will call the press and get his fifteen minutes as ‘Rural Sheriff Finds Missing Senator.’ I’ll wrap up here and fly out to meet you.”

“You are the best, hon.”

April 2, 2019
The Art of Misdirection

A Chronicle of the Insurgency, Part 3:

The Art of Misdirection

by Tonio

“How long,” asked Bryan, her chief of staff.

Phillips, the Capitol Police inspector, checked his watch. “Their average response time for us is around four minutes. They always have units staged nearby.”

Tsimpris, the man from the Architect of the Capitol office, checked his phone. “Sunshine just turned onto Constitution. They have this really neat location track…”

There was an awkward pause and the three men looked again toward the corpse seated on the toilet as if they expected some change. Nobody wanted to look, but it somehow seemed disrespectful to not look.

The corpse that had until recently been US Senator Amy Klubuchar had settled backward with the spine against the seat lid. The head had rolled forward and the mouth was slightly agape with the lower jaw and lip sagging, the tongue poking out slightly. The eye sockets were empty and a yellowish pink fluid dripped from the nose. The personal bathroom, outfitted like that in a business hotel room, was dripping with the sewage that had erupted from many toilets in and around the US Capitol.

“What about evidence collection? We have to find out who did this! What if other senators are in danger? Or members of the House? Or the staff and public?”

Phillips checked his phone perfunctorily. “Everything is under control. We are doing a wellness check on every senator and member. The morgue people will collect everything they need from the body. We are taking measures, but quietly so as not to cause a panic.”

“What am I going to tell her husband?”

Phillips’ phone buzzed. “The ambulance is coming through the gate now.”

There was another long, awkward silence, followed by a tap on the door. Phillips cracked the door open and looked out, then nodded to someone outside. A man and a woman in DC FEMS uniforms rolled in a stretcher.

“Do you need to say goodbye,” asked Phillips.

Bryan turned to look at the corpse. “You were cruel, but I’m sorry to see you like this. Goodbye.”

At the word “goodbye” Phillips jammed an injector pen into the side of Bryan’s neck, then expertly broke his fall as he went slack. The DC FEMS crew sprung into action and quickly loaded the semi-conscious body onto the stretcher, strapping it down securely. Phillips patted Bryan’s cheek roughly. “Pleasant dreams, asshole. Enjoy your stay at Saint E’s.” He nodded at the ambulance crew who wheeled the body out.

“Christ, he was tiring,” said Tsimpris. “Your guys tipped off the press, right?”

“Yeah. Let’s hope Chris scores with the WJLA chick, she’s pretty hot.”

“Nobody sucks cock like the DC press.”

Then another knock and the Sunshine Cleaning crew wheeled in a commercial dehumidifier unit. The first team positioned their unit up in far corner, powered it up and left.

The second team didn’t even uncoil the power cable, but opened up their unit to reveal mostly empty space inside. As they unlimbered their equipment, Phillips struck up a conversation with them.

“So, which of you people was this?”

The round-faced crewman with the name patch “Burke” answered. “It wasn’t off-worlders, like us. They are from a different measurement than us all,” he gestured to include everyone in the room.

“Measurement?”

You mean dimension,” asked Tsimpris.

“Yes, that is the word. They are undercooked and dangerous.”

“You mean ‘rare,’” asked Phillips.

“Ah. Normally I’m not the talker. We’re busy today. Hare,” he gestured to the hatchet-faced crewman, “doesn’t speak English.” Hare’s mouth opened slightly and his tongue darted out.

The crew had got a C-shaped bar behind back of the corpse with the ends hooked under the armpits. They stepped out of the bathroom and Hare pulled a remote out of his coveralls. The bar hummed and lifted the corpse off the toilet so it was standing astride the bowl. Then a spherical object about the size of a softball levitated out of the fake dehumidifier and floated into the bathroom and hid behind the door. Burke reached in and pulled the door closed and checked that it was latched. Hare pushed a button and there was a prolonged whoosh from inside the bathroom.

“Fire in the hole,” said Phillips.

“It is a cold mist cleaner,” said Burke. “Plasma-based disinfection makes a body un-re-hatchable, like when you humans ruin good meat.”

“It’s an expression.”

The remote emitted a tone and Burke opened the door. The bathroom was as clean and fresh as a Summer’s eve. Hare worked his remote and the corpse floated out of the room dangling from the gravity-defying device which then lowered the corpse into the interior of the fake dehumidifier unit so it folded into a reclining position with the knees up. The softball floated out of the bathroom and returned to its little hidey hole inside the cabinet. Snakelike things writhed out from within the unit. Some bared sharp metal fangs, others had obscene, pulsing slickery ends. Phillips and Tsimpris were thankful that Burke closed the device before they could see any further indignities inflicted upon the corpse.

“So, when will she be ready,” asked Phillips.

“Monday, maybe Tuesday.”

“This is kind of a rush job.”

“You all say that.”

Burke and Hare rolled the unit out, Burke loudly complaining “fucking piece of shit unit, goddamn cheap company” and banging on the unit for good measure.

Phillips and Tsimpris waited for the door to close. “Beautiful,” said Tsimpris, enacting a silent golf clap.

“Haven’t seen acting that good since I took the Missus to Arena Stage for our anniversary. This calls for a toast.” Phillips approached the desk and stroked his chin. “Ima say she’s a back behind the files gal.” He opened the lower right drawer of the desk all the way and fished around the innermost part. “Bingo.”

“Crown Royal. Classy.”

“The deep state finally has a US Senator again,” said Phillips taking a taking a good pull from the bottle and passing it on to Tsimpris.

“Senator Byrd brought a new meaning to the term ‘Grand Dragon.’ Shame we couldn’t keep up the masquerade longer.”

A Note to My Loyal Readers: Do not despair my little zilthrakii, “The Glibening” will resume when least needed and most expected.

February 28, 2019
If You Can Beat Them, Join Them

A Chronicle of the Insurgency, Part Two:

If You Can Beat Them, Join Them

by Tonio

“So, the second time I got pregnant I had gotten really drunk with this boy who seemed so nice and said he had a condom, but when I was cleaning up the room the next day I didn’t see a condom in the trash. I missed my next period and tested pregnant, then he was a total shitlord douchenugget when I asked for abortion money. I had just joined Campus Action Feminists and Professor Kudchuian told us about Rescue This! I told her I was pregnant and asked if she could put me in touch with them.”

“A week later I took the train up to DC and met the RT! activists. They took me to this out-of-the-way toilet they had found at the Immaculate Conception Basilica and kept watch while I aborted. That time was pretty quick and easy. Then they stickered the inside of the stall with their ‘ABORTED FETUS IN TOILET’ bumper stickers and locked the door. Once we were back on the Metro they emailed the church and the media.”

“And we all know the rest of the story,” said Angelica Cortasio-Ortez. She remembered the news footage of the clerical outrage, and the countless crying and praying nuns, and then the of the Knights of Columbus in their silly fucking patriarchal antique British Navy hats staging a full dress funeral for the news cameras.

“So Moira,” asked Ella, “how many people know that you’re a fully fledged RT! activist?”

“Outside of the RT! women, only Professor Kudchuian.”

Ella ticked her pen against her teeth. “If this ever comes out the entire right will turn into poo-flinging monkeys, just like they did the first time. And then you will own the abortion debate from the left for a few news cycles. You can always distance yourself from her if she becomes too hot.” She looked at Moira. “Everyone is expendable except your officeholder, dear. That’s the first thing you learn in politics.”

Angelica nodded at her chief of staff.

“May I excuse myself, Congresswoman,” asked Ella, “I want to be there to greet the Superintendent of Buildings people for your next appointment. You know how they like to wander off.”

“Of course, Ella. Thanks. ”

Angelica waited for the door to close.

“Do you still want the job?”

“Oh, yes,” answered Moira, her voice squeaking.

Angelica’s desk phone did the intercom buzz. As she picked up the phone she heard the receptionist scream “can’t go in there…” and then silence.

A cold breeze blew in through the closed office door. Moira shivered and huddled, drawing her feet up into her chair. “It’s him,” she whispered hoarsely.

Every woman’s worst nighmare, thought Angelica, your boyfriend going violent after he learns that you aborted your pregnancy. Earlier, Moira had said that her current boyfriend was some sort of church leader and that she had kept the pregnancy from him. It had to be one of the patriarchal religions since progressive boys understood it wasn’t their decision to make.

She pressed the alarm button under her desk and hoped that the receptionist had already pushed hers. The wind intensified and her office door became somehow different, like there were extra angles in the doorframe. The wind blew colder and faster and was now accompanied by howling. The door now appeared to be made of dark roiling clouds. Suddenly there was a thing in the room, a vastly large and incomprehensible tentacled thing. The thing loomed over Moira and yelled at her in a loud booming voice.

“YOU ABORTED MY SPAWN, THEN BEAT IT WITH YOUR SHOE. FOOLISH HUMAN FEMALE.”

Yoko Ono wasn’t right enough, thought Angelica, not just the world, but apparently the entire universe. “Now look here,” she said, then everything just stopped for her. She was paralyzed with her mouth open and her index finger extended. She could see and hear, but could not move; she couldn’t tell if she was breathing but did not feel out of breath. How patriarchal to police the speech of women.

“Here we go again,” said Moira rolling her eyes, “‘I am an elder god.’”

“I AM A GREAT OLD ONE.”

“‘And I’ve destroyed races greater than yours.’”

“STOP THAT, YOU IMPUDENT SLUT. YOU ARE THE ONLY BREEDING VESSEL IN ANY TIME, PLACE OR DIMENSION WHO HAS DARED TO TRY TO HARM MY SPAWN. I AM ANGRY. VERY ANGRY INDEED. BUT I AM ALSO IMPRESSED. NOT ONLY WILL I ALLOW YOU TO LIVE, BUT I WILL GIVE YOU A BIRTHING GIFT BEYOND ALL MEASURE.”

Angelica just couldn’t even.

“Birthing gift? You mean…”

“OF COURSE YOU DIDN’T KILL HIM, BUT HE’S SCARED AND HUNGRY AND TRYING TO FIND YOU.”

Moira didn’t like the sound of that. “Hey, I can’t…”

“I KNOW YOU CAN’T TAKE CARE OF HIM.”

How typical, thought Angelica, angry patriarchs telling women they were incapable of proper motherhood – like they’d know anything about that.

From inside the bathroom came the sound of water, first a stream, then a gush. Just as the carpet outside the door started to darken with fluid there was a great whoosh and the door was sucked open from within. Then the pipe where the toilet had been erupted with a geyser of sewer gas and moisture and a parsnip came screaming out and made a bee-line towards Moira. At least it looked like a parsnip, only fatter; it was conical and wrinkly and had small rootlike tendrils. The parsnip was scooting along on its wide flat base, leaving a moist trail on the carpet.

“SOMEONE HAS LEARNED HOW TO FEED ALL BY HIMSELF,” boomed the tentacled thing, proudly.

The parsnip reached Moira’s chair and stopped. “Mama,” it cried in a voice that was at once both high and low, mewling and echoing. The parsnip then scrunched down and quivered its tip like a cat tensing for a vertical jump.

“WE’LL HAVE NONE OF THAT, YOUNG MAN,” said the great being, quickly extruding a long tentacle and coiling it tightly around the parsnip pinning the base to the floor so that only the top third protruded. “YOUR MOTHER’S BIRTH CANAL IS OFF-LIMITS. YOU’RE A BIG BOY NOW THAT YOU CAN FEED YOURSELF.”

Just like his father, going straight for the pussy, thought Moira. Ick-factor aside, she was glad that the baby, or whatever it was was being restrained. Her son had grown considerably in the half-hour or so since his birth. Her son. She’d have to get used to that.

The parsnip opened a mouth and clamped a set of sharp teeth down on the tentacle encircling it.

“WHY YOU LITTLE…” There was a flash and a pop and the parsnip emitted a small shriek. The sewer smell was punctuated by the smell one experiences after a thunderstorm.

Using electroshock on a fussy newborn, thought Angelica. That’s the most despicable thing I’ve ever heard of.

“Can I hold him,” asked Moira?

“AFTER WHAT YOU TRIED TO DO,” asked the large tentacled being.

Moira tilted her head down and stuck out her lower lip ever so slightly and looked up at the being.

“YOU ARE TREACHEROUS AND YOU EXEMPLIFY THE BANALITY OF EVIL. I AM TOUCHED,” boomed the being and extended the tentacle containing the parsnip and placed it atop Moira’s ample bosom, then resting the tentacle on Moira’s shoulder. Moira encircled the smelly little monster with her arms. The parsnip snuggled in to her cleavage and made a happy sound.

“So what comes next,” asked Moira.

“I WILL TAKE HIM TO LIVE WITH MOTHER HYDRA; SHE HAS RAISED MY FAMILY’S SPAWN FOR EONS AND HAS THE POWER TO KEEP HIM UNDER CONTROL.”

“WE’LL WORK OUT VISITATION, IF YOU LIKE.”

Moira nodded, tears running down her cheeks. Her son’s eyes shut one by one and he started a low vibrating noise that she was felt as much as heard.

“MAYBE WE COULD ALL DO THINGS TOGETHER…”

“Oh Hastur, that is so sweet.”

“HE IS ASLEEP. WE WILL GO BEFORE HE WAKES AND NEEDS TO FEED AGAIN.”

Hastur copped a major feel as he retrieved his son, and they exited via the method by which he had arrived. Angelica found herself unparalyzed.

Then the Capitol Police arrived, followed by fire and rescue people, then people in yellow plastic hooded suits with reflective letters that said HAZMAT. Angelica and Moira spent the next hour being alternately hosed off and scrubbed; the water was cold and the detergents harsh. And then they were given blister packs of antibiotics and told to be prepared to spend the next 48-72 hours shitting and to stock up on Pedialyte. “And you won’t be able to go back into your office for a few days, anyway, Congresswoman.” The little weasel from building management was enjoying kicking her out of her office.

The evening news was full of stories of sewer eruptions on Capitol Hill with workers and residents terrified by what the DC Water and Sewer Authority claimed were sewer rats expelled by the pressure. Mayor Bowser demanded more money from Congress to update the sewer system.

And it was the next day before anyone noticed that Amy Klobuchar was missing.

January 31, 2019
Are You for Eighty Six?

A Chronicle of the Insurgency, Part One:

Are You for Eighty Six?

by Tonio

The editors have prudently insisted that I warn my readers that they may find some material in the following story to be deeply disturbing and offensive. You, dear reader, should be both disturbed and offended that such stories have to exist, that the source material is all too real and not just the febrile rantings of a madman.

Angelica Cortasio-Ortez heard the corridor door open and through the slit in the stall door she saw a fat chick in a pussy hat enter the restroom. Angelica was trying to pee, not because she had to but because it was an excuse to escape the office for a few minutes. She should be sulking in her own private bathroom but she was not allowed to actually use it – couldn’t use it at this point. She had assumed that the locked door in her office which none of her keys fit was a maintenance corridor or something; nobody had told her she even had a bathroom until the cleaning lady had opened it one evening when she was working late. She had called the after-hours maintenance number and when she finally reached a person he told her that he’d enter a “door needs re-key” ticket but that it wasn’t an emergency. The next morning she arrived to find the door unlocked, but blocked by construction tape. She had cut through the red “Caution / Cuidado” tape only to find that all the fixtures had been ripped out overnight.

The fat chick entered the stall next to Angelica and locked the door. She then heard the seat go up and found that strange. But she shouldn’t judge; not all women peed sitting down, after all. Upon learning of the destruction of her private bathroom she had called the Superintendent of House Office Buildings and the smarmy little man she got on the phone told her that the bathroom had been condemned as unsafe after the office had been assigned to her.

“Of course we would not have assigned you an office with an unsafe bathroom, Congresswoman; the final inspection from when the last tenant vacated listed everything in good order. But mold grew in the room when the suite wasn’t occupied. We can’t expose you to unsafe conditions. We’ll get you a new bathroom as soon as possible once the shutdown is over… No, I’m afraid there are no more available executive grade offices available.”

Angelica fumed to relive the moment, her hands involuntarily forming into fists and shaking up and down in unison. She bet her eyes had what the old white men called her “crazy look.”

The fat chick was doing a lot of moving around in her stall, like she was changing clothes or something. All of a sudden the moving stopped and the stall walls shuddered. Angelica could no longer see the fat chick’s feet – she must be doing a toilet squat. Never a good sign.

“Everything okay,” asked Angelica tentatively.

“Yeah, sorry. I’m doing a medical abortion and the vaginal suppository has made me really crampy. Normally it’s a lot easier than this, but I should have known that this one would be difficult. I’ve got an interview in a couple of minutes and want to get this done beforehand.”

And in that few seconds Angelica had learned more about the fat chick than she knew about people she had known her entire life. She felt an instant kinship with the fat chick and wondered whether she was the one interviewing for her personal assistant position. No, that would be too coincidental, like something in bad fiction.

“So, this is going to get really nasty really soon and you should leave if you’re done.”

“You’re sure…”

“Totes.”

“Where are you interviewing,” asked Angelica standing up and doing a show flush.

“Congresswoman Angelica Cortasio-Ortez,” said the fat chick emitting a grunt and a long fart.

“I work in that office, I can tell them I saw you here and that you’ll be a couple of minutes late. I’m sure she’ll understand” said Angelica.

“Thanks,” said the fat chick. “Tell them Moira Flaherty will be just a few minutes late.”

“Good luck Moira.” Angelica fled the bathroom with due haste as a cacaphony of sounds erupted. She made it into the corridor and as the door closed was sure she heard a cry and a splash, followed by the sound of something being beaten with a shoe.

This was what the patriarchy made women endure – aborting in anonymous public toilets, little better than the back-alley abortions the crones had told her about. There should be numerous warm, safe public walk-in abortatoriums staffed by caring women. With onsite childcare, of course. Women should also have mandatory access to abortion doulas in times of need. Her breathing quickened as she imagined herself leading America down a shining path towards full health equity for women.

She decided to take the steps down to her office. The elevators went to the basement, at least one of them anyway, but it was generally quicker to take the steps unless you had a cart or something. Hers was the only congressional office in the basement of the House Rayburn Office Building. They had moved senior staff out of their offices to make room for the freshman class of congresspersons, and the lottery had assigned her the office formerly occupied by the Head of Housekeeping.

Angelica walked past her receptionist who waved her down and handed her a pink square of paper, a phone call memo. Incredibly old-fashioned, but her staff had quickly learned that their computers were unreliable. The receptionist was talking to someone through her headset, answering one of the many misdirected calls.

“This really is Congresswoman Cortasio-Ortez’ office… We get a lot of calls for housekeeping… There is a problem with the House switchboard… Then I suggest you contact the Superintendent of House Office Buildings… You, too.”

She walked into the private part of her office and found Ella, her chief of staff. “Moira Flaherty is going to be a few minutes late. I ran into her in the restroom, she’s aborting. Can you get someone to have a pot of tea ready in my office when she comes in?”

“Poor thing. Of course, Congresswoman.”

January 24, 2019
The Glibening, Part Six: Your Routine Crazy Girl Call

The Glibening, Part Six:

Your Routine Crazy Girl Call

by Tonio

Previously.

Gilhooly and Kestrel reappeared in the elevator lobby of Thought! Magazine. The Muzak began playing a peppy brass instrumental. The receptionist had removed her own dress and was trying to fit it over the skeletal remains of Jane Fappington-Smythe, the very recent former editor.

“I like those things walking around in their skins better than I like them,” said Kestrel blankly.

At that moment two NYPD officers burst out of the stairwell door, pistols drawn.

“Okay, folks, everyone just stay still for a second until we can get this sorted out. Everyone OK in here? Oh, she’s not,” said the skinny redhead cop looking at the receptionist. His partner, a dark-haired beefy man, circled the lobby.

“Anyone injured? Any threats we should know about?”

Gilhooly and Kestrel shook their heads mutely, trying to figure out whether their situations had improved or gotten worse.

“Squirrels ate Jay-Fap.” the receptionist giggled, pushing the skeleton’s hand through one of the armholes of the dress.

“Squirrels?”

“A whole bunch of them. They all got off the elevator and just ate her!”

The skinny cop looked at Gilhooly and Kestrel.

“Officer…Reardon, this poor girl is our receptionist. She’s only been here since Monday. She’s obviously disturbed,” said Gilhooly.

“Canadian, eh? And, who are you?”

“Dmitri Gilhooly,” he said gesturing at the directory board. “I’m an editor here,” he said, seeking to be as vague as possible given the circumstances.

“And you are,” asked Reardon, looking at Kestrel.

“Regina Kestrel, editor emeritus.”

“Editor whatius?”

“Former editor, now moved on to other things.”

“And who or what is ‘Jay-Fap,’” asked Reardon.

“This is Jay-Fap,” said the receptionist brightly, grasping the skeleton’s arm bones to wave its hand at the cop.

Reardon snorted at the grinning skeleton with the outlandish purple hair waving at him. “Uh-huh.” A routine crazy girl call, and this one wasn’t bad looking; he had a good view of her in her bra and panties playing with the skeleton. Probably she wasn’t actually crazy, but had been drugged by some scumbag. He planned to follow up on her in the hospital once the thorazine wore off and maybe score a date.

“Jane Fappington-Smythe. Jay-Fap.”

“Hey Reardon, Jane Fappington-Smythe is on the directory here,” said the stocky officer. “Also, Dmitri Gilhooly.”

“Okay, folks, can I see some ID from everyone. And where is ‘Jay-Fap,’” said Reardon looking at Gilhooly.

“Jane had to go,” said Gilhooly producing his ID and trying very hard to tell only the truth, and as little of it as possible.

“Thanks, Mr. Gilhooly,” said Reardon after looking at Gilhooly’s driver’s license.

“Morning sickness,” said Kestrel, reaching into her knockoff handbag for her wallet. “That wall ashtray there is full of her vomit.”

“I was going to ask about that,” said Reardon, nodding to Kestrel after checking her ID. “Normally your magazine offices smell like a urinal.”

“Room appears to be clear,” said the beefy cop.

“Roger that, Stern.” Reardon holstered his pistol. Stern continued to check the entrances and exits.

“So, you folks normally keep a skeleton in your lobby? What type of magazine is this, anyway,” asked Reardon.

“Officer, this skeleton is a prop. Something our art department was setting up for the Halloween issue photo shoot.”

“In July?”

“Magazine publishing has a long lead time. In October we’ll be finishing the New Year issue.”

“Stern, radio down to the sarge that EMS…”

Gilhooly started to remove his turtleneck, or at least that’s what it looked like to Officer Reardon who moved his hand to the taser on his belt. He bet it was Gilhooly who had drugged the girl. Tasing the SOB would help him score with her if that were the case.

“Sir, EMS will be here in just a minute,” said Reardon as he moved his hand to his taser wondering if Gilhooly was on the same drug as the receptionist.

Gilhooly’s trademark hipster turtleneck (“before it was cool, eh?”) slithered up over his head then jumped to the floor and unravelled some of its lower parts and scurried on its wispy tendrils toward Reardon.

“Sir, control your dog,” yelled Reardon, firing the taser at the sweater.

The sweater slowed briefly as the taser hit it but kept coming.

“Holy shit,” said Stern as Kestrel’s dress rippled and out slipped a matronly foundation garment which started running across the floor toward him on its garter straps, the metal hosiery clips making ticka-ticka sounds on the terrazzo floor, like the nails of a small dog.

Stern shot the lingerie item. The bullet passed cleanly through, the hosiery clips missing a couple of beats but then continuing their previous rhythm.

“Get this thing off me,” screamed Reardon as the turtleneck slithered over his head and uniform, pinning his arms to his sides like a straitjacket.

“They don’t take orders from us,” said Kestrel.

“Officer Reardon,” said Korb’s voice from Reardon’s radio earpiece, “please don’t struggle. Just go along with us and no harm will come to you or the other policeman.”

The girdle likewise swarmed Stern and encased his torso and arms.

“Don’t worry, Big Boy, I’ll be off you in a few minutes,” cooed Xylpig through Stern’s earpiece.

“Hey now,” said Stern, turning beet red.

“Okay, everyone, this is what’s going to happen,” said Korb. “Some nice women are going to come in and take poor Jay-Fap away. They’ll be in and out in sixty seconds Kestrel will keep Crazy McCrazypants out of the way. You two officers will stand here with us and not cause any trouble.” At the word “trouble,” Reardon bucked up and grunted.

Once the body is gone then we get off you two and go back to our hosts. You radio down that the scene is clear and everything continues like nothing else happened.”

“There never was a skeleton,” said Xylpig . “It was all in the mind of the girl who freaked out on drugs, called the cops, then did a striptease in the lobby.”

“What about the taser and gunshot,” asked Reardon. “We have to account for that shit, you know.”

January 15, 2019