On Spanko'

The Group: A New Story Everyone Will Hate

*OK, my loyal readers who are used to the highest level of literary art are not going to like this. This story sucks. I've never even seen the TV show "Lost". I was watching, just now, Toy Story 3 and, though delighted because several scenes are very funny, I got a little bored and wrote this chapter one and it really, really isn't all that perfect. Still, maybe I just need to get into the habit of writing again to reattain what we all agree was the awesomeness of what PallidBust once was, which is awesome squared with a Poe cherry on top of nothing has ever been better. I have a chapter two in my head, which involves both a young lass getting spanked and, spoilers, for the first time, a woman spanking.... an MAN! I know, breaking new ground, maybe if I keep on this line but I really am not feeling this story. I feel robotic about it.

Also, some will not like the politics of this story. The politics is the only aspect for which I don't apologize, except to Ayn Rand whom I kind of ripped off here a little. And is surprising to me how many spankos are brain dead, knee-jerk leftists. Now, wait, as I write that, maybe that is the way it should be. Spanking is considered "conservative" as in, old school, as in, the people who understand economics. (Aside, I am not a conservative, nor am I a Republican-I am a Libertarian, and yes, there is a difference, damn it.) But I can see how, making a mockery of convention, a spanko incorporates spanking (discipline, order, authority) into sexplay. Or money, but the people into the money aren't reading the blogs about spanking, they're cashing checks. The spankos are actually interested the the philosophy and psychology, because we seek each other out. We're weird. We like spanking. Not normal. Why is this paragraph single spaced when the others are doubled? I did NOT push a button to make this so. This happened to me. Damn it, Blogger pisses me off sometimes.

Anyways, I think I'm going to post this crap-tastic chapter one, then write off the cuff on why spankos tend to be libs. Yes, I'm going to do this right now.

The Group

Chapter One

The group of strangers still didn’t know how they awoke in a forest. They didn’t know why each was selected: they could find no commonality of race, age (youngest 18, eldest 40), gender, education, wealth… anything. They didn’t even know who selected them. Hell, they didn’t even know if they were selected. They just knew that they were removed from their lives in America, and placed in a forest surrounding a mountain none could identify through the canopy with cargo barges full several tons of axes, saws, and whittling knives. All dressed to individual size, including the boots, wool socks, blue jeans, and corduroy shirts. Well, they also knew there was a housing shortage, and that it was because Tom was lazy.

Tom finished yet another spear for Billy, which Billy took impatiently so he could practice throwing it at a mark he axed into a tree away from the village. Tom, exhausted, noticed the reclining light and made his way to Lauren. She sat before one of the many thorny bushes in the area. Thorny for a reason. Beneath the outcropping of thorns lay a bounty of fat fruits and vegetables growing on the same veins around a solid, stocky trunk. Tom sat down.

‘It’s just not possible. No plant produces fruits and vegetables.’

‘Yet,’ Lauren stated, concern on her face as she navigated her hand out of a foot of barbed, serrated plant, producing a palm of tubers and berries. Now a smile. ‘Quod ergo demonstrandum. Eat.’ She held the food up to Tom in the hands laced with the light wood-weave Tom made for her. They were poofy, ugly gloves made of hard wood strips that made it possible for her to learn how to penetrate the bushes, but they weren’t perfect. They were good enough to allow a foraging artistry that Lauren learned through painful trial and error, but learned it she did.

Tom took the food and ate. He ate quickly, faster than his calm countenance would have suggested. He managed to say, ‘Erat, not ergo.’

‘What did you do back home?’

‘High school, then college, then the world.’

‘What did you study in college?’

‘I forget. Shush.’ Tom edged a few inches away from the female so he could eat in peace. Lauren smiled.

‘TOM!’ Oster guffed his way forward as fast has he could and sat down between Tom and Lauren. ‘I (woof) told you we need those planks put up into more huts. Is that, Lauren, give me some more of those fruits and berries, would ya. Tom, why aren’t…’

‘I already built you three huts, and there’s plenty of wood for a fourth already. Just put them up.’ Tom didn’t look at Oster. He focused on his food.

‘You’re the carpenter.’

‘I asked you people to help me so I could show you how, but I got a lot of no’s and later’s and “I’m busy”. And the next hut I build is mine.’

‘Tom…. Come on.’ Oster took the food Lauren pulled out of the ball of photosynthesis driven shark teeth. ‘Thank you. I’ll need more, though. Tom. Come on.’

‘I’m too tired to try to sleep with twenty people snoring around me and twisting in their sleep. I need space to sleep, I need sleep to work.’

‘Tom,’ Oster said, patiently, as he ate. ‘These huts belong to all of us.’

‘Then all of us can build them.’ Tom twitched his head and saw the left flank of a standing mob. They looked down on him. ‘Tomorrow I’ll take ten of you and show you how to select and down a tree. And I’ll show you how to make planks.’ Tom turned and looked Oster right in the eyes. Lauren knew Tom’s eyes were bright blue, but she didn’t know a man’s eye color could flare. ‘The next day I’ll show ten others how to whittle wood nails so…’

‘Tom! You’re talking like the rest of us aren’t contributing!’

‘Oh, am I?’

‘Yes, you forget we’re all in this together. Yes, we all see you work very hard… oh, thank you, Lauren. Tom, the rest of us are searching for rescue. We can’t just stay here forever. We need someone to help us out of here. That has to be our first collective priority.’

‘Searching for help.’

‘Of course.’

Tom finished his last tuber. ‘We need to find someone to help us, is that the plan?’

‘Well, of course, Tom. What else? No, no, Lauren I’ve had plenty for the moment, but don’t stop. Plenty of people behind me, directly behind me, need food too.’ Oster looked back at Tom’s blue eyes. ‘Tom, our goal has to be to leave this place and return to America and all her wealth. We can’t stay here.’

Tom looked back at the people behind Oster, then at Oster. ‘I learned in kindergarten that America wasn’t always that wealthy. And people didn’t cut down trees and cut planks to build ships to get back to Europe.’

‘Tom….’

‘And the next hut is mine.’

‘Tom, please.’ Oster laughed. He looked behind at the people behind him. They were many. He looked back at Tom. ‘Everything belongs to all of us! That’s only fair, isn’t it?’

Tom looked to Lauren, who turned her face and focused on taking fruit and vegetables out of the bush, then handing them to the line forming to her right. It was a long line.

‘Tom, let’s be fair. Eventually, if we stay here long enough, each of us will have a hut. But that’s just silly. We need to share for the time being, and soon we’ll all be rich again, back in America. But we EACH must SACRIFICE for the moment.’ Tom looked to the group. Billy stood there with the spear Tom made minutes ago. Billy had cold eyes like the others.

Tom stood up. He smiled. ‘Right. Sorry, I was being foolish, arguing such things with you.’ Oster stood up and took his hand.

‘So we should expect another hut soon?’ They shook and shook hands.

‘You better believe it. Don’t worry. I’m going to build the best hut I’ve ever built, real soon.’

‘OK!’ Oster turned to the people standing, waiting. ‘Let’s get around the fire and discuss all the book deals and movies we’ll be making wants we get rescued.’ Oster led the people to the fire, spirits high. Lauren looked up at Tom, standing there, still smiling. It was a cruel smile.

*

Twenty days later Tom lay on the roof of his hut. He tightened the veins across to planks that had leaked the previous night. He shook his head and sighed and remonstrated himself. His hands hurt from the bush cuts and he realized that all he had learned making this hut could only be useful if he started over on an entirely new hut, which he decided to start the next day. He didn’t have anything else to do. He missed TV and thedrudgereport.

‘Hello!’ Tom rolled off his roof and landed on his feet, using the structure as shelter, and grabbed a spear. ‘Um, Dr. Livingstone I presume!?!?!’ Even at distance, Tom, collecting himself, recognized it.

‘Lauren?’

‘Yes, you fool, now come here my feet hurt.’

‘Are you alone?’

‘Not now, am I?’ She tripped over a defensive log. ‘Fuck!’ Tom put his spear aside and the next thing she knew the red head sat on one of five benches around a camp fire he had made for no reason he could think of. Tom sat on the same bench, looking at his hands. ‘So, you’re doing well. Um, so… things took a rather dark turn after you stole away in the night. See, I only had the one pair of gloves, so everyone kept telling me that they were hungry, and that I should get them more food. And I got tired. And I said someone else should spend part of the day wearing the gloves and getting the food, but everyone told me that I was so good at it that it really didn’t make sense to waste another person’s time so that I should stop being selfish and do my part. And I noticed that my part was rather larger than the others and I said this, and they called me lazy. And then I said well I want first pick of the food, and they threatened me with punishment if I kept demanding more than my fair share. They said since I was good at this work, I had an obligation to do this work, and if I didn’t then I was starving them on purpose. On purpose! Like a monster that keeps people in camps! Horrible thing to hear. I felt sick about it. Then I thought, well fuck them. But they were so many and I’m only me and I don’t know kung fu or anything. Then I thought, Tom. Tom wasn’t there one morning and—‘

‘Lauren, I don’t know.’

‘Tom. Tom, look at me, please.’ Tom complied. His eyes were blue, but not flashing. Lauren breathed in, realizing what had happened to his spirit. ‘Tom, I’ve had a lot of time to think about it as I tracked you down like prey and it occurred to me that you were bullied, and I turned away from you and pretended not to see. I pretended to be small and unimportant so I could pretend my opinion didn’t matter. I did this so I could justify keeping quite. I don’t matter, so what does it matter if I say nothing when injustice happens? Just do my job and hope I’m not next. Well, Tom, I was next.’ Lauren grabbed Tom’s hands and held them between them. ‘Tom, I am sooo sorry that I what the fuck happened to your hands?’ Lauren moved his bloody hands this way and that with her little paws. ‘Tom… Tom, answer me.’

‘I needed fruit and vegetables. From the bushes. I made another pair of gloves but…’

‘Still not all that easy, is it?’ Lauren smiled. Tom smiled back. ‘Haps you could use a coward like me around, hmm? Hmm?’ She cleared her throat. That done, she continued her questioning. ‘HMMPH?’

‘Yes, but Lauren I don’t know. I can’t… what if you don’t stop talking or become a pest or something like that?’

‘Hmmfph.’ Lauren kept fondling his hands as if her hands could heal them, which is ludicrous because her body was fully packed with thetons. ‘Pest indeed.’ She removed a roll of long leaves from her pocket and revealed them to be full of a white sap. ‘I found this while stalking you so I can keep you up all night talking about my hair.’

Irritated: ‘That’s not what I meant. Look, I haven’t thought this through, you ambushed me. I’ve obviously had a bad history with other people ahhhhhhh. Wow.’

‘See?’ Lauren rubbed the sap on his hands gently at first, then as the numbing increased, hard so that the tree blood got deep into Tom’s dermis. ‘Good for bug bites, too. And of course you’re concerned. And of course you can’t trust me. I treated you horribly and I feel so bad about it. Oh, I have an idea.’ She popped up from the bench and walked around a pile of wood bits Tom had dubbed his “work shed”. Different works of different links that served no immediate purpose but seemed foolish to through away. He was in a forest. Where would he throw them?

Lauren inspected, poked, picked up and put down until she found a 25 inch stick, about an inch and a half wide and a quarter inch thick. She whacked it against her hand a few times, then wished it through the air with long strokes. She nodded, satisfied, and returned to Tom. She handed the stick to him.

‘Do you know why I’m handing this to you? Do you know what it’s for?’

‘Ah, you want me to spank you with it?’

‘Pervert.’

‘Well, what then?’

‘Oh no, you’re right, I’m just saying that you guessed “spanking” pretty quickly so, you know, pervert.’ She smiled. ‘And no, I’ve never done this before, but it is called for now I think. I want to stay, Tom, and I want to stop feeling guilty.’ She stood in such a way as to suggest, to Tom, that she was far more patient than he. He took the stick and looked at it, turning it over in his hands. Then he laughed.

‘Why the Hell not? There’s nothing on TV anyway.’

‘That’s the spirit. You’ll see, this is one of my many brilliant ideas.’ Proud of herself, swaying back and forth slapping her hands in front of her, she smiled and waited. Then she got tired of waiting. ‘Well? Get on with it.’

‘OK.’ Tom stood and looked around, like he was about to steal something. Of course nobody was there except squirrels and squirrels are all perverts everyone knows that. Obsessed with hoarding nuts and chasing women up trees: disgraceful behavior. It had to be said, but now back to the man spanking the woman.

‘OK, well. Um…’ Tom kept looking around. ‘I guess if you’d arrange yourself over the bench we can get started.’

‘How?’

‘How?’

‘Which way?’

‘Whatever is most comfortable I suppose.’

‘Right. OK.’ Lauren looked at the bench, about a foot above the ground. ‘I don’t want to just bend over with my hands on the bench, that will hurt my lower back and I don’t like getting stiff and I would like some support so… Tom, don’t get Puritanical on me.’ She added this last part when she unbuttoned her jeans and lowered the zipper. She knelt down, facing the bench along the broad side, then lowered her jeans to thigh level, and bent over the bench so that her head nearly touched the ground on the opposite side. The white cotton panties only covered the top of her bottom, which wouldn’t be the right place to spank anyway, Tom guessed. It could hurt her spine.

‘You don’t want me to get Puritanical? I’m about to spank you with a stick, what could be more Puritanical?’

‘I meant prudish, then. I’d never feel that stick through the jeans.’

‘Actually, I’m betting you would.’ He said, talking to her ass.

Bent over the bench, talking to the man standing behind her, she threw her hands up in the air in frustration, and then landed them back down to balance herself. ‘We’ll you’ve seen my ass now anyway, so get on with it. From my current vantage point I don’t see any ants yet but it’s only a matter of time.’

‘See, this is what I’m worried about. You. Are. Bossy.’

‘Bossy!?!’ Now she really was frustrated. She kept her position, ass in the air and face at grass level, but he body vibrated and her hands battered the ground. ‘I’m pants down, over a bench ass in the air face at grace level! Asking you to whoop that ass because I feel bad! Is this opposite day?

Tom was amused, but kept it from his voice because… well, he didn’t know. Instinct, maybe. ‘How many do I give you?’

‘A lot. I’m not going to respect you if you whack me ten times. This has to be an event to remember, and it has to be personal, so you have to whack away until you feel that I feel the we know where we stand.’ Nothing happened for longer than Lauren liked. ‘Tom, I’m serious. If you wuss out of me I’m going to walk all over you. If you show me that you’re a man of will, I’ll be much happier respecting you.’

You have TOTALLY DONE THIS BEFORE.’

The woods were lovely dark and deep for about twenty seconds.

‘Admit it!’

‘Fine! Fine. Sorority days, big sister, love her but she was on a total power trip and, yeah, you know, I have some experience with this sort of thing which is how I know it works. Look, I trust you, I wouldn’t do this with just anyone.’ Tom stared at her ass some more. ‘Tom, are maybe I should say “sir”, the hardest part is the first few licks. After that you’ll get the hang of it and it’ll take all my wailing to get you to stop. I trust you, so please trust me.’

‘This is absurd. This is like bad writing. Only a horrible writer would write this situation.’

‘That’s how we know it’s real. God likes to play games with us, it’s why he bothers to keep us around. Now, for love of HER, would you please-‘

‘God is totally a guy.’

‘Bah!’

‘Fine. Fine. I’ll do it. Not because of the God thing, because of the… whatever. I forget how we got here. So, estimate, under/over, how many whacks?’

‘It’s more an art than a science, but whack until my bottom is mostly red, then start count and keep in mind how much noise I’m making. If I’m only making little mews and grunts, I’m still defiant. I need to be taken down a peg or two, so you know what, get me to say, “I’m a naughty girl!” then finish up, like, at least ten more but it’s important that you feel satisfied so keep going until-‘

WHACK

Lauren sucked in, surprised of course, and then breathed out. She measured the initial sting and building burn. She made an expert conclusion. ‘Good. Good, good stroke. But keep it up, don’t spank then stand around counting out “One Mississippi”, you need to keep up a brisk, regular pace or there will not be a buildup of-“

WHACK

And, at long last, the dance commenced. Tom had played some golf back in the world, so he had a pretty good low swing and after a few swings had managed to land the stick evenly across the cheeks. She had a pretty good butt for this type of pastime, he thought. Toned, plenty of flesh. Spanking or no, he didn’t much care for women with tiny nothing bottoms. Like a horse without reigns. When you want the creature to move, what do you pull? Pure Anarchy.

Back to the dance. It was a dance. Lauren’s bottom, at rest, was positioned about half a foot from the bench. Upon the whack, it rose half an inch in height and retreated, part from the force of the blow and part from Lauren’s instinct to flee pain, a few inches towards the bench. A rubber band effect took effect, and after only a few seconds her bottom returned to the resting point and a little further as Lauren overcompensated from the blow, and just as her bottom reached the apex of its journey another crack from the stick. This merging of action from both spankee and spanker formed, naturally, after only thirty seconds. After that it was, like a dance formal, a repetition of reciprocal roles.

Being repetitive, Tom had some time to think. So did Lauren, but her thinking was muddled at the moment. You know women, slightest thing and they forget their middle names. But Tom could still think, as he worked on his golf swing, and he was impressed. This looked that it really hurt. Not really really, like broken limb, but it must sting like the dickens yet Lauren, as she predicted, made only mouse squeaks. Kind of an “eep” but broken up with the occasional gasp or “ergh” but all of her reactions were adorable. And the spanking continued and continued to be adorable but it kept going and quite frankly, Tom was getting hungry. He added some zip to his swing and Lauren moved from “eeps” to announcing full voiced, testy, “ows”.

‘OKokokokokok… I admit it. I’m a very naughty girl. There. I think we can now move on to ow! What the fuck!?’

‘You said to keep spanking after you said-‘

‘Not necessary this time! Not at all! Are you satisfied?’

‘Yeah. Well, not really. Content, I guess, but I was content before we started.’ WHACK. ‘You said that you wouldn’t respect me if-‘

‘I’m a liar! I’m a very naughty girl, and sometimes I lie, and that was a lie.’

‘So we’re good?’

‘Yes.’ Lauren said from the ground.

‘You know I’m talking to your ass right now?’

‘May I get up?’

‘I really need to give permission for that?’

‘Of course. Punishment isn’t over till you say. It’s amazing to me how little you know about this sort of thing.’

Tom looked at his stick. His “whoop’in stick”, then back at her ass. He looked around again to make sure nobody saw him whacking a woman half his size, but he didn’t see anything but degenerate squirrels. He whacked her again.

‘Why would I know anything about this sort of thing?’

Talking to the grass, Lauren wiped some tears from her eyes and sniffed. ‘Oh please. Are we done?’

‘You said you were supposed to call me “sir”?’

‘Oh! La de da, look at the fast learner! Can I get up now, sir?’

‘Yes.’

Lauren lifted herself and staggered a bit. Tom grabbed her arm to steady her, which acceptance she accepted until she shrugged him off. She did it in a polite way, but still, she’d just been spanked pretty freaking bad. She grabbed her jeans, breathed in, then out, then in, then pulled them up. ‘Ouch. Motherfucker. Shit-on-a-stick, mutherfucking ouch.’

‘It’s impressive, how calm you said that.’

‘Can I stay now?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. I’m hungry. Do you have more of those wood gloves for the bushes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Ouch. Now tell me to kiss the paddle.’

‘I’ve decided to call it the whoop’in stick.’

‘A rose by any other name—nevermind. I have to kiss it, otherwise I’ll get bitter.’

‘What difference does it make if—‘

‘Don’t be difficult!’

‘Yes, Ma’am.’

TO BE CONTINUED….

Yeah, I know, nobody believes me on that

All the Stories are in the first 2 Years

So if you come to this site, ignore the early months and go straight to the back. I think I'm going to start working again on some of my unfinished stories. It's very late here and I can't sleep. I think its because of the monster under my bed.

PB

Two Actions Lacking in Iron Man II

Too... predisposed to go into it now, but I'll comment on them later.

PB

Sometimes I love a Hack's Work

Aaron Sorkin is a hack. He's the worst kind: he's supposititious. He puts forward what seems true in order to eliminate the needful feeling to explore the truth, which costs time and effort and thus appeals to instant gratification. I assume I'm not the only one into that.

And worse!, he makes characters to fit his engineered story, as opposed to making characters who generate a story. A very, very sad human. My narcissism pities those that don't know they are narcissistic. I'd hate him but I'm confidant that he hates himself more than I ever could because ever moment of self reflect requires that elitist to find a equivocation or conjure a lie. And thus the petty are punished. Also, it's wrong to hate, but whatever. The important thing is that I don't feel bad owning and loving each season of The West Wing.

So, that perfect logical proof stated and accepted by every living human(and most of the dead), I feel no harm in LOVING this scene in one of his movies, each of which make shit house rats appreciate the luxury of shit houses.

PB

P.S. Do I know the endings of all my my neglected stories? Yes. Do I have more stories to start so I can neglect? Yes. Am I going to do any work? Come on, you know.

Take that, Venezuela!

Now the world shall live a year of prosperity and peace, as the new Miss World is American!!!! And Southern, which is power icing on the awesome cake.

Not only does free market capitalism and the rule of law produce wealth, justice, and scientific super-doperness for all, it also produces hotness. Wow, the spell checker recognizes "hotness".

Some might call me petty for using the Miss World competition to support my economic theory of freedom and degrade fascism in South America. I have an answer to these calls: so what?

I confess that Miss Egypt is freaking beautiful. How didn't she win? Did she drop a baton in the talent section? Whatever. All that matters is the world is yet again ruled by an 18 year old southern American girl. Just as Thomas Jefferson dreamed...

My favorite pitty is self-pitty

It's been a long time. I've been busy. I've done more physical labor this summer than in my previous, entire life. Still, I have these ideas for stories, and I think about them all the time.

And speaking of discipline, I've been dealing with self-discipline, with what some may call "chemical dependence". Sometimes I get rude and mean, and I don't want to be that way, but I also don't want to be bored. Some people don't want a drunk asshole around. Some people may even object to putting the " before the period, but screw them. I have more important things to worry about.

Point is, I'm not making any promises, but I felt a great pleasure writing my stories, and I think two or three people took some pleasure in reading them. And each story I started is a planned story. I know how it ends, I just haven't written it down because I'm lazy and because writing, for me, hurts at first. Hurts in a place I can't rub. But I'd like to finish them.

So, overly mawkish as I am, I'm none-the-less still here.

Niki Flynn grew up and is out?

What the Hell?

Never say never

That said, time, for humans, only exists in finite stretches. Never and always have a different meaning for the living than it does for the grammarian. I don't want to say I will never finish these stories I started. The pain, for me, is that they are finished in my head. I know the plots, the arcs, the words, but I'm just not going to write them. At least for now. That's the pain. The pathetic thing is, and is, is that I don't just let the blog go. And, in addition, I don't know what my problem is.

I've written this next paragraph many times. I deleted them all. Everything I write sounds fake even if it the truth as I see it. Still seems fake. This seems somehow worse, but it is as honest as I can make it.

Meanwhile, I have put myself to work in a more direct fashion in my biological life. There is a lot to learn in the world. There is always something else to learn. So I guess I'll do that for now. For you few, you precious few, that liked my work, my advice is to spend all your waking time re-reading it and sending me money.

PB

The Good Stuff

I've enjoyed Restrained Elegance for some time. Top notch producers and lovers of the art of the perverted. Well, moments of genius must be appreciated if the human race is to mean a damn.

I recently watched their film "Chef Mistress" starring Ariel Anderson and Amy Allen. Bondage/spanking/smoking-hot-chicks/and cooking. People, treat yourself, buy a membership for a month and download years of pictures then cancel before they rebill, but make sure you download and watch Chef Mistress. Sexy, sure. But sexy is all over place. This film is better than mere sexy-- it's funny.

And no, I'm not going to write anything soon. I'm busy and I think I have biochemically induced depression.

PB

Jesus Christ on a Pogo Stick

This is the most pathetic thing ever. So sad. It appears that Eliot was right. This is so depressing I don't even feel bad for being a bad person anymore. Wait... crap, this might be the prologue for The Road Warrior!

Tits in a gay bar, I LOVE The Road Warrior!

The annoying thing is that the new dark age of Western Civilization is the center of the Coventry Mysteries story line. I can't possibly be expected to write these stories as fast as the West collapses. And if I could, why bother? Put in all that work so that China could own it? I think not. I don't work to build Education Camps.

However, I do have an impressive cache of guns. So much fun. Of course, I've also read The road, which read like less fun. But I don't have a kid. I just have a bunch of guns.

PB

This is rather annoying

What I don't get is, is that I I have changed NOTHING in the blog format, yet the blog format keeps changing on its own. What the Hell?

Got it!

Abelard Winchester Coventry Mystery Series

The Superfluous Book

I had another half-hour to kill before the client scheduled a knock on the door of the smartest man in Proper, and loyal leg man or not I was bored at my little desk and I wanted someone else to know it. Coventry, at his rather grander desk, finished his third newspaper, scoffed at the world, and took up the inventory reports of his apocalypse bunker. He was right on his daily schedule.

‘Boss, I’m bored. I think I’ll hit the Stairmaster for a few-“

‘You labored on that machine this morning for six minutes past an hour.’ Abelard Winchester Coventry, registered genius, kept his eyes on his work but wasn’t done with me. ‘Exercise is excellent for the brain and the heart, but further waste of calories would be Sisyphean, not to mention vain.’

‘No doubt. But keeping this chair from floating into the ceiling fan isn’t stimulating my mind.’ Plus, beach season was on its way and I had a little number that allowed little mystery, but I didn’t think that argument would hold any of Coventry’s water because he was a prude so I demurred. ‘So, I’ll just pop up stairs and…’

‘You finished your crossword?’

‘Yeah.’ I waited, then made a face and said, half keeping the inner child sarcasm to a minimum, “Yes.’

‘You finished it entire?’

‘I’m finished with it, yes.’ Silence. ‘Fine, I couldn’t break into the bottom left hand side at all, and only half finished the other bottom half. If we had the internet then—‘

’We would have an electron miasma poisoning our synapses. 60 Down is “Trousseau”.’ He spelled it for me, and given that hint I had to get back to work. Bastard didn’t even write in the answers, he just looked at the crossword for a few minutes before I cut it out. Yes, vain displays are Sisyphean.

---

When I admit clients I like to think that the Coventry home is a study in contrasts. Their reactions to shifts reveal a thing or two about their mental states. My procedure was wasted on Francine Able, but I used it anyway. A short woman, early forties, and buttoned up and prim from shoes to boring hair. She was pretty, in a tight little female way. She dressed like she was on her way to beg to a banker or preacher. She took one look at my jeans, black T-shirt, and dark strained red hair just touching my shoulders and she made a face to say “a terrible mistake must have been made because we both occupy the same space.” I get a different face when I usher male clients.

Ahem.

I tacked her down as a mean Sunday school teacher, and dismissed her accordingly. Then I smiled and ushered her through the sunlight drenched yet barren hallway to the dark, brooding private office of the boss. He kept the lights dimmer than most would like in their office, except for a few wall lamps highlighting various doodads he liked to stare at from time to time. One of the doodads was an early, discarded page of the second draft of the Declaration of Independence he got from a former Supreme Court Justice whose wife was a doper and needed cover. That case was before my time.

‘Missus Able, sir.’ I showed her to a chair more comfortable than mine, watched her sit, then took a flanking position at my desk. My standing orders at this point are to look, listen, and disappear until spoken to.

‘You are Abelard Coventry, correct? I am in the right place?’ Her voice was stronger than I would have suspected. I’d expect it to be hoarse from yelling at small children about Hell I guess, but then the boss tells me that I’m too impatient for any critical thinking analysis more time-consuming than prejudice so what do I know? Also I’m still not used to the southern accent. It still feels like an act; like an amateur theater group playing Gone With the Wind, but damn it these people actually talk like this. Weird creatures, but we went to a Hell of a lot of trouble to conquer them in the Civil War, so we’re stuck.

‘Yes, madam, I am Abelard Winchester Coventry, for good or ill, and this is my dogsbody, Fallon Bridle. Her tongue is vulgar and lacking in grace, but it’s discrete. You wish to hire my services, but I’m, ha, afraid your letter was as vague as shadow in a trench.’

‘Yes. Well.’ She clutched her blue purse/bag to her blue clad chest and I wondered if she had a breathing device in it hooked to her lungs because the color of her 19^th Century modesty-conscience getup hurt even my throat, and I was all the way behind my desk and out of harms way. ‘I suppose I must tell you everything?’

‘First you must tell me what you want. The issue define, hopefully, we can omit the necessity of universal cogitation.’ She took the boss rather well. Most people assumed he was making fun of them, which wasn’t fair because he was just mean, not mocking. However, I think Francine Able was more embarrassed than nonplus.

‘Well, my husband has a number of a photographs, five, and I want them.’ Oh really?

‘I shall presume you have asked him directly for these photographs.’

‘Don’t. I haven’t in ten years.’

‘You are separated?’

‘No, of course not!’

‘Well, madam, I fear you may be asking omniscience of me after all.’

She cleared her throat. Here it came. ‘My husband is Dr. Perry Able, dean of Falcon Head Preparatory Academy, and we have been married for twenty years last month. He is a very cautious man, and I’m afraid some early experiences, before we met, soured him on the whole idea of trusting women.’

‘Not unwise.’ Dogsbody or not, someday I’m going to kick him.

‘Hmph. I see I was justly warned of your prejudices as well. Well, in any case, then you understand, and I suppose you will think he has some… some… psychological disorder. I’ve been told that before, by experts.’

‘I reject psychologists, at least expert psychologists, but I accept the terms of the school if used under a named dictionary. However, I suggest, for the interest of my time, you make yourself plain using the direct words of whichever language you are most comfortable with, if not English. I need no more “wells.”’

I’ve seen this before. Anger helps people get over their embarrassment long enough to spill it. However, boss doesn’t infuriate potential clients for this reason. Or any reason that I can detect, but then again I’m not a detective. I’m a dogsbody.

‘Well, as a deposit of my trust, I allowed my then fiancé to take pictures of me in compromising positions in a context that… doesn’t speak well of my propriety. In order to have something on me. An advantage. And I performed the acts because of love. Do I need to detail them?’

‘I will charge you extra if it is necessary.’

‘Well…’ she stiffened. “He took the pictures, and hid them from me, and now I want them.’

‘Do you--no. Why do you want these pictures now, when you want no alteration after 20 years of marital bliss?’

‘Because he’s a fool to still doubt me. He’s always been foolish, in his way. He has been nothing but kind to me, and I love him and he loves me back, and we have created and raised three perfect children that I love more than I can say, and I want those Goddamn pictures and I will pay to get them.’

‘This may be an expensive want.’

‘I have my own family accounts and I’ve saved my allowance. My needs and pleasures are more than met by my husband’s largesse. I need and want those pictures.’

‘Yes, well I don’t empathize but I do sympathize. However, after I remove the pictures your husband will notice them missing and your tranquil union will be jeopardized.’ I like the lack of “if” in that sentence. ‘Pretend reason, madam. To what purpose do you wish these pictures?’

‘To give them back to him, of course.’

‘Of course. I shall need a written contract, dated, and a retainer adequate to fill the final bill; otherwise these pictures could give this job the patina of blackmail to the causal observer. I suspect a period of three days effort. That is expensive. Fallon, type what I say, and make three carbon copies.’

---

I walked Missus Able out with two copies of the contract: one for her and one for her lawyer. She gave me one last disapproving look, then thanked me like people thank their dentists and was off to whack children with rulers or cluck her tongue at married adults holding hands in public. I heard Coventry banging about in the kitchen, as glaring and sparse an enclosure as the hallway. I slipped off my shoes and padded on my bare feet to the kitchen’s sill just to annoy him. Plenty of brilliant men thought my feet were cute. This genius thought my feet allowed me the art of autokinesis. I leaned against the wall and crossed my arms over my lower class T-shirt.

‘I don’t think she likes me.’

‘She no doubt considers you a harlot. Not without reason: her subconscious very likely saw the two artificial holes in your ears made with blades for the purpose of pagan adornment.’

‘Hmpf. Check adequate?’

‘Ample. The woman has no talent for business. That she has no training should be obvious.’

‘Spotted right off when I saw that her shoes fit. Speaking of business, I assume you wont be leaving your rabbit hole for this job.’

‘This afternoon I shall be reading a transcript of a recent talk on economics and disease in Africa by Emily Oster. It came in the mail while you climbed a nonexistent mountain in the comfort of my home. The female is an ecstatic thinker, but she can think, so I shall require solitude to check her work. I wont require a woman scampering underfoot to distract me. Later, I must solve the solar panel problem for that fool in Arizona. His check cleared. Non-goat herders in Arizona are invariably trustworthy.’

‘Who would want a woman underfoot? I’ll arrange with the client for a good time to get into the house. I figure we should get the servants out so they don’t gossip about a nubile, breathtaking young lady like me in too tight jeans noising around the Master’s chambers. I can find these pictures in your three days of effort.’

‘No need. The pictures are in the dean’s office of the preposterously named Falcon Head Preparatory Academy.’ He mixed an ice sauce, from scratch, with the force some people use to murder.

I turned my head to get some of my hair out of my eyes. ‘How do you figure?’

‘A tale of wife searching for photographs, in her own home, for twenty years—and not finding them? Claptrap. Wives are as good at sniffing as bloodhounds. There is only one qualitative difference between female humans and dogs.’ He opened the oven, sniffed, then closed it. ‘This trout resists. Remind me not to patron this fisherman again. He has bad luck. For a female of status to grow so desperate as to relay her graceless tale to two strangers means that she has checked all paper trails, so no safety deposit boxes. No banks, no post offices. Besides, such a man with the credentials to govern such a privileged school, forsaking riches, would no doubt amuse himself with pictures of his wife in his sanctum sanctorum after giving a lecture on morality to an errant student. I suspect he is a gadfly. A graduate of Harvard. The institute attracts a wealth of students blissfully free of reality when they pretend to think. Still, ring in nose, they have their uses.’

‘Yeah, a bunch of dummies. So what’s the plan?’

‘You will contact your patron, Miss Feinstein, and-‘

‘She’s not my patron.’

‘You will contact Miss Feinstein, whatever she is, as she is ideally placed in their society, and she will enroll you tomorrow at the Academy as her hopelessly rebellious niece that has been expunged from institute after institute. That should satisfy two egos. Once positioned, you will act out, play the brat, be sent to the dean for a lecture, and memorize everything in the office. Then you will finish your school day as a schoolgirl in case I need another intrusion. The work may require an additional day. I shall expect a report on the office after Miss Feinstein drops you off.’

‘The academy is for high school students. I’m twenty-six.’

‘You are sufficiently youthful. However, you may make what preparations as you see fit. Please don’t use drugs in my home. Keep the receipts of legal purchases.’

I could be insulted or flattered. To serve Coventry, and to keep from committing the act of homicide, justified or not, it’s a good idea to go with flattery whenever possible.

‘What’s the one qualitative difference between female humans and dogs?

‘Dogs don’t bite the hands that feed them.’

As a woman, I was offended.

I sniffed the air for the rainbow trout. He noticed it, but then again he notices everything.

‘I prepared it as Wulfe Trout. There is more than enough for two.’

‘I’ll call Feinstein after lunch.’ The problem with a genius is that he can make things, like trout, better, so he has to be suffered. As a woman, I was offended. As a dogsbody, ruff-ruff.

---

The bus. I rode a school bus, and the horrible thing was that it was rather pleasant. It had been some years since I suffered a pack of young men sniffing about. Dogs. Lovely, adorable dogs. Still, none of them could tell the difference between confidence and arrogance. And they didn’t seem to appreciate that, after the glorious act of sex is finished, there’s this whole thing called “living together” that happens. Jesus, I felt old. But compliments never hurt.

I’d never been to a prep school (state educated, or “state inculcated with banalities and platitudes” as some bosses say), but I’m pretty sure even prep school high schools have changed since I was a sweet little thing sneaking cigarettes behind the gym and living the Breakfast Club dream. This school was for advanced students (kids with parents with money) between the age of 18 and 19 who wanted to clep out of the first year of college.

I didn’t go to college myself, except to bail my sister out of jam.

‘Miss Handel.’ Finely. Third hour and I was called upon at last. Now to start my errant plan. Step one: I continued to doodle in my notebook with my head down. ‘Grace Handel, please. Would you like to answer the question?’

‘Which question?’ I murmured, still doodling a scene from Boogie Nights.

American History Professor D’Accord persisted. ‘The question I just asked about early American History.’

‘Don’t give a shit.’ I murmured again, but this time a little louder for the benefit of the class. Heh-heh-heh, my brilliant plan was foolproof.

‘Well good for you! Class, I was going to wait a few weeks, but Miss Handel is absolutely correct. Bunch of bullshit.’ I stopped doodling, but kept my face down. Frozen, perhaps, is a better word for my face at that moment. I’d been made! ‘What we know of it is mostly lies, and whatever is true is largely just lies and opinions from a bunch of dead men. Oh, and quite bullshit.’

I looked to my left, then my right, hiding behind my hair. I felt a certain buzz in the air. Twenty young minds suddenly cared.

‘Instead of wasting our time with some bullshit, let’s discuss how we think American history should have begun. Huh? Sound like fun, class?’

The class of teenagers was unanimous that Make Believe class would be more fun than History class. At the end of the hour the general consensus was that George Washington should have been more like Kevin Costner in Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves and Martha Washington should have been like “that chick in Terminator.” Also, I was lauded as a hero, especially by the teacher.

Modern Education: 1/My Plan: 0.

Next hour was gym, and I hadn’t played volley ball in forever so I put My Plan on hold. My serve was rusty but true. I also fenced for the first time and I must say jabbing someone with a sharp stick is as enjoyable as it sounds.

Then lunch. They didn’t serve Wulfe trout. It may have been fish sticks, or perhaps pizza, but I’m sure it wasn’t Wulfe trout on ice sauce in a almond honey glaze.

OK, right back at it six period: math. Never liked the stuff. The problem with My Plan was that the teacher told me not to worry about being called upon because it was my first day, so I folded five pieces of paper into five triangles (footballs) and flipped them at the girl sitting in front of me. The first one missed, but the second one donked her right on her pate. She reacted, and I prepared for a good dressing down, which I would ignore until I was sent to the principle for capital punishment. Heh-heh-heh, My Plan was unstoppable.

The teacher, Mrs. Reynolds, took my footballs, then spent the rest of the hour teaching the class how to make the things tighter and firmer than mine: and she never mentioned angles or hypotenuses or any of that crap I didn’t remember. Again, I was well received. I only had two more classes to go to get sent to detention.

My Plan stood on the edge of a knife.

But it was ok! They wanted to play rough? Well, sister, I can play rough.

We mob of students had ten minutes to scramble in the halls to get to our next class, and I spent my time asking, loudly, “Hey, anyone holding? You, you holding? Anyone have any hydro? KB? Some kind bud? Come on: I’m dry and I have a hundred bucks—‘

A female teacher stopped me! Yes, nothing could stop My Plan. It was beyond the pale, you see. Then the teacher smiled.

‘Please, we do not allow crass commercialism on school grounds because capitalist imperialism destroys the mind. If you must buy pot, please do so after school in the parking lot like all the other students. I understand the green van has the best prices but the blue Chevy has the highest quality. Now you really should get to class, young lady. Much to learn!’

damnitdamnitdamnitdamnitdamnitdamnit.

Other than the “young lady” bit I couldn’t fucking believe it. I admit I panicked. And oh hell my science class was in Building A. Where was freaking Building A?

‘Hey, excuse me…’ A pair of girls walked by me, distracted in conversation, so I tapped one of them on the shoulder. ‘Could you please tell me where—‘

‘What is going on here!’

I turned and dropped my books, terrified at the screeching behind me. It was that same teacher that told me where to go buy illegal drugs, but now she glared at me. I turned around to make sure she was looking at me. The girl I tapped looked mortified, but mortified at me. She covered her face in shame and ran off crying, her friend comforting her.

‘Look at me!’ the teacher said, and I did. ‘There is NO touching, ever, young miss! Are you a savage?’ I thought she might spit on me. ‘You are coming with me to the principle’s office right now, young lady!’ She didn’t grab me, because touching wasn’t allowed, but she non-the-less railroaded me to horrible lecture, perhaps even detention.

My Plan was unstoppable.