How could she know she would run into the biggest mystery of her life?
Her best friend Mess and Mess's cousin Stevie tried to warn her. "Fancy," Mess reminded her, grasping the tickets in her hand excitedly, "no matter where you go, you always manage to find a mystery! Remember that time when we went to Kmart only to uncover a national smuggling ring in The Mystery of Smuggler's Crotch?"
Stevie nodded excitedly. "And at my freshman volleyball tournament when you located stolen drug money in the opposing coach's back pocket in The Case of the Not-so-Funny-Money?"
"Oh, don't be silly," Fancy said. "And don't forget The Crimson Cape Caper or The Hot Patooties Mystery! All available at your local bookstore!"
Stevie and Mess sighed. "I don't know, Fancy," Stevie said worriedly. "We always try to take some time off, and end up riding in the back of a dark, suspicious van, gagged and bound."
"Like in The Stolen Van Mystery."
"Enough of that," Fancy said. "How can we have fun at this concert and advertise at the same time?"
Before Stevie or Mess got a chance to answer her, Fancy's ex-boyfriend, Fred Frickerson, came sprinting up to them, red-faced and sweating. "Fancy! Fancy!" he gasped. "I know I dumped you for another girl and all, but I'm still tall, dark, and handsome, so will you help me solve The Mystery of the Sniveling Sneeze Concert?"
"Sure," Fancy agreed readily. "After all, I believe that's what this book is called. What's the scoop, Fred? Maybe as part of the plot we can get locked up in a car trunk and get back together or something. Girlfriend, schmirlfriend."
Mess giggled and passed Fred their bong, which they'd made in pottery at school. "Take a hit of this stuff, Freddy," she drawled sexily. Mess, with her curvaceous figure and blond curls, was with the 90's. Forget the 50's, the 70's, whatever. She'd been sweet sixteen through them all, and she damn well was gonna keep up with the times.
Fred shook his head. "Don't tell me that's that homegrown stuff," he said. "That the stuff your housekeeper grows in the garden, Fancy?"
Fancy rolled her eyes. "FRED! I don't have time for this. Just tell me about the mystery." And saying so, she rubbed seductively against him, trying to pass it off as an innocent gesture to hear what he was saying better.
"5:30! I call this meeting to order!" Bristly Slobass announced, pounding her fist on her cheap plastic K-Mart special director's chair. "HEY! Order!"
"Hey, look at this chilly new bracelet!" Clod Kitty squealed, waving her brand new pink and orange tinfoil bracelet in the air. She looked, as usual, stunning, clad in fuschia saran wrap, purple high tops, and a plaid headband. In one hand she clutched the latest Nancy Drew mystery, in another a bag of ringdings, in another a bulk-sized box of Snickers bars, and in another a bag of jellybeans. It always amazed Bristly how good Clod looked, even doing four things at once. Clod was Japanese-American, with pistachio shaped eyes and long dark hair that she always fixed creatively. Due to her enormous candy consumption, she also had several zit constellations dotting her face and a potbelly the size of Ross Perot's ears. But Bristly didn't have time for that.
"Clod," she said. "That is soooooo stale. Order!"
Clod turned up her nose. "Well I'm a better artist than you so nyah nyah!"
Before Bristly could retort Sanicanne Fire, the club's eternal peacemaker, stepped in. Tears dripped down her face and pooled around her penny loafers. Sanicanne cried at anything. "Come on," she sobbed. "Let's not fight!" Poor Sanicanne was very sensitive and cried at almost anything. They couldn't blame her, she was an orphan. Her parents had murdered each other when she was three.
The Baby-Shitters Club was composed of seven people who were all about to kill each other with pent up frustration. Most of them skipped their Prozac and Ritalin, making for even more trouble. Bristly banged on her directors chair some more. Clod jammed sixteen Hershey's Kisses into her mouth. Sanicanne blew her nose. Fawn, who was Californian, rolled up the sleeves of her blue, California Casual style shirt and continued to work on the clay bong she was making. Lacey, a sophisticated New Yorker, tossed back her perfectly permed blond hair and sharpened her switchblade. The alternate officers, Bessi and Gallory, were conspiring together sneakily.
"ORDER!" Bristly yelled. "ORDER!"
"Oh, shut up," Lacey said. "That is so old."
"WHAT WAS THAT?" Bristly jumped up and stared into Lacey's eyes. (Actually this took some work. She had to climb up on Clod's easel and stand on her tippy toes.) All three feet, two inches of Bristly, big, tough, blunt Bristly glared into Lacey's eyes. "You listen to me, Lacey. Don't you ever forget who's boss!" She put her hands on her hips menacingly.
"Oh yeah?" asked Lacey.
"What-EVER!" Fawn simpered. "As IF! You're not our boss, Bristly."
"You shut up!" Bristly screeched.
Lacey whipped out her switchblade. It gleamed brown with rust in the late afternoon light. "You still wanna mess with me?" she sneered.
"Yeah," Bristly snarled, reaching into her pocket and whipping out a tire iron. "You still wanna mess with me?"
"Sure," Lacey retorted, reaching into her pocket and whipping out an AK-47. "You still wanna mess with me?"
Bristly's grim look became frightened. She couldn't let Lacey get the better of her. Where was her Uzi? She frantically searched her pockets. It was nowhere to be found. What would she do?
The Duke's sea-blue eyes opened up to her little round face. "You are more beautiful with every sunrise." Still insane with alchohol, she believed his line. "See ya Eric" she thought to herself. She leaned into the Duke's thick morning breath for their first sober kiss.
Glistening like unpopped zits on a teenager with acne medicine at a
blacklit school dance, the lights of the village threw back their spite
into a sunset the color of lima bean puree with overcooked green onion stalks,
in which the setting sun, two thirds of the way down the hazy evening sky,
like the remaining headlamp of a 1980 Chrysler which has failed countless inspections,
silhouetted the youthful, slightly swaybacked forms of the two lovers,
shin-deep in a tar pile, as they gazed into parts still visible
of each other's eyes, each firmly holding the other's manhood.
Wandy, I wuv you thoe much, said Sylvie, I want it to always be like this. Sylvie's auburn hair cascaded from a bun the height of a good-sized multi-grained loaf atop her high forehead, down her back, below her waist, ending in a libidinous wave of glory atop the arc of her buttocks. The angle of her parted lips over her slight, beautiful overbite perfectly matched the high-heaped bun of her hair.
I love you too, and I want us to be in love forever, said Randy, turning his pop-star-sculpted snubbed nose slightly away from her gaze.
The night, encroaching like a heavy shopper in black down the central aisle at Macy's on a 30% reduction sale day, held them rigid in this perfect moment of realization: that they could lovers at sunset for many decades.
Lets go back to the hotel, said Sylvie softly. That old boat behind you doesn't make me feel safe. Boat, shmoat, whispered Randy. Yet the heavy curve of the boat above his head in the dusk hung bulbous, a threat to any shaking going on.
Yes. Lets get out of this tar, back to the hotel, and out of these clothes, said Randy.
Monique was such a sight as she stepped off the ship. The sea had been so choppy and rough that her stomach was still churning. As she was trying to straighten her short black hair back under her hat, suddenly she was approached by the most handsome man. He looked her up and down and circled around her, not speaking, just inspecting her every inch. She knew by his arrogant way that he must be someone very important.
He then held out his hand and simply said "Come". For some reason Monique quickly obeyed. This man seemed to have a presence about him that told her that she should not cross him. He led her down the dock to an awaiting limousine. "Get in" he had said and again she simply obeyed. They drove a short way to "Zinnith', the most elegant motel in the city. Finally, this stranger introduced himself to Monique. "I am Eduardo, Duke of Falco", he stated. "I wish to have a son to follow in footsteps. That means I must marry. I want you for my wife."
Monique was shocked at the straightforwardness of this man. Who did he think he was to just pick her up and insist that she was to marry him! Before she could speak, the Duke continued. "You will have a life of luxury. All the money, clothes, jewels you could imagine. Your only requirement is that you give birth to my son. After his birth you can stay or go, it's your choice, but you must remain my wife until a son is born." Monique was still amazed by this man. He was rude and conceited and she couldn't believe when she heard herself agreeing to this ridiculous situation. Eduardo led her into the motel and they entered a beautiful garden area. "A judge will be here in a moment to legalize a marriage between us. We will spend the night here before returning to my home tomorrow." With those words in came a judge. They signed a marriage license and then went up to a suite. Eduardo mechanically undressed and ordered her to do the same.
He made love to her as if he was a runner racing to a finish line. No tenderness. No kissing. No hugging. Just reproducing. What in the world had Monique gotten herself into?
Sandy knew that the only place she could have John was in her dreams. Every night she would go to bed with John on her mind. She knew that she would dream of him, because she always did. When she dreams her lips can almost feel him kissing hers. She can almost feel his hands upon her body. Sandy can almost feel the act of being made love to. Sandy has sent him a naughty card. She has emailed him telling him in her own way that all she wants is a physical relationship. If only he would notice me the way a man looks at a woman, she thinks.
Sandy realizes that she is not pretty. She is not thin like others she sees. In her thirty plus years of being alive, being in a relationship is the one thing she has yet to do. How can I really tell him what I want, she is thinking. Can I really be brazen enough to say I really want to have sex with you, she thinks. John is sometimes sensitive and at other times he thinks that all women want is his body. Sandy knows that this would play right into his fantasy of being a stud, but she doesn't care.
John had told her before that he prefers women older than him and those that are financially secure. What would he say if he suddenly realizes what Sandy really wants. Would he give in to her lust for him? Would he tell her no? Does she really want to give that part of herself to someone that has no interest in her? In her fantasy she has no problem separating the emotion of love and the act itself. Sandy will wait until the class he is teaching her is over and will tell him what she wants. Reality sets in and Sandy realizes that if a relationship with John is meant to be the next move is up to him. Sandy thinks, "I will settle for my fantasy right now".
The author comments, "I am waiting to see how this will play out:) "
Monique, shivering despite the near-tropic heat, contemplated the sleeping man beside her. Was she really now
the wife of a Duke who she had never met? Everything had happened
so fast since she stepped off of the Pacific Princess
to purchase a straw hat and some postcards to send to the surly
bunch of biddies that she worked with at the main branch of the public
library in Dayton, Ohio.
The heat of the island was nothing like the baking heat of the cement in Dayton. The breeze in her hair grabbed onto the droplets of sweat on her scalp and made her walk with just a bit more of a bounce. The cafes along the stone street with tables covered by tooth white starched linen seemed the perfect place for a rest. The waiter, dark and tall, with perfect manners and precise enunciation, suggested an exotic beer and, at that moment, she fancied one despite her promises made at the gate that she would not eat too much or drink too much on this, the trip she had saved so long for.
The beer was tart. Not like her Rolling Rock at home chilling lonely in the fridge. The beads of dew from the beer trickled onto her legs and made her jerk. When the bottle was half-full, she had adapted to the taste and simply held the bottle up with a beckoning motion to signal the waiter to bring another. And another.
She vaguely remembered the white shoes and belt. Both had buckles of something that looked more pewter than anything else. He was portly with a waxed mustasche and a white hat with a black ribbon. The silver tipped ebony cane he carried tapped the ground as he pumped it up and town on the sidewalk.
"May I join you," he asked. She blushed at the accent.
"Of course," she replied, not knowing why.
He smiled and kept his eyes fixed to hers as he pulled a chair from the table and sat spread legged with his hands still tapping the cane every few seconds like the tic it was.
The waiter appeared with a drink for him and he paid the man in island currency without a nod or a notice.
"My name is Livingston. Winthorp Livingston. You are a very lovely lady. American?"
She felt her color rise and her breath go short.
"Hello, Winthorp Livingston. My name is Monique Nugent. My mother was French. How did you know I was American?"
"Ah", he answered. "Your fresh clean look. It's always a tell. I've lived on the island since it I inherited the family businesses and vacation estate in 1962, though I was raised in London. You get a sixth sense about people who visit. May I order you something?"
It had been more years than she could recall since she had to strike a feminine pose and speak a feminine voice but she finally mustered a husky, "Yes. Thank You."
His command was understood and he said nothing until the waiter had placed the beer. "What is it you do in America?"
"I work in the archive section of a library in Dayton, Ohio. That is in the midwest."
His eyebrows raised and he gave an emphatic knock of his cane. "Wonderful! I am very fond of books. First editions are my only vice. Those and a bit of bitter gin once in a while."
And he talked about them. Her bladder filled and she had to excuse herself after every couple of beers but, except for those moments, she listened with whatever attention she could muster as she felt the familiar creeping down to the place the alcohol took her. He kept up but the accent never hinted that he had consumed two hours worth of gin. By the time he got to Dickens, she was wasted. He talked of his title and his family and how awful it was to have to live up to it. He blathered on and on and she could only hang on tight to the beer bottle and work to nod approval and acknowledgement. By the time he was drunk enough to ask her to marry him, she would have said yes if he had asked her to don a boa and dance naked around a boxing ring for him.
He called a cab and virtually carried her up the steps to the mayors house. And then she hit the wall. That place where nothing gets put away. There is no memory. It served her well most nights and weekends. Numbing her down and taking her away from the horrors of being 43 and single and plump and large pored and libidinous with no way to deal with it.
She looked over at Winthorp Livingston once more and then around the room at the stone walls and brass candle holders and paintings of men on horses ready for the hunt. She thought about getting up and looking for something to drink. Instead, she pulled the covers higher to warm herself and then reached out with her hands and began to rub them lightly on her husbands back.
The wind slipped its withered dregs of mist throughout Claudia's flowing strands as the
young woman gripped her beloved Nicholas in her arms.
The arms in which she offered anything to
him - her love, her mind, her heart, the whole world if he asked.
As his lips found their way upon
hers like a fatigued head to a newly fluffed feathered pillow in a five star hotel,
she closed her eyes and thought not of the sun's elegant, yet silent music as it drifted away
to sleep and slumber, she thought only of her Nicholas. He embraced her with such an emotion
that could send her flying like an angel. When they looked deep into
each other's eyes and searched further, digging into their souls
they discovered something that would remain unspoken forever - true love.
The world could never be perfect, but
if it could, and all the angels surrounding the veneer of the
universe, it would be then. This moment was truly heaven on earth.
Mr. Reynolds walks in the office. "You tell me you want a raise and you can't even type a document correctly." Kathy frowns. Mr. Reynolds shoves an obituary at her. "I need this typed, and it needs to be done by next week. Can I count on you! Kathy sighs, "yes, you can Mr. Reynold's-I am one of the most reliable workers you have and you know it"! He gives Kathy a crooked grin-"well,have this on my desk by Monday morning.
Kathy looks at the obituary. Her heart starts to make flip-flops. She can hardly breathe. She reaches for her purse to get her inhaler. She compresses the inhaler three times-taking some comfort as the colorless gas rushed into her lungs. Tears flow down her cheeks. She screams in agony-"this can't be happening"! She screams, "Mike, no, no! -Mr. Reynolds is this some kind of joke. She starts to feel dizzy. The room spins and she collapses to the floor.
I must be crazy, a grown man waltzing around in skin-tight white Spandex pants, hoping and praying to rip another guy's head off. But that's exactly what I do. And when I finally do get around to tearing that goddamn quarterback's head off, I'm going to call a time-out, pick up that bloody head off the playing field, walk over to the stands, and then give the whole mess to the pimply faced Poindexter playing French Horn in the band, as a personal momento, as a trophy he can treasure, because he's lonely, and because he's so damn ugly. He can put it on the mantelplace, next to the picture of his dear old Mother. Often when I'm in the huddle, I think deep thoughts. The other guys on my team think I'm strange and they try to give me a hard time, and the coach gets mad and tells me to keep my mind in the game, but my mind still wanders. I think about world hunger, MTV, bloody auto accidents, and my girlfriend, but mostly, I think about beer. Lots of beer. Often, to relax after the game, I'll buy five or six 12-packs of beer and take them back to my dorm room. I usually invite half the team over at a time, and because everybody loves beer as much as I do, the bathroom tends to get rather crowded. For fun, and to relieve the congestion, sometimes the guys and I piss off my balcony. It's 12 floors up, so the most folks unfortunate to be walking below will feel is a fine mist.
Our coach, Coach Bob, is a really nice guy. Once, he and his wife Betty invited the whole team over to their house for dinner, all 77 of us. We had barbecued chicken, baked beans and corn-on-the cob. Coach Bob told me that he wrote the whole thing off on his income tax. Coach Bob has a weird space between his teeth. I guess, when he was in high school, he got in a really bad fight in Auto Mechanics class. The other guy was losing so he hit Bob in the mouth with a MacPherson strut. Ouch.
Coach Bob likes my future. He says when I play in the NFL I'll make some TALL money. My 7 wives and my 56 kids will all drive Cadillacs and dress in the height of fashion. Gucci, gucci, goo.
I don't know when I'm going to get married. My girlfriend thinks that I shouldn't be such a brute, and I should be more romantic, and I should not consciously try to break her in half when we have sex. I try hard to listen to her, but in reality, what she says goes in one ear and out the other. All I really can think about is beer, and the more beer the better. My life revolves around beer, football, food, and my girlfriend, in that order.
Some people, especially the fans, think I have the moves of Michael Jackson, the brains of Albert Einstein and the body of Hulk Hogan, all rolled up into one neat 412 pound package. Once, after I scored the winning touchdown, a fan, in an orgasmic fit of joy, spilled his Gatorade all over me. I knew it was an accident and he did it because he loved me, but all I could think of was how much fun it would to jump into the stands and kick his skinny ass into the next county.
On the night before game day, I prepare in my own special way. I go down to the local 7-11, and load up on Gummy-Bears, frozen White Castles, Chips Ahoy cookies, Slim Jims, Cocoa Puffs, Cotton Candy, Barbecued Pork Rinds, Twinkies, and you guessed it, beer. By the time the game rolls around, I'm hungover, constipated, my teeth got a bunch of plaque on them, and oh yeah, I'm ready to play football.
Sometimes, the guys and I do strange things when we are drunk, things we probably wouldn't do when sober. Once we went on a panty raid on the girls' dormitory. They got really scared of us. One chick tried to scream so I stuffed her down the laundry chute. I didn't realize that it was six floors to the basement, where the dorm's washing machines were located. They didn't find her body until two weeks later, why, I don't know, but you know women and their clothes. We could have all got in deep trouble for that little escapade, but Coach Bob had it hushed up. Lucky for us, Bob is good buddies with the Chief of Police. They played football together.
So that's my story, right or wrong. So the next time you see me on the sidelines, sitting on the bench, don't think of me as just a man, think of me as a football playing man. A football playing man, with an important job to do. God bless you, and thank you, everybody.
The author comments, "It could be a hell of a lot worse. Comments? "
Beverly sighed solemnly and stood to her feet, letting the blue and gold pom-poms fall to the row below. In the distance she could see the boys track team moving almost mechanically around the large oval. She glanced down at her watch . 5:15. How was she going to tell Ryan, she wondered. He'd be almost as disapointed as her mother. It was their reputation that made them such a cute couple. Everyone knew it. The Track star and his Cheerleader girlfriend. Picture perfect. She stood hypnotized by the coach's voice. "Keep Running Girls." he yelled. Keep running. Thats it. They didn't have to know. Not Mom, not Ryan, no one.
"Hey." Ryan's voice interrupted her thoughts. Beverly smiled at her Boyfriend a few feet below. "Ready?" he asked. She glanced down at the pom-poms at her feet. "Yup." she said bending over to pick them up. "How was practice?" he asked. "Great!" she lied. "we're working on this new stunt..."
Pansy held up the Q volume of the Children's Encyclopaedia Brittanicish for
her sister to see. It was a picture of a small, rather cute quail.
"A bird?" asked Patsy.
"No, no, other page," replied Pansy. It was a picture of a brightly colored winged snake. Patsy looked at the entry: qetzalcoatl.
Pansy squinted at the page. That couldn't possibly be the correct spelling; someone goofed! "That spelling is --"
"South American," finished Pansy.
Patsy still didn't see the relevance. "So it's a misspelled flying snake from South America. I don't get it. Although it does remind me of the logo of that herpatological society Dad used to belong to. Have you ever been to one of their meetings? What a strange bunch of people they were. Lizards, and monitors, and snakes, and they -- " she stopped suddenly, staring wide-eyed at her sister. "'The anaconda' Mr. Ragsdale mentioned! Could it be related?"
"I'd bet your allowance money that it is!" exclaimed Pansy. "Question still is, though, HOW is it related? Are they smuggling illegal reptiles? Black market anti-venin trades? Distilling some kind of brainwashing-zombification serum with which to enslave the world? Something still doesn't fall into place."
"I'm not sure," Patsy replied, her intial ire at the suggestion of using her allownace money for betting purposes -- a very unwholesome activity indeed -- subsiding. "Pans, those people at the meetings...I can't stress how really unusual they were. Some were downright," she paused, gulping, "_weird_ people! Like the kind you see in the Post Office on the cork boards. Looking at you with eyes that --" she broke off shuddering. Galled as she was at having admitted her seemingly irrational fear of those men and women, she still tried to comunicate just how sinister and strange some of those sinister strangers were.
"Pats," said her sister patiently, "do you remember what Dad's assignment was at the time?"
"Sure, we found out lots about it since that was around the time that -- oh," she stopped, her face clouding momentarily. She didn't finish the thought that passed between them: that was around the _Case of the Dead Divorcee_. "He was investigating that South American cartel that was involved in some kind of smuggling, we never found out what." Her jaw dropped. "South American?!"
Pansy nodded somberly. "I think we're going to have to sneak into the Ragsdale house, and have a look around. There's more to this than I think either of us imagined. 'To the mystery, and beyond,' only..." she broke off.
"We're beyond that mystery, or so we thought," she concluded. They settled back in their respective beds, suddenly a bit chilled, thought they wrapped their Queen Anne-style comforters tightly about them.
Patsy turned out the light. She sat back in her bed, looking out the window. She gazed out into the darkness, musing on the last few days of their time together with their father and their mother. Patsy never really got to know her mother too well, and that saddened her. Although she loved Aunt Polly dearly, she often thought about that absent space in her heart. She could almost see her mother, standing outside the window, her sleepy head playing tricks on her. "I can almost see Mom outside; don't those trees and clouds look like her?" she mumbled sleepily.
Pansy sat bolt upright in bed. "Patsy, you goof, there's a woman outside of our window!!" she shrieked. She flung her arm out toward the lace and porcelain lamp which sat on the eggshell and pink-trim night table between their beds, turning the light on, but knocking it over in the process.
When the light snapped on, the woman was gone, if she had been their at all. Patsy and Pansy exchanged looks, a nagging doubt getting snared somewhere between them.
Daniel crouched behind the log , waiting for the moment he wanted.Aldegar and his henchmen shuffled by , unaware of the threat poised nearby . Three years after the brutal slaughter of his family and pets , revenge was near enough that he could taste the bitter memory in his mind's mouth. "Crap", he muttered to himself and the tree bark, " I should have brought more than one bullet" .
The author comments, " Stuff costs too much , don't you think ??"
The author comments, " You can't get lost if you don't care where you're going."
The author comments, "Itchy at first, but then you get used to it "
After shrieking like a girl , and mincing rather rapidly to the furthest corner of my office to clean my underwear , I took command of the room by threatening to kill myself if anyone else was "mean to me" .
The author comments, "More fun than a basket of squid ."
Betty and Bobby were caught up in the throes of Young Love, so they didn't
see Armageddon approaching. As they gazed lovingly into each other's eyes,
utter blackness loomed closer over their heads. Soon, Bobby would be swallowed
up. His cries of anguish as the vacuum of the blackness quickly destroyed the
integrity of each cell wall in his body would be witnessed in horror by Betty,
whose first thought was relief that she'd reclaimed her tongue just in time.
Right now, however, there was nothing but the sea and each other. How, after all,
could they forsee that after Bobby's body dissipated into the vacuum, Betty would
also be consumed? Who would have known that as she ran, screaming, down the
beach, that there was no escape from the destruction of the world? Nobody,
looking at this idyllic scene of passion, would know that within seconds Betty's
nubile body would be torn limb to limb and devoured by utter nothingness.
And still the darkness looms closer...
When she first met the Duke, she had assumed the Princess Pacific was the name of his powerful stallion and she, enticed, had agreed to ride her. But now she had come so far from her ranch. Long gone were the rich mingling smells of pig sweat and cow manure. Digging her feet into the hot tropical sands, Monique feared she had made a terrible mistake. Although he had promised her an estate of her own, she wondered what she would do to pass her time. With no cattle to prod or sheep to shear, she feared her life was over.
"What is it dear? What bothers you so?" The Duke suddenly sat upright, eyeing his new wife with concern.
Beverly, huddled under the bleachers, sniffed back a tear. Kicked off the
cheerleading squad! All of her mother's dreams for her, dashed! How could she
even go home now?Where, after all, was home? One moment she ran through the forest, gaily giggling, to be caught by the luscious Manly-Husband. He ripped off her bodice and freed her shining pearls of womanhood. As he ravished her, she leaned against a giant maple, and robins festooned her hair with blossoms.
The next moment, she opened her eyes to howls and found herself leaning against a shining pole, lit dimly with red, flashing lights. Men festooned her body with green pieces of paper, and one particularly unchivalar fiend massaged her glowing orbs (which Manly-Husband had called the light of England) with dirty, scaly fingers. Another man tugged at her immodestly-short, red-and-white skirt, and across from her, similarly-dressed girls waved large bundles of festive tissue.
Beverly gasped, slapped the man who was violating her orbs, and cried "Away from me, foul knave!" This only served him to press his oily mouth against hers. She struggled feebly, but alas, her delicate womanhood could not win out against the brute, and she sank to the floor as he touched her. Oh, the violation...
The next thing she knew, one of the oddly-dressed girls marched up to her and said "First night? You're not worth shit as a stripper! Go to the back!" She kneed the man in the area of his - ahem - family jewels (that which Manly-Husband would take her to the highest extremes of ecstacy) and hauled her backstage. "Sit on this bench," she commanded, "you're fired from the squad!"
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