CHAPTER 30: GRATUITOUS VIVA L'AMOURE IN MONOXIDE BLACK
Natasha took my all-too-human fly down and gripped me firmly, the dry pulse of her hand exquisitely painful. The tip of her tongue played around the edge of my root, here lightly like the silkworm, there molten like a pail of warm glue.
With much wailing and gnashing of hair what followed was one for the vaults, an exercise in gratuitous viva l'amoure that would bury any ten on your planet no matter what they might yap by the henhouse door.
These are dark days for cocksparring women and nobody fought the good fight like the raging Ms. Romilar. They say it's always better to regret something you have done than to regret something you haven't. As I fell away unconscious I could feel the venom trickle out of her.
Was I gone for an instant, an hour, an eon? The next time I opened my eyes it was carnage American style. Natasha had flipped her libidinous wig, and clothed in nothing but monoxide black hair and a nonexistent bikini line she was vaporizing the entire crowd with that monstrous Martian death warp. A mad look like a dog with green saliva engorged her eyes, and no mere mortal could have hoped to put a dent in that plan of pure evil.
Locals, yokels and wild ones alike felt the antiseptic sting of the Time/Space Warp, and if they thought they were alienated already, they didn't know the half of it. Lucifers Crank kept rocking the two chords that defined an evening of chaos and perversion, but as pockets of screaming teens ascended toward the astral homeland, even the bands' dope-addled minds started to click.
Riding on a roar of destructive applause, Eddie unslung his bass and heaved it at Natasha. As quickly as the guitar was thrown, though, Faust had hurled himself into its path. The angle was such that he couldn't see Natasha blasting back at the stage with the warp ray and, in a sickening instant, the dwarf was history.
If the last half-hour had been Purgatory, this development screamed welcome to Hell. Natasha instantly became a naked dervish spitting vile invective at a who-cares moon. Faust was her lover, her dog, her reason for being, and now he was gone.
If I were religious I might have said a rosary, but as it was I made it an open letter to the Patron Saint of Hiroshima. Nothing would stop Natasha from having revenge on The Crank, on your humble narrator, and on the very orb you call home.
As I braced for the worst, visions of Suzy's plumb danced in my head. I guess I realized then what my Holy Grail was and for once, instead of cursing fate, I counted blessings. The right side was up, the up side was down, and if it ended here, well then so be it.
I'd never seen the Reaper effect a specimen like Natasha before, her pathology so round, so firm, so fully packed; but I don't know what else it could have been that rang down the curtain on our last installment. She glared at me, the familiar malice in her eyes, and though she had me like a deer in her headlights she didn't aim the highbeams at me or even at the Great Unwashed.
Slowly, determined to enjoy every spine tapping second, she undulated like a world weary reptile to a tune that no one could hear. Then, she turned the Time/Space Warp on herself and made the big leap to another, hotter Eden.
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CHAPTER 31: WE ROASTED WEENIES ON THE FUNERAL PYRE