Amiga ISO Collection/AmigaDemoCD2.iso/ASCII/TEXTE/SEX/ADULTSHARE/M/MIKHAIL.TXT/__headers__.txt

Text File | 1991-05-15 | 8.0 KB | 131 lines

The estimable M. Zeleny professes indifference to the drivel I muster
up enough literacy to compose, so perhaps I am safe with this little
tidbit--
Julie
______________________________________________________________________________
It was indeed a dreary night, Mikhail thought, gazing through the window
into the dark drizzle.  He had exhausted his supply of amusements for the
evening:  the bag of cheese puffs sat forlornly atop the discarded copy
of _The Prince_, the jar of Vaseline was sadly depleted, and no one, no
one on alt.sex was willing to carry on further sparring with him.  "Nay,
it is that no one is *capable*!" he bellowed, enjoying the echo of his
own stentorian voice in the damp corners of his solitary abode.
Restless!  So restless was our hero that he resolutely set out into the
maelstrom, searching one thing: stimulation.
"Mental stimulation," he muttered to himself, buttoning his heavy trench
coat around his girth.  It was the sort of trench coat associated with
ghost-eyed men who loiter about the entrances of adult movie theaters,
the kind of trench coat that inspires fear and awe and secret lust in the
hearts of the rough trade crowd.
Knowing not what he truly sought, he drifted aimlessly through the streets
of Cambridge, chanting from time to time meaningless phrases like, "Platonic
anaxiomatic poofters!"  In his wake he left many a compassionate chuckle
from those more fortunate than he.  "Poor schmuck," those he passed would
think, shaking their heads fondly.
He knew their disdain, and rejected it with a violent sniff.  "Ignorant
chaps!  Uneducated peons!"
Shaking his head with a dark utterance or two about the lack of taste and
decency and proper geometry in the world, he inclined his head against the
mist; he did not want to spoil his brand-new bow tie.  In doing so, something
completely out of the ordinary caught his eagle eye.  It was a human,
seeking out his company!  A human, a female human!
As the apparition loomed closer, Mikhail carefully arranged himself in his
Roman senatorial stance as he had practiced it so many times in front of
the mirror.  (This stance, of course, is not to be confused with the
more relaxed Che Guevara reolutionary crouch, or the more mainstream,
infinitely more vulgar Madonna vogue, both of which were secret favorites
of our hero.)
"State your business, please, my dear woman!" he orated, arching one
eyebrow under the brim of his red and black plaid hunting cap.  Obviously
this was a creature of rare, discerning tastes indeed, to seek him out!
He approved thoroughly of her good taste.
"Ten dollars," she rasped back at him, thrusting her pelvis half-heartedly
at Mikhail, opening her coat of what appeared to be rat fur to display
her sunken chest and emaciated abdomen, which were only partly covered
by a Bart Simpson t-shirt.
"My good woman!" he shriked, amazed by the temerity of this creature.
"How dare you offer yourself to me while wearing such an egregiously
offensive rag of a garment!"  He eyed Bart Simpson warily, the bulge
of his eyes almost mirroring that of the cartoon hero.  "Have you no
shame?  Hussy!"
His righteous anger did not dissipate once the wretch had walked away
to seek greener pastures and less pompous clients.  "The gall!" he
murmured in amazement.  "To approach *me*!  In a Bart Simpson t-shirt!"
It was widely known, of course, that Mikhail's tastes were, er, more
refined than those of the typical man on the street.  He was used to these
unwanted advances from women, who were ceaselessly hurling themselves
at his manly form.  Women were avid for his favors, asking in return only
the benefit of his superior wisdom and opinions, which they received
in great volume--those, and a small donation, such as the previous creature.
And then, it happened.  Mikhail was snatched by strong, capable hands and
hauled into an alley that happened to be one of Mikhail's favorites.
Before he could even squeak in protest, a team of well-coordinated
commandos had lashed him to a chair, gagged him with balled-up athletic
socks (rather like the kind he himself wore: white with three multi-colored
stripes across the top), and illuminated the alley with the headlights of
a car in the distance.
His abductors wore black; their identity was no secret to our hero, however.
He instinctively recognized them, knew why they had come for him.  It
was the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, surely!  He, Mikhail, was to
be punished at last for his abuses against alt.sex readers across the world!
He suppressed a shiver of clandestine pleasure at the prospect.
First, this skilled team of discipline hounds flooded the alley with the
sounds of the complete list of "Songs to make out to".  The agony!  Our
hapless hero writhed uselessly in his chair, crying out in the pain of
his tortured sensibilities.  "No!"  he gasped, trying in vain to make
his piteous whimpers heard through the gag of socks.  "Please--no!  Some
S  Oh, anything--but not--augh!--'I Touch
Myself'!  Not 'The Dark Side of the Moon'!  Pleeeaaassearrrrgh!"
Phase one continued as one of his tormentors sat beside his chair, adopted
a conversational manner, and lifted a well-thumbed copy of _The Collected
Works of John Stuart Mill_, doused it leisurely with lighter fluid, and
flirted casually with a disposable lighter.  "Wouldn't that be just
wretched, Mikey?" crooned this minion of Hell, flicking the Bic ever
closer to that Bible of human behavior and thought.
Mikhail began to whimper then, making squeals like unto those heard
echoing from prison showers every so often.
The third phase of his punishment continued as the music continued and
the gentle glow of the cigarette lighter flared from time to time.
Mikhail was forced to watch as two of the burlier new masters of his soul
removed their catsuits of black and began to engage in non-life-affirming
practices before his scandalized eyes.  Every time he tried to close his
eyes to shut out this abominable spectacle, the music grew louder or the
lighter flashed closer, and his eyes would snap open in shock and
horror.
"Pleeeaasse!  Pleeeaasse!  No more!  No moorrrre!" sobbed our hero, through
his mouthful of cotton and elastic.  He faintly tasted sweat.
All at once, it seemed, the torment ended as soon as it had begun.  The
four men crowded around the chair where he sat, broken and huddled.  One
began to speak in a low, quiet voice that almost hypnotized our protagonist.
"If you had the chance to ice someone, just for kicks, and knew that you
wouldn't get caught, would you?" he asked in seeming curiosity.
The theme from "Deliverance" began to sound in Mikhail's overloaded brain.
"I wanna hear you squeal like a pig," he muttered crazily.  But his
companions were not listening.
"If you say yes," the speaker continued, "you are a monster."
"No!  Yes!  I don't know!"  Of these three utterances, the last was the
most degrading of all for our hero to make.
"If you say no," the disheveled man in black spoke further, "you are an
idiot."
"Yes!  No!  Maybe!  Bart Simpson!  Hegemonic Deist Crepuscular Poofter
Molybdenum Avacado!"
The stream of gibberish flooded out as the makeshift gag was removed at
last, followed by a torrent of ropy saliva.  Mikhail's head tilted
at a rakish angle as he muttered to himself to the tune of Ravel's
_Bolero_.
The men looked at one another and nodded, satisfied.  They unbound our hero,
who stood slowly and tottered out of the alley, with nary a look back, nary
a scathing remark for the cretins who were clearly unappreciative of his
patrician, more sophisticated world view.
No, he did not look back.  Mikhail was too busy in his own new world,
one of Bart Simpson and waterbed sex, one of Gallo wine and Cheez Whiz.
It wa a world in which he could be happy, a world in which his true
talents could be appreciated.
Swaying almost drunkenly as he passed once again through the narrow
streets of Cambridge, Mikhail's voice could be heard as he sought out
his friend from earlier that evening.  "I don't have ten dollars, but
I'll trade you my thesaurus, three dollars, a bottlecap, and some
pocket lint..."                                  FIN