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Subject: {ASSM} CODY: Q.13, SUCCUBUS
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Q.: A Novel
By Cody Ann Michaels
c. All rights reserved.
Chapter 13
Succubus
May 28, 2000
"Yesterday I was looking for some info on the net re: incubus,
incubi, etc., because I have always had fantasies of a demon lover, but alas
mine have always been mortal. I came across an "interesting" website,
www.demonbusters.com. One comment on the website said that 9 out of 10
Christian women have been attacked by an incubus. I'm thinking about
converting. -- email from Elvira" [Name changed to protect privacy.]
I didn't know it was that high. I'm surprised. I knew about Carol's.
And Kelly had had one. It practically ate her alive. From the inside out.
But I had not suspected my own unique status. I know there's nothing in me.
Waiting to get out. Curled up inside like some hidious toad. Ready to burst
forth at any moment, transforming me into a disgusting eyesore. Spoiling the
party. I must get back to the forest. Before they catches me. Hee, hee.
Hiding out in the incorporated part across the road. Sybil used to live back
there. Before she got her trailer. They ain't civilized in there. Wilma
had a house there. She's dead now. Nice little place. We visited once. It
went on forever. Yet each room had a window. I couldn't figure it out. The
roads were horrendous. Take the springs right off your car. We dropped
Sybil once at Wilma's house, but didn't stay. Then Wilma went up north.
That always happens at the end. They comes and takes you. If you wants to
go or not. Valhalla. Home of the Odin Throne. Frieda out on the dune,
screaming like a Valkyrie. Flying horses in the red clouds. Stormy weather.
Odd. I wonder what made me go off like that? Sometimes I get carried
away. Just babbling. When I went to see Mandy Wat Tyler this afternoon, I
was happy to see that she was sitting up in a chair. Then I noticed it
wasn't exactly a chair. And she wasn't so much sitting as impaled on it. It
was one of those contraptions for burn victims. It seems someone in the
middle of the night poured lighter fluid all over her and set her on fire.
She has burns all over her body. You could still smell burnt meat in the
room. She had apparently also been raped several times -- after they put the
fire out. Ugh. Anyway, this thing went up inside her cunt so that she was
held off the ground without her feet touching the floor -- she's still
wearing those high heeled pumps with the skyscraper heels -- and her hands
tied tightly behind her back so she can't pick at her burned skin.
Naturally, this and the way her elbows are pulled together in back, push out
her big jugs which have been massively scarred. There's also a collar that
jerks her head back and some kind of rope thing that pulls her head forward
by the hair. Her legs are pulled straight out and held in place by leather
cuffs at the ankles. She looks pretty desperate. I also didn't like the way
she was bleeding out of her mouth like that. I wondered if they knew she was
hemmoraghing inside. Aren't they supposed to monitor stuff like that? It
turns out the man in the other bed was one of the truck drivers who flipped
their rigs trying to avoid running over me, although, of course, he thinks it
was Mandy. He lost a leg and most of his vision, but he can still get around
enough to make life miserable for Mandy when no one else is doing it. Mandy
said he had raped her several times over the last couple of days. Even after
they got her into this rig he had wanted to go on fucking her but now it's
not possible with that pole stuck up inside her, so he has had to be content
with dick whipping her burned tits and sticking pins into her. Pretty
pathetic. I suggested they ought to take the pole out of her cunt and stick
it up her ass, which would leave her cunt free. That cheered him up, and
after the orderies came in and fixed it for him it worked just fine. He was
still on top of her when I left.
I love being able to help the sick and afflicted. The new arrangement
pretty much bent Mandy backwards into a circle with her cunt raised and
more available to anyone wishing to use it, although at this point, it
wasn't exactly the prettiest thing I would want to stick my dick in if I
had one. It looked like two-day-old possum roadkill. Well, he's blind,
so it probably doesn't matter. The arrangement also lowered Mandy's
gaping mouth so that it was more accessible if he should want some
variety. Her long red hair dragged on the dirty floor. And it would also
have the added improvement of shutting her up and stopping her incessant
whining and complaining. Which, I have to admit, even after a half hour
was getting on my nerves. I could imagine what it must be like for him,
being in the room round the clock with this stupid, self-pitying chick.
I don't know how he stood it. I don't blame him for all the time beating
her up. Mandy begged me to help her get something for the pain. The
doctors won't give her pain killers. Her father's HMO doesn't pay for
them. They're considered experimental drugs. But I couldn't see what I
could do. I was already on probation for dealing drugs to minors, and it
would just get me in more trouble if I tried to score for her. I didn't
think it was fair, her putting me on the spot like that. I even told my
probation officer what Mandy wanted me to do. He complimented me on
finally behaving responsibly -- like an adult, which was nice. Deep down,
we all want to feel appreciated, don't we? And he also told the cops.
They set up a sting operation for tomorrow. To bust Mandy for buying and
possession. Since the hospital gets federal funding, it will come under
the federal drug laws. So even if Mandy were to beat all the murder raps,
which is unlikely, she'll still be going away for a long time. I hope no
one thinks I like doing stuff like that. But sometimes you just have to
do what you have to do. Like, whatever.
Mandy's trial, by the way, is next week. I gather they are going to
wheel her into the courtroom on something like this thing. It ought to make
an impression. Frankly, she needs all the sympathy she can get. Public
opinion is really running strong against her in the Tidewater. People want
to lynch her. Whatever happened to being presumed innocent until proven
guilty? It's not fair. But then, life isn't fair, is it? I was just
thinking that the other day when I was trying to figure out what to do next.
I don't think it comes as a surprise to most people that this book isn't
going the way it's supposed to. Meaning, this is supposed to be a novel
about the last political campaign of the millenium. Okay. Let's settle that
first. No matter what Peter Jennings has told you, this is not the third
millenium -- yet. This is the last year of the twentieth century and the
millenium that goes with it. I.e., number 2. I know. I know. You were
snookered. But that's America for you. If you can make money on it, you can
do anything. Even change basic math. And Peter and his clones are masters
of the game. But sorry. If these guys can't tell time, why should we
believe anything else they tell us? In the real world, this is still the
second millenium, and the person elected in November will be the first
president of the third. Got that?
Which is part of what makes it so sad that it is so boring. No matter
what I do, I can't seem to work up a lot of interest. In fact, I have
trouble remembering who's running or which of the main suits is which. They
sort of melt like M&M's in my mind. I know that one is smart and one is
dumb, but the dumb one is ahead in the polls. One is for gun controls and
one is owned by the NRA but even though two thirds of the country think we
should have gun laws, the NRA's man is winning. They are even going to have
an office in the White House. So go figure. On the other hand, the smart,
anti-gun guy is no prize either. If anything, he's worse. If he has his way,
we will all soon have a V-chip in our brain and be hooked by modem to the
government security zone, telling us what to think and how to behave. No bad
thoughts. No bombs. No terrorist activities. Personally, faced with that,
I'll take the brainless lobo psychopath with an assault weapon any day. So
please! Jesse! Run! Give us someone to believe in!
Because, let's face it, neither of these schmucks is an Andrew Jackson or
Henry Clay. Those were candidates! Nobody had any trouble telling them
apart in the election of '24. They were two of the three Q. beat to win.
(The third was the Treasury Secretary, Crawford, a name that, until Cindy
came along, has failed to resound in history.) In the end, it came down to
Q. and Jackson. Clay threw his support to Q. Q. then turned around and, in
spite of dissing Clay for ten years, made him secretary of state. A big
mistake. Because Jackson's people threw a four year hissy fit. They
sabotaged everything Q. tried to do. And, of course, Jackson came back and
won in '28. That's history.
One of my writers suggested I should only write history. I wondered if
he was equating history and reality. In the paper I wrote for history class,
I said, "People say that Q. was a failure as president. But they ignore the
fact he at least kept Jackson's genocidal tendencies at bay for four years.
And by the time Jackson got into the president's house he was so sick and
fucked up inside I doubt he enjoyed it. Ironically, Q. had been Jackson's
staunchest -- and only -- supporter during the Monroe administration.
Between the two -- Q. was Monroe's Secretary of State -- they pried Florida
out of the palsied hands of the decaying Spanish empire." [rf."The
Significance of John Quincy Adams, paper, Cody Ann Michaels, unpub., 2000]
Which, looking at the results today, I'm not sure it's anything to brag
about. But then the Spanish would probably have fucked it up as bad. Look
at Miami.
A guy in Georgia took me to task over the Elian affair. Remember
Elian? He, the guy, said he was on the opposite side from what I wrote
about the Banana Republic of Miami Cubans because he could not "resist
opposing anything Castro is for." Which is fine. No problemo, Alexa
Gente. But if that's what the outcasts want -- I don't think of them as
"exiles" -- then let them have the guts to go back to Cuba and fight Fidel
on his own turf, not sit around the barbeque pits of south Miami whining
and waiting for El Hombre to die. And don't kidnap some poor schnook's
kid and pretend you are a hero pulling Castro's beard when all you're
doing is fucking a six-year-old's head. That's pathetic. Which is why I
dislike the Batista Cubans so much -- they are practically rolling in the
streets over the Elian decision -- because they didn't come to Florida out
of some mad wild desperate urge to be free; the original ones came here to
avoid going to jail or being stood against a wall for corruption. They
talk incessantly about going back when Castro croaks, but I doubt the
people back home want them. I have a bumper sticker on my Mercedes that
says: "We don't care how they do it up north!" Well, I bet the people of
Havana don't care how they do it in Miami, either. So give me a break.
These people will never leave. The last thing they want is Castro to die.
Then they wouldn't have any excuses. While Castro and communism are
alive, the gringo whores like Bush and the Gore brothers.... uh, I told
you I can't keep them straight... Gore and the Bush brothers will suck up
to them every time they break wind. And you can bet if Hillary were
running for senator from down here -- there's a thought to make the skin
crawl -- she'd be asskissing them, too.
But I bet Q. wouldn't have. Or Jackson either.
I thought of Jackson during the Elian crisis -- fondly, even. Especially
when Miami-Dade mayor, a little puke named Pinelas, tried to revive the
principle of nullification. This idea was originally floated in South
Carolina in the early 1830s. It claimed that states had the right to opt
out, i.e. nullify, any federal law they didn't like. Pinelas said if Janet
Reno and the INS came to get Elian he would forbid Miami cops to help with
the mob of fanaticos surrounding the house. South Carolina on the other was
pissed over the tariff. I don't know if they wanted one or didn't want one,
but they didn't want whatever everyone else wanted and they threatened to
secede if they didn't get their way. Anyway, Vice President Calhoun asked
President Jackson what he would do if the state were to test nullification
out. Jackson replied that he would send in the army and hang the traitors.
Normally, I am against state-sponsored violence, and I'm all for whatever
rebellion there is of the moment, but in Miami's case, I would have enjoyed a
few lynchings, seeing as they were in a justifiable cause. No one in South
Carolina, by the way, called Jackson's bluff. He had already, I wrote in my
paper, which should have gotten an A+, "...set a precedent as our first
governor by hanging several white people he caught trading with the
Seminoles. That's what nearly got him cashiered. The administration was
embarrassed and Calhoun, who was then Monroe's Secretary of War -- job titles
were more exact in those times -- wanted the general's head. Only Q. saved
him. Q. almost worshipped Jackson. In 1822, he wrote: 'General Jackson has
rendered such services to this nation that it was impossible for me to
contemplate his character or conduct without veneration.' [Journal:
2/2/1822]" (On the other hand, ten years later, Q. wrote, "In a casual
conversation with [Jackson appointees] I adverted to the remark of Gibbon,
that the courage of a soldier is the cheapest quality in human nature. By
the looks of some persons present, I saw it was thought I had a special
meaning..." which he, of course, denied. [Ibid., 2/2/1832])
"Firing Jackson would have been worse than firing MacArthur. The country
would have exploded. He was wildly popular. MacArthur, too, had crossed a
forbidden parallel, as Jackson when he chased the Seminoles into Florida and
threw the Spanish military governor into prison, not to mention committing
numerous other war crimes. Q. supported him all the way. Even in the
hanging of Arbuthnot, the English mercenary. Q. had known her in England.
When she was on the stage with Mrs. Siddons. In fact, he had, it is not a
stretch of the imagination to say, worshipped the young woman. Well, maybe
"obsessed" would be a better word. The two Arbuthnot sisters were frequent
attenders at Royal dinner parties and picnics in the Hamptons. Q. saw them
frequently. The older girl pleased him, but it was the younger, Cocaine, who
he doted upon. When he heard that Jackson had her, he was ecstatic.
"Q. and Jackson had both been senators during the Jefferson
administration. They were never friends, but they had a grudging respect for
one another, like two old gunfighters sizing each other up. Say Wyatt Earp
or Wild Bill Cody. Now, Jackson was back in the senate. Until 1914, the
state legislatures elected the senators; it was a lot cheaper than the
present system. We ought to go back to it. But then, considering what the
turkeys in Tallahassee are liable to send up, maybe it's not a good idea.
Senators were expected to vote the way the legislatures told them but they
did not have to. In fact, Q. had resigned in '08 rather than go against his
conscience. Jackson made no secret he was gunning for the presidency. Q.
was more mysterious. He played his cards close to the chest. Neither man
was in the mood to take prisoners. Coco was with Jackson. All that hogwash
about Rachel is so much hogwash. The twelve-year-old was the general's
plaything. She had watched her sister hang. Jackson knew Q. wanted her. So
he made her a present. To his old ally in the cabinet. A token of his
appreciation for Q.'s support in subduing a dangerous adversary. To thank
him, Q. 'gave," the general, as they said, a ball on January 8, 1824, to
celebrate the ninth anniversary of the general's victory at New Orleans. Of
course, the battle had been fought long after Q. and the others had
officially ended the war with the Treaty of Ghent, but Jackson hadn't known
that so everyone thought the old fag was entitled to his effeminate
posturing. He was such a swish. He came in, wearing a dramatic red cape and
bouffant hair do. Everyone applauded. He affected a pose. Everyone
ouuuuuuu'd. He struck another. Aaaaaaaah! He changed it again.
OOOOOOOOOOO! Several women in low cut dresses swooned. Others ripped at
their bodices. A few who had been in New Orleans at the time smiled. They
knew who had won the war. And it hadn't been Randy Andy. LaFite had sworn
her men to secrecy. They charged across the muddy field. We fired our guns
and the English kept a comming. There wasn't quite as many as there was a
while ago. We fired once more and they commenced to running. Down the
Mississip to the Gulf of Mexico. Yonder stood Jackson like a stone wall.
Many people confuse the two. They are not alike. There's no doubt had he
lived Jackson would have been the next president of the Confederacy. Lee
would have supported him. Chancellorsville changed everything, utterly! But
this was 1824. Jackson was in full drag. The tight pink Capri pants
proclaimed him a westerner. A plain-spoken frontiersman. Q. was wearing
mauve and carried a white feathered fan. This is often referred to as the
Era of Good Feeling. Each was feeling the other out. Even for January the
weather was egregious. More than a thousand braved the elements to honor the
brave general. But the President stayed home, not wishing to take sides in
the conflict. Besides, these parties bored him. He longed for the time when
he could return to Virginia and his pony. Jackson took Q.'s wife into
supper. At that moment, a lamp hanging above them suddenly spilled its
contents, covering her with oil. The accident led many in the crowd 'to
exclaim that since their hostess had been thus annointed, it must be a
favorable omen' for Q. A shadow crossed the 'hero's' malevolent face. Mrs.
Adams 'kept her dignity, retorting she was certain only her gown' was spoilt.
[rf. Nagel] Washington matrons in those days dressed like nuns. After a
certain age no one wanted to look at them. They wanted fresh young white
girls to satisfy their disgusting masculine lusts. Q.'s wife was still in
her twenties. He had brought her back from London. She had married quite
young. She was still permitted to wear the short, provokative dresses
revealing both long legs and heavy bosom. Jackson fawned over her, drooling
as if he had never seen a white woman before. It was obvious that he wanted
her badly. He complimented Q. on his good taste both in choosing wine and
women. Q. was not inclined to give her up. He had certain Yankee principles
that he scrupulously adhered to. In New England, the marriage bond was still
sacred. He suggested finding a younger, more pretty girl to satisfy the
General's heroic needs. Everyone talked of them, but very few were ever able
to bring themselves to believe the stories were actually true. America was a
young nation and in some ways, still very innocent. Jackson beamed. Coco,
on a leash, was exhibited to the guests. She had turned thirteen three days
before. Now she was almost a woman. Tall, for her age, with large breasts
and long curly red hair that fell almost to her waist. They had found her
wandering in the Glades. Apparently her parents had died and she had grown
up in the forest protected by the animals. She was a wild person who knew
not three words of English besides her name. It was engraved on a metal tag
on a chain around her neck. The papers called her 'The Bird Girl' and 'The
Jungle Princess.' Q. was enchanted with the young actress. He exhibited her
in her native habit. Only a loin cloth and bare breasts, and sheer black
stockings and high heels. Traditional Seminole wear. And black gloves. She
had become almost a part of his existence. Her presence in the house
unsettled him and disturbed the servants. Sometimes she would hiss at them.
Also, she made disconcerting movements with her hands and eyes. Soon they
whispered she was a witch. No witches had been burned in Washington since
the great heresy trials of the 1800s. Now the Christians began to ask for
her blood. Q. resisted. Jackson warned the president that if he did not
stop it, there would be revolution. Monroe was shaken. He had been with
Washington at Valley Forge, but it had been nothing like this. (That's him
holding the flag in the boat, by the way.) He wished his term would be over
and he was back in Virginia with his pony."
I did all this fucking research and all I got was a louse B+! Is that
right? Anyway, you see, there's a lot to be learned from history. But as to
whether it's reality, that's another story. And you can also see why I find
the current campaign so boring. Not one candidate has said what he'd do
about the witches. Except, of course, Pat Buchanan. But he's a joke. It's
very sad. I feel like I have heard the old people talk about what it was
like in London before the blitz, in the 30s, when they knew war was coming
but could do nothing to stop it. Gore and Bush are like having terminal
cancer. We are going down like the Titanic because that's how the machine
works. Too bad. And there aren't even special effects to make it
interesting.
Q. on the other hand had Henry Clay. I wrote that he was, "...a Kentucky
gambler. Jackson called him 'the Judas of the West.' But that's because
Clay stiffed him. The Kentucky legislature had ordered its representatives
to vote for Jackson. But Clay had turned them around for Q. And he got him
Ohio, too. Q. denied that's why Clay was offered the state department. But
Q.'s journals show that he distrusted and dispised Clay from their days in
Ghent working out the peace treaty with Great Britain. Clay had wanted the
state department in Monroe's administration, and when he didn't get it, had
spent the next eight years scheming against Monroe and Q. That they should
be together again in the White House was just too comical. It was like
Laurel and Hardy. Steppin and Fetchit. Boris and Karloff. So that's
history, too. I don't know what it means. It's just to explain the seeds of
the duel between Q. and Jackson. The two old friends, like professional
wrestlers, had come to hate one another. And no one knew this better than
Cody. She played them like a video. Seeking for the moment when she could
revenge her sister. She was not as primitive as she looked, as she stalked
around Washington like a native savage, wild, copper colored locks streaming
in the wind. At her waist, she carried a knife in her belt and wore buckskin
boots with high heels that sunk in the mud of the D.C. streets. Q. let her
dress the way she pleased. As long as she pleased him. After the election,
Jackson quit the Senate and returned to Tennessee where he brooded in his
lair and plotted revenge. He knew that Q.'s tender spot was the girl. The
tragedy was set. All it needed was the spring to set it off."
To be frank, I'm not there yet. In my research. I'm still reading about
the election. So I don't know what happened. And I haven't read all of Q.'s
secret London diaries concerning the two girls. I'm still corresponding with
the Massachusetts Historical Society to get those. It may take a lawsuit to
obtain their release. I do, however, know something about the witch trial.
To be frank, I'm not there yet. In my research. I'm still reading about
the election. So I don't know what happened. And I haven't read all of Q.'s
secret London diaries concerning the two girls. I'm still corresponding with
the Massachusetts Historical Society to get those. I do, however, know
something about the witch trial.
It seems that Coco or Cocaine was accused of having a demon lover. And
the person who discovered it and turned her in was none other than Q.,
himself. He caught her at it one night. On the roof. "The demon came down
out of the clouds when she called him and they did lay among the gables and
he did fuck and maul her much to her amusement." [Testimony, First Trial,
August, 1826] Several other girls were rounded up and burnt at the stake.
Among them, Celeste Tyler, daughter of a Virginia congressman. That whole
Tyler clan was heavily into demon worship, the result of centuries of
inbreeding. Celeste and Coco had been friends. They used to play together
in the backyard. The Tyler house being next door to the Adams on F Street.
Although neighbors, the two men were deadly enemies in the political arena,
and Tyler had been one of two congressmen explicitly excepted from the
invitation to the ball Q. gave to Senator Jackson. It rankled, nearly
causing a duel. But it did not affect the relationship between the two
children. Who continued to play with one another until it was discovered
that they were both contaminated. There was even a hidden passageway between
the two bedrooms so the girls could go back and forth. At night, one would
hear their girlish laughter in the walls of the old place. It was scary.
And there was something else. That accompanied them. Something not exactly
identifiable, although it seemed familiar in a distorted sort of way. Q. did
not try to determine what it could be. Instead, he buried himself in
diplomatic papers and tried to forget the girl. She was finished. Rustling
noises accompanied the titters. They were just behind the mirror. Or so it
seemed. He stared into it, trying to see her. But all he could see was a
tired old man with a belly. In a catsuit. It had an effect. The red wig
helped, too. He wondered what Andy was wearing tonight. Down there in
Nashville. At the Opry. Jackson loved the Opry. He would do nothing to
hurt it. When Hank Williams died, he cried. And when he got to be
president, he made it a national holiday. We still celebrate it. Just like
Martin Luther King Day. Only Hank died on January 1st. In the back of his
Cadillac. On the way to a gig in Chicago. He was 27. Smal still talks
about it. I was out yesterday and I saw this gorgeous woman walking towards
me in a sheer black catsuit. At first, I couldn't figure out who she was.
And then I realized it was Erica. I don't know how Smal does it. She was
soooo stunning. Long, ecquisite legs. Adorable face. He has this amazing
way of morphing his balls up into her tits. And splitting his dick down the
center to form thick fat hairy labia lips that bulge out around the thong
pulled tight up into her groove. At first, I thought I was looking into a
mirror. And then she smiled. "Smal? Is that you?" Shit. I almost lost
it. My head swam and all of a sudden I was looking at myself looking at me.
The trailers were all around us on the muddy road, and I was standing there
staring into my face. It was as if she had sucked me dry. I screamed. Get
out of my head you fucking succubus. And turned and ran back down the road
until I tripped and landed on my face and belly in the mud. I heard
footsteps behind me and tried to crawl. Oh jesus, I whined, please save me.
She pulled me up by the hair and turned me around. And then she pulled her
hand back and slapped me across the face. "Little bitch," she spat as I fell
down. "Pig. Pervert. Psychopath." I just lay there and let her... him
abuse me. He kicked and stomped on me with his high heeled boots, and left
me lying there curled up, holding myself. Crying. Why does he have to be so
mean? I never done nothing to him. Just cause his mother fucks him over.
Is that any reason to take it out on me all the time?
It was getting late when I got home. Mr. Adams was in his study. I went
in. I stood in front of him while he toyed with me as he went on reading.
"Have a nice day, my dear?" Yessir. "That's good." I went upstairs to my
room and cried. I wished I could get even. So I took a gun and went and
shot him. But only in my mind. I never done it in real life. No sir. No.
I would never do that. I wanted to get them both together some night and
kill them slowly for what they had done to my darling sister. The Arburnoth
twins they called us. Although Gigi was a year older. General Jackson made
sure she died slowly. In the hot Florida sun. With the flies buzzing around
the blood on her face and body. She stood there with the rope around her
neck and her hands tied behind her. Crying. Begging for her life. He
enjoyed that. She had been so cocky when they first picked her up. Now the
little teenage rebel was not so smart, was she? He made her watch. As the
rope was pulled up and the other girl's toes scrapped the floor. Then it was
lowered. Her face was red. She saw her sister staring at her. Tears ran
down her cheeks. Oh please, no more. And the rope was tightened. This time
she had a convulsion of orgasms that shot out of her cunt. The men cheered.
They lowered her again. She was nearly fainting. Her wrists were raw from
trying to break free. The future president was enjoying himself. He gave
the signal and the girl was hoisted again. This time further up so she could
not touch the earth at all. They let her hang for a minute or two before
letting her down. A bucket of water was thrown in her face to revive her.
She choked and sputtered. The torment went on the whole afternoon while the
men smoked cigars and drank whiskey. "Save some for tomorrow," someone
advised. And they did. In fact, it took a week for Gigi to die. When it
was over, Coco was allowed to have her body. In fact, they ordered it. They
made her climb on top of the dead girl and fuck her with a stick between
their cunts. Coco didn't want to, but they forced her by threatening to hang
her, too. So she did it, scared, fucking Gigi's magnificent body with a
thick stick, and herself, too. It's all in the videos. Of the re-enactment.
They do each year. In Tallahassee. Although properly it ought to be in
Pensacola, the first capital. Jackson also burned St. Augustine. Which we
don't celebrate. It's not one of his major victories. Not like the burning
of Atlanta. Atlanta used to be called Terminus. For the end. But it was
not the end of his career, although almost everyone thought it would be.
Jackson returned with a troop and took the capital. Q. had no choice but to
fire him. Old soldiers never die. Jackson didn't, at any rate. He was
almost indestructible. His partisans treated him like a god. I'm just
telling you this so you'll know the history. It's not like Gore or Bush.
People knew Jackson. And they thought they knew Q. You could tell them
apart. It was not an issue thing. Which is boring. People don't want
issues. They want meat and potatoes. Q. knew that. Bread and circuses.
Journal said that. But he did not know how to dance. And he could not tell
funny stories about himself. And he thought of himself as lacking grace and
charm when actually, he was pretty funny, and even cute in his own way. Coco
kept a diary of his activities. She wrote it in her funny bird language
which no one could decipher. Until now. When it was discovered she was
speaking Uxmahl. One of the lost languages of Orhr. Thus we know what was
happening in the coffeeshops around Washington where the news of the day was
repeated and hashed over. Q. hung out Morley's til all hours, listening to
people talk about the administration and its remedies. He was a man of the
people. But he did not trust them. When he got to be president they were
excluded from his consideration. Midway through his term, his father died.
The old Adams had opposed his nomination. Now he was gone. Q. was
devastated. He took Cody with him to Quincy for the funeral. Then they
moved into the house. You can see her portrait over the mantle. Dressed as
a chorus girl in Hamlet. She had resumed her career. It was getting late.
She could barely see to write. Q. handed him a bowl of Indian hemp. Good
stuff, sir. Good stuff. Everyone smoked in the capital. Marijuana had been
legalized years ago. Long before Jackson interdicted the cocaine trade
through Spanish Florida. Both men held stock in the consortium. But then
there was a falling out. Over the presidency. And a girl. (There always
is.) And now they were deadly enemies. She liked that. She wanted them to
fight over her. To provoke a duel. Both were equally matched. Of the same
age. Q. admired Jackson as a man of the new west. He wanted him in his
administration. There was something in Jackson's independence, vigor and
courage which touched a responsive chord in Q. who had all these qualities.
That they should have a falling out was almost as tragic as Stone Cold Steve
Austin and the Rock. Anyway, that's history. Truth, on the other hand, is
almost always something else. Chief Justice John Marshall presided at the
heresy trials. Each girl was put to the test. All failed. The crowd stood
in the street and chanted:
"Chickamy, chickamy, Craney Crow!
Watch or the witch will catch your toe.
What time is it old witch?
Celeste Tyler shook her long red hair under the pointed hat she was wearing.
Marcy had golden-red hair and rose-petal skin. Her blue-green eyes were
filled with tears and fear as the flames caught what was left of her clothes
and melted the blue spandex to her flesh. She yelled in pain. "Oh God! Save
me!" Other girls' screams filled the square. The smell of burnt meat was
overpowering. Smoke seeped into the congressional chambers, making the
business of the nation almost impossible. Taylor of Alabama moved for an
adjournment of the House "until the inconvenience shall pass." It carried.
A similar proposal was unopposed in the Senate. As the lawmakers left the
Capitol, they could see the girls still struggling at the foot of the steps.
More than one pressed a hankerchief against his nose to keep out the stench.
One Senator grumbled that the women ought to be shot to shut up their
disturbance, but another reminded him sternly that thanks to our glorious
constitution even women had the right to express themselves freely. Besides,
he said, he rather enjoyed watching young ladies writhe in their final
agonies. There was something almost... he groped for a word... "artistic" in
it. In any case, the burning provided a convenient excuse to make an early
start for the racetrack. Penopscot was a heavy favorite to win in the
fourth. The congressmen hurried off to place their bets. Celeste threw back
her head. Gathering all the pain of her gorgeous sex-crazed body, she
released it in a final howling shriek that raised the hair of even the most
jaded onlookers. Her green eyes rolled wildly in their sockets; she opened
her lips as if to scream again, but could not; her eyes closed and the
tormented socialite's head fell forward onto her sumptuous bosom.
The only girl not burned that day was the English actress, Cocaine
Arbuthnot. She watched, helpless, from a carriage as her childhood friends
were fed to the flames. The tribunal had reserved a special torment in store
for this copper haired beauty. But I don't know what it was. I'm not there
yet. Judging from the picture on the book jacket, it's a real bodice ripper.
This is another of Barbara Cartland's histories of the American west. It
shows Cody being dragged out of the swamp after they caught her trying to
escape. She looks pretty bedraggled. General Jackson is sitting on his
horse like Charlton Heston at the Battle of New Orleans in the movie,
Buckaneer. With Jane Russell as LaFite, the pirate. While his men stand
around and stare at the young girl. Cartland wrote this in 1941. That's how
I picture Jackson. As Heston. And Q. as ... well, I don't know. It's hard
to picture Q. I can picture Q.'s da, but not Q., himself. He looked like an
old town sheriff. With a gun stuck in his belt and a long black coat. Like
that guy who shot the girl in that Sharon Stone movie. In the back. Yeah.
Q. was devious. Not even Q. knew what Q. knew. He was the Tallyrand of his
time. Metternich, too. No one could top him. Cody pitched forward into the
dust. How'd I get here, she wondered. I didn't ask for this. She rolled
and brought the gun up, but Q. was too fast for her. His cane knocked it out
of her hand. Then he stepped on her wrist. He pointed the gun straight down
and shot her in the face. Celeste died. Cody screamed. What did you do?
Daddy? They buried the body in the backyard. Jackson's people dug it up and
carried it to the crossroads. They hung the girl from a tree. She could
envision it in her mind she was going to die. And the killer would get away
Scott free. She's a scout. She's looking for something. It ain't here,
dumpling. The girl's ghost screaked for indifference. She wanted it out of
her mind. The rope tightened around her neck. Her crotch gushed. He
regaled the president at dinner time. The girl served them. Docily. She
did not know why she was here. Far away from her beloved panther. But she
wanted to kill the men who killed her sister. She's very well trained,
General, Lady Celeste said to him. Thank you, my lady, I am a soft spoken
man. They struck a deal on the spot. The girl went with him to his room.
Where she lay upon the bed and called her lover. He came down out of the sky
and hurt her. She squealed like a pig and ran around the room. He called
down napalm on his own troops. Old Blood and Guts. Anyone could be
president of this Banana Republic. That's what the English called it.
Scotland. A banana republic within the domain of the Queen. Her governor
spoke to her there. It was uncertain what she had said but everyone hoped
there would be no war. I got back from Philadephia this weekend and found
that you were gone. What happened? He shot her. Why? I don't know. It
was commodius upon him to answer for the charges. Would he do it? Q.'s
journals do not answer that. Perhaps there are others. That will shed light
upon the situation. Cody fought for her independence. She was out of here
on the dunes proslytizing to the multitudes. She could not be bothered with
these earthly things no more. The girl lifted her. Colette? Oh, hi. I
thought you was someone else. Are you sure it's me. I think so. Both girls
laughed. Exchanging personalities in the morning sunlight. Deciding who they
should be. Q. came outside and watched them. What did they want? He wanted
a blowjob. Cody come here. I went into his trailer. He sat on the sofa and
I got down on my knees and I did what he wanted. He gave me two dollars and
I left. And walked on up the road towards the ocean. The road to the
unincorporated part goes off there. I'm telling you. Stay away from there.
It's not right what they do back there in the trees. You can hear them
laughing. I don't want to go that way. Come in here, Cody. I went in. More
money. I ran outside and down the road. Soon I was in the woods. I wanted
to hide myself. I was so ugly. Mr. Jones came out of his house and I hid
from him. I could hear him calling. Cody. Cody. I want you. I neeedd
you. Fuck you, shithead. I didn't need him. I walked on into the woods.
This is the northern part of the Glades. The Glades as they once was. You
can get lost in there. And never want to go back. I listened to the birds.
They was so loud. Everything was so green. And fresh. And wet. And icky.
Light penetrated the tops of the trees. But then they got too thick. And it
was dark even though it was day. I wanted to stay here and never go back. I
felt something moving around in me and I knew it wanted to be here, too.
Like it lived here. Always. I couldn't see what it was, but I could feel
it. Inside like somebody's big prick. After awhile I found out it was my
intestine. It was wrapped around a big tree. Someone had nailed my guts to
a tree and I had walked around it in the moonlight. Trailing my insides out
behind me. I wondered who it was. What was I doing here? I screamed. I
mean, I really freaked. I was all wound up in my 30 feet of small intestine.
It really is that long. And apparently I had been doing some twisting and
turning because I felt part of it up between my legs like a crotch strap. Oh
brother. It hurt. Know what I mean? No. I don't suppose you do. Like,
almost no one ever comes to and finds out he's disembowled herself on a
sycamore. Do sycamores grow in swamps? I wonder. I'm not sure what it was.
Actually, I didn't care. I wanted to get back to where I was before I woke
up. Jackson appeared in the twilight. Looking just like Charlton in drag.
With his gun club. Look at her, Gentlemen. This is the witch. What shall
we do with her? He made the Long March. The Trail of Tears. And now he
wanted to know what to do with me? I thought I was hallucinating. I hoped
so. This was too unfair. I'm only a little girl. Why me? God? Why me?
God, he looked like God. The way you want God to look. Even if he is....
well, you know. All that spartacus stuff. It wasn't what you would call a
work of art? Socially significant. Why don't they run Charlton for Pres?
He'd be a knockout. Charlton and Jesse. Now there's a ticket. I wonder if
Vince McMahon can arrange it. That's a fight I'd go to. Jackson and Midge.
Me and Charley. I'd be Charly's viz. We'd knock 'em out. Vinnie can do it.
I've seen him. He comes in here, looks around, says ok and leaves. Vince
McMahon would make a wonderful president. See if you can arrange it. She
probed delicately into the body politic. Is that you Stacy? Coti!!!!
Sssshs. I'm under cover. For who? I can't say. Were you part of the raid?
That's me with the kid. Noooo! Before the other girl took her. They
hadn't expected to find Jon Benet. That's her in drag. Hiding in that
closet. Mommmie Dearest. I've been gone so long. Yes, hug'ms what's she
doing here? Where's the kid? They grabbed the wrong one. They got the
cousin. The real Elian's still in Havana. By that time they were back at
the ranch. When they took fingerprints they discovered the mistake. But it
was too late because the general had left, stating that he did not want to be
disturbed. It shows how good you are how long they'll wait before phoning
you that the mission is burning. The two girls got off in time to avoid the
whirlwind. The mirrors were shattered, negating any possibility of going
back. Now we're on our own. The girl screaming in the forest was miles away
by the time they got back into town. What? I didn't say anything. I
thought you did. No. I'm sorry. Don't mention it. Paco shrouded the
companion while I dug a hole in the soft soil. We buried them both there.
It was getting late. In fact, it was nearly eight when we got back to town.
I was very hungry.
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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