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From: Carlos Malenkov <cmalenkov@linuxwaves.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} The Phantom of the Subway
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Date: Wed, 23 Jun 2004 17:10:03 -0400
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THE PHANTOM OF THE SUBWAY
by Carlos Malenkov <cmalenkov@linuxwaves.com>
Word Count: 2085
Copyright (c) 2004 by Carlos Malenkov
Posting and archive rights granted to ASSM. All other rights reserved.



The woman had huge, haunted eyes.

Only two stops to go. Once again he had blown it. He still hadn't
connected with the mysterious lady in the trenchcoat. But then, you just
didn't talk to strangers on the New York subway. If you knew what was
good for you, you didn't even look them in the eye. But he might never
see her again.

Ron considered himself something of a superstud. His looks were nothing to
write home about, but that had never stopped him from making it with the
ladies. Even *living off* the ladies when finances got a little tight. But
making pickups on the subway . . . that was a whole different ballgame.

One last, desperate chance. Ron fished a red felt-tip marker, then
a dollar bill out of his pocket. He quickly scribbled "Cyrano" on
it. The dollar was grimy and creased, but the writing was legible. As
an afterthought, he added, "You're special. I know why. Want to know
more?" He thought of including his e-mail address or phone number, but
no, that might be pushing things. Gotta play this fish just right. If
he had hooked her, she'd meet him again. Right here on the D Train.

This was his stop -- 72nd Street. Ron dropped the dollar at her feet
as he passed her on the way out. It took all his self-discipline not to
look back.

There, he had done it. Scored a coup. Results uncertain, but he felt
pretty good about it. He had a hot hand, Ron did, just like an alleged
ancestor of his, a certain gentleman named de Bergerac. When his parents,
hopeless romantics both, had named him Cyrano (or, in everyday usage,
Ron), they had no idea that it would shape his life. That he would end
up inheriting a somewhat larger-than-normal nose. That he himself would
turn out to be just the opposite of a hopeless romantic: a swordsman
between the bedsheets, and a cynical manipulator and heartbreaker to boot.

       All right, so I spot this chump staring at me. I was on the prowl,
       you know, and the guy was definitely a "possible." Good thing, too.
       It was just the right time of month. I felt so empty inside and
       my juices were flowing. I was burning up. I wanted someone inside
       me so bad and this guy was just right. Nice body parts. Young,
       healthy . . . and gullible. He might as well be wearing a "victim"
       sign. Okay, let's play hard to get. Come on, Mr. Chump, chase
       the bait.


Every day for a week Ron stalked the entire length of the 5:15 train
looking for her. Where was she? Making a deliberate effort to avoid him?
Had she changed her schedule? Was it only random chance? Damn it, he was
wasting his time. Why was he making a fool of himself over this dame? She
was just a piece of ass. Nothing special, just another pussy. DAMN IT,
WHERE WAS SHE?

Friday finally  -- there she was! There! Sitting in the end car. She
glanced up and saw him. She smiled. Smiled! She cocked an index finger
at him and nodded. Hallelujah!

Holding on to a strap, standing beside her, superslick Ron was reviewing
pickup lines in his head. Somehow, none of them seemed quite right. This
was embarrassing. He couldn't think of a friggin' thing to say.

She looked up at him. "Hello would be a good beginning," she said.

"Hello, baby." 

"Hello, Mr. Special."

       Mr. Special Chump. What a bozo.

"I'm a fool. Sure. A special fool. How wonderful that you recognized that.
Now, look at me, look closely and see yourself mirrored in my eyes.
In me, in my heart, in my soul, your image blazes. I *know* who you are,
and I see what you could be. I gaze upon you and look at your full,
burning passion and I see . . . Tell me, what do I see?"

       I see . . . a prime cut of meat on the hoof. I'm salivating.

"Quite an impressive speech, Mr. Special. I'm convinced. Convinced that
you're either a nut case or a fool for love. I'm not sure which is worse."

       A chump is worse.

"No doubt the latter, Miss . . . uh, may I call you Roxanne?"

"If indeed you are a poet and swordsman, then I will play Roxanne to
your Cyrano."

(She knew! The literature gambit had snared her. Now on to stage two.)

       Does this chump think I'm ignorant? I can spout literature all
       day if I have to. I can be quite entertaining if the situation
       presents itself . . . the better to eat you, my dear.

"Cyrano I am. And that being the case, would Madame permit my humble
self to entertain her exalted ladyship."

She smiled. "Madame permits."

       Madame permits Mr. Chump to entertain certain dangerous delusions.

He suggested a rendezvous in a gourmet restaurant near his apartment.

"My dear Cyrano, with me one need not go through an elaborate courtship
dance. Foolish rituals are for fools. I am a woman who knows what she
wants. *Exactly* what she wants. Right now I want *you*. I would take
you home."

       Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.

The woman sitting beside Roxanne got up and exited at the next stop. Ron
sat down. Roxanne took his hand and clasped it to her bosom. He leered.
Other passengers snickered.

"I'm game," he replied nonchalantly. "My nose may be long, but so is
my sword."

       You certainly are 'game.' Prey.

"Monsieur de Bergerac, might you care to sheathe your sword?"

       Do you know how spiders do it? While the male is busy sheathing
       his sword, the female is . . . having him for dinner.

"Call me Ron. My friends do."

"Right. Ron, we have a bit of a ride ahead of us. We change lines here."

The "L" Line. Fourteenth Street and First Avenue station. They got off
the train. Ron turned toward the concrete stairway leading up to the
street, but Roxanne stopped him.

"This way. Follow me."

'This way' led toward the far end of the train platform.

"Where the bloody hell are you taking me, Roxanne?"

"Trust me."

(Hey! That's the line *I* use with the ladies.)

The light from an endless row of dirt-encrusted wall-mounted fluorescents
was just bright enough to make out a dented metal gray-painted door in
the wall. With a theatrical flourish, Roxanne produced a key and unlocked
it. A dimly lit shaft led downward into the distance.

(Deep into the bowels of the earth. Where is she leading me? Where the
hell does she live? Maybe literally in Hell. Well, if it comes to that,
I'd follow that round, beckoning ass of hers into the very fires of
Hell. 'Cause I'm gonna *nail* that ass.)

At first the tunnel slanted downward at a slight angle, but it soon
leveled off. The lighting remained steady, if a bit dim, and they picked
their way along the roadbed of a train track. The track ended as they
went further, and the ground changed from rough gravel to hard-packed
dirt. The walls of the shaft looked like unfinished rock face. Regularly
spaced roughly timbered wooden beams shored up the ceiling.

"Where are we -- "

"Hush. We're almost there. Home. My home. My mansion."

Over there! In a niche by the far wall was what looked like -- what?
A shack? No, a construction trailer. There was lettering on the door:

                         Metropolitan Transit Authority
                   Second Avenue Subway Construction Project
                     The Honorable Abraham D. Beame, Mayor
                                      1973

(The legendary Second Avenue subway line -- in planning since the 1920s,
repeatedly postponed for decades due to lack of funds. They finally
started building it in the early 1970s, then abandoned it a couple of
years later in the middle of a fiscal crisis. Maybe it had left behind
a few relics . . . and ghosts.)

"You *live* in this dump?"

"Home, sweet home."

A shadow materialized. It was a man. A man in uniform. An armed guard.
Armed with what looked like a military assault rifle. He nodded at
Roxanne and gave Ron a menacing smirk.

"Part of the security staff," Roxanne said.

Security staff? In the sealed up remains of the abandoned Second Avenue
subway line? Just what the hell was going on down here?

Roxanne stepped into the trailer and manipulated some switches on an
illuminated panel. "Disarming the electronic safeguards," she said.

Electronic safeguards? High-tech security equipment in an abandoned
construction trailer? Just what the hell had he gotten himself into?
This piece of ass had damn well better be worth it.

Then she had him by the elbow and was steering him into a room. It seemed
to be a bedroom of sorts. At least it had a plush looking four-poster
bed. "Undress," she said. He did. It was chilly and he broke out in
goosebumps. He was starting to get an erection.

(Almost there. Only a few more minutes til I add another pussy to my
collection.)

"Turn around," she said. He did. "Slower." She inspected him as if he
were an animal on display at a county fair. "You'll do."

(Turning the tables on me, baby? Just you wait. In a little while it'll
be my turn.)

She was straddling him. Flat on his back, looking up at her bouncing
breasts as she rode him, he was thinking just how strange this day had
turned out. He was actually getting laid hundreds of feet beneath Second
Avenue! She leaned over and her hair tickled his face as she kissed him.

(Whoa. Making it with the phantom of the subway. The boys at the bar
will never believe this one.)


He was spreadeagled. His mouth was dry. He hurt. After drifting into
a gentle sleep, with the warm fuzzy feeling of *afterwards* tingling
through his body, he had awakened in pain. He was flat on his back,
with arms and legs stretched out at a 45 degree angle by handcuffs and
cables fastened to the posts of the bed. Immobilized. Imprisoned. He
yelled for help. No one answered.

After a time he slept again. And awoke. He wasn't alone.

"Roxanne? Why am I tied up? I'm thirsty."

"Poor boy. Sorry about the restraints. They're for your own good. You
had an attack. Seizures. But don't worry. Roxie will take good care of
her baby. Here."

She held a squeeze-bottle up to his mouth. "Drink. Drink deeply."

He did, and immediately a wave of suffocating darkness washed over
him. He was drowning! Going under! Dying!

He was conscious, but couldn't move. He sensed dimly that his arms
and legs were free, but there was no feeling in them. Much of his body
felt numb, deadened. There was a dull ache in his right side. He had a
raging thirst.

"Water!" he managed to croak.

       Poor baby. Probably doesn't feel so good. Well, lots of people
       go through life with only one kidney.

He took a long sip from the squeeze-bottle and darkness came again.

There was a heavy weight on his chest. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't
get enough air. The room swam in and out of his sight.

"Roxanne! I don't feel good."

       That's understandable. Losing a lung will do it to you every time.

Then she was beside him, holding him. She kissed him gently on the
forehead. "There, there, my little child. It's all right. Trust me. Trust
Roxie."

Her hand was between his legs. He felt himself getting hard. Lust overcame
nausea. Blood coursed through his veins and life burned strong in him
again.

"I want you, Ron. Stick it in me. Do it. Who knows when you'll get the
chance again?"

       Never. We'll be harvesting your testicles next. Just got a rush
       order from a medical lab upstate. After that, probably your
       corneas, then maybe your other kidney and your liver. You'll end
       your days as a skeleton hanging in front of an anatomy class. Bye,
       bye, Cyrano. It's been nice knowing you.

It was slow and gentle sex. He was confused and uncoordinated, and she had
to help him insert as he took her from behind in the spoon position. He
cried out as he came, then thanked her. His speech was slurred. She wiped
a tear from her cheek.

Afterwards, he drifted into an exhausted sleep. It wouldn't be necessary
to drug him this time.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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