|
Belgium
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Archive-name: belgium
Carl stood in the basement, between the washer and dryer, separating
out colors from whites and heaving the whites in to spin. He
measured out a half- cup of pink detergent and poured
it into the top- loader. He closed the door and pressed the
start button, and missed the sound of young footfalls on the
basement stairs as the machine bucked to life.
"Dad?"
He turned around quickly, startled. It was his five- year- old
son, inquisitive blue eyes peeking out from under his tight blond
curls. He seemed to have grown another two inches that day, but
that was nothing unusual.
"Time for you to be in bed, son."
"Yeah. I know." He looked uncertain for a minute, his expression
gone awry in the way kid's faces do when they're thinking about
something else and their face hasn't yet learned the trick of
keeping itself together. "You know, Dad, about the birds and
the bees-"
Uh- oh. Strange place for this conversation, or maybe it wasn't.
But he could always opt for evasive action. "Good grasp of
alliteration there, son."
"Allivera-"
"Alliteration."
His son frowned for a moment, but was not to be put off. He
soon remembered what he had come down to ask.
"Dad, where did I come from?"
She had been standing at the washing machine, tossing in their
clothes at random in the tiny basement of their first apartment
building in the middle of the night.
They were both out of underwear.
They would have had enough to last them longer, but Carl was hell
on underwear. Especially women's.
She had poured in the detergent, closed the door, and shoved in two
quarters.
"What a fucking tightwad," she muttered to herself. "The cheapest
damn landlord on the South Side."
She pressed the button.
Nothing happened.
"Damn!"
"Something wrong, Janet?" Carl had just come down the stairs with
another bag of clothes and a bottle.
"Damn thing's broken."
"Figures. Shoddy American craftsmanship."
"Bastard." She grabbed him by the arm and looked sternly
into his eyes, as sternly as she could manage on no sleep.
"I happen to be a fine example of shoddy American craftsmanship."
"Hah. Wir should have shtukkaed you ven ve had the chance."
"I'll give you stukkas, you hulking Germanic galoot."
"You are my manifest destiny. I must have lebensraum. I must
have liebensraum." He ran his fingernails roughly down her
back.
"You fool. You will be strong in the beginning, but I will
overwhelm you with sheer industrial capacity." She pinched
his nipple, painfully.
"Hah. You are Poland. I will take you in the middle of the
night."
"Oh piss off. You cheated in Poland." She slipped her
right hand into his pants pocket. "Ah- HA! We have located
your secret laboratory. What sort of diabolical Nazi
experiments are you concocting now?"
"You are Belgium. I will run you through. Twice." He
loosed her shirt and thrust both hands underneath. One
traveled up, the other down.
"Hah! I am England! I will pick you up on radar! You will
never dare land on my shores!" She bit down hard on his
neck, humming "God Save the Queen" and stamping her feet.
At that point they noticed, peripherally, that the washing
machine was not entirely broken.
Specifically, it was working well enough to do a remarkable
job of flooding the basement.
The drain, of course, had been clogged since 1922.
Neither of them particularly cared at this point. "HAH!
This time our leaders are not raving lunatics! Even now my
invincible Nazi armada sets sail!" He kicked up a storm of
water around them. "Ve vill take you by STORM! Even now we
are kicking- down- your- door-" he pulled down her skirt with
both hands and attempted to pick her up and carry her off
in triumph.
While she tickled his underarm.
"AIGGHGH! An unsuspected pocket of resistance!" They fell
over into what was now nearly two and a half feet of water.
"We shall fight in the basements!" she cried as they
splashed down into the storm- tossed channel, legs flailing.
"HEIL! HEIL! HEIL!" he gasped between ragged breaths.
"Well, Stevie," he said, after one of those long fatherly
pauses during which fathers seem to have put their brains
on hold, "your mother and I loved each other very much."
-T
--
|
|
