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Tales of the Network - Part 5
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.
Subject: Tales of the Network, ch.1, episode 5
Date: Mon, 21 Jun 1993 03:20:46 GMT
SYNOPSIS: The Inquisition gets underway with a planned scene involving
poetry and humiliation. Though choreographed, the scene takes a turn that
surprises some. First use of a safeword.
NOTES: *THIS IS SATIRE.* The cast of this story is modeled after asb
itself, in the composite. The author has previously posted to asb (Oct. 91)
the same poem used here, but no other real events or persons are intentionally
depicted. Well, OK, one person, but he *likes* being humiliated. I have
explained all this to the Senate staffers and I hope we can now move forward
with the confirmation process.
To the uninitiated, I know soap operas are obnoxious if you start in the
middle. Sorry. I can't post a recap each time, it would get too big.
Copyright 1993 by Hound Dog.
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Tales of the Network
Chapter One: The Law of the Land (part five)
Virginia discovered the manacles to be heavy and intimidating, but not
truly uncomfortable. Bowing her head and letting Carruthers and Swish
lead her into the gallery, she wondered whether her changed demeanor would
impress those inside. To worry about such things, she realized, meant
that she was coming to see herself as part of the cast, rather than part
of the audience. She hoped Carruthers would approve.
Entering the large room she was first struck by the quiet. Everyone was
so solemn -- she had expected some amount of geeking around. Seeing them
all so serious she felt, against reason, afraid. Surely she had gotten
in over her head this time! She looked beseechingly at Carruthers, who
leaned close to her. "We know what we're doing," he whispered. Swish,
leaning in from the other side, grinned evilly. "Whereas you, on the
other hand, do not," he told her. True enough, and she had no comeback.
Led to a table where she had to sit with her back to the spectators,
Ginnie took in the next surprise: there were other prisoners in the
dock. She had understood that there would be other scenes before she
was put on trial, but wasn't entirely prepared for the sight of a man
cuffed ignominiously over a sawhorse, in essence pilloried.
"Come to order!" sang Swish. "Highly Superior Court of the State of
Extreme Duress, Right Honorable Judge Mombassa presiding. Be seated and
keep silence except as so directed by the Court, or to call safeword."
The door behind the bench opened and Mombassa swept in, resplendent in
a dark green floor-length dashiki. When she lifted her gavel and pounded
the table in front of her, the blow was transformed by Top Gun's sound
system into something reminiscent of a boulder falling within a vast
cavern. The man in the stocks looked up, wide-eyed. Ginnie heard,
somewhere behind her, a woman whimper.
The judge formed each word slowly. "Let me be very clear," she intoned.
"We are not here to waste our time with the innocent. Defendants come to
us guilty; if not of the charges, than of something surely. Our purpose is
to find that something and purge it. That is what one does in a punishment
scene. Bailiff, with whom shall we deal first?"
Swish cleared his throat. "Your most sublime majesty..." be began.
Another boulder-crash from Mombassa's gavel cut him off, as the judge
growled: "Quit showing off and tell me something I want to know, or
you're next!" The bailiff looked momentarily miserable, but composed
himself.
"Your Honor, the accused is one William Rhymer, a.k.a. Billy the Poet.
He stands accused of innumerable counts of posting doggerel to the Net.
He is acting as his own fool, er, attorney." Swish snapped open the
pillory and led the thin, slightly greasy-looking man to a seat next
to Mombassa's bench.
Mombassa examined a sheet of paper. "You're Billy the Poet? OK, the
Net has submitted a pretty thick pile of evidence here... let's see...
SWM, mid-30's... this says you're straight?" The accused nodded.
"Well," continued the judge, "that's not the image you project. There
may be a problem with the Net's case here. I'm, ah, going to give you a
chance to make a statement in your own defense and BY GOD IT HAD BETTER
BE GOOD!"
The prisoner stood and cleared his throat. "Your Honor, my statement
is in the form of a rhyme, describing my moral character, may it please
the Court." Mombassa rolled her eyes and said in an exasperated tone,
"Double or nothing, is that what you're going for? All right, out with
it." The man faced the spectators and began:
"I flirt with women and with men
Appearing cosmopolitan.
But when it's time to play for real,
I like girls, because they squeal.
"First I have them act like sluts,
Then when they do, I whack their butts.
They have to strip for me and dance
To show they know who wears the pants.
"Of all the friends I have at work
The best is one who wears a skirt
Who'll giggle, wriggle, tease and flirt,
And let me feel inside her shirt.
"At home I have a girl who knows
If she's not sweet, then out she goes.
I do the ..."
"STOP!" The cry came from a pudgy man in the spectators' seats. "He's
ruining my reputation! He makes me sound like some kind of, of, uh."
He ran out of steam and looked around sheepishly.
"All right, approach the bench," sighed Mombassa. She looked at the
thin man who had been reciting the poem. "Good work, Perry Mason.
The real Billy the Poet has confessed, now what do we do with him?"
"Well, Your Honor, inasmuch as he was such a sissy about it and tried
to hide back there and hope no one would notice him, I say we make him
as visible as possible."
The judge nodded. "Good plan." As the real Poet stepped awkwardly
to the front of the room, she instructed him to face the spectators,
his back to the judge, who leaned forward and yelled just behind his
head: "YOUR POEMS SUCK, BOY. DO YOU?" The Poet mumbled something.
"LOUDER."
"I said, Your Honor, that I do my best in that area."
"`I do my best in that area,'" she mocked. "What a dweeb. What an
unsalvageable useless sissy boy. I ought to hold you in contempt.
In fact, come to think of it I already *do* hold you in contempt. DOES
ANYONE HAVE AN EXCUSE FOR THIS GEEK?"
The man she'd called Perry Mason raised his hand. "Your Honor, I would
remind the Court that the defendant suffers from low self-esteem..."
"AS WELL HE SHOULD!" bellowed Mombassa. "The Court orders Billy the
Poet to drop his geeky-looking pants, which appear to be polyester, I
might add."
There was a stir among the gallery.
Billy the Poet reached for his belt, then stopped.
"Come on, it's not like you haven't done it before," snickered the judge.
"It's like you do when you wank off in the bathroom at work and try to
delude yourself that the boss doesn't know. Just drop 'em."
"Maybe he needs help?" called Swish, moving across the room. At this,
Billy the Poet vigorously shook his head, and pulled his trousers and
underwear to his ankles. He stood, quaking visibly.
Ginnie took in the sight of his pudgy, fishbelly-white body and
whispered to Carruthers. "They're really doing it! I thought you
said this was all staged!
"It is staged," he replied. "These are trained professionals. Don't
try this at home."
"Stripping a boy? I *did* try it at home," she retorted.
"ORDER!" yelled Mombassa, raising her gavel. This time when it hit the
desk, the sound was of a whiplash, so loud that she nearly dropped the
instrument. She shot a look at Top Gun, who smiled back from the gallery.
Billy the Poet was mortified to feel his organ beginning to stand up,
and to see some of the spectators pointing at it and snickering.
Mombassa peered over the front of the bench at the Poet. "Oh that's
cute," she observed. "What say we fix him up to the sawhorse and see
what that does for him?"
"Yellow." A small voice came from the middle of the gallery.
"There will be a momentary recess," Mombassa immediately proclaimed.
For once, her gavel sounded like a gavel.
From where the safeword had come, Tinkerbell stood and made her way
apologetically past others to the aisle, and out the door.
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