Monday, January 23, 2006

R.A.P.E.

“Hur hur hur.”
He restrained his manic laughter to a low hurrrr, so as to not upset his twin Siamese cats. They stretched and meowed on his Queen sized mahogany bed, curled beneath the freshly laid, silken sheets he imported from south east Asia where the fabric is illegal due to the amazing degree of pleasure it infuses upon the merest hint of contact.
“Soon, Jasmine and Lilac, we shall obtain the precious emeralds, which - when magi-glued to this dime-store crown - will make the most expensive tiara in existence.”
He struggled against himself, his cats proving too alluring for his weak spirit and lurid fascination. But he had promised to never loose a friend again to a base instinct, even a pair of twins, so innocent and asleep, begging for his loving touch with feline whispers and seductive purring.
“Oh Jasmine, your sister wants to sweep me away in her clutches and leave you destitute, your perfect coat left unattended can only mat and become common. She is so nasty to you. To us both Jasmine.”
He slithers onto the bed, cocking his ass in the air, and sweeps his face over the pillows and the resting animals.
“Lilac, you bitch. You can’t play these games. I will not allow it.”
He strikes her forcefully with his backhand causing her to rear up and hiss. Her sister awakens too, and they swipe and scratch at their owner, both uncommonly graceful with their unified attack, proving intimidating but strangely harmless, leaving hardly a mark on any surface.
“Yes my babies. Tonight we feast on each others blood.”
He did not restrain his laugh now, letting loose a feral howl deep into his apartment ceiling.

“Unit seven in position”. Hiss. “Unit eight in position”. Hiss.
A tree branch creeks under the strain of the fully equipped SWAT member. A bush slightly rustles, spring berries dropping to the ground, squishing beneath steel toecap. A vehicle marked “Los Angeles P.D.” gains momentum on the sloping decline, two jacketed officers walking behind opened doors, the car itself a rolling shield between them and the targeted apartment building.

Jasmine licks his red, swollen mouth and Lilac gently swats at his penis.
“Oh my children. A plan suited for a Queen. But for one final hurdle… between us and the jewels, one final pressing concern… oh Lilac… our three nuisance private detectives. Sexy Vallery Irons and her heaving bosoms.”
Jasmine bites down on his lip, breaking the skin, tasting his blood not for the first time.
“No Lilac. Oh, I meant for a human. What have I said? Oh Lilac. She has nothing on your beauty.”
The cat stares deep into her masters’ eyes until satisfied of his innocence. He tilts his head back timidly, revealing a perfect neck. Lilac leans in and tongues it tenderly, then sucks on a tendon through his carefully prepared skin.
“Oh, we must do away with those meddlesome women. Vallery Irons Protection. Ha, they shall know pain when they mess with me, the Iron Woman of Munich. The shall know the meaning of death… when I kill them. Durrrrrr! And once they have been dealt with…”
Jasmine licks his balls as if they contained milk.
“…no one can stop meeee…” Tremulous at the thought, he was slowly coming to orgasm as the cops bust his door from its hinges.

“WE HAVE ANOTHER PERVERT!”
Professional, almost on automatic, the team sweep his apartment revealing home made explosives and bomb blueprints downloaded from the internet. The Iron Woman of Munich wiggles under the knee of a particularly heavy SWAT member, his screeching in tune with that of his cats, who both escape out the front door hole unnoticed.
“Let me go, you brutes. I have done nothing wrong.”
An officer leans down and into the Iron Woman, his features portray those of a man who takes his position with unequalled seriousness.
“Are you Daryl Fletcher, the official occupant of this apartment? Are you the Mr. Fletcher wanted on three counts of larceny and five counts of shoplifting? Are you the Daryl Fletcher with allusions of terrorism? Does the Beverly Hills Fashion Expo spark any matches in that twisted skull of yours?”
Daryl’s face sinks.
“You can’t do this to me. I’m a starving artist. STARVING… Wuh – Where are my cats? I want Lilac. I WANT JASMINE…”
“There’ll be enough time for that flowery crap in prison, fag.”
They cuff and restrain him, another criminal nullified by the trusted American law enforcement.

4 comments:

  1. If anyone has any other story ideas, slot them into the comments of the LAST post... keep them all in there.

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  2. Good show this one. I admit I've never watched V.I.P. but the way Vallery Irons handled herself gives me hope.

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  3. If I ever see any cats around your house I am calling the cops.

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