July 28, 2010

Drone Wars: Mail Order Bride

Vampirella.jpg



 

            Behind the counter in her leather, powder blue pantsuit with her signature extra-wide lapels, and her black wig with severe bangs, she looked a bit like Vampirella.  Only, she wasn't any kind of Gothic super chick from the planet Drakulon, she was Tammy Mori -- the bar hostess. 

On some level, the whole experience was similar to pure Hollywood make believe, but she was not all showbiz glitz, far from it.  She wasn't some media industry phony who put on a big act in front of the camera, or on stage, or wherever else in public those folks vamp it up.  When the lights came on she wasn't an Amazon seductress, or some exotic vixen, or whatever kind of personality the insiders had for a professional shtick.  Her whole facade was not constructed in the same way theirs was.  Out of the limelight she was not in reality the most well grounded business professional who, with the help of a team of highly paid writers and stylists, diligently fine-tuned her false persona to wow the audience at her next appearance.  Neither was she one of those sad victims of the spectacle machine she had heard of who were exactly who they appeared to be.  Not even close, she thought as she poured a round of shots for a bunch of rowdy, oversexed, fraternity boys.  In her case, the sad truth of the matter was that when she wasn't at work filling drink orders behind the bar, she had no idea who she was, or how, for that matter, she got there. 

            Her new husband had a different name for her.  At home she was Tammy Mori -- the no good slut.  At home, she was nothing but a douche bag whore, nothing but a used dishrag.  After she took care of the night's receipts, restocked the liquor, put all the chairs and stools up on the tables, mopped the floor, and turned out the lights, she knew there was a good chance her creepy old man was waiting for her back at their place with a choice thing or two to tell her about what a no good prostitute he thought she was.  Most nights, luckily, the hairy sleaze-ball of an ape was passed out drunk by the time she shut the bar down, and she wouldn't have to endure his non-stop litany of complaints about how badly he believed he was screwed, how she looked nothing like the picture of the girl he picked from the website, and, in general, what an incredible disappointment she was to him. 

            On those quiet occasions, Tammy Mori had a little time to herself to try and address the problem of her lost, or forgotten identity.  There were the memories of herself as an orphan, of the whorehouse she worked in as a sex slave back in the old country, wherever that was.  To Tammy Mori, there was something all too convenient about these images of her sordid youth.  No one could account for every detail the way she could.  It was almost as if her past was too complete, as if it was scripted rather than lived.  The more she thought about it, the more she doubted the veracity of what she recalled, as if it was nothing more than some bizarre mythological story she had adopted to bamboozle her friends into thinking she was cooler than she really was, or to try and make them feel sorry for her.  Only, in the process of telling her tall tale, her tragedy was that she had somehow forgotten what exactly it was about herself she was so intent on hiding from everyone else in the first place, like her memories were nothing but a cover story, a fiction that may or may not have happened, and that somewhere behind all the little white lies there was actually still a personality she could recognize and claim as her own.  Somewhere deep inside her, she felt certain she was neither Tammy Mori "the bartender", nor Tammy Mori "the slut".  She wasn't even so sure her name was actually Tammy Mori.  For reasons she had trouble rationalizing, she strongly believed it was possible the past that she remembered masked some important, maybe even crucial, aspect of her history that would allow her to escape the nightmare of misidentification she currently found herself in. 

            Of more immediate concern, however, was the possibility that tonight was one of those rare occasions when her drunk and abusive new husband was still wide-awake when she got home.  In those instances, he would almost always greet her in the living room full of confused jealous rage, his leather belt wrapped tightly around his fist, beat her semi-senseless, and brutally rape her.  Once, he even stabbed her.  The thought of the cold steel blade plunged deep in her soft neck made her pull her powder blue leather jacket tightly over her right side.  Her memory of the attack was still so vivid in her mind she shuddered at the thought of it.  Almost too vivid, she thought as she brought her electric purple Corvette to a stop at a red light. 

It never occurred to her before to check for the scar.  Had the assault actually happened, or was it simply another aspect of her past she accepted as granted?  The way she recalled the incident, the tip of his serrated hunter's blade,  had glanced off her collarbone.  It had barely missed her carotid artery.  In search of the wound, she pulled out her compact mirror from her handbag and brushed back her hair to expose her neck and shoulder, but no matter how she tilted the mirror under the street lamps that loomed over the intersection to try and angle the light onto her throat, she couldn't find any trace of it.  If there was no scar -- the very idea of it frightened her more than her memory of the assault -- did that also mean there was no Tammy Mori?  If one memory was proved false, did that mean all her other memories were equally false?  Nothing, not all her previous suspicions, prepared her for this possibility.  She replaced her compact in her purse, and tried to button her shirt back up before the light changed back to green, but her hands and the rest of her body shook almost convulsively, like someone had just dumped a bucket of ice water through her open sunroof. 

            "The water feels great," her new husband shouted as soon as he heard her come into the house.  The bastard was out back in the hot tub.  He wanted her to get into the water with him. 

Tammy Mori tried to remind herself she was only roll playing, and the whole thing was a diabolical game in which she was only a pawn.  Maybe, she thought as she took off her clothes and got in the roiling pool with the man, there was an outside chance that her new husband was also aware of the farce, and he was as troubled by his assigned personality in the present fiasco as she was by hers.  Maybe, she hoped, as she lowered herself into the water, he disliked his character in the story as much as she disliked hers.  Maybe, she figured, as she allowed him to penetrate her, he wished he wasn't cast as a speed freak and alcohol addled, low-life, wife beater, as much as she wished she wasn't cast as his mail order bride. 

"There is a recurring image I have of myself as a little girl seated on a swing that hangs from a large tree, an image which doesn't quite square with the other memories I have of myself," she said, as her sexual fervor increased.  "Maybe," she said slightly out of breath, "It's a clue to my identity.  If all the other memories are false," she arched her back a little, "Maybe, it's the only true recollection of my past I still have?" 

She wasn't quite sure what came over her.  The man under her clearly gasped for breath a couple of times.  If she had looked, she would have seen her new husband was having trouble keeping his head above water, but she wasn't paying any attention to him.  Her eyes were shut tight.  She laughed.  How she laughed.  She laughed hysterically, like a little girl on a swing, one moment kicking the blue sky with the toes of her shiny black Mary Jane's, the next almost kissing the earth with her lips.  Nothing could break her reverie.  Not even the sick gurgle her new husband made when he clasped his exploding heart with his hands, and, just before his head sank bellow the jet bubbles of the Jacuzzi for the final time, moaned with his last breath: "You fucking bitch.  You killed me!" 

When Tammy Mori finally opened her eyes, she was genuinely upset by what she saw.  It honestly never occurred to her to fuck the old fart to death.  "Now," she thought, dryly, "I suppose I can add murderer to my illustrious career."  She toweled off and took one last look at her husband's bobbing lifeless body.  "Tammy Mori -- the whore, and now Tammy Mori -- the killer," she snickered to herself.

 

-- Daniel Mendel-Black, copyright 2010



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July 14, 2010

Drone Wars: Factory Fresh

cheerleader copy.jpg


 

            "If I had tripped," Buddy Alexander laughed off his near perfect game, "I would have fallen on a hundred dollar bill."

            He came into the room, his girlfriend thought, as if miraculously delivered by a hidden conveyor belt, built to her exact specifications, fresh off the factory floor, and shipped directly to her door.  She imagined an assembly line between her and some industrial plant far away on which Buddy Alexander's body was constructed one piece at a time by giant robotic limbs with welders and all manner of other tools for extensions.  The process, she imagined, started with his torso.  His legs were attached next.  She pictured how his two arms were fastened to the frame after that, and how finally, just before he knocked on the front door of her parents' house, his head was firmly secured on his shoulders. 

            When she opened the door and saw him stand there with that little boy smile on his face, she almost expected chubby cherubs to float in behind him and a heavenly orchestra to appear through the parted clouds in the sky above.  At over six feet tall, the student athlete made quite an impression on the girl.  To her, it was almost as if his figure was visibly outlined by a bright aura, like someone was standing behind him with a very bright neon light.  The kid seemed to glide into the house effortlessly, as if he was detached from the earth, his feet never touching the ground.  The effect was rather remarkable to her -- as though he was afloat, atop a dolly with wheels that could swivel in any direction, his buoyant frame pulled around by invisible strings held by equally invisible angels. 

            As she helped him off with his letter jacket she examined him closely with the curiosity and attention of someone who has just taken a brand new toy out of the box.  She squeezed his upper arm, as if to gauge its firmness, combed through his hair with her fingers, as if to assess its quality as compared to all-natural fiber, slowly ran her hands over his neck and shoulders, as if to feel for seams at the joints, pressed her ear to his chest, as if she wasn't sure the model unit would have a heartbeat, and playfully grabbed the denim crotch of his pants, as if to make sure there were no defects in the model, nothing important was left on the production line floor, and her bright, shiny boyfriend was in every way anatomically correct. 

            "My barcode is tattooed on my ass," he playfully said.  The big win over Mountain High put the young man in a jocular mood, like a gambler who was running the table on an extended lucky streak.  He twirled her around to take her all in.  Everything was going his way.  Much to his delight, she still had on her cheerleader's outfit.

            Some people sleepwalked through life.  Not her Buddy Alexander, she thought.  It was as if the great big factory she imagined somewhere out there had outfitted his model with an extra battery.  The kid just seemed so full of energy, so full of life.  His very presence in the room seemed to her to light it up with an unnatural glow.  She longed for the time they could finally spend a whole night together.  It wasn't like she didn't like their stolen interludes.  Oh, how she loved them, but she wanted more, she wanted to posses him totally.  She wanted to wake up with him lying next to her in bed in the morning, if only so that she could check his sleeping naked body more thoroughly for hidden panels, and disguised switches.  If she had designed him herself from a manufacturer's catalog, he couldn't have been more perfect.  The young woman simply couldn't believe he was real.

            Not that it mattered.  If she was to run her hand down the length of his bare stomach and a hidden drawer were to unexpectedly pop out that revealed a complicated tangle of wire and hydraulics, it wouldn't dim her passion for him one single bit.  If it were to turn out that he was actually some kind of Christ-like robot, custom made for her and delivered to her doorstep, she was sure she would gladly, no questions asked, devote herself for the rest of her life to his general upkeep, oil his parts and patch his synthetic shell until she took her last dying breath.  She loved him that much.

            Seated in the plush Naugahyde recliner, the young man leaned over the glass coffee table to uncap the bottle of Maker's Mark he brought along to celebrate the special occasion.  His girlfriend pushed him into the chair so he could more comfortably appreciate the private show of high school cheers she was about to perform for him.  At first she pumped her pom-poms enthusiastically and kicked her legs up through her regular old routine, but alone together in her parent's den, with them gone, and her a little drunk on cheap bourbon, it didn't take long before her dance moves got more erotic.

            The sheer giddiness of the performance was what got her going, like she was a little girl again -- the mid-American version of a little ballerina -- who entertained for the grownups at some family gathering or other.  Then again, she knew full well she was not the same skinny adolescent anymore, and, should she choose to use it, she had real power over men.  She redoubled her efforts to turn him on.  Her aim wasn't to make her parents or extended relatives take notice of her, her aim was to seduce her boyfriend with a devastating display of her feminine charms.  Even if it did turn out he was a mail-order fantasy shipped to the wrong address and she would some day have to return him after the mistake was discovered by the company's main office, she wanted to make sure he would have something special to remember her by. 

            Maybe if she cupped her breasts and flashed him some panty shots, she thought, she could divert his attention long enough to rifle through his pockets for some kind of documentation.  A bill of sale, or warranty would be nice, she thought.  A user's manual would even be better.  The problem was that all that kinky posing and jumping around aroused her as well.  The longer she danced for him, the more randy she got.  In a somewhat desperate maneuver to dampen her excitement, she initiated a number of stretches in which she turned her back to him and bent over.  In her cheerleader's micro-skirt, she extended her right heel so it rested on the ledge of the mantelpiece, and leaned over the long length of her outstretched leg, all the while entirely aware of the effect she was having on her young man. 

            "Do you want me to take my underwear off, they feel like they are on fire?" she whispered provocatively as she straddled his thighs and sat down on his lap. 

            "No, sweetheart," he answered, as he gathered her warm body into his arms.  "Please keep them on.  I'm more than glad to put out your fire."

            If in her eyes he was unreal, the young woman surmised as she crushed her soft breasts against his muscular upper body, maybe she wasn't real for him either.  Maybe they were both illusions, and the desire that coursed through her veins when she touched his taught hot skin was only a false computer simulation of human passion.  Maybe her boyfriend had the same feeling about her she had about him.  Maybe in his little boy's mind when he fantasized about making love to her in the shadow of a mountain, under the canopy of the lush trees of a valley, or beside the cool flow of a country stream, he also wondered if her body wasn't actually hollow, too beautiful to be true, filled with nothing but electronic hardware and gears, like maybe he thought of her as a product of his imagination, as much as she thought of him as a product of hers. 

 

--Daniel Mendel-Black, copyright 2010



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