Shadows of the Season
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Nobody suspects Babs is the scorned mistress of Kringle --introduced in the June 5 2006 blog entry titled "Writing on Fire"-- because nobody reads this blog now.
I can't warn Ethan, Phoebe, Sapphire or the Jaycees for two reasons: The first is I'm trapped in another dimension, asshole. The second is that despite my staggering brainiosity, my noggin is completely vacant of that little fact as well.
... I'm certainly not reading this sophomoric, banal tripe ...
***
As the naked women carry me down the mountain, a great feast is being prepared. And all the way, I'm peppered with questions like, "How was your day?" and "Do you think she's pretty?" and "Do I look fat naked?"
A cute blonde named Zima finally pries the television remote from my hands and asks, "What's life like in that," she makes quote signs with her hot, naked fingers, "other dimension?"
"Well, not having hot naked horny women around climbing mountains and cooking and stuff is pretty damn weird," I says. "And they have this paste over there they make out of teeth. They call it toothpaste--"
"What's that for?" asks Zima.
"I don't know," I says, trailing off.
***
A few minutes later Zima's still saying stuff, but now other hot, naked women have brought food under a covered tray. I'm sitting at the head of a long table, Zima to my right. There are bowls of melted butter and plates, but no eating utensils whatsoever.
"--and after the Great Feast," Zima continues, "then we have the Great Orgy." She pauses as she looks at me. "No kissing though."
"Great Feast?" I says. "What are we having?"
"Giant Lobster," she proclaims.
The servers uncover the tray, and I swear on my evil twin brother's eyes there was a red bug under there, like two feet long.
Frozen in abject horror, I stare down the length of the table and see endless hot, naked women hungrily tearing apart and devouring gigantic red bugs.
I screamed.
A lot.
[LOBO]
Nobody suspects Babs is the scorned mistress of Kringle --introduced in the June 5 2006 blog entry titled "Writing on Fire"-- because nobody reads this blog now.
I can't warn Ethan, Phoebe, Sapphire or the Jaycees for two reasons: The first is I'm trapped in another dimension, asshole. The second is that despite my staggering brainiosity, my noggin is completely vacant of that little fact as well.
... I'm certainly not reading this sophomoric, banal tripe ...
As the naked women carry me down the mountain, a great feast is being prepared. And all the way, I'm peppered with questions like, "How was your day?" and "Do you think she's pretty?" and "Do I look fat naked?"
A cute blonde named Zima finally pries the television remote from my hands and asks, "What's life like in that," she makes quote signs with her hot, naked fingers, "other dimension?"
"Well, not having hot naked horny women around climbing mountains and cooking and stuff is pretty damn weird," I says. "And they have this paste over there they make out of teeth. They call it toothpaste--"
"What's that for?" asks Zima.
"I don't know," I says, trailing off.
A few minutes later Zima's still saying stuff, but now other hot, naked women have brought food under a covered tray. I'm sitting at the head of a long table, Zima to my right. There are bowls of melted butter and plates, but no eating utensils whatsoever.
"--and after the Great Feast," Zima continues, "then we have the Great Orgy." She pauses as she looks at me. "No kissing though."
"Great Feast?" I says. "What are we having?"
"Giant Lobster," she proclaims.
The servers uncover the tray, and I swear on my evil twin brother's eyes there was a red bug under there, like two feet long.
Frozen in abject horror, I stare down the length of the table and see endless hot, naked women hungrily tearing apart and devouring gigantic red bugs.
I screamed.
A lot.
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