A Tale of Two Phoebes
Predator Press
[Mr. I]
Despite the hellish mischief it played on the electronics, Kringle could have been taken directly to The Rift; he had pilots at his disposal that could fly right through a sizable house blindfolded. But this was a calculated form of anti-meditation; he wanted to build his fury further on the rigors of the mountain.
While only halfway, he was beaten and bruised and exhausted. But never once did he regret his decision to face this mountain alone and without aid. One torn and calloused hand after another, he hauled himself up in slow, grim determination. Now a mighty and hardbodied physical specimen, he liked the challenge.
Catching his breath on a narrow crag, he marveled at his own hands. The things they could do. Build. Accomplish. Soil and rocky dust caked them to the point that they were almost chalky --indeed, he was so drenched of the harsh earth, it would stick no more. "The mortar of life" was an organic and primal source of guilty mortal pleasure.
And the the climb itself, albeit slow, was rhythmic and therapeutic; wide and powerful shoulders and thighs gained him meter by meter by excruciating meter. A dauntless, intrepid machine: This very mountain succumbs to my Will.
He felt as close to godlike as he ever would or could. His body was lean and hard already ... now he felt like steel. And he would certainly be putting the spurs to that hot young soon-to-be new Misses Claus tonight, oh yes. He might even make her the official new "Missus Claus" once and for all. Well if the damn bitch would stop TIVOing over his episodes of American Chopper. Or a being a Scientologist, as it were, absolutely refusing to accept Jesus Christ as her Lord and Savior.
The filthy little Hellbound pagan is a good fuck though, goddamn it.
"Scraps!" he yells above into thinned, cold air.
"Scraps, we had a bargain!"
[Mr. I]
Despite the hellish mischief it played on the electronics, Kringle could have been taken directly to The Rift; he had pilots at his disposal that could fly right through a sizable house blindfolded. But this was a calculated form of anti-meditation; he wanted to build his fury further on the rigors of the mountain.
While only halfway, he was beaten and bruised and exhausted. But never once did he regret his decision to face this mountain alone and without aid. One torn and calloused hand after another, he hauled himself up in slow, grim determination. Now a mighty and hardbodied physical specimen, he liked the challenge.
Catching his breath on a narrow crag, he marveled at his own hands. The things they could do. Build. Accomplish. Soil and rocky dust caked them to the point that they were almost chalky --indeed, he was so drenched of the harsh earth, it would stick no more. "The mortar of life" was an organic and primal source of guilty mortal pleasure.
And the the climb itself, albeit slow, was rhythmic and therapeutic; wide and powerful shoulders and thighs gained him meter by meter by excruciating meter. A dauntless, intrepid machine: This very mountain succumbs to my Will.
He felt as close to godlike as he ever would or could. His body was lean and hard already ... now he felt like steel. And he would certainly be putting the spurs to that hot young soon-to-be new Misses Claus tonight, oh yes. He might even make her the official new "Missus Claus" once and for all. Well if the damn bitch would stop TIVOing over his episodes of American Chopper. Or a being a Scientologist, as it were, absolutely refusing to accept Jesus Christ as her Lord and Savior.
The filthy little Hellbound pagan is a good fuck though, goddamn it.
"Scraps!" he yells above into thinned, cold air.
"Scraps, we had a bargain!"
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