Sweet! A Tale of Love & Metabolism

Epilogue

2010-05-14T10:32:00.000-07:00

“Her kidneys joost quit.”

This was what Milo had confided to Clay about a week after Stella was buried.

“That wuz ‘ow me gran passed, back in ’76. It wus shortly befoor Oi met ye mum at CBGB’s. She – me gran, that is – had been copin wid doiabetes fer as long as Oi c’n remembah. She did the best she culd, and oll thee ‘ad back in th’ dee wuz theez piss strips an insulin. And they wuz no internet at the toim. All we rully noo ‘bout it was she cun’t eat sugar, she ‘ad to take insulin, piss on a toiny bit o’blotteh paper, and that wuz glucose management. She absolutely ‘ated gerin three oll that, but they wuz noo choice but tae face oop tae it.

“Oi wull admit, Oi’ve becoom a roight fascist aboot this, especially wid ye moother. Oi’ve naever wonted tae be, an Oi doan blyme ‘er fe getting roight annoyed wid me abayt oll that. Boot Oi doan want fe ‘er tae be oppressed boy this evil daemon, either.

“Ye loidy’s lookey. Eat’s a toim when they’s oll this nae info coomin aet, an she’s been a roight neengae ‘baet keepin that evil daemon at bay as brullientloy as she ‘as. Stull…she’ll need ye nae moor thaen ever, seen she’s nae lost family, loik.

“Poor Stella…Oi’m gern miss ‘er. Treely beautiful gull… Wuz they a woy Oi cut tunn beck toim and moybe sive ‘er froom th’ people ‘oo troid t’sive ‘er froom ‘erself, Oi wudda. But whot’s doon is doon, afee oll. Thee’s nae takin thees loif fe granted, nae th’ friends ye ‘ave.

“Sae…Oi’ve got a pressy for ye, lad.” With this Milo presented a ring with a diamond chip in the center amid several garnet chips imbedded in a 14k gold ring. “Oi think rather than gae bout ransakin’ ye mum’s jewelry stash – nae, we wus on tae ye th’ ole toim, wusn’t we. – better ye shud ‘ave me consent tae give ye this, so’s ye caen give ye Cannes this ring when ye ask tae marry ‘er. It belonged to me Gran.”

Clay could only let the tears fall from his eyes as he gazed at the ring. Then he turned to Milo and embraced him saying, “Thank you…thank you.”

Milo returned the embrace and replied. “Nae worries, mate. None a’toll.”

Candace Yossarian was no Anna Nicole Smith.

No doubt about it; she wished to be married to Clay. She had been praying for this moment during the last couple of years of her life. She even imagined a kind of Addams Family themed ceremony, and wanted to dress up like Morticia. However, Stella – whom she would’ve chosen as the maid of honor – would not even be there, now that she had passed on. And so she was forced to confront overwhelming grief and felt a greater need for some solitude…lots of it in fact.

This concerned Richard; his youngest and now only daughter had always been a kind of convoluted social butterfly despite occasionally coming across as anti-social and belligerent at times. Equally disturbing is the realization that she and Clay – who he had come to regard as a kind of surrogate son even if he already had some pretty cool parents – only got to Stella just in time to watch her have that fatal seizure. God only knows what that can do to a person inside.

“Probably my own expectations getting in the way.” Richard thought to himself. “Why wouldn’t she want nothing more at a time like this than to crumble in his arms and wail till the ears of angels begin to bleed profusely from their own ruptured eardrums…

“And how did I suddenly get so damned poetic, anyway?”

Speaking of Clay, he’d had a heart to heart talk with Milo earlier in the day. Milo had passed his late grandmother’s engagement ring to him, along with strong encouragement to propose to Cannes. He’d wanted to propose to her for some time, but agonized over whether the time was right. There’d been a death in the family after all.

Even so, he made his way to the Yossarian “Mansion” with the intention of testing the emotional waters in the family, and to see whether she’d be up for being engaged to him at a time like this.

On any ordinary day he and Cannes would be shagging like rabbits the minute he entered her room. But this was no ordinary day.

So this is how the conversation went.

“How’re ya feeling, darling?”

“I’m numb…shell-shocked.” Cannes paused and then began. “Baby, have you noticed this feeling lately, that maybe you just don’t want to look at anyone at all?”

“Interesting question. I’ve felt bad that we couldn’t save her.” Clay sighed. “I mean, despite that no one blames anyone here, there’s still this feeling that I could’ve driven a lot faster and maybe we’d’ve gotten to her before anyone else. Is that what you mean?”

“Um…not exactly. It’s more like a feeling of having seen way too much in such a short time, and it’s the worst thing that’s ever been seen in your life,” At this point the tears began running down her face and she’d lost count of how many times that had happened by this time. “And you’re afraid that the people you meet every day would look into your eyes and see the exact same horror that stared us right in our faces that day. And it’s like even more terrifying to think that’s actually possible and you don’t really want for anyone else to see -- much less go -- through that. In fact it would make me sick to my stomach if anyone looked into my eyes and saw how she died right in front of us. I feel like I’d rather gouge my own eyes out than subject anyone to that horror. I wouldn’t ever want for you to look into my eyes and go through all that again, since you were with me when that happened!!”

Clay could only nod his head in complicity. What she just described there went way beyond the woulda/coulda/shoulda feeling that accompanies guilt. It was obscene in its vividness. A knot grew in his stomach. It seemed selfish to propose to Cannes at a time like this, yet he began to panic at the thought of losing the love of his life to some invisible rival who seemed to have a bloodlust for her soul.

“I’m sickened by the thought that I would want us to have time apart from each other,” She added. “I truly am. I love you more than anyone I’ve ever met. And yet I cannot shake this feeling of just wanting to be away from absolutely everyone…just get away from all people until the sight of that death gets bored with haunting me all the time. I’m absolutely sickened by wanting even you to just go away and leave me in peace.”

“Is there anything I can do apart from that?”

Cannes shrugged.

“Would it help if I stuck around anyway in case you change your mind? At least a phone call away if not in the same bed?”

“I dunno, Clay. I’d rather not rule that out, I’ll tell you that.”

“I’ll give you as much space as you need to heal yourself on one condition:” Clay said, reaching into his pocket. Seeing this, Cannes raised an eyebrow. He’d brought out the ring Milo had given him. “Will you marry me?”

A new vision filled Cannes’ eyes; a single diamond chip with several garnet chips prostrated on both sides of a thin band of gold. It was a stunning beauty. She didn’t know whether to say “Yes,” or “Look, just hang on to it awhile longer for now and I’ll call you when I’m ready.” Both seemed like inappropriat extremes. So the pragmatic in her stepped in.

“Where did you get this?”

“It was a gift from Milo. It belonged to his late grandmother. He felt…” Tears welled up in Clay’s eyes as he spoke, “that I ought to propose to you with this.”

“Hmmph. After I’d threatened to slash his throat with a pair of scissors to stop him from strangling Teddy at work some time ago.” Cannes said. “That dear sweet stepfather…I don’t know who’s crazier; your family or mine.”

Cannes looked right at Clay and said to him, “You realize it could be awhile before I’m over this bizarre kind of grief, don’t you?”

“I’m not going anywhere, baby.”

She looked at the ring again, smiled slightly, and turned back to Clay to say, “This is all I’ve ever wanted, for us to be together. I don’t expect a normal life or a happily ever after from a marriage, tho. I’ve never considered myself to be any sort of princess. You know me too well. I’m a fierce warrior; I’ve always been among the fiercest in this city. I am to spend the rest of my life battling an invisible dragon that cannot be killed…that maybe at the best can be tamed. I might be damned good at that now, now that I’ve done so several times now. But who’s to say how I will fare within the next few years? I cannot be so naïve about this, I am constantly on guard against this tireless stalker that refuses to take time off and I’m prepared to go down fighting every step of the way. Anybody who would jump into this abyss with me had better expect to be very, very afraid. Are you cool with that?”

“Why wouldn’t I be? I’ve always been in that damned abyss with you; this is it!” Clay replied, looking her dead in the eyes. “You’ve always been my hero, Candace Yossarian. I love you!”

And that was enough to lift the dark cloud that’s been hovering over her head. With that, they embraced and kissed.

Then Cannes said, “Well now, let’s see if it fits, shall we?”

Finis

Last Words

2010-05-13T15:17:00.000-07:00

Pearl delivered one hell of a Eulogy for Stella.

She stood at the pulpit in the chapel of St. Luke’s Seaside Episcopal Church with Stella’s diary placed in front of her. It was opened to the page where Stella wrote the very last words that she would ever write.

Before she began to read, she began to reflect on the night she and Stella made love together. After they finished, they had a nap. Stella had awakened a little bit before Pearl had and wrote down the experience in her diary. As she finished, Pearl had awakened. Stella had let her read that particular entry. Flattered to know that Stella trusted her that much and aroused by what she had read, the two of them had made love again that night.

Pearl turned her attention back to the audience and began to read…

“We had just gotten back to Pearl’s place…that is to say, my home…after seeing Grinderman perform live in concert. That was the best damn concert I’ve ever been to, I must say. Looking back, if all the nightlife in Los Osos is as cool as this, I’d surely be happy to live here with Pearl.

“I’m positive that Pearl was reading my mind, because she just invited me to live with her in Los Osos. We talked a little at length about this, and in the end I told her I was so over Magmaville and all the control freaks that barge into my life every day.” At that Pearl briefly addressed the crowd, “Y’all know who you are.” and resumed reading, “Anyway, it feels like the right thing to do.

“Besides, I miss Pearl, my best friend, and I’m sure she missed me, too. Because she told me she wants to be with me. The next thing I know we started kissing each other. She’s really a phenomenal kisser, I’m telling you, truly a phenomenal kisser. The way she can work that agile tongue of hers easily sends a wave of electricity through all of my chakras. I could feel my nipples harden and my snatch began to throb as she took me in her arms and caressed me while we kissed. Her touch was so gentle, with no force at all, just this soft, gentle, flowing sensation in her strokes. I began to touch her in turn, her skin is so soft, irresistably soft, almost like a kitten…

“We began to strip…”

Pearl heard a loud sob interrupt her reading from the diary, and looked in the direction that the noise came from. It was Kent. He was blubbering uncontrollably.

Pearl just rolled her eyes and began to pick up where she left off, thinking, “I’ll give that bitch something to blubber about!” Tears had been streaming down her face throughout all this.

“We began to strip all our clothes off and once we were both naked we really got passionate with our lovemaking. We could not keep our hands off each other. Her breasts are so big and beautiful, and I loved the way they felt when they pressed up against mine. At one point I had cupped one of them in my hand and held it steady so that I could bend my head down to kiss it…”

Kent sobbed even louder. Milo was clearly annoyed by this and turned around to the pew where Kent was seated to say, “Oi, Nerdermoier, shoot th’ fook oop ollreedee!! Th reest of oos ‘re troyin tae listen, dymoind?”

Dylan shook as if he was sobbing as well…but he wasn’t. If anything, he was trying to stifle a guffaw.

Janet whispered to Richard, “You don’t suppose Stella might’ve been gay, do you Richard, or at least bi??”

Richard whispered back, “Either that, or she was just horny as hell!” The two felt guilty about chuckling even quietly at that. This was their first born that had died, after all. They couldn’t help it. They loved Pearl’s spunk.

Fergie was just aghast that this girl was reading such an explicitly sexual story in God’s church of all places!

The rector of St. Luke’s just sat back and enjoyed listening to Pearl’s eulogy.

Pearl continued to read. “And after I kissed it, I fondled that breast. As I did, she began to fondle mine. To feel those fingers stroking my nipples turns me on like nothing else. At this point I was just dying to wrap my legs around one of her thighs. I swear she must’ve read my mind again because she gently nudged my legs apart with her knee. I had my leg between hers and she had one of hers between mine. And we were both squirming on each other’s legs, just grinding our snatches on each other. That felt sooo good to feel that thigh between my legs…especially when she started caressing my ass. God, that made me tingle like I’ve never tingled before…”

“Either our daughter was very gay or Pearl’s very, very good!” Richard mumbled to his wife under his breath. He and Janet quietly chuckled some more.

“We could’ve screwed all night like this.” Pearl concluded. “I don’t know who was making who crazier; was she driving me wild or was I driving her wild? Either way, this is extreme bliss…”

With that, Pearl covered her eyes with her right hand, and broke down as she left the pulpit. She was hit hard with the realization that she would never again experience anything like that with Stella.

With some other woman, maybe, but not with Stella.

The entire congregation milled about in the chapel after funeral services for Stella concluded. Kyle Chapman came out of the men’s room when he spotted his lover Simon Webster, who was fanning himself with his copy of the memorial program and looking more than a bit anxious.

“Uh-oh…this don’t look good.” Kyle thought as Simon’s left hand went to his forehead. He could see his lover sweat a mile off. “There’s gonna be an insulin attack.”

Luckily, Kyle got to Simon pretty quickly and sat him down. He had stashed a Mars bar just in case there was no reception immediately following the memorial, and handed that to Simon. “Wheh! That was close!” Kyle thought as Simon took a bite from the candy bar. Boris the Bartender came up to the two boys briefly to let him know he’d be over at The Stud to reopen…and to make sure his nephew was okay.

Meanwhile, Simon could just see through his hypoglycemic haze the spector of Kent and Pearl facing each other through an open window in the Chapel. He could also hear Pearl screaming and shouting at Kent.

“All this time I was away not once have you even bothered to call, visit, or nothing!!! You didn’t care!!! You were too busy hitting on Stella!!! Oh yes, you were!!! She didn’t love you!!! She didn’t even wanna know you!!! She told me everything!! She cared about me if anyone outside of my family did!!! She was a better lover than you ever were!!! You know what?? Yo’ an asshole!!! That’s what you are!! No wonder everyone calls you Kunt!!! Yo’ being a cunt to me right now, trippin on me like you always do…”

Yeah, Pearl was pissed off at Kent. Simon could tell as the oxygen began to make friends with his brain cells once more. “Well, what’s the matter with her alla sudden?”

“She’s really having at the Kunt Nerdermeyer, isn’t she.” Kyle observed as he and Simon watched this whole drama play out. “Knowing him tho, he probably just did something irretrievably stupid like call her out over that diary entry she read.”

Simon guffawed between bites of candy. “That was a hell of a tribute. Man, if you weren 't so fucking attractive I might’ve considered stealing Stella right out from under everyone’s nose…just to see if she could ‘straighten’ me out.”

Kyle added, “If any woman could make a gay guy go straight, Stella could I’m sure. It’d be too easy.”

“Yeah, too easy” Simon echoed. “Except I already tried that once, long before Pearl got to her, I’m sure. Y’think I should tell her about that?”

“It’s up to you, honey. I’m not sure it’d make much difference now and besides, maybe she already knows about that.” Kyle said in reply. Then they turned their attention back to Pearl and Kent. Kent could clearly be seen turning and walking away from Pearl as she continued to cuss him out…giving her the talk-to-the-hand gesture as he moved away from her.

“Go on, then walk away!!! Go home and cry to yo’ mama!! Stupid ass bitch, you got yo’ nerve coming here just to give me yo’ shit!! Who do you think you are, bitch??”

A rush of glucose hit Simon in the brain. As highly amused as he was by the sight of Kent being told off by his ex-girlfriend, the impact caused him to burst into tears as he was laughing. He was still quite low enough to get emotional very easily, but he was fast coming out of it.

“This is too fucking hilarious right now!” Simon exclaimed, his voice breaking. He went careening from laughing to sobbing and back again. Kyle kissed him and urged him to finish that candy bar. “Look at him; he’s walking around like he’s got a bit ole stick up his ass!!”

The boys watched and laughed as Kent stormed out of the parking lot of the church.

The Yossarian Diaries

2010-05-12T09:49:00.000-07:00

“Dammit, I’m missing her.” Cannes said in a matter of fact tone as she and Pearl passed a dubie between them.

Then Pearl began to tell this story. “The night we went to that concert – to see Grinderman – we went to my house. She and I were watching this TV documentary about Bats after we made love. There was this snake slithering along among this huge swarm that was flitting all around it. The snake would just coil up, waiting to strike. Then it would lash out at a bat, and more often than not it would miss. But eventually there’d be a big ole bat in its mouth. And it would coil up even more and then start munching away on this bat

“As we were watching this all play out, she told me that my aunt Punk Mother told her about how she used to see herself as an old lady, hangin’ with yo mama, passing the joint around and swapping in-law jokes. But instead her life now, she’s just working her ass off jus’ trying to keep her head above water. And it’s like she want’s to care about her diabetes better, but it’s too much work.”

“In law jokes?” Cannes repeated quizzically.

“Yeah, well…” Pearl accepted the spliff being passed to her as she continued. “Aunty Punk Mother used to think that once Stella came to her senses and dumped Jarvis, she and Clay would get together and maybe one day get married and she’d have some grand-hooligans one day.”

“You fucked her, tho.” Cannes pointed out.

Pearl smiled at that, “Mmmm, that I did. Real tasty it was, too!”

“Oh God…” Cannes grinned and shook her head. “Well, she wasn’t as interested in Clay as I was, anyway.” Then an afterthought came and she added, “You should tell Jarvis and Kent about that…just to piss them off.”

“Damn right I’m gonna tell those douche-bitches. I’m gonna rub that shit right in both their faces!!” Pearl laughed. “What they gonna do about it anyway? It’s not like they can kill her!”

Cannes expression darkened; the memory of her failed attempt to rescue Stella flooded her mind all over again. Pearl saw the sadness and said, “Sorry.”

Cannes sighed and began to speak. “Well, here’s the thing; I’m not so sure she’d’ve survived the low being stranded out there in the woods with nothing to eat even if that awful creep woulda just passed her by. From what she told me when she called me for help, she was in pretty bad shape to begin with.” Pearl nodded at this and accepted the reefer yet again.

“You’re probably the only person who could make love to her without making a point of hurting her in order to get what you want.” She added.

“I was probably the best fuck she ever had.”

“Nice touch.” Cannes observed. “Throw that one in there when you tell Kunt and Jarvis about it.”

“None of those other guys gave two shits about her…None of them!!”

There was considerable ambivalence among the rest of the Yossarian family in dealing with the inheritance left behind by Stella. As it was, Janet was fuming that the conductors had kicked her daughter off the train when she was in such a precarious state to begin with. As I write this, Janet was consulting with an attorney to see what legal recourse she may have.

Richard was just plain afraid that he’d start blubbering if he goes anywhere near her bedroom. Therefore, he’s been steering clear, deciding he was comfortable being numb for awhile.

So Cannes figured she might just as well deal with all of her lot. She just wants to bury herself in some sort of work. And at least she can get everything organized before the official Stella Yossarian Memorial Drawing of Lots gets under way.

With Clay’s cousin Pearl by her side, the two of them unearthed a treasure trove. There were catsuits, corsets, platform boots, velvet mini-dresses, paisley shirts, leopard-print, strappy shoes, Doc Martins, white athletic shoes, feather boas, sunglasses, work, boots, purses, all sorts of accessories, wigs, costumes, paddles, handcuffs, riding crops, duct tape, and a cat o nine tails.

On the floor of the closet sat a pile of journals and diaries scribed over the years. Cannes was not quite ready to read whatever smack that may have been written about her and Clay, the parents, Jarvis, Punk Mother, Milo, Pearl, everyone.

“We should definetly have a memorial garage sale in her honor!” Pearl suggested as she perused the collection of c.d.’s that had been accumulated over the years. She grinned slyly as her eyes caught an autographed copy of Frankie Booth’s debut album The Big Flirt. He signed, “To Stella Yossarian…I hope it was as good for you as it was for me…Love, Frankie.” (She had a lot of Frankie’s albums in her collection). How a star as big as Frankie Booth even found the time to sign such a lengthy autograph as what he gave Stella is anyone’s guess, but even so Pearl felt like a pirate amidst all this loot.

“A memorial garage sale…” Cannes let those words roll around in her head as if to let her brain cells taste them. “I like it!”

Then she added. “I just hope she wouldn’t care if we don’t donate the proceeds to any charity, tho. This emergency leave is gonna leave me hella strapped at any rate.”

“It wouldn’t make any difference now.” Pearl sighed. “Poor kid; I can only imagine how sick she must’ve felt.”

Cannes drew a heavy sigh. She felt nothing could ever rattle her anymore after what she’d seen. And with that she reached for the journals that stood stacked in the closet. Dealing with her diaries would prove to be a daunting task. She wrote reams of this shit every day, it appears. As strong as Cannes was, the journals had a heavy feel to them. One of them fell off the top of the pile she was carrying. She nonchalantly set the pile of journals in the box on Stella’s bed. Then she reached for the fallen journal.

A page caught her eye:

“Friday night, Aug 15, 8:00 p.m.: Dylan made a wicked chicken curry earlier this evening. A whole big pot of it in fact. Every morsel was very spicy and tasted exquisite, right down to the homemade whole grain daal bread we had instead of the rice. After we’d eaten our fill, he had me wait in his bedroom. His bed was covered in plastic. I undressed and took a nice long piss. Then after I was done I sat on the bed. I can easily guess what Dylan might have in mind with all that extra curry. If there’s one thing Dylan doesn’t particularly like, it’s leftovers sitting in the fridge for very long…

“This is our favorite game. The remains of the evening meal poured all over one of our naked bodies…in this case mine. I was soon chained to the bed and he poured all this yellow sauce all over me. It was running all over my neck, my breasts, my belly, my shoulders, and between my legs. His tongue cleaning every speck off of me…* sigh * …it makes me gush just to think of it…”

Right about then Cannes noticed a presence looking over her shoulder. Pearl was practically salivating as Cannes turned her head to face her. Pearl blushed. She didn’t know what turned her on more: The description of all that chicken curry being poured over and licked off Stella’s naked body, or the fact that it was Stella’s naked body being ravished. Only days ago Pearl had a similar honor.

It made Pearl wonder: was Stella even remotely as gay as Pearl thought she was, or was she just plain horny? Not that there was anything wrong with just being horny, mind you…

Another stack of Stella’s diaries fell across the floor. As the girls went over to gather them up, Pearl opened one and her eyes fell on what looked like a movie script. There were names of fictional characters and lines of dialog assigned to each character. Then Cannes picked up one and found pages of poetry and lyrics.

It was no secret that Stella wanted to break into show business, and it seemed to Cannes that these reams which were written by her hand were meant to be put to use at a later date…preferably in a soundstage in Los Osos, or on location at least.

Pearl couldn’t get that chicken curry story out of her head. Maybe Stella just liked it when her cootter got wet. “Damn, don’t we all!” She thought.

“They’ll wanna look at all these, won’t they…the parental units.” Pearl pointed out.

“I know that!” Cannes replied. “They’re almost too obsessed with sex.”

Pearl retorted, “You know there’s no such thing as being too obsessed with sex.”

“All the same…all this could be her taking on a new life…free from a body made sick.” Cannes said. “There’s a lot of stories to tell here.” Cannes added. “Yeah, …no, we can’t let this go. Not just yet.”

And with that the journals went into the box. Cannes silently vowed to ghost write her story, to give her late sister this new life.

At some point, Cannes did manage to get Richard into Stella’s bedroom. Milo had accompanied them. Turning to face the two men, she asked, “Well, whaddya think? About a memorial garage sale?”

“Let’s see what we got first. I might wanna buy some of this shit offa ya…just to spice up our own marriage, y’understand.” Richard slyly winked at his daughter.

Milo didn’t know why he couldn’t take watching this exchange. But he seemed to have a real problem with it, coz he just burst into tears immediately.

“Milo…what???” Richard asked, confused.

“Aryeemayd???” was all Milo could blurt out.

Richard sighed, “No, if anything I’m just plain numb.” Clearly he wasn’t at all proud of that.
But…”If it’s all the same to you, I just wanna stay numb for the time being.” He added with a slight snarl. He had every right to go crazy, yet he’s doing his level best to keep his cool. That can never be easy; that was his first child an’ all.

“Milo…” Janet had stopped by on her way to the kitchen. “You want something to drink…a port cider perhaps?” She volunteered. “I know I could use one.”

A port cider was equal parts port wine and hard cider. A very potent concoction, that. She’d been on the phone with her lawyer all day, so of course she could use a port cider.

Err, whot th’ ‘ell…Milo nodded through his tears.

“Richard, man, whot aryee troyin’ tae proove ‘ere???”

“Look, Milo…” Richard began an attempt to explain this. “Hasn’t it ever occurred to you that she might be at peace at long last??? I’m not glad she’s gone, in fact I’m missing her really bad right now…”

“Yeah, so am I.” Cannes echoed.

“It pains me especially the way she died. It was a sick way to die and I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. Not on Jarvis, not on Kent, not on Fergie, and not even King Harley, for that matter…

“But on the other hand,” Richard continued, “this disease is a pain in the ass to deal with and I wouldn’t blame her a bit for being sick and tired of having to deal with that, and all us well meaning busybodies on top of that.” Then in a mocking tone, “ ‘You shouldn’t eat that!,’ ‘Aah-aah-aahh!’ and ‘Don’t you dare, young lady!’ Jeezis fuck, how depressing having to hear that all the time…especially when she needs to treat one of her lows, for fuck’s sake!!! Poor little bitch, no wonder she was often so grumpy…”

By this time, Janet arrived with the port cider cocktails.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t blame her for wanting out of that wrecked, though still quite attractive shell of hers.” With that Richard sighed and took a glass from the tray Janet brought the drinks in on, and took a huge swig.

Cannes had been a bit ambivalent about perusing her sister’s diaries even though Stella was no longer around to object or anything.

There was a point where she didn’t give 2 fucks when she was younger, tho. In fact she relished in reading Stella’s intimate and highly personal thoughts, some of which were very sexually charged. Sometimes she would snatch the damned composition book and read all these thoughts aloud to the whole famned damily just to see the reaction of all in the room.

After one too many moments like that, Stella just one day said, “Fuck it!” and decided to write the filthiest, raunchiest, most depraved fantasies involving Jarvis and her favorite pop singer Frankie Booth, and herself.

“Stella!” Richard demanded after Cannes had read some S&M menage au trois where Stella was smearing wasabi over both of their nude bodies while they’re shackled to the bed…just to get off on making them squirm.

“Get over here, woman!”

Stella could not keep from guffawing, even if this could end with being led by her father to the toolshed…maybe.

“Now…is all this true?” Richard could barely contain his own amusement.

“Wha-pffft!” Stella laughed uncontrollably. She seemed a bit high in the glucose at the time…too good a mood, really.

“Just how long have you been into this sort of thing? Stella…” Richard cast a sideways smirk in her direction.

“Oh, Baba!! Those are just fantasies I harbor from time to time!” Stella replied, laughing. “I was just playing with Cannes…just to see if everyone believes all that bullshit I lay down in there!” She was pointing at the confiscated diary in Richard’s hand.

With that Richard guffawed, “T’chuh! You rascal!!” and handed the diary back to her.

“I have yet to have gone that far…at least so far not with Frankie!” With that she started to head back to her room in the attic, laughing heartily.

“Now, just to warn you, you’d better be aware of what you get yourself into, young lady.” Richard admonished. “That’s what we call ‘playing rough’ where most everyone comes from.”

So Cannes became ambivalent about reading Stella’s diaries aloud to the family without her sister’s consent after that. Sometimes, though, she’d still sneak a read every now and again for a bit of sexual stimuli. Eventually Stella stopped writing about her imaginary trysts upon the realization that Cannes was probably getting off on them.

Then as it had happened, she was living many of these fantasies with Dylan throughout her last couple of years alive. And now with Stella was gone, it was as if Cannes was afraid of what might’ve been written in there…about her…about the parental units…about Clay, Punk Mother, and just about everyone Stella was close to. She knew that, although Stella did her best to keep it in check, she had a lot of anger in her.

Can you blame her?

Let’s us digress a moment or so to talk about this extraordinarily talented pop singer named Frankie Booth. Now, Stella had been so freakin’ enthralled about him for quite awhile, I must say. So what’s the deal with this fuck anyway?

Frankie Booth was mixed race child – part african american, part swede, part Lakota Sioux, part Jewish . He grew up to be a very sexy beast with deep set blue eyes peering out from behind some very high cheekbones and very thick yet well-groomed eyebrows. His lips had a natural thickness that gave him the appearance of being a great kisser. I mean, is it any wonder all the girls, Stella included, wanted to make out with him?

His head was topped with a patch of nappy hair, which throughout his musical career was often dyed platinum blonde. Sometimes he’d experiment with other colors, at one point he had it dyed jet black with fuscia highlights added. A lot of how his hair looked depended on the mood he wanted to convey to his adoring public. In any case despite all the treatments his hair appeared to be very strong and healthy, and softer to the touch than it looked.

Frankie stood at about 6’2” without platfoom shoes, and while he wasn’t by any means emaciated, he was quite thin for his height.

If the sight of him didn’t turn the ladies on, his singing voice did. His tenor was as smooth as silk, and he had a vibratto that was outta control

A package like that could easily make the other potential suitors in Stella’s life extremely jealous to say the least. Take Kent for example. He was really jealous of that damned vibratto of his, and felt that it should be obliterated somehow. Seeing that Kent was highly irked by Frankie’s vibratto made Stella smile. While it was never Frankie’s intention to piss anyone off – I mean, Frankie hardly knows the little twerp, after all – anything that would torture the living shit out of Kent Neidermeyer was all right by Stella.

Jarvis only tolerated Frankie’s music because it got Stella aroused. He’d play one of Frankie’s albums and lip-sync to the lyrics using her vibrator as a microphone (He got the idea from Clay sometime earlier – I will explain later). This served as a kind of fantasy to be acted out for Stella – that and it made her laugh – especially when Frankie crooned some torchy-assed ballad like I Wish I Was Fire or I Dream of Orgies.

For Stella’s birthday one year, Frankie was performing in Los Osos, and the whole Yossarian family decided to take her to see the show. While the rest of the family wasn’t quite as enthralled with Frankie as Stella was, even Richard and Janet had to admit that he had a very compelling energy about him.

The Los Osos Theater was packed almost beyond capacity, yet somehow the entire Yossarian family got to the very front of the pit, in front of the stage where Frankie’s microphone was placed. Stella was ecstatic, and her parents were only too happy to see that she was happy. That was a rare occasion, it doesn’t happen very often after all.

Frankie, being typical of most musical personalities, was often later to his performances than was scheduled. It takes time to get ready for the show. In fact, for this particular performance he must have been at least 45 minutes behind schedule. Luckily for Stella, she and Cannes had managed to smuggle a couple of incontinence pants from Fergie Mum-mum’s place, which they wore under their skirts. There was no way in Hell that Stella would forfeit her spot in front of Frankie’s microphone…no matter how badly she might need to piss.

So Frankie finally came on, and he was wearing a gondolier’s outfit under his black leather jacket. He had on a striped black & white short-sleeved shirt, a big red sash, and beige colored flare legged trousers that were so tight that his bulge could clearly be seen. Frankie had a campy vibe about him, and rumor had it that he often got very, very aroused when he performed live…so aroused in fact that he often groped and fondled the front of his trousers while he performed. As a side, I have to say that the man had enormous testicles. The whole family couldn’t believe their eyes; they were – to say the least – quite impressed. Richard could only comment, “Now that’s a Rock Star!!! Am I right, or am I right?”

As Frankie strutted to and fro on the main stage, singing to the screaming crowd, he would often pause and gyrate madly to the rhythm of his more rockin’ songs – particularly The Dirty Boogie. When he turned his back to the crowd, his ass could be clearly seen. He had a nice butt, not a very big one despite his racial heritage, but he obviously knew what to do with it.

He eventually started singing Party Me Down, and as he did he made his way right to Stella. She had been stretching her hand out to him hoping he’d reach out to join hands with her. When his hand clasped hers, Stella was so overcome with ecstacy that she lost control of her bladder – which she had been ignoring for his sake – and soaked her incontinence pants to the point of saturation. This she took to be her first orgasm.

Evidently the touch of Stella’s hand proved to be too much for the man, because he dropped to his knees and brought her hand up to kiss it. As he did, he fell forward until he was lying with the front of his torso on the stage floor. After he finished his kiss, he continued singing, still lying on the stage. Then his hips began to move, as if he was having sex with the stage. His pelvis was grinding against the floor, gyrating in a frenzy like he was gonna cum any second. He cried out, security came and grabbed him by both arms to raise him to his feet. He could barely stand without clamping his thighs together and groping himself, yet somehow he managed to finish the song without missing a note.

And the crowd went nuts, screaming for more. At the end of the song, he shouted in parting just before he exited stage left, “Thank you Los Osos!! G’night!!”

Accounts of this racy performance made all the entertainment news media, which generated a lot of controversy regarding whether the under-18 set should even be allowed to witness this kind of spectacle. But the Yossarian sisters couldn’t care less about the controversy, being controversial themselves to begin with. Cannes and Stella were too busy debating over whether Stella had an orgasm or merely pissed in her pants right in front of Frankie.

In Stella’s defense, Frankie often makes her feel all squishy!

Incidently, Richard thought that Frankie Booth’s interpretation of The Dirty Boogie was the best he’d ever head…almost superior to the original version. However, it was I Dream of Orgies that has caused the biggest stir in Pop Culture. As a result, he’d won Stella’s heart fair and square.

Now, all this fixation on Frankie Booth served to bring out the most irritating qualities of some of the boys who hung out with the Yossarian girls. In fact there was one occasion where Jarvis, Kent, and Clay were all hanging out at Clay’s place. They were all listening to the radio and smoking some of Milo’s stash. At one point the dj announced that after a commercial break he would play the latest hit single called Let Me Come Inside You. Throughout the ad block the boys began to mock the girls’ reaction to Frankie. They’d mimic the girls’ voices, wailing, “Oh Frankie!! You’re so adorable!!! I’m your biggest fan!!! Oooohooohoohooo!!! Marry me, Frankie, Marry Me!!!”

Then just to be silly, Jarvis wondered aloud, “Man, what if the guys behaved like that around some beeg chot teeny bopper like heem?” He then switched to the deepest baritone speaking voice he could possibly conjure up, saying, “Oh Frankie!! Your music is sooo romantic!!!”

Now, Clay had another idea, and this is where Jarvis got the idea. I don’t know how Clay knew where Punk Mother’s vibrator was stashed – it must’ve been when he was ransacking the master bedroom looking for reefer or money or something. In any case he got it out of one of her private drawers and brought it back to the boys in the living room just in time for the dj to play Frankie’s new single.

So the song began and Frankie’s voice could be heard crooning the lyrics to this new number. As he sang, Clay brought the vibrator, which was turned on, up to the front of his face…holding it as if it were a microphone. Then he began to lip sync to the lyrics as the song played.

Now, his single Let Me Come Inside You was a torch song. Frankie interpreted and delivered the song as such. The fact that this song had such a dramatic feel to it added as much to the humour inherent in Clay’s mockery as the fact that he was lip syncing into his mother’s vibrator.

The other boys were really cracking up at the sight of this crazy spectacle. Then Jarvis snatched the vibrator from Clay and began to lip sync as well.

Now, Kent never had any experience with vibrators before – this was a woman’s sex toy, after all – so when he grabbed the “mike” to take his turn lip-syncing, the vibrator buzzed in his hand. That made him freak out and drop it on the floor. This brought out more hysterical laughter from Jarvis and Clay.

Clay then bent down to pick up the vibrator, and then just to be even sillier, grabbed Kent by the arm and held the vibrator to his head as if it were a gun. “Hold it right there!!” Clay joked. “One false move, and this bitch gets it!!”

Jarvis could only laugh even harder.

“I’ve got a vibrator, and I know how to use it!!”

“Man,” Jarvis chortled. “That’s chess seely!! Why you threaten Kunt Nerdermeyer wit de vibrator? Not dat he doan deserve it, mind chu.”

“I hate guns!!” Clay retorted, shrugging.

And Frankie’s voice continued to fill the living room, oblivious to the anarchy and mirth being played out in Clay’s living room. Jarvis snatched the vibrator from Clay again and began to lip sync only this time he threw in some pretty convincing Elvis Presley moves…ending up with one knee on the floor and the foot of his other bent leg flat down as if he was bringing it on home. As the song concluded, Jarvis then brought the vibrator down to the level of his groin as if to imply that Frankie was singing through his crotch.

Clay was really cracking up hard, but Kent was a bit miffed that he ended up looking like a blithering idiot dropping the vibrator and then being held up with it, and that he didn’t get to imitate Frankie. True to form he whined about that.

“We could see by the way you reacted that you’ve never had any experience with one of those things.” Clay pointed out.

“Well, what are they for?” Kent demanded.

Jarvis was clearly dying to see the way Kent would react when he learned the truth. So he told him. “Eet’s a ladies sex toy. When a woman geets reel horny and che’s got no man around, she teks de vibrator and masturbates with it.”

Jarvis was laughing so hard that Kent immediately assumed he was pulling his leg. “No way!! Are you joking, man??”

“It’s true; women fuck themselves with these!!” Clay added. “They jam it right inside their pussies and move it in and out of them repeatedly until they cum all over it. I mean, why do you think this thing is shaped the way it is???”

Well, Kent was really grossed out by this news. “Eyeww!! That’s sick!! You actually held that thing to my head!!!”

His reaction was really hilarious, judging by the way the other boys were cracking up. Kent carried on the way he always does; “My God!!! We all touched it!! That’s so sick!!! I’m gonna throw up, I swear!!!” So Kent went into the bathroom to hurl.

Jarvis was still laughing. “Ee’s such a retardo. How can he not tell dat yu mama keeps dat ding clean? Eet reeks of Bleach, man!”

Anyway, back to Stella’s diaries…

Pearl was about ready to burst.

She had been listening to Cannes read aloud a page from one of the journals. It was no secret also that Stella had been obsessed with Warhol movies and wanted to recreate the whole Factory vibe in some way. But what had come to pass was this exerpt:

“Jan 21: I would love to do a biopic of Little Joe D’allesandro.

“I could cast Simon Webster in the role of Andy Warhol, and Kyle could play Joe, like he did in Ebenezer’s Xmas Package. Cannes could also hook me up with some additional hot talent, I’m sure. After all, now that she works in The Glamourous Beauty Salon, she’ll be making contacts with all the local performers who go there. And I hope to incorporate Frankie Booth in this somehow.

“I so need to work with Frankie somehow…somehow. I’ve got all these ideas and he inspires them all. Coz I know I’ll probably never get to marry him or anything…there’s way too much competition for his gentle hand. But he fuels my creativity and I must feed off that energy if my true work is to continue…

“I would love to videotape him seated at a table with a champagne glass in front of him, singing the highest note that he can possibly reach given his vocal range. So that when the pitch is right, the glass will shatter into about a bazillion pieces. The explosive imagery of all those particles blasting into space right in front of him would be absolutely breath taking to say the least.”

As Cannes read this entry, Pearl could easily see what was being described. Stella’s vision for Frankie Booth flooded her head, and Pearl felt her chin muscles tighten as a sob welled up to overtake her. This death was wrong on so many levels, she thought.

“My God, Cannes!!!” Pearl wailed. “Do you see the treaure that is now lost to the world??? This was my lover!!!”

Cannes felt a moment of attention deficit disorder come upon her or something because her response at first was, “Y’know, I’ve always liked Frankie’s song I Dream of Orgies the best. It’s great to masterbate to.”

All Pearl could do was cry.

“David Lynch…” Cannes continued, sensing a kind of coping or defense mechanism or at the very least an escape route to keep from being overwhelmed by despair. “She seemed to fancy herself as being some sort of David Lynch.”

But then a wave of emotion overcame Cannes, and she too burst into tears, thinking about that horrible moment when she arrived too late to save her sister. “I tried to save her, Pearl!! I really did!! But it was too late!! She died right in front of me!!!” She wailed. “I’m so sorry, Pearl!!!”

The two girls embraced, sobbing in each other’s arms.

Stella sometimes wrote about how her diabetes impacted her dream life as well as her daily life. There were moments when it was difficult to tell the two apart.

Take this entry from Oct. 27th, 1987:

“I had a kind of – I’m not sure whether to call it a dream or a nightmare. It started out feeling like a nightmare. In any case I was stuck shopping with Mum-Mum and Morty. They’re arguing, she’s all yelling in her little microphone that makes her sound like a robot. I’m feeling a wave of excess insulin coming on, and I’m trying to get the two of them to stop bickering so that we can all just get some lunch or something. But they don’t seem to hear me. For that matter, I can’t seem to hear me. I don’t seem to have a voice because I cannot seem to hear myself.

“I happen to turn my head, and looking across the street I see this gaggle of black leather clad punk rockers. They’re all bedecked in black leather jackets with spikes, Doc Martens, chains, the whole schmeer. Then I see Mama and Baba and Cannes and Clay all hanging out with them. This British looking rebel looks my way, and we make eye contact. I try to scream for help, thinking they might rescue me since they’re with my folks. It comes out as a cartoon balloon with the word “HELP!” spelled out in all capitals. I have to admit that I found that bit pretty amusing, even though it’s not helping my situation at all. The punks seem to want to help, but we seem to be pulled by some life force away from each other.”

There are other descriptions of what Stella goes through each day:

“Just got back from visiting Grampa Jake’s tomb. It had been many years since the funeral and yet I couldn’t help but get a bit choked up this time. It could be a hypo, though. Between these mood swings, the delirium, and the sweating I could either be having pre-menopausal symptoms – which I tend to doubt at my age – or yet another steady descent of hypoglycemia was coming on at that time.

“God, these slow steady declines into hypoglycemia just make my brains ache. And that’s just before the hypo demons go running riot in my head. They’re always bring up bad thoughts, terrible memories, hurtful wishes. They only serve to either bum me out or piss me off. Even so when that happens I just cannot deal with anyone, I just cannot stand to be with anyone. And I feel bad about that, coz all they can do is only stand around looking confused and alarmed, like…”What?!?”

This was what she wrote about Jarvis approximately 2 weeks before she broke up with him for good;

“Damn, I wish Jarvis could just enjoy life without getting drunk. He turns into such a pain in the arse when he gets inebriated. High or low blood sugar levels on my part aside I just cannot deal with his ego when he’s like that at all. It’s so heart breaking because I love to get wasted, too. But I can’t when he does because it just gets too damned ugly. He gets physically and verbally abusive and I feel like I don’t know the guy at all…”

Cannes noticed a couple of wet stains on the page; a few drops of water had warped the page in a couple of spots. From the looks of it, Stella might’ve been crying when she wrote this down. Fighting her own tears, Cannes continued to read.

“God I wish he could see how much sexier he is when he’s clear-headed enough to see which way to piss. He can be very kind and caring and loving to me, especially when we make love. Just the way he touches me, it’s like he knows exactly where all my turn-on buttons are hidden. Just the thought of his touch on my body is enough to make my groin tingle in exquisite agony, and I just want him to cum inside me while he fondles me. I’ve told him this before, but he doesn’t seem to get it at all.

“While I’m on the subject of thought…

“He tends to put more thought into making our nights of desperate passion into an art form of some sort. He must have taken a page from William S. Burroughs’ Naked Lunch at some point in his life…coz he read about a character in the book who either laughed and came at the same time or wanted to laugh and cum at the same time. Either way he wanted to create that experience for us both. I won’t lie to you, I’m in love with the idea myself. The very thought…Oh God…I’m feeling terribly aroused already…

“He never actually announced that he would make a point of trying to make me laugh while we fuck. We agree, after all, that if you try too hard to prove you’re funny – like that boorish ass Kunt Nerdermeyer is always doing – it never fails to fall flat…real fast. What a turn-off! But at one point while Jarvis was penetrating me and caressing my nipples, making me all gushy below my waist, he asked me, ‘Chiquita, mija…how you like me one time to have wichoo some hilarious sex?’

“At that point I’m just getting soo into the way he’s moving in and out of me, and I just said, ‘Oh God, Jarvis…I wouldn’t have it any other way!’ And quite honestly I didn’t really know if there was any other kind of sex.

“Anyway, he’s taking his time, waiting for some spate of spontaneous wit to come to mind while he fucks me, and I just cannot keep from gyrating furiously all over his cock coz it just feels sooo good when he screws me…

“Finally, I’m so close, just soo close to exploding all over him when I hear him do these really funny, really raunch imitations of Fat Bastard – you know, from the Austin Powers movies. So he goes, ’Aaahrr, jiminy crickets!! Me arse is getting all tingly loik!!! This is better than takin’ a crrrap; Oi’m tellin ye!!’

“So I started busting up laughing, and he’s really getting into it with the Fat Bastard voice crowing, ‘I’m dead sexy!!! Luk at my sexy body!!!’ Then he cracks up hearing me laugh, and he’s still moving around inside me, practically swimming in my snatch. I’m not even finished laughing with him at his Fat Bastard imitations when I finally just burst all over his schlong. I just felt myself twisting inside, gushing and pulsing uncontrollably…

“He continued to thrust inside me and roll off one Fat Bastard one-liner after another…until finally I had to beg him “Please just let me finish!” while I was still giggling. I was so turned on that he wanted to make me laugh while he fucks me, but I couldn’t hold back my 2nd orgasm any longer. So he just went on fucking me, alternately chuckling and moaning until soon we were both crying out like Aah, ah, ah, ah, aahhh. My orgasm was making him cum. God that felt so lovely….

“I swear I could fuck like that all night every night, just totally get lost in this hilarious lovemaking of his…”

Cannes felt herself getting aroused as she read, and thought to herself, “My God, no wonder she stuck with this asshole as long as she had.”

Meanwhile, Richard and Milo were still going through the rest of Stella’s things, trying to get everything organized for the Stella Yossarian Memorial Rummage Sale. Milo had found a tickler and Richard found a riding crop. Just for a laugh, the two of them staged a sword fight and began to swashbuckle each other with the props they found.

Clocking Out

2010-05-11T13:22:00.000-07:00

After being with Dylan for as long as she had, as much as she appreciated an alternative to the likes of Jarvis and Kent, Stella found herself increasingly bored with the S&M roleplaying. Moreover, between that and working at The Bauhaus Café, she was getting quite exhausted. Furthermore, she longed to go on regular dates – movies, dancing, dinner dates, browsing in shops, heck, she’d even settle for bowling night at the Lucky Strikes Bowling Alley, ferfuckssake! Unfortunately, Dylan got so’s he’s insisting on the S&M Games.

The schism was beginning to take its toll. One night, as Dylan dismissed her protestations of “Not tonight, please…I’m tired,” she began to wonder just who the fuck the “dom” was here. In any case, it does get exhausting punishing Dylan all the time. And being punished for being exhausted wasn’t much better.

Somehow she acquiesced to his insistance and chained him face down on the bed. Then she whipped him as hard as her fatigued body would allow. But it never seemed to be as rough as he liked. So he decided to step it up, taunting her, “Bitch, do it harder!!!” His tones were snarling, contemptuous, outright disrespectful even.

And she found herself just stepping back and listening to this bound man spew his verbal diarrhea, him thinking that this might somehow get her angry enough to flog him harder. And all she could only just look at him lying face down on the bed, he looked like a damn jackass, and she thought, “What a douchebag.” Rolling her eyes, she said to him, “Fuck you!” and threw down the whip.

Still dressed in her rubber cat suit, she grabbed her leopard print Kate Spade purse and stormed out.

“Hey, where you going, Momma?” Dylan demanded.

“Out!” And with that, she left the house – leaving Dylan chained to the bed – and caught the next bus heading downtown to the Bauhaus Café. She got a lot of strange looks from the rest of the passengers on the bus, I might add.

“Stella? Hey Stella!!! Stellaaaaa!!” Dylan yelled loud enough to pull a coitus interruptus on Cannes and Clay, who were both in her bedroom trying to indulge in a love-in of their own. As Dylan called, the two lovers found it very hard to concentrate on each other. Then it dawned on them both that Dylan had been left chained in Stella’s room, and wouldn’t shut the fuck up.

He was yelling loud enough to wake the frickin’ dead!

Clay drew a heavy sigh as he withdrew from Cannes, saying, “I’m sorry, babe…I…”

“What are you apologizing for? You’re not the one who deserves to be punished.” With that the two of them got out of bed and, pulling on their bathrobes on the way, stormed upstairs to the attic. Dylan’s plaintive cries for Stella rang out one last time as Cannes opened the door to Stella’s room.

“Oh, I’m sorry…did I interrupt anything?” Dylan asked, still spread-eagled on the bed.

Cannes saw the whip that Stella threw on the ground in exasperation and disgust, and got an idea. If it was anybody else’s lovemaking that was rudely interrupted, Clay would’ve immediately felt sorry for the dude. Knowing Cannes as well as he did, she could be dead vicious and cruel. But not only did he not care, he was gonna sit back and watch the fun…and maybe laugh.

Poor Dylan, he really should be careful what he asks for, because he got it good! Cannes went beyond the severity that he wanted, leaving some really nasty welts on his bare back, ignoring the safety word, really hurting the dude, till Clay decided he’d had enough entertainment. He stood up, grabbed the arm that held the whip, and laughed as he told Cannes, “Okay, that’s enough now.”

Dylan was crying…those welts hurt so bad! “Where’s Stella?” he sobbed.

“You interrupted our orgy, and drove off your mistress in the process! You deserved to be taught a lesson, bro!” Cannes scolded him as Clay unchained him. “Now get your clothes and get the fuck outta here!”

With that, Dylan grabbed his clothes and left, all apologies. It was a very warm night, so Dylan wasn’t too uncomfortable walking the streets of Magmaville in nothing but his rubber shorts. The welts on his back on the other hand stung like Hell.

The two of them drew a heavy sigh, relieved that Dylan was finally gone and that they finally had the whole house to themselves.

“Wanna watch some T.V.?” Clay offered.

“Yeah, sure, why not.” Cannes replied.

Stella had arrived at The Bauhaus Café. She decided she needed some girl talk. With Richard and Janet out on another video shoot for the Wild Riderz show, she turned to the next best thing she had for a mother…namely Punk Mother. She hoped to plead for some time off, a break from the grind.

Besides, Grinderman was scheduled to play at The Los Osos Theater, in Los Osos, of course, and Pearl scored two tickets for the show, hoping to get Stella to come for a visit.

Kent was in a mood. Maybe he was having his period.

Whatever the fuck his problem was, all Stella said as she strolled into the café, “Look, if you’re going to insist on serenading me, try to pick out a tune that doesn’t suck, okay?” It was a slow night, with only Kent and Stella and Punk Mother, who was in the office, Stella was sure.

Anyway, Kent took offense and whined some crap about snide comments. Stella just continued to make her way to the office, giving the twerp the old talk-to-the-hand signal…A slightly more civil version of the middle finger.

She found Punk Mother at her desk, looking at the employee log book in case some new grievance was written down in there. In this case, one of the employees was using company property for personal tasks – too cheap to invest some quarters at the laundromat, instead of the Magmaville arcade. Kent was ratted out for that, he suspects by Stella. Apparently the timing of Kent’s washer and dryer use was interfering with the company laundry.
“Sounds like the little demogogue’s got his period today.” Stella joked to Punk Mother.

“He’s just mad coz I called him out at the start of his shift, that’s all.” Punk Mother replied just before she turned her head to see Stella in her catsuit. She burst out laughing and then said, “I can tell by the way you’re dressed that you have some kind of statement to make.”

So Stella got right to the point. As shorthanded as Punk Mother was at work, she didn’t really need for Stella to get into some fatigue-induced attitude on the job. She’d just get Milo, Teddyboy, and Clay to pitch in and help out around here till she gets back from Los Osos. It wasn’t that busy this time of year, anyway.

Satisfied, Stella returned home. Dylan was long gone. Clay and Cannes were downstairs watching Snakes on A Plane…the unedited version.

“Sorry about Dylan, you guys.”

“I’d be sorry too, if he wasn’t asking for it. Isn’t that right, Clay?” With that, the two lovers guffawed about the state that Cannes reduced Dylan to.

Stella realized what had happened after she left to talk to Punk Mother, and could only shake her head and chuckle in amusement.

“I’m gonna leave town for a little while…not too long. I’m taking the next train to Los Osos.”

“Oh.” Cannes tried not to show it, but she began to get a little nervous. She didn’t know why, apart from recollecting some nightmare involving a big black dog that lead her to Stella’s dead body somewhere in the woods.

“I’d ask you two to join me, but Pearl’s only got two tickets to see Grinderman.”

Well, once Stella was dead set on something, there was no talking her out of it, really.

“No biggie.” Clay replied. He just wanted to get back to the movie.

With that Stella went upstairs to pack.

Let’s Talk About Pearl…

Pearl Burke’s conception was frightening enough. After school one day, a couple of racist thugs ambushed her biological mother and gang-raped her. Nine months later Pearl was born. The poor mother could neither afford to abort or to care for the child. This left her only one choice; put the child up for adoption.

Enter Thomas and Geraldine Burke, the brother and sister in law of Lenora’s first husband Henry Burke. The two of them had been married for a few years and were trying to conceive a child of their own…to no avail.

So you see where this is headed. The poor helpless soon-to-be-named Pearl Burke stole Geraldine’s heart. Tom wanted to hold out for a while male baby, but there was a waiting list for that. Geraldine didn’t feel that they could just turn their backs on this infant girl who needed a home now. So in the end they adopted her, all the while Geraldine consoled Tom, assuring them that caring for little Pearl would be good practice in the meantime while they waited for that coveted boychild to arrive at the adoption center.

She was raised in Magmaville, and when she entered high school she soon hooked up with her cousin Clay and his friends Jarvis, Kent, Stella, and Cannes. Kent she liked immediately, mainly because he was brainy like her. Or maybe she felt sorry for him, who knows, really. I mean, she did get picked on a lot and she – being mixed race and adopted – knew too well how that felt.

It was also for this reason that she found herself becoming fast friends with Stella Yossarian. Stella took a lot of heat at school for taking her insulin shots in the girls room, and most of the other girls wrote her off as the schoolyard junkie. But Pearl’s dad had type 2 diabetes, and was put on both insulin and metformin. (yeah, that’s what I said…”yikes!”). He might’ve been prescribed only the metformin if he had taken better care of himself, but he didn’t give a fuck. In any case, the two girls bonded. And as Pearl became a frequent visitor to the Yossarian home she also bonded with Cannes.

Clay liked the idea of having a black girl in his family, so he was like a brother and a friend to her.

After her father passed away, very suddenly at the reception of Henry and Patrice Burke’s wedding reception, Pearl moved to Los Osos where her mother lived (by that time Geraldine and Tom had been legally separated). Her father’s death left her devastated, and she felt she needed a change. She was so distraught she could barely deal with other people, let alone Kent although she was in love with him.

Now, Kent could’ve moved to Los Osos to be with Pearl if he wanted to, but evidently he did have a thing for Stella. Everyone could tell because he was always trying to impress Stella by trying a bit too hard to be Mr. Funny Guy just to get her attention…even when he knew damn well that she was going with Jarvis. That didn’t go over well with Stella anymore than it did with Jarvis. And even though by the time Pearl left town she and Jarvis had split up, she was clearly not interested in Kent Neidermeyer at all

Not only that, but she was a loyal enough friend to Pearl that she didn’t want to be the one to come between Pearl and Kent. So every time Kent hit on Stella, she’d make a point of contacting Pearl to tell her everything. That helped Pearl get over Kent pretty damn quickly.

Anyway, after the move Pearl found work as an aide at the Greener Pastures Retirement Community Center. Part of her duties included helping the residents from their beds into their wheelchairs and onto the toilets, even wiping their butts if need be…

(“I’ll take care o’this m’self!!! Gitcher gawddamn cotton picken hands offen mah business!!! Dag nabbit!!” Some of them would gripe at Pearl.)

…changing their bedding, wheeling them to the dining rooms…

(And occasionally dodging wheelchair drag races between the more competitive and onrey residents!)

…bringing lunch trays to their rooms when they wanted to eat in their rooms, giving them their daily medications…

(“Look, Meredith!! Drugs!!”)

(“Hawt diggetdy dawg!! I’m-a getting’ loaded tonight, Boy Howdy!!!”)

No doubt about it…the job kept her busy…at times too busy!

It was at the Greener Pastures Retirement Community Center where Pearl’s biological mother resided. Many’s the time that Pearl performed her basic duties in her presence. But Pearl never once recognized her. Why would she? She never knew her as a child, so she wouldn’t know her from Emily, really. Nor did Pearl have the slightest interest in finding out who her real mother is; she felt she had enough going on her plate as it was. A full-time job, a couple of health issues of her own, and a mountain of debts being neglected – save for the rent, fortunately – in favor of some of her favorite post-punk bands that might be touring through Los Osos at the moment. So to Pearl, this patient she doted on was just part of the landscape she worked in…like the rest of them.

But her mother did recognize the woman she gave birth to, and deep down she wished she could’ve raised her right, help her develop a taste for some good ole fashioned Soul music like Stevie Wonder, and Diana Ross & The Supremes.

Admittedly, even Geraldine was a bit taken aback by Pearl’s interest in the kind of bands that her friends listened to, like Joy Division and Bauhaus.

As it happened, she was listening to a recording of Joy Division’s Transmission and applying her trademark Cleopatra eye makeup when the call from Stella came through. She was on the train to Los Osos when she called Pearl to let her know whether or not the train would arrive on time or not Stella had taken up Pearl’s offer of a ticket to see Grinderman.

Pearl was ready to bust loose with an old friend. Before Stella had even arrived at the station she was already a sight for sore eyes…especially eyes that had seen far too many angry and bitter old coots – who might be better off set adrift on some ice floe – just because they didn’t always get their own way. No better than children, really, Pearl thought bitterly.

Anyway, on to less depressing thoughts…..

The rendezvous was nothing out of the ordinary; Pearl and Stella exchanged hugs upon meeting and headed over to the nearest Hoagie Queen for a bite to eat.

What struck Stella was that her old boss from the Hoagie Queen in Magmaville, Tarsem Chopra, was running one of the Los Osos franchises. This brought back memories of her first job, where she worked with her ex-boyfriend Jarvis, and how the two of them would stifle the urge to break into “Moose and Squirrel” jokes as he did his best to run the place.

Tarsem was a kind of hero of sorts to her. There was a moment when she was just beginning to feel a low coming on and the last customer of the afternoon rush just wanted to talk and talk and talk and wouldn’t let her break away. Yeah, y’know I’ma gonna say it…

He held her captive with all that incessant jibber-jabber!

To this day Stella didn’t know whether Tarsem is as familiar with the effects of insulin therapy as her family, nor whether he just knew her too well, or whether he just knew that particular customer too well. All the same, he paged Stella into his office.

She went in, Tarsem offered her a coke and decided to have Jarvis make her a 6” sub as soon as he dealt with that last customer himself. So Jarvis made Stella one of her favorites, a turkey & bacon sub with monterey jack cheese on a whole wheat sourdough half a loaf.

So that was a standout moment for Stella. Much of the rest of her employment with Tarsem was spent behind the counter assisting in the construction of many 6” and foot long submarine sandwiches for the long lines of customers that often went in and out the front door. This often made it difficult for the employees to get a piss – let alone a meal – break. Luckily, Stella learned quickly to employ new glucose management strategies to accommodate her job.

“Small fucking world, innit.” Stella said as she layed eyes on her old boss. The two of them ordered teriyaki chicken subs and raspberry flavored ice teas to take back to Pearl’s place. The girls would need to spend almost every waking moment preening and getting ready to see Grinderman perform live before making their way to the front of the ticket line so that they could get a spot directly in front of Nick Cave’s microphone stand.

They stayed only long enough to have a brief conversation with Tarsem, during which Stella had finally got the answer she was seeking. “How did you know I was having a glucose emergency back then?”

“I am former boxing champ!” Tarsem answered in his very thick Indian accent. “When someone ‘bout to go down for count, I know…hokay!”

They came, they saw.

Grinderman disappointed no one.

It felt good to forget about work and diabetes and self-centered boyfriends, and just cut loose and get wild and crazy for one night. Well worth the 4 ½ hr wait at the front of the ticket queue.

Back at Pearl’s place the girls were still keyed up. Stella would’ve loved to hang out at the backstage door for a chance to meet Nick Cave, but she knew her disease too well. The longer she waits before she eats again, the more irritable and impatient she’d become. And besides, there’s never a guarantee of meeting a famous anybody after the show unless they decide to do some kind of meet and greet. Additionally, Stella would rather be at her best when meeting someone new or famous…not her worst.

The Hoagie Queen was closed for the night, so the two of them just went straight home and had the remains of a cheeseless chicken and veggie pizza (Pearl’s allergic to dairy, y’see) that was ordered while they waited in line for the concert. Not atypical of a post-concert high, Pearl put on her copy of Grinderman’s album as they ate and talked.

Now, Pearl and Stella were speculating on what it would be like as a rock star wife…

“I don’t know if the money and fame would be worth it, really.” Stella, ever the pragmatic one, opined. “There’d still be too much competition between me and the other fans, and I’d be forced to accept all that as just an occupational hazard. It sounds boring, but I may as well marry a doctor instead. He’d at least help me score a good health care insurance plan.”

“You’d think that’d be the next logical progression, with the kind of families we come from.” Pearl said.

“I couldn’t be truly happy, though. It’d be too much like my normal life. What about you; do you think you’d be happy as Mrs. Nick Cave?”

“The marriage would last a day, I’d be harping on him about his lifestyle, and then he might, y’know, smack me around like my dad did.”

“Fuck men, anyway.” Stella damn near spat out.

“You did! Look what came of it!” Pearl pointed out. “I’d’ve loved to see you storm into The Bauhaus Café in your catsuit!!” she added, laughing. “I bet you looked really hot…really, really hot!”

“Well, that would go over real well with Kent, you drooling over me in my catsuit!” Stella laughed.

“To be honest I couldn’t give two shits. It’s funny…” Pearl added becoming a bit more thoughtful. “You’d think after such a messy death like what my dad had, I’d become all clingy and co-dependent, and wanting him around me all the time, subjecting him to all my vulnerability….but I don’t”

“So I guess you’re not really interested in getting back together with him, or coming back to Magmaville, then?”

“I might come for a visit from time to time, but I really like it here. I’ve got a good job, I’ve got my own place, and there’s all kinds of cool nightclubs I can go party at.

“Maybe you should move over here, get away from all the control freaks, start a new life, pursue your dreams…”

That sounded like a not at all bad idea. She loved hanging with Punk Mother and with her sister, but was really beginning to feel like her life in Magmaville was getting old.

Pearl continued, “You could move in with me, and Tarsem would probably hire you right away.”

Working for Tarsem again probably wouldn’t exactly be like old times, nothing ever is. All the same the thought of a real change in her life appealed to Stella. Everything she’d want and need would be right here in Los Osos.

Plus Stella sensed something about Pearl that maybe she was dying to reveal, and was curious enough to explore that part of her. After all, here she was extending this invitation to her almost in earnest. In fact, the more Pearl spoke of the idea, the less inclined Stella was to conjure up excuses not to take her up on it. Pearl couldn’t be any more notorious of a diabetes cop than anyone else she’s put up with in Magmaville…seeing as the two of them had been chowing down on pizza, fercrissakes.

Seems every fiber of Stella’s being was just telling her to go for it. There wasn’t that much to lose by it. Lenora would understand. Cannes might prattle on about that damned black dog nightmare she seems to have all the time, but hey her sister isn’t her mother. And isn’t it about time she tried to make it on her own anyway?

“I’m so over Magmaville, Pearl. How serious are you really about having a bitch like me living with you?” She had to ask, y’know. “Coz I’m so close to saying yes to this right now!”

“I missed you, Stella. I want us to hang out together like we used to do. Even if we end up fighting all the time over the dishes or whatever, y’know…I want us to be together.”

So, that’s where this is headed. Pearl was clearly lonely and in love with Stella, that was too obvious.

Suddenly the two girls stopped talking, and looked deep into each other’s eyes. There was no doubt about it; those two wanted each other. So they kissed…

And they kissed again…

And then they started making out.

And before you knew it, the two of them were making love while the entire Grinderman c.d. played on album repeat again and again. Their limbs were entwined around each other, their hands exchanged caresses and more kisses and more fondling each other gently and passionately. Stella enjoyed every second of this. As Pearl began to caress Stella’s pubes, gently stroking the soft curls between her new lover’s legs, Stella let out the most passionate sigh Pearl’s ever heard. And then Stella said, “Oh my God, Pearl. I just love that you’re being so gentle with me. It’s such a turn on!” This was such a nice change of pace from the feigned cruelty and aggression that She and Dylan had been acting out too frequently. She needed this gentleness…She needed this change.

She needed a good woman.

The day came for Stella to return to Magmaville. She didn’t want to leave Pearl, but if she was to move in with her, she had to go home and get all her things packed up and somehow make arrangements to have it all moved to Los Osos.

With that in mind, Stella boarded the train to Magmaville.

As soon as she found her seat, Stella settled down for a nap.

The train was halfway home when Stella woke up, feeling a low coming up fast. She checked her purse and luggage for a snack of some sort, and found that she’d forgotten to pack anything of the sort. There weren’t even any glucose tablets.

Luckily, there was a snack bar on the train. Unfortunately it was closed.

Stella began to look for a conductor who could maybe help her…and as she did she became dizzy and confused and stumbled for a bit. Luckily a conductor saw Stella stumble.

Unluckily he assumed she was drunk off her ass. He pulled the emergency brake, opened the exit doors, and ordered her off the train.

Unluckily also she wasn’t allowed get her luggage. Luckily she had her purse with her.

Luckily also, her cell phone was in it, and was still fully charged from the night before.

Stranded in the woods somewhere between Los Osos and Magmaville, she realized that she was in real danger. She thought briefly about how Cannes prattled on about this nightmare, but saw no black dogs anywhere.

Luckily, amid the hypoglycemia-induced confusion, she’d seen a road sign indicating that she was 13 miles away from the nearest town. She began to dial the number for The Glamourous Beauty Salon.

Meanwhile, back at The Glamourous Beauty Salon, Cannes had finished with her last client of the day. She paused before sweeping up the hair clippings to take a nice big drink from her can of Coke. Then she felt a huge belch coming on. So she let out a long, loud, and altogether ungodly sounding croak that came from deep inside of her belly. The other hairdresser and clients roared with laughter at the noise.

Somehow amid all this hilarity, Cannes heard the business phone ring and answered it. It was Stella.

“Cannes!!! Cannes, it’s me Stella. I’m in trouble! I’ve gotten kicked off the train by this dumb-assed conductor who thought I was drunk, and I’m stranded in the woods!!!”

“What?!? Slow down, Estelle…What happened??”

“I got kicked off the train coz the conductor thought I was drunk off my ass. And now I’m stranded in the woods! I’ve got nothing to stop this low that’s hit me!” Stella was really freaking out.

“Okay, can you tell me which part of the woods you’re in?”

“It looks like I’m about 13 miles south of Monterey, somewhere in the Los Alamos National Forest. I can maybe make it over to the side of the highway…maybe.”

“Do you have anything to tide you over in the meantime, till I get us to a fast food place or something in the next town?”

“No! I’m such an idiot! I thought maybe the snack bar on the train would be open.”

“Okay, I’m almost through here. I’m coming to get you, and I’m bringing some food.”

“Please hurry…my head’s spinning right now.”

At that moment, Clay came into the salon.

“Clay!” Cannes was relieved to see him, as he was the fastest driver she knows. “Stella’s in deep trouble. She’d had a low and the train crew thought she was drunk, so they kicked her off and she’s stranded in the woods without anything! We gotta go get her, coz she’s sinking fast, I’m sure!!”

With that she and Clay jumped into his jeep, snagging 2 more cans of Coke, a couple of apples, and 2 sticks of white chocolate almond biscotti that had been stored in the mini-fridge at the salon, and hauled as on the road to Monterey to look for Stella.

Meanwhile, Stella began to make her stumbly way to the side of the road. And as she did, she commanded her liver to action. “C’mon, liver, get to work!! I need glucagon, stat!!”

As Clay floored it, Cannes prayed that she wouldn’t get stuck behind some slow-driving old coot, or get pulled over by a mean cop looking to meet his quota, or hit a dog on the way -- especially not a black dog – or even get into an accident themselves.

In her state it was a struggle for Stella to get to the highway. But she made it somehow. Once there, she sat by the curb to wait for her sister. She felt her head spinning and the adrenaline burned through her arms, and she was shaking uncontrollably.

She saw a powder blue pick up truck approach and decided to hitch a ride to Monterey. Maybe this guy would just drop her off at some truck stop there, and she had money enough to get food. So she’ll call Cannes once she gets there and have her come meet her at the truck stop.

She stuck out her thumb and sure enough the pick up pulled over. It stopped several yards ahead of her, then backed up to where she was seated.

“Please help me!!” she blurted out to the driver.

The driver spoke, “You don’t look so good, little lady. C’mon inside the cab.” He slid over to the passenger side and gave her a hand into the vehicle. There was a can of Coke in the drink holder next to the driver’s seat. He offered her a drink, and she thanked him as she drank…still shaking like a leaf.

As she drank, the driver started getting a trifle frisky and that was putting it mildly. “Come closer, little lady.” She was feeling faint, so she moved closer to him so that she wouldn’t have far to fall in case she did pass out.

The driver moved his arm over her shoulders and his hand fondled her breast. That was enough to jolt Stella out of feeling safe. She realized that she was in a new kind of danger. She struggled to get away from him, but he pulled her closer to him. Somehow she got one of her arms free and jabbed her fingers in his eyes. Her fingernails were long and sharp.

She got out of the cab of the truck and began to stumble back towards the woods to hide. She just needed time to make one last call to Cannes. She didn’t drink much of the driver’s soda at all, and from what she had to drink she detected an aftertaste of Rum. In her state it was dangerous to have any alcohol at all…

Cannes cell rang as Clay drove. It was Stella again. Her voice seemed to cut in and out as she spoke, but Cannes could make out, “…blue pick up…coming after me…” and then no more. Cannes cell phone went dead.

The full sentence actually was, “Cannes, this psycho in a blue pick up truck pulled over and acted like he would help me, but now he’s coming after me, and he means to rape me!!!!”

“Could you make out any of it?”

“All I could get clearly was something about a blue pick up truck.”

“Good God,” Clay exclaimed with alarm. “She could be desperate enough to try something stupid like hitch a ride to the next town and met up with some serial rapist!!” With that he floored the accellerator pedal.

About 5 minutes later they spotted the blue pick up truck parked by the highway. Clay slowed down and pulled over in back of the vehicle. Stella was nowhere to be seen, so the two of them figured she was in the woods somewhere. It was still broad daylight, so it wouldn’t be hard to spot any fresh shoe prints and broken twigs among the shrubbery.

Clay dialed 911 on his cellphone. He had a bad feeling that the police would need to be involved in the growing mess this was fast becoming. Cannes spotted an opening by the side of the road and immediately found two sets of fresh footprints. Clay followed, carrying the thermos box of food and drink, and his bowie knife.

The shrubbery was a crappy hiding place. That slimy thug had no trouble finding Stella. As soon as she turned off her cell phone she saw him towering over her, and let out a scream. She had no chance to get away. He was on top of her in an instant, pinning her down.

“So this is how you treat someone who comes to your rescue? You rude little bitch, I’m gonna have to teach you some manners!”

Luckily, the shrubbery was such a lousy hiding place that even Cannes and Clay had no trouble finding them. “Get OFF her, you creep!!” Clay shouted right before he gave the rapist a good swift kick in the head. The force of that blow was enough to knock the thug off of Stella.

Right then, Stella had a seizure, going into severe convulsions. Cannes raced to her sister and held her as the seizure shook Stella’s body. The convulsions lasted a good 30 seconds and then Stella went completely still…

And then she stopped breathing.

The thug was unconscious as well. Clay had kicked him so hard that his head hit a very large rock in the ground as he fell off Stella.

But it was already too late. Stella was gone.

Between the severe hypoglycemia, the absence of any real food, the scumbag, and finally that seizure, Stella was pretty much screwed.

The next thing Cannes and Clay knew, there was a siren screaming in the distance, getting louder as it came nearer. The police were on the way to help clean up this mess.

It turns out that the police had been on the lookout for a blue pick-up truck belonging to a man suspected of being a serial rapist/murderer. Thirteen women had been brutally raped and all but one of them had been murdered. Somehow, the 13th had survived the attack and was able to give the police a full and accurate description of the man and the vehicle he drove…including the license plate number.

Stella was his last victim.

The two of them returned to Magmaville. They had a long talk with the police at the scene of the crime. No charges were filed against Clay or Cannes. Stella’s attacker was taken into custody after regaining consciousness. Nothing left to do but go straight to The Bauhaus Café, where Punk Mother was anxiously awaiting news about Stella.

When they arrived, they found Punk Mother seated at a booth, trembling and sweating. She was sipping a bit too slowly on some orange juice. In Stella’s absence, she was pulling double duty with Kent. The café was swamped so there was no chance of either one of them to take a break and recharge in any way. Realizing that Punk Mother might be going low, Clay and Cannes sat on each side by her, and held her hand as she waited for the trembling to subside.

“Where’s Stella?” Her voice trembled as she asked. There would be no good way to put what had happened to Stella in words. So they just told her what they saw when they found her.

Punk Mother could say nothing but just sat trembling and sweating. She went into shock; she wanted to cry, but she was just shaking too badly. She couldn’t even bring herself to eat any of the croissant sandwich that was prepared for her, nor take any more orange juice. Clay and Cannes begged her to eat, telling her they’d already witnessed one death and just couldn’t take another death so soon.

She reluctantly began to eat, taking very small bites, barely able to swallow, she was too choked up. Clay and Cannes stayed by her side, comforting her, teary eyed themselves, holding her free hand, and prayed with her.

Despite all her outward rebellion, Punk Mother was a deeply religious person.

Anniversary And Chaos

2010-05-10T10:02:00.000-07:00

Those mangy blokes Milo and Teddy boy will pull any crap to get Punk Mother to take some exercise.

Roight, ‘eer’s ‘ow it pleed oot! Punk Mother was just about to drive to the Bauhaus Café, see. Just as Milo was giving her a g’bye kiss, ‘e fookin snatches the keys to ‘er jeep from ‘er ‘and and then tosses them t’ Teddy, startin a game o’fookin’ keepaway roit in th’ bleedin’ froont yard, loik. Nai this malarky gaes oon fee a bit, then as Ted catches them once more, ‘ee breaks intae a roonner with Punk Mother tearing after ‘im, cussin ‘im out callin’ ‘im the roight barstard ‘ee is.

Aftae a fee yards, Teddy gets quoit winded froom oll th’ runnin about, and Punk Mother is gaining on ‘im, see. Se ‘ee feigns trippin on a stone an’ takes a foll, loik. The P.M. gets just close enough t’ beat the living shite outta ‘im, an’ that’s when ‘ee tosses ‘er keychain a fee yards away from ‘im. Sae then she gaers off t’ fetch ‘em, remarking, “Had enough, then?”

Little did she realoize that all this toim Milo’s ‘ad ‘is aen set o’spaerkeys tae th’ Jeep stashed awoy in ‘is pocket th’ ole toim. Sae as she’s muckin’ about w/Teddyboy, ‘ee cloimbs inte th’ Jeep, see, an shooves ‘is key inter th’ ignition, waitin’ fee just th’ roight maement…that being when Teddy gives oop and let’s ‘er ‘ave th’ keys back.

So as soon as she starts gloating at Teddy with the “Had enough” nonsense, Milo starts th’ fookin’ engine an pulls oot o’th droivewoy in ‘er fookin’ Jeep, wunnhe. Punk Mother starts fumin’ loik as that bastard husband o’ers pulls away. Boy this toim Teddy’s back on ‘is feet again and runnin’ tae th’ jeep and then ‘ee jumps intae it as it pulls away from their ‘ouse.

“If ye wont yer Jeep back, coom an’ get it, then!!” Milo taunted as ‘ee and Teddy sped away.

“Yee…Coom an’ gerrus, ye olde sackoo bloober!!” Teddyboy parrotted straightaway.

But PunkMother wan’t about t’ give the bastards the satisfaction o’running. Noo fookin’ woy! She walked th’ entoir moil an ahaff from their ‘ome t’the Bauhaus Café.

Milo larfed. “At least we got ‘er t’toik some exercoise et loong last, dinnwe.” “ee said w/a hoigh foive.

Teddyboy, ‘owever, wuz quick tae point oot, as th’ 2 of them drove t’ th’ café, “Look ‘ere tho, mate. That wus oll well and good, but we’re gonna ‘ave tae troy anoother tack, aintwe. She’s noot gone fancy a bit o’keepway every soddin’ mornin, isshe.”

“Ne’er moind, mate.” Milo chuckled. “Oi’ve gorra big surproise fe’er oon our anniversary. An’ she’s not getting oot of it.”

The two of them were set to throw a huge anniversary party at The Bauhaus Café to celebrate 22 years of marital chaos. Milo no doubt would insist on a bit of skanking (that word used to describe a form of dancing that was done to punk and ska music back in the 80’s, well before the word “skank” became “whore” – ified.) “fee owld toim’s soik!” But that’s what she expects.

What she doesn’t expect is a trip to Jock’s Gym.

Jock’s Gym is no different from any other fitness center, really. You’ve got your treadmills and stationary bikes, stair climbers, rowing machines, weights, resistance training machines, spinners, exercise balls of all sizes, jump ropes, mats, ab rollers, …shit, man, they had every kind of exercise machine and prop that’s ever been invented for the sole purpose of promoting physical fitness. There’s also a separate room for exercise classes like karate, yoga, aikido, tai chi, and kickboxing. They’ve got a private area for massage, spa therapy, jacuzzis, and a steam room. There’s shower facilities, locker rooms, toilets being an absolute must, and a scale to weigh yourself on. And to top it all off, they’ve got a full-on snack bar featuring smoothies, energy drinks, fruits, whole grain baked goods, whatever works for the onset of hypoglycemia which can and does often happen after a good workout no doubt.

Milo’s motive was to a) lure his lovely wife into a realm where she could choose to do any exercise she likes on as much of any kind of equipment as she prefers, and b) terrorize the other fitness buffies. In this matter he’d be killing two fookin’ birds with one stone…literally. So with that in moind, the three of them got dressed up like they were going to a Sex Pistols concert and headed over to the gym to see what kind of reactin they’d get from all the patrons who hang out over there.

Upon arrival, Punk Mother just rolled her eyes and said, “Gawd, another pathetic attempt to get me to exercise.”

She was no dummy.

“Look at it this woy, loov,” Milo said to her. “Itser big ole room brummin’ wid lots o’ goigantic toys and ye get ter ploy wid as many as ye loik.”

“Don’t patronize me, Milo.”

“Anywoy, it’s oither that, or ye get tae sit on yer fat arse being bored oota yer fookin’ skull.”

Immediately realizing which one was the lesser of the two evils, Punk Mother drew a heavy sigh and said with resignation, “’K, fine! Let’s do this!”

“ ‘ang on a tick! You’ll need th’ roight gear.” Milo pointed out as he handed her the bag of workout clothes to her.

“A jazzercise costume…” Punk Mother rolled her eyes yet again. The outfit looked a bit too 80’s. “Well, I know what I’m gonna wear for Halloween; the very type of outfit no sane person would be caught dead in!” She guffawed at the end of this sentence. And with that the three of them changed into their exercise clothes and as they stepped out of the locker rooms sure enough all they needed were superhero capes to complete their looks. As it was they could totally pull off a campy parody of comic book heroes with all those leotards, headbands, and leg warmers.

They knew they looked absolutely ridiculous.

Putting on airs of being “dandy twits” as Milo put it, “coz ‘ats whot we look loik, innit, a load of dandy twits, daynwe..”

“Speak for yourself, you dandy twat!” Punk Mother remarked.

Ignoring her, Milo turned to Teddy and said, “Roight then, Oi’m oll dressed oop an ready t’ leep toll buildings at a single baynd!”

With that they went straight to the exercise balls with the intent to play dodgeball straight away. Milo and Teddy eyed the medicine balls – weighted balls about the size of the average soccer ball though some were a bit smaller – to get a feel for just how heavy they were.

“Cor blimey!!!” The look on Milo’s face when he grabbed one of them was priceless.
“’ees weeah fookin’ toon!!”

Just then a giant exercise ball, tossed by none other than Punk Mother herself, bounced off the back of Milo’s head. She was laughing. “These balls are bigger than what you lot have got!”

Then she tossed another exercise ball at her companions…and then another. Then the boys threw the balls she tossed back at her in retaliation. Soon the exercise balls were flying all around the exercise area where the three old fart punk rockers had congregated.

Then Punk Mother chased Milo to the cardio area where the stairclimbers and stationary bikes and treadmills were. I don’t know how the two of them managed to pull it off, Punk Mother being a woman of very large figure – I mean, go figure! lol! -- but somehow after Milo got the treadmill up to speed Punk Mother jumped on behind him and the two of them were running on the same treadmill. I’m sure the supervisor was as puzzled by the site of this as I am, but that didn’t stop her from reiterating the “one person at a time on the cardio machines, please!” rule to them both. She must’ve been secretly amused because she was shaking her head and chuckling quietly to herself as she went back to spotting some other gym patron.

It wasn’t long before the staff at Jock’s Gym decided they had enough of the chaos brought to them by the old punks. Regardless of whether it was Milo making the most obscene squawking noises while working the back exercise thing or Punk Mother tying Teddyboy to one of the weight machines and doing her imitation of Stella Yossarian’s dominatrix schtick that put the staff over the edge didn’t seem to matter. The three of them were unceremoniously thrown out of the fitness center.

“Well!” Punk Mother did declare. “That was a great waste of time and money! Fun while it lasted, tho.”

Poor Teddy, tho. He was just starting to feel a tad low in his glucose levels. His heart began beating erratically and he began to feel dizzy.

Just then along came a very old friend in their Punk Rock circle – One Cheetah Bikini. Cheetah was a black British woman with massive dreadlocks who in the good old days played keyboards for Smegma. She happened to be in town and as she was in the parking lot, she came up to Milo and Teddy to chat them up. Punk Mother would’ve been glad to see her except for the fact that she was already late for her hair appointment at The Glamourous Beauty Salon with Cannes. And she was impatient to get a move on. She decided not to wait for Milo to wrap it up, so seeing an opportunity to get revenge for the game of keepaway earlier, pulled out of her parking space away from the two men and out of the parking lot…and on her merry way to the salon.

“Whot wuz that oll about, then?” Cheetah asked.

“She’s loit tae dee ‘er ‘air, dahling!” Milo responded. “Saeryee coomin tae th’ pahty, then?”

“Yea! Wouldn’t miss it f’th’ world, wouldeye. Been tae loong since oy’ve attended any o’thaes disahstehs o’yers. Sae Oy’ll seeyer then, shall I!” Cheetah replied as she made her way to the thrift store located in the same mall as Jock’s Gym.

Milo turned to the now empty parking space and realized that Punk Mother had gotten her revenge. This was followed by a rather long blue streak of expletives shouted out loud, “Lenora, ye bloody bitch!! Ye fookin’ hooer!! Where’d ye fooking bugger oof tae, then??? Get back ooer ‘ere and coom get us, ye fat slag, ye!!!”

He could dish it out, but he couldn’t take it, that Milo. * snrk! *

The patrons at The Glamourous Beauty Salon could hear him all the way across the street, and were busting up laughing at the sight of the two men in jazzercise leotards in front of the gym, one of them throwing a right old fit!! At one point, Andre Simmons shouted back at them. “Shut up already, bitch!!!” before he resumed cracking up. By this time, Punk Mother had a hairdresser’s apron wrapped around her body by Cannes, which returned at least a little bit of her dignity anyway, and was getting her hair washed in preparation for her hairstyle.

Back at the parking lot, Milo turned to Teddy and noticed that he’d broken into a bit of a sweat. Additionally, Teddy’s neuropathy was getting really bad now; his fingers were tingling and he kept trying to shake off the growing numbness.

“Ye ollroight, mate?”

“Nae, Oi’m not well a’toll!”

Realizing how potentially dire the situation was, Milo reasoned that there was only one thing for it. The two of them would have to brave a jay walk across the highway in rush hour traffic to get to the salon.

You can only imagine the mixture of reactions from the motorists as Milo and Teddy crossed the highway dressed up like washed up comic book heroes; shocked, horrified, amused, some a bit angry about the danger these two men were putting themselves and everyone else in. One particularly irate motorist who bore a striking resemblance to Johnny Knoxville shoved his head and fist out of the driver’s window of his car to shout, “HEY GET OUT OF THE FUCKING ROAD, YOU JACKASSES!!!”

And here’s where it turns into the “Big white bird with fuzzy pink feet” moment. A couple in a mini-van reacted this way:

“Did you see that?”

“Yeah! Looks like a couple of washed up comic book heroes on kryptonite!”

A cell phone rings in the mini van and the driver answers.

“Hey, did you see that?” the voice on the cell phone exclaims.

“What did you see?”

“Looks like a couple of washed up comic book heroes on kryptonite!!!”

By some unexpected miracle, the two washed up comic book – ahem – Milo and Teddy made it safely across the highway to the salon without causing any accidents, without getting killed themselves, and without Teddy passing out from low blood sugar.

As they entered the salon, they saw Cannes Yossarian in the process of combing out Punk Mother’s hair in preparation for adding new purple highlights to the jet-blackened tresses. The entire clientele and staff of the Glamourous Beauty Salon erupted in laughter at the sight of those jazzercised looking men in their ridiculous get up bursting into the suite.

“Look ‘ere!” Milo bellowed. “We’ve got a sever glucose emergency roight ‘ere!”

“The jeep’s in the back, you know where the stash is. Don’t you dare make Candace go fetch it!” Punk Mother retorted. “She’s busy and she’s on the clock.” So Milo was forced to head through the back door, grumbling under his breath.

Cannes snickered, “You’re so mean, Lenora!” As she began to apply the peroxide, Punk Mother continued as Teddy sat down holding his head in his hands, “For the record, it serves you right! First off making me walk to work – it’s a wonder I didn’t go hypo myself because of it, btw – and then for making me late for this appointment!”

“Oh, shut up, Lenora! We wuz joost troin tae get yer soom exercoise loik!” Teddy retorted weakly.

“How typical; you two can dish it out but you can’t take it!”

“Look, that’s enoof nae, missiz!” Milo ordered, poking his head back into the salon. “’ee’s quite close to doying nae oll thanks t’ye!”

“Don’t gimme that crap, Milo. He’s not gonna die! Anyway, it’s his own fault for not having pockets so that he can keep a granola bar on his person…Dumbass! If you care for him so much, why don’t you get his stash instead of fighting with me?”

“Foin!” No point arguing with her, as it might turn out she’s right anyway. Milo went back to the jeep for Teddy’s stash.

Cannes resumed work on Punk Mother’s hair. “Don’t be stingy with the purple, love. It’s our anniversary.” Punk Mother requested.

“Lovely. What’ll you two do to mark the occasion? Beat the crap outta each other? What’s the cover charge for that?” Cannes wisecracked.

Meanwhile, amidst the hypoglycemic confusion that caused his head to spin, Teddy was sure he felt something jab him in his right hip. It turns out his leotard did have pockets after all. So as he reached into his right pocket he found that he did have a substantial stash of Starburst fruit chews stashed away in it.

“Oy! Well, fook me, then! Turns oot Oi ‘ad a bit o’candy on me person the ‘ole toim!” Teddy declared. Just then Milo returned with Teddy’s emergency stash and saw the packet of Starburst in his hand.

“Whoy, ye steepid fooker!! Ye fookin’ bastard!! We’ve joost risked our loives on yer accunt, and ye’ve ‘ad fookin’ candy on ye th’ ole toim!! Oi’ll…”

Milo was just about to lunge for Teddy’s scrawny little neck when Cannes barged right in front of him with a pair of scissors. She yelled, “Don’t you dare!!! Don’t you even think it!!!” She held the scissors to his face. “You back off him, I mean it!” It was a kind of reflex she had, culled from back in school when she had to defend Stella anytime Jarvis or Kent tried to bully her snack away from her.

Milo backed down and tossed the stash at Teddy’s feet, as Teddy remarked. “You’re barkin’ mad, Milo.” Milo said nothing. He just sank down into an empty chair, feeling like a right arse!

Sensing that Teddy was safe and could treat his glucose emergency in peace, Cannes resumed her work on Punk Mother, apologizing to Andre and the other patrons that they had to see that.

That very same morning at the Yossarians’ “Mansion”…

Fergie Mum-Mum and her stepson Mortimer had spend the previous night with Stella and Cannes. Fergie being Fergie, she wanted to check on her granddaughters to make sure that both were on the straight and narrow in their diabetes management…especially Stella.

By this time, Stella’s kinky little romance with Dylan had really been heating up. And for his part, Clay could not stay away from Cannes for five minutes it seems. So, between all the B & D games in Stella’s room and the steamy lovemaking that took place where Cannes “slept”, Fergie and Mortimer found it quite noisy and could not fall asleep at night. So they ended up moving into the nearest Econo-Lodge…where it isn’t expected to be quiet.

How Fergie rued the day that Richard Yossarian decided that he would rather be a “biker hooligan” instead of a nice, quiet, shy little nerdy boy he used to be in High School. He’d’ve been a better influence on her daughter’s children if he had, she felt.

Whatever… Anyway…

As Mortimer carried the last of the luggage into his stepmother’s Cadillac Seville, Fergie had a stern warning for Stella. “My dear, you are far too strict with your men. You’ll never marry as long as you insist on being so darned uppity all the time. It’s very unattractive in a woman.” With that she pocketed her electronic voice amplifier in her purse and wheeled towards the passenger side of the automobile.

Morty confided to Stella, “She’s got a point, y’know. You can get away with that attitude when you’re old and crotchety like your grandmother!” On that note he packed their luggage in the trunk and proceeded with the cumbersome task of assisting Fergie into the passenger side of her ride.

The two of them could be quite amusing with their friendly enemy routine, Cannes thought.

“Good God! That’d better not be my future, young lady!” Dylan said to Stella. “I’d otherwise have to give you a good ole fashioned spanking…yet again!

“I mean, geez, I love both my parents, but don’t I have to listen to enough of them going at each other already? Guyyy!”

As the Cadillac pulled away, Stella could only roll her eyes and go, “Cccchhh, she’s such a nag! GRRRRRRRR!!!”

To which Cannes snorted and commented, “Anybody with a slight hint of diabetes in the house and she’s on food patrol.”

“Anybody??? Really, Cannes, ‘Anybody???’ “ Stella retorted. “It’s me she harps on the most if she harps on anybody!!”

A cough of authority left Cannes’ throat as she interjected. “ * Ahem! * um, excuse me, but since I went into that coma, she’s been getting on my case as well!”

“Well, so what?? Because of that she probably thinks I’m a bad influence on you with what she calls my attitude problem. In fact, “ Stella added. “I’m putting $20.00 on her making a comment about me indulging in even one of his…” -- at this she points her thumb in Dylan’s direction – “ever so healthy low-carb though still extremely decadent desserts!”

Dylan blushed, not sure whether he should be embarrassed or flattered.

“Oh yeah?!? Well, $50 says Morty will go bananas trying to keep her off both our backs!” Cannes countered.

With that the betting pool began. Dylan responded to Stella’s demand, “Who’s with me on this?” by placing his $50 on Stella’s side. He knew nothing of Fergie and Morty save for what Stella had told him on a couple of occasions.

Clay new better than to bet against Cannes, even though his gut level feeling told him that he and his lover would be out about $100 altogether. All he could say was, “Sorry, Stell.” and pray for Mortimer’s incessant intervention.

“T’chuh! You think you’re sorry now?” Stella chortled. “Wait till Mum-Mum rolls by our table.”

Back at the Haskin’s “estate,” Punk Mother and Teddy were preparing a meal; poached salmon with wild rice pilaf and Caesar salad. Milo was in the living room crying his eyes out. I guess the events of the afternoon proved too much for the man. Either that, or the frustration of trying to get his Lenore to take some fookin’ stock in her well being and take on a more proactive role in managing her diabetes just got to him and not for the first time, either.

Punk Mother took little notice. Instead, her thoughts turned to the way those two crazy Scots had braved crossing a very busy 4-lane highway during rush hour traffic, while Teddyboy struggled to keep from going unconscious along the way – from “sinking,” as Teddy often put it. She turned to Teddy and asked, “How ya doin?”

“Oi’m ollroight, arnteye!” Teddy answered, then pointing towards where Milo was seated, added matter of fact, “ ‘Ees not so good nae, issee.”

“The trouble with him is that he takes my so-called problems way too seriously.” Punk Mother stated with all authority. “I wish he’d stop worrying about me all the time. He’s only driving himself insane along with the rest of us.”

“Nae, missuz. Ye noo it’s coz ‘ee looves ye a’noll.”

“That’s all well and good, Teddy…” Punk Mother countered. “But look how his fixation on my welfare has affected you! You couldn’t last a half-hour at that gym before you started running low, and the two of you damn near killed yourselves trying to get to your scooby snacks and had completely forgotten about the Skittles in your pocket in the process!”

“Stahbust cheehs, loov.”

“Whatever. My point is you need to mind your own affairs and your own health, alright? Don’t kill yourselves on my account, that’s all.”

“Wull…Oi’m not disagreen with ye point, loik, Lenora. Boot ‘ow many toims ‘ave we rescued ye from gerin intae a self-induced doiabetic cohmer??? If only ye’d toik yer aen advoice, moother, perhaps we’d oll get a jolly good noight’s kip at lerng lahst!”

“Look, neither one of you are really doing anyone any favors with all this incessant intervention on both your parts. Dare I say that the only difference between Stella and Candace’s grandmother and the two of you is that at least one of you proved to be better in bed?

“Doan think fe one moment that Fergie ain’t coomin froom th’ same level of concern abayt this mad disaez that ye, Oi, and thaez tee gulls daen th’ street are living with. Oi’m livin booth soids o’th feenz, loov, y’oondestand. Booth soids!”

“Pfft! For fuck’s sake, Teddy, you and Milo are old punk rockers, man! Don’t you think the more you force the issue the more you get rebelled against? Why do you think Stella and Cannes have that kind of attitude towards their own grandmother? They’ve got a little betting pool on whether Fergie will harass Stella or whether Morty will try to keep her off their backs…which will surely be settled at the party!

“Really, Ted. We see your point, but it gets so tiresome when other people judge who we are by our health issues and fail to see the whole picture. You know I’d much rather be defined by that black leather jacket Milo gave me for my 50th birthday. Isn’t the rest of the world repressive enough?”

“Wull, Oi reckon Oi can’t ‘elp but reloit, seen as Oi’ve ‘ad moi sheer o’gleecase coppers joompin oon me back, loik.”

“And I might add that I’m not much at juggling anything. I mean, you try running a café and taking care of your health to the extend that diabetes demands of all the slaves it lays claim to. For that matter, try helping me run the café, managing your own health, and getting your band together for a comeback performance on our stage.”

On that note, Punk Mother and Teddy began bringing the food to the table. By that time, Milo had moved himself there, still a bit teary-eyed, trying to compose himself.

“Awright, snap out of it already, you overgrown baby!”

“Look, Oi’m sorry, moother!” Milo wailed. “Oi’m sae fookin sick o’beatin me ‘ead aginst th’ brick wool ye’ve turned intae.” Then he snerfed.

“Well, don’t do that anymore, please, both of you, seriously!” Punk Mother gently ordered as she rubbed Milo’s shoulders. “Just be glad when I do let you have your way with me once in awhile. I ended up walking to work, which wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. We’ve been to the gym and had a good time up until we got kicked out. And just look at this meal! You couldn’t have a healthier meal unless we were all vegetarians! Now, in a few hours we’ll be going to the café to celebrate the fact that we’ve put up with each other for 22 years which is much longer than people far more famous than you have endured each other. So my advice to you, at least just for tonight, just stop taking this life we’ve been given so fucking seriously, and let’s just have a good time tonight.”

A small betting pool had formed around whether Fergie will start harping on Stella at the first opportunity or be prevented from doing so by Morty by the time the anniversary party at The Bauhaus Café was in full swing. Both the Yossarian sisters were on pins and needles awaiting the outcome.

But first Stella wanted to tease Kent, who had placed a bet in Cannes’ favor just to spite Stella for going out with Dylan the pastry chef. This was another thing that put Stella off of having much more to do with Kent than what was obviously unavoidable as an employee. Who wants to date a vindictive asshole with passive aggressive tendencies? Jarvis was bad enough with his drinking problem and abusive behavior, after all.

Everyone had hit the dance floor when the d.j. started playing the best England’s post punk era bands. Stella was dancing with some of the dudes who attended Clay’s surfing classes just to tease Kent and Dylan. Dylan, she suspected, would probably be in a mood to be the dominator for a change afterwards…as she’s had way too much fun punishing him so far. So to provoke that, she played the naughty little girl to the hilt, even going so far as to tell Dylan that she’s gonna do what she wants and he can’t do nothing about it, so neener-neener!

After all, Dylan loves a bad little girl.

Kent, meh, would just have to deal. He could do with being taken down another notch, anyway. She could see Kent going over to Dylan to talk shit about her to him. But Dylan found Kent a bit too easy to read, and was all like, “Oh, shut up willya, you bitchy little anal-clamp!”

Just the idea that anyone would come up with an insult like anal clamp still cracked Stella up!

Anyway, the happy crowd danced away to the tunes of Bauhaus, Joy Division, Caberet Voltaire, Siouxsie, Killing Joke, Motorhead, Caberet Voltaire, and The Fall to name but a handful. But soon the Yossarian sisters began to feel a bit peckish, and headed over to the banquet table for a bite to eat.

Now Dylan can make a mean low-carb chocolate cheesecake, which was precisely what Stella went for. Cannes decided to indulge in a slice of that as well, a nice big slice that she intended to split with Clay. The three of them found a table and carried their desserts there. Dylan decided to join them, admitting to himself that he was just as eager to see what either Fergie or Morty would do. Kent followed to join them with a drink in his hand.

Stella was about a quarter of the way through her sliver of cheesecake by the time Fergie took notice of any activity going on at the Yossarian table. Immediately Fergie made a bee line for their table before Mortimer even had the chance to stop her.

She pulled right up beside Stella with a disapproving look on her face, and brought her voice amplifier out of her purse and right up to the base of her neck. “Honestly, Stella! I cannot leave you alone for more than 2 minutes without you pulling schenanigans like this!!! You know better than to eat that cheesecake!! I ought to take that away from you right now!!”

That was all Stella, Cannes, and their dates needed to hear, so she turned to the rest of the table and said, “That’s it! I won! Everybody pay up!!” Stella became about $150.00 richer thanks to Fergie. Dylan got to keep his money, having wisely placed his bet in Stella’s favor, and an additional $75 was paid to him by Stella.

Mortimer had only arrived in time to see Fergie go all aghast at the realization that her granddaughters were placing wagers on her, making a damned game of their disease. She was really going completely ballistic in that little microphone of hers. “I suppose you crazy young hooligans think this is all some funny joke, do you? Well, when you lose your eyesight and have both legs amputated, don’t come crawling to me for sympathy!!! Just let your empty gambling victories pay for your insulin from now on!!”

“Mortimer!” Cannes snapped with some amusement. “How could you be so derelict in your duties as a caretaker for our grandmama???”

“Yeah, Morty!! Your slacking has cost the rest of us $50 apiece!!” Clay scolded.

“How was I supposed to know you were all placing bets on me and your grandmother???” Mortimer protested. “Nobody ever tells me these things!!”

Fergie had no more to say; she was mortified. She insisted on being taken home, and Morty could only oblige.

Now, Milo and Punk Mother and Cheetah and Teddy were all slow dancing to some Psychedelci Furs tune. Punk Mother and Milo could hear Teddy grumble, “Aw, bugger! Oi’ve lost th’ bet, loik!”

Milo laughed as he said, “Troost ye tae bet on that nae accunt Morty, ye stupid twat!” Then both he and Punk Mother busted up laughing.

After dessert, Clay and Cannes began to dance again. The d.j. played a song off of Stereolab’s Fab Four Suture album called I Was A Sunny Rainphase. This was one of Cannes’ favorite bands. She feels a bit tearful, and stops dancing long enough to wipe away a tear in an effort to collect herself. Sometimes a song will move her to tears, sometimes it’s the beauty inherent in some present moment that might touch her very deeply. Either way, she recovers quickly and resumes dancing to that very favorite song of hers.

Now most fans of very, very early Caberet Voltaire will realize that their song, No Escape, is not really a slow dance number. But that didn’t stop Cannes and Clay from going into a cheek-to-cheek dance while the d.j. played that song. As they danced together, Clay began singing along to the lyrics in Cannes’ ear…not too loudly, but audible enough for her to hear it above the speakers. Cannes could only beam inside. At least he doesn’t suck!

There was another anniversary surprise in store for Punk Mother and Milo. Cheetah had somehow procured a nice big bottle of some brand of top quality absinthe. While the liquer was still illegal in the United States, Cheetah B. had some pretty good connections.

But they would need to go somewhere more private in order to enjoy this concoction the right way. So Milo, Punk Mother, Cheetah B., and Teddy all made their way to the office…in time to find Dylan and Stella making out.

“They’re cool, ma’am!” Milo defended the couple. “Actually, whoy doan ye join oos feah drink loik?”

Realizing what was about to be served, Dylan said, “Don’t mind if we do.”

“Roight, let’s get daen t’ brass tacks then, shall we.” Cheetah said as she removed the slotted spoon that was taped to the bottle and opened it. Milo found about 8 glasses, and figuring that maybe Cannes and Clay might be open to joining them, went out to look for them. He decided that this was too good not to share with his most trusted friends. Teddy found a bottle of imported water and a box of sugar cubes, which Clay had picked up on an inventory run earlier.

By the time Milo had brought Cannes and Clay over to the office, Cheetah was in the process of pouring the absinthe into each glass. This was followed with a sugar cube placed on the slotted spoon, which was set on top of each glass, one at a time. Then some water was poured over the sugar cube, filling each glass. Clay and Cannes had initially assumed that they would all be passing the peace pipe…perhaps even get to indulge in some high quality hashish.

Cannes doesn’t usually drink anything alcoholic, as it tends to make her extremities go all tingly and numb. But she was curious about absinthe, and she trusted that even with most of Dylan’s catered feast being ¾ devoured by the revelers there’d still be enough carbohydrates available to avert any severe glucose plummets.

Cheetah raised her glass. “A taest…Tee Milo and Lenora. Still croyzy after all dese yeez!!”

“Cheers!” Everyone clinked each other’s glasses. And then the group began to drink. Cannes took a sip. It was quite bitter from the wormwood, but the sugar and water took much of the edge off the taste. She had heard that the effects of Absinthe were similar to most hallucinogenic drugs. So she waited to see what visions the green fairie would bring to her.

What she saw, while it was nothing really new to her at all, really scared the shit out of her all the same. She’s had this recurring nightmare many times; the cemetary, the black dog, the woods, some random psychopath hovering over Stella, who was having a massive seizure. Cannes screamed in terror!!!

Luckily for the group, the D.J. had the volume on The Prodigy’s song Fuel My Fire cranked up all they way “past 11” so that even the loudest scream was drowned out.

“Holy Crap!!!” Cannes exclaimed as Clay made efforts to comfort her. “Even my first acid trip didn’t scare me that bad!!!” The rest of the group looked at her all terrified. “What was that all about, Cannes?”

“It’s my recurring black dog nightmare playing out right in front of me!!”

“Ooer, whot’s she on about?” Cheetah asked.

“She ‘as a phobier of black dogs.” Milo answered.

“No, Milo, not the dog. It’s what the dog had to show me that was terrifying.”

“Whot, a talking doggie?” Cheetah asked. “Oy should think that’d be rawther amusing…like a cartoon on the telly!”

“Look,” Stella interjected. “What she means is that she’s apparently foreseeing my death so she seems to think. Like I’m gonna be raped and then have a seizure in the woods. Like I plan on going camping anytime soon.”

“Oh dear…” Cheetah muttered. “That don’t sound like any fun a’toll, that.”

“Well, let me know when you want to go camping, coz I know where there are some great trails to hike.” Dylan said to her.

“I hate camping, tho.” Stella pointed out.

“Oh, look, never moind.” Teddy said as he pulled out a huge spliff. “Let’s oll get stained, ollreddy!”

So everyone finished their drinks as Teddy lit up the spliff and passed it around to everyone. And sure enough everyone mellowed out. Then they headed back to the party after everyone was satisfied that they were thoroughly ripped.

“I’m bummed, Clay. I was hoping to see fairies and gnomes and unicorns and things like that.” Cannes complained. “It wasn’t even a new vision, forcrissakes!”

“At least you saw something. I didn’t see a damned thing!” Clay responded. “What did you see, Milo?”

“Your mum on a bleedin kidney dialysis unit!” Milo replied bluntly.

“That not even funny, Milo!!” Clay shouted. Milo’s statement only served to remind him of his own childhood nightmare, which showed him the same damn thing. “Don’t even joke like that!!!”

“Cor blimey, lad. If oonly Oi were jaykin.” Milo could only hope.

“Strike, dear mistress…”

2010-05-09T13:16:00.000-07:00

It had been quite awhile since Stella had any action from anything other than the vibrator Punk Mother gave her for Xmas. And while she didn’t see this as particularly tragic, Cannes and Clay began to feel really sorry for her. Especially upon realizing that their own coital activities were providing the soundtrack for Stella’s solitary fantasies.

At any rate, they decided she needed someone who would be more of a man than Jarvis ever could hope to be. So with that, it is my great pleasure to introduce a groovy new character to this story. Ladies & Gentlemen and anything in between, I give you….Dylan Martinelli.

Dylan Martinelli was a pastry chef who was contracted with the Bauhaus Café to keep the counter and the deli case stocked with all manner of carbohydrate-encrusted desserts; Biscotti, Scones, Muffins, Cookies, Cheesecakes, Blintzes, Abelskivers, Tortes, and Shortbreads. At first Cannes was adamantly opposed to hooking him up with Stella, but Clay assured her that Dylan could – upon request – easily conjure up some equally delectable sugar free low carb desserts for her. In fact, diabetes-friendly cuisine was his true specialty.

Y’see Dylan had been strongly encouraged by his mother to attend cooking school and pursue a career in catering. His mom and dad both have diabetes, and being proactive, she was determined to make diabetes management a family affair. And like Fergie Mum-Mum, she can be awfully demanding.

Luckily, she and Dylan were often on the same page.

It’s not always so with his father, tho. He often demanded the kind of food that would cause a spike in his blood sugar: Pizza, chow mein, double cheeseburgers and fries, bisquits and gravy, fried chicken and mashed potatoes, that sort of thing. These requests, which in a healthy person would not be too unreasonable in the least, were often met with the reminder of how very close he came to having his toes amputated, how fortunate he was not be dependent on a kidney dialysis unit, and how very lucky he was not to have dropped dead from heart failure like Tom Burke did at his brother’s wedding.

“That’s to say nothing of how lucky we are that you didn’t go bi-polar on us!” Dylan would point out as well.

“You’re such a mama’s boy, Dylan…you really are.” His father would often grumble.

At one point, Dylan got annoyed with Antonio Martinelli’s obstinate attitude, and shouted to his mother, “Hey Ma!”

“What?”

“How is it that you and dad stayed together long enough to have conceived me, anyway?”

Regina, his “mama mia,” responded, “Is he giving you shit again?”

“He’s bent out of shape coz he wants pizza instead of having cioppino with the rest of us!”

“’Atsa his tough shit!”

“I had seafood for lunch, already!” Antonio retorted. “I had a fish and chips for my lunch break!”

“Too much fat for one day already! You wanna give yourself a heart attack? I’m not gonna drag you offa the floor; I’m a sick woman myself!”

“My point is I’ve had enough seafood for one day, y’understand? Enough!!” Antonio declared yet again with an air of finality.

“That may well be, papa,” Dylan retorted with his arms placed firmly on his hips. “But Mama would like seafood tonight, too, and so would I. And neither of us got to satisfy our seafood cravings. Anyway it wouldn’t kill you to have a little more. Therefore, we’re having cioppino tonight…end of discussion.”

With that Dylan folded his arms across his chest and with his nose pointed heavenwards, he headed back to the kitchen to prepare the family meal.

Now, as much as Dylan was willing to help his dear mama in her endeavors to keep the entire family healthy, he felt a little bit bad that it often ended up with him raising his voice and talking back to his father like that. Coz he really loves and respects his papa…at least enough to want to help postpone an untimely death a little while longer. This is perhaps why he doesn’t mind being the submissive to Stella’s dominatrix from time to time. Much more on that shortly.

This isn’t to say that he doesn’t have minor disagreements with his mom. Like the time when the three of them went to Tuscany for a family vacation.

“C’mon, take offa your shirt. Let some sunlight touch your bare skin for a change.”

“But ma…”

“You want the ladies to go blind, do you? Now off with the shirt already.” She said, pulling off his tank top. “You look like a fucking ghost.”

Then she saw the welts on his back.

“Dio mia! What is alla this onna you backside? Who did this to you??” Regina was aghast!

“Ma, it’s alright! I consent to this.”

“Consent? What are you talking about, Dylan?? Consent to this??? Consent to being flogged?!?!? Are you outta you mind, sonny?? Why in the name of all things sacred would you let anyone do this to you?? Is our family not dysfunctional enough for you???” Regina wailed.

“Look ma, I feel bad that I have to raise my voice to my father when all we’re trying to do is save his life. I deserve to be punished for such insolence, don’t you see?”

“That is sucha nonsense, my son! If your father wants to kill himself that bad, he can go and shoot himself. I will not have my son made an accessory to that!!” Regina retorted. “Antonio!!!”

Often Regina would follow that with a blue streak of Italian profanities, which I would love to write down for you but unfortunately, gentle reader, I don’t speak the language. Besides, I’m probably guilty of stereotyping the Italians – along with a few other nationalities in this book – as it is. My apologies to you all.

“Hey!! How’mi supposed to relax and enjoy myself with all this racket coming out of that black hole you call your mouth, woman!!!” Antonio shouted.

“Papa!!! Now that was rude!!” Dylan shouted back. He hated talking back to him like that, but dammit, that was rude!!

Regina wasn’t paying any notice. “Do you see this? Do you see what you drive our son to do? Our own flesh and blood, Antonio!!! Look how scarred up he is. He goes to the whores and pays them to flog him!!!”

“Oho! So that’s what you’re into, eh?” Antonio chuckled and smacked Dylan hard on his bare back with the palm of his hand…affectionately, but hard!!!

“Yeeeouch!” Dylan screeched.

“You should’ve told me sooner about this. I’d be happy to give you a good sound thrashing for free. Save you from squandering your money on those whores of yours.”

“Antonio, No! I will not stand for that…” Regina began, and the parents would get into some ridiculous Italian shouting match. Dylan, on that note, grabbed his surfboard and made his escape to hit the waves.

“T’chuh! I suppose he’ll tell us he’s gay, next!” his father muttered to himself in amusement.

Dylan’s bi-curious, actually, but that’s beside the point. His family is crazy!!!

Holy Shit!!

Well, anyway it turns out that Dylan has had his eye on Stella for some time, and wanted one day to go out with her in the hopes that the two of them would really hit it off, and that maybe he could turn her on to some things. So this was as much a favor to him as it was to Stella that Clay would hook them up.

It was obvious even to Clay that Dylan was a card carrying S&M, B&D enthusiast. I don’t need to tell you that this entails the use of whips and chains, ball gags and hot wax, feather dusters and paddles, handcuffs and rubber suits, dominatrixes and submissives, verbal abuse and safety words…and on occasion duct tape. In some extreme cases even wire hangers were used copiously. All of this activity would take place in dungeon like rooms usually painted black, red and purple inside.

Dylan would participate freely in this activity, usually playing the submissive to the dominatrixes whose services he employed on his time off. In time the mistresses came to trust Dylan. Whenever anyone was interested in learning the fine art of meting out punishment to a deserving worm, Dylan got the additional treat of acting as a teacher’s assistant – or teacher’s pet if you must. And he would accept any punishment that the mistresses would dish out in the great name of atonement for pleasure. And there would even be times when Dylan played the cruel master and dole out some kind of punishment himself to some “filthy whore” who would declare her unworthiness.

In any case, as he did make regular deliveries of his baked goods to The Bauhaus Coffeehouse, it would be no problem getting the two of them together. All he needed was the nerve to ask her out on a date and for her to say yes. That was not the easiest thing for one who in the world of normality was quite shy and reserved.

With encouragement from Clay, Dylan did ask Stella for her cell phone number during a night when she and Kent shared the night shift as usual. To his good fortune, Stella – finding Kent to be particularly obnoxious in his attempt to be Mr. funny guy – (He tries too hard, Mary!) gladly agreed to his request and they exchanged numbers. She hoped he’d be the one.

Stella’s idea of a good night out was often a dinner first – which gave her a chance to settle her glucose levels. First she’d take a shot of insulin, usually as soon as the meal was brought to her so that she wouldn’t immediately have a reaction. Usually she’d excuse herself to the ladies room to medicate, but then Dylan pointed out that since her medication is legally prescribed she shouldn’t have to closet herself in the toilet like a junkie.

As much as Stella would’ve preferred the privacy, she was thoroughly enjoying Dylan’s company. So she filled her syringe and gave herself a shot.

Dylan and Stella were at the Naked Lunch café. The two of them were seated at a booth, Stella was enjoying a chicken caesar’s salad with roasted free range chicken and Dylan had a buffalo burger. And between them split a basket of homemade baked whole wheat pita chips dipped in hummus. The two of them began talking.

“I imagine people made fun of your name a lot when you were in school.” Dylan commented.

“What do you mean? Like did I get peeps in my grill all yelling ‘Hey, Stellaaaa!!’ like Marlon Brando did in the movies?” Stella chuckled. “I got that a lot. I thought it was funny!”

“Well, I meant your last name; Yossarian. I bet you got called ‘Yo-Yo’ a lot, dincha.”

“Yeah,” Stella replied between mouthfuls of salad. “I got ‘Yo-Yo’ too. I thought it was because I was a Yossarian at first. But then after the doctor put me on insulin and then had all these glucose swings, I think the kids noticed that and started calling me ‘Yo-Yo’ instead of going ‘Hey Stella!’ So now I’m not sure anymore whether it’s from my last name or the effects that these fluctuations were having on my emotional state. Always going from being highly irate over the pettiest crap one minute to que-sera-sera the next.

“I am part Armenian, with some cherokee – coz granddad on my dad’s side married a cherokee woman. And the rest of me is scotch-irish from my mom’s side of the family. So I’m quite the mongrel.”

“So obviously you’re no relation to that Yossarian guy in Catch 22, then.” Dylan observed.

“Why would I be related to a fictional character?”

“And what would be wrong with that? I think that’d be pretty cool.”

“I don’t mean to imply anything wrong with it. I’m just not, that’s all. All I really know is that granddad was a drill instructor in the Marines. And there was a lot of animosity between my dad and his dad until the day he died.

“He had a stroke that put him in a coma, and Dad visited him in the hospital. He told me how hard he fought to keep from losing control emotionally, from screaming every dirty name in the book and telling him he hoped he’d burn in Hell for all eternity. But his mom Joleen was right beside him, warning him that the spirits of unconscious people, like those of the dead, can hear every word. And so if you don’t speak ill of the dead, she believed, then the dead won’t speak ill of you to God.”

“Interesting.” Dylan was wide eyed.

“Dad realized that grampa was gonna die, so he didn’t say anything. He started crying. It was just such an overwhelming mix of pent-up emotions that needed release somehow. That was the only way he could get it out of his system with his Mom by his side. Anyway, as much as Dad wanted to tell him off right then and there, with no threat of physical repercussions coming to him, he’s glad he kept his filter on and didn’t screw up his karma that way.”

Dylan reached for another pita chip, and dipping it into the hummus, could only say, “Well, it’s not really fair to kick a man when he’s down anyway. That would’ve been cowardly and mean, to say the least.”

“Dad may be a bad-ass, but he’s not at all into stopping beneath anyone’s level in the great name of bad-ass-dom. If he ever tells you off, it would be because you deserve it…just as a fair warning to you, Dylan. And even then it only reminds him of how much he and granddad have in common.”

The two of them sat in silence, eating some more. Then to lighten the mood, Dylan returned to his original subject.

“So now did Cannes get called ‘Yo-Yo’ as well?. I mean, they must’ve teased her about her name and the fact that you two are sisters.”

“Not for very long. Cannes was such a bully. My ex-lover called her ‘Candy-Yo’ once…and only once. She’s not one you want to mess with. Did Clay ever tell you about the time that she raped Jarvis?”

Dylan nearly choked on his burger. “Are you kidding me right now???”

“You’re gonna love this. At first, he tried to rape her! Jarvis had her cornered behind the dumpsters at Magmaville High School, and he had a knife at her temple. Anyway, she saw the blade flash in the corner of her eye, and realized that Jarvis wanted her to be paralyzed by fear so that he could bully her around. He wanted to punish her for always interfering every time he tried to bully my granola bar away from me. So she played the terrified victim card and let him have the upper hand…only for the moment.

“Soon she began to pretend that she was hella turned on, and started stroking him. And then he got so into the moment that he didn’t realize when he dropped the knife and she picked it up…until after she snatched it and then shoved him off of her!

“She held the knife to his package and pounced on him, and then began to rape him!!! She said he was in tears, he was so humiliated. I think it messed him up real bad, because he started drinking heavily after that. He didn’t get any sympathy from the rest of us, either. He shouldn’t’ve messed with her in the first place.”

After dinner the two of them caught a movie. Stella and Dylan went to The Magmaville Multiplex Cinema to see Black Snake Moan. Both were grateful that neither one of them were into those cutesy chick flicks anyway.

Then they went to The Bauhaus Café for some dancing and a night cap. As an employee, it was no big deal for her to do her test at the table, before she and Dylan hit the dance floor to move to their favorite gothic tunes. She really wanted for Kent to see the two of them together…just to piss Kent off (coz he’s been trying to seduce her, without success). Well, he was pissed off all right, mostly at Clay for having hooked the two of them up in the first place. So he was giving Clay major attitude, which only served to make him feel that he did Stella a huge favor.

Then they drove over to his place.

Stella didn’t consider herself to be the type to put out on a first date, but it had been awhile since the last time she had any physical contact with another human being apart from friendship hugs. Dylan was attractive enough to really turn her on, and she secretly hoped she’d get very lucky tonight.

Then he said to her, as he wrote a very short note to her, “If this freaks you out, I’ll understand…completely.” Stella braced herself, all kinds of thoughts running through her mind in a split second. Maybe the night didn’t go as well as she thought…maybe he was a psychopath and her greatest fear – being raped at knifepoint – would come true right now…or maybe he was actually gay and needed a female best friend. Who knows?

He handed her the note. She unfolded it and read, “Strike, dear mistress…”

“…And cure his heart.” Stella finished the verse. “So you’re a huge fan of the Velvet Underground, too!” She added with a sly smile. She was instantly intrigued. She was already aroused. She’d fantasized about doing those kinds of things, especially to Jarvis and Kent.

“This I gotta see.”

With that the two of them went inside.

Dylan found himself deriving inspiration from the fact that both his parents had diabetes when he created some of the games he had in mind for Stella. “First things first. Have you been a really been a good girl all day long?” He had a way of getting in a blood glucose reading before the games began.

“I have, actually, been very good.”

“Have you been fine and dandy?”

“Just like sugar candy.” She replied seductively.

“A likely story. Well, we’ll just see won’t we.” With that he ushered her to his bedroom. He had two pairs of handcuffs, one attached to each post. He cuffed her to the bedposts, and satisfied that she was going nowhere, he went into the bathroom to fetch the spare glucose meter he nicked from his parents’ bedroom.

It wasn’t long before the lancet was loaded and the strip was fed to the meter. Dylan set the lancet setting to 5, the longest setting, and pressed the tip of it against her left index finger. And with a push of the release button, Stella emitted a high pitched grunt through her teeth in agony. Sometimes those tiny lancets hurt and sometimes she doesn’t notice any pain at all. This time it really hurt. “I’m sure he got a kick out of that one,” She thought.

He squeezed a tiny drop of blood out of the wound and set the tip of the strip on the top to soak it up. That got a reading of 106. Dylan decided not to punish her this time, after all this was their first date, but felt she could do with a slight boost.

A Mars bar to be exact…

He started by unwrapping one end, exposing about half of it. That end he proceeded to press against the skin of her breasts. And then when the chocolate coating started to melt onto her skin, he would draw chocolate spirals and circles on her breasts, spiralling in on her nipples, coating them. He would then move the candy bar away from her body and begin to lick the spirals off her body until he ended up licking her ample breasts like they were ice cream cones. If there was one thing that really turned Stella on, it’s the feel of warm human breath and a soft, wet tongue caressing her skin. And she’d desperately want to reach for the back of his head to press him closer to her. But her wrists were cuffed to the bedposts, so she couldn’t do that much less reach down to her pubes – I just love the word pubes, it’s sooo erotic! >:-D – in response to the increasing arousal she felt there.

Dylan would then cease his tongue caresses and began to unwrap the rest of the Mars bar, offering her the end he painted her body with. She took a bite out of it, and when she finished chewing that first mouthful, she put her mouth around the end she bit and simulated fellatio with it. When she had that end secured in her mouth, Dylan took a bite off the other end, finish his mouthful, and proceed to simulate fellatio on his end. From then on the two of them alternated between eating and giving the mars bar a blow job until there was nothing left of it save for what was in their mouths. As the two of them fed off the candy bar, Dylan’s hand moved down her body all the way to her pubic mound. And then his capable fingers would fondle and caress the curls covering her flooding snatch. She could only squirm as his gentle touch.

He’d feel his own arousal increasing throughout all of this, so that by the time Stella’s own tulmultuous, aching desire became too much for her, he would be sooo ready to just dive in the minute Stella started pleading, “Please Dylan fuck me pleasepleaseplease fuck me please…”

You know how this is gonna end up, with his cock diving in and out of her, and the two of them gyrating madly and desperately…hoping their dams wouldn’t burst too soon.

After the two of them had climaxed, he decided to take her home. Upon their arrival, Stella decided it was his turn to be punished for being the kind of naughty boy he was.

In other words, she was hungry for more.

She let Dylan up to the attic where she slept, and after sharing a very passionate kiss with him, pushed him backwards onto the bed. Somehow she found a bit of rope with which she tied his wrists to the bedposts. Then she went to the bathroom to run yet another glucose check. The results were a level of 85, not really all that dangerous, but it should be attended to nevertheless.

So she went to the kitchen and grabbed a plastic bear shaped honey container. This she brought back upstairs and proceeded to open Dylan’s shirt and pants. Then she squeezed the container of honey and drizzled it all over Dylan’s body from his neck to the very bottom of his belly. Once she felt there was a sufficient amount of honey all over him, she proceeded to lick every last drop off of his body. She started slowly at his neck and then gradually made her way down his chest, lapping all that sticky sweetness off of his nipples and his belly. Lower and lower she maneauvered her tongue until she reached the very top of his pubic line, just stopping before she reached the area where his curls have sprouted.

That just drove Dylan crazy…by then he hoped that she’d take his throbbing, aching cock inside of her mouth.

And maybe she would, and maybe she wouldn’t

Coz sometimes it takes more than honey to get Stella as high as she needs to be. >:-D

Of course Stella met with Dylan again…and she had a new thing she wanted to try out.

She’s been a huge fan of the movie Henry & June. She was particularly turned on by the moment when Fred Ward and Maria de Medeiros, who played Henry Miller and Anaïs Nin, acted out a scene where the two authors made love standing up under some random bridge in Paris. Stella loved that kind of “frenchiness.” She wanted to recreate that kind of scenario. She could never do that with Jarvis at all. She hoped she could try it out with Dylan. He seemed kinky enough.

He met her at the Bauhaus Café at the end of her shift. Kent’s nose was still bent out of shape over the two of them being together, but he tried not to show it. Instead, he harrassed some random customer over bandwidth usage on one of the computers. Dylan could only shake his head at the sight of him making a complete arse of himself.

“Beh, this is just typical of him. He’s always been a huge control freak. Punk Mother told me once, ‘Well, that’s a Virgo for you.”

“Oy God…” Dylan rolled his eyes upwards. “An uber-virgo. That’s all anyone needs, yet another hyper-corrective anal clamp!” Stella busted up laughing at the last couple of words; anal clamp. Only a bondage enthusiast could conjure up that one.

“That’s hilarious!” she thought.

“As if the world ain’t replete with such monsters already!! C’mon, m’dear…let’s bugger off!”

The two of them only yards from her place when Stella began to make her move. She had Dylan pinned against the vine-covered brick wall that marked the boundaries of her home. With that she wrapped her left leg around his right leg. She gently declared into his right ear, “Just so you know, I like regular fucking too.”

On that note she kissed him hard, her tongue caressing his. She was wearing a red velvet midi-skirt under her red, white, and black paisley patterned camisole tank top. The garter belt she wore underneath her skirt held up her black fishnet stockings. Beyond that she wore little else.

“For someone who just told me she likes regular sex, the location you chose is highly irregular.”
Dylan commented between kisses.

“Hmmm, I know; that’s the point.” Stella replied. And then she resumed kissing him. Her hands groped around his toned body, running up both sides of his back and his buttocks. He returned the caresses. This went on for almost what seemed like forever, until the churning and tingling in their groins became too much to bear. She then reached her left hand down to touch her bare pubes, to run her fingers through that soft nest of tiny curls and … Oh God, she was soooo ready. She reached for his fly and opened it. Dylan just stood there and enjoyed it, letting her get her dirrrty little hands on his swollen cock and savored every stroke. He could tell by the way she wriggled her hips that she was getting real desperate to straddle him. So he boosted her up by her buttocks and felt himself slide inside her very easily…

It felt good to fuck Stella. No wonder Kent was bent out of shape. For that matter, no wonder Jarvis didn’t want to let go of her…

After awhile, Richard Yossarian was just arriving home when he caught the two of them going at it against the brick wall. As he slowly passed by on his Harley, he bellowed, “For Fuck’s Sake, you two!!! Get inside the house before someone videotapes you and uploads it to YouTube!”

Clearly the two of them were becoming an item in this town, so much so that many of the denizens of Magmaville felt that Cannes and Clay were slipping as the it couple and needed to step up their game.

But that didn’t matter to Stella and Dylan, really.

Now, due to having to play the caretaker and personal chef to both his parents, Dylan has somehow gotten into the habit of carrying a fully stocked glucose meter kit everywhere he goes. He knows too many people with one type of diabetes or another.

And he knows how to use it

One particularly gloomy day, he took Stella on a Xmas shopping spree. After all, even if they end up purchasing absolutely nothing at all, he figured that all the grokking on the yuletide glam would at least lift his own spirits.

“Coz that’s what the true spirit of christmas was all about, really.” He thought to himself. “All about the glitter and the glam.”

Anyway, the two of them must’ve been browsing through the shops for at least a couple of hours…at least…trying to find something to purchase for some of their friends. But nothing seemed to say “yes” to either one of them at all. This reality seemed to add to Stella’s depression. But then again, knowing Stella’s medical history, it was possible that hypoglycemia was very slowly sneaking up on her. In any case it was evident that she could feel a mild yet persistent feeling of discomfort in her brain – a very dull pain. It wasn’t so severe that she could easily assume it to be a slow descent into low blood sugar hell, but it did feel pretty lousy.

Dylan was a lot like Milo in that he could also spot a potential hypoglycemic episode a mile away. Of course one of the subconscious signals Stella was sending – her left hand covering one eye in an effort to ward off whatever discomfort she felt in her head – was a dead giveaway. So he led her out of the shop they were browsing in to a nearby sidewalk bench.

“You look like you might be in dire need of a huge piece of fruit right about now.” He said as he prepared the lancer and meter for a glucose test.

“That’s awfully presumptuous of you, Dylan, I must say.” Stella grumbled as she cradled her forehead in her palm of her right hand.

“Oh…is it?” Dylan retorted, arcing one eyebrow and casting a sideways glance at her. “We’ll just see about that, won’t we my dear.” He was ready to test her, the strip in the meter and everything. “Now then…let’s have it. Give me your finger, sister!”

She gave him the finger all right. lol (^)

Dylan rolled his eyes. “Fine, be that way, then!” After all, it didn’t matter at this point which finger got the jab. He wasted no time lancing that finger. With a press of the release button, the lancet gave Stella a good sharp jab in the fingertip. “Serves her right for her attitude.” Dylan thought as she let out a quiet yelp in pain. A small drop of blood was fed to the strip in his trusty meter. In 5 seconds he got a reading of 69.

“Oh honey…” he remarked as he showed her the reading. “Your blood has the dirrtiest mind yet!!” With that he wasted no time shoving about 3 grape flavored glucose tablets into her mouth. Enough to tide her over for a little bit till they got to The Naked Lunch café…which was the closest café they could get to from where they were at the moment.

By Stella’s calculations it must have been at least 5 hours since she and Dylan had eaten anything. The glucose tablets helped a little bit, but there was quite a line inside the Naked Lunch Café, which would only add to the wait for the next meal. There’d been a slow and gradual drop in her blood stream, which doesn’t really feel quite like desperate measures needed to be taken immediately…

However…

“Hey Dylan, have you ever felt so damned ravenous that it gives you a hard-on (Stella loves asking such blunt questions like that in public; it’s a bit of a turn-on) or gets you really desperately horny?”

Dylan understood exactly what Stella was talking about. “The ole hunger boner.” He murmured to answer her question. He felt one coming on pretty quick himself, in fact.

Stella was starving!! She needed to eat so badly her cunt stung and was practically weeping. One bite of anything would make her cum on the spot, she just knew it.

Learning this, Dylan – being the S&M enthusiast he was – made a mental note to hold off getting a meal for the two of them as often as it was safe to. He had to admit for all the discomfort he felt in his belly and his groin, he does get off on being aroused in that way, and suspected that Stella kinda did a little bit too. And with that came the increased likelihood of indulging in a good, long, luxuriously wet boffing once the two of them were finished wining and dining.

God, he was looking forward to it.

Naked Brunch

2010-05-08T13:21:00.000-07:00

Every now and again, The Yossarians would host a backyard bbq brunch, to which friends and associates alike were always invited. These were quasi baccanalian feasts usually climaxing in a pancake supper, as Yossarian fandangoes tend to go on all fuckin’ day as that’s how the whole damned Yossarian family liked to party, damn it!

The latest video shoot for the Wild Riderz show was wrapped up just in time for Janet to think about firing up the BBQ for the entire neighborhood. As this can go for hours, all who braved these fandangoes could count on lots of bangers and steaks and kidneys and a big-assed pot of baked beans on an old propane grill that looked ready to fall apart.

Well, one year it did…during a particularly heavy rainstorm. Both the Yossarian and Haskin families were heavy duty hardcore in that they’ll brave a monsoon for a damned fine BBQ brunch. They ended up moving the BBQ to the Bauhaus Café that day. There they could likewise count on a damned fine cuppa coffee or a pint of guinness as well. Additionally, there was an electronic dartboard for anyone who felt up for a few rounds of darts.

In time the storm passed and the afternoon found them back at the Yossarian “mansion.” Janet and Punk Mother were on the back porch sharing a pipe.

Stella and Cannes were getting the kitchen cleaned up and ready for the next round of feasting, and they could both see Janet passing the pipe to Punk Mother. “Look at the two of them…” Stella commented. “Prattling on like they’re in some damned chick flick!”

“As disgusted as I am by this blatantly public display of affection, and I am…” Cannes responded, “I hope to God that this,” She then gestures to the two ladies on the patio, “becomes our future.”

“Well, if that’s to be your lot, you’d better have a damned good backlog of memories…and they’d better not be boring.” Stella replied. She then turned to her sister to let her have this; “How could you of all sorts be so freaked out over a little black dog, or a black dog of any kind?!? That is so uncharacteristically racist especially for you.”

“It’s not the damned dog that’s freaking me out. That damned dog is only the messenger. It’s what he had to show me; this terrible image of you dying right in front of me.” Cannes had this kind of conversation with Stella once before. Ever since she came out of her coma, she’s been having these recurring nightmares of following this black dog into the woods only to find Stella dead.

Cannes had every good reason to be concerned about this; Stella can be every bit as wreckless as her Dad.

“Hey, unless proven otherwise, a dream is just a dream.” Stella pointed out. “And even if it is meant to be, it may have already happened in some other dimension far removed from the universe you share with me. Either that, or the dream could have the totally opposite meaning, that you could go before me. In which case I should be freaked out for you; after all you were the one who went into a coma not too long ago.

“Anyway,” Stella prattled on, “You shouldn’t be afraid of anything, you’re the biggest bully in school after all. Even Jarvis is afraid of you.”

“Oh please; if anything we don’t want to be seen as some chickenshit who has real problems even with the way air molecules flow together.” With that Cannes’ mind began to wander to a moment when Fergie Mum-Mum would let her have at least some sweets in her pre-type 2 days while Stella did without. Noting the floating memory she continued. “I’m surprised you haven’t bullied me into giving you all of the cakes and sweets that Mum-Mum shared with me, being the bigger sister that you are.”

“You’d’ve kicked my ass!”

“Well, so what? I mean, it’s easy enough to avoid an ass kicking by being nice and giving you everything you want. But you type 1’s, man, have this fuggin’ sword of Damocles riding your ass the rest of your life?”

“And the type 2’s don’t? Oh puh-leeze!” Stella rolled her eyes.

“I mean, I’m more worried about you not having eaten enough than I do about you eating way too many sweets, really.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah…So in what way does living with this fine mess differ with dealing with bullies? Look…” Stella continued. “As much as I know you love me, I think you’re really more worried for yourself now that you’ve got it…”

“Yeah, well duh!” This was said in a much more soft and gentle tone than it appears in print, gentle reader, so don’t even assume Cannes is pulling attitude here, okay.

“…which is perfectly understandable; The hypos are hell, and they scare the shit out of me. But I’ve lived with this long enough to learn a few tricks. Have a meal with your shot. Drink juice when you feel light headed; if the glucose ain’t low the potassium might be. Keep your stash loaded and on you at all times. A preemptive strike is the key, and yes I realize it sounds militaristic of me, like a fucking general, but y’know, there’s a WAR…” of course she emphasizes the word WAR, “…going on inside of me and I’ve fought it for many years already. But even so, it’s far easier for me to manage what happens in my body than to control what other people do..

“And quite frankly, it ain’t so much that I fear having my ass kicked. The plain and simple truth is I’m not a masochist by any means – yes, you heard right,” Stella added in response to an arched eyebrow that Cannes shot her as she prattled, “I’m not a masochist, and neither do I have the time nor the patience to let myself be dragged into whatever little dog and pony show you tough shits wanna play out for your own amusement.”

Stella then drew a deep and heavy sigh, and she felt as if a tremendous weight was lifted off her. No wonder she began to feel lightheaded.

“Okay, Estelle, deep breaths here. You’ve said quite a mouthful to say the least.” Cannes wondered if she might need a cola right about now. The impact of Stella’s speech could almost pass for the old baseball bat to the stomach. Stella can be every bit as long-winded as she is intense, and often it was hard for the listener to tell whether she was talking out of her ass or not…even when Stella was clear about what she was saying half the time.

But she wasn’t done yet, but proceeded at a slower verbal pace than before. “How long have you been alive anyway? You’re about what – late 20’s maybe? That’s long enough for you to have grown out of a lot.

“Anyway, you’ve had it pretty lucky, really, in that Baba’s at least encouraged you to be tough and kick people’s asses in my defense as well as yours…which I appreciate on the one hand and yet on the other hand I find completely embarrassing.” As much as Cannes found this last statement from Stella coquettish and endearing, she detected an undertone to her words that betrayed the onset of hypoglycemia.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I need a drink.”

“How the fuck did your daughter get a nickname like Cannes anyway?” Punk Mother asked as she and Janet passed that pipe back and forth to each other.

As Janet began to tell the story, her mind flashed back to the time when she gave birth to her youngest daughter. After hours of labor, Janet gave the inevitable final shove that brought this new infant into the world. Janet took one look at her and could only say, “Holy Crap!” She then named the child Candace.

Richard would visit and hang out with Janet as she recuperated from the birth. “Was that a labor or a struggle?” Janet would wonder aloud.

Richard had this odd questioning look on his face, which prompted a “what?” from Janet.

“Candace…” Richard began musing. “Not sure I’m gonna like that name.”

“Whaddya mean?”

“I’m not liking the thought of my little girl being called ‘Candy’ as a nickname.”

“Well, that is a banal nickname, I’ll give you that.” Janet thought for a second or two and, realizing the possibility of a hassle for a name change so soon, offered this suggestion: “We could call her ‘Cannes’ instead. That would be pretty cool, don’t you think?”

“After the film festival or the town they have it in?”

“Both, obviously.”

“That I can live with. It has a nice avant garde ring to it, being french and all.”

“And it’s got a way of lending glamour to just about anything. You know me too well, Richard. I want my babies to have a sense of style and glamour instilled in them throughout their lives.”

“You know I wouldn’t dream of depriving them of that.” Richard responded. “Having said so, though, I must say that if I cannot have a son, I’d love the next best thing…a tomboy! A real hardassed, bulldaggered, punk-assed bitch!”

Janet could not keep from laughing when he said that. The laughing fit she had was enough to define “It only hurts when I laugh.” Barely recovering from the pain induced by her chortling, she laughed and sobbed, “The way the labor went, I think that’s exactly what you’ll end up getting.” In fact, the most striking quality Janet noticed about the contractions was the blatant belligerence that seem to be inherent therein…much more so than what she’d experienced with Stella a couple of years earlier. Janet drew a heavy sigh as she turned to Richard and said, “Yeah, I got to get my influence in there somewhere. So now that we’re even we can drop the fetters and be ourselves.”

With that Richard kissed his wife on the forehead. That was the great thing is that they know each other well enough not to have to put up a front, and Richard can be exactly the kind of himself that he feels like being…able to careen from being a closet dandy to a total badass with comfort and ease. It’s quite beautiful to watch, really.

This was the story Janet shared with Punk Mother along with the smoke.

About the same time, Milo and Richard were hanging out together in another part of the yard drinking guinnesses and passing a joint between them. And they were getting really drunk and really silly.

“Listen to those ladies, willya? Whaddya suppose they’re talking about, anyway?” Richard said to Milo.

“Oi’m sure itser laed o’poxy roobish!” Milo cracked. “A load of bleedin’ blah-blah-blah!”

“I’ll go long with that! Blah-blah!” Richard agreed, laughing. “A load of bleedin’ blah-blah!”

“Anaet wulld prolly gae abayt loik theys” With that Milo began to gesture wildly and speak as coquettishly as possible. “Blah-blah-blah-blah, blah-blah-blablablablablablah!”

Richard followed his lead, blahbbing and gesturing wildly. As the two of them went on, and those two dudes did go on, Miss Scarlet ;-*, they got louder and funnier. Somehow, the ever enduring memory of poor old Count Dracula got dragged into this, as the “Blahs” turned into “Vlahs,” and Milo’s right arm was held up at nose level in a pantomime of hiding behind an invisible cloak.

“Vla-vla-vla-vlah! Vlahvlahvlahvlahvlahvlahvlahvlah!!!”

Richard was roaring with laughter at Milo’s schtick.

Then somehow the blahbbing and vlahing became more and more operatic. “Vlaaaaaahhhhh!”

This caught Janet and Punk Mother’s attention. “What the fedge?” Punk Mother wondered aloud, trying not to exhale her smoke too soon as she turned in mid toke to the direction where that so-called “singing” was coming from with a puzzled expression on her face.

Janet decided they needed to barge in on all that nuttery, and so they did. “What are you two on about this time?”

“Loidies, please! We are ‘avin’ a very proivate and intellergent conveesation…,” Milo responded playing up his UK origins to the hilt. By this time Richard had cleared his throat in time to start guffawing uncontrollably at this spiel – he was so drunk – as Milo continued. “…’at is prayfayndly meaninfoll onner very deep levull. D’yer moind?”

Punk Mother laughed and turned away, shaking her head. Janet was all like, “Whatever guys.” The two of them wanted to get stoned some more, so they went back to the porch where they were sitting before all this commotion caught their attention.

Milo decided to have a real conversation after the wives headed back to the porch. “Sae, d’yer ever sae any o’dat old boiker crayd ye useter ‘ang aet wid in th’ old doys?”

“Not really…save for that damned Yankovic!” Richard replied. “I mean, he’s in town, but we really don’t have much to say to each other.

Richard is referring to one Harvey Yankovic. Like Richard, Harvey had once been a geek who had tranformed himself into a badass biker, renamed himself Harley Davidson, and became a leader of the biker gang that Richard hooked up with. Not long after Richard had earned the respect and trust of the rest of the bikers, it became apparent to everyone that Harley was becoming less and less right in the head, even by badass standards.

There could never be a consensus among the other bikers, Richard included, regarding which of his mood swings were more intolerable; his depressive withdrawn moments where all he was into was just moping around at the tavern – The Trainwreck – where they all hung out, or his manic mode where he’d ramble on and on, or stick his nose into other people’s business at the slightest suggestion of a distraction, or just being hostile and mean for no apparent reason. But they all agreed that something was not quite right when – as they hung out in an old abandoned bar in the middle of nowhere – that being somewhere between Magmaville and Tango Valley. Harley was just coming out of a depressive mood when Richard passed a joint to him. He took a draw, and was soon going on about this being the best smoke he ever had. And this was cheap-assed mexican bud shake which was the best they could get at the moment. Then it went on to him running and jumping for joy in the night, yelling “Yahoo!! I’m stoned!!! Whoohoo!! Yeah!! I’m stoned!! Stoned, I tell you!! Yeeehaaahh!!!”

Even then the bikers couldn’t decide whether he was really beginning to lose it, or was just being sarcastic.

After a time it became really apparent when Harvey decided that he was the King of the Bikers and didn’t have to settle for some dingy old barn or moldy old dive as a hangout. As the King of the Bikers he could get a free hotel room anytime and anywhere.

With that the bikers found themselves at the Tradewinds Inn, located in Scenic Tango Valley. It was a very posh place, too. When they checked into the Tradewinds, he registered as “King Dingleberry and a party of favorites.” It turned ugly when he was asked to pay in advance – as any hotel would. An outraged Harley bellowed, “How dare you, you peon!! Do you know how you’re talking to? Huh?”

The poor clerk wanted to be all snarky and say, “Yeah, I’m talking to some big asshole who wants everything for free.” But he knew better than to shoot off his mouth at some crazy biker dude that’s 3 times his size.

“I am Dingleberry, King of The Bikers!!!”

The rest of the bikers could only watch and feel really embarrassed and disturbed as this played out.

“My minions and I are entitled to room and board free of charge. So, I’m sure as a wise man you know what’s good for you.”

Realizing that this guy was right out of his mind, and as evidenced by the expression on the other bikers faces his “minions” seem to think so too, he handed the keys to room 313 on the third floor. One key went to Harley and the other to his pet sidekick – one Solomon Solomon, or Solomon as he preferred. As the bikers followed Harley to the hotel room, Solomon assured the clerk saying, “Hey man, don’t sweat it! Summer’s almost here and y’all make thousands more from all the bermuda shorts, knowhatImean?”

“Bermuda Shorts” is slang for tourists.

The appearance of acquiescence before the self-proclaimed King of The Dingleberries bought the clerk enough time to call the riot squad. It was gonna take several of Tango Valley’s finest to restrain a big fat looney with a belligerent streak.

As a matter of fact, it took a swat team fully armed with their rifles pointed at several heads including Harley, Solomon, and Richard to get the whole gang downtown.

In the holding cell at the Tango Valley Police Department, Richard looked around at the gaggle of suspected criminals sharing the space with him and his gang. The sight of this group – drug dealers, theives, potentially violent people, and drunks – would’ve caused a younger, nerdier Richard Yossarian to piss in his pants in sheer terror…which would’ve been the only place he could pee in that holding cell since the only toilet in the place had been destroyed by a raving mad King Dingleberry. But after going through all that it took to ride a Harley, and after hanging out with these guys as long as he had, his fear factor had been completely annihilated.

Besides, he was too pissed off with Harley. Their fearless leader, “King of The Dingleberries,” had gotten them all arrested with his delusions of grandeur, and at the moment was threatening to “shoved this damned toilet down” the throat of some poor junkie who’d been crying like a baby from his withdrawal symptoms.

Solomon had said something to the effect of, “They don’t call this ‘the holding cell’ for nothing obviously.” But Richard, simmering with a rage that would not be controlled at all for any circumstances, proceeded towards Harley with the intent to get right in his face. He knew he risked being torn limb from limb, but was way too pissed off to care.

Harley had just declared himself to be the one and only true God, when Richard roared, “That’s enough of that bullshit!!! I’ve had it with this shit you damned Yankovic King Dingleberry Head!!! You think you’re so bad you can call yourself God??? I got news for you, Harvey!!! Any asshole can call himself ‘God’!!” And only an asshole would call himself ‘God’!!”

Whell!!!

Well, “Harley” was stunned. No one, not even Solomon, not even Count Leatherface – Harley’s biker mentor – ever spoke to him like that since he became a full fledge biker gang leader. But when Richard stood up to him, he realized this once a pencil neck geek really was bad to the bone…too badassed to care whether he got torn apart…especially with the entire gang and a beavy of anonymous criminal suspects standing with this ex-nerd.

Then Harley saw the iron bars on the holding cell door and realized what a fine mess he’d gotten everyone including himself into. He had to admit at least to himself that this kid had a point, and he felt less like God and more like a damned fool! But while his grip on reality was returning, his foolish pride was still somewhat intact and his manic energy was still high. “Fine, Yossarian!!” Harvey roared back as he threw down the broken toilet, which narrowly missed wounding some male hustler in cutoff shorts and a tank top. “Believe as you will, but I am the Way!! And I don’t need no fucking syncophantic minions to repeat that one back to me all the time!! I’m going home!!”

With that, Harley bent the bars on the door wide open – he was really quite strong physically – and stormed out of the holding cell with a swarm of cops in pursuit.

In fact, with all the cops rushing after Harley it was quite easy for the rest of the inmates to walk out of jail.

That was the last Richard saw of Harvey Yankovic…until a few days after Cannes got the bad news of having diabetes. In fact the guy who was at the clinic that Halloween afternoon, the guy who ran out of the clinic all elated about being diagnosed as having bipolar disorder, was the ex-biker that lead the gang her father had hooked up with.

Cannes had been depressed about the diagnosis, so the whole family took her to dinner at Smiley’s Café to cheer her up or at least console her. As they were passing the menus around, the man himself strolled past their table as he made a beeline towards the men’s room. Cannes recognized him instantly. “That guy was yelling ‘Yahoo, I’m bipolar!!’ at the clinic when I was there the other day.”

Stella noted the look of recognition on Richard’s face and asked, “You know this guy?”

“Yes, I do.” Richard replied. “He’s from my old biker gang. But we didn’t part on pleasant terms at all.” He then excused himself and went to check out the erstwhile self-proclaimed dingleberry king.

Richard entered the restroom just as Harvey was zipping his pants up. Harvey recognized him instantly. Turning to Richard, he beamed, “The King of The Dingleberries is dead; long live Harvey Yankovic.” Harvey had clearly underwent a radical transformation. Wearing burmuda shorts and a hawaiian shirt of many colors, he seemed much more blissful and happy, more refined, gentle, humbled, and sane.

The two men bear hugged each other, and played catch up as Richard relieved himself. Harvey had been put on meds for bipolar disorder, and was seeing a therapist, and was staying with his brother who ran some investment firm.

They left the men’s room and Richard introduced him to his family. After Harvey gave his kudos to Richard, he confided, “If I knew then what I know now (Yes, that spiel!), I’d’ve taken better care of my own diabetes and spared everyone a lot of shit!”

Now it was Richard’s turn to be stunned. He never knew this about Harvey at all. This was the first time he’d ever confided this. Harvey then thanked Richard for setting him straight and gave him one last bear hug before heading back to his double cheeseburger and fries (yes, so much for taking better care of his diabetes!).

This was the last time the two of them spoke.

“Whot a sad twat!” was all Milo could say after Richard concluded this story.

Anyway, getting back to the Yossarian’s bbq brunch – a day long fandango including many pints of guinnes, lots of assorted finger food, briskets of various sizes and doneness, doobies and hookahs and pipes (“Oh wow!”), and every swear word and off color remark in the book. Milo had barely finished exhaling the last syllable in the word “twat” when Richard passed a nice big fattie to him and asked, “Say Milo, you’re a bit of a rambler dude. Have you noticed an increasing frequency of roaches being left behind in the parking lot at the base of Five Finger Peaks. I mean, fuck man, it’s like the whole world just wants to roll a joint and mellow out, man, fucking been too fucking crazy! I mean, … fuck, man…”

Enough hits offa dube and the not always so mild-mannered Richard Yossarian becomes…Fuck Man!!! However, we do interrupt this parodia of superhuman strength – evidently evident in his ability to use the phrase “fuck, man!” more times than even God would care to count – to drag Mortimer Johnson into the picture.

Now Morty is hardly in one of those Meg-Ryan-in-Hanging-Up trips with Fergie Mum-mum. No way! They get on each other’s nerves so much that Fergie often lets him take all the long walks he wants. And while I’m on the subject, Morty’s no namby-pamby pantywaist when it comes to telling anyone off when the appropriate moment arises. In fact only this morning Morty made it plain that he was gonna go to the Yossarian BBQ brunch, and if she wanted him at her beck and call, she’d have to come with him. On that note, Fergie agreed to let him go, on the condition that he first drive her to her appallingly normal neice Linda who lives in a nice, normal house in a nice, normal neighborhood with a nice, normal man and has two nice, normal kids – a boy and a girl respectively (Yeah, I know…Blurrrch! >X-P >X-S ) … and no damned dirty derelicts running around showing off their tatats. As much as he detested driving her around anywhere anymore, he’s only too glad to drop her off at Linda’s where she can indulge in her teas and her card games and her catty, undersexed banter…if only to get back to Magmaville where he can indulge in the Yossarian Thai Sticks and some catty, undersexed banter of his own.

By the time he got to the Yossarian “mansion,” he had a couple of passengers. Like a dumbfuck, Teddyboy had forgotten his emergency glucose stash. Clay was fortunately by his side, assisting his stepfather’s staggering friend as they made their way to the nearest 24-7 mini market for a Tiger Bar or something. Luckily also for Ted, Clay had an arresting whistle which pierced the eardrums of Morty as he was jolted into a sudden stop.

“Oi!!! Glucose emergency!!!”

Realizing he’d probably never hear the end of it from Milo – Really! He can be a roight badger, that one! – as it was he was already getting plenty of it from his stepmum, Morty gave Punk Mother’s boys a lift to the BBQ. Milo noted their arrival as Teddy practically fell out of the car, with Clay rushing to his side to help him back up on his feet. Between Clay and Morty, he was practically carried to the patio.

“Oopsteys, ye lot.” Milo drawled, pointing towards the kitchen. Morty released Teddy as he grabbed the handrail and made his shakey way up the stairs with Clay still at his side.

“What private converse did I barge into this time?” Morty asked. He didn’t really care, he just wanted to…

“Morty, you’re a trav’lin’ man, man! Have you noticed there’s been a lot more roaches left behind in the parking lots of these wild places Jan and I’ve been riding to? I mean, fuck, man…”

“Speaking of which, Rich, I need a hit!”

“Well, fuck, man..” Richard barked as he passed the dubie to Mort.

At the top of the stairs was the breakfast nook and there was still quite a spread, with plenty of slow and fast acting carbohydrates such as what I’ve spelled out before. How Teddyboy managed to get to the table w/o stumbling was a bit of a mystery, but he made it to the table and just downed a cupcake. He needed a glucose boost real quick.

Clay was about to get Teddy a glass of juice when he heard one of the girls crying out in pained half whine/half scream that sounded like it was muffled by a very thick terrycloth towel.

“Stella!” He recognized the voice. It was coming from the bathroom.

Stella had taken a piss and when she leaned back against the toilet lid she felt something small and sharp in the middle of her back. She’d taken off her shirt and discovered a huge, inflamed pushead there, precisely where she couldn’t reach it. She’d been trying to burst that pimple when she felt a sudden spike come upon her. At that moment a very desperate Cannes barged in. Before she could get any relief, however, she found herself working on this damned pimple – which by now was drenched with sweat from Stella’s insulin reaction, making it a bit difficult to squeeze the pus out.

“Get it out!!” Stella growled into her washcloth. “Get it out!!”

As desperate as she was, Cannes somehow maintained her calm as she worked on the damned thing. “Really, Stell, I wish you would’ve gotten something to eat before we started this.”

“Never mind that!!” Stella gritted her teeth into the terrycloth. “Get that damned thing off my back now, then we can stuff my face!”

“You’re sweating all over!!”

“Oh, just dab it dry already!”

That made it three times Cannes’ done so. And that third time was a charm because the boil burst finally.

“Now get outta here, willya!! I gotta pee like this second!!”

Stella had forgotten to put her bra and shirt back on, but she didn’t care. For all her priorities, Stella could only endure a glucose plummet for so long. She headed towards the breakfast nook.

Teddyboy – having been made aware of Stella’s diabetes story with the help of his friends the Haskins – understood too well what Stella was going through. As he was just beginning to recover himself, took not much notice of the fact that she’d entered the room completely topless. But he complimented her on her rack anyway.

“ ‘Ranks.” was how the word “thanks” ended up sounding like seeng as Stella had jammed half a slice of garlic bread into that trap of hers.

Back on the porch…

“I have come to smoke some pot and drink guinness!!!” Richard roared. “And I’m all out of…both!!”

Milo would’ve pissed his pants laughing if’n he hadn’t already done so over Richard’s previous bon mots already. Richard stumbled backwards into his green plastic chair and stopped just short of falling backwards into it.

“Oi Richard! Surely Oi doan ‘arftae be checkin yer glaycoose levs ‘afore ye straddle on that motorboik o’yers, dee Oi?” Milo drawled. “Oi deersay, oolreedy y’eev aytdoon yeself bigtoim, dinnye.”

“We gotta do this:” Richard continued, “We gotta work our anniversary, your anniversary, and the friggin bbq brunch in one big fat assed holiday, man!”

“’Ow th’ fook we gerna dae that, mate? We’ve married 6 moonths apear froom each ootheh!”

“On a day we don’t have an anniversary, ya fuckhead!”

“Troi Frank Zappa’s Borthdee.” Teddyboy crowed drowsily. “Ee wuz born ‘raynd th’ solstice, wunnee. Reckon that wus a gerd ‘olliday, wunnit.”

Speaking of holidays, did I mention that this bbq brunch fandango took place on New Years Eve??? No?? Well it did. So there.

Meanwhile, back upstairs in the bathroom, Cannes demonstrated that she knew a thing or two about multi tasking. She began to strip herself of her clothes as she took a much needed leak. “I’m gonna need a shower after this,” She decided quietly to herself. That was precisely where Clay was headed to take a leak himself (he wasn’t about to kick his girlfriend off the toilet in her own house). When she emptied out she noticed a strong tingling sensation that signaled both relief and arousal…which wasn’t exactly uncommon for her. While she didn’t consider herself a piss fetishist, she was all for anything that made her horny as hell.

So when it sounded like Clay had finished peeing into the bathtub drain – the sound of which only added to Cannes’ arousal – She flung open the shower door and intoned, “Hey, bebbeh!” She was completely naked and looked fucking gorgeous! She stepped into the shower and wasted no time helping him get his clothes off. Then she turned the water on real hot and soon the two of them proceeded to ravish each other.

“Roight! Oi’m gerna ‘ave a pissoop!” Richard roared in a mockup of his pal Milo. It certainly doesn’t take any time at all for the Stout to plummet through every fiber of his being to collect into an extremely ardent pain pool…a stinging yellow lead ball waiting to be dropped.

You can probably guess what’s coming up. Richard’s just drunk enough to be oblivious to the two lovers in the shower, but not so drunk that he’d forget to flush.

So here’s Clay and Cannes getting it on in the shower, while Richard’s taking a leak.

“Babe…” Clay whispered. “We’ve got company.”

“I’ll try not to scream when I come, okay!” Cannes responded as she continued to grope his backside. It really doesn’t take much to turn Cannes on. In fact, there’s a deliciously subversive element inherent in getting it on right under the noses of their parental units. It was one of the things Clay loved about her; in fact this adds to the common ground the two of them shared as part of one people. They both loved sex, and regardless of where and what maneovers are taken, preferably in the company of each other.

Even the sudden shock of cold after hot water couldn’t deter little Miss horndawd here. Hoh-no, she has this uncanny ability to incorporate it as part of the banquet she makes of herself. And Clay savored every morsel without shame or apology.

“Wouldn’t it be cool if we could do insulin without a prescription? I mean, no one in their right mind on this earth would want to do insulin for kicks, so it wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing. And we could get the medicine we need to more people at affordable prices…”

This was a kind of running joke between Janet and Punk Mother. If she ever got tired of running The Bauhaus Café, the two of them jested about opening an insulin bar.

“If people can open oxygen bars, like they do in Los Osos, then why can’t we have insulin bars?” Punk Mother continued. “People like Me, Stella, ‘Dick’, (that’s what she often called Teddy) Cannes, Simon, …who else do we know that has this disease? Anyway, I’d make some good money from everyone in town with diabetes. They could come and have a shot of insulin with their drink. We could also sell cinnamon pills instead of glyburide, and have medicinal teas, vinegar tonics, and things like that. We could have massages, energy balancing, spleen cleansing, things like that.”

“Sounds like our inner hippies are coming out of the closet for this.” Janet observed.

“Meh, they had some good ideas up their Nehru jacket sleeves. Passing this healthy crap around was one of them.” Punk Mother said referring to the pipe in her hand, which she passed to Janet. “Lissen, you brought two little assholes (and she used the word “assholes” affectionately) with diabetes into the world, that can’t be an easy reality to cope with by any means, can it.”

“Well, you would know, of course,” Janet replied without the slightest hint of offense taken to both her daughters being referred to as a couple of diabetic assholes by yet another one. She knows her daughters can be real assholes.

“They just want to forget all about this diabetic crap and just be punks; can ya blame ‘em?” Janet replied.

“That ain’t the point, tho, Janet. I mean no way they’ll be the last of their kind. We seem to breed like fucking rats, don’t we. If there’s going to be an increased demand for glucose management medicines, why shouldn’t we get in on the market? It’d be a good way to score us some free insulin. It’s such a fucking scam anyway, the fucking pharmaceutical industry making so much bank at our expense.” Punk Mother pointed out. “The café’s barely breaking even anymore, and these medical expenses are eating me alive, so I could use all the help I can get.”

Somehow Milo caught the last sentence with both ears right before he was again distracted by the schenanigans about to commence in the kitchen. The toilet flushed, and Richard barged out laughing at having “forgotten” not to flush when anyone’s in the shower. He was laughing out so loudly that you couldn’t hear the young lovers even if they did cry out in pain from the sudden temperature change.

As it was, Cannes and Clay couldn’t give two shits. They’re too busy getting it on in there. I mean, they’re a bunch of hillbillies, those two families.

As Cannes kissed the base of Clay’s neck, she launched into her imitation of Mrs. Count Dracula. “I’m Mrs. Count Dracula, and I’ve come to take your blood down to ze last drop before Ve mek you Vun of us, bubbulah!”

It turned her on when Clay cracked up. Eventually, the two of them began to cum. Then Clay felt a burst of song come upon him. He breathlessly began to sing the lyrics to Cotton Crown by Sonic Youth. He thought this was a particularly cool sex-in-the-shower song, because something about the way Thurston Moore and Kim Gordon sang this song together made him think that they were recording this song while they were making love in the shower. So he started singing this song, and then Cannes joined in singing with him, still in the shower with the water cascading down their bodies.

It was almost midnight, and as I might’ve mentioned before the Yossarians held this big assed BBQ brunch of theirs on New Years Eve. Stella felt a wave on excess insulin coming on, not terribly quickly this time, but it was making her head start to spin. She brought this to Richard’s attention, and by this time he began to come down from the excess alcohol in his system. He immediately began to fix her a holiday-worthy remedy.

There was very little orange juice left, the bulk of which had been incorporated into various random cocktails. Still there was just enough to mix with a full goblet of sparkling apple cider – or “faux champagne” as Janet often called it.

A basic virgin mimosa was concocted from those two mixers.

As he handed the concoction to Stella, he advised her, “Be gentle with this one. She’s a virgin.”

The Value of A Dollar

2010-05-07T09:47:00.000-07:00

Now, what’s a gell to do when she looks in the mirror and nothing says “Yess!!” to her?

Stella and Cannes know they’re the sexiest girls in Magmaville. You could dress Stella up in anything from a sequined blue ballgown to a sack cloth, heck even wrap her up in toilet paper and she’d rock the look to the hilt. That said, tho, Stella’s her own toughest critic when it comes to getting dressed for any occasion. Whatever she wears has to say “Yess!!” when it’s reflected back to her.

She confided to Janet one day, “It might look acceptable to you, but if at the best it is merely o.k., does that mean I’ll be feeling it at all? Believe me, it’s better for me when what I see staring back from the mirror says ‘Yess!!’ to me…just to let me know that what I’m wearing at the moment is a good idea.”

That’s not an easy task for Stella. Even when her blood sugar levels are a.o.k., that’s no guarantee that the way she sees herself will be.

It gets worse when she gets bored with all her clothes. Having to choose between cooler looking new clothes and her basic diabetes management supplies always leaves her frustrated. Her health must always remain top priority. Unfortunately, the budget for that leaves very little for clothing, shoes, and fashion accessories.

“It’s a good thing Cannes likes to do my make-up.” Stella thought one day as she reflected on what her budget can cover and what it cannot.

Now, St. Luke’s Seaside Episcopal Church has a massive rummage sale about 2 – 3 weekends every year, and there is rarely any shortage of reasonably cool looking clothes that she can mix and match to create some very, very kickass styles. The very last hour of these church-sponsored rummage sales is particularly enticing for many of the good citizens of Magmaville, because that’s when the $1/bag sale commences. For $1.00 you can fill a big paper grocery sack to capacity with anything available for sale at the church.

The Yossarians often score big during this “11th hour melee,” and when I say melee, I mean Melee! It’s guaranteed pandemonium in the parish hall once the dollar a bag sale starts. Even more so when the Yossarian sisters begin to rifle through the neatly folded piles of pants, shirts, dresses, leggings; boxes of lingerie, socks, and belts; shoes ranging in styles, some maybe worn once and forsaken, others look as if they’ve been through boot camp hell.

And it’s even more pandemonious when Milo and Punk Mother join in on the fun. Come to think of it, one can never tell whether the Haskins are really interested in getting some newish threads or just love mucking about over there. Because more often than not, Milo especially will go through a neatly folded pile – which some dear little old lady has folded and stacked for the umpteenth time that day – and examine this item and that one…only to casually toss it back randomly on the table and pass random judgments like, “Crap!,” “Roobbish!,” “Oooer!,” and “Ardee fookin kiddin’ loik?”

Now, in Milo’s defense, just about everyone going to these $1/bag sales is guilty of pulling the same shit. Milo, however, tends to give the impression of enjoying every second that he makes the elders suffer.

On the one hand Punk Mother does feel a bit sorry for the poor geezers who have to clean up the mess that is constantly left for them during the course of these sales. But on the other hand she does find the chaos extremely amusing to watch.

Between you and me and everyone else reading this right now, folks, I don’t think Lenora ever got over the moment when she was trying on a button down oxford shirt, praying, “Please say ‘yess!’ to me,…please let it say ‘yess!!’ to me…” At that moment, some well-meaning volunteer tossed her this butt fuck ugly pastel colored 2 piece sweatsuit right in front of her with the suggestion that this outfit might look good on her. :-s :-/

It’s not that the old coot meant to be rude or anything. After all, Punk Mother is often brash and bawdy herself. It’s just that the old coot has no taste in clothes at all. I mean, c’mon now…

Pastels?!? Blucch!

So you see why she’s not the least bit inclined to pull Milo aside with a very, very strong suggestion to give the poor dears a break coz they’re not used to folding the same articles of clothing 20 times per hour. As bad as she felt for them, maybe that’s just what some of them deserve for acting as self appointed personal stylists, she thought.

Besides, it’s always good for a laugh to watch her husband make a right prat out of himself. Anyway, if she wanted a fashion consultant, all she has to do is hook up with either one of Stella or Cannes’ gay pals. For their part Kyle and Simon – for an obvious example – are no less notorious for being particular about what they wear on their bodies than Milo is. At the best, if they see what pleases their eyes they might say, “Well, that might work…” or “Now we’re talking!” or “Oooh, that looks yummy!!” Anything less than stellar and they’ll be all like, “blucch!!” or “Eyew!!” or “Pfft!” A particularly bad outfit might cause Simon to emit dry heaving noises…or at the very least snarl “Diss-gusting!!! Somebody needs to take out the trash already!!!”

One afternoon Simon had decided he’d had it up to heeere with all the old folks shoving one bad outfit after another right in his face, threw up his hands and damn near bellowed, “Whose idea is it to shove such horrible clothes in my face?!? Does no one see the outrage of it all??? Lissen, ladies, I don’t care how you deface your own bodies as long as I don’t have to look at it, but PLEASE!! Kindly stop throwing these turds in my face if you don’t mind!!!”

Now it’s hard to tell whether Simon had come to vent this level of frustration out of a drop in his blood glucose that might begin to border on the fucking close to danger zone, or that he’s just too impeccable in his taste in clothes. Didn’t matter to Milo, tho. Upon hearing Simon rant, Milo detected a kindred troublemaker spirit in him. He got this glint in his eye as he picked up this really tacky looking, badly worn hawaiian shirt and yelled, “Oi, ye there!! Troy dis ohn f’soize, ye flymen queen, ye!!” With that he hurled it in Simon’s general direction.

“Oh yeah?!? Well, this is soo you, honey!!” Simon retorted as he flung an underwire bra – size 42DD to be exact – right at Milo’s head. He’s got rather impeccable aim, too!

“Oh, this is gonna be great fun!!” Simon thought.

No doubt you can see how the general chaos evolved from that point on. Underpants, socks, belts, purses, panty hoses, shirts, shorts, skirts, pajamas, and pant were flying through the parish hall in every possible direction…to the chagrin of the volunteers who have spent the whole damned weekend folding and neatly piling up all those clothes again and again and again. The only difference between what went down during the buck a bag sale and the food fight scene in Animal House is that at least nobody had to wash the walls or scrub the floor afterwards.

Even so, it was enough for the volunteer coordinator to unceremoniously escort the two most guilty culprits – Milo and Simon – out of the parish hall. “And don’t come back…” she ordered in a raspy, voice no doubt ravaged by all the chain smoking she’d done since birth, which made her sound like, well, geez, I can’t decide whether the voice resembles Harvey Fierstein, Capt. Beefheart, or a considerably more effeminate version of Steve-O, “…until you learn how to properly conduct yourselves in public!!!”

“Wull, cor blimey, Missuz! Ye’re nae foon a’toll!”

“D’aaah, go trash a motel room, ya rocknroll has-been!!” The old lady could be heard bellowing in that Fierstein/Beefheart/Steve-O voice of hers.

Despite the mayhem Simon and Milo did manage to take home some sweet-arsed threads. After all, damn near everyone was at the rummage sale – save for Janet and Rich who were off on another video shoot. And Kyle and P.M., both knew their respective partners well enough not to come home with some loot.

Anyway, back at the loft above The Stud, Simon – along with Cannes, Stella, Pearl, and Kyle – were trying on their whole entire newly acquired wardrobe. At times they were even trying on each others newly purchased clothes, shoes, and other accessories.

And I must say Simon looked particularly fetching in that blue velvet gown of his, which very closely resembles the evening gown that Isabella Rossellini wore in Blue Velvet. It was sleeveless with blue velvet straps criss-crossing his bare back. A blue velvet collar wrapped around his neck and from there the rest of the gown cascaded into place. This Simon topped with a black knit hoodie sweater. which was threadbare in places with shaggy black trim around the cuffs and edge of the hood. He added a red feather boa, a long strand of silver colored mardi gras beads, pearl drop earrings, red high heeled strappy sandals with stilletto heels…and Hey Presto!

“Well, don’t I look fucking gorgeous!!!” Simon exclaimed.

So after hitting several thrift stores in Magmaville, looking for some cool threads, the sisters Yossarian decided it was about time for a toilet break. For a change, neither one of them felt a need for multiple rest stops throughout much of the day. In fact, this might’ve been about the 3rd such break at the most that they’ve had all day…the last one being about 2 ½ hrs ago or longer. But no matter; they were both about to burst one way or another.

The last thrift store they visited was conveniently located across the street from Magmaville City Park. The girls then made their way across the street to the restroom. Upon their arrival they found the ladies room locked, to their chagrin. Stella immediately made a beeline for the men’s room. Cannes didn’t bother talking her out of that, but instead followed her over there. Both of them had been through too many moments when they were waiting desperately in front of a locked ladies room door. Then some random female stranger would come up behind them and – not wanting to wait in line behind them – go straight into the men’s room ahead of them. And of course that toilet would typically be vacant. This of course not only prolonged the always agonizing wait, but they ended up feeling really stupid on top of that.

Yeah…ouch!

Well they’re not making that dumbass mistake anymore. Sure enough the mens room was open and the girls went in together. Cannes let Stella go first. She’d probably finish pissing in less time than Cannes can take a crap. So Stella finished first and then Cannes took her turn. Then a thought occurred to Stella;

“Now, what shall our strategy be in case we see some dudes waiting outside?”

“I dunno, Stell…” Cannes replied as a fart shot out of her ass. “Maybe we should act like dudes when we come out. After all, we’ve had plenty of practice during our slumber parties. Either that, or maybe seduce whoever’s out there.”

“Oh yeah, that would go over great with Jarvis. He’s still not entirely over my so-called infidelity with Simon.” Stella countered. This was before she had broken up with Jarvis, by the way.

“Hey, it’s his own fault for being too drunk to fuck!” Cannes pointed out, referring to Jarvis. She was tempted to call him Jar-head, but realized he might take that as a compliment.

“All the same…we better stick with the dude imitations!” Stella insisted.

“Agreed…They might be creeps anyway.” With that the girls chortled and snickered.

Cannes finished her business and the girls proceeded to exit the john. Sure enough there were a couple of dudes outside the door waiting their turn. Cannes and Stella did their best to sound like dudes when they bantered.

“Fuckin’ A, dude! My back teeth were floating!”

“Yeah, dude. Those whippaccinos will do that to ya every time, know what I’m sayin’?”

“Yeah, ya only rent the waters of life, man…knowhutamean?”

“Whatever, dude! Hey, let’s go get some brewskis, man!”

“Yeah, let’s go fuck some bitches, dude! I got a fuckin’ hard-on!”

“Me too, I gotta hella boner I wanna bury in some fuckin bitch, dude!”

All that crazy banter did was generate some really strange looks from the guys that were waiting lin line. Maybe one of these random dudes was wondering upon hearing that “My God, are we really that pathetic?”

And then again maybe not. Who know? Who cares? We’re wasting valuable shopping time.

To The Eye of The Hurricane We Go…!

2010-05-06T09:35:00.000-07:00

It was during a recent visit to Fergie and Mortimer’s home that the sparks really flew. Janet hates these visits to her mother’s house…as does the rest of her family. But Janet is Fergie’s only other surviving relative, and sometimes Morty needs a break from being at Fergie’s mercy all the time.

The visit began smoothly enough at first, but then Fergie began to talk of a few unsavory neighbors that had recently been arrested. The police had found a complete Meth lab in their neighbors’ garage. Maybe Stella shoulda kept her mouth shut, maybe it’s just as well she didn’t. All the same, she’s no fan of speed freaks, so all she had to say at this point is, “Thank fucking God! Who needs another colony of tweekers, anyway?”

Fergie was shocked to hear such language coming from a female, especially one of her granddaughters, * gasp! * and in her very own house on top of all that!!! But before she could call Stella out, Richard stepped in to confront her. “Excuse me, what was that word you just used, young lady?”

Stella, realizing that she just used profanity in front of her grandmother, gasped, “Ooops! I’m sorry. I forgot I’m not supposed to use profanity around here. Sorry!” She blushed, a bit embarrassed.

“No, not that word. I mean, the other word you used after you dropped the F bomb.”

“Well, you’re right, tho, Baba. I should’ve just said, ‘Who needs another colony of tweekers in the neighborhood or something like that.”

“Yeah, that word; tweekers! What the fuck are ‘tweekers’?!?” Richard demanded.

Janet could only cover her mouth as she giggled, “Oh my God!” uncontrollably.

“They’re speed freaks, Dad.”

“Okay, gotcha!”

“You’re showing your age, Baba.” Stella laughed.

“Well, whaddya expect; I am a daddy after all.”

Fergie couldn’t stand it any longer. “Honestly,” She practically yelled into her voice amplifier. “What in the world is this family coming to??? Such language coming from children!!! Is there no common decency in this world any more???”

“Oh, lighten up, Granny!” Richard retorted. “It was just a slip of the tongue and she said she was sorry, didn’t she!”

“Nevertheless, I should think you of all people, Richard, would set a better example for these children of yours instead of turning them both into vulgarians!” Fergie replied.

Cannes decided she’d had enough already and got up from the sofa, saying, “I’m outta here!” and headed toward the front door.

“Just where do you think you’re going, young lady?!?” Fergie demanded.

“Out!” Cannes replied. It really stresses her out when the family goes at it like this, which messes with her own blood sugars…making her piss all the time. Fuck that!

“Let her be, Fergie. What my daughters are up to are none of your concern.” Richard stated.

“Look, Mum-Mum,” Stella interjected, “Let’s just take this somewhere more private.” With that she grabbed the handles on Fergie’s wheelchair.

“You know, a little common courtesy, a little etiquette, has never killed anyone!!” Fergie declared as Stella pushed her into her bedroom.

With that, Janet and Richard headed into the guest room.

“Well, that’s just dandy!” Richard groused. “My kids are gonna learn daintyness from some legless crone-bot! No offense, darling.”

Richard closed the guestroom door behind him and caught his own reflection in the full length mirror on the door. Janet looked ready to blow any second. As if his reflection were his twin brother, he shrugged at it. One noise from him and the cork would pop…he just knew it. Fuck it, anyway, he’s a man and he can take it. Anyway, he coughed, “ * ahem! * “

“Fuck, man!! Why does she make such a point of pissing everyone off as much as she does! I might have an easier time calling you out for being a jerk to her if she were much nicer to my kids than she is!!” Janet exploded.

“Aw honey, I don’t blame you. I feel bad that it’s come to this yet again.” Richard replied. “In all fairness, though, many’s the time that I’ve felt like calling you out on the way you speak to her sometimes. It’s embarrassing. Although today I’m glad you’re at least showing some restraint this time.”

“I wish she didn’t bring that upon herself, always riding our asses and our children’s asses like she’s always doing. You know what really sucks about this, Richard, is that I cannot really blame her for any of it.”

“She’s really not been the same since your father Jake was killed!” Sighing, Richard added, “He was a great guy, your father. I wish he had survived the crash!”

“All he had to do was stop at a Penny’s or something and get a bite to eat!” Janet wailed. She had tears in her eyes. “What is it with you men and you’re trying to go the longest distances in as short a time as possible without a break, anyway?”

“Well, aren’t we pathetic making you ladies hold your water in for hours on end like we’re always doing?” Richard tried to interject a little humor in there.

“I’m not joking, Richard. It’s like you’d sacrifice your own lives to the point of suicide just to get from point A to B!!! What was the big hurry anyway? It’s not like this is tornado country!!”

“What can I say, Janet?” Richard said as he sat down on the bed besides his weeping wife. “They don’t call people like Jake and I ‘driven’ for no good reason.”

“She was at least willing to acquiesce to him while he was alive. I don’t know whether that comes from feeling that as a man that made him the boss of the house, she just knew enough to stay out of the way when he laid down the law. Either way, a lot died along with him.” Janet said wiping her eyes. She’s clearly calmed down quite a bit, but not completely.

“I’m so sorry, Janet. If there was some way I could’ve saved his life, I would’ve.”

“If she could just find something better to do than to harass my kids…like go play Bingo or attend some accident survivor’s support group.”

“She’s obviously got some health issues of her own, which she is clearly ignoring.” Richard stated.

“She’s killing herself. My God, why won’t she listen to us for a change? She could be enjoying the rest of her life. I’m not so sure she’s got very much of it left anymore.” Janet wiped her eyes again.

“C’mon, honey.” Richard said. “Let’s go break something.”

Meanwhile, in Fergie’s bedroom, Fergie could only weep. Fine thing, her eldest granddaughter has a mouth like a sewer and she’s the one getting chewed out!

“Don’t think for one second that you don’t bring any of this upon yourself, mum-mum!!! From the time I was 12 you’ve been harping on me about my diabetes and I’m fed up with it!!! You’re not doing anyone any favors, especially yourself!!! Just look at yourself!! You’re neglecting a few of your own health issues in the process, y’know!! You’ve lost both your legs and your larynx in that accident. And you’ve probably been giving yourself high blood pressure and maybe even an ulcer with all the fretting and fussing you do all the time!!!”

“You can stop with that tone anytime, young lady. You know I don’t want you losing your life the same way my late husband lost his!!! I lost a whole lot more than a few paltry body parts, I’ll tell you that right now!” Fergie retorted. She really has a good heart; she just doesn’t know when to stop.

“You’re not helping at all. You’re driving me crazy and you’re driving me away!!! Your trouble is that you’ve confused harassment with helpfulness. The bullies who picked on me at school at least learned when to back off already!!! Maybe I could do a better job managing this crazy disease if people would just let me be for at least a half-hour!!! Just focus on managing your on life and stop trying to fix mine, willya?”

“Stella, darling, I cannot in all good conscience ignore it and hope it will all go away. After all, your sister now has the same problem!!”

“And another thing; you leave Cannes alone, too!! She doesn’t need your meddling, either!! She’s got me, she’s got her boyfriend Clay who has had plenty of experience from living with his own mother. She’s doing fine, thank you very much!!”

“You don’t mean that ‘Punk Mother’ friend of yours! Oh, she’s a fine example along with all her derelict associates in that dive she’s running!!”

“Listen, Gran, I don’t care what you think of Lenora and her family. The point is if any of us need your kind of help, we will ask for it…Get that through your thick skull, just please mind your own business and let us be, alright?? I’m not asking a king’s ransom from you.” With that Stella left the bedroom and couldn’t help but slam the door behind her.

Fergie managed to open the door and in her own way called after her. “My family is my business and you’re a member of it whether any one of us likes it or not!! Don’t you ever forget that!!!”

Stella continued on her merry way away from Fergie, not caring who got the last word or what the last word was.

“You know I love my family!”

As the battles raged on, Cannes took the jeep and made her way back to Magmaville…which was about 90 minutes from where Fergie lived. Just before she drove off, she pressed speed dial and called Clay.

“Yo!”

“It’s me, babe. I’m outta there.”

“She doesn’t waste any time, does she.”

“Nobody wastes time in that house. Are you kidding me?”

“Well, I’ve got the whole house to myself if you wanna come over.”

“I’m so there, dude!”

Soon the two of them were stripped naked. She was rolling a joint as he stood behind her kissing the back of her neck.

“It’s not usually this peaceful here.” Cannes observed.

“Luckily the three of them are at a Siouxsie concert in Los Osos.” His hands began caressing her. With that they decided they both liked it this way. Cannes decided she couldn’t wait, didn’t really need the joint after all. So they feasted on each other while they could. The parental units would come barging in soon enough.

Cannes stayed with Clay just long enough to catch a second wind after a multiple orgasm or two. She was beginning to feel guilty about leaving Stella and her parents stranded there, too.

“Want me to come along?” Clay asked.

“You’re a real glutton for punishment, aren’t you.” Cannes teased him.

Anyway, the two of them hopped into the jeep and drove back to Fergie’s place. Upon arrival, they found the house almost deserted…except for Fergie.

“K’hah! You two just cannot keep away from each other, can you.” Fergie snarled.

“Never mind that, mum-mum. Where are the others?” Cannes demanded.

“Out walking, I suppose. They couldn’t wait to get away from me already.” Fergie lamented.

At this Clay whispered to Cannes, “Like I said, she wastes no time at all.” Cannes stifled a chuckle and then shushed him.

Fergie continued, “This crazy family comes here with their bad language and their hooligan ways and I’m made to look like the evil witch in my own home! I was sure Jake and I raised my only child better than that”

“Aw, gran…I’m sorry the visit got off to such a bad start. I kinda feel like a coward running out on everyone like that.”

“Escapist, Cannes, not coward.” Clay interjected. “There’s a difference.”

“How can I blame you, my dear?” Fergie despaired. “For that matter how can I blame you alone? If only my daughter had stayed with the quarterback she was dating in high school. After all, what difference would that make? She ended up being a wife and mother anyway?”

“She’s also had some good careers, hosting a radio show for awhile and now co-producing a wildly popular television show with my father. Would that football player allow her that much creative freedom…like my father has? I doubt that. From what I hear, the football player turned out to be a complete douchebag!”

“I wish at least Richard could’ve stayed a nerd. He was much nicer when he was a straight A student, before he hooked up with all those bikers and became a hooligan himself.”

“How long do you think he could’ve stood for being picked on by the other bullies and ignored by the people he wanted to get to know? He didn’t like being this nice boy who was practically ignored unless the thugs got bored. He just wanted to be more of a man and less of a wimp, that’s all. How can you blame him? Anyway, he’s a happier man and in my opinion a great father to Stella and I both. Think what you will of the way we were raised, but I’m pretty sure that if the football guy were my dad, we’d be a whole lot more anti-social than we are now.”

“Yes, I’m sure you two kids appreciate that much.” Mum-mum began. “It just tears me apart; that and the fact that both my grandchildren have diabetes now.”

“We don’t like that fact of our lives, either. After all, we’re the ones who have to take all this medicine and jab our fingers and put up with people fretting over us all the time. But you can’t control whether you get diabetes any more than you can control whether you get the common cold.

“If it’ll make you feel any better, I promise never to let myself go into any kind of a coma again.”

“Thank God!” Clay exclaimed.

“See? I’ve got this cute guy to fuss over me. He’s the only guy that Baba hasn’t chased away from our house, so it’s not like Baba doesn’t protect us.”

“Well, he doesn’t seem a bad sort.” Mum-mum observed. “But he really ought to shave. He looks like a gnome!”

“Oh, now that hurts!” Clay protested.

“What’s wrong with gnomes? They’re great spirits, very protective of property and people!”

“All the same, a shave never killed a man. Who knows what’s living under all that!”

“Please consider why I’m always ragging on the two of you as much as I have been.” Fergie added. “To have lost my first husband and almost my own life – please let me finish now, please – that was too hard for me to bear as it was. Even if your mom and dad could trust that the two of you could manage on your own at this stage, if anything were to happen to the two of you, or either one of you, it would hurt them very deeply. I wouldn’t wish that upon my daughter or my son-in-law, or anyone in my family no matter how I personally feel about any one of them. It would kill me if my grandchildren were to go before me. It’s only right that you and Stella would live on after I go back home to God. With your parents always going and doing their own thing with their television show, I worry that you’ve not been looked after as much as you need to be.”

“Really, mum-mum, Stella and I are adults now, even if we are having such a hard time financially that we’re still stuck living at home with our parents.” Cannes replied.

“Mrs. Johnson,” Clay intervened. “Would it help you to know that God’s always ragging on us, always watching us, seeing us through the worst of times? As deeply religious as you are, ma’am, your faith in God doesn’t seem to be as strong as it could be. Otherwise the thought that God is always with us would put your mind completely at ease.’”

“He’s got a point, Mum-Mum. We may appear to be heathens, but we’re not Godless by any means. Besides, “ Cannes added. “Seem’s God is not through with any of us just yet, or we wouldn’t even be having this conversation. For that matter we wouldn’t even be here in the first place.”

“There’s no point in spending the years you have left here in constant worry. I mean, pardon my french Fergie, but you really are too old for that kind of crap.” Clay concluded.

Eventually, the rest of the Yossarian family returned from their walking, having cooled off considerably and pleased that the atmosphere at Fergie’s became considerably less heated. Cannes decided to take Clay back to Magmaville.

Clay was still a bit miffed at being referred to as a gnome, though, and let Cannes know on no uncertain terms.

“ ‘What’s wrong with gnomes’ ?!?”

“Well, what’s wrong with gnomes?”

“I just never thought of myself as one, that’s all.”

“C’mon, Clay, I was just humouring her.” Cannes assured him. “Anyway it’s her problem if she can’t deal with facial hair. If you’re a gnome then so was Jesus Christ, so that should put you in brilliant company. Don’t take it so hard, man!”

So Clay decided to do his best not to take that so personally in the end. After all, if Cannes likes gnomes, then he’d fare better than the guys he considers to be more attractive than himself.

After Punk Mother, Milo, and Teddy returned from Siouxsie’s performance, Clay couldn’t help but still be a bit miffed about being referred to as a gnome by Cannes’ grandmother despite her reassuring words. So he confided his feelings to his mum, who was on a post-concert high and feeling a bit mischievous.

“Um Clayton, I’m afraid I have a bit of a confession to make.” Punk Mother began. “On the night you were conceived, Dr. Timothy Leary paid a visit to our commune. There were several sugar cubes that were spiked with LSD. I took 2 of them. I would’ve loved to have taken 3 or more, but Tim insisted I save the rest for the other commies. Thank God he did, coz that stuff really packed a wallop. I was hallucinating for hours and was really peaking when this gnome crawled out from under the sofa and began to ravish me. It was the best lay I’ve ever had in the commune!”

The three punks chortled at this story, which was obviously a crock of shit she made up just to get a rise out of her son.

“ ‘at wuz nae fookin noom, thae. ‘At wuz bleedin’ ‘enry!” Milo chortled. The three of them were clearly out of it.

That made Clay snarl, “Quit fucking around, you guys!!”

“Whoy’re ye takin it sae serious loik, seeing as it’s coom froom dis daft ole coo whot talks loik a fookin floy!” Milo said as he got up to go for a leak.

“Yeah, Clay, you know she’s full of shit anyway.” Punk Mother chimes in as she took her last glucose test for the night. The three of them had been home for at least a few minutes by the time Clay was dropped off, so Lenora had plenty of time to get her kit out and clean her hands for this test. “Besides, Cannes likes the way you look…or at least likes the fact that you turn her on so easily. Why should you care what her grandmother says about you? Take it from me; other people’s opinions of you are not your problem.”

As she finished this sentence, Punk Mother looked at the monitor on her meter, which read 136. High, but at least under 140. She shrugged it off. She was in too good a mood tonight.

Milo came out of the bathroom and added, “Anywoy, ye doan look loik a flippin’ noom a’tall. If anything ye look loik a fookin brownae, donnye!”

Teddy began to tease as well. “Oy, Clayton…this bird o’yerz, doos she keep a stash of roober noomes in ‘er closet…joost in coyse things doan work oot fe th’ tae o’ye?”

Clay blew a razzberry at Teddy.

“Okay, that’s enough teasing my son now. After all that’s Cannes’ job” Then Punk Mother added, “He really can’t help looking like a gnome, can he.”

“You guys are all drunk off your asses, aren’t you!” Clay responded.

“Wull, nae dooh!” Milo laughed. Clay stopped being pissed off and started being amused. Even when he was the butt of their jokes, there was always something funny about a herd of drunken scots talking a load of poxy rubbish.

They let up, though and called him over to the coffee table. Teddy was ready to share this nice big spliff with everyone that he’d just rolled.

“Never mind, kid.” Punk Mother said as Clay took the 2nd drag after Teddy went first. “That old shrew is crazier than all of us put together, despite her façade of refinement.”

“Nae shite, Mother. She’s a bigger caentrail freak than that Kunt Needermoyer ever cud be, and believe me, ‘at’s a roight stretcher!” Milo added as he passed the spliff to his mum.

“A roight bloody fascist!” Teddy added.

“A bleedin’ megalomaniac!”

“A clooset natsie bigoot!”

“A gnome bashing ignoramus!”

“A floy-tohkkin’ croybaby schoolmerm!”

“A smelly olde doipeh wearin doggy!”

“Alright, already!” Punk Mother roared. “Either take a hit off this or I’m passing it back to my son, willya?”

Clay was laughing too hard at the way these two crazed scottish blokes were ripping Fergie Mum-Mum apart. Then he belched and said, “You guys set a brilliant example, making fun of a crippled person.”

“Crippled person? ‘at’s ‘ardly peesee itself, issit!” Teddy countered.

“P.C….whot’s ‘at staend fe, anywoy…pretentious crap?” Milo cracked.

“How dare you, my good man!” Punk Mother chided. “Everybody knows that P.C. stands for Perpetually Confused.” She passed the spliff to Clay.

“I thought it was something more hyper intellectual like ‘Pontificatory Confoundamentational’?” Clay stated before he took a hit.

“Oi say we call it ‘Pig’s Cloob’ an layve it at that!” Teddy blurted.

So ends that night.

The rest of the visit at Fergie’s went off without any more of a hitch than usual. Morty came back to check on his stepmother and then the next day the Yossarian family returned to Magmaville…very relieved to be outta there and home at last.

Stella had the night off from The Bauhaus Café, but she had a hella big load of laundry to do. So she carried this big laundry basket filled with all her filthy clothes downstairs to the utility room where the washer and dryer were. Once there she set the basket down and began to sort her clothes. She fished out all of her bras and underpants, which she secured together by running the bra straps through the leg openings and fastening the back hooks closed. These she put inside of a blue mesh bag and closed the zipper to keep them from falling out into the washer.

As she was preparing to wash her clothes, she stood beside an open window…which was facing the street. After she threw her lingerie bag into the washer, she began to separate the darker clothes from the lighter colored clothes, and began to add the lighter colored clothes to the washer.

Then she decided, as long as she was at it she would add the clothes she was wearing to the loads. She began by taking her leopard print silk blouse off, unbuttoning each button from the top down. As she opened her blouse and took it off, she revealed her ample breasts which were nesting inside the cups of a black lace bra.

It was right about this time that Kent was making his way home from The Bauhaus Café. He was just about to pass her house when he caught the sight of Stella pushing her black denim jeans down to her ankles. As she stepped out of her pant legs, she revealed her backside, as she was only wearing her black lace bra and a satin thong that was the exact same color.

Determined that he’d rather see her strip down to her birthday suit than be caught oggling her, Kent began to look for a place where he could be hidden yet still enjoy the show Stella was putting on. He spotted a eucalyptus tree, the trunk of which was just wide enough to conceal his lanky frame. He made his way across the street to hide behind the tree, and as he did he could see her from a different angle.

He watched as Stella began to reach behind her back to unfasten the black lace bra she was wearing. As she removed it from her shoulders, her breasts fell out…bouncing just a little bit as they landed above her belly. Then she locked her thumbs under the waist strap, which held up her thong, and pulled them down over her hips, letting them fall to her feet. A dark patch of pubic hair formed a triangle between her legs, in full view of Kent’s line of vision. Then Stella bent down to pick up her thong and placed it in the laundry basket.

Kent felt his penis begin to swell up throughout all this. God, how he wished Stella would forget about Jarvis, forget about all those other guys she’d rather be with, and just let him have his way with her.

Stella leaned back against the door to the cabinet where the downstairs water heater was stored. She had a feeling that she was being spied on, but couldn’t actually see who was hidden behind the eucalyptus tree. “Hm, no matter,” she thought. She was sure that if anyone was there, it was either someone who had fallen out of Baba’s good graces…or at least some mysterious stranger. Either way she was gonna give this perve the kind of torture he deserves.

So she began to caress and fondle her breasts, pulling and tugging at her hardening nipple first on her left breast, then on her right. Then her right hand began to glide down the front of her torso and stopped at her navel. Then with her middle and ring finger on her right hand, she gently massaged her navel, rubbing it as if she were playing with her clit, which began to pulsate gently with each stroke. Then she began to rub her thighs together, revelling in the softness of her skin…

Ooooh, she was beginning to get terribly aroused by all that she was doing to herself, and she was so glad that everyone else was exhausted and went to bed early for a change.

She began to think of an old torch song that was an absolute favorite of hers, which was performed by her old teenage pop idol Frankie Booth. His sensual falsetto crooned the lyrics to “I’ll Follow You Anywhere” in her head, and she was soon humming the tune as her right hand moved down to her mound. She closed her eyes, continued to hum along to the tune in her head, her fingers stroking her curls, her thighs slowly caressing each other, her aching snatch flooding. It was enough to make her squirm a little bit. She began to fantasize that Frankie was right there in the utility room, kissing her and making sweet love to her as he sang.

She forgot all about the peeping tom behind the eucalyptus tree across the street and – realizing that it might take awhile before the first part of her laundry would be done – made her horny way up to her room in the attic. She was ready for her vibrator. She wished Frankie Booth was upstairs waiting for her.

Too bad for Kent. The attic window was way too high for him to get a good view from any angle anyway. Frustrated and pent, he sulked on home.

Black Friday

2010-05-05T09:43:00.000-07:00

Black Friday…the biggest shopping day of the year.

The Bauhaus Café closed for thanksgiving and the day after. As tempting as it would have been to reopen the café to cash in on hungry shoppers, Punk Mother wanted to take a break from all responsibility. Between running the café and preparing the thanksgiving feast, she’s earned the right to slack off for a bit…as have her employees, many of which have left town to be with their families anyway.

Save for Stella, that is. After all her family lived right here in Magmaville.

By this time it has been a while since that terrible incident where her now ex-boyfriend Jarvis had kicked her out of her own house without a stitch on while she was enduring an insulin attack. As relieved as she was that she no longer had to deal with his boozed-out temper, she found herself depressed that it was over between them despite repeated attempts by him to initiate a reconciliation. She still loved him and missed him terribly. This emotional state she deemed to be sick and depraved and not necessarily in a good way. There was too much of a possibility of entrapment for her in that state, too easy to just go back to him, fall for his bullshit apologies and promises of never again which would only put her back at his drunken mercy. Well, no fucking way would she let her emotions play her like that, she decided. She was just going to have to get over all that no matter what.

So when Punk Mother invited her to come with on a girls day out shopping, she was only too eager to join her. She smuggled a nice big organically grown Fuji apple in her Kate Spade leopard print bag, along with a couple of joints she rolled from the stash that Cannes had given her as a consolation offering.

First things first of course. Punk Mother had to pick up some prescriptions from the local Pharm-Land drug & department store before she would do anything more. Both hated the name of the pharmacy, but as far as refilling prescriptions goes they were quicker about it than most national pharmacy chains could be bothered with.

Today was no exception, so after Punk Mother paid for her medicine – glyburide, insulin, and glucose test strips and lancets – she decided as long as she was there she’d go for a blood pressure reading. She approached the automatic blood pressure booth and stuck her arm in the tube.

While all this was going on, Stella found her attention turning to the over the counter items stationed in front of the pharmacy station. She noticed how the items were arranged; for some strange reason many of the sexual aids – condoms, lubricant, contraceptive sponges, and mini vibrators – had been placed next to the shelves where the glucose meters, lancets, glucose tablets, A1c test kits, and other diabetes supplies were displayed. With a sly smile she gazed at this arrangement, amused by the not at all subtle message that this was clearly sending to diabetes patients in this city.

Suddenly she felt a hand on her shoulder, which she knew belonged to Punk Mother. “C’mon, let’s get going.” She said to Stella. Her tone was more irritated than it was when they left the Yossarian “mansion” earlier that morning.

“So, how’s yer blood pressure?”

“It sucks!!!”

With that the two women moved on.

They found themselves at the Sweet Dreams lingerie shoppe, and were right smack dab in front of the sex toy section. The two of them were inspecting the assortment of dildos and vibrators, french ticklers, ben wa balls, and flavored massage oils. Somehow the conversation turned to the subject of Fergie.

“I tell ya, Lenora, if she had an English accent as thick as her skull, she’d be alright.” Stella remarked.

“I dunno, my dear, it’d take more than an interesting dialect to make her at least barely tolerable.” Punk Mother countered.

“Well, on that note how is it that you could stand Milo as long as you have. His harping isn’t much less grating either.”

“We have too much in common. Plus he’s great in the sack, and can be awfully generous every now and again.

“Years ago, in fact,” Punk Mother continued, “When I had to stop touring with his band, there was a time when they opened for Caberet Voltaire. I don’t know how he managed to find time to pull it off – apart from no longer having to make quite so many rest stops on my behalf – but he bought me a nice big dildo which looked very much like this one.” With that she pulled a reasonably large specimen of a vibrator off the shelf to show Stella.

As Stella examined the contraption, Punk Mother added, “But it was on the condition that I use that rather than go about shagging other men while he was gone. After all, one doesn’t know where strangers have been.”

“That is very generous, I must say.” Stella remarked. “I doubt most guys would even bother thinking of their girlfriends’ needs, much less accommodate us this way.”

“Unfortunately this, on the other hand, probably wouldn’t work for Fergie given her physical state.” she added.

“Well, honey, there’s just no pleasing some people…even when you do what they want you to do.”

“Ain’t that the truth!” Stella agreed as they chuckled. “Anyway, I’m going to go eat this apple outside before I start getting delirious. Otherwise, the shop girl will just kick me out anyway.”

“Just try not to get carried away by that mob out there, ‘k?” Punk Mother warned. She was in no mood to search for her companion during a low when they could be having lunch together instead.

Stella left the lingerie shop and found a huge outdoor windowsill that was just low and wide enough to pass for outdoor seating. A headless, legless mannequin dressed up in a red lace corset stood behind the glass that Stella leaned against as she bit into her apple. As she ate, she watched the crowd as they buzzed by her; a bit too close at times, but it wasn’t anything she hadn’t seen coming on a day like today. She marveled at the magnitude of the pedestrian traffic and the variations of speed at which they moved. They walked towards and past each other as they rushed to get to the shops. There were dogs on leashes barking, little children crying, men and women talking into their cell phones. There was one drunken lout coming out of a tiny pub, and he was speaking in a bastardized french accent. Stella, relieved that she saw him before he saw her, pulled herself further inside that window space as he passed. He was slurring something to the effect of, “Le full moon iz, how you say, so full of itself tonight, yes?” Just then a real french tourist passed him going in the opposite direction, saying, “Not funny, you ignorant American fuckhead!”

“Pardonnez Moi, you howaty-towaty bitch!!” He retorted in that fake accent of his. The tourist moved on ignoring him.

Stella continued to watch the crowd move by as she polished off the last of her apple. She found this stream of people moving past her fascinating to watch. She likened them to videotaped images of sperm swimming through the shaft. Hundreds of these cells making their all important way to their goals as quickly as possible. She didn’t even think in terms of which of these people had diabetes, which had type 1 or type 2. She preferred the sperm analogy overall, as it made it easier for her to detach herself from all the mental rumination and was far more accurate besides.

And yet, considering the nature of what had been right in front of her eyes and on her mind that day, she felt that if something didn’t happen soon, she’d end up breaking down, marching right back into that lingerie shop, and buying one of those sex toys.

She would’ve preferred to sit in that space and watch the crowds than to have to wade through any of it, but Punk Mother had made her purchases and was ready for lunch. They were both in the mood for Middle Eastern cuisine, and The Casbah Café was close by. Punk Mother signaled Stella by bringing the newly purchased dildo with her to the window where she sat and tapped the glass with it. Stella turned to her and laughed at the sight of her companion using this huge vibrator for a middle finger.

A crazy thought entered Stella’s head as she and Punk Mother were seated at a booth at the Casbah Café, eating Moroccan Curry w/Basmati rice and roasted eggplant salad. This isn’t exactly unusual for Stella of course, being a woman of a very avant garde brain. Nor was it unusual for her to share such thoughts in the company of at least one close trusted friend.
And fortunately for both of them, Punk Mother was a woman of a very strong stomach.

“So Lenora,” Stella began. “Do you mind a highly personal question?”

“Depends.” Punk Mother replied through a mouthful of curried chicken. “What do you want to know?”

“Have you ever tried testing your menstrual blood?”

That question didn’t sit well with some of the other patrons that sat within hearing range, however. Particularly the couple that sat in the booth next to where Stella and Punk Mother sat, as a shower of Merlot was spewed from the lips of one anonymous brunette cougar right into the face of her date.

The question didn’t phase Punk Mother one bit. “Y’mean have I ever checked my glucose levels by shoving my meter up my cunt?”

“Yeah.”

A few more diners began to cast grimaced expressions as the conversation progressed.

“Naw, I can’t say that I have.” Punk Mother replied. “Teddy’s bragged about running a test on his cock once and assured me that the lancet hurt like hell there. Apart from that I saw that Hardball guy on TV test on his thigh. Never heard of testing in the vagina, tho. Have you?”

“Nope, I haven’t either, but I’m contemplating just such an experiment.”

“Hmm…” Punk Mother thought for a second and then added, “That might be a rather awkward process, wouldn’t it? I mean they don’t ever make the test strips much longer than half the length of an average pinky finger do they.”

“True, but at least you probably wouldn’t have to lance yourself if you test on a really heavy day.”

“That would be a relief; those finger jabs are often more painful than I’d like. I’d think it would hurt even worse if you had to jab your own wazoo.” Punk Mother chuckled, clearly oblivious to all the inner “eyewww’s” radiating from the grossed-out expressions of the other patrons.

“Obviously you couldn’t have a tampon inside you if you’re going to test the blood of your twat.”

“No, that wouldn’t work…” Stella agreed thoughtfully. “Unless…”

“Unless…?”

“Well, sometimes I forget that I have a tampon inside of me until it’s past the saturation point, and by that time I’ve bled all over my underwear.”

With that a tall redhead got up from her booth with her hand over her mouth and frantically rushed to the ladies room to throw up.

“Oh, well, that’s happened to all of us at one time or another. But even so I should think all that cotton would somehow contaminate the blood, and then you’d get a reading that would be much higher than if you were to test through your finger, or your arm, or your leg, or even your eye for that matter. Not that I would ever discourage you from such experimentation, mind you.”

“Well, I definitely want to give it a go if I can ever figure out how to do it the right way!” Stella declared.

“Let me know when you do it, ‘k? I might want to try that one myself. I’d love to see the look on Milo’s face when he checks my meter for high readings.” Punk Mother chortled by the end of that statement. “He’s as bad as Fergie, that Milo.”

So the two ladies finished their lunch and the maitre d was only too glad to get their check to their table as quickly as possible. They left the money and a generous tip and made their way to the ladies room before resuming their Black Friday shopping.

As they entered the restroom, they could both smell vomit, no doubt from the redhead who was in there earlier.

“Ecch, that smell!!” Punk Mother exclaimed.

“God, I hope whoever was in here last simply drank herself sick!” Stella added.

“Really! If there’s one thing we don’t need is any kind of food poisoning.”

“Fuck man; I’m scared to death of throwing up…especially when I’m hit hard with the hypo attacks.”

Luckily for Stella and Punk Mother they suffered no ill effects from the food, and were able to continue their Xmas shopping.

After their shopping spree, Stella and Punk Mother went online to browse through some of the matchmaking sites to see if they could find a suitable replacement for Jarvis. So far, most of the potential candidates didn’t move Stella enough to yank a “yes” out of her.

“They’re all so fucking normal!” Stella complained. “I mean not one of them would know a Warhol from an A-hole. Even if any of them were good in bed, I doubt I’d click with any off them.”

Going through site after site, all Stella could say about every photo of every guy she saw was, “Douche…douche…douche…major douche…douche…” Punk Mother couldn’t blame her. She was far from impressed by what she’d seen on these sites as well. But then she’s married so it’s not such a big issue for her. This was really an attempt at a favor for Stella.

Even so, Punk Mother could only comment, “If their cocks were as big as their egos, they’d be all right.”

This brought to mind a circumcision joke she’d read in William S. Burroughs’ Naked Lunch:

“One day they’ll get wise and cut the rest of it off!”

On that note Punk Mother was glad she’d bought Stella a vibrator for Xmas. She hoped that it would be the right size for Stella.

“What A Stroke of Luck!!”

2010-05-04T10:19:00.000-07:00

Cannes’ frustration hadn’t abated much. Throughout the month she’d been looking for work to no avail. She could only hope that her participation in the Queen of Magmaville pageant would help her to land her dream job at The Glamourous Beauty Salon, but was far too pragmatic to hold her breath. It was still a crap shoot after all.

In any case, between that and Clay not being around much to relieve another kind of frustration, the tax on her patience was really getting to her. So to cheer her up, Janet took her out to the Naked Lunch Café for a bite to eat and then maybe some thrift store hopping afterwards.

Stella and Pearl joined them. As the four of them split a plate of nachos and awaited their meal- sized salads, Janet sat attentively as Cannes ranted.

“All patience seems to do for me, for all this talk of bringing rewards, all it does is open the door for us to be subject to an incessant barrage of bullshit, really. And how much does whatever passes for The Good Lord Above In Heaven expect us to take, anyway? I mean, these empty promises and empty offers are getting real old. They can save it for the cornfields where it’ll do some real good, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Things are tough all over, darling.” Janet added. “You’ve been real good about grabbing the damned bull by the horns tho, to your credit.”

“Seems all this grabbing the bull by the horns stuff amounts to anymore is getting more bull than you probably actually want, really.” That was a real groaner on Pearl’s part. This statement was met with Stella and Cannes calling out “Moooooo!” in the same tones that one would use to yell, “Boooooo!” any time a crappy assed entertainer stunk up the stage.

Cannes cell phone rang just then. She answered with a slightly terse “Hello.”

It was Clay. He has his way of letting her know that he wants to get back together with her. Check this out, this is rich, dude!

“First I’m gonna rip the buttons of your blouse off with my teeth…”

It was obvious to Cannes where this was headed.

“…And then I’ll run my tongue around the base of your neck and maybe sink my teeth into your flesh…”

This was too good not to share with the rest of the group, Cannes decided. With that thought she put her index finger to her lips, indicating the need for everyone to keep quiet. Then she pressed the speaker button on her cell phone and cranked the volume up real loud.

“…While I tear off your blouse and reveal those beautiful tits of yours…and I hope to God that your not wearing any underwear coz I cannot wait to lick those titties like they were ice cream cones…”

With that all eyes within the perimeter of the Yossarian’s table turned to the spot where Cannes sat. She held the phone with one hand and her finger to her lips with the other. The frustration over the job search didn’t matter any more. All eyes and ears were focused intently as Clay continued.

“…I just adore how that makes you moan, and my hands cannot keep from fondling your beautiful body. How I miss that so much…”

This went on for – oh -- who knows how many minutes. However long it was, that was long enough for Clay to begin prattling about Cannes’ poontang. Right about then some random young mother and her 3 year old daughter were being ushered to a nearby empty table. As they passed the table where Cannes’ party congregated, the mother and child very clearly heard the word “Poontang.” Curious, the little girl yelled very loudly, “MOMMY, WHAT’S A POONTANG???”

That was loud enough for Clay to hear, as was the sound of the entire table busting up laughing!

“Haha, that’s real cute…real fucking cute. Where are you anyway?”

“Oh, I’m at the Naked Lunch café…”

“How appropos!”

“Yes, very…I’m having lunch with Mom, Stella and Pearl since I couldn’t join you guys at your parent’s place for the going away party. So are we on for dessert?”

“We’ll see. We shall however discuss this matter privately when you get home, young lady.” was all Clay had to say to that!

“Yes, dear.” Cannes replied, grinning wickedly. This day was getting better all the time.

Somehow between spurts of uncontrollable guffaws she managed to lecture Cannes (barely! snrk!) “You know, dear, you’re going to have to make it up to him for that!”

“I’m sure…it’s the least I can do for the lively way he’s entertained us all!” Cannes laughed along with the rest of the table.

That phone call came, btw, from within the confines of The Bauhaus Café. As it happened, Clay likewise had an audience there; one Milo Haskins who sat drinking his tea and eating his blackcurrant scone across from his stepson. He was having a hard time containing his own guffawing as he listened to Clay’s lusty spiel as it was, but when Clay announced, “Congradulate me, Pops! I’m a celebrity-slash-sex symbol now!” He damn near involuntarily spat out his sip of Earl Grey before succumbing to his own irresistable guffawing urges.

Jarvis didn’t quite give up on trying to contact Stella. He’d been calling her cell and calling the family’s land line just trying to get Stella to hear him out. But no one was having it.

His phone calls were bordering on completely harrassive, so it was no surprise that when the proprietor of The Glamourous Beauty Salon finally did get through that the entire family – Cannes included – automatically assumed that it was Jarvis calling again.

“Don’t nobody answer that!” Richard barked. The family waited for the voicemail to pick up yet another spate of Jarvis’ groveling. As they waited, Cannes wondered aloud, “Why do I get the feeling that the television will turn on by itself and that any second Emily the Strange is gonna come crawling out of the bottom of the well to kill us all?”

However, the entire family ended up breathing a huge sigh of relief as Andre Simmons, the proprietor of The Glamourous Beauty Salon began to leave a message. “Hullo, this message is for Candace Yossarian, this is Andre Simmons from The Glamourous Beauty Salon…!”

Cannes was suddenly ecstatic! She’d recognize that effeminate lilt anywhere. Excited, she answered the phone. The rest of the family were just glad that someone had called to block one of Jarvis’ phone calls and make him suffer through a busy signal. Serves him right, anyway.

Long story short, Cannes got her dream job at The Glamourous Beauty Salon! :-D

And to top it all off, She and Clay got back together again.

Richard, however, was extremely ambivalent about letting Jarvis anywhere near the Yossarian household, let alone in the Yossarian household. So he was in the process of changing the locks to keep that fuckhead from ever darkening their bedroom doors again. As he was working, Cannes offered to have duplicates made for all the girls in her family. Clay prudently decided not to ask to have one made for himself. He did not want to press his luck.

He did ride along with Cannes to the locksmith. She had just parallel parked almost directly in front of the place. Before she would even begin to take care of business, she had to be absolutely clear where she stood with Clay. So she asked. “Now, what about us?”

“I think with Jarvis out of the way, we can have a good make-up shag without any further interruptus getting in our way.”

“Well, yeah, but besides that. You know what you’re getting into by getting back with me, don’t you? After all, I don’t think it should be necessary to go on browbeating you about my medical condition. I shouldn’t think you enjoy that any more than I enjoy being browbeaten about it.”

“Well, Cannes, it’s not like I can’t ever come to terms with it. But here’s my thing; am I pushing my luck with your parents as far as you and I stand. I mean, if you and Stella were my daughters, after all.”

“I wouldn’t worry about what my parents have to say about us. After all, Baba’s enough of a badass that he wouldn’t judge you too harshly if he found you to be such a bad influence. It’s enough if you don’t press your luck with me, or if you do press your luck, press it in a way that it can get me off.” With that she winked at him and blew an air kiss.

“But seriously, tho, Clay, I just want you to be okay with it. I might be able to handle my disease on my own, but it would really suck if you weren’t around…that’s all.”

“Well, here’s my feeling on what’s been going on. Uncle Tom is dead, and Jarvis damn near killed your sister. I’m concerned that your parents won’t think much of me, seeing as I ran out on you the way I did.”

“You came back, didn’t you. As far as your Uncle Tom goes, nobody could tell him anything. And nobody in our family, not even I, really was happy with Jarvis. I would’ve loved to have been wrong in my suspicions about him, but no! Jarvis wouldn’t even allow anyone the luxury of proving even me wrong about him.

“Anyway, I think my parents understand that Stella and I are two different individuals who take our own approach to managing our lives, and trust that we’ll both learn some very valuable lessons from our own mistakes. Which is really as it should be…

“C’mere…” Cannes drew Clay in for a kiss. “You shouldn’t be afraid of what my parents think. They’re cool people. Even your mom and stepfather think so. Just keep being a man, okay.” She kissed him and said again. “Just keep being a man.”

Clay cranked up the volume on the car stereo as Grinderman launched into “When My Love Comes Down.” And the two of them began making out in the car while Nick Cave & the boys provided the background music.

And now for a weird interlude…

Clay agreed to meet Cannes at the house for dinner.

While she was in the shower getting ready, Cannes had cut herself shaving her legs. That’s nothing out of the ordinary considering that like most women, Cannes will make the most of a shower. She’ll wash her hair, lather her whole body, and – while she’s still soaped up – take the razor to her legs, her bikini area, and her armpits. So it’s not unusual to run the risk of cutting oneself shaving for anyone.

Anyway, she cut herself shaving, and even though she was still bleeding, she finished shaving. Then she rinsed off, shut off the shower, and began to dry off.

She had cut herself in two places that night; one nick was on the back of her left ankle. The other was in front of her right calf about 4 inches above the ankle. The back of her left ankle was bleeding a bit profusely…or so the mix of warm water and blood made it appear as if it were to her. In any case, she hurriedly dried off and reached for a band aid to cover the wound.

She sat on the toilet lid and bandaged the cut on her left ankle. Then she continued to dry off on her right leg. She noticed a new drop of blood well up immediately on her right leg, a nick that evidently hadn’t been accounted for. A small red bubble rested on the skin’s surface.

Curious, she wondered what kind of a reading she would get if she tested her blood glucose from that small drop of blood. She grabbed her testing kit and, bypassing the lancing device, inserted a test strip into her meter. She dipped the end of the strip in the blood, and five seconds later she got a reading of 96. Not a dangerous low at all, really. She might be able to get through cooking dinner for herself and Clay if she treated herself to some fruit juice pretty soon.

And now an exerpt from Clayton Burke’s diary:

“We’re in the Yossarian’s kitchen, Cannes and I, and she’s making a nice chicken curry. She’s beckoned me into the kitchen for a taste test. She knows I know my curry. Hot-assed Madras Curry, just like Mom learned to make from the many Indian cafés peppered throughout London Town.

“There’s a nice big wooden spoon in her right hand, with about 3 chunks of boneless chicken that look to be at least about 1 ½ inches apiece, swimming in this thick, bright yellow curry sauce, a little of which drips from the tip of the spoon onto the countertop. The smell of cumin and cilantro gate-crashes my nostrils as she brings the spoon to my mouth.

“Frankly I’m incredibly impressed. The hottest girl in the world succeeded in making the hottest curry I’ve ever had…and I’ve eaten some hot-assed curry in my time. I swear you’d actually have to go to Madras to find a curry more Madras than this curry. It’s just too exquisite! None of the other flavors have been overwhelmed by the cayenne and ginger combination. I can taste the chicken, bell pepper, cilantro, garlic, cumin, yoghurt…everything. And yet my eyes were watering. I’m pretty sure the impact of this curry has moved me to tears.

“I can feel a little of the sauce drip down the right side of my chin. She reached for my face and wiped it off my skin with her fingers…which she brought to my mouth. I sucked the sauce off them and before she can pull her hand away, I took those two fingers into my right hand and pulled them back to my lips to kiss them.

“Then I moved her hand back a bit to look at those lovely fingers and am suddenly sad for those fingers that have worked so hard I’m sure to concoct the best curry ever. Those two lovely fingers on her left hand are bearing some very visible puncture marks near the tips on the left side. And some of the puncture marks are in such close proximity that, particularly on the index finger they form two lines with several more puncture wounds nested between them. These lines, culled from countless glucose tests, could easily pass for paper cuts. And the puncture areas are calloused.”

“And what will you give me for this all important glucose test?” Cannes was just onery enough to test this self-appointed diabetes food cop she’d been banging for at least a couple of years now.

Poor Clay, only for her would he give head. It was not his favorite thing, but he was good at it when he absolutely had to be. The look in the Yossarian girl’s eye told him this would be one of those nights.

“Anything you want, my little warrior princess.”

“I love the way you think, darling.”

“But I want a good reading; none of this ‘below 90’ crap!”

“You drive a hard bargain, you mean old copper, you!” Cannes pouted.

“100 or better or nothing!” Clay stood firm on this one.

Clay liked to watch her prepare for the glucose test, even though it made him sad to see those lovely fingers punctured over and over again. I won’t lie to you gentle reader; describing the process by which one’s glucose is tested is getting a trifle monotonous. Shoving the lancet into the lancing device, shoving the test strip into the meter, lancing her finger, squeezing out a drop of blood, feeding it to the test strip, wait a few seconds, and hey presto! She got a reading of 114.

“Well, well!” Cannes purred slyly. “Looks like I’m at a safe place now.”

“Is that what you think?” Clay purred back, kissing her neck. “That’s rather presumptuous of you, don’t you think?”

And with that she knew they would be enacting one of her favorite fantasies. Lestat has his way with her in the shower, and it turns into a re-enactment of the shower scene in The Hunger. Somehow the thought of The Thin White Duke himself giving anyone – let alone little ole Candace Yossarian – some head in the shower could only serve as fodder for sexual arousal to her happily twisted little mind. At this point she’d gladly settle for this cute little gnome she’d fallen in love with, who is now serenading her with really bad Bela Lugosi impersonations as he ran his lips and breathed along the base of her neck.

They began stripping each other naked and when the last evidence of fabric fell to the bathroom floor, Clay lifted his girlfriend gently into the shower…the second shower she’s had this evening. He’d set her on her feet again and the two of them resumed kissing. As they kissed, their hands fondled each other as a cascading stream of warm water ran down their bodies. Cannes grew more and more aroused with each caress. There was something about water that consistently proved to be a complete turn on for her…especially when it’s running over her body and over his body and between their bodies as they press up rubbing each other, making out hard and passionately. Before long she was ready to take him inside of her and just then Clay began to kneel down, kissing her down the front of her chest and belly as he lowered himself to her snatch. He then parted the hair covering her front cleft and plunged his mouth right on top of it, his tongue easily finding her clit, his warm breath breezing through her pubic hairs. The way his tongue works is one of God’s greatest mysteries, she often mused to herself as she tried her best to stand still while his tongue worked its magic on her clit, his hands fondling her backside as the water continued to cascade down and around their bodies.

After a shower like that, the two of them couldn’t much less wouldn’t wait to towel off. They shut off the shower and head right for the bedroom. And he’d penetrate her with a mild vengeance just the way she liked it. As the two of them groped and writhed on the bed, Cannes would close her eyes and begin to visualize a giant mirror installed in the ceiling directly over the bed. She would imagine seeing Clay’s backside move as he writhed and grinded inside her. This visualization added to the arousal for Cannes, and she would writhe all the more urgently to his rhythm. And then she’d ejaculate – yes, women do ejaculate – holding him tightly as her body contorted to the commands of a much needed release. This would always bring Clay to climax; the thought that he could last long enough to make the woman he loves climax. And so the two of them would cling to each other tightly, let their bodies explode into space, and just become part of a much larger entity that could only be called ONE!

The two of them finished their mating dance, and began to doze off for a post-coital nap.

It was a dark and stormy night…

Clay had just returned from using the bathroom and crawled back into bed with Cannes. His ass tingled. “Man, it felt good to take a crap!” he thought.

A loud crash of thunder rang through the sky, totally unnerving him. He clung much closer to his lover, who by this time was likewise completely rattled by the noise. She held him tightly as well.

They laid there silently in each other’s arms for awhile, relieved that they weren’t very close to a window at the moment. Waiting for their nerves to settle down, they were hoping the downpour of rain would lull them back to sleep. No such luck, though. Cannes felt a piss coming on. She made her way to the toilet and decided not to turn on the bathroom light. She didn’t know why she thought the lightning would find her if she did, but all she knew was that she wanted to avoid being struck by lightning by all means. She emptied out and when she finished she returned to bed, wrapping her leg around Clay’s hip. She could tell by his erection that he was having a bit of trouble falling asleep as well.

He finally spoke. “If you had announced that you had to pee right before that massive thunderclap went off, hoo boy!” He then started cracking up.

So did Cannes. Her cunt churned. She wanted to fuck. “Can you imagine holding that much water inside of you?” She asked, referring to the massive storm that was pouring down all kinds of rain outside. Clay’s fingers wasted no time making their way down to her pubes. Her snatch was wet and squishy. She squirmed at his touch and gushed all the more.

“Between this storm and this woman…” Clay thought, but couldn’t quite finish the sentence in his head. Nor could he keep from penetrating this woman beside him, either. Her moisture was too irresistable. His cock was going for a swim!

“I’d be hella thundering myself!” Cannes chuckled. Both her legs encircled around his hips and criss-crossed under his buttocks as they gyrated slowly and gently. “I’d be like, ‘Oh God, I gotta piss so bad!’ And then…” She tried to imitate the thunder noise. The two of them busted up laughing.

“Can you imagine…” Clay could barely speak, he was laughing so hard. Additionally Cannes was squirming and gyrating in time to his thrusts. “If we had started fucking awhile earlier, and right when either one of us started to cum…” Then he attempted to mimic the thunder, too.

They were both laughing uncontrollably as he was sliding in and out of that jacuzzi between her legs. Her hips were practically spinning around him as he moved. Then amidst all the laughter she began to cry out, “Aah, ah, ah, ah, ah…”

Then just to get one more laugh out of this, he fakes a sneeze and imitates the thunder again. That makes them laugh all the more, but she couldn’t hold her orgasm back any longer. Every cell in her body tightened up as she exploded inside. This triggered an explosion that came from deep within Clay’s body as well. As the two of them shared this climax together, they awaited another massive thunderclap to make its exclamation point. But none came. There was only the steady torrential rain pouring down hard, flooding the streets all over town.

Sensing this, Cannes remarked, “This town is probably as horny as I am right now. It’s super-fucking-drenched, just like me!”

"Broken Hearts R 4 Assholes"

2010-05-02T12:56:00.000-07:00

Let’s talk about makeovers….

“Look at it this way…” Cannes said to Stella. “You’re a free bitch now!”

Cannes had her big ole box of eyeshadow colors, eyeliners, mascara, cheek and lip stains, glosses, eyelash curlers, brushes, bronzers, tweezers, waxing strips, nail polish, body glitter…I mean, pfft! Seriously, her makeup kit is hilarious right now.

Stella beheld the assortment peeking out from that kit. “You don’t ever get tired of giving people makeovers, do you?” Stella was still depressed about Jarvis, and she wasn’t particularly in the mood for a makeover. But on the other hand she’d been subjected to far too much drama already, and she was in no mood to bring any more upon herself by fighting Cannes on this issue. Cannes would always insist and she always wins.

“Why can’t I ever be the strong one?” She silently thought to herself as Cannes answered her statement with a “Nope.”

All Stella could do is surrender. “I mean, what the fuck, anyway…If my sister wants to pamper me, so be it.”

That was Cannes’ thing; she loves to style people’s hair, she loves to do makeovers. Manicures, waxing, facials, weaves, you name it, she’s into it. After all, Cannes spent the better part of the previous night turning grown men into fabulous women while Jarvis behaved like a mean, selfish child. You’d think Cannes would want a break from it for one night after all that, but clearly she’s enjoying every second.

The only thing Cannes loves more is sex…which at the moment seems to be lacking for her lately. “Does she even miss Clay, I wonder?” Stella thought. “No matter, she’ll open up about that in her own good time sooner or later.”

For now let’s talk about some badly needed pampering for Stella. Cannes began by massaging some moisturizer into her sister’s face. Satisfied that her sister was adequately relaxed and into the moment, she wiped the excess off with a dry cloth and proceeded to apply some bronzer powder all over her face and neck. And just for the fun of it, Cannes topped that off with some glitter powder.

Then she began work on the eyes. Only a minimal amount of eyebrow hairs needed to be plucked. Then some plum colored eyeliner on the upper and lower lids of Stella’s eyes was followed by some eyeshadow of the same color on the upper lid only. Soon a golden streak was arched over that deep purple patch and under the eye. And to top it all off, Cannes applied a shimmery, iridescent white with pale blue undertones. A thin, even coat of black mascara was painted on to Stella’s lashes. Pale pink powder was next applied to her cheeks already made sparkly by the glitter. Last but not least came a plum-colored lip gloss. And for a finishing touch, a drop of Jasmine essential oil was rubbed behind each ear and at the base of Stella’s throat…for aromatherapy purposes.

Stella felt her depression ease gradually throughout the entire process. When she was offered the mirror to see the results of her sister’s handiwork, not only was she pleased with what she saw staring back at her, not only that mind you, but she had to admit that she felt as good as she looked.

How could she not when she looked just like Egyptian royalty, after all?

Stella remembered the last time she’d gotten such a makeover. It was shortly before Clay’s biological father Henry Burke remarried. At that point Stella had a sense of something about to blow. Cannes was applying a turquoise powder to Stella’s eyes when she asked, “D’ya ever get the feeling that the bottom is going to drop out on us?”

“Something tells me you didn’t ingest enough carbohydrates.” Cannes replied as she set down her brush.

“Cannes, Cannes, Cannes…if only that had anything to do with it.” Stella’s glucose levels were actually fine; a very safe and healthy 116 at that point, much to her relief. But that wouldn’t help shake this persistent suspicion something very huge was about to happen.

Cannes sighed. “How can I put your mind at ease?”

“I don’t think my mind is supposed to be at ease, to tell ya the truth.”

The wedding ceremony and reception were held at St. Luke’s Seaside Episcopal Church. Clay’s biological father Henry Burke had just exchanged vows with a woman named Patrice. Also in attendance was Punk Mother, who had been Henry’s first wife before she left the commune and hooked up with Milo. Milo was there also, as were the entire Yossarian family, Clay, Jarvis, Kent, Clay’s cousin Pearl, and his Uncle Tom.

The reception took place in the parish hall. Tom as usual was eating and drinking too much. He had been warned repeatedly by both his doctor and his daughter Pearl to change his lifestyle. The doctor tried to get him on insulin therapy and 5 blood pressure medications. But Tom was having none of it.

Many’s the time that Uncle Tom and his daughter had sparred over this issue. Pearl insisted on staying with Tom after he and his wife divorced, in the hopes of talking some sense into him one day.

This occasion was no exception. The two of them were really going at it, with Tom holding a huge plate full of wedding cake well out of Pearl’s reach so that she couldn’t take it away from him.

(The irony of that is when Pearl was a kid, her mom would refuse to let her have more than a small piece of cake out of concern for Pearl’s allergies.)

“You can’t have it either! You’re allergic!” Tom bellowed.

“Look, I’m not taking it for myself! Let someone else have it! And you shouldn’t have it anyway! You’re diabetic!!!”

“Stop raising your voice like that, young lady!! It’s not your place to tell me what to do!!”

“You’ve had 5 pieces of cake already, and you’re drunk besides!!”

“I’ll take my belt to you in front of all these people if you don’t back off right now!!!”

“You’re going to give yourself a heart attack!!!”

This battle wasn’t helping his blood pressure levels at all, which were rapidly climbing as the row continued.

The Groom began to intervene. “Tom, put the cake away and calm down! You’re making a spectacle of yourself!!”

“Stay out of it, Henry, I mean it!! I’m sick of people always telling me what I can and cannot do!! I’m doing what I want, and ---!”

Had Tom been able to finish the sentence, the battle would’ve only escalated. But as it happened, it was exactly as Pearl had feared. Yes, Uncle Tom promptly suffered a massive and fatal heart attack right then and there. He gasped, dropped the plate, and fell face down on the parish hall floor. It took about 4 people to turn Tom over on his back and when they did – he must’ve weight at least 350 lbs, and that’s a conservative estimate! – Henry and Patrice performed CPR on him as Pearl called 911, terrified and weeping.

Clay was freaked out badly by the incident, and I suspect also by the fact that he’s been surrounded by family and friends who have all, at one point or another, had severe glucose emergencies of their own impose themselves on him. In any case, he just couldn’t deal with it anymore, or so he thought.

“I’m sorry, Clay…” Cannes shouted, “…that Tom was a stubborn asshole! Why are you buggin’ out?”

“Look, I’m sick of it, y’know!!! I mean, what does that say about my Mom? About you? About your sister, too??? All these goddamn hospital dramas…I mean, Fucking Hell, Candace Yossarian!! I’m sorry, but I cannot take this, watching my family and friends all scaring me to death with this persistent threat hanging over my head…all you sick bastards about to drop dead like goddamn flies!!!”

Cannes burst into tears, but somehow managed to shout, “You think this is my idea of a jolly good time, do you? I hate bearing this goddamn cross!! I’m sick of poking myself in the fucking finger, and I’m sick of all the insulin attacks!! And that’s to say NOTHING about these Jeckyll and little miss Hypo trips that’s become a fucking normality around here!! Boy, now That’s fucking entertainment, isn’t it!!!

“What are you gonna do about that? You gonna run away, like some fucking headless chickenshit?? Go panic in the street like the sky’s gonna fall???”

He was outta there, heading for home.

“YEAH, GO AHEAD RUN JUST COZ YOU THINK YOU CAN!!! YOU CANNOT SWING A CAT IN THIS GODDAMN TOWN WITHOUT HITTING SOMEONE WHO IS AT LEAST PRE-DIABETIC!!! MARK MY WORDS!!”

Clay had nothing more to say. He just had to get away…just had to. He felt like a coward but so fucking what. He was only human, after all, and could only take so much.

Cannes couldn’t care less. She stormed back into the house, tears streaming down her face as she snarled, “Fucking chickenshit!”

Jarvis and Stella somehow managed to get to the house before Clay and Candace had the fight. As soon as Clay left, Stella poked her head out of the door of the attic where her bedroom was and called, “Cannes?!?”

“Forgeet dem, chiquita! Come back to bed and let me fuck you, por favor!” Jarvis said as he dragged her back into the room.

So…Shall we cut to the chase??

Stella had the night off from The Bauhaus Café. She didn’t expect to, and fully expected to put in a full night shift. However the nighttime traffic was slower than a right wing pundit’s bowel movement and Punk Mother wasn’t really up for keeping the café open for the remainder of the night for nothing. So she gave Stella and Kent the rest of the night off.

There was also an open invitation to go to Punk Mother’s home, as Milo wanted to throw a going away party for Pearl. Kent had been very, very close to Pearl to say the least. So he would be there just so he can be with her one last time before she made the move to Los Osos to start a new life in what most of the Magmaville residents jokingly referred to as “Bear Country.” The reference being only because Los Osos is the spanish term for “The Bears” and there was a tv show called “Bear Country,” which featured a lot of big, hairy, gay men as part of the cast.

Stella had wanted to go to the party, too. However, Jarvis happened to meet her in the parking lot beside the café. He was drunk, and clearly he had other ideas. So, Stella figured, what the hell? We’ll screw and then we’ll go to the party…and everyone will be at least not too bummed out about anything.

Back at the house there was nobody home. Cannes had the opportunity to do some work backstage at The Stud, helping with hair and makeup for – what – the umpteenth-hundred-and-somethingth annual Queen of Magmaville Pageant that was taking place over there. Both Janet and Richard would attend also, in part to lend support to their darling daughter and also because they were both in the mood to get shitfaced and hang out with a gaggle of some freaky-arsed freaks, I tell you what, boy!

Now Stella, she knew she should’ve tested her blood sugar levels, and knew she should’ve made sure she had a decent snack before hopping in the sack with Jarvis. But Jarvis was far too randy to give her such a prudent opportunity. Again, Stella was like, “Whatever, y’know. At least I’m having sex, and it wasn’t that long ago that I had at least a little something to eat before I clocked out anyway.” Thinking it’d be like a nice change of pace to take a break from dealing with this pain in the arse disease she’s been saddled with since age 12, she naturally went with the flow, acquiescing to Jarvis’ insistence and letting him have his way with her.

So the two of them made their libidinous way to the attic, and they fucked and fucked and fucked and fucked and fucked….

Eventually Stella had to stop…just had to. She was really feeling low, sweating and feeling weak and trembly. She had to get out of bed and get herself something to eat, and then she’d be good again. But try telling that to Jarvis. He held her back and wouldn’t let her go, kept trying to kiss her and fondle her breasts. So she panicked and began to fight him off, smacking him pretty hard a couple of times.

That really pissed Jarvis off. A streak of Spanish expletives rolled off his drunken tongue as he rose up and pushed her out of the bed. And without so much as a chance for her to get any clothes on, He bounded out of bed, grabbed Stella by the arm, pushed her downstairs. And the next thing Stella knew, he had thrown her out of the house, stark naked and sick.

Fortunately, Punk Mother didn’t live very far from the Yossarians. Somehow Stella managed to stumble over there before any police cars began their nightly patrol in the neighborhood.

The going away party was pretty much in full swing, with Pearl, Clay, Kent, Milo and Punk Mother sitting around smoking joints, drinking Guinness, and listening to some very early Bauhaus, Caberet Voltaire, Birthday Party, The Fall, Grinderman…

And while I’m on the subject of Grinderman…

“Has anyone noticed that Nick Cave looks an awful lot like the way Cheech Marin used to lately?” Clay asked out loud. He sounded pretty funny trying to talk while holding in a coupla lungfuls of ganja.

Then Kent started prattling on about how all those YouTube videos, where Clay got this great information about Nick Cave’s appearance, hogged all the bandwidth from the computers, and a pie-eyed discussion ensued.

Until…

“Oi, missus!” Milo called everyone’s attention to the window. “ ‘Ere’s a naykid loydee stooblin’ abayt in th’ street oot dere!”

Well, Punk Mother went to investigate, thinking Milo’s probably so pissed out of his brain that he’d either think he’s actually seeing something resembling that or else he’s just pulling everyone’s leg. One look out the window told her that he wasn’t joking around about something like that!

“Oh my God! That’s Stella!!!” She exclaimed. She grabbed her favorite black trenchcoat and rushed out the door of her home to rescue Stella, who by this time was in a full blown insulin attack. Fortunately she wasn’t so far gone that she couldn’t recognize Punk Mother, who had wrapped the coat around her and led her indoors.

Stella was in hysterics crying and ranting that Jarvis had done this to her, kicked her out of her own house and and he was drunk and selfish and a complete asshole to her.

Kent and Clay were furious, and correctly thinking – out loud I might add – that Jarvis was still over at Stella and Cannes’ place “probably draining Janet & Richard’s liquor cabinet of every last drop and thinking he was such a big man showing that hypoglycemia bitch who’s boss.” The two of them stormed over to the Yossarian house fully intending to beat the living shit out of him.

Meanwhile, Pearl, Punk Mother, and Milo wasted no time getting some orange juice into Stella, and inundating her with cheese and crackers and assorted fruits so that all that excess insulin raging around inside of her would at least have something to feed on. And as a side, they let Stella smoke as many bowls as she wanted to settle her head, too.

Pearl wanted desperately to embrace Stella and tell her it’s okay, but it was obvious that Stella had an earthquake and a volcano going off inside of her…and needed the space to come down off that turmoil.

Now, nobody was really keeping track of how much time had passed since Kent and Clay left the party. But Stella was in a much calmer state – albeit still angry with Jarvis obviously – when the two of them returned. They had brought a little bit of company with them of course, in the form of a beaten and bloodied Jarvis dressed up in Stella’s clothes.

What follows now are the last words Jarvis would hear Stella say.

Stella: You suck as much as a drag queen as you do as a boyfriend!

Jarvis: Chiquita…

Stella: Chiquita, my ass! Gimme back my clothes…NOW!!

And with as much loving tenderness as Jarvis had shown to Stella, Kent and Clay stripped Jarvis down to his birthday suit…even tearing off his boxer shorts with the full intent to run them up some random flagpole not far from the heart of town.

“NOW GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY LIFE AND DON’T YOU EVER DARKEN MY DOOR AGAIN YOU SON OF A BITCH!!!”

And of course Punk Mother had something to say to him, too!! “DON’T EVEN THINK OF COMING AROUND THE CAFÉ ANYMORE EITHER, OR I’LL GRIND YOU TO A PULP AND HAVE THE COPS COME AROUND TO CLEAN UP THE MESS!!”

With that Jarvis was unceremoniously shoved out into the street…just in time to be seen by a couple of police officers making the usual patrol rounds in the neighborhood.

And while we’re on the subject of Drag Queens…

Cannes was putting the finishing touches on a strawberry blond wig that rested on the head of a Queen of Magmaville contestant – one “Sierra Mayes” “Sierra Mayes” was on a bit of a verbal roll, prattling about those “annoying Gay BLT on wry stereotypes…I mean, God!”. Feel free to listen in!

“Just because I’m a gay man, people automatically assume I’m into The Wizard of Oz! I mean, give me a fucking break, geez!”

Another contestant pipes in, impersonating some unenlightened middle american type. “But it’s Judy Garland! You queers are supposed to be into her, after all!”

A whole lotta irises and pupils could be seen rolling upwards underneath all that eye shadow, eyeliner and mascara as “Sierra Mayes” snipped, “‘Lions and tigers and bears oh my!’ Pfft! One more fucking Oz analogy and I swear I’ll puke up a spleen!”

“If we’re going to get into stereotypical gay analogies, why not throw in some lines from The Rocky Horror Picture Show?” Another contestant added.

“Why oh why couldn’t we have had the Stonewall Riots on the night that Jimi Hendricks played the Monterey Pop Festival? It would’ve been so much less depressing. Better music too!” Well, obviously “Sierra Mayes” was clearly not down with the whole Barbara Streisand and Broadway trip!

“Hello!!” Yet another contestant was a bit hellbent on changing the subject so that it was all about HER, bitch! “Who do I have to blow to get a touch up on my manicure??”

“Just grab an emery board and do your own damn manicure, bitch!” “Sierra” snapped.

Now here’s the rub of why Cannes was at this pageant the same night that Punk Mother had her going away party for Pearl; One of the judges of the Queen of Magmaville Pageant was Andre Simmons, the proprietor of The Glamourous Beauty Salon. To work there was considered the pinnacle of beautician success at least within the city limits. Cannes’ ulterior motive was to impress the good proprietor with her skills. And she was game for the challenge.

Besides, anything to distract her from being depressed that she hadn’t been with Clay for awhile.

Meanwhile, Richard and Janet were seated at the bar downing Guinnesses and facing the front of the stage. Neither of them came often to the gay district of Magmaville; too busy with their video projects, after all. Richard had nothing against gay people – in his own way he understands what it’s like to have been picked on for being different from other people…even though he was just as straight as the next person…provided the next person was Milo Haskins. In fact, these people seem okay, and much more interested in their own dates than in hitting on him. And anyway, he Janet really liked the ambience of the nightclub actually. The interior reminded them of Glam Rock.

Anyway, they were here for Cannes, and “If our girls want to be ‘fag-hags,’ if that’s what makes them happy, it’s alrighty by me!” Richard declared.

“Yeah, right…anything for a free trim!” Janet teased.

“Yeah, well, you’d take a freebie from your own daughter, too!”

“A freebie?? Gimmie a break, jeez!!” Janet rolled her eyes and continued, “Have you forgotten what diabetes management costs nowadays? It’s a wonder they can pay for their own meds!”

Anyway, Cannes did join her parents after finishing “Sierra Mayes” to watch the queens strut their stuff. Drag Queen after Drag Queen came a workin’ the runway, sweetie, showing off their finest gowns and wigs and hair extentions made so much more fabulous by the capable hands of Richard and Janet Yossarian’s youngest daughter.

By the very end of the pageant, the contestants were narrowed down to 3. “Sierra Mayes” was voted the 2nd runner up, after a contestant named Dawn Vito came in 3rd. The winner…was Princess Johnson.

Cannes didn’t stick around after Princess Johnson’s coronation. She said “See ya back at the house.” to her parents after pecking them both on the cheek before she hooked up with “Sierra Mayes” and headed over to his place. After she left, Richard and Janet began to chat a little bit about her. Both of them seemed a bit concerned about her, and no amount of stout could erase this growing concern. Richard noticed that Clay hadn’t been coming around as often as he had before Henry Burke’s wedding, and neither he nor Janet had seen the two of them together since then. He also remarked about the state he noticed she’d been in lately; how moody, agitated and lost she seems anymore. Janet hoped that her volunteering for this pageant would help her to land a job at the beauty salon so that she could give her life some real focus.

Boris the bartender couldn’t help but overhear the Yossarian’s concerns about Cannes. Now Boris, a very muscular bartender who stood at about 5’ 9” with short cropped naturally curly red hair and piercing blue eyes, was a bit of a legend around the GLBT territories of Magmaville. To date he has survived every single violent attack that the homophobic thugs had subjected him to, and he has commemorated each and every survival story with a tattoo. There was a tattoo of a steel chain around his neck, which told the story of having been strangled into unconsciousness by a gay basher with a stainless steel chain. A 2nd attack, both of his kneecaps were fractured. Once the bones were healed and he successfully completed his physical therapy sessions, he went right out and had the word “fag” tattooed on his right knee and the word “got” on his left.

Then there was a 3rd tattoo of Willie Mayes – he loved baseball – on his chest. This was to commemorate the moment when he’d decided he had it up to heeeere with having the crap beaten out of him all the time. Somehow he’d managed to grab the aluminum baseball bat out of one thug’s hands and proceeded to start cracking some skulls in the hopes of perhaps knocking some sense into those goddamned fascist pigs once and for all. Oh yes: Boris was in a blind rage and had easily broken several bones with that bat before they all high-tailed it back to whatever hell hole they had crawled out of. Wherever that was Boris didn’t really care, as he was too busy shaking his fist at those chickenshits and bellowing, “You better run, bitches!! You better run back to yo’ mamas and don’t come around here again if you know what’s good for ya…

“THIS IS OUR FUCKING NEIGHBORHOOD!!!” And everyone who lived within a two block radius where Boris the Bartender stood holding that damned baseball bat heard every word that was bellowed out to the sky. The entire neighborhood erupted in applause! He got a huge standing ovation in fact! His finest hour!

Richard Yossarian loved that story, and thought to himself that if he was a gay man, he’d’ve so gone for Boris. This was a man’s man!

Boris never seemed to tire of telling this story, nor of showing off his tattoos. His 2nd favorite tattoo, apart from the Willie Mayes tat, were the words “The Big Gay Elvis” printed in a straight horizontal line directly above his pelvis, which left just enough room for a arrow that pointed downward, directly at his genitalia.

“I got a lot of blow-jobs after that!” Boris said with a guffaw.

Richard and Janet loved his story. Boris was just about ready to start prattling about his gay – and more effeminate – nephew Simon when…yeah, speak of the devil – said nephew and his circle of friends began to make noises at the other end of the bar.

“Yoo-hoo, Mr. Bartender!! We need another round here!!”

And they were calling him in the most deliberately gawd awful, annoyingest falsettos they could muster up.

“Yoooo-hoooooo!”

Yeah, so anyway Boris excuses himself to go deal with Simon and his crazy friends. In actuality, since he was just about to talk about Simon anyway, his intention was to beckon him and his pals over to where Richard and Janet sat drinking. It appears that Simon has a hate crime survival story of his own that his Uncle Boris was just dying to make him share. So Simon rolls his eyes like okay whatever, anything to get a fucking beer out of his uncle.

So Boris introduces Simon to Janet and Richard, who shake hands with this guy. And at his uncle’s urging Simon raised his Dead Kennedys T-shirt to reveal what looked like the bottom of a hiking boot tattooed over the left side of his ribcage, very near where his stomach and pancreas would lay.

Now here’s Simon’s tattoo story;

“Okay, so my boy Gerald’s parents were out of town, and it was my 17th birthday. So we wanted to have a party while they were away. About 8 or 9 of us show up and we all got totally ripped out of our minds. Gerald and I had hoped for some alone time after everyone passed out, but by that time I was really starting to feel kinda sick from all the drinking and shit. So I start to head for home, and I’m walking of course, coz I’m too drunk to drive, y’see.

“I’m halfway home and alla sudden I gotta piss. So I go behind this dumpster to relieve myself, coz I had a lot of beer that night. Anyway, I just barely zipped back up again when I suddenly get jumped. I think there might’ve been at least two of them, but in any case they had me on the pavement and were really kicking the shit out of me. I had my hands over my face and I could just see this big ole hiking boot kicking me right here – “ With that, Simon points to where his tattoo was. “—again and again and again. They were totally out for blood and were wailing on me for a long time before I passed out.”

Simon then took a huge swig of the Newcastle Ale that he scored off his uncle, and he drew a heavy sigh before he continued. “So the next thing I remember is waking up at the hospital. My mom was really upset, practically in hysterics. I wanted to tell her I was okay, but I couldn’t even move, I was such a mess. Then this nurse comes in with some kind of meter, a needle, and a vial of insulin. And so I’m thinking, ‘What the fuck do I need insulin for? I don’t have diabetes! Is this a joke? Then the doctor comes in, Mom’s crying her eyes out, and I’m like, what’s going on here, doctor? He then tells me about all these tests they took, the x-rays and mri scans and blood tests, and he tells me that my pancreas was so badly damaged from all the kicks to my side that it’s no longer producing insulin anymore. So happy fucking 17th birthday, I have diabetes now. What a fucking present!” With that, Simon took another huge-ass swig from his bottle of ale. He was looking a little teary eyed. He clearly hated telling that story. “That was 7 years ago.”

Instinctively, Richard offered the lad a basketful of pretzels. The poor kid looked like he was ready to go hypo any minute, what with all the drinking.

Meanwhile…

Cannes met with “Sierra Mayes” at his studio apartment. And it wasn’t long before the two of them were splitting a bowl of “Cap’n Raunch” (“Stays raunchy…even in silk!”) and sat in front of the TV set. Cannes often retreated to a gayer atmosphere when things turned south…esp. betwixt Clay and herself.

Anyway, a clip of the movie Dirty Dancing was being aired on the telly. Now, there wasn’t any sound because “Sierra” has a thing for letting the television run with the mute button on and then playing the music of his choice in the background.

“Hm, for a second there I thought that was a YouTube clip.” Cannes said right after she expelled a well bogarted hit (Cannes never bogarted a joint or a pipe. She prefers to bogart the hit itself. She’ll hold it in her lungs as long as she can and then let a little of the smoke out, inhale again, hold that for a little bit more, and then let it all go.)

“It might just as well be.” “Sierra” replied. “They’ve uploaded a shitload of movies to that site, after all.”

As long as the subject of YouTube was brought up, “Sierra” got up from the sofa where the two of them had been sitting, and headed over to his computer. “Speaking of YouTube clips, would you mind if I play something on here for a bit?”

“You’re the d.j.!” Cannes wasn’t particularly riveted by what was on the small screen by any stretch. She could dance way dirtier than Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Grey any day of the week as far as she was concerned.

So “Sierra” navigated the arrow onto the tab of Favorites and scrolled it down to a listing that reads “Elvis Fucking Christ by The Cramps on Youtube.” He then clicked the left button on the mouse to activate the link…which came up in about 30 seconds…

“Well I got out of bed this morning…” crooned Lux Interior, the Cramps’ lead singer. “Ah heard what the guy on the TV sayyed…The big rawk o’lords crowned a brand new king!! It shoulda been me instead!! Don’t they know that I’m Elvis Fucking Christ!!! Elvis Fucking Christ!! Chicken-plucking, runamuckin’ Elvis Fucking Christ!!!”

While this was going on, Cannes found herself mesmerized by the Xmas tree in the corner of the living room. It had the basic miniature white lights strung along it, and was garlanded with two red and white dyed feather boas. The branches had his collection of cockrings hanging on them.

“Nice tree.”

“Thanks”

“One year we had jasmine vines on our tree.” Cannes began. “My mom read somewhere that the true spirit of Xmas had more to do with the changing of the season rather than some newborn savior. So she decided to honor that spirit by trimming the tree with garlands of real flowers.”

“Well, it’s all glitter and glam to me. Don’t you think so? I mean let’s face it, Candace; winter can be such a cold and gloomy and depressing time of the year, and the world needs a good counterpoint to that…

“A friend of mine had a Halloween tree. It had the basic little white lights, of course. And the branches were filled with rubber bats, rubber snakes, spiders, skeletons, and plastic severed fingers. And I don’t know how he managed to pull it off, but he somehow fashioned a garland made out of some animal’s entrails.”

Cannes was taken aback a bit by that one. “From REAL animals?!?”

“Yeah! He tried to get a plastic entrail garland online for the tree, but I guess there wasn’t any online site that sold such a thing…at least he couldn’t find one.”

“Eyew, God, I hope he at least emptied them out before he hung them up.”

“I couldn’t tell whether he did or not. In any case he ended up getting rid of the damn thing. It was stinking up the whole house really bad…”

“Good God, I can believe that.” It’s a good thing Cannes was stoned on weed, or she’d’ve been really nauseated by the very idea. And she doesn’t gross out very easily at all.

“Oh God…neither of us could stand it any longer after awhile, and it damn near turned me off permanently, man! One year I had hung all my make-up and jewelry on my tree.”

“Now that’s inventive!”

“Wasn’t it, though!” “Sierra” replied, beaming with pride. “It made it a hellova lot easier to find precisely the right color palette that I wanted to experiment with. I had such a blast with that tree. I would throw parties and invite damn near everyone I knew. And then we’d get really drunk and give each other makeovers using the decorations on the tree. We were all so wasted and sparkly and happy, and it was beautiful!”

Just then, Cannes could faintly hear the chatter of neighbors in the next apartment. The walls were practically made of papier mache, for fuck’s sake!

“What do you think you’re doing, Claude?” an Egyptian male’s voice protested.

“C’mon, Anwar…tide you over till you get back to your girlfriend.” This Claude insisted.

“Man, not tonight!”

“Anwar..”

“Claude, please go jack off. I’m too tired tonight, man!”

“I’m horneee! Anwarr!!”

“That…” began “Sierra” as he pointed at the wall. “Is precisely..”

“Look, stop tickling me, dammit!”

“…why I rented this piece of shit apartment…”

“You know you sleep better afterwards, Anwar.” Claude wasn’t giving up at all!

“I get a huge rush listening to those two monsters getting it on.” “Sierra” concluded.

All it did for Cannes was to make her cunt twinge. It’d been awhile since the last time she had gotten laid. She could barely keep from squirming at the thought of Claude’s agony.

Then “Sierra” started knocking on the wall – if you could call that a wall – and called, “Hey Claude! If he don’t want you, you can come over here and do me!” Then he turned to Cannes and made a face like he was silently cracking up laughing.

Cannes snirked and then said, “I suppose I’d better leave you kids alone, then.”

“Hmm, yes…”

“See, there’s the bitch queen next door, Claude. Go and fuck him for awhile…”

“I somehow think Anwar’s in no mood for a menage a trois tonight, dear.”

“Oh whatever, Anwar…you suck!”

“T’chuh! Don’t you wish!”

With that Cannes said her goodbyes to “Sierra” and as she left she passed Claude in the hall as he left his apartment. Claude seemed a bit snippy as he said to her in passing, “I guess he just wasn’t that into you, was he.”

Ah, nothing like gay banter, even when it got snippy, to crack Cannes up.

Anyway, she made her way to the nearest Hoagie Queen, thinking it might be about time to elevate her blood sugar levels. As she ate her bbq chicken wrap, some poor stressed out sandwich sculptor was getting verbally reamed by that douchebag of a manager who’s name she couldn’t give a hootenanny about. They must breed like rabbits, her head observed…

And then her thoughts screamed, “Dammit, stand up for yourself, bitch. I’m being traumatized listening to this shit!” Cannes made a mental note to herself to file a formal complaint to whoever it was that recently claimed that she ran Magmaville about this.

Janet was listening to what she referred to as her favorite soap opera while Fergie Mum-Mum lay sleeping in her bedroom. Her mother was ill with the flu, and Janet decided to give Morty a break from being at the beck and call of this woman all the time.

If she were actually watching this program, instead of fixating on the monitor of her laptop, blogging her memoirs (this was her latest project, an autobiography), this is what she might be watching…

“Previously on Bear Country…”announced the voice over talent. Janet would turn the tv on to Bear Country…just to piss off Fergie.

But she wasn’t really paying attention to it at all. The television was basically serving the same purpose as any one of your favorite record albums would do; a background soundtrack to chill out to while you do what you need to do.

As she blogged she thought about last night…how she looked in the mirror and really liked what she saw reflected back to her.

Her memory played out like a scene in a movie…

“Y’know, Richard, I think this is a sexy look for me.” Janet was at the time wearing a brown ribbed cotton tank top with a pair of black denim jeans. She loved her short-cropped pixie hair cut and she loved how all three of them seemed to work together. “This nice healthy looking bit of bare shoulders and just a hint of cleavage…just a hint.” And Janet had a great pair of shoulders, too, just bordering on the muscular. And thankfully her upper arms weren’t sagging very much at all…even after all the years.

“If I ever accuse you of doling out too much information about that,” Richard declared as soon as he came up behind her and wrapped his burly arms around her waist. “You should lock me in the loony bin and flush the key down the toilet.” The two of them kissed. Richard was anxious to put the day behind him and join his wife in bed…really anxious.

What a day, tho. The two of them learned what Jarvis had done to Stella the night before while everyone else was at the pageant, and Richard had a lot to say about the matter…as Jarvis discovered as soon as he came within yards of their front porch.

Jarvis had the nerve to come back, with a bouquet of flowers, balloons, and animal plush toys, eyes brimming with apologies, only to have his ears suddenly bombarded with enraged tones coming from behind the front door!

“…and it ill behooves me to think that asshole wouldn’t even let my daughter have ten minutes to take care of herself so that she can get back in the mood to let him continue to sexually assault her some more. I mean, if he’s too damned selfish to be patient with the fact that my poor little girl is battling this dreaded disease and will have to do so for the rest of her living days, then he doesn’t deserve to have any woman at all, let alone either one of my goddamn daughters!!!”

Well, that was all Jarvis needed to hear. It was obvious he wasn’t referring to Clay Burke. Jarvis looked towards the attic window where Stella’s room was and could only see the curtains shutting out any view of the street below. No doubt Stella was inside, sniffling with her hands over her eyes and murmuring, “I can’t even look out there right now.”

Oh well, he’d try again later when everyone calms down…or at least when she was home alone…maybe.

Eventually Richard calmed down enough to speak to Stella. He approached her as gently as he could.

“I’m not running a brothel, you realize. The illusion that I am does turn me on to no end, I’ll admit that. But that said, the only reason we let you girls bring your guys over here is so that you can be safe, and we can be sure that the guys you may think you want to marry don’t turn out to be major assholes like what that jackass turned out to be. And I just want to say that I’m really very sorry that we weren’t around to kick his ass before he pulled that shit on you.” And Richard meant that.

“I don’t want to see him anymore, Baba.” Stella grumbled tearfully. A rant welled up in her and burst out. “I don’t want him around here. I don’t want to look at him, I don’t want to talk about him…” her voice was cracking. “I don’t want to think about him and I hate being in love with him so bad like this! He’ll only kill my lust, just like he always does!” At this point she was sobbing uncontrollably.

Her father sat beside her on the bed and held her in his arms while she wept. “Well, look at it this way; you probably won’t be quite so horny for him anymore. Anyway…” Richard hope this would help console her. “I don’t think your lust can really be killed by anyone. It’s just got enough sense to walk away from a fucked up situation. You’ll find another guy who’ll make you go crazy the way you like to go crazy, and maybe he won’t be such an asshole to you. At least we can hope so, anyway.”

And then he kissed the top of her head and added, “Look, you’re a beautiful woman…just like your mother.”

Janet had been eavesdropping. As angry as she had been that her daughter had been abused, it cheered her to hear her husband say that she, too, was a beautiful woman in his own way and that he still finds her very, very attractive. That was true love.

That night, she and Richard made love. It felt so beautiful…so beautiful. It made Richard weep a little bit as he moved in and out of her. Stroking his back with the balls of her fingertips, Janet whispered, “Just keep fucking me, darling. We’ll both feel much better.”

“I can sure pick ‘em.” Stella confided to Punk Mother the following morning. The two of them were sipping sugar free iced mochas to ward off the effects of a particularly oppressive heat wave. The effects of this heat wave put both room and outdoor temperatures at heights generally inconducive to even minimal physical labor.

“How come I can’t draw a good man to me? I cannot possibly be that scary, can I?”

“Au contraire, Stella; you’re one of the scariest bitches I know.” Punk Mother replied.

The ladies laughed.

“In fact,” P.M. continued, “Up until I put you to work here I thought no woman could possibly be even half as scary as I am. But damn, you’ve come pretty close to outdoing me there, girlfriend.”

There was more laughter and then Stella said, “Is that so? Well, I’ll show you scary!!! Rrrrrooowwww!!!” Her lion imitation only served to unnerve Kent as he looked at both ladies askance. “You like scary women, though, doncha.”

“Of course I do. That’s the way a woman has to be in this day and age. It’s what the world deserves for being so damned scary to begin with. Besides,” Punk Mother replied, sipping her drink, “How else can we expect to separate the men from the boys, anyway?”

The ladies raised and clinked their glasses in the generic “cheers” toast.

“By the way,” Punk Mother continued, “did I ever tell you about the time I boffed Bam Margera?” She loved to tell tall tales. She and Stella both knew this was bullshit, but it’s still a funny-assed story. “Of course if you were to repeat it to him, he would deny it. But he was so shitfaced drunk, like he always is, so he wouldn’t remember any of it even if it did happen. But I fucked that bitch so hard it put him in a coma. Then I gave him a blow job…with a vacuum cleaner!”

The two women laughed and Punk Mother added, “And that vacuum cleaner really sucked!”

“You’re Just Getting Your Feet Wet, Bitch!”

2010-05-01T10:30:00.000-07:00

The first few weeks after Cannes received her diagnosis from Dr. Stiles were rough, to say the least

Not really knowing how to go about managing her diabetes, she figured that all she had to do was to cut back on sugar, cut back on salt, cut way back on the portions of food she ate, and all would be well. She had the right idea and all, but she cut back way too much on the amount of food, tho. And as a result, a new problem emerged that Cannes hadn’t quite counted on; nighttime insulin attacks.

They were keeping her awake at night, Mary!

She’d be in a deep sleep when all of a sudden a spasm from inside of her bronchial tubes would violently awaken her, and then the adrenaline would sear through her arms. She had no idea what to do about it. I don’t think she got very good guidance from anyone at the time, really.

This went on night after night after night, and it wasn’t long before Cannes was out of her mind with fatigue and despair. “How much more of this shit can I take?” she thought aloud. Right about then, Stella happened to be walking past the bathroom where Cannes stood in front of the mirror, contemplating the bottle of glyburide.

Something in the pit of her gut told Stella to investigate this.

It was a good thing she did, because she got there just in time to hear Cannes say aloud as she held the bottle of pills at eye level – the look in her face scared the crap out of Stella , “I bet a person could kill themselves on these, couldn’t they.”

Shocked, frightened, and outraged, Stella wasted no time snatching the bottle of pills from her sister’s hands and smacked her hard on the face. “You stupid bitch!!!” She yelled. “How dare you even contemplate such a thing! I went through Hell trying to survive this disease; The spikes, the lows, ridicule, being taken for a junkie, being told what I cannot eat all the time… You think I’m gonna let you off the hook? Aw, Hell NO!!!”

With that Stella pocketed the pill bottle and concluded. “You’re getting no more than what the doctor prescribed and you damn well better eat something when you do if you know what’s good for you!!! Do I make myself perfectly clear, Candace Margaret Yossarian???’

Cannes didn’t know what to say; she was absolutely speechless. It’s rare that anyone slaps her, especially Stella.

“And another thing,” Stella added, yelling. “Don’t even bother giving me that ‘You don’t know what it’s like’ crap, because I just spelled out 18 years of Hell in a fucking nutshell, and it’s not just me that went through it. Do you think Mom and Dad would stand for any of that suicidal shit from either of us? Think again!!!”

That same night Clay decided to check up on Cannes. He hadn’t seen her in awhile, at least since Halloween, anyway. He wondered how she was coping with this disease, wondered if there was anything she needed, anything he could do for her. He was used to it, after all he’d been watching both his mother and step father battle it out over the way she’d been managing her own type 2 diabetes…or not. He couldn’t just let her stumble through this alone somehow.

He let himself in just in time to hear Stella verbally ream her sister from upstairs in the bathroom. “What’s going on up there?” He called upwards.

“The stupid bitch!!! She was this close to killing herself already!!!” Stella yelled back. She was pissed.

And soon so was Clay. He’d been through too many nights seeing Milo shake his mom awake to keep her from going into a hypoglycemic coma in the middle of the night. Too many nights hearing him shake her into consciousness and trying to pour orange juice down her throat and damn near sobbing, “Fee Fook’s saek, woman…EAT SOOMTHIN!!!” He could only imagine how Milo would hit the roof if ever Punk Mother were to do something irretrievably stupid like even contemplate suicide!

Well, he’s so not having that!! No fucking way!!!

He stormed upstairs and found Cannes still in the bathroom looking like she was at the last level of Hell. Grabbing her by the arms he screamed right in her face, “Dammit, Candace!!! Don’t you even think of pulling a stunt like that, I mean it!! I’ll kick your ass if you ever try it!!!” He looked her dead in the eyes and would not even let her break eye contact with him. She could only look back into his blue eyes and she saw anger of course. She also saw terror and hurt, she saw tears welling up in his eyes, and behind all of that, such a deep love that absolutely could not be denied. The tears that welled up in his eyes mirrored the tears that welled up in her own. The sight of this intense mutually shared emotion touched Cannes deeply. Just before she broke down crying, she was moved to say this to him.

“I’m sorry, babe.” She’s beginning to sob as she’s saying this. “I just don’t know what to do. I mean, this is so new to me…I’ve never experienced such misery…and such anxiety and confusion…It’s just too overwhelming to me, and I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I’m scared, babe!! I’m so fucking scared…Baby…”

The two of them broke down in each other’s arms. “Babe…” Clay began, “This is so not like you. This isn’t the same girl who raped Jarvis Gonzales to punish him when he tried to rape you!” And then he began to kiss her tears off her cheeks.

“Please let me help you, Cannes. Please don’t shut me out.”

In the end it was Stella who saved Cannes from all the nighttime insulin attacks.

How many nights in a row was it that Cannes had been losing sleep, for fuck’s sake? She was so fatigued from enduring these episodes night after night that she couldn’t be bothered to keep track. In any case it was really getting to her. There was no point even contemplating suicide now, after Stella and Clay read her the riot act that one night. She was so depressed at this point, all she could do is gawk at the mirror with tears in her eyes.

It was during one such moment that Stella calmly entered the bathroom. She needed a leak really bad and luckily for her the door was at least slightly ajar. So she relieved herself and as she did she couldn’t help but notice the state her sister was in. How obvious it was that this once self-assured bad girl of Magmaville was degenerating into a zombified train wreck in front of her eyes. It reminded Stella of the many nights she endured the insulin attacks, and it took her awhile to learn what to do about that. So she took pity on her younger sister as she wiped herself off and flushed.

She stepped up to the sink in front of the bathroom mirror where Cannes stood weeping, and washed her hands thoroughly. Then taking her sister’s hands, began washing them as well. She took a clean towel and dried both pairs of hands and then set the towel down on the counter. Stella then reached for her glucose testing kit, unzipped the black case and drew out the meter, the lancing device, the sharps, and the vial of strips. The sharp was secured in to the tip of the lancing device, then the shield cap was twisted off, and the lancer cap was screwed back on. As she prepared to test her sister’s blood, she hummed an old Cure tune – Boys Don’t Cry. She inserted the strip into the meter, took hold of Cannes’ left hand as she sobbed, and placed the tip of the capped lancer on her sister’s index finger. Then she pressed the button on the lancer that released the tip of the lancet needle into Cannes’ flesh. At this, Cannes let out an “Ow!” between her sobs. But Stella continued humming as she squeezed a drop of blood with which to feed the waiting strip. Within seconds Stella stopped humming and let out a short whistle very similar to the way Donald Sutherland whistled in the film M.A.S.H. at the sight of the reading she got: 54!!!

“Oooy!” I might add that she showed Cannes the meter and the reading it displayed with a tsk tsk tsk. With that, Stella turned off the meter, put her right arm around Cannes shoulders and led her out of the bathroom and into the living room. There she sat Cannes on the sofa and headed towards the kitchen.

It was a small but impressive feast that Stella prepared for her sister. A couple of sheets of graham crackers and a Hershey bar had almost a tablespoon of peanut butter smeared between them. This was a variation of a S’more with the peanut butter in place of the cooked marshmallow. The bitch needs her protein, too, after all. Additionally, she found a couple of oatmeal raisin cookies and a glass of vanilla soymilk.

While Stella prepared the snack plate, Cannes absentmindedly turned on the television. The movie Animal House was being aired on whatever channel it was left on the last time anyone bothered to watch anything on it. The scene where the Delta House brothers arrived at this blacks only nightclub was playing out and Otis Day and The Knights were performing “Shamalama Ding Dong…hit it!” on the small screen.

“If you ever want to get a full night’s sleep again, you’ll eat every single bite!” Stella informed Cannes as she set the plate of snacks in front of her. “Trust me on this; time and time again this has saved my life and my sanity…at least what would pass for that.” With that, Stella returned to the bathroom to do a glucose check on herself, to see if maybe she was low enough to justify preparing a similar happy feast for herself.

So Cannes just decided, “Fuck it.” and began to eat.

By the time Stella got a reading of about 85 from her own blood, and returned to the kitchen to put together a plateful of the same kinds of food for herself, Cannes was starting to feel a whole lot better after eating one of the two cookies, half the “s’more” and drinking all of the soymilk.
Returning with a plateful of food, Stella sat besides her sister and began to eat. Only a couple of bites into the cookie she began to talk. “Y’know, you wouldn’t be the first to have been left feeling suicidal by this dread disease. I tell ya, “ She then took a bite of her “s’more,” “If it isn’t the extremes in the b.s., and note that I’m not just referring to the blood sugar levels, either, it’s the mixed messages that you get from society…” Another bite and then, “They want you to keep the weight down, but when you take the insulin you end up gaining the weight. And then, stupid peer pressure…” She then paused to take a sip of soymilk, “they say, stop taking the insulin and you won’t get fat. Which is really stupid because even though you do lose the weight, you start drinking like a fish and pissing like a horse.” She then followed that with a bite of a cookie.

“Talk about being shoved between a rock and a hard place. Maybe it was a mistake not to set all the sick people among us adrift on an empty raft…like they did in the old days.” Stella took in more soymilk and added, “I’d’ve at least had some time to think…without all these other idiots getting in my way.”

At that Stella heard a light snore and turned to Cannes. A little more than half way through the plate of food and already Cannes was sound asleep. Stella shrugged and continued to watch Animal House while she finished her snacks.

“This is a good night.” She thought to herself. She had to admit, after all the years of being rescued by Cannes, it was a nice change of pace to be the hero for once. It was the least she could do anyway.

About a couple of weeks later…

The night started out wonderfully enough. Clay and Cannes had been practically devouring and savoring each other for about at least a good 45 minutes before the two of them had climaxed together. Then they napped for about an hour or so. After that Cannes woke up feeling very aroused and wanting seconds. She cuddled up to Clay and began caressing him in his sleep. His eyes opened, and he began returning the caresses to her as they began to kiss each other. It wasn’t long at all before Clay became aroused by the foreplay, and each and every touch took on a greater urgency.

Ten minutes into it, as Clay was penetrating her while she gave him a hickey at the base of his neck, Cannes began to feel a spike come on. A rush of adrenaline coursed through her veins, and although the two of them had been working up a sweat during the course of their lovemaking, the absence of sufficient amounts of glucose made her sweat all the more. Cannes tried to ignore this, and continued to move to the rhythm they had generated together.

But the spike was coming on far too fast, and at the mercy of her own desire and Clay’s she could do nothing about it.

“Oh God…Clay…” She began.

“That’s it, baby; say my name again.” Clay whispered back. Since her choice of words was common during their coitus, he saw no cause for alarm.

“Clay…I…” was as far as she got before she suddenly went unconscious and limp in her lovers’ arms.

At that point, Clay suddenly stopped. It would’ve made sense for her to pass out had she been drinking. But she prefers to make love when she’s sober so that she can remember how good it feels to make love. That she passed out so quickly after waking up and wanting more alarmed him.

“Cannes…Cannes…Wake up baby! Wake up!! Cannes!!” Clay gently slapped her cheeks to arouse her out of unconsciousness, calling a little louder each time…to no avail. She was suddenly dead weight in his arms.

He let her fall back on the bed, switched the lamp on, and reached for his cell phone to call 911.

The ambulance rushed Cannes to Magma County General Hospital. She had lapsed into a coma. She had simply forgotten to get something to eat before making love to Clay a 2nd time and her glucose levels went dangerously low because of that.

As she lay on the hospital bed, Clay and Richard Yossarian were seated beside her and facing each other. Of course Richard wanted to know how this happened.

“One minute we were making love, and the next minute she passed out!”

“Didn’t she ask to stop so that she could get something to eat or drink?” Richard was too familiar with this kind of health issue not to ask the right questions.

Clay sighed. “No, she was feeling me up as I was sleeping!”

“Okay, let’s see if I got this straight; you two were going at it for awhile, then you both slept for a bit, and then she woke up wanting more without bothering to take care of herself beforehand. So did she try to stop you or say anything when she started spiking?”

“She only said, ‘Oh God, Clay..’ right before she passed out cold.” Clay teared up. He felt terrible to have misunderstood what Cannes was trying to say.

Richard wanted to be angry, but instead he was impressed. “Damn, boy! You’re good!” was all he could say.

As Clay sat by the hospital bed waiting for Cannes to emerge from her coma, a potentially terrifying thought ran through his head: How was he going to explain all that peanut butter smeared on her bedsheets back at the house?

Back at the Yossarian “Mansion”, Janet and Richard were looking at the sheets. Oddly, instead of being outraged and upset to think that their daughter of all people (* gasp! *) would be into that sort of thing, the sight of the peanut butter stains invoked the spirits of coitus past. Evidently, the two of them enjoyed dining off each others’ body parts from time to time themselves. And yet, Richard couldn’t help but wonder how it was – as much peanut butter might’ve been eaten between the two of them – that their girl had even lapsed into a hypoglycemic coma at all.

“The only thing I can think of,” Janet offered, “is that there probably wasn’t enough peanut butter to go around…especially considering how much of it Stella eats every night.

“She eats it with a Hershey bar and graham crackers, though.”

“Yes, well by the time the two of them may’ve thought to experiment with it, they might’ve had to scrape the sides of the jar.” Janet pointed out.

“Oh, come on, woman! Stella doesn’t make that much of a pig of herself. She certainly doesn’t look as if she does at all!”

“Sooner or later we’d run low on peanut butter regardless of whether Cannes would start getting any funny ideas or not.”

Stella had been in the room with her parents and was really getting outraged and not about the fact that they were completely out of peanut butter, either.

“For fuck’s sake, you guys, would you listen to yourselves?!? A member of our family is lying in a coma, and you two are talking about peanut butter!!!”

Richard got the message. He sighed, “You’re right…you’re absolutely fucking right, sweetheart. Why don’t I feel like kicking his ass for this? I didn’t think I was that weird!”

“Well, Richard…”

“She could’ve died, after all.”

“He did man up and called the ambulance and alerted us to this emergency instead of plowing away at her while she was passed out cold, though. It’s possible that he saved her life, that he values her more than great sex.” Janet pointed out.

“Well, besides that, this hits a little too close to home considering our own erotic experiments over the years. It’d be a bit like trying to kick my own ass, wouldn’t it.” Richard added.

“God, tell me about it, you animal!” Janet replied. She couldn’t help wickedly grinning at that.

“Anyway, if we were to lower the boom on him, she’d just rebel and the two of them would just sneak around behind our backs…like we did after you broke up with that football guy.” Richard pointed out.

“Unless she decides she hates his guts after she comes to.”

“We’ll have to leave it up to her, I suppose. She’s a grown woman and has to learn from her own mistakes. Let’s hope this one doesn’t kill her.”

“What the fuck am I doing in a hospital, babe?”

Cannes had come to at last. She must’ve been in a coma for about 2 hours at least.

“You went comatose on me while we were screwing.”

“Damn! I really didn’t wanna stop!”

“I know! Fucking horndog here, I’m surprised you didn’t kill me!!”

“God, this is embarrassing!”

“I’m never gonna fuck you on an empty stomach again!”

Cannes sat up, and eyed her boo quizzically. “Are you mad at me?”

“Fuck yeah, I’m mad! Damn near dropping dead on me in the middle of it!!”

“Aw, you poor man! You didn’t get to finish!”

“Aaah, shut up!”

“Hey…c’mon, babe…” Cannes said, consolingly. “Let me make it up to you. It was probably my fault anyway.” Then she put her arms around him to hug him. He didn’t push her away, thank God, coz she’d’ve felt really bad if he’d done that.

“Besides…” she added, praying she wouldn’t be walking on eggshells with him for the rest of her life, “You saved my life, didn’t you. I owe you that much.”

Clay decided not to be pissed off any more, and the two of them kissed…

And then they started screwing right there on the hospital bed.

A Day At The Beach

2010-04-30T09:14:00.000-07:00

Stella was in a mood, one which surely must’ve been brought on by a steady decline of glucose in her blood. To remedy this, she and Cannes stopped at a Burger Baron in Magmaville. It was a good thing that Fergie and Morty weren’t around at the time. Fergie would’ve called Cannes out for not trying to talk Stella out of eating fast food and then Stella for even insisting on that kind of food to begin with. But who cares, really. It was the closest place to get lunch, and it was about time for Stella to get something to eat and to have what she calls one of her “booster shots.” And let’s face it, if you don’t eat anything with a “booster shot,” you may as well leap from a tall building into rush hour traffic.

So the two of them ordered cheeseburgers, fries, and rasberry flavored ice teas. Just before Stella started to eat, she lifted up her black and white striped t-shirt and injected a syringe full of insulin into the left side of her belly. As she did this, she said to Cannes, “I don’t know about you, but I feel like I’m just about ready to pop off and do something really juvenile.”

“Juvenile?!?” Cannes exclaimed. Stella nodded as she pulled the syringe out. “It’s a good thing Fergie’s not with us right now. People see you shooting up at the table, they think you’re a junkie!”

“Let ‘em! Fuck ‘em!!” Stella said through a mouthful of burger. “What do they know about living with the crap?”

“So what kind of juvenile crap do you have in mind?”

“I dunno…” Stella replied as she ate. “Maybe empty my bladder on a limosine or squirt some fake blood on some windows or something. I really don’t know what’s gonna roll from my head down my sleeve. All I know is that I’m about ready to blow sometime soon. Some kinda prank, anyway.”

“Getting bored picking on Nerdermeyer?” Cannes inquired.

“It’s getting too easy picking on him, really. I mean, when does he not deserve it?” Stella was silent for a second or two, and then she added. “I’m hungry, sis.”

“Just keep eating.” Cannes responded, all the while she knew that was Stella was referring to was not necessarily tied to any kind of insulin reaction.

Right about then, Clay, Jarvis, and Kent entered The Burger Baron and saw the Yossarian sisters seated at a booth eating lunch. They turned to each other and Clay said, “Whaddya say, guys? Let’s go seduce some women!”

“Yeah, let’s go for it!” Jarvis growled randily.

“Yeah, baby, yeah!!” Kent echoed. He tried to make it sound just like Austin Powers, but instead he sounded like Pee Wee Herman, which made it all the more disturbing. This made Kent seem a little more avant garde, which is why Jarvis and Clay let him hang around. In his own creative and unique way he would make the other two guys seem more desirable in comparison.

They needn’t have bothered bringing him along. The Yossarian sisters would’ve blown off Kent asap. Poor guy…you almost feel sorry for him…almost.

After lunch they all decided to hit Cannibal’s Cove, a clothing optional – mostly nude – beach just 5 miles to the south of Magmaville Beach. It was a fairly secluded spot, a half mile strip of sand along the cove with a few large naturally formed stone monoliths jutting the waves along the shoreline. It was nicknamed The Stonehenge of The Western U.S. for that reason. It almost became a tourist attraction, but then the locals all started hanging out there au natural in an endeavor to lay claim to it. So now it is a tourist attraction of another sort. Nudists from around the world would come lay out and frolic here.

And so it was that Jarvis and Clay took Cannes and Stella to this place. Kent opted out. No room for him in the jeep after all.

The four of them were walking along the waves looking for a good place to set down their beach gear when…

“Madre de Dios!!! Check it out, you guys!!! Two actual queers are fucking over there!!” Jarvis said, his eyes catching some guy’s bare buttocks evidently in motion.

The rest turned to where Jarvis was oggling and Stella just said, “Cool!”

So these two gay guys were up against the wall of this bluff, which was lined with some very ancient skulls that were placed there as a monument to some pre-civilization era. They were facing each other and each guy was standing on his left leg with their right legs wrapped around each other’s hip. Both pairs of hands were all over each other’s bare backs, groping each other’s buttocks. One said to the other, his breath all a tremble with passion, “Aaahh, man that tickles! Oh no!!” Seeing the Yossarian girls strolling along with their boos he exclaimed, “We’ve got company!”

His partner turns around to see, “Wha – Oh yeah, so we do.” He then whispers into the first guy’s ear, “Let’s just continue, and you can watch and tell me how they react to the sight of us.” Then he begins to chuckle fiendishly.

“Bitch!” The ticklish guy chuckled. “You just dick-hungry!”

“I know. I can’t stop.” They’re still going at it.

“Me neither.” But that guy was probably a bit apprehensive at this point. He and his partner had surely been assaulted by gay bashing bigots before. Coitus interruptus was bad enough with or without a beating. But that didn’t happen. The group passed the couple by without any incident…except for…

“Look at them.” The ticklish guy chuckled, relieved that they weren’t gonna be interrupted just yet. “They’re giving us the thumbs up!”

“Carry on, my son!” Clay cheered aloud in a fake english accent, which sounded pretty damned authentic. Just goes to show what spending part of one’s childhood in London can do for a guy.

“I wanna do that, Jarvis! Can we do that?” Stella purred, her arms encircling Jarvis’ chest from behind.

“Hey Jarvis,” Clay intoned. “You think you’d be up for a bit of that?”

“Oh yeah, man!” Jarvis replied sarcastically. “You know me, man, I’m always up for some Indian cuisine (Author’s note: They used to call having sex standing up doing it “Indian style.” Perhaps they still do.)…some hot, spicey curry perhaps.”

So they found a spot and soon Jarvis and Stella were against the bluff imitating the gay guys to the hilt. Cannes had Clay pinned to the beach towel on the sand.

“C’mon baby, it’s just sex.”

At first it bothered Clay that Cannes was no longer a virgin. But then again Cannes was now an experienced lover because of it. And Clay wasn’t all that down for any old crybaby virgin, either. So he acquiesced and soon they were getting it on while some single mother hurried along the shore with her babies in tow…just passing through as quickly as possible.

A little later, the kids headed back to the jeep, passing by the two spent bodies of the gay couple they’d seen earlier. This time they could only see the bottoms of their feet as they were laying out on their beach towels.

At some point Stella realized that she recognized those two guys. One of them was Simon, who was Boris the Bartender’s gay nephew. The other was Kyle, who played Scrooge-as-interpreted-by-Joe-D’allesandro. Simon had replaced Kent as Ondine’s version of Jacob Marley.

She remembered the day she got Simon to replace Kent. Kyle was going to pull a primadonna fit, and adamantly refuse to have anything to do with Kent’s replacement out of loyalty. He really wanted to stump for Kent, but Stella talked him into at least meeting the guy before making any judgment calls.

Simon’s entry was very much like the scene in A Clockwork Orange, when Alex DeLarge was fully conditioned against sex and ultraviolence and was soon to be set free. You could almost hear Wendy Carlos' synthesizer play as he walked into the room wearing an eggshell colored thermal onesie with several chains draped around his shoulders and arms, and a sheer veil of the same color draped over the back of his head. He looked stunning!

“Damn you, Stella!” Kyle exlaimed as he took in the sight of Simon in his Jacob Marley get-up. “You don’t give a bitch a chance, do you!!” Clearly Kyle had falling in love with Simon immediately. Why not? He was cute.

So in the end Kyle gave in and Simon played Ondine-as-Jacob-Marley and became Kyle’s lover very soon. Kent turned on Kyle when he learned that Kyle didn’t fight for him at all. Kent was just such a jerk about it that Kyle ended up being glad that Simon replaced him.

Anyway, Stella wanted to say Hi, so the four of them went over to where Kyle and Simon were laying together and began to applaud and call for an encore performance. The guys sat up, and Simon immediately recognized Stella. “Stella! Thank God! I thought you guys were gonna beat us up!”

The girls laughed at this. “And ruin the best show we’ve seen all day so far? I don’t think so, Simon!” Stella replied.

Jarvis turned to Clay and said, “So my chiquita has gay friends?”

“Sure. Why not? Every girl should have a gay friend…maybe even two.” Clay replied.

Between that lovely walk on the beach at Cannibal’s Cove and the Scrooge parody that Stella directed, Stella was lucky enough to get to watch Simon and Kyle get laid twice. She would’ve loved to join them, but figured that – seeing as both guys were gay – the intrusion of a woman would completely put them both off…killing both their boners as well as her own arousal. How could anyone live with being responsible for an epic sexual faux pas such as that?? The very idea embarrassed her deeply.

So she would console herself by playing her copy of the parody of Andy Warhol’s interpretation of Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol…aptly retitled “Ebenezers Christmas Package.” On top of the arousal she got from the sight of two guys getting butt-assed naked and screwing, it was also good for a laugh that she made fun of both Charles Dickens and Andy Warhol. In fact, listening to the dialog while she played with herself was easily a thousand times funnier than Jarvis’s attempts to make her laugh and cum at the same time.

Little Joe as Scrooge (as interpreted by Kyle): Aw, c’mon Jacob. Where’s your holiday spirit?

Ondine as Jacob Marley (as interpreted by Simon): Whaddya mean “Holiday Spirit??” Since when have you given a jolly good shit about any Holiday Spirit, man? You don’t even have the courtesy to give me a good reach-around!!! Don’t even patronize me like that, ya asshole!!! You hurt my ass, man!

Now then, let’s talk about two little lovers…

Particularly Simon and Kyle. The two of them were at the Magmaville Community College cafeteria waiting in line for their cheeseburgers as they were getting to know each other better.

“I kissed a girl once,” Kyle confided. “It was…blucchh!”

“Blucchh?!?” Simon was puzzled to hear anyone say that. He had other gay friends who had kissed girls before and most of them said it was just “okay…no big deal.” This one actually was grossed out by the experience. “How bad could it be, really?”

“She tasted like a fucking ashtray, Mary. It made me wanna puke!!” Simon laughed as Kyle continued. “Anyway, what’s your story?”

Well, Simon told the story about how he had sex with Stella Yossarian…or tried to, anyway.
“All that did was remind me that I’m gay. I mean, how else do you explain not being all that aroused by Stella Yossarian??”

It was at that point that Jarvis began to queue up to the burger grill, close enough to hear everything Simon and Kyle were saying.

“That Stella can’t turn you on says a whole lot about you, honey. So how far did you get before you said sorry-honey-I-can’t-do-this?” Kyle asked.

Simon realized that the two of them weren’t exactly in that private an establishment, noting all the eyes and ears that could be turned in their direction by the subject matter, got real close to Kyle’s ear and began whispering all the juicy details…or what there were of them.

“Shut up!!” Kyle said as Simon laughed. “So you went on pleasuring Stella anyway even though you weren’t that into her?”

“Of course I did! What else was I gonna do? Sit around crying about being impotent? Fuck that!!!”

Oh honey, you’re as impotent as a damn volcano!! I mean, c’mon now; how do I know you’re not trying to kill me??” Kyle rambled. “I mean, you could kill Frankie Booth if he ever gave you the time of day.”

Simon was still laughing. The chef put their orders on black plastic carrying trays. Then Simon said as he and Kyle reached for their food, “If Frankie Booth ever gave me that kind of time, I’d be a perfect gentleman…then I’d kill him!”

Now it would go without saying that Jarvis, upon hearing these two queers speak of his chiquita this way, began to implode inside. He didn’t know which was more mortifying; that Stella would consider going out with another guy or that she would consider getting that intimate with a gay guy. Either possibility was enough to sour his attitude…which was rotten enough to put Stella completely off him…especially when he was drunk.

And that was precisely the state he was in by the time he confronted Stella.

“Look, Jarvis, what do you expect from me?” Stella told him off good. “You get so stupid drunk you can’t even see where you’re going half the time. Then I have to apologize to everyone else for your drunken antics. And by the end of the night you’re too drunk to be any good in bed! And don’t even get me started about all your whining about hangovers!”

“Chiquita, por favor!! Ees eet my fault if I get hangovers, man?”

“Yes, it is your fault…because you’d rather get drunk than screw, y’asshole!!!” Stella was rolling. “How would you like it if I did that to you all the time?

“And while we’re on the subject, Jarvis, how long do you think I can stand waiting for you to get your shit together? You think you have the monopoly on horniness just coz you’ve got a dick? Think again, pal! I’d have a better chance getting off on watching two gay guys get it on than I ever would spending any time with your drunk-assed shit…

“I’d love to see you prove me wrong!!” And with that, Stella hung up and turned the ringer off on her phone.

Well! That was a gauntlet being thrown down if ever there was one.

So you can probably guess what kind of effect that little epiphany had on Jarvis. He might not be that quick to part company with the bottle, but he was gonna show Stella that he could get her off better than any other man ever could.

So finally Stella and Jarvis got some alone time.

He had rented a room at the El Cheapo Lodge located on the outskirts of Magmavile. And before very long the two of them were face to face, stripped of all their clothes. Stella took one step towards him and made a reach for his package. She took his cock and balls in her right hand and cradled it gently in her palm, letting him feel the warmth of her hand. He tingled. Her hand was so soft…”

“…so soft, chiquitaahhh!”

Seeing him aroused to what appeared to be the point of desperation only added to the level of desperation in Stella’s own arousal. She continued to cradle his cock in her hand as she spoke. “I’m so sorry I’ve not been faithful to ya…”

She stoked him gently, so gently…

She was so horny she could burst.

“I get so horny somethimes, I hurt so bad for a screw, and I don’t know what I can do about it. Especially when you get drunk and pass out cold. You can’t fuck me when you’re unconscious and out of it.” Then she reached for his right hand and said, “Here!” She guided his fingers directly to her aching snatch and let him caress that spot. She felt swollen, sensitive, and very tender, like she could explode in ecstacy if he touched her just the right way.

He gently stroked her soft, furry cunt. Stella let out a sigh of relief, and felt herself gushing into her snatch. She loved it when her cunt got wet. She sighed and moaned as he ran his fingers through her pubes. He was so good with his fingers it made Stella cry sometimes.

“I’m sorry, chica.” Jarvis intoned as he continued to stroke her. His touch felt so apologetic, and something about that added to Stella’s arousal, just made her loins ache all the more to be penetrated. She wanted him so bad. She kept caressing his penis, feeling it stiffen and swell in her hand. She wanted to feel him move inside her.

She reached down to her snatch to touch it, and as she did, she felt her cunt waters trickling, flooding her. She was so ready…so ready..

“Please, Jarvis, fuck me…” She begged. She was so horny. Her fingers guided that cock of his to her pubes, now all the more swollen and squishy with her ardent lust. He penetrated her so easily and now all he could think of is how that nice, slick, wet, gushy, throbby cunt feels so good on his cock, so good to fuck that wet snatch.

“Poor Chiquita is so hungry. She starves and I feel terrible. I want to fuck her and make her feel better.” He thought.

Meanwhile, Stella let out an Aaaahhh as Jarvis dove in and out of her. She was completely lost in that ache that consumed her groin when she fucked. Oh, how she tingled, and she would stroke her pubes while she straddled her lover. She was practically jumping up and down on his rock hard phallus and frantically running her hands all over his bare ass.

She wriggled and writhed frantically as he continued to thrust inside of her. She wriggled so violently, so desperately, she thought she’d burst any second.

“Fuck me more, baby.” She’d moan as she gyrated. “Fuck me some more..” She ached, she just ached. His thrusts seemed to hold back her orgasm rather than bring her to it. She kinda wanted to hold back her release just to increase the intensity of her urgent desire. Her cunt watered. Jarvis loved that his chiquita got so, so wet for him. It turned him on so much and all he could do is just keep fucking her…just keep fucking…

“Please, just keep fucking me, baby.” Stella begged again as he continued thrusting away. His thrusting felt soo good. She needed to fuck and she needed to cum…

She was so close to flailing about in time to his rhythm and then finally she came. She felt a searing streak blaze through her groin, and she convulsed in time to the orgasmic jolts shooting through her. She squirmed over his cock, her cunt twisted into spasms, the tingling growing more and more intense. She cried Aaaaahh as she gushed and pulsed. She savored every searing aching jolt that rushed through her legs. His thrusts became more and more earnest. She was practically dancing circles around his cock as she came and that was really turning him on.

They both needed this fuck.

Meanwhile…

Cannes and Clay lay together in bed. They were exhausted…and very horny.

So Clay wondered aloud. “I don’t know whether to fuck or just pass out. Either one would feel so good right about now.”

“Boo…” Cannes asked. “Would you fuck me in my sleep?”

For some reason, Cannes fell in love with the idea of being boffed in her sleep. She loved the idea of being penetrated, his fingers on her pubes, while she slept. She wanted so badly to dream of being ravished in her sleep, to dream that Clay was fucking her.

So she told him, “I want to make believe that I’m asleep and I’m having a dream that you’re fucking me.” Cannes cunt ached as she said this. “I need so badly for you to ravish me in my sleep.” She began stroking her pubes.

“Shall I come in from behind?”

Cannes hips were already bouncing and swaying to the rhythm of her arousal. “Please.” She begged. “What the fuck anyway? It’s spring, and even the bears were speaking french”, she thought.

Clay entered her, and she gushed all over him. The ache made her delirious, her head was spinning, swimming, as his penis must surely be doing right now, she was so wet. “Aaahh, baby!! Aaahhh!” She cried out. Dream or not, she was loving this, his touch, fingers on her nipples, each thrust making her moan and gush and ache and tingle all over. She thought she would lose her mind and go mad with desire. She was loving this and she didn’t want it to stop.

He loved fucking her, loved the way she felt when she got this aroused, He loved how she squirmed at his touch, as he ran his thick fingers in that soft, swollen cleft in her pubes, stroking her clit, making her ache. He loved that she was loving it.

Jarvis was in a mood.

He and Stella were sitting on a park bench, about to munch on some chicken burritos they'd picked up from El Fandango, a local mexican cafe that was really too small for dining in. Before Stella would even begin to touch her meal, she loaded her syringe, preparing to give herself a dose of her medication.

"Damn, Chiquita! I wish you wouldn't do that een public! Eet makes you look like a junkie!"

"Shut up, bitch!" Stella shot back. "It's either this or I drink my weight in water and we stop to pee every other 5 minutes!! How fucking romantic!" With that she jabbed the needle into the left side of her abdomen and plunged the insulin into her body. Jarvis continued to argue as she removed the needle from her side and the foil wrapper from her burrito.

"Man, that's what ticks me off about us. Who's de fucking man around here, anyway? Where I come from, the male gets to be de boss and the woman does what che's told."

"Jarvis, I'm eating. D'ya mind? You shouldn't gross me out while I'm having my lunch. Anyway, I suppose next you'll tell me how you were able to score me that ..." Stella pointed to the giant volcanic plug as she spoke with her mouth full of chicken and rice and pinto beans, "...with a pack of chewing gum!"

"Eyy, chiquita. I didn't make this stuff up."

"Well, whoever laid that trip on you was obviously living in Never-Never Land."

Jarvis rolled his eyes all exasperated. "Me-HIKO City!!!"

"Whatever," Stella took another bite. "That bullshit ain't gonna go with me, fellah! Or have you forgotten what happened the last time you tried to show a woman who's boss?" She was referring to the time Cannes pulled a counter rape on Jarvis when he tried to rape her.

"Oh, ju just love that one, I bet." Jarvis sneered at her.

"Something about the way it ended can only remind me of one of Dr. Benway's anecdotes. Particularly..." She takes another bit of burrito, " his big brag about how he can turn a straight man gay!" She found it hard to talk, chew, and chuckle simultaneously.

"Hokay, 'nuff, Estelle. I'm tired of all dis talk already, man! Y'know, you Yossarian chicks are just too weird, ese!"

"So it didn't turn out the way you thought...big deal! Serves you right for cheating on me with my sister to begin with! You're lucky she didn't have the strap-on with her at the time, soowhee!"

" 'Nuff, Chiquita, por favor!" Jarvis demanded. "Just keep filling up that filthy black hole you call your mouth and not let that insulina go to waste, hokay? What's de point of even argumenting with me anyway?"

"Coz you get off on it, obviously. It gets your hot latin blood boiling and then we have great sex!"

Jarvis began to feel himself lightening up a bit. "Whatever you say, behbeh!"

"Very tasty it is, too."

She wasn't the only one who had read William Burrough's Naked Lunch. "Weel you drop it already?!?"

"I'm talking about my lunch, willya? Sheesh, what a bitch!" Stella loved getting him just a little riled. "So what? You still haven't gotten over that botch-up?"

"Have you no idea, Chiquita, how humiliating that was for me?"

"Duh, of course it was humiliating; that was the point! Every woman who's ever been raped knows your pain!"

"Y'know, Chica..."Jarvis decided to try another tack, "..that book was written by an addict. So you don't mind being lumped in with the junkies just because you used the needle instead of the pump, eh?"

"Why would I mind being associated with a creative genius? Just because he shot up heroin instead of insulin doesn't make it wrong, seing as he was warning us all against junk to begin with."

"Ay, whatever." Jarvis gave up and began eating his own lunch. He'd nail her good laer on once she got her sugar levels balancing out her insulin levels. "I think this needs more chipotle."

Another road trip misadventure…

Clay initated a road trip with the Yossarian Sisters to Los Osos to see a local punk-industrial noise band called The Prism Prisoners. At that time, Jarvis had been arrested for drunkeness in public, so he couldn’t come along for the ride. (Boy, was he pissed, and not just angry, either!) Kent, well…what he didn’t know won’t kill him. It was hard enough for Stella to decide which would be the lessor of two evils; inviting the little twerp along for the trip or being the 3rd wheel. Stella did find Kent kinda cute, but felt his redeeming qualities ended there. Really not worth the wheedling, the passive-aggressive tactics, or the blatant attempts on his part to try to control her.

“There’s always other fish in the sea, Mary!” was what Kyle once put to her.

Anyway, the three of them were in the middle of Mother-Fucking Nowhere, and the nearest town was about 17 miles down the road when…

“Uh-oh…Uhhh-oh!” Stella exclaimed.

Cannes and Clay, both seated in front, looked at each other, and Cannes told Clay, “Pull over!! Now!!!”

“My toes are getting all twitchy and tingly on me.” Stella was calm, but her impulse to panic was growing stronger. She felt her glucose levels plummeting at an alarming rate. So they pulled over, and came to a stop at some random parking lot overlooking the bluff. The ocean was a deep aszure blue and the sunlight sparkled upon the ripples and waves. A truly gorgeous view, but this clearly was not a priority right then. Nor was getting to a rest room, and while all three were okay for the moment, Cannes and/or Clay would need one soon enough.

Clay turned on the emergency lights while Cannes scrambled to the back seat and began to rifle through her sister’s luggage, looking for the diabetes stash. What she found inside the black thermos cooler box was the glucose testing kit, the glucagon injection kit, about 5 Tigers Milk energy bars, and 2 small cartons of grape juice.

But the spike was coming on strong, and by the time Cannes got to work on the glucose meter, Stella had her head in her hands. Cannes frantically went through the motions of loading the lancer and the meter. Before she could reach for a finger, Stella slumped right on top of her.

Clay and Cannes were scared shitless, but continued to work on getting Stella revived. Instinctively Clay grabbed Stella’s glucagon kit and set about loading the syringe. Meanwhile, a click on the finger and a drop of blood later, Cannes read with horror the letters “LO” on the glucose meter.

A sheriff’s patrol car pulled up beside them and a deputy sheriff looked into the open door of the back seat of their station wagon. “What’s going on in there?” The syringe was in the lawman’s full view.

Clay explained. “Please, sir! This woman is a diabetic and she’s having a real bad glucose spike. We just need to give her this shot so that she won’t die.” The deuputy was suspicious, but upon reading the prescription information on the glucagon vial, agreed to let Clay administer the injection.

As he injected the hormone straight into Stella’s right hand side of her torso, the deputy asked, “Do you need an ambulance? I mean this is pretty serious business right here!”

“I think we’ll be fine, but maybe stand by in case something really bad happens.” Cannes figured it would kill off some more of the suspicion if she encouraged the deputy to hang around a little while longer.

Within a minute Stella came to and, blinking her eyes, saw the deputy. “Damn!” She grumbled. “What a time to get pulled over!”

“He’s just making sure we’re okay!” Clay assured her.

“Ma-am, I can get an ambulance.”

“Please, deputy sir, I’d rather not. I just need to eat something. Isn’t there one of those Tiger Bars in there, Cannes-Cannes?”

Cannes saw that the glucagon was thankfully taking effect very quickly, and told the deputy, “Thank you, but I think we’ll be fine.”

“Y’sure?”

“Yes sir, Besides…” Cannes added conspiratorially. “It’s much cheaper and more effective to get her some food than an ambulance.”

“She’s been diabetic for years.” Clay added. “We’ve become quite adept at this.”

Seeing that the situation was in the good and capable hands of 2 very lucid and level-headed young adults, albiet very odd looking ones, though, the deputy offered one last “take care and drive safely” before venturing on his way.

“Ya wanna sit here awhile, Stella?” Clay asked.

“Hey, I’m ready to go when you guys are. I need my damn food, dammit!!! Jeeziz!!” Stella was a trifle anxious but sounded more amused than irritated by the delay. She’d been through enough of the spikes by this time that she can be calm about their onset for the most part.

So with that, Cannes tossed a Tiger’s Milk bar in Stella’s lap and crawled back into the passenger side of the front seat. “It might’ve been that I injected more insulin into myself than I actually needed at the last meal stop.” Stella thought to herself as Clay turned on the ignition and began to pull out of the parking lot.

"When I grow up, I wanna be..."

2010-04-28T17:37:00.000-07:00

Clay began attending High School at Magmaville High, soon after Punk Mother and Milo relocated from England to The States. It was there that he’d met Stella, Kent, and Jarvis. Cannes was still attending Magmaville Elementary School. By that time, Clay learned plenty about diabetes though his family’s association with Milo’s bandmate Teddyboy as well as through his mother. So he did his best to protect Stella whenever anyone gave her a hard time about it. As interested as he was in Stella at the time, she somehow developed a crush on Jarvis instead. I’m pretty sure the events that took place during rehearsals for the Halloween play, which was Dracula.

Magmaville High School was no less plagued by bullies than any other school campus. Clay soon became one, as was Stella’s soon-to-be love interest Jarvis Rodriguez. Kent Neidermeyer, on the other hand, got picked on a lot. To be fair (and let me be clear that I don’t condone bullying in any way, shape, or form), Kent tends to bring a lot of that upon himself by speaking out of turn, talking out of his ass, giving out way too much information, and just generally being a really annoying pest to everyone. At any rate, for however long this had been going on, Kent wanted to prove to the whole campus that he could be just as big a bully as anyone else.

One afternoon in late September, Stella Yossarian tried out for and got the part of Mina Murray in the play. Unfortunately for her, Kent Neidermeyer got the role of Count Dracula. Now, where Kent got the idea that “Dracula” could carry “Mina” over his shoulder to the “castle” (read: backstage), is anyone’s guess. But during rehearsals he went through the motions of hypnotizing “Mina.” Then as she was acting as if she were under the vampire’s spell, he somehow managed with considerable effort to throw Stella over his shoulder and carry her off.

Right then was when Stella suffered a severe glucose spike. She began to feel dizzy as her blood sugar levels plummeted sharply. Additionally she began to hallucinate, and everything looked so distorted to her that she began to think she was in a Popeye cartoon. So it was no wonder when she was being carried offstage she thought she was Olive Oyl and that Kent was Bluto. So when Kent refused to put her down, she started yelling, “Help! Popeye!! Save me, Popeye!! Save me!!”

The other actors in the play realized something was really wrong when Stella called for Popeye. She had no lines for the scene they were rehearsing at the time.

Kent decided to have some fun with Stella, spinning her around while he carried her, just to show everyone how tough he was. That made it worse for Stella, making her even dizzier. Additionally, she was starting to tremble and sweat, and she was really getting panicky. With what little strength she had, she pounded Kent’s back with her fists, still screaming for Popeye to come and rescue her. Kent only stopped his schnanigans with Stella when the drama teacher – who also directed the play – intervened. “Kent Neidermeyer! Either stop this at once, or you’re going straight to the principal’s office and I’ll have someone else play Count Dracula!!”

The threat of losing the lead role in the Halloween play was enough to make Kent stop spinning poor Stella around. He dropped her to the floor backstage, and she promptly lost consciousness. When she couldn’t be revived, the school nurse was summoned. She brought the emergency first aid kit and tried smelling salts at first. No coming to. Then she spied the brass plated med-alert bracelet that Stella wore on her right wrist, and saw the word "Diabetes.” She then ran a glucose test on her immediately. It simply read “Lo,” which meant that her blood sugar level was well below 20 mg/dl – very dangerous. The school nurse immediately administered a shot of glucagon into Stella and called 911.

Clay, Jarvis, and Kent watched as all this was going on. They were really scared. Jarvis especially came to understand why both Stella’s little sister Cannes and Clay were so damned protective. When he saw the ambulance arrive, he became terrified thinking that Stella would die, and who would he have to bully about if she did? Kent? Well, he probably deserves it more than she does anyway, but Jarvis never wanted her to die. He only wanted to eat the granola bar that she’s always got in her purse because his mamma and poppa never give him a granola bar with his lunch. His family was too poor.

But at this point, fuck the granola bar. He didn’t care about that anymore. He asked the medic, “Is che gonna die, señor?”

“Well, we hope to keep her alive. She’s way too young to die, young man!” The medic replied.

As Stella was being strapped onto the gurney before being loaded into the ambulance, Jarvis and Clay totally got in Kent’s face.

“Hey numbnuts! Yu think you’re cuch a beeg chot, peecking on a girl??” Jarvis growled at Kent. Right about then, Stella was just coming too as she was being transported to the ambulance. She saw Jarvis give Kent a big shove as he said this.

“Yeah, you’re lucky her sister’s not here!!! She’d beat the shit out of you for that!!!” Clay parroted.

Jarvis knew that to be true. Once he made the mistake of calling Stella a drug addict for shooting up in the little girls room – never mind that it was insulin she was injecting and not heroin. Now Cannes was a she-bully in her own right, and soon gave chase to Jarvis and beat the living crap out of him until he took it back. At the time, Cannes was only in the 3rd grade. While Jarvis somehow managed to keep from crying, the experience of being beaten up by a girl and one much younger than him at that was pretty mortifying.

“We chould beat the chit out of you right now, Kunt. We chould teach chu a lesson!” Clay continued. Kent was really freaking out.

“You probably killed her, you bunghole!”

“How would chu like eet eef we spun you around until you got seeck like kyu made her? Huh??”

“Yeah, Kunt, you make everyone sick, you maggot!!”

“Chu a maggot and a murderer, and you ruined the school play!!”

“Yeah, you’re going to jail forever, Kunt!!”

“And I hope chu drop the soap, too!!!”

The director stepped in again to stop the fight before it came to blows. Then he sent all three of them to the principal’s office. Rehearsals were cancelled for the rest of the day.

But Stella didn’t die, of course. She was fully conscious by the time she got to the hospital. When she was released, she swore she’d never forgive Kent if she lost the part of Mina Murray in Count Dracula because of her diabetes. Because she really wanted to prove to the drama teacher that she could be a great actress one day.

Cannes was furious when she found out what had happened to her sister, and wanted to pummel Kent. It took a lot of convincing on Janet & Richard’s part to calm her down, to convince her that Kent was already being punished for that. They even had to throw in a trip to the Jedi Knight Pizza Portal as a bribe to calm her down.

Kent nearly lost the role of Count Dracula in the play. Stella was a bit of a diva, and threatened to drop out of the play if it meant being stuck with Kent. She no longer trusted him anymore, can you blame her one bit? She only relented when she saw Kent crying, which he did not out of remorse but out of fear that he would get kicked out of the play. While she didn’t forgive him altogether, she did enjoy seeing him cry. That felt like justice to her.

On top of that she was pleased to have seen a guy defending her, or at least calling out the guy who was physically threatening her. And the fact that it was Jarvis who was defending her made her think that Jarvis was actually a pretty cool guy.

So that was how she became smitten with Jarvis. After she was released from the hospital, it became all the more easier for Stella to ask Janet to let her take more granola bars to school…so that she could share one with Jarvis (awwww!).

And eventually the two of them started dating.

Now, rumour has it that Jarvis Gonzales is a direct descendent of the Asztec Emperor Montezuma. whether that is true or not is anyone's guess, really. Most people who've heard that one take it to be complete bullshit, and even if it were true, it's old news, dear. Far too old to be relevant to this day and age. Screw that. All that's really important about Jarvis' family is that he's the youngest of 4 children of parents who have immigrated from Mexico City and went through all the legal steps to become naturalized citizens of the United States of America. And when the 3 elder siblings were old enough, they all began work in the lettuce fields for long hours under sweltering conditions.

Jarvis, being somewhat more savvy in the education, looked into college grants and -- being from a low-income family and born in the United States, was fortunate enough to qualify for one. However, to better make ends meet, he took a part time position as a "sandwich sculptor" ... as they were called at The Hoagie Queen.

He and Stella Yossarian had been friends since high school and the two of them found work at the Hoagie Queen under the management of Tarsem Chopra, a muslim immigrant who'd hailed from New Delhi in India. Despite the cultural differences, Stella managed to remain employed at The Hoagie Queen until Punk Mother offered her a position as a barista at The Bauhaus Cafe.

By that time there began to be some troubles in the relationship caused mostly by Jarvis' drinking problem...which was triggered by an incident in which his attempt to rape Cannes Yossarian backfired. To add insult to injury, she even bragged about it to damn near everyone she knew. "Very tasty it was, too!" She'd smirk. (Yeah, she can be pretty arrogant at times; it's no wonder he was pissed off at her. Even so, after Stella learned about the incident and threatedned to dump him for Clay -- who was still very smitten with Stella himself at the time, along with Kent Neidermeyer and a catering student named Dylan (she was quite the hottie, that Stella!) -- he never messed with her sister ever again.

Jarvis was a pretty cool guy when he was lucid, but very often his shame and anger bubbled to the surface when he had a few too many Tecate's. HIs drunken binges increased over time and when he got to that state, he was very self-centered, demanding, oblivious to others around him especially Stella, and even very abusive. I think he got to taking his anger over his botched rape attempt out on her! So for his reason, while her dicision to give Jarvis another chance after that was ultimately good for Cannes and Clay -- as eventually he'd come to terms with the fact that Stella just wasn't terribly interested in him...and simply found himself transferring his smitteness to Cannes -- it was especially rough on Stella, who found it hard to manage her diabetes and this guy's drunken temper.

Come to think of it, her boss at the time -- Tarsem -- was often more sensitive and accommodating to Stella's needs than Jarvis was. Now it shouldn't surprise you, dear reader, that Tarsem may have had to face diabetes issues in his how family....or that he may have found Stella very attractive also. Even so, Stella was grateful when she got the job at The Bauhaus Cafe. By that time she was tiring of his drunken belligerence and felt she needed some time apart from him...at least half a day.

I don't know if it helped their relationship or not for the two of them to have separate jobs. As relieved as he was that he no longer had any competition from Tarsem -- it was bad enough that his best friend Clay was competing for her affections at the time -- he wasn't happy that she began distancing herself from him at all.

Anyway, I digress.

Kent tried to make it up to Stella at one point. He came to the Yossarian “Mansion” bearing a box of chocolates for her. At that moment, Stella was writing in her diary. Her desk overlooked the front yard through the attic window. Cannes was raking the yard trimmings, helping her parents with pruning the shrubbery, when she’d saw Kent strutting towards the property.

Richard Yossarian turned his gaze towards Kent, then back behind him just in time to see Cannes being restrained by Janet. He could also tell by the look in Cannes’ eyes and the way she struggled to get free that she was out for blood. He rushed to his wife’s side to restrain his angry daughter.

Stella saw this drama play out and, rolling her eyes, she sighed, “Oh boy, here we go!”

Back on the front lawn, Richard said to Cannes, “Now look, young lady, why don’t you just jazz down and let your old baba handle this one.” So Cannes sighed and reluctantly stopped struggling.

Then Richard turned to chase Kent away, yelling, “Get the fuck offa my property, you shit for brains!!! You think I’d let you near my girls, asshole??? Aw, Hell No!!!”

Kent took off running, dropping the box of chocolates all over the street. I’m sure many of them were crushed under Richard’s motorcycle boots. Janet and Cannes were cracking up at the sight of this chase scene.

Stella chuckled as she resumed writing in her diary; “My dad just chased that creep Kunt Nerdermeyer away from our house. I’m not allowed to have a whole box of chocolates to myself anyway because of my diabetes…the stupid fuck!!!”

It’s fucking entrapment, I tell you!!!” Stella was on a roll after Sunday Services ended. Even though she felt a low come on at the tail end of the services, which was sometime between communion and dismissal, there was no way she was gonna hang around for coffee hour this time anyway.

Fergie insisted on bringing the Yossarian girls to Church during their teen years. She had hoped to instill some kind of morality into their young minds as a counterpoint to their parents’ bohemian ways.

And it was debateable whether it was fortunate or not that Fergie struck up a conversation with the rector after the service. But it was an opportunity for both girls to feign bladder troubles so that they could make their escape.

One look at the spread on the long table in the parish hall and you could see why Stella felt she couldn’t stick around. It was a diabetic nightmare; practically nothing but baked sweets and fruit and the fruit was clearly the most diabetic friendly item being offered by the volunteers at the church. To Fergie’s mind with her dated knowledge of diabetes, even strawberries were considered suspect.

It all looked delicious and very tempting…too tempting, really. There were double chocolate chip cookies, raspberry swirl rolls, strawberry cheesecake, lemon cake, and plates of plain and chocolate dipped strawberries and pineapple chunks. Stella would’ve loved to – and very much needed to – stay and eat some of the food, but she knew her grandmother too well and was in no state to deal with what would’ve been the inevitable interference from her.

So they left.

Cannes managed to maintain the same furious walking pace as her sister, walking away from the church. Somehow she managed to smuggle out a slice of lemon cake from the parish hall, which she had offered to Stella. But Stella wasn’t interested. She was too incensed that the church hadn’t accommodated her in a way that wouldn’t bring out Fregie’s incessant nagging.

“It’s a complete set-up!! Fucking announcements dragged to the point where my equilibrium is completely thrown off!!! There’s not a single atom of protein on that table!!! The ‘good’ (and here Stella raised both hands and made quotation marking motions with her fingers.) Reverend knows I’m not the only person with diabetes in that fucking congregation, and this…” she pointed to the slice of cake Cannes offered, “is all they have to offer us…

“And you know what I’ll get for trying to treat a low any time Mum-Mum’s around! ‘Ah-ah-ah!!! That has sugar in it, you shouldn’t eat that young lady!! You know better than that!!!’ in that gawd-awful roboty voice of hers, and shaking her finger in my face!!! If she had her way, I’d be dead just like Pop-Pop Jake!!! Thank you…No!!”

“Look, she’s not walking with us now. Just take this.” Cannes implored, offering the slice of cake yet again.

“Are you mad?? I’ll spike harder than a dog collar!! Fergetdaboutit!! I need some real damn food!”

“Stella, I do not want to peel you off the asphalt!!”

Just then Richard pulled up towards the girls as he was riding his Harley.

“I’m not going back to the church, Baba!!!”

“Now,” Richard began, “You’d better be either too high or too low if your gonna take that tone with me, girl!”

“Baba,” Cannes interjected, showing him the cake she smuggled out. “This and a slew of other sweeties was all they had to offer at Coffee Hour today. That and maybe some fruit. And of course Morty and Mum-Mum are ready to pounce on her as soon as she even looks at any of it.”

Richard sighed, rolled his eyes and said, “Get on, both of you. We’re going to Hoagie Queen.”

Cannes boarded the motorbike, which had a side car attached to the right hand side of it. Stella decided to ride in that. As they did, Richard ordered, “Cannes, give her some of that cake, will ya? Your sister’s sweating like a pig and it ain’t that warm out here.”

Before Stella could protest, Cannes ordered with equal authority, “Just shut up and eat the cake, bitch!”

“Fine!” Stella grumbled as her sister split that slice of lemon cake in half.

So while all this was going on, Fergie was still at the parish hall ranting about the food. And Morty was beginning to wonder what was taking the girls so long in the toilet.

“Look at this mess, willya?” Fergie grumbled into her voice synthesizer. “What is this church trying to do; kill everyone?? I keep telling the good padre, now he of all people should know that man does not live by bread alone. Even Jesus says so; it’s right there in the Gospel of St. Matthew, ‘Man shall not live by bread alone…’ especially when a person has diabetes.

“I keep telling him, ‘Look, Padre, it’s not as if I expect this congregation to serve lobster tails or Peking duck for my grandchildren’s sake. I wouldn’t let anyone spoil my own daughter that way. But surely it wouldn’t hurt the volunteers to bring some cheese and crackers and cold-cuts or a couple of small tubs of hummus and pita breads and maybe some carrot sticks and celery or something more nutritious, would it?

“That crazy pastor is too busy implementing these cockamamie so-called avant garde musical ideas to see what’s going on right here in God’s Church!! I mean, who ever head of having the entire choir perform ‘Rock of Ages’ on kazoos, anyway???”

“What’s keeping those girls?” Morty demanded. “We’re supposed to have lunch at Peter’s Big One this afternoon.”

For all of Cannes’ outward belligerance inherent in her endeavors to protect her diabetic bigger sister from all those schoolyard bullies who would eventually become friends to both girls, she truly was a caring, compassionate, and loving person. Stella had always envied that about her younger sister and often wished that she wasn’t always so bitter and moody…or “mitter and boody” as she once stammered in tears.

She was blubbering like a baby in front of Cannes as she stammered that goofy phrase during one very private conversation. And usually that would make Cannes roll her eyes and think, “Oh brother!” But Cannes took one look into her sister’s bloodshot eyes, saw the source of Stella’s depression and looked that deep in the eyes. And then she concluded, “I know what you need. I’m gonna give you a makeover.”

And when Cannes wanted to do a makeover on you, she wouldn’t take no for an answer. On more than one occasion, she had wrestled Stella to the ground, saying, “You can’t scare me with your dumb old diabetes!!! I know it’s not contagious!!” Of course in the wake of Cannes eventual diagnosis, She would wonder if Karma wasn’t paying her back for making Stella look like Tutankhamun…even if she made her feel like Siouxie.

But as it was at the time, Stella felt a tad low to want to be wrestled to the ground that particular time. So she pretty much went, “Pfft, fuck it! Let’s do it.” from that point on. She would agree to be her sister’s guinea pig as long as she got a juice and a cereal bar or something to nosh on for a pre-emptive attack on creeping insulin attacks.

Additionally, Cannes found she loved wearing makeup and putting it on her own face and on other people’s faces. She’d watch Janet, her mother, apply concealer, foundation, eyeliner, various colors of eye shadow, mascara, blush, lip gloss, and sometimes even glitter to her face when she was in a festive mood. By mimicking her mother’s actions, she became adept at applying makeup to her own face…particularly the Liz Taylor as Cleopatra look.

She got much encouragement from Janet, who was not one to discourage the flesh of her flesh from following her heart, especially when it comes to fashion and artistic endeavors. She told Cannes once, and this stuck with her ever since, “Y’know darling, there are people who make a great living turning ordinary citizens into fabulous people. It would be a worthy niche for you to commit random acts of beauty for a living.

“It’s rock n roll,” She continued, “It’s fashion, it’s an art form. You couldn’t ask for a better vocation. You’ll excel at this and you’ll be painting smiles on many faces for as long as you can stand it.” This sage wisdom made Cannes’ heart leap with joy at the thought of having that kind of power. As empowering and as much fun as it is to be stronger and braver than all the boys as school, she was getting the sense that there was more to this life than being the meanest, toughest little girl in Magmaville all the time.

Since then Cannes began to practice her make up skills on anyone she could wrestle to the ground. It didn’t matter if you were a boy or a girl; if she thought you needed a makeover, than by golly you do you ugly muthafuggah. For that matter neither Jarvis nor Clay ever escaped her experimentations with color – she made Jarvis look downright gorgeous as a Tammy Faye Messner impersonator.

But she, Janet, and Stella were the ones she got to do makeovers on the most. She would start with foundation powder, covering the entire face and neck to tone down the ruddiness their skin tones. She’d then sweep the excess powder off with one of her brushes. And reaching for several cotton swabs, colored powders, and eyeliner pencils, proceed to go to work on the eyes. Often one color of eyeliner is enough for many of her victims, but there are always those who need all the help they can get. On Stella, for instance, she’d start with black eyeliner, then blue-colored eyeliner, and to top it all off, plum colored eyeliner. This was to give an effect of black with peacock colored highlighted look similar to the many haircolorings she would add to her client’s hair upon request later in her life.

Then a q-tip coated with fuscia colored powder coating its side would be swiped across the surface of Stella’s eyelids, a few pinkish specks would fall across the lower eyelid waiting to be swiped across the surface. A plum or purple color would come next, across the surface covering the eye, amaybe a little above the point where the skull ends and the eyeball begins, only to be slightly muted by a swatch of gold which would also grace the lower eyelids directly under her lashes. Then a hue called Kitten – which can only be described as a sparkly iridescent beige color – is streaked across the very top just under the spot where Stella’s eyebrow would be if only Stella would let herself have eyebrows…and on the lower lid as well. Then a shade called Midnight Cowboy – which is essentially the same shade only with more glitter added to it – adds the finishing touches of eyeshadow on the top and bottom of the eye.

Then Cannes would apply mascara to the lashes. To her credit, she never once clumped Stella’s eyelashes.

She would then add blush to the cheeks, usually a hot pink color. Then she ‘d go to work on the lips. First she would apply mentholated lip balm as a foundation of healing a moisturizer of Stella’s lips. Then she’d find a nice colored lipstick – usually a plum or burgundy colored stick, or -- if she was feeling particularly ooky – black colored lipstick would be all Stella would want. But it’s not unlike Stella one bit to indulge in a creamy luminescent lavender toned blend of lipstick and lipgloss to go with the glitter and glam that was so deftly applied to her face by the capable hands of her younger sister.

Ultimately Stella deeply respected and appreciated the fact that Cannes always knows what she’s doing, especially in creating a “new you.” This also provided a delicious escape from being in the middle of Fergie and Janet’s battles over her, with Janet screaming at her mother to stop trying to starve her daughter, threatening to keep the girls away from her…that sort of thing.

In the years to follow, it would not be uncommon for Cannes to offer her services for birthdays, Valentines’ Day, Mother’s Day, and weddings. Often when she was strapped for cash around the holidays, Cannes would do makeovers on the other Yossarian women as her Xmas present to them. And when she was through she would take photos of the finished looks to give to them as gifts…and to add to her own personal portfolio. Even her father Richard got a nice close shave out of the deal.

Cannes and Stella would host slumber parties and have lots of makeover sessions with Stella and Pearl and some of the other girls at school. Pearl would often provide manicures to the other girls as well. Then the girls would get stoned and eat lots of strawberries dipped in sugar-free chocolate pudding. Then they’d do lengthy imitations of dudes, saying things like “Hey let’s go get some brewskies and get fucked up and shit, dude!” “Yeah, let’s go fuck some bitches, dude!”

In fact much of the night would be spent trying to out-dude each other…all of them. And it goes without saying that the voices of dudeness would resonate throughout the “Mansion” to the point where the occupants of the master bedroom – one Richard and Janet Yossarian – could get no sleep at all. All the high volumed banter had them both in stitches.

But that wasn’t all that went on at these parties. One of the girls got the idea of having an X-rated Haiku roundtable. All of the girls at the slumber party would write, and then take turns reading, some raunchy-arsed haiku poetry verses to each other. Many of these have been transcribed to Stella’s diaries.

Kiss me once again, Your skin feels so soft,
Let me feel your silken tongue I rub my thighs together…
intertwine with mine. I get so aroused.

God you turn me on, I love how it feels
when you’re penetrating me. when your hands are on my ass
Give it to me good. God they feel so warm

I’m getting so wet I want to fuck you
when I get wet I get hot Do you want to fuck me too?
and that gets me wet Let’s just get it on.

Your breath tickles me I love having sex.
so does your tongue on my neck. Love when you cum inside me
I’m enjoying this. and you make me cum

“You’ve got lovely tits” My clit is throbbing
Lick them like they’re ice cream cones run your fingers through my pubes
make my nipples harrrd. make me gush and ache

You’ve got a big dick Moving in and out
I could ride you all night long harder, faster, more and more
I don’t wanna stop You’re driving me wild

I am so aroused I can’t hold it in
by the sight of that tight ass I am going to explode!
moving when you fuck. Thanks! I needed that.

Stella majored in drama when she began attending Magmaville Community College. In one of her classes, her instructor assigned the class to act out a moment in each student’s everyday life. For example, a student could pantomime brushing teeth, or a surfer would act out riding the waves. Stella, having lived with diabetes since she was 12, decided to go big. Drawing inspiration from Antonin Artaud’s The Theater and The Plague, she would act out the symptoms of an insulin reaction.

For the average college student, there were two primary ways of being. One was loud, rowdy, obnoxious, boorish, and brain dead. The other was hyper-intellectual, completely and utterly pretentious, and irretrievably supercillious. Stella knew exactly where she fit in…

“Chiquita!”

With her old buddies from Magmaville High. There she knew she could draw from both worlds without enduring any more bullshit than what was obviously unavoidable.

During history class the students were to do a book report on a person who was famous in theater. At one point as she was hanging out at The Bauhaus Café, Punk Mother played her a copy of Bauhaus’ Burning From The Inside album. She was drawn from her thoughts by the 2nd track on the album. She asked Clay’s cousin Pearl Burke, who was tending the espresso machine at the moment, what the name of that track was. “Antonin Artaud” was Pearl’s reply. And upon Stella’s request she fetched the cd case so that Stella could take a closer look at the lyrics that were scrawled by the members of the band.

Intrigued, she began her research of Antonin Artaud’s life from there. Courtesy of Google she came across an essay written by one of her favorite authors, Anaïs Nin.

It was an account of the evening where she watched Antonin Artaud perform “The Theater and The Plague” at the schoolroom of the Sorbonne.

As she read the essay, describing the tortured portrayal of the plague and the audience’s reaction to Antonin’s performance, she concluded from Nin’s description that there was no difference between the agony endured during the bubonic plague and the plague that made its home inside of her body. But would there be a difference between the way the audience in the schoolroom of the Sorbonne reacted and the way the other members of her drama class would react to her portrayal of the agony inherent in diabetes mellitus? There was only one way to find out.

She somehow cajoled her mom into videotaping the performance during her acting class as part of the video montage she would eventually present during finals week. But even Janet Yossarian was floored by her eldest daughter’s performance.

It was just as Anaïs Nin would’ve described it were she alive and living in Magmaville and happened to be great friends of hers. Stella began by talking about her personal history with diabetes – the symptomology of high blood sugars and the need for insulin shots – leading up to her enactment of insulin overload. From there she began her intense performance.

To put it in Ms. Nin’s words;

“[Her} face was contorted in anguish, one could see the perspiration dampening [her] hair, [her] eyes dialated, [her] muscles became cramped, [her] fingers struggled to [escape the crawling numbness]. [She] made one feel the [palpitating heart, the trembling,] the fear, the fire [in her veins].

“[She] was in agony.
“[She] was screaming
“[She] was delerious.
“[She] was acting [her] own death…[her] own crucifixion.”

The class watched, shocked and horrified. A couple of students feigned bladder troubles and excused themselves to the restrooms. One portly type 2 diabetic in the class whispered to his companion, “Dude, I don’t know whether to throw her a bouqet of roses or one of my Tiger Bars!”

Some simply turned their attention to their notebooks, either scribing some critique of Stella’s intense performance or drawing silly stick figures.

Janet watched on terrified as she continued to tape the performance, and kept reminding herself, “It’s only an act this time…it’s only an act this time.” in an effort to blot out the urge to rescue her daughter.

And Stella continued “Until the last gasp.”

“[She] stayed on the floor.”

For the most part the rest of the class wasn’t as openly hostile as what was encountered by Antonin Artaud during his performance. In fact quite a few students came up to tell her of seeing their family members or friends with diabetes going through the same agony, the same symptoms of hypoglycemia, or of enduring the onset of an insulin attack themselves. One even shared the name and number of a facilitator of a local diabetes support group. The rest quietly dismissed it as a very eccentric and spastic performance.

As this was her final class of the day, although it was really all an act this time, Janet insisted on taking her daughter someplace where they could split a sandwich.

Stella felt fine, not even the slightest bit light-headed. But it disturbed her that the audience’s reaction wasn’t quite what she’d expected.

“At least the rest of the class was cool about it. The worst of it was you maybe scared the shit out of me and a couple of other kids in the class.” Janet consoled her daughter. “And as it happened I had to fight to keep from either rescuing you or bolting for the john myself.”

“That’s all well and good, but I didn’t expect anyone to relate to my performance at all.” Stella replied, shaking her head.

“You can look at this either one of two ways. One is that you’re a tremendously brilliant actress adept at performing your roles as if you’ve lived the life of the characters you may one day play. And then another way is to consider that what you just acted out is a lot more commonplace than you’d expected. In any case there’s tremendous potential for enlightenment in your performance and you’ll get through to more people than you’re giving yourself credit for.”

As comforting as Janet’s words were, Stella couldn’t help but ponder which was more disturbing: being made to feel like a freak of nature for having diabetes or being part of a crowd that would hail her as the new poster girl for diabetes management. Something about the latter option made her feel like the gold-digging bride in Tod Browning’s Freaks, calling to mind the wedding reception at the circus and all the sideshow freaks chanting “Gooba-Gabba, we accept you, one of us!!”

Either way she still felt unclean. Additionally, something inside of her made her want to yell at everyone, saying they’d all completely missed the point. Yet still an even stronger and wiser impulse within her retorted, “Ah, but suppose they did get the point?”

Jarvis was too hung over to go to his classes the morning after Stella’s performance art piece. So Stella had some alone time in the college cafeteria. Or she might have had if a certain gay kid, one Simon Webster, hadn’t invited himself to join her at the table where she sat.

And then he asked her, “So when were you diagnosed?”

So she told her story, saying “My parents sensed something wrong when I needed so many damned rest stops on our way to my grandmother’s house. Grandpa had died in an auto accident. Evidently he had a seizure brought on by hypoglycemia while he was driving.”

“God I’m sorry.” Simon said. He got a bit sad. “That’s so rough. I hate how these episodes just sneak up and kick ass like they do.”

“Me too.” Stella replied.

So Simon told his story about how he was diagnosed with juvenile diabetes at 17 years of age practically immediately after he was the target of a hate crime. Details to follow in a later chapter. When he finished, Stella couldn’t decide which was worse; not knowing what it was that caused her to have diabetes, or having it kicked right into you.

“So, were the bastards ever caught?”

“Well, yes. I went to court and testified, as did some other queers who were beaten damn near to death by these fascists. There were a lot of protests, all the other queers came out and raised a ruckus. Eventually the two of them got sent to prison, which is some comfort. Five years in juvenile hall was enough time for me to get out of Dodge and move in with my uncle Boris.

“Even so…every time I take my insulin, every time I do a finger jab, every insulin reaction…it’s like they’re still kicking the shit out of me. The only justice is the hope I have that they’re both just stupid enough to drop the soap!”

This last statement made Stella giggle wickedly. Nothing like the thought of some deserving assholes taking it right up the arse, she thought. So they became friends and Stella had since harbored the idea of at least making some interesting art with this guy.

At some point, Simon’s Uncle Boris threw a birthday party for Simon as soon as he turned 21. It was held at The Stud. Stella was invited, and was anxious to attend.

Somehow Boris managed to score a huge cake for the party. Simon gave his uncle a look like, “Dude, are you kidding me right now?!?” After all, Boris knew that Simon had diabetes.

But Boris just went on wiping the beer mugs and said with a shrug, “Hey, whatever, y’know…It’s your birthday. Besides, what’s the point of me helping you pay for your insulin shots if you can’t or won’t eat what you feel like eating even when you shoot up? Huh?”

And then he said, “Jesus Christ, I’ve never seen a more anal-retentive disease!”

So in the end Simon indulged and so did Stella. I mean, what difference does it make? Simon was gonna get lucky tonight all the same.

By the end of the party, Stella was just a bit too tipsy to try to walk all the way home from The Stud. Know how we can tell? She was beginning to slur her words as she prattled on about the pros of abnormality and the cons of normality. Somehow the conversation topic dealt with two very popular female singers. There was an apparent goody-two-shoes type of sweet-and-innocent girl-next-door singer named Brenda Spencer. This one prided herself on her country roots (* rolls eyes * ). And the other one – aptly named Esmerelda – was an arty and decadent diva who openly bragged about using recreational drugs and having sex with both men and women whether they were gay or straight. And she made it her life mission to be the kind of performer Iggy Pop would’ve been if he were a woman.

It was obvious which side Stella chose, in fact she made it abundantly clear where she stood. “Normal…” She slurred. “Normal, normal, normal…pfft! I like freaky people better. Why the fuck would anyone want to gang around a bunch of normal people anyway? At leas’ with freaks you know there’s a screw loose and they put their insanity to some good constructive yous and make something fun of all of it. Can ya say the same for some goddamned normal person?? Aw, hell no!! They bore ya outta yer skull at th’ best, an ya never know what kind of psycho bitch is lurking under all that so called innoffensive demeanor. They’re all sick and dangerous people, all of them!!”

At that point there was a lull in the demand for more booze, so Boris the bartender decided to carry Stella upstairs to the loft where he and Simon lived and invited their lovers. “C’mon, Stella honey! Let’s go sleep it off!” he said as he carried her upstairs.

“Aaah, these fuggin’ normal people…They can all suck my dick!!”

The next morning she woke up ready for the bathroom. Luckly for her she found the bathroom door unlocked. However there were two guys in the shower – evidently Boris was getting very lucky himself. “Fuck it, though,” Stella thought. She needed a crap and a piss in either order. Those guys can just go on shagging in the shower. Didn’t matter to her at this point.

So Stella was on the toilet and it took some time and a little effort to get everything out of her system. She wasn’t shy in the least, but she felt just a little bit constipated. Her grunts were audible enough to elicit chuckles from inside the shower.

Oh, and don’t assume Stella farts ambrosia, either.

“Oh honey…how about a courtesy flush at least!!!”

“Oh not yet, darling! We’re in the shower!!

“You’d rather suffocate than freeze?? Are you out of your mind?”

“Give me a break! I’m a sadist, not a masochist!”

“I know, that’s my point!”

Stella wasn’t even paying attention. At this point she discovered her period started. Luckily she remembered to take her purse to the bathroom with her. She put a fresh tampon inside of her and then she cleaned herself off.

She then flushed and closed the lid on the toilet. Something about the way the lid hit the sink struck Boris as having a highly opinionated ring to it. So he make this wisecrack like, “Yeah? I don’t blame ya!” He and his boy-toy roared with laughter as Stella washed her hands.

She didn’t feel low at the moment, so she went ahead with her first glucose test of the day. I’d describe the process once again, but I think I’ve made you all familiar enough with the procedure already…and to describe it yet again is getting rather tedious. So long story short she was about at 100 according to the reading on her meter.

She then packed her diabetes kit back into her purse and made her way out of the bathroom. She pretty much ignored all the commentary from Boris and his lover, deciding they were obviously being wiseguys and – thank God – they were at least clever.

On her way out, she spied a joint in the ashtray on the coffee table next to the sofa where she had crashed. She decided to help herself to a hit or two off of that before taking herself out to breakfast. Simon was in the kitchen getting himself some coffee. As she passed the joint to him, she invited him to join her, only to instead let herself be talked into staying and having brunch with him and his lover instead.

Now, how cute is Simon anyway? Well, cute enough to make Stella wish she was a gay guy so that she could blow off Jarvis for him. Or at the very least she wished that gay guys liked cunt.

A little more about Simon Webster…

Whatever his original haircolor used to be, it was now jet black with purple highlights, like Punk Mother’s. He had an angular face with deep hazel eyes and lips that were neither too thick nor too thin. He also had a tendency to dress rather impeccably, he was such a dandy.

He clearly liked to write and from what could be seen on the coffee table he was working on what looked like a novel of some sort. When he wrote, he used a quill pen which he fashioned out of a regular ball point pen. It had an ostrich feather that he had taped to its shaft, and he tied a blue satin ribbon and a gold satin ribbon around where the top of the pen ended and the feather continued.

This pen served a dual purpose for Simon; first and foremost as a writing tool. Second, but no less importantly, as a sex toy. Often, he and his lover would take turns ticking each other with it. Simon loved a good tickling. You could tickle him anywhere; back of the ear, the tips of his toes, his back, his ass, didn’t matter. Best foreplay ever.

Now, for all his effeminate mannerisms, he had a mind like a B-movie scriptwriter. How do we know, you ask, gentle reader? As Stella sat at the coffee table drinking her orange juice while waiting for Simon to finish making brunch, she noticed a couple of composition books. On the front of one of them was a title: The Diabetic Desperados.

“Am I allowed to read through these journals you’ve got here?” Stella asked.

“I don’t mind, but they’re not really journals, Stell’.” Simon replied. “I’m working on a story which I hope will become a movie. It’s about these two guys, and they both got diabetes. They’re both trying to keep that under control, but neither of them can seem to hold a job for very long. And the cost of their medication and supplies keep going up, and they can’t get any insurance. So they get fed up and turn to a life of crime.

“They go around and burglarize pharmacies, and rob convenience stores to get the money and supplies they need. That’s pretty much the synopsis of the plot.”

On that note Stella opened one of the books to a page. She began to read the part where one of the main characters just finished the last of some under-the-table gardening work. Upon collecting a meager amount of cash pay for that work he was told, “We’ll call you.” By that time the character felt a steady low coming on, so he heads downtown to get something to eat. And he’s walking around with a hand rake and his gardening gloves. He runs into his friend, who walks with him to some mini market in town. His friend notices the way he’s sweating, got that look on his face that suggests that something’s not quite right. Seeing the hand rake he says to the gardener, “That thing’s really starting to frighten me.”

Then the gardener turns to him and says, “Lissen, I need to get something to jack up my blood sugar levels real quick or else…it won’t be my blood that gets put to the test.”

Stella laughed through this part. She loved that last line and could very easily relate to it.

But getting back to that damned quill pen and its use as a sex toy. Right about the time that Boris carried Stella upstairs to crash her out on the sofa, Simon and his boy toy du jour – this was before Stella had hooked him up with Kyle – decided it was likewise time to go upstairs as well. Boris didn’t mind if his nephew brought a man home with him for the night. After all, it was his birthday.

So Stella was passed out, and at some point she thought she had a dream of watching Simon and his friend running around naked in the loft. She tried some lucid dreaming techniques she had read about in Patricia Garfields’s landmark novel Creative Dreaming, and imagined going back to the moment that brought on this spate of frolicking between these two boys. She saw Simon seated in his uncle’s easy chair with his quill pen, trying to write. Suddenly, his boy toy snatches his quill pen out of his hand. “Hey!” Simon shouted as he whirled around to face the kid. The guy’s got a glint in his eye as he turns the pen around in his hand and proceeds to tickle Simon in the face and neck.

“C’mon…cut it out, willya!!”

“Yeah, right!” The dude continued to tickle Simon.

Simon shielded himself with his arms from the feather on his own pen as his lover had at him.

“Hey buddy…you like that? Huh?”

Simon gasps and chuckles and orders him to stop, but he doesn’t really mean it. Then his lover backed away laughing, his body language taunted Simon, “You want this? Huh? Do you?” So Simon gave chase to this guy, and they ended up in his room and are soon making out. Then somehow Simon grabbed the pen back. Then he tickled his lover with it and is soon chased around the living room, both boys completely undressed.

Stella fell unconscious again, smiling at the sexy dream she just had.

But since she’s been awake for a little while, sipping her orange juice and reading what Simon had written in his composition books, she spied the quill pen that was still lying on the coffee table. Then she realized that she might not have actually slept at all that night, but simply lapsed in and out of consciousness.

Stella found herself interested in a particular character in the Diabetic Desperados story, one who seemed to be very much like Simon. In fact, this was what Simon had written about ______________.

“There were times when _____________ would get so goddamed fed up with always having to think about this goddamned disease all the time even tho his very life depended on that. So on those days when he was really in the mood to say ‘Fuck it!’ he would refuse to take any insulin. Then his sugars would skyrocket and he’d get extremely thirsty. That would make him literally drink his weight in liquids. Only a short time after that he would get frequent and often violent urges to urinate, (something about that idea gave Stella a fiercely erotic charge in her groin…she didn’t quite know why) which he would refuse for as long as he could stand it. Then when he couldn’t hold it in any more he would follow the cutest guy he sees into the men’s room and immediately assume the position in front of the urinal right next to that guy and brazenly initiate a pissing contest. While the two men were emptying out, and clearly both of them were about to get off on the relief of it, the cute guy looks from the corner of his eye right at ______________ and notices he’s got a switchblade knife clamped between his teeth and there’s also a glint in his eye as well. This was his way of saying, ‘Love me or hate me…

…But don’t fuck with me!”

Well, clearly Simon identifies most with this _____________ character; this impression would be as obvious to anyone reading these pages as it was to Stella. Simon seems to have a lot of repressed anger in him, just like Stella does, and it seems to show in his bladder fantasies. What Stella found particularly erotic was the feeling of carrying all that excess fluid inside of herself for as long as she could stand it…which struck her as odd considering she usually found the pressure unbearable.

Beyond that, she finds herself mediating on an image of Frankie Booth she saw online. It was a photo of him with his hand gliding down the front of his black leather trousers, and this was featured on the home page of his official online website.

The Magmaville Public Library offered free computer/internet access. Stella, Cannes and Pearl would often spend as much time as possible on the Magmaville Public Library computers looking up anything that had anything to do with Frankie Booth. They were particularly interested in photos and videos of Frankie fondling himself and gyrating wildly to his own music as he performs live. This was their porn, for the record. Frankie has a great butt and he knows how to use it.

The library has imposed a 30 minute time limit on computer usage. But that didn’t stop the girls from enjoying up to 90 minutes of Frankie. Each girl took turns at the computer, each using her own 30 minute allotment. That was plenty of time for these images of Frankie to sear their way into Stella’s memory.

She would often meditate on that image while holding her ever so demanding bladder and fondle herself to stave off the increasing pressure. And sometimes on the other hand she would simply meditate on the image itself even after she had relieved herself (“At long last…God!”) Either way, the sting of release would be exquisite. (Aahh!) She’d masterbate to that visualization for hours. It looked so damned erotic to her.

Anyway…

Simon confided the origins of that character’s potentially psychotic inclinations as his boy-toy (This was before Stella played the accidental Cupid and hooked him up with Kyle Chapman) washed the brunch dishes: “I’m not into that kind of fetish. Look, I’m scared to death to go into a public restroom without some kind of concealed weapon on my person. I’ve only been jumped about a bazillion times!!

“They won’t even let me take a piss in peace, f’crissakes!!” he protested, referring to the queer bashers who often got on his case. “I mean, what’s with that???”

Stella could only shake her head with empathy. There were too many horror stories of being harrassed and abused in public restrooms between the two of them. Cannes couldn’t always be there to protect her bigger sister, after all.

Speaking of bathrooms, let’s talk about a nice long bath…

The rain was coming down hard and heavy. There was no going out that night.

“Bebbeh, Ai’s steel hung over.” Jarvis wheedled into Stella’s voicemail. “Ai chess doan wanno see nobody tonight…”

Meh, just as well. He’s an ass when he’s drunk anyway…just like last night, Stella thought. But she’d rather not get into that again. She’d much rather draw a bath, light some candles, some patchouli and a nice little pipeful of sinsemilla…and listen to the rain patter down on the rooftop directly above her head. She desperately craved the sensuality inherent in such a moment…when everything is soaking wet.

Anway, she’d been thinking about Simon a lot, particularly the last time she’d been with him. So far, she’s the only girl she knows of that Simon has tried to have straight sex with. But…

“I’m sorry, Stell. I just can’t…” Simon shook his head as he pulled out of her. Stella couldn’t say anything. After all, he told her he was gay. She could only gaze at him, helpless at the mercy of her own lustful urges.

“Is there anything I can do?” She really felt sorry for the guy.

Simon let out a sigh and then offered, “Why don’t I do something for you?” With that he reached down to Stella’s snatch and…well…he snatched it, put it this way. He snatched it pretty good, too. Stella loved the feel of Simon’s grip on her pubes; firm without being brutal.

“Do you like that?” he asked as he gently massaged her groin. She let an affirmative moan escape from her lips. “Mmmuch better than nothing, Simon.”

Simon sighed again, “I know how that feels…going without.” Simon looked a little sad as he continued to rub Stella off. All Stella could do was lay back and enjoy it. As he stroked her she gazed at the walls of his bedroom. There were some huge posters towering over the bed. One such poster was a photo of Frankie Booth wearing nothing but a pair of ladies underpants onstage, which was taken when he performed in Leeds. His right thumb was hooked through the top and leg opening of these panties, pulling them down as if doing a strip tease for the audience, and his right hand held the microphone at groin level. There were two other posters on the wall; one was the famous promo poster for the movie Pulp Fiction with the photo of Uma Thurman on it. Another was the promo poster for the movie Blue Velvet featuring the likenesses of Dennis Hopper and Isabella Rossellini. There was only one window looking over the alleyway located next to The Stud, graced by curtains made of purple velvet with gold trim.

“At least he gave me something to daydream about.” Stella thought as she lay in the tub and let the scalding hot water caress her body. There was something very arousing about the way the bath water made love to Stella. They way it touched her body was warm and tender and gently yeilding. She would cup a little of the water in the palms of her hands and run it over her breasts just to keep them wet. She loved how her nude body looked when it was all naked and wet; she looked softer and more vulnerable. Somehow that turned her on to no end.

Yes, she was definetly wet and aching for release. She focused her ears on the pattering rain outside and began to mentally ruminate on how drenched the world outside was getting. “Super fucking drenched.” she thought over and over again like an erotic mantra. Her fingers reached for her mound and began to run through her curls as they waved through the bath water. She loved the way the water felt on her skin and on her breasts and on her groin. She loved the way it felt so much she kept her cunt under water while she stroked herself.

She wanted Simon all the more and she knew she couldn’t have him. The agony of that thought only intensified her arousal. The way he touched her felt so good, and he was considerate enough to get her off instead of wasting time ruminating on the possibility of impotency. That she found so refreshing. She didn’t find that very often in men…especially not with Jarvis, anyway.

“Stupid ass got into another stupid fight…It’s only right he should be hurting in the head for that…I don’t wanna go there…water, water, water, ahh…” Back to happy, soft, gentle, warm bath water thoughts she went. As she did she drew a deep sigh that seemed to well up from behind her pubes.

She was lying in the tub for quite awhile, not even caring how long she’d been in there, letting the bath water grow cooler. There was still some residual warmth from when she first ran the tap. Anyway, she didn’t want to get out. She didn’t want to be anywhere else. She just wanted to stay in the tub and let the water caress her, let it keep her voluptuous body all nice and wet and tender looking, skin all shiny…slippery…very slippery….pure sexy delight….

In addition to Drama class, Stella took art courses, including art appreciation. At one point, the art appreciation class was studying the life and works of Andy Warhol, and the instructor even brought in dvd copies of Andy’s films to show to the class. As she watched Lonesome Cowboys with the other art students, she began to think about how it might play out if Andy Warhol did a send-up of Dicken’s A Christmas Carol. As fate would have it, one of her assignments for the drama class was to write and direct a Xmas play. She saw it as an opportunity to do Andy Warhol proud.

So she did a rewrite of A Christmas Carol, and auditioned some of her classmates to see who could do the best Edie Sedwick, the best Joe D’allesandro, the best Aldo Ray (never mind that Aldo never had anything to do with Warhol that I know of), the best Ondine, the best Holly Woodlawn, and the best Ultra Violet. And to top it all off, she wanted to videotape the whole thing. She borrowed one of her mother’s video cameras and began to videotape the rehearsals.

Now, here’s how she meant it to play out: “Little Joe” would be cast in the role of Ebenezer Scrooge. “Edie” would play “Babs” Cratchet, “Aldo” would play Scrooge’s nephew Fred, “Ondine” would be Jacob Marley, “Holly Woodlawn” would be Mrs. Cratchet, and so on. Stella would direct and run the camera, and maybe even have a part as The Spirit of Xmas Past…and as such she would try to seduce the Spirit of Xmas Present…who would be played by “Lou Reed.’ So this parody had more in common with the Warhol/Morrisey collaborations than with “Sleep.”

With her cast assembled, she began rehearsals. Cannes was allowed to sit in and watch while they did the runs. She found it all very hilarious.

The camera began to roll, and the filming began with Stella announcing the title of the film. “Andy Warhol presents…Scrooge! Directed by Mrs. Andy Warhol!”

“Edie”: My God it’s cold in this office! Hey Scrooge! Can’t we throw another log in the fireplace or put on another pot of coffee or something?

“Joe”: I put a log on the fire an hour ago, forcrissakes!

“Edie”: Yeah, well it’s burned down to ash already, See? (She points to the fireplace)

“Joe”: Whaddya want me to do about it? It ain’t my fault if we had no rainy season this year.”

“Edie”: I want ya to throw another fucking log on the fire!! It’s freezing cold already!

“Joe”: Be reasonable. Do you think I can afford to throw a log on the fire every time ya harp about the cold? Face it, sister; firewood doesn’t come as cheap as you think. There aren’t enough rainforests in the whole world to warm up that iceberg of a heart of yours. (Leering) Look, I got a better idea. Let’s you and I go upstairs to my room. I’ll heat things up around here.

“Edie”: Ya gotta be kidding me, ya dirty old man, you! Lissen! I may be a woikin’ goil, but I ain’t that kind of a woikin’ goil!

“Aldo”: * Knocks on door. *

“Joe”: Will you listen to yourself? How can it be anything but cold in this office when you’re so fucking frigid all the time?

“Aldo”: (barging in) Hey, Merry Christmas, Everyone! (looks around) I hope I’m not interrupting anything!

“Edie”: I was just getting back to work.

“Joe”: Yeah, whaddya mean standing around making with the chit chat for? Time is money and you’re a waste of both!

“Aldo”: (sarcastically) Aw, now that’s real nice! Uncle Scrooge, why do you gotta be so mean to her, especially on Christmas Eve? And why is it so cold around here all the time?

“Joe”: Christmas Eve? So what? Why should I give a damn about Christmas anyway? Just because Jesus Christ was born in some manger that day doesn’t make it anything special. I have a birthday too, big deal. Who’s gonna make something of that?

“Aldo”: Look, this is just too much right here, Uncle Scrooge. That is really just too much. That’s no way to talk about Jesus. Why if I weren’t a gentleman, I’d let you have it right in that big black hole you call your mouth!

“Edie”: (Laughs right out loud)

“Joe”: You got your nerve coming around here telling me how to run my life and my business, threatening to do violence to me in my own office! Why don’t you take your Merry Xmas and stuff it where the sun don’t shine? Go on…beat it!

“Aldo”: Alright, I’m going already! Merry Christmas!!

“Joe”: Merry Christmas, My Ass!!! (Edie still guffaws!) Eyyy, you too! You’re fired, anyway!! Get the hell outta here! I’m sick of you already!!!

“Edie”: With pleasure! Hey, wait a minute! What about my severance pay??

“Aldo”: Forget it darling. Why doncha come and work for me instead? I’ll make it worth your while. (winking furiously)

“Edie”: Why not? It’s gotta beat the shit outta being locked in this freezer!

(“Edie” and “Aldo” leave, “Joe” slams the door on their asses)

“Joe”: T’chuh! Merry Christmas! Gimme a break! Another day where I don’t get any poontang! “Bah Humbug’s” too much a compliment for a crappy day like this!

(“Ondine” enters)

“Ondine”: Well God, Scrooge! Maybe if you didn’t have such an attitude problem, you might have better luck with the women.

“Joe”: Hey, who said that? I thought I told you to get the fuck outta my office!

“Ondine”: Don’t you recognize me? I’m your old business partner Jacob Marley.

“Joe”: What the hell are you doing here? Aren’t you suppose to be dead and buried already?

Suddenly “Ondine” turns into Kent Neidermeyer and goes, “Cut! Cut! Cut!”

Stella retorts, “What do you mean, ‘Cut?’, Nerdermeyer?? I’m the director!! I’m the one who decides when it’s time to yell ‘Cut!’…not you!”

Kent replies, “Well, this Jacob Marley fits well with the original story. But wouldn’t it be funnier if I could be Bob Marley instead?”

At that Stella rolls her eyes and says, “ Forget it! Look, would you just stick with the script and quit ruining everything for a change?”

Kent: “Oh, I’m ruining everything?!?”

Then “Joe” becomes Kent’s best friend (at the time) Kyle Chapman and butts in; “Excuse me, Ms. Director lady, but who wrote this crap? “ He threw down the script. “I mean, are you kidding me? Paul Morrisey wasn’t this bad!”

Cannes had been laughing hard enough to damn near piss in her pants as Kyle threw down the script and stormed out. As he exited, he turned to the camera and yelled, “What the fuck are you laughing at?!?

She did, however manage to remedy the situation. Kent’s understudy, Simon, became the Ondine-as-Jacob-Marley to Kyle’s Little-Joe-as-Scrooge. But then their scene together somehow morphed into some kind of Yuletide Gay Porn, with “Scrooge” and “Marley” sharing some alone time before the other spirits of Xmas could have at him. With the deadline fast approaching, Stella decided to go with that. It wasn’t too far removed from the spirit of Andy Warhol after all.

She had to change the name of the movie, though. It was renamed Ebenezer’s Christmas Package.

However disasterous her attempt to parody A Christmas Carol inna Andy Warhol style turned
out to be, (the whole drama class thought it was so bad it’s funny, btw), it was clear that Stella wanted to grow and expand as an artist. As it was, she had some really good ideas that she’d love to see put to videotape.

For instance, take this entry in her diary of June 25th. It was no secret that Stella had more of a crush on this superstar pop singer Frankie Booth than she had on her lover Jarvis Gonzales, as she played his albums quite often while she worked on her scripts and class assignments.

“June 25th: I’d really love, love, love to try my hand at directing a music video of some of my favorite Frankie Booth songs…particularly ‘Party Me Down.’ That song could be even more of a huge hit than ‘The Big Flirt.’

“So here’s my idea. The video could take place in his bathroom, and I’d have Frankie in the shower, getting ready to go to a party or a nightclub or something. Suddenly, all of his friends come barging in with drinks and stuff, ready to party right there in the bathroom with him. The rationale for that is there’s no such thing as a party without Frankie Booth, and they couldn’t wait to get this party started. So they brought the party into his bathroom.

“Anyone else would probably be freaked out that all these people are blatantly invading his privacy when he’s all nude like he will be in the video. But Frankie’s a party animal, and he’s ready to boogie already. So I could have one of the guests bring in a boom box, and he starts playing ‘Party Me Down’. Everyone starts dancing and drinking to this song, and when the vocals on the song begin, Frankie will start singing into the hand-held showerhead, which he uses as a microphone. With all that hot water gushing all over his chest, that would be so sexy…”

A couple of additional scenes described in her entry included Pearl Burke sitting on the toilet and moving to the rhythm while she’s relieving herself. And also some guy gyrating his hips while he’s taking a piss. Another partygoer would be using the curling iron in her hair while she’s groovin to the beat. In short, bedlam in the bathroom.

“He’d have a pretty big bathroom in his house, being a huge superstar and all!”

No doubt about it; Stella was a drama queen and she knew it. And if she could just channel that energy by being part of a play, she’d be happy to have gotten that far. Many of the plays she starred in were small scale productions, and since these were volunteer endeavors they didn’t begin to feed the bulldog.

Job searches can be downright depressing, which only added to what Stella was going through attending classes, then coming home and dealing with other people’s concerns about her health. It’s been particularly ovewhelming, especially for someone as sensitive as Stella. Her parents weren’t as heavy handed about the whole diabetic food police as her grandmother often was, but even so there was this increasing need to guard her personal space from being encroached upon. This wasn’t an anti-parent thing, she just needs her space…just wanted to be by herself from time to time, to sort out her private thoughts.

Or at the very least not think at all.

So she began to hang out at The Bauhaus Café after her classes were done for the day

One afternoon she ordered a decaf cappuccino with soymilk at the counter, then sat down at one of the booths. She felt just a tad low, so she began a glucose test.

It was a slow afternoon, and the music caught Stella’s attention as she fed the strip. The tunes being aired over the speakers – which were usually always from the punk and post-punk era of the late ‘70’s and early ‘80’s –struck Stella as having a certain sonic empathy that most popular music (with the possible exception of Grunge) lacked.

Punk Mother, who had taken Stella’s order, brought the decaf cappuccino to her just as the numbers on her meter came up: 89. Not bad, but still not a bad idea to injest a carbohydrate or two. Punk Mother saw the numbers as Stella set the meter down on the table. Curious, she asked Stella, “One or Two?”

Stella could only say, “Wha--?”

“Diabetes. Which type?”

“One. Why?”

“Eh, just curious…that’s all.” Then Punk Mother began to sense a need for solitude. “It’s cool; I don’t particularly care to think much less talk about it, either.”

As much as Stella wanted to be alone, somehow she sensed that this punked out proprietor was coping with a strain of diabetes not entirely different from her own. This came as something of a welcome relief to her. She continued the conversation with Punk Mother.

“It’s bad enough living with it, isn’t it. I wouldn’t mind it so much if it didn’t totally take over your life and control it like some little Hitler or something.”

“I hear ya, I hear ya.” Punk Mother agreed. “All these dumb things you’ve got to do to keep the damned sickness at bay…I’ve lost count of all the time I’ve felt like saying ‘fuck it!’ and just not deal with it anymore…which is suicide.”

“Yeah, and then the other side to that,” Stella added after taking a sip of her drink, “you get so used to regimenting yourself that you’ve forgotten how to be free and you just go on with the regimentation. And as I’ve gotten it when I was only 12, I really have no idea what it was like to be free. And that’s to say nothing of all these self-appointed diabetes cops that invade your circle of family and friends.”

The two ladies took a sigh break. Listening to the music for a minute, Punk Mother said, “Thank God for RocknRoll Rebellion.”

“Yeah, they really need to play this music on the radio instead of the drivel they play now!” Stella commented.

“Hoo boy, don’t get me started on that!”

“As if there isn’t enough sugar coating in all the food we eat! Does there have to be so much sugar coated music on top of all that?”

I don’t know if that means she’s suddenly gotten over Frankie Booth or not, although Booth has more in common with the likes of Iggy Pop than with – say – Donny Osmond as far as his approach to pop music goes. All I can tell you is that it was then that Stella and Punk Mother bonded over cappuccino, Iggy Pop’s Lust for Life, and a common disease represented by the glucose meter. I must say, for a couple of people who – due to their mutual medical condition – were often referred to as “Sweet People” (that is to say, people with way too much sugar in their blood), they were just as salty and gamey as any curmudgeon could be. The two became such friends that eventually Punk Mother thought of Stella when a couple of baristas moved on to greener pastures at some other place of business in Magmaville.

Yossarian Lives!!!

2010-04-27T10:20:00.000-07:00

Let's start in the beginning....

Richard Yossarian had come a long way to become the public access television star that he is today. It's a classic story of geeky teen turned biker rebel.

Back in High School, Richard Yossarian was what Arthur Fonzarelli onced referred to himself as..."A nerd, a real turkey!" This alone made him an easy target for bullying and rejection...both at home and in the schoolhalls. Then one afternoon, as he was about to pass by a motorcycle shop on the way home from school, he had an epiphany as a Harley Davidson that'd been sitting parked in the window display caught his eye. The very sight nearly scared him to death, but he couldn't look away. He began to think of all the people who rode these machines, wondering if they had the same fears before they started riding, thought maybe they had to overcome a lot of fears just as he does each time he leaves the house. Then it hit him that he would have to overcome that and a lot of other fears if he was ever to shed this nerdy facáde forever...and be the cool dude that he knew he was meant to be deep down.

Somewhere he found enough courage to hook up with the roughest, toughest looking gang of bikers in Magmaville, and decided not to back off until he learned to ride one of those bikes...no matter how bad he would end up getting his scrawny ass kicked. The bikers laughed and refused at first, but when he said he'd rather die at their hands than live the rest of his life as a nerd, they acquiesced. Maybe they figured if he had enough guts to risk getting his ass kicked, he had just what it would take to earn the honor of riding the almighty Hog.

Or maybe they just felt sorry for him, so wanting to break free from a self image that cannot help but wallow in such bad press.

All the same, they taught him well; no stupid shit, no showing off, no smiling when you ride -- unless you need some bug protein, of course...all essential to nerd killing.

It really was like riding a bicycle.

Shedding the nerd skin has a lot of advantages, not the least of which being winning the heart of the girl you're in love with. He had at the time a major crush on Janet Johnson, who graduated the same year from the same high school as he. She was a stunning beauty, becoming the head cheerleader at the time and was dating the star quarterback. She had aspirations of becoming a fashion model after she graduated, and had no interest in knowitall geeks like what Richard was at the time.

She found in time that her relationship with the football hero was constraining; he wanted an at-home wife and mother, which is also what her parents Jake & Fergie Johnson wanted for her. Five years after graduation Janet left the football hero to pursue her dreams.

She had managed to land a few jobs modeling clothes for the catalogs of one of the local department stores, and hairstyles for advertisements for the Glamourous Beauty Salon. Soon she found herself wanting to be seen as more than just a pretty face. She began to attend college majoring in journalism and broadcast media, and soon had a regular column as a movie critic for The Magmaville Times Additionally she hosted a public radio program called Forbidden Performances -- which featured recordings of live performances, songs, albums, etc., that were forbidden from airplay due to copyright restrictions, FCC regulations, outcry from fundamentalist religious groups, and whatnot.

It came to pass that the Magmaville had a 5 year high school reunion coming up and somehow the planets and stars aligned in a way that would be conducive to both Richard and Janet to attend this fandango together. Janet was flat out blown away at the sight of Richard riding his beloved new Hog into the parking lot of the campus. She fell instantly in love.

The two of them began dating, to Fergie & Jake's mutually bitter chagrin -- as they would've preferred that she marry the quarterback and be a wife and mother. The more Janet got to know Richard, the more she enjoyed his company. Now, he may have been a real tiger in the bedroom way before he started courting those bikers for a lesson in manhood, but before then, who would've known? Even so, it wasn't the image of the rugged dude on the bike that Janet fell in love with, but rather with someone who looked to be as if he'd made up his mind once and for all to be a man already!! You'd think she'd find that in a star quarterback, but no this one. And anyway, she was feeling rebellious to begin with...so he suited her fine. So the two of them were engaged six months later, and in another 18 months she became his old lady.

He didn't stick with the biker gang that taught him everything he knew about riding a Harley, athough he'd earned their respect enough that he could've been the leader of his mentors if he wanted to. He found an even greater sense of respect and cool about being the lone wolf, and that he loved to ride with none but his biker mama sitting behind him with her arms wrapped around him.

The Yossarians brought two strange rebel broads into this world. The first was Estella Jean (Stella for short) and the second was Candace Margaret (who prefers to be called Cannes, after the french town where the film festival is always held). For their sake, the parents invested in a family van for grocery runs, family outings, errands, & doctor appointments (this would become essential). Even so, Richard always maintained his Hog, kept it in top running condition in hopes of the day when he'd get to teach at least one of his girls the fine art of riding a Harley Davidson.

For now, this was a form of normaloid utopia, so he'd ride this out in the meantime.

But here's where it starts to go downhill for The Yossarians.

Although Fergie had severe misgiving regarding this marriage, and felt shame to think that such a nice boy like Richard Yossarian had degenerated into a damned hillbilly hoodlum *gasp*! She nearly disowned Janet, instead turning her attention to her stepson Mortimer Johnson. However, a tragic turn of events gave her a change of heart. Jake Johnson, her first husband and biological father of Janet and Mortimer (the latter from one of his previous marriages) had been living with diabetes for much longer than she'd known him. One year, while the two of them were on a sort of 2nd Honeymoon, Jake was driving along Highway 1 when he had a diabetic seizure brought on by a sudden severe glucose drop, and drove headling into a collision with a diesel truck. Jake died instantly. Fergie barely survived. Both her legs were so badly damaged that they couldn't be saved, and she needed to have them both amputated. Additionally, her throat was severely damaged and a tracheotomy was needed if she was ever to breathe again. So in short order she lost her 2nd husband whom she loved dearly, the use of both her legs, and her natural speaking voice.

But the bad news didn't end there.

Stella was 12 years old when this tragedy happened. Mortimer needed help with the funeral arrangements and with keeping an eye on his mother as she recovered. So there was no ruling out Janet. Janet was daddy's little girl, and the news devastated her. So the entire family was packed into the van and on their way to her family's home.

The journey took a lot longer than usual. Poor Stella had become insatiably thirsty, began drinking a lot of fluid, which made it necessary for many rest stops to accommodate her. Eventually they made it to the hospital room where Fergie was staying. While Stella and Cannes visited with Mum-mum, Richard and Janet had a private chat with Morty.

"How many rest stops?!?"

"At least 7, not even counting the lunch break. And she was drinking like a fish at lunch."

"We tried to get her to cut back, but she's always thirsty anymore, I dunno what."

Morty just looked back in the direction where Mum-mum's room was. Janet and Richard instantly suspect that Morty's getting a bit worried.

"That's a classic sign, you know. Dad's had it for years and it finally caught up with him, and now look what's happened!"

Many of you can see what was in store of Stella: a complete physical and a blood draw test later, the results were in: Stella's pancreas wasn't producing insulin. So she was put on insulin therapy. Of course they broke the news to Mum-mum after she was released from the hospital in time for memorial services for Jake.

With that Fergie comes to see the idea of disowning her daughter Janet as a huge mistake. Time spent in the hospital was spent reflecting on what might've been, that she too could've died without seeing her granddaughters grow up, and although she's lost a lot to save her own life, she feels God has given her a second chance at reconciliation with her daughter and her family. And with the kind of scatterbrained choices she feels Janet has made with her life, those little girls are probably gonna need some good guidance in the face of what's in store for her...especially little Stella.

Poor Stella. She needed the toilet.

She really needed to pee so badly.

She wanted to hold it in, to be able to wait until the next town at least before pestering her dad for a much needed rest stop. Hell, she didn’t want to worry about pissing, she just wanted to be with her father and join him on these road trips and just enjoy the ride the way many other people seemed to do.

But nooooooooooooo…..

Every drop she’d ever drank seemed to plunge right through her, and the more she held it in, the more desperate she got. And those potholes in the road were no help at all. In fact, that last pothole was murder.

Richard heard his daughter groan, and checked to see her pained expression in the rear view mirror of his beloved Harley Davidson. “You don’t look like you’re enjoying the ride very much, kiddo.”

“I’m sorry, Baba. I need to stop again, but I don’t wanna stop every 5 minutes.” The nearest toilet was about 5 miles away. She wanted to keep going, but she couldn’t stand the pain anymore.

Luckily there were some bushes by the side of the road, and that was where Richard pulled over. By that time, Stella didn’t care if she wet herself or not. She just wanted to pee and get it out of her system. So as soon as she hid behind the shrubbery and damn near tore her panties off, her bladder exploded. All that piss water she’d been holding back gushed out of her cunt, and she cried out in relief: “God, that felt so good!!!” she thought. It took awhile before she was completely emptied and when she finished she burst into tears.

It frustrated her that she couldn’t enjoy traveling with her parents, that she always needed to pull over, that she had to choose between holding it all in and enduring a pain she just plain hated, or stopping at every pissoir en route. It frustrated her to the point of tears.

“Wassa matta, gurl? Couldn’cha pee?”

Stella couldn’t say anything. She was too embarassed. She was crying. Why couldn’t she just enjoy the ride?

“Oh, now…we’ll get to Los Osos Beach soon enough.” Richard chuckled. “Poor little bitch.” He thought. “It’s not her fault she has diabetes, after all.” He held his daughter as she sobbed, and while she did, she felt yet another pissing urge come upon her. This frustrated her all over again.

“Dammit, this is fucking torture!!!” She wailed.