Posted by NL on May 01, 2006 at 14:53:59:
Inter-Mission
Hi, my name is Letvinonia Stoat, if you really must know. I distrust those who must have one's name, for fear they take that name and then conjure with it, a thing some adepts can do. I believe that! I believe all of that! So far, so good. But alas, dear weirdo, or reader, as the case may be, I fear you shall not believe me, no, not a word of what I have to say, despite recent extensive media coverage of the recently completed Inter-Mission. But you really ought to believe me, because my name is Hyramniam Nimniamnim (though you can call me Slim, if it please you) and I am the man who carried out that impossible enterpise: The Inter-Mission. Yes, I think they searched for me, thinking that only such a one would have the cahones to carry out the assignment, to explore the hitherto unknown and not even suspected space lurking behind the eyes, but NOT between the ears, of the quotidian human being (see, the geometry is ALL WRONG!) and to be a good custodian of the super-expensive and ultra-complex Inter-Mission ship, that seamless vehicle of surgical steel, duralumin, and carbon-fiber composite fueled with toxic boron fuel.
The first time I murdered a woman it was just a librarian and I was only a wee lad of twelve years. I'd checked out a book called "Rockets to Russia" and I'd had my eye on the lady in question from the moment I first saw her that summer. School was out, and I looked forward to lots of science fiction and science fact by the likes of people whose names escape me now, driven into the netherworld of complete irrelevance, thanks to my recent harrowing experiences during the Inter-Mission. Screw them anyway. That librarian had big tits. She had a kind of chunky body and a plain face and short dark hair and her black skirt was too tight and her blouse was open a little too far for me to resist temptation that sultry day, so I checked out "Rockets to Russia", intending to bring it back the next afternoon, along with my Dad's snub-nosed .38 that he kept in his sock drawer, and I would conceal the revolver within the pages of the book and walk right up to the front desk, come what may, and pull out the pistol and shoot that lady right between her boobs.
Well, that was only the first. The LAST (that is, most recent) time I murdered a woman was actually something I accomplished during the Inter-Mission, and that was pretty much for the thrill of it, for the thrill of shooting a busty broad wearing nothing but a tight white cotton bra (and a look of sheer terror) in her tits, right through her big tits, one bullet per boob, making those bra cups stain red. Asking me whether I fucked her would be impertinent. Of course I fucked her! It's the kind of thing you do during an Inter-Mission. As I recall, this particular gal had an especially nice butt. One thing I did, after I shot her, and fucked her, I roled her onto her belly and laid myself down on her legs and bit her ass repeatedly and hard, leaving toothmarks. I considered unlimbering the old Buck Knife and carving a slice of ham, heh, heh, to fry in her kitchen, but by that time the Inter-Mission was drawing to a close, as they say, yes, Mission Control calling me home again, so I just left that as an exercise for the student.
When they first showed me the Inter-Mission ship I was upset because it seemed so small. How many dead bodies could I fit in a device that on first sight resembled nothing so much as a fifty-gallon drum? Not to worry, they said, those technical ones. Remember, they said, the geometry is weird. Ah, yeah, I remembered then: behind the eyes and yet NOT between the ears! ALL WRONG! And the electrical prongs!
Time, geometry, I think there's some connection there. Can you fuck up one without fucking up the other? I've never been clear on that. I thought about that during one phase of the Inter-Mission while I perched on a bluff above a nudist beach which seemed, that day, or maybe for purposes known only to the mission planners, to be teeming with the sexiest naked women-- women that were sexy because they were so ordinary, ordinary like healthy middle-class housewives stripped bare. They were walking around in the sun and sand like fuckable zombies, smiling and posing. I checked them out pretty thoroughly through my rifle sites before I shot the first one. I reckon she was about forty-something but her tits were cute, with big, dark, aureoles, and her bellybutton was round and deep and high on her belly, almost up to the crease of her waist. I thought that was kind of nice. She held still a long time while I put the crosshairs on her lower abdomen. I shot her there and watched the reaction. So nice. The others knew where I was, then, and gathered themselves into a line, about twenty in all, facing me. I don't think they could see me. I shot them down, one by one. When they were all shot, in repose on the sand, I tossed aside my sniper rifle and worked my way down the bluff to the beach for some fun. I had lots of fun. I stayed there long enough to see the bodies begin to turn black and swell up in the sun. Armed with a rubber and swimmer's nose clips, I fucked one in that condition-- I think it was the very first one I shot that day, in that phase of the Inter-Mission. By golly, I paid her proper tribute!
Oh, it was all so carefully scripted! The mission planners left nothing to chance! Knives were next up and the intimate contact was refreshing. First I crouched in the shadows while an oriental girl attempted to kill herself with an ordinary knife. I don't know why she did it. She stripped naked and I appreciated her slender, tender, body. If she didn't stab herself, I would. She was a brave girl but she only got as far as sticking the knife into her bellybutton until the blood began to flow freely. Then, she started gasping and shaking and I thought she'd chicken out. She fell over onto her back and drew up her legs so her knees were in the air. After some more wasted motion she made a strong push, with both hands, deep, into her belly. That did it. She moaned very nicely and did a lot of gasping while she weakened. She was really bleediing badly! She shivered a lot and then she just sort of quieted down and her heels slid in the blood on the polished wooden floor. She died with her legs spread. Both of her hands stil clutched the knife in her belly. All I'd have had to do to conveniently fuck her corpse is pull the knife out, but I liked the sight of her like that. I just knelt beside her and masturbated. When I shot my wad the cum went across her smallish tits.
Oh, a very great number died by knife!
And then a very great number fell to the arrow, and the crossbow bolt!
I think, if you'll check, you will find a great many Inter-Mission pictures published on the web, in various places. Look at the moon sometime, examine it well, and peruse the many photos from Apollo and lunar orbiter missions. In short order you will understand that the moon hates us. And then examine the many images of Mars available on the web, and all the many images of the other planets, and the distant stars and even more distant galaxies. After a little while it will become obvious that all these things, these OBJECTS, in ordinary space and ordinary time (not behind the eyes and not not between the ears) hate us as well. But those pics captured from the Inter-Mission tell another tale! Here, at last, is a world that loves us!