Posted by Sawney Beane on July 12, 2006 at 23:01:31:
The Collected Works of Sawney Beane: Volume #37
SWAN SONG
by Sawney Beane
15-16 June 1996
1,556 words
DISTRIBUTION NOTICE and DISCLAIMER: Sawney Beane requests that any distribution of this work of fiction remain within the realm of social responsibility. This story is suitable neither for minors nor for the seeming majority of adults who have difficulty distinguishing fantasy from reality. It is pure fantasy, which means that, for whatever reason, someone has found it interesting to think about the events depicted herein. It does not in any way mean that the author would like to see this fantasy become reality, so if you are the type of person who might be swayed into doing something irrational by reading a work of fiction, the author respectfully requests that you decline to read further.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Sawney Beane, originally a native of Edinburgh, lived for twenty-five years in a cave on the coast of County Galloway, subsisting on the flesh of unfortunate travellers, roughly a thousand of them all told. He and his wife raised a large family of eight sons, six daughters, eighteen grandsons, and fourteen granddaughters. Eventually, the family was captured, and the whole lot was brutally and unjustifiably tortured and executed without trial. Since his death in the early 17th century, Beane has reformed his ways and now confines his atrocities to his literary endeavours.
WARNING: This story contains scenes of consensual female snuff. If you find such things offensive, please steer clear; you have been warned.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This story of a last dance, while interesting and I think truly original, loses something for me insofar as it is not very believable. On the other hand, most of my stories are unrealistic in one way or another, so why should this be any different.
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The queen of modern dance is retiring, and she wants to do it in a memorable way. Mme. Lillian Fontaine is at the top of her profession; even her critics respect her accomplishments, and her decision to retire was a bit of a shock to everyone. She is still young, in her early thirties, and can dance circles around her younger colleagues. Those close to her know that she is determined to go out while she is on top. She dreads nothing more than being remembered as the aging dancer whose act is a grotesque parody of the sleek elegance she once had produced.
It is the dance event of the decade, and it was all arranged by Mme. Fontaine herself. She's choreographed and scored the new performance herself. She's even designed the set and lighting. Mme. Fontaine has booked a sports stadium of all places and has actually sold the place out. It took her forever to rectify the horrid acoustics of the domed stadium, but in the end it has been done to perfection. The orchestra in the stadium sounds better than in the best of concert halls.
The performance is a long one, and Mme. Fontaine, although in the starring role, is featured only at the beginning and end. The long intermediate section features her students, many very accomplished dancers themselves. The dance tells the story of the universe in reverse. But now we must be quiet for it is beginning.
The music starts quietly, flutes and violins, and the lights are dim. After several minutes, a spotlight reveals Mme. Fontaine in the centre of the stadium, holding her knees in a foetal position. The lights steadily increase, and Mme. Fontaine in the role of the human race arises and slides around the dance floor in a burst of fluid motion, an unexcelled grace. The dance is now lightning fast, now glacially slow. She flits across the floor for some distance in one direction, then flutters a bit and moves in another direction. The description is inadequate, but the body of Mme. Fontaine in her flesh-coloured leotard conveys perfectly the peaks and valleys of human history. She is a flash of light and a burst of energy. She represents the beauty and ugliness of human existence in tension, and she does it beautifully.
Everyone in the audience is thinking that she is as good as she had ever been. This performance is her pinnacle, the pinnacle of dance as we know it. Gradually, Mme. Fontaine is joined by other dancers, each representing a type of animal or plant. The ensemble embodies the harmony and conflict of nature. Every movement is perfectly timed and executed. Mme. Fontaine's part grows gradually less dominant, and eventually her spotlight fades, leaving the other dancers to carry the weight of the performance.
In Mme. Fontaine's absence, her dancers portray evolution in a fluid dance of intertwining trajectories. One dancer will become prominent, only to be replaced after several minutes of triumphant leaps by a different dominant dancer. This phase of the performance fades into a section depicting the formation of the solar system, which is in turn replaced by the origins of the universe.
When Mme. Fontaine returns two hours after her departure, she wears a blinding golden leotard, and makes her way gracefully to the centre of a large ring formed by dancers in silver outfits. The ring grows smaller and smaller as Mme. Fontaine flits about its centre.
It should be noted that several witnesses, although loathe to mention it afterwards, believe that Mme. Fontaine is not up to her usual gracefulness or agility in this later portion. Perhaps she is tired.
Nonetheless, the circle shrinks, and Mme. Fontaine begins to dance around each of her co-stars in turn. As each dancer is attended by the flitting form of Mme. Fontaine, he or she fades out and departs the stage, while Mme. Fontaine moves on to the next dancer.
For the final phase, all of the dancers have departed except for Mme. Fontaine and a muscular male dancer. The pair dance an intricate and energetic routine for several minutes, until the male dancer launches Mme. Fontaine fifteen feet into the air in a graceful aerial feat that makes some swear she was levitating. Then Mme. Fontaine bursts into her explosive finale.
But we must go back a few steps before we describe the memorable finish. Mme. Fontaine was happy and optimistic after leaving the stage at the end of the first act. Her dancers were carrying on perfectly and everyone in the house seemed stunned by the perfection of the dance.
Mme. Fontaine was met by her agent and the event producer backstage. She wiped the perspiration from her forehead and followed them to her expansive dressing room. Inside was her personal physician and a few close friends. She lost no time in unabashedly stripping off her leotard in front of everyone and reclining nude on the table in the centtr of the room.
"Let's get started; we haven't much time," she announced in a businesslike manner that shocked many of those present.
The doctor looked at her nervously and spoke, "Are you sure you want to do this Lillian?"
"Don't fucking question me, Stan! We're in the middle of the show; there's no turning back now!"
"OK, Lillian, just checking; you might want to bite on this."
The doctor placed a bar of hard rubber in Lillian Fontaine's mouth, and she braced herself for the coming tribulation. The worst part of it was that it had to be done without anaesthetic, a numb abdomen not being conducive to graceful dance.
The doctor set his jaw and touched Lillian Fontaine's taut muscular abdomen. He pushed the scalpel in gently, and she bit down on her piece of rubber. The physician lost no time in dragging the scalpel down in a thin red vertical line. The incision extended from just below the tip of her sternum to the upper edge of her belly button.
The doctor stared in disbelief at his horrible work for just moment before sliding his gloved hand between the exposed folds of skin and muscle. His face twisted into an awful grimace as he pulled out handfuls of intestines and slid them into a nearby plastic tub. Lillian Fontaine clenched her teeth in pain but otherwise remained placid in the face of her disembowelment. She watched calmly as her doctor pulled out handful after handful of her insides. When there was little left in her below the diaphragm, the doctor sighed and stepped aside.
A second specialist took over the job of refilling Mme. Fontaine. He started by lining her abdominal cavity with large plastic bags filled with a viscous red liquid. These would heighten the final effect. The most important part was placed in the centre of her belly, a small but lethal ball of plastic explosives. The final element was a detonator attached to a wire running up Mme. Fontaine's oesophagus to a controller mounted on her back teeth. To trigger the explosion, she had to flip off the safety switch with her tongue and bite down firmly.
Mme. Fontaine's doctor sewed her belly up with fine stitches and sponged off her bloody loins. She sat up with difficulty and was helped into her golden leotard. She acquainted herself with her new condition for several minutes, standing and trying a few simple dance positions. She had about an hour to practice backstage before she would return to the centre of the stadium. Her family and friends knew better than to disturb her rehearsal. Mostly they wept quietly. Mme. Fontaine alone seemed unperturbed by the imminent disaster.
When she rejoins her dancers to perform the final act, she is back to some of the gracefulness that has made her famous. There is no denying that she is not as agile as usual, but the final act was specifically designed to limit the effort required of her. No one will remember afterwards anyway.
So she moves through the dance with a broad smile on her face and performs her final duet with the muscular man. Her tongue flicks something as her partner lifts her into the air for the fifteen-foot final leap. As she reaches the apex of her soaring leap, she clenches her teeth firmly, the confident smile still painted on her face.
The explosion is not only deafening but unexpected. Everyone in the stadium ducks for cover before peeking out and staring at the horrible situation on the dance floor. All of the lights are at maximum brightness, and everything is spattered with red, including the white canvas dome of the stadium. Mme. Fontaine is nowhere to be seen, but her muscular male partner is on the ground near the centre of the stadium. He is suffering from critical but ultimately not fatal injuries.
After several minutes of stunned silence, the audience files out of the arena in a daze. In the next few days, the cleanup crews will come across some fragments of the illustrious Mme. Fontaine, but there is nothing larger than four inches long. It is a unique performance.
The critics later say that Mme. Fontaine's performance, while needlessly messy, was perhaps the best portrayal of the Big Bang by a dancer that the world will ever see.