Plugs

Here you go—worked well Tuesday—best of luck:

2 cups pastry flour
1 teaspoon sulfur dioxide
Complete works of Aristotle
Complete set of clothing for a size 10, shoe size 8 (women’s)
1 liter whiskey
3 tablespoons butter
1 fresh egg
½ teaspoon vanilla
½ tablespoon blackberry jam

Soak Aristotle in whiskey. When words are well dissolved, remove books. Mix dry ingredients in separate bowl, leaving clothes aside. Heat whiskey, butter, and blackberry jam in a saucepan until reduced to a cup of liquid. Allow to cool. Politely mix in egg, vanilla. Do not under any circumstances beat. Preheat oven to 360°. Stir in dry ingredients carefully with clean glass stirring rod. Bake in soufflé pan for one hour. Leave to cool in deserted clearing under light of waxing half moon. Return at sunrise with clothing. Be cautious, respectful. Do not expect to succeed with her.

Notes:
-single malt whiskey works best, very little wit otherwise.
-recipe unavoidably produces redheads, regardless of ethnicity, unless you leave out “On Dreams,” in which case a bland personality results.
-Aristotle most effective text for recipe—ironic, considering how little he liked women.
-use Simone de Beauvoir if you wish to produce man. Results butch but sweet.

FADE IN.
EXT – THAT VAST EXPANSE OF DESERT YOU SEE IN EVERY CAR COMMERCIAL – DAY
It’s hot. Cacti dot the landscape. A lizard skitters by.
TWO FIGURES dressed as warriors walk slowly into frame. They struggle to make
progress in the oppressive heat.
Finally exhausted, they both collapse in a heap near a cactus.
We see OUR HERO, 20s, a buff, Conan-like force of nature. Built like a tank,
consumes small grocery stores for lunch. A football jock with a dangerous
weapon.
He’s beat.
                                             OUR HERO
                              I need some water.
The other figure is SWORDFIGHTER #1, 20s, A scarlet bikini-clad warrior woman.
Impossibly large breasts that defy the laws of physics. She flexes her nipples with
sheer willpower.
                                             SWORDFIGHTER #1
                              Hey, it’s not like I asked for your cooperation.
                              You just started following me.
                                             OUR HERO
                              I’m not following you. You’re following me. You’ve
                              got this entire thing backward.
Our Hero stands and struggles to keep upright. Then he pulls his sword and flails
at the cactus. He makes unintelligible noises he thinks are words.
                                             OUR HERO
                              Blahow, yaaooou, herf, hahahaooogle!
Swordfighter #1 shakes her head.
                                             SWORDFIGHTER #1
                                   (sotto voce)
                              Damned psycho.
                                   (to Our Hero)
                              Who do you think you are, anyway?
                                             OUR HERO
                              Me? I’m the hero. I’m the star. The leading man.
                              The center of this particular celluloid universe!
                                             SWORDFIGHTER #1
                              Uh-huh.
                                             OUR HERO
                              I am! That’s why I’ve got this.
Our Hero shows off the pendant hanging from a chain around his neck containing
dark/light theatre masks.
                                             OUR HERO (con’t.)
                              What’s wrong with you, anyway? Haven’t you read
                              the script? Oh wait, no, you don’t GET a script.
                              You’re just a…a…character actor! Not even that.
                              You’re just BACKGROUND.
                                             SWORDFIGHTER #1
                              Oh, that hurts.
Swordfighter #1 stands, breasts catching the hot desert sunlight and focusing Our
Hero’s attention completely.
                                             SWORDFIGHTER #1
                              But not as much as this will.
She draws her sword and runs Our Hero through.
Our Hero crumples to the ground. He has the decency not to be melodramatic in
death.
                                             SWORDFIGHTER #1
                                   (shakes head)
                              Method actors.
Swordfighter #1 reaches down, looks at the pendant around Our Hero’s neck. She
fingers it, contemplates.
                                             SWORDFIGHTER #1
                              Then again…
She rips the chain away from the dead body.
CROSS FADE TO:
INT. OBLIGATORY TAVERN OF DEBAUCHERY THAT’S BIGGER INSIDE THAN OUT – NIGHT
Swordfighter Sarah, now leading lady, is surrounded by a dozen scantily clad
SLAVE MEN.
Her bikini and the pendant around her neck are like beacons in the torchlight,
drawing in the unsavory characters of the night. There are a whole lot of them.
A WAITER approaches the entourage.
                                             WAITER
                              Anything I can get for you, m’lady? No charge,
                              of course.
Swordfighter Sarah considers the things around her.
FLASHBACK MONTAGE:
- Scantily-clad men dancing on the rough-hewn tables
- Tankards of ale flowing freely to her from adoring fans
- Scores of young starlet/maidens being executed in the streets
- A mandatory Swordfighter Sarah star on the ground in the town square
- Wagons full of gold and jewels
BACK TO SCENE.
She rubs the pendant around her neck.
                                             SWORDFIGHTER SARAH
                              What else could I possibly want?
She grabs a handful of slave butt on each side of her and pulls herself to her feet.
                                             SWORDFIGHTER SARAH (con’t.)
                              I’ll be in my trailer.
As we follow her entourage toward the rear exit, we
END.

Sabertooth boy is dating a dental hygienist. He likes to surprise her. His smooth cold curves tickling the side of her neck make Carla shiver from head to toe. She likes to floss, gets DOWN with the unwaxed string, has plenty of uses for those big big teeth. Genetic Modifdication doesn’t bother her. In college she lived with a phytosaur, captain of the GM rugby team, now a personal trainer, lots of big teeth. A whole forest jutting out of that girl’s mouth. Lately, STB has been getting pangs of jealousy, can’t stop thinking about Carla and that rugby player.

STB is not an athlete. As an ambush predator, he played chess, a little scholar bowl in high school. But it’s not the sweaty locker-room thing that bothers him. It’s the teeth.

STB walks into the consultation room. Dr. Holden is some kind of human-dinosaur blend, probably a tyrannosaur. He’s seated in an tan upholstered armchair. STB sizes him up, one predator to another. “I could take him,” he thinks. The shrink smiles slightly, keeping his teeth hidden. STB looks around the room. No couch, just a brown recliner facing the doctor’s chair at an angle.

“Have a seat.”

STB sits. He’s not comfortable talking to anyone about his problems. Holden puts him at ease with a little chit chat, eventually getting around to STB’s feeling that he’s not satisfying Carla.

“In the bedroom. She likes teeth.”

The Doc smiles slightly. He recovers quickly; but STB notices.

“I’ve only got two, Doc. Sure, they have some size on ‘em, But Gladys had a mouthful. And Carla’s always talking about them, even when she’s flossing mine.” He shudders.

“And my neighbor, Poison-ivy boy. He’s dating the beagle twins. Everyone knows when it’s their night to howl. Carla doesn’t ever make that much noise.”

Holden tries to reassure him, but when STB leaves, he’s more worked up than ever.

“She’ll see,” he shouts over his shoulder, “these babies have some action left in ‘em!” He flicks his thumb off the right one.

About a half hour later, Holden tries to call STB on his cell, but it’s turned off. He calls Carla, but she doesn’t sound worried, says he’ll calm down. As she heads home, sweat-stained exercise outfit in her gym bag and family-size floss dispenser in her pocket, she starts to wonder. Is he in the apartment, waiting, teeth bared?

end

A flexing of the worldskin, and Bird flies, Calling. It is a time of joy, for strangers have landed on Mechaieh. A silver egg resembling the spawn of Frog drifted gently to the ground near Pool. Out of it hatch five beings of the same color and reflectivity, though the egg is not broken. The hatchlings proceed to water’s edge. Frog Greets them, but the strangers do not answer. Dipping one of its upper limbs into the water, one of the creatures drinks with a mouth at its waist. A moment, and all five drink with the mouths in their heads. Bird circles, Frog hides, Tree holds still as strangers approach. There is much pointing, Tree’s limbs dance the Words, but the strangers Speak not. The strangers catch several small beasts and cut pieces from them. The pieces are eaten by the mouths at strangers’ waists. One of the strangers cuts Tree, eats the piece of Tree with its waist mouth. Tree dances again; the stranger falls and moves not. One of the remaining strangers points at Tree. Fire is born, and two of Tree’s limbs are severed. Other strangers run to the fallen one, carry it toward their egg. Worldskin trembles; the strangers tumble from their feet. They rise, run swiftly to their egg, which opens its mouth to swallow them. The egg shudders, stars to rise, then is pulled down into the ground. Mechaieh judders, water splashes from Pond. Again, and again. Worldskin stills, later extrudes silver Egg. Egg opens its mouth and Stranger steps out. Stranger Speaks, and Frog Answers. Bird calls, and Tree makes Reply. It is a time of joy.

end

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