WechtleinUns
March 4th, 2013, 06:51 PM
Meanwhile, In Argentina...
A thousand rain-drops marched down the roof of my dream house, which would have been great, if not for the location. Sunny smiles and clear blue skies, this was not. The moon peered through her cloudy robes each night with evil eyes, and I swore I'd heard the Cucui chattering to itself no less than three days ago. I remember, because I'd only had half a bottle of Captain Morgan, and I could still see straight.
That night, the rain had made it's customary entrance. She started slow, like a Latin lover who knows how to enjoy herself. Did that fern over there just grow a beard? Nah. Must have been the wind, and last I heard, the Cucui had red eyes. Not green.
"Who?" La Lechuza stood guard by the night windows. She was all right. Snacking on virgins and all that. I mean, who doesn't love a good bloody Mary? I hear it's all the rage in France.
Then again, I hear the local Catholic priests look down on that sort of thing. What is this, the 18th century? We'd never have had that sort of problem back across the pond, if you know what I mean, and the Irish and the Poles actively encourage such activities, I hear.
"Who?" There's La Lechuza again. For an armored war god and priestess of the damned, she certainly says 'who' a lot.
"Who?" You, you idiot. Don't make me get my Spanish phrasebook out. Oh shit. Did you see that? That fern. Did it just grow a fucking beard? Nah. Must be the Captain. Fuck, I should have stuck with Johnny walker and Jose Cuervo. Those two are distant cousins, anyway. I don't know who the fuck Mr. Morgan is related to, but the guy's probably dutch.
"Who?" Some Dutch cookie, La Lechu. Pay attention.
"Who?" ...Fuck. I wonder when it'll stop raining. Rain in South America likes to take its time. I don't even stay at the brothel down the road this long. Suddenly, the door was knocked. No time for slippers, the cool clay tile kissed every one of my toes. Outside, the warm water rolled down my skin, massaging and rubbing up against my shoulders and my waist, and collectivizing in between my thighs and making moist those cute little panties I'd gotten at the central Abaceria.
Bob, my agent, walked in and shrugged off his cloak, which scattered water drops everywhere, like a farmer sowing his seeds. "Oh my gosh, bobby! How kind of you to visit! I beg your pardon, but the furniture has yet to be arrived in yet, and I want you." Hiccup.
"Drunk again, I see." Bob was so serious, I wanted to turn that frown upside down. So I started kissing his neck and rubbing my hands down his pants. "Bloody hell, Alice! I brought you out here to work on the next 'amazing novel by the great Alice Winchester.' Give me that bottle."
"No." He grabbed for it, and we toppled over into a heap. "Stop clinging, Bobby! Now help me unbuckle this belt!"
"You...need...to...work." Bob said. "How many chapters have you written today?" How many chapters? I was working on one right now. But the material was not cooperating. This could take all night.
A thousand rain-drops marched down the roof of my dream house, which would have been great, if not for the location. Sunny smiles and clear blue skies, this was not. The moon peered through her cloudy robes each night with evil eyes, and I swore I'd heard the Cucui chattering to itself no less than three days ago. I remember, because I'd only had half a bottle of Captain Morgan, and I could still see straight.
That night, the rain had made it's customary entrance. She started slow, like a Latin lover who knows how to enjoy herself. Did that fern over there just grow a beard? Nah. Must have been the wind, and last I heard, the Cucui had red eyes. Not green.
"Who?" La Lechuza stood guard by the night windows. She was all right. Snacking on virgins and all that. I mean, who doesn't love a good bloody Mary? I hear it's all the rage in France.
Then again, I hear the local Catholic priests look down on that sort of thing. What is this, the 18th century? We'd never have had that sort of problem back across the pond, if you know what I mean, and the Irish and the Poles actively encourage such activities, I hear.
"Who?" There's La Lechuza again. For an armored war god and priestess of the damned, she certainly says 'who' a lot.
"Who?" You, you idiot. Don't make me get my Spanish phrasebook out. Oh shit. Did you see that? That fern. Did it just grow a fucking beard? Nah. Must be the Captain. Fuck, I should have stuck with Johnny walker and Jose Cuervo. Those two are distant cousins, anyway. I don't know who the fuck Mr. Morgan is related to, but the guy's probably dutch.
"Who?" Some Dutch cookie, La Lechu. Pay attention.
"Who?" ...Fuck. I wonder when it'll stop raining. Rain in South America likes to take its time. I don't even stay at the brothel down the road this long. Suddenly, the door was knocked. No time for slippers, the cool clay tile kissed every one of my toes. Outside, the warm water rolled down my skin, massaging and rubbing up against my shoulders and my waist, and collectivizing in between my thighs and making moist those cute little panties I'd gotten at the central Abaceria.
Bob, my agent, walked in and shrugged off his cloak, which scattered water drops everywhere, like a farmer sowing his seeds. "Oh my gosh, bobby! How kind of you to visit! I beg your pardon, but the furniture has yet to be arrived in yet, and I want you." Hiccup.
"Drunk again, I see." Bob was so serious, I wanted to turn that frown upside down. So I started kissing his neck and rubbing my hands down his pants. "Bloody hell, Alice! I brought you out here to work on the next 'amazing novel by the great Alice Winchester.' Give me that bottle."
"No." He grabbed for it, and we toppled over into a heap. "Stop clinging, Bobby! Now help me unbuckle this belt!"
"You...need...to...work." Bob said. "How many chapters have you written today?" How many chapters? I was working on one right now. But the material was not cooperating. This could take all night.