Thread: Saga of Dreamviews

Have my babies.

Keep it up!

I never said that!!! Darn it, Dell! And Slayer! Why are you fixing it?!

I will be having no babies. At the moment.

This enthusiasm frightens me, to be honest. I'm like a deer, caught in the blinding headlights of enthusiasm. Thank you all the same.

And I doubt I can do regular daily chapters. These two were the result of frantic typing and a shitload of free time. A chapter every two days might be a more realistic expectation.

Am writing. Will continue doing so.

Originally Posted by Kiza

I will be having no babies. At the moment.

Bullshit.

Drop your pants.

They've been dropped for a long time, dude.

You've been waiting for me?

Oh, no. I just walk around with no pants on.

Always prepared I see.

Yus. Now get to it. I need to send the pictures to the pope soon.

I'm already done. Don't worry, you'll feel it in the morning.

I was half expecting to see no-name as a servant boy in slayer's home, you know.

Originally Posted by Kiza

Just from watching Dreamviews members and their . . . let's say quirks, because other words may be unkind.

Your story has a great deal of potential then, and has an unlimited source of inspiration...

Hahahahahahahaha

I have made a Google docs, well, doc:

Saga

That is all. For now.

We're sorry, but [email protected] does not have access to this document.

Why the fuck not?

Oh, fuck. It's just the whole story in one document anyway, so I wouldn't worry about it much.

Shouldn't it just show you it? Motherfucker. Ima go fuck Google up. I mean, ah, I'll try to fix this.

EDIT: Uh . . . it seems I fucked up. This should work.

Please write more! ;____; And keep you pants on! D:<

Originally Posted by Vira

Please write more! ;____; And keep you pants on! D:<

No. Pants off. Always off.

I agree with Exobyte.

Most likely there will be a midnight release (at least, according to DV time, which is GMT -8, apparently).

Fortunes – Good and Bad

From the top of the Accouncement & Rules clock tower, you could see all the way across Dreamviews; the Lucid Dreaming building, Sleep and Dreams, Additional Resources, Dreamviews Team Forums and Off-Topic Discussion, complete with the sprawling hovel that was Senseless Banter. They were all empty of people, long ago abandoned.

Apart from one.

If you opened the rusted-over door that was the main entrance to Off-Topic Discussion, possibly with a heavy crowbar, all you'd see was . . .

. . . five polished doors, with five neat little names on them.

The names would be these: The Lounge (with a little picture of a couch below it), Dream Views Favourites (a big tick, not unlike the Nike* tick), Entertainment (a link to a pornographic site drew over with a family-friendly not-at-all phallic Christmas tree), Extended Discussion (a picture of the mighty administrator MoS, pointing sternly at you) and Help! (a picture of a wrist, a razor being held back from it).

You'd hear a small whimper from Extended Discussion, and walk towards it. You'd wrench the door open . . .

Files; filing cabinets, some standing, some tipped over, and mountains of free files, piling over the filing cabinets, piling over themselves and just generally piling.

There were piles of the things.

And if you were brave, or possibly stupid enough to venture inside, climb up the piles as they shifted, your feet occasionally sinking, you'd see three more doors, at the very end of the room. The names on the doors would be clear. Something, or someone, had cleared them.

The names on these would be Science and Mathematics (an abacus, making love to a test tube), Philosophy (a man with a question mark above his head) and Religion/Spirituality (a giant, blazing fire). The whimper . . . it was coming from Religion and Spirituality.

You'd head towards the door, trampling over files that might contain an interesting thread on the schooling system, how the government is evil (which turns up everywhere), warfare, elderly midget rape . . .

You'd wrench the door open, and look around. More files, more cabinets, more heaps.

This one, though, was different. There was a boy perched on one of the piles, a file open in his lap. Tears were streaming down his face, and in his pudgy fist a pen was clenched. He was writing in the file, his brow clenched, half in anger, half in concentration.

At one point, he'd stop writing, and lay down, crying himself to sleep, muttering all the time.

And at that point you'd walk up and peer at the file. Written at the top was a thread title: Why am I so good at debating? It was by Seismosaur.

And below that, a reply, by A Roxxor: Because you are a very good person. You can lift mountains, Seismosaur!

. . . another reply, by a mysterious fellow known as Ruasomsies: I agree with A Roxxor, who is also a good person. I feel proud just knowing you, Seismosaur.

. . . and it went on. You would flip to the next page.

By then, it was the Seismosaur-loving equivalent of a thirteen year-old boy circle-jerk. You'd put the file down, and scramble back down the mountain of files. This place was . . . wrong.

And you'd leave.

After a while, though, a faint whispering would be heard.

It came from Seismosaur.

'. . . don't take me, don't take me! Take him and him and him! Just not me! I'm supple! Don't take me, please, I can help . . .'

And it would stop, to be replaced by a snore like a foghorn raping a seal.

*

Howie had spent the morning writing letters. He'd woken up at 5:00 A.M, and it was now midday. He'd just finished. There had been a lot of letters to write.

But now he was done.

He secured the envelopes with a rubber band and slipped them into his pocket. They were Info-Pack envelopes, ready for Tube Access.

Then he went down to the house of slayer. The gate had been propped up with a plank of wood. A sign had been put up:

PRIVATE PROPERTY

(Just pretend it's actually a gate, please. And that it's locked.)

Howie jumped over the fence instead. It seemed a shame to knock it over. It looked like slayer had put in so much effort about the whole thing.

A few weeds caught against his leg. A flower – possibly a mutant Venus Flytrap – tried to eat his shoe.

He knocked on the door and shouted – over the noise of cats going about their nefarious business – 'Slayer! It's Howie!'

'Coming!' said slayer from inside. There was the distinct sound from inside of one man trying to fight against a wall of cats.

Eventually, the door opened. Slayer had a frying pan in one hand, and a kitten in the other. It was licking his hand. He was wearing an apron too:

Kiss The Cook!

(PLEASE)

Slayer grinned. That was a good sign.

'Come in,' he said, gesturing with his head. 'We're making breakfast!'

We're, noted Howie. Not 'I am making breakfast.'

Howie peered in the frying pan. 'What is – oh.' It was sardines, all lined up in a row. They filled the frying pan. They stunk like, well, sardines. Cats were clawing at slayer's legs, and trying to climb up his bare skin.

Slayer somehow mistook Howie's look of abject horror for one of interest, and offered up the pan. His face gleamed with sweat from the pan.

'Go ahead,' he said. 'Take one.' Sizzling fat from the pan was landing on his toga – which he was, for reasons of his own, still wearing.

'No thanks,' said Howie carefully. 'I've had breakfast.' That wasn't necessarily true; the least deadly looking piece of bread toasted in a toaster that sparked all the time hardly counted as breakfast, but he certainly didn't feel like those blackened . . . things.

A cat dug it's claws into slayer's leg with malice. 'Fuck!' he swore, then looked shocked. 'Dont listen to that, children!' he said to the cats. 'Daddy slayer did a naughty!'

Howie broke out of his reverie for a moment. 'Feeling a bit catty, are you?' he said to slayer, then chuckled. He winked as well, in case slayer didn't get it.

There was a blank look on his face. 'I'm sorry?' he said, rubbing his leg. Howie sighed. Puns never worked these days.

'Nothing,' he said. 'Can I come in?'

'Do you think he can?' said slayer, feeding a sardine to the kitten. 'Do you think the big man can come in? Do you think the biggy-wiggy man can-'

Howie went in anyway. A box was relatively vacant of cat. He sat on it.

'Are you sure you wouldn't like breakfast?' said slayer, walking back into the kitchen.

'No,' said Howie. 'I'm quite fine, I assure you.' That wasn't true – he felt like warmed over yesterday – but you didn't take breakfast from slayer, in much the same way you didn't take mysterious packages from mysterious men in mysterious black coats.

Slayer took some time. At one point, the cats swamped the kitchen, then came out again. At another, slayer calmly crawled out of the kitchen and rolled around with the cats for a while.

And at another moment, which was, as it were, the whole time he was there, Howie felt like digging an icepick into his own head.

He didn't. It might have been considered impolite.

Slayer finished, eventually. Breakfast was served to everyone but Howie, who was glad of it.

Before Howie could open his mouth, slayer spoke.

'I want catgirls,' he said. 'But I'll do it.'

Howie grinned. 'Great,' he said. 'I've got some letters to deliver. Do you want to come?'

'Letters?'

*

Man of Steel hurried through Craigslist.

He knew what he was looking for. He was looking for “Services”.

He couldn't find it. He'd got lost in the dark maze that was Craigslist. He'd been distracted by all the girls promising “hto sex”.

He opened another nameless door, and froze. There were two grossly obese people of indeterminate sex – you couldn't tell beneath the layers – procreating. Things jiggled that really shouldn't have. There was much moaning and thrashing.

It was exactly like two whales in mortal combat.

Man of Steel backed away slowly. He didn't want to be heard. He didn't want them to look up. He didn't want to see their dead eyes.

He closed the door quietly, and suddenly there was a voice behind him.

'This way, deary,' it said. Man of Steel turned around. There was a body attached to the voice. It was a female one. Well, probably. It was not an attractive one, but that was hardly part of the job requirement.

'I'm looking for a fortune tell-' he began. The woman raised a hand for silence.

'You were,' she said. 'Come.' She began to walk away. Man of Steel hurried after.

'How did you know?' he said. The woman cackled.

'Fortune teller isn't just a name, deary,' she said, leading him down another dark hallway. 'Nearly to my room.'

It turned out to be a door with a little plaque on it that said “Fortunes Told With (Relative) Care”. She opened it.

It was an impressive room. There was a black table, with a black table cloth, and a black cupboard. There was also a rug, in black. The wallpaper was black, and the ceiling too.

It was very . . . black.

'It's very . . . nice,' said Man of Steel weakly. 'I'm sure it's riotous in here.'

'Sit down, dear,' said the woman.

Man of Steel sought for small talk.

He decided on, 'I have a knife, you know,' in the end. He pointed to his belt to demonstrate this. There was a knife there.

'That's very interesting,' said the woman. 'If you threaten me with it, I'll curse you so hard you won't have the same damn number of limbs afterwards.' She added sweetly: 'Shall we start?'

'Sure,' muttered Man of Steel. 'Tea-leaves or tarot cards or whatever?'

'Palm-reading,' said the woman. 'Everything else, sir, is a load of bullhocky. Tell me, would you like the truth, or a sugar-coated life story of happy children, happy couples and big knives being made?'

'The truth, please,' said Man of Steel. 'This is important.'

The fortune-teller picked up his hand. 'Well,' she said. 'We know you don't have a partner!'

Man of Steel leaned forward. 'Which line?' he said. The woman hacked a horrid cough of laughter out. She leaned forward.

'I know you're single, sir, because your hands are quite worn out, if you know what I mean. Well defined muscles too, which suggests a lot of . . . use, shall we say?'

Man of Steel gaped. The fortune-teller winked. 'Near future, far future, or death?' said the fortune-teller.

'Near future,' said Man of Steel. 'Specifically anything to do with . . . friends.'

'Okay. That will be . . . two hundred dollars.' She waited until he counted out the money, then carefully put it in her pocket. Then she looked at his hands.

'Well, what do we have here?' She studied his hands for a minute. Then she sat back, and looked thoughtful.

'What? What is it?'

'You're going to have a lot of . . . acquaintances arrive, at short notice. And you're . . . you're going to fall in love.'

Man of Steel sighed. 'I said I didn't want the sugar-coated versi-'

'No, I'm serious. You're actually going to fall in actual real love. I can't explain it. I assure you, this never happens.'

Man of Steel's eyes lit up. 'Who is it?'

'That is the far future,' said the fortune-teller. 'I can't tell you that.'

'Is that all?'

'Well, unless you want a bunch of pretentious mysticism with black and white trees and whispering leaves, yes, I think so.'

Man of Steel stood up. He was grinning. 'Thank you,' he said. 'You've been very helpful.'

The fortune-teller winked. 'And you're the one who paid me two hundred dollars. I think you can make your own way out. Don't take up any offers of sex when you get outside. Those girls have got so many diseases that the only reason they haven't died yet is that the diseases are too busy fighting all the others.'

When he had gone, the fortune-teller took a quiet look at the man's far future.

When she had stopped laughing, she wrote it down, in case she ever needed cheering up.


*Nike, they've got the best damn shoes - just do it!

: >

This is amazing. MORE MORE MOAR.

Originally Posted by Kiza

I agree with Exobyte.

Most likely there will be a midnight release (at least, according to DV time, which is GMT -8, apparently).

Alright, if having your pant off keeps the flow....of writing----why is it getting perverted?



Anyways.....Keep writing.

(I don't think I will be able to look at Danger aka MoS the same....lol)

Originally Posted by Kiza

At another, slayer calmly crawled out of the kitchen and rolled around with the cats for a while.

That line killed me.

Amazing.

This is getting better and better!

And lol@

PRIVATE PROPERTY



(Just pretend it's actually a gate, please. And that it's locked.)

An Unfortunate Sickness

The concept of the Tube is easy to understand. At least, easy to understand if you live in a made-up world that somehow encompasses both sites of the Internet and real-life places.

Some readers may not live in such a world. This is why an explanation is needed.

Assumption 1: Every single person in the world either has a YouTube account, knows someone who has a YouTube account, knows someone who knows someone who has a YouTube account, have had a conversation with someone who has a YouTube account, knows someone on the Internet who may possibly have a YouTube account, has glanced at someone who has a YouTube account, or is aware of the presence of YouTube accounts. This assumption discounts babies and the Amish, because you just can't help some people.

Assumption 2: If we accept assumption 1, then we also accept the fact that this connects every single person in the world through the presence (or concept) of a YouTube account.

Assumption 3: Every single YouTube account in the world will have something badly spelled and/or grammatically inaccurate in it.

Therefore, if we accept all three assumptions, we also admit that this forms a “connection”, as it were, between every single person in the world because of presence of the badly spelled and/or grammatically inaccurate messages/statements/sentences.

Further therefore, one must admit that if a worldwide communications system utilising both the Internet and the presence of badly spelled and/or grammatically inaccurate messages/statements/sentences was built, this would allow every single person in the world to contact anyone else, simply by either writing their recipients name, pseudonym, job description, appearance or a phrase they frequently utter.

This system was built. It was called the Tube because some people have a sense of humour.

There are Tube scanners on every street corner. You just had to insert your message with your recipient (however you choose to identify them) and it would scan it, formulate an electronic message and send it off.

Unfortunately, sometimes things get a little garbled along the way. This is mainly due to the fact that there are a lot of 'Good Ol' Stan''s in the world, and a message with such a recipient would simply go the one the machine would judge to be the most good, the oldest or the Stanliest.

ClouD hadn't got many addresses, and the ones he had were probably wrong – The Stardust Rainbow, for example, may not have been an actual address – but they were enough. The machine transcended mere rules of logic and would know ClouD's intention and would adjust the address accordingly.

The presence of the badly spelled/grammatically inaccurate messages/statements/sentences may have been forgotten by now. But they are still important. Because the whole Tube system is based on the presence of such things, it adjusts messages accordingly.

Usually this is not a problem to most people, quite probably due to the fact that the messages they sent in the first place were badly spelled and/or grammatically inaccurate already. Still, it was sometimes annoying to get a message from your boss with, in between the 'moral standards' and 'company values', a line of 'lul fag yur videos shit'.

*

'You've got them all?' said slayer, hurrying after Howie through the street.

Howie grinned. 'All the core members. Every single one – at least, according to ClouD.'

'But ClouD's been mad since the Crash,' said slayer.

'Yes, but he's not stupid,' said Howie.

Slayer grinned. 'That's debatable.'

Howie sighed. 'What isn't?'

They arrived at a Tube scanner. Howie withdrew the little Info-Pack letters from his packet. He snapped one out of the rubber band.

'Who's that for?' said slayer, as Howie inserted the tiny envelope into the slot.

'Grod,' said Howie. There was a chukunk as the envelope slid in. An electronic buzz came from the machine, and it slid out again with a zwwp.

Another one was snapped out of the bundle of envelopes.

'And that?' Chukunk. Buzz.

'Mitzie.' Zwwp.

A snap of a rubber band. 'And that?' Chukunk. Buzz.

'Sandform.' Zwwp.

A snap. 'And-' Chukunk. Buzz.

'Kushna Mufeed.' Zwwp.

Snap. 'A-' Chukunk. Buzz.

'Mes Tarrant.' Zwwp.

Snap. '–?' Chukunk. Buzz.

'DuB.' Zwwp.

Snap. '?' Chukunk. Buzz.

'Man of Steel.' Zwwp.

Snap. Chukunk. Buzz.

'Sindred.' Zwwp.

Snap. Chukunk. Buzz.

'Carousoul.' Zwwp.

Snap. Chukunk. Buzz.

'Goldney.' Zwwp.

Snap. Chukunk. Buzz.

'Universal Mind.' Zwwp.

. . . it went on. Slayer thought he caught a few more, but they swept over him in the flood of names. They finished. And that was it.

'Now what?' said slayer. 'We wait for them to get here from wherever they are?'

'Oh, no,' said Howie. 'We've got a meeting place.'

'Where?'

'Digg,' said Howie, setting off down the street. Slayer ran down the street after him.

'Digg? Why?'

'It's a good as place as any other. Besides, we'll be able to recognise each other. We'll be the ones not obsessively trying to inform everyone else about what they like.'

'And how are we going to get there? Digg's a long way away, Howie!'

'By car. I know, it's archaic, but it's the only thing we can afford right now.'

'You're renting one?'

'No. I want something that will last. I get the feeling that I might be needing a car. One thing: do you know how to wrangle a good price out of a used-car salesman?'

Slayer frowned. 'Wrangle? Is that some type of fish?'

Howie paused for a moment. 'Well, you've got a lot to learn,' he admitted. 'But you've got the eyes for it, boy.'

'The eyes for it? What the catgirl do you mean by that?'

'You'll see,' said Howie, and giggled like a schoolgirl.*

*

Seismosaur woke to the sound of rustling. The rustling of files.

Someone was coming. It had to be. He'd exterminated all the wild trolls from Religion & Spirituality, leaving only one – him.

And now someone was coming.

He wasn't prepared. No one ever came to Dreamviews any more. He was the only one left. No one was left after the Crash – not since asher had sold them.

He didn't know what time it was. Time was immaterial. No light got in, no light got out. He only had his torch and the few lamps that hung on the wall.

He didn't have a weapon. He was helpless. But people weren't supposed to be here!

He grabbed his torch anyway, and tried to pretend that it would do something other than annoy his . . . visitor.

The footsteps came closer. There was a shape, in the darkness. It was a tall shape. A strong shape. Seismosaur was instantly terrified of it.

'Seismosaur,' it said, with a voice like honey. Just “Seismosaur”. And somehow that was more terrifying than anything else the figure could have said.

'Have you been a bad boy, Seismosaur?' asked the figure, leaning forward. Seismosaur could now see the figure's face. It was sculpted, perfect, Adonis-like.

And it was mad. You could see it in the eyes. This man was so mad sanity was just a thin line on the horizon.

A warm trickle ran down Seismosaur's leg.

'No,' breathed Seismosaur. 'It wasn't my fault. It was asher! It was all asher!'

'I know all about you, Mr Seismosaur. I know your secrets. I know everything,' said the god-like being.

'Who – who are you?'

'You may think of me as . . . The King.'

'Please, I'll do anything! I can get my pants off in record tim-'

'Please do not take off your pants. If not for your sake, then for mine. I have a job for you, Seismosaur. I realise you may not be familiar with the concept.'

Seismosaur frowned. 'Are you sure you wouldn't like me to take off my-'

'No. The nature of employment is somewhat different. I want you, Seismosaur, to . . .'

. . . The King told him.

'I can't do that!' said Seismosaur. 'They're my friends.'

'I would not call them friends, as such. And if you don't, Seismosaur, I will kill you.'

The only thing faster than his reply was light. 'When can I start?'

'Immediately. We have work to do.'

*

The man was smooth, that's what you could say for him.

You couldn't say much else.

He had a suit on, and perfect hair and a perfect smile. And he looked incredibly honest. No honest man could ever look that honest. He shook both of their hands with a firm, steady gaze.

He was a bastard. A complete bastard.

He lead them to a dumpy little thing of a car. 'Here we have a wonderful Ford Focus-'

'No,' said Howie. 'I want . . . yes. I want an Aston Martin.'

The salesman smiled, a little nervously. 'Well, we do have a DB9 in stock, but I wouldn't advise it for your type of gentleman.'

'You mean the type of being piss-poor?'

'Oh, no,' said the salesman, leaning forward. 'The type of not being a pretentious fuckwit with his head so far up his arse he can almost see the other end.' He winked.

Don't listen to him, though Howie. He's trying to get himself on your side. You've got to remember that he's one of them. I bet slayer will be grinning, the naïve kid. Howie turned to slayer.

He was grinning.

Howie leant forward himself. 'How do you know we aren't, Mr Salesman?' he said in a low whisper. That put him off for a moment.

'Would you like to see the Aston Martin?'

'Oh, yes,' said Howie. 'I think we would.'

In half an hour they were in his office. They were quite obviously Number 1 and 2 Mr. Pretentious Fuckwit With His Head So Far Up His Arse He Could Almost See The Other End. The salesman hadn't even bothered to advertise. They were obviously going to buy it.

In another half an hour, the paperwork was signed. Now, to pay. This was the dangerous bit. But with just a bit of luck, it would work.

'And now,' said the salesman, smiling warmly. 'Unfortunately, you have to pay. Trust me, if it wasn't for my boss pushing, I'd give it to you free!'

Liar, hissed the little bit of Howie that was always watching. Liar, liar, liar!

'Ah,' said Howie. 'That's the unfortunate bit.'

The salesman's smile faltered a bit. 'I'm sorry?'

'We can't pay. We have no money. Nada. Nothing, unless you count our good hearts,' said Howie. 'Of course, good hearts are obviously very important things to you!'

The salesman looked aghast. 'If you didn't have any money, why the hell did you sign?'

'Oh, we plan to take the car,' said Howie. 'We'd just like it free. Unfortunately' – he made a sad face – 'your boss seems to be pushing.'

The salesman sighed. 'Can you just get out of-'

'I'd love to,' said Howie. 'But just trust me, here. Look into my eyes. I promise you that if you tell me sincerely that you would have given it to me free if your boss wasn't pushing so, we'll leave here.' Slayer looked over at Howie, bemused.

The salesman grinned. They thought they could trick him. They thought they could spot an honest man! Well, they were wrong! He was a good liar. These pretentious fuckwits would just have to leave!

The salesman looked Howie in the eyes. 'I promise you, sir, that if it wasn't for my boss pushing, I'd give you the car free.' Howie nodded. It had been completely sincere.

'And now,' said Howie. 'My friend . . .' The salesman grinned, and looked over. Slayer smiled at him bemusedly.

The salesman's grin faltered.

His grin wiped from his face like shit from a toilet seat.

He'd found the Secret.

A whole world of catgirls . . .

Blood began to leak from the salesman's mouth. His eye twitched, and then shut close.

His head fell.

'What the catgirl is wrong with him?' said slayer frantically.

Howie grimaced. 'Oh dear,' he said. 'He seems to be sick.' The salesman groaned.

'Twenty cents for the car,' said Howie, 'or we walk out of here with the antidote.'

'Hell no,' groaned the salesman. 'What the hell did you do? Poison me?'

'Oh no,' said Howie. 'You just seem to have been struck with a bout of sudden sickness. Which we have, curiously, the antidote for.'

'I can't sell a damn Aston Martin for twenty cents! I'll be fired on the spot!'

Howie leaned forward, and his eyes gleamed. 'Yes, you'll be fired. But do you want to be fired from life?'

The salesman responded by retching.

'I'll describe it to you,' said Howie. 'First, there will be the violent bowel movements. These will, at the least, last for two hours. You may be glad of this when it's finished, but this is only because your bowels have shut down-'

The salesman vomited on the floor. 'Okay,' he said weakly. 'I'll do it.' He scrabbled around on the desk for a pen, and poised to sign. 'The twenty cents,' he added vehemently.

Amazing, thought Howie. Even when he thinks he's about to die, he still asks for the money first.

'Gladly,' said Howie, handing the coin over. 'You could feed a hobo for weeks on that amount of money!'

He nodded quietly as the salesman signed. Then he pulled it over and signed himself.

'Wonderful,' he said. 'Glad to have worked with you, mister.'

He stood up to leave, pulling slayer with him.

'The antidote,' said the salesman, bent over his desk.

'Oh yes,' said Howie. 'How silly of me to forget.' He thrust his hand into his coat, and pulled out a small glass vial. He gave it to the salesman, then picked up the keys to the car from the desk.

'Goodbye . . . Joe, was it?'

They left.

'What the catgirl did you do to him?' said slayer, hurrying across to the car.

'Oh, I did nothing. I think you'll find that you did it all.'

'But he just looked at me-'

'Yes,' said Howie. 'He did.'

'And what was all that you said about, ugh, violent bowel movements?'

'Oh, that wasn't true at all. A complete fiction. The man won't die, either, but I think he'll find that after taking that little antidote I gave him, despite it being a complete lie, there will be violent bowel movements abound.'

Slayer paused for a moment to consider this. 'You gave him a laxative? You bastard.'

'Well,' said Howie, smiling contentedly, leaning back into the leather seat, 'at least his bowels won't shut down.'

The car started with a comfortable purr. Howie pulled it out of the block, and into the street.

They drove in silence for a while.

'I'll need someone to take care of the cats,' said slayer. 'I hate to leave them like that.'

'Oh, don't worry,' said Howie. 'I've found a friend to care for them.'

'Who?'

'Let's just say she's really quite fond of cats, shall we?'

*That is, a manly schoolgirl. Possibly a transvestite one, if that floats your boat.