%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
| ||||||||||||||||||||||||
| ||||||||||||||||||||||||
| ||||||||||||||||||||||||
| ||||||||||||||||||||||||
| ||||||||||||||||||||||||
| ||||||||||||||||||||||||
| ||||||||||||||||||||||||
| ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| >> Campfire Creative >> Fiction >> Entertainment >> ID #1386903 |   |
| |||||||||||||
[Introduction]
  Venture, if you dare, into the pulsating, often perilous realm that hosts WDCville's vibrant night life. Collected here are a motley assortment of Souls of the Literary Kind, the majority of whom have fled, been pursued by authorities, or run away from home to WDCville's promising, though at times mean and treacherous, streets. They are the Children of the Pen, many of their number lost, desperate, teetering on the emotional brink, and/or prepared to do anything to make their literary dreams come true. It is by these things that much of WDCville's populace is rendered uniquely vulnerable to Unforseen Happenstances of the Disastrous Kind. Be it injury, illness, psyschological crises, or the heartbreak of malignant psoriasis, who ya gonna call? I'll tell you who... none else but WDCville's moderately dedicated, marginally capable Emergency Responders ~ those valiant men, women, and varying blends of both genders who daily lay most of it on the line to protect, rescue, heal, and serve. They are WDCville's Finest Kind ~ the awesome Cops, Fire & Rescue, Paramedics, and Medicos of WDCville's highly acclaimed Trauma & Acute Mental Ilness Center, housed in the bosom of the berg's singular hospital, St. Nowhere. This is the story of one fateful night in the lives of all above described potential victims and heroes alike... a foreboding evening portenting drama, horror, hope, hopelessness, love, hatred, valor, and cowardice. In other words - yer basically busy night of towering victories and spiralling defeats. This is the gripping tale of a full-mooned, suspense-filled, histrionically bursting at the seams Valentine's Day Eve - night has fallen (you didn't hear the thump?) and the WDCville nocturnal natives are restless. Cinch up your Kevlar, fasten your seatbelts, and keep your heads low and your powder dry, dear readers... it's gonna be a bumpy ride! |
 Of Fire Born ~ welcome, 2012!  *A shrill Mobile Unit Priority Alert Tone shatters the stillness.... * BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP !!! "One-Adam-Thirteen, One-Adam-Thirteen... see the woman regarding a Man Down / Domestic Dispute at the Jerry Springer Mobile Home Estates, Lot # 666. Approach with extreme caution. Back-ups are enroute, Code 3, from the Bumfukt Egyptian Gentlemen's Club, and we're rolling a buttload of E.M.S. paramedics even as I transmit." WDCville P.D. Uniformed Patrol Officer Faith Blowkiss rolled her eyes and elbowed her partner, Bosco Mozzarelli, who'd been wolfing down his third creme stick, barking at him to acknowledge the freaking radio call, already. Slamming their marked patrol car into gear, she peeled out of the Flunkin' Donut parking lot and set a course for whatever fresh mayhem awaited. She'd known from the moment she and Mozzarelli finished Rollcall and mounted up for the evening ahead that it was going to be one of those bizarro, "Fourth Watch" kind of shifts. "Fourth Watch" was a term she and pessimistic fellow officers coined for eight-hour increments of insanity precisely like the one she suspected lay ahead. Emergency Responder-speak's answer to The Twilight Zone's "Fifth Dimension", the dreaded "Fourth Watch" inevitably entailed full, crimson moons, midnight madness, and widespread Looney Toonery of the Turd Kind. Blowkiss sighed in resolute public servitude as Mozzarelli bellowed into the radio mike, "Clear, 7-11 Base... One-Adam-Thirteen's responding, Code 3! ". Hi-lo siren screaming and rooftop lightbars maniacally strobing, their shiny new, kick-ass cruiser hurtled through the unseasonally hot and humid night... Deelyte- Chillin' Detective D. Incharga Mayhim was busily sorting her black pens from the blue and red ones when Dispatch notified her that her presence was required at a murder scene in the Jerry Springer Mobile Home Estates. "Mobile Home Estates, my left testicle", she groused, "there's nothing stately about a bunch of rusting heaps of tornado fodder whipstitched together with gravel paths!" Mayhim rose and stretched, gathering up enough black and only black pens to take with her on the ride out. Bracing herself for whatever she was about to behold, she pondered whether tonight being Valentine's Eve would or would not factor into this homicide. Arriving on the scene, she noted that Faith Blowhard numbered among the uniformed officers there, which always meant an 'entertaining' investigation lay ahead for Mayhim... "Hello, Faith" "Yo, Mayhim, how're they hangin' ? Lawd gawd in heaven, if this one ain't a doozie!" Mayhim inwardly cringed at Faith's foreboding-ridden pronouncement as it dawned crystal clear that opting for high-heeled footwear on such a night as this may prove woefully ill-advised. Still, she abhored the idea of tromping around crime scenes in clodhoppers like those Blowkiss presently sported. "Keep it simple, Blowhard - what have we got?" Mayhim brusquely inquired. Faith scowled and shot back, "It's Blowkiss, you idiot - and what kind of bubble-headed nincompoop conducts investigations wearing spangled spandex pantsuits and stiletto heels? Quit squeezin' nickles 'til the buffalo poops, why don't ya, and invest in a pair of regulation Army boots! With those holsters full of 38-D's ye packin', a pair of these steel-toed babies would weight ya down and give ya counterbalance against tippin' over in the wind! And... since you so rudely asked... 'what we have here' is one helluva crime of passion!" "Passion? Here in the shallow end of WDCville's gene pool? Say it isn't so!", Mayhim sardonically replied, her high-heeled dogs already beginning to howl. . Ignoring the she-dick's smartass remark, Faith continued delivering her report, apparently in the misguided belief that someone, somewhere, was listening... "It's a lover's quarrel gone sideways and then some, I tell ya!" Jerking her thumb toward a boozily bleary-eyed woman in the trailer's tiny living room, Blowkiss related, "That's the wife, sitting on the sofa surrounded by beer cans - some of 'em his, most of 'em hers. The dearly departed schmuck draped over the salt-water aquarium has... well.... an "object" embedded in his back. Trust me, Detective... you're not going to believe this one!" MaryLou St. Nowhere Trauma Center's head nurse, Feral Bootay, was examining the corpse when Detective Mayhim approached the salt-water aquarium. "Hello, Feral, what brings you out here?" Mayhim asked. "Oh, I was just driving by on my way home from the Trauma Center, saw all the hullaballoo, and stopped to see if I could help out," Feral coquettishly replied. Yeah, right!, Mayhim thought, You stopped because you were hoping a hunky paramedic was on the scene! Aloud, she asked, "Well, what's your verdict? How'd he die?" "I'm no expert," Feral professed, managing to give the impression that an expert is exactly what she was, "but I think it might have something to do with that extremely large, razor-sharp object protruding from his back. Odd you could possibly have missed that... maybe you need an opthalmic checkup?" "Ha, freakin' ha - very funny, Bootay. I meant, what is that nasty looking thing?" Mayhim leaned in for a less myopically-challenged gander. "My god, is that...?" "Ayup, Detective - biggest damned knitting needle I've ever seen in my life! Just look at the size of that eye... you could thread a small kitten through it!" Mayhim straightened and glanced across the trailer's filthy living room. "The missus doesn't seem like much of a seamstress to me... what would she be doing with a knitting needle?" The frumpy, bleary-eyed drunk to which Mayhim referred, her dishevelled, dishwater-blonde beehive looking as though it hadn't been brushed in a week, lurched toward them and slurred, "That's jusht it, Occifer! I ain't no knitter and that there needle ain't mine! I blacked out and some giganticus woman mushta came in heah and done him in! Oh, my poor, dahlin' Billy Bob!!! " Dramatically slapping her hand over her eyes, the snockered double-wide trailerwife plummeted backwards in a clumsily feinted faint. Unluckily for her, Mayhim opted not to break her fall, deftly stepping aside and allowing her inebriated immensity to crash to the floor. "Better watch out, Detective," Feral sneered, "some folks might consider that police brutality, and then you'd have a ten million dollar lawsuit on your hands. I'd hate to have to testify against you, you know, but I'm no Hippocratic oaf ! I'd simply have to do my duty..." Gallinago Clarence the barn owl flew from the mouth of the cavity in the old Sycamore bordering the edge of the Jerry Springer Mobile Home Estates. "Rats" he contemplated longingly. "Rats, rats, rats, rats, rats... and mousies!!!" In the wake of Jerry Springer's development, rodents had proliferated. Clarence landed and settled in for his customary, pre-dinner rodent surveillance from a vantage point in the twisted old Hackberry tree on the far corner of Lot# 666. The Hackberry was a gnarled offshoot of the bedraggled, ratty-looking forest resurrected from the ashes of the closed hazardous waste landfill atop which the Springer Estates now stood. It mattered not to Clarence that ever increasing numbers of the rats and mousies he caught sported more than a few ulcerations, liver tumors, and the occasional malformed second head... the marked proliferation of such anomalies had no adverse affect on flavor that Clarence's gullet could discern. Suddenly, swarms of police cruisers and unmarked cars, lights flashing and sirens blaring, converged on Lot# 666 and screeched to a halt. Spilling forth from their cruisers, dozens of stampeding cops headed for a dilapidated single-wide, leaving their emergency lights activated, their high-beams ablaze, and the midnight air crackling with the cacaphony of non-essential radio traffic so essential for authenticating emergency police response scenes... Clarence watched in disgust as his dinner evaporated before his owly eyes; every rat and mousie in sight dropped their bits of yard garbage and scrambled back under sagging shacks-on-wheels. Making matters even worse, the squawking radio transmissions pained his tufted, sensitive ears, fined tuned, as they were, to be able to detect the softest rustle of litle rodent pawsteps in the leaves. Yet another cop-mobile catapulted in, skidding to a halt via unceremoniously slamming into the base of the old Hackberry tree. Furtively glancing about to see if her environmentally detrimental faux paus had been witnessed, Detective Mayhim sheepishly backed the unmarked car a discrete six inches off the tree and exited the vehicle. Bending to inspect the bumper with feigned nonchalance, the dufus Detective was oblivious to the fact that a disgruntled, feathered bombardier perched only feet above her. She was too busy scheming how she'd deny all knowledge if the Motor Pool guys commented on the dent. Clarence had had more than his share of 'enough'. Demonstrating his disdain by hawking a condensed pellet of fur and rodent skulls onto the hood of Mayhim's car and simultaneously ejecting a copious stream of dark feces, laced with snow-white uric acid, all over the bumper-inspecting detective, he disgustedly soared off toward his fur-lined abode in the old Sycamore. There'd be no rodent entrees tonight... but observing his viscous 'deposit' dribble down Mayhim's gaudy ensemble went a long way toward soothing Clarence's ruffled feathers. As the be-splattered Mayhim strode purposefully toward the crime-scene trailer, Faith Blowhard, hearing the sound of rushing wings, glanced upward just in time to see Clarence's tailfeathers swooping by. Observing the steaming rivulets now coursing down the detective's clothing, Blowhard mockingly called out, "Hey, Mayhim, you've been owl befouled!" Steve Ellen "At least I don't have dipshits in my Rolodex," Detective Incharga Mayhim replied, in sarcastic reference to Faith Blowhard's indiscriminate mating habits.At the crime scene, the Police Geometrician was measuring the angle of entry of the knitting needle into the victim's back. "Looks like 37.5 degrees. I estimate the attacker was standing approximately 19 inches to the left side of the victim and came downward like this..." (the Geometrician demonstrated with a swing of his arm) "...plunging the needle into the victim's back with sufficient force to rule out anyone under 6 feet tall or weighing less than 200 pounds." "A large person, then?" Mayhim said. "Larger than average, absolutely." "What about the gender?" The Geometrician shrugged. "I only do geometry. You'll have to consult Pops regarding gender." Pops Boogely was a Police Psychologist who moonlighted as a Serial Killer Profiler and Consultant for Psychic Trauma cases. He was an undisputed expert on gender issues; in the Betty Jane Wilson rape case, he'd established the perp was a male even before the DNA was analyzed. Pops surveyed and mused over the crime scene. "A knitting needle, eh?" He scratched his grizzly beard. "Ten to one the perp is a woman." "Those are good odds," Mayhim asserted, "but I think you're wrong, Pops." Feral Bootay looked up in surprise. Seldom did anyone questioned Pops' gender discriminations. "Are you suggesting our suspect's a man, Detective Mayhim?" "A man or something very much like one..." A chill raced down Feral Bootay's spine. She gazed at the blood-spattered corpse. Routine trailer park stabbing? Or the dastardly deed of an avenging creature of unknown origins? This case was getting under her skin and making her itch. Feral was certain there'd be lot more scratching going on before all was said and done... Acme Feral Bootay looked up from the St. Nowhere Nurse's station as the emergency doors wheezed open and a pallid, sweaty man minced in... carefully. What now? Feral thought, but said, "Do you have insurance? If so, can I help you, sir?" Her brain caught up with her mouth and instantly regretted its actions. Here was a pale, sweating, skinny fella, dressed entirely in black, with a pen tucked behind his ear. Oh, crap, she inwardly moaned, it's a writer! One of those Children of the Pen, no doubt... sheeeesh ! . "I need a doctor! The pain is unbearable!", the impaled Penner of Prose proclaimed. "Is it the relentless aching of an artist's tortured soul, Sir? The agony of a thousand muses crashing through your thoughts at once, perhaps?" "No, it's the pain of the humongous knitting needle protruding from my anus!", Peter Prosepenner wailed. Pointing a tremulous finger at his punctured posterior while fighting to remain both vertical and conscious, the impaled 'pale rider' writer was swiftly growing cognizant of the fact that multi-tasking was not his strong suit. Gasping with renewed alarm, Feral bellowed an emergency shout-out into the old tannoy: "Code Yellow to Nurse's station, STAT ! " "Code Yellow?" , asked the skewered author, unable to contain his curiosity... "Shouldn't that be, 'Code Blue'?" "I'm afraid you're a bit... confused... Sir. We do use 'Code Blue' for ass-kicking emergencies here at St. Nowhere, but for ass-penetrating emergencies, a 'Code 3'' best alerts our Crashing Ass Team to 'get the lead out', so to speak." As if on cue, a frenzied herd of medics rounded the corner, expectant smiles plastered all over their faces. One breathless Anal Emergency Specialist turned to Feral in confusion. "So where's the SDRI, Bootay? I thought you put out a Code Yellow?" " I did ! ", Nurse Bootay replied, pointing out the copiously perspiring aspiring author. Addressing the posteriorally perforated patient, she instructed, "Assume the knee-chest position on this gurney and show the nice doctor your Sexual Deviance-Related Injury, son..." Douger Paramedic Darin Hardbody and his partner, Jason Beefcake, rushed into the single wide on lot #666 in Jerry Springer Mobile Home Estates and were immediately approached by Officer Faith Blowkiss."Hello, boys... what took you so long?" Darin glanced at Jason, "We just received the call, Officer. Where's the injured party? Before Blowkiss could answer, Detective Mayhim strode into the front room. "What are these guys doing here? We've got a dead body, not someone needing medical help! Who called this in?" "I did," Blowkiss answered, "I wanted a second opinion." "A second opinion on what? Whether the pickled porker draped over the salt-water aquarium is dead or not?" When she failed to respond, Mayhim tore her lustful stare away from the hunky Paramedics and reluctantly shifted her attention to Blowkiss. Noting that Blowkiss was bent provocatively over the sofa, pretending to look for something, Darin dropped his medical bag to the floor and scurried to her... side. "Can I help you?" he meaningfully asked Blowkiss. "I dropped my pen somewhere behind this couch. Do you think you could get it for me?", the twitterpated, Army-booted she-cop breathily cooed. "Sure!" Darin gushed. As the machismo medico bent over the couch in search of the allegedly lost writing instrument, Blowkiss retired to an optimal vantage point for ogling the Paramedic's posterior. An approving smile crept across her frequently moistened, sensuously full lips as Faith noted every admirable nuance of his gluteal cleft. "Blowhard!" Mayhim stormed, "I would appreciate it if you confined your mating rituals to off-duty time! Now get these Paramedics outta here!" Huffily stomping off, Mayhim cast a last lingering, hungry glance in the direction of Hardbody's hard booty. Straightening and spotting the inert male yahoo slumped over the aquarium, Hardbody gestured and informed Blowkiss, "Hey, here's your pen and don't look now, but I'm purty sure that guy bobbing for fish flakes is dead! And yeah, the ginormous knitting needle bifurcating his shoulder blades could be the cause of deceasedness... but I wouldn't rule out that ice pick embedded in his left ear, either." Blowhard had been thinking, this guy's was the embodiment of everything I could ever ask for - built like a god and dumber than a box of rocks! when Hardbody's assertion regarding the Eustachian-tubally situated ice pick filtered through the static interference wrought by her libido. All chatter in the trailer stopped as the Geometrician, Pops, Blowkiss, and Incharga Mayhim gathered around the corpse. Two haunting, unspoken questions hung in the air among them - how could they, the cream of the law enforcement crop, have missed an earful of ice pick? More importantly, ... how could that dolt of a Paramedic been the first one to catch it ?!? catty WDC since 2003 Whew! "Red Bull gives you wings, Red Bull gives you wings." The dark shadow retreated into the miasma of ivy growing wildly from the tipped-over pots along the edge of the trailer park. "Need more arrows, Red Bull gives you wings!"Tater Tot, Jerry Springer Estates' renown and widely acclaimed Worm Whisperer, thought he spied peripheral movement and dove for cover into the open cesspool behind the death-tainted, crime scene trailer. "No Bogey Man's a-gonna git me, no sir-ee, Bob!" Flinging out several worms to throw off the WDC P.D.s Search and Rescue bloodhounds, Tater belly-crawled through the sewage and slime, emerged on the far shore, and slunk off to his own trailer. Collapsing on his soiled sofa, he flip-popped a beer, mumbled something to his wife, Titty Tot, about the Bogey Man... and promptly passed out. Katherine76 ~*~ [Still sniffing around regarding the gruesome Jerry Springer Mobile Home Estates homicide, Mayhim makes a breakthrough in the case...]"Officer Blowjob, we've located a neighbor who may have witnessed the murder," Mayhim announced between scarfed-down mouthfulls of jelly doughnut. "Will you knock it off with the names, Mayhim?!?," Blowkiss retorted, angrily throwing her clipboard on the shabby livingroom's beer-stained, formica-topped cofee table. Mayhim waited for Blowkiss to finish her snit, then escorted her down the dirt-and-gravel, tufted pig-weed-punctuated path leading to the waiting witness's trailer. "Officer Blowkiss, this is Mrs. Goodsnatch. She's ready to give you a statement now," said Mayhim." The spectacularly spandexed she-dick then turned abruptly and beat foot back toward the rip-snortingly ripped Paramedics still loitering at the crime scene... Of Fire Born ~ welcome, 2012! ... "Nice to meet you, Goodsnatch - I understand you have information regarding Badbanana?", Officer Blowkiss inquired."A look of perplexity common among the progeny of multi-generational inbreeding crossed Mrs. Goodsnatch's pie-shaped face. "Badbanana?", she puzzled, signalling Blowkiss that the pilot light might be lit, but no cerebral synapses were firing. "Yes, Ma'am," Blowkiss responded, endeavoring to conceal her frustration with the tube-topped, hair-rollers-all-askew, nicotine-stained-lipped, lolling-tongued, flat affect-ed, mouthbreathing Jerry Springer love child standing before her,"Billy Bob Badbanana - the stiff presently snorkelling in the salt-water aquarium next door?". "Doh!" , cried the unkempt Goodsnatch, catching the garlickly scent of an olfatory aura preluding the migraine headache such earthshattering epiphanies tended to bring on. "I never knew Billy Bob's last name was Badbanana... I guess 'cause him and the missus have always answered to, 'hey, you!', yannow?. So how's his poor wife holdin' up?" Not mincing any words, Faith Blowkiss replied, "Beulah Badbanana is our prime suspect in the Badbanana homicide case, Milady Goodsnatch... so could we dispense with the neighborly amenities and get down to the black-peeled meat of the matter? Just what do you know about the Badbananas and how Billy Bob bought the plantation? *...as the sceen fades to black on the tableu of Blowkiss, Goodsnatch, and the "Who Pricked Badbanana?" homicide caper, we are swept away to the flourescently blinding sanctum of the St. Nowhere Trauma Center...* "Six Hundred Fifty Seven and Three-Quarters joules!!!", came the muffled shout of a crimson-faced Dr. Mark Sheen from somewhere amidst the scrub-suited jumble of E.R. nurse breasts and the supine and cyanotic, sheet-draped patient laid out in Cubicle 69. "C'mon, Merrill, get some hustle in that bodacious bustle... we're losin' this guy!" Trauma Nurse Merrill Castaway, uncertain whether it was cardiac paddle smoke or due to the fact that she herself was fuming, detected a whiff of something burning and cast a worried glance overtop her surgical mask at Dr. Doug Boss, the hot new Pediatric Resident on loan from Chicago Dope. What she could see of his face remained calmly impassive, and an unspoken reassurance passed between them. Extricating her own from the rest of the breasts, Nurse Castaway paused only for a split second to check her mascara in the reflection of Dr. Green's balding, perspiration-beaded pate before cranking the defribrilator setting to up to "Speed Round". "Your crank is at maximum, Doctor!", Cathaway breathily murmered. "CLEAR !!!!" ZZZ-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-PPP ! * bleep... bleep... ba-bleep, beep... ba-bleep, bleep... ba-bleep...* "Normal sinus rythym, Doctor!!! Well DONE !!!" Though her words were gushed at the sweat-soaked Dr. Green, it was the curly-haired, impishly-countenanced, George-Clooney-look-alike Dr. Boss that Castaway had set her Nurse's cap for... she'd become his main squeeze if she had to swallow a whole bottle of Sominex and conceive twins to do it! Now, however, there was no time for further indulgence in romantic fantasy... the rectally-challenged writer in Cubicle 8 was lending all new meaning to the pre-surgically-applicable term, "disaster", an already exhausted Second-Wave Trauma Team was working feverishly next door over a prone and morbidly obese poetess who'd accidentally sat on her chihuahua, and a deathly pale Corporate lawyer with a splinter under his 3-carat, round-cut-diamond pinkie ring was hysterically whimpering for more morphine. And then, rising above and from somewhere beyond the in-house cacaphony... ...the shriek of inbound sirens found its way to Nurse Castaway's pre-menstrually cauliflowered ears. "Sheesh," the harried angel of mercy exclaimed, "something tells me this WDCville, Valentine Eve Fourth Watch is gonna be a real pisser!"... ... [ insert suspenseful Dut, dut, DAHHHHH !!!!! here ] ... MaryLou Fuming silently (okay, maybe not so silently) over being called summoned back to the Trauma Center after making a date (okay, maybe a booty call) with the hunky paramedic Jason Beefcake, Feral was carrying out the Trauma Surgeon's surgeon's instructions ib 'auto-pilot' mode as they worked on the snivelling writer. She'd fully intended to book that fabulously buff medico, Darin Hardbody, for a threesome, but Faith Blowjob had moved in on him first. Damn her!, Feral thought.Arching his brows, the doctor glanced at Feral over the traumatized butt cheeks of the writer sprawled face down on the examing table. "What did you just say?" "Uhhh, I said 'Slammer.' Whoever turned this writer's backside into a pin cushion will be going to the slammer..." As the perplexed doctor resumed his inspection of the writer's boogered-up bum, Feral breathed a sigh of relief and mentally congratulated herself for thinking so quickly on her surgical-bootied feet. She quickly redirected her concentration to the ass task at hand, relegating Blowjob to the back of her mind for the time being. She'd make sure that interfering police wench got hers someday... someday soon. 1296462 Rising Stars' Best Dr. Boss tossed his soiled gloves into a nearby Biohazardous Materials receptacle and slip-shrugged on a fresh pair. Even immortal gods like me don't get a break!, he thought to his monumentally egotistical, sexy self. Kicking the doors of Surgery 2 partially open and peeking through the gap with an exaggerated flourish, Boss mischievously delivered his best 'Jack Nicholson in The Shining' impression... "Honey, I'm home!" The gluteally beleagured, semi-sedated writer's head snapped up from his face-down position on the operating table, his countenance a patchwork of shock and incredulity as the grinning surgeon then strode into the operating room. "Just a little joke, son", Dr. Boss reassured him. "Don't worry about a thing. Your Significant Other will never hear of this surgically corrected... indiscretion. What happens in St. Nowhere stays in St. Nowhere. Now take a deep breath and count backwards from your I.Q. number." "Eighty-four, eighty-three, eighty-two..." "He's out, Doctor," Nurse Bootay declared, slapping a scalpel into Boss's gloved palm. Fluttering his incredibly long eyelashes at her over his surgical mask, Boss chided, "You're my favorite ' head nurse '... you do know that don't you, Feral?" His flirtatious inquiry was expediently rewarded with a both blush and a boobie-jiggle. Remembering himself and struggling to conceal his dilated pupils, Boss nodded his acknowlegment of the attending anesthesiologist presently serving as a third wheel in this carnal test drive. "Doctor Gaspasser?" "Ayup. Nice to see you again, Dr.Boss, my friend. How's your old handicap hanging these days?" Boss flushed but didn't answer. thinking, I specifically told him not to mention that in front of potential scrub buddies! Aloud, Boss responded, "Fine, fine... 3 over par. How's our Proctologically Challenged Prose Penner doing?" "Out like a light, vitals steady as she goes... healthy as a horse, 'cept for the pick in his ass," came the droll reply. "Hmmm." Dr. Boss thrust his face closer to the snoring patient's freshly scrubbed buttocks, deeply inhaling the intoxicating aroma of alcohol and iodine. "I thought this was supposed to have been a Code Yellow?", he inquired. "False alarm. Garden variety violence. His old lady probably thought he spent too much time writing." "Well, this sucks!", Boss groused. "I could've been at home in my bunny slippers by now! I'm a pediatrician, not a sphincter surgeon, for cryin' out loud! Oh, well, what the hell... since I'm already scrubbed in..." Sighing, Boss made the first incision, then handed off the bloodied scalpel to Nurse Bootay. "Suction!", he commanded. "Any TIME !!! I mean... uhhh... here ya go," came the flustered Feral's reply as she swished the suction tube around the rectal surgical field. In response to Nurse Bootay's obvious state of twitterpation, the the good doctor felt more than one... "issue" ... arise, the most urgent of which prompted him to press his pelvis against the table and think real hard about baseball scores. Once physiologically back in control, however, Boss excitedly reported, "This dude has more problems than a pissed-off wife... somebody get the camera! I can write my own ticket to any hospital in the country after I write up what I've discovered here!" The anesthesiologist took one look at the callipygian writer, gulped, and promptly turned baby-poop green. Her eyes widening in astonishment, Nurse Bootay gasped "I've never seen anything that big!" Deelyte- Chillin' Meanwhile, back at the orgy....er, crime scene... "hustle" had most assuredly assuredly overtaken any modicum of "bustle". Frantically searching for Bootay Detective Mayhim was growing increasingly more ticked off as time passed and Bootay failed to surface. That beyatch!, Mayhim fumed to herself, She knows full well we need to collaborate regarding the confession we both plainly heard Beulah Badbanana make regarding the death of her dearly departed, allegedly beloved Billy Bob... well, the 'confession' I wrote up and readied for her signature, anyway. Furthermore, Mayhim now had more than a few probatively pointed questions for the apparently absentee Bootay..... It had dawned on Mayhim that, just as sure as God made little green apples, there was no such thing as an "eye" in a knitting needle, large enough to stuff a kitten through or otherwise! Sewing needles have eyes... not knitting needles, for cryin' in a bucket! With this epiphany came the realization that knitting needles are idiotically nomenclatured to begin with... kinda like 'booby traps', 'crow's feet', 'fire drills', or 'navel oranges'. No self-respecting breast would ever be caught anywhere near a trap, crows have neither wrinkles NOR feet, drills don't start fires - people do, and who'd ever seen an orange with a bellybutton? "It'll be a cold day in Upper Slobovia before Bootay pulls the wool over these baby blues!" Gold-Plated Shield Detective Incharga Mayhim snorted derisively. Soooo, Mayhim pondered... is Bootay daring to hope she'll leave me looking like an ass by injecting my final report with a several cc's of bald-faced non-factualities? Mayhim suspiciously narrowed her eyes as a second dark possibility reared it's ugly head... or does that scheming little tramp in nursing shoes know more about this murder than she's telling, hmmmm? Either way... she's made a huge faux paus... she's certainly got a helluva lot to learn about covering her crepe-soled tracks! Smirking gleefully at the prospect of finally cutting Bootay down to size, the ticked-off detective reconsidered the victim's alleged earful of ice pick, becoming ever more certain that Bootay had plunged the pick into Badbanana's eardrum after Mayhim's initial assessment of the body had been completed. "There's a rat somewhere in this massive trailerpark woodpile, and I'll leave no rat droppings unturned 'til I unmask the rodent that dropped 'em!", Mayhim mused aloud. Barking orders for the crime scene minions to carry on carrying on, she immediately set about plotting and scheming her next strategic counter-measure regarding Bootay's betrayal. Mayhim sprinted as best she could in stilleto high heels to her unmarked cop-mobile, bent on a confrontation with the down and dirty Bootay, now reported to be at St. Nowehere Trauma Center. Before mounting her mechanized, crime-stopping steed, Mayhim warily scanned the night sky for any sign of the foul owl who's doo-doo blasting backside she'd pepper-sprayed earlier on, but the tufted eared, tinnitis-impaired, pellet-spewing, poo-poo-ejecting creature was nowehere to be seen. Thank gawd she'd wisely included a change of spandex in her black-pen-only, overnight attache case... she'd pour herself into a new ensemble on arrival at the Trauma Center... Of Fire Born ~ welcome, 2012! * The slumber of the dedicated Emergency Personnel at WDCville Fire House 69 is shattered by a blaring claxton audio alarm and ensuing, baritoned-voice Emergency P.A. System announcement... * REEP, REEP, REEP..... REEP, REEP, REEP..... REEP, REEP, REEEEEEEEEP !!! "Engine 82, Ladder 69, Pumper 35, Rescue 98.6, and you two E.M.T.s boinking in the back seat of the Chief's ride... an 18-Alarm, 7.9 on- the-Richter scale explosion and natural gas-fed fire in an occupied high-rise structure, the Publisher's Shearing House, intersection of Half-a-Pint Avenue and Callgirl Boulevard. Two known red blankets on scene. This is not a drill... all units roll Code Bat-out-of-Hell ! " Plucky Fire Fighterette Kim Sombrero treated herself to her characteristically slow slide down the pole connecting the sleeping barracks to the cement pad where her Dalmation-bedecked rig awaited. Given their anatomical differences, such nocturnal combinations of gravity, friction and fire poles were far more pleasurable for Kim than for her male counterparts ... she considered that a well-deserved perk in offsetting all the chauvinistic crap women Firefighters had to endure. What the hell, Kim thought to herself during her twitterpating descent, in this line of business, ya never know which indulged-in guilty pleasure is gonna be a plucky little Fire Fighterette's last... Screeching up to the fully engulfed, downtown WDCville high-rise, Kim leaped from her pumper and immediately began jerking hose. Just as the hose stiffened with maximum pressure, she caught sight of Monte "Big Rocks" Parker, an emotionally-invested-to-the-point-of-an-impending-bout-of-major-depression EMS Paramedic, staring down at two red-blanketed heaps of hard-boiled protoplasm laid out on the curb. Kim, her face etched with concern, compassion, empathy, and no small measure of lust, approached Big Rocks' dejected albeit spectacularly buff form. "So who are the two crispy critters?", she sympathetically inquired. His full, sensuous lips quivering and tears coursing down his soot-blackened face, Big Rocks solemnly replied, "They were members of the United Skin-headed Writings We Love Gee-DUH-ba-yah Bush Club. Their Clubhouse headquarters were on the fifth floor of the PSH building." Big Rocks slowly raised his soulful, puppy-dawg eyes to meet Kim's... "They were practicing the Dick Cheney Method of Long-arm Close-Order Weaponry Management" - *sob, snuffle*, "The taller crispy critter accidentally shot the shorter one, some shrapnel ricocheted off the steel plate in Shorty's skull, hit a gas line, and ka-BLAM... that was all either ONE of 'em wrote! " " YIKES ! " Kim explosively exhaled as she lifted a corner of one of the red blankets and beheld the French-fried Child of the Pen beneath. "Has anyone notified their next-of-kin and/or fellow Club Members? " Big Rocks shook his head sadly. "Negatory on both counts. They were both Radioactive Gynecological Research Industry test-tube babies... and the only Gee-DUH-ba-ya-lovers in existence. Sad, isn't it?" "It's always a tragedy when The Sadly Misinformed befriend our current Dorkmeister-in-Chief, Big Rocks," Kim commiserated, "but we have to console ourselves with remembering that salvation is only nine months away..." Rock brightened appreciably. "You're right, Kim... life, politics, Presidencies, and the show all must go on!" Whaddaya say we go kick us some thermo-conflagrative ass?" "You ROCK, Big Rocks!" , Kim exclaimed as she and the hunky medico high-fived. " I've got yer back and you can have my front whenever ya want it... let's boogey like it's 1999 ! " * As the scene fades on the black silhouettes of WDCvilles heroic firefighters battling the Publisher's Shearing House inferno, we are transported to the Emergency Responder Unisex Locker Room of the St. Nowhere Trauma Center. Day is breaking (you didn't hear the clatter ?), and nearly all of WDCville's shell-shocked and soot, blood guts, and/or owl-poop-splattered Emergency personnel are gathered therein. Some are slumped on sofas, a few are hunched over in chairs cradling their shell-shocked faces in cupped hands, others are sipping day-old coffee and sporting thousand-yard-stares, a handful are showering... and the vast majority are standing naked in the middle of the room, having forgotten where the showers are and/or how they got buck naked to begin with...* "Good morning, Staff - and Happy Cupid's Day! ", initially Chief Resident, then Attending Physician, then Chief of Emergency Medicine, and now at long last St. Nowhere's Chief of Staff Carrie Beaver greeted, entering the locker room flanked by Chief of Police Harry Balls, Fire Chief Al Anon, and E.M.S. Administrator Ima Horney, R.N. I know that most of you regard me as a cold, abrasive, lesbionic and officious, forearm crutch-wielding she-demagogue driven solely by ambition and obsessed with adherence to administrative policies, but nothing could be further from the truth. The fact of the matter is, I'm so doggone proud of each and every one of you I'm about to cream my unmentionables! I'm certain that my highly respected Colleagues in Emergency Response, Harry Balls, Ima Horney R.N. and Al Anon, join me in extending to each and every one of you an Official City of WDCville Atta Boy/Girl/Whatever Certificate, and the heartfelt thanks of a grateful Writing Community! You, WDCville's finest, have brought us through a Valentine's Eve that, were it not for your immense courage under fire, amazing dedication, and unparalleled cohesiveness, would have made the 1929 Valentine's Day Massacre look like a myopically-challenged PMS patients' quilting bee! We are proud to pin Medals of Merit and/or Valor upon your heaving little breasts for the following outstanding achievements: 1. Cracking the Badbanana homicide case, successfully talking down his hysterically suicidal spouse when she threatened to jump from the roof of the family outhouse, AND clearing besmirched name of WDCville's beloved Worm Whisperer as a suspect in the case as well as busting the real murderer, Jerry Springer! Not rain, or sleet, or hail, or rampaging earthworms… not even foul-owl gastric content or dung-bombs could sway you in your determination and duty. In spite of it all, you pulled together and swiftly took the dastardly, Badbanana-bruising Springer and the remainder of his unique set of large-eyed knitting needles into custody! Were it not for your professionalism and superb investigatory prowess, we might never have known that Springer's mistress and homicidal accomplice was a bad apple rotting away in our very own basket... Nurse Feral Bootay, by the way, has been booted from the St. Nowhere staff. 2. Wresting the backside of an innocent Child of the Pen from a the clutches of a slow, sure, and constipating death via Alimentary Gangrene secondary to anal permeation. 3. Freeing the perilously homeostatically compromised Petulah, renown WDC Tattler-Gazette Advice Columnist Blabbigail Van Buren's adored little chihuhaua, from the depth's of Ms. Van Buren's... uh... 'depths', and miraculously reviving the cyanotic little creature via mouth-to-snout resuscitation. 4. Rescuing countless lives from certain barbeque-ity, including several Editors and all of their female, Bumfukt Egypt Gentlemen's Club "companions", Mr. Charles Thickdickens, beloved WDCville writer-in-residence and author of the acclaimed novel, A Tale of Two Titties, Peter Dragon Restaurant Magnate Hu Flung Dung, and WDCville's Mayor, Hizzoner Jack Mehoff. 5. Swiftly containing and extinguishing the Great Valentine Eve Publisher’s Shearinghouse Bushlover Arson Fire, saving our taxpayers dozens of dollars in property damage AND managing to keep all evidence that we ever harbored a Bushlover under wraps. "Though we are deeply saddened by skullduggerous chicanery of one of our very own, the magically fellacious and now-booted Feral Bootay, we need only remember the reassuring words uttered by our late Chief Protologist, Seymour Butts, to the octogenarian suffering a Block of the Non-writer's Kind ... "This, too shall pass." Esteemed Emergency Responder ladies, gentlemen, and various blends thereof ~ we salute you! Long live WDCville and the literary antidistestablishmentarianism for which she stands! At ease, and for those of you who haven't already done so... fall out! * A mighty cheer goes up as the air is filled with joyously flung cop hats, black pens, fire helmets, nurse's caps, and the occasional rainbow-hued, candy-flavored condum...* [ Fade to black, insert melodramatically stirring music, and roll credits here ] ~ El Finito ~ Of Fire Born ~ welcome, 2012! The End! © Copyright 2008 Of Fire Born ~ welcome, 2012!, Deelyte- Chillin', MaryLou, Gallinago, Steve Ellen, Acme, Douger, catty WDC since 2003 Whew!, Katherine76 ~*~, 1296462 Rising Stars' Best, (known as GROUP). All rights reserved. GROUP has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work. |
 Log In To Leave Feedback |
Static Items
Books
Forums
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
