Who Is Mercy Wild Chapter 5
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Who Is Mercy Wild? Chapter 6 free porn video
WARNING: You must read Chapters 1 through 5 first, or this won't
make any sense at all.
Who Is Mercy Wild? Chapter 6
By Jacquie Windsor
[email protected]
When the meaningful words
When they cease to function
When there's nothing to say
When will they start plotting against you...
Boadie rubbed his eyes, hearing Killing Joke blaring from the
stereo speakers. He was awake in an instant, grasping at his
chest, practically shocked to find that his body was not that of
Mercy Wild. His vision stuck momentarily in a blurry focus, until
he saw the winking light of the Atari monitor across the room.
He rubbed his eyes and his face, cast the bed sheets to one side,
and climbed onto the floor in a single motion.
By the time the entire song, "Requiem", subsided into silence,
the drummer was completely conscious. He looked over at the desk
in the corner where the computer sat. He didn't understand
computers at all. Johnny had set up the system so that, as long
as it remained on, it could activate the stereo at a pre-set
time. It would play a random file that Johnny had composed or
recorded.
"Space-age robot shit," was what the Dutch boys called it. Boadie
stopped rubbing his face and considered his situation. He thought
about what seemed to have happened over the past day.
"I am not Mercy Wild. I can't be. This is my room. My fucking
stereo. Let's see, my records?"
He walked over to an impressive wall rack filled with LPs. He ran
a finger along the cardboard ridges, reading some of the labels.
This was most certainly his stuff. Big Black. Killdozer. Terveet
Kadet. Even The Jesus And Mary Chain.
Boadie pulled out the Terveet Kadet album, "Halloween". His eyes
ran down the song titles until he saw the song "Transvestite".
Smirking at the irony, he returned the LP to the shelf.
"This is all my shit," he muttered. "That whole thing must've
been some kinda cosmic mind-fuck."
He scanned the room quickly again, while retrieving a pair of
jeans and pulling them onto his tree-trunk legs. As Boadie zipped
up and fumbled for a T-shirt, his eyes fell upon a framed
photograph sitting on the desk by the Atari. He moved forward,
holding the shirt limply in one hand, and placed the other hand
on the picture.
There was a cute blonde girl, smiling, with thick black ink
forming an oblique frame within a frame. In the upper left it
read, "To My Big Weenie..." And to the lower right, the
invitation closed, "All My Luv, Cindy". The 'i' in 'Cindy' was
dotted with a heart.
"Johnny? Cindy? Cynthia?" cried Boadie, in open disbelief. He
paused for a moment and looked around the room, as though someone
was playing a joke on him and was ready to leap out to laugh at
his reaction. Nobody appeared, even after a few minutes, so the
musician casually returned the autographed picture and finished
dressing.
"Hmm, if Johnny's really actually a punky blonde cutie-pie with
the hots for me, I could do a lot worse. Maybe not as good as ten
thousand bucks but pretty damn good anyhow."
Boadie wandered out of the bedroom, searching for the kitchen. He
was thirsty and felt like a good-morning beer might knock the
cuckoo-birds out of his brain. The rest of the apartment was kept
neater than he expected, and two huge shelves of books filled two
walls near the foyer.
"Oh shit," he grimaced. "Does she live with me or something?"
He grabbed one of the books, Chester Wilmot's "Struggle For
Europe" and found Cindy's curvilinear signature inside.
Underneath her name was written "3rd Year, Honours History
Seminar."
"Still a freakin' brain surgeon, too. Why would a boy-genius,
well, a chick-genius, want to live with me for?"
Boadie finally found the kitchen, familiar in most respects, yet
cleaner than he'd left it before the contract to perform on
Corcyra. He opened the fridge to find an amber bottle and popped
the lid. Just before he took a swig, he looked at the label in
dismay.
"Light beer, fuckin' light beer." He sighed. "I ain't sure this
livin' arrangement is gonna be any good for my health."
The beer went down cold and easy. Boadie finished it and reached
for another, removed the top, and headed for the couch.
On his way to his favourite beer-drinking spot, he heard a
frantic noise at the front door, and the spitting image of
Cynthia appeared. She looked indistinguishable from the
transformed Siren, with a generous hint of Johnny's facial
features, and a cute and boyish ass. She was somewhat breathless
and animated, flipping her short hair about with each stride
towards the couch, as Boadie flopped down upon it.
"Baby, I deposited the cheque and it's good!" she cried. "That's
the best gig ever I thought."
Boadie didn't have to fake his surprise. "Gig, umm," he mumbled.
"Boadie, you promised no beer before noon," she scolded. "Has it
fucked up your memory totally?"
The drummer set the beer aside on the coffee table. Cindy hopped
onto his lap, waving a little bankbook in his face. He grabbed
her wrist playfully, yet firmly enough to get the book out of her
hand. He looked at the dates on the last two entries. They fit
the scheme of things, as though they'd never been transported
across the Atlantic Ocean, nor that the dials of time had been
spun back to the Renaissance.
The balance had increased, in a single deposit, from $54.15 to
$10,054.15. Ten thousand dollars.
A broad grin etched Boadie's face. Cindy leaned over him, her
strawberry perfume swallowing the aroma of beer, and she planted
a huge kiss on his smiling lips.
"I love you whole bunches, Big Weenie, 'specially after that
great gig you set up," she whispered. "It was cool-o-matic
excellent."
"Not that I mind," he laughed as Cindy straddled his hips,
rubbing herself against his growing erection, "but the way you
talk I really sometimes wonder if you ever passed college."
"You love it when I talk like that, sweetie," she purred,
stretching to remove her flowery top.
"I love it even if you don't talk," he teased, grasping his meaty
hands around her youthful breasts. "Now shut up and fuck me,
Cindy."
She was high on the aphrodisiac of the big-muscled drummer and
the huge success of the performance that earned them so much. She
stripped both of them naked and remounted her husky band mate,
inserting his hard cock into her pussy and riding him.
All thoughts of this being Johnny Fairmont were expelled from
Boadie's sex-drenched mind as he drove upwards, again and again,
into the squealing form of his girlfriend.
His orgasm blew deep inside her. Sweating and ignoring Cindy's
exhortations to continue, Boadie's cock slipped limply out of
her.
"I told you no beer before noon," she laughed, her disappointment
disguised thinly.
"It's not the beer, Cindy. Believe me. You're fuckin' hot."
Before he went too far explaining, he realised this girl had no
idea that she used to be Johnny Fairmont or that, as far as
Boadie could recall, not even the most fanatical groupie ever
found him to be that attractive. They were always onto the Dutch
boys or the Terror. Whatever had happened, this part of the deal
was right fine.
As Cindy dressed, still chirpy, Boadie reached for his own
clothes. He moved the beer bottle out of the way to avoid tipping
it over. The bankbook lay open to the first page of entries.
"Account Holder: Yellow Elephant. Group Co-Signers: Jefrey
Boadie. Cindy Fairmont. Becky Mowatt. Scott Van Heusen. Harmony
McArthur."
Boadie slowly put his clothes on, trying to appear as
knowledgeable as he could about his surroundings, although the
many subtle reminders of the voyage and the contract increasingly
disturbed him.
Was 'Yellow Elephant' the name of his band? Scott's name was
intact. Why? He loathed his first name, Jefrey. Why had his
stupid parents spelled it with one 'f'?
"Boadie, have you seen my glasses?" asked Cindy. "I can't ever
remember where I put them."
"Sorry. Baby." He tacked on the word 'baby', believing Cindy
expected to be addressed like that. It flowed awkwardly from his
tongue. Better get used to it. Cindy looked like she planned to
stick around.
"Are you all right?" she asked, sitting beside him, mostly
dressed in her jeans and a bra. "Something seems to be bothering
you."
"Yeah, I guess you could say so. You do, um, history and shit in
college, right?"
"Are you on glue? Major in history and minor in political
philosophy. And now grad work in economic history."
"I got a question, let's say. What is so important about Saint
Bartholomew? Like a day in 1572."
"Boadie!" She slapped his arm, teasing. "What's got you so fired
up about history? I didn't even know you could read."
"Please, baby, just answer," he groaned. "I mean, if you know."
"Nothing that I have ever heard of," she replied.
"Don't think I'm nuts or nothin'," Boadie continued, staring
intently into Cindy's eyes. "What about 1571. Something called
Lepanto. Ever heard of that?"
"I've heard of it, sure."
"What was it?"
Cindy held Boadie's hand and stood up, bringing him along with
her to the bookshelves. She took out a heavy hardcover. She
grinned pleasantly at him and flipped the pages to a chapter
entitled 'Harvest Of Blood'.
"If events normally occur in groups of three, then the eighth
decade of the 1500's was a notable exception. The great Venetian
shipyard, the Arsenal, exploded in a fireball when carelessly
stored ammunition was ignited by accident. That was in 1570. The
following year, when the Ottoman fleet set out from the harbour
at Naupactus to challenge Venice in the Adriatic, a hastily
assembled Habsburg force embarked upon a ruinous expedition to
intercept it.
"Heading south towards the province of Lepanto, where the
Ottomans kept vigil over Greek trade with the Levant, the
Christians became lost in a sudden storm off Corcyra. Without the
best Venetian navigators aboard, the largely Austrian force was
swept onto the rocks and destroyed without the Turks' help.
Thereafter no Habsburg armada would ever venture out to sea."
Cindy closed the book, concerned by Boadie's far-off gaze.
"I'm boring you. Obviously."
"Well naw, I don't think so, baby. I think that's plenty,
though."
Whatever had transpired in his memory was interpreted by history
as a natural event. The phone rang.
"H'lo," Boadie mumbled into the handset.
"It's Becky. Listen, can't make it to rehearsal tonight. Darryl
and I made plans..."
"Rebekkah?"
Silence on the other end of the line.
"I hate that name, Jefrey," snarled the voice, pronouncing each
syllable as though it was a curse.
"Oh, uh, sorry, I mean, you guys have fun," Boadie stammered. He
put down the receiver.
"Why would you go and call her Rebekkah?" Cindy glared at him.
"You know she hates that name. So what'd she want?"
"Not, uh, making it to rehearsal. Pardon me for being so
ignorant, but can you answer a really, really dumb question?"
"No such thing as a dumb question," Cindy grinned. "Just dumb
people."
"Seriously, and please don't laugh, but who, exactly, is Darryl?"
"Becky's fianc?. The lawyer. From Montana or North Dakota or
something. Why would you ask a stupid question like that? From
now on I want you to promise me no beer before noon. It's
crumbling your brain cells, Boadie. I'm going to go shower."
Cindy turned away, leaving Boadie a little wiser, but not by
much. He watched her butt as she left.
"What a cute little thing," he mused. "Lucky me, I guess."
The drummer conceded that he wouldn't be able to draw out any
information from Cindy without raising her suspicions. Scott's
name, however, appeared normally on the bankbook. He might be
reasonably expected to understand what happened. The other three
members of Gearjammer, or Yellow Elephant, were so completely
transformed that their memories and expectations would be
distorted. Their names already were.
"Cindy," he called into the bathroom as a steamy mist billowed
from the screened bathtub. "I have to go out. Over to see Scott.
I'll only be an hour or so."
Cindy rustled back the plastic sheet and called back to him as he
shut the door again. "Better not be fucking that's skank's ass."
Boadie barely heard the sharp retort as the door clicked shut. He
pulled on a pair of Doc Martens and left by the side door. The
garage was where it was supposed to be. So was his car. The
alterations to his environment were just enough to mystify him,
yet insufficient to drive his sense of sanity away.
On his drive over to the bass player's house, Boadie peered
through the vehicle's windows, looking for anything out of place.
This was the same, ordinary, two-bit town he was used to.
The car stopped on the edge of the pavement, by the walkway up to
the Van Heusen residence. The drummer switched off the ignition
and walked to the door, knocking heavily upon it.
Mrs. Van Heusen, exactly as he knew here, answered the door.
"Jefrey. You are here to see Scott? He's downstairs, you know."
She called out in a high pitch for her son, meanwhile guiding the
bigger member of the rhythm section to the head of the stairs.
"He's probably all wrapped up in something," smiled Mrs. Van
Heusen. "You can just go down. I know he'll be glad to see you."
Boadie hesitated before descending into the basement. He wondered
if the ordeal of capture by the Turks had somehow caused
irreparable injury. His mother's tone was unwavering yet
consoling. Just like a Mom.
Once downstairs, Boadie found Scott's room exactly where he
remembered it. But once he neared it, the subtle smell of
lavender reached his nose.
"Oh, sheesh, this isn't..."
He knocked briefly at the bedroom door before opening it. There
was Scott, magnificently garbed in clothing more appropriate for
a teenaged girl.
"Brent was right, goddammit," he blurted. "You're all fuckin'
pansied up."
"Boadie," smiled the transvestite, curled up on a fluffy pink
bed, reading the latest issue of 'Trouser Press'. "Great to see
you, buddy."
Scott flipped the magazine onto a pile of others and nearly
jumped off the bed.
Boadie looked away from his bass player, casting his eyes upon a
series of giant wall posters: the movie "Out Of Africa"; a framed
and mounted portrayal of The Pogues' "Rum, Sodomy and the Lash";
another one of the Pet Shop Boys; and a large, live shot of
Samantha Fox dancing in front of her band, all fluffy blonde hair
and clothes that provoked and revealed.
Scott himself was all fluffy blonde hair, too, although it
appeared to be a wig.
"Scott, my fuckin' God. I certainly didn't expect to see you, um,
like this."
"Please, Boadie, call me Julia. I'm going through my Julia
Duffy/Stephanie Vanderkellen phase right now." His eyes widened
in mock emotional agony.
"Yeah, okay, Julia. Wait a second; your Mom's right upstairs.
Does she, um, know about this?"
"Oh, of course, this isn't the Middle Ages or anything. It's
perfectly natural for a transvestite to express herself in a
wholesome and natural way."
Boadie looked past Scott at a magazine poster of George Michael
and Wham! A wholesome and natural way? Wham!? He looked back to
the Sam Fox poster. That was wholesome and natural. She looked a
lot like Mercy Wild. A lot like he was on the cliff over the sea
on the western side of Corcyra. Scott, dressed as Julia Duffy,
didn't seem much different.
"Is there a problem, Boadie?"
"Yeah, there is. I'm a bit lost. I think I've got a problem with
who we are and what we're doin'. I can't really talk it over with
John, uh, I mean, Cindy."
"You were going to say Johnny," smiled Scott.
"You remember Johnny?" Boadie shouted, suddenly seizing Scott's
shoulders. He let go in an instant. "Sorry, it's just that..."
"I was hoping it wasn't just me," answered the bass player. "But
you, I thought, were going to be totally out of it. Do you know
where we played last week? To make all that dough?"
"You know about the money."
"Oh yes, all of us had to sign the cheque. You and Cindy, me,
Harmony and Becky. Ten thousand for basically one gig is hard to
forget."
"You remember Corcyra, then."
"Corcyra? No, the governor's place in Helena."
"The governor? Helena is in Montana."
"Right. Are you on glue, Boadie?"
That was the same teasing remark that Cindy used. At this point,
Boadie regretted that he had nothing to drink. His throat was
parched.
"Governor Weimar's place," Scott continued. "I thought it was one
of our better shows."
"Governor Weimar," Boadie repeated. "Are you kidding? That sure
rings a bell. I don't suppose they call him Hoss, do they?"
"Of course they do. That's his name, I mean."
"Scott. Julia. Whatever. Hoss Weimar is supposed to have had
something to do with Mercy Wild. With the Wonder Of The World,
and that whole Siren thing in 1571."
Scott squinted through his carefully applied eyeliner and long,
fake eyelashes.
"You must be on 'shrooms, buddy boy."
"It must sound nutty to you," Boadie implored, "but I know what
happened. I know I was Mercy Wild. I know that Harmony, Rebekkah,
uh, Becky, and Cindy were all in my band. And I know it wasn't
called Yellow Elephant. And you, you, you..." The big drummer
stood bolt upright and threw a pointed finger in Scott's
direction time after time. "You are almost exactly the same.
Except you're in drag."
Scott blinked in a dense fog.
"I'm not 'in drag'. I'm 'in my persona'. This is me. No matter
what your deluded half-witted brain is thinking."
Scott detected his soft recriminations were only further
confusing his friend.
"But hey, just amuse me. Tell me what you think happened. Why do
you think we got paid $10,000 to play wherever it is you think we
played?"
"I think there's a good chance that somebody changed history. And
they used us to do it."
"So you're important enough a guy to change history?" Scott
asked, as pleasantly as he could.
"I didn't," explained Boadie. "Mercy Wild did. Or Stupor Mundi
did. They sure changed all you guys."
"Bear with me, handsome," urged Scott. He walked over to the far
corner of the room and switched on the television set. He turned
to a channel displaying the time and weather, noticing that it
was nearly five o'clock. He flipped quickly to another station,
then turned back and flopped on the bed, smoothing his slinky
dress under his seat.
"With all due respect, Boadie, that's Mercy Wild."
The television displayed a newsy broadcast of regional events.
The host? Mercy Wild. Boadie stared at the screen. In vibrant
colour, a young, pert woman, almost exactly as he remembered
himself in Stupor Mundi's scrying pool, introduced a list of
human interest stories.
"This ain't possible," Boadie sputtered. "It's like too much a
coincidence."
"I'm no big smarty-pants like your girlfriend is," Scott said,
"but I don't see why you think anything you're seeing has
anything to do with something that happened four hundred years
ago. It's gone. It's done. You can't do nothing about it. You
can't do nothing about Harmony running off and marrying some guy
three times older than she is. You can't do fuck all about Becky
falling in love with that lawyer, even if we know he's a pimp or
a pusher or something. You just think you're the number one all
the time, Boadie. Like everything revolves around you. That's
just foolish, I hate to say."
Boadie felt angry, sad, confused and elated all at once. Scott
would have pummelled him with his fists before that damned
contract was signed. Now he was hitting him with reasoning and,
the worst thing was, it was making a hell of a lot of sense.
"I'm stubborn and I refuse to believe. That's what you're
saying."
"Yeah," nodded Scott.
"And you're right on, um, Julia. And that's what makes me the
alpha. I am the leader of the group."
Boadie rubbed his index finger across his upper lip and turned
away from the transvestite bass player. The television set showed
Mercy Wild interviewing a jackalope hunter from Minot, North
Dakota.
"I'm the alpha, because I know."
---
[email protected]
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