My New Career Chapter 12
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Ultramarine free porn video
Dedicated to my pals Enbreeze and Paula Jutras.
Inspired by Eric, The Rebel, and Roy Del Frink.
Bad Irving--where ARE you!?
Ultramarine
By Jacquie Windsor
[email protected]
All Rights Undeserved: 2001-DEC-08
Without ever having acknowledged his feminine self, Kelvin
languished alone in a prison cell, with a bleak future
staring at him every day from a cracked mirror over a
tarnished sink. Not three miles distant, flying as a crow
does, an unmarried woman faced a similar colourless future,
having ignored as many potential suitors as peopled the
Moresheth-Gath Penitentiary on the edge of town.
Marigold Kelvin turned on the dishwasher. It was just past
five o'clock and the sun remained well above the horizon.
From her kitchen window, Marigold surveyed a patchwork of
colour in the back yard. Irregular watering and
fertilisation had left brown patches in the lawn. The grass
was marked black at intervals by shadows thrown from four
trees on one side of the lot. Pansies, snapdragons and
peonies bloomed in a lively symphony from beds dug around
the perimeter of the yard.
Centred near the back fence, Pookie's little house was a
deep ultramarine blue.
"That dog spends far too much time in his kennel," said
Marigold to herself. "Now it's past his suppertime and he
still hasn't touched his food dish."
The woman dried her hands on a towel, wandered outside,
followed the sidewalk half way to the garage, and cut
across the lawn toward the doghouse.
"Pookie!--Po-oo-ookie!" she cried.
"Pookie isn't available right now," answered a voice that
seemed to come straight from the doghouse.
"Wha-what?" Marigold was startled by the unexpected reply.
"Who--I mean--how? What I mean is: 'Who is this?'"
"It's me. The dog's house."
"I don't get it. What do you mean by that?"
"I'm the dog's house. You wanted to know where Pookie is
and I am telling you that Pookie is indisposed."
Marigold looked around to make sure that none of the
neighbours were witness to the spectacle of a grown woman
having a conversation with a doghouse.
"Wait a minute. How can you talk? You're a wooden
structure--not a human being--not even an animal."
"Honey, you ain't so lifelike yourself," retorted the
kennel. "But to answer your nosy question, I owe it to you
that I can speak. You painted me last summer with Speck-O
Brand UltraMarine Blue--d'you remember?"
"Okay, so..."
"So the word 'ultra', when capitalised, is a form of
ancient evocation."
Marigold was sceptical. She was willing to accept some of
the New Age beliefs--ghosts, ESP, near-death experiences--
but magical paint was going a bit too far. She responded
with the rote challenge of the doubtful:
"Prove it!"
"Naturally," replied the doghouse, employing a touch of
irony.
At this, a scroll of brittle parchment appeared in the
doorway of the little structure. It began to roll toward
the woman, just as a carpet is laid. The inscriptions were
hard to see while she was still standing, so Marigold
crouched to get a better look.
"What's this? These characters are in another language or
something," complained the woman. "This doesn't prove
anything."
"It's a pronouncement against Nineveh. Written in Hittite."
"I can't read Hittite," said Marigold. She also recalled
that Nineveh was somewhere in the Bible; it had been
destroyed a long time ago.
"Besides that," continued the woman, peering into the dark
interior of the doghouse, "Nineveh isn't even around any
more. Doesn't prove a thing."
"Suit yourself--it's obviously an old pronouncement, then.
I'll get you something more recent."
Again, an object appeared at the entrance to the little
blue house. This time it was a brown wooden box, half again
the dimensions of an ordinary shoebox. Marigold, still
stooping, reached out to retrieve the container, opening it
near the unravelled scroll. Inside was what appeared to be
a burnt steak.
"So what's this?"
"It's Nat King Cole's right lung," answered the kennel, a
smug arrogance now creeping into its intonation.
"Yee--urgh! What are you trying to do? Gross me out?"
"Well, if you're going to be so childish about it, I'll get
you something else. This is sure to impress you."
A purplish fog began to gather near the entrance to the
doghouse.
Before Marigold could grab it, the iridescent cloud moved
out of reach, expanding rapidly until it occupied much of
the yard. Its edges, sides and points were simultaneously
defined--a distinct triangular shape.
"So? What's that?" demanded Marigold.
"It's the Bermuda Triangle," replied the doghouse.
Marigold's doubt diminished in directly inverse proportion
to the size of the ever-enlarging shape. Now it covered the
entire lot.
"Okay, I believe you--you can talk. Speck-O UltraMarine
Blue is a truly wonderful paint. Just stop this thing
before my neighbours see it!"
Marigold's entreaty was edged with panic. The doghouse
paused before replying.
"Oops, I'm sorry. I can't. Even Speck-O UltraMarine Blue
has its limitations. Apparently one of them is reversing
the effects of the Bermuda Triangle. The lung--yes, I could
take it back. Not the Triangle though."
The glowing shape now filled the entire subdivision, a
wholesome, middle-class community. Inside its boundaries
appeared a buzzing of aircraft, heralded by five bearing
the insignia of the U.S. Navy, then several vessels
materialised on the main boulevard, which linked the
neighbourhood with the rest of the city.
The police, fire department and emergency medical teams
each failed in turn to stem the billowing phenomenon. In
the next several weeks the highway patrol, National Guard
contingents and, finally, the Armed Forces, tried equally
in vain to disperse the massive purple glow.
Marigold Kelvin was successfully sued for damages by the
government in a splendid trial. She spent the rest of her
life in prison. The Speck-O Chemical Corporation,
subpoenaed by Marigold's reticent lawyer, agreed to recall
its UltraMarine Blue in return for immunity against further
embarrassing litigation.
Kelvin Krysanthemum was released from prison, on the other
hand, due to a technicality. His former employer, Speck-O-
Chemical Enterprises International, rehired him in a flash,
and their attorneys scored all-round high-fives from each
and every partner, including Edmund Spenser, the first Poet
Laureate of the English Crown. It was a scintillating day
for criminal law and necromancy.
"Kelvin Krysanthemum: His Own Man", blared the 72-point
headline in 'The Trumpeter', the local newspaper. The
colour photo on the front page showed the grateful ex-
convict petting his dog Pookie.
The people who bought Marigold's property repainted the
kennel a pleasant shade of HolyGrail Yellow and wondered
why their dog occasionally forgot to eat his dinner.
Maddie
- 01.01.2022
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