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Choking On Oxygen free porn video
CHOKING ON OXYGEN
By Jacquie Windsor
SEP 2003
[email protected]
ONE:
Teeth clenched around the uranium-tipped blade of "Leviathan",
his trusted sword of choice, Henry Bellamy climbed hand over hand
up the twisted cable inside the elevator shaft of The Cabaret of
Bedevilment. He'd fought his way, successfully, through The
Amphitheatre of Discord, Clubue Diabolique, The Mystery Cellar
and the cavernous Corridor of Obloquy, always wielding
"Leviathan" as a trusted friend more than as a weapon. Under the
influence of Pfizer's antiseptic RageGax, Henry could perform the
most inhuman feats of valour.
Ordinarily, the corrosive properties of "Leviathan" might eat
holes in a man's tooth enamel. But Henry didn't skimp on brushing
daily with Colgate's lead-laced tooth salve "Plumb-O-Dent".
Coupled with a pair of thick wax lips created out of sugar,
complex hygro-lipides, and fructose, the toothpaste allowed him
to carry his weapon in his teeth as a matter of convenience.
It was anything but convenience that set him on this quest to
infiltrate and destroy a nefarious organisation known just as
"The Cartel". They were the ones who'd shocked the literary and
bibliographical worlds by eliminating the Dewey Decimal System in
favour of the incomplete Library Of Congress method. They were
the demons who'd scorned public approval by eliminating Friday
from the calendar week. And their woeful sacking of the Nixon
Shrine in Yorba Linda was a stark reminder that The Cartel would
not tolerate the deification of dead presidents.
TWO:
Three-quarters of the way up the cable, Henry gasped, nearly
fainted, nearly fell, and groped frantically until he had the
mouthpiece for the tank of nitrous oxide strapped to his face.
The abundance of clean air in the elevator shaft was death to
him.
THREE:
Reminiscence entered the foggy confines of Henry's brain.
He was back on the beach outside Beirut once again. It was the
summer of 1992 and he'd just received word that the Steen-
Ostensoe Case had wrapped up. One call from the Enigmatic Ted and
he was off on vacation.
Ted was an enigma - never seen - rarely heard from. The primitive
GPS unit Henry had, and everything was primitive in those days,
triangulated his boss's whereabouts somewhere outside Harvard.
The distinctive Boston accent hinted strongly that the GPS was
accurate enough.
The vacation pay was sufficient to bring along Henry's valued
companion, Bip, a vaguely androgynous creature just about twice
the size of a Thermos bottle, crowned with a shock of strawberry
blonde hair, and dressed as a little girl might. But Bip's voice
was not, as one might have expected, a faint tinkling tone.
Instead it was a burly baritone.
Henry recalled the morning after arriving, waking up out of a
slumber on an oddly vacant Mediterranean beach, with Bip's
howling baritone warning him of danger:
"Monsieur, Monsieur, nos epees sont allees. Dommage! Dommage!"
"Alors! Mon epee? Oeu-oeu-oeu!" Then, leaping to his feet:
"Aieeeeee!! Cher Bip! J'ai egalement perdu mes jambes!" And
quickly collapsing back onto the beach, howling in pain.
"Wait a minute, Bip, we don't even speak French! What the hell
have we gotten ourselves into?"
But that was then. After having his legs repaired by a seedy
Salonikan doctor, Henry was literally back on his feet. Sturdy
gadolinium-155, alloyed with native Greek antimony bronze,
produced limbs capable of surviving a blast furnace merely at the
expense of being uncommonly magnetic. Prying the detritus off his
legs after a casual walk through the city was a daily chore.
And, of course, there was the consideration that Bip had been
chopped nearly in half back on the Rue Morgue, right outside the
Panic Pavilion. Henry almost cried then, but now that was
impossible due to the effort required by climbing the stiff cable
upwards.
FOUR:
Henry kicked violently at the door marked with a big blue '23'.
He had climbed that many storeys within the elevator shaft and he
felt tired. The nitro was running out.
The doors dented further with each piledriver blow delivered by
his unbreakable prosthetic legs. The adventurer swung mightily
once he saw a gap open between the steel elevator doors, and
leapt deftly into the soothingly furnished lobby on the twenty-
third floor of the Cabaret.
"Someone's got money," he mused.
FIVE:
"Oh Bellamy, my fond one, can't you ever just take the stairs?"
Henry whirled about, his hand gripping "Leviathan" as tightly as
a teddy bear. That familiar Boston accent he knew from phone
calls late at night, this time, however, emanating from a lovely
woman in a snug crimson dress.
"No time for games or stairs," scowled the adventurer. "I am here
to smash The Cartel - to smithereens."
"Set down the sword, sweet boy," encouraged the woman. Her gown
adored her curves, from bounteous cleavage to shapely legs, cut
nicely just half way up the thigh.
"You are? You aren't? Your voice - it sounds like the Enigmatic
Ted. But that - those - them - "
"My dress? My body?" The woman bearing the familiar New England
accent, albeit with a tone quite unbecoming a lady, smoothed her
hand over her flat tummy before resting on the hip. Her other
hand was busy with a martini glass. Henry always suspected that
the Enigmatic Ted was a bit of a boozer.
"I just never expected that you would stoop to joining The
Cartel," Henry thought out loud. "I always thought of you as a
man of principle." He lowered his weapon, pointing the deadly tip
towards the lush carpet, which colour gleamed of gold or
something similar.
"This nation is bored of principles," smiled the Enigmatic Ted.
"Now it's all of whimsy and capricious opinion. Rap music. That
sort of bosh."
At his host's generous invitation, Henry Bellamy followed along
the empty hallway to a room of luxury. Over the doorsill was a
welcome mat with embossed letters spelling out 'Room Of Luxury',
entirely in upper case.
"You seem quite unprepared for all this, Bellamy," said the
Enigmatic Ted. "But sit yourself down anyhow."
Henry half collapsed into his seat. Needed the nitro now more
than ever. He checked the tank and found its contents to be
nearly exhausted. One gulp of the gas, though, and his spirit was
slightly improved. His vision too.
"Bip was expendable," the Enigmatic Ted explained cheerlessly,
"but you are not. You are too expensive - shall we agree? - to
throw out with the bathwater."
Henry's eyes scanned the room. He always scanned rooms for a
chance to turn the tables on his enemies. Habit. The Enigmatic
Ted had not yet proved that he was an opponent. Besides, he had a
queasy feeling about hacking up a woman with "Leviathan". That
had only happened once before, during The Circe Escapade, and it
wasn't his fault anyhow. Bip ordered him: 'Bannfussrolle!!
Schlachten Sie das Schweinhersteller! Nicht sprechen Sie
Deutsches auch nicht?' He'd replied without hesitation:
'Selbstverstandlisch nicht, ThermosFlasche Bip!'
SEVEN:
The Enigmatic Ted, in another scenario, would fetch every gram of
Bellamy's machismo, but here, in the den of iniquity, his boss's
feminine appearance was irrelevant.
"Shall we continue here?" the Massachusetts native went on. "Or
should I invite you away from this Room Of Luxury? The Den Of
Iniquity is nearby. We could go there if you so choose."
As Henry watched, the Enigmatic Ted twirled a globe sitting on a
vast hardwood desk. The agent glowered. That was no casual
mechanism spinning on its axis, tilted just so. It was either an
exact replica of the globe depicted in Sean Penn's famous moment
in geography class, when he played a stoner in 'Fast Times In
Ridgemont High', or it was the real one.
"If you could just explain why you look like a woman - "
"Oh? This?" The Enigmatic Ted feigned shock. "This was from a
stint in prison. The one up in Duluth."
"The Paul Bunyan Penitentiary?" asked Henry.
The Enigmatic Ted laughed. "It isn't a penitentiary, Bellamy, or
at least I never saw a single man in there who was penitent. It's
a prison, plain and simple. Where I learned not only the error of
my ways, but made the perfect connections with The Cartel,
moreover this bounty of youth - if a little feminine for my
liking."
"Sorry."
"Why are you sorry? Did you rat me out? Were you the one? I'll
have you reassigned to Iceland if I ever found that to be true."
Henry fell silent as the Enigmatic Ted raged on. Apart from the
scent of the nitro, there was another distinctive odour in the
Room Of Luxury. A mild pine. Bellamy squinted. Suspended from the
ceiling, near a far corner of the room, hung a little cardboard
tree. Like the ones found in every car in "Repo Man".
Agent Bellamy rubbed his eyes and smoothed back his tufted sandy
hair. Both films, "Repo Man" and "Ridgemont High" had vanished
from DVD catalogues within the past year - private collections
had been seized and their owners' homes burned and bulldozed. How
much paraphernalia from these forbidden productions had made its
way into the archives of the directors of the very Cartel that
had banned them? And why, in spite of the draconian measures
taken to stop people from smoking, was the Enigmatic Ted even now
puffing on a slender cigarette, projecting from an antique
holder?
"Sin is not a measure of defeat," blurted the foxy and
authoritarian Ted, "yet a measure of greatness. You too, humble
Bellamy, might just be halfway gone from your banal roots. Your
respirator's mouthpiece is the same one clamped to Dennis
Hopper's face in 'Blue Velvet' - we had that one shelved, too,
except for private screenings."
"What have you done to my nation?" screamed Bellamy, breath
shortened for lack of the gas in his lungs. "You could have at
least warned me that you were all along working for The Cartel
and not the good of society."
"And you'd rise up and cut me in half with 'Leviathan' - just for
that atrocity?" The Enigmatic Ted laughed.
"I can't stand it when he reads my mind," Henry muttered under
his breath.
EIGHT:
As requested, Agent Bellamy reported to the Tower Of Iconoclasm &
Heresy at around nine o'clock the following Tuesday. If it was
good enough for the Enigmatic Ted to sell out to The Cartel, then
he was in no state to argue. The promise of free tanks of nitro
to while away each idle afternoon of drudgery was sufficient to
get him into a tube top and hot pants. The white knee-high boots
were a little much, though, so he wore Skechers instead.
His entry-level position within The Cartel was nothing new. Every
third week of the month, it was his job to deliver reorganised
schedules for all the bus routes in the Northeast quadrant of the
city. "Leviathan" was returned peaceably to its rightful place
within a glass casket at the Municipal Gallery Of Radioactivity.
NINE:
A soft rain dampened the umbrellas of fifteen transit riders, on
November 23rd, when the Number 16 bus failed to arrive at the
Hard Court Mall Transit Centre. When an empty Number 44 bus
arrived instead, the worried commuters had to each one ask
whether they were boarding the right one to Gulliver's Bend. They
were all eighteen minutes late for their appointments once the
bus was loaded and ready to roll.
"But wasn't it always the Number 16 before?" asked virtually
everyone. "And wasn't it supposed to be here every hour on the
twenty-five minute mark?"
"Tell it to the dimbulbs who write up the schedules," barked the
driver. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think there was some
kind of conspiracy happening here."
THE END
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