Zakaas
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Ka'as Nashim free porn video
[The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual
individuals or actual events is purely coincidental. The author is not
responsible for your own projections of guilt.]
-KA'AS NASHIM-
_Hawaii '05_
People think that you get judged when you die. And you do, don't worry
about that. But you also get judged on a running basis as you live, as
well. Spot checks, random assessments. Names and events cross the
Desk of God in turn, and each is judged in the order that entropy
dictates.
One day in the Office of God, an angel named Ka'as Nashim took the
standard pile of judgements from the judgement inbox and placed one
upon the Desk of God, as usual.
"Who's this?" God asked as He scanned the page before Him.
"It's Stan Dullivan," Ka'as Nashim replied.
"And what is this incident report regarding?"
"There were protesters outside of his office." Ka'as Nashim kept an
even tone. "The police came. Some of them were arrested."
"That seems pretty straightforward," God yawned as He put the paper
back down. "Who's next?"
"Upon conclusion of the protest," Ka'as Nashim continued, ignoring
God's request, "Mr. Dullivan accused the protesters of intentionally
getting themselves arrested."
"That seems normal."
"Mr. Dullivan is their senator, sir."
God's eyes widened. "Oh! He is their representative in the federal
legislature?"
"One of their representatives, yes."
"And he made disparaging remarks on their characters? How can they
possibly have any faith in their government if their elected
representatives won't treat them with civility? Was their country not
founded upon the idea that representation within the government is
paramount, and trust in said representation is essential?"
"Yes, sir." Ka'as Nashim nodded unsmilingly.
"Give him boobs."
"Sir?"
"You heard me," God stood up from the Desk of God. "Give him big,
floppy, unwieldy boobs. The kind that make it impossible to sleep
comfortably. The kind that everyone stares at. The kind that require
a custom-fit bra. Give him the boobiest boobs that ever boobed a
boob!"
Ka'as Nashim's expression twitched microscopically. "Very well."
***
Stan Dullivan awoke in his Washington, DC residence with a groan. Why
had he had such trouble sleeping the previous night? It was as though
there was some weight on his chest that he couldn't get rid of.
He swung his legs over and planted his feet on the floor. Oh right,
the senator thought as he righted himself, my boobs. How could he have
forgotten about them? They were bigger than his wife's.
Stan stumbled towards the shower and pulled his night bra off. It
never did anything, why did he even wear it?
The hot water cascaded down Stan's naked body, conforming to curves
that he had no idea were new as well as it conformed to the square,
stout features of the rest of his body, which he had indeed had his
whole life. Lathering himself up, Stan recalled all the teasing he had
received because of them. He recalled being a student and attending a
political rally, how his congressman had picked him out of the crowd,
pointed, and laughed at him.
He'd vowed that day that if he ever represented anybody, he would treat
them with the respect that he'd been denied.
The water in the shower ran cold. Stan would have to get the boiler
looked at.
***
Ka'as Nashim took back the Stan Dullivan file, and placed the next one
upon the Desk of God.
"Mario Rubico, eh?" God said with a waggle of His eyebrows, "Isn't he
also a senator? I think I know this guy. He sure is a little shit. I
don't need to read his file, he probably deserves something."
"Yes, sir?" Ka'as Nashim waited as God paced small circles behind the
Desk of God.
"Nail polish," God stuck a finger into the air. "Make him obsessed
with nail polish."
"Yes, sir."
***
As Stan Dullivan was drying himself off, elsewhere in DC, Mario Rubico
was pacing his living room, looking at his own hands.
"It's chipped," he said to himself. "I can't believe it's chipped."
He'd just applied this polish the day before, and it had taken him two
hours to do both hands. It was only one finger, but it was his right
index finger. He'd be looking at that chipped nail polish all day, and
he knew it would distract him.
The intricate nail art that he'd given himself appeared on all ten
fingers. He'd painted a little acrylic palm tree on each nail, and
they all matched. With the current exception of his right index
finger. Mario didn't have time to completely re-do the palm tree on
that nail, and he couldn't have one finger different from all the
others.
"I'll just use it as an accent," he decided, pulling a glittery mocha
polish, along with a jar of acetone, from off of his nail polish shelf.
Only half an hour later, Mario Rubico was ready to face the Senate,
having removed the palm trees on both index fingers, and replacing them
with a basic, but complementary, coat of solid, shimmering brown.
He paused before exiting the door, however, and turned around. If he
was to be late, he'd have to be late, but this idea was too cute to
pass up. Mario pulled out a tube of black acrylic paint and the finest
paint brush he had, and added three black dots in a tight triangle to
each index finger.
There. Now they looked like coconuts.
Mario Rubico left his residence with a satisfied smile on his face.
***
"Okay," God said, "Is there anyone else for today?"
"We've still got a few left, sir," Ka'as Nashim
"Well, let's get cracking!"
Ka'as Nashim allowed just a hint of a smile to form. When God got
excited, He could be quite fun to be around. "This next individual is
named Grimsby Lamb."
"Yes?"
"Grimsby has recently shown vociferous public support for a man he
knows to be incompetent and unqualified."
"And I suppose Mr. Lamb is also a senator?"
Ka'as Nashim nodded. "He is."
"Is everyone for today a United States Senator?"
Ka'as Nashim flipped through the remaining folders. "They are."
God rolled His eyes, "Well, who was the man that Mr. Lamb supported."
"A nominee for the Supreme Court."
"A what!?" God turned almost accusingly towards Ka'as Nashim. "It is
one thing to undercut the citizenry's faith in your own position, but
to do so in regards to another branch of government entirely? What is
Mr. Lamb trying to do, erode the foundations of his own country?"
"One can only assume."
"Well, a short temper deserves a short stature."
"Sir?"
"Make him short."
"Yes, sir."
***
Grimsby Lamb turned in his bed, but did not awaken. His body wasn't
particularly active, but his mind was.
In his dream, he was shopping. It was an odd store, one where the
aesthetics, and even the inventory, shifted wildly from aisle to aisle.
Here there was sleepwear, and there an aisle of cacti. Here there were
computers, there a falconry demonstration.
"Excuse me, sir," a young woman came up to him, "can I help you find
anything?"
Grimsby looked at the woman critically. She wasn't conventionally
attractive, he noted. Late-30's, early-40's. Less a MILF and more
just a mom. Pear-shaped and shabby in her red work polo and tan
slacks, the only thing that distinguished her was her height: while
Grimsby himself was no giant, this woman was easily a foot shorter than
he.
"I was just looking around," he answered.
"Nonsense!" the woman replied, "I know exactly what you're looking
for. Come, let me look into your eyes."
Grimsby did so without thinking. The slight smirk on the woman's face
did little to improve the plainness of it to his eyes.
"No, no, I need to look *into* your eyes, not up at them," her
expression changed.
Grimsby faltered.
"Well, I can't go up there to meet you," the woman huffed, "so you'll
have to come down here." She grabbed his arm and pulled, and Grimsby
felt himself moving at the impetus. "There, that's better."
Grimsby blinked. The woman's face was maybe an inch from his own. It
filled his field of vision. The straight, brown hair that framed her
face, also served to curtain his peripheral vision. For the moment,
she was his whole world. An entire universe consisting of this one
woman's face. Somehow, it felt right that he should be looking at this
face. It felt comfortable to be here. Her eyes seemed to draw him in
even closer, even as he knew they remained the same distance away.
No. They weren't the same distance away. They were, ever so slightly,
drifting farther. Higher. Almost imperceptibly, but Grimsby slowly
noticed that he was looking up into the woman's eyes, instead of
straight-on.
And then she stepped away.
"A falcon," she stated with finality.
"A falcon?" Grimsby questioned.
"Yes. I told you that I know what you need, and you need a falcon."
She was decisive. "You know, to help you get things from off of the
high shelves."
It made sense. Grimsby had noted when he first saw her that the woman
before him was particularly short in stature, and even she was an inch
or two taller than he was. How would he be able to reach anything
without help?
As he followed the woman to the falconry demonstration, looking up
towards the bobbing of the hair on the back of her head, the world of
this store began to fade out.
And the world of the real began to fade in.
Grimsby Lamb blinked as he rolled out of bed. Something felt off. But
as he stood up, the feeling disappeared quickly. He made his way to
the bathroom and opened up his medicine cabinet, feeling more confident
with every step, but he couldn't manage to reach the mouthwash. Why
was it on such a high shelf?
Oh, Grimsby lamented, if only he had some kind of trained falcon to
help him. It was tough being the shortest senator in DC.
***
"Okay, I'm warmed up now," God rubbed His hands together, "who's next?"
"Chak Grussley, sir." Ka'as Nashim read from the file.
"And what did Chak do? Let me guess, abuse of his position,
disingenuous statements, and outright lies?"
"Yes, sir."
"But, like, more than your average senator, correct?"
"Statistics show that Mr. Grussley is hardly capable of saying anything
that is true at all. Even his least-honest colleagues--"
"You mean like Mr. Lamb?" God interrupted.
Ka'as Nashim continued, unfazed, "Yes, even dishonest colleagues like
Grimsby Lamb are known to use facts and logic, at the very least, in
order to disguise their ulterior motives. Mr. Grussley is an open-
faced liar." Ka'as Nashim looked down at the file, then back up. "And
he doesn't listen to women."
"I see." God steepled His fingers and brought them to His chin. He
paused. "Well, from now on, he has to listen to any woman who speaks
with him, you got that?"
"Yes, sir."
***
Chak Grussley was making his way towards the Senate building when a
constituent approached him from behind.
"Mr. Grussley?"
Normally Chak would keep walking, pretend he hadn't heard: he couldn't
just be stopped on the street by anyone who thought they recognized
him. But today was different, somehow. He found himself stopping and
turning around.
"Mr. Grussley," as he turned, he could see a young woman, likely a
college student, rushing to catch up with him. I wanted to talk to you
about some of the judicial candidates that are coming before you."
"Young lady," the senator took on an aloof, condescending tone, "I
don't really have the time to discuss policy with the public at the
moment. I need to get to chambers." He tried to turn around again and
continue on his way, but he couldn't manage to do it. Which gave the
woman an opening.
"The candidates proposed by the president serve the purpose of
undermining judicial precedence," she said. "They're openly partisan,
and often have histories of working against their own communities' best
interests."
Chak struggled to extricate himself from the conversation, but found
the woman's words echoing in his head until he acknowledged them.
"The president has the authority," he said, "to nominate any federal
judge that he sees fit."
"Okay, yeah," she replied, unaware of the senator's internal struggle,
"but first of all you blocked the last president's nominations, and
secondly you're breaking with long-established precedent in pushing
through this one's."
Chak didn't want to listen to these accurate statements, and normally
he wouldn't have, but he found that he could do nothing but acknowledge
them.
"The senate," he fumbled, "is complicated."
"Yeah," the woman countered, "well it's your job to figure it out, and
it's your job to protect democracy, and it's your job to actually
represent the will of the people, despite the whims of a man likely
elected only with the help of foreign interference. So do your damn
job."
The woman spun on her heel in a huff and began walking in the direction
she'd come. Suddenly the senator was able to move again and continued
in the direction he had been going before.
"Oh, Mr. Grussley," came another voice. This one he recognized: it was
Leanne Weinstein, a senate colleague from the *other* party. Normally
he'd ignore her, too.
But today he couldn't.
As his body froze, Chak Grussley's mind froze with it. What was going
on today?
***
"So," God leaned back in His chair, "is there anyone left?"
"One more for today, sir." Ka'as Nashim placed the final file onto the
Desk of God.
"Rich McDonald," God mused. "Yes, I know this one. This is the man
that Satan himself created? The one meant to sow chaos and serve as
High General in the war against humanity? This is the man born with
neither heart nor soul nor capacity for love?"
"One and the same, sir."
"Well, normally I don't interfere with the machinations of the Devil as
a rule," God rocked back and forth, "but I'm feeling adventurous today
for some reason."
"Sir?"
God stopped rocking, stood up, and gave Ka'as Nashim the steeliest
stare in the universe. "Give him the works. Use your judgement."
"Yes, sir."
***
Rich McDonald entered the senate chambers as though it was any other
day. But, of course, it was not any other day.
Rich greeted his colleagues one by one, shaking their hands as he went,
until he came to the desk of one Stan Dullivan. Something seemed off
about the man today.
Boobs. The man had boobs. Had he always had boobs?
Inertia pulled Rich forward even as his small mind tried to process
what he was seeing, and he shook Mr. Dullivan's hand with a somewhat
strained smile. A smile which faltered, as an electric jolt seemed to
jump from Mr. Dullivan's hand into Rich's, up his arm, and across his
chest.
He released his hand and took a step back, his surprise unnoticed by
his colleagues. A look downwards only made things worse: Boobs. Rich
had boobs.
Had he always had boobs?
No. He hadn't. That was Senator Dullivan.
No! Dullivan hadn't had boobs before today either! What was going on?
How had Rich's shirt re-tailored itself to fit these new proportions?
Was he wearing a bra?
Rich had little time to process these thoughts as Mario Rubico
approached him, hand outstretched.
What was that on Mario's fingernails? Were those palm trees?
Again, Rich could not stop his hand from meeting his colleague's, and
again he felt an electric shock. When he pulled his hand back, he saw
that his own nails were painted green with yellow flowers on each one.
Goldenrod flowers. What was going on?
Mario stepped away, replaced by a man of rather shorter stature.
"Grimsby?" Rich breathed, "Is that you?"
Grimsby Lamb looked at the taller man, confused. "Of course it's me."
"But you're so--"
Rich's assessment of this most recent colleague's height was
interrupted, as said senator reached forward and clasped his nail
polish-adorned hand. And the next thing Rich knew, he was eye level
with Mr. Lamb.
Rich looked around in horrified wonder at the now-larger world around
him. Everyone else was so tall. The desks so large. He felt suddenly
intimidated, his shorter arms having trouble navigating around his
larger bust, his bright fingernails a constant distractioin.
Rich tried to make his way to his own seat, but it was taking him
longer than he was used to. And on the way he was approached by
another colleague. Chak Grussley. At least this was a man who looked
the way Rich expected him to. Although Chak did seem to be looking
around a lot, as though he was paranoid.
In any case, he was a more welcome sight than the last few people had
been. So it was with a naive sense of security that Dick shook this
colleague's hand as well, only to experience a now-familiar feeling of
shock in his hand. He braced himself.
But nothing seemed to happen. He was still short. He still wore nail
polish. He still had breasts that would make a Playmate blush. But
nothing new since he'd shaken Chak's hand.
The two men looked at each other for a moment, each wearing their own
face of paranoia, before wordlessly going their separate ways.
"Mr. McDonald." The voice stopped him in his tracks. Why couldn't he
move? "Mr. McDonald," the voice continued as it approached him, "you
have neglected to shake *my* hand this morning."
Rich turned. It was Leanne Weinstein who approached him, flanked by
her colleagues Matti Curie, Saidie Saitcamp, and Malalah Paris. Dick
was frozen to the spot. These four women, women he'd gotten used to
opposing with apathy and force, were now commanding his undivided
attention and towering over him.
They surrounded him on all four sides. To Rich's eternal shame, he
wanted to cry out for help, but even worse was when he realized he
couldn't. Some force within him was urging him to stay silent and
devote all his attention to the women before him.
"You know," Matti began, "everyone has sort of a tiny voice inside of
them. Most people don't really acknowledge it, but it's there."
"It's like the metaphorical angel and devil on your shoulder," Saidie
continued, "a part of you that you're free to either heed or ignore."
"At least, that's true of most people," Malalah carried on from her
colleagues. "You, however, have to listen to your voice from now on."
"And to get you acquainted," Leanne finished the circuit, "I should
tell you your voice's name: It's Richelle."
Rich looked helplessly upwards at the smiling faces of the four female
senators. He didn't think he could feel less at ease, until he heard
the voice.
"Hello."
The voice seemed to speak directly to his brain, bypassing his ears.
"I'm Richelle."
It seemed familiar, but new all at once.
"I'm your feminine instincts, your female tendencies."
Rich didn't think it was possible for the lump in his throat to sink
any lower.
"And just as you've found yourself listening to the women around you,
from now on you will be listening to me."
Rich swallowed hard, and stood still as the women around him dispersed.
It was as if they knew their job was done.
"I love how our nails came out, Rich," Richelle cooed. "Don't you?"
Rich McDonald looked down at his hands, at the yellow flowers that
tipped each finger, and couldn't help himself. A surge of pride welled
up within him. He tried to fight it down, but with a mental prod from
Richelle, his resistance collapsed. He did love how his nails had come
out.
This was going to be a long session.
***
In the Office of God, beside the Desk of God, Ka'as Nashim smiled. She
picked up the stack of files that were now dealt with and began to
leave the room.
"Ka'as Nashim," God interrupted before the angel could take more than a
few steps, His voice taking on a more serious tone. "These files are
supposed to be randomized. Arbitrary. Is that correct?"
The angel's smile deepened imperceptibly. "Yes, sir."
"But today's sampling," He narrowed His eyes, "not only were they all
of the same nationality, they were located within the same city, and
working in the same building."
"Yes, sir."
"What would you say is the likelihood that we would be evaluating such
a seemingly non-random sample of individuals today?"
Ka'as Nashim's smile deepened again, but perceptibly this time. "We've
been doing this for five thousand seven hundred and seventy-nine years,
sir." The angel flipped through the files quickly. "That's over two
million days. A coincidence was bound to arise at some point or
another."
"I see," said God, not quite convinced. "Well, it's been a productive
day. And certainly the world will become a better place for our having
worked it." He leaned forward, elbows on the Desk of God, hands
clasped together. "Have a good night, Ka'as Nashim."
"Have a good night, sir."
***
Ka'as Nashim ze lo davar pashut
Tizaher me'menah
The anger of women is not a simple thing
Be careful of it
Bess
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