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Subject: NEW STORY: Nottamun Town 2/MrSpraycan
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Disclaimer:  Adults only, whatever that means where you are reading. This
story is fiction. All persons, places in it are imaginary and little
resemblance to real or historic characters is intended.

(c) 1997 Baton Rouge ThoughtScapes and the author, MrSpraycan, who chooses
to remain 'anon'. For entertainment purposes only. No commercial use is
warranted.  Archive only with this notice intact. Do not repost.


NOTTAMUN TOWN, Pt.2
by MrSpraycan


	As we approach the town, I see that Dahzelthza had not lied to me.
People here did not wear clothes, apart from hats. Denoting rank, perhaps.
I never manage to crack the code.
	Men, women, children, all shamelessly naked. Going about their
business as if this was perfectly natural.
	I try not to show much interest in the children, but it's hard to
keep your eyes off the teenage girls. The older women? Oh, my aching cock!
I've got to stop staring! And the men? They don't do much for me -- I'm
relieved at this, because it's a first time for me -- but I notice that
your bold narrator Prince Brian has a lot more meat to him than most of
these fellows. Promising, vis a vis les femmes? Oh, I hope so.
	Zaz and I are passed by several horse and cart-borne families of
barebummed folk. On their way to market. Near the town gate, we see a
blacksmith's shop. The huge smith is pounding a horseshoe into shape,
protected from sparks and mishaps by a small leather apron. At the town
gate, two bored looking soldiers sport helmets with insignia, sword belts
and nothing more.
	With my outlandish clothing -- jeans by Levi Strauss, madras check
shirt by Harry Fenton, shoes by Hush Puppies -- I get a lot of attention.
There are signs against the evil eye from those who deduce I am a sorcerer,
polite nods and smiles from those who think they detect my nobility.
	I'm incredulous when I see what passes for a curtsy among the women
here. Regardless of age or whether accompanied by a male or not, they squat
low, thrust their pudenda at me, make lewd hip motions. Zaz sees my
confusion and miaows. "Less subtle than you're used to, Brian? Things are
very direct here in Nottamun Town, you'll find. More so than in the
countryside."
	"Phew. Yes. Much less subtle," I agree, seeing another woman squat
and pull her labia apart in the grossest way.
	I can't help noticing that the citizens and visitors -- Zaz points
out that visitors, mostly farmers, wear more rustic hats -- all carry
little leather bags on strings at their wrists. Money? What else? So how
are we going to deal with this problem?
	Zaz is on my shoulder as we enter the narrower streets of the town.
It's crowded. He quietly tells me: "People settle debts here in tokens. But
the underlying medium of exchange is pain, or servitude."
	"Oh, thanks for sharing that little tidbit so soon, furball! So
what are you saying? All I have to do to get a square meal is let someone
whip my arse? Or whatever else appeals?"
	"You put that nicely. Yes, exactly. That's all you have to do."
	"Why would I want to? What makes you think I would?"
	"You want to because you want to eat.. See, not many fat people
here, are there? And as for what makes me think you would? . . .Um, well, I
saw some of your games with Dahzelthza, and it seemed to me that you and
she were very much taken with bottom slapping and little dominance games, I
believe they're called. Excuse me, but cat physiology doesn't work that
way.  But she did 'sit on your face,' and do various other things that pass
for currency here. I believe she fitted you for a collar? And wasn't she
showing you how to submit your arsehole to a dildo, just a few nights
before you decided to leave . . ."
	I blush. Yes, all this is coming back to me. Dahzelthza is a kinky
sorceress, it seems, and had clouded my mind to prevent me resisting her
filthy advances. Was that wise? I might have been even more cooperative
without, and never run away. Well, we'll never know the answer to that now
. . .
	"So, am I treating you to lunch too? Or do you do your own
prostitution?"
	"Don't think of it that way, and you won't resent it."
	"Surely, I can get some extra points for being a sorcerer. Then I
can get fed for free, and get my nookie on terms of my choosing."
	"Ah, Brian. Have a care. Yes, in theory that's true," the cat
confides. "But there's a logic to everything here. Sorcerers need to be
able to back their claims with some magic. What can you do, apart from sing
that monotonous song? I think you should hold that in reserve until you
need it."
	"Maybe. Well, can't I be an important Prince and bluff some grub
that way?"
	"Possibly. But to be acknowledged as a noble, you must seek an
audience with the Lord."
	"Why?"
	"Because it's his damned town that's why, and he makes the rules!
You are so obtuse sometimes!"
	"Explain them better, then."
	"Alright. So, take it from his viewpoint. Big lunk walks into town,
all dressed up, says 'I am a Prince, gimme this, gimme that, gimme what I
want.' What's his response? 'Oh welcome sweet prince, the sun shines out of
your bum, please help thyself?' "
	"Okay, I get it. He says 'Prove it.' Because if he doesn't, soon
everyone will be dressing up and, sffzzzttt, the economy goes to hell."
	"Precisely. He got rich by being tight-fisted. And Brian?"
	"What?"
	"It may be time to ditch these clothes of yours, if your modesty
will stand it. Because, he will say 'prove it,' or force you to demonstrate
some magical power, pretty soon."
	"Not good?"
	"Very much not good. Know why?"
	"I'm beginning to suspect it's something unpleasant . . ."
	"You could say that. False nobles and magicians are used for public
entertainment. Their assets are liquidated in return for fees paid to the
treasury, you could say	."
	I must be pulling my very dumb face.
	"What I mean, Brian, is that imposters and false claimants are
publicly tortured, and executed in the vilest ways the Lord and his Dark
Lady can think up. And believe me, you don't even want to hear about it.
After all, they've been practicing for ten thousand years."
	I'm halfway out of my jeans, and pulling my shirt off.
	"Ten thousand!? Are they immortal, then?"
	"No, just old."
 	Panting, sweating with fear, naked, I'm paradoxically feeling much
safer.
	"You could have said something earlier, pussycat."
	"You don't listen. I'm trying to time it so I get your attention."
	"Well, don't leave it so late each time . . . OUCH!!!"
	Zaz has leaped back on to my shoulder, sinking his claws in my bare
skin. He chuckles. "I'll owe you for that, maybe?"
	"On the house, Zaz."

	At a counting house near the castle, just off the market place, I
see wealth creation at work, Nottamun Town style. A row of pillories, a
line of naked people. They are taking their turn to be bent over and
paddled with a huge leather bat, by a series of punishment officials.
Twenty strokes earns a small carved wooden token.
	We observe, drinking water from a nearby fountain. Free, I'm
pleased to say.
	"You don't get much for it."
	"Law of supply and demand, Brian."
	"Couldn't we forge those tokens? Skip all the pain? How hard are
they to make, to carve?"
	"I'd banish that thought too, Brian. Forgers are stetched naked on
the tow hall roof, and eaten alive by the ravens. . . "
	"Hmm. I was never very good at woodwork, now you mention it."

	So, ten minutes later, I'm standing in line to have my ass paddled
for lunch money. It's demeaning, it's ridiculous, and, uh, it's not so bad
really. I got round twice. You, see there are advantages to an English
public school education, not all readily apparent at the time.
	My backside is stinging, glowing a little red. I notice some of the
younger girls have angry red stripes on theirs. I ask Zaz, in my usual bold
way.
	"They're younger, and female, so they get a better price than you,
and they also put themselves on the line for caning. Pays five tokens for
six shots."
	"Should I?"
	"How much money do you need? Save your, ha ha assets, until later."
	At the tavern, I see one token will buy more than enough for me and
a hungwy liddle puddy tat, plus several mugs of beer.
	At a nearby table, serious money is on display. A farmer and three
beautiful daughters, whose well-spanked asses have brough in a heap of
tokens.
	I remark to Zaz: "If it were me, I'm stay home, grow my own food,
and barter that. Let the girls save their asses for their husbands to
spank."
	"But it dosn't work that way. Some goods can only be obtained from
here. And all taxes have to be paid in tokens earned the traditional way."
	"This is less sensible than it appears, Zaz. What is in it for the
Lord of the town? Can you explain that? Unless he is just a complete freak
who gets off on other people's pain?"
	"That's precisely right, Brian."
	"But what does he get? He's not here, watching at the counting house."
	"He doesn't need to. He's . . . different to the others here. He
can . . . let me see if I can explain it. He can absorb the energy, the
pain, from the air. It rises like heat, to his castle windows. Just to know
people are suffering, is enough for him."
	"Is he human? Or something else?"
	"Don't be prejudiced, Brian. We have a lot of different lifeforms
here. In some ways, you are the strangest thing around . . ."
	"Thank you. Glad to have made my mark. But what is the purpose of
his existence?"
	"To exist. He has no offspring. No siblings. "
	"Totally evil, and controlling. Like, uh, Sauron of Mordor!"
	"Whoever she is," the cat says. "Yes, you might say that. Evil,
controlling. But stabilizing, predictable. The Nottamun Town people like
that. It's come to matter to them. . ."
	"But it's tyranny, it's unsustainable . . ."
	"You might think so, but it's lasted at least ten thousand years.
And the anarchy before was worse," Zaz advises.
	"Were you there?"
	"No, but we have an excellent oral tradition here. And stories and
ballads that tell it all in minute detail . . ."
	I find myself wishing I could immerse myself in this. But I'm a man
with a mission. To get back. I don't ask myself why getting back is
important. Getting back to what?
	But getting back is entangled with staying out of Dahzelthza's
clutches, of not being filleted or sauteed by the Lord of the town, of
somehow using the song to validate my magician status.
	We wander the streets all day. It's a fascinating little town,
almost Swiss in its precision and cleanliness. Almost unreal too, like the
product of a single mind. Or a movie set.
	That night, I use our second token to get us a room at the inn,
some food and beer. The music is beguiling, Balkan in its flavor, and
nearly every song is about complex love entanglements, bottom spankings and
dark perversions. It would sweep the charts, if I could recall enough of it
to put it together. The beer is very strong, and I'm rather ashamed of my
big erection, in this tavern full of naked people. After a while, a saucy
waitress beckons me into a side room, bends over the table and bids me to
fuck her. Others have the same idea. The evening soon becomes a blur. I
vaguely recall meeting up with the farmer and his three well-thrashed
teenage daughters again.

	Dahzelthza appears in a vision to me.  Beautiful. Enigmatic. Zaz is
back on her shoulder, staring out curiously. "Brian? Brian, listen. You've
rejected me, and broken my heart. But I'm not here to plead with you. You
must do what is right. I still love you. Now hear me well. I must warn you,
you are in great danger. Just observe with your eyes. And remember this:
'Many arrive here, but none leave' So, ask where do they go, Brian?" Zaz
echoes: "Where, where, miaow, where . . ."
	Blinking, I find myself suddenly wide awake, bathed in bright
moonlight in an attic room. My mouth has a vile taste, my head is
throbbing. I retch. My dick is shrivelled, as sore as hell. Where has it
been? Where hasn't it?

	The next morning, I tell Zaz: "I've decided. I'm going to go to the
castle. No more games. I plan to confront him."
	"Your funeral," Zaz says grimly. "Though there's usually not enough
left to bury, as I recall."
	I roll my clothes into a bindle, sling it over my shoulders. Why
risk it? And it's hot, I'm enjoying this nudity, the admiring glances at my
cock from these women. Yes, it's back to normal, though it has a few raw
spots and teethmarks, and my balls are aching.
	Zaz says no more, but follows me to the gate of the castle. Hangs
back as I enter.
	"What's up? Aren't we boon companions? Partners in an immortal
quest? Brothers of the sword?"
	"Hardly. I'm having an attack of common sense. The nine lives
thing? That's a delusion. Cats get to live longer by being cautious. See
you around maybe, Brian. Don't take any wooden nickels, ha ha . . ."

	The guards at the gate bar my way with crossed spears. I bellow:
"Let me pass, for I am Prince Brian, and a mighty sorcerer to boot. I
assert my right to  clothing, and challenge the Lord to hear my complaint."
	The guards jump back, prudent fellows. But I see doubt, fear and
contempt in their eyes. They don't know what to think, so like soldiers
everywhere, they don't bother.
	The castle is small, like a Norman keep. Inside, a long stone
staircase winds around the lower part of the wall, until it emerges through
an archway into a great hall on the second level. I climb steadily, enter.
	The great hall is deserted. There's just a huge black stone throne,
under a fluttering canopy. A few narrow windows let in the morning light,
but it's gloomy. The walls are hung with captured flags, trophies, animal
heads, pikes, spears. And with  dark crimson tapestries. Some embroidered
ones point to the existence of a female hand, but this is otherwise a grim
room.
	There, on the throne, sits a wizened old man. He can't be more than
four feet tall. A few long wisps of white hair on a mottled skull. A simple
iron crown. And so old, his skin is like parchment. What I see though, are
his eyes. Angry, piercing eyes, like jewels set deep in their sockets.
Staring straight at me. He slams the end of a long black, silver-tipped
staff on the flagstones at his side.
	"Speak! What brings thee here, arrogant stranger?" He says in a
piping, neutered voice.
	""I am here by right, Lord of Nottamun Town. I have traveled long
miles, from a land far away, and no man dareth bid me should I stay or
should I go."
	"Ha. And know thee how thou arrivest here, truthfully? Perhaps
there was a slut named Dahzelthza charmed thee? Conjured thee from the
swirling chaos? The perverted minx is ever anxious to find new toys to
shove into her reeking cunt!"
	"The good lady Dahzelthza and I have had some differences of
opinion, but there is no call to insult her in such a fashion, old man."
I'm angry, a bad thing to be when confronting power.
	"Old I may be. But thou willst not live long enough to enjoy being
old, you presumptuous puppy. Merely long enough to entertain me with your
screams and pleas for mercy. Of which, I promise, there will be many, yet
none of what ye seek." He crooks a long-nailed finger at me. "Come, the
Dark Lady awaits you, and she has appetites that the sow Dahzelthza has
never enjoyed, nor even thought of."
	At his side, as if from thin air, a woman appears. With snow-white
skin and raven-black hair. She is gorgeous, but in a totally bizarre way.
About six feet tall, maybe more. A black velvet cloak round her shoulders,
hanging open to show that she is mostly naked. She wears long boots in
black leather, fingerless gloves. All studded. Round her neck, a collar. At
her waist, a belt with dangling whips, knives. Bare breasts with rings
through her nipples. Her lower belly is shaved, and her genitals are barely
covered by a tiny leather triangle supported on thongs. Her eyes are of
cobalt jade. When she opens her mouth, though, it is not to smile, but to
show feral teeth filed to points, to snarl her hunger.
	"Behold my dear, his insolent prick greets thee," the Lord cackles.
"Waving lewdly, like a farm boy with his favorite sheep."
	"It will make a fine talisman," she says in an icy cold voice,
holding up a pair of rusty, blood-stained shears, clicking them menacingly.
"And his skin is nice and unmarked . . .I think I'll impale him and have
the Flagellators remove it, bit by bit."
	I'm losing the initiative here. I spit, pound on my shest and
shout: "Enough of this shit! I'll fuck your skinny bitch into submission,
old man. Then I'll rip your shrivelled old cock off and eat it, raw!"
	They both laugh mirthlessly.
	"Ah, these crazy fools we pull in from beyond. He's the craziest of
them all this year, ha ha," he pipes.
	She draws herself up taller. "I'm going to drag him to the torture
chamber, and make him pay in blood."
	The Lord is cackling happily. "Delightful, my dear. Slice and burn,
hack and gouge, eyeballs on a stick, tralala."
	She strides forward, eyes fixed on me. "Defy me now, but soon ye'll
be pissing and shitting in fear, little man." Her voice is teethgrinding
rage.
	Now what the hell do I do? She's built like a wrestler, muscled and
fit. I edge away, seeking a weapon. Grab one of the pikes from the wall.
She rushes forward, I thrust. She steps sideways, grabs the shaft, wrenches
it from my hands. Raises it high, and snaps it in two, like a stick of
celery. I don't even want to think about how strong you'd need to be to do
that.
	I'm in full retreat. Another weapon, a sword this time. Somewhat
rust- spotted, but still razor sharp. Grab that, bitch, and you'll have
something else to think about, I tell myself. Like sewing your fingers back
on.
	She's in a crouch, stalking me around the hall. I'm looking for an
exit, eddging backwards. Suddenly, she springs. My turn to sidestep. But
two hours of fencing practice at school taught me something. I feint in one
direction, go another. She crashes into the wall, bringing down tapestry,
trophies, weapons with a clatter.
	She springs to her feet, but by now I'm on the other side of the
room. She cracks her knuckles loudly. A shower of sparks spring from the
joints. She lets out a bellow and rushes towards me, a new madness in her
eyes. I take the sword in both hands, brace myself. I may get one lucky
swing here. And it had better be good. She's about ten feet from me, moving
like an express train, when something drops. Something black, tangling her
streaming hair, right on her face. Fur and claws. Zaz! She's distracted,
screams. Did he get her eyes? I raise my sword, but I'm too slow to swing
it. She runs right onto the point. Slams me against the wall, driving all
the breath from me.
	And then, to my amazement, blinks out of existence as if she was
never there. How could that happen? She was solid, I felt it , I'm still
gasping. . .and this sword. It's bloody. And Zaz? He's nowhere to be seen
here, either.
	I turn to the Lord, who is staring angrily. At me. He's one down,
but he's not giving up.
	Now is the time.
	I ask the question. "I have observed that many arrive here in
Nottamun Town, but none leave. So, where do they go, evil one? Where!
Answer me!"
	He stares at me, looks up at the ceiling. Smiles. A totally inhuman
smile. "None leave. Yes, that's true."
	"Why!"
	"I consume them."
	"How?"
	"Absorption. Transference. I can't explain it to you. Feeding on
their essence, as they expire, slowly. There's a very comprehensive dungeon
below. And one hundred and seventy seven levels of torment. Supervised very
capably by the Dark Lady and her legion of helpers. Why waste these fresh
young things? It would be so, what's the word? Improvident!"
	"That's . . . disgusting. But now, she's gone."
	"I'll replace her. I can manufacture evil, given a selfish woman to
start with. A little perversion, teaching her a little enjoyment of pain. I
have time. And soon, a new Dark Lady . . . Perhaps your own lovely
Dahzelthza, ha ha!"
	"She won't be part of your plan, evil one." I say this as much in
hope as in confidence that I am right. "Now, prepare to die." I stride
forward, brandishing the gory sword. But am stopped by some invisible
force. I can't move foreard, sideways. Like being pinned in an invisible
bundle of cushions.
	"You don't get to my age without finding a way to protect yourself,
Brian. Now, what can you do?"
	"I'm going to escape, to bring the roof of this castle tumbling
down. I'm going to shatter this make-believe world. It's not real, is it?!
It's all in my head!"
	"No, my egocentric friend, it's not. It's all in mine. You'll never
escape, mortal. You haven't a clue about where you came from, or how you
can get back. So, prepare to die."
	"I have an incantation that will destroy this whole nexus, send you
into the limbo between dimensions."
	"Nexus? An incantation? You've been talking to that bitch and her
cat, I see. Oh? I doubt it. But I love a song. How lovely! Sing it then.
But first reflect. How will you benefit from destroying this city? You'll
die with it."
	"No, I'll find my way home. I know it. I have faith."
	He laughs deliriously.
	"Oh, how droll. Enough games. Then sing it. Sing it well, Prince
Brian. And pray you are right. Or, I'll personally see that ye suffer
longer than any mortal . . ."
	I throw back my shoulders, start off in that folksinger nasal tone
I love so well. Bend a note or two, show that I understand modal
construction, polyrhythms, little pauses.

	"In Nottamun town, not a soul would look down,
	not a soul would look up, ay, not a soul would look down,
	not a soul would look up, not one soul would look down,
	to show me my way to Fair Nottamun Town. . ."

	An angry flourish of his staff. "No, that's nothing! Continue!"

	"Saw the King and the Queen and the company more,
	go riding behind and walking before..
	Saw a stark naked drummer, a-beating his drum,
	with his hands on his bosom come marchin along."

	The Lord is scowling, his black eyes piercing under his bushy white
brows. There's a shiver through the building. A sudden gust of wind,
bearing scraps of parchment, dust. Some glass breaks in the distance.

	"Sat down on a hearth, heart of broken stone, ten thousand was
around me, yet I was alone . . ."

	I falter.
	He shrieks: "You don't know. You don't know. False prophet! False
prophet! Impostor! Guards!! Burn him! Hang him! Torture torture torture
ahahahahaha . . ."
	Marching feet in the distance.
	No!
	In a voice as cracked and broken as latter-day Dylan I start to
sing again: "How much do I know, to talk outa turn, I may be unstrung, I
may be unlearned . . ." The magician's staff erupts black smoke that turns
into a swooping crow. It screeches, in a voice just like the magician's,
"Zimmermen are not welcome here!!"
	But I sing on, relentlessly, scrambling the lyrics of Dylan's rant
with the incantation, which I'd just known as a demented song.  The lights
flicker, a wind blows through the hall. The screeching grows louder. What
are the words? I just free associate. What would Dylan be doing with them
now? How would Hendrix handle this? What would the ISB spin be? Go nuts, I
tell myself. "Stand over your grave till I'm sure that you're dead, watch
while you crumble, like a crust of stale bread, for a morning is dawning
when the tyrants are dead." And the wilder I make the changes, the more
reality here begins to disrupt. Everything is swimming in and out of focus.
Candle flames turn blue. His staff shimmers with a slivery glow. And it's
not just my eyes. I see a crack in the stone walls, and beyond it.
Impossible! Fish swimming, where there ought to have been night sky. The
floor begins to glow, to bubble, like molten lava. But it's still icy cold
to my bare feet. A seagull flies by, upside down. I hear piano music,
bagpipes, the relentless thud of drums,  an atonal choir. Church organs.
Echoing voices. We're breaking through, I can feel it. I feel my feet
slipping. A fuzztoned swirling guitar that becomes a woman's hysterical
scream. His eyes turn from glaring hatred to panic. A long echoing shout of
despair: "Noooooo!!" A flash, a puff of smoke, and there's just an empty
black robe fluttering to the floor. The castle is collapsing. It's moving,
turning, capsizing like a torpedoed ship. Crazy colors swirl before my
eyes, and I keep singing singing singing . . . show me my way ta show me
she owes me shoe me shimmy nottamun not a man not a knot a knotted man no
Amon note Amen Nottamun Nottamun aaaargggghhh falling falling

	Lillian Howett nods her sympathy as I stop my raving. Tears in my
eyes, I slump to the floor.
	"No more drugs, I promise," I sob.
	"No, just the ones we'll prescribe, Brian. Some mild
antipsychotics. You'll get better soon, I expect. And please, stop
recycling this fantasy. It's just a bad trip, can't you see?"
	Yes, but it was the best trip I'd ever experienced.
	"Let it go. You have visitors later. Pull yourself together for
them, please."

	It's a year later. And, perhaps I am better. I'm back at Queen
Elizabeth College. They understood, they've seen worse cases. No more acid
for me.
	But sometimes at night when it's quiet, I still hear her voice.
Dahzelthza.
 	Good witch? Bad witch?
	Out there, somewhere, somewhen. In another dimension. My most
perfect love, so far.
	Dahzelthza, forgive me.
	Dahzelthza. I'm waiting.



Copyright (c) 1997, MrSpraycan. All rights reserved.
Contact, e-mail: <mrspraycan@mailanon.com> or
<http://www.sinewave.com/spraycan>




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