Message-ID: <10761eli$9804301417@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
From: Andrew Roller <roller666@earthlink.net>
Subject: Fevered Fall part 7 of 7 (NND)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
Reply-To: roller666@earthlink.net
Path: qz!not-for-mail
Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam
Approved: <usenet-approval@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Story-Submission: <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Original-Message-ID: <3547ABEA.56F5@earthlink.net>
---------------------------------------------------------------
PROBLEMS? Please try viewing this with Netscape Navigator.
---------------------------------------------------------------
_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Andrew Roller Presents
NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS
in
FEVERED FALL
_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Chapter Seven
The Hoodoo sliced through the evening sky. Below it the moon
shone on a river and, on either side of the river, open farmland. There
was no sign of the chaos threatening the Imperium out here in the
countryside. Quiet farmhouses could be seen, amidst clusters of trees,
which dotted the ripening fields. The roar of the passing Hoodoo
startled a flock of ducks and caused them to rise quickly from the long
grass along the west bank of the river.
The gunner in the Hoodoo grinned. If he could have, he would
have shot up the flock of ducks. But the pilot flying the Hoodoo
tonight was a ‘by the book’ guy. She didn’t like having her Gatling
going off at unexpected moments.
Thorston sat in a sling seat across from Smith and Zenger. He
gazed at them both, then looked at Zenger’s camera. He studied it
closely to make sure there wasn’t an Uplink attached to it. Those
weren’t authorized under the new International Accords.
“Damn Chinese,” Thorston swore under his breath. He was glad,
though, that they’d forbidden the press to have Uplinks on their
cameras. It was hard enough controlling these bastard reporters without
having everything they filmed going out live.
Thorston looked at Smith.
“Live in Sanramento?” Thorston asked.
“Huh?” Smith said. He was twiddling his thumbs, staring at
them, as if contemplating their engineering by the Divine Being.
“Live in Sanramento?” Thorston asked again.
“No,” Smith said. “I mean, yes, but only temporarily. I’m on
assignment. To the Sewer Department.”
This time it was Thorston who said, “Huh?”
“The Sewer Department,” Smith said.
Zenger looked up. He’d been studying his camera, as if
searching for a way to Uplink his film without an Uplink. “I remember
that story,” he said. “Two weeks ago. ‘Sanramento is Full of Shit.”
“Yeah,” Thorston huffed. He looked at Zenger. “Sure it is.”
“Before that, we weren’t allowed to say ‘Shit’ on the air. But
now we can,” Zenger grinned at the cop.
“I’m sure you enjoy it,” Thorston replied. He tugged at his
belt. He guessed he’d need a larger one soon. ‘Too many Twinkies,’ he
muttered. He wondered if he should undo it in front of the other men
and try cutting an extra, non-regulation hole in it, with his pen-knife,
but decided against it. He wasn’t about to undo himself in front of
some wise-ass reporter. God knows, the smartass would probably film
him.
Zenger straightened. He glanced sideways, out the hole in the
side of the craft where the Gatling hung over the countryside. He had
red, curly hair, freckles, looked 25 but was actually 35. Thorston knew
he worked for KLAW, since he’d talked so much about it, but he looked
beguilingly like the kid in the Superman comics who worked for the Daily
Planet.
“Olson,” Thorston muttered. “Jimmy Olson.”
“Huh?” Zenger asked.
Thorston turned to Smith. “So where do you live?”
“Here?” Smith asked. “In an apartment.”
“Not here, dammit. Where’s your wife and kids live?” Thorston
asked.
“Southlawn,” Smith said.
“Oh, yeah. I think you told me that,” Thorston said. “Sorry.”
“No problem,” Smith said. He glanced at the hand straps
hanging from the ceiling. They swung back and forth, aimlessly, as the
levitating craft moved swiftly across the sky. “Say, I’m a veteran,”
Smith said. He grinned. “We used to ride in things like this in
Indonesia, but they were a lot smaller.”
Thorston glanced about him, seeing the craft he rode so much
in, as if with new eyes. “Yeah, they make ‘em bigger nowadays,” he
said. “On account of the Accords, you know. No warplanes.”
“Damn Chinese,” Zenger said.
“Are you a veteran?” Smith asked Thorston.
“Me? Uh, no,” Thorston said. “Student deferment.” He tugged
at his belt. “I flunked out though, so I went into the police
department to, ah, serve my country at home.”
“To avoid service,” Smith said. He grinned. “No problem. I
didn’t want to go to Indonesia myself. Especially since we were already
losing the war to the Chinese when I got drafted.”
“That was a long war,” Thorston said.
“Yeah,” Smith agreed. “But, you know, a lot of people didn’t
want to see the Imperium lose another war in South East Asia,” Smith
said. He looked at Zenger. Thorston was looking at him too.
“You serve?” Smith asked.
“Uh, no,” Zenger said.
“Too young?” Smith asked.
“No. Medical deferment,” Zenger replied. Thorston laughed.
He looked at Smith.
“Too wet behind the ears,” Thorston chuckled. Smith grinned
and laughed. Zenger’s face reddened.
“Say, could I use your Uplink?” Zenger asked Thorston.
“No,” Thorston said. He turned to Smith. “Let’s go up and
meet the pilot. I have a feeling we’ll be dropping some bridges soon.
Highways too. She might want to know she’s got a reliable veteran on
board to handle her explosives for her.”
With a grunt, the grunt of a man in his early 40’s feeling the
satisfaction of having served when other men hadn’t, Smith stood up. He
straightened his tie. His white, shortsleeved shirt shone red in the
softly glowing interior Emergency lights of the ship’s cabin. Thorston
turned, tugged again on his belt, and led Smith forward. Without being
invited, Zenger followed.
Thorston slid back the door to the pilot’s cabin. He led Smith
in and didn’t protest when Zenger followed him. Beyond, the pilot and
co-pilot could be seen in black silhouette against their illuminated
panel of instruments and the windshield of the Hoodoo. An overhead T.V.
glowed with the face of a news announcer.
“Due to Martial Law, we here at KLAW are unable to show you the
film we have of the rioting,” the news announcer intoned. His voice was
somber, but showed little sign, otherwise, of emotion. He turned to his
co-anchor, a woman, who sat near him. “Isn’t that right, Betsy?” he
asked.
“Why, that’s right Frank, but we have a great line-up of
entertainment programming tonight! And we’re all eagerly waiting to
hear from the president. I hope it’s good news but, in the meantime, we
can certainly all sit back and relax and enjoy the best entertainment
the Imperium has to offer!”
“With regular weather reports, plus the latest sports,” Frank
added.
“That’s right!” Betsy smiled.
“KLAW! The most entertainment the law will allow!” a voice
boomed from the T.V. The camera cut away from Betsy and Frank to show a
large 9 on the T.V. screen.
The introductory music for “Fuller House” began playing.
Bright, happy family members gamboled across the front lawn of a home.
“Full of fun,
“Full of sun,
“Our house is the house for everyone!
“Fuller, fuller, fuller house,
“With love for everyone,” the T.V. sang.
Smith gazed out the windshield at the rush of farmland below
their craft. Heights had made him dizzy when he was a boy, but in
Indonesia they’d been shuttled around so much on the Hummers (short for
Hummingbirds) that he’d gotten used to seeing the world from above.
Still, when he’d gotten his bearings, he lifted his eyes to the T.V. and
gazed at the reassuring sign of the Brody family enjoying their full
house.
“Two mothers,
“One father,
“And the maid who’s gay,
“Plus six children,
“What a day,
“We’re having at Fuller House!” the T.V. proclaimed in a
multi-voiced, musical song.
“Parents! Are you concerned about your child’s safety? Here
at SafetySystems, we have a patented way to monitor your child’s every
move!” a commercial announced.
“Dan, this is Smith,” Thorston told the pilot, leaning over the
pilot’s shoulder. When the pilot turned, Smith was surprised to see it
was a woman. He glanced down at the pilot’s flight suit and read “Dan”
over the woman’s chest.
“Hi, I’m Judy Dan,” the pilot said, lifting a gloved hand from
the Hoodoo’s controls. She shook Smith’s hand.
“Pleased to meet you, uh, ma’am,” Smith said.
“He’s the engineer, and this is our Minister of Propaganda,”
Thorston said to the woman. He pointed to Smith, then to Zenger. Dan
nodded.
“Okay!” Dan said, above the roar of the engines and the
commercial on the T.V.
Thorston turned and, in the cramped space behind the pilot and
co-pilot, introduced Smith and Zenger to the craft’s co-pilot.
The SafetySystems commercial stopped in mid-pitch, as the 808
number was being read out from the T.V. The seal of the President of
the Imperium replaced the 808 number.
“Fellow citizens of the Imperium,” a sober voice announced.
Everyone, even the pilot and co-pilot, looked up at the overhead T.V.
“President Nelson,” Dan muttered. She looked back down at the
Hoodoo’s controls.
A figure with a long chin, a long nose, and a balding,
black-haired head stared gravely into the camera. He looked like he
hadn’t shaved although that was highly unlikely, given that he was
making a national broadcast that would be re-broadcast throughout the
world.
“Fellow citizens of the Imperium, it is with grave regret that
I must report to you, my fellow citizens, a disturbance,” President
Nelson said. Then, for a moment, he simply stared into the camera.
There was a rustle offscreen.
“Damn! The teleprompter’s stuck!” Smith thought he heard
someone off camera say.
“Uh, a disturbance,” President Nelson said. He stared straight
at the interior of the cockpit, his eyes blank, unseeing. “I said a
disturbance,” President Nelson said. He noisily cleared his throat. He
turned and looked to his side, then back into the camera. “My fellow
citizens,” he said. “Remain in your homes. The police have everything
under control. You may hear some noise, but don’t go outside. Please
see that your children are in your home. Child psychiatrists agree that
at a time like this, it is best to put your children who are under 18 to
bed, and to administer Benzatrine to them. Your favorite entertainment
stations will be providing you with round-the-clock entertainment during
this period of Imperial crisis. Everything is under control. You have
no reason to be alarmed.”
Someone handed President Nelson a paper. He cleared his throat
and gazed down at it.
“Ah, please do not go outside unless absolutely necessary, or
with an appropriate pass, on official government business,” President
Nelson said. He looked up at the camera again. “As you know, since the
Indonesian Crisis, and the signing of the International Accords, China
no longer permits our Imperium to have warplanes. However, during this
period of disturbance it may be necessary for us to temporarily render
inoperative various bridges and highways.”
Thorston looked away from the T.V. and nodded to Smith. Smith
nodded back. Zenger, behind the two men, was filming the interior of
the cockpit.
“Therefore, you may hear explosions. It is simply the police,
rendering various modes of transport inoperative,” President Nelson
said, gazing into the camera. “A bridge in your area, or a highway, may
be taken out, simply to help the police gain control of the situation.
Don’t be alarmed. I will be here on duty in the White House throughout
this period of Imperial Emergency, and during this time period it is
recommended that you enjoy yourselves indoors and not go outside.
“Thank you, my fellow citizens of the Imperium,” President
Nelson said.
As Thorston led Smith and Zenger back out of the cockpit, Smith
could hear Frank and Betsy on the T.V. behind him.
“Well, I don’t know about you, Frank, but I’ve got some sleep I
need to catch up on,” Betsy told her co-anchor.
“Me too, Betsy,” Frank said. “In fact, my wife and I could use
something besides just sleep,” Frank said. “We’re looking forward to
this time we can spend together.” Both co-anchors laughed.
The Hoodoo passed through the night sky toward New Washington,
D.C. The moon glowed off the black skin of the craft. Smith, Thorston,
and Zenger settled back into their sling seats in the cabin. Zenger
took the pencil from behind his ear and the pad of paper out of his
shirt pocket.
“New Washington, D.C.,” Zenger said. He smiled at Smith.
“Say, you’re older than me. I don’t mean to say you’re old or anything
but, since you were in the Indonesian War and all, could you help me
with some background?”
“Sure,” Smith said.
“What’s D.C. stand for?” Zenger asked. Smith looked puzzled.
“District of Containment,” Smith said. “Everyone knows that.”
“Dumb reporter,” Thorston muttered.
“No, no, no,” Zenger said. “I mean, there used to be an old
Washington. You know. It’s like York, in Britain, and New York, in
America. One’s named after the other. So, like, didn’t D.C. used to
stand for something else?”
“Oh, yeah,” Smith said. He looked up at the red Emergency
lights in the cabin. He studied them for a moment. “Columbus,
something. I think it was District of Columbus. You know, the guy who
discovered America.”
“Columbia!” Zenger said. He wrote on his pad.
“What did you ask me for?” Smith said. He seemed disgruntled
that he’d been found to be in the wrong.
“I needed help remembering it,” Zenger said. He looked up at
Smith. He grinned, boyishly. “Don’t worry. I’ll give you full credit
as the source.”
“Don’t bother,” Smith said.
30
----------------------- Dreamgirls! -----------------------
-Back issues (and stories): type
http://www.dejanews.com/
into your browser’s “Location” window. Press your “return” key.
Click on “Power Search” in the middle of the screen. Next,
Type in: roller666@earthlink.net in the box that appears.
Click on “find” (the button to the right of the box).
-Other providers:
Usenet Newsgroup: alt.sex.stories.moderated
or by e-mail: file.request@backdrop.com
or via the Web: http://www.netusa.net/~eli/erotica/assm/
-When visiting Barnes and Noble, ask for: Jock Sturges’ Radiant
Identities and David Hamilton’s The Age of Innocence. Support art!
-Also by David Hamilton: A Place in the Sun, and Twenty Five Years
of an Artist Need a book? http://www.amazon.com
- JOIN the world’s greatest organization! Send $35.00 to The North
American Man/Boy Love Association for a one-year membership.
NAMBLA, P.O. Box 174, Midtown Station, New York, NY 10018.
-Naughty Naked Dreamgirls (Library of Congress ISSN: 1070-1427) is
copyright 1998 and a trademark of Andrew Roller.
-END OF story EMISSION
--
+--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+
| story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us |