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Subject: Something I wrote recently rss

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The Old Man.

You walk into a bar and wonder, how long have I been coming here? Am I not too old for the singles’ scene and its fleshy tangos? Still, you have a need, a hunger. The lone tentacle has its desires, dragging you along for the ride.

You stare at the soft spot at the base of your ring finger. One too many wives lost or buried over the space of many, many years. You loved every one of them at the time. Too bad no one knows about them or ever will, for the past is a thing best concealed and you are a master at that. How long can this go on? One day, surely, someone will resist, and where will that leave you? One day you will slip up.

The gin and tonic smells of the sharp, acerbic lime that the young woman bartender put in it. The slice floats amid far too much ice. You remember the tales of explorers with their junipers and quinine almost like it was yesterday.

Despite the transformation and the cold room you appear to be seventy, but that plays a small role in your stalking of the female flesh. You have a gift, a natural charm, along with your other talents. Women, like men, are simple creatures. Pay a little attention to one and stroke her ego, ah, and you can gain access to the gates of heaven, if only for a few moments. Then, you can forget you are damned.

The much too loud television has switched from sports to a commercial. One about Viagra. You laugh. Your gifts and skills are strong, despite a less than youthful appearance.

"For an erection lasting more than four hours," the confident voice makes its disclaimer.

"I wish," one of the girls at a nearby, candle lit booth says. "Bobby only lasts a minute."

The other three in the booth chuckle.

"You need a little plastic friend," one tells her with a nod and a wink.

You notice that Jennifer, one of your students, is at their table. Her red miniskirt shows off her long, lithe legs. You look her over sitting in that black sweater that makes her large boobs stand up enough to, what is that old saying, "make a bishop kick in a stained glass window." Stop drooling, old man. There will be plenty of time for that. The sophomore’s eyes are red and rimmed with liquid, like she has been crying. Perfect, you think. You monster.

You stand up from the bar and walk over to the booth next to their’s, letting those puissant little pheromones do their work. A hand gesture, a wave, and a smile. She sees you.

"Hello, Professor Craft," Jennifer says in a sad voice, and puts down her fruity umbrella drink.

"Hello dear girl," you say with a concerned tone in your voice. "I have been meaning to ask you something." You pat down the leather seat next to you and she takes the hint, bringing the drink with her.

"Yes, um."

"Your grades could use a little work," you start, using a line that has worked for so many years. It clouds their minds and lets the magic do its work. A touch, brushing the top of her hand. A palm on her soft inner thigh. Endorphins and dopamine run through the girl, as her eyes glaze over. Do you dare wait? It has been so long.

No, you tell yourself. In this day and age you do not need to wait for yet another ring.

"Come with me," you tell her, and she follows. You take her hand. She is oblivious to everyone and everything, save for your words and your walk. Her friends point to you both leaving, as they whisper in the dark. Let them. To them this will not even worth remembering in a couple of days.

Your flat is only a short walk away. Jennifer follows you like a lovesick puppy, you evil monster, and you will take her soon. The thing needs to feed. Oh blessed Ishtar, but for a few minutes of paradise you would sell the world and everyone in it. No, you try to quash that thought. Age is a cruel master, even for the damned.

Click.

The door opens onto a living room cluttered with creased papers and musty old books. The gold necklace of wedding rings hangs from Beethoven’s bust like a string of memories from a different day. Your foxed copy of one of Galileo’s early manuscripts sits dog-eared by the fireplace. You told him to be careful, but no one listens to you, do they? The steel door to the cold room is closed, as it is not yet time for you to sleep. You clear the papers, scrolls, and manuscripts from the couch: "the Anabasis," how well you remember it; and the lost "Dialogues of Plato," that horrid, little, Tammuz-cursed man and his love for young boys makes your skin crawl to this day, despite your own practices. Ah, but it is clean and ready. You drop to the couch, smiling.

Jennifer removes her sweater. She is not wearing a bra, as they drop and bounce in that lovely way. Her skirt is released as the zipper drops. Her thong barely covers the butterfly tattoo at the base of her spine, but soon she removes that skimpy garment as well. Oh, but how you love living in these liberating times. They remind you of the French court of the late Middle Ages.

"Ooh! Ah! Oh." Her words echo throughout the apartment with your every touch. She does not suspect in the least what is coming.

"Oh, God," she calls out, but He cannot hear her. Poor thing.

You try to calmly undress as she starts shredding your clothes, eager to get to the sex. Maybe your tricks worked too well, old man? She gets to your briefs and recoils in awe and horror, passing out. The massive tentacle releases itself and plunges deep into her. The girl’s body writhes, screaming, as the thing sucks the life and the blood from her, feeding years upon years of her unfulfilled potential into you and prolonging your twisted life. Soon nothing is left but an empty shell.

Now the real work begins.

You dress. The door to your apartment opens, as if of its own volition, and you calmly walk out. Her room in the dorms is not far. It is open, but that would not have posed a problem for the likes of you. You grab her things, tossing them out the window. They will be gone soon. Jennifer’s friends will quickly forget her if there is nothing to remember her by. The car ride to her parents’ house turns out to be much longer than you had expected, but it is a crucial thing. Her mother and father pass out as you enter, allowing the dark work to begin. Hopefully, you pray to Marduk who had damned you, that she had given out no gifts to her friends and family that hold emotional ties. You gather the remnants of her things, toss them in the car, and dump them in the city. No one will remember her now.

When was the last time you listened to your conscience, old man? I am still here, silently screaming to warn the rest of the world.
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Joe Gola
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Dark.
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Mystery McMysteryface
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Oh.Em.Gee!! blush


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Second-person narratives only work in Choose Your Own Adventure stories.
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True Blue Jon
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You might have had someting until you got to the Cthulhu fan fiction.
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I'm free-basing midichloriens and the force is, like, an energy that connects and penetrates us all, man.
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Osiris Ra wrote:
...You monster.

Osiris Ra wrote:
...You evil monster...

Oh yeah? Well...
*eyes well up*

Well I... You...

*crys*

*runs away*




I liked the story. I'd sex up the sex part, and creep up the creepy angle, and explain a bit more on the 'fades away' which was a tad vague. But I can see what you're going for there. Reminds me a bit of Robert M. Price.
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