Collaborative Carnage

Mutation 13: Is That A Gun In Your Pocket Or Are You Just Pleased To See Me?

by Stephen van Ham

And in a galaxy far, far away, Jar-Jar Binks was beaten to death with a most impressive roll of salami. The very public and well-received beefy battering was one of a long sequence of culinary related international incidents from down the ages.

In fact, another such incident recorded is that involving a certain Death Star. The Empire has always maintained that this was as a result of a simple misunderstanding. They still say to this day that they were merely attempting to build the galaxy's largest ball of Swiss cheese. The fact that the massive cheese monument was packing massive weapons of planetary destruction was the unfortunate result of a very vocal sect of the Lactose Intolerants Guild.

Of course, regardless of whether the Death Star had been a floating bird of prey or lump of whey, the Pastry Makers Guild continued on making pies.

The French Resistance had finally conceived a plan to smuggle out the stolen painting of the Fallen Madonna With The Big Boobies. It was a simple plan really. Stuff the painting in a big sack, tie it up with a nice bow, distract the German officers with a serving of sauerkraut and have the black stockinged waitress - also the proud owner of a big pair of boobies - saunter out the door of the bar, jump on her custom built Triumph motorcycle and make a race for the border. Of course, no one ever counted on Lord Cool (a.k.a. Elsie a.k.a. LC4 a.k.a. The Statuesque Blonde With Big Knockers).

Lord Cool was out taking a stroll, replete in his stunning low-cut blue number that accentuated his new, knock out body. It was the ultimate in killer outfits, the one that caressed the curves and pushed his massive melons out proudly. Cool was delighted with his newly obtained chassis and hot engine and he sure as hell/hell wanted the world to know about it. So proud was he in fact that, walking down the cobbled street, he couldn't help but run his long, long fingers up the smooth skin of his thigh, sliding up over the taut skin of his belly, catching on the silken ruffles of his gown, and then plunging on between the twin peaks the size and breadth of which had never before been seen in any realm, mortal or otherwise ...

Long, long, loonnggg ...

It was then that he saw the other woman.

Lord Cool stopped in mid-step and stared, hastily dropping his roving hand to his side. The other, non-roving hand was used to rub his eyes, smearing hastily applied mascara all over Cool's fingers. Then he stared again, cheap thrill all but forgotten, and thanked his lucky stars for his good fortune. Here, in the middle of nowhere, he had stumbled upon a soul mate. A kindred spirit. A hot momma, a cool glass of cherry pop, as the less cultured would have said (and there weren't many less cultured than Lord Cool). Breath catching in this throat, Cool took it all in. The voluminous white shirt with the top three buttons undone, the black leather belt sinched in tight around the slim waste, the scandalously short leather skirt, the black fishnet stockings, the cherry red stilettos.

As Lord Cool watched in awe, the woman struggled with a large bulky leather sack, swearing softly to herself as she attempted to tie it to the back of a mint condition motor cycle. Admiring both the woman and the bike, Lord Cool imagined himself mounting the cool dark curves, sitting back, feeling the wind blow through his hair as they reached top speed. Of course, riding on the back of the motor cycle would be a hoot as well ...

"Ummm, can I help up with your, uhhh, load, miss?" he began uncertainly, eyes hot as he watched the woman lift one leg over the padded leather seat, making the woman's skirt rise up even higher, revealing that which was usually unattainable and unrevealed. Lord Cool felt himself trembling as the woman turned her head quickly, long auburn hair whipping across her face as she looked at Cool with wide eyes. Then, after seeing only a statuesque blonde with big knockers, her shoulders sagged slightly as if in a shrug of relief. Then she spoke in a voice to drive any grown man to tears. "No, I'm fine, thank you."

"Are you sure?" Cool persisted once he could breathe again. "That's a mightly big sack you've got there. You're going to need some more strapping to secure that to the back of your bike, or perhaps someone to hold onto it while you ride ..."

The woman was obviously not convinced. "No, I don't" she said, looking uncertainly at Lord Cool's mammoth chest.

EvetteLord Cool minced forward, determined to do whatever he could to prolong the conversation. "Really, I think I can help." He quickly reached out to touch the sack and the woman stepped forward as if to knock his hand aside. But it was too late. Cool's fingers brushed a woven hemp corner and the sack fell away slightly, revealing the intricately carved corner piece of some sort of painting. All Cool saw was a dab of dark paint before the woman blocked his view with her tremendous body. She glared at Cool. "This is none of your concern," she hissed. "Now please, step aside. I'm in a hurry." She put her warm hand to Cool's shoulder as if to push him back, and Cool felt a tingle run from his shoulder down to his vitals. He opened his mouth to speak, but the woman was already starting up engine of the bike and looked ready to disappear off down the street in mere moments.

Lord Cool could see his opportunity to know this woman slipping through his fingers. "Please," he pleaded, "tell me about the painting. I can help. That's going to fall off the back as soon as you go over thirty."

The engine of the bike roared into life. "Tell me about the painting! Let me help!" Cool yelled above the noise of the rumbling engine. The glorious woman looked at Cool and let out a small sigh. "Very well. I can't very well let you stay here now that you've seen it." She gestured with a nod of her head as she reved the engine. "Hop on and hold on tight. We're going to have company any minute now."

Cool did as he was told, vaulting onto the bike and gripped the sides of the seat with his thighs. He felt the coolness of the bulging sack pressing against his belly as he wrapped his arms around the woman's waist like an octopus. "Ready?" the woman yelled.

Cool, trembling at the nearness and exquisite smell of the woman, could barely find his voice. "Ready," he gasped and then they were off with a roar and cloud of smoke. Buildings whipped by in a flash as the woman opened the engine right up and gunned the bike up to full speed, the big powerful bike rocking from side to side as she navigating the twisty, turning streets. Cool half closed his eyes and let his chin fall to rest against the firm muscles of woman's shoulders as the pair sped across the town.

All sights and sounds soon blended together a mismash of colour and the roaring of the powerful engine. The bike jolted up and down as the mass of machinery bounced over the cobbles and swung around corners at reckless pace. The woman was an expert driver, Cool noted vaguely.

He had almost drifted off into a dreamy sleep when he first heard the sounds of pursuit far behind.

Cool and the woman, who had breathlessly revealed her name to be Evette as they rode, evaded the following German pursuit for many miles, almost making it to the next village before the tell-tale signs of a road block ahead had made Evette swing the bike off the main road and down muddy side path. With the gathering pursuers not far behind the pair, the massive motorcycle had soon plunged into a thick forest, branches whipping across Cool's face as the bike skipped over protruding tree roots and careened around a wall of pines.

Evette pulled the bike to a stop with a jolting skid that sent up a huge cloud of dust and leaves. As Cool watched intently, Evette jumped off the bike, swept the sack from Cool's grasp and quickly squatted down near a fallen tree. With a flurry of digging, the magnificent looking woman had soon buried the bulky sack beneath a mound of leaves.

Starting off again with a roar, the pair had only gotten another couple of miles or so before the Germans  caught up, splitting off in groups and hugging in close on both sides with a howl of engines. The evading pair's luck running out at last, Evette mistimed a turn around a tree and the Triumph went careening over on its side, one wheeling churning aimlessly in the air as the cycle came to a stop with a crash that shook the earth.

Cool, struggling to his feet and briefly pushing the many surrounding forms away, soon found himself staring down the end of a strange metal object with a hole in the end. He wasn't entirely sure how he knew it, but, much like the motorcycle, he recognised the strange device and offered no further resistance.

Cool, his blue dress ripped and tangled, found himself tied to a chair with a lamp being shone in his face. He was slapped (but not too hard) across the face again. The German officer stuck his craggy, clean-shaven face near Cool's own, so close that Cool could smell the sauerkraut on his breath. "Tell us the location of the painting!" the officer hissed. "By the Pony of Zitler himself, you will tell us what we want to know!" The officer leaned his face in even closer. "We have ways of making you talk," he promised. Feeling angered at the rough treatment, Cool darted forward in a whirlwhind of teeth and blonde hair and bit the officer on the nose. "In your dreams, helmet boy," he concluded loudly.

The officer, swearing savagely in German, pulled away from Cool and swooped down on Cool's companion, Evette. Sneaking a quick peek down the woman's shirt, he locked onto her fierce eyed gaze with his own. "Tell us the location of the painting!" he repeated his demand.

Evette laughed and spat into the man's face. "I'll not tell you a thing, invading swine hund." She bared her teeth, teeth glistening white against the backdrop of her unravelled auburn locks. "I see you come to the bar every day, making your jokes, brushing against my bosom as I serve you." Evette was building up into an indignant frenzy. "I've had enough." She narrowed her eyes. "Come any closer and I'll make sure your helmet never again needs polishing!" This drew a reluctant chuckle from the soldiers standing behind the officer. The red-faced man turned and glared at his sub-ordinates until their hilarity subsided.

The officer turned back to the tied-up pair with a glimmer in his eye. "So you'll not talk?"

"Not to you, alsatian breath!"

This remark seemed to be exactly what the officer wanted to hear. "Very well, since you will not cooperate ..."

He paused for effect as his soldiers closed in around him.

"Search them."


Collaborative Carnage Home Page


E-mail: comments (at)
Last update: Tuesday, April 20, 2004 06:16 AM
Tales of The is 1999 - 2004 by Steven Dong.
The individual chapters of Collaborative Carnage are the property of the authors, used by permission or implied consent.
All music is the property of its composers, used by permission.

Back to Back to Tales of the Boojum