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From: tmquin@NS_attglobal.net (Thomas M Quin)
Subject: {ASSM} {ASS}Christmas Boxes Prologue
Date: Thu, 12 Jul 2001 01:10:04 -0400
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*****************************************************************
             STANDARD DISCLAIMER 
                 ===================


The following piece of fiction is intended as ADULT entertainment and
has been posted only to an appropriate group on the Internet.  If it
is found in any other place this is not the responsibility of the
author.


The author explicitly prohibits.


1) The posting of this story in an incomplete form.


2) The use of this story in a larger work without his express
permission.


3) The use of this story on any CD, BBS or Website without the
written permission of the author.


This work is copyright TM Quin 1999.


All characters in this story are fictitious, any similarity to
persons living or dead is purely coincidental.  The author does not
necessarily condone or endorse any of the activities detailed in this
story, some of which are dangerous or illegal.


Quin 1999 tmquin@ibm.net
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				Christmas Boxes By Quin
				====================

Prologue: "The Artist's Collection"
===========================


Do you know the second most frequent question I'm asked?  No? I'll
give you a clue, my favorite color is the fifth most frequent
question. Still can't guess? It's "Oh Mr. Magus what do YOU collect?"

They are talking art of course. Asking an artist what art he collects
is basically the same question as asking a singer what music he
listens to or asking a movie star what actors he "admires." It's
stupid, lame, tabloid pap and the most meaningful question your
average celebrity interviewer can think up with the two brain cells at
their disposal. I give them the answer they want to hear of course,
watching their eyes glaze over when I talk about Cezane or Monet. I
sometimes get a spark of interest when I mention Leonardo, but that
soon disappears when they realize I'm talking DaVinci and not
DiCaprio.

Yes they smile their plastic Hollywood smiles, nod when they think
they should, and generally try to act comfortable with someone they
don't understand at all. Oh I get the occasional good interview,
Barbara Walters for one and of course the nice little girl from Time
but most have no idea how to handle the Artist as Superstar. No
experience you see. No one before me they can relate to. Oh yes there
was Warhol and I suppose Picasso and Dahli might be said to be
celebrities but in all honesty they were limited creatures hardly up
to the comparison. My only peers, the only ones I view as equals are
the great masters of the Italian Renaissance, Donatello,
Michaelangelo, Raphell and of course Leonardo and yes at least one
interviewer thought I was talking about Mutant Turtles.

More than once I've been tempted talk about my real collection, the
one that takes up the majority of my time and attention, if only to
shake the fake smile off of some of those faces. Of course that would
be stupid, no amount of money can protect you from charges of
kidnapping, rape and murder and I like my lifestyle too much to trade
it for a prison cell. Still, perhaps I should share the story with
these few pages and let history be my judge.

Where to begin? The need to create art has gripped me for as long as I
can remember. My earliest memory is of sitting cross-legged on the
kitchen floor looking a print of Leonardo's Last Supper in some book
of  my moms. It was a poor reproduction, insignificant compared to the
majesty of the original, but I soon became drunk on it, worshipping at
the foot of the master. I actually wrote him a letter, Leonardo I
mean, telling him just how pretty his picture was. Imagine my
disappointment when I discovered I was three hundred years too late.

Still the die was set. I read all I could, studied techniques from
every artistic school, each discipline, working every hour I could to
try to approach the mastery that those great artists had found so
easy. I didn't limit my education to art either, the renaissance
believed that for a man to be the master of any discipline he must
have a good knowledge of all. Dead languages like Greek and Latin
competed for my attention with French, Spanish and Italian. Science
and medicine didn't escape my attention either and I soon had a
working knowledge of at least a dozen fringe subjects. I found it
strangely easy, as if in some way those long dead masters were guiding
my destiny.

Art school was disappointing, basically a factory for commercial
artists. I dropped out after the first year earning what I could  from
occasional magazine work and making posters for local rock bands. Yes
I starved, that is part of the modern artistic experience, but finally
the breaks started to come. I had a limited success with a small
exhibition in a local gallery. I didn't make much, certainly not as
much as I later discovered the owner had made, but it got me noticed
by a few serious collectors. Then a band I did some work for made the
big time. The look of their posters had become such a part of their
image that they asked me to come along. What a great time that was! I
designed everything, posters, album covers, advertisements,
tee-shirts, stage costumes even the stage sets themselves. When the
first videos came out I did the design for those as well and soon
after I found myself directing the second video too.

Soon I was getting other offers, even design work for movies, at some
stage someone called me Magus -- a magician, a wise man, a seer and
worker of miracles. I gratefully accepted the mantel, taking my place
amongst that group of celebrities who only need one name. Before long
I had made my first million and when I started designing fabrics for
the leading fashion houses  the money really started to roll in. Soon
I was living in my own castle in Beverly Hills, complete with my own
band of groupies, hangers on and acolytes. You may wonder why I would
surround myself with such people? The answer was simple. On the road
with the rock band I had seen how useful such people can be. They are
your bondsmen you see, owing everything to you. Their access to drugs,
girls and the good life is directly in your gift, capable of being
snatched away at a whim and they understand this. Greedy and desperate
there is nothing they won't do to remain in your favor. Exactly the
army you need when you want to do something a little illegal.......

The idea of starting a collection of sex slaves had started back in
the hungry years, a reaction to the sneering looks I got from
salesgirls and waitresses, and the not so polite refusals of some of
the women I had wanted to date. The irony was that now those same
women would be more than happy to hang out with me, more than happy to
share in the celebrity lifestyle and parties. So my sights moved on to
women who would not want to be in my company of their own free will.
To house my Collection I prepared five soundproofed cells in the
basement of my mansion together with a very special "studio" in which
I would work with my captives using their unwilling bodies as the raw
material for my art. When all was in readiness I started to look
around for suitable candidates. Soon however my first "piece" decided
to volunteer herself. 


When I say "volunteered" I don't mean that she came up and offered
herself to me. No, given the choice little Nancy would rather be
anywhere than in my tender care. What Nancy did was open her big
Australian mouth at precisely the wrong moment.

It happened during my first tour of Australia. I was there to open a
few exhibitions, do a few interviews and some sketches for a bronze
statue of  a former Prime Minister called Bob Hawke. I don't know if
old Bob was popular or not, I don't keep up with Australian politics,
but it certainly got us a lot of attention. Huge crowds gathered
everywhere we went and my bodyguard, Tiny, had a lot on his plate just
keeping me safe.

We were attending some gala bash at the Sidney Art Center when it
happened. An egg thrown from the crowd whizzed past my ear. I never
saw who threw it but I knew where it came from. Glancing over in that
direction I saw a group I first took to be a biker gang. They had that
look all long hair and leather.  Most, male and female alike were
immediately forgettable but there was one that immediately grabbed my
attention. Long blonde hair framed a strong angular face with a high
forehead and finely sculptured cheekbones. Large blue-green eyes
peeked out above a long straight nose and full pouty mouth. That mouth
opened and yelled abuse most of which I missed as I was letting my
eyes work their way down over her body to her long muscular legs. When
I did snap back to what she was screaming I picked out "talentless
bastard" and "you posing git." Before I could react further, and
probably fearing that something more substantial than eggs might be
thrown next, Tiny pushed me firmly inside.

I accepted the warm handshakes from the gathered dignitaries but
rather than allowing myself to be led away I excused myself and stood
to one side near a window watching the blonde as she yelled at the
later guests. She seemed a real rabble-rouser, just the kind of girl
who I could imagine would take some breaking. Without being too
obvious I summoned my entourage to me.

Weasel is a thoroughly unpleasant type, a nasty slimy little man who
somehow invited himself into my household. I keep him around because
he can fix things, anything you want he can get from drugs to guns no
questions asked. Weasel likes my money but he likes my access to women
even more. He kinda acts like a taster, sampling all the fruits that
are offered to me and ensuring that only the best ends up in my bed.
He is singularly dedicated and his physical repulsiveness ensures that
only the really commited groupies make it through my doors. Yes,
Weasel had  seemed perfect for the job. I pointed out our little
blonde friend and asked him to find out who she was. In addition I
gave him a little shopping list of things we would need if we were to
keep our new friend comfortable. Leering he nodded and then sneaked
outside in pursuit.





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