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Subject: {ASSM} (Birth) "Shake, Rattle and Roll; Flip, Flop and Fly" (Father Ignatius) (MF)
Date: Thu, 31 Oct 2002 18:10:04 -0500
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Shake, Rattle & Roll; Flip, Flop & Fly
(MF)
©2002, Father Ignatius
FatherIgnatius@ananzi.co.za

A Story from an Elvis Lyric
An entry in the Alexis in Alaska Birthday Fest, 31st October 2002.

-----

Well, get out to the kitchen, and rattle those pots and pans!
Get out to the kitchen, and rattle those pots and pans!
Well, I want my breakfast, 'cause I'm a hungry man.

I believed you're doin' me wrong, and now I know.
I believed you're doin' me wrong, and now I know.
'Cause the harder I work, the faster my money goes.

Well, I said, "Shake, rattle, and roll!"
I said, "Shake, rattle and roll!"
I said, "Shake, rattle and roll!"
I said, "Shake, rattle and roll!"
Well, you won't do right to save your doggone soul.

I'm like a one-eyed cat, peeping in a seafood store.
I'm like a one-eyed cat, peeping in a seafood store.
Well, I can look at you 'til you ain't no child no more.

Well, I said, "Shake, rattle, and roll!"
I said, "Shake, rattle and roll!"
I said, "Shake, rattle and roll!"
I said, "Shake, rattle and roll!"
Well, you won't do right to save your doggone soul.

I'm like a Mississippi bullfrog, sittin' on a hollow stump.
I'm like a Mississippi bullfrog, sittin' on a hollow stump.
I've got so many women; I don't know which way to jump.

I said, "Flip-flop, and fly." I don't care if I die.
I said, "Flip-flop, and fly." I don't care if I die.
I won't ever leave. Don't ever say 'Good-bye.'

-----

Becky lay in bed, half asleep. She tried to pretend it wasn't
morning yet, but it was. The sound, a couple of hours ago, of
Seth moving about had woken her. There could be no proper sleep
after that. Becky slept very lightly since the day of Mam and
Daddy's funeral. That day, after the service, Seth disappeared.
She waited for him at the church for a while. Then went home
alone, and started fixing their supper.

He turned up at their house some hours later, with a group of his
no-account friends in tow. They arrived half-liquored, and
brought a jug of whiskey to pass around. In all their born days,
they had never penetrated past the back door.

"Please, Missus, may Seth come out to play?" they used to say,
hat in hand, standing on the doorstep

No, not even until now, when they were near grown to manhood, had
they ever passed the step. Now, though, her Mam was gone. It was
not her Mam's doorstep any more. It was not her Mam's kitchen
door, any more, or her kitchen. Everything belonged to Seth, the
son. When Seth invited company, they filed right into
not-her-Mam's kitchen, and sat right down on not-her-Mam's
chairs.

Their big, male bodies crowded the small room disturbingly. The
smell of them, and the smell of the liquor upon their breath, the
smell of their maleness and their sweat filled and choked the
kitchen, and Becky did not know how to act. She sat and fidgeted
as they silently passed the jug around, and looked at her.

They looked at her in that special, considering way that Seth and
Daddy took to looking at her back when she was around thirteen,
and began to fill out. Her Mam noticed, and formed the watchful
habit of scolding and distracting them. She would train them to
keep away from the kitchen by setting them chores, send them
about their business, eject them, patrol a safe space around her
daughter.

She would send Seth out to trap a rabbit, or shoot one. He
preferred shooting. He was a wily hunter. There was something in
his nature that fitted him for the job. He'd patiently sit
concealed for as long as it took, the small-bore rifle resting
easily in his grasp, and wait. He simply waited for some creature
to make a mistake. That was all. Shooting was the easy part. The
hard part was having the patience to wait for a false move. It
was Seth's special skill.

Becky's Mam wasn't around to ride herd on her any more, though,
and the kitchen was full of men. Half-liquored men, who said
nothing as they passed the jug around, exchanging glances and
conspiring grins. There was a muted guffaw, and that was all.
When Becky couldn't stand it any more, she went to the sink and
finished the washing up in an oppressive silence. When she
finished and turned around, they were all looking at her.

Her eyes flicked to Seth, hoping to find some support from her
brother, but there was nothing for her in his yellow, hunter's
gaze. He was doing what he always did, watching and waiting. He
was waiting patiently for someone to make a wrong move, and then
he would act.

"Why are you all looking at me?" she muttered, sulkily, for
something to say.

"Because you're the purtiest thang we can see to look at,
sweetheart." The drawled, insolent reply came immediately from
one of them.

Blushing hotly, she scurried for the door, suddenly wanting very
badly the sanctuary of her bedroom. Quick as a striking snake,
one of the men filled the doorway, leaning nonchalantly on the
jamb. Scrunching down, she tried to squeeze past under his arm.
His hip swayed easily into her path, blocking her. Her little
strength was a nothing against him.

"Let me pass."

"Then give me a kiss."

"No!"

"Then stay."

She heard behind her creaking of chairs, of floorboards. She
heard rustlings and stirrings and felt what she could not see.
They were all standing up, and closing around her. She felt the
hairs rise on the back of her neck. She froze, and the sour vomit
taste of fear rose in her throat. It was like the time she was
walking back from the fields and suddenly heard a rattlesnake's
crackle in the grass by the side of the path.

"I want to go to my room," she whispered hoarsely to the man in
the doorway.

"Then take me with you."

"No!"

"Then stay."

She felt a hand on her arm.

"Then give _me_ a kiss, darlin'..."

"No!"

Another hand more roughly grabbed her other arm.

"C'mere, bitch," said a fresh voice, hoarse and thick with lust.

Panic boiled over, and her husky little voice rose in shrieks as
she lashed out blindly at her tormentors.

"Whoa, easy there."

It was Seth's voice, amused more than anything. Someone had made
a mistake, and now the hunter intervened. Veteran of a thousand
childish wrestling matches with her, he easily caught Becky's
flailing wrists. He clamped them cruelly hard in the big, sausage
fingers of one hand. Exerting his strength, he pulled upwards,
hard, almost lifting her from the floor. He knew what would come
next; she would kick him. She would try and knee him in the
groin. He put an arm round her and crushed her to him. She was
stymied. She could not draw her legs back. He had thwarted her
with contemptuous, practiced ease.

She was helpless, dangling almost, in front of all these men,
clamped to her brother's side. She could feel his hardness
against her, and her shame flooding through her. There was a
growling sound from Seth's friends, and a restless movement in
the crowd

"Yeah," said someone, his voiced rasping and excited.

But "Nope," said Seth. She felt him take breath to speak and felt
his voice rumble in his chest against her cheek.

"Nope," he said, "thangs were going so well there, and then you
spoiled it." He was addressing the man who'd called his sister a
bitch. "So it's over."

There was an ugly hush.

"Don't reckon we're through here..." started someone, only to get
talked down by Seth.

"Now, I thank all you gennelmen for coming to visit us in our
house, and I look forward to seein' y'all again real soon, but
now it's time for you to leave."

"But..."

"Good night, gennelmen!"

And, praise the Lord, they left. They rumbled and they mumbled
and they grumbled, but they went. One by one, they faded down the
path to the road into the dusk. Becky wanted to scream after them
"And don't you never come back here!" but some instinct, and
Seth's unrelenting iron grip, warned her to hold her tongue.

Mocking, frustrated taunts floated out of the darkness.

"Reckon Seth suddenly got all selfish there."

"Yep. He reckon to keep it all in the family."

Mocking laughter. A stone came out of the darkness and
startlingly rattled the tin roof of the house. Seth laughed a
cruel laugh. He gripped her breast roughly, pinched her nipple
sharply, and then let her go.

"Our Mam wouldn't have let you touch me so," she blurted. She
rubbed her wrists vengefully but dared not dart at him.

"Well, missy, our Mam ain't here no more, now is she?" saidSeth.

Becky did not know how to behave. "If one of them wants to walk
out with me..." she said, dubiously, to Seth after thinking
things over for a couple of days. She wasn't sure how to proceed.
If Mam was there, or even Daddy, she would have had to speak to
them about courting, but they were gone. She only had Seth to
turn to.

"Not one of them wants to want to walk out with you," said Seth,
brutally. "They all want to stay in with you, and no walking
involved."

She blushed.

"I don't want to stay in with any of them," she said.

"That's good," said Seth, "Cuz, when I sobered up, I reckoned I
must have been out of my tiny little cotton-pickin' mind."

Encouraged, she pushed her luck one step too far.

"I hated when they were here. I wish you wouldn't bring them."

"While you're in my house, you play by my rules," said Seth,
quoting Daddy. He rubbed the point in by inviting all his friends
back that very night. Becky ran away and hid in the fields until
they were all gone. It took a very long time. She thought it
prudent to wait even longer after the last sound of the last
departing reveler.

She was blue with cold by the time she crept back up to the
house, completely chilled through. She tiptoed carefully around
each window to gauge the sort of welcome she could expect. She
was so cold by then that she feared that she might accept going
to bed in any circumstances, if it only meant she could get warm
again.

There was no one in the house, though, except Seth. He was passed
out drunk with his head on the kitchen table. She crept past him,
and scuttled to his bedroom to borrow his blankets. She took to
her bedroom all the blankets she could find in the house. She
shiveringly shed her dew-damp clothes, and cocooned herself,
teeth chattering, in bed. Sleep took many hours to come. Her only
comfort was the sound of Seth's snoring. As long as he snored,
she was safe from him.

The reek of stale vomit woke her with a start in the morning. She
found Seth swaying by her bed, still in his clothes. Red streaked
his yellow hunter's eyes. Vomit stains trailed from his chin down
one side of his chest. He was goose-fleshed and shivering.

"Get out of my bedroom!" she spat, but he just laughed sourly.

"I'm as cold as a witch's tit, and I need them blankets."

He stripped off his reeking clothes and got into her bed. He
grabbed at her as she slithered indignantly out.

"You can stay and help me warm up, missy."

"Like hell," she said. "It's wrong. I'm your sister. And I'm
still just a kid, anyways."

He laughed, scornfully, and repeated, "Old enough to bleed, old
enough to butcher."

"Fuck off and die, Seth."

"Well, then, get out to that kitchen and rattle those pots and
pans. I'm a hungry man and I want my breakfast. So go get it, or
I'll take the other thing."

"Well, look away while I dress," she fumed. "It ain't fittin',
you lyin' there, in my bed, staring at my nakedness."

"Don't see nothin' wrong with it. 'Tis a mighty fine nakedness.
Best I ever did see."

Flushing angrily, she grabbed her damp dress and ran into the
kitchen. She realized too late that she'd left her spencer and
her shirt behind on the bedroom floor. There was no ways she
could go back in there while Seth was still in her bed. Tears
pricked at her eyelids. The dress would have to do by itself.
Shaking with anger, she pulled it on. The damp cotton stuck to
her flesh, instead of sliding over it, and-over-washed,
over-bleached, over-old-a long tear appeared down the side of the
bodice. She leaned on the sink until the crying was over. Then
she cleaned up the mess that Seth and his friends had left.

The smells of coffee and bacon and eggs drew Seth into the
kitchen. He sat at the kitchen table, a blanket around his
shoulders. There was a long silence.

"Mighty fine view," he said as she put down his mug of coffee on
the before him. She realized that he was watching her breast
through the rip in her dress.

"I'm like a one-eyed cat, peeping in a seafood store," he said,
amused by her embarrassment "Well, I ain't in no hurry. I can
look at you 'til you ain't no child no more. And, Missy, you sure
look like a grown woman to me. You bleed regular, you got
yourself a little bush, and ever'thang. Missy, I think you'se
ripe 'n ready"

Blushing a fiery red, she hastily plunked down in front of him
the thick, hot, china plate of sizzling bacon, eggs, sausage,
fried tomato, and fried bread. As the plate hit the table, he
grabbed her wrists and pulled her roughly towards him. He stood,
and the blanket fell away, revealing his rampant, empurpled
manhood.

He grabbed her hair, and crushed her lips to his. Panic and the
smells of stale vomit and stale whisky and stale sweat drove her
gorge up her throat to meet his roughly questing tongue.

"Jesus God!" he cried, spitting and revolted. He thrust her
roughly away from him as she spewed. She fell to the floor,
panting, and then scrambled for the door. She ran to her room and
slammed the frail, splintery door. There was no bolt, and she
pushed her cheap chest of drawers against the door, knowing all
the while that nothing would hold Seth if he was bound and
determined to get in.

But he wasn't.

She lay on her bed, clutching her pillow to her chest, listening
to every little sound from the kitchen. She heard knife scrape on
plate, and chewing, as he methodically ate through his breakfast.
He even rose to put his plate courteously by the sink for her to
wash. She heard him sit down again, and counted the four clinks
of his spoon in the bowl as he sugared his coffee. She listened
for the tinkling of the spoon stirring the mug, and heard his
gulping swallows. She heard the scrape of his chair as he stood
again, and the creak of the floorboards as he walked back to the
sink with his mug. She heard splashing of water, mouth washing,
spitting, a towel rubbing. He was getting himself cleaned up.

She braced herself for the worst as he walked through the door
into the passage, but he walked right on by her bedroom, and into
his own. She heard him open his cupboard door and take out
clothes. She listened for the sound of laces pulling through
eyeholes. He was getting dressed to go out into the fields, same
as every day.

"I'll want those clothes cleaned fresh for tomorrow," he called
down the passage from the open front door. "And get yourself
cleaned up. You look a goddam mess. Like this whole house, in
fact. I want to see some changes around here when I get back."
The door banged, and he was gone.

Becky listened to his footsteps dwindle down the gravel path to
the gate, heard the clink of the latch. She peeked out the corner
of the window to watch him go, checking he wasn't faking her. She
watched him getting smaller and smaller a long time before she
dismantled her barricades and let his smell of vomit and sweat
out of her room.

"I'll leave," thought Becky as she bent over the laundry tub.
"I'll save up running-away money 'til I can get a ticket on the
'Hound on up to Baton Rouge. I can get a job there, even if it's
only scrubbing pans in a hotel kitchen."

She began, with infinite care, to cheat Seth of the housekeeping
money he gave her. She stretched the flour by adding bran to the
bread dough, and put a penny in the jar hidden at the back of her
drawer. She bought short milk, watered it down to fill the
bottle, and put a nickel in the jar. She bought cheaper cuts of
meat, made casseroles more often, and put a dime in her jar.

"What is this shit?" said Seth said, his strong white teeth
biting into the bran-rich bread.

"It's better for you. Healthier."

He grunted, and shrugged. She felt a little thrill of pleasure at
the success of her deceit, and was emboldened.

"What's the matter with this milk?" he asked another time,
staring at her with his patient, yellow hunter's eyes. "It looks
blue."

"Does it? I don't taste no different," she lied, taking pride in
her confidence.

And he let it drop. Her heart pounded exultantly in her chest,
and she wanted to pirouette for joy that she had fooled him.

"Why can't we have a decent meat meal once in a while?" he
complained of the ox-tail stew.

"We sure can, if you wish" she replied and then, flown with new
confidence, and ambition to speed the day of her departure, she
added, "If'n you'll pay the difference, you kin have steak
Fridays the way we used to."

"What difference?" The hunter pounced. "We allus had steak
Fridays."

She had over-reached herself, and got caught out.

"Prices goin' up all over."

The sulkiness of her vague, mumbled reply meant to discourage
further enquiry. Mean-minded suspicion flickered into his eyes.
She felt familiar panic flood back into her breast, to flutter
like a pigeon beating at the bars of a cage. He did not pursue
the matter, however. After a few days, she allowed herself to
believe she'd gotten away with it. She began to take renewed
pleasure in planning further financial plundering.

"If'n I take my jar, and all of the housekeeping money, and our
Mam's silver inkstand, and if I can get three dollars for it..."

Common sense reined her in, though. If she took the inkstand, and
yet could not get three dollars for it, she would fall between
two stools.

"Wait! If'n I take the housekeeping money and the inkstand too,
next market day, and try and sell it first thing, and get the
three dollars, I can get right on the bus and not come back! And,
if'n I don't, I come back and wait another week. Wait! That means
I have to take all my clothes when I go. Folk will notice, and
talk..."

So she delayed another week. At dinnertime next market day,
though, when he sat down once again to casserole, he remarked
casually, "Spoke to the butcher today. He say he don't raise no
prices all year. Says, if'n he put one penny on steak, he
couldn't sell his stock."

She froze in terror, and looked down at her plate. She knew what
she'd see if she looked up. She'd see a lazy watchfulness in his
yellow, hunter's eyes. He'd wait patiently for his prey to make a
single, fatal error, and then he would strike. Her newfound
confidence buoyed her up. She knew him better than he knew
himself, she reflected defiantly, and so she would not make any
false move. She would do nothing, and wait for it to pass.

She couldn't afford to falter now. She was so close. In another
month, maybe three weeks, she'd be able to take her jar, and all
the week's market money Seth gave her, and get on the Baton Rouge
bus, and never come back. All she had to do was to hang on, and
not make a mistake.

"Becky. Look at me."

She ignored him.

"Becky? LOOK AT ME!"

Her eyes flicked up, scared.

"What happens to the change from my housekeepin' money?"

"Nothin'." She swallowed. "I keep it for the next week, if'n
there is any. Only pennies left anyways, at best."

She was proud of her lie. She'd practiced telling it, and it came
out pat and smooth, just like she planned. Despite herself,
though, her eyes flickered for a moment to the passage door,
pointing towards her room where she hid her precious jar. The
slip, although tiny and fleeting, was sufficient. It was what the
hunter been waiting for. Without a word, he rose from the table
and walked towards the door.

"Seth! No!" She could not keep herself from springing forward
into his path, confirming her guilt. If he found that jar, and
took her bus money away... He pushed her contemptuously aside and
strode down the passage to her room. She darted after him,
clawing and screaming. To keep her from hindering him, he grabbed
her wrists, twisted them behind her back, and gripped them
one-handed. He held her slight, struggling, screaming form away
from him as, with his free hand, he pulled open her cupboard and,
shelf by shelf, swept the contents to the floor.

Finding nothing, he turned to her modest chest of drawers and
began yanking the drawers right out, one by one. Drawer by
drawer, her precious few belongings dropped to the floor. The
last remnants of the only bottle of scent she'd ever owned-a gift
from her Mam-smashed as it hit the floorboards. The cloying,
sickly smell of cheap scent boiled quickly through the hot room.
Seth hit the right drawer, finally. Through a cloud of underwear
dropped the jam-jar of running-away money. It thudded to the
floor and rolled under Becky's bed with the coins clinking. With
a crow of triumph, Seth cast Becky aside, and scrabbled under her
bed for the prize.

She made a last, desperate lunge to thwart him, and he casually
smacked her across the room. Beaten, she lay sobbing against the
skirting board, nursing the fiery red, sausage-size finger-marks
exploded onto her cheek. Seth made a rough accounting of the
hoard, and whistled.

"Near enough money here for a bus ticket to Baton Rouge," he
remarked speculatively, cocking an eye at his crouching sister.
She couldn't meet his eye, and her angry sobs turned to a steady,
anguished wailing.

"Well, this is a nice dividend," he said, shaking the jar. "I bin
thinkin' a while now how, that the harder I work, the faster my
money goes. I think I earned myself a party."

He dropped the precious jar into his pocket, and left. When his
dragging, drunken footsteps returned many hours later, the house
was in darkness and Becky was lying huddled in her bed. She had
rocked herself into a troubled doze, but a nightmare woke her
again. She was finished. Beat. Nowhere to go. What else could go
wrong today? Would this be the day that Seth finally forced
himself onto her? Into her?

It would not. She realized that there were, in fact, two sets of
footsteps. Seth had company. Becky froze in terror. Please God,
no... But she heard a giggle, a feminine giggle, and curiosity
and rage extinguished fear instantly. Seth had brought a woman
home to her Mam's house! He would never have dared do that while
she lived, but she was gone, now. Who was it, anyway? Word got
around those town sluts fast enough when a man had spending money
burning holes in his pocket.

"Is Becky here?" asked a young woman's voice.

"Guess she runned off again."

"And so, mister, you brought a young lady alone to yore Mam's
house?" Flirtatious giggle. "Why, sir, what can you be a-thinkin'
on?"

"It's my house, now. And I'm a-thinkin' on getting' laid."

"Oh, and with who, just pray tell? Do you have many young lady
friends?"

"Well, at the bar tonight, I got so many women I din't know which
way to jump. I felt like a Miss'ssippi bullfrog, sittin' on a
hollow stump."

"Well, your manly charms will surely do that to a girl, suh!"
Another giggle. Becky thought grimly, _Yes, you bastard. You used
up my running-away money buyin' drinks for every girl in town
who'll trade kisses for liquor. Except for whatever it took to
get that slut back here_.

"And how come I got to be the one who rated an invitation, huh,
big boy?" Becky could just visualize fluttering eyelashes, the
teasing forefinger running down Seth's chest, the kittenish
rubbing up against him as the unknown woman asked the question.

"Your brother says you have a tight pussy," said Seth. Becky
gasped, waiting for shrieking outrage to follow. Seth knew his
companion better than that, apparently. After a long silence to
draw breath, there came a long, liquid, contralto chuckle.

"Why, that little skunk! Well, he's got such a small dick, these
things must be important to him. But you're going to fill me
right up, now aintcha? Whatta we got here, huh? Oh, my..."

The two new arrivals stumbled into Seth's room. They didn't
trouble even to close the door. Becky heard heavy breathing,
giggles, the rustle of discarded clothing. Seth's bed creaked,
differently from when he was alone. Becky heard a feminine
giggle, and a low, deep chuckle from Seth. More creaking.

"No. Yes. Oh! Ooooh, Seth..."

After a while, Becky heard a gentle, rhythmic creaking from
Seth's bed. With infinite stealth, she crept out of her own bed,
sneaked down the passage, and applied her eye to the crack of
Seth's door. Ooooh, shit... Seth was kneeling on his bed, facing
the door. He was leisurely fucking from behind a hefty, kneeling
young girl, with tumbling auburn ringlets. His one hand was on
her hip, and his other was under her belly, fingers buried in her
crotch. Her arms and neck were sunburned from fieldwork, but the
rest of her skin was milky white and creamy smooth.

"Jesus!" thought Becky. "It's Mary-Anne MacTaggart! That slut..."
Mary-Anne's arms were clasped around Seth's pillow, and her face
was buried in it. She weren't paying no heed to anything but the
sensations of Seth's unhurried pumping.

The hunter's eyes, though, had caught the tiny movement of
Becky's silent arrival. Seth stared directly at the crack in his
bedroom door and gave a sour smile and a sardonic wave over
Mary-Anne's back. Holding Becky's gaze arrogantly, he picked up
the pace and force of his thrusting. Mary-Anne squeaked approval.
Seth drew back a small amount, so Becky could see his slick,
thick, glistening cock pistoning in and out of Mary-Anne. Becky's
gaze dropped to it, and then went back to his face. He was still
watching her.

"God, Seth, yes. Yes, yes, yes!" cried Mary-Anne, crescendo. She
was getting close. Seth drew his hand out from beneath her belly.
She gave a wail of deprivation. She took a hand from the pillow
and reached under herself. Seth gripped her hips firmly on both
hands and fucked her hard. She bucked and swayed under his
assault. As Mary-Anne began to climax with a quivering wail, Seth
pulled out of her and spurted thick ropes of jism that arced over
her buttocks and splattered onto her back and into her hair.
Becky watched Seth, fascinated, and Seth watched Becky.

The next day, after Mary-Anne had gone, Seth came up behind Becky
in the kitchen and took her in his big arms.

"No!" she shouted, and struggled, but he held her tight and
thrust his fingertips under her nose.

"Smell that," he said. "Now that's the smell of a real woman. And
I aim to make you into a real woman."

She grabbed up the carving knife, and stabbed wildly at him. He
sprang back, startled.

"Jeeze, Missy!" he exclaimed, "Flip-flop and fly! You could have
killed me!"

"You try that again, and I will," she said, trying to look
defiant as she stowed the knife in her apron pocket. The low,
sulky tone gave her away, though. She was hesitant and afraid.
She knew it, and the hunter knew it, too. He chuckled, and
reached confidently for her.

He held her by the hair, and she caught her breath at the pain of
struggling to get away. When she had learned better, and
quietened, he brought his mouth close to hers. She could smell
stale whisky and old tobacco on his breath as he hoarsely
whispered, "Don't ever say 'Good-bye,' Becky. Don't ever think
you can say 'Good-bye.'"

His mouth met hers in a greedy kiss, and his tongue worked to
invade her mouth. She resisted, and he pulled her hair so hard
that she gasped. His tongue forced its way into her mouth. She
felt her spine bowing back as she tried and failed to resist his
infinitely greater strength.


-----

- Happy Birthday, Alexis!

- Edited by Denny, above and beyond the call.  Thank you, Denny.

- I would be pleased to here from you, at
FatherIgnatius@ananzi.co.za, about whether or not you liked the
story, and why.

- My stories are archived at
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/FatherIgnatius/www/Stories.html


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Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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