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Message-ID: <47381asstr$1081642202@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Imagineer <imagin8r47@yahoo.com>
MIME-Version: 1.0
Subject: {ASSM} Cruel Summer 11 {Imagineer} (nosex ScFi)
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Date: Sat, 10 Apr 2004 20:10:02 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d



Cruel Summer

copyright 2001-2004 by Imagineer.

comments to 
imagineer 47: yahoo green eggs com ham
but without the green eggs or ham

http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Imagineer/www/


// 11: Connected


  It was almost noon Thursday before Angela finally got back online. It
would have been even longer if she hadn't flirted with the tech support
rep. She'd promised to send him a picture as soon as she got connected.
He was probably some puffy cheeseburger-and-fries dork who never wore
anything but tech-company giveaway T-shirts and khakis. Yuck.

  "Downloading 1 of 279 messages..."
  Great. That was going to take a while. She started work at two.

  Angela went to the kitchen for a bite to eat. When she returned, her
screen was full of mail. The top one was from mail_admin -- her mailbox
was full and the mail server would reject any new messages until she
cleared some space. It was dated last night. The rest of the messages
were from Josh, all of them titled things like Pics, Links, Ideas, More
Ideas, Like This, Hot!... that creep had filled up her mailbox! She
hoped Scott hadn't been trying to send her something only to have it
bounce...

  Scrolling to the bottom, Angela did find a week-old message from
Scott, along with a half-dozen spam messages that didn't look much
different from Josh's deluge. She deleted the spam, then opened Scott's
message:

  Hey sweetie!

  Sorry I had to cut our last chat short. My boss called and wanted an
update. I had a hard time concentrating, all I could do was think about
you.

  The bad news is they're sending me back to Taiwan. For a whole week.
I'll try to email you from there but access there is so expensive until
I get the satellite up I can't promise anything. And then it's off to
New Delhi and Cairo to set up the systems for our offices there. Still
no progress on getting me an assistant -- they hired one but it turned
out he lied on his resume. I told them at this point I didn't care, any
warm body would do, but they already let him go, and by that time the
next four choices had all found jobs elsewhere, so we get to start all
over again!

  The good news is on the return trip I've arranged an overnight stop
to see you! I thought it would never happen, but I finally told my boss
I had to have a little downtime in the States before I forgot where I
came from. It's not exactly the weekend off I'd hoped for, but it's a
start. I'll email you later with the details. I can't wait to see the
beautiful lady I've been neglecting for so long and make up for lost
time.

  Hugs and kisses and other things (!), Scott


  At least he wasn't harping on the gems again. She hoped his "details"
hadn't been lost because of Josh. What was all this junk Josh'd sent
her, anyway? They didn't have attachments...

  She opened the first one he'd sent, titled "Outfit ideas:"

  Here's a few links to pictures of stuff I found. I thought Maybe it
would give you some Ideas about what to wear when we Get Together
Friday -- I want us to both be comfortable and both have a GOOD TIME!!
We've got a lot of Catching Up to do! Can't wait to see you sexy!
/wink/ JOSH

  There were a dozen long URLs to different websites that started with
things like vogue and cosmopolitan.com and models.net and
fashionable.com. Angela clicked on the first one. She recognized the
picture; she'd seen it in one of the fashion magazines they kept at
work. The model wore a sharp-looking bright-red blazer buttoned at the
waist and a matching short tight skirt. Underneath she wore a white
fishnet bodysuit. Alluring but still tasteful. The other photos were
similar -- each of them provocative, but short of trashy.

  As she opened each additional message and followed the URLs they
contained, the images linked gradually became more explicit -- a shadow
of a nipple here, an outline of "camel toe" there, a skosh of cheek
below the hem here, a half-exposed breast there. And the expressions on
the models' faces went from happy or composed or mysterious to
suggestive or sultry or surprised. The progression was so gradual over
so many pictures that it wasn't until Angela looked away for a moment
when she thought she heard her mom's car and then looked back that she
realized that she was surfing carefully-selected clothing-fetish
pornography.

  Angela gasped at the image before her: 

  Sheer black stockings, the kind with a seam up the back. The girl
bent over and turned, one hand tracing up the back of her calf, the
other perched on her hip, as if caught checking a mirror to make sure
her seams were straight. Bright fire-truck dayglow green satin
minidress poured over her curves, the rucked-up hem failing to conceal
her black sheer panties, the off-shoulders top failing to contain her
breasts, thrust out by the strange-yet-natural contortion of her pose.
Swollen labia clearly visible, inviting penetration right through the
gossamer material; hard nipples begging to be sucked and pinched.
Through wayward strands of blue-black hair, dark brown eyes looking
straight into the camera, impossible to turn away from, the girl's
shocked and embarassed reaction to the camera's discovery of her
"unintentional" exposure betrayed by a hint of glee.

  Angela was repulsed and yet fascinated. Was this how Josh saw her? As
he wanted to see her? As he *expected* to see her?

  She noticed her heart was pounding and her breathing quick. She
couldn't take any more of this... torture... Her mouse pointer hovered
over the web browser's "close" button. But she noticed the model's
shoes. Tall pointed clear plastic heels dangling from the blonde's toes
by their black mesh straps, they reminded her of Sapphire's shoes.

  She couldn't stop now. Josh had sent her all this porn for a reason,
and it was probably more than just imagining her recoiling in demure
shame. She was expected to learn from it. Angela knew Josh had a
sadistic streak a mile wide, and there was no way she was getting her
shoes back if she didn't follow him through every sexual minefield he
laid and step on as many mines as she could find.

  With a sigh of resignation (and of breathing regulation), Angela
opened the next email and clicked on the next link.

  The images blurred before her now as she scanned through them while
attempting clinical detachment, but she spotted the themes well enough,
certain composite images burning with persistence in her mind's eye.

  ...manicured fingernails dipped between the folds of split-crotch
panties to nestle in naked glistening nether lips...

  ...mouths agape and brows furrowed in expressions of tortured
ecstasy, their perfect pouty lips painted impossible shades of red or
pink, finger glistening with saliva as it beckons the tongue, eyes
plucked and lashed and lined and shadowed, hollow cheeks flushed with
passionate rouge...

  ...improbable, impractical elaborations of satin and lace and chiffon
intertwining and capturing, caressing and exposing flawless breasts and
buttocks grazed by delicate feminine fingers...

  ...delicate insubstantial constructions captured askew, clasps
unclasped, buttons unbuttoned, zippers unzipped, laces unlaced, snaps
unsnapped, straps astray, revealing all their garments purportedly
protect, accompanied by arousing expressions of worry or surprise or
frustration...

  ...series of images progressively stripping reluctantly-willing women
of their artful outfits, their need rising as their resistance falls as
their clothing succombs to the ravages of invisible hands, peeling or
plucking or penetrating one article and one body part at a time,
simultaneously dissolving fabric and reserve...

  ...skirts of plastic, blouses and bodysuits of fishnet, bras and
panties of gauze, vestigal charicatures of legitimate articles of
clothing serving as enticing veils, revealing what they pretend to
obscure...

  ...delightfully delicate decorations adorning deliciously dainty
damsels in distress...

  ...helpless submissions to loosely-knotted bonds of maribou, lace, or
surrendered stockings...

  ...inhibitions and accoutrements lost as one...

  ...expressions of embarassment invariably giving way to pleas of
passion...

  ...everything see-through, split open, stretched aside, or roughly
ripped off...

  ...fingers grazing over, rubbing on, slipping in...

  ...skimpy panties pulled aside, untied, dangled from spike heels,
hugging thighs, or around the ankles...

  ...fishnet holed, bodices ripped, stockings run, panties torn, bras
burst, shoes lost...

  ...snapping, tearing, ripping, shredding, the imagined audible
effects strangely accelerating arousal...

  ...chests thrust outward, buttocks thrust backward, legs laid
outward, arms stretched upward, toes pointed, fingers curled, hair
haloed, lips pouted, eyelids fluttered...

  ...coming to climax as the last shred of clothing cedes the last
inkling of unwillingness, the glistening dew of excitement mixing with
the sweet nectar of passion...

  ...nothing and everything out of proportion: clothes too tight or too
loose, too large or too small; breasts too big, lips too full, legs too
long, eyes too blue, labia too lubed, pussies too pink, nipples too
taught, skin too smooth, expressions too erotic, everything fitting
perfectly...

  No one ever looked like that, dressed like that, or acted like
that... unless they were being paid to.


  Why did every guy she met have to turn out to be a freakazoid?

  As she pondered the question, her chat monitor alarm rang. Scott was
online!

  Scott8412: Do you still have the stones?
  (Talk about abrupt!)
  Halo1502: nice 2cu2... /roll eyes/
  Scott8412: I'm sorry. I've had a rough day. How are you?
  Halo1502: fine i guess. sorry i havnt been online my computer broke!
:-(
  Scott8412: Bummer. When can I see you?
  (Huh? Shouldn't she be asking him? Wasn't he the one with the busy
schedule? Maybe he sent another email and it bounced or something.)
  Halo1502: i got your mail from last week but it didnt say when u were
coming out. did you send more mail? my box was full
  Scott8412: I sent another message yesterday. I will be in town on
Tuesday.
  (Yesterday? But Josh didn't fill my mailbox until late last night...
and what was with the perfect capitalization and spelling all of a
sudden?)
  Scott8412: Where do you want to meet?
  (Waitasec. For weeks, no, months, Angela had been looking forward to
meeting Scott. Well, if not looking forward to it at least thinking
about it. Ever since he sent her the sapphires things had been...
weird. Weird didn't begin to describe it, but it was the best she could
do. But still in all that time Scott had always put her off, never
picking a date that was less than a week away, as if giving himself and
her time to think about it, and now suddenly it was Tuesday.)
  Halo1502: what about 1 of the places u picked b4?
  (Early on Scott had spun elaborate yarns about where they would meet
face-to-face for the first time. In the executive lounge at the
airport, in the swanky bar at the Regency Hotel downtown, at a table in
the spinning restaurant atop the Pulsar building, in a private box at
the opera -- a half-dozen scenarios, all of them adult and
sophisticated and classy.)
  Scott8412: Any one of them would be great. I don't care where we meet
as long as you have the stones. You pick, whatever's most comfortable
for you. It's your turf.
  (Rough day indeed, he wasn't even flirting, just all business.
Totally unlike Scott. Unless he'd just been using her.)
  Halo1502: about that...
  Scott8412: About what?
  (Long pause... this was it. This was when the truth would have to
come out, when Scott would reveal the kind of guy he really was, when
he'd show her what it was really all about.)
  Scott8412: You still there?
  Halo1502: yea...
  Halo1502: just thinking about how to tell u.. i dont want u to get
madd at me
  Scott8412: What's wrong?
  Halo1502: about the stones...
  Scott8412: What happened?
  Scott8412: Where are they?
  Scott8412: You didn't lose them did you??
  (Ohh shit. Think girl! If he really knows about the stones you know
he's got to want them back, they have to be worth, well, she couldn't
even imagine what. But if he really knows why did he send them to her,
a girl he didn't even know? Angela's heart pounded and her chest grew
tight...)
  Halo1502: i pawned them.
  (Pause.)
  Scott8412: oh shit
  Halo1502: im sorry, but i had too
  Scott8412: fuck
  Halo1502: the car broke down, mom couldnt get to work. it was my
fault i took it without asking and
  Scott8412: oh my god
  Halo1502: all sudden it started making this noize and just conkedd
out...
  Scott8412: Why didn't you ask me, I could have helped you.
  Halo1502: i had no choice i"M Sorrry
  Scott8412: Those stones are priceless
  Halo1502: i couldnt reach u and we couldent waitt
  Scott8412: I mean they're very important
  Halo1502: ill try to get them back as soon as i can get the $ and go
back their to
  Scott8412: I mean they're a family heirloom. Didn't I tell you about
them?
  Halo1502: buy them back if their not gone already
  Halo1502: important how
  Scott8412: Where did you pawn them?
  Halo1502: no u just said dont wear them until icu
  Scott8412: ICU what?
  Halo1502: i dont remember the name
  Halo1502: i see u
  Scott8412: Do you have the ticket?
  Halo1502: ticket?
  Scott8412: Receipt, whatever. I need you to find the name right now.
  Halo1502: i dont remember
  (Angela waited, as if she was looking for the receipt.)
  Scott8412: Did you find it?
  Halo1502: nope
  Scott8412: Look in the phone book under pawn shops, you should
recognize the name
  (This wasn't working...)
  Scott8412: ARe you looking?
  Halo1502: i dont see it
  Scott8412: THINK!!!
  Halo1502: why r u pushing me so hard?? its hard to think with u being
so pushy
  Halo1502: its like u dont even care about me just the saphires...
isaid i was sorry and ill
  Halo1502: try to make it up too you
  Scott8412: You have no idea what you've done.
  Scott8412: I have to get those stones back.
  Halo1502: but u gave them 2 me! i dident kno u were goin to ask for
them back
  Halo1502: ill try to get them back
  Scott8412: Give me something to go on! Just tell me where and I'll
find them. If those stones 
  Scott8412: fall into the wrong hands...
  (He was giving her chills...)
  Halo1502: am i in danger?
  Scott8412: If I don't get the stones soon, yes.
  (Oh god. Scott knew everything about her, where she'd gone to school,
where her mom worked, where she lived (well, almost)... Why did Scott
even give her the stones in the first place? Did he steal them? Was he
going to come after her now? And who else?)
  Scott8412: At least tell me what city you pawned them in. I'll check
all the shops.
  Halo1502: what city??
  (Why would she pawn them in some other city? What was wrong with
Scott? Not only was he being a real jerk about the whole thing, he was
acting like he didn't even know her any more. She was beginning to
think the feeling was mutual.)
  Halo1502: your scaring me!
  Scott8412: I'm sorry, but other people are looking for those stones
too. Very bad people.
  (Angela's heart pumped frantically; she had trouble breathing. This
was about as bad as it could get.)
  Halo1502: but i dont have them anymore
  Scott8412: They don't know that.
  Halo1502: cant u tell them?
  Scott8412: I don't know that either. Like they'd listen to me anyway.
  (Now she *really* needed to get those stones back from Josh. And
maybe look for the others again. Maybe they'd turn up in a pawn shop or
something; she didn't know, but she had to try... and she had to be
ready for when these "very bad people" came looking for her... oh no,
would they have special powers too?)
  Scott8412: I need you to help me get them back. Do you remember the
street?
  (Angela's mind was reeling... Got to focus...)
  Halo1502: the streets were so confusing i went to a few places i dont
remember
  Scott8412: Maybe I should come and help you remember.
  (Her heart skipped a beat. Was that a threat? It was a threat, wasn't
it? Was it? Oh God...)
  ***Halo1502 has left the channel

  Panicked, Angela had unplugged her computer. Who was Scott really?
How'd he get the sapphires? Why had he sent them to her? Was he just
using her to smuggle them or hold them? Was she somehow bait?

  Oh Angela, that was stupid, you shouldn't have disconnected, now
maybe he's coming to get you...

  She had to get out of the house. She had to get Sapphire's shoes
back. She had to go to work.


------------------------------------------------------------------------


  Fuck!
  Andrew Dean leaped up from the hotel desk chair, furious. His
steel-toed boot smashed into the plastic wastebasket next to the desk,
destroying it in an explosion of brittle plastic shards; the bottom of
the receptacle cartwheeled and wobbled drunkenly across the room. He
nearly threw the cell phone at the ugly abstract painting above the
bed, but regained control after an angry wind-up. That would have been
his third phone; he didn't want to pick up a reputation for smashing
cell phones. He held it up to his ear.

  "Tell me you got something."
  Andrew's lip quivered as he heard the tech stumble through a
jargonesque response.
  "What do you mean she's connected through an anonymous server?"
Pause. "So call 'em up; we can have a warrant in fifteen." Pause. "So
call *them*." Pause. "Don't give me that random hop shit, they all say
that, but they're all egomaniac control freaks. Some motherfucker's got
a log, find him." Pause. Andrew sucked in air through clenched teeth.
"What the fuck is a civilian doing with that technology? That shit's
not even supposed to exist outside the lab." Pause. Andrew turned and
looked at the nightstand, the alarm clock blaring out 2:15 in
six-inch-high red LED numerals. "Listen, does your room have an alarm
clock? Yeah, on the nightstand. Is it kind of big, with huge red
numbers on it? Yeah? Good. If you say 'get with the times' one more
time I'm going to shove that clock so far up your ass you'll hit the
snooze bar when you brush your teeth." Pause. "Fine. Can you get a fix
if we get her online again." Pause. "Fuck." Pause. "No shit, Sherlock."
He hit the END key on the phone and dropped it on the bed.

  Fuck!
  His tech was right; she was a crafty one. Nothing like the others.
She knew what she was doing.  

  Not that he'd handled it particularly delicately anyway. Jumping in
blind like that... he completely tipped his hand. Totally amateur.

  Still. She pawned them? Right.

  She was just fucking with him. If 'she' even existed at all. The
scared girl routine was a bit much.

  But bullshit or not, he had to go through the motions and have the
pawn shop angle checked out, if he could somehow even get the city
nailed down. He had nothing else. This was just Eric's way of testing
him. Let yourself be led around by the nose, hoping to capitalize on a
screwup, but mostly busting your ass and looking stupid. Challenge the
student to become the master yin-yang psychobabble. The guy probably
hadn't even turned at all and this was just a blind training op. And
that would be fine, except...

  Fuck!
  Andrew'd spent three weeks wining and dining that model Daneca --
Andrew's dick twitched just thinking about her -- and just as he was
about to seal the deal the Director calls him up to run the domestic
side of a renegade recovery. Of Andrew's own trainer. Lame. Lame lame
lame! But still, that would be fine, except...

  Fuck!
  He hadn't gotten any in over a year, at least not without paying for
it, and that just wasn't the same. He hadn't gotten any since Ginger'd
dumped him. For Eric. The fucker did it just to prove a point. Don't
get involved. It's not healthy. Bullshit. Just a cover for "don't show
up your boss by getting better pussy more often than him." It wasn't
enough that Eric got all the foreign pussy, he had to have dibs on all
the domestic pussy too. But it wasn't even about that. The four years
of grunt support work Andrew did back at the office to keep Eric's ass
out of the fire in the field wasn't good enough. Eric had to pick and
pick and pick until he found something to break through Andrew's cool.
It pissed Eric off that Andrew never lost his cool. Whatever Eric's
natural talent for getting out of fucked-up situations, he had the
occasional wild moment where his judgement lapsed and his baser
instincts got the better of him, and Eric knew it was only a matter of
time before Andrew got the call to take the field and Eric was
relegated to support work. Eric saw to it that the Ginger thing got
blown way out of proportion and it kept Andrew on the bench for a year,
but if Eric thought Andrew was going to let this latest stunt be
twisted against him he was sorely mistaken.

  Well, he'd lost his cool now. Now he was on.

  Andrew picked up the cell phone. "I'm going to check something out,
if you need me I'm on the cell."
  The worked motor of his '96 Impala SS rumbling to life, he slapped
the car into gear and skidded out of the lot toward the nearest curvy
road. Wherever this bimbo turned out to be, he'd drive there. He needed
his ride and his tunes to stay focused. He hit the button for the CD
player, which picked up where it'd left off...

  I worked hard, to give you all the things that you need,
  And almost anything that you see.
  I spent a lifetime working on you,
  And you won't even talk to me.
  Can't you see?
  Why don't you look at me?
  It's not your right to be so much my enemy.


------------------------------------------------------------------------


  "Hey, mom. Sorry I'm calling so late."
  "That's okay, dear, I just got home a few minutes ago. I had to work
a double shift, Trina called in sick."
  "Gosh, I'm sorry mom."
  "No, it's okay, I can use the money. Though now I could use some
sleep. Are you coming home honey?"
  "In a little while, I've got some things to wrap up here first. Hey,
can you check outside and see if there's anyone out there?"
  "What? Why? Who would be out there?"
  "Well, this guy I know from school, he was kinda weird, well I saw
him yesterday and he asked me out and I told him I had to work and he
said he'd meet me for coffee afterward and I go 'well I'll be working
pretty late' and he goes 'well that's okay, I'm a night owl' or
something like that so I go 'well I'm pretty tired after work' and he
goes 'well I'll meet you at your house after work and we'll see how you
feel then ok' and I tell him thanks but I really shouldn't and he got
this hurt look but kind of a weird look so I thought he might be
hanging around outside and I just kinda wanted to prepare myself
mentally if he was and ask you if you could leave the TV on in the
living room like you were still up or something."
  "Okay..." Angela's mom answered in a more-than-I-wanted-to-know but
concerned tone. "No honey, I don't see anybody out there."
  "Are you sure?"
  "Hang on." Angela heard the front door open and slippers shuffling on
cement. Then they shuffled back and the door closed. "Not a soul out
there. The only cars on the street belong to the neighbors. I think
you're safe, honey."
  "Okay, thanks mom. Could you leave the TV on just in case? You don't
need to wait up or anything, it's not like this guy's a psycho rapist
or anything, he's just a little weird."
  "No problem, honey. Why don't you call me when you're coming home
anyway, just to make me feel better."
  "Okay, sure. Thanks again mom. Love you."
  "Love you too, sweety."

  Whew. At least Scott wasn't hanging out in front of her house. She
felt a little better.

  12:45am. She was running out of time!

  Angela looked across the layout table at the progression of discarded
ideas. She just didn't yet have the sewing skill to make any of them
work. It didn't help that she kept improvising changes, trying to meld
60s-wholesome-housewife McCall's patterns with the raciest images from
fashion magazines. And she was nearing the bottom of the
returned-fabric bin. She already had a sizeable advance of at-cost
supplies against her paycheck and could ill afford to rack up more debt
by pulling from good stock, especially since she still had a Sapphire
costume to fashion once she got her shoes back.

  A progression of failed outfits littered the table, each with a
not-quite-fixable flaw. The perfect column dress made from a treated
polyester-rayon that made her skin burn and itch as soon as she tried
it on; the white see-through blouse that was so tight it ripped up the
middle when she inhaled; the skirt she couldn't finish because she ran
out of matching material; the fishnet bodysuit whose seams kept
unraveling. As the leftover cuts of fabric got smaller, her hopes of
making something that both appealed to Josh's twisted sense of fashion
and could actually be worn got dimmer.

  Suddenly the room went dark. The timer for the overheads had clicked
off again. Employees were always forgetting to turn off the lights in
the back room, so they'd installed a rotary timer switch. Guided by the
dim light of the desk lamp in the corner, Angela shuffled across the
room. This was the ninth? tenth? time she'd had to do this and it was
getting tiresome. She spun the switch all the way around to the
half-hour maximum. But she turned it too hard; the knob twisted off in
her hands, and the timer spring made a pop! sound. Oh, this was just
great. Now she would have to work by the desk light alone. She dragged
the desk toward the work table and bent the shade to point more light
on the table; it would have to do.

  Now, if she could just find enough matching fabric to put something
together...


------------------------------------------------------------------------


  The bolt sat upright in the New Fabrics! bin. A satin-plus glossy
sheen emanated from the experimental microfiber weave. "Better than
silk!" the tag stapled to the bolt's end declared. Far cheaper to make,
anyway, though that was just barely reflected in the price. Sent to
this store to appeal to the significant Asian and Indian population
market research said would embrace the new material.

  Five yards of the emerald green gloss left the bolt, bought by a
squishy-looking Chinese bargain-hunter who'd switched price tags with
clearance polyester on Miss-It Marge's shift. Smashed into a
suffocating plastic bag, peering down at puffy beige feet squeezed into
lazy wooden flipflops, as ugly as they were uncomfortable,
shhclop-shhclopping along the cracked asphalt parking lot.

  A week later, yanked out of the bag, unwadded and folded and snapped
to a stream of Mandarin cursewords, dunked in hot water and thrown over
the dusty shower curtain rod. Next day, still wrinkled, dunked again
and tossed in a clothes dryer to a new stream of Mandarin sailor-talk,
then pulled out just as its tiny fibers were on the verge of melting. A
third cut away, two thirds harshly wrapped around a rough wooden plank
and stored in the garage next to the dryer vent. The lucky third
patterned and cut by rusty fabric shears, tortured by an
industrial-strength fat stubby needle and coarse bargain thread,
manhandled by pudgy nicotine-stained fingers through an angry Singer
until it resembled a Chinese dress. 

  The next day, stretched to the limit over the squat bulging body
still denying the evidence of twenty years of too much fried noodles
and not enough exercise, accompanied by a continuous chorus of Mandarin
swearing. Immediate perspiration brought with it an unsavory cocktail
of cigarette smoke and unsoaped skin as marshmallow toes jammed into
brand-new Payless flats. Bulges beat back control-top pantyhose to
assault the seaweed-stained synthetic skin struggling to stay together
as the fat ass slammed down onto the pockmarked prickly pleather of the
aftermarket seat cover.

  The Chrysler Cordoba had barely lurched up behind the dingy Dine-In
Or Take-Out cookery when the door sprang open, rudely crashing into the
adjacent Jaguar. Cottage-cheese thighs slid off the seat. The
baked-brittle  abused weave gave up its green ghost, sacrificing itself
to the escape of millions of fat cells through the footlong split up
the back. Epithets anew spewed forth from the overweight order-taker's
mouth as pale sausage-digits struggled to reach the site of the damage.
Furious at the fabric's failure, the flatulent fat ass flopped back
into the seat cushion, the Chrysler's long-dead shock absorbers unable
to end the automobile's oscillations, the rusted chrome door edge trim
raking up and down through the Jaguar's paint. Door slammed, shifter
jammed into gear, the Cordoba lurched back out of the lot and barged
for home and an unplanned costume change.

  The morning after, the unused two-thirds of mishandled microfiber,
exhausted by repeated submission to hot dryer exhaust and clammy
caustic garage air, found itself violently extracted from its makeshift
bolt board, threads popping all over as they yielded to the sharp
knives of the unfinished lumber's rough-hewn surface. Wadded back into
a plastic bag, then dumped onto the store counter as its sweaty
tormenter recounted her humilation at the hands of malfeasant
manufacture and spun yarns of an unwashed unused unspoiled state. One
final fracas of foreign foulmouthedness at the failed insistence of a
cash refund in place of policy's store credit and the misunderstood
material's buyer stormed out.

  Gentle young hands folded the fabric with care before depositing it
in the bottom of the just-emptied returns bin in the store room.
   


__________________________________
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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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