Thunderwalker: Book II - The Chrysalis

By Michael Schwaba

Annie J Weston, free from the lair of Thunderwalker, now travels in Colorado possessed by an amnesia and a baleful power, an echo from her days in the Arizona desert, an echo from her days with the sorcerer Thunderwalker.

Now known as Angie, she struggles to remember her former days, but it is difficult. The power she has discovered helps her survive in a cold, brutal world, as it helped her survive in Thunderwalker’s world, but it also fogs her mind when she tries to recall details of places and people. She discovers that using this power to protect herself has increasingly calamitous consequences, with effects that cannot be reversed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Schwaba
• Release date: Apr 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310176722

Michael Schwaba

I was born in Chicago on a sunny day in September, one month premature according to my mother. I emerged in the dark wee hours of the morning and four days later I was welcomed into an Irish/Polish Catholic family. I must have slept through it; I don’t remember much of it. I was the fourth child, and in time there would be four more, years before I left home and hometown to go out in the world on my own.My two earliest memories are: 1) lying on the floor, looking at an enormous pair of feet in front of me, and 2) Piano playing. My parents played; my mother’s parents played; my aunts and uncles played. I cannot recall many days when someone wasn’t playing the piano in our house. So, having a love of piano music, I eventually sat down one day and learned to play...the guitar.I loved reading at an early age. It stimulated my imagination, and this inspired me to write.Writing gives me purpose in life. It’s like looking in a mirror. “Oh! There you are! Thought I’d lost you...”I love writing as much as I love reading. I love the excitement of "watching" the characters and feeling the flow of words when I am in the "zone." I love the tired ecstasy of reading something finished, and knowing that it is better written than my last piece. I have even (sometimes) come to love writing myself into a corner, when I don't know where else to go, which I do much more frequently than I used to, only now it is not as crippling as it used to be, though it is still as exasperating. I have proved to myself over time that some of my best writing is to be found in those corners if I will simply do one thing when I don't feel like writing. And that is write.MS

Book preview

Part I – The Chrysalis

Colorado -- 1990s

1 - Bosky's

One fine looking woman

Bosky's Bar was more crowded than usual on this particular snowy Friday night, which meant about fifteen people in the place. There were no tables, only short wing shelves in certain areas, each with a couple of bar stools, those and the bar itself. One did not go into Bosky's for the scenery, or even to see who was there, because you always knew who was there. You went into there to drink beer, pure and simply, and maybe to match shots of Yukon Jack or Jack Daniels with some of the other locals, watch TV, or maybe play one of two pinball machines, both of which always seemed to tilt too soon and too often. You played the juke box only if you liked country music, for the only rock 45's were Carry On by Crosby, Stills & Nash, and Rhiannon by Fleetwood Mac, those being favorite selections of Bosky's daughter Nan, who made an appearance only during school holidays.If you wanted a better juke, or real entertainment, or even to play pool, there were dozens of better places on Route 50, within ten miles in either direction of Mayfield, Colorado.

Joe Bosky didn't mind. He had inherited the bar from his father twenty-five years ago on his thirtieth birthday, the day his father died. The bar was the only legacy of his father that had any value, that and perhaps the good sense to keep his mouth shut when business did not concern him. Bosky left the bar just as it always had been, small and insignificant, because of the bills, to be certain, but mainly because he was lazy. When several of his customers over the years had told him that they liked the bar unchanged because its old fashioned look gave it a kind of heritage, Bosky decided that this was a much better reason not to remodel than because he had no money or credit.

He was sitting at the end of the bar, where he usually sat when he wasn't pouring drinks. Occasionally he talked to Hank, who always sat across from him. At the moment he was looking out the window at the steadily falling snow, brightly lit by a Coors sign. The weather reports said snow all through the night. The ski resorts would be happy.

There were skiers in the bar tonight, three couples. Like most other skiers, Bosky figured, they happened in by chance, and then decided to stay, where most other skiers, from Denver or Boulder perhaps, would have moved on to some other livelier place. They seemed to like it here, which was fine with him. He didn't think they would stay long, but while they were here, it meant money in his pocket, and he'd treat them right to get them to stay and drink.

Three girls and one of the boys were gathered around one of the wing tables, while the other two boys were talking to old Pete at the bar. They all seemed college age to Bosky, and the two boys at the bar were much louder than the rest. They'd been drinking tequila shooters with their beers while informing toothless Pete of their demonstrations of pure bravado on the Monarch ski slopes.

Headlights appeared through the snow and turned off 50 into Bosky's parking lot. He looked closer as the wheels crunched through the snow and came to a stop, and saw that the headlights belonged to a tan Toyota Land Cruiser. Hank also saw the lights in the bar mirror and turned around to look, then turned back to the mirror and saw his own reflected image betraying some nervousness. He looked at Bosky, whose eyes, revealing the same look, were still on the Land Cruiser, as if perhaps there were a chance that this might be some other Toyota. Is it Bobby? he asked. Bosky shook his head faintly without taking his eyes off the vehicle. Don't know yet, he said. At the mere mention of the name his stomach growled nervously, and he felt a drop of sweat roll down his side. When the driver got out, the long blond hair was unmistakable, and a slight shiver of relief passed through him, but it was not complete; an uneasy residue remained as he finally recognized the driver. She never wore a hat; and there was never anyone with blond hair as brilliant as hers. It's Angie, he said matter-of-factly, but almost privately, as if the information were meant for no one but Hank. Someone signaled for a beer and Bosky went to answer the call.

The tinkling of a small bell above the door signaled the girl's entrance, and most of the patrons turned their heads to glance at her but only the skiers kept on talking as she closed the door. The locals simply turned back to the bar to continue their business of private drinking, as if it didn't matter who had come in, but they would cast more than one intentional, and carnal, glance at her before she left the bar, even though all the locals were too old for her, and knew it. But they also knew that looking was free, that Bobby had been a lucky devil when he began shacking up with her, and that admiring a pretty woman like Angie just couldn't be helped.

Angie was radiantly beautiful. Snowflakes stuck to her hair like Christmas ornaments, and tonight her cheeks were rosy from the cold mountain air. She wore a tan furry waist coat, flattering blue jeans tucked into rugged knee high black boots, and upon stamping the snow from her boots, she brushed a few flakes from the arms of her coat in a manner that suggested lingering coldness in the air, but a confident glow in her face as she quickly scanned the bar suggested otherwise, that she was quite warm enough in spite of winter, and in fact might be impervious to chill. Bosky gave her a wave as he poured a beer. She returned a quick smile to him and went to the bar easily, taking a stool next to Hank, who nodded to her. 'Lo Angie, he said.

Hank, she returned. She glanced down the bar and gave a nod and a wave to a couple of the locals. Bosky settled his beefy frame in front of her. Beer Angie? he asked expectantly. She considered briefly, then nodded. I've got time for one. Make it a draft. Bosky nodded and went to pour the beer. Give me a pint of Jim Beam too, will you, Bosky? And two packs of Marlboros.

You bet, he answered, and as he gathered the purchases and took her money, Bosky thought to himself, as he had many times before, how stunningly attractive this girl was. And though he'd seen her in the bar without her coat, and had a pretty fair impression of fine full curves and breasts underneath her clothes, and desired her in the hidden curious way that all men do when they see a beautiful woman, it was really, he knew, her eyes, her sparkling eyes, that held his interest and roused his own desire the most. But he would not admit that to the boys at the bar.

Thanks, Bosky, she said.

Sure. He stood there and watched her open a pack of cigarettes and light one. He leaned a little closer. How's Bobby? Even as he asked, he remembered the shock of the last time he had seen him, last week some time, and he knew what the answer would be.

She took a nervous drag on the smoke and noticed Hank was watching her, but she did not look at him. He's...weak, she answered, as a doctor might. Not much improvement, I'm afraid. She sipped her beer.

Damn shame, Bosky said, shaking his head sympathetically, but admiring her eyes just the same.

Yep, damn shame, Hank put it, nodding. Angie glanced at Hank and gave him a quick smile of acknowledgement. I suppose that's for him, he added, giving her a knowing, but nervous smile back.

You know it is, Bosky said, Bobby's been a Jim Beam man from way back, when he was old enough to start drinkin' here. He leaned closer again. Though I don't suppose he oughta have it, he said in a confidential tone.

It's what he wants, she shrugged, as if the matter were completely out of her control. He won't take medicine anymore; and it wasn't doing him any good anyway. She looked directly into Bosky's eyes, saw that he agreed with her, then looked at Hank, who did the same.

Well, Bosky said, I'm glad to see you doin' right by him, Angie. I can think of a lot of other folks who wouldn't, you know what I mean?

That's a fact, Hank agreed.

Angie nodded, assenting to both of them. Thanks.

One of the skiers raised an empty glass, and Bosky went down the bar to tend to him. The skier was a tall one, six foot five maybe, and his well developed physique, which showed easily through his bright red ski pants and red sweater, suggested that he was a bodybuilder. His face, young, smooth skin, flush cheeks, looked too young to be in a bar, but his height and breadth said otherwise. His hair was sandy blond, and long. But to Bosky, whose own hair was just a step or two above crew cut, anyone whose hair was longer than his own fit that category. What'll it be, gentlemen? he asked in his most polite tone. The two boys smirked, then laughed aloud. Gentlemen? the blond said, turning to his companion, There's only one gentleman here. So what's that make you, Chucky?

Your role model, his friend said, with a large grin, hitting his arm with a heavy solid slap, and don't you forget it. The blond slapped him back harder, which sent his friend bumping into Pete, who gripped the bar to avoid toppling off his stool, and spilled his beer. Bosky reached for a bar towel and mopped up the spill. Pete laughed. Hey! the friend said, easy now. We're in somebody else's home. We have to behave and show our good upbringing.

The blond gave him a friendly slap on the back. Right you are, Chucky old boy. Hey, you okay, Pop? Pete nodded with his toothless grin and raised a hand to show that no harm had been done. Good for you, pop. Bosky, get pop here a drink on me. No wait. Get him a drink on Chucky. And let's see, what do I want? Bosky waited patiently since there was nothing else to do at the moment, and kept his expression agreeable, disguising his feeling that this one, and the black curly haired friend who was only a shade smaller and less developed than the blond, but powerful looking just as well, and growing no less drunk and obnoxious, reeked of money, more money than Bosky would ever know, or ever see in his lifetime, and probably had done little work to earn it, if they had ever worked at all, that is.

You want another shot? the blond asked.

Didn't we just have one? Chucky said.

You just had one, Vic, one of their female companions, a red head, said across the room, with a tone that possessed some impatience, and a degree of long suffering familiarity.

Chucky stifled an inebriated laugh. I guess we just had one.

Vic nodded. So we did. He turned to Bosky. Bosky, let's have two more beers, and two more tequilas. Chucky laughed again.

Bosky nodded, irritated that this young stranger punk was calling him by name, but he disguised his feeling and got the drinks. Hey, you guys want something? Vic asked his companions against the wall. They all shook their heads. They were almost finished with their drinks, and were getting impatient to leave. Vic grabbed Chucky's shoulder, and put some quarters in his hand. Here, find out what they want, and go feed the juke box. This is a party, not a funeral.

You got it, Chucky said.

Bosky returned with the drinks, and George Jones began to sing The Race Is On. Vic thanked him and paid him with Chucky's money, and tipped him five dollars, apologizing for their outburst. Bosky was visibly surprised, but took the money and was satisfied. Well, he thought, maybe he ain't such a bad kid after all...just young, I suppose.

Vic looked down the bar to catch another glance at the beautiful woman down there, talking to some old guy. Goddam, he thought, she is one fine looking woman; if she don't have a body to beat the band I'll eat my glass.

As if in answer to his thoughts, she turned to look at him, and he was transfixed for a moment by her eyes. They were right on him, staring into his own, drawing a bead on him in some way. Her expression was distant, but seemed curious, and definitely not disinterested. Vic smiled at her, his most practiced subtle introductory grin that he had used many times before, and which seldom failed to draw a response. It did not fail now either. She gave him a quick half smile in response, tilting her head back slightly in an expression of curiosity and permissiveness, and went back to sipping her beer.

Vic sucked in a silent slow breath, and felt a stirring in his loins. His dick was getting hard. Oh Lord, have mercy on me, he thought, downing half his beer, and keeping his eyes on her for a few more moments. Time for step two.

Chucky came back. Okay, my man, we got tunes, we got booze, and we got time. The folks are having another round, and if we don't want them to leave, we better go and join them and liven this party up. He said this last in a lower, more confidential tone. Vic put a hand on his shoulder and said Right you are, Chucky. Order another round, and let's go rejoin our friends. Only...I'll be there in a few minutes.

What? Chucky said, what's goin' on? His words were a bit slurred, and he was weaving slightly as he leaned in closer.

You noticed the beautiful babe down at the end of the bar, no doubt?

Chucky glanced at her, and smiled approvingly. Who hasn't?

Vic took a pinch of salt and raised his shot of tequila. Well, my man, she just gave me a look that said Come On Down! and I am about to go find out who she is.

Chucky took another look at her, then giggled maliciously. I admire your spunk, my friend. But you-know-who is not going to be too happy about it.

Hey, what're you talkin' about? Me and Gail came up here as friends, to ski, remember? We don't even date.

Chucky suppressed a laugh as best he could. You screwed her twice. Whatta you call that?

Vic smiled with tired patience, as if they had discussed this too many times before. Chucky, lemme explain something to you. Dating is when you go out and do the town.

Yeah?...

Vic raised his glass a little higher, and lowered his voice. Screwing is when you stay in, and go to town.

Chucky burst out with a raucous laugh, and Vic joined in. Chucky raised his glass. Viva la difference!

Viva la difference! They drank, then bit into lime slices as if finalizing a pact between them, and Vic called Bosky over.

Angie was about finished with her beer when Bosky came up to her, with a fresh draft in hand. Fella would like to buy you a drink, Angie, and a shot if you want one. He stood there waiting as if he were reluctant to set the drink down. With no further word nor glance from him, she knew who was buying the drink. She turned her head toward Vic, and saw him giving her the same friendly interested smile he had shown before. She regarded him non-commitally, considering him, and turned back to Bosky. If you don't want it, he said, I can give it to Pete.

She shook her head. Tell him thanks. I'll take the beer, but I'll pass on the shot. Looking relieved, Bosky set the beer down and went away on his errand. Angie sighed slightly to herself, considering what to do, knowing he would soon come over, and thinking how to deal with him. From the little she had witnessed, he seemed to be no more than a dumb college brute whose assets amounted to an agreeable smile and big muscles. She doubted if he had a big dick. For some reason, musclemen seldom did; it was the tall thinner men who were hung like horses. No matter, she thought. She didn't really care how big his manhood was. He was handsome, and he was a brute, but probably a jerk.

She happened to prefer handsome brutish men. And if they had a brain too...so much the better. But this young hunk would not score tonight, not with her. She felt a small wave of sadness wash over her briefly, and she sighed to herself quietly. It was not for lack of desire...

She saw him come over out of the corner of her eye. She also noticed that the red haired girl was watching. She turned her head toward him. Hi, Vic said pleasantly.

Hello, she said, with just a hint of a smile. Thanks for the beer.

No problem. My name's Vic. He held out his hand.

Angie, she returned, taking it.

Angie what? he asked, with a touch of gallantry, his huge frame towering over hers.

Just Angie, she replied indifferently.

Just Angie...okay. Her hand was cold, he thought. There was a strange feeling to it. He did not hold it for long, nor kiss it, as he at first intended to do. I saw you come in, and I just wanted to...well, I have to tell you right here and now that you are one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen. He said this in his most humble tone of voice, as if he had never even seen a woman before, and he paused for the inevitable why thank you which would come back to him. But she said nothing, only lifted her glass slightly to him. He was caught off guard by her lack of reply, and when she raised her glass, he suddenly realized he had left his own drink down the bar. He might have seized the opportunity to make an impressionable toast. Dumb, Vic, dumb! If he ran back to get his drink now, the moment, the opportunity, might be lost forever.

Realizing there would be no clinking of glasses, she raised her glass to her lips and sipped, keeping her eyes on him. He felt the stirrings inside him again, and he summoned his best little lost boy look. Lady, he started again, and you are a lady, to be sure...I meant every word sincerely. You are indeed lovely... He stopped as if he were lost for words, waiting for her reply to see in which direction he would go next. But she did not reply immediately, only raised her glass to him again, and sipped, and then said, And you are a very handsome man. The tone in her voice was sincere, and Vic felt his heart leap in anticipation, but again he was taken aback. He hadn't expected this reply. Well...thank you, he said.

She took a cigarette and held it. So, she said conclusively, with a hint of a smile forming, aren't we two lucky people, to be so attractive... She held the cigarette a little higher, hinting for a light, and in frustration, Vic realized he had no matches. Need a light? he said, casting a quick glance to the bar to see if any matches were there. Angie's were within reach. She nodded to him and said, Hank, got a light?

You betcha, Hank said, his match ablaze as if on cue. She took the light, and Hank settled back with a quick pleased look at Vic, who glared back at him. Pissant, Vic thought, I could squash you like a bug. He looked back at Angie and smiled. So. You live around here?

Yes...You don't, I take it.

Nope. Colorado Springs. That's where I go to school anyway. I'm from Indiana.

Really...

Yep. Me and my friends came up to do some skiing for the weekend. He gave her body a quick once over and exercised his imagination. You don't look like a skier, he said.

She dropped an ash on the floor. No...But you look like a skier, Vic.

Yep, you got that right, honey. I've been skiing since I was a baby outta diapers.

She took a drag and exhaled the smoke in his direction, clearly unimpressed. Well, she said, we don't seem to have much in common, do we?

Vic was momentarily speechless. This wasn't going the way he'd planned, nowhere near it. He laughed and looked around the room to put himself at ease, and caught the fire in Gail's eyes. He looked back at Angie, and she said, I think your girlfriend doesn't want you talking to me.

Her? Oh she's...

Not your girlfriend? Or your wife? She's just a friend, I take it...

Yeah, Vic said, feeling slightly irritated, that's right.

Well...looks like you're losing a friend.

Vic was becoming visibly agitated; even Hank noticed it, though he kept trying to look as though he couldn't hear a word they were saying. Hey, Vic tried again with a big smile, that's not the way it is. We come up here on weekends, ski, have some kicks, and we all do what we want, you know what I mean?

She crushed out her cigarette, and looked him square in the eyes, and it suddenly occurred to him that there was a hint of sadness in her eyes, like the look of a puppy when it whines without knowing what it wants. The look scared him a little. And what do you want, Vic? she asked, leaning a little closer to him. Companionship? You wanna hold hands? Maybe a little sex?...Or maybe just a little kissy face? Her voice was soft and low, hypnotic. Even Hank had difficulty eavesdropping.

What do I want? Vic said. He smiled nervously, and felt himself getting hard again as a voice inside him was congratulating him on his victory. Well, you are a direct one, he said, feeling more pleased now.

Which one are you looking for?

Vic was starting to sweat inside, and he began to think of ways to ditch Gail. He smiled innocently. Lady, I do believe you're leading me on...and I love it.

No, she said, I just want to be sure of what it is I'm refusing you.

Hank burst out laughing and slapped the bar. Vic clenched his teeth with the sting of her remark, but managed a smile nonetheless. Okay, he thought, she wants direct, then I'll be direct; it worked before with Gail, maybe it'll work again; nothing ventured, nothing gained, right? He leaned closer to her, just within earshot, certain that the pissant couldn't hear, and summoned his lowest, silkiest, sexiest tone of voice. Angie, I know we don't know each other, and I'm not really used to being this forward, but when I look at you I just die inside from longing. I mean I could cream in my pants right here and now...

Is that a compliment? she whispered back.

He smiled. I wanna remove your clothes and spread warm oil all over your beautiful body slowly, in front of a warm fire, on a soft rug, drink wine, eat grapes, and make love for hours without stopping. Now how does that sound?

I have to admit it sounds wonderful.

Well, whatta y'say?

How about not tonight I've got a headache?

Vic laughed and pulled back. Hey, come on now. It'd be good with me. What is it? You got a man? Is that it?

She nodded. I've got a man.

I don't see a ring on your finger. You married?

No, we're not married.

Well then, Vic said, holding his arms out and smiling as if that were the end of the matter. What's the big deal? You in love with him?

That's none of your business.

Vic smirked. Aha!...that means your not, or you woulda said yes. But hey, you're right, it's none of my business...I just...I just wanna make love to you, that's all.

That's also none of your business.

Vic stood up straight, began to weave from the tequila, and caught himself. Hey baby, I tried. No harm tryin', is there?

Angie took another cigarette, but this time Vic snatched up the matches before Hank could get his light ready. Vic smiled with satisfaction as he lit her cigarette. That's right, Vic, you tried, she said with a half smile, You tried, but you failed...Now why don't you go back to your lover girl over there...before she decides to get some other dick wet tonight? She got off the stool. Enjoy the skiing, she said, gently pushing his bulk aside, but with a firmness that surprised even him. She headed for a small hall where the bathrooms were and disappeared behind the women's door.

When Angie came out of the bathroom, she found Vic a few feet away, blocking the hall. She halted in the doorway uncertainly. He was leaning against the wall, one arm outstretched, and he was grinning. You know, he said, I really hate to fail...One thing that really bugs me the most is when somebody tells me I failed. He drummed his fingers on the wall slowly.

She closed the door deliberately behind her and leaned against it. I can understand that, she said, with a degree of defiance, you must have failed a lot to feel that strongly about it.

Vic's grin disappeared. His expression suddenly turned rigid, and his hand coiled into a fist, thumping against the wall in time with the music. His eyes were smoldering with anger. Angie could feel her heartbeat pulsing more rapidly. She carefully folded her arms, so that her hands would be within easy range of his face, in case she had to defend herself. Are you going to hurt me, Vic? she asked, in as cold a tone of voice as possible. Hearing this, knowing he was frightening her, Vic instantly calmed his anger, and his expression dissolved from grimness into atonement. He grinned harmlessly. He did not want to scare her, after all, just intimidate her a little, let her know that he wasn't the kind of man to be put off so easily. Hurt you? Hey,...no...of course not. I'm not that kinda guy, Angie...Really, I'm not. His tone sounded more sincere, and he was pleased with the effect. Look, I know you must think I'm a big jerk coming on to you the way I was..and maybe I was being a jerk...But Hey, I'm not going to apologize for it, 'cause that's just the way I am. I just don't believe in beating around the bush, 'cause that's a big waste of time, you know what I mean? I acted that way because...well, I wanted you to like me. It's just that you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, and I'd love to spend some time with you, anywhere, anytime, anyway possible. I just wanna know if there's the slightest chance of that happening, that's all...Couldn't we meet somewhere?

She decided to humor him until she could get into the bar. Maybe we could do that...anything's possible, Vic.

When?

I don't know. Some other time. I can't now...Maybe some other place...

Vic's smile brightened. I get it. You don't want the old man to know. No problem. Why doncha come to Colorado Springs some time? Y'ever get up to the Springs?

Yes, sometimes I do, she lied. She had never been there before. Perhaps I could meet you there sometime...

Righteous! Y'see how easy this all is? Vic said, extremely pleased with himself. He figured she'd never show up, but at least he was having some fun with her now. Besides, who knows? She just might show up. Wait a second, I got an idea, he said, absentmindedly shaking his head from the effects of the tequila, Here... He removed his hand from the wall and staggered into it, and reached for his wallet. He held it in front of him and it slipped from his hand. Angie's hand reached out and caught it before it had dropped a foot. Vic grinned at her. Hey, yer pretty fast. She gave it back to him, and he fumbled through it and pulled out a card. If yer ever in Colorado Springs, this is where I work. It's a record store. I work there, when I'm not at class, that is. Here, take it.

She looked at the card then at him. If I take the card will you let me by?

You got it.

She took the card, and he said You hang onto that baby now.

Don't worry, she said, I'll put it right in my personal files. She stuffed it into her ass pocket. Vic laughed. Personal files..Ha Ha...I like that. Baby, you are the most righteous...

She made a move to pass him, and his hand went up to the wall again. Hey, he said, where y'goin?

It's time to say goodnight, Vic.

Gimme a kiss first, he said with a grin.

No.

C'mon, gimme a kiss first.

No.

Why not?

Because I don't want to.

Why not?

Because you're drunk. Because I have better things to do. But mostly because I don't want to.

I won't let you go until you do...

She considered. I could yell for help.

Yep, you could...But I'd steal the kiss before anyone got here, and then I'd just walk away, as innocent as can be. He grinned, and she felt her heart beating faster as she realized he was right. He brought his face closer to hers. C'mon, whatta y'say?

She watched him lean closer to her until she could smell the beer on his stale breath, and concentrated on stilling her pounding heart. When his lips were mere inches from hers she knew what she would have to do. Wait, she said. She brought a finger to his lips as if to silence him. Vic stopped. Ask me first, she said. He looked confused. What?

I want you to ask me first.

Why?

If you want to kiss me you have to ask me first.

He looked skeptical, but then shrugged. Hey, okay. If it'll help the cause. Can I kiss you?

She put her hands on his shoulders gently and said, Can't you ask me any better than that?

He liked the feel of her hands upon him and he thought, well now, that's more like it; and in a quiet softer tone he said, Angie, you lovely thing, may I please kiss you?

The corners of her mouth smiled ever so slightly in satisfaction, and she cupped his cheeks in her hands and said, Yes...you may kiss me.

Vic closed his eyes and felt their lips meet. Her flesh was soft, warm, yielding and swirling in light erotic movements, leading his lips up and over passionate waves, first one, then another, and another. He heard her moan, and it turned him on...or was it his moaning...and felt the heat of her lips, warm, growing in desire, burning, burning for him...that moan again, wanting more...her tongue probed his lips, and he parted them and met hers with his own, touching the wet warm tip, swirling around the muscle, feeling underneath, then over the top to go deeper into her mouth, and deeper still...again the moan...hers or his?...driving him into a growing desire to probe further...her tongue fought his entrance playfully, and he charged from several positions before he finally gained entrance to the gates of her wet mouth. He charged further and further, exploring the sides and roof and felt her tongue guiding him along, beckoning him further, lapping his tongue gently on the bottom, then flicking in a teasing way,...(God, how does she do that?)...awakening new senses within him, feelings he had never experienced before. Her tongue was alive, feeling and kissing his with its thousands of tiny tentacles which gripped in an odd irresistible way like...(How does she do that?)...like...(God Almighty, they feel like suction cups)...yes, like suction cups...(That can't be her tongue...no way!...then what is it?)...now rolling around his tongue like...(Jesus Christ! It feels like a snake! What the hell is she doing?)...like a snake...guiding his tongue further in, beckoning further, growing warmer now...warmer...hotter...hotter...gripping tighter now...and tighter, coiled like...(It is a snake! It's not a tongue, it's a snake!)...like a snake, not beckoning now, but pulling, pulling his tongue further into her mouth, deeper into her mouth...(Oh God, no!)...until his tongue was stretched as far as it could go...and then stretched further...(Let go! Let go! She's pulling my tongue out!)...it was burning now, white hot with desire...her tongue had melded with his, and he could no longer distinguish between the two...(help me...the pain)...now the burning sensation was no longer desire, but ravenous hunger, as he realized in horror that the pain was being caused by his own tongue being slowly severed from his throat...he could feel muscle and flesh ripping, and blood spewing into his mouth...and hers...and she was drinking it...drinking it thirstily...Oh God, no, not my tongue...not my tongue...the pain!...the pain!...what are you doing?...Oh God, help me!...somebody help me!...she's pulling my tongue out!...she's pulling my fucking tongue out!...get her away from me!...get her away from me!...help me!...help me!...Blackness...blackness swallowing me...Oh God...help me...

What the fuck!... The words screamed in his mind, but all that came out was a drunken slurred mumble. Angie's hands gripped his head firmly. His eyes were as big as plates. He tried to scream What are you doing to me? but the only sound that came out was an almost indiscernible whisper of a whimper. What do you think I'm doing? she said softly, I'm giving you what you wanted. Suddenly she snapped his head to the side and pushed back, and with one step, using the force of her body, drove him back. He yelped in pain and reeled back, losing his footing. His back slammed into the bar and he fell on his butt, almost knocking Hank's stool over. Oh my God, he thought, she snapped my neck in two. I'm dead.

But he was not dead, nor was his neck broken. The other bar patrons all looked over, and his friends had stood up. Chucky started making his way over, and Bosky was right behind him, looking grim, and carrying a sawed off baseball bat in his hand, which he had picked up along the way. Angie walked out of the hall casually, as if nothing at all had happened. Angie, Bosky said You okay?'

Sure, she said, I guess he must have tripped over his feet.

Vic had gone pale. He was probing his mouth intently for his tongue, as