Wednesday, September 2, 2015

A Woman Named Sally - Part 2 - End

Trigger warnings: Gore for humor's sake and/or mild violence for humor, text descriptions of nudity.


Photo by Ben Hussman.


Frank Funburthers looked on with mild astonishment that his serendipitous thought was so suddenly thrust before him like a plate of pickles in front of someone suffering from a severe salt deficiency and an extreme love of delicious pickles, and preferred them plated. That is to say, he was extremely pleased. 

“Hi, I am Frank Funburthers,” he said with an air of male self satisfaction, the very picture of male privilege who was societally conditioned to expect a certain quality of life through naught but his own entitlement. “I’m very pleased to meet…” he started to say, as he knew that the audience was greatly looking forward to some wild umbrella tearing erotica.

But that didn’t last long since the author almost too belatedly realized that this character wasn’t appealing to the audience. The author employed some misdirection and pointed out that this location was again, a bar, but not one of those hipster bars, but like, a really manly bar, authentically manly, like a biker cowboy bar that was surprisingly progressive in spite of its old fashioned style and rugged individualism. It was the kind of bar where the kind of man such as Frank Funburthers wasn’t typically seen, which will absolutely explain what happens next.

Suddenly a pack of wild wolves, jowls a dripping with slobber and a desire for the blood of poorly written characters, charged into the bar.

These selfsame wolves tore into him and whisked away his bloodied and mangled corpse (or mildly injured and continuously protesting body arguing that “he can change, he can change!” which fell upon the deaf ears of the author who knew some ideas were beyond saving) into the collective forgetfulness of suspended disbelief, only remembered in the very niche fan fiction of this eventually completed piece of work that would be known as the Chronicles of Frank Dieselwang, and lets face it, this piece will probably be edited out by any competent editor.

With a sudden pan shot dramatically to the other side of the room, the audience/reader’s attention is forcefully but not uncomfortably* redirected by the author.

Through the saloon style double doors that showcase just how positively manly the bar was, burst a man who threatened to outmanly the room that he just entered. Perfectly tanned from just the amount of time he spent in the sun (to the reader’s personal preferences) his square jaw and dark black hair framed piercing green-gray eyes that penetrated the soul in a deep and stabbing way that is probably symbolism for something** that will occur in about four chapters from now. Or two depending on how rabid the readership is.

But back to the manliness! Bare-chested from his belt up to the top of his perfectly disheveled hair that showed that he did real work but not so messy that it was clear he was a bum, unless you’re so into that sort of thing, his body rippled with the easy flexibility and musculature evocative of a hunting cat well sated after a kill, sweat dripping from his muscle girded muscles onto the floor. Oh, and he had good broad shoulders that reminded one of a workhorse, and big pecs too. But not like, scary big, whatever that means to the reader. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand and turned to regard Sally like some kind of …. Predatory animal that is not a hunting cat because repetition is bad. 

He kept his eyes locked on her as he strolled across the bar like he owned it, which wasn’t true, because it was owned by someone else, but due to some background, he happened to have saved this bar from some evil corporations, which the author believes can be a universally accepted foe (as opposed to good corporations. #NotAllCorporations). The author’s main point for all of that was being the savior of the bar lent special privileges to that savior, which is displayed by the conveniently placed outdoor style shower inside the room, placed in the corner, which this new character had requested. 

It was frosted from the waist down so that as he stripped only his perfect buttocks were visibly as he stripped and tossed his clothing over the side and manfully soaped his bulging 10 pack abdominals down with soap, cleaning off an honest day’s grime, the evidence of the work washing down the drain from his body… of work. 

He made his way to the nearby dressing room, modesty barely preserved, for whichever ways can be imagined by the reader, but if you don’t have that imagination due to the reader’s boss giving the reader a hard time today, the reader may choose to imagine a towel held firmly yet flowingly from a strong clenched grip, fluttering with the movement of this character’s movements, bouncing around to show a lot of skin, but never the penis. 

Some time later, enough time to show that he didn’t slack off with preparations, but not so long that it made you wonder what was taking so long, which should be a pretty clear indicator of how good a lover he would be, this perfectly sculpted man of a man stepped back into the room.

When he emerged he was well put together again, in a tailored Italian cut suit, navy in color, a bespoke checked Italian shirt underneath the perfectly fitted jacket. They clearly were of some money to show he knew the value of quality and buying to keep clothing for a long time with good maintenance, but not so much that he appeared a dandy.

He strode over to Sally confidently, who by now was sitting at the bar and strangely not surrounded by the typical frat boys and dudebros that would normally populate this kind of bar if it was in the wrong kind of city (which this was not), and looked into her eyes, communicating to her with a single glance the confidence and experience that only the most worldly of men can, indicating that he knew they would be drawn together with possibly frivolous reasons in a torrential affair for the ages or at least a few hundred pages. He also communicated through Sally to the audience that he was no Frank Funburthers, but instead a much more audience pleasing, improved Frank.

“Pleased to meet you. I’m Dieselwang. Frank Dieselwang.”

She looked down and licked her lips, her nipples pressing hard against the thick but clear plastic of her worn umbrella.

“You certainly are.”

*No guarantees that you experienced no discomfort, but the author has hope.

**That something is sex.

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