Jack.htm

Princesses Of Bosoom

by Jack Tarouak

My name is Jack Tarouak. I am a fighting/loving man. I have always been so. I don't know how old I am, nor do I remember any childhood, although if my childhood didn't involve passionate loving and/or bloody fighting, I'm not surprised I've forgotten it. Who could possibly care about such a gawky, unfulfilled period in one's life. Not me.

In any event, I don't remember it, if in fact it occurred. Not that this is important, I suppose, but, for whatever it's worth, I don't remember being a child. Good, bad, or whatever, if it existed, I don't recall it, nor do I have any desire to. Enough said about something I just don't recall. And I don't.

In any event, I recall always looking as I look this day. Tall, broad-shouldered, dashing, with handsome yet ruggedly masculine features, and tawny, wind-blown hair, I stride through life possessed of a herculean physique, yet my agility and speed are unmatched for all my amazing body. Clothed, unclothed, partially clothed; it really doesn't matter all that much. I am always somewhat godlike when compared to most men. My eyes are the purest emerald green; blazing in the full intensity of life's adventures, of which I've had a few, believe me. Whew.

You may not believe this story. I hardly believe my own adventures; those wondrous sights I've seen; such warfare, warlords, and princesses! Such memories! Still, when you can't even remember if you were ever a child, you do tend to wonder if even the relatively recent memories you see have much coherent and/or readily verifiable relationship to reality. After all....

In any event, I seem to remember all of the events, places and people which I have set down in this narrative of my adventures upon the planet Bosoom. Well, which I intend to set down now. This is the first part of the narrative, so obviously I haven't set this narrative down yet, but I intend to do so very shortly, as I remember it, leaving out of course those parts I forget, no matter how wondrous and exciting they might have been, if I was involved in them and had remembered them, and assume that you understand that between the lines are probably myriad things I've just blanked out on which might have been magnificent beyond imagining in many respects.

I do certainly remember Bosoom, however. I have lived on this Eden and this Hell for many years. I have fought, and killed. I have battled with rulers and with assassins; warriors and wimps. And I have loved. I shall tell of these wondrous girls; Pan-fried-lee, sultry beyond belief; born on Bosoom of a sleek indigenous princess and an Asian warrior who was transported, as I was, from our own world of Shaboom; Delight Thorax, the most desirable woman of two worlds' bedrooms; Tavania, the princess who truly is of two worlds, both physical and mental; some speculate two genders, in fact; Llanacaine, the most soothing princess of two worlds. All these I have known, intimately in fact; and loved each and every one nearly as much as they loved me. Ah, but there is another!

Still my heart yearns across the vast distances of space; across the timeless gulfs of interstellar dust, asteroids, planets, stars, galaxies, black holes, neutron stars, and so forth; across time itself, perhaps; I'm really not sure; as I remember with reasonable vividity the fairest of them all. How I remember her........fairest Ta-ta, Princess of Hellion. Her flashing sapphire eyes, her rose-colored lips, her sheer gossamer outfits; her explosive passions; for war, gambling, loving; her body; her tantrums; her blazing temper....whew........she is always in my memories, as you shall see if you continue reading what I in fact recall about this most wondrous princess; again with the clear understanding that I simply can't remember everything I did with this girl, even assuming I would relate all of it if I did in fact remember it all, which I don't, just like I don't remember my childhood. Still, we had some amazing times which I do recall. I have returned from fantastic Bosoom, involuntarily, and I count the minutes in frustration as I wait, stranded on Shaboom, wondering if and when I will ever return to that world which has captured my heart and soul, and to the wondrous girl(s) I love with passion and lust beyond compare. Which is perhaps why I am writing, to sort of pass the time until something happens I hope.

In any event, if you should come upon this manuscript, I hope you enjoy it, even though what I really hope for is that you never get to finish it because I have been whisked back to love and war somehow while in the middle of writing it. Still, that's probably all you can expect, given the circumstances, though you may hope I may return some day, although not if I can help it, and neither would you if you saw the babes I know there.

Jack Tarouak.

CHAPTER ONE:

ON THE ROAD TO BOSOOM

As I have said, I am a fighting/loving man. It is in my blood, savagely coursing through my veins and arteries as it did in those of my ancestors, who I assume were also fighting/loving men; or half of them, anyway. Or maybe not. Perhaps they were wimps. I have no idea, not having any recollection even of my childhood, not to mention people who lived before that childhood, if it existed, and if they did. Whatever.

I love to fight, and I fight to love, and often my loves love to fight, and so I'm pretty familiar with all of these exciting concepts.

I am very wealthy, as a result of having lived for unremembered large quantities of years and massive investing in real estate on the California coast back in the 1600's, not to mention accumulating compound interest on savings accounts over millenia of time. This is good, since except for fighting and loving I am lazy almost beyond belief. A lazy/fighting/loving/ man.

It was in fact this indolent lifestyle which resulted in my transportation to fantastic Bosoom. For some reason I had forgotten to claim my billions as taxable income. I remember being rather disgruntled when the IRS was created, and being a fighter, I decided long ago to register my own personal protest by ignoring this silly law and agency. I assumed it was just another fad.

I was wrong in this, and about ten years ago I heard from a Mr. J. Clayton, who apparently wanted to interview me or something, since uniformed, gun-toting men in three-piece suits kept showing up with subpoenas at my office. Fortunately, I never go to the office, hating work as I do, so they never did meet up with me.

I could see that my conception of this entire matter as a fad might have been erroneous, so I decided to take a little trip around the world for awhile. Quick was Clayton, but I was lightning when it came to running away from big government and responsibility.

I traveled the far seas, diving, drinking, debauching, and generally doing what I do best; self-indulgence. It was a pleasant time, but somehow I felt I needed more. On an impulse I ordered the captain to put into a small island we had run across; uncharted in any of our maps. The island was beautiful, volcanic in nature; lush green forests rising from white beaches to stretch across the steep cliffs. The summit itself was hidden by a thick cloud which spread over much of the island; one which never seemed to move, no matter how stiff the breeze.

The place was mysterious, virgin, beautiful. It was representative of all I hold dear. I longed to touch the golden fringes of its shores, to penetrate its warmth and darkness; to explore all of its myriad, hidden delights. To climb to the highest peak in my search for pleasure and adventure, and hopefully an explosion of euphoria. And I would do so alone.

Bunny, Candy, Trixie and Sugar were understandably upset that I was leaving them temporarily to seek out this new adventure, and I must admit it was with a degree of trepidation that I contemplated spending my time on this island without company. Well, the nights, anyway. Still, I am an adventurous man. An adventurous/lazy/fighting/loving man. I figured I could handle it for a few days, and the girls were certainly liberal and imaginative enough to do without me for a small while.

Little did I know I would not return in a few days; or in fact ever to my anchored yacht and my love boat bunnies. Or in fact that I would not see Earth, or Shaboom, as it is known on Bosoom, for ten long years. But that's another story.

Wait a minute. No, it's not. This is the story. I got sidetracked. Thoughts of Candy, however fleeting often do that to me, not to mention the other three. In any event, I put ashore the next morning, carrying a pack with food, mountain clothing, and plenty of weapons. I chose gore-tex for this venture, admiring as I do its versatility/weight ratio, which give one more room for guns, knives, fighting sticks, small incendiary and explosive devices, and other essentials, namely booze, cigars, and cigarettes.

D'oughnut, the French captain and the only other male on my yacht, motored me into the blue lagoon in the yacht's dinghy. As the boat gently scraped against the soft sand I felt a thrill of anticipation. I softly stroked my M-16 A2 fully automatic assault rifle absently as my eyes scanned the lush verdure of the jungle, which grew so profusely across the wide expanse of dazzling beach. My Kimber .45 ACP automatic was snug against my hip, warm as it bask in its hand-tooled holster beneath the sun.

I knew that after I had penetrated into the jungle for a mile or so, the strange cloud mass would block even that sun which might have found its way through the massive jungle canopy, and my weapons would turn cold and forlorn, so I was grateful for the present moment. I paused, turning so that my Gerber survival knives strapped across my chest could catch the flashing rays of the sun. I smiled as I glanced down at the gleaming leather sheath caressing the razor-sharp titanium-carbon-steel machete which hung from my belt. It was a glorious day to seek out new, exotic peoples and creatures, and my anticipation was keen.