Repost: Money Talks (was Re: WHO'S NEXT?) Author: Lenore Levine Email: levine@orion.math.uiuc.edu Date: 1998/12/02 Forums: alt.tasteless -- From: levine@symcom.math.uiuc.edu (Lenore Levine) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Money Talks Date: 6 Oct 1995 19:36:16 GMT The famous man was being made up for a talk show appearance. Half asleep, he dreamt about the incident which had given him worldwide notoriety... -- In a red rage, he turned his key in the door to her apartment. This time, he said to himself, the bitch would pay. He entered the living room and found her on her knees in front of a hand- some young fruit. The kid was stroking her blond hair. The next thing the man knew, he was standing in front of two broken bodies. "Bitch!", he found himself shouting at the girl. "Why did you leave me for that faggot? Why? Why? Why?" He found that he had unzipped his pants and was stroking his tool. "Slut!", he screamed again, as he pumped it up and down. "You slut! Did he fuck you in the ass? Do you like it up the ass, you whore?" He kicked the girl. For good measure, he kicked the kid, too. The boy was pretty, goddamit. Sickeningly pretty. "Faggot!," he shouted. "What were you doing with my woman, you fucking faggot? Did you stick it up her poop chute? I bet you like having a dick up _your_ ass!" At this point, precum was dripping out of his tool. Based on an impulse he didn't understand, the famous man tore the kid's pants off and spread his asscheeks. Sure enough, the asshole was flabby and distended. "Pig!", he moaned, as he stuck his dick into the cold hole. "Pig! Slut! Faggot! Fuck my girl, will you? You _are_ a girl! Faggot! Ohhh! Faggot, faggot, FAGGOT! Ohhh! Mmmm...Ahhh..." -- The famous man came back to reality. He was ready to appear on stage. The hostess smiled at him warmly; he remembered that her husband, like him, was a former football star. A bit long in the tooth, he said to himself. But I could fuck that. "And what are you going to do, now that you're free?", she asked him. "Spend the rest of my life looking for her real killers," he answered. The audience gave him a standing ovation. The famous man smiled. He knew that the whole country loved him. "Serves the bitch right," he muttered to himself. But not too loud. -- After the show, the hostess invited him into her dressing room. "Wanna snort some crank?", she asked him. "Is Mark Fuhrman a racist?", he answered. The crystal meth was good. No, it was so good it was _bad_. Kathie, the hostess, licked her lips. He found his tongue was in her mouth, and they were pressing against each other like animals. They tore off their clothes, and before he knew it she was sitting on top of him, riding him like a piston. -- The famous man had never had sex that hot before. And Kathie seemed to enjoy it just as much. She bought a small strap-on, and the sight of this appliance, protruding above her distended labia, drove him wild. He extended his stay in New York for a month. During that visit, she porked him any time she could get away from her dorky husband. After the famous man flew back to L.A., Kathie called him as often as she could. They were on the phone for three or four hours almost every night. Kathie told him that she loved him, and that she wanted his body more than anything in the world. They spent a lot of time talking about her little dildo. They named it "Ron." -- A few weeks later, Kathie got into a fight with her husband. She told him that he wasn't man enough to satisfy her any more. They threw crockery at each other. Kathie walked out of the house, and took the next flight to Los Angeles. She stayed at the famous man's mansion, in Brentwood. They were seen together at all the fashionable restaurants. Armies of paparazzi camped outside their doorstep. Inside, he had sex with her at least twice a day. Kathie was insatiable; when he wore out, she would masturbate in front of him. She would work her clit until it became red and sore. She told him she worshipped his dick. "Marry me," he implored her. -- He gave her a diamond ring which cost more than the gross national product of Bangladesh. The day her divorce was final, they got married. Their "plantation wedding" was on the front cover of _People_. In spite of Presidential primaries, a wave of nuclear terrorism, and the destruction of the ozone layer, they were on the cover of _Time_. Even _Playboy_, for the first time in its history, showed a man on the cover. The famous man was happier than he had ever been in his life. Kathie adored him. A couple of months after they returned from their honeymoon Carnival (TM) cruise, the famous man woke up at three in the morning. He felt sad, for the first time in years. He woke Kathy up and told her what had really happened. He fell asleep, held in her arms. -- A few weeks later, Kathie came back late from a shooting for _Vogue_. She apologized profusely. There was alcohol on her breath; but then there usually was, anyway. As the shooting continued, Kathie kept coming back later and later. On the last day, she didn't arrive back home until one a.m. The famous man held her, tightly, and kissed her in the mouth. She kissed him back, passionately. They went to bed. She collapsed on the bed, curled up away from him, sound asleep. The next week, there was another magazine shoot, this one in Italy. Kathie told the famous man not to go with her. "I need my emotional space," she admonished him. "We've been getting into some really heavy energy lately." She smiled, the famous perky smile which usually made his dick turn hard as a rock. This time, for some reason, it didn't. Kathie called him up from Rome, at two in the morning. She told him she loved him, and missed him like crazy. She asked him to talk to her while she brought herself to orgasm. -- The next shoot was in Mexico City. Every night, Kathie would call him up and masturbate to his voice. One night they were both about to come. Across a continent, the famous man heard a knock on the door. "C'mon in," he heard Kathie say. She hung the phone up, quickly. That night, he couldn't sleep. The next morning, he saw a clip of his wife on _Entertainment Tonight_. She was in a Mexican disco, dancing the night away with a young rooster from the _Ballet Folklorico_. When she came home, the famous man lost it. "What in the fuck were you doing, bitch?", he yelled at her. Kathie smiled, sweetly. "Boinking ballet dancers," she said. "And you better like it. Want me to tell the whole world what you did, sweetcakes?" The famous man's mouth dropped open. "But...but...but I was found innocent." "Not in civil court, dickweed." "Uh...oh...um..." "And shut your mouth, hon. You might draw flies." Kathie minced off on her high heels. The famous man didn't say anything. He just shoved his fist through the window, repeatedly, till his whole hand was covered with blood. -- From that point on, Kathie had the upper hand. She would stay out as long as she pleased. Sometimes she would come back late at night, smelling of semen. But she never had sex with him any more. And any time he complained, she brought up the civil suit -- or worse. Every now and then, she would bring back a young man -- a makeup artist, a ballet dancer, or sometimes, even a florist -- for her own amusement. The famous man had to lick their cocks to make them ready for her. He never got to touch her anymore, except in the shower, where they would both urinate on him. It got to the point where he was almost looking forward to that. -- The famous man grew used to his punishment. Soon, his face assumed the mask it had worn during his trial. Kathie sensed that and spent less and less time at home. With all that extra time on his hands, the famous man got to know Kathie's children. The boy was a holy terror sometimes; on the whole, however, he found their company surprisingly enjoyable. He also started talking to Inga, Kathie's au pair girl. Inga didn't know very much English; the famous man suspected that she didn't understand much of what he said. But she knew how to nod in the right places. One day, the famous man broke down and cried. Inga put her arms around him. One thing led to another, and the famous man soon found himself in Inga's garret room, lying on top of her on an old army cot. (Kathie, un- fortunately, was not overly generous with the help.) Inga was pretty. She wasn't beautiful, though, particularly by Holly- wood standards. She wasn't even that good in bed. But Inga had grown up above the Arctic Circle. She was, to be honest, quite clueless. She really thought that he was a nice man -- and she was genuinely nice to _him_. The famous man had not encountered that sort of behavior in years; as a matter of fact, not since he was a teenager. He found himself wanting to live up to her estimation of him. It didn't take too long for the famous man to decide to confess his crime. The civil suit was still pending, of course, but the victims' families could have his money. He decided to spend his life in Africa, helping the poor. He knew that Inga would follow him. He knew that he would be happy, if he was with her. -- One night, the famous man was lying on his back in Inga's cot. Inga was lying on top of him, nestled in his shoulder. She was snoring gently, like a housecat. Half asleep, the famous man was dreaming of children. All of a sudden, he heard a sharp cracking noise. Suddenly, the body on top of him sagged, and became dead weight. Something sticky started dripping onto his shoulder. The famous man looked up. Kathie was standing in the doorway. Her lipstick-red miniskirt was the same color as her lipstick-red gun. She smiled, the same sweet smile that had caused the whole world to fall in love with her. There was another crack. "I'm going to hire F. Lee Bailey, too," he heard her say, as he faded into darkness.