Nik-note: Wrangling 'Real World' stuff --Such as on-going plumbing woes-- seems to prime my wits to write 'Urban Fantasy' as 'Occupational Therapy'. With WIRS chapter still stuck, a dozen-plus re-writes not improving a crucial scene, another tale bubbled up...
---
Double Trouble #1
When the family lawyer calls, you go. Never mind that my previous visits had brought bad news or worse. The family business going bust. The 'secure' pension fund emptied. Dad's suicide. Mum's tragic death. Uncle Paul's descent into debt and drink. My inheritance cut to Uni fees, then a begrudged loan for college.
What could go wronger ?
I only needed one look. Sat beside a young, business-suited woman was, "Uncle Jack !"
"Jackie, you're looking well--"
"Eff off."
"Please !" Mr. Jones, of 'Jones, Jones and Jones' was not happy. "Ms. Jones, may I ask you to hear out your uncle ? He assured me that his proposal would be of considerable benefit to you."
"Mr. Jones," I hissed, "Mr. Jackson destroyed our thriving family business, pillaged the company pension fund, drove my father to suicide and Uncle Paul to drink. Broke Mum's heart and health. But, I'll not dishonour her memory by breaking a chair on his head..."
I turned, snarled, "So, Uncle Jack, to use one of your favourite phrases, you have two minutes."
He hesitated, asked, "Did you hear about my daughter Priscilla's car-crash ?"
"Nasty." I nodded. "Latest toy-boy spun his Porsche into a dump-truck, died. 'Fire and Rescue' cut her free."
"She's in a bad way. Seat-belt and air-bags saved her body, but her wits..."
"Concussion fugue," the young woman sharply stated, in a strong contralto which let me place her. Jennifer Asquith, a dark-eyed, brush-cut brunette was Priscilla's formidable 'Personal Assistant'. "She's regressed to pre-school."
"Aaargh, I'm so sorry." I shook my head. "Though we 'fell out' later, we were good friends as kids."
Uncle Jack began, "I want you to take her place--"
"What ?"
"You're almost twins-- Same height, bones, blonde hair, blue eyes--"
"Is this something to do with all those proxy votes she inherited from her mother, your first wife ?"
"Yes--"
"That could be 'sharp practice', perhaps fraud. Try harder. One minute."
"I want you to body-double her until she recovers. A few years, perhaps four or five--"
"Eff off !"
"Ms. Jones !"
"Mr. Jones, this has the makings of a major fraud--"
"Ms. Jackson cannot wield any votes until she reaches 25. Mr. Jackson controls the proxies until then, and proportionately until she turns 35."
"So you're saying this scheme is legal ?"
"Just about..."
"Stop the clock." It was another of Uncle Jack's catch-phrases. I turned to face him, snarled, "What makes you think I can be bought ?"
"You need the money. You did well at Uni, but had to drop out, take a budget Trade course instead." He gave me a moment to consider that sad truth. "You'll get Priscilla's allowance, save enough to build a nest-egg. Clear your student loan, finish your Light Engineering / Robotics degree, do a 'Masters', an MBA, whatever."
"What happens if Priscilla recovers ?"
"Your cosmetic surgery is reversed, free of charge."
"Would I get training ?"
"Lots," Ms. Asquith stated. "I've run Priscilla's life for nearly a decade, your make-over would be perfect."
"And her step-mother ?" I looked to Uncle Jack.
"Jacindra loathes Priscilla," he admitted. "Calls her 'Potty-Mouth'. You'd be a welcome improvement."
"Hmm." I allowed myself a tiny smile. "Seems your arm-candy is not as 'Dumb Blonde' as I'd thought."
Uncle Jack flinched, but Ms. Asquith's dark eyes twinkled.
"But, Uncle Jack," I wondered, "Beyond keeping control of your company, what do you get out of this ?"
"A nicer daughter--"
"I don't believe you." I shook my head. "What if we do this, then some-one slips my 'Priscilla_2.0' a 'Bad E' or 'Mickey Finn' ? Adios, Amigo !"
Uncle Jack spluttered with fury and indignation. Though he ranked high on the 'UK 100 Rich List', I'd grabbed him by the nose hair.
"Easy enough to arrange," I mused. "Assassins, like witnesses, are expendable. Just takes money, of which you have lots."
My lawyer went pale as he realised he, his colleagues, kith and kin were at risk, too. Ms. Asquith's eyes tightened like-wise.
"Still..." I began, paraphrasing a Classic, "Now we know what you are, we can negotiate."
"A million--"
"Ha ! D'you think I'm stupid ?" When his irate gaze met mine, he glimpsed abyss within, shuddered. "First, first, you demonstrate 'Good Will' by restoring the 'Flange Forgings' pension fund you raped--"
"You--"
"With commercial interest, back-pay and costs. Plus urgent ex-gratia payments to rescue the several dozen families in greatest need." I let that sink in, added, "Clear Uncle Paul's bankruptcy, get him onto a good Alcohol recovery course."
"You--"
"There's no point asking you to return my 'Flange Forgings' intellectual property: Last time I looked at the 'financials', you'd out-sourced everything."
"You--"
"Put my medical reversion costs, index linked, into escrow. If anything happens to me, it goes to charity." I smiled like the neighbour's tabby-cat eyeing yet-another unwary grey squirrel. "In addition to Priscilla_2.0's expenses and allowance, pay me 25 grand after tax and 'National Insurance' deductions into escrow up-front, then the same every quarter but six months in arrears. If I screw-up, I forfeit those six months."
"You drive a hard bargain, Ms. Jones." Uncle Jack's formality indicated a rare modicum of respect.
"Nah..." I shook my head. "If I tried, you'd out-wit me three ways from Tuesday. I'll settle for helping the people you've wronged."
Double Trouble...
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Nik_SpeakerToCats
- Posts: 1276
- Joined: Sat Dec 10, 2022 10:56 am
Double Trouble #02
Double Trouble #02
Sorting out the many details and devising contingency plans required three months. Finally, wearing a short, blonde wig matching my own hair, I took a nice bunch of flowers to Priscilla's clinic.
The staff were expecting me. I was not sure what to expect of my cousin, but that witless child-woman sat on the padded mat in her private room sorta-watching kiddy-TV was even worse than I'd expected. She'd lost a lot of weight, was obviously wearing a bulky 'adult' nappy beneath her pastel 'hygiene' clothes. She had a naso-gastric tube, a big 'pacifier', padded hand, foot and head-wear. I spoke to her for a while, got no recognition, no response. To put it politely, her lights were on but no-one was home.
A deal's a deal: My performance would rebuild the cruelly asset-stripped 'Flange Forgings' pension fund. It would rescue hundreds of distressed former employees, especially the several dozen families in greatest need. It would clear Uncle Paul's bankruptcy, dry him out, hopefully salvage his marriage. It would restore my modest inheritance, lost to the company collapse. It would, incidentally, clear my student loan, even grub-stake my finances to become a 'Lone Trader' Plumber...
The staff had several pages of waivers for me to sign. I smiled politely, struck out their zoo of disclaimers, wrote 'Due Care, Please' against each.
I handed my blonde wig and the promised wad of cash to the trainee nurse who was going to walk out the door as me then 'vanish'. I needed several attempts and slurps of water to place the naso-gastric tube. Then the staff put me in a nappy, nappy-cover and outfit matching my unfortunate cousin. The padded booties had inserts to prevent foot-curl, which made standing difficult. Combined with the nappy's bulk, they limited walking to a clumsy waddle. The thick mittens had curved stiffeners whose channels separated my fingers, prevented nail-picking, fist clenching and nail-gouging of palms. The head-wear included a face-guard to prevent me disturbing naso-gastric tube or pacifier, never mind poking myself in the eye with a mitten seam.
After seating me in a mobile 'shower chair', then securing the multi-point safety harness and sundry hook/loop limb restraints, a nurse trundled in a drip-stand, connected a litre bottle to my naso-gastric tube. I'd be on all my cousin's meds for six weeks, but the 'anti-psychotics' would be introduced progressively. Even with a generic, anti-nausea drop-shot in the mix, this first, partial dose hit me hard. Like getting rather drunk, reality began to fade. I knew I'd be getting enough diuretics and macrogol to remove bowel and pee control. I'd have to learn to relax and trust the nappy...
A second and third bottle of mix followed. A big syringe of water 'chased' the line. In a happy haze, I was fitted with a big 'pacifier', wheeled to my room, then sat on the padded mat in front of the TV with a kiddy-channel playing. Too zonked to be scared, I'd just enough self-awareness to wonder at my loss of volition.
An uncertain time later, two nurses moved me into the en-suite, checked my nappy, then used a shower accessory to gently, efficiently butt-flush me. That was very weird rather than unpleasant. Back in my nappy, dressed, secured to the mobile chair, I was spoon-fed two jars of bland baby-food, plied with a teated bottle of 'juice', then piped with a big bottle of naso-gastric mix. A big syringe of water 'chased' the line.
Somewhat later, a nurse came in with two big syringes, deployed them into my naso-gastric tube. The first held more anti-psychotics and other meds, which spun my be-fuzzed wits like a half-blocked dojo strike. The second was merely water to 'chase' the line.
A few minutes later, the nurse was back with an assistant. They moved me to the room's medical bed, laid me on my back, buckled my ankles, torso and wrists to the sides, tilted the bed to a comfortable slant, then turned on the cyclic air-mattress. The meds hit like a Sensei. Despite night-light, restraints and the mattress' burbles, I soon slept. My dreams were bizarre, inchoate. At some stage, my filling bladder woke me. Beyond confusion, alarm, distress, then desperation, my sphincter finally spasmed. I furiously peed my nappy. Greatly relieved, I drifted back to sleep.
That first afternoon, evening and night set the pattern for my stay. The diuretics were fast acting, rapidly taking me from 'need', through 'urgent', 'distress', 'spasms' then 'release and relief'. After a couple of days, my body learned to trust, use my nappy at the 'need' stage.
Ick.
And, by then, the macrogol laxatives had utterly overtaken my bowels, such I'd lost control of my 'motions'.
Double Ick.
Too zonked to be embarrassed, I became very glad of the cleansing butt-showers and flushes, the slathered nappy-cream...
Another few days thus reduced my world to bewildered confusion punctuated by disjointed snatches of near-clarity, like 'fevre dreams' minus fever. Now 'sufficiently dysfunctional', I was moved into my cousin's room and she was secretly taken off-site. Her destination, a very discreet 'Lake District' sanitorium / spa that specialised in brain-damage re-hab, would use 'Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation' and other non-invasive tactics to try to re-boot her wits.
After I'd been 'Priscilla' for a full month, the next phase was a well-publicised move to a Swiss hospital / clinic. They'd treat 'her' adhesions, concussion, PTSD and 'nervous collapse' following that severe car-crash. I retained only vague impressions of being wheeled through a camera-flashing press of well-wishers and paparazzi to a private ambulance, a medi-jet, then another private ambulance. As planned, Priscilla's formidable PA, Jennifer Asquith held my hand almost every inch of the way...
I've no idea how the border controls and their biometrics were by-passed. When I'd raised the matter at the planning stage, I was told, "You do not need to know."
The Swiss clinic progressively reduced my wits-fuzzing meds, such that the third day found me awake and alert. I still needed a nappy, that aspect would take longer to resolve. Still, I was me again, cognisant enough to discuss the plan with my designated consultant. He was not happy with me, Ms. Asquith or, by proxy, Uncle Jack, but accepted I was a sufficiently informed and willing participant.
The many surgeries were very unpleasant. Among other 'upgrades', I got new teeth, DD bust implants, a nose-job, lips plumped, cheek-bones and chin sculpted, ears re-shaped and multi-pierced, vocal cords partially botox'd from my strong mezzo to Priscilla's twee soprano. My finger-prints were lasered to match my cousin's. My eyes were lasered to secure my retinas, 'partially detached' by the crash. In truth, it was to mung their biometrics. Thankfully, Priscilla's infamous 'Slut' tatts were done while I was otherwise zonked. And, mine were a type which could later be easily erased.
Sorting out the many details and devising contingency plans required three months. Finally, wearing a short, blonde wig matching my own hair, I took a nice bunch of flowers to Priscilla's clinic.
The staff were expecting me. I was not sure what to expect of my cousin, but that witless child-woman sat on the padded mat in her private room sorta-watching kiddy-TV was even worse than I'd expected. She'd lost a lot of weight, was obviously wearing a bulky 'adult' nappy beneath her pastel 'hygiene' clothes. She had a naso-gastric tube, a big 'pacifier', padded hand, foot and head-wear. I spoke to her for a while, got no recognition, no response. To put it politely, her lights were on but no-one was home.
A deal's a deal: My performance would rebuild the cruelly asset-stripped 'Flange Forgings' pension fund. It would rescue hundreds of distressed former employees, especially the several dozen families in greatest need. It would clear Uncle Paul's bankruptcy, dry him out, hopefully salvage his marriage. It would restore my modest inheritance, lost to the company collapse. It would, incidentally, clear my student loan, even grub-stake my finances to become a 'Lone Trader' Plumber...
The staff had several pages of waivers for me to sign. I smiled politely, struck out their zoo of disclaimers, wrote 'Due Care, Please' against each.
I handed my blonde wig and the promised wad of cash to the trainee nurse who was going to walk out the door as me then 'vanish'. I needed several attempts and slurps of water to place the naso-gastric tube. Then the staff put me in a nappy, nappy-cover and outfit matching my unfortunate cousin. The padded booties had inserts to prevent foot-curl, which made standing difficult. Combined with the nappy's bulk, they limited walking to a clumsy waddle. The thick mittens had curved stiffeners whose channels separated my fingers, prevented nail-picking, fist clenching and nail-gouging of palms. The head-wear included a face-guard to prevent me disturbing naso-gastric tube or pacifier, never mind poking myself in the eye with a mitten seam.
After seating me in a mobile 'shower chair', then securing the multi-point safety harness and sundry hook/loop limb restraints, a nurse trundled in a drip-stand, connected a litre bottle to my naso-gastric tube. I'd be on all my cousin's meds for six weeks, but the 'anti-psychotics' would be introduced progressively. Even with a generic, anti-nausea drop-shot in the mix, this first, partial dose hit me hard. Like getting rather drunk, reality began to fade. I knew I'd be getting enough diuretics and macrogol to remove bowel and pee control. I'd have to learn to relax and trust the nappy...
A second and third bottle of mix followed. A big syringe of water 'chased' the line. In a happy haze, I was fitted with a big 'pacifier', wheeled to my room, then sat on the padded mat in front of the TV with a kiddy-channel playing. Too zonked to be scared, I'd just enough self-awareness to wonder at my loss of volition.
An uncertain time later, two nurses moved me into the en-suite, checked my nappy, then used a shower accessory to gently, efficiently butt-flush me. That was very weird rather than unpleasant. Back in my nappy, dressed, secured to the mobile chair, I was spoon-fed two jars of bland baby-food, plied with a teated bottle of 'juice', then piped with a big bottle of naso-gastric mix. A big syringe of water 'chased' the line.
Somewhat later, a nurse came in with two big syringes, deployed them into my naso-gastric tube. The first held more anti-psychotics and other meds, which spun my be-fuzzed wits like a half-blocked dojo strike. The second was merely water to 'chase' the line.
A few minutes later, the nurse was back with an assistant. They moved me to the room's medical bed, laid me on my back, buckled my ankles, torso and wrists to the sides, tilted the bed to a comfortable slant, then turned on the cyclic air-mattress. The meds hit like a Sensei. Despite night-light, restraints and the mattress' burbles, I soon slept. My dreams were bizarre, inchoate. At some stage, my filling bladder woke me. Beyond confusion, alarm, distress, then desperation, my sphincter finally spasmed. I furiously peed my nappy. Greatly relieved, I drifted back to sleep.
That first afternoon, evening and night set the pattern for my stay. The diuretics were fast acting, rapidly taking me from 'need', through 'urgent', 'distress', 'spasms' then 'release and relief'. After a couple of days, my body learned to trust, use my nappy at the 'need' stage.
Ick.
And, by then, the macrogol laxatives had utterly overtaken my bowels, such I'd lost control of my 'motions'.
Double Ick.
Too zonked to be embarrassed, I became very glad of the cleansing butt-showers and flushes, the slathered nappy-cream...
Another few days thus reduced my world to bewildered confusion punctuated by disjointed snatches of near-clarity, like 'fevre dreams' minus fever. Now 'sufficiently dysfunctional', I was moved into my cousin's room and she was secretly taken off-site. Her destination, a very discreet 'Lake District' sanitorium / spa that specialised in brain-damage re-hab, would use 'Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation' and other non-invasive tactics to try to re-boot her wits.
After I'd been 'Priscilla' for a full month, the next phase was a well-publicised move to a Swiss hospital / clinic. They'd treat 'her' adhesions, concussion, PTSD and 'nervous collapse' following that severe car-crash. I retained only vague impressions of being wheeled through a camera-flashing press of well-wishers and paparazzi to a private ambulance, a medi-jet, then another private ambulance. As planned, Priscilla's formidable PA, Jennifer Asquith held my hand almost every inch of the way...
I've no idea how the border controls and their biometrics were by-passed. When I'd raised the matter at the planning stage, I was told, "You do not need to know."
The Swiss clinic progressively reduced my wits-fuzzing meds, such that the third day found me awake and alert. I still needed a nappy, that aspect would take longer to resolve. Still, I was me again, cognisant enough to discuss the plan with my designated consultant. He was not happy with me, Ms. Asquith or, by proxy, Uncle Jack, but accepted I was a sufficiently informed and willing participant.
The many surgeries were very unpleasant. Among other 'upgrades', I got new teeth, DD bust implants, a nose-job, lips plumped, cheek-bones and chin sculpted, ears re-shaped and multi-pierced, vocal cords partially botox'd from my strong mezzo to Priscilla's twee soprano. My finger-prints were lasered to match my cousin's. My eyes were lasered to secure my retinas, 'partially detached' by the crash. In truth, it was to mung their biometrics. Thankfully, Priscilla's infamous 'Slut' tatts were done while I was otherwise zonked. And, mine were a type which could later be easily erased.
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jemhouston
- Posts: 4191
- Joined: Fri Nov 18, 2022 12:38 am
Re: Double Trouble...
I'm enjoying this so far, but I still think it will be a trainwreck.
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Nik_SpeakerToCats
- Posts: 1276
- Joined: Sat Dec 10, 2022 10:56 am
Re: Double Trouble...
Yes, what could possibly go wrong...
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Nik_SpeakerToCats
- Posts: 1276
- Joined: Sat Dec 10, 2022 10:56 am
Double Trouble #03
Double Trouble #03
As soon as I was well enough, my 're-hab' and 'psychotherapy' began. The latter's regime to 'build my legend' was perilously close to 'brain-washing'. Beyond weary, book-learned, flash-card tested basics of 'who, what, why, where and when', I spent several hours a day under hypnosis. I was a poor subject at first. Even sorta-willing, I needed mild tranquilisers to render me receptive. I'm fairly sure those early sessions installed several 'key phrases', at least one of which could swiftly 'enfold' me. Certainly, I progressively acquired Priscilla as my 'alter-ego'. Watching the many, many hours of her prolific video-blogging over and over embedded her well-known mannerisms and catch-phrases until I could faithfully re-enact many of her monologues. By night, mildly drugged, I was fed their audio via Bluetooth earpieces. My dreams were weird.
Ms. Asquith coaxed my act, feeding me lines to which I made stock replies. She also helped with the 'physiotherapy' side, assisting the small team who coached me to dress, move and speak like Priscilla's 'Social Princess'. Part of the staff at a very exclusive local 'Finishing School', they routinely house-trained hyper-rich families' oft-obnoxious 'Ugly Ducklings' into 'Eligible Debutantes'. To my surprise, the team liked me. I was intelligent, polite, modest, kind-- In fact, I lacked all the vile 'Dark Triad' characteristics their usual students exhibited. The team found it hilarious that I needed to be taught to be imperious, tactless, rude, even casually cruel...
Learning to dress as big-busted Priscilla was hard, hard, hard.
DD lingerie !! Those hold-up stockings, garter belt and suspenders, sheer nylons, under-wired bras and such were a necessary evil. Getting used to Priscilla's risqué hem-lines and deep cleavage took a while.
Footwear !! My long month mostly sat on the first clinic's mat had cost me much muscle tone. It relaxed my Achilles and other tendons enough that I could wear fashionably high heels rather than my usual Docs or sportiv flats. Getting comfortable was a different matter. Beyond the existential threat of tottery stilettos or, worse, towering heel-less 'ponies', my new DD-bust cut off my lower horizon, compromised 'Situational Awareness' and navigation. I spent long, long hours walking in a safety harness on a 'jogging machine', learning higher and narrower heels unto pony-perched, watching yet more of Priscilla's video-blogs, endlessly reciting her half-baked, but much too popular opinions.
Make-up !! Instead of generic sun-screen, sun-block and anti-perspirant, I had to learn and apply Priscilla's expensive, product-placed brands. And, yes, get used to her trademark crimson lips plus big, flappy, totally fake eye-lashes. I became comfortable with her surfeit of bangles, resigned to her many ear-rings and other body piercings...
I got dancing lessons, to plausibly disport myself in ball-room, on disco floor or dining table, wearing anything from a 'designer' gown to a Brazilian beach-thong. Now sporting a DD bust, I had to get used to their disconcerting compound oscillations. Beyond that, I was taught to flaunt my new, outstanding attributes. Crafting sassy glimpses and photo-opportune 'wardrobe malfunctions' of leg, hip, shoulder, neck, bust or cleavage for paparazzi and fans proved hard. I spent hours with a 'Comportment' coach, who slowly taught me to move, as she put it, like 'Joan Collins' or 'Lady GaGa'.
Another factor was nutrition: I lacked Priscilla's pre-crash 'curves'. I had to stuff myself with thousands of extra Calories every day, gain almost a dozen kilos. Yes, yes, the fuel helped my body heal but, at first, I felt like a clunky 'Drag Queen'. Slowly, very slowly, surely aided by the frequent hypnosis, my subconscious accepted my new, extended body-map.
At school, lanky and plain, I'd enjoyed kick-boxing, was a 'demon winger' on our soccer team. In fact, I was so lanky, so plain, that both the soccer coach and the dojo demanded blood-tests. They were as surprised as me to learn I was a 'regular' XX, without any hormone anomalies. Paul, my eldest brother, had been obviously Gay since pre-puberty. After 'acing' a prestigious catering course, he'd found his niche as a well-respected Sous-Chef at a famous hotel. Twins Sam and Tam were 'typical' boys. Fans of fast cars, rock music and the local soccer club, they flirted haplessly. Valued apprentices at a local 'performance tuning' garage, they, too, had found their niche. As our family's youngest and arguably brightest, my engineering ambitions thwarted by Uncle Jack's hostile take-over of 'Flange Forgings', I now just wanted to be an independent 'Master Plumber'.
As soon as I was well enough, my 're-hab' and 'psychotherapy' began. The latter's regime to 'build my legend' was perilously close to 'brain-washing'. Beyond weary, book-learned, flash-card tested basics of 'who, what, why, where and when', I spent several hours a day under hypnosis. I was a poor subject at first. Even sorta-willing, I needed mild tranquilisers to render me receptive. I'm fairly sure those early sessions installed several 'key phrases', at least one of which could swiftly 'enfold' me. Certainly, I progressively acquired Priscilla as my 'alter-ego'. Watching the many, many hours of her prolific video-blogging over and over embedded her well-known mannerisms and catch-phrases until I could faithfully re-enact many of her monologues. By night, mildly drugged, I was fed their audio via Bluetooth earpieces. My dreams were weird.
Ms. Asquith coaxed my act, feeding me lines to which I made stock replies. She also helped with the 'physiotherapy' side, assisting the small team who coached me to dress, move and speak like Priscilla's 'Social Princess'. Part of the staff at a very exclusive local 'Finishing School', they routinely house-trained hyper-rich families' oft-obnoxious 'Ugly Ducklings' into 'Eligible Debutantes'. To my surprise, the team liked me. I was intelligent, polite, modest, kind-- In fact, I lacked all the vile 'Dark Triad' characteristics their usual students exhibited. The team found it hilarious that I needed to be taught to be imperious, tactless, rude, even casually cruel...
Learning to dress as big-busted Priscilla was hard, hard, hard.
DD lingerie !! Those hold-up stockings, garter belt and suspenders, sheer nylons, under-wired bras and such were a necessary evil. Getting used to Priscilla's risqué hem-lines and deep cleavage took a while.
Footwear !! My long month mostly sat on the first clinic's mat had cost me much muscle tone. It relaxed my Achilles and other tendons enough that I could wear fashionably high heels rather than my usual Docs or sportiv flats. Getting comfortable was a different matter. Beyond the existential threat of tottery stilettos or, worse, towering heel-less 'ponies', my new DD-bust cut off my lower horizon, compromised 'Situational Awareness' and navigation. I spent long, long hours walking in a safety harness on a 'jogging machine', learning higher and narrower heels unto pony-perched, watching yet more of Priscilla's video-blogs, endlessly reciting her half-baked, but much too popular opinions.
Make-up !! Instead of generic sun-screen, sun-block and anti-perspirant, I had to learn and apply Priscilla's expensive, product-placed brands. And, yes, get used to her trademark crimson lips plus big, flappy, totally fake eye-lashes. I became comfortable with her surfeit of bangles, resigned to her many ear-rings and other body piercings...
I got dancing lessons, to plausibly disport myself in ball-room, on disco floor or dining table, wearing anything from a 'designer' gown to a Brazilian beach-thong. Now sporting a DD bust, I had to get used to their disconcerting compound oscillations. Beyond that, I was taught to flaunt my new, outstanding attributes. Crafting sassy glimpses and photo-opportune 'wardrobe malfunctions' of leg, hip, shoulder, neck, bust or cleavage for paparazzi and fans proved hard. I spent hours with a 'Comportment' coach, who slowly taught me to move, as she put it, like 'Joan Collins' or 'Lady GaGa'.
Another factor was nutrition: I lacked Priscilla's pre-crash 'curves'. I had to stuff myself with thousands of extra Calories every day, gain almost a dozen kilos. Yes, yes, the fuel helped my body heal but, at first, I felt like a clunky 'Drag Queen'. Slowly, very slowly, surely aided by the frequent hypnosis, my subconscious accepted my new, extended body-map.
At school, lanky and plain, I'd enjoyed kick-boxing, was a 'demon winger' on our soccer team. In fact, I was so lanky, so plain, that both the soccer coach and the dojo demanded blood-tests. They were as surprised as me to learn I was a 'regular' XX, without any hormone anomalies. Paul, my eldest brother, had been obviously Gay since pre-puberty. After 'acing' a prestigious catering course, he'd found his niche as a well-respected Sous-Chef at a famous hotel. Twins Sam and Tam were 'typical' boys. Fans of fast cars, rock music and the local soccer club, they flirted haplessly. Valued apprentices at a local 'performance tuning' garage, they, too, had found their niche. As our family's youngest and arguably brightest, my engineering ambitions thwarted by Uncle Jack's hostile take-over of 'Flange Forgings', I now just wanted to be an independent 'Master Plumber'.
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jemhouston
- Posts: 4191
- Joined: Fri Nov 18, 2022 12:38 am
Re: Double Trouble...
I wonder if she can go back to normal now.
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Nik_SpeakerToCats
- Posts: 1276
- Joined: Sat Dec 10, 2022 10:56 am
Double Trouble #04
Double Trouble #04
Priscilla was infamous for her serial affairs. I reckoned most of her partners were just 'Big Kids'. They'd tanned, muscle-rippling bodies, but wits crippled by testosterone. Likewise, I found Priscilla's character repugnant. Now I had to play her, I needed, got flirting lessons.
That pair were so uninhibited, so hands-on, so explicit, they could have been 'Incubus & Succubus'. I needed an intensive session of hypnosis plus a stiff drink to resolve my initial, near-paralysing embarrassment. Thankfully, though I'd both 'coil' and implant, we stopped short of full intercourse. Even so, big-busted and sexily under-dressed, I had to cuddle and pet the Viagra-engorged man while the woman guided my hands and mouth then coached me via an ear-piece. Ick.
After the pair coaxed me to admit I'd scant sexual experience, I was prescribed time on their 'love machine'. Blind-hooded, softly buckled at wrists, ankles, neck and waist to its frame, with one or both coaches massaging and petting me, I'd lewd whatsits throbbing in my butt and mouth, another pistoning in my 'front pocket', a goat-milker sucking my bust. High-end tech, those whatsits ran through different patterns, blew me away again, again, again. Utterly overwhelmed at first, literally bonked witless, I slowly learned enough self-control to remain 'Priscilla', continue mumbling her half-witted monologues...
The down-side was the lewd, App-driven 'toys' I then had to put in my briefs so Ms. Asquith could cue my body for Priscilla's known taste in beautiful young men. The clinic employed several such as waiters and baristas. My body was 'trained' by repeated pings and thrums each time they delivered drinks and snacks, elegantly exercised, dived or swam near my pool-side lounger. That wasn't too bad. And, truth be told, they were 'Easy on the Eye'. It was a different matter to get such erogenous prompts while formally gowned or LBD'd, perhaps nibbling my way through 'Afternoon Tea' or an exquisite 'Cordon Bleu' 5-course meal...
On a happier note, the 'Security' team reviewed, rated my modest kick-boxing and 'Urban Jungle' skills as a respectable basis for their intensive 'Anti-Terrorist' training. Cruel, brutal, focussed like a welding laser, that took matters to a different level. First Rule: Nest contingencies; be a *difficult* victim. Second, do not alarm, aggravate or disrespect perps. Third, do what you must, with no holds barred. Priscilla's trade-mark tantrums were but a spew of 'Potty Mouth' plus a prissy face-slap. Still, in-extremis, my ability to go 'Full Momma Cat' could be vital. If necessary, I could claim 'Accidental', per 'I Got Lucky-- They Tripped, Fell Badly'.
Ms. Asquith finally declared me 'Sufficiently Priscilla'. I apologised to the staff that I'd now have to play that 'Obnoxious Rich Brat' 24/7. Then Ms. Asquith uttered a different 'key phrase'. I'd but moments to realise she'd conspired with Uncle Jack to cheat me before my 'Jacqueline Jones' was subsumed...
Priscilla was infamous for her serial affairs. I reckoned most of her partners were just 'Big Kids'. They'd tanned, muscle-rippling bodies, but wits crippled by testosterone. Likewise, I found Priscilla's character repugnant. Now I had to play her, I needed, got flirting lessons.
That pair were so uninhibited, so hands-on, so explicit, they could have been 'Incubus & Succubus'. I needed an intensive session of hypnosis plus a stiff drink to resolve my initial, near-paralysing embarrassment. Thankfully, though I'd both 'coil' and implant, we stopped short of full intercourse. Even so, big-busted and sexily under-dressed, I had to cuddle and pet the Viagra-engorged man while the woman guided my hands and mouth then coached me via an ear-piece. Ick.
After the pair coaxed me to admit I'd scant sexual experience, I was prescribed time on their 'love machine'. Blind-hooded, softly buckled at wrists, ankles, neck and waist to its frame, with one or both coaches massaging and petting me, I'd lewd whatsits throbbing in my butt and mouth, another pistoning in my 'front pocket', a goat-milker sucking my bust. High-end tech, those whatsits ran through different patterns, blew me away again, again, again. Utterly overwhelmed at first, literally bonked witless, I slowly learned enough self-control to remain 'Priscilla', continue mumbling her half-witted monologues...
The down-side was the lewd, App-driven 'toys' I then had to put in my briefs so Ms. Asquith could cue my body for Priscilla's known taste in beautiful young men. The clinic employed several such as waiters and baristas. My body was 'trained' by repeated pings and thrums each time they delivered drinks and snacks, elegantly exercised, dived or swam near my pool-side lounger. That wasn't too bad. And, truth be told, they were 'Easy on the Eye'. It was a different matter to get such erogenous prompts while formally gowned or LBD'd, perhaps nibbling my way through 'Afternoon Tea' or an exquisite 'Cordon Bleu' 5-course meal...
On a happier note, the 'Security' team reviewed, rated my modest kick-boxing and 'Urban Jungle' skills as a respectable basis for their intensive 'Anti-Terrorist' training. Cruel, brutal, focussed like a welding laser, that took matters to a different level. First Rule: Nest contingencies; be a *difficult* victim. Second, do not alarm, aggravate or disrespect perps. Third, do what you must, with no holds barred. Priscilla's trade-mark tantrums were but a spew of 'Potty Mouth' plus a prissy face-slap. Still, in-extremis, my ability to go 'Full Momma Cat' could be vital. If necessary, I could claim 'Accidental', per 'I Got Lucky-- They Tripped, Fell Badly'.
Ms. Asquith finally declared me 'Sufficiently Priscilla'. I apologised to the staff that I'd now have to play that 'Obnoxious Rich Brat' 24/7. Then Ms. Asquith uttered a different 'key phrase'. I'd but moments to realise she'd conspired with Uncle Jack to cheat me before my 'Jacqueline Jones' was subsumed...
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Nik_SpeakerToCats
- Posts: 1276
- Joined: Sat Dec 10, 2022 10:56 am
Double Trouble #05
Double Trouble #05
Before Uncle Jack's ambition and greed destroyed 'Flange Forgings', tore our lives and families apart, us young cousins and our friends spent a lot of time playing 'Dungeons and Dragons'. We survived mishap and mayhem, tricked or trounced scary monsters, looted hoards, rescued Priscilla, our eponymous 'Princess', from fates worse than death. She had a really good shriek. Though youngest by a few weeks, I was our nimble-witted Scout / Artificer, adept at un-picking DM Dominic's riddles and wily traps. I really enjoyed those map-board games, as we'd scope to think 'Outside the Box'.
While the others also enjoyed solo 'Choose Your Own Adventure' packs, I found the game-play too restrictive. Time after time, I'd get part-way into a borrowed pack, abandon its clunky options in disgust.
Now cast as 'Priscilla_2.0', such minimal options were the limit of my volition. I could select from black or latté, croissants or cereal at breakfast. Fish, Parma or Veal salad for lunch. Freely trawl a dinner menu's Starters, Mains and Desserts. But, should I prefer a fun snack or Club Sandwich, such were taboo if Ms. Asquith did not approve.
Similar volition limits applied to my social interaction. Beyond Priscilla's familiar phrases, I'd new stock replies, some-when embedded in my psyche. Likewise, clothing 'tastes'. Dressed as a 'Prep School' student in neat 'smalls', blouse, knee-skirt, knee-socks, 'Mary Janes' and a smart jacket, my hair tidily bobbed, I was limo-chauffeured to the region's UK consulate. After polite questioning then study of old passport and new medical report, the consular team updated 'my' biometrics, wished me well.
Ms. Asquith and I flew 'First Class' into Gatwick. Swiftly scanned, waved through the VIP channel, we were directed to a luxurious lounge. As I stepped beyond the doorway, Uncle Jack did a double-take, tossed back his single malt, met my joyous cry of, 'Daddy !!' with a yell, a huge hug. To the side, Jacindra's initial scowl melted to astonishment. She permitted my hug, my polite 'Mummy !', exchanged air-kisses. She studied my smart 'Preppy' at arm's length for long seconds, murmured, "Are you really Priscilla ?"
"I've been so stupid, Mummy," I confessed. "I'm so sorry, so very, very sorry..."
"Well !" My words had been carefully scripted to disarm her. They did. "Young lady, you and I have a lot of ground to make up ! We are going to have so much fun !"
Over her shoulder, I glimpsed Ms. Asquith's tiny nod to Mr. Jackson, his nigh-subliminal acknowledgement.
Outside, the fans and paparazzi thronged in anticipation. My smart 'Preppy' rig raised a big gasp, a fusillade of flash. Priscilla had worn a super-sassy, scandal-short version to a raunchy Halloween party, but this outfit was so 'conventional', it must top the 'Social' news. It did.
Ms. Asquith read our prepared statement that I was still recovering from extensive therapy, would be convalescing at home. Not yet strong enough for a press conference, I'd be speaking to invited journalists in due course. Translation: There'd be a big 'Exclusive' plus juicy 'Shorts', get your cheque-books out...
I'd studied Uncle Jack's mansion, so was not lost after we stepped within. Ms. Asquith led me to Priscilla's East Wing suite, bid me shower. When I emerged from the en-suite clad in a vast towel, she'd laid out lacy smalls, a pretty sun-dress and simple sandals. Mr. Jackson was stood by the door.
Ms. Asquith uttered a key-phrase, told me to drop my towel then stand still as a mannequin. Mr. Jackson studied my nude form for a while, stepped closer. He ran a wary fingertip up my left arm, tracked across my shoulder onto my big bust. I could not, did not demur or flinch, not even when he ungently tweaked my left nipple. He touched my left cheek-bone, the bridge of my nose, my plucked eye-brows. He parted my lips, studied my teeth.
"Astonishing," he allowed. "Truly astonishing..."
"If Jackie hadn't been willing to play 'Priscilla', our 'Trojan Horse' would not have taken." Ms. Asquith shrugged, said, "Now, she's remarkably biddable. Just, take care. Don't do anything silly. Treat her with all the respect, the kindness due your 'reconciled' daughter and she'll be fine..."
"What do you mean ?" He paused further exploration, his big fingers barely inches from my waxed crotch.
"Jackie looks like Priscilla, sounds like Priscilla, acts like Priscilla, thinks she's Priscilla and, barring disaster, is Priscilla..." Ms. Asquith hesitated, then almost blurted, "But the 'Anti-Terrorist' course lit off her 'Ninja' ! She was flooring their 'Heavies' ! She'd blow through my Krav Maga, break me like a bread-stick !"
"You cannot be serious--" He stopped, looked between her and me. Then he nodded, sighed, "Understood."
Released from immobility, I dressed and we went down to the smaller lounge to take 'Afternoon Tea' en-famille.
Before Uncle Jack's ambition and greed destroyed 'Flange Forgings', tore our lives and families apart, us young cousins and our friends spent a lot of time playing 'Dungeons and Dragons'. We survived mishap and mayhem, tricked or trounced scary monsters, looted hoards, rescued Priscilla, our eponymous 'Princess', from fates worse than death. She had a really good shriek. Though youngest by a few weeks, I was our nimble-witted Scout / Artificer, adept at un-picking DM Dominic's riddles and wily traps. I really enjoyed those map-board games, as we'd scope to think 'Outside the Box'.
While the others also enjoyed solo 'Choose Your Own Adventure' packs, I found the game-play too restrictive. Time after time, I'd get part-way into a borrowed pack, abandon its clunky options in disgust.
Now cast as 'Priscilla_2.0', such minimal options were the limit of my volition. I could select from black or latté, croissants or cereal at breakfast. Fish, Parma or Veal salad for lunch. Freely trawl a dinner menu's Starters, Mains and Desserts. But, should I prefer a fun snack or Club Sandwich, such were taboo if Ms. Asquith did not approve.
Similar volition limits applied to my social interaction. Beyond Priscilla's familiar phrases, I'd new stock replies, some-when embedded in my psyche. Likewise, clothing 'tastes'. Dressed as a 'Prep School' student in neat 'smalls', blouse, knee-skirt, knee-socks, 'Mary Janes' and a smart jacket, my hair tidily bobbed, I was limo-chauffeured to the region's UK consulate. After polite questioning then study of old passport and new medical report, the consular team updated 'my' biometrics, wished me well.
Ms. Asquith and I flew 'First Class' into Gatwick. Swiftly scanned, waved through the VIP channel, we were directed to a luxurious lounge. As I stepped beyond the doorway, Uncle Jack did a double-take, tossed back his single malt, met my joyous cry of, 'Daddy !!' with a yell, a huge hug. To the side, Jacindra's initial scowl melted to astonishment. She permitted my hug, my polite 'Mummy !', exchanged air-kisses. She studied my smart 'Preppy' at arm's length for long seconds, murmured, "Are you really Priscilla ?"
"I've been so stupid, Mummy," I confessed. "I'm so sorry, so very, very sorry..."
"Well !" My words had been carefully scripted to disarm her. They did. "Young lady, you and I have a lot of ground to make up ! We are going to have so much fun !"
Over her shoulder, I glimpsed Ms. Asquith's tiny nod to Mr. Jackson, his nigh-subliminal acknowledgement.
Outside, the fans and paparazzi thronged in anticipation. My smart 'Preppy' rig raised a big gasp, a fusillade of flash. Priscilla had worn a super-sassy, scandal-short version to a raunchy Halloween party, but this outfit was so 'conventional', it must top the 'Social' news. It did.
Ms. Asquith read our prepared statement that I was still recovering from extensive therapy, would be convalescing at home. Not yet strong enough for a press conference, I'd be speaking to invited journalists in due course. Translation: There'd be a big 'Exclusive' plus juicy 'Shorts', get your cheque-books out...
I'd studied Uncle Jack's mansion, so was not lost after we stepped within. Ms. Asquith led me to Priscilla's East Wing suite, bid me shower. When I emerged from the en-suite clad in a vast towel, she'd laid out lacy smalls, a pretty sun-dress and simple sandals. Mr. Jackson was stood by the door.
Ms. Asquith uttered a key-phrase, told me to drop my towel then stand still as a mannequin. Mr. Jackson studied my nude form for a while, stepped closer. He ran a wary fingertip up my left arm, tracked across my shoulder onto my big bust. I could not, did not demur or flinch, not even when he ungently tweaked my left nipple. He touched my left cheek-bone, the bridge of my nose, my plucked eye-brows. He parted my lips, studied my teeth.
"Astonishing," he allowed. "Truly astonishing..."
"If Jackie hadn't been willing to play 'Priscilla', our 'Trojan Horse' would not have taken." Ms. Asquith shrugged, said, "Now, she's remarkably biddable. Just, take care. Don't do anything silly. Treat her with all the respect, the kindness due your 'reconciled' daughter and she'll be fine..."
"What do you mean ?" He paused further exploration, his big fingers barely inches from my waxed crotch.
"Jackie looks like Priscilla, sounds like Priscilla, acts like Priscilla, thinks she's Priscilla and, barring disaster, is Priscilla..." Ms. Asquith hesitated, then almost blurted, "But the 'Anti-Terrorist' course lit off her 'Ninja' ! She was flooring their 'Heavies' ! She'd blow through my Krav Maga, break me like a bread-stick !"
"You cannot be serious--" He stopped, looked between her and me. Then he nodded, sighed, "Understood."
Released from immobility, I dressed and we went down to the smaller lounge to take 'Afternoon Tea' en-famille.
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Nik_SpeakerToCats
- Posts: 1276
- Joined: Sat Dec 10, 2022 10:56 am
Double Trouble #06
Double Trouble #06
Ms. Asquith organised my life. Though most people are creatures of habit and routine, my 'Priscilla_2.0' had barely more volition than a train on rails or a barge in a canal. Like a canoe in a braided river, I was permitted to pass islands to left or right, dawdle or dally some-what. I could not leave the river...
Thus constrained, 'Priscilla_2.0' soon settled to the role of 'family mascot'. The carefully scripted interviews with visiting 'Special Feature' reporters went well. I politely deprecated my ditzy blogging and those 'Potty Mouth' tantrums. I mentioned that if my sweet, sweet boy-friend had not insisted I wore my seat-belt, I would have died at the scene. Happens this mollified the young man's family, who'd reckoned I was somewhat to blame for his tragic death. In fact, the car's 'Black Box' logged his wild 90+ into that 40_zone, and his post-mortem's busy 'tox-screen' showed 'High as a Triple Kite', both factoids kindly redacted...
Jacindra, Priscilla's bemused step-mother, towed now-willing me around art galleries, designer boutiques, exquisite patisseries and formal 'showings'. I was Mr. Jackson's elegant 'arm candy' at conferences and business meetings. I was on his left arm and Jacindra on his right for grand 'events' such as formal dinners, charity evenings and theatre 'first nights'. The social press marvelled at my sudden maturity, agreed I totally rocked my new wardrobe's 'respectable' gowns and LBDs.
Almost six months in, Mr. Jackson and Jacindra jetted off to a swanky conference in the Bahamas, combining business and pleasure in what was effectively a 'Second Honeymoon'. They'd go on to another 'Finance Fest' in Orlando, a third in LA. 'Home Alone' for several weeks, Ms. Asquith treated me to 'lighter' theatres, fun movies, 'cultural diners' and her favourite Jazz club. She even took me to a regional SciFi Convention. There, incognito as yet-another pair of cute 'Café Meidos', we had a lot of fun. Well, she and 'Priscilla_2.0' did, I was just along for the ride...
Still, Priscilla's 'holiday outings' spawned a huge row. Mr. Jackson was furious over such 'informality', but Jacindra and Ms. Asquith both defended the wary widening of my role. To my surprise, Mr. Jackson backed down. I got VIP stadia and pop-concert tickets, a safe boy-friend.
Jerome Bixby-Smythe was warily selected, carefully vetted. He came of excellent family, had adequate intelligence and, yes, impeccable manners. Far from Priscilla's prior trawl of loud, over-sexed 'Male Models', quiet, unassuming Jerome --'Please, call me Jerry ?'-- had earned a modest degree in Medieval History from a regional Uni, enjoyed 'getting his hands dirty' on 'digs'. 'Time Team' for the win ! He did not smoke, drink to excess, drive badly, gamble, 'mansplain' or do drugs. He thought my 'Priscilla_2.0' rather 'shallow' and 'she' thought him boring but, told to like him, did. Our closely chaperoned dates went well.
After the best part of a pleasant year, my 'Priscilla_2.0' was commanded to 'Allow Him Benefits'. Yes, Jerome had politely hinted he'd welcome such. Still, he was rather astonished when I took him to bed and wrung him dry. Totally smitten, he tried to propose. As planned, I indicated it was much, much too soon for a formal engagement, rolled him onto his back and again distracted him from coherent speech.
Okay, given my training, our nights bordered on 'male rape', but naïve Jerome did not dare demur. 'Priscilla_2.0' was a big-busted 'Blonde Bombshell', Heiress and, yes, 'Good in Bed': She had him by the cojones. Our respective families totally approved. In fact, his three braw brothers were reportedly a tad jealous, to their partners' / fiancées' muted fury...
Ms. Asquith organised my life. Though most people are creatures of habit and routine, my 'Priscilla_2.0' had barely more volition than a train on rails or a barge in a canal. Like a canoe in a braided river, I was permitted to pass islands to left or right, dawdle or dally some-what. I could not leave the river...
Thus constrained, 'Priscilla_2.0' soon settled to the role of 'family mascot'. The carefully scripted interviews with visiting 'Special Feature' reporters went well. I politely deprecated my ditzy blogging and those 'Potty Mouth' tantrums. I mentioned that if my sweet, sweet boy-friend had not insisted I wore my seat-belt, I would have died at the scene. Happens this mollified the young man's family, who'd reckoned I was somewhat to blame for his tragic death. In fact, the car's 'Black Box' logged his wild 90+ into that 40_zone, and his post-mortem's busy 'tox-screen' showed 'High as a Triple Kite', both factoids kindly redacted...
Jacindra, Priscilla's bemused step-mother, towed now-willing me around art galleries, designer boutiques, exquisite patisseries and formal 'showings'. I was Mr. Jackson's elegant 'arm candy' at conferences and business meetings. I was on his left arm and Jacindra on his right for grand 'events' such as formal dinners, charity evenings and theatre 'first nights'. The social press marvelled at my sudden maturity, agreed I totally rocked my new wardrobe's 'respectable' gowns and LBDs.
Almost six months in, Mr. Jackson and Jacindra jetted off to a swanky conference in the Bahamas, combining business and pleasure in what was effectively a 'Second Honeymoon'. They'd go on to another 'Finance Fest' in Orlando, a third in LA. 'Home Alone' for several weeks, Ms. Asquith treated me to 'lighter' theatres, fun movies, 'cultural diners' and her favourite Jazz club. She even took me to a regional SciFi Convention. There, incognito as yet-another pair of cute 'Café Meidos', we had a lot of fun. Well, she and 'Priscilla_2.0' did, I was just along for the ride...
Still, Priscilla's 'holiday outings' spawned a huge row. Mr. Jackson was furious over such 'informality', but Jacindra and Ms. Asquith both defended the wary widening of my role. To my surprise, Mr. Jackson backed down. I got VIP stadia and pop-concert tickets, a safe boy-friend.
Jerome Bixby-Smythe was warily selected, carefully vetted. He came of excellent family, had adequate intelligence and, yes, impeccable manners. Far from Priscilla's prior trawl of loud, over-sexed 'Male Models', quiet, unassuming Jerome --'Please, call me Jerry ?'-- had earned a modest degree in Medieval History from a regional Uni, enjoyed 'getting his hands dirty' on 'digs'. 'Time Team' for the win ! He did not smoke, drink to excess, drive badly, gamble, 'mansplain' or do drugs. He thought my 'Priscilla_2.0' rather 'shallow' and 'she' thought him boring but, told to like him, did. Our closely chaperoned dates went well.
After the best part of a pleasant year, my 'Priscilla_2.0' was commanded to 'Allow Him Benefits'. Yes, Jerome had politely hinted he'd welcome such. Still, he was rather astonished when I took him to bed and wrung him dry. Totally smitten, he tried to propose. As planned, I indicated it was much, much too soon for a formal engagement, rolled him onto his back and again distracted him from coherent speech.
Okay, given my training, our nights bordered on 'male rape', but naïve Jerome did not dare demur. 'Priscilla_2.0' was a big-busted 'Blonde Bombshell', Heiress and, yes, 'Good in Bed': She had him by the cojones. Our respective families totally approved. In fact, his three braw brothers were reportedly a tad jealous, to their partners' / fiancées' muted fury...
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Nik_SpeakerToCats
- Posts: 1276
- Joined: Sat Dec 10, 2022 10:56 am
Double Trouble #07
Double Trouble #07
About six months later, a few weeks after that New Year's splendid party, which book-ended a succession of magnificent Christmas feasts, Mr. Jackson and Ms. Asquith suddenly seemed unhappy, almost stricken. Mr. Jackson allowed that a 'Really Big Deal' had fallen through, gazumped by a US rival. It would not hurt us, but the vast contract's kudos would have been nice. Still, if those Yanks had committed their best people to that project, they were surely vulnerable else-where. And so it proved, with Mr. Jackson briskly closing a different deal.
Jacindra, Jerome and my 'Priscilla_2.0' made appropriate noises. Yet, though I had scant volition, was not allowed beyond world headlines and the social news, never mind delving and dissecting arcane 'financials', something seemed 'off'. Yes, Mr. Jackson took deal-closing very seriously, but why should Ms. Asquith seem so despondent ? Far, far behind my conscious thoughts, a sneaking suspicion grew that the real Priscilla might have medical problems. A bad reaction ? Stroke, Deep-vein thrombosis, 'flu or pneumonia ? Count the ways !
My near-subliminal concern was reinforced by Mr. Jackson telling Jerome that he was welcome to court me. I was commanded to accept his proposal. Sporting a very nice ring, I soon made the social news. Six months later, we were wed. Off-shore, to empower our complex pre-nuptial agreement, the event was superb, the days and nights delightful. After, we lived in my mansion suite, loved loud and long. Jacindra towed both of us around her usual haunts, both to see and be seen. Jerome often cooked simple but pleasant omelettes and fun stir-frys for just the two of us in our suite's mini-kitchen, a welcome relief from mansion meals' formality. He wrote thoughtful, well-reviewed articles on Medieval matters, was delighted that I approved. Okay, I was told to do so, but his freelance work really was that good. He dusted off his rather clunky thesis and, with the benefit of that freelance experience, re-wrote and expanded it to a nice 'coffee table' book. It was respectfully received by those 'in the know', sold surprisingly well.
Minus coil and implant, I was soon pregnant. My 'programming' held as 'Priscilla_2.0' was safely delivered of a healthy daughter we named Alexandra. Two years later, a son, Bernard. Three years later, another daughter, Charlene. Nice kids, they were disconcertingly bright. Yes, Jerry and I did all the 'good toys', bed-time reading and other worthy parental things, but each child learned to read, write and 'rithmetic really, really young. It was soon apparent that all three shared a precocious talent for 'STEM Stuff'. And, they synergised each-other's development. Eye-brows were raised. Such wits did not come from the Bixby-Smythe side, they certainly did not come via Mr. Jackson or his first-wife Marie, Priscilla's mother. Happily, Mr. Jackson, Jacindra and Ms. Asquith doted on our clever youngsters, politely ignoring snide remarks that the kids' brains had clearly skipped a generation.
Mr. Jackson and Ms. Asquith knew, of course. Still, while my deep conditioning held, the show could go on.
Expressing himself dissatisfied with many children's books, Jerry tried his hand at writing better. Our youngsters' feedback soon honed his style. He began selling 'Kindle' versions under a pen-name, received acclaim.
About six months later, a few weeks after that New Year's splendid party, which book-ended a succession of magnificent Christmas feasts, Mr. Jackson and Ms. Asquith suddenly seemed unhappy, almost stricken. Mr. Jackson allowed that a 'Really Big Deal' had fallen through, gazumped by a US rival. It would not hurt us, but the vast contract's kudos would have been nice. Still, if those Yanks had committed their best people to that project, they were surely vulnerable else-where. And so it proved, with Mr. Jackson briskly closing a different deal.
Jacindra, Jerome and my 'Priscilla_2.0' made appropriate noises. Yet, though I had scant volition, was not allowed beyond world headlines and the social news, never mind delving and dissecting arcane 'financials', something seemed 'off'. Yes, Mr. Jackson took deal-closing very seriously, but why should Ms. Asquith seem so despondent ? Far, far behind my conscious thoughts, a sneaking suspicion grew that the real Priscilla might have medical problems. A bad reaction ? Stroke, Deep-vein thrombosis, 'flu or pneumonia ? Count the ways !
My near-subliminal concern was reinforced by Mr. Jackson telling Jerome that he was welcome to court me. I was commanded to accept his proposal. Sporting a very nice ring, I soon made the social news. Six months later, we were wed. Off-shore, to empower our complex pre-nuptial agreement, the event was superb, the days and nights delightful. After, we lived in my mansion suite, loved loud and long. Jacindra towed both of us around her usual haunts, both to see and be seen. Jerome often cooked simple but pleasant omelettes and fun stir-frys for just the two of us in our suite's mini-kitchen, a welcome relief from mansion meals' formality. He wrote thoughtful, well-reviewed articles on Medieval matters, was delighted that I approved. Okay, I was told to do so, but his freelance work really was that good. He dusted off his rather clunky thesis and, with the benefit of that freelance experience, re-wrote and expanded it to a nice 'coffee table' book. It was respectfully received by those 'in the know', sold surprisingly well.
Minus coil and implant, I was soon pregnant. My 'programming' held as 'Priscilla_2.0' was safely delivered of a healthy daughter we named Alexandra. Two years later, a son, Bernard. Three years later, another daughter, Charlene. Nice kids, they were disconcertingly bright. Yes, Jerry and I did all the 'good toys', bed-time reading and other worthy parental things, but each child learned to read, write and 'rithmetic really, really young. It was soon apparent that all three shared a precocious talent for 'STEM Stuff'. And, they synergised each-other's development. Eye-brows were raised. Such wits did not come from the Bixby-Smythe side, they certainly did not come via Mr. Jackson or his first-wife Marie, Priscilla's mother. Happily, Mr. Jackson, Jacindra and Ms. Asquith doted on our clever youngsters, politely ignoring snide remarks that the kids' brains had clearly skipped a generation.
Mr. Jackson and Ms. Asquith knew, of course. Still, while my deep conditioning held, the show could go on.
Expressing himself dissatisfied with many children's books, Jerry tried his hand at writing better. Our youngsters' feedback soon honed his style. He began selling 'Kindle' versions under a pen-name, received acclaim.
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jemhouston
- Posts: 4191
- Joined: Fri Nov 18, 2022 12:38 am
Re: Double Trouble...
The die is cast, she can't go back now.
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Nik_SpeakerToCats
- Posts: 1276
- Joined: Sat Dec 10, 2022 10:56 am
Double Trouble #08
Double Trouble #08
Thus we continued for almost a decade, until the Autumn evening I collected our clan from their after-school 'Maker Club'. Young Charlene's wits already matched the club's brighter teens. Bernard and Alexandra were the club's super-stars. They'd breezed through their SATs, passed for MENSA, did not join. Gossip called the trio 'Midwich Cuckoos' and busty me 'Missus MILF', but politely. Off-duty, the kids and I wore generic, budget clothes. Not for 'mean' or 'inverse snobbery', just 'Common Sense'. The school kept pleading with me to be a 'Parent-Governor', but I declined. Sponsoring their 'STEM Stream' and 'Maker Club' was my limit, all Mr. Jackson and Ms. Asquith would allow.
So, we four were cheerfully strolling across the car-park to our 'People Mover' when two rail-thin druggies leaped from shadow, waved 'zombie' knives, chorused, "GisYourMoney, RichBitch !"
Happens Jerry, Ms. Asquith and I did 'Keep Fit' / 'Safety' katas with the kids. Seeing those vicious knives hit my 'Big Red Button'. Slipping my hand-bag's 'dog chain' strap from my right shoulder, I lashed it left-handed across the nearer knife. Sweeping that wide, I took two fast steps. My right hand curled to a half-fist, slammed the perp's throat. It was a 'War Shot'. I felt his cartilage crush down. He'd be dead before aid could arrive.
"Drop the knife and surrender !" I called to the second. Shocked, he hesitated then, still clutching the knife, turned to flee. Too late. I closed on him and, the geometry being favourable, kicked up between his legs. Emasculated, he folded with a howl. I pivoted, met his descending head with another kick. He spun sideways, landed hard. The knife bounced away. Blood began to ooze from his left ear.
I turned, scanning for further perps. His phone dialling out, Bernard was stood over the first's knife. Alex was checking the first's failing ABCs. Young Charley, eyes wide as saucers, got her mouth in gear, called, "Yay ! Nice moves !"
"My 'Momma-Cat Mode'," I replied crisply, before realising everything had changed. I was no longer harmless 'Priscilla_2.0', I was again 'Jackie Jones'. Yes, I was sorta-wed to a good guy, had three wondrous kids, but my genie was out of her bottle. And, she was really, really riled. I woke my own phone, dialled an un-listed number seared into my memory. "Mr. Jones ? Jackie. Yes, Jackie. Yes, that Jackie. Uh-huh. Uh-huh ? Yeah, wheel's come off. Activate contingency plans. You know where I live."
"Mum ?" Alex was staring at me. "You-- You sound different..."
"Yes," I began, hesitated, found essential words. "Whatever happens, remember I love you three and Jerry very, very much."
"Mum ??"
"Think back to the old bed-time stories Jerry would read you. Remember 'The Prisoner of Zenda' ? And sequel, 'Rupert of Hentzau' ?
"Well, once upon a time, there was a pretty, but 'Potty-Mouth' Princess. Priscilla was badly hurt in a car crash, lost her wits. Her very rich, but rather evil father needed her to seem well until she recovered...
"Happens she had a poor, look-alike cousin...
"I'm that Jackie Jones." I broke the kids' stunned silence with, "Now, this is what we're going to do..."
Thus we continued for almost a decade, until the Autumn evening I collected our clan from their after-school 'Maker Club'. Young Charlene's wits already matched the club's brighter teens. Bernard and Alexandra were the club's super-stars. They'd breezed through their SATs, passed for MENSA, did not join. Gossip called the trio 'Midwich Cuckoos' and busty me 'Missus MILF', but politely. Off-duty, the kids and I wore generic, budget clothes. Not for 'mean' or 'inverse snobbery', just 'Common Sense'. The school kept pleading with me to be a 'Parent-Governor', but I declined. Sponsoring their 'STEM Stream' and 'Maker Club' was my limit, all Mr. Jackson and Ms. Asquith would allow.
So, we four were cheerfully strolling across the car-park to our 'People Mover' when two rail-thin druggies leaped from shadow, waved 'zombie' knives, chorused, "GisYourMoney, RichBitch !"
Happens Jerry, Ms. Asquith and I did 'Keep Fit' / 'Safety' katas with the kids. Seeing those vicious knives hit my 'Big Red Button'. Slipping my hand-bag's 'dog chain' strap from my right shoulder, I lashed it left-handed across the nearer knife. Sweeping that wide, I took two fast steps. My right hand curled to a half-fist, slammed the perp's throat. It was a 'War Shot'. I felt his cartilage crush down. He'd be dead before aid could arrive.
"Drop the knife and surrender !" I called to the second. Shocked, he hesitated then, still clutching the knife, turned to flee. Too late. I closed on him and, the geometry being favourable, kicked up between his legs. Emasculated, he folded with a howl. I pivoted, met his descending head with another kick. He spun sideways, landed hard. The knife bounced away. Blood began to ooze from his left ear.
I turned, scanning for further perps. His phone dialling out, Bernard was stood over the first's knife. Alex was checking the first's failing ABCs. Young Charley, eyes wide as saucers, got her mouth in gear, called, "Yay ! Nice moves !"
"My 'Momma-Cat Mode'," I replied crisply, before realising everything had changed. I was no longer harmless 'Priscilla_2.0', I was again 'Jackie Jones'. Yes, I was sorta-wed to a good guy, had three wondrous kids, but my genie was out of her bottle. And, she was really, really riled. I woke my own phone, dialled an un-listed number seared into my memory. "Mr. Jones ? Jackie. Yes, Jackie. Yes, that Jackie. Uh-huh. Uh-huh ? Yeah, wheel's come off. Activate contingency plans. You know where I live."
"Mum ?" Alex was staring at me. "You-- You sound different..."
"Yes," I began, hesitated, found essential words. "Whatever happens, remember I love you three and Jerry very, very much."
"Mum ??"
"Think back to the old bed-time stories Jerry would read you. Remember 'The Prisoner of Zenda' ? And sequel, 'Rupert of Hentzau' ?
"Well, once upon a time, there was a pretty, but 'Potty-Mouth' Princess. Priscilla was badly hurt in a car crash, lost her wits. Her very rich, but rather evil father needed her to seem well until she recovered...
"Happens she had a poor, look-alike cousin...
"I'm that Jackie Jones." I broke the kids' stunned silence with, "Now, this is what we're going to do..."
Re: Double Trouble...
The wheels come off indeed, splendid little tale. Thank you very much.
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Nik_SpeakerToCats
- Posts: 1276
- Joined: Sat Dec 10, 2022 10:56 am
Double Trouble #09
Double Trouble #09
The emergency services soon arrived in a howling maelstrom of 'Blues and Twos'. Alex was waiting, arms akimbo. She greeted the 'First Responders' in ringing tones. "I am Alexandra Jackson Bixby-Smythe, Acting Scene Controller. Two armed perps demanded money from us. Mum parried the first's knife with her bag strap, punched him once. He's 'Dead at Scene'." She pointed left, then right. "The second refused to yield his knife, tried to flee. Mum dropped him with two kicks. He's probably 'Dead on Arrival'--"
"He's 'Dead at Scene'." Young Charley's clinical update raised even the 'Seen It All' medics' eyebrows.
"We have secured the scene," Alex continued. "School confirms they've good CCTV coverage."
"Now, over to you."
The astonished silence stretched until one of the policemen stepped forward, smartly saluted, formally stated, "Thank you, Ms. Alexandra. I am DS Walsh. I relieve you."
"I stand relieved," Alex allowed, gave him a polite nod, turned and walked towards our 'People Mover'. The medics quickly confirmed our perps' 'Absence of Life', did not attempt resuscitation. Two officers headed towards the shocked group huddled by the school doors, no doubt to take names and look at the CCTV.
DS Walsh made several long calls, then slowly strode towards our 'People Mover' where I'd been working my phone...
The emergency services soon arrived in a howling maelstrom of 'Blues and Twos'. Alex was waiting, arms akimbo. She greeted the 'First Responders' in ringing tones. "I am Alexandra Jackson Bixby-Smythe, Acting Scene Controller. Two armed perps demanded money from us. Mum parried the first's knife with her bag strap, punched him once. He's 'Dead at Scene'." She pointed left, then right. "The second refused to yield his knife, tried to flee. Mum dropped him with two kicks. He's probably 'Dead on Arrival'--"
"He's 'Dead at Scene'." Young Charley's clinical update raised even the 'Seen It All' medics' eyebrows.
"We have secured the scene," Alex continued. "School confirms they've good CCTV coverage."
"Now, over to you."
The astonished silence stretched until one of the policemen stepped forward, smartly saluted, formally stated, "Thank you, Ms. Alexandra. I am DS Walsh. I relieve you."
"I stand relieved," Alex allowed, gave him a polite nod, turned and walked towards our 'People Mover'. The medics quickly confirmed our perps' 'Absence of Life', did not attempt resuscitation. Two officers headed towards the shocked group huddled by the school doors, no doubt to take names and look at the CCTV.
DS Walsh made several long calls, then slowly strode towards our 'People Mover' where I'd been working my phone...
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Nik_SpeakerToCats
- Posts: 1276
- Joined: Sat Dec 10, 2022 10:56 am
Double Trouble #10 of 10
Double Trouble #10
In an un-marked car, DS Walsh and a uniformed female colleague escorted our 'People Mover' back to the mansion. I led the way, was greeted at the door by furious Ms. Asquith. "You're late ! Where have you been ? Why didn't you ring ? We were so worried ! Huh ? Police ??"
I pushed past her, stepped into the smaller lounge where Mr. Jackson, Jacindra and Jerry waited. I spoke first, cryogenic-cold. "Uncle Jack."
To my relief, Jerry and Jacindra looked puzzled, but Mr. Jackson flinched as if struck, went pale.
"Hatchet !" Ms. Asquith hissed from behind me. "Kriegspiel ! Seminole ! Ruby ! Stand down !"
I half-turned, bringing her frantic visage into full view.
"Hatchet-Kriegspiel-Seminole-Ruby ! Stand down !!" She gabbled, then shrieked, "Wolf ! Concorde ! Septangle ! Grimalk--"
My back-hand easily out-paced her belated parry, took her across the face, flung her aside. Bernard, who'd clearly spotted the 'Stross' references and deduced much, interposed a foot to trip her stagger onto a couch.
I faced Uncle Jack, coldly stated, "Yes, I am again Jackie Jones. In return for full reinstatement of the 'Flange Forgings' pension fund you raped, re-hab for Uncle Paul and fair pay, I agreed to role-play my 'Potty-Mouth' cousin Priscilla during her lengthy rehabilitation. But, your people stuck me with a hypnotic geas to make me think I was her.
"Then, when the poor kid died about ten years ago, they passed her death off as mine by switching our reference DNA. Before 'my' scattered skeleton was found by a horrified dog-walker, my contract payments were halted, that escrow account emptied. After, my medical reset escrow fund was disbursed...
"Seems 'my' funeral was well attended, lots of very, very grateful 'Flange Forgings' pensioners..." Uncle Jack could not meet my eyes' abyss. As Jacindra and Jerry stared between us, I continued, "So, you owe me big. The decade's forty payments of twenty-five thousand, after tax and deductions, plus compound commercial interest. Plus 'Distress'. Lots of 'Distress'. Punitive 'Distress'. I reckon 'Double Indemnity' applies."
"But..." Mr. Jackson was almost lost for words. "How ?"
"I knew you couldn't be trusted, you scheming bastard," I snarled. "I was told my training would involve some hypnotic conditioning. So, before putting myself into your people's hands, I took a few precautions...
"Two knife-armed druggies jumped us outside the school." I watched all three's eyes widen, heard Ms. Asquith's gasp. She'd understood. I added, "Threat triggered my 'In_Extremis' app, un-bound your geas...
"Those stupid druggies would not 'Play Nice'. They died of it. Are you going to make the same mistake ?"
Slowly, silently, he bowed, shook his head.
I turned to Jerry and Jacindra, said, "Jerry, I've been Priscilla since my Swiss make-over. I thought I was Priscilla when I married you. Now, I'm Jackie Jones again, but I still love you: Will you marry me ?"
He blinked, took scant moments to digest the situation, stated, "Ms. Jones, I'd be honoured !"
"Thank you," I replied, looked to Jacindra, said, "When we first met at Gatwick, you asked, 'Are you really Priscilla ?' Remember ?"
She nodded slowly, realising how I must have suffered, mind-locked behind that bimbo facade.
"As I've just said, I thought I was Priscilla." I shrugged. "So, not a lie, nor truth, but 'nu'."
Her lips twitched in the ghost of a smile.
"You put aside your prior loathing of that 'Potty Mouth' kid, have been a good friend to me, to Jerry, to our children. You will always be welcome in our home. And, may I invite you to our wedding ?" As her eye-brows rose, I said, "I've been Priscilla for a decade. I've grown into the job. I reckon the best solution is for me to quietly change my name to hers, then Jerry and I can simply 'Renew Our Vows'."
Jacindra's face slowly split to an immense grin. She nodded, said, "Though I liked the new Priscilla, she seemed too good to be true. So, I was right. It was an act, but you were a puppet and that pair were pulling your strings...
"Now you're free, I like you even more-- We are going to have so much fun !!"
I matched Jacindra's grin, turned to silent Ms. Asquith, lips split, face bruising, whom Alex, Bernard and Charley were watching like a prial of hunting cats. "If you claim you were 'Just Following Orders', I will destroy you." As she winced, I continued, "I won't ask how he first coerced you, but I'm sure it was vile. And, the longer it went on, the deeper you dug your hole. Happens I still need a 'Personal Assistant'. So, put away your marionette 'cross brace', work off your karmic debt with honest service."
As, resigned, she nodded, I turned to Mr. Jackson. "Likewise, I need a 'Finance Manager'. You will slowly, carefully switch from running the portfolio on your behalf to running it, more ethically, on mine. The several millions, tax paid, that you owe me must come out of your pocket, though. Not the portfolio. No hurry, you may make appropriate noises, but they'd better be 'Second Fiddle'.
"Also, I remember how you inspected my nude 'Priscilla_2.0', tweaked my left nipple. To her credit, Ms. Asquith intervened, preventing anything more intimate." I gave every-one a moment to consider the many implications. "If we discover that you had sexual relations with your daughter, or you behave lewdly towards any person other than your lawfully wedded partner, or otherwise inappropriately, consider your cojones forfeit..."
As he went a shade paler, I turned to DS Walsh and the WPC, asked, "Your body-cams get all that ?"
They nodded by turn, professional but bemused.
"The two muggers are safely dead. I've neutralised these Principals. I neither want nor need to 'Press Charges', or pursue Minions. Just keep the full truth on file as a 'Sword of Damocles'...
"Now, who'd like a nice cup of tea and some choccy biscuits ??"
In an un-marked car, DS Walsh and a uniformed female colleague escorted our 'People Mover' back to the mansion. I led the way, was greeted at the door by furious Ms. Asquith. "You're late ! Where have you been ? Why didn't you ring ? We were so worried ! Huh ? Police ??"
I pushed past her, stepped into the smaller lounge where Mr. Jackson, Jacindra and Jerry waited. I spoke first, cryogenic-cold. "Uncle Jack."
To my relief, Jerry and Jacindra looked puzzled, but Mr. Jackson flinched as if struck, went pale.
"Hatchet !" Ms. Asquith hissed from behind me. "Kriegspiel ! Seminole ! Ruby ! Stand down !"
I half-turned, bringing her frantic visage into full view.
"Hatchet-Kriegspiel-Seminole-Ruby ! Stand down !!" She gabbled, then shrieked, "Wolf ! Concorde ! Septangle ! Grimalk--"
My back-hand easily out-paced her belated parry, took her across the face, flung her aside. Bernard, who'd clearly spotted the 'Stross' references and deduced much, interposed a foot to trip her stagger onto a couch.
I faced Uncle Jack, coldly stated, "Yes, I am again Jackie Jones. In return for full reinstatement of the 'Flange Forgings' pension fund you raped, re-hab for Uncle Paul and fair pay, I agreed to role-play my 'Potty-Mouth' cousin Priscilla during her lengthy rehabilitation. But, your people stuck me with a hypnotic geas to make me think I was her.
"Then, when the poor kid died about ten years ago, they passed her death off as mine by switching our reference DNA. Before 'my' scattered skeleton was found by a horrified dog-walker, my contract payments were halted, that escrow account emptied. After, my medical reset escrow fund was disbursed...
"Seems 'my' funeral was well attended, lots of very, very grateful 'Flange Forgings' pensioners..." Uncle Jack could not meet my eyes' abyss. As Jacindra and Jerry stared between us, I continued, "So, you owe me big. The decade's forty payments of twenty-five thousand, after tax and deductions, plus compound commercial interest. Plus 'Distress'. Lots of 'Distress'. Punitive 'Distress'. I reckon 'Double Indemnity' applies."
"But..." Mr. Jackson was almost lost for words. "How ?"
"I knew you couldn't be trusted, you scheming bastard," I snarled. "I was told my training would involve some hypnotic conditioning. So, before putting myself into your people's hands, I took a few precautions...
"Two knife-armed druggies jumped us outside the school." I watched all three's eyes widen, heard Ms. Asquith's gasp. She'd understood. I added, "Threat triggered my 'In_Extremis' app, un-bound your geas...
"Those stupid druggies would not 'Play Nice'. They died of it. Are you going to make the same mistake ?"
Slowly, silently, he bowed, shook his head.
I turned to Jerry and Jacindra, said, "Jerry, I've been Priscilla since my Swiss make-over. I thought I was Priscilla when I married you. Now, I'm Jackie Jones again, but I still love you: Will you marry me ?"
He blinked, took scant moments to digest the situation, stated, "Ms. Jones, I'd be honoured !"
"Thank you," I replied, looked to Jacindra, said, "When we first met at Gatwick, you asked, 'Are you really Priscilla ?' Remember ?"
She nodded slowly, realising how I must have suffered, mind-locked behind that bimbo facade.
"As I've just said, I thought I was Priscilla." I shrugged. "So, not a lie, nor truth, but 'nu'."
Her lips twitched in the ghost of a smile.
"You put aside your prior loathing of that 'Potty Mouth' kid, have been a good friend to me, to Jerry, to our children. You will always be welcome in our home. And, may I invite you to our wedding ?" As her eye-brows rose, I said, "I've been Priscilla for a decade. I've grown into the job. I reckon the best solution is for me to quietly change my name to hers, then Jerry and I can simply 'Renew Our Vows'."
Jacindra's face slowly split to an immense grin. She nodded, said, "Though I liked the new Priscilla, she seemed too good to be true. So, I was right. It was an act, but you were a puppet and that pair were pulling your strings...
"Now you're free, I like you even more-- We are going to have so much fun !!"
I matched Jacindra's grin, turned to silent Ms. Asquith, lips split, face bruising, whom Alex, Bernard and Charley were watching like a prial of hunting cats. "If you claim you were 'Just Following Orders', I will destroy you." As she winced, I continued, "I won't ask how he first coerced you, but I'm sure it was vile. And, the longer it went on, the deeper you dug your hole. Happens I still need a 'Personal Assistant'. So, put away your marionette 'cross brace', work off your karmic debt with honest service."
As, resigned, she nodded, I turned to Mr. Jackson. "Likewise, I need a 'Finance Manager'. You will slowly, carefully switch from running the portfolio on your behalf to running it, more ethically, on mine. The several millions, tax paid, that you owe me must come out of your pocket, though. Not the portfolio. No hurry, you may make appropriate noises, but they'd better be 'Second Fiddle'.
"Also, I remember how you inspected my nude 'Priscilla_2.0', tweaked my left nipple. To her credit, Ms. Asquith intervened, preventing anything more intimate." I gave every-one a moment to consider the many implications. "If we discover that you had sexual relations with your daughter, or you behave lewdly towards any person other than your lawfully wedded partner, or otherwise inappropriately, consider your cojones forfeit..."
As he went a shade paler, I turned to DS Walsh and the WPC, asked, "Your body-cams get all that ?"
They nodded by turn, professional but bemused.
"The two muggers are safely dead. I've neutralised these Principals. I neither want nor need to 'Press Charges', or pursue Minions. Just keep the full truth on file as a 'Sword of Damocles'...
"Now, who'd like a nice cup of tea and some choccy biscuits ??"
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jemhouston
- Posts: 4191
- Joined: Fri Nov 18, 2022 12:38 am
Re: Double Trouble...
Well well interesting
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Nik_SpeakerToCats
- Posts: 1276
- Joined: Sat Dec 10, 2022 10:56 am
Re: Double Trouble...
Indeed.
FWIW, I have no idea where this 'excursion' came from, beyond waking with that first, ominous line whispering, 'When the family lawyer calls, you go. Never mind that my previous visits had brought bad news or worse...'
Had to write it to be rid, sorta like 'pigging' a pipe-line.
Glad it amuses...
FWIW, I've just spotted a totally logical way to get WIRS_9 back on track.
Yes, yes, yet again, an utterly obvious solution has taken me rather too long to notice or find...
Well, D'uh...
But, first, some urgent gardening and put relevant wheelie-bins out before Storm Bobbit, uh, Babbet blows in this evening...
FWIW, I have no idea where this 'excursion' came from, beyond waking with that first, ominous line whispering, 'When the family lawyer calls, you go. Never mind that my previous visits had brought bad news or worse...'
Had to write it to be rid, sorta like 'pigging' a pipe-line.
Glad it amuses...
FWIW, I've just spotted a totally logical way to get WIRS_9 back on track.
Yes, yes, yet again, an utterly obvious solution has taken me rather too long to notice or find...
Well, D'uh...
But, first, some urgent gardening and put relevant wheelie-bins out before Storm Bobbit, uh, Babbet blows in this evening...