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an Inspector Stremalon story |
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On the way home, Inspector Stremalon stopped at the premises of Doctor Dicasso, a dentist who ran a side business in supplying things that were not supposed to be possible.
"I have an appointment," said Stremalon, and gave his name, and sat. The TV was on, ignored by most of the people who were waiting to see the dentist. That infamous narcoleptic dog video rerun was rerunning again. Actually, Stremalon didn't mind it. Narcoleptic dogs he could handle. After the narcoleptic dog video, however - any time you go to the dentist, you're guaranteed to have to wait, even if you're not there to have your teeth drilled - there was mud wrestling. "Really," said Stremalon, and averted his gaze. It was not that he was prudish. It was just that the monomaniacal theme which dominated life in Torture Mungus - flesh naked, flesh half-clothed, flesh disrobing, flesh gasping, flesh gaping, flesh lubricating - was too much. You got bored with it, after a while, profoundly bored with, for example, watching naked women wrestling in gloopy pink mud. Idly, Stremalon leafed through the magazines, looking for something to distract him. No luck. By the magazines, a small bookcase, "The Complete Works of William Shakespeare" amongst them. Stremalon pulled out the Shakespeare volume and turned to the table of contents, which featured, amongst other things, "Macbeth and the Coven Orgy" and "King Lear and the Attack of the Radioactive Jellyfish," which was not quite Shakespeare as he remembered it. "The doctor will see you now," said the receptionist, smiling brightly. But just then the door banged open and a demon stormed in, demanding to be seen now, now, right now. "This gentleman is next, sir," said the receptionist, tentatively. "Then I'll kill him," said the demon, turning on Stremalon. At that, Stremalon drew his service revolver. "Yes, yes!" cried his gun. "Let's shoot him! Let's shoot him! Pull me! Pull me!" Stremalon was feeling good. Violent situations always made him feel that way. There was something culturally normative about violence. Stremalon had been born into a world in which you could, if your social status was high enough, kill an open-ended number of people with bombs, tanks and cruise missiles, and yet still be respectable enough to be invited to charity concerts. Every time Stremalon drew his gun, he immediately felt - well, cleansed. Even without shooting anyone. "Ah, well," said the demon, looking Stremalon up and down and seeing that, yes, this man was fully ready to shoot him. "I'll go somewhere else, then." And with that the demon backtracked and was gone. The presence of demons was another of the things which had made the first few generations of humans think that Torture Mungus was indeed Hell itself. However, nobody believed that any longer. Demons were unpleasant to encounter, especially if they were drunk, but the average demon could be shot dead quite easily, and - "The doctor will see you now, sir," said the receptionist, her smile a little strained. And Inspector Stremalon, remembering himself, holstered his weapon and went in to see the dentist. The transaction which followed took only two minutes, after which Stremalon was on his way, his contraband bundled up in a brown paper parcel too big to be just a couple of magazines and too small to be one of the new megahamsters. Thinking of what was in the parcel, Inspector Stremalon could hardly wait. He longed to be home, right now. Inspector Stremalon got home to find that his wife had laid another egg. It was sitting right slap bang in the middle of the living room. He just hated that. Of course, he recognized that he was partially responsible for this - after all, it took two people to reproduce. And, of course, reproduction was a standard part of married life. But, even so, couldn't Vatilda be a little more discrete about it? "I'm home, honey!" said Stremalon. No reply from Vatilda. Stremalon found her floating in the bath, asleep, a naked woman, voluptuous, beautiful, ready to be taken. Unable to resist, he reached out - And she woke, roaring, twisting into scales and steam, her bulk thrashing upwards, her claws raking the air right in front of him. The transition was as shocking as it was sudden. She had never changed in front of him before. "You interloper you!" hissed Vatilda. "Get out of my bathroom!" And Stremalon fled, glad to be alive. Vatilda had cooked and eaten her last husband, cooking him slowly, not with the roaring flames which were capable of blasting from her mouth, but, rather, with the delicate bunsen-burner flames from her nostrils. It had taken the victim a week to die. But, for some reason, the jury had proved sympathetic, and Vatilda had walked free from court. As Stremalon returned to the living room, the egg cracked open and a small dragon slithered out, wet with yolk. "Hi, dad!" said the dragonet. "Okay if I borrow the car? Sorry - joke!" Then it began to lick itself, cleaning away the tasty yolk. "Are you male or female?" asked Stremalon. To be honest, after two hundred and fifty-four children, he was past caring. Still, habit made him ask. "I'm a girl, my name's Giftbox, my good point is that I know how to shoplift, my bad point is that I like to snort." With that, Giftbox snorted. A gout of flame snoirled from her nostrils. It would have scorched the wooden floor, except that it happened to strike a part of the floor which was already charcoal black from similar incendiary incidents in the past. "Okay," said Stremalon. "Just remember that curfew is eight at night and you'll be expected to start school tomorrow morning. Remind me to sign you up." "Tail," said Giftbox, demandingly. Obediently, Stremalon gave her tail a loving pull. Then, fatherly duties done for the day - the good point about newborn dragons is that they arrive in the world nine-tenths informed and largely able to take care of themselves - he hurried down to the basement, his secret package in hand. "What is this?" said Vatilda that evening, frowning fiercely as she studied what she had found on her computer. She was surfing the Internet and had just come across the story of the naked succubus sex slave murders on the police Poindextering site. "Stremalon! This has your name on it! What have you been doing? How do you explain this?"
This story, "The Naked Succubus Sex Slave Murders", made its first appearance when posted online by Hugh Cook on 2003 August 03 Sunday. Copyright © 2003 Hugh Cook - all rights reserved. |