Gonzo Marketing:Winning Through Worst Practices The Bombast Transcripts: Rants and Screeds of RageBoy
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Saturday, July 26, 2008
Previous episodes:

Chapter 8
Room 1009

"Let me go this instant!" She was straining against the ropes he'd used to pinion her wings to the ceiling beams. "You fucker!"

"Such language." He was painting her breasts with honey. "Does this tickle?"

"You unspeakable beast!"

"I've been called worse," he said. He was singing softly to himself. "Saw you stretched out in hmmm hmmm hmmm hmmm..."

"When I break out of these damn ropes, you're gonna be sorry!" She was spitting mad.

He laughed and dipped the basting brush for more.

"Look," she said, trying a different tack, "it was a good dinner, right? And it didn't cost you anything!"

"Didn't COST me anything?" he roared. "I had to draw an entire Chinese Junk on the bar wall so he could be reunited with this mistress who ran off to Hong Kong last year. Took me three hours. He wanted all the details to be just so."

"And you had to wait for him to bring her back through." She said this in a nearly commiserating tone: you poor dear.

"Well," he said, "he made me promise to hold the door open."

"But you didn't, did you?"


She chuckled. "You really are a bastard."

"You look hot," he said stepping back to review his work, "all trussed up like that."

"Ick," she said. "I'm all sticky."

"You know what they say."

"What do they say?"

"Sticky fingers are the devil's workshop." Then humming again, "...couldn't seem to get a light on you..."

"OK, that's enough," she said. "No means no."

"...my sweet... honey love."

"I'll start screaming," she said.

"...angels beating all their wings in time..."

"And how would that look? Big black brute like you torturing a helpless little thing like me?" She tried looking helpless. It didn't work.

"...smiles on their faces... and a teardrop in their eye..." He kept painting her.

"If you don't let me go," she threatened, "I can make it hard for you!"

"Whoops," he said, looking down. "Too late."

"Will Smith," she said. "Enemy of the State." Then sputtering: "You lamer! You sick pervert!"

"You ain't seen nothin' yet," he said, picking up a jeweled box from the side table. Her eyes got big.

"You wouldn't," she said.

"But I would," he said, opening the box.

"No!" she screamed, "Not the Ecstasy Ants!"

"'fraid so," he said, chuckling. "Last time you leave me to do the dishes."

"Sore loser," she said. "Come on!"

"I can't reason with you," he said. "This is the only thing you understand."

"True dat," she said.

"Don't go all ghetto on me," he said. "It won't hurt."

"And what," she said, "you're just gonna watch?"

"I have to go see a guy about a boat."

"A boat to where?" she asked, curious in spite of herself.

"Italy, I think. Genoa."

"Oh," she said. "And from there we can take a train to Locarno."

"Right," he said. Then, looking at her appraisingly, "Christ, you're a mess."

"Put the ants away," she said. "I need to pack."

"Promise to be good?"

"Cross my heart," she said.

He untied her. As soon as she was free, she hit him with her left wing, knocking him over onto the bed.

"You promised!" he howled.

"This won't hurt either," she said, straddling him. "Like this fucking honey all over you, do you?"

"Fucking honey," he mumbled, smothered under her beating wings.

"At least take a shower," he said.

"After," she said. "Shut up."

7:33 AM | link |

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"RageBoy: Giving being fucking nuts a good name since 1985."
~D. Weinberger
28 October 2004

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