The Unnamed adventures of Roger Weaver

Chapter 1

The Story The Authors

PART TWO: none

Gazing out of the window of her New York high rise apartment, Anita Mann absentmindedly filed her nails. She was brimming with nervous energy and her mind was racing a mile per minute. "Curse that wretched Roger Weaver!" she said out loud to no one in particular. "He better not try to waltz back into my life again.! And he certainly better not bring may any more damn hunting trophies!" She directed that last comment at the various animal heads mounted on the wall behind her. Her once lavishly decorated penthouse was beginning to look like a taxidermists wet dream and a decorators worst nightmare. She threw her nail file onto the coffee table and took another sip from her icy cold martini. cuddles

The stuffed and mounted head of a boar regarded her with the cold, impassive stare which only a stuffed and mounted boar's head can pull off without appearing to be putting on airs. Tut, tut, tut, it seemed to be saying. A little bit early in the day for your first martini.
Anita (how was she to know, after all, that her own Roger Weaver, that infuriating man who produced such an inseparable blend of lust and spite, tenderness and malice, love and desperation in her, lay at that moment thousands of lmiles away on a deserted plain, surveying the rancid giraffe carcass which not even jackals and vultures would approach, wondering if his hunger would get the best of his pride, or vice versa) responded by throwing back the remainder of her martini and pouring a fresh one from the chrome flask, beaded with condensation, standing on the tray which Edgard, the grim and withered butler she'd inherited from her father, had been so kind as to lurch into her study with, looking for all the world like William S. Burroughs impersonating Lurch. Philip

In mid swig, a horrible premonition clutched her, and she tore the firey drink from her mouth. She saw Roger, for a moment, as he lifted a maggotty chunk of giraffe flesh to his lips and gagged upon it, forcing it down his parched and dust clogged throat. Anita shook her head violently to clear it of the apparition she had seen, and then carefully put down the quaint goblet. Edgard she cried hoarsly, and then louder when he didn't come. The boars head continued to stare, but this time seemed to mock her where she sat, imobile, trapped in her wheelchair. Edgard! She heard his heavy footsteps and sighed. none

Damn you, Roger, she thought, you've made me forget my independance. Quickly she pushed up from the wheelchair, and balancing on one leg, hobbled to her crutches. With a flippant wave of a jeweled hand, she dismissed Edgard, and sent him hobbling back to the kitchens or wherever his little French maid was waiting. It must have been the martini playing games with her usually cool head. This wasn't fair. At night she was haunted by dreams of Roger and now he invaded her daytimes too. With burning,watery eyes, whether from tears or from drink she didn't even dare guess, she spotted her half finished martini where she had quickly slammed it down, and snatched it up again. What the hell, she murmered, as she raised it, first in a mock toast to the boar head on the wall, and then to her pretty pouting mouth. Lee

She tossed back the cool, fiery yet soothing liquid and then proceded to munch on the spear of garlic stuffed olives. "Well," she was talking to herself again. "If that bastard Roger is going to leave me here-helpless and alone-so he can go trapsing through the African Savannah than he deserves to eat maggoty giraffe flesh." Anita always had the uncanny ability to make herself feel better with one short sentence. She smiled to herself as she swallowed the last morsel of olive. She then rang for Edgard, abrubtly interrupting his tet-a-tet with the little french maid, and demanded to know how long it would be before the faith healer arrived. cuddles

Suddenly, the door burst asunder, and, to her amazement and delight, Roger's friend Steve jumped through the shattered doorway, in one hand a can of whipped cream, in the other a large, battery-operated vibrator. "Lucy! I'm home!!!", he called, and with a grin the size of Gibralter, he seized her and... Boffo Boingo

The Story	The Authors
PART TWO:	none
Gazing out of the window of her New York high rise apartment, Anita Mann absentmindedly filed her nails. She was brimming with nervous energy and her mind was racing a mile per minute. "Curse that wretched Roger Weaver!" she said out loud to no one in particular. "He better not try to waltz back into my life again.! And he certainly better not bring may any more damn hunting trophies!" She directed that last comment at the various animal heads mounted on the wall behind her. Her once lavishly decorated penthouse was beginning to look like a taxidermists wet dream and a decorators worst nightmare. She threw her nail file onto the coffee table and took another sip from her icy cold martini.	cuddles
The stuffed and mounted head of a boar regarded her with the cold, impassive stare which only a stuffed and mounted boar's head can pull off without appearing to be putting on airs. Tut, tut, tut, it seemed to be saying. A little bit early in the day for your first martini. Anita (how was she to know, after all, that her own Roger Weaver, that infuriating man who produced such an inseparable blend of lust and spite, tenderness and malice, love and desperation in her, lay at that moment thousands of lmiles away on a deserted plain, surveying the rancid giraffe carcass which not even jackals and vultures would approach, wondering if his hunger would get the best of his pride, or vice versa) responded by throwing back the remainder of her martini and pouring a fresh one from the chrome flask, beaded with condensation, standing on the tray which Edgard, the grim and withered butler she'd inherited from her father, had been so kind as to lurch into her study with, looking for all the world like William S. Burroughs impersonating Lurch.	Philip
In mid swig, a horrible premonition clutched her, and she tore the firey drink from her mouth. She saw Roger, for a moment, as he lifted a maggotty chunk of giraffe flesh to his lips and gagged upon it, forcing it down his parched and dust clogged throat. Anita shook her head violently to clear it of the apparition she had seen, and then carefully put down the quaint goblet. Edgard she cried hoarsly, and then louder when he didn't come. The boars head continued to stare, but this time seemed to mock her where she sat, imobile, trapped in her wheelchair. Edgard! She heard his heavy footsteps and sighed.	none
Damn you, Roger, she thought, you've made me forget my independance. Quickly she pushed up from the wheelchair, and balancing on one leg, hobbled to her crutches. With a flippant wave of a jeweled hand, she dismissed Edgard, and sent him hobbling back to the kitchens or wherever his little French maid was waiting. It must have been the martini playing games with her usually cool head. This wasn't fair. At night she was haunted by dreams of Roger and now he invaded her daytimes too. With burning,watery eyes, whether from tears or from drink she didn't even dare guess, she spotted her half finished martini where she had quickly slammed it down, and snatched it up again. What the hell, she murmered, as she raised it, first in a mock toast to the boar head on the wall, and then to her pretty pouting mouth.	Lee
She tossed back the cool, fiery yet soothing liquid and then proceded to munch on the spear of garlic stuffed olives. "Well," she was talking to herself again. "If that bastard Roger is going to leave me here-helpless and alone-so he can go trapsing through the African Savannah than he deserves to eat maggoty giraffe flesh." Anita always had the uncanny ability to make herself feel better with one short sentence. She smiled to herself as she swallowed the last morsel of olive. She then rang for Edgard, abrubtly interrupting his tet-a-tet with the little french maid, and demanded to know how long it would be before the faith healer arrived.	cuddles
Suddenly, the door burst asunder, and, to her amazement and delight, Roger's friend Steve jumped through the shattered doorway, in one hand a can of whipped cream, in the other a large, battery-operated vibrator. "Lucy! I'm home!!!", he called, and with a grin the size of Gibralter, he seized her and...	Boffo Boingo

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