|The Story||The Authors|
...followed by the sound of the tonearm being hurled radially inwards,
the needle bouncing in and out of the grooves and finally stopping
once and for all with a noise like an expiring wildebeast. And over
the P.A. there came a strangely familiar voice: |
I thought I said No more fictional degeneration into the complex realms of self-stimulation! Not in my story, damn you people! "
"My god," thought Roger; "I know that high bitchy tone — that's Anita's voice!"
You people are sickos! Pre-verts! All you
ever think to write about is sex! Sex and masturbation! The sins
of the flesh! The things they warned you you'd burn in hell for!
You treat women as sex objects, you treat yourselves as sex-objects,
you spend money you could be putting into your IRA on battery-powered
sex-objects, and every fantasy, no matter how aesthetic its beginnings,
degenerates, in your filthy hands, into cheap locker-room smut! As
if that's all literature was — no higher notions, no love of humanity,
no tireless pursuit of Truth and Justice and Freedom, just booty!
Well; I'm full up to here with your potty-minds and your potty-mouths,
and I'm putting a stop to it right this instant!"
|"Weird," muttered Roger, and he put all sex thoughts out of his mind and looked to the task at hand- getting out of the mysterious cave. He chose another tunnel and began to walk down it, carefully, one foot infront of the other, so as not to fall. The light from the miners lantern faded to gray and then black once again, and Roger hugged the slimy sides of the tunnel to keep from stumbling. He continued in this matter for quite sometime, cautiously creeping along, caught up in the sounds of his echoing footsteps, dripping water, and squeeking bats, until he realized that the cave wall he was hugging felt quite warm now. In fact, it was rather hot, and indeed, when he turned his eyes from the ground and looked before him, he saw that in front of him the walls glowed reddish and there appeared to be an ending to this tunnel. The wall was almost too hot to touch and Roger let go, he staggered forward towards the red opening in the glowing rock. He stopped abruptly, right before the opening. He stood on a small ledge above what appeared to be a pit of some kind. Looking up, he saw a sort of grate, and below him, steaming lava, churning and bubbling. As he watched in amazement, the grate slid aside and a small man dressed in nothing but a loincloth was dropped into the pit. He fell, screaming, and landed with a "plop" in the burning lava and did not resurface. Roger looked up as heard the grate closing once again and above him saw|
another arrow carved into the rock face and once again the elusive
initials A.S.. The arrow seemed to indicate towards a series
of skillfully carved handholds in the rock face leading up to the
grate. Roger stared uneasily at the handholds and then queasily back
down at the burbling lava pit.|
Get lost in the tunnels
And when you get done'll
be pile of white Roger bones
heaped right under Bombay
To go out you go up
Up! Up! Good Pup!
Clinging right tight to the stones
Or think of the Roger Flambe'!
merrily chirped Thing One and Two.
|"Ah, damn you," Roger muttered, "and leave me alone, I've had enough of you popping out of nowhere and screwing up my adventures." Thing One and Two dissappeared into thin air, hopefully forever. I've got to get out of here, it's as hot as hell, or mabye it is hell, Roger thought. He gingerly placed a foot in one of the cracks and clutched the jutting rocks above. He pushed off, and began to climb, tentativly at first, and then gaining speed and confidence. Sweat poured off his body as he strained to get to the top. The grate above came closer and closer, and the hot, bubbling lava pit fell farther and farther below him. He was almost at the top. He could almost touch freedom.|