Subject: CODY: OREGANO (new series) From: email@example.com (Mithryl) Date: 1997/02/27 Message-Id: <firstname.lastname@example.org> Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage,rec.arts.prose,alt.sex.stories,alt.politics.sex THE STORIES OF OREGANO February 26, 1997 Going through email. Pretty thin. Invitation from Paul at Mars to torture my nipples and clit. Sure. Why not? Poem from wp about O.J. O.J. didn't do it, guys. I met a man at a party who knew a guy who knew someone else who said someone had told him a person he knew saw the whole thing. It was the kid they were after. Nicole came out when she heard the noise in the courtyard and got zipped, too. Stupid broad. But the white media needs a black whipping boy. Actually, though, O.J. is lucky the whit e jury nailed him, because now he has become a superhero. Look at Sam Sheppard. It's taken the media forty years to admit it was wrong about him. Nice touch: They did it the same day the O.J. jury brought in its verdict. Like the passing of the torch. Is God a humorist, or what? If they had got the Sheppard case right in the first place, no one would ever have heard of the fugitive. But so what? I don't want to talk about O.J. What do I want to talk about? I don't know. I'm lost. Nothing works lately. Including this grass I bought on the way home this evening. What is this stuff? Oregano? God, there is just no quality contr ol anywhere anymore. What do we have a police force for if you can't get decent dope? So anyway, I'm back, and wondering what to do next. Like I said last night, one idea is to rewrite some of my old stories. Tales from the Crypt, so to speak. Actually, I want to get out from underneath my history. Too much has happened. I've been th rough too much. I want these stories to happen to someone else. I want them to be stuff I invented, not memories. Here's another "interlude." DONALD BY CODY ANN MICHAELS (c.) All Rights Reserved. My affair (can it even be called that?) with Donald was brief. We did not really have a chance to get to know each other or get started. He said he was a "dom" and wanted to help me. So many do. So few succeed. How, he asked, could it be done on the internet? Of course, he wanted to know more. I wrote: "Dear Dom Don, "Thank you for your note. I don't really know how it can be done on the internet, but it sort of helps to tell my fantasies. "The fact is, ever since childhood, it seems I've had thoughts about being captured and held helpless while a man or men do things to me. (Later, women.) At first, it was just fucking me or having to give them a blowjob. But later, when I found out I could get all the men I wanted, I began to dream up really terrible stuff. For instance, a guy takes me to a bar in a rundown part of town and forces me to strip in front of all the other customers. I do it not so much because I'm afraid he will hurt me . I know he'll do that. But because I deserve it. At least that's what I fantasize. That I'm a really disgusting cheap slut underneath the pretty college girl facade. (I was in school at the time.) "I also like to imagine being slapped around and even beaten up badly. I like to watch wrestling and imagine I'm the one who's being beaten up, only I'm myself, a woman, and the guy is literally wiping up the floor with me. I especially get off when a person has his face rubbed along the rope, thinking how that must feel. I've asked some of the guys I go out with to do this, I mean pretend to, but none will. They claim no one would ever hurt someone like me." I added the usual description of which, I am sure, everyone by now is suitably bored, and signed it: "Yours truly, Cody Mask" (This was also in the days before I used my real name.) * Don's reply: "I would like to hear more about your fantasies ... How about if I humiliate you in public and private, by email and phone? I am very good at it, and it should help." Well, I don't give out my phone number. But by e-mail? Fine. I wrote back, saying I would be on that evening. He asked when was evening (he was in California)? I replied: Evening is when the deep purple falls and a girl walking down the street draws her short black trenchcoat around her, hoping people won't notice that underneath, all she has on is a garter belt and stockings because she was raped earlier that day in the back of a stretch limo by three guys from Atlanta who had taken her to lunch and then for a ride up the East Side highway and out to Queens where there was a warehouse... she doesn't want to remember after that. Try 9:30. And that was it. Whether it was something I said, or he just got scared, I never heard from him again. I could be mistaken. There was so much mail. And I was in a rush to get on a plane and get to Florida before my dad died. What a mess that was, es pecially coming right at Christmas. Anyway, we were like ships that passed in the night. Maybe some other time... In any case, I hope he is happy. # Oh yeah. That day. Those guys. I forgot about them. If they're the ones I actually remember. Actually, I thought it was somewhere out in Jersey. But that could have been another afternoon. And they were from Spokane. Or Arkansas. Or Washington. Yeah. I didn't report it, because, well, look what happened to the other one. Oh yeah, that reminds me. Today's paper. Wasn't it delicious? Men are so stupid. "Ready to start overnights right away. Give me the top 10 list..." Like it was Motel 6. Right there in his own handwriting on the front page. I wonder if they printed it in Florida. I really wish I knew that. Because one of the things I hate about Florida is its mendacity. When i was there, the liberal white ass paper ran a column by Ellen Goodman -- I had to cut this out it was such a fucking lie -- with the headline: "Damage Jones' reputa tion before damaging the presidency." And there he was, selling the White House to a gang of rich tourists like it was Disneyworld. Can you imagine? What an asshole. The liberal media is such a fucking whore. It is a good reason why we will never hav e a revolution in this country, because the liberals always sell out. Like Paula Jones is not at all like the hounds of hell who brought down Bob Packwood. The woman who gifted us with the eternal image of our stupid President standing there with his pa nts down and that look on his face. The same one they ran with Goodman's column, in which it was argued in the most liberally erudite terms why Clinton should not be required to face Paula Jones in a civil courtroom because it would damage the dignity of the presidency. I quote: "Yes, pursue all 3 and promptly. And get other names at 100,000 or more, 50,000 or more. cc. H. Ickles, L. Panetta, B. Webster. Ready to start over..." etc. I could really find it in my heart to believe that Clinton killed Nicole. The man is such a liar! And you white assholes keep going along, do to do to do to do I saw it on television so it must be true do to do da da da. Holy shit, what a nation. He signed a million babies into starvation. Something is happening here and you don't know what it is, do you Paula Jones? How'd I get on this? Who the fuck cares what Clinton does for his blowjobs? That, for all I know, come with the Lincoln Bedroom, too. A night with Bill, Hillary and Mr. Harry. What I want to know is this? If we, the taxpayers, are paying for the towels and sheets at the W hite House, how come all those millions they raised renting it out doesn't come back to the federal government? We paid for those mattresses in the hallway. And up under the roof. So we should get the profits. Oh, we could give the Democrats ten perce nt. As an agent. That's good enough. The Republicans have the congress building. They should give back too. I had five guys sleeping in my office when I was there. And I was only a freshman. You can imagine what it was like over at Newties'. I mea n, wall to wall. And Congressmen didn't get as much as Senators. There was a scale. And, of course, Congress was nothing compared to the Pentagon. All those old soldiers sleeping with generals. Camp Benning was popular, too. And Aberdeen. Aberdeen was one of the prettiest sights you've ever seen when she stripped on the proving grouunds at Aberdeen. In front of ten thousand soldiers. You can't imagine the contribution we got from that one. She made a lovely ambassador, coming back to the city after many years, where she had spent her youth as a young countess. She was his war whore. Later, they got together back in the states. She got a hundred million when he died. She was down to her last nickel. When that was gone, she would be back on the street. Not the same after so many years. And the war was over. The armed servicemen came back to Paris, and it was like before. Hiya, Soldier, only they were both eighty. Nothing could stan d between them. She met many men and impressed many people. Sandringham. Montpelier. Rubes. She worked the rubes along the circus way, men and boys, lonely and far away from home. Hey, my wallet's missing. She was long gone with his papers. They s old for sixty quid on the underground. The Germans thought that she was on their side. Feeding them secret information. It was the London telephone book. By the time they decoded it, the war was over. Even Hitler was fooled. Ha ha. Good joke, Schat zi. Shoot her. The jeep spun out of control down the mountainside as she thought of it. They were going off the road. No! I don't want to remember this. It didn't happen. I'm not telling you. I... School of the Americas. You got a begger off the street, someone who wouldn't be missed. A prostitute. And you use them to demonstrate interrogation procedures and techniqu es. And you hear what comes out. They will tell you the most interesting things you ever wanted to hear, anything to make you stop. One even recited the Lord's Prayer. This is interesting, because, for one thing, the girl doesn't know anything and doe sn't know why she is being tortured. And you know that she knows nothing and are listening to what she says. "How can the ordinary person, not just the Supreme Court, reconcile the claims (claims, not needs) of a single woman with the needs of a country?" Quote from Ellen Goodman's column, 1/18/97, P.B.P. Parenthetical added. I don't want to think about this. It never happened. Clinton did not ask that woman for a blowjob. All he wanted was a hundred thousand dollars. And then he'd go away and she could go back to bed. Think about it. It was all a cover. Can you imagin e what it must be like being married to Hilary? This was a way for them to have affairs and no one would notice, because everyone would be trying to sleep. There. In the White House. The center of our nation's democracy. Where our country's needs are being met. Nicht wahr? They are there for us, aren't they? Looking out for us? "What then of Paula Jones and her claims of (at least) lurid behavior in a hotel room with then-Gov. Clinton?" Ibid. Come on? Lurid? White Trash in the White House. Come and go. Fast or slow. Mo and mo. The rich guys in Washington must get off wa tching Bill and Hill suck up to them. I thought I'd shit when I heard what he said about old Pamela Harriman. Where have you gone Joe DiMaggio, our nation turns its lonely eyes to you. What's that you say, Mrs. Harriman, Jolting Joe has struck and gone away? Hey Hey. Hey! Whatever happened to Marilyn? Winston Churchill's mother was rowed up the lordly Hudson on a barge similar to that of her illustrious ancestor. Kate Hepburn played her in the movie. "Thank you for letting me out," she called to h im. He warned her not to have any illusions about going back. With that, I can really connect. She's ninety. This year. The same year my grandmother is. Only about a month separate them. But they are so different. The Paula Jones before the Suprem e "Court is not Bob Packwood case," Ibid. oops. Sorry. Cut that off. "... when activists reluctantly but inevitably turned on an old ally." Now ibid. Say wa? Who writes this stuff? This garbage. "Nor is it the Clarence Thomas hearing, when senat ors..." give me a break "were supposed to assess the character of the man headed for a lifetime post. For that matter..." Wait til you hear this: "this is not the story of Michael Irvin and his false accuser." Whew, do you ever read the papers? I mean really read them. What they are saying? I don't mean just the words. I mean, what they are really saying? "'big hair'" Trailer trash. Her profile less than perfect. I mean, meow. I think she's cute. And her belated coming out party at a conseravative press conference, like that made it a lie, yes? The mixed reports from your family. You should hear what mine say a bout me. If you want fair. Just listen to some of the stuff my brother says. Her early attempt to trade silence for money. Or my sisters. My sisters would stab me in the back in a minute. And for what? A single incident that did not result in any t hreat to her job -- and does not, get this, rise to the legal level of harrassment, like Bob Packwood's clumsy fumbling I suppose did? Poor Bob. He was such a klutz. He made you laugh when he pulled your pants down. And feel all good inside. "In this case, the difficult truth is that the proclaimed message of Ms. Jones' reputation doesn't merit the sure damage to the presidency." I bid. Have I said enough ibids? "Yes. Pursue all 3 and promptly.... Ready to start overnights right away. Give me the top 10..." Op sid. I can see how our nation's innkeeper wouldn't have time to be in court, what with having to lay out guest towels and put those little scented favors on people's pillows every night. Mrs. Helmsley should have tried that one. Liberals are such whores. They gave this asshole a fucking blow job last summer. And now we're here. You sleep over there. And you take this bunk. Stalag 17. And you sleep up in the hay loft. Are you sure this is the White House? Look, mister, I just work here. Obey the rules and you won't get hurt. "Only the most gleeful tabloid owner could relish the idea of Bill Clinton being asked about his private parts in sworn testimony." No. No. Me, too. I would love to hear what Bill has to say abo ut his nuts. Come on, Baby, take them down. Show us old Harry. Little bitty poon tang. Okay. You can pull them back up now, Mr. President. And I'm not alone. There are a million of us out there. All clones. All screaming to see Bill B.'s wiggle w addle. Except Paula. She was fascinated, but she couldn't say she wanted to see it. In fact, she wished he'd put it away. Or so she says. "If Ms. Jones wants to pursue the case, the $700,000, and the good name that she herself turned into a household moniker, at least let her do so when he is no longer president." Oooooo, wow, I love to watch when women savage another. They are so cruel. And mean. And dirty. And low down. Rip her belly open. Stupid cow. You wouldn't want someone like that dama ging the presidency, would you? I forgot who I was talking about. The phone rang, and it was my brother. Who thinks I'm a whore. The town tramp. And he has only good things to say to me. Like, shutup, cunt. Take a power, cunt. Shut your mouth or I'll shut it for you. And he hits me. But not on the phone. Oh, hello, Alex. He's two years younger than me and he treats me like shit. Like, come on. What did I do? And then he had me out by the pool. I was wearing a white bathing suit. One piece. Cut extra high on the hips. And just covering my nips. I was gorgeous. I didn't want to do it. He made me do it, deed he did Catht shse took a deep breath and held it Now let go. She did in the chest and felt wonderful she had been holding it in for so long now get this, Cody is meaningful. So is Ebonics so don't tell my child what he should say, got that? She backed off. yes. I'm sorry. slap he hit her the child went down she got some of her friends to dress him up like a girl. Hey. What is thois? She got in touch. Now she was sending it out over the airways top him where she topumbl;ed iont top the searaw it's garbbled, fiugure it out we're going to get shot down in here Come on Winston, we've got to get into the Grange and bury her under the stones in the abbey. Where she could eat the heart out of the country. They're vampires. You know. All down there under the Abby. The ones who are buried there. The Undead ones. Sylvia figured it out. It was one way to make Cody out of someone else. How about it, Alec? my little step brother stood there like a Freneach maid in a comode and looked exactly like me. I was going to enjoy this. No, Cody. Please. Right!!!!! I looked down at her pretty face. Now slut, I finally have you. Alec winced. The big utters hung down beneath her, bouncing against her legs. Now we hook this wire to her tooth. And this one goes in her crotch. Now watch what happens when I turn this. Kelly, girl, you're really taking the hit. I like that. All this time they had been working in tandem, herding the young princess into her stall and closing the back gate. Now let her rip. And she charged out of the box like a wild woman Kelly Alec Grable. The girl hung on the bar nursing her wet crotch and trying not to think about it. Someone grinched her. She caught it. I watched Cody's face dissolving under my fist, and all I saw was Kelly. They heard her all over the compound. Taking a hit. Strun g her up. This one. Do it again. Blood splattered out of her crushed nose etched on my brain. Like acid. What it was like. Coming apart. slit slit. broken wrist stumbled once caught myself tripped again went down between two garbage cans. Tearing my skirt she didn't know nothing that's what she told us but we made her sing anyway didn't we, Pedro? Sam. Whatever. I decided to dress like Alex. I cut my hair off, and wore sideburns and cute little swastika noserings and blow shit out of my ears. I was totally spaced. Alex, is that you hanging over there? Cutting up chicks. Oooo, I was going to enjoy this. Want to see my switchblade? The only thing that didn't match were my boobs and my dick. I was having an identity crisis. Who was I? Or am I? Or... I? I liked to get in knife fights. Soon I had scars all over my body. I really got messed up. But I was cool. And I paid my dues. So how about cutting me in? They took me to a place out in West Dade and cut me open. I was a mule. They wanted the dope and wouldn't or couldn't wait for me to shit it out. So they did it the easy way. Left me lying in a field. Staring up. Sorry, Alex, I didn't mean to wreck it. She wanted her own one back. What a bitch. They didn't call her Soul Changer for nothing. We're lost. No. There's no going back. Keep going. You'll see. They really do keep it up here. It was like a pajama party. They searched the house. Here's one. What shall we do with her. I can do tricks. Want to see me do something, Pedro. I know her. She's the girl down at brewry. We followed her home. Once inside, she was ours. Or so it seemed. I was following a dream. I was sad. I was broken off. I was dead. Hey. What is this? I'm rotting in hell. Get me out. I'll do anything. Call me, Cody. Pillow talk in the Lincoln bedroom. I'll do anything. Fifty thousand, what am I bid for Central America? El Salvador. Peru. The Japanese embassy. What about those guys? Are they still there? I never hear about them anymore. Move over, will you. Your knee's jabbing me in the back. Don't kick. You're grabbing the covers. My ass is freezing. What did you ever do for America? I was a dollar a day man. A dollar a year. I was a two dollar whore. Kennedy did it better. JR could really put on a spread. LBJ. Welcome to the ranch, Mr. President. The truth is, he was already dead. It was a robot. It was timed to explode in the Dealey Plaza which it did. Then we took it away and put the body of the real president in it's place. Neat, huh?> They did it down at the ranch. It was messier that way. Oh yes, she saw all of it. She kept her mouth shut. She was no fool. Besides, everyone was in on it, so not one noticed when it actually happened. Kneel down here, Jack. And they chopped off his head. The conspirators were never caught. We learned our lesson at Wolfschanze, mein Herr. Ya, wohl. Yes sir. No more ugly mopping up the floor with my hair like before when they caught me as a spy in Berlin. I spent the war in a concentration c amp for ... officers. Of the day. Now rococco. She fed the intelligence into the machine for a final version. It was printed out. Kalotically. Thought I'd point that out. And then she went on to the next. They sat up telling stories what it was like to sleep in the White House under different presidents. Carter had been the worst. There was more touchy feely then, so a night at the White House actually meant something. Not these stale rolls and bisquits . Come on, liven it up around here. Now we party. All these old whores come home for one last night at the oasis. It's not what you sell but how you do it. Come on, Willy, play it again. They had to listen to him practice. All night long, the soulf ul saxophone wailed along the corridors and up the grand staircase where widows had once walked to their doom. But that's anothere story. If only these walls could talk. But that's the touble. They never shut up. How can you get a good night's sleep w ith these babbling pillow cases? Everything had a story, and was bent on telling it. It was worse than the internet. Here they were at the crossroads of history, and they didn't know what to do. I have a boy friend who says the future is Jupiter. I don't quite know what he means. But, like, Jupiter is the future. So you can see what that feels like. Can't you? The big red spot. Boring into your brain. Tunneling you out. Carving you up, a nd you don't have any more information to give them. For god's sakes' let me alone. I'm only a little girl. Take her out. She knows too much. I won't tell. Honest, I won't. She's got to be muzzled. They whipped her like a dog up and down the hallways. Gimme a break. The presidental order was sealed. Comrade Cody became a target. She was out on the roo ftops with her laptop, and lazer sword. And magic omulette. And not having a clue what to do with them. Games cost a quarter. They rented out games. But you had to give them back. You couldn't like take them home, and like say, this is from the White House. That was a no no. Instead, they gave you a plastic asstrap with their pictures laminated in them. And signed Bill and Hill, and "Hurry Back" in a scroll over their heads. She was a moving target. Our orders were to kill. No bananas. Just simple frills. And they shot her. She fell backwards into the grave that they had made her dig. She was freezing cold. She tried to hold on to her self. It was being torn out of h er. Oh yeah, we always kill a virgin. But you only get to go to that if you're in the club. Some of us have formed a club to support the president and the first lady in a style to which they might not be accustomed. Come on, little lady, sit up here. He called his dogs Bill and Hill. And he called Hill a bitch. Funny thing is, he got them crossed. Hill being... and you know. What shall we do with this? Shoot her. Cody goes down. Cody goes up. How many ways can we blow Cody up? Isn't that it? What you want to do? Take a poke at me? Go on. Do it? I dare you. They always fight like that. My god, he could kill her. Don't worry. She's totally in charge. Watch this. Hill was humping Bill. All over the yard. We laughed and laughed. An d then she said, you go on over and knock them apart. Which is how the fight started. You think the Argentinian ambassador was bad, you should have seen what she did to him. And there were only four toilets. And not enough toilet paper. I couldn't wa it to get out of there. The guerrillas wouldn't let us leave. We were in their for three years. Right down to the election. And then when Carter lost, they made him wait until he was no longer president to get them back. Will you pipe down and let me sleep. Check out time is eleven a.m. Days washed into violins as the trio hunkered down under the porch with the little girl. Alex was on top of her. Alex, get off me. She felt her underpants being pulled down. I couldn't help it. No one believed me. Not even Streisand.