Christopher WunderLee - Moore's Mythopoeia

“You sound like a slogan from one of those rebranding facilities.”

“You have dangerous ideas that you don’t know will hurt you… and the rest of us too.”

“Why? Why can’t I have a different opinion on how we should do things?”

“Because, Elisa, it doesn’t work that way. If you took some time and thought about it, you’d realize that harmony is the purest form of life and whatever way we can get it, that’s how we should run our government.”

“So I suffer so you all can think the world’s perfect.”

“No, you suffer because you won’t accept our help. You are too proud to realize that we can help you, I can help you.”

“I enjoy your help, Vincent. Unfortunately, my bodies not strong enough to handle it constantly.”

“You’ve tried.”

“Why do you care how many men I’ve been with or how many men I’ve been with at one time? Is it so shocking to think that I might need to have sex just as much as you, that I dream about it sometimes, or that I desire men? You don’t mind when I put your hand on my cunt. You don’t seem to have a problem with your desire, why are you so upset that I have the same emotion?”

“Let’s just say, I don’t mind if you have that emotion. What I do find a little strange is how you requite it. I like the way you’re dressed, don’t get me wrong. But don’t you think it’s a bit much, I mean every man in this room can see your body, you’re half naked and your breasts are going to fall out of it at any moment. Which really doesn’t matter since they’re completely visible anyways.”

“I wore the dress for you, Vincent. I was thinking of how you’d react to it. I don’t give a damn about other men seeing me. What I cared about was you seeing me.”

“So I can share you with the four hundred other people in the room? Most women I know don’t dress like that, Elisa. They just don’t.”

“There you go again, trying to make me just like everyone else. Well, I’m not. I don’t want to be, either. Isn’t that why you’re with me, because I have my own personality, because I’m my own person?”

“Elisa, I’m not used to this. I live a very orderly life. The women I date are nice girls who agree to go out with me to see if we might make a match. They don’t seduce me the second time I’m with them.”

“You weren’t complaining then.”

“I’m not complaining now, I enjoyed it very much. I love you. But don’t you see, if you’ve done all these things, if you’re so willing to hop into bed with me after only meeting me once before, don’t you see how that can make me weary of you?”

“So you don’t want me to be a whore. At least, not until I’ve met you and then, I suddenly become consumed with desire, it is so powerful that I can’t help myself, I need your dick in me, I need you to treat me bad. I suddenly realize that I’m a naughty girl. All this time, a pristine virgin, not one impure thought. Then, I see him, Vincent Belacque and like a semen flood, I must get on all fours and have him ravish me. Something like that?”

“I don’t think you’re a whore, Elisa. I didn’t mean it that way. I enjoy our time together.”

“You mean you enjoy fucking me.”

“It’s just that I worry about you. I worry that you are so provocative because you are hurting inside. I worry that I’m abusing you by sleeping with you, that you need stability and a progression of intimacy. It concerns me, Elisa. I don’t want to hurt you, and I think you are already.”

* * *

She’s roused herself finally, slipped into her camellia georgette sleep shirt too quickly for his tastes, never even made it out from under the covers before it was on, still something to see though, he sometimes asks himself if she knows, behavior and all that, she’s wouldn’t be bothered, probably put on quite a show, just morning fog. She missed another visit from the assistant, sympathetic voyeurism on his part, although he’d feel no jealousy, not if he caught it, either pretends not to notice or doesn’t, hard to really say, potential for rebranding right there, he’s got the evidence, last resort.

Tonight she’ll be with him, never accepted his reasons for short absences, always that nagging gaze she tries to feign is relationship based, no visits from the Wolf, as far as he knows, in a few months, she never mentions it, psychically speaking, no nocturnal briefcase raids either in awhile, perhaps it was all her, no conspiracy, just curiosity, to know more, wouldn’t really blame her, he’s lying, she knows, he knows she knows, she knows he knows she knows. He isn’t quite sure how involved she really is anyways, could be their liaisons are purely physical, she doesn’t pursue it with him anymore than she does with Vincent, perhaps his affects have been raided as well, as he slept. He’d like to believe that. He can’t remember ever being so confused, just wish she’d behave normally, give herself completely, accept him, no more questions, just love… He doesn’t have the luxury, couldn’t explain the investigation, couldn’t go from investigator to husband without some tap-dancing, save quitting, beyond his capabilities, he was made for his work. She’s foul, a dangerous mind, all of it hidden in those eye lashes and humping good body, sometimes wonders if he’s obsessed, endorphin addict, she’s capable of such perversity, it makes his mouth water, just thinking about it: hard-on and images invading, she’s given him so much to remember, a lifetime of pornographic memories, some without him, transfused from other partners, she can’t help but recall as she carnie contorts for him.

She concentrates on her bed, satin sheet fluttering down onto mattress, vignettes of him, not Vincent, he’s seen the murmur of it, several men merged or rag-doll man stitched together, she leans over the bed, quick, before she rises, from behind the door, quietly, four steps and on her, she begins to turn just as he grabs her, forces face into satin covered mattress, twists arms behind her back, holds slim wrists with one flexed hand, unbuckles, unsnaps, unzips, she struggles against him, body writhing, his legs holding her against the side of the bed, drop drawers, big nasty cock lined up, driven into her, she struggles harder, harder, pushing against a fleshy barrier, final involuntary relax, her labored grunts — stop, stop, really need to stop this…

She’s finished with the bed and heads into the adjoining bathroom. He’s becoming a wolf, uncontrollable fantasies, forced intercourse, desires to humiliate, injure, more perverse, surpass her, scare her, make her cry, little preteen against crab grass, ignorant, he’s going to pin her, pin her good… it’s all he thinks about… she’s out of camera range, flips over, already in shower, shower-cam, ahhhh… how did he become the wolf?

Pride over his will power, finger hovering over the button, clicks; image implodes into a faint star on black screen, waits — what if something happens? No, no, he’s got to stop, he’ll see her soon, only a few more hours, she’ll agree to anything, real…

Vincent stirs from his chair, leaves his office, follows the maze (Joseph would wonder where the minotaur is) to the Hall of Records and puts in his request to a crunchy little man of sixty or so, who speaks like the reports he manages, has no name (surely he does, but Vincent doesn’t know it). He patiently waits, a little too nonchalantly, even going so far as to whistle intermediately.

“Father Nicholas, a.k.a. Arthur Dodger, thirty-eight year old author of eighteen books, Fiction, Children’s; chairman of the Children’s Literature Institute, winner of the Seuss Award, World Book Award, Educational Story Medallion, and special doctorate from New Jerusalem University. No known address, quota plan, no debts or credits, voluntarily unclassified, no med schedule on file, no known ownership.”