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Hellsinker or, What's the opposite of a Cenobite? She sits on the edge of the bed and works the puzzlebox. Slowly, slowly, she pierces its mysteries, and sitting flat on her open palm it opens with a screech that belies how long it's been since anyone solved it. And they come. Dressed in soft, pastel colours; pink, fluffy moccasins on their scented feet, elaborate hairstyles, rimless rose-tinted glasses. One of them speaks: "The box... you opened it; we came. Now, you must come with us, taste our pleasures!" His voice is soft. His voice is gentle, the calm cadences of the trained psychiatrist dealing with a dangerous nut. She is, needless to say, surprised. "You are... you're a Cenobite?" Their leader looks puzzled. "No, we're the Hedonites. Engineers of the senses, construction workers in the open fields of experience!" She is less surprised, now; verging on exasperation. "You're not going to subject me to an aeon of agony? You don't do the ripping-my-skin-off bit?" The leader recoils slightly. "No! We're, uh, we're going to tickle you." She throws the puzzlebox at them in anger. |
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