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Old June 25th, 2013, 05:31 AM
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Caveman - Part Fifteen

Okay, here we go again. This part was a real pleasure to write, but it has no growth, just plot. Had to resolve that cliffhanger. We'll get back to some muscle soon. Meanwhile, here's a pair of old familiar faces, one for Mitch and one for us.

-----

Caveman
Part Fifteen

This story has been completed. Content warnings and general description are included with part one, general commentary will be after part twenty.

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven | Part Eight | Part Nine | Part Ten | Part Eleven | Part Twelve | Part Thirteen | Part Fourteen | Part Fifteen | Part Sixteen | Part Seventeen | Part Eighteen | Part Nineteen | Part Twenty

-----
I don't feel a thing
And I've stopped remembering
The days are just like moments, turned to hours
Mother used to say
If you want, you'll find a way
But mother never danced through fire showers.
--Tim Jensen, Rain
-----

As the four naked men carried me through the woods, I gradually began to panic. I tried everything I could think of; thanks to whatever drug Gary had given me, combined with a strap of tape across my face, without an order, my voice was too sluggish for the four of them to understand commands, even "stop". When I tried to issue commands mentally, there was no response whatsoever. Either I couldn't do the skin-contact trick myself, or the drug made them only respond to aural commands.

Thankfully, the panic rose very slowly; I was still sluggish enough that it took all the way until we were actually in my back yard before I started to realize that I was probably going to die soon.

Much to my surprise, when the four men reached the center of the driveway, they simply stopped. They didn't even put me down, they just stood holding me about four feet off the ground. This must be what Gary meant: he hadn't told them to put me down and come back, or even to get away from me, so they were going to stand there and burn to death.

I started to get very angry at Gary for being so casual about killing four living humans -- angrier, in fact, than I was at him for killing me. This turned out to be a good thing; my anger seemed to help dispell the drugged haze. Before long, I was yelling at the four of them as loudly as I could manage.

Not that it did any good. "Leck kgo ub bme" didn't have any effect. Neither did "drok bme" or "rung gack homb" or "geck dthids take off ub bme". Apparently, Gary hadn't put that strap across my face casually; it seemed to interfere with every phrase I could think of, and between exhaustion and being caught in such an awkward posture I was soon out of breath and losing hope.

It was then that I heard the crunching sound of tires on pavement. Someone was here in a car! I wasn't facing the right direction to see them, and I couldn't move my head far enough to look, but surely they'd see four huge nude men holding something and come to investigate? Or maybe not. But if not, they'd probably report it to the police. Maybe help would arrive in time.

Just in case, I called out "Helk bme! Helk bme!" as hard as I could. Which wasn't very; I only seemed to be able to fill my lungs about halfway full in this position. Mentally, I started cursing.

A woman's voice with a high-pitched whine in it came floating down the drive; the sort of voice which berates clerks for not accepting expired coupons, or asks to see managers after being caught shoplifting. It was a voice I knew very well.

"Mitchell? Is that you? What are you clods doing? No, don't answer. I don't want to know. Put down my son and go back to town at once."

I would have smiled if there hadn't been a band holding my jaw in place. Just this once, my mother's imperious approach to human relationships was precisely what was needed. The specific, articulate commands had the four men obeying instantly -- they dropped me and marched down the driveway and down the street. Of course, they were still nude and drugged, but spending the night in jail was probably the least of their problems at this point.

"Mitchell, are you going to lie around like that all day? Get up."

Unfortunately, the drug was still working, even if weakened. At the command, I started to struggle against my bonds, rocking back and forth on the pavement.

"Tsk. Stop. You're only making it worse. Why are you in such a ridiculous position, silly boy?"

A question. I had no choice but to answer, but at least I had a little control of my word choice.

"I gign'k goo giss koo bmyselk. Somewung kied bme ubp againgst bmy willg. Kleasg unkie bme, Bmubber."

"Tsk. I can't understand a word you say, Mitchell. You really should know better than to try to talk when you have things in your mouth."

"I cank helk ick, Bmubber."

"Really, Mitchell, you can't possibly enunciate like that. I'm going to have to undo that ridiculous head-strap."

The strap across my face was removed. Where it pulled against my beard and my hair, it was agony, but at least I could speak now.

"Now, then, Mitchell, what on earth are you doing?"

Careful... careful...

"I'm lying here in great pain, Mother, because I have been tied up and I can't break free. Would you please undo the bindings?"

"Mitchell, you know my nails break when I pick at things."

"It's important, Mother. Please?"

There was an exaggerated sigh. "Oh, all right."

After a few moments, I felt changes in pressure and gradual releases as the tape was removed. I was lucky she wasn't terribly bright; most people would have looked for a knife or a pair of scissors, and I was reasonably certain that nothing in my house would have been able to cut something Gary had produced.

"Well, I'll say this, this is the easiest tape to peel I've ever seen." There was a tone of grudging respect in my mother's voice; as I waited for her to finish I found myself wondering how a woman who had never so much as vacuumed a carpet had any experience peeling tape. What was she basing that opinion on?

"But whoever did this had no experience with bondage. Tape is worse than useless, and this is a very amateurish arrangement if you ask me. Your father could do a better job than this just from my example, and he always puts the gimp mask on before I bind him."

Well, you ask a stupid question, you get a revolting answer. I hoped that one of my amazing half-caveman mental powers was the ability to erase my own memories, because otherwise sooner or later I was going to find out whether my body would pitch vomit with superhuman force.

Finally, my hands and legs were free. I jumped to my feet and scrabbled madly at the strap holding the incendiary. I pulled it off -- my arms, having been tied behind my back, screamed at being pushed behind me again, but shortly I pulled loose a 5-foot piece of tape with a flattish object about the size of a baseball stuck to it. I dropped it in the center of the driveway, turned and picked up my mother bodily, and ran to the house.

Mother was too shocked to protest until we were actually indoors, when she turned loose a torrent of complaint.

"Mitchell George Armstrong Hammond, what do you think you're doing?"

I was too distracted to come up with an evasive answer.

"Saving the universe from an evil alien, Mother. I've really got to go."

"Oh no you don't." Mother had now had time to look around; after more than a week of being used for continuous sex, the house was very much the worse for wear. A few pieces of furniture were tipped over, things were shifted all over the place, and there was a reeking smell of male body fluids. I was really almost ashamed.

"You're packing a bag and coming with me. I don't know what you've been doing while we've been away, but this is totally unacceptable. It must be those people you've been hanging around with lately. Your father will straighten you out." Not likely; I knew my father well enough to realize that, as soon as he was confronted with someone my size, he would probably make an excuse to run and hide. My mother's sheer self-importance gave her courage, but my father had never confronted anything in his life.

Still, to the vestiges of the drug still in my system, an order was an order. I walked to my bedroom and put all of the special stretchy clothing in a bag, and then went to wait by the door. Ten minutes later, my mother called me to carry her suitcase, which of course I was compelled to do as well.

As we drove off in Mother's convertable, I saw a flash of light from behind us, and gave a weak smile; at least I wasn't dead, and I didn't see any smoke rising afterwards so presumably nothing had caught fire. Of course, I was headed in the wrong direction and unable to disobey any direct order, but those were obstacles I could deal with.

Mother was not the sort to leave a silence unfilled. (Nor was she the sort to concentrate on her driving. If there hadn't been suspiciously little traffic on the road, we would probably have ended up in a smoking crater anyway -- saving Gary any further effort.) I heard all about my parents' trip, in far more detail than I would ever have cared to hear, which is to say at all, as my mother drove to the airport, parked in the 'going away on a trip' secure garage, and had me carry her luggage as we headed for the passenger lounge.

"...and so I simply had to come back and get a few dresses. If only your father had made it clear there would be dancing on the ship I could have skipped this trip back."

I had to know. "Mother, aren't you going to ask what was going on back there in the driveway?"

She turned a pair of wide eyes on me. "No, dear, I can recognize a fraternity hazing when I see it."

I managed to slap my palm across my face even through the drugs and while carrying the luggage, which must be a first. Mother couldn't even remember that I was still in high school. Nor would she admit that I would never belong in a fraternity.

She turned away, continuing as she walked toward the gate for our flight. "I'm so glad you finally took my advice and started on steroids, dear, although you do seem to be overdoing it a bit. You'll never attract a girl like that."

Well, might as well make one more try to break her equinamity. "Mother, I'm gay." (A mild and forgiveable inaccuracy, for the sake of pushing the envelope.) "I spent most of the time while you were gone having vast amounts of anal sex all over the house."

Mother clicked her tongue at me. "Nonsense, dear, it's just a phase you're going through."

"I had multi-hour orgies with multiple partners, and I want to spend the rest of my life with the two sexiest men I know. In fact, only a few hours ago I banged them both so hard they were walking funny afterwards." Too much information was a game that two could play.

"Don't be silly, Mitchell. I'll call the pastor when we get back and he'll talk you out of this ridiculous idea. As though any son of mine could be gay! You'll find the right girl sooner or later."

Once again, I was getting very angry -- this woman was a menace, and -- I now knew -- wasn't even particularly a close biological relation; she had basically been an incubator for a half-caveman hybrid. I decided to check on that.

"Mother, did you get sick while you were pregnant with me?"

That brought her up short. "Yes, dear. I came down with some sort of flu. The doctor was very puzzled, because there wasn't anything going around just then and it didn't respond to any medications. I had a fever for days. I've always thought it was because of that illness that you turned out to be so ugly."

I was just about to throw down the bags and head back home -- the last vestiges of the drug burned away under the humiliation of my Mother's thoughtless rudeness -- when my Mother made a fatal tactical error. She tried to walk straight through the security checkpoint without stopping, and was forcibly brought to a halt by an enormous security guard.

"Lissen, lady, you gots ta go t'ru da scanna b'fore youse can gets on da plane."

This was to my mother as a waving red cape is to a bull. My childhood had been a long succession of hugely embarrassing incidents in public places as my mother was, in her eyes, denied the special treatment she deserved. Over the years, she had claimed to be the owner's wife or daughter in just about every business in town, had passed hours complaining to managers about delays lasting seconds, and had constantly gotten terrible service on return visits to restaurants because of a steadfast refusal to tip. When I learned to drive, I took over ordering and picking up takeout food -- after my friends with jobs at every restaurant in town told me that when my mother called in our order they made a game of creatively adulterating our food or botching our order.

"Do you know who I am?" Ah, the classic "self-importance" opening gambit.

The security worker grinned. "Yeh, lady, yer a crazy lady tryin' ta bypass da secur'ty scannas an' go straights ta da plane. An' I'm da guy dat has da job a' stoppin' anyone what tries ta do dat."

I liked this guy. I liked anyone who did this to my mother, in fact. I suppressed a grin as my mother changed gears. For a moment she looked confused; from long observation I knew that her next tactic was usually to claim to be a relative of the owner, but she could hardly claim to be a relative of the owner of a public airport, so she had to skip ahead of the script. "Do you seriously believe someone who looks like me would do anything illegal?"

Ah, the "not-so-subtle appeal to racism". Sometimes it met with some limited success. Our delightful security representative was an older caucasian, and smelled faintly of cheap cigars, which didn't rule anything out on that score. But the other guard running the scanner -- who was obviously listening in on the conversation, and looked to be of equal rank -- was black, so it couldn't possibly work.

Whether our genial interlocutor was personally egalitarian or merely trying to avoid trouble with his co-workers, he didn't swallow the bait. "Lady, yer gettin' all bug-eyed ova havin' ta goes t'ru da scanna. An' yer even fussin' an' arguin'. Dat looks suspicious ta me -- mebbe ya ain'ts a terr'rist, 'cuz raisin' a fuss ain't parta da profile, altho a'course ya could jus' be a real stoopit terr'rist -- but dat kinda t'ing jus' screams 'smuggla'. Or mebbe 'drug addick'. Ya wanna get back in line b'fore I have ya drag toff ta be searched?"

This was a master at work; it was really a pleasure to watch. My mother was red in the face and sputtering. She prodded the man in his flabby chest, where his nametag informed everyone who cared to read it that his name was Ralph.

"If you don't let me through, you peon, you'll have to deal with my son. Do you think he'll put up with this behavior?" She waved her hand at me. Ah, Mother, falling back on threats. This is why you fail.

Ralph squinted at my mother, and then up -- and up -- at me. "Dis yer ma, mista?" Everyone within earshot was suddenly very still, looking at us.

I couldn't resist. A decade and a half of of missed birthdays and playdates cancelled in favor of clothes shopping rose up for vengeance.

"No. I'm just the porter from the hotel. Dunno who this lady thinks she is, she's been like this all day."

My mother stared at me with her mouth open; all the color drained out of her face.

Ralph had his radio out already. "Yeh, gots a crazy womman tryin'a get pas'da scannas. Better send two guys, she looks high."

Mother was too choked up to comment at first. "Why you--- when I--- you're going to---" Finally she shrieked at Ralph: "Dammit, I'll have your job!"

"Lady, you wouldn' want my job. Da crazy nuts I sees, I tells ya." Ralph paused, his head on one side, as who gives a careful assessment. "At least da food in da caferteria's good."

In no time flat, a pair of the largest guys I had ever seen except for the people who had received Gary's shot arrived and grabbed my mother. This was the cue for her to begin screaming. She screamed my name at first, but long before she was dragged out of sight she had changed to insulting the guards. By the time she disappeared, she was actually frothing at the mouth, which was a new achievement. I was truly impressed.

Nearly everyone present, including me, broke into spontaneous applause. I stepped forward and shook Ralph by the hand. His eyes twinkled, and he addressed the crowd.

"T'ank you, t'ank you, I'll be heres all week. Don' ferget ta tip ya soivas. Now less all gets back ta whats we was doin' b'fore we was so rudely innerupted."

He motioned to me, and when I leaned down, he gave an elephantine whisper:

"Dat really yer ma, kid?"

I grimaced, and gave a nod.

"Wow, tough luck. Don' worry none. She's be okay evenchully." There was a scream in the direction Mother had gone, and a high-heeled shoe flew out of a door. A whistle started blowing, and two more security men ran in that direction. "Well, mebbe not. Dere's no helpin' some folks. Lissen, don' let it getcha down none. Yer not da firs' big guy I's seen wit' a rat bastard fam'ly, an' ya prolly won' be da last."

"Thanks"

"Don' menchun it." He sighed. "I dunno what's worse, doin' dese silly-ass jobs, or da waitin' in between. At leas' dis time I gots a bite ta eat and dey ain't stickin' me in no little yeller box. Anyways, kid, off ya goes, I'm sure ya gots t'ings ta do, an you ain't gettin' on da plane either wit'out ya goes t'ru da scanna. An' has a ticket."

"That's okay, I think I'd rather walk."

With that, I practically jogged out of the airport. My head was clear again, and I didn't have to worry about my mother -- at least, not her well-being; I'm sure she was going to be spending a very long time explaining her unique worldview to some unsympathetic men.

Of course, Mother had the car keys. And the garage ticket. And all the money. So I'd have to walk. With all the dignity I could muster, I set off for home on foot.


Last edited by tekuno; August 31st, 2013 at 09:21 PM.
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Old June 25th, 2013, 07:22 AM
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Yes! Self-righteous arseholes getting what they deserve!
Although, Mitch's mother deserves some credit for saving Mitch's life.
It was tough for me to keep suspending my disbelief as I read her claiming Mitch was ugly because she had a flu, but then Ralph came along.

I really love Ralph.
Would you believe me if I said I saw him coming?
Don't answer that. Or do. It'd be interesting.
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Old June 25th, 2013, 09:30 AM
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Ralph, you couldn't have showed up at a better place.
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Old June 25th, 2013, 01:25 PM
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Quote:
Originally Posted by rododoro3 View Post
It was tough for me to keep suspending my disbelief as I read her claiming Mitch was ugly because she had a flu, but then Ralph came along.
Mitch's mother's outlook is based on that of a certain female (shortly to be ex-) Congress member from Minnesota. Read some of the statements this particular person has made, and you'll realize "flu makes babies ugly" is downright reasonable compared to some of the things her real-life counterpart has claimed in public.

Besides, she's technically right: that "flu" was the retrovirus (mentioned by the computer in the previous part) altering Mitch's genes. He looks caveman-like because of it. Whether you think that's ugly or not, it was cause and effect, even if she didn't know that.
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Old June 25th, 2013, 11:55 PM
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Didn't see that coming.
what fun
I love the fact that she failed to notice that Mitch is eight feet tall.
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(from Jaypat's story "I Wanna Get Huge")
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Old June 26th, 2013, 12:24 AM
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I love the fact that she failed to notice that Mitch is eight feet tall.
She did. She just thinks it's all steroids. A general drug-illiterate-ness is to be expected of someone who wants to run for Congress as a Republican. Otherwise there's a danger they might realize what a waste the War On Drugs is and cut some of the funding, and that would never do.

Or maybe she's just reality blind. That can lead to failing to see what's in front of your nose.
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Old June 26th, 2013, 01:50 PM
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Awesome

That was great. I'm saddened to say I've met people like her. I'm looking forward to seeing Mitch get back and maybe showing what all these muscles can do.
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Old June 28th, 2013, 09:52 PM
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Dammit Tekuno, you are NOT supposed to hook me on another webcomic!


rassa frassa hey I know that author's work... mutter swear.
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Old June 28th, 2013, 10:15 PM
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Dammit Tekuno, you are NOT supposed to hook me on another webcomic!


rassa frassa hey I know that author's work... mutter swear.
Heh heh heh.
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Old August 7th, 2013, 01:46 AM
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Are you going to wrap up this wonderful farce at some point ....(please)
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Old August 7th, 2013, 08:48 PM
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Yeah, I'll get to it eventually. I just kind of got out of the habit of writing. (For a while I was chatting with someone on Skype nearly every night, and in addition, although there still could hardly be a greater visible difference between me and the characters in my stories, I've been doing much harder workouts since around the end of May, so I have a lot less energy left in the evening, which is when I usually write, when I write.) But I seem to no longer be chatting so regularly, and I think I found out why my workouts were continuing to make me so completely exhausted even after all that time to get used to the whole thing, so maybe I can get back into the habit soon.

Just keep an eye out for the next part; it'll be posted here when it's ready. And then I can get back to In Corpore Sano, too.

(If I wasn't so lazy, I would have been spending some of this time working on preliminary sketches for the cartoon part of Some Assembly Required. I need to do character reference sheets, uniforms for the military folks, a bunch of character and background design, etc. But, I'm ashamed to say, I haven't done that, although I have hammered out a general outline of the whole plot and added a new character who I think people will very much like. I certainly do, and the person to whom I gave the outline did as well.)
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