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Subject: {ASSM} <THM> "Chest of Wonders" (mf mc md fd nc) Voyer
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Chest of Wonders
mf, mc, md, fd, nc
hypnovoyer@hotmail.com

General disclaimers: This story is a hypnofetish fantasy. It
contains adult language and situations, along with examples of
adult fictional characters doing illegal, immoral and/or
impossible things to other adult fictional characters as a prelude
to sexual activity. If you 1) are under the age of consent in your
community, 2) are disturbed by such concepts, 3)
attempt to do most of these things in real life or 4) want graphic
blow-by-blow sex in your online pornography, then please stop
reading now.
Permission is granted to re-post this story unaltered to any
on-line forum, as long as no fee whatsoever is charged to view
it, and this disclaimer and this e-mail address
(hypnovoyer@hotmail.com) are not removed. It would also be
nice if you told me you were posting it.
Copyright Voyer, 2001.

Specific disclaimers: Among other things, this story is my
contribution to the Alt Sex Stories Text Repository's 5th
anniversary celebration, in which I was assigned the theme
`Behind the Newsdesk'. Please consider supporting the
ASSTR's continued good work with a donation. If you like this
story and want to read more of my work, you can find the bulk
of it at the ASSTR-affliated site The Erotic Mind Control
Archive, located at http://www.mcstories.com. I also have my
own website, currently to be found at
http://www.geocities.com/hypnovoyer.


************

It started when Ted died, and it ended when *I* died.
But no. It didn't end even then. And now...
Well, we'll get to that when we get to it, won't we?
Ted's death. To start with, I have to be honest here and admit
that I wasn't *too* broken up the day I came home from work
and found that long white envelope waiting for me in my
mailbox. Yes, Ted and I had been room- and apartment-mates
at Greson for three and a half years, and we had gotten along
well enough, but we never were exactly what you'd call
*close*, even when we had been living under the same roof. In
many ways when we had decided to pair up halfway through
our freshman year, it had been a marriage of convenience, each
of us shoring up the gaps in the other's academic work. Ted the
Science Geek and Will the Writingest Fool. First in one of
Greson's cruddy frosh dorms, then as soon as possible in a
small and not-quite-as-putrid-but-still-pretty-cruddy apartment
just off campus, we lived separate lives, kept separate hours,
our paths generally only crossing when we needed to pass the
latest batch of hints and study notes back and forth, in the
manner of drug dealers meeting in some alley.
Still, he was a nice enough guy. We shared more than one
round of beers at Clancy's. We got drunk together on more
than one occasion. We talked about women and life and the
universe and women.
And when you're still young, (well... yeah, OK, *fairly*
young) learning that someone your own age has died is always
unsettling, one of those first taps on the shoulder from the Grim
Reaper as he comes up to stand behind you, taps that come
along harder and harder, more and more frequently, as the years
and the decades race by...
For that's what the letter inside the envelope told me. It was
from a law firm back east. Ted had died. After passing on this
news to me, the letter further surprised me by informing me that
I had been included in Ted's will. I wasn't the main beneficiary;
while he had evidently still been a bachelor at his death, he did
had a couple of younger siblings and they got the bulk of the
stuff, whatever money there was, whatever furniture and real
estate and domestic chattel.
I met one them once, one of the siblings, when she paid us a
visit at Greson during our tenure there. Allison. I remember her
now as a somewhat more attractive version of Ted, thin with
that same messy black hair. (Of course at the time anything
female moving under its own power was at least vaguely
attractive.) They also shared the same regrettable taste in
eyewear.
Not that it matters. What I had inherited, all that I had
inherited, was a trunk. No, I take that back. Not just a trunk,
but *the* trunk. I had completely forgotten about it in the
intervening years, but standing there at the counter of my
apartment kitchen, the gutted envelope laying to one side, it all
came back to me.
You see, Ted had owned a old-fashioned traveling trunk, a
really nice piece of work that *he* had inherited years ago from
a relative, a great-uncle or somesuch, a somewhat shadowy and
exotic figure (to me at least) who had evidently spent his entire
long and quite eventful life in the merchant marine. God knows
where Uncle... Hans... I think it was Hans...acquired the thing,
but it was the absolute archetype of traveling luggage, a bulky
rectangle with a high curving lid, well made of thick oiled slats
of some exotic wood, and meticulously bound and cornered
with pieces of hammered and polished brass. It sported sturdy
handles on either end, a set of heavy latches and in the central
place of honor, a stolid lock (more brass) that wouldn't have
been out of place if encountered on the door of an armored car.
The interior was nicely padded, soft leather the color of old
wine. As a finishing touch of perfection, there were even a few
stickers slapped haphazardly on the lid, from appropriately
exotic ports of call. Palau-Palau. Bali Hai. R'yleh. Wuldercan.
Ted had it sitting at the foot of his bed all the way through
college, and from the relatively little I saw, he kept a rotating
assortment of junk in it. Well. *I* called it junk. Bits of
machinery he had scavenged somewhere, half-finished and
half-abandoned class projects, old bank statements and student
loan applications, `interesting' beer bottles, and so on and so
forth. I liked that trunk, and I was vaguely annoyed at the time
that Ted didn't store anything more important in it. On more
than one occasion I had commented on how I wished I had
something like it, so when I was firmly established as a
World-Famous Author I could live out of it while traveling the
globe on my colossal book-signing tours, store within it the
dampened panties of my screaming female fans, all the usual
crap that a drunk horny college student dreams up at 3:00 AM
on a Saturday morning, deep in the fetid but thrilling quagmire
that is his freshman year. Finally I must have worn Ted down,
and one night at Clancy's he said he'd be sure and leave it to me
in his will. We had both laughed, and I had then promptly
gotten (more) drunk and forgotten about it. Ah youth.
Obviously though, Ted hadn't forgotten.
But then Ted, Ted the Science Whiz, he sometimes had a
habit of remembering the damnedest things. At the drop of a
hat, he could recite the all scores of all the games played by his
favorite baseball team, (some AAA outfit in Detroit, his
hometown) back for ten years. All the scores, and who they
played. Even though he displayed almost zero interest in
politics, he also knew everyone who had ever been tapped to be
shipped off to DC from his Congressional district, all the way
back to whenever it was that the Detroit area officially joined
the United States. Every winner of the Nobel Prize in the
various science categories. Stuff like that.
Ah... I don't want to give the impression that Ted was some
idiot savant. The guy was bright, brighter than me by a long
shot, and I can say without false modesty that I'm not exactly a knuckle-dragging cretin. Ted graduated fourth in our class, and
could easily have been the big numero uno, if he had had just a
little more dedication and stick-to-it-tiveness built into his
makeup. But then I suppose fourth was good enough. He
quickly got snapped up by one of those high-tech
conglomerates that does vague and expensive things for the
upper levels of the US military, and he left the corn and soybean
fields for good immediately after graduation, following the path
east that had been laid down by those fools from his
Congressional district.
So why did he need The Writingest Fool (42nd in a
graduating class of 1223, thank you very much) I hear you ask?
Well, with some things, a lot of things, Ted's mind was like a
steel trap. He latched on if they were unlucky enough to flit past
and he never ever let go. Others... substitute the words `a steel
trap' with `flypaper' and you get the basic idea. He could glue
this second sort of ideas into place just long enough to pass his
English 101 test, or whatever, but ask him about them a month
after that... poof. Gone.
Gone. Sort of like the rest of him, I suppose, ten years after
we graduated, five years after we had last had any sort of
contact. No more half-finished machines dripping oil on the
floor by the sofa. No more stringy-but-bright girlfriends passing
through the apartment at odd hours. No more horrific trombone
solos greeting the dawn. No more sardine-laden pizzas.
A car, a sudden rainstorm, a wet spot on the road, a
guard-rail that didn't hold. Poof. No more Ted, leaving me and
the Reaper reading a letter in my kitchen...

* * *

Hmm. Looking back on what I have so far here... I really
didn't intend for this to turn into the Theodore J. Capotosto
Memorial. Let's try and cut a little more to the chase here. The
man lived, as far as I was aware his presence made the world a
slightly better place, and then he died. He left me a trunk. After
the ace legal minds at Summers, Austin and Goldstein tracked
me down, I got in touch with them. There was the ritual of
legalistic passwords and countersigns exchanged back and forth
and about a month later, a burly delivery man with the name Hal
stitched on his uniform in red thread turned up on the doorstep.
Hal had a handcart and perched on that handcart was a
good-sized crate. His burden was big and heavy, but somehow
between the two of us, we wrestled it through the door and got
it deposited in the living room. I signed the appropriate
paperwork, gave the very last countersign, and like Ted before
him Hal departed from my life.
I scrounged up a hammer from the tool/junk drawer, pried the
crate open, and sure enough, there was the trunk, right side up
and looking pretty much like I remembered it. Whatever
journeys it and Ted had made together in the last ten years, he
had obviously taken good care of it; as near as I could tell the
only thing that had changed was that the travel stickers had
been (carefully) peeled off it at some point. It looked like it
could easily have been shipped sans crate and have arrived
without so much as a scratch.
Ever since learning that I was going to get the thing, I had
been trying to decide what if anything to store in it. To my
utmost regret I didn't have all that many female fans to
contribute dampened panties, so I'd have to come up with
something else... I found the long heavy key sealed up in a
hemorrhoidally-neat little plastic baggy. I cracked into the lock.
Said lock turned, the latches popped obligingly when I pulled at
them, and the lid lifted itself up. And within...
Someone had beaten me to it. To the job of filling the trunk, I
mean; I should have realized it from the weight. If only it had
been full of gold bars or international barer bonds or something
along those lines, but no such luck. What *was* there was not
immediately obvious, as the contents were a jumbled mess.
My first reaction was one of... you know, I'm not sure now.
Annoyance I guess. I figured that if there was anything remotely
valuable or personal in there, I would have to try and track
down Allison and/or Sibling Number 2 and return it to them.
Before proceeding a step further, I found that first letter from
Summers et al and carefully re-read it. No hint where they
might be found. However, a particular line jumped out at me:
the trunk and *all of its contents* had been specifically willed to
me. I made a snap decision. It was all mine now. Unless there
were gold bars underneath the whatever, I would be keeping it
all.
Or maybe throwing it away, I thought, after I started sorting
that whatever, pulling it out a piece at a time so I could savor
the experience, a sort of Christmas in July. (Yes, this all
happened in July, if you care.) Ted's taste in trunk-contents had
evidently not improved in the intervening years. There was a
large pile of Detroit newspapers, of various dates and with no
other apparent common theme, all neatly bundled and tied
together with a long piece of black electrical cord. A large
heavy pair of sunglasses that Elvis would have been proud to
call his own, a fairly nice green sweater that was too small for
me, and a really ratty purple one that was too big; the tattered
sleeves were so long they made me look like a moth-eaten
gorilla when I lost control of myself and tried it on for a
moment. At least I had a good Halloween costume ready.
There were three trombone spit-valves. There were a couple
of cheap-looking medals, tarnished metal disks on thin emerald
ribbons, printed with some vaguely European language I didn't
recognize and mounted in flimsy black display boxes. There was
half of a cracked coconut shell with a circuitboard-like pattern
thickly traced on the inner surface, most of the parts from a cell
phone (I think), a couple of truly interesting beer bottles, a large narrow-mouthed jug full of shiny Indian-head pennies, six
marbles, and...
There was the other thing. The last thing. Even though it was
bulky and filled a good portion of the chest, it seemed to lurk in
the chest's shadows, avoiding my gaze. I tried to pick it up, and
was shocked at how heavy it was; it clearly had been what was
slowing me and Hal down. Finally with a tremendous struggle, I
hooked my fingers under it, lifted it out and staggered just far
enough to deposit it on the coffee table nearby, which I
half-imagined hearing groan under the weight.
So what was `it'? I'm afraid that I can't really give you an
exact answer to that, even now. It was a mechanical device of
some kind, but beyond that it was very difficult to describe. It
had a sort of blobby appearance, as if its birth had occurred
when several smaller devices had been methodically welded
together into one solid mass. There were spinners and gears and
skinny light bulbs and I don't know what all poking out through
gaps and holes at odd angles. But at the same time, there was a
definite *finished* air to the whole thing. It actually resembled
its container in certain ways; there were tasteful brass fittings
wrapped tightly around the outside, and all the various corners
had been carefully rounded off smooth. It sat on four neat little
legs, which even had bits of felt glued to the bottom of them.
There were no sharp edges anywhere, and all the parts that
appeared to need it gleamed with clear oil. I circled the thing a
couple of times. There was no sign of labels or instructions or
engravings. I had no intention at that moment of turning it on,
but that evidently wasn't going to be a problem since there
*also* didn't appear to be any sign of a power cord, or a
battery compartment, or most vitally an `on' switch...
Then I noticed the key. Not a key like the one that opened the
trunk, but something you might find sticking out of the back of
a mechanical windup toy, set into a recessed hole in the
machine's side and folded down flat on a set of discrete hinges.
Almost against my will, I gingerly touched it. Nothing
happened, and I hooked my fingers again and pulled on it. The
metal was cool and slick. With only a gentle tug it snapped up
and locked into place with a competent little snicking sound. I
gave another tug, pulling *out* this time, but it was anchored
firmly in place. I didn't mess with that any further at that point,
but went back to studying the rest of the Device. (It quickly
acquired capital-letter status in my mind.) Studying the top
closely, I noticed now that while there were no switches or
knobs or anything, there were in fact two promising holes. The
first wasn't really a hole at all, but a socket of some sort,
evidently not for a power cord, but for the sort of adapter that
you find on the end of the cord that is attached to your average
set of headphones. This hole was ringed with a narrow band of
color, the color of pine needles.
Headphones. Cables...
My gaze was drawn back to the bundle of newspapers, and
more specifically to what was holding them together. Sure
enough, on closer examination I could see that yes, the cable
actually had connectors wired on to both ends. I untangled it
from the newspapers and examined those ends more closely.
One was a fairly standard looking thing, something that you
might indeed find on a set of headphones. It had a pine-needle
marking ring around it. The other end of the cord... It wasn't
any kind of plug I was immediately familiar with; it looked
something like a medium-sized three-pronged cocktail fork,
each prong round and cut off smooth at its end. The center plug
stuck out a little further than the one on either side. It had a
marking ring the color of cooked salmon.
Again moving almost unwillingly, I plugged in the Device-end
of the cable. It locked in place with another firm click. I flipped
the free end absently. It brought irresistibly to mind the image
of a rattlesnake's tail shaking and finally I shook it from my
grasp, letting the whole thing coil up in an untidy heap on top of
the Device. Messing with this thing was stupid, even dangerous.
Whatever it was, along with those pennies, it was no doubt
worth some money, and my conscience wouldn't let me keep it,
without at least trying to get in touch with Allison and S#2.
I left it all there, and went to make some dinner.
Or at least I tried to. The thing sat there on the coffee table
and nagged at me, like the holes left in your mouth after your
wisdom teeth are extracted. Feeling its presence pushing against
the back of my skull, I fished a frozen dinner out of the freezer
and nuked it in the microwave, my shoulders hunched over.
Ping and done. A fork waited for me in the proper drawer. As I
chewed and swallowed, standing at the counter, I stared at the
Device. It stared back. Finally I could resist no more, and
abandoned my half-eaten burritos to their fate. Pulled back to
the coffee table.
Maybe I was missing something, from the rest of the trunk's
contents. I again studied them, spread out now before me.
Newspapers. Sweater. Gorilla costume. Valves. Jar of pennies.
A few marbles.
Sunglasses....
I really looked at them for the first time, then picked them up.
They were better made than they had first appeared, with large
very black lenses, surrounded by almost-square metal frames. I
opened them-

* * *

Oh, fuck it. Again I read back over what I have written, and
again I have to say to myself, Will, let's cut the crap here.
You're stalling, going into all of these blow-by-blow
descriptions. Or maybe it's the writer that I am? Trained by
Professor Thunstone and all the rest back at Greson to try and
build the suspense, maintain the narrative flow. But that's not
why I'm here, and that's not why you're reading it, I imagine. If
anyone should ever happen to be reading this.
No. I'm just stalling. I should scroll back and cut out all of
that crap about the Device, but since I've gone to the trouble of
typing it all out, I'll leave it now, in case there is someone out
there who is interested. Let's just summarize again.
I found a magical machine in a trunk. To this day I don't
know where the machine really came from, Ted or Hans or the
trunk or the Device Fairy. It worked by winding a key in its
side. You plugged a cable into the machine, and plugged the
other end of the cable into a large pair of things that a first
glance resembled some gaudy sunglasses. I plugged and I
plugged and I wound up the machine. I put on the glasses and
nothing happened. A lot more testing, a lot more poking and
prodding, and I finally discovered that even after winding it up,
the machine didn't run until you stuck a marble into that other
hole in the top of the machine. I mentioned the other hole,
didn't I? Yes. Just a plain glass marble, but it had to be one of
the marbles out of the trunk; at one point in the process I
managed to scrounge up one from somewhere else and it didn't
do squat. When the marble was dropped into place and the key
was fully wound up, the Device came to life. As the gears
turned and the lights flashed, the marble spun madly in its
socket for a short time, a mad twirling eyeball staring at the
ceiling, and then abruptly shattered into dust, shutting the whole
damn thing back down again. It took a long time for me to
figure all of this out, but finally...
I wound up the Device all the way.
And I slapped in a marble.
And I put on the glasses. I suppose it was stupid, but at the
end of the day, I'm not sure I was actually given much choice in
the matter.

* * *

How to describe what I saw? As the Writingest Fool, it galls
me to have to say that I can't. Not really. I'm a man who has
been blind his whole life, gaining sight for a painfully brief time
and then trying afterwards to explain the experience to a bunch
of other blind people. I saw things, experienced things, but you
can't really understand it from my words.
For a moment there was nothing, nothing at all. Then there
was a swirl of colors first clashing violently with each other,
then sorting themselves out into neat rows and columns. And
then... Then...
The world lit up and went pitch black. Things suddenly
became sharp and distinct, and at the same time pale and hazy,
objects seen from very far away through cold desert air. I could
see the plants in the apartment growing, like a green spreading
ooze, dripping endlessly from their leaves (Except for the
couple that were dead, which dripped a sort of gray-brown). All
of the electronic equipment turned transparent, allowing me to
see the glowing swirling innards of the phone, the computer, the
microwave, the TV... Naturally, I then had to look at the
Device. It was glowing so bright and moving so fast that it
bordered on the edge of pain. It wasn't radioactive or anything.
Somehow I just *knew* that. I knew that if I had seen
something that *was* radioactive, I would have been able to
identify it as such, instantly.
I said before I didn't know what the Device was. Maybe
that's not really true. I've now had some time to think about all
of this, and I wonder if the Device was some kind of... some
kind of *filter*, allowing a tiny two-legged peon like myself to
see a piece of the light that shines forever behind the curtain, a
mirrored reflection of the most Holy of Holies...
At the time, I just looked away from that light, staggering
and half-blinded. I had instinctively covered my eyes with my
hands, and now I looked at those hands, and I could see all of
the life there, the skin cells forever forming and flaking off, the
hoards of tiny parasites and symbiotes that we all have in our
systems, squirming around and forming obscene but vital words
with the trails of their bodies. This made me curious what the
rest of me looked like...
And so I discovered that while wearing the glasses made
some things clearer, others were obscured. The most
immediately obvious was that all other forms of glass became
completely opaque (including mirrors; I never saw what my
own head looked like while wearing the Elvis-glasses.) The best
analogy I can come up with is that they resembled vertical slicks
of oily water, or maybe a soap bubble waiting to be blown, but
with *depth* to it, a sheet shimmering and swirling with a
thousand different colors. I had discovered earlier, before
actually turning on the Device, that the lenses could be
independently twisted around, like on a set of binoculars. I now
did this and I found could sort of see through glass, but it never
was entirely clear; the view of the street two stories down from
my living room windows was thin and hazy, a phantom, cars
ghosting by, the clouds thick and black and choking. Mirrors
never came close to working.
Then my gaze was pulled back to the TV.
Oh yeah. Forgot to mention about the TV. It was on during
all of this. I usually let it run in the background while I worked
on a project, writing or anything else. Usually had it tuned to
one of those all-news channels; the resulting stream of utterly
meaningless babble was always soothing somehow.
When I looked at the TV again though the glasses, I realized
that I could now see the screen, floating in front of the interior
parts as they churned away. I wasn't surprised to learn that it
was a blur of useless color, like all the rest of the glass in the
apartment. Only... there *was* something different there...
shapes moving that the rest didn't have...
So I played some more with the glasses adjustments.. Just a
little twisting, and suddenly the picture... well, it *snalled* into
focus. If you want to know the meaning of the word `snall',
well... it's what the picture did when I twisted the glasses. It's
simply the only word for happened, and the only definition I
have.
It snalled up and up. *Giant*, *vivid*, 3D focus. At the same
moment, the TV cabinet turned itself sort of inside out and
collapsed to multicolored dust, followed instantly by the wall
behind it. The resulting scene snalled up around me before I
could even duck and scream...
All of the things that followed... despite the continuing
evidence to the contrary, it still seems at times that I
hallucinated the whole thing, watching the TV while those
glasses nuked my brain like a burrito, filling the rest of the room
with things out of my own subconscious, or maybe off of the
TV screen...
But no. It was real. It was incredibly real. Especially one
moment... but that came a little later.
At first, when the world stabilized, it was a moment before I
realized that I was someplace else. A new apartment, much
bigger and nicer than the one I had just left. More specifically, I
was standing in the corner of that apartment's dining room,
with a kitchen on view behind a separating marble-topped
counter. Unlike what it replaced, much of what was there in
that kitchen was somehow flat and wrong. None of the
electrical equipment glowed, everything was just empty shells. I
only noticed this out of the corner of one eye because closer, in
the room with me, there was something more important and
interesting: a table. It was a nice wooden one and the scene was
lit mostly by some candles sitting on it. I could see the
streamers of heat rising from the flames, watch the wax flame
and die, but again, it all seemed wrong somehow,
stage-managed.
Seated at the table were two people I had never seen before, a
man and a woman, both about my age, but (to be brutally
honest) more attractive and wearing much nicer clothes. An
expensive black suit with a narrow red tie, and a dress that
matched the tie. They were eating dinner. Well... to be more
accurate, there was an array of food and wine spread out
between them, but it was all rather incidental to what was really
going on in that room.
There was no sound, there was never any sound, the snalling
had snuffed all of that out in a second. The man said something
and the woman mimed laughter, showing white teeth and
casually shifting her black hair into a new position. As she did
these things, something flickered around her head, a half-seen
butterfly. Neither of them paid the slightest attention to me.
Even as part of my mind gibbered and ran in circles in panic, my
hand went automatically to the lenses, and adjusted them again.
The butterfly became real, became part of a flock, and there
was another around the man's head...
I was seeing their thoughts. I wasn't *reading* them, not
exactly, not explicitly, but I could capture the general drift and
pattern as it flickered and stormed along.
The drift, the pattern, and most of all the conflict. Those
colors were reaching out of those two people's heads,
interacting with one another and making something new. But it
wasn't the connection of lovers, I could tell that right from the
first. They were fighting like swordsmen, clash and clatter and
bang.
Exactly like swordsmen. I was seeing not what the two
people were pretending to be. pretending to feel, but instead
what they actually though of each other. The colors, while
glorious and addictive and nearly bottomless, still somehow on
some level popped and fizzed tepidly. These two people were
not in love with one other. If anything, they disliked one
another. The woman laughed again at another comment from
the man, and the colors behind her eyes shot daggers at the
heart of his brain, which neatly parried them with a shower of
splattering sparks. Suddenly they got up, intertwined their
bodies and their lips, began moving towards the waiting
bedroom, gracefully shedding clothes as they kissed. The colors
did not grow any brighter.
I followed, I was dragged along in their wake, and still they
ignored me. It was all flat. Dead. The last pieces of clothing fell
away, revealing the woman's excellent breasts and the man's
quite-impressive sex organ. The wide white bed enfolded itself
around them as he slid into her...
I took another step, a step too far, and something snapped my
head violently to one side. I had reached the end of the cord.
Caught off-guard, I stumbled, and crashed into the nearest wall.
It collapsed, pulling me an unknown distance and then reality
re-snalled.

* * *

I was now standing beside a busy city street, with a steady
stream of both cars and pedestrians going past under a row of
elegant buildings and a cloudy sky. For a moment I looked at
the cable that had snapped me, and I could just see it, a faint
ghost, disappearing away from my head and into the wall of a
nearby building.
But then my attention was dragged elsewhere.
The cars... Unlike with the electrical equipment in the second
apartment, I could now see the engines churning away under
the hoods. The multicolored pollution billowed out of their
tailpipes, settling sickly over everything. The row of youngish
trees along the street popped with color, greedily sucking some
but not nearly all of the carbon dioxide out of the air.
And the people. Oh my god the people streaming past,
ignoring me entirely. *Real* emotions now, all emotions.
Laughing and yelling and dancing and fighting. And most of all
fucking. Really, it was all sex, even when in-and-out physical
sex had absolutely nothing to do with it. Men and women,
infants and the elderly, gays and straights, they were all on
display here, walking and driving, and they all had very different
colors, and they would lash out and merge together, prongs
sticking messily but tightly into waiting slots and the both
instantly changing into something totally new and different.
Particularly connections between the (heterosexual) men and
the women. Yellow and blue did not mix to make green, but

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