Y&R-Protrait of a Marriage on the Rocks: Tacky Tack Room Story
diane
as long as he was away from Jack. "Victor, will you take me back?"
Brad asked aloud, "Or am I too fat for you now?" Tears came to Brad's
eyes as he thought of the girdle he had worn for the last year and a
half. His life had gone to hell since Victor dumped him. Jack had
known all along about Brad's broken heart and had married him to save
his reputation and to gain a small revenge on Victor. Brad was filled
with trepidation about his future. He had no one and no place to go.
He reached for the box of snack cakes he kept in the glove box,
"Twinkie, you're my only friend!" He sobbed and ate the golden snack
cake in one bite.
Brad drove all night in a daze. As dawn arrived, he was surprised to
find himself at the tack room on the Newman ranch. "My god, I can't
let Victor see me in this shape!", he cried. He quickly got out of the
car and made his way for the door of the tack room. Slightly familiar
with the tack room and eager to hide, he opened the door and went in.
"Oh my god!" he cried as he turned to face the room. There in front of
him was the most glorious sight he had ever seen! Victor, nude and
sprawled out on a faux tiger skin before a raging fire! "It's almost as
if you knew I was coming!", Brad cried, his eyes filled with tears of
joy. Victor narrowed his eyes at the intruder, "What the hell are you
doing here, Brad Carlton?!" Brad suddenly understood Victor's horror as
a man emerged from behind a canvas. Raphael, Victoria's friend, also
totally nude! "Ah, yet another playmate," Raphael, obviously drunk,
asked, "Would you like a drink?" Victor quickly stood up and grabbed
the glass from Raphael's hand. "No, he would not like a drink!" Raphael
scowled, "Victor, you must be kind to our guest!" "I will not be kind
to the likes of Brad Carlton!" Victor was angry and shaking, Raphael
put a comforting arm around his shoulders as a sobbing Brad looked on.
"Oh, what have we here?" Raphael asked, "The two of you are, how you
say, lovers?" "Brad Carlton is a married man, dammit," Victor yelled,
"He has no business here!" This was it for Brad, he grabbed the only
dignity he had left and fled the room, leaving the naked men behind him.
He got into his car and, as always, his eyes went to the glove box.
"Little Debbie, you're my only friend!"
Victor looked out the window and saw Brad stuffing his chubby face with
junk food. "Here, Victor," Raphael said and handed him a pencil, "Break
this, you'll feel better."
To be continued...or not..
Diane
R. Seed
Diane, if I may have this last, very slow dance (as I already noted and
as requested by Carol), I'll attempt to give the latest of your always
compelling serials a fitting installment. (I'll also try to keep in the
style of the original auteur, since it seems to be a very effective one.
I know it left me on the edge of my still musty seat.)
This one is also for ALL the kind folks I've encountered on this n. group
over the years, (including the hopefully soon to return Diva, in one of
her more lucid moments) too many to individually name, but not forgotten,
and of course, Tuulia, one of my first and my most indefatigable, totally
unconditional morale boosters.
---------------------------------
The last paragraph of Diane's excellent (snipped) serial went like this:
Victor looked out the window and saw Brad stuffing his chubby face with
junk food. "Here, Victor," Raphael said and handed him a pencil, "Break
this, you'll feel better."
To be continued...or not......
---------------------
The desperate and ravenous Brad, still mainlining larded cakes while hunched
over in his stationary Ford Pinto, upon seeing Victor's evil, incandescent
red eyes glowing back at him from the darkened tack room window, began to
choke in mid-Little Debbie. Flailing around, he attempted to dislodge the
fulsome food from his bloated body, all the while thinking: "Jesus, Joseph
and Mary! I was once a man with the body of a true Hawaiian Tropic God,
and now they're going to find me 250 lbs overweight, 3 shades of purple
& with some lame supermarket pastry jammed in my larynx! Damn you, Victor
Newman! Damn YOU and all the Little Debbies of this world straight to hell!!"
Body and soul limp with futile effort, Brad slumped onto the steering wheel
and the sound of the cheesy horn cut shrilly through the icy country mist.
Within seconds of the horn being activated, the watchful Victor stiffly
ran for the front door and was soon at Brad's side. Cradling his ex's
limp bodymass in his hoary, yet sinewy arms, Victor yodelled angrily at
the rising sun: "NOOOOOOOOOO! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!", each
tormented cry causing Brad's Gap clad body to vibrate like fresh jello
on a lovers' Motel 6 cot.
Hearing gurgling sounds now coming from the unconscious man's throat,
Victor's grip tightened around the tiny 2H pencil Raphael had so very
suggestively slipped him and which he had inadvertently kept in his
clenched fist all the while. Seizing the moment, Victor raised the pencil,
poised to punctuate Brad's throat in an emergency tracheostomy. It was then,
with great horror, that Victor realized the pencil was half of THE pencil,
the same one he had severed in Jack's office in a crimson-faced fit of
childish pique all those years ago. (Jack had given Raphael one half of
said bisected implement as a token of his affection after their torrid
menage a trois with John Silva during a men's self-awareness course in
Tahoe. The tiny gift had meant nothing to Jack, but everything to Raphael,
who still longed to sharpen each and every one of Jack's ever-lithe pencils.)
Deeply disturbed by the mental picture of a giant, ol' smiling-Jack head
hovering over him, and distracted while slamming the blunt, ripped end of
the pencil against Brad's throat, Victor missed his mark by a country mile
and realized he had just killed one of his many ex-lovers through sheer
criminal negligence. As the blood spurted out of Brad's narrowed, cholesterol-
coated carotid, it sprinkled the sobbing CEO trojan with the hot sap of
life such that the once great man was finally rendered simply a man.
There was nothing left to do. The splattered, dejected Victor padded
slowly back to the tack room where the ashen faced Raphael, witnessing
all, and sagely aware of things to come, gently took the bloody pencil
from Victor's trembling paw and headed for the manual pencil sharpener
mounted on the cedar panelled wall. Slowly, painfully, he sharpened the
bloody stump, tenderly turning the crank as if playing a funeral dirge on
a hurdy-gurdy. He then pulled out another pencil from deep within his
Beavis n' Butthead/mal-styled hair, and as their eyes locked, Victor
nodded as Raphael again slowly sharpened this one more pencil. This one
final pencil, with its shavings softly falling in slow motion to the
ground.
To the sound of drum rolls, both men walked, one solemn step at a time
and in perfect synchronization, until they met in the middle of the room.
"Pleeze, ledd me luke add you juzz wan more time!" pleaded Raphael, (a
man who inexplicably talked like Tattoo with a couple of peanut butter
sandwiches stapled to the roof of his mouth). "Clothed or unclothed?"
Victor snapped. "Uh..... like clothed, DUDE!!" Raphael coughed with
embarrassment. With that, the two embraced, each slapping the other on
the back and sinking the points of their deadly pencils into each other's
shoulderblades.
Being the slighter of the two, Raphael expired first, falling face forward
onto yet another damp, misguided neon Velvet Elvis already in progress.
However, cartoon Rasputin that he was/is, Victor lingered for some time in
great distress. Finally, when he could take no more manly pain, he plucked
the pencil out from his back and hauled himself up off the bear rug.
Assuming the sumo wrestler's position he had once so strikingly taken in
the very, very naughty Jack's office, he plunged the truncated, leaded
Dixon deep into his gristled abdomen. With a final sigh he spake his last
words: "Tell Nicki I always loved her....her... her.....her pink poodle
sweater and her red patent leather pumps with the spiked heel thingies.
You know, the same ones I'm wearing now. You did get that, didn't you?
Because if you didn't, that would make you a damned punk, and I'd hate to
have to go over there and kick that damned, punked, punkabilly butt of
yours......."
Epilogue
Several days later, local police detectives are called to the grisly
scene when the Newman manservant smelled something akin to his mistress'
attempts at cooking, and the Newman son soon followed the scent, believing
a boobalicious bbq was imminent. Hardened police detective Carl Williams
(now, truly a Ruthless man) and his dim son arrive with the other faux
members of GC's official, plastic workforce to chronicle the sad, sad
happenings. While bending down to take some lead tinted blood swabs, Carl
Williams spots a happy face and some letters thinly scrawled in bloody
handwriting on the floor: ....`TOAD-MAN'....
Paul Williams, (adjusting his toupe, the cryptic, amphibian mantra echoing
in his mind): "What's it all mean, dad? What's it all mean?"
Carl Williams, (pulling a pencil out from behind his ear and staring down
at the delicate lead shavings covering the white rug of the deceased): "I
don't know son. I'm afraid you'll just have to draw your own conclusions."
-------------------
Roberta Seed
To be continued, or not............
--
diane
Such a sad, sad story! I don't mind telling you, the tears are
flowing, even Uncle Vern is touched. But did you have to kill Raphael?
Seriously though, if you lurk, and I hope you will, please feel free to
jump in anytime and add your genius to my little tales. I absolutely
love what you've done with the place and you have certainly earned my
respect and admiration. What better way to end "Portrait of a Marriage"
than murder and double suicide? Of course, you know, Victor isn't
necessarily dead......
Diane
Amy Heil
Amy
diane wrote in message <21764-37...@newsd-121.bryant.webtv.net>...
Diane
floor: ....`TOAD-MANด.... Paul Williams, (adjusting his toupe, the