martinsmithstories

Image by Heather Plew from Pixabay

Frank woke with a searing headache and found himself lying prone with his head jammed in the cupboard beneath the counter and his face buried in the rancid leftovers of a laksa he vaguely remembered having half-eaten in a rush a couple of weeks earlier.

Having eased himself out of the cupboard, he sat up and removed a mouldy noodle that clung to his nose. He ran his hands over his body and head and sighed in relief. He was no longer robed nor bald. And he’d never been wise; in fact, his choice of simile had been probably the most injudicious selection he could have made.

He stared at the Simile Simulator and pondered his stupidity. ‘What a bloody fool I am!’ he whispered, fearful of exacerbating his headache.

Life’s too short to muck around with valour or wisdom, he thought. What he wanted to be was loved; no, it was more fundamental than that; what he wanted to be was sexed. To indulge in his wildest sexual fantasies, and if that meant going out with a bang before his thirty minutes were up, then lucky him. Up to now, his love life hadn’t been too crash hot. Nonexistent, in fact. He was hanging way out left on the normal distribution curve for promiscuity, far beyond the third standard deviation, out there with the likes of Mother Teresa, Joan of Arc and old Lizzie, that Virgin Queen. What he wished for—indeed, what he wanted to be—was a someone who climbed to the top of that bell curve, sat his horny little arse upon its mean/median/mode and slid long and hard down the other side until he ended up beyond the third standard deviation to the right and joined the likes of Rasputin, Don Juan and Casanova. Yes, that was it; he would heed his most primal of urges, his most basic of Maslowian needs, and be as promiscuous as a porn star. Yes, he’d swap pawn for porn, then fornicate all day and all night. Bugger the run-down clock (not literally, of course)! It would be sex for breakfast, sex for lunch and sex for dinner, with a little suppery sex before bedtime, a sexy snack in the middle of the night and morning glory upon waking. He would be, well, to put it simply, sex itself.

Frank stepped forward and held his hands above the revolving ball. As it spun and glowed below his fingers, he neither paused nor pondered. He closed his eyes, took in a deep breath and said, ‘I want to be as promiscuous as a stud.’

The ball’s spinning again accelerated, and again its glow brightened. His hands snapped to its surface and it pulled him forward. He neither braced his feet nor tried to hold his ground; rather, he allowed himself to be pulled off his feet, and in eager anticipation he tumbled forward and fell into the great light.

***

When Frank opened his eyes, he saw before him a tilted signpost whose only sign read Welcome to Mehlweg Meadow, Austria. He cast his eyes about and found himself on a green-grassed plateau surrounded by undulating hills and, further away, steep, snow-capped mountains. From the valley below there rose the dulcet tones of an orchestra playing a bland yet familiar tune, the sort Frank often heard at shopping centres.

He released a shiver. Good Lord, he thought, here he was, freezing his nussbaums off, only to find the hills alive with the sound of mall Muzak.

As the music crescendoed, a figure appeared from over a distant hill and rushed towards him. As it approached, he saw it was a young nun wearing a black veil and a grey apron over a black tunic. As she neared, she raised her arms and broke into a twirl that raised her tunic above her waist, flashing a pair of fishnet stockings and a skimpy pair of candy-red French knickers. Or were they Austrian knickers? Frank thought.

Holy cow patties! he thought. Wasn’t that Maria von Clapp? Surely the Simile Simulator hadn’t interpreted his desire to be as promiscuous as a stud to mean he’d engage in an outdoors tryst with one of the most beautiful, wholesome and adulated women to grace the planet?

She completed her twirl and stood before Frank: her chest out, her hands on her hips, her legs set apart and a lustful look in her eye.

‘Hello, I’m Sister Jules. I’m a postulant at the Nonnberg Abbey in Salzburg. Do you want to have sex with me?’

Frank stood dumbfounded at his sheer dumb luck.

‘Oh God! I’m just so horny,’ Sister Jules said. ‘I need to roll in the meadow hay, to get me some of them wild oats, to engage in eine kleine nachtmusik, to dish out a little discipline, a little spanking.’

She removed a bullwhip from beneath her apron, raised it in the air and flicked her wrist, releasing a crack that echoed about the surrounding hills. Frank winced.

‘Hey, got a sexual fantasy? A depraved fetish? Yes? Then tell me about it … stud! Cos I’m telling you that you’re the one that I want. Ooh, ooh, ooh! Come on, big boy, feel your way.’

Chills multiplied down Frank’s spine.

‘Say, ain’t you the quiet one. What, pussy got your tongue? Look, I’ve been hiding in a convent from them von Clapps. Been living a life of obedience, temperance and abstinence from everything except selleriesuppe. God, do I hate celery soup. I tell you, celery is not all it’s cracked up to be. Neither is celebrity. And don’t get me started on celibacy. Did I happen to mention to you that I am unbelievably, unashamedly and undeniably hor-ny?’

She teased a lascivious tongue tip over her lower lip.

‘Christ Almighty, I’ve honestly had it up to my tits, what with being so wholesome, so holy than thou, whilst holed up in that hole of a convent. Lordy, that’s more holes than a block of Swiss cheese. And if I have to sing about my favourite things one more time, I’ll barf. You wanna know what my favourite things are? Cocaine lines, tequila shots and a bit of good, old S&M. But Rodgers and his bloody mate Hammerstein reckon they couldn’t find a single word to rhyme with tequila. What a load of Braunvieh dung, I say! God, I’m a raging cauldron of estradiol. Bubbling away. I need sex! S-E-X! Now!’

Frank remained motionless, oblivious to all except the exceedingly beautiful and exceedingly desirable Sister Jules.

‘Truth be told, I’m sexually frustrated. Flusterbummed, to be exact. Have you ever tried to sneak in a nookie in a house full of kids? It’s impossible, I tell you. There you are, having donned the old lederhose and a cowbell and ready to entrap the von Clapp and bounce on his jausenwurst, and sure enough a knock will come on the bedroom door and it’ll be the brats. And they’ll burst in and sit on the bed, and while you fumble about with your landhausmode to try to regain a little modesty, they’ll come out with some asinine line like, “Oh, Fräulein, will you sing Do-Re-Mi with us?” or “Oh, Fräulein, will you teach us the traditional Ländler folk dance?” or “Oh, Fräulein, will you make us an alluring outfit out of a drape?” or “Oh, Fräulein, we had a nightmare. Will you read us Mein Kampf to help us go back to sleep?”.

‘Honestly, their requests never end. The list just goes on and on. Then, sure enough, old man von Clapp will reach for his guitar (while you reach for a brown paper bag to retch in), and he’ll start strumming, and next thing you know they’re all grinning like a stool of constipatees and harmonising whilst singing “Idle-vice”. And all a girl can do is retreat, unsatiated and frustrated, to the governess’s bedroom and fetch a Toblerone from her drawer and, well, take matters into her own hand.

‘I tell you, a girl like me has needs. Real needs! Hey, did I happen to tell you that I am really horny? Fancy a bit of action? Want me to talk dirty to you? Yeah? How about Freundschaftsbeziehungen?’

A primal urge stirred within Frank’s loins.

‘Or Nahrungsmittelunverträglichkeit?’

He became lightheaded as blood stampeded to his groin.

‘Or Streichholzschächtelchen?’

And a lustful tumescence swelled his nether regions. Oh God! He was going to have sex. S-E-X!

Sister Jules squatted and looked between his trembling legs. ‘Whatcha packing down there, you gorgeous hunk of salt-and-pepper beefcake?’ Her eyes widened and whitened as she released a gasp. ‘Gott in Himmel! What an absolute whopper! Yodel-Ay-Eee-Oooo!’

Frank looked down and saw he was wearing leather pants. Red leather pants. What the? he thought. He never wore leather, let alone red leather! Was this what porn stars wore? He shifted his gaze down to his shoes and saw he had … hooves! Frank went to say ‘Oh My God!’, but all he released was a long, deep, resonant ‘Mo mo Moo!’.

Good God! He was a bovine! That bloody old man and his bloody Simile Simulator! Frank tilted his head further down and looked between his forelegs. And that’s when he saw it. The Dufourspitze of all alpenhorns, a thumping great thumper standing proud and cocky to attention, and behind it, almost touching the ground, hung a stupendous scrotum. Good God! He was no longer Homo sapien but, rather, Bos erectus! A bull. A red bull. A randy red stud. And Frank did what anyone who had received the shock of their life would do. He lost control of his bowels and shat himself. Pattie-Pat-Pat-Pat! Not a cow pat, mind you; no, this was 100% genuine bullshit.

As Frank took a step back, he went to say ‘Holy shit!’, but all he released was a long, deep, resonant ‘!ooom oooM’.

‘Why, you sly old bull, I’ll take that as a yes, then.’

Sister Jules began to twirl again, but faster. She raised her arms to the heavens, threw her head back and belted out in song, ‘The hills are alive with the smell of pheromones.’ Her tunic billowed and rose above her waist, and her French knickers dropped to her ankles.

Good God! he thought, everyone knows what happens when you wave a red rag at a bull. But what about flaunting candy-red French knickers at a randy red bull? Oh, come on! Another five seconds and he’d poke someone’s eye out! Frank released a snort through his nostrils, stomped his front hoof on the ground and went to say ‘Baby, here cometh the stud!’, but all he released was a long, deep, resonant ‘Mooo, mooo mooooo moo mooo!’.

Frank took two lumbering steps forward but stopped when two clashes of cymbals echoed about the surrounding green hills. KISH-KISH! … Kish-Kish! … kish-kish! … kish-kish! … kish-kish! … kish-kish! …

Frank looked down at his swaying scrotum. Good God! he thought, his pills were alive with the sound of music!

Sister Jules suddenly stopped twirling and froze. She cocked an ear, listened and then said, ‘Christ! It’s them.’

Frank went to say ‘Who?’, but all he released was a long, deep, resonant ‘Moo?’.

‘The brats. Listen.’

In the distance, a chorus of young voices sang, ‘Do! …’

Sister Jules placed her hands over her ears. ‘Oh God! Not that bloody solfège again!’

‘Re! …’

‘Golden sun? More a technicoloured yawn, if you ask me!’

‘Mi! …’

‘What’s wrong with the younger generations? It’s always me-me-me. Next thing you know, they’ll be writing for Neues Deutschland or, worse still, become memoirists!’

‘Fa! …’

‘Run? I know for a certainty what’s giving me the runs!’

‘So! …’

‘I know which Trapps I’d like to sew up!’

‘La! …’

‘How bloody lazy is that lyric?’

‘Ti! …’

‘Stuff the caffeine. God! I’m going to need a crate of Stiegl Goldbräu to wash away this memory.’

‘That will bring us back to—’

‘Brats! Oh God! I can’t take their shit anymore. Farewell, stud, I’m emigrating! To Germany! To satiate my needs on a Berlinese bratwurst, a bowl of buttermilchsuppe and a bit of book burning!’

She pulled up her knickers, let her tunic and apron drop, ditched her veil and rushed towards and disappeared over the green crest of a hill as a tuba in the distance sounded a prolonged, melancholic note.

Frank checked the run-down clock. 11.22. He released a despondent snort. He’d wasted almost 20 minutes of his precious simile simulation, only to strike out with the salacious Sister Jules. Here he was. As strong as a bull. As virile as a stud. And as horny as a rhino on Viagra. And there wasn’t a single potential sex partner in sight.

He had to admit he was a tad disappointed; indeed, a little depressed. His shoulders slumped and his heavy head dropped to within inches of the grassy meadow. What does one do when depressed? he thought. Seek comfort food, of course. Yes, that’s what he needed. Comfort food. To lift his mood. He tore a clump of grass and chewed. Mmm, he thought, not bad. In fact, it was delicious. To think he’d spent his formative years ignoring his mum’s pleas for him to eat his greens. He hadn’t known what he’d been missing out on over all those years.

As he continued to chew he turned and looked west as the sun set behind the snow-capped peaks. Ah, how beautiful, he thought, how stunningly beautiful. He raised his head, closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath through his bull-ringed nostrils. Ah, truly magnificent, he thought. Such pure air. No wonder Sister Jules looked so young and libidinous. She had to be in her ninth decade at the very least, yet she didn’t look a day over thirty.

As Frank tore another clump of clover, a slight breeze stirred, carrying the sound of lowing. He raised his head with a sudden jerk and looked to the eastern edge of the lush meadow. A small herd of cows wandered into sight and headed towards him as they chorused a welcoming low.

Hello, ladies! Frank thought.

In his excitement he burped and farted simultaneously.

Hey, he thought, who said us blokes can’t do more than one thing at the same time?

The burp regurgitated a bolus of cud, and as he chewed upon it, he ruminated on his possibilities. The way he saw it, he had two choices. He could either engage in a quickie with the girls before the Simile Simulator returned him to his shop and a futile future life of loneliness, poverty and declining health exacerbated by a diet of dodgy takeaway, or he could stay here on this meadow with its glorious views, satiating feed, pure, age-defying air and a harem of heifers to satisfy his carnal urges.

Yes, he could live a life here. A great and full life. His best life. He gave the meadow a gentle tap with his front hoof as if to claim possession of his new life, his new home. That was it. This was home. Yes, he thought with a crooning low, it was good to touch the green, green grass of home.

Frank recalled the old man in the shop saying, ‘At the end of thirty minutes, you’ll return to your initial state of being, but only if you’re still wearing the glasses. Lose them, and you’ll be stuck in your simile for the rest of your life.’

Yes, he decided, he was staying. He just had to lose the glasses, and then he could get on with living in lust as the Stud of Mehlweg Meadow.

Frank glanced at the run-down clock. 0.15. Good God! 15 seconds! How time flies when ruminating! 15 seconds! That’s all the time he had to remove the glasses or the Simile Simulator would return him to the shop. But how the hell could he remove the glasses with his hooves?

0.12. He flicked his head up. The glasses stayed fixed.

0.10. He flicked his head down. The glasses stayed fixed.

0.08. He vigorously shook his head from side to side. Still the glasses stayed fixed on his face.

0.06. Oh God! There was nothing he could do! The glasses were stuck. He closed his eyes, braced his body and waited for the Simile Simulator to drag him into the abyss.

0.05. A low came from close by.

0.04. A swoosh filled the air.

0.03. A turdy tail flicked his face, causing Frank to raise a forelimb.

0.02. He lowered his leg, and as his hoof touched the ground, a crack of shattering glass came from beneath him.

He opened his eyes and looked down and saw that he had stepped upon and crushed the safety glasses. He was free! Home and hosed! Had he a fist, he would have pumped it, but he made do with a quick Irish jig with his forelegs. He then firmed his stance, raised his head and released a low—long and deep and resonant—that filled the hills with the sound of … of … of … Moo-sic!

Frank sensed someone standing beside him, and he turned and faced a cow. She gave him a long-lashed wink and a tinkle of her cowbell, then with a flick of her tail that released a familiar swoosh, she turned and rejoined three other cows nearby. All then presented their hindquarters to Frank, turned their heads and looked back over their shoulders towards him, gave him a promiscuous shimmy of their hips and released a chorus of lubricious lowing.

Holy shit! he thought. It’s an all-you-can-eat buffet! Four heifers to play! Foreplay! A ménage à cinq. Ooh-la-la!

Frank took a step forward and his studhoods swung from side to side.

Come and get it, girls, he thought, it’s on tap!

To his surprise, the cows’ eyes widened and whitened.

Hey, he thought, I know it’s big, but, come on, it’s not that big!

He took another step forward.

No need to be shy, ladies, he thought, just form an orderly queue and I’ll be happy to service you one at a time.

The cows turned and set off at a trot. Away from Frank.

Ha! he thought, playing hard to get, my gorgeously uddered friends. He released a bemused low and set off in pursuit in a short, choppy gait.

A clunk of changing gears and the rev of an engine came from behind Frank. He turned and saw a truck approaching at speed. The girls chorused a desperate low and stampeded away from Frank and the truck. What the? Frank thought.

As the truck neared, its signage came into Frank’s view: Schellenberg’s Slaughtering. Panic seared through Frank. He willed his beefy body to hasten into an ungainly gallop and follow the girls, but his gargantuan gonads impeded his progress whilst they clashed out the cymbal finale to Tchaikovsky’s 4^th Symphony.

The truck roared up next to a lumbering Frank, and a bolt gun emerged from the dark interior of the truck’s cabin. And as the index finger of the hand holding the gun squeezed the trigger, he—Frank Hockley, omega male, formerly proprietor of Hockley’s Pawn Shop, formerly Braveheart, formerly King of the Jungle, formerly Master of his Domain, formerly Fountain of All Knowledge and Vessel of Infinite Wisdom and current Stud of Mehlweg Meadow—did what we all do in our last split-second when confronted by our moo-durer. He shat himself.

PATTIE-PAT-PAT-PAT! … Pattie-Pat-Pat-Pat! … pattie-pat-pat-pat! … pattie-pat-pat-pat! … pattie-pat-pat-pat! … pattie-pat-pat-pat! …