THE COMPANY OF EFFING CHUCK NORRIS
By Quillon42
In the old cabin where Grandma should have been sleeping at this hour, a very worried wolf lay restless while a little rider slept between his paws, she sans hood, she sans red. While the latter dreamed of literal, lengthened life and metaphorical, magnificent monogamy with her new partner, whose cruelty she curbed via the conflagration of clothing in the hallowed hearth nearby…the former freaked out but fully, his humanity seemingly forever forfeit—worse yet, his banging days of bachelorhood dashed, as fettered as he was to the femme breathing just underneath his fangs.
No more now would there be days of dalliance…no more would there be wayward nights of wanton nooky. Now, although the pilose prowler held the pygmy princess arrestingly in his arms…it was the timberwolf who was ultimately timorous in the thrall of this tiny tigress.
Yet even in the throes of this lycanthrope's terrified languishing, even while the other lupos lamented in the distance…this victimized villain was aware of one who could shatter his spell-spawned shackles. One who could verily deliver him from this death upon earth.
Because even all the woodsmen in the world, with their might combined, could not beat back the rage of a particular Ranger who sought to effect an egress to the emasculation of his fellow males.
From times of yore it has been said that if you burn the clothing of a werewolf, said wolfman is condemned forever to his lupine form…yea, unless the lycan be loosed from this by the lachrymosity of a demigod among dudes. At the same time, it has been revealed to the elders of WhereverTheEff that if you burn all the clothing and accessories of a young virgin girl, she is condemned to be a boring ass spinster until and beyond the end of time…and no cure or spell otherwise may reverse this happenstance, especially upon an imprecation precluding any possible contumacious countermeasure of conjuration (to be exercised in full anon).
Indeed, it was while the girl lolled back in the anguished embrace of her were-ward…while the inhuman creature himself assayed in vain to rustle slumber, he counting sheep for which in his now-ceaseless canine state had forever lost all taste to him, for all time…
[SLAMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM]
An intruder of the most impetuous ilk emerged from the murderously-misty yonder to relieve the bedridden, intimately-embattled beast.
At the entrance of this imposing entity, even the cutesy floozy who thrust this fate upon her foe, she awoke with the sassiest of starts.
To the intervening, irresistible force, this malicious maiden in earnest:
-You dare to interpose yourself between me and this delicious morsel, thou cad…
…but the bristling of auburn whiskers upon the Ranger's upper lip had in the breadth of a beat caused the youth's yap to clap shut, abruptly and indefinitely.
The sentinel of austerity scanned the room for what he had detected in his general anti-swinger-sterilization sonar. Cautiously proceeded this man, whose titian tufts were tougher than the matted muff of any mammoth…
…then he paused, he placing at last the source of the wan wolf's woes.
Before the incandescent ingénue in the wereone's clutches could utter another oath, the resourceful nomad known as Norris in the annals of legend, he seized upon that pernicious fireplace, his face unfazed by the furious flames…
…and in a trice the tears flowed, yea from that weathered countenance flowed waterworks, yet this was the manliest ocular emission imaginable. Though there were only so many droplets, they deluged upon the wolfen one's burnt shirt with the force of a flood from the firmament. Sheerly yet selectively the tears tread upon the remains of that combusted banlon, the pitying projectiles carefully evading any contact with the cinders of threads belonging to the termagant who tore the top from her cowed consort.
With a whisk that most unexpendable upholder of all that was ubermensch spun around now, he holding a pullover to put back into the hands of another human man now, one who had been reverted back from the banal loping lupus in which form he had been trapped for only so many harrowing hours.
Then, just as said healed human commenced to hoof on over to convey thanks to his suave strapper of a savior…the other rushed out of a sudden, he whooshing away to whistle in an incoming shipment of feminine effects…to convert into effigies, and make the evening complete.
Outside, the plaintive paeans of fellow furious friends in fur, they all literally changed their tune now from a chant of misery to a chorus of mirth. It heralded the hushing-in once again of that hero who once starred in a series whose was Missing in Action, even though the dynamic of said films were in fact anything but.
In his callused, Commie-epiglottis-crushing hands the man held that instrument by which his mortal enemy would meet with her ultimate, inevitable vanquishment. A discomfiture so utterly consummate for her—and in truth, the last time for the femme that the word "consummate" could figure into any kind of context, with her.
-You d-dast not, Granny's Little Girl garbled desperately, she seeking to slip from the bed whereupon she was inexplicably bound. Yet the mattress covers moored her, held her fast, forbade the peasant any purchase upon the floorboards on which the gentlemen now gallivanted.
The harsh reality in this faerieland remained nonetheless that even were she able to bolt from that baleful boxspring, she could not even begin to wish to reach the Ranger in time…
…before he emptied the entirety of her sock drawer unto the hearth, the fire-bearded fighter feeding the flames with a company of cupcake knee-highs, sending the enchanting adolescent into a tailspin of wail.
(And this author had to look up "socks for girls" and discover the concept of "cupcake knee-highs" just now…it's not like he has any kind of fetish for stockings that little girls wear.)
…
…
…
(He really doesn't; shut up.)
So many sewed patterns of piddling pupils dancing in a crescent, to coil around the tenderest of ankles…such designs were dashed out now by the damning, contained conflagration opposite that trap of ersatz intimacy that was the Red Riding Bed. In the thick of the latter, the harried heroine bawled at the blight of burn with which her delicate tootsie-toasters were now beset.
In the time that it took a sallow cloud to sashay across the fullness of the moon, the hero's hero had departed, then alighted anew. There followed a gamboling of grays at the sight of the slinging in of another drawerful. The tiny lady's jaw pulsed, then plunged at the sight of the fearsome fire, which was thereafter all too ebullient to eat the stock of starchy shirts, blouses, and tunics that the girl had garnered from her grandmother this past half decade. Only yards away from her, the huffer-and-puffer who was now renewed as human, he frolicked at all the fabric aflame; in minutes there wasn't even enough threads left for a baby bonnet for our Little Red now.
Then finally the ferocious coup de grace, which champed down upon the child like Big Bad upon those hogs with houses of straw and sticks.
Just as the juvenile caught sight of the whimsical wheelbarrow, barreling in its wares…
-No…
And seriously…what big eyes she had, this very instant.
-…
-…Not those.
But yes those, it was those, those most treasured trinkets of the waif's entire wardrobe. Those which she kept closest to herself, at all times, and which she was always sure to wear, to the exclusion of all else.
As varieties of every color and texture were exposed to the view of all present, the girl aghast:
-Not the scrunchies!
But there they were, and then there they went, each and every of those bawdiest of bracelets embraced by the boorish blaze, the ensuing inferno ingesting those irrepressible imps of 1990s fashion, every variation owned by this girl, preciously and presciently preserved…
…that was, at least, until now.
-NOT THE FUCKING SCRUNCHIES!
But it was all in retrospect and in vain now, amidst the ashes
All the pining and wishing and lamp-rubbing in a veritable lexicon of lore could not bring back a single scrap. In the wake of the expiring embers of such frivolous frippery, there was the flustered flabbergast of a fraulein who, but for the crashing of the Chuck upon her little gala of subjugation, would have brought a lone wolf to a hell of heeling.
And in response to the keening of the kindergartner, the monster mended back to man (who knew he was nobody's meat, much less any maiden's mangina), he and hero alike rolling on up, then laughing full in the femme's face:
-HAHHH HAHHH HAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
…
…
And it was a few beats following, in fact, as the breaking-and-entering badass was heimliching hordes of whole humans from the once-overeating onus who now became a much more law-abiding lycanthropic, said copper-chopped champion, to the honeybunch in the bed:
-Oh, and also, my dear lady…No Punchbacks Infinity.
And then the curse was complete, guarded against all reprisal, the hoyden all huffy with defeat as the Hitman and the rehumanized ruffian alongside him retreated from the above, abandoning the jinxed jezebel to her fate. It was a multifacted tragedy as well considering that the girl's genitalia were so snug, cozier even than the culling of coals that fueled the fire nearby. (NB: This is a fair shot, as far as this author is concerned; in Carter's tale, the narrator unnecessarily went into how large the wolf's own unmentionables were).
See! Bitter and abashed the lady stays in Granny's bed, she between the barren bookends of adolescence and extreme-unction.
(UPDATE as of 9/21/15: I just wanted to say thank you to the recent Guest review of 9/20/15; I wish I could write personalized thank-yous via PMs, but I don't think one can for Guests. In any case, again I appreciate the positive review (I appreciate any reviews/feedback of any kind, though positive ones are the nicest, of course) and I hope all are doing well.)