Well, I thought of a new way to make Nick's life uncomfortable! Yup,
it's time for another goofy story!
We know Nick and Lacroix belong to TPTB. And although I've put them
in embarrassing positions, they get returned with nary a scratch on
them.
A few disclaimers: No disparagements are meant to the excellent
magazine, "Archaeology," to which I subscribe. I only borrowed the
concept. And you know, I think they'd publish the article discussed
below.
No accordions were hurt in the writing of this story, not even my
pearlized red and gold one. I did take out my old sheet music and
play a nostalgic rendition of "Lady of Spain," but I burned it
afterwards so I'd never be tempted to do it again. There are some
things the world just doesn't need---and "Lady of Spain" is one of
them. g
Warning: Euphemized inexplicit M/M sex ahead. NNPAckers might want to
hit the Delete button right now.
And now, on with the story.
~~~~~
Music Hath Charms...
by Nancy Kaminski
(c) April 1998
~~~~~
"Good evening, Nicholas," said Lacroix austerely. "I have
something---interesting---for you to look at. If you are so inclined,
of course."
Nick reluctantly moved away from the elevator door, allowing the
tall, black-clad figure to enter. "What is it?" he asked, half
annoyed, half intrigued by his master's appearance on his doorstep so
close to dawn. If he wasn't careful, Lacroix would have to spend the
whole day at the loft. Nick had just gotten home himself, and had
planned to read his mail, pay a few bills, and then settle down with
a good book. Trading barbs with Lacroix hadn't been part of the day's
agenda at all.
Moving towards the black leather sofa in the living room, Lacroix
indicated the stack of mail in Nick's hand. "I see you have just
received your copy of 'Archaeological Review,' as have I." He held up
a copy of the magazine. It was a glossy publication that featured
articles written with just enough scholarly detail to satisfy the
serious archaeology devotee, while remaining accessible to the casual
reader interested in mummies, ancient fertility rituals, and other
topics dear to the hearts of cable television documentary producers.
"There is an article in it you might find amusing." He sat down and
made himself comfortable, clearly planning to stay for a while.
"I didn't think you were interested in archaeology, Lacroix," Nick
said, sitting down in the chair opposite the sofa.
"True---normally I have no interest in reliving my past, or seeing it
badly interpreted by ignoramuses, but this particular issue caught my
eye at the newsstand."
Nick thought he detected a gleam of some sort---amusement?---in
Lacroix's eyes, increasing his curiosity. He picked up his copy,
examined the cover for a clue to the source of the gleam. It featured
a spectacularly ugly but rare piece of Toltec pottery. That wouldn't
be it... He scanned the list of articles. Hmmmm. 'The Nineveh
Marbles?' No. 'Cloud People of the Himalayas?' Unlikely. 'Pompeii's
Villa of the Frescos?' Aha.
"This article about the old home town?" Nick inquired, turning to the
indicated page.
"Home town, yes---and home." Lacroix sat back and watched Nick's
face. "It seems the grave robbers---excuse me, the archaeologists---
have finally gotten around to my old neighborhood."
Nick raised his eyebrows. "The Villa of the Frescos was yours?"
Lacroix nodded. "One of several domiciles, actually. It was smaller
than the country estate, and less grand than the one in Rome, but it
was my favorite."
Seeing the mortal Lacroix's house would be an insight into his master
Nick couldn't pass up. He found the page and started reading with
interest.
The article was somewhat short on text, but lavishly illustrated with
color photographs of the recently-excavated villa. Although the roof
had caved in from the weight of the hot ash that had fallen on it, it
was otherwise almost entirely intact. The first photograph Nick
examined showed a large, elegant atrium, the impluvium beautifully
tiled with a mosaic of ocean creatures and fanciful plants. A bronze
statue of a nymph graced the now-dry pool.
Another photograph, this one of one of the living areas, showed
household goods scattered about the floor where they had fallen those
two thousand years ago. "Messy housekeeping," Nick commented with a
sideways glance, unable to resist offering a jibe.
Lacroix refused to be baited. "Understandably, the staff left in a
hurry. Keep reading," he commanded, unperturbed.
Nick continued reading the article. The author, the Italian scientist
who had led the excavation, enthused---in a suitably restrained
scientific way, of course---about the quality of the workmanship, the
beauty of the architecture, and the remarkable frescos that graced
the inner rooms. (Enthusiasm *for* science was admirable. Enthusiasm
*in* science, however, even in a quasi-popular journal, was something
to be avoided at all costs.)
She barely held onto her professional reserve, however, when it came
to describing "...the unusual and highly realistic frescos found in
two of the largest rooms off the peristyle. They appear to depict
some sort of priapic rite, the religious significance of which is
currently unknown."
Nick's eyebrows raised slightly at the passage. 'Priapic rites?' He
turned the page to find a foldout color photograph of the main
fresco. His eyebrows threatened to creep into his hairline, while a
faint flush coursed through his body.
The jumble of human figures---both male and female, limbs entwined,
garments flying artistically here and there, amid a bucolic setting
of flora and fauna (the fauna thankfully simply watching and not
participating)---was, to Nick's somewhat straightlaced eyes, frankly
pornographic.
"Interesting," he finally murmured as he examined the exquisite
detail of the fresco in question. He thought of and discarded several
comments and decided to play it safe. "I'm amazed," he ventured, "at
the constancy of your hair style, Lacroix...I didn't know it was
possible to achieve a buzz cut in those days."
Indeed, the central figure in the fresco, entangled with several
others, was recognizably his master, although the Lucius in the
painting was sun-bronzed and wearing considerably fewer garments than
the present incarnation. The flush Nick had felt at first sight of
the fresco buzzed pleasureably in his stomach, then started migrating
southwards to settle in his groin. Suddenly his black woolen trousers
felt somewhat confining. He kept his eyes firmly on the page,
unwilling to admit to his state of arousal to his master.
Lacroix smiled in reminiscence, a far-off look on his face. "I owned
an Egyptian slave who was an excellent barber---only one of his many
talents. In fact," he mused, "I believe one of the plaster casts of
unfortunates the excavation team made *was* Paneb; I recognized the
curve of his delightfully firm rump." He was silent a moment,
perhaps thinking about the sad waste of such a tonsorial talent.
"He must have waited for me to return from Seline's soiree---loyal to
the end. I was, however, otherwise engaged."
Lacroix's finger absently traced a small circle on his thigh. "Is
that all you have to say, Nicholas? I thought you might have some
thoughts on the subject of the frescos---as a student of art and
archaeology, of course. I would be interested in your evaluation."
Nick cleared his throat---for some reason, his voice had gone hoarse.
Striving for composure, he said, "Ah, yes...well, it certainly isn't
the *usual* sort of painting found in Pompeii." He regarded the
photograph again, now with a critical eye. He had to admit to himself
that the painting was quite---stimulating---notwithstanding its moral
faults. He turned the magazine sideways to get a different
perspective on the scene, and frowned. How did they do that? His
traitorous imagination put himself in place of the figure most
involved with Lacroix. It had been so long since he had let his
sensuous side loose... He pushed the thought firmly away. Aloud, he
continued, "The composition is excellent...a marvelous use of
color...the astonishing realism shows the hand of a master."
Lacroix was watching Nick intently, seeming to hang on his every
word. "Indeed, I hired the best painter in Rome to create it."
Nick shifted uncomfortably in his seat under Lacroix's penetrating
scrutiny. He turned his attention back to the figures in the fresco.
That had to hurt *something*. He continued, "As for the subjects,
they all seem---you seem---remarkably, uh, limber to achieve such a,
uh, configuration..." He fidgeted some more. "The author mentions the
subject is, uh, some kind of priapic rite...?"
"Archaeologists!" Lacroix said scornfully. He stood up and strode to
the windows. "Always finding religious significance where there is
none. Show them a kitchen pot and it becomes a ceremonial vessel.
They wouldn't recognize a simple decoration if it fell on them." He
made a disgusted noise.
Nick gestured to the unsettling photograph. "So this bit of Imperial
Roman pornography is just---decoration?"
Lacroix let a moment pass, his chill blue gaze on his overly-buttoned
up creation. Finally, he shook his head sorrowfully. "I'm
disappointed in you, Nicholas." He walked over to stand directly
behind him, looking over his shoulder at the photo. "This 'bit of
Imperial Roman pornography,' as you style it, merely served to set
the mood, as it were, at certain festivities held at my home. After
all, when a warrior returns triumphant from the wars, celebrations
are in order." His hand dropped to rest lightly on Nick's shoulder.
"It was...inspirational."
Nick thought back to several post-battle celebrations he had
participated in, and despite his misgivings had to agree (not out
loud, of course), although none of *his* celebrations had included
inspirational wall murals. He and his companions had had to use
their imaginations.
Righting the magazine, Nick returned his gaze again to the
photograph, then frowned.
"Yes, Nicholas? Does something trouble you?" Lacroix asked, his voice
silkily solicitous. The hand on Nick's shoulder tightened slightly,
making Nick uncomfortably aware of its presence.
"As a matter of fact, yes." Nick looked from the painting to Lacroix,
then back again. "The painter seems to have exaggerated some things."
"Such as?"
Nick pointed mutely to the photograph. "I don't remember this as
being quite so, um, impressive. Of course, it has been quite a while,
but...it looks like the artist was flattering his patron." He smiled
and shrugged. "It happens."
Lacroix looked at the open page on Nick's lap. The magazine didn't
seem to be lying flat anymore. "Nonsense. I see nothing out of
order."
Nick continued, "And these poses. I can scarcely believe a mortal
could achieve these positions! Surely not without dislocating
something."
Lacroix's hand slid down Nick's arm. "I assure you, although the
participants were prime specimens, no unusual physical prowess was
required." He raised his eyebrows slightly, and pursed his lips
thoughtfully. "Would you care for a demonstration? Purely as an
academic exercise, of course." The hand rubbed up and down Nick's arm
in a mute invitation.
Nick tentatively covered Lacroix's hand with his own. Do I want
this? His thoughts careened wildly between refusing the supprising
invitation and accepting it. It was obvious Lacroix had come over
with this exact thing in mind. And he was asking, not demanding, a
unique event in itself.
But then he thought, What the hell---it's not like I've been getting
any anywhere else. Sometimes you just have to go with your feelings.
And his feelings at that particular moment were decidedly erotic.
Nick said, "It might be interesting. In an academic way." He squeezed
slightly, his breath quickening involuntarily. "We don't have the
appropriate costuming, though. I haven't worn a tunic in years."
Lacroix smiled serenely. "Neither have I. We'll simply have to
improvise."
The next several moments were a flurry of movements and whispered
words. Clothing drifted to the floor, mounds of black silk, cotton,
and leather.
Time passed as choreography was explained and demonstrated, the
master instructing the willing but skeptical pupil. The fresco
photograph was referred to several times then finally discarded.
Moans and grunts of effort sounded through the quiet loft. "Put this
leg here, Nicholas...no, like that...yesssss, just so..."
"Ow! That hurts, I don't bend that way...oh!" A gasp of pleasure. "A
bit to the left, no, more..." A sigh. "You were right, the artist
didn't exaggerate at all..."
Things were progressing quite satisfactorily on all fronts; in fact,
they were reaching what would probably be a resounding conclusion.
Lacroix groaned, "Yesssss, Nicholas, yessssss," as their efforts
redoubled in the heat and frenzy of passion. The coffee table had
long ago been upended, and the sofa was several feet from its normal
position.
An electronic shriek rent the air.
Two heaving bodies froze into an uncomfortable tableau.
"What was that?!?" hissed Lacroix, his muscles straining to maintain
his precarious position.
"I don't know," Nick panted from his.
"...welcome to St. Odelia's Polka Jamboree! Get ready for nonstop
polka fun, starting NOW!!!" The amplified voice coming from somewhere
outside reverberated off the loft's stark walls. Both men
involuntarily turned their faces towards the lowered steel shutters,
which were amply demonstrating the fact that steel by itself provides
completely ineffective sound insulation.
There was a mighty chord from an accordion; a voice intoned, "And
a-one, and a-two, and a-" and the entire band thundered into a
rousing rendition of the Too Fat Polka. Cheers from at least five
hundred throats split the air.
Inside the loft, the mood was irrevocably shattered. The tableau
collapsed.
"Nicholas, what is going on?!?" growled Lacroix from his position on
the floor underneath Nick.
Nick's brain collated sights and sounds he had heard but not paid any
attention to over the past two days---a stage being assembled;
concession stands being set up; a dozen Porta-Potties standing in a
maloderous green row; the banner stretched across the far end of the
parking lot across the street announcing an eighteen-hour polka
fundraiser to benefit the local Catholic parish.
He said weakly, "It's a polka party."
Lacroix pushed Nick aside and climbed to his feet in disgust. "So I
surmised from the caterwauling." He shot a poisonous look at the
shutters. "And I am trapped here for the duration, forced to listen
to this amateur Lawrence Welk and his band of tone-deaf peasants." He
stalked off across the loft, his nude (save for the black silk
gartered socks, which had somehow not joined the cloths on the floor)
white body quivering with anger.
Nick got to his feet. "Sorry." He went over to his master and said,
"You know, this doesn't have to be that bad."
Lacroix swung around to face him. "Oh? Do tell how you plan to
survive this noise. Cotton in your ears?"
"No." Nick held out his arms in invitation and quoted a more famous,
and almost as athletic, pair. "'Let's face the music, and dance.'" He
grinned boyishly.
"You can lead."
Fin.
~~~~~
Thanks go to certain parties who probably wish to remain nameless,
but heck...all right, it was Kathy Whelton who suggested the sock
garters. And the person to blame for this is Erika Wilson, who,
after my last story ("Good Help is Hard to Find"), asked me what new
torture I was planning on devising for Nick, and suggested as a
possibility, among others, a three-day polka festival in his parking
lot.
Don't blame Erika, though. She was kidding, but I actually wrote the
darned thing.
*** Nancy Kaminski--UF, NNPack, Harbourlight, BH List Lobster Keeper
*** nancykam@pioneerplanet.infi.net
*** Home Page/Fiction: http://pioneerplanet.infi.net/~nancykam
*** Proud owner of Favory Cremona, Lipizzan Stallion--"Go For
Baroque!"
it's time for another goofy story!
We know Nick and Lacroix belong to TPTB. And although I've put them
in embarrassing positions, they get returned with nary a scratch on
them.
A few disclaimers: No disparagements are meant to the excellent
magazine, "Archaeology," to which I subscribe. I only borrowed the
concept. And you know, I think they'd publish the article discussed
below.
No accordions were hurt in the writing of this story, not even my
pearlized red and gold one. I did take out my old sheet music and
play a nostalgic rendition of "Lady of Spain," but I burned it
afterwards so I'd never be tempted to do it again. There are some
things the world just doesn't need---and "Lady of Spain" is one of
them. g
Warning: Euphemized inexplicit M/M sex ahead. NNPAckers might want to
hit the Delete button right now.
And now, on with the story.
~~~~~
Music Hath Charms...
by Nancy Kaminski
(c) April 1998
~~~~~
"Good evening, Nicholas," said Lacroix austerely. "I have
something---interesting---for you to look at. If you are so inclined,
of course."
Nick reluctantly moved away from the elevator door, allowing the
tall, black-clad figure to enter. "What is it?" he asked, half
annoyed, half intrigued by his master's appearance on his doorstep so
close to dawn. If he wasn't careful, Lacroix would have to spend the
whole day at the loft. Nick had just gotten home himself, and had
planned to read his mail, pay a few bills, and then settle down with
a good book. Trading barbs with Lacroix hadn't been part of the day's
agenda at all.
Moving towards the black leather sofa in the living room, Lacroix
indicated the stack of mail in Nick's hand. "I see you have just
received your copy of 'Archaeological Review,' as have I." He held up
a copy of the magazine. It was a glossy publication that featured
articles written with just enough scholarly detail to satisfy the
serious archaeology devotee, while remaining accessible to the casual
reader interested in mummies, ancient fertility rituals, and other
topics dear to the hearts of cable television documentary producers.
"There is an article in it you might find amusing." He sat down and
made himself comfortable, clearly planning to stay for a while.
"I didn't think you were interested in archaeology, Lacroix," Nick
said, sitting down in the chair opposite the sofa.
"True---normally I have no interest in reliving my past, or seeing it
badly interpreted by ignoramuses, but this particular issue caught my
eye at the newsstand."
Nick thought he detected a gleam of some sort---amusement?---in
Lacroix's eyes, increasing his curiosity. He picked up his copy,
examined the cover for a clue to the source of the gleam. It featured
a spectacularly ugly but rare piece of Toltec pottery. That wouldn't
be it... He scanned the list of articles. Hmmmm. 'The Nineveh
Marbles?' No. 'Cloud People of the Himalayas?' Unlikely. 'Pompeii's
Villa of the Frescos?' Aha.
"This article about the old home town?" Nick inquired, turning to the
indicated page.
"Home town, yes---and home." Lacroix sat back and watched Nick's
face. "It seems the grave robbers---excuse me, the archaeologists---
have finally gotten around to my old neighborhood."
Nick raised his eyebrows. "The Villa of the Frescos was yours?"
Lacroix nodded. "One of several domiciles, actually. It was smaller
than the country estate, and less grand than the one in Rome, but it
was my favorite."
Seeing the mortal Lacroix's house would be an insight into his master
Nick couldn't pass up. He found the page and started reading with
interest.
The article was somewhat short on text, but lavishly illustrated with
color photographs of the recently-excavated villa. Although the roof
had caved in from the weight of the hot ash that had fallen on it, it
was otherwise almost entirely intact. The first photograph Nick
examined showed a large, elegant atrium, the impluvium beautifully
tiled with a mosaic of ocean creatures and fanciful plants. A bronze
statue of a nymph graced the now-dry pool.
Another photograph, this one of one of the living areas, showed
household goods scattered about the floor where they had fallen those
two thousand years ago. "Messy housekeeping," Nick commented with a
sideways glance, unable to resist offering a jibe.
Lacroix refused to be baited. "Understandably, the staff left in a
hurry. Keep reading," he commanded, unperturbed.
Nick continued reading the article. The author, the Italian scientist
who had led the excavation, enthused---in a suitably restrained
scientific way, of course---about the quality of the workmanship, the
beauty of the architecture, and the remarkable frescos that graced
the inner rooms. (Enthusiasm *for* science was admirable. Enthusiasm
*in* science, however, even in a quasi-popular journal, was something
to be avoided at all costs.)
She barely held onto her professional reserve, however, when it came
to describing "...the unusual and highly realistic frescos found in
two of the largest rooms off the peristyle. They appear to depict
some sort of priapic rite, the religious significance of which is
currently unknown."
Nick's eyebrows raised slightly at the passage. 'Priapic rites?' He
turned the page to find a foldout color photograph of the main
fresco. His eyebrows threatened to creep into his hairline, while a
faint flush coursed through his body.
The jumble of human figures---both male and female, limbs entwined,
garments flying artistically here and there, amid a bucolic setting
of flora and fauna (the fauna thankfully simply watching and not
participating)---was, to Nick's somewhat straightlaced eyes, frankly
pornographic.
"Interesting," he finally murmured as he examined the exquisite
detail of the fresco in question. He thought of and discarded several
comments and decided to play it safe. "I'm amazed," he ventured, "at
the constancy of your hair style, Lacroix...I didn't know it was
possible to achieve a buzz cut in those days."
Indeed, the central figure in the fresco, entangled with several
others, was recognizably his master, although the Lucius in the
painting was sun-bronzed and wearing considerably fewer garments than
the present incarnation. The flush Nick had felt at first sight of
the fresco buzzed pleasureably in his stomach, then started migrating
southwards to settle in his groin. Suddenly his black woolen trousers
felt somewhat confining. He kept his eyes firmly on the page,
unwilling to admit to his state of arousal to his master.
Lacroix smiled in reminiscence, a far-off look on his face. "I owned
an Egyptian slave who was an excellent barber---only one of his many
talents. In fact," he mused, "I believe one of the plaster casts of
unfortunates the excavation team made *was* Paneb; I recognized the
curve of his delightfully firm rump." He was silent a moment,
perhaps thinking about the sad waste of such a tonsorial talent.
"He must have waited for me to return from Seline's soiree---loyal to
the end. I was, however, otherwise engaged."
Lacroix's finger absently traced a small circle on his thigh. "Is
that all you have to say, Nicholas? I thought you might have some
thoughts on the subject of the frescos---as a student of art and
archaeology, of course. I would be interested in your evaluation."
Nick cleared his throat---for some reason, his voice had gone hoarse.
Striving for composure, he said, "Ah, yes...well, it certainly isn't
the *usual* sort of painting found in Pompeii." He regarded the
photograph again, now with a critical eye. He had to admit to himself
that the painting was quite---stimulating---notwithstanding its moral
faults. He turned the magazine sideways to get a different
perspective on the scene, and frowned. How did they do that? His
traitorous imagination put himself in place of the figure most
involved with Lacroix. It had been so long since he had let his
sensuous side loose... He pushed the thought firmly away. Aloud, he
continued, "The composition is excellent...a marvelous use of
color...the astonishing realism shows the hand of a master."
Lacroix was watching Nick intently, seeming to hang on his every
word. "Indeed, I hired the best painter in Rome to create it."
Nick shifted uncomfortably in his seat under Lacroix's penetrating
scrutiny. He turned his attention back to the figures in the fresco.
That had to hurt *something*. He continued, "As for the subjects,
they all seem---you seem---remarkably, uh, limber to achieve such a,
uh, configuration..." He fidgeted some more. "The author mentions the
subject is, uh, some kind of priapic rite...?"
"Archaeologists!" Lacroix said scornfully. He stood up and strode to
the windows. "Always finding religious significance where there is
none. Show them a kitchen pot and it becomes a ceremonial vessel.
They wouldn't recognize a simple decoration if it fell on them." He
made a disgusted noise.
Nick gestured to the unsettling photograph. "So this bit of Imperial
Roman pornography is just---decoration?"
Lacroix let a moment pass, his chill blue gaze on his overly-buttoned
up creation. Finally, he shook his head sorrowfully. "I'm
disappointed in you, Nicholas." He walked over to stand directly
behind him, looking over his shoulder at the photo. "This 'bit of
Imperial Roman pornography,' as you style it, merely served to set
the mood, as it were, at certain festivities held at my home. After
all, when a warrior returns triumphant from the wars, celebrations
are in order." His hand dropped to rest lightly on Nick's shoulder.
"It was...inspirational."
Nick thought back to several post-battle celebrations he had
participated in, and despite his misgivings had to agree (not out
loud, of course), although none of *his* celebrations had included
inspirational wall murals. He and his companions had had to use
their imaginations.
Righting the magazine, Nick returned his gaze again to the
photograph, then frowned.
"Yes, Nicholas? Does something trouble you?" Lacroix asked, his voice
silkily solicitous. The hand on Nick's shoulder tightened slightly,
making Nick uncomfortably aware of its presence.
"As a matter of fact, yes." Nick looked from the painting to Lacroix,
then back again. "The painter seems to have exaggerated some things."
"Such as?"
Nick pointed mutely to the photograph. "I don't remember this as
being quite so, um, impressive. Of course, it has been quite a while,
but...it looks like the artist was flattering his patron." He smiled
and shrugged. "It happens."
Lacroix looked at the open page on Nick's lap. The magazine didn't
seem to be lying flat anymore. "Nonsense. I see nothing out of
order."
Nick continued, "And these poses. I can scarcely believe a mortal
could achieve these positions! Surely not without dislocating
something."
Lacroix's hand slid down Nick's arm. "I assure you, although the
participants were prime specimens, no unusual physical prowess was
required." He raised his eyebrows slightly, and pursed his lips
thoughtfully. "Would you care for a demonstration? Purely as an
academic exercise, of course." The hand rubbed up and down Nick's arm
in a mute invitation.
Nick tentatively covered Lacroix's hand with his own. Do I want
this? His thoughts careened wildly between refusing the supprising
invitation and accepting it. It was obvious Lacroix had come over
with this exact thing in mind. And he was asking, not demanding, a
unique event in itself.
But then he thought, What the hell---it's not like I've been getting
any anywhere else. Sometimes you just have to go with your feelings.
And his feelings at that particular moment were decidedly erotic.
Nick said, "It might be interesting. In an academic way." He squeezed
slightly, his breath quickening involuntarily. "We don't have the
appropriate costuming, though. I haven't worn a tunic in years."
Lacroix smiled serenely. "Neither have I. We'll simply have to
improvise."
The next several moments were a flurry of movements and whispered
words. Clothing drifted to the floor, mounds of black silk, cotton,
and leather.
Time passed as choreography was explained and demonstrated, the
master instructing the willing but skeptical pupil. The fresco
photograph was referred to several times then finally discarded.
Moans and grunts of effort sounded through the quiet loft. "Put this
leg here, Nicholas...no, like that...yesssss, just so..."
"Ow! That hurts, I don't bend that way...oh!" A gasp of pleasure. "A
bit to the left, no, more..." A sigh. "You were right, the artist
didn't exaggerate at all..."
Things were progressing quite satisfactorily on all fronts; in fact,
they were reaching what would probably be a resounding conclusion.
Lacroix groaned, "Yesssss, Nicholas, yessssss," as their efforts
redoubled in the heat and frenzy of passion. The coffee table had
long ago been upended, and the sofa was several feet from its normal
position.
An electronic shriek rent the air.
Two heaving bodies froze into an uncomfortable tableau.
"What was that?!?" hissed Lacroix, his muscles straining to maintain
his precarious position.
"I don't know," Nick panted from his.
"...welcome to St. Odelia's Polka Jamboree! Get ready for nonstop
polka fun, starting NOW!!!" The amplified voice coming from somewhere
outside reverberated off the loft's stark walls. Both men
involuntarily turned their faces towards the lowered steel shutters,
which were amply demonstrating the fact that steel by itself provides
completely ineffective sound insulation.
There was a mighty chord from an accordion; a voice intoned, "And
a-one, and a-two, and a-" and the entire band thundered into a
rousing rendition of the Too Fat Polka. Cheers from at least five
hundred throats split the air.
Inside the loft, the mood was irrevocably shattered. The tableau
collapsed.
"Nicholas, what is going on?!?" growled Lacroix from his position on
the floor underneath Nick.
Nick's brain collated sights and sounds he had heard but not paid any
attention to over the past two days---a stage being assembled;
concession stands being set up; a dozen Porta-Potties standing in a
maloderous green row; the banner stretched across the far end of the
parking lot across the street announcing an eighteen-hour polka
fundraiser to benefit the local Catholic parish.
He said weakly, "It's a polka party."
Lacroix pushed Nick aside and climbed to his feet in disgust. "So I
surmised from the caterwauling." He shot a poisonous look at the
shutters. "And I am trapped here for the duration, forced to listen
to this amateur Lawrence Welk and his band of tone-deaf peasants." He
stalked off across the loft, his nude (save for the black silk
gartered socks, which had somehow not joined the cloths on the floor)
white body quivering with anger.
Nick got to his feet. "Sorry." He went over to his master and said,
"You know, this doesn't have to be that bad."
Lacroix swung around to face him. "Oh? Do tell how you plan to
survive this noise. Cotton in your ears?"
"No." Nick held out his arms in invitation and quoted a more famous,
and almost as athletic, pair. "'Let's face the music, and dance.'" He
grinned boyishly.
"You can lead."
Fin.
~~~~~
Thanks go to certain parties who probably wish to remain nameless,
but heck...all right, it was Kathy Whelton who suggested the sock
garters. And the person to blame for this is Erika Wilson, who,
after my last story ("Good Help is Hard to Find"), asked me what new
torture I was planning on devising for Nick, and suggested as a
possibility, among others, a three-day polka festival in his parking
lot.
Don't blame Erika, though. She was kidding, but I actually wrote the
darned thing.
*** Nancy Kaminski--UF, NNPack, Harbourlight, BH List Lobster Keeper
*** nancykam@pioneerplanet.infi.net
*** Home Page/Fiction: http://pioneerplanet.infi.net/~nancykam
*** Proud owner of Favory Cremona, Lipizzan Stallion--"Go For
Baroque!"