HEBETIC GLEANING: THE FECUND YIELD OF ROLAND AND CHRISTINE

By Quillon42

Shuttered from the brilliance of the sun as well as from tenable screenwriting were the denizens of this brutal and brumal new world. Few knew of the shortcomings of human integrity and dreadful cinematic scripts more than she who presently possessed the mantle of Christine Chaney, who in this wayward world as well had constantly to contend with scalawags scampering after her and dialogue deluged with dismal schmaltz.

Upon witnessing the slaughter of her loving husband Oliver, Christine found her face moistened with tears which her eyes' own depressed ducts had disclosed to the airspace before her (and which were completely not set upon her cheeks by any production crew); knowing that she had to honor the memory of he who sacrificed all for her, she absconded quickly.

Yet it had been the dual auras radiated by the portable tracker upon her person's torso, as well as the pantaloons titian upon the pained thighs of the lady which had alerted the man stalking her to her position thence. Were it not for the intervention of a twin identical to Oliver in both tangible appearance and thespian impotence, Christine might have indeed been lost in the shadow of this godless and sunless postapocalyptic epoch.

There in the distance the man had so loomed, though, that individual of infinite physical abilities and patois accents (given that his inflection had changed seemingly one hundred eighty instances in the ninety minute run time of this unforgettable opus); surely it would be Roland Chaney who would deliver the damsel from the crazed killer clutches of that diabolical, lethal rascal dubbed Little Ray.

And delivery therefrom had become the order of the day (or the night, given the cessation of sun from the sky of this ever-atmospheric oeuvre), and now in this intrepid iteration one can explore a slightly more realistic outcome regarding the vaunted tale's climax. In the original cinematic spin of the yarn herein, Roland nonsensically insisted that he and Ray engage in the inane "children's game" they would play as youths, which involved determining who could more quickly load and fire a loaded revolver at the other player.

In the actual filmic presentation of this Harvest so Cold and cogent besides, Christine stood by helplessly if incredulously, watching the two machos match their skills and reflexes; Ray ultimately fired faster but choked in his accuracy, the man so miserable missing his target by a couple feet and giving Roland time to line up his shot and empty the same into the overly cosmeticked forehead of his foe.

Herein, however, within the ever consummately creative confines regarding alternate permutations put forth by this author, there existed a Christine who had tired of all those commandeering men who determined her fate through their own rash actions. Exasperated indeed from being made to feel like the Christine who was shuttled back and forth between Erik and Raoul in Phantom of the Effing Opera, this Chris decided then and there that she would wrest control of the narrative, even if it had to be done on the most drastic of terms.

Just as Roland rolled out his challenge to that runtiest and most rotten of Rays regarding that "children's game," then, the same, former frontiersman of the ailment-obfuscated sky found himself stymied by the wrenching of his sidearm from his own roughened hand. There was no danger meters away on the part of the arch nemesis, as his own revolver and bullets were at Ray's feet.

So simple it was for Christine, then, to reach forward before Roland could so realize her intent

[BAAANNNNNGGGGG]

and drop the douche dead before he gained any chance to seize the moment from the man who was supposed to officially save her. She then dutifully spun the gun around some revolutions and replaced the same back in her badass's holster, as if it were never missed.

Thence the resurrection of that long-missed solar orb in the ensuing minutes following the elapsing of that Littlest of loathsome enemies, as if the extinguishing of the human Ray had occasioned the reemergence of solar ones now.

Scads of scavengers settled around the cardboard city limits, they eagerly ingesting with their optic faculties the full magnificence of that celestial entity which had been absent from their existences for too great an age. Meanwhile, the retinas of the chary Roland Chaney had instinctively shut, as would be the case whenever he found himself kissed.

There it was in fact, Christine labially latching onto the lips of the hero who had helped her avenge Oliver and escape Ray and his Little lackeys. Suddenly the sun's repositioning in the sky held no significance at all to the Western-style wanderer.

Suavely then the leading lady swept her new swain literally off his feet, she acting aggressively for a moment as she did when wielding a pistol during the trajectory of this cinematic tour de force, then with the same taking out two henchmen and making off with a once-captive Roland from the clutches of the enemy in mere seeming seconds.

Now it was back to the dive whereupon Christine had bathed so bodaciously while her hero could do naught by sit by and clutch at his shotgun in utter undiluted and transparently symbolic Toobin-tugging angst. Verily the maiden would make sure that the man would be grasping at more than just stolid steel that evening, given that she figured Roland never wanted the bounty on the bastard who ushered Oliver out of this penumbra-blighted sphere anyway.

Amidst the ever-brightening air molecules establishing the space in the once-seedier lust suite, the urban herdsman's sister-in-law now opened herself up to her martial marital relation more than she ever had in the past hours. Now the vengeful vaquero viewed his sibling's siren with eyes reflecting ravenously his voracious intimate appetite, which could never be satisfactorily quenched with the wenches that so many salacious saloons had provided him in the past.

Never would this most gallant of gauchos be known to flinch in the face of anything intimidating, but even Roland could not help but blench as he beheld the vision of this vixen feet before him with all of her dressing effects underfoot in the present moment, she gazing upon him with expectant eyes and wanting nothing less than the rustling of her solitude-aching acreage by his hardy hands in fact herein.

Then it had been in two shakes of a bovine's posterior appendage that the pair had put themselves each upon the other, there in that plywood-partitioned palace, the assiduous mixed martial arts enforcer blending so many elements of aggressiveness into one focused foray upon his new opponent in passion. Flinging out with perspiring palms now, the man chopped softly and charily at the giant guyots of the breasts of that blonde bastion; he kicked with his parched tongue at each ivory isthmus that was the thigh of this domestic temptress; he nibbled with ornery truculent teeth at the impressive esker of his world's end empress's ass; he buffeted rumblingly with his stubbled cheeks at the hairless machair of his marshmallow-maned mistress's belly; he punched out now with his most personal epee against the lovely lavaka of her most guarded granary.

Thence sometime later, thoroughly exhausted from the showdown of a tryst into which Roland and Christine alike had engaged, the two took it upon themselves to indulge at the vacant watering trough that the abandoned bar had now provided; considering that they had tandemly cleared the place of all untoward inhabitants earlier, they figured that they earned the right to enjoy it in peace now.

"So what happens from here?"

At this query Roland gave one long patented gaze that was ever devoid of anxiety, or really any histrionic-honoring sort of emotion whatsoever.

"I'm usually like to work, and live, on my own.

"But I think that given each of us has lost so much in the way of kin…

"Really it might be right to quit making tombs, and start making homes instead."

He motioned to the camps where all the scavengers rested their straggling bodies, then took up a hammer which he so might have used to cave in a skull in the last several days and months and years. Then he struck out with the implement of a sudden, smashing through some thin slats the same resolute and way that seeming dozens of underlings had done in a mere tens of cinematic minutes.

"Ere long I'm thinkin' all these scamps'll be on board with your idea of rebuildin', Roland."

And with that last Christine grabbed as firmly at the hammer's shaft as the hearty hero did now, as resolutely as each would garner the other's yield of yearning with much grit and gratification. As long as she would so call out the name of the correct twin during future erotic interactions, the maiden mused to herself, there should not be further turmoil.