franksolich goes on a honeymoon (complete)

[franksolich]

note: this is a Christmas offering dedicated to the gay and lesbian community on Skins’s island, with the hopes that during this season of joy and goodwill, they shed their stuffy pouting grievances and get a sense of humor about themselves.

franksolich goes on a honeymoon.  A heavy snow was falling as darkness descended, and the property caretaker pulled up into the front yard, the headlights on his pick-up truck barely visible and the windshield wipers struggling to shove away the ice.

It was only late afternoon, but it might as well have been midnight.

He came up to the front porch, and then into the house, followed by two other snow-covered human forms.  They had to divest themselves of the snow and their outer clothing before I recognized the other two as women.

One of them, of middling height but hefty as if a refrigerator and with some facial hair, had some features not exactly feminine, and short-cropped hair that stood straight up.  Probably about forty, I assumed.

The second of them was shorter, of a slight frame and delicate mannerisms, reasonably pleasant-looking although vacuous in expression, and perhaps in her mid-twenties.  When talking with them, she didn’t impress me as being very bright; the broad butch was obviously the brains of the two.

“Well, is this the best you could do?” the husky one sourly asked the caretaker, looking at me and then at the interior of the house.

- - - - - - - - - -

Neither seemed as if they were impressed by me, and the heavy one sat grimacing in the living room while the empty-headed one stood in front of one of the picture-windows, watching the snow fall, as the caretaker and I went into the kitchen.

“Their car’s in the garage in town,” he told me, “and Dane can’t do anything about it until morning.”  Dane, the local automotive mechanic of Norwegian derivation, is reasonably busy these days.

“Since there’s no motels in town, and [the big city]’s forty-two miles away, it was suggested you could probably put them up for the night.”

I looked at him, darkly.

“Dane suggested it, I didn’t,” he said.

Well, okay, I said, resignedly.

“They’re from Iowa, and they’re headed for the Black Hills.

“They got ‘married’ today, and they’re off on a ‘honeymoon.’”

to be continued

[franksolich]

The caretaker left, after which I went out to talk with the two women.

“Well, ladies--”

The stout one sneered.

“--here we are.  I’m very sorry that you had problems with your car, and that this storm came up, ruining your vacation plans, but one can’t help that.

“At least your car’ll be ready by mid-morning, and as the Department of Roads does a pretty good job of clearing the highways, you’ll be on your way, this only a minor speed-bump.

“And you’re here, where there’s plenty of room, and it’s warm and comfortable.”

The “husband” rolled her eyes.

“But there’s nothing here,” she insisted; “you have no television, no radio, no home entertainment center, no video-cassette player, no stereo system--”

“It used to be worse,” I said, brightly; “there was a time I didn’t bother having a telephone here, too.

“And by the way, about the telephone--if the red light’s on when you want to use it, push it down so it goes off, and the instrument reverts to an ordinary telephone.  If you don’t do that, you’ll get a big hole blasted all the way through your skull.”

The hairy one grimaced when looking at the dining room table, stacked high with wrapped Christmas presents and piles of newly-laundered shirts, pants, underwear, towels, and bed-linen.

“Oh, that,” I said.  “A woman in town does my laundry; I take it to her on Mondays and she drops it off on Thursdays.  I guess I should put it away, but it’s a long walk to the bedroom or the bathroom, and so just easier to leave it here.

“If people want to use the table, it’s an easy matter of just shoving things aside.”

Ms. Hindenburg rolled her eyes.

“It’s a man thing,” I said; “you wouldn’t understand.”

I walked them through the kitchen, showed them the bathroom, and then the bedroom.  “I’ll sleep on the couch in the living room tonight, so you ladies--”

The heiferish one sneered.

“--can use the bedroom.

“It’s got only a single-wide bed, but trust me--don’t bother asking for the specifics, though--there’s been times it’s held as many as four people, all of them moving around on it.”

“There just isn’t hardly anything here,” the alte sau said again.

“Oh, but it’s immaculately clean and warm in here, while the snow piles up outside,” I replied.

“And the refrigerator and cupboards in the kitchen are full, and there’s three old refrigerators in the garage stocked with beer and venison, if you want that.

“It’s not my beer and venison,” I explained; "it all belongs to eight other guys, but given the circumstances, if any of it’s to your taste, they won’t mind.”

- - - - - - - - - -

The two were in the bedroom opening their suitcases when the big one noticed she’d failed to bring along a, uh, personal product.

I have no idea why, but its absence seemed to discombobulate her considerably, and she vented her wrath on her smaller partner, who cowered on the bed, trying to press herself into the wall.

I get greatly uncomfortable when women squabble, and so helpfully intervened.

“Okay, okay,” I said; “there’s none of that in town, but there is in [the big city].  But one of you has to come along; I’m not going to be a guy standing in front of a cash-register with that sort of personal product in my hand.”

“You’ll go to [the big city] in this?” the she-cow asked, incredulous, pointing out the window to the wind shoving the snow against the house.

“I live here,” I reminded her; “I’m used to driving in this sort of weather.  [The big city]’s forty-two miles away, and we can get what you need right at the edge of it. 

“I’m guessing the round trip’ll be four hours, tops.”

“Well, I’m not going out in that,” she said.

“But somebody has to come with me,” I said, looking over at the “wife” of the pair.  "Being a man, I’m not going to dare be seen in public purchasing such an intimate product.”

- - - - - - - - - -

to be continued

[franksolich]

“You know, I’m very brave in coming with you,” she said.

I was driving through the blizzard in my car, a low-sitting sedan, despite that three pick-up trucks and a sports utility vehicle were in the front yard--owned by other people--available for use.

It goes against contemporary wisdom, but it’s always been my experience that a small, light, low-sitting vehicle’s best for getting through snow; a good driver using a vehicle woefully unsuitable for the terrain trumps a lousy driver using the “right” vehicle.

Years past--lo, many years past--there were times I, driving a Chevette or Pinto or Gremlin or, so help me, a Le Car, breezily passed by big tough vehicles shoved off the road, snow halfway up their sides.

The current vehicle’s larger than past cars I’ve owned, but it’s low-sitting.

“It has to do with the wind,” I said; “the snow’s a piece of cake, but the wind’s a bitch.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” she said.

Inwardly, I groaned.  She wasn’t very bright, but she more than made up for it in her chattiness.  Myself being deaf, it’s difficult to drive and chitchat at the same time, but alas myself also being a nice guy, I didn’t want her to think I was being rude by ignoring her.

“You’re a man,” she said, “and I’m a woman alone with you.”

I arched my eyebrows.  “So?  You’re alone with me.  What’s the problem?”

“You’re bigger and stronger than I am,” she said; “even though we know each other’s names, I really don’t know who, and what, you are.

“I wouldn’t be able to fight you off if you wanted to have your way with me.”

I rolled my eyes.  The Four Horsewomen of the Femapocalypse’s stale old lie, all men are potential rapists.

I skirted a waist-high snowdrift in the middle of the highway.  Because of the high wind constantly blowing the snow away, the road was essentially clear--if one could see it--but it was dark, and there were spots…..

“Look,” I said patiently, “it’s true, very true, that we men want most of all to poke women; it’s perhaps the most powerful instinct we have.  It’s the way we’re geneticized, the way we’re wired, the way we’re built.

“And despite all the attempts of women’s-libbers, we’re never going to change.  One can’t remodel genetics.

“However, while one has no control over his feelings, he has control over his conduct.  One can’t control one’s feelings, but he can control how he behaves.

“A man with good impulse control, self-discipline, and moral restraint is no threat to women.

“He may want to, but he’s not going to.

“I’m a good Catholic boy, ever mindful of both the vulnerability and virtue of women.  I’m no threat to you, madam, and I resent the insinuation that simply because I’m a man, I am.”

I said all that through dry and cracked lips, the only way I ever learned to express exasperation towards people who just “don’t get it.”

- - - - - - - - - -

After an hour and a half we got to the outskirts of [the big city].  It was a good thing I’d taken the car instead of any of the other, wider, vehicles, none of which could’ve possibly squeezed their way through the narrowly-ploughed “lanes” with neck-high snow on both sides.

I found a drug store that was still open, and we went in to get the goods.

While she was paying for the personal product, I chitchatted with a city cop also standing in line.

“Oh, no,” he said; “you’re not going to get back.

“The state patrol right now’s closing the highway.

“You’re going to have to stay the night in a motel, or something.”

- - - - - - - - - -

to be continued

[Chris_]

Oh no, Big Bertha's gonna be mad!

[franksolich]

While I was dealing with the reception desk at the motel, she stood a distance away, trying to do something with her cellular telephone.

“Oh, don’t even bother trying,” the guy at the desk said to her; “the cellular telephone tower’s been blown down.

“You’ll have to use a land-line, and of course our rooms are fully equipped with land-lines.”

She’d been trying to call the vache-woman back at my place, to let her know where we were, and that we were stranded.

“The honeymoon suite’s already taken,” he told me, even though I hadn’t inquired about it.

“That’s okay,” I said; “we need a room reserved for cigarette smokers anyway.”

“I got one left,” he said, “but it’s in the back of the building.

“And it’s got only one bed, a standard double,” he said.

I looked at my traveling companion, whose body language expressed…..nothing.

“That’s fine,” I said; “it’s not as if we’re LynneSin and the Las Vegas Leviathan.  One could probably fit four of us on that size bed, with room left over.”

- - - - - - - - - -

When we reached the room, she sat down on the wing-backed chair and dialed my number on the telephone placed on the table next to her.

When apparently the telephone was answered at the other end, she started.

She listened for a few seconds, and then suddenly hung up.

“Something happened, something’s wrong,” she said to me, alarmed.

“When I heard the telephone being picked up at her end, and said ‘hello’ to her, there was a really loud scream, and it sounded as if she dropped the receiver.

“I’ve never heard her scream that loud.  She was really loud.

“Maybe a strange man suddenly came in, and means to have his way with her--”

No, that’s not it, I interrupted.

“She must not’ve paid attention when I told her about red light she was supposed to press down,” I said, “and so apparently she got blasted.”

“Are you exaggerating, or does it really hurt?” she asked.

“If one’s a hearing person,” I explained, “it hurts like Hell.

“But fortunately, the pain dies down after about six hours and one’s eyes uncross, and about twelve hours after that, the incessant ringing in the ears stops.

“It takes about a week, but one finally gets one’s hearing back; so yeah, it hurts, but no permanent harm done.”

- - - - - - - - - - -

to be continued

[franksolich]

“She’ll live,” I said as the two of us dined on a late supper courtesy room service.

“As a deaf person, I find it hard to take it seriously.  It’s not the end of the world; she’ll get over it.”

Much of the help at the motel hadn’t been able to get to work because of the blizzard, but the guy at the front desk had prevailed upon a maid to go into the kitchen and make us something to eat.

I ordered my usual, a hamburger well done, pressed down hard on the grill so as to squeeze out every drop of grease, french fries done on the grill, not in the fryer, and a side dish of sour cream.

She’d ordered minestra di pasta con pesce, but didn’t like it.

“That’s the advantage of simple dishes,” I reminded her; “even a motel maid knows how to make what I like, and to make it well.

“I don’t think many motel maids know much about fixing Italianate delicacies.”

- - - - - - - - - -

I came out of the bathroom, where I’d showered, rubbing my hair with a towel.

She stared.

As I filled the coffee-maker and timed it to brew in the morning, she asked, “Aren’t you going to get dressed?”

“We didn’t come with any luggage,” I pointed out, “just the clothes we had on, plus a package of disposable razors and the cigarettes I picked up while you were getting that, uh, personal product.”

“You don’t wear underwear?” she asked, incredulous.

“I wear underwear all the time, when I have to,” I said.

“Because of the snow, I’d been home all day, nobody else around.  After waking up, there wasn’t any point in putting on anything other than a pair of pants, although as all of you unexpectedly showed up, I managed to quickly throw on my shirt, so as to be decent.”

“You know, we didn’t expect to be stranded anywhere, and so we were badly, if at all, prepared.”

“Well, you could at least put the shirt back on.  Where are your manners?”

“My manners are good, madam, or so I’m told.

“And besides, you like women, not men, so it should be of no interest to you how I am.

“I’m getting ready to hit the sack, and I sleep this way.”

“Well, I do too, but not with a stranger; especially not a man.” 

“Don’t feel threatened by it,” I continued; “trust me, madam, I have no carnal intentions towards you, as you can see how loose I am.”

To stress my point, I subtly made it sway like a pendulum as I walked to the bed.

“But we might accidentally touch each other while we’re sleeping, and I don’t like being touched by men.”

“Not to worry,” I replied; “we’ll just sleep on opposite sides of the bed, which’ll leave acres of space between us.

“This isn’t the first time I’ve been in a strange bedroom with a woman a stranger to me, and no underwear.”

- - - - - - - - - -

She went in to take a bath, and came out half an hour later, rubbing her hair with a towel.

She had put back on all of her clothes.

Whatever, I thought, as I turned to lay on my side, my back to her.

“Aren’t you going to get under the covers?” she asked.

No, I said; “if a room’s warm enough, I don’t bother with blankets.

“It allows the skin to breathe, which presumably is one of the benefits of sleeping in the buff.”

I’d shut out the lamp on my side of the bed, but she kept hers lit, as she read Send My Roots Rain, by the feminist revolutionary Ibis Gómez-Vega, which I thought was pretty boring when I’d read it, but to each his own.

- - - - - - - - - -

to be continued

[obumazombie]

franksolich married Bainsbane ?

[franksolich]

She’d finally shut out the light and gone to sleep for about, oh, maybe an hour, when in the darkness I felt a tentative tap on my elbow.

I switched on the lamp on my side of the bed, and turned over, facing her, propping up my head with a bent arm.

“Sorry, madam, but I’m deaf; I have to see people, to understand them.”

I have to constantly remind people that, because they forget.

“You were saying?”

She looked at me, tentatively.  “I just wanted to say it’s okay that you sleep in the nude.

“It not only allows the skin to breathe, keeping it soft and supple, but one sleeps better and has better dreams, and for women, it ventilates out bacteria that forms down there; but the bad thing for men is that it increases their fertility, making them more dangerous for women.”

Oh, I said; “I do it because it saves wear-and-tear on the underwear.

“I’m rough with clothes, and a restless sleeper--and so tight I make Ebenezer Scrooge look a philanthropist; I really dislike having to buy stuff nobody but me knows I‘m wearing.”

“It’s so practical,” she said, “but according to Helen Gurley Brown, only about a third of all men, and an eighth of all women, do it.”

That sounds a little low, I said.  “At least for around here, where people are looser, more casual, but the ‘average‘ is probably dragged down by the sour prigs and prudes in blue states and blue cities.”

“What did you do in case somebody showed up, that you weren’t expecting, or some sort of emergency?” she asked.

“I’m a man,” I reminded her; “I don’t have to worry about it. 

“But you as a woman should probably always keep a bathrobe within reach.”

“It’s nice that you’re concerned about women‘s safety,” she said; “most guys don’t care at all.

“But anyway, I’ve decided I’m going to sleep in the nude tonight, like I usually do, even though you’re a stranger to me, and a man.

“But I don’t want you looking at me, so turn around and turn off the light, please, and go to sleep.”

“It sounds like a plan to me,” I said; “I’m really tired,” after which I did as instructed.

- - - - - - - - - -

to be continued

[franksolich]

I’d dozed off for some minutes when she tapped me again, on the side of the hip.

I switched on the lamp on my side of the bed, and turned over, facing her, propping up my head with a bent arm.

“You were saying?”

She had the covers up to her chin, but it was obvious she’d disrobed because her clothes had been flung to the feet of the bed, the panties on top.

“I was wondering,” she said, “and please don’t be offended, but what makes you the way you are?

“When you walked to the bed, swinging it like a tether ball, you probably think that while I saw it, I didn’t notice you were doing it on purpose.

“It sounds like a bad pun, but if I had to describe you in one word, it would be ‘cocksure.’  You’re so confident, so fearless, in a situation that most would feel embarrassed or vulnerable or defenseless, being naked and all that.”

“It’s not true,” I said; “it’s just an act, nothing more.

“You saw how it is, when you and that--well, your ’husband’--first showed up at my place.  We all talked and listened a lot, but I’ll bet it was a good half hour before you sensed something was ‘wrong,’ and then another half an hour after that, when I told you and her that I’m deaf, and hadn’t heard a word of our chitchattery--guessing instead all that was being said--you were incredulous; you couldn’t believe it.

“I’d fooled you; I’ve had to fool people about that, just about every day of my life, a deaf person masquerading as a hearing person.  And if the encounter’s a short one, a few minutes to an hour, I usually pull it off.

“And that too was an act; I strutted out of the bathroom the way I did, to ‘message’ you that you didn’t intimidate me with all your anti-men rhetoric, even though, really, I was as nervous as Hell.

“It’s useful to radiate nonchalant insolence when one’s not sure about something, like when a malicious intruder’s inside the house in the middle of the night.  I can’t hear; I have no idea somebody’s coming my way, or who the person is.”

“People walk in on you in the middle of the night?” she asked.

Yeah, I said, “but fortunately never ancient people, respectable women, or children, who’re all in bed at that time.

“Drunks, usually, who’re lost.

“I learned a long time ago, in a different time and place, the worst thing a man can do in situations such as that, is waste time finding something to put on, or try to cover his male portion with crossed hands.

“No, don‘t draw attention to it, and instead use riveting eye-contact to divert interest away from one’s state of dress or undress.

“People have seen me naked without realizing it.  They’re looking at my eyes, not down there.”

“Okay,” she said.  “You can go back to sleep now.”

- - - - - - - - - - -

I’d been sleeping for maybe an hour, forty-five minutes, when she shook my shoulder, wakening me.

I switched on the lamp on my side of the bed, and turned over, facing her, propping up my head with a bent arm.

I noticed she’d moved the covers a few inches down, to her shoulders.

“Yes, madam?”

“Do you ever do anything kinky?” she asked.

Uh, no way, I replied; “I practice only ordinary run-of-the-mill sex; it’s safer, cleaner, and easier.”

“Oh,” my bed-mate said.  “You can go back to sleep now.”

- - - - - - - - - -

to be continued

[franksolich]

I’d gotten in a full hour of sleep when she rubbed my neck, to awaken me.

I switched on the lamp on my side of the bed, and turned over, facing her, propping up my head with a bent arm.

My eyes almost popped out of my face.  This time, she’d pulled the covers still further down, exposing two succulent jugs, each about the size of half a large cantaloupe.

If I’d been covered, I wouldn’t have just pitched a tent; I would’ve pitched a whole circus big top.  “Sorry,“ I said, embarrassed,  “It’s an automatic neuro-muscular reflex,” I explained; “I have no conscious control over it.”

“Do you think my breasts are too small?” she asked; “men have this weird fixation about big boobs.”

Uh…..no…..I breathed out.

“Those are just…..wow…..fantastic jugs.

“Those are great jugs, excellent jugs, wonderful jugs, a pair of the most appropriately-proportioned jugs I’ve ever seen in my life,” I told her.

“Well, I do know you’re telling the truth, because while the mouth may lie, something else never lies.  You startled me, the way it suddenly telescoped out like that.”

I wanted to touch.

“No, I don’t want you to touch; I just want you to look.

“And that’s all; you can go back to sleep now.”

- - - - - - - - - -

I’d been asleep for about half an hour when I was awakened again, by her gently patting my derriere.

I switched on the lamp on my side of the bed, and turned over, facing her, propping up my head with a bent arm.

“Here, and paying attention, madam.”

I was hoping that having exposed her jugs, this time she was baring the most important part of her, but alas she’d only moved the cover down to her navel.

“I have a question,” she said.

Another question.  “Go ahead,” I said.

“Does it bother you that I don’t want you to touch me?”

No, I said, with unmistakable sincerity.  “If someone doesn’t want me to touch them, it’s okay; I don’t touch.

“What’s the point of trying to touch someone who’s going to be all upset and bent out of shape about it?”

“Do you want to touch me?” she asked.

“Not if you don’t want me to,” I said.

“No, really, do you want to touch me?” she asked.

“I want to touch you,” she continued, “but I’m afraid.

“Do you want me to touch you?”

“I don’t care if you touch me or not,” I replied.

“I mean, I care about you, I’m not indifferent, but I don’t want you doing something you don’t have to do if you don’t want to.

“And so here we are, madam; at an impasse, and so nothing’s going to happen.”

I turned over and went back to sleep.

- - - - - - - - - -

to be continued

[franksolich]

I’d been sleeping for maybe only twenty minutes before her pinching me on the derierre woke me up.

I switched on the lamp on my side of the bed, and turned over, facing her, propping up my head with a bent arm.

“Yo,” I said.  “Here.”

“I wanted to know if I could take one of your cigarettes,” she said; “I ran out of mine.”

Yeah, sure, I said.  “And the ashtray’s on the table over by the door leading out to the balcony.”

I got up and walked over to the wing-backed chair.

She hadn’t pulled down the covers any further, but as she’d have to get out of bed to smoke, I assumed it’d be a chance to gaze upon that which is the ultimate object of all men.

I wasn’t going to be able to touch, much less poke, but at least I could enjoy the sight.

However, while I stood there by the sliding door, she didn’t get up, instead pulling open the drawer of the bedside table next to her, and taking out an ashtray.

“It’s not safe to smoke in bed,” I pointed out.  “Perhaps you should take off the covers and get up.”

“It’s not safe if one’s likely to drowse off to sleep,” she said; “I’m wide awake.

“You have a nice tight ass,” she commented.  “I didn’t think anybody a fully-grown adult could sustain an ass like that, it looks so young and taunt.”

“Thank you,” I said, noncommittally.  I’ve heard this before, even from, embarrassingly, fellow members of the male race.

“It’s only because most of the time--at work or play--I’m on my feet rather than on my ass.

“It‘s an unintended consequence of leading the strenuous life.”

“Well, that’s a really nice ass,” she repeated, blowing smoke up towards the ceiling.

- - - - - - - - - - -

to be continued

[franksolich]

As the morning light slowly began slipping into the room from the balcony door and windows, I woke up, feeling somewhat confused.

She was sleeping on her side, at my side, her bare jugs pressed against my back, her arms wrapped around my waist, and one of her legs hooked into my two legs.

Whoa, payday, I thought.

But when reaching behind me so as to rub and caress her derierre, my fingers bumped into the elastic of her panties.

Damn, I thought to myself; she probably put them back on while I was sleeping.

As if reading my mind, she woke up, saying, “I put them back on while you were sleeping.”

I got up and sat on the side of the bed, reaching for my cigarettes.

“Now, why’d you have to go and do that?” I asked, getting up and walking over to sit on the chair by the sliding door.

“I’ve been showing you mine all night, and it’s only fair that I get to see yours too.”

I was startled; I couldn’t believe I actually said that, as if in the cul-de-sac of a long-ago grade-school playground.

“Well, I’d be being unfaithful,” she explained, “because if you saw it, you’d want to poke it.

“I’m a married woman, after all, and that’d be adultery.”

Looking at the clock, I figured it was time to call it quits, as the de-icing trucks and snow ploughs were obviously going through, and we needed to get back to town, so she could pick up the car, and I could check up on the she-beast, to be sure she was really all right.

- - - - - - - - - -

While I stood in front of the sink and mirror shaving, she sat, still wearing only her panties, on the edge of the bathtub, watching.

“You know,” I said, “shaving is such a nuisance that oftentimes it’s compared with the pain women endure during childbirth.

“I know my life would be considerably easier if I didn’t have to shave every day.  Sometimes I can get away with skipping a day, and in winter, three or four days because everybody looks rough in winter, but generally it’s a daily nuisance.

“And growing a mustache and beard isn’t an option, because most of us look gross with all that facial hair.”

She wasn’t paying attention, watching something else, as I leaned over the sink, closer to the mirror so as to look for overlooked hairs. 

“Is it really true that men piss in the sink, if they can get away with it?”

“I’ll take the Fifth on that,” I said, “lest I incriminate myself.”

- - - - - - - - - -

to be concluded

[franksolich]

I dropped her off at Dane’s garage in town, to take of everything involving their car, but the automotive mechanic advised it’d be another hour or so before he’d be done.

She agreed to wait there, and to drive it back to my place when it was finished, while I drove home to check up on the alte sau.

“I’m here,” I loudly announced, walking in the door and slamming it shut.

She was sitting at the table in the kitchen, and my appearance in that room was a startling shock to her; one hoped she was wearing brown panties, although I wasn’t interested in investigating.

It’s high time, I thought, that somebody else got a taste of what I’ve endured every day of my life, sudden rude shocks because I couldn’t hear sounds indicating someone was around.

She obviously hadn’t been to bed, and was looking at me, her eyes still crossed downward towards her nostrils.  She was gnawing on a slab of half-cooked venison.  There were beer-cans, some empty, some half-full, some not opened yet, all over the kitchen.

When she walked, she could stumble forward, but only in half-circles.

Well, I said out loud, knowing fully well she couldn’t hear me; “this is the sort of thing that happens when primitives don’t pay attention to franksolich when he’s trying to be helpful.”

- - - - - - - - - -

the end