Twilight's Last Gleaming

by Hertzen Chimera

  Twilight's Last Gleaming

  eBook published 2011 by sci-fi-cafe.com.

  www.sci-fi-cafe.com

  Copyright © sci-fi-cafe.com 2011

  The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owners.

  ISBN (EPUB) 978-1-908387-23-3

  eBook conversion by Oxford eBooks

  www.oxford-ebooks.com

  TWILIGHT'S LAST GLEAMING

  a genreclectic novel by Mike Philbin

  Writing as Hertzen Chimera

  ONE

  The limp trickle of liquid against porcelain. The filthy tap squeaking as it is turned off. The static cling of tights being pulled on. The hot smells of the flesh. The juicy odours The lubricated thrashings and tortured sighs. The scampering of footsteps on the uncarpeted staircase.

  The slamming of the front door.

  Oliver Connecticut scrambled over the hustle and bustle of these fragmentary echoes of R.E.M. to stumble into semi-consciousness in a damp patch in the tangled wreckage of his bed sheets.

  As far as hangovers went, this fucker weren’t too bad ... bit like having a hippopotamus sitting on your face blasting the Star Spangled Banner out of its amour-plated arse at an ear-piercing volume like a sick memory of Last Orders … in all honesty, he’d had maybe one that was worse.

  Every sense was sort of exaggerated to the absurd. Every movement. Every twist and turn of escape from his sheetly entanglement. Matched. Bettered. By the churning and ducking and swaying compensations of the flat surfaces of his room. The billowing curtains were race horses crashing through bus-high hedges. The way the yawning wardrobe mocked his thrashing around in a sweating tangle; making the ceiling roar with raucous laughter at his feeble bid for freedom ... but such is the life of a bastard drunk.

  Eventually, Oliver Connecticut escaped the tourniquet of his linen bedfellows' clammy embrace. He reached clumsily for his wristwatch on the bedside table; knocked it to the floor.

  “God, I am fucked, mate.” he groaned to no-fucker in the house. Hung half off the bed. Head throbbing at being held at such a ludicrous angle. He rolled back onto the bed and let the room slowly churn about him, teasing him up to meet it, toying with his hold on reality, making his cock bulge and pulse in this semi-conscious, semi lucid state.

  It stood to full attention, painfully hard; the skin still back, sleeves rolled up for action, so to speak. The whole length of it still shining, still slick with the sticky thick wetness; the nuggets of mustard-coloured cheese snuggled conspiratorially about the rim; the tingle, the electric buzz of pleasure in his balls. This was no bloke’s waking wet-dream fantasy ... Nooooo! Oliver Connecticut was positive, “I have just this minute shagged somebody.”

  The slamming of the front door!

  A sudden palpitation grabbed him; shook him awake. He raced to the window but the street lay bare, chilly. He looked around the bedroom for whoever-the-fuck-she-might-have-been. No clues to the mysterious wench hung around. Not even a stale pair of old rabbit-nibbled knickers left as an accidental memento ... like the last two he’d brought back and fucked. He’d had to lie his way out of that when his mam had found them on both occasions still damp at the foot of his bed under the covers where they’d been toed off in the heat of the moment, après pub. No such luck this time. No scent to bury his nose in, rekindle the memory; any memory. He fell back onto the bed in the gloom and the room didn’t like it at all, made a disturbing seascape of all available surfaces upon which his doped up body floated, rising and falling, sea-sickness ahoy.

  Stretching and yawning at the same time as picking up the fallen wristwatch, was a feat that taxed even his powers of coordination. Slowly, yawny, drowsy dexterity, he eventually had his prize in hand. He pressed the little light-button on the side; 01:55 PM. There came a tuneless clanging and clattering from below, the stench of burnt Brussels sprouts and the crisped flesh of the chicken.

  “Fucking Sunday lunch.” he groaned.

  “Oliver!!!!” his mam screamed from the bottom of the stairs, “You awake, love???”

  Oliver Connecticut pulled the pillow over his face.

  Olliverrrrrr!?!? he could hear her still wailing, Are you up yet? Your dinner's going cold, love.

  Here it comes ...

  ...the pause...

  ...she’ll wait there for as long as it takes to kill a million of your brain cells, her fucking mouth gawping and her fat head to one side as she always does ... then.

  “Ollllliverrrrrr!?!?” his mam bawled again.

  “Right!” he retaliated, then with the pain in his head intensified by the shout, wished he hadn't. Replaced the pillow over his face.

  “Who the fuckin hell did I shag?” he interrogated himself while his defences were at their weakest – Good Cop and Bad Cop. Lifted the pillow from his face and surveyed the still hard, still wet cock. Enough fanny juice on that for a fuckin army. he philosophised aloud. Still, she were fuckin good - must have been.

  He took the tacky bell-end in his fingertips and idly played with it, making it leap at his touch; lion through the hoop - he snickered lewdly to himself.

  “Are you coming down or what, Oliver?!? This is the last time I am asking you…” his mam bawled one final, annoying time.

  “Fuck off, you old deaf get!” Oliver Connecticut mumbled to himself, rubbing his fingers together under his nose, tripping on the creamy residue. The putrid essences of a cunt baying in the darkness for climax, of a mouth open for his penile intrusions, of nipples large and pink and dripping saliva, of the cigarette smoke-stained cum in her bleach-white hair, yeah, all the classic wank fantasy material conjured up the ghost of last night's conquest; common sense pitching and roiling in the storm haze, the effervescing spectral passage his cook was expanding, growing into as he watched it. Couldn't believe the surrealistic stretch of skin and muscle; the volume of blood that must have been pumping into that enormous member; the pressure in his balls as they bulged to bursting.

  Oliver Connecticut found himself leaning forward and, in his disorientation, kept on leaning forward until he was gaping over it, about to encircle the throb-hot end with his own lips; tasting feminine quam on the engorged rim. He caught himself in the middle of the most disgusting act, choking on the burning rod, gulping and gagging as it was jammed down and down his fuckshit worthless little throat pipe, threatening ejaculation. He panicked, trying to back away from the inevitable spurt as the peristaltics began to tickle his tonsils; the hot cum racing up the urethra at a colossal velocity.

  The milk tasted cool and refreshing as it sluiced away the taste of wallpaper paste from the back of Oliver Connecticut's throat. His unlcean teeth ached at their ice-cold douching.

  His teen brat sister, Dawn, shrieked as she entered the kitchen, “Mam!! Our Ollee’s gobbin’ in the milk again!!”

  “Fuck off, small tits.” he spat out milk bubbles, a line of milky saliva dribbled down his stubbly chin.

  Dawn shrieked even louder, “Mam!!! He said the F-word again! Mam!!!”

  “You're dead!” he made a grab for her.

  His big, bustling mother, Doris, waddled aggressively into the kitchen snorting her fury, “Put her down soft lad. Your fuckin dinner’s in the oven. Burnt to fuck, I imagine.”

  “Give it a rest, our mam.” Oliver Connecticut moaned.

  “Every fuckin Sunday hang over, it's the same with you, isn't it?” she continued.

>   “Never a dull moment.” Oliver Connecticut pushed too far.

  “Eh?” she pushed him, “What did you say. Think I can't still put you over my knee as big and blokish as you think you are these days?”

  “Oh, for fuck's sake, give it a fuckin rest, eh, woman.” he stormed past her, sorta shouldering her aside.

  “Don’t you fuckin shove me, laddy-o!” she howled, schizophrenia glossing her eyes over like a disease of the cornea.

  Oliver Connecticut paused only to sneer at the futile display and left the kitchen, huffing to himself and shaking his head. “I'm out of here. I don't need this fuckin hassle.” then turning on his mother like a wild animal, “I DON’T NEED THIS FUCKIN HASSLE!!!”

  Catching his reflection in the hallway mirror, Oliver Connecticut stopped to admire his taught physique, the Fully Ribbed for his Pleasure GayBoy T-shirt tight over his pecs defining every muscle group; every breath he took a graphic testimony to the hours of work he'd put in at the local gym since his little rugby accident. Oliver Connecticut pouted as he posed; arms tensed; shoulders back, showing off his lats – a perfect V, built for fuckin girls’ arses right off.

  Very nice. he commented on the way the stretch jeans he wore always showed off his tight little package and the pound of good solid meat set to the right of his zip. Very fuckin nice indeed. he added, tucking in the T-shirt.

  He was caught completely off-side and had to quickly recheck the mirror. It was not jeans he was wearing but tights, fuckin American Tan Tights like the ones his mam hung all over the bathroom. He was stood there in the hallway gawping at the sight of his big, hairy Rugby Players legs in tights, every contour over exaggerated, the gusset like a delicate, white hand held his packet out for inspection. How embarrassing ... what if his mam were to find him stood here like this? He looked around, his hands over his baggage . The jeans had miraculously re-appeared. He tucked the T-shirt into his jeans.

  “Man, what the fuck was I fuckin drinkin last night?” he huffed.

  A touch more presentable he brushed back his close gaylength crop of hair and admired the Adonis before him; scratches his balls absently; shuddered as the cock once again leapt at the zip as the one memory from a night of oblivion pricked his bollocked up mind. Lily Veyne.

  That one thought, Lily Veyne; that one Christmas gift. The needle-point sharpness of her passion. That brawny, buxom seductress of pubs. Goddess of ale, induced Sin. Just that sweet shag-happy Lily Veyne; the albino barmaid from the White House pub up Standishgate.

  “Fuck me.” he grinned like a kid in a porno shop for the first beautiful time, “Another notch on the fuckin nob.”

  SESSION I

  Nothing had changed. Everything was exactly as I remembered. My personal surroundings were Universally intact. There sat I in my faded Stars & Stripes boxer shorts; cracked and faded Mickey Mouse T-shirt; Snoopy slippers - the hole my big toe poked through enlarging daily. My back was as bent and buckled as it had been since the Polio I had as a kid screwed me up into this ridiculous knotted wreckage of a body. I imagine that without this historical burden of malady I would be a rather tall individual. A strapping young lad - mothers might have mentioned as I passed them in the streets.

  I still had no body hair at all. I still had no sex. Let me make a distinction here, I'm not saying I wasn't getting any sex, though this is a statement of fact in itself, I just didn't have any sexual organs; whatsoever. Neither a pushed-in or pulled-out genitalia. No testicles. No ovaries. No breasts. No nipples. None of the usual anatomical sexual signatures. Less than a eunuch in the Pharaoh’s court who can at least daydream on the memory of such apparatus. Still, this didn't bother me; never had done.

  My breathing was as rattled as ever. A complimentary exhalation of jingle bells free with every snatched intake of breath. Nope, nothing had changed. Life was as fruitless as it had always been.

  Even my long time white-washed-cellmate, my out-moded personal computer, had lost its novelty, somehow. The omnipresent expense of electricity and my continued lack of personal funds had really started to drain me mentally and physically. This pokey little cell was a fucking fridge; I could no longer afford the luxury of heat or light. I only lived for the act of typing in data. I had created my own interfaces and everything. My woken hours were spent squinting into the terminal's insistent face. Breathing icicles at the glass as, faster than my tired brain could register, the micro began to again download data. I've never worked out how or where this information actually comes from. It's never crossed my mind to investigate the phenomenon. Not my problem.

  With short sharp sounds of pain and plenty of hyperventilation for Huey Green’s Pity-O-Meter, I arose from my pneumatic swivel chair. My bottom was dead. For a few minutes I stood rubbing my numb buttocks with my unusually large hands, the six fingers of each hand warmed by the act.. I have never had thumbs, just three fingers either side pointing in towards the long thin lineless palms. I turned angrily from the solemn reminiscences of the computer terminal, remembering old times.

  Sifting random recollections like a geriatric scouring an ocean of sepia seaside smiles. Hoarding any semblance of life like it was going out of fashion. A tear in the myopic eye of childhood. On scroll overdrive. All sentimental daisy chains and love hearts carved into tree bark.

  I left the cell, careful to ensure that the large steel door did its customary locking clunking schunking performance before descending the arctic stairwell to the front door waiting at the bottom like a doe-eyed little baby doll cornered by a revolting smelly nasty badbreathman rapist. I pulled the door open and bent over to pick up the two bottles of full-cream milk I have delivered daily.

  A ginger-haired squat dwarf in a red tartan suit was walking down the garden path towards me bringing a sinister dark chill with him.

  “Mister Djin Deniz?” he called out jovially as I retrieved the bottles; his accent Glaswegian. He smiled, I remember thinking at the time, much too self confidently. I almost closed the door on the salesman just for the fact of the smug grin on his broad ginger-bearded face. His piercing emerald eyes. To my detriment, I simply returned his smile. Gave him ample time to point the black revolver at my face, cocking the hammer and pulling the trigger. The gun clicked metallically on an empty chamber. I shit myself. Both bottles of full cream milk I was holding slipped from my grip and shattered on the front door step.

  The dwarf fucked and bastarded and bastarding-crap-army-surplused until he got the barrel open. He slipped in a cartridge of six big red-tipped bullets and flung it back, locked, giving the barrel a theatrical spin. By this time I had slammed the door shut and was hobbling back up the stairs. Diarrhoea dripping down my legs. The humiliation of it. My breathing was really fucked now; particularly gritty in the airways. I hawked up a lump of coal and spat it out onto the carpetless stairs and listened to its death-tumble as I strove to ascend the wooden steps before I was killed; or died from dread and turned blue from lack of oxygenated air in my blood.

  “There's no escape, Mister Djin Deniz!” he shouted through the letter box before the entire front door exploded behind me. Shards of splintered door impaled my bandy legs making me scream, advertising my whereabouts to the would-be assassin.

  What had I done to incite such ruthless retribution?

  Who had I betrayed or so dishonoured?

  “Mister Djin Deniz!” he had called out once more.

  No-one calls me Djin Deniz anymore, and certainly not Mister; I don't command that sort of respect. It’s usually, thingy, what’s-his-name or just plain Hey, Freak! So, by his use of my full and proper title he proved that he didn’t really know who the hell I was. A government official then? A Bailiff? A Tax Collector? Debt Collector of some sort? I have no debts like that, all is taken care of by the council. Aggrieved husband? Me? Wife snatcher? Mangled up old spaz like me? A serial killer then? My name having caught the random biro tip in his sad game of statistical espionage. Was I any longer in the phone book?

  A pain shot up my left l
eg, accompanied by the sight of a sliver of oak, or was it thigh-bone, poking out of the hairless tope flesh of the thigh. The uncomfortable heat and the Domestos stink of blood and faeces as they slid like a veiny caramel down my legs. My guts lurched up into my mouth so that I had to bite down on a mouthful of intestines and liver and kidneys to stop them spilling out all over the place in one spectacular facial disembowelment.

  One hand over my bloated lips. One hand Jabbing my security number into the door lock of my cell. 3.I4444444 ... Relax hand! I cancelled and started again. Tried to steady the trembling hand.

  Stop shaking.

  The murderer slowly ascended the staircase, his firing hand outstretched, “Say your prayers, Mister Djin Deniz.”

  I squeezed myself behind the concrete column between my executioner and me. Jabbed a ludicrous series of seemingly random numbers into the console. 3.142857… who the hell has pi as their entry code, these days? The murderer rounded the corner like an athlete and let off a lucky round, blowing off the plaster near my head. I could not hear a thing now on that side. The steel door snapped open like Star Trek, emanating a tiny hydraulic hiss. And, as I fell back into the fridge, slammed locked behind me.

  I thought I'd be safe; at least for a while so I could work through my options. The steel door suddenly buckled with a deafening clang. What sort of bullets was Jock using? I had no time to think. I had to act; and fast.

  A large hole was blown out of the door. The gunman thrust his head through the serrated porthole bringing with it that horrible 70’s smell of Old Spice. Struggled to get his firing-arm through to finish me off as his cerebral contract with himself had undoubtedly insisted upon. Hollering, “Goodbye Mister Djin Deniz!”

  It was then that I sprang forward, grabbed the man by his wire wool beard and pulled his lion sized head from side to side, slitting his throat on the jagged steel edge. A hot splash of blood caught me as he pulled back. I could hear him gagging and cursing. Heard him cock the gun again. This was it. I had to do it. There was no other escape.