I would not say she became petulant, at least no more petulant than any other women I have rejected in my life. Come to think of it, many of those were also wives and paramours of other men. Let us say I have an aversion to leftovers.
It was not as if my hangover left me incapable. Before my guts announced their intention to bubble forth, Salvatore Junior had rallied admirably to her ministrations. He was standing at proud attention. I swear he has a mind of his own.
Once the heaves had subsided, it was all I could do to crawl back to my cave, assume a fetal position in the sandy dirt next to my occupied bed and pray the baby would stop crying long enough to let me sleep. I dozed to the sound of wails and Lanio humming native melodies as she tried her best to keep him quiet.
I woke to a nightmare when Lanio shook me and asked, “You know what your problem is?” Even here in 30,000 B.C., the words send a chill down any man’s spine. Too weak to defend myself, I lay there and listened to the Cro-Magnon version of a speech I had endured many times before, one titled, “Salvatore Bolzano you Selfish Prick–Variations on a Theme.”
I endured the recriminations for as long as I was able, even helped her along when she became lost for words, but finally propped my throbbing head upon my elbow and asked, “What about your man? What about Greemil?”
No reply was forthcoming. I filled the silence by proclaiming she was far better off with him than she ever was with me. I wished to tell her I had done her a favor by letting our relationship end, but Cro-Magnons do not understand the concept of “favors” as we do. Lost is the notion they should be appreciated, or more importantly, how a person who receives a favor owes a debt of gratitude. These people are not big on agendas. You either do good things or you do not. You are helpful or you are not. It is quite cut and dried.
Lanio admitted that she and Greemil enjoy a strong partnership. The problem was in the sexual department. Without any of her usual shyness, she explained how making love with Greemil was different than with me. In some ways it was much better because she loved him and he loved her. His kisses taste like honey while mine were like elk meat, which is also sweet, but not as sweet.
On the opposite side of the issue, my experience and understanding of the female form gave me untold advantages. Her candor did not shock me, for I have known Lanio long enough to know that when she finally works up to communicating, she speaks her mind.
“Greemil is a good man. I love my man.”
She let that proclamation hang so long, I knew a “but” was on the way. To help her get through, I signed the Green Turtle motions for “Go on, say this thing you do not want to say.” Her confession came with a rush.
“My husband does not curl my toes when we rut. You made me moan and grunt like an animal. He does not take me all the way to the to the top of the mountain. He reaches the top alone, and too fast, while I am left halfway.”
“Does he know why you stayed back with me today?”
“I said you needed help with the baby.”
Adding force to my tone, I repeated my question, “Does he know?” The last thing I need is a jealous husband jabbing a spear through my spleen.
“No, he does not know.”
“Tell me about it.”
She held the baby on her lap and described her man as an energetic but one-dimensional lover. Greemil, she said, enjoys mounting her from behind as a male dog does his bitch. He pounds away until he spills his seed inside her, then rolls off and falls asleep, or grabs his spear and says, “let’s hunt now!” When he is finished, they are finished–fairly standard lovemaking procedure in this day and age. Her attempts to add new positions to the bedchamber had been rebuffed by the young idiot. What does he fear? A good time? The night of his life?
I must have expressed these questions out loud, for Lanio replied that Greemil was not afraid of a good rut, he was afraid of my reputation. Some fool must have blabbed about our quest to master every sexual position known to mankind. There is no privacy in this clan. We bathe together, we sleep together and sometimes we piss behind the same tree. I have seen Greemil’s phallus and he has seen mine. Not to brag, but no wonder he is intimidated!
“What do you really want?” I asked. “Is this about finding a way to curl your toes when your husband ruts with you? Or, do you wish to teach him how to make love properly?”
“Both.”
Lanio was not the first ex-lover to make such a request. Again, this may sound like braggadocio, but I do set the bar incredibly high for men who follow in my wake. Not the bar on emotional or spiritual levels, mind you, those are areas where I often flatline. But I am quite a crackerjack when it comes to treating a woman to a superb shagging. (If those are not lyrics to a song they should be.)
My tutorial began with an admission that men, simple, jealous souls that we are, rarely appreciate a lover who claims to know every single trick in the book.
I suggested she stick to three basics.
1. Make him think anything and everything new is his idea. Once he gains confidence he may be more open to suggestions. For now, seduce him and nudge him into inspiration. Use positive reinforcement to help him learn to pace himself, to understand the benefits of stretching out the pleasure, of making it last as long as possible.
2. Insist now and forever that his penis is the biggest and prettiest she has ever seen. Insist Sal Jr. becomes tiny when he salutes, do whatever it takes. And never change your story. Your man’s peperoni is mighty as a woolly mammoth.
3. Never hesitate to take matters into your own fingers before, during or after the fact if he leaves you wanting more. It is every person’s right to climax.
Greemil is not daft. Once he sees how the proper stimulation transforms Lanio into a tigress, I expect him to catch on rather quickly.
Oh my goodness, sunlight slants through the mouth of my cave to say the end of day draws near, yet still my head pounds. A smell of smoke confirms Lanio’s quest to stoke the camp’s fires has been successful. My young charge stares at me with wide, dark eyes, no doubt wondering where mommy and her milk-swollen breasts have gone. I imagine my paisans must return soon. The Americans and Father will be anxious to dive into my stock of booze. Will they curse the Cat Killer as a poor host if he refuses to join their toasts? Just the thought of drinking that noxious brew makes me shake. What a party pooper. To add insult to injury, my choir is scheduled to perform in less than two hours and I have nothing smart or jazzy to wear. Woe is me!
TRANSMISSION:
Hunter: “You didn’t run.”
Bolzano: No, I did not.”
Hunter: “Good for you.”
Bolzano: “And for you as well.”
Hunter: “So you saved me, don’t get a big head about it. This is a ‘what have you done for me lately’ world. Never forget that.”
Bolzano: “Yes, sir.”
From the log of The Hunter
(aka – Giovanni Bolzano, Dr. Mitchell Simmons)
Ethics Specialist
This brush with death has left me feeling more than a bit off, certainly not in a mood to party.
It’s odd, but after more than 325 years on this bloody earth, I was beginning to think I might be ready to let go. I’ve seen and done so many things, lived longer than any human has a right. The body is willing but my mind doth grow weary. It took the jaws of a lion to prove my will to survive burns as strongly as ever.
This is near as I have come to buying the bloody farm since climbing into my rickety one-man timeship so long ago. I’m left with a sour ache in the pit of my being. The damn lion had me dead to rights. Lanky bugger knocked me out cold, and was well on his way to breeching my shield and consuming me. My nanos have no cure for being eaten. There would be no coming back from that.
The lads I chose for the mission were not up to the task. All except Salvatore. That was a pleasant surprise.I know I should appreciate Sal’s effort; he risked his balls to save mine, but I can’t, not completely. It was his bloody fault in the first place.
What was I doing in the lead? Showing off for my son, trying to be the Papa he remembers, the one I forgot so long ago. Christ, I haven’t seen this man-boy for 200 years, yet he expects me to be his nurturing daddy.
As I expected, these people pose a threat to my well-being. Sounds paranoid, you say? My personal history, rife as it is with betrayal and shouts for my scalp, confirms otherwise. First the Mother Church and the Italian State both tried through the courts to have me terminated. When they lost, they made my home address public and easy to find for the anti-machine zealots and any other crackpots who wished to take a shot at me. For years afterward, my security people thwarted as many as five would-be assassinations a week. When the bio-plagues failed to bring me down, the Martinellists came sneaking to thin me in the middle of a sunny morning. And I mustn’t forget the jolly times when the crew of the Einstein IV tried drowning me, burning me and dropping a tree upon my head. May every damn one of those sodding wankers rot in Hell.
Salvatore could be the most devious of all my many children, but even he is not capable of setting a trap with a snow lion. Did he poison me with talk about the suits and their detrimental side effects? Absolutely. Did he do it to trick me into adjusting my field so low? Most days that cat would have bounced off me like a singed rubber ball. No, I do not think so. He lacks motive. Given time, however, he will. Given time and enough details of my life and plans, they’ll all come to the same conclusion as the others–Hunter must die.
Did God send that lion to wake me up?
CHAPTER SIX
TRANSMISSION:
Duarte: “Paul, what color were the spots on those leaves they used?”
Kaikane: “Yellow.”
Duarte: “How many leaflets?”
Kaikane: “Five.”
Duarte: “Saw-toothed edges or smooth?”
Kaikane: “Smooth.”
Duarte: “And Lucy said they use them for what?”
Kaikane: “In stews. I guess it thickens ‘em up.”
Duarte: “Thanks, babe.”
From the log of Capt. Juniper Jones
Security Detail II
Arrived early to party. Nothing else to do, so me and Fralista helped Daughters pull their big feast together. Pretty showy way of cooking, but hard to argue with results. Most hybrids have already taken off, headed north to secure and provision the traveling camps we’re gonna be using. I take it they roust all hibernating bears and clans dumb enough to settle into one of Hunter’s camps, lay in a bunch of firewood, then leave a holding detail while the rest move on to prepare the next pre-selected cave or stand of trees. Sounds cool to me.
The older Son who runs Hunter’s kitchen has gone ahead to lay in meat and gatherings. Tonight’s head cook duties fell to the Daughters, Lucy and Pearl. They talked it up all the way to and from the damn root fields, which I swear were halfway across Doggerland to Denmark–bragged they knew the best and most juicy way of cooking meat. Pearl said it was a recipe they learned far down south where giant lizards will eat you if you’re not careful. Gotta watch that one. Never know when she’s serious or goofing around.
Broads weren’t lying. Meat turned out good as I ever tasted. If this was the year 2230, I’d have a hard time justifying the waste of using a whole pig to cook about 10 rabbits, one goose and a couple swans, but this world ain’t gonna miss one fat sow. Ladies knew the Sons would be worth shit as helpers once they started chewing root, so they got as much work out of them as they could before everybody got mellow.
We gutted and skinned the small game, stuffed each bird and bunny with fennel, berries, nuts, sea salt and watercress, then stuffed all those into the body of a gutted 500-pound pig Pearl found rooting in a half-frozen swamp not a half mile from camp. Once we finished stuffing the pig, the sisters turned it over to Fire Starter, their pet Neanderthal. That shaggy dude sure can build a fire. The sisters say it makes him happy.
Guy had all his kindling and bigger wood ready to go. Once they gave him the nod, he built a teepee at least eight feet tall directly over that pig. Grunting and flapping his arms if one of us tried to help, he arranged stuff exactly how he wanted it. After maybe 20 minutes, he slipped a couple coals from his leather-covered bison horn into a pair of bird nests and tucked those in an upwind corner. The Neanderthal blew a few times on each nest, and wow, we had to pull back fast!
While we were getting the meat ready, the sisters bossed a few of the Sons into helping collect wood. I notice they don’t mess with the Neanderthal. He has no standing, gets no respect from anybody, but they give him a wide berth. Not sure it’s because they’re afraid of his strength, or afraid of what the two broads might do if they catch somebody fucking with their boy. Notice the three of ‘em do a good job watching each other’s backs. Anybody who messes with Lucy or Pearl is gonna have a 190-pound terrier named Fire Starter chomping their ass.
We’ve been in this valley nearly three weeks. That’s a lot of firewood burned. Somehow, they found enough to light up the sky. Got so hot we had to retreat a good 50 feet. Smoke, sparks and sizzling fat drew the late-comers from their caves. Like Fralista, all the women were wearing their best jewelry and clothes. Feathers in Duarte’s long, wavy hair made her look like some kind of queen or angel. Fralista caught me staring, used a knuckle to charley horse me in the thigh.
Sal was last to show. Poor guy was dragging ass, but didn’t forget to bring his booze–one bag of wine and one of gin powerful enough to knock your socks off. Took one sniff of the gin and left it alone. Already heard enough war stories from Kaikane and Bolzano to know to steer clear of that crap.
Wasn’t long before Duarte split the party in two. She said it wasn’t kosher to drink in front of natives. Moderns hung out by Hunter’s table, talking English and sipping booze from snail shells, while the natives stayed down by their own fires, making a big deal of pounding roots and drinking the juice to get a buzz on. I tried a dipper of the stuff. Was bitter going down, got me a little high, but not as high as Sal’s booze. Tell the truth, I didn’t drink all that much tonight, not like Hunter or Duarte did. They went at it shot for shot for a while. Didn’t surprise me when she pulled up just short of blotto. Duarte prides herself on self-control. Fun to see her loosen up, though. Surprised everybody with her dance moves.
Hunter warned us that all his boys want to do when they’re high is fight and fuck, but he ordered them to behave and, for the most part, they kept their brawling in house. Turtles showed good discipline by sticking together, keeping their weapons ready, and never wandering off where they could get caught alone.
As parties go, this one was pretty good. Nobody got killed, raped or robbed. Food and entertainment, outstanding. Those drummer boys played all night long, sometimes with Sal’s choir sitting in. We danced in the snow till we were drenched in sweat. I’d forgotten how fun dancing can be.
And we gathered some intel. Once Hunter lubricated his tongue, he finally opened up about himself. I’m sure Maria and Sal will write a million words about what he said. Me, I’ll just say this. If you believe even half of what he says, that cat’s done some amazing shit.
I still don’t trust him.
TRANSMISSION:
Hunter: “Salute!”
Bolzano: “I would go easy on that potion, Father.”
Hunter: “Nonsense!”
Duarte: “He’s right! Nonsense!”
From the log of Dr. Maria Duarte
Chief Botanist
Though Mother frowned on the practice, my father started serving me wine at the Sunday dinner table when I was eight years old. It began the day I celebrated my first communion. He didn’t pour a lot, not enough to get me plastered, just one half-full goblet etched with the flag of our drought-savaged homeland, Portugal. The amount sufficed to instill a little glow, to curb some of my anxiousness as the adults droned on and on about lost lands and lost fortunes. I soon learned to complete my studies before Sunday supper. The wine made me groggy and useless for hours afterwards–things I did not lik
e.
Mother feared it would turn me into a raging alcoholic–like her dada and so many other forlorn refugees on her side of the family. Father, who came from a long line of stoics, insisted that Duartes can handle their wine. In my case, he was correct. Except for a few slobbery months while I was isolated and under the thumb of a controlling boyfriend, alcohol has always been something I imbibed infrequently, and generally in small doses. Though I have been accused of having a hollow leg, I prefer my mind sharp.
Cpl. Bolzano treated us to two batches of rough grappa following our rendezvous five months ago in Bretagne. I am aware that distilling booze breaks several of The Team’s core rules, and as senior officer I should put a stop to the practice. For now, I elect not to stifle Sal’s experiments as they show quantifiable progress. His wine is getting much better. This most recent batch is made from late berries with a hint of oak acorns. It tastes like wine, whereas the last gunk had the leather-flavored finish of badger urine. This is smooth and, as long as you don’t drink too much, it doesn’t give you a headache. Tell me that’s not progress!
If anybody reading this back in Buffalo cares enough about our blatant rule infractions to jump back and assume command, they’re welcome to my job. Ha! Listen to the Chief Botanist, still feisty after the party’s over. My man’s worn out. He lies next to me, flat on his back with hands folded across his chest as it rises and falls with the breaths of sleep. I can’t help but love that contented little grin on his face.
I wonder if he is dreaming about dancing the quail-mating dance with me. Tonight’s party was so much fun! I haven’t danced like that in years. Everyone seemed to like my hair. Not Lanio, Fralista or Gertie, of course, but screw them. The others liked my pretty feathers.
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