Three More Wishes: Be Kind To Your Genie (20 page)

“Sad? Really?” said a Marilyn Monroe-wannabee blonde. “They always treated us like shit on their shoes. Almie should have her own WWW site, ‘I’m better than you’-dot-com.”

The Paula Sarin clone was putting her cel phone back in her purse. “Taxi is on its way. Thanks, sir, for the cash.”

The fourth party-crasher girl (dressed like the blonde from “Bewitched”) looked at me eagerly. “Before we go wait for the taxi, can I get you something, sir? Beer? Soda? Chips and dip? Sandwiches?”

I replied, “I’m good, thanks. But if you’re friends of Almie and Elvie, you might bring them each a glass of water. They’re probably dehydrated by now.”

The Marilyn Monroe girl snickered. “Almie refuses to touch plain water. She says fish fuck in it.”

****

The two policemen
insisted
that Almira and Elvira get dressed. The policemen even stood close to the twins, to see that they complied with the order. (Well, I
presume
that’s why two male police officers stood very near to two naked, breasty, musky-smelling, twenty-something twins.)

But each girl refused to dress, until I ordered Almira to. Once Almira started pulling on clothing, Elvira reluctantly followed suit.

Meanwhile, the policemen were taking statements from Tim and me. Once a cop heard about planting crack cocaine and he checked the LeClerc girls’ purses, it was Game Over. Out came the little cards, followed by “You have the right to remain silent...”

As the girls were being led away (handcuffed vampiresses—you don’t see
that
every day), I held up my hand to halt the parade. To Almira I said, “I claim you. My cel number is 555-0264. Call me when they’ve set your bail, and I’ll bail you out.”

Almira smiled at me. “I am yours. Your cel is 555-0264. Call when bail’s set. Thank you, Marvin sir.”

Elvira looked at me pleadingly. “What about
me
? Can you post bail for me too?”

I replied, “Elvie, I’m sure you wouldn’t stay put if I’d spring you. But I know that Almie will behave.”

“
Please
, Marvin sir! I’ll be a Girl Scout if I can be with Almie. I
need
to be with Almie.”

“We’ll see,” I said. I dropped my hand, and the twins were led away.

That’s when Tim Hanson pulled me aside. He asked in a low voice, “When I told Elvira that she was hot for her sister, when I was programming her, how many times did I say the word
tonight
? As in ‘Tonight you’re hot to lick your sister.’ ”

I thought back, and then said, “I can’t recall you saying the word at all.”

“Shit!” he said. “I messed up, big-time.”

“How? What difference does one word make?”

Tim said, “When I use the Power, my commands are irreversible. Which means that Elvira will be horny for her sister for the rest of her life.”

I said, “Huh. We messed her up more than we planned to. And I already feel responsible for Almie. I need to think about this.”

Actually, it didn’t take me long at all to decide. It seemed that the mansion was getting two new harem slaves—that is, except when Almie and Elvie were sentenced to prison.

****

A minute later, Tim excused himself and went looking for Susie. As soon as he left, I was accosted by two big-breasted blondes. By “big-breasted,” I mean either silicone, or saline, or win-the-lottery unlikely.

Both blondes were clearly attracted to me, either because I was exceptionally tall and super-muscular, or because my magic pheromones were melting their brains.

One big-breasted blonde was costumed like a blond-haired geisha; the other was dressed like Senator Paula Sarin.

The blond geisha held out a paper plate that was piled high with food. “Hi, we figured you were hungry, after watching those skanks on the couch.”

“Thanks,” I said. But I made sure I didn’t touch the geisha’s hand as I took the paper plate.

Because if I’d touch these two blondes, or let them touch me, I’d wind up with three new harem slaves tonight, instead of just one. I really,
really
needed to cut back.

After taking the paper plate, I said, “I’m Marvin. And you two are...?”

“I’m Brenda, and this”—the geisha pointed to the fake Paula Sarin—“is Christi Ellen. We, um, like your muscles.”

Christi Ellen added, “And I like your deep voice. It’s really masculine.”

I gestured to Christi Ellen’s outfit. “Your choice of costume is interesting. There’s always been a rumor that Senator Sarin hypnotized President Bush into starting the Canadian War.”

“There are lots of people who hate Paula Sarin,” Christi Ellen said, defending her hero. “Why else was Victoria renamed ‘Cheney City,’ not ‘Sarin City’? And after Paula Sarin bargained the end to the Canadian War! Lousy ingrates, we have a new fifty-first state because of her!”

“Maybe she hypnotized the Canadian Prime Minister as well as President Bush. After all, after Dubya publicly admitted that he’d been wrong about missile launchers in British Columbia and the Yukon, why then did Paul Martin agree to let the U.S. keep everything in southern British Columbia that our Army was holding?” I answered my own question: “Sarin got Martin alone, and then”—I swung an imaginary pocket watch—“she
hypnotized
him to make the deal. Hey, it’s as good an explanation as any.”

Christi Ellen said, “I don’t know about politics stuff. I just know that Paula Sarin is smart, and she cares for the little people.”

I didn’t buy that, but I guess I let my expression show—Brenda elbowed Christi Ellen and whispered, “
Don’t talk politics!
”

Christi Ellen gave me an apologetic smile. Then she asked eagerly, “Can I get you a beer?”

I said, “No, thanks. I’m underage, and I’m driving home.”

“Well, shit,” Christi Ellen said to Brenda. “There goes
that
idea.”

“What idea?” I asked.

Brenda replied, “We both dance at Babes Aplenty, and we wanted to invite you there sometime, as our
personal
guest.”

Christi Ellen added, “We’d pay your cover charge, and buy you drinks, and give you two-girl table dances. That was our plan.”

“Sorry,” I said. But then I smiled at them. “If you’re still dancing there in February 2013, it’s a date.”

Several seconds of silence passed. Then Christi Ellen said, “Would you like our phone numbers? So we could, like, go out to a movie, or dinner, or dancing, or something? Hang out?”

I shook my head. “I didn’t come here looking to get phone numbers. Not this early in the evening, anyway.”

Brenda and Christi Ellen shared a look. Then Brenda said, “Then can we at least drag you into a closet and take turns sucking you off?”

I was still resolved to not make any more harem slaves tonight. So I told the girls, “No thanks.”

“Oh my
gawd
,” Christi Ellen exclaimed. She looked over to where a man who was dressed as a cowboy (complete with leather chaps) was kissing a guy who was dressed as a zombie Mounty. Then Christi Ellen turned back to look at me and said, “You’re not, um ...
are
you?”

Before I could answer, Brenda asked, “You’re not dating Sunset, are you? Because that would explain things, Christi Ellen.”

I laughed and said, “I am
definitely
not gay! Right now, I’ve got a woman waiting for me at home—and no, she isn’t my mother.”

I thought,
I’ve got SEVEN women waiting for me at home, actually. But the five who are going through drug withdrawal, probably aren’t feeling “romantic.”

Brenda said, “This woman waiting for you at home, is she as hot as us?” Brenda hefted her tits.

I said, “Honestly? Yes, she is.”

I chose not to mention that Fatima always had big tits, and could make them even bigger when she chose to.

Then I said, “She’s also dynamite in bed.”

I didn’t mention that when a woman’s been around for at least twenty-six hundred years, she learns a few things.

Christi Ellen said, “She doesn’t need to find out, you know. C’mon, let Brenda and me take turns deepthroating your knob till you see stars. We promise to swallow your cum.”

I laughed. “Ladies, I really am pleased that you’re trying so hard to hook up with me.” Both blond strippers grinned. “But still, you’re wasting your time. Believe that.”

And they did. They finally walked away, but after each woman had assured me that she was game for anything that I might want from her at Sunset’s party—from a phone number, on up to a lap-dance/titty-fuck combo.

****

The man who was dressed like a zombie Mounty walked up to me. He said, “Hello, I’m Alex. Can I ask what your workout routine is? It’s obviously done
wonders.
”

Before I could say anything, a drunken man walked up to both of us. The newcomer was dressed like a Revolutionary War bluecoat. The newcomer said to the zombie Mounty, “You sh-should be ashamed of y’rself, dressed like that.”

The Mounty replied, “You have a problem with free speech?” His tone of voice was angry but also nervous.

The bluecoat replied, “I have a problem with your costume, buddy. It makes me wonder where y’r loyalties are.”

“Yeah? Like to question the Canadian War is unpatriotic? Give me a break.”

“Those Royal Canadian Mounted Police attacked the U.S. Army, which was stupid. They all died. End of story. The ‘Battle of Prince George’ was
not
an atsi—an astro—a war crime.”

“Guys,” I said, “this party is not the place for political discussions.” (Yeah, Reader, I know: I was being a little hypocritical there, wasn’t I?)

Alex glared at the bluecoat. “I once got detention in high school, because the same guys who beat me up, told the assistant principal that I started the fight. So I’m supposed to take the word of the U.S. Army, ‘We’re the victims here’? Shit. The Canadians claim that many of the Mounty corpses were ‘double-tapped,’ which is hard to do from fifty yards away.”

“God
damn
, I hate traitors like you,” the bluecoat said. “When Paula Sarin gets elected president, she will
deal
with your kind!”

Maybe those two guys would have gotten into a fistfight right then, and I would’ve had to break them up. Or maybe those two would’ve kept things to trash talk. But who knows? Because what
did
happen, right then, was that all the lights went out.

My first thought was,
At least now old Mr. Carver will be happy. Rhonda’s house now is as quiet as church.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Characters Tim Hanson and Susie are borrowed from my story
Names Have Power
.

****

Whatever had happened, it had unelectrified the entire city. Cel phones didn’t work, the houses across the street were dark, and the streetlamps were out. I stepped outside, and all I could see was a dim argon-orange glow to the south. (From the state prison?)

It turned out that Rhonda had one flashlight. And a man at the party, who was dressed as a Jedi, had a “light-saber” flashlight. The two of them brought three candles to the snacks/drinks table.

Ten minutes later, I saw Natasha and Harold/“Helen” near the candlelit table. Trying to talk to “Helen” was a young man who was dressed like a mad doctor, with blood-drenched green scrubs. Harold clearly wasn’t interested.

But whenever “Helen” did something to reject the guy, such as to ignore his words or to turn away from him, Natasha would lean in and murmur a few words, and “Helen” would act bare-minimum friendly to the guy again.

****

Just then, a blonde stepped up to me. By the candlelight, I saw that she was Susie (Tim’s pink-stewardess date). Susie said, “Hi, I saw you helping Mr. Hanson with those two nasty girls, and I came here to thank you.” Susie gave me a beauty-queen smile, and held it.

I shrugged. “Glad to help.”

Susie and I talked for several minutes about nothing important. It was like talking with a puppy, if puppies could talk—she was so
friendly.
She didn’t act—and she sure didn’t
look
—like a fire-breathing feminist.

After several minutes, I said as much: “I can’t believe that you used to be in the Abzug Society. But you quit?”

She laughed. “Well, I had to. Feminism is all about demanding—‘I demand equal pay, I demand equal status, I demand an equal chance at promotion.’ A feminist gives you something
only after
you meet her demands, that’s how I thought. And a man never
ever
gets anything for free, right?”

“Certainly not sex,” I said.

“Uh-huh,” she said. “But then Mr. Hanson told me that my job required me to be friendly and helpful to him, and I realized he was right. Soon I realized that I couldn’t be ‘friendly’ if I was starting arguments; and I couldn’t be ‘helpful’ if I was telling him, ‘I demand that you do X and Y before I’ll help you.’ ”

“So you realized that you couldn’t be his receptionist
and
be a feminist?”

She laughed. “Be both? No way! Especially since I was being friendly and helpful to Mr. Hanson every way that I could think of, and some ways are scorned by feminists.”

I nodded, not mentioning that I knew about the blowjobs.

Susie continued, “But when I dyed my hair blond, other feminists no longer respected me. Things
really
got bad after the one time that I didn’t leave work till after seven, and I went to an Abzug Society meeting in my receptionist clothes.”

“Why? What happened?”

“I was called the worst possible feminist insult: a
bimbo.
”

I nodded, not mentioning that right now, Susie looked and acted a lot like a bimbo.

“And that’s when I realized: Women who don’t approve of my deepthroating my boss when he’s tense, are not women whom I want to be around.”

Then Susie smiled at me and said, “Good talking to you, but now I need to mingle. Remember, if you need a new car, Tim Hanson Ford has the ‘No Cheat Guarantee.’ ”

I shook her hand, saying, “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.” I didn’t mention that I already owned eleven cars.

I looked around then. I saw the mad-doctor guy with a lit lighter in his hand; he was holding it up like he was the Statue of Liberty’s brother. He was walking away from the candlelit table, and Natasha and “Helen” were following him. Natasha had her hand on Harold’s shoulder.

The lousy light made it impossible for me to see Harold’s face. But the lighter-flame made it easy to see the Mad Doctor’s expression—
he
was grinning.

I didn’t see Natasha and Harold for another twenty minutes.

Then I forgot all about Natasha and Harold, when I heard someone honking a car horn outside. I knew it wasn’t a computer doing the honking, because of
how
the horn was being honked: three short, three long, three short.

S-O-S.

In Rhonda’s living room, a she-devil opened the front door and then pointed outside.

“THERE’S A HOUSE ON FIRE!”