RKMBs Forums .::Important::. Fortress of Awesome Chat awwwwww, that one was one of the best yet...

halo? fucking little boys.

oakley? dressing up like a little boy....

It doesn't exist? Does that mean we are all voices in your head?

So now I'm Pariah now too?

Oakley, Pariah, Doc, Whomod...anyone else?

According to your butt buddies Nowhereman and Joe Mama it doesn't. Go pester them.

Nice deflection there, whomod.

Just them another visitor entered the drawing room: Prince Andrew Bolkonski, the little princess' husband. He was a very handsome young man, of medium height, with firm, clearcut features. Everything about him, from his weary, bored expression to his quiet, measured step, offered a most striking contrast to his quiet, little wife. It was evident that he not only knew everyone in the drawing room, but had found them to be so tiresome that it wearied him to look at or listen to them. And among all these faces that he found so tedious, none seemed to bore him so much as that of his pretty wife. He turned away from her with a grimace that distorted his handsome face, kissed Anna Pavlovna's hand, and screwing up his eyes scanned the whole company.

"You are off to the war, Prince?" said Anna Pavlovna.

"General Kutuzov," said Bolkonski, speaking French and stressing the last syllable of the general's name like a Frenchman, "has been pleased to take me as an aide-de-camp...."

"And Lise, your wife?"

"She will go to the country."

"Are you not ashamed to deprive us of your charming wife?"

"Andre," said his wife, addressing her husband in the same coquettish manner in which she spoke to other men, "the vicomte has been telling us such a tale about Mademoiselle George and Buonaparte!"

Prince Andrew screwed up his eyes and turned away. Pierre, who from the moment Prince Andrew entered the room had watched him with glad, affectionate eyes, now came up and took his arm. Before he looked round Prince Andrew frowned again, expressing his annoyance with whoever was touching his arm, but when he saw Pierre's beaming face he gave him an unexpectedly kind and pleasant smile.

"There now!... So you, too, are in the great world?" said he to Pierre.

"I knew you would be here," replied Pierre. "I will come to supper with you. May I?" he added in a low voice so as not to disturb the vicomte who was continuing his story.

"No, impossible!" said Prince Andrew, laughing and pressing Pierre's hand to show that there was no need to ask the question. He wished to say something more, but at that moment Prince Vasili and his daughter got up to go and the two young men rose to let them pass.

"You must excuse me, dear Vicomte," said Prince Vasili to the Frenchman, holding him down by the sleeve in a friendly way to prevent his rising. "This unfortunate fete at the ambassador's deprives me of a pleasure, and obliges me to interrupt you. I am very sorry to leave your enchanting party," said he, turning to Anna Pavlovna.

His daughter, Princess Helene, passed between the chairs, lightly holding up the folds of her dress, and the smile shone still more radiantly on her beautiful face. Pierre gazed at her with rapturous, almost frightened, eyes as she passed him.

"Very lovely," said Prince Andrew.

"Very," said Pierre.

In passing Prince Vasili seized Pierre's hand and said to Anna Pavlovna: "Educate this bear for me! He has been staying with me a whole month and this is the first time I have seen him in society. Nothing is so necessary for a young man as the society of clever women."

Anna Pavlovna smiled and promised to take Pierre in hand. She knew his father to be a connection of Prince Vasili's. The elderly lady who had been sitting with the old aunt rose hurriedly and overtook Prince Vasili in the anteroom. All the affectation of interest she had assumed had left her kindly and tearworn face and it now expressed only anxiety and fear.

"How about my son Boris, Prince?" said she, hurrying after him into the anteroom. "I can't remain any longer in Petersburg. Tell me what news I may take back to my poor boy."

Although Prince Vasili listened reluctantly and not very politely to the elderly lady, even betraying some impatience, she gave him an ingratiating and appealing smile, and took his hand that he might not go away.

"What would it cost you to say a word to the Emperor, and then he would be transferred to the Guards at once?" said she.

"Believe me, Princess, I am ready to do all I can," answered Prince Vasili, "but it is difficult for me to ask the Emperor. I should advise you to appeal to Rumyantsev through Prince Golitsyn. That would be the best way."

The elderly lady was a Princess Drubetskaya, belonging to one of the best families in Russia, but she was poor, and having long been out of society had lost her former influential connections. She had now come to Petersburg to procure an appointment in the Guards for her only son. It was, in fact, solely to meet Prince Vasili that she had obtained an invitation to Anna Pavlovna's reception and had sat listening to the vicomte's story. Prince Vasili's words frightened her, an embittered look clouded her once handsome face, but only for a moment; then she smiled again and dutched Prince Vasili's arm more tightly.

"Listen to me, Prince," said she. "I have never yet asked you for anything and I never will again, nor have I ever reminded you of my father's friendship for you; but now I entreat you for God's sake to do this for my son- and I shall always regard you as a benefactor," she added hurriedly. "No, don't be angry, but promise! I have asked Golitsyn and he has refused. Be the kindhearted man you always were," she said, trying to smile though tears were in her eyes.

"Papa, we shall be late," said Princess Helene, turning her beautiful head and looking over her classically molded shoulder as she stood waiting by the door.

Influence in society, however, is a capital which has to be economized if it is to last. Prince Vasili knew this, and having once realized that if he asked on behalf of all who begged of him, he would soon be unable to ask for himself, he became chary of using his influence. But in Princess Drubetskaya's case he felt, after her second appeal, something like qualms of conscience. She had reminded him of what was quite true; he had been indebted to her father for the first steps in his career. Moreover, he could see by her manners that she was one of those women- mostly mothers- who, having once made up their minds, will not rest until they have gained their end, and are prepared if necessary to go on insisting day after day and hour after hour, and even to make scenes. This last consideration moved him.

"My dear Anna Mikhaylovna," said he with his usual familiarity and weariness of tone, "it is almost impossible for me to do what you ask; but to prove my devotion to you and how I respect your father's memory, I will do the impossible- your son shall be transferred to the Guards. Here is my hand on it. Are you satisfied?"

"My dear benefactor! This is what I expected from you- I knew your kindness!" He turned to go.

"Wait- just a word! When he has been transferred to the Guards..." she faltered. "You are on good terms with Michael Ilarionovich Kutuzov... recommend Boris to him as adjutant! Then I shall be at rest, and then..."

Prince Vasili smiled.

"No, I won't promise that. You don't know how Kutuzov is pestered since his appointment as Commander in Chief. He told me himself that all the Moscow ladies have conspired to give him all their sons as adjutants."

"No, but do promise! I won't let you go! My dear benefactor..."

"Papa," said his beautiful daughter in the same tone as before, "we shall be late."

"Well, au revoir! Good-by! You hear her?"

"Then tomorrow you will speak to the Emperor?"

"Certainly; but about Kutuzov, I don't promise."

"Do promise, do promise, Vasili!" cried Anna Mikhaylovna as he went, with the smile of a coquettish girl, which at one time probably came naturally to her, but was now very ill-suited to her careworn face.

Apparently she had forgotten her age and by force of habit employed all the old feminine arts. But as soon as the prince had gone her face resumed its former cold, artificial expression. She returned to the group where the vicomte was still talking, and again pretended to listen, while waiting till it would be time to leave. Her task was accomplished.

Thanks.

"Ana-goda-davida-baaaaaabbbyyyyyyy......" Mick sang very loudly, and very off-key, staring intently at a non-existant speck on the ceiling that was performing sign language for the hearing impaired. ".....I think I know that I think I love yoooouuuuuu...."

"You drive me craaaaaaazy......" Larry interlaced his own lyrics, the empty bag of fish-sticks keeping a perfect rythmic percussion in a band made up of three lamps, and a dirty t-shirt. ".....and it feeeeeeels so riiiiiight...."

"If I had a million dollars......." Mick suddenly changed songs, trying to keep up with the small, blue jar of jello, writing a movie critique, that was fervently chasing a giggling beam of light.

"If I haaaaad a miiiiillion dollaaaarssss...." Larry began singing a higher-octave back-up, tripping the beam of light out of pure malice.

".....I'd buy you a house...." Mick continued, beginning to snap his fingers to the beat, lying flat back on the floor.

".....not a big house.....but one that'd make you happy...." Larry began tapping his feet, slumped in the couch.

"When somebody loves you...."

Mick and Larry immediately turned towards the baritone voice coming from the recliner. A tall, bald man sat, fingers steepled, his foot tapping to a completely different rhythm.

"....let somebody love you...."

Suddenly, all three boomed in a perfect harmony.

"....AAAALLLLLL THE WAY....."

Mick: "....through good and bad times...."

Larry: "....with rain and sunshine...."

Turkish: "AAAALLLL the way....."

Turkish continued to hum, Mick turning towards Larry with a wide smile.

"DUDE! This is some goooooood shit!" he exclaimed.

"Yeah.....I've never joint-hallucinated with anyone before...."

They suddenly broke off, jumping back into perfect timing.....

"AAAALLLLLL THE WAY!!!"

Mick began laughing, Larry following with a wide, glassy-eyed chuckle.

"Man, you are too cool!" Mick began. "Frankie-baby's the bomb!"

"Yo." Larry replied with a mock fist gesture.

"Thank you." Mick bowed towards him.

"Don't thank me, man....thank Mr. Clean over there...." he replied. "He's the one keeping the beat..."

All three: "AAAAALLLLL THE WAY"

"Dude, I wish you were real...." Mick said towards Turkish, who was still smiling and humming.

"Life is only as real as you make it...." Turkish replied, still studying these two men.

He suddenly gained a very serious expression, as he looked at Mick. Shaking his head a bit, and blinking a few times, he leaned in closer to the man, obviously fascinated.

"You have.....an after-image...." he spoke.

"Yeah, I know what you mean...." Mick nodded, blinking himself. "I'm getting some cool-ass tracers off you, as well...."

"Yeah....." Larry cooed, "....that head of yours is SO shiny....."

Turkish sat back, realizing he would get nowhere with these two right now.

"My name is Turkish Stringfellow...." he finally said.

"Oh..." Mick straightened up a bit. "....I'm Mick Harrison. This is Larry Lance."

"Hey...." Larry nodded.

Mick turned to Larry.

"Man, I've never met a hallucination with a name!" Mick said with awe.

"And what a name!" LL replied, running his fingers through a purple sea.

Stringfellow smiled.

"And, like all hallucinations, you will find..." he began, holding up a single finger, "....that I was never here in the first place...."

He calmly stood up, walking towards the door.

"Damn he's tall......" Mick breathed.

"Yeah....fucking NBA-style...." Larry nodded.

Turkish stopped with a frown, looking back at the two.

"Did.....you understand what I said?" he asked.

"Yeah, but, hell, it'll be a few hours before we come down, and you go into stored memory for a future acid-flashback......stick around....." Mick shrugged, dipping his toes into styrofoam honey.

"Yeah! We can do an N'Synch song together...." Larry joined in.

"Dude! I'm not THAT fucked up...." Mick turned towards him.

"Come on! The 'Synch is where it is AT!"

The two began arguing, while Turkish stood for a moment, looking at the lone finger he had held up.

"Hmmmm......hallucinatory states have never been your strongpoint, have they?" he asked his finger.

Then, without another word, slipped back into the hallway.

which one is that from, mxy? I'm pretty sure that predates my getting involved by quite some time, considering tobias and turkish and larry are in it.

The Tangled Tentacles of Tiatcura! I'm sure I don't have to tell you who wrote it.

It was written photographically by the ninja turtles!

Prince Andrew was to leave next evening. The old prince, not altering his routine, retired as usual after dinner. The little princess was in her sister-in-law's room. Prince Andrew in a traveling coat without epaulettes had been packing with his valet in the rooms assigned to him. After inspecting the carriage himself and seeing the trunks put in, he ordered the horses to be harnessed. Only those things he always kept with him remained in his room; a small box, a large canteen fitted with silver plate, two Turkish pistols and a saber- a present from his father who had brought it from the siege of Ochakov. All these traveling effects of Prince Andrew's were in very good order: new, clean, and in cloth covers carefully tied with tapes.

When starting on a journey or changing their mode of life, men capable of reflection are generally in a serious frame of mind. At such moments one reviews the past and plans for the future. Prince Andrew's face looked very thoughtful and tender. With his hands behind him he paced briskly from corner to corner of the room, looking straight before him and thoughtfully shaking his head. Did he fear going to the war, or was he sad at leaving his wife?- perhaps both, but evidently he did not wish to be seen in that mood, for hearing footsteps in the passage he hurriedly unclasped his hands, stopped at a table as if tying the cover of the small box, and assumed his usual tranquil and impenetrable expression. It was the heavy tread of Princess Mary that he heard.

"I hear you have given orders to harness," she cried, panting (she had apparently been running), "and I did so wish to have another talk with you alone! God knows how long we may again be parted. You are not angry with me for coming? You have changed so, Andrusha," she added, as if to explain such a question.

She smiled as she uttered his pet name, "Andrusha." It was obviously strange to her to think that this stern handsome man should be Andrusha- the slender mischievous boy who had been her playfellow in childhood.

"And where is Lise?" he asked, answering her question only by a smile.

"She was so tired that she has fallen asleep on the sofa in my room. Oh, Andrew! What a treasure of a wife you have," said she, sitting down on the sofa, facing her brother. "She is quite a child: such a dear, merry child. I have grown so fond of her."

Prince Andrew was silent, but the princess noticed the ironical and contemptuous look that showed itself on his face.

"One must be indulgent to little weaknesses; who is free from them, Andrew? Don't forget that she has grown up and been educated in society, and so her position now is not a rosy one. We should enter into everyone's situation. Tout comprendre, c'est tout pardonner.* Think it must be for her, poor thing, after what she has been used to, to be parted from her husband and be left alone the country, in her condition! It's very hard."

*To understand all is to forgive all.

Prince Andrew smiled as he looked at his sister, as we smile at those we think we thoroughly understand.

"You live in the country and don't think the life terrible," he replied.

"I... that's different. Why speak of me? I don't want any other life, and can't, for I know no other. But think, Andrew: for a young society woman to be buried in the country during the best years of her life, all alone- for Papa is always busy, and I... well, you know what poor resources I have for entertaining a woman used to the best society. There is only Mademoiselle Bourienne...."

"I don't like your Mademoiselle Bourienne at all," said Prince Andrew.

"No? She is very nice and kind and, above all, she's much to be pitied. She has no one, no one. To tell the truth, I don't need her, and she's even in my way. You know I always was a savage, and now am even more so. I like being alone.... Father likes her very much. She and Michael Ivanovich are the two people to whom he is always gentle and kind, because he has been a benefactor to them both. As Sterne says: 'We don't love people so much for the good they have done us, as for the good we have done them.' Father took her when she was homeless after losing her own father. She is very good-natured, and my father likes her way of reading. She reads to him in the evenings and reads splendidly."

"To be quite frank, Mary, I expect Father's character sometimes makes things trying for you, doesn't it?" Prince Andrew asked suddenly.

Princess Mary was first surprised and then aghast at this question.

"For me? For me?... Trying for me!..." said she.

"He always was rather harsh; and now I should think he's getting very trying," said Prince Andrew, apparently speaking lightly of their father in order to puzzle or test his sister.

"You are good in every way, Andrew, but you have a kind of intellectual pride," said the princess, following the train of her own thoughts rather than the trend of the conversation- "and that's a great sin. How can one judge Father? But even if one might, what feeling except veneration could such a man as my father evoke? And I am so contented and happy with him. I only wish you were all as happy as I am."

Her brother shook his head incredulously.

"The only thing that is hard for me... I will tell you the truth, Andrew... is Father's way of treating religious subjects. I don't understand how a man of his immense intellect can fail to see what is as clear as day, and can go so far astray. That is the only thing that makes me unhappy. But even in this I can see lately a shade of improvement. His satire has been less bitter of late, and there was a monk he received and had a long talk with."

"Ah! my dear, I am afraid you and your monk are wasting your powder," said Prince Andrew banteringly yet tenderly.

"Ah! mon ami, I only pray, and hope that God will hear me. Andrew..." she said timidly after a moment's silence, "I have a great favor to ask of you."

"What is it, dear?"

"No- promise that you will not refuse! It will give you no trouble and is nothing unworthy of you, but it will comfort me. Promise, Andrusha!..." said she, putting her hand in her reticule but not yet taking out what she was holding inside it, as if what she held were the subject of her request and must not be shown before the request was granted.

She looked timidly at her brother.

"Even if it were a great deal of trouble..." answered Prince Andrew, as if guessing what it was about.

"Think what you please! I know you are just like Father. Think as you please, but do this for my sake! Please do! Father's father, our grandfather, wore it in all his wars." (She still did not take out what she was holding in her reticule.) "So you promise?"

"Of course. What is it?"

"Andrew, I bless you with this icon and you must promise me you will never take it off. Do you promise?"

"If it does not weigh a hundredweight and won't break my neck... To please you..." said Prince Andrew. But immediately, noticing the pained expression his joke had brought to his sister's face, he repented and added: "I am glad; really, dear, I am very glad."

"Against your will He will save and have mercy on you and bring you to Himself, for in Him alone is truth and peace," said she in a voice trembling with emotion, solemnly holding up in both hands before her brother a small, oval, antique, dark-faced icon of the Saviour in a gold setting, on a finely wrought silver chain.

She crossed herself, kissed the icon, and handed it to Andrew.

"Please, Andrew, for my sake!..."

Rays of gentle light shone from her large, timid eyes. Those eyes lit up the whole of her thin, sickly face and made it beautiful. Her brother would have taken the icon, but she stopped him. Andrew understood, crossed himself and kissed the icon. There was a look of tenderness, for he was touched, but also a gleam of irony on his face.

"Thank you, my dear." She kissed him on the forehead and sat down again on the sofa. They were silent for a while.

"As I was saying to you, Andrew, be kind and generous as you always used to be. Don't judge Lise harshly," she began. "She is so sweet, so good-natured, and her position now is a very hard one."

"I do not think I have complained of my wife to you, Masha, or blamed her. Why do you say all this to me?"

Red patches appeared on Princess Mary's face and she was silent as if she felt guilty.

"I have said nothing to you, but you have already been talked to. And I am sorry for that," he went on.

The patches grew deeper on her forehead, neck, and cheeks. She tried to say something but could not. Her brother had guessed right: the little princess had been crying after dinner and had spoken of her forebodings about her confinement, and how she dreaded it, and had complained of her fate, her father-in-law, and her husband. After crying she had fallen asleep. Prince Andrew felt sorry for his sister.

"Know this, Masha: I can't reproach, have not reproached, and never shall reproach my wife with anything, and I cannot reproach myself with anything in regard to her; and that always will be so in whatever circumstances I may be placed. But if you want to know the truth... if you want to know whether I am happy? No! Is she happy? No! But why this is so I don't know..."

As he said this he rose, went to his sister, and, stooping, kissed her forehead. His fine eyes lit up with a thoughtful, kindly, and unaccustomed brightness, but he was looking not at his sister but over her head toward the darkness of the open doorway.

"Let us go to her, I must say good-by. Or- go and wake and I'll come in a moment. Petrushka!" he called to his valet: "Come here, take these away. Put this on the seat and this to the right."

Princess Mary rose and moved to the door, then stopped and said: "Andrew, if you had faith you would have turned to God and asked Him to give you the love you do not feel, and your prayer would have been answered."

"Well, may be!" said Prince Andrew. "Go, Masha; I'll come immediately."

On the way to his sister's room, in the passage which connected one wing with the other, Prince Andrew met Mademoiselle Bourienne smiling sweetly. It was the third time that day that, with an ecstatic and artless smile, she had met him in secluded passages.

"Oh! I thought you were in your room," she said, for some reason blushing and dropping her eyes.

Prince Andrew looked sternly at her and an expression of anger suddenly came over his face. He said nothing to her but looked at her forehead and hair, without looking at her eyes, with such contempt that the Frenchwoman blushed and went away without a word. When he reached his sister's room his wife was already awake and her merry voice, hurrying one word after another, came through the open door. She was speaking as usual in French, and as if after long self-restraint she wished to make up for lost time.

"No, but imagine the old Countess Zubova, with false curls and her mouth full of false teeth, as if she were trying to cheat old age.... Ha, ha, ha! Mary!"

This very sentence about Countess Zubova and this same laugh Prince Andrew had already heard from his wife in the presence of others some five times. He entered the room softly. The little princess, plump and rosy, was sitting in an easy chair with her work in her hands, talking incessantly, repeating Petersburg reminiscences and even phrases. Prince Andrew came up, stroked her hair, and asked if she felt rested after their journey. She answered him and continued her chatter.

The coach with six horses was waiting at the porch. It was an autumn night, so dark that the coachman could not see the carriage pole. Servants with lanterns were bustling about in the porch. The immense house was brilliant with lights shining through its lofty windows. The domestic serfs were crowding in the hall, waiting to bid good-by to the young prince. The members of the household were all gathered in the reception hall: Michael Ivanovich, Mademoiselle Bourienne, Princess Mary, and the little princess. Prince Andrew had been called to his father's study as the latter wished to say good-by to him alone. All were waiting for them to come out.

When Prince Andrew entered the study the old man in his old-age spectacles and white dressing gown, in which he received no one but his son, sat at the table writing. He glanced round.

"Going?" And he went on writing.

"I've come to say good-by."

"Kiss me here," and he touched his cheek: "Thanks, thanks!"

"What do you thank me for?"

"For not dilly-dallying and not hanging to a woman's apron strings. The Service before everything. Thanks, thanks!" And he went on writing, so that his quill spluttered and squeaked. "If you have anything to say, say it. These two things can be done together," he added.

"About my wife... I am ashamed as it is to leave her on your hands..."

"Why talk nonsense? Say what you want."

"When her confinement is due, send to Moscow for an accoucheur.... Let him be here...."

The old prince stopped writing and, as if not understanding, fixed his stern eyes on his son.

"I know that no one can help if nature does not do her work," said Prince Andrew, evidently confused. "I know that out of a million cases only one goes wrong, but it is her fancy and mine. They have been telling her things. She has had a dream and is frightened."

"Hm... Hm..." muttered the old prince to himself, finishing what he was writing. "I'll do it."

He signed with a flourish and suddenly turning to his son began to laugh.

"It's a bad business, eh?"

"What is bad, Father?"

"The wife!" said the old prince, briefly and significantly.

"I don't understand!" said Prince Andrew.

"No, it can't be helped, lad," said the prince. "They're all like that; one can't unmarry. Don't be afraid; I won't tell anyone, but you know it yourself."

He seized his son by the hand with small bony fingers, shook it, looked straight into his son's face with keen eyes which seemed to see through him, and again laughed his frigid laugh.

The son sighed, thus admitting that his father had understood him. The old man continued to fold and seal his letter, snatching up and throwing down the wax, the seal, and the paper, with his accustomed rapidity.

"What's to be done? She's pretty! I will do everything. Make your mind easy," said he in abrupt sentences while sealing his letter.

Andrew did not speak; he was both pleased and displeased that his father understood him. The old man got up and gave the letter to his son.

"Listen!" said he; "don't worry about your wife: what can be done shall be. Now listen! Give this letter to Michael Ilarionovich.* I have written that he should make use of you in proper places and not keep you long as an adjutant: a bad position! Tell him I remember and like him. Write and tell me how he receives you. If he is all right- serve him. Nicholas Bolkonski's son need not serve under anyone if he is in disfavor. Now come here."

*Kutuzov.

He spoke so rapidly that he did not finish half his words, but his son was accustomed to understand him. He led him to the desk, raised the lid, drew out a drawer, and took out an exercise book filled with his bold, tall, close handwriting.

"I shall probably die before you. So remember, these are my memoirs; hand them to the Emperor after my death. Now here is a Lombard bond and a letter; it is a premium for the man who writes a history of Suvorov's wars. Send it to the Academy. Here are some jottings for you to read when I am gone. You will find them useful."

Andrew did not tell his father that he would no doubt live a long time yet. He felt that he must not say it.

"I will do it all, Father," he said.

"Well, now, good-by!" He gave his son his hand to kiss, and embraced him. "Remember this, Prince Andrew, if they kill you it will hurt me, your old father..." he paused unexpectedly, and then in a querulous voice suddenly shrieked: "but if I hear that you have not behaved like a son of Nicholas Bolkonski, I shall be ashamed!"

"You need not have said that to me, Father," said the son with a smile.

The old man was silent.

"I also wanted to ask you," continued Prince Andrew, "if I'm killed and if I have a son, do not let him be taken away from you- as I said yesterday... let him grow up with you.... Please."

"Not let the wife have him?" said the old man, and laughed.

They stood silent, facing one another. The old man's sharp eyes were fixed straight on his son's. Something twitched in the lower part of the old prince's face.

"We've said good-by. Go!" he suddenly shouted in a loud, angry voice, opening his door.

"What is it? What?" asked both princesses when they saw for a moment at the door Prince Andrew and the figure of the old man in a white dressing gown, spectacled and wigless, shouting in an angry voice.

Prince Andrew sighed and made no reply.

"Well!" he said, turning to his wife.

And this "Well!" sounded coldly ironic, as if he were saying,: "Now go through your performance."

"Andrew, already!" said the little princess, turning pale and looking with dismay at her husband.

He embraced her. She screamed and fell unconscious on his shoulder.

He cautiously released the shoulder she leaned on, looked into her face, and carefully placed her in an easy chair.

"Adieu, Mary," said he gently to his sister, taking her by the hand and kissing her, and then he left the room with rapid steps.

The little princess lay in the armchair, Mademoiselle Bourienne chafing her temples. Princess Mary, supporting her sister-in-law, still looked with her beautiful eyes full of tears at the door through which Prince Andrew had gone and made the sign of the cross in his direction. From the study, like pistol shots, came the frequent sound of the old man angrily blowing his nose. Hardly had Prince Andrew gone when the study door opened quickly and the stern figure of the old man in the white dressing gown looked out.

"Gone? That's all right!" said he; and looking angrily at the unconscious little princess, he shook his head reprovingly and slammed the door.

in stereo.

"Well.....it's a good thing that we aren't in the U.S. ....." Kit said, lounging behind his large mahogany desk. "The IRS would have a coronary."

Turkish sat opposite from him, his large, slender frame fitting rather tightly into the regular-sized office chair. Yet, he remained gracefully composed, as usual. The folds of his robes draped neatly across his lap, hanging off a bit, his hands folded, as usual, comfortably together under the garment. His expression, as ever, remained stoic, but, not without a sense of warm understanding creasing his every word.

"I do not understand." he replied very evenly.

Kit glanced up over the pages at him, back fully arched into his seat casually.

"Well, no Social Security Number, no birthdate, no age, no history......whatsoever..." he read over the forms.

"That is why I have come to you......" he replied.

"Right, right, right...." Piper nodded quickly, leaning up, placing the forms on the desk. "....this amnesia you spoke of.......how long have you had it?"

Turkish frowned.

"I cannot remember...." he stated matter-of-factly.

"Oh....heh....right, sorry...." Kit replied with a embarrassed grin. "Right. Amnesia. D'uh...."

"It is quite alright, Mr. Piper." Stringfellow smiled. "I realize that my height makes you nervous...."

"What?" Kit exclaimed wide-eyed. "Makes me nervous? No, not at all, why do yo--"

"It IS okay, sir....." Turkish continued with a bit more emphasis. "....I understand how my presence can be......imposing, to a degree. I assure you, I mean no one any harm."

"REALLY, Mr. Stringfellow, it does NOT make me---"

"Mr. Piper....." Turkish cocked an eyebrow. "....it is difficult for anyone to lie to me. I would feel much more at ease if you would dispense with any pleasantries."

Kit studied him for a moment, finally leaning back with a sigh.

"OKAY....okay....it does kind of...well......you know...."

"Make you nervous?"

"Well.....yeah...." Kit nodded. "You are a BIG man!"

"Size does not matter....." Turkish smiled.

"Yeah, my ex-wife used to say the same thing....." he joked.

And, to his amazement, Turkish chuckled a bit.

Kit's eyebrows raised in amusement.

"Ohhhh, you get that one, do you?" he smiled. "Says here you're a monk of some kind...."

"Of some kind, yes...." Turkish nodded.

"Doesn't that.....you know....cramp your lifestyle a bit?" he asked in an almost hushed whisper.

"Well....."

Turkish leaned over towards the man, Kit leaning in ready for the scoop.

"Yeah?" Kit whispered.

"I do not remember." Turkish replied with another whisper.

Kit stared at him briefly.

"RIGHT!" he said aloud, leaning back up. "Right...the...memory...thing. Amnesia. Right. Sorry."

Turkish's eyes narrowed.

"Mr. Piper, may I make a personal inquiry?" he asked.

"Sure thing...." he nodded.

"Something seems to be distracting you. Could this 'current' case you spoke of have anything to do with it?"

Kit sighed a bit.

"Yeah...well, it's this thing in Uruguay, you know?" he breathed heavily.

"I do not." TS replied equally.

"Ahhhh.....something's going on down there...and it's.....well, it could be dangerous for the boys...." he stammered a bit.

"Then, you worry over your team's safety?"

"No, no.....I....well......okay, yes. Yeah, I worry over their safety..." he finally admitted, staring out his office window.

"This....'team'.....the consulting agency.....are they your friends?" Turkish asked.

"Oh, well I don--" Kit suddenly stopped in mid-sentence, turning towards Turkish with a somewhat annoyed look. "Wait. What am I doing? Discussing my personal feelings with a stranger? What the hell's wrong with me?"

"I apologize, Mr. Piper....." Turkish bowed his head with respect. "...it is something of a.....side-effect of who I am....."

"What do you mean?"

"Much like nature, people are....open to me....." he began, trying to classify his abilities. ".....it sometimes leads others to expose themselves....their inner feelings and thoughts.....without inhibition...."

"I see......I think...." Kit nodded. "Well, don't do it to me again, okay? It's.....rude..."

Turkish nodded.

"I will try, but, it is not a voluntary ability." he replied with respect. Glancing up, he met Piper's eyes. "It usually depends on whether the person....needs...someone to talk to...."

Kit and Turkish stared at each other for a moment, in total silence.

"Kit!"

Piper jumped at the sound, turning towards his opening door. And, if he had noticed, while Turkish's expression remained as-ever neutral, he too jumped a bit, not having sensed the being's approach.

"I have made a decision!" Naecken announced, walking in with an air of bombasity.

"Naecken, I'm in the middle of someth---"

"I have decided NOT to go!"

"Wait...what? You're not goin---"

"Instead....", Naecken commanded with a dramatic flair, "I shall be going in Naecken's place!"

Kit stared, mouth open.

"Is that clear, Mr. Piper?" he asked in a mock english accent.

"Uhhh.....yeah....right....okay, uh, Naecken....." Kit began stammering out. "...you...uh...you can stay here......and...........you.....can take his--your....THE place.....for the mission...."

Turkish nodded, looking up at Naecken.

"That is a wise manuever." he spoke politely.

"Thank you, Turkish...." he bowed. "I look forward to meeting you an hour ago."

And with that, Naecken promptly left the room.

"He's...ummm....not usually this weird...." Kit began.

Turkish frowned.

"Pity."

"The"

Please put Tick quotes in Bianca's official thread.

yeah, licknob!

your the licknob.

you said it, man!

As long as it's gay incest count me in!

Zzap!

Say it ain't true, Captain Zzap!

Bring it on!

I'll punch your rex sympathizing face in the ass!

Zzap!

they think we sympathize with rex