I Married My SisterbyNoJo©
Hi, smutlovers. I just wanted to set your expectations here before you waste a lot of precious jerkoff time on this story.
First off, there's no sex. Almost. Certainly nothing explicit. Men, you won't get hard. Women, I don't actually know what goes down there, so I can't say what will happen to you. My guess is that your pussy will remain at approximately the same diameter throughout the story. PM me after you've read it if I'm wrong.
Second, if you've read any of my Humor and Satire stuff before, like Cindy Heller or Dr Yekkl, you may be expecting more of my Zucker Brothers/Mel Brooks kind of crazy humor. Well, 'fraid not. I'm a little more restrained as I approach my senility.
Third, its pretty long, 'prox 10,000 words. As this is still in my word processor, I can't tell you if it'll be four or five chapters. But it's a real story, with a structure; it's not just a sequence of scenes. So you sort of have to read the whole thing to appreciate it.
So, what the f&*# will you get besides eyestrain??
You'll get a nicely plotted farce, with a sort of sci-fi feel, about a guy who changes bodies with his brother-in-law. So he's ended up married to his sister. I forget the details.
If you're one of the .001% of people here who've read anything the late great Bob Sheckley, you'll know exactly what to expect.
SUBJECT A: CROTCHET, GORDON L.
Gordon Crotchet, emulating Rodin's Thinker in pose if not physique, sat in his toilet and pondered the paint catalogue.
As usual, he could see the advantages of any of the hundreds of colours over any other, and as usual, he was unable to make a decision. For even such a simple problem as choosing which colour to paint his kitchen, he was inert with hesitation. Which was almost certainly why, he reflected with a sigh, he was still a virgin at thirty-five. Women don't tend to go for ditherers, Hugh Grant notwithstanding.
Suddenly angry, he stood, snatched at a yard of toilet paper, wiped his arse vigorously. "I'll probably just end up getting Magnolia again. Who am I kidding?"
To his astonishment, this habitual rhetorical question received a reply for a change: A gruff little voice snarled "Not me, that's fer sure!"
Gordon, gasped in terror, instinctively pulling up his pants and flushing the toilet.
"Wh- who are you? WHERE are you??"
"I'm not a who, I'm a what. Get me out of here."
It was the toilet brush. Gordon pulled it out of its plastic holder, and held it up to his face.
"Excuse me, did you just say something?"
"Yeah. Now, listen, and listen well. I mean listen good. I am your Guardian Angel. And don't ask me why I've been embodied as a toilet brush, let's just say its Karma for some bad advice I gave during my last assignment."
Gordon seated himself calmly on the toilet. He was surprised at himself for dealing with this sudden fracture in reality so tranquilly. "So you're my guardian angel."
"Sort of. Or your conscience, if you prefer. There is a technical term, but it's long. Too long for me to tell you. Funnily enough it happens to be the longest word in the universe."
"A conscience. Like Jiminy Cricket."
"If you like. Only you're not a stupid wooden puppet, and I'm not one of the seven plagues."
"That was locusts. Jiminy Cr-"
"SHADDAP! You're what we consciences call a Passive Offender. You fuck up your life by refusing to take responsibility for your actions. You think that by never making a choice you'll never get the blame for anything. And look how you've ended up."
"I've ended being rebuked by my own bog-brush."
"Damn right. Lucky for you the Management decided you're not a hopeless case, although I have my doubts. Anyhow, that's why they sent me here. I'm here to help you get your marriage back on the rails. I'm here to help you get Jean back, kid."
"Who the hell is Jean?"
"Jean! Your wife."
"My wife? I'm not married.
"Not married? 'Course you're married. Oh shit. Wait. Waitasec."
"Are you Gordon B. Cropes, of 14, Spondula Drive?"
"No, I'm Gordon L. Crotchet. Of 14, Spadena Mansions.
"Oh, great. That's just great. I told those fuckin' imbeciles in dispatch, if they wanna upgrade their systems, do it after the Christmas rush. Sorry, kid. Well, it's been nice talkin' to ya."
"Hang on! Mr-- Mr Toilet Brush? Hello?"
"Wait! All that stuff you were saying about me. It's true, it's all true! You're right. I need help, I'm unable to take responsibility for anything! Help me. Help me. Please. Please..."
He shook the brush in anguish. But the toilet brush behaved as most toilet brushes do, that is to say, it remained stubbornly inanimate.
Gordon felt desolate. A teardrop welled up in his eye, almost resolved to take the plunge and trickle down his cheek; but instead, in characteristic Gordon style, it merely clung hesitantly to his eyelash. Gordon cleaned the bowl with the brush, wondering vaguely whether it was all a dream, and also why the brush had spoken exactly like Danny De Vito.
"Mind you", he thought, "if my head was used to wipe shit off toilet bowls, I'd probably end up talking like Danny De Vito too".
Gordon sat in the Northern Line tube, on his way to the office. Then he suddenly remembered that he'd been fired, and therefore there was no reason for him to be there.
It wasn't just due to habit; he was distracted: that imaginary conversation in the toilet (for that's what he now presumed it was) kept replaying in his head:
You think that by never making a choice you'll never get the blame for anything. And look how you've ended up.
"Excuse me?" The man sitting opposite him lowered his Daily Telegraph.
"I'm sorry, I must have spoken my thoughts aloud."
"Oh, don't apologize, I quite understand. You pathetic little wimp. See, I do it too."
The man returned to his newspaper.
An icy wind blew down Farringdon Road, blowing the crowd of commuters headlong towards the womblike safety of their nightless, weatherless offices. Gordon ducked into a doorway. His mobile phone was ringing.
It was a familiar voice.
"Hi, Kid. Sorry about the mix-up earlier. It's all straightened out."
"Mr Toilet Brush?" A passer-by glanced at him curiously, without slowing. Gordon lowered his voice:
"Where are you calling from?"
"About a quarter of an inch from your brain. It's me. I've materialised as your mobile phone. Good news: We're going to fix you up. We're going to make a new man out of you. And by the way, I have a name. It's Skizzix."
"Shut up and Listen. How it works is this: You're suffering from Chronic Assertion Deficit Disorder. Very common amongst the English. In severe cases like yours it can lead to all sorts of complications, divorce, losing your job, etcetera etcetera. Now, we can restore your assertiveness, but -- and pay attention to this bit -- only by removing a surplus from someone else. Someone's gotta pay."
Gordon paced the street, listening intently.
"You mean someone has to lose their assertiveness in order for me to gain it. I don't see why."
"That's because you know shit about the Conservation of Assertiveness. It's a basic law of physics. The Total amount of Pushiness in the Universe remains a Constant."
"Okay, who's the unlucky guy?"
"Well, here's where it gets good. You see, that's up to you."
Gordon stood at the pedestrian crossing. He looked up. Green man. He started to cross the street.
"Yes, I mean. It's your first test, don't you see? The first step towards becoming decisive. So, who's it gonna be? You must know someone who could withstand losing a little determination and can-do. Oh, and by the way, you have ten seconds to decide. Starting now."
The lights changed. Gordon walked at a snail's pace, searching his mind furiously for a candidate. A car hooted at him loudly, making him jump. He dropped the phone. The driver laughed, wound down his window, and called out to him.
"Hey, Gordon? What're you doing here?"
Gordon picked up the phone. He looked at the car. At the driver.
"Okay, Skizzix, I've got someone. His name is..."
SUBJECT B:LESSITER, MALCOM V.
The phone by the bed was ringing.
Mal appraised his reflection in the bathroom mirror as he shaved. Not bad. Not bad at all. The phone was still ringing. Camille was still in bed, right next to it. Lazy cow.
"Camille! Answer the fucking phone!"
But Camille didn't answer the phone. She was on the train to move in with a girl-friend in Totteridge. Mal found the tear-stained note by the phone.
"GOOD BYE FOR EVER, YOU FUCKING ARSEHOLE. YOURS SINCERELY, CAMILLE XXX. P.S. I WILL BE BACK FOR MY STUFF LATER."
He smiled sardonically. He'd been planning to tell her that it was all over anyway.
Mal had met Camille Crotchet through her brother, Gordon. Mal initially saw Gordon as just another straggler in the rat-race, someone he would quickly pass on his inexorable rise through the ranks of Silverman Brothers Finance. But then he met his sister Camille. She seemed perfect for him: Like her brother, weak-willed and easily manipulated. Plus she had a great bod. And being a married man was a distinct advantage if Mal wanted to make Managing Director within five years. But he'd found that the hassle of marriage had outweighed its career advantages.
So he'd decided to split, as soon as he'd found somewhere to move. But now, she'd solved this problem for him; he could stay here.
He was vaguely curious as to what had finally spurred the indecisive Camille into action.
Maybe his firing Gordon last week had something to do with it.
"Who knows. Who cares."
He made himself an espresso and turned his mind to work.
He revved the engine of his car, a BMW bristling with all the extras, making a cloud of steam in the chill Winter morning air. Mal glanced at the thermometer on his dashboard. Three degrees. He turned up the heating, and tuned the radio to Classic FM.
The traffic was heavy that morning. It took him forty-five minutes to reach Farringdon. He watched the crowd of commuters pour out of the station as he waited impatiently at the lights. Look at them! Faceless, aimless, mindless cannon-fodder. God he was glad to have got his own private office, away from their ceaseless nattering about Big Brother and the latest tabloid news. Look at that idiot, crossing the street, half-asleep. Mal hooted. The man dropped his phone.
But suddenly he recognized the "idiot". It was his brother-in-law, Gordon. And Gordon had recognized him.
And then Mal was no longer in his car; he was standing in Farringdon road, stooping to pick up a phone. He looked at the phone as he held it in his hand. That wasn't his phone. And that wasn't his hand.
It took Gordon a moment to realise something had gone dreadfully wrong. Here he was, driving his car to work as usual, when it occurred to him that he didn't even own a car. And then the car radio spoke to him. It was Skizzix.
"Gordon. Hi. Look. There's been another mix-up. You've temporarily swapped personalities with this other guy. Malcolm Lessiter. He's--"
"—my brother-in-law. And my ex-boss. Yes. Yes. I know. Well, you better swap us back, then, hadn't you? If I'd have known we were going to exchange bodies, I'd have chosen someone else, believe me."
"Yes. Well. There's a teeny problem there. Wait."
Gordon waited for Skizzix to continue. He heard muffled shouting, as though Skizzix were dealing with another client. He guessed it was Mal.
"Okay, I'm back. Yes. A problem. It'll take a couple of days to sort out."
Gordon exhaled. "I see. A couple of days. And meanwhile?"
"Meanwhile it's vital that you don't let on to anyone that anything's wrong. I mean, really vital. Otherwise I don't know if I can restore your identities."
"'Really vital'? Why? I think you're just worried that you'll lose your job over this."
"Look, I'll level with ya. I'm new to this. In fact you're only my second assignment. But I'm serious about keeping it quiet. If they find out, the first thing the management will do is devolve the two of you."
"Yeah. You know, devolve you into some kind simpler organism. Like a threadworm. Or maybe a slug. If you're lucky, you might become an accountant. Nah, just kiddin', most likely a slug. Or possibly-"
"Look. I don't want to know. Just, just do what you can."
"Oh, I will, don't worry about that. Listen. If you keep this quiet, I promise you, I'll make it up to you. In the meantime just act normal, go to work, then go on home. Not your home of course, Malcolm Lessiter's home."
"Home. Yes, to my wife, who's also my sister."
"Nope: Your wife left you this morning. She couldn't stand you any longer. She's moved out for good."
Gordon parked the car.
"Excuse me, I suddenly feel - tired," he said.
"It's the shock. Call in sick, and go home. Tell you what, I'll drive. Just put your hands on the wheel."
Gordon remembered little of the journey home.
Mal awoke in a strange bed, to the sound of jangling keys.
A woman switched on the bedroom light.
"Don't get up. I won't be long. I'm picking up my stuff."
"Who did you think it would be? The Truth Fairy?"
"Tooth Fairy." Mal sat up groggily.
He farted, loudly. "What the hell did I eat?" he asked himself.
"Well, how the hell should I know? You probably ordered take away Chicken Jalfrezi to celebrate my going."
Mal burped, and found that she was right. Funny, he couldn't normally stand Chicken Jalfrezi.
Then he remembered: He wasn't Mal, he was Gordon. And he didn't belong in Mal's flat.
"Look, I better go."
"I told you, don't bother. I'll only be a minute."
Camille tried to reach a suitcase from the top of the wardrobe. Gordon jumped out of bed and helped her get it down. He was annoyed to find that Mal's body was a lot firmer and stronger than his own.
He caught sight of his reflection in the mirror of the wardrobe. He was transfixed. He studied Mal's muscled body, until Camille's derisive snort checked him.
He looked at her. She'd aged in the last few months.
"God, what's happened to you?" he blurted. "You look terrible."
"That's fucking rich."
Christ, look what Malcolm had done to her. A sudden protective impulse overtook Gordon. He would save his sister from the clutches of the Bad Guy.
"Sorry. I mean, can't we talk about it, Camille?"
He put the case on the floor. She didn't thank him, but he detected a slight weakening of her resolve. Of course: She was a weak-willed Crotchet like him.
Camille sat on the bed. And started sobbing.
Gordon sat next to her, and touched her shoulder gingerly. She sobbed louder. He removed his hand.
"Look, Camille. Please give me another chance. I know I've been a bastard up to now. But I'm going to make sure that I behave myself with you from now on. Just give it, say, two days. After that, we can talk about it. I promise."
Camille looked up at him, hopefully.
"No more 'Thai meals'?"
"No more meals." He wasn't sure what exactly she was referring to, but he had a pretty good idea.
She stood and took off her coat. "I need a drink."
Malcolm didn't like the way she said that; like she said it often.
Camille disappeared into the kitchen. He heard a bottle being opened, and a clink of glass.
She took her time in the kitchen. Longer than it took to pour a drink. She returned, walking unsteadily.
She kicked off her shoes and flopped down onto the bed heavily next to him.
She lay for a minute, then propped herself up against the pillow. He could smell brandy and perfume.
She began to unbutton her blouse. Gordon found to his dismay he was watching her -- and getting hard.
"It's Thursday. Aren't you going to fuck me?"
He stood up quickly and faced away. "Let's watch TV."
"What's the matter? C'mon, don't you want a little make-up sex?"
Gordon stared at the wall opposite. "It's wrong. I mean I don't think we should."
"You know, for once, I think you may be right. Here." She held out the remote for him. He turned and took it. His hard-on poked out of his underpants.
He ran into the bathroom and shut the door.
"Mal? What is it?" she called.
"Nothing. I feel sick."
"You're acting really weird."
Gordon rushed to the toilet bowl and bent over it. His eye caught a toilet brush beside it. He snatched it and hissed: "Skizzix! Skizzix! Answer me, dammit!"
He paced the room, throttling the toilet brush. He noticed his reflection, and slowed. He pushed down his underpants.
"Jesus Christ! I'm hung like a fucking horse!"
He saw that Camille had been watching him from the doorway, unsure whether to laugh or call a doctor.
He started babbling incoherently, which saved him: Camille told him not to worry, it was probably food poisoning. She led him back to bed, and tucked him in. She brought him hot water and aspirin, and plumped up his pillow.
"Now you lie there, silly. Better?"
"Yes." Yes, he thought, Gordon had always loved his Kid Sister. But just not in that way. Or had he?
"Don't worry, babe. Go to sleep." She lay down next to him. She twisted her hair round her finger while she watched TV.
He'd always liked her hair. He remembered when they were little kids, how he'd cried during her first visit to the hairdressers. He'd picked up the cuttings off the floor and tried to put them back onto her head.
He wished he could remind her about that. But of course Mal didn't know about it, so he couldn't.
Gordon felt sleep coming over him again. With a yawn he asked Camille if she was angry that he'd fired her brother from Silverman's.
"Not really. I don't think he was happy there. He wasn't getting anywhere. You probably did him a favour. I only wish he'd forgive me."
"Forgive you? What for?"
"For marrying you, of course."
Gordon thought about that one. Too complicated. He fell asleep.
Mal hurled the mobile phone onto the pavement in disgust. It was well made, it didn't break. He wasn't happy about this. He'd screamed abuse at Skizzix, oblivious to the frightened stares of the passers by, until he'd finally given up. So. He had to be Gordon for two days. Right: He'd get his own back. Oh, yes: He'd abuse Gordon's body so much that when Gordon got it back he'd wish he'd never been born.
He paced quickly down Bridge Approach till he reached the riverside. He sat on a bench and opened Gordon's wallet.
"Driving licence. Ugh." Mal had seen Gordon's photo.
"Ah. Credit Cards. Good. No, I've got an even better idea."
He stuffed the cards back in the wallet and made his way purposefully back up towards the City. He guessed that Gordon would probably bank at the Barclays near Silverman's main office.
"You want to withdraw everything, Mr Crotchet?"
"Please hold on a moment."
The manager came out.
"Mr. Crotchet, I can't believe what I've just heard. You're not displeased with our service in any way, are you?"
"I- want - to- withdraw -- all my money. Now. D'you understand?"
"But think, Mr. Crotchet. In the first place, we don't keep that amount of money here. In the second place, do you think it's a good idea to walk around with ninety-"
The manager stopped, looked around, continued in a whisper:
"-ninety thousand pounds in cash? Surely you can see-"