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Suuare 1/2 [M/F Red Shoes Diary]
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
NOTE! I am posting this for a friend who does not have newsgroup
access. Please do not reply to this to reach her, because you'll reach
me instead. Her e-mail address is listed below. --kms
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The following story contains characters trademarked by Zalman King
Productions, specifically, Red Shoes Diaries. No infringment of copyright
is intended.
If you are a native speaker of French, be forgiving.
If you have not seen "Jake's Story" on Showtime's "Red Shoe Diaries" this
story may confuse you. And yes, the story does have sex in it, persevere!
Sarah Stegall
[email protected]
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SUUARE (part 1 of 2)
by Sarah Stegall
He could not get her out of his mind.
Even when he'd been with Kate, her face had been in his mind. It was
her face, her mouth, her eyes, her sultry grace and her lithe body that
had been before him even as he held another woman in his arms. Now Kate
was gone and the other was still with him, bedeviling his days and nights.
He didn't even know her name.
Jake woke as he always did these days, sprawled face down and naked
across the white sheets, a pillow clutched against him. He hadn't slept
like that in years, not since he was an awkward, gawky teenager who
couldn't get through the night without half a dozen wet dreams. In those
days, before he'd ever held a real woman in his arms, the pillow made do
for all the women in his fantasies--hot, beautiful, and agile. To be
reduced to this again after so many years was humiliating.
Yet, the alternative was too painful to think about.
Jake rolled upright and sat on the edge of the bed, holding his head
in his hands. His eyes felt as though they were filled with sand. He
looked down; he was hard as a rock this morning. He snorted. Well, some
things never changed, at least. Not that it did him any damn good.
In the shower he tried to focus, to plan his day. He shaved under
the running water, hating the safety razor. Most of his life he had used
his grandfather's old-fashioned straight razor; after Alex had used it to
kill herself, he had destroyed it. Still, he couldn't get used to the
clumsiness of the safety razor, the cheap construction, the inelegant
design of it after the sleek perfection of honed steel. He sighed. Maybe
he should try an electric razor-- he shuddered.
He put some toast on and sat down to go through the paper. War in
the Middle East. Political scandal. Two drive-by shootings overnight.
He turned to the arts section: two plays, a new act at his favorite blues
club.
And a gallery opening.
"Viewpoint: A Collection by Kate Lyons". It was showing at a small
but trendy gallery on the north side.
He thought of Kate, slim and cool and blonde, with her beautiful
lying mouth and her brilliant lying eyes. For a moment, for a tiny
moment, he had thought she loved him, thought she wanted him, but she had
only wanted the image of him she held in her mind. It had all been a
charade: the fashionable loft, the photography studio, the image she
presented to the world of the sophisticated, detached photographer. And
all of it supported by her staid, respectable, anonymous rich man--the
husband she introduced him to only when he was getting too close to her.
Damn her.
And inevitably, he thought about her, the woman Kate had
photographed, the woman she had used to seduce him. Kate had taken him on
a surprise trip to a remote trailer, where a biker buddy of hers (and
where had she found him? Jake often wondered) and a beautiful Eurasian
girl had posed for her. The girl had coiled and slid and curved in the
tattooed man's arms, sleek and lovely, a sloe-eyed courtesan who had
looked not at her partner, but at Jake.
She had looked at him, and that look went through him like a bolt of
lightning. He'd felt the walls coming down, the dam in him breaking after
so many months of guilt and denial and shame and loss and grief. And in
that newly vulnerable state, Kate had moved in and claimed him with the
expertise born of long practice.
But Kate was gone now, of her own accord, and he was alone again.
And all he could think about, dream about, was the beautiful Eurasian
woman she had photographed.
Jake looked at the newspaper again. Would those photographs be in
the exhibit?
He should forget it. He should ignore it. He didn't need this. He
needed to work. He needed to forget.
He left the toast on his plate and headed for the door.
Why was he so nervous? This is absurd, Jake told himself. Still, he
couldn't make himself go into the tiny gallery on North Third. It was a
beautiful spring day, with the brilliance that Los Angeles could show when
she wanted, when the smog lifted, when the winds blew clean and fresh from
the Pacific. People on the sidewalk actually smiled; three tanned and
supple women on rollerblades greeted him with more than simple
friendliness as they rolled past. He hunched his shoulders, stooping as
he always did when he was uneasy, thrusting his fists into his pockets.
He could not go in there.
The gallery was a converted storefront; the front window was still a
display area. Against the stark grey drapes, only one photograph was
exhibited: a stark construction of concrete shapes and shadows. A
discreet sign in the window named it the work of Kate Lyons.
What if she was in there?
A more horrible thought struck him. What if he, Jake, was in there?
Kate had photographed him, stalking him with her long range lenses and her
cameras. He had only discovered it by accident, one of her many secrets,
when he found her private collection.
"These are for me," she had said. "No one will see them except me."
That was before he found out what a liar she was.
What if he went in and found his own face staring back at him, his
private moments hung up on those walls for the world to look at? The
thought made him want to turn and run- -until he remembered that her face
might be in there.
He was blinking after the brightness of the day outside, letting his
eyes adjust to the darkness inside the gallery before he realized he had
changed his mind. The gallery was tiny, no more than two rooms. A man
lounged behind a desk, reading "Spy" and smoking despite the "No Smoking"
sign. Jake glanced around nervously, ready to bolt, but the only other
patron in the place was an older man walking slowly from exhibit to
exhibit.
Hesitantly, Jake drifted to the nearest wall. The work was fine, if
sterile. The first room was a series of architectural studies--buildings
and scaffolds and the play of shadow and sun across urban towers, without
a single human figure in any of the pictures. He knew now where she had
first seen him: his own building was there, polished and towering,
dominating the monumental landscape around it. He was proud of it, and
pleased at the photograph. He lingered a moment, appreciating her skill,
and then moved on.
The older man had left, so Jake was alone when he stepped into the
tiny second room with its crowd of faces, bodies, images. It was as if
the empty images in the front room had been displayed solely to contrast
with this congregation of faces. Everywhere he looked there were eyes,
limbs, breasts, feet, mouths. Women, men, and images where it was
impossible to tell whether that smooth expanse of back or arm or cheek was
male or female. It reminded him of Robert Mapplethorpe's work. It was
very, very good.
Under a spotlight in the corner, he found the face that had possessed
him for seven months.
Her eyes were rounder than he remembered, her mouth more full, but
the breasts and the smoldering look under the black lashes were the same,
only more real, more alive. Jake felt his breath come short as he moved
from one photograph to the other, drinking her in, seeing again the body
and the eyes and the long waterfall of her hair. His whole body tingled;
he felt every separate touch of his own clothes against his skin. The
last photograph held him mesmerized: she was looking towards the camera,
that drugged, dreamy look in her dark eyes, looking past the man holding
her, past the camera, past the photographer.
At him.
He'd been standing behind Kate, his eyes locked on the woman's,
feeling his limbs loosen and his heart speed up, feeling a change come
over him like winter giving way to ripe summer. Unable to bear it, he had
run from the trailer.
Now in this dark room, under the spotlight, he'd found her again.
He walked back into the front room. His wallet slapped the desk and
the smoking man looked up.
"Yes?"
"How much?"
The man was younger than Jake had thought, blond and tan and with
sleepy eyes. He sat up slowly, putting the magazine down. He looked from
the wallet to Jake and back. "How much for what?"
"I want some of the photographs in the back room. Are they for
sale?"
The boy's eyes changed, his expression became knowing. "Some of 'em.
Which ones did you want?"
Jake was beyond embarrassment. Once he would have been mortified to
stand here and demand a photograph of a woman he didn't know, would never
see again, admitting to his obsession in public. Now he didn't care. His
only fear was that Kate didn't want the money, and that none of the
pictures were for sale.
"The ones in the very back, with the...the Oriental woman and the
tattooed man." He hoped he wasn't blushing; put that baldly, it sounded
like he was buying something at an XXX-rated bookstore.
The boy wasn't quite leering, but it was close. "Yeah, they're
pretty hot. Kate likes 'em. Which one did you want."
"All of them."
The boy's eyebrows shot up. "That'll be pretty steep. Like I said,
Kate likes 'em. She charges more for the ones she likes."
"Is she...is she here?" Jake asked hesitantly.
"Nah. She never comes down here. But she left me a price list.
Here, hang on." The young man rummaged in the desk, pulling out lists,
invitations, flyers in an untidy heap. Jake fought his impatience. In
the back of his mind her image burned, dark eyed and piquant.
"What's her name?" he burst out.
The younger man looked up, startled. "What? Whose name? Kate's?"
Jake knew he was blushing, and made his face stone. "No. The woman
in the pictures."
Now the boy was openly leering. "I have no idea. She's pretty hot,
huh?" At last, thank god, the boy found the price list. "Oh. Well, Kate
wants two hundred apiece for them. Pretty steep."
Jake could have laughed. There was no price he would not have paid
for those pictures. He tossed the boy his American Express Gold card and
said, "Ring it up. All of them."
Then, just in time, he remembered that his name would be on the
charge slip. Kate would know who had bought her photographs. And she
would know why. More of his secrets stolen from him, he thought. Damn
her anyway. He hoped he never saw her again. He picked up the Gold card
and put it back in his wallet. "Cash," he said, hoping he had enough on
him.
He hurried home in the growling traffic, intently aware of the flat
package on the seat beside him.
He rolled down the window to feel the breeze but got only the stink
of diesel from a dump truck in the next lane. One hand drifted over to lie
flat on the wrapped pictures. To lie on her. He could hardly wait to rip
the paper off, to see her face, to put his hands where his eyes had
been...
Stella greeted him effusively at the door, jumping up on her back
legs and pawing at him. He hadn't walked her all day, and she was
overdue, but he couldn't, he could not bring himself to put the pictures
down. Jake flung his coat in one direction, his tie in another, kicked
off his shoes and threw himself across his unmade bed. The paper tore
away in long, luxurious strips, and then at last she was in his hands.
Her eyes burned through him like headlights. They were dark and
alive and awake, staring at him, into him, through him. Her mouth was a
full pout, he remembered how luscious her lips had been, sulky and sweet
at the same time, hiding secrets he wanted to taste. And her body...
What was he doing? He put the pictures aside and sat cross-legged on
the bed, holding his head in his hands. God, he was getting aroused over
some pictures. He was possessed by a photograph, for Christ's sake. As
if he weren't a grown man, able to find a real woman, able to take a real
woman to his bed. Was there something wrong with him? He spent his days
building in stone and steel, and his nights reading the confessions of
strangers. There were few friends in his life, and no lovers. The only
women he had ever loved had betrayed him. Had betrayed themselves.
Slowly, his breathing came back to normal. He unfolded his long legs
and got off the bed. He went into the kitchen to make dinner. Since Alex
died, he hadn't cared for cooking, since there was no one else to cook
for. His brief romance with Kate had been over too soon to progress to
that stage where he could cook for her. Tonight, though, he was hungry
and unwilling to settle for some second-rate restaurant meal served by
strangers.
He lost himself now in the familiar routine, getting out the onions
and the mushrooms and the wine. He stopped briefly to put on a Richie
Sambora CD, then went back to making Gratin de Pommes de Terre aux
Anchois. He hadn't had it in years.
"You never find a reason why love falls from grace
Some kind of voodoo, like a spirit you can't embrace
There's a voice in the mirror, and a ghost in my heart
That relives the passion before we were torn apart..."
When he finally sat down to eat, he propped the
photograph at the other end of the table.
She knew that the dark glasses would not disguise her, but hoped
anyway. She'd hidden her hair under a scarf, and was wearing the most
conservative business suit her dressmaker would permit her to wear
("Madam, you cannot go out looking like a secretary! Here, try the
sapphire blouse..."). Her makeup was conservative to the point of
invisibility. But as soon as the boy looked up from his magazine, he
recognized her. She could see his eyes change before they dropped in
embarrassment. She had seen it before. She sighed. There was no use
pretending.
"I want to buy the pictures," she said carefully. "All of them."
She didn't have to explain which ones she meant.
The boy looked up, startled. She saw his almost involuntary
appraisal, knew that he was seeing not the raw beige silk suit, the
pearls, the ivory satin blouse, but the breasts and belly and legs under
it, from the photograph. It was always that way. This one was actually
smiling, though.
"That's funny. I sit here for two days and no one buys a thing. Now
twice in one day I get customers for the same pictures."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You're too late. Ma'am." He looked suddenly awkward. "A...a guy
came in and bought every one of the pictures of you. This morning."
She opened her handbag, drew out a hundred dollar bill. She held it
out to the boy, saw his eyes go wide. It was crude, she knew, but she was
impatient and desperate and didn't know how to be subtle about it. "What
was his name?"
The boy reached out but didn't take the money. "I'm sorry," he said
sincerely. "I really am. But he paid cash. I don't know his name."
She laid the money down on the table and put her card on top of it.
"If he comes back, say nothing, but call me."
He picked up the hundred dollar bill and tucked it into his shirt
pocket. "I will. Thank you. Did you...did you just want those
pictures?"
"Yes."
The boy hesitated, then pulled open a drawer. "I have Kate's address
here, if you want more--"
He halted as he caught sight of her eyes.
"No," she said coldly. "I have it."
She turned and walked out into the sunlight.
Her driver scrambled to open the door for her and she slipped into
the cool, quiet interior. Private, so private. No one could see her
behind the smoked glass windows. She was safe here.
"Ma'am?" the driver was saying, looking in his rear view mirror.
"Take me back to the penthouse," she said absently. She leaned her
cheek on her hand and looked out the window as they glided away from the
curb.
He went to every photography and art gallery in the city of Los
Angeles, hoping she was a professional model. He haunted model and talent
agencies with her photograph. No one knew her. Remembering the tattooed
man, he even went to biker bars and tattoo shops, places he had never
wanted to go, places that repulsed him. No one recognized her.
He told no one, not Paul, his partner, nor anyone else about her.
She was his secret obsession, the face that overpowered his reason and
beset his dreams. He began to despair of ever finding her.
"Jake, we need to talk," said Paul. The big blond German's face was
creased with worry. "I need to know what is going on with you."
Jake had come into the office late, as usual, throwing his raincoat
carelessly across the client's couch and sinking moodily into the steel
and leather chair behind his desk. His office was spare, clean,
industrial. Paul, who hung pastel watercolors in his office and put
Oriental rugs on the floor, called it Jake's laboratory.
"Nothing is going on," said Jake.
"Don't bullshit me," said Paul. He swung a leg over the chair facing
Jake's desk. "I've known you too long. Is it Alex, still?"
Jake shrugged. "I don't want to talk about it," he said warningly.
He and Paul had been partners--brothers almost--for ten years, but Jake
would not, could not open up his deep pain even to Paul. Alex was an
intensely private grief; the weight of her dead body in his arms would
haunt him for the rest of his life.
"Okay, okay." Paul held up his hands in a warding-off gesture. "You
know you can talk to me anytime, Jake. But I need to know right now if I
can count you in on my presentations."
Paul was the salesman, the pragmatist who turned Jake's genius into
contracts and permits and award-winning designs. Their partnership had
been very successful over the years; Paul knew his end of the business and
Jake never interfered with it.
"What presentations? Are we taking on anything big?"
Paul shook his head. "I submitted a proposal on the Minneapolis
Civic Center renovation project, and the Cincinnati Museum of Art, but I
haven't heard anything back yet."
Jake sighed. Projects that big made and broke an architect's
reputation. He hadn't taken on any really big commissions since Alex
died. He knew Paul was worried that they would slip behind the
competition, but appreciated the fact that Paul hadn't nagged about it.
"Anything smaller?"
The German shrugged. "A couple of small clients. A guy who wants to
add an extension to his stables out in Santa Rita. A client who wants a
solarium or greenhouse added onto a downtown penthouse."
Jake rubbed his eyes. Familiar as the routine had been for most of
his life, now it all sounded so strange and distant from the ache that
suffused his life these days. "Okay. I'll talk to the solarium. When?"
"Today. Two o'clock."
"Fine."
Paul stood, hesitated. "Jake, is there anything I can do?"
Yes, he thought. Find me a girl with eyes like dark fire, who can
look through a man's soul and leave him helpless. But he said, "No, I'll
be okay. Thanks."
"Two o'clock."
"I'll be here."
She sat in the restaurant, oblivious to the stares, and toyed with
her salad. It was a way to kill time. She had never had the luxury of
killing time before, so the sensation was still new and interesting.
Boredom had not yet bored her.
Still, there was this emptiness inside, and she did not know how to
fill it. Experience taught her that the obvious solution, a man, would
not work.
It was never the right man at the right time, she thought. For so
long she had had few choices, and now that she had infinitely many none
suited. She had been merely material to the men she modeled for, another
shape to light and photograph and drape and paint. She had been a trophy
for the rich men and a prize for the poor men, and nothing for herself.
Poverty and a certain aimless despair had consumed her, and she had
allowed herself to drift on the currents of trendy, hustling Los Angeles,
her face and her body the passport to places she didn't really want to be.
But she'd had no better place to be, no one better to be with than the
famous or the rapacious or the twisted. She had not been terribly hurt,
but she had not been happy, either, only bored and hungry and purposeless.
Now, finding that she could indulge herself in anything, she found she
wanted nothing.
Or almost nothing.
Now and then, as she was drifting off to sleep, or waking up, or
thinking about something else entirely, a face and eyes and mouth would
come to mind. She had seen him only briefly, for a few moments, before he
turned and left her to her boring, silly assignment and the pretentious
woman with the camera. A long, elegant body simply dressed, an expressive
face and a mobile, sensitive mouth. And eyes that held pain and grief and
desire. Eyes that had looked at her and through her, as if unable to bear
the sight of her.
She had not known his name. She would have liked to see him smile.
The limousine pulled smoothly up to the curb. Before her hand
reached the door latch, her driver was opening it, standing back for her.
She put her sunglasses on and stepped out.
Shopping, always shopping. Not that she ever bought anything. She
had had so little, wanted so much. Now she wanted nothing. Or rather,
she wanted something to fill the emptiness, but didn't know what it was.
The only thing that had helped were the plants. Green, growing, living
things that grew and fought for territory and bloomed and died-- these
silent struggles she understood, layered beneath the beauty of broceliad
and lily and orchid. This, she could lavish her care on. A private
jungle, for her alone, to hide in.
She stepped into the lobby, headed for the elevator.
Marilyn opened the door to his office, smiling. "Jake? Your two
o'clock is here."
The solarium builder, he remembered. He sighed. Another society
dowager who would ruin the silhouette, the balance of a beautiful tower
just so her plants wouldn't have to sweat through the Los Angeles summer.
"Show her in," he said.
He smiled his professional smile, and then the smile was wiped from
his face as though it had never been.
"My God!" he said with an indrawn breath.
The door closed softly behind her. He came around his desk, headed
for her, but halted.
She recognized the hazel eyes at once, and had no words for the
feeling that went through her. But instinct and long habit made her step
back, putting more distance between them. He stepped forward again, as
though drawn on a leash. He reached out but didn't touch her.
"It's you, isn't it," he said wonderingly. "From the trailer..."
Her lips made a thin line. "And you...were watching." She made her
face as expressionless as possible. "Did you enjoy it?"
"Yes, I did," he said helplessly. What could he say? You mesmerize
me? I'm obsessed with you? And by the way, what's your name? "I...I
even bought some of the pictures."
Immediately he regretted saying that. It sounded like a come-on.
Standing here before him in her linen and silk, looking like an ad out of
Vogue, she didn't look like the kind of woman who would pose naked with a
tattooed man. Probably she would be angry with him.
"You have the pictures?" her voice asked sharply.
What was that trace of accent? he wondered. "Yes. I bought them
from the gallery."
There was a tiny silence. "You know Kate." She said it as a
statement, not a question.
"Yes," he said neutrally. "I knew her." He emphasized the past
tense, and saw by the tense way her mouth (that mouth!) turned down that
she had understood him.
"She told me where they were being shown. I got to the gallery after
you bought them," she said slowly. "They didn't know your name."
He stuck out his hand. "My name is Jake," he said.
For a moment, he thought she wouldn't shake his hand, and he felt
bitterness wash over him. Well, why not? he had stood and watched her
prostitute herself to the camera, like a man at a peepshow. Why should she
shake his hand?
But she did, and at her touch he felt his body begin to sing. Her
hand was soft and cool and slender in his.
"Suuare." She said it slowly, letting him get used to the sound of
it. Soo-ARE-ay. As exotic as she was, as fascinating. Her eyes,
revealed now, were wide and liquid and alive. He had never seen her
standing before, and he found that she was much shorter than he had
thought, a tiny little waif of a woman. Jake felt things happening in
him, things he hadn't felt in a long time, things he hadn't wanted to feel
again.
"Suuare," he whispered, the syllables flowing like wine on his
tongue. "A beautiful name."
She pulled her hand away. "Will you sell me your pictures?" she
asked.
"If you'll tell me why you want them," he said boldly.
She looked away. "Isn't it obvious? Would you want pictures of you,
like that, displayed for all to see?"
"Then why did you pose for them?"
She shrugged. "I needed the money."
His glance took in her clothing--tailored, subtle, expensive. A year
with Alex had taught him a lot about women's clothing, and he knew haute
couture when he saw it. What the hell was a stripper, a model, doing
wearing Adolfo?
"You don't look like you need it now," he was saying. "Kate must have
paid pretty well."
He instantly regretted that, and wanted to kick himself. What was
the matter with him?
She opened her bag and rummaged in it for a moment. She brought out a
keychain with a large tag on it. He saw it wink and flash in the light
slanting in through the window. She turned the tag face up and held it
out for him to see.
It was done in enamels, an incredibly expensive extravagance. But it
was obvious why: it was a jewelled replica of a California lottery
ticket, with all six numbers circled in red.
It took him a minute to figure it out, and then his eyes widened.
"You won the lottery?"
"Four months ago. I can afford the pictures."
He watched her put the copy of the ticket away. "And you're buying
all the prints?"
"Kate will not sell the negatives at any price," Suuare said calmly.
"But I can buy the prints as they appear on the market."
Jake bit the inside of his cheek. "That sounds like her. Bitch."
Suuare looked surprised at this. "You're her...friend." The way she
said it didn't mean "friend".
"No." His reply was brief but final. "No more than you are.
She...used us both that night."
Suuare looked up at him, as though seeing him for the first time.
They were the same eyes, hazel, intense, focused solely on her. She
remembered them, the hot way he had looked at her while the camera clicked
away. She had assumed he was Kate's assistant, her lover, her sponsor.
Or that he had paid to watch. Now she saw him as a victim, in a way, of
the arrogant blonde with the expensive hobby.
"I'm sorry."
"I'm not," he said softly, and took her hand. "I met you."
She stood still, unable to move. His hand was large and warm and
sensitive, folding her small one into his protectively. She didn't often
touch men or allow them to touch her anymore, not since the day six
numbers had changed her life. But this one--Jake--was different. He
didn't feel like a stranger, she thought. Probably because he had so
often been in her thoughts. His thumb swept slowly across the back of her
hand. He raised it slowly to his mouth and kissed it, his lips warm and
soft.
He smiled, and she was startled at the transformation. His closed,
solemn face suddenly became boyish and open. "Suuare," he breathed her
name. "I am very, very glad to meet you. Again. Will you have dinner
with me?"
No, she thought. She had just escaped from all this. She didn't need
to get entangled with a man. And she didn't want to get entangled with
this one, especially. This one was dangerous. He would threaten her
peace of mind as no other. And if he turned out like the others...it
would hurt. It would hurt a lot. But she found herself nodding, unable
to resist that smile.
Jake ran down a list of restaurants in his mind. For this meal, he
wanted champagne and strawberries and a quiet, dark corner to be with her.
Instead, they would get snotty service and overpriced, overcooked food.
"Tell you what," he said. "Let me make you dinner. I'll give you the
pictures and we can talk."
Warily she looked up at him. "Talk?"
He ignored what his own body was urging on him, and nodded. "Just
talk, okay?"
She didn't trust him. He could feel the suspicion--in her hand,
still in his. He forced himself to be still, to wait for her to relax
with him. "I'm a pretty good hand with a food processor," he said.
She took a deep breath, and her perfume wafted toward him. He
trembled slightly. "All right," she said slowly.
Springtime opened in him. He smiled.
####
continued next file
--
Kellie Matthews-Simmons//[email protected]
Member: SFLA&EBS, PSEB, DDEB, X-phile "Ego veno eos in vulcos minos."
"Sometimes the need to mess with their heads outweighs the millstone of
humiliation." --Fox Mulder, X-Files "Squeeze"
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