The icing on the cake!

[We wargamers are so spoiled these days - we need our eye candy!  )

Rolling a Six: In which FSN finds his power, and Leon's true nature is revealed.

FSN was happily asleep, dreaming of white rooms and red clad curves. He was woken by the sound of the wardrobe door opening – well by the consequent sound of the bowl of water he had carefully placed atop the door making a connection with his next guest's head.

"FSN, you utter, utter, UTTER barsteward."

"Can't swear? That a hangover from last year's 'FSN in Pendrakenland."  FSN rubbed his eyes.

"You oik! You guttersnipe! You pain in the fundament!" His new visitor was dressed in a very tight black leotard, with a white front, which showed off his 'manly' physique in every eye-watering  detail. His limbs were similarly clad in tight fitting black. His head was covered in a back balaclava affair, upon which perched little cat ears. His face was obscured by a mask resembling a snarling cat.

"Fierce Kitty, I presume?"

"Nah," replied the apparition, mopping water off its ears in a curiously cat-like motion.

"Oh, I just assumed because of the costume ..."

"Nah. It's Mad Lemmey." He examined his tail. "Last costume in the shop."

"Nice to meet you – pull up a chair and take off your mask."

"Can't" said the cat-creature, placing a buttock on the bedroom chair. Why he'd brought it, he wasn't sure. "You've never seen my face, so you can't imagine me properly."

"So you're a figment of my imagination?"

"Yeah. Sort of. It's all really your twisted mind that created all this. All your own fault."

"So, if I try really, really hard, I can change the way you look."

"S'pose so." Responded cat-Lemmey. Then the awful realisation of what he had said took hold. "Don't you dare ... you utter, utter barsteward FSN ..." But he was too late. FSN had screwed up his face in a mask of supreme concentration. Lemmey felt his legs elongate, his waist slim, his chest bubble up. FSN peeped with one eye, and smiled his satisfaction. He returned to concentrating and imagining.

"FSN, if I ever meet you in real life ... " The voice was higher. He – she could feel his-her hair growing and coiling down his-her back. FSN opened his eyes and clapped his hands with pleasure.

"Much better!" Lemmey was now a beautiful female. The costume was also much attenuated to show off the new physique. Unfortunately, the Lemmey spirit still dwelt within so FSN was confronted with a beautiful girl in a glamorous cat-costume sitting like a docker.

"Could you ease off on the costume?" squawked the cat. "It's cutting up me stern something rotten!" FSN smiled and shook his head.

"We all have to suffer for my art."

"Let's just get on with this shall we?" Cat Lemmey tried his/her new high heeled black patent shoes and found them, not comfortable, but somehow exciting. FSN followed the gaze and became entranced with the shiny black shoes. So dark, so shiny, so ...

"You perving my feet?" FSN was brought back to what passed for reality.  He looked about him. The room he found himself was straight out of a dystopian steam-punk nightmare. The walls were curved iron, riven with great hexagonal bolts and affixed with dark portraits in huge gilt frames. Across the ceiling, pipes hissed and gurgled gently. The floor was covered in brightly patterned rugs. The furniture was all solid mahogany. A large desk was set with a green leather writing set, which matched the huge leather chair behind it. Light was provided by guttering gas lamps, which gave eerie shadows over the most striking feature of the room. FSN gasped as he beheld an ancient machine, the purpose of which he could not fathom, but it was the skeleton chained to the machine that gave him a shiver of horror.  Before he could ask Cat Lemmey where they were, a portion of the wall slid back and a figure entered the room.

"Leon!" Exclaimed FSN! Indeed it was he, dressed in a purple frock coat and fresh cravat over a crisp white shirt and green waistcoat. FSN peered intently but could behold no difference in the apparition from FSN's own time. Leon bowed slightly at the skeleton and murmured "it's what he would have wanted."

"When is this, Spirit?" Asked FSN. His spirit guide stopped gazing down the front of his/her leotard and answered vaguely "twenty three years in the future."         

"Really?" Asked FSN, distractedly joining Cat Lemmey in his/her inspection.

"This ain't for you!" Snapped Lemmey, allowing the leotard to fall back into place. FSN reluctantly turned to watch Leon, who stopped in front of one of the paintings. This showed a horrifically disfigured character, wild eyed and depraved, glaring out of the picture, hating the world, despising all who lived in it and reflecting an inner self loathing of a black and inhuman soul.

"Orcs?" Asked FSN.

"Nah." Said Cat Lemmey, considering that this was the first time stroking his own backside had been so much fun. "Leon's look ain't due to clean living and fruit smoothies."   Their collective attention was drawn to the sound of the telephone on Leon's desk. It didn't ring so much as moan. Leon ignored it for a few moments then picked up the receiver reluctantly.

"Pendraken Subterranean Elephant." He purred. He listened abstractly, paying more attention to the contents of his nasal passages than to the caller.

"Who?" He asked irritably. "Oh! FSN. You're FSN's daughter." Leon sat irritably down on the green leather chair and stabbed at the blotter with an ornate letter opener. "How is the old ... chap?" He paused.

"Oh! Dead, you say!" Leon fist pumped the air and stood to do his happy dance, before remembering who he was talking to. "My condolences. Did he die slowly and painfully?" Watching FSN could swear that Leon mouthed "I hope".

"Oh. Quickly and painlessly." Leon seemed crestfallen. "Yes, making the E100 in metal was a bit of a slight miscalculation on our part ... not that we accept liability." He hastily added. Leon listened to the receiver for a few moments.

"Yes, he came up with the Dark Lord theme. Not that there's a word of truth in it! Ha ha!" Another section of the wall slid back and Leon angrily shooed away the casting dwarves attempting an audience with their master.

"You want someone to represent Pendraken at the funeral?" Leon cleaned his free ear with the letter opener. "Oh, I can't make it that day, I'll be in a ... on the ... at a show." Relief flooded his youthful face as he grasped a credible excuse.

"Dave?" Leon looked at the skeleton. "No, he's a bit tied up too. Let me see." He listened again. "No, I've lost contact with Techno. Had to sack him after he sculpted ... well , you know. Bloody Daily Mail wouldn't drop it for months!" Leon shuddered. "Fenton? No, the paperwork and security costs are too much to get him out for a day." Idly, he chewed his lip. "Kitty? No, we don't commune with the God-Emperor much these days. I believe the harvest in his lands hasn't been too good and those hearts won't rip themselves out." He listened again.

"Orcs? Yeesss. I'm sure Orcs could do it. Of course, he doesn't know where he is most of the time. Been like that for years." He chuckled. "You will have to provide a waterproof seat though ... and perhaps a kitten."

"We won't get Ithoriel. You can't just ask the Secretary-General of the UN to drop everything when there's mass human sacrifices going on in South America, can you?" Leon asked reasonably. He sighed heavily. 

"Lemmey?" Leon became serous. "Didn't you hear what happened?" FSN looked around. Cat Lemmey was far too distracted to listen. "Yes." Agreed Leon. "It was tragic. But of course, the TV ratings were fantastic, and there was no lasting damage to the ...quite ... quite ... and the minor royal was ... yes ... she was a bit surprised... yes. It's true, Bolton may never be the same, but I think we may have to count Lemmey out."

"We lost so many members in the Aztec stampede a few years ago. Who'd have thought that range would be so popular? Still, we can never go back to that venue." He giggled. A high, nervy sound.   "No", he said. "I'll see if I can get one of the younger members to do it. Perhaps BishopBasher or FairyPrincess could attend. I think Fumbling Grenadier lives up that way."

"What's that?" Asked Leon. "Lots of unopened yellow packets? A room full? ... Yes, we'll think about repurchase ... 25% of value. Yes. Standard terms . Goodbye." He replaced the receiver.

Leon pulled a steam powered calculator out of a desk drawer and punched a few buttons. "Oh yes!" he said gleefully. "Holiday in Cornwall ..." He pushed another few buttons. "No. Italy! Two weeks. Better make it 10 days. Need to take Milady."

FSN turned to see Cat-Lemmey practicing pole dancing on a lampstand. He/she was rather good. In fact, FSN could have watched him/her for ages. FSN shook his head. No, that was Lemmey, just packaged nicely, though he never thought he'd ever see Lemmey do that ... he reached for his wallet ...


FSN woke up in his bed. He felt the bruising around his eye.

"What did you do that for?" He asked.

"An I.O.U.?" Said a very angry Lemmey.

"Well, do you carry money in your pyjamas? Is that what I'm supposed to learn? To carry money at bedtime in case a ..."  FSN struggled for words "... a cat-hooker pops in?" Lemmey bristled.

"I am not a common hooker – I was being very artistic. Perhaps you need to think about the way you interact with people." So saying, cat-Lemmey pulled a tissue out of somewhere and dabbed her eyes. Back stiffened, he/she made for the wardrobe. At the door she/he stopped.

"Will I stay like this on the other side?" 

"I hope so." Lemmey smiled a half smile, and went through the wardrobe, swinging her tail jauntily.

 

I've got to know......What did I make ?......('THOSE' could never have made it into the public domain.....Unless someone nicks them in the future....I've kept all the copies.  )
I wondered what you were going to do with Lemmey.....I shall always imagine him that way, from now on....

You don't know what Lemmey looks like ?
www.pendrakenforum.co.uk/index.php/topic,6289.0.html
.......Well....he claims that's him 

Cheers - Phil
P.S......I've nearly finished 'your' song.

For those (not the same, 'those,' Techno) that had a few too many last night and are feeling a bit delicate this morning, imagine ...

.. fsn sucking Cat Lemney's toes ... 

There. Feel better now?

Quote from: Techno on 22 December 2014, 11:04:09 AM
P.S......I've nearly finished 'your' song.

Which language ?

IanS

Quote from: Westmarcher on 22 December 2014, 11:16:27 AM
For those (not the same, 'those,' Techno) that had a few too many last night and are feeling a bit delicate this morning, imagine ...
.. fsn sucking Cat Lemney's toes ... 
There. Feel better now?

NO !!........(Phil runs away, screaming !!)

Quote from: ianrs54 on 22 December 2014, 11:54:44 AM
Which language ? IanS

Not Welsh. 

Cheers - Phil

Um.
Yeah.
Right.
Actually FSN, I might take offence to this.

My catsuit is tabby, not black and white!

Quote from: Techno on 22 December 2014, 11:04:09 AM
You don't know what Lemmey looks like ?

I think he now looks a bit like this ...


... and I think it's an improvement. 

If o looked like that I would never get out of bed in the morning!

I have just read the last 4 pages in one sitting - Absolutely Brilliant - 

Trully a most awesome series of posts, and they way it's stayed on subject for four pages, that must be proof of Father Christmas.

The Last bit: In which FSN finds an old friend and there is too much editing.

FSN spent the rest of the night with a bayonet in one hand, and a can of breath freshener in the other. He was prepared for anything. (Editor's note: The bayonet was, and still is, a British No 4 Mk II.) Eventually, he woke to a grey morning. He rose from his bed, peering suspiciously at the wardrobe, but it remained secured by the impromptu rope he had made of bedsheets. (Editor's note: These were the sheets he had put on the bed that night. That's more relevant that the model of bayonet. The readers don't want to know that. What are you doing here anyway?) He crept down the stairs as stealthily as his bulk would allow, (Editor's note: Which isn't very stealthy. I need a break from Techno. He's still signing off "shears fill" until I correct it. Does my head in.) prepared to defend himself with readied breath freshener. Any potential attacker would not have been hard put to hear him fall down the last three steps, and then stub his toe on the vacuum cleaner. (Editor's note: It's a Vax. Still not using italics in an editor's note?)

FSN satisfied himself that there were no further visitors. This disappointed him slightly, because he'd got his wallet with him on the off chance that cat-Lemmey returned. He was quite sure that if he concentrated hard, he could make the feline forum fellow look just like Anne Hathaway. (Editor's note: FSN has a thing for Anne Hathaway. You may have noticed. I don't put my notes in italics 'cos it's unnecessarily showy.) He limped into the kitchen and opened the fridge. He took out the cheese he'd used to make a cheese and bacon toasted sandwich (Editor's note: In Wales, that's fancy cooking. Showy? Showy! You wouldn't know style if it jumped up and bit you on your big fat... (Editor's note: Steady on!)) and sniffed it experimentally. No green mould. He licked the cheese and put it back in the fridge. (Editor's note: It was red Leicester. Sorry, you just make me so angry.) FSN plodded into the bathroom and checked his medication. Seemed to be in order. He snacked on one of the green stripey ones that tasted of Wednesday, and one of the white ones which may in fact just have been Polo mints. (Editor's note. They are in fact Polo mints, but the spearmints ones, and quite out of date. No, I'm sorry. Why do we fight this way?)

FSN drank some mint tea. (Editor's note: In fact he just drank some water and the Polos did the rest. You know very well.) He sat at his painting table and wafted off some of the worst of the dust. Underneath a battalion of US ACW infantry (Editor's note: A mix of ACW1 and ACW2. Oh! I knew you'd bring that up. I told you, I was just helping her to pick a skirt to wear.) coughed and spluttered and peered into the newly revealed light. He picked up one of his paint brushes (Editor's note: A sable 000. I suppose she had her blouse off so that it didn't interfere with your appreciation of the waistband?) but it had hardened beyond any use except as a javelin for some warrior in about 1:10th scale. He launched it at the bin, which it missed. By a huge margin. (Editor's note: 0.63m from a 2.1m range. And I suppose you had her bra in the car so your could use it for reference material?) He opened a pot of paint (Editor's note: Revell 49, Light Blue. How many times do I have to say I'm sorry? Couldn't we go for a coffee and talk?) and found it to have the consistency of a prehistoric tar pit. (Editor's note: About 2.3 x 10^8 Pascal Seconds. I can't. After this rubbish, I'm going out with Geoff.) Sadly he closed the paint pot and searched under the detritus (Editor's note: 1785-95; from the French detritus, Latin: a rubbing away. Geoff! Fierce Kitty's editor? He must be far too busy correcting FK's execrable spelling and grammar. The last half dozen have to my knowledge just been "waNtZ AZTec".) for his reference book. He found it under an unsuitable rag, his battered old copy of "Blandford's Military Uniforms of the World in Colour" (Editor's note: Blandford, 1971, £1.50. Geoff is a perfectionist. Fortunately FK's away in Italy, so isn't posting and Geoff has some time spare.) and flicked through the pages, some bearing the honourable marks of painty finger prints. FSN remembered each page, could remember studying each page of exotic and colourful uniforms, dreamed of forming armies of (Editor's note: Blah! Blah! You can't go out with Geoff ... I love you.) excuse me ... gaudy tricorned troops.(Editor's note: Tricorn – Eat Maize. You do? Really?)

Perhaps, mused FSN, he should give it another go. In fact, he was sure he should. He set about cleaning off his painting table, and even began crooning a Pendrakemas song.  The phone rang.  (Editor's note: It's his daughter. Of course, the others meant nothing to me.)  He picked up the receiver. It was his daughter, (Editor's note: Told you. Please?)

"Happy Pendrakenmas, Darling. ... Pendrakenmas. It's like Christmas, but in 10mm." (Editor's note: Pendrakenmas is a festival only openly celebrated in Middlesborough, a small, wet, dull corner of Wales and Christmas Island. Well maybe just a cup of coffee.)  "It's lovely to hear from you ..."





Thank you all for your kind attention and remarks. Next year, I may essay the Panto, or perhaps I could do a FroSeN, in which our hero finds he has ice powers. Highlights will be when he sings a warning to Davy Crocket about confronting the Mexicans in San Antonio ("Let it go, Alamo") or cajoles a youngster into the wargaming hobby ("Do you want to build a 1000 point Seleucid army?")

I hope I have not caused offence to anyone, for none is meant. Honest Leon, I wasn't perving your missus. (Editor's note: Yeah, and Pendraken makes Aztecs. ... wait a minute. What do you mean others? Plural?)

 

So, in short, you're painting again?
Good.

Quote from: fsn on 23 December 2014, 10:39:03 AM
I hope I have not caused offence to anyone, for none is meant.

OIK !!!!
Shears - Fill 

Quote from: fsn on 23 December 2014, 10:39:03 AM

I hope I have not caused offence to anyone, for none is meant.

FSN - your entire existence is OFFENSIVE.....

IanS