D.I.S.C.O. The Director’s Cut

Dynamite, Incendiary, Suave, Commanding, Overture

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Suggested Audio Jukebox:

[1] The Trammps Disco Inferno

[2] Elton John Tiny Dancer

 

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It’s Saturday Night! You know what that means Grueheads? That’s right, it’s time to dust off those some snake skin brogues (or stilettos if you’re so inclined), twist those tail feathers, and get our groove on. So, are you ready to ride that rhythm? Me too, I’ve been practising my moves in a full-length mirror all week in anticipation of our date with the boogie. Soon I will commence dancing but, to add a little kick to the punch, I have decided to play this out like a personal challenge. Ergo, I will commence with 100% swagger, and keep grooving for as long as I am deemed worthy. Should my coolometer fall to 0% integrity, then it’s time for me to get my coat as the dance floor is evidently no place for my two left feet. Consider this a social experiment of sorts, to ascertain whether I am deserving of my ticket aboard the soul train, or better suited to being the wallflower type. So, without any further ado, it’s time for me to attempt to grasp the concept of walking in six-inch heels. It’s not my fault; my brogues are at the cobblers while I get my soles repaired.

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Cool running at 95% integrity

Okay Grueheads, so now we know how this works. 1/20th of my cool has already fallen by the wayside and I’ve not even made it to dance floor yet. Evidently this is a tough crowd. Instantly I’m on damage limitation duties as I can’t be losing my cool so quickly. I spent several hours styling my hair into jheri-curl ringlets and another two selecting my outfit for this soirée; thus I refuse to let that time go to waste. Tell you what, allow me to buy you a drink just to loosen you up before the inferno rages.

“Snakebite please bartender and with a dash of lemon”

There you go, get that down your tubes. Right, now close those peepers tight and screw them up like pamphlets of Jehovah. Flare your nostrils…wider…wider still. Now I want you to sniff in the disco waft. Fret not if you suddenly feel inclined to move your feet. Indeed, should you decide to gyrate those hips, then you’ll receive no judgement here. I’m the unlikely candidate under the spotlight and there’s no way I’m going to waste this chance; tonight there’s going to be fireworks.

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Cool has returned to full integrity

You see, I’m getting the hang of this already. I am assured it will be requested that I take my place on the podium in no time, and the whole club will then bow before me. That’s the plan or, if you prefer, my disco mandate. Now I would very much like if you would take a look across the way, through the crowds, in the corner propping up the bar. That’s me looking suave under the flourescent rays and I’ve got my eye on you. You’re looking fine as vintage pine tonight in that tight red PVC dress. Nice choice if you don’t mind me saying; I believe it will look good in my hallway about three or so feet from your soiled panties. You’re damned right I’m going to taste your candy before the night is through and, should you play your cards right and the prophylactic dispenser in the men’s restroom not jam up, then I would say your about to have your pretzel punished young lady. Actually, scrap that. No contraceptives required; I’m going in unprotected. Don’t get things twisted; I have every intention of dodging STDs like the sexual space invaders that they are but not by placing a rubber sheath on my Johnson. Back at my pad I have a Chlamydia screening machine and you only have to wait seventeen minutes to receive your results. I’ll spend that time slathering you from head to toe with my ferocious licker and take a rain check on the honey pot. And yes it is about to get somewhat freaky.

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Cool now at 105% integrity

That’s right, I just masticated the groove and it tasted like cherry lip balm with a vague hint of monkey sweat. Thankfully, this curious concoction appears to be a stimulant of sorts as it has gone straight to my feet and enabled me to pull off the first of a long line of perfectly choreographed moves. I like to call this one the left to right slide; looks complex I know and should only be practised by trained professionals but watch closely and you may just learn its intricate rhythm. Okay, now I’m growing a tad concerned. That intoxicating groove may have been spiked you know as my feet seem to sliding independently and without my consent. I have been taken prisoner in my own body; with no sign of upcoming parole. My very best attempts to clench my teeth and buttocks, thus playing it off as entirely intentional, would appear to be failing miserably as one of the bouncers just ran off to grab a medic. I may well be needing one as the floor is far too slippery for the ambitious pirouettes my hijacked body has decided to attempt. Now I’ve done it. My first floorbound plummet and it was with none of the grace of a cygnet.

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Cool plummets to 75% integrity

Never fear Grueheads, I know precisely how to rescue this situation. I will merely be required to somehow turn this tumble into a dance move and body pop back to my feet before anyone is any the wiser. For this, I will need the twinkliest toes that I can muster, possibly even Tiger Feet. As long as I keep within the disco directive, then nobody need suspect a thing. I think I may have gotten away with my misdemeanor on this occasion but can hear what sounds suspiciously like snickering behind me. I shall just keep grooving and hope it subsides. Nope, if anything it’s growing more pronounced. What cruel hecklers are having their dance hall jollies at my expense? And what was that ripping sound?

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Cool now at approximately 50% integrity and on the swift decline

Okay, I didn’t realize my slacks had split at the rear, that’s awkward. To make matters worse, my leopard print thong was in the washing basket so I had to wear my murky brown Y-fronts instead. Just keep swaying the booty Keeper; nobody will bat an eyelid if your groove proves bodacious enough. Well that’s just fucking fantastic! My underpants have also perforated and now the rusty sheriff’s badge has made an unwelcome appearance. I must use it to mesmerize my agitators. Would you ever have believed it? It’s only working; they’re falling under some kind of seductive spell courtesy of my sphincter. I can’t fully comprehend what makes it so appealing; it’s not as if I’ve had it bleached. It’s little more than a shallow rabbit warren with a little overhang. My grandmother once taught me never to look a gift horse in the mouth; thus I will look at its enormous penis instead. Failing that, I’ll comment on its shiny hooves. I wonder if any of this buying me some cool?

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Cool rises to 55% integrity through sympathy more than anything else

Now that things are on the up again, I think it’s time to take the roof off this motherfucker. I shall peel it back and snip it away like a Jewish boy’s foreskin or, better yet, the trimmings on a warm apple pastry. That way we can all bask under the illumination of said disco and bathe in its warm funky glow. In just a few moments, I have a special treat planned just to sway any naysayers. A live set from possibly the most die-hard dynamite disco demigod ever to grace the dance floor. The one…the…only…Mister…Barry Manilow!

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Cool critical at 5% WARNING! Meltdown imminent

Shit rusks; I’m dying on my feet here. All of a sudden I’m missing beats like a tiny dancer and going all off-kilter. Even more disparagingly, my faux chest wig just slid from beneath my satin shirt and currently lays growling like a terrier at my ankles. Fortunately the winklepicker design of my stilettos are sharp enough to thread a needle so one well-timed foot stab and resulting flick should rectify the situation. Curses! My chest toupée has been intercepted by perhaps the hottest woman in here. Moreover, she is looking directly at me as if she knows damn well it’s mine.

“Would you like your fake chest wig back?”

Time for that silver tongue. If only I had one in my inventory.

“Is that what you think? I know it appears somewhat conspicuous but I assure you it isn’t what it looks like”

“But I just saw it fall out of your shirt”

“It’s mink. A…er…clutch bag. I’m holding it for a friend while they visit the restroom. Here, I’ll take it off your hands sweet cheeks”

“Doesn’t feel like mink. Feels more like pubes”

“It’s Italian. Prada. New season. Probably not known around these parts yet”

“Well I do need a new clutch bag”

“It’s yours. I can tell my friend to grow…I mean buy another. Consider it a gift”

“How kind. Thanks”

“Don’t mention it honey blossom. By the way, I hope my dazzling moves haven’t blinded you at all. I normally request folk stand back five yards or so to avoid temporary myopia”

“Can’t say I’ve noticed. Anyhoots, gotta dash”

How darling. She says anyhoots. That’s my word. This is truly a match made in heaven. Hold on, she’s leaving. Fuck a doodle! What shall I do? Is it customary in such situations to drag a lady back by her hair? Club her unconscious? Taser gun? Rohypnol? What? Never mind, she’s coming back. Looks like I’m getting another bite of this glazed cherry after all.

“Hello again my little pussy willow”

“By the way, I can see your asshole”

“Fiddlesticks!”

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Cool is convulsing at 1% and vital signs all but flatlining

Forget the girl Keeper. Just focus on sliding the chest wig back into place while the going is still good. You can still rescue this from calamity. Granted, it’s like playing Final Doom on Nightmare difficulty with 12% health, but it’s not over until the fat lady sings. Speaking of which; that woman is packing some funk in her trunk. Must be a good 300lbs. Is she clearing her throat or digesting a burger? Focus Keeper focus! Right then; still looking good apart from the exposed anus. I may not be able to resist jumping back and kissing myself you know. One last glance in the mirrored dance tiles and I’m ready to fight for my right to party. Grab the crotch Keeper…do it now! Okay, I’m about to attempt potentially the most complex and perilous disco moves ever devised and failure to pull it off with conviction will invariably lead to cataclysm. But I have to at least try. By the way, nobody has ever pulled this off successfully so no pressure. Wish me luck Grueheads.

3…
2…
1…

BLAM

Cool depleted. SYSTEM SHUTDOWN. PANIC AT THE DISCO

Evacuate the dance floor Grueheads; post-haste. It would appear that the core reactor is blown and you must vacate the premises in an orderly fashion while the disco paramedics grab me a stretcher and a pair of defibrillator paddles. Ho hum. Looks like it’s back to line dancing for Keeper. Just so happens I am something of a dosey doe master. Yee haw!

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Disco Sinferno,

Keeper of the Crimson Quill

Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2013 (Director’s Cut 2015)

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Tied Up In Knots

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The following Gallery contains strong imagery. Yadda yadda yadda. Who wants to see some hot contortionist honeys in all kinds of preposterous positions? Then you’ve come to the right place. For anyone lamenting the use of such blatant optical inebriation techniques, my rejoinder is this: I was fortunate to have been assembled with a pair of roving peepers which live beneath a pair of bushy brows about two-thirds of the way up my face. I name them Professor Crispin Hatfield II and Simon ‘Le Sleaze’ Mandrake. One of these is a real stand-up kind of eyeball, a pillar of the community, business brow if you like. He resides on Upper 5th Street, whereas the other scallywag lurks in Slag Alley, way down in the Lower East Side. As well as feeding from dumpsters and scaring frail pensioners half to death, Le Sleaze also sucks the cellulite from the rumps of sewer rats. This fuzzy clunge provided the inspiration for the following gallery, while his stablemate was enjoying langoustine cocktails at a swanky new diner on Admiral Drive. Therefore I must insist you don’t shoot the messenger and, instead, simply blame it on Mandrake.

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3 Comments

  1. Just laughed so hard I saw stars! You put a smile on my face when I so needed it! Thank you keeper, and I just love the way your mind works and how you put it all together into your prose! Xoxo

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