Tingle with Unrelenting Bowel Pressure
“Try to
hold it as long as you can,” Colonel Trask pleaded with Brondo.
“I’m doing
my best,” the muscular young man replied, his voice betraying the great strain
he was under.
“The closer
we get to the center of the Queen’s syrup containment well—“
“I know, I
know,” Brondo interrupted. His
impatience was equally evident.
“Did you
bring paper?” Irene asked from the back of the atomic-powered cart.
“I thought
it would be appropriate if he wiped with this,” Colonel Trask answered, holding
up a long, yellowed document that flapped back into the woman’s face from the
force of their great speed.
“What?”
Irene chirped, grabbing the tail of the document and holding it steady. “What’s this?
The Founders’ Compact?”
The Colonel
grinned in reply, glancing back.
“This is
it,” Brondo groaned. “No more—I gotta
go!”
“Hold on,
we’re almost—“
“No, now!” He began undoing his belt.
Irene
stared up at the jeweled roof of the syrup channel as Trask eased off on the
accelerator. He wanted to control the
spray as much as possible. A hundred
hours practicing the bootlegger’s turn in the simulator would serve him well…
Upstairs,
in the Queen’s scorched and water-damaged boudoir, Inspector Flegrim tucked his
notebook into his coat pocket and turned to one of the uniformed officers.
“Where’s
the bathroom,” he asked.
.
