LT Saloon

In This Month’s Lutin Muse…

November Edition 2009

Some Relationships Simply Don’t Last

Written by Lilith Raymour

The Professor took off his glasses and wiped them. He had been thinking of his housekeeper. So erotic, especially last night. She let him do anything and everything he wanted.

“I’m glad my wife’s away for the week. She’d never understand.”

He had a hard time as he interviewed students about their papers and their desires to get better grades. The girls were the most annoying. He was devoted to his wife: he could never cheat on her; especially with some young thing looking for good grades. Well, except with the housekeeper.

The day seemed to wear slowly and before he eventually picked up his briefcase at 6; walked out to the staff’s lot, and climbed into his Lexus. He had grown stiff from fantasizing about the housekeeper.

It was dark as he approached the house except his bedroom. He had left a light on. He threw his briefcase on the kitchen table and went upstairs. In his room he imagined he could hear her screams for mercy, but that was impossible. She was locked into the closet and tied down tight so she wouldn’t escape. He imagined her pleading for mercy, telling him she deserved to be punished. Just thinking about it turned him on. He had been kinky enough to tape her mouth shut when he left for college this morning. Not that she would ever really say anything. She was always so quiet, willing: compliant.

He threw open the closet door, dragged her out and threw her on the bed. She didn’t struggle. Just when he started to mount her he heard a sound: escaping air….

“Oh, damn, damn, damn. Now I have to ‘hire’ a new housekeeper. I hope the wife doesn’t see the package when UPS delivers my next housekeeper.”

He knew she would never understand.
_______________________________________________
©Copyright 2009
Lilith Raymour
all rights reserved

Your next Housekeepr awaits

Housekeepers

Written by Namraknec

“Don’t just slap those papers on the desk and prop up your feet. Did you grade them yet?”

“No, Ma’am.”

“Don’t you ‘Ma’am’ me. You spiff up those papers right now. I expect your grading to be spic n span. If you work hard, put your nose to the good grade grind stone, maybe you’ll be a Housekeeper someday.”

“OK, but I doubt that. I don’t have the experience for that pay grade. I spent my college years smoking pot, drinking and having someone write my papers for me as much as possible. Besides, everyone knows that practical experience; and doing the manual labor that has to be done to keep society flowing, deserves more pay than professors, or writers, or entertainers, or politicians. That’s why housekeepers, gravediggers, sanitation workers, attendants at 24 hour gas stations who risk their lives night after night, ditch diggers, handymen and women earn more than someone like me.”

“But remember, Professor, anyone can succeed if they work hard enough.”

“Yes, you’re right. And that’s the way it should be. Imagine a world where people who do work that really doesn’t have to be done earn more. How insane. I imagine more people would kill themselves, take drugs, drink themselves into oblivion and live their lives thinking they’re just not good enough.”

“Yes, Professor, I suppose so. I suppose so. We’d need a steady supply of the kinds of workers society can’t function without. Imagine if no one took dead bodies away? Or no one was around to take care of the waste you flush? Housekeepers would be so uninspired by their work it would take at whole room filled with them to do the work of one.”

“Yes, Ma’am. But such a world would be so out of kilter it would never be able to function right, would it?”

“I imagine so, Professor, I imagine so.”

__________________________________________
©Copyright 2009
namraknec
all rights reserved

The Professor

Written by Millie Jenny C.

She woke up suddenly. What had startled her awake? She had no idea, but there she was awake. She looked at the clock. It was a good forty-five minutes earlier than when the alarm would normally ring. She thought, “…if I go back to sleep, I will feel worse. . . “ She stumbled to get her coffee made, shower taken and “face on” for the upcoming day. Off she went.

On the way to work in her powder blue Mazda 323, well beyond its days she thought, “I just know that Professor is going to have a gigantic mess as usual.” She fumed as she flew on through the first yellow light quickly changing to red. Glancing behind her she watched for blue lights. Good, no officer of the law this time, she had forgotten to look. That’s all she needed on a Monday morning.

She was still unsure if having 2 wheels in the intersection would be good enough to avoid a ticket. Now as she blew through the second intersection, she cursed. She did not see the white car that was now following her with the siren & blue lights flashing. Now she was mad at herself. Had she wished the ticket on herself? She pulled off on the shoulder, pulled out her license & registration. She showed them to the officer, “Did you realize you went through . . .” Yes, yes . . . I’m in a hurry. Yes, I am aware I need to pay more attention, slow down. . . I can hurt myself & others. I will slow down. Nancy Piper sat there and waited and waited. It seemed like an eternity.

The officer finally came back to her car. “Here is your ticket, Miss Piper and have a nice day and next time just slow down!”

A half hour later she calmly pulled back into the backed up morning traffic, cursing again but holding to the speed limit, stopping at all the rest of the lights. Nancy even stopped at the light that was about to change, almost getting run over by the red Camaro. Where was that cop when the driver barely missed her, flipping her the bird with horn Blasting!

She pulled up in front of her boss’s office. Yes, yes. . . now I am more than a little irritated. Anticipating the mess, the traffic ticket, road rage etc. The Professor will be upset. He makes the worst messes and if I am a couple of minutes late, well you can guess. She did not want to hear the screeches & shrill calls and all that! It was just so undignified. It seems the messes are even worse on Monday’s especially when she is in a bad mood. Since mornings are not her favorite part of the day, this pattern is often repeated over & over. She braced for the encounter as she slowly finished her drive to the office.

Nancy asked herself, “ How long have I been the housekeeper for this college office?” She wished she could have her office be a residence as well. Professor Taylor liked his classes as close to his Then she could sleep to the last possible second and then be there at work, just walking across campus. Well that depends on how you look at it.

Nancy Piper was the housekeeper for that colorful and showy Ms. Polly Witherspoon first. She had been respectful. Despite all of her fluff and “feather flying ways” she had some dignity. She was not nattering about this and that while she was cleaning. She was quiet and quite respectful. Sure she had her days when she would go on and on and Nancy would have to try & silence her.

She walked in felt violated again. Not only was the Professor screeching at the top of his lungs, the mess was incredible and the stench almost made her wretch. Yet she proceeded to get on the gloves and start to clean. Now you would think the Professor could clean up after himself or at least keep the newspapers tidy. No they were scratched up and stained. It looked like professor had slept in them. It looked like he had tumbled about like he was drunk and make as much of a mess as possible.

She cleaned up as quickly as possible. Straightening, throwing out soiled newspapers, complaining as she went. She even started complaining. She did not realize she was complaining out loud until she heard repeated back to her, “You are a bad, bad bird. Bad Ralphie. Bad Ralphie.” “Why can’t you be a nice bird?” “Why?”

And to make matters worse, he screeched at her, “Ralphie wants a treat. Ralphie wants a treat.” “Treat, my ass,” Nancy said. Ralphie screamed at the top of his lungs, “My ass.. . my ass.” Now she had done it. He would probably repeat that at the next board meeting.

As calmly as she could, Nancy walked over to the Professor Ralphie’s cage and opened the door. Out flew the parakeet. She shooed him out the window saying, “And don’t come back.” She had done this about 5 times previously. Not every week so the college would suspect. Yet each week when she returned there was Professor Ralphie, sitting on his perch waiting to terrorize her again. She could only hope that the next time she released him, he would not return.
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©Copyright 2009
Millie Jenny C.
all rights reserved

Double Duty

Written by Sennebec

“How did it go?” Professor Syndic Mahoney set his coffee cup on the tan napkin beside his freshly emptied plate and discharged a discrete burp.

“Lordy Perfesser, I wish you coulda been a bird in a tree, Words won’t hardly describe what a ruckus the whole event was.” Flora McGonicle brushed imaginary crumbs off her apron before grabbing the dirty plate and heading for the soapstone sink in the kitchen. When she returned, her employer raised an inquisitive eyebrow, indicating she should join him at the table while she caught him up on her unexpected trip to West Montgomery, VT., the town she had left nearly thirty years ago. The previous Friday Flora had picked up the hall telephone on the second ring, only to learn that her stepfather had passed away unexpectedly while defending his title for the twentieth time in the Florn County cow chip toss at the Montgomery Agricultural Fair. The funeral would be on Sunday with burial next to his first wife in the town cemetery.

While Professor Mahoney found the idea of being interred next to Flora’s stepmother a tad odd, he had kept his opinion to himself, instead making arrangements for Flora and her not terribly bright husband Alfred, to fly from Philadelphia to Montpelier where they would pick up a rental car, ensuring their arrival in plenty of time for both the Saturday wake and Sunday funeral. Good housekeepers were hard to come by, even in the deteriorating economy and he wasn’t about to risk losing his by seeming penurious or unsympathetic.

Flora eased herself into the chair opposite his, heaving a big sigh as her ample backside came into contact with the memory foam underneath the custom embroidered seat. “Well, Perfessor, Things was movin’ along right fine until we got ready for the burial. The flight was great. They even gave Alfred extra peanuts and a second diet Moxie. The car was wicked shiny and had one of them GSPs which tells you how to get where ya wanna go, step by step. Gosh, even Alfred couldn’t get lost usin’ one of them contraptions. Ma met us as we pulled into the driveway. Lawdy, she was holdin’ up better than either of us expected. ‘Course, tappin’ some of the extra hard cider down in the root cellar didn’t hurt none.”

Flora pulled a rumpled handkerchief from her apron pocket and dabbed both eyes before continuing. “Everyone got through the wake just fine, even if Cousin Elbridge did manage to lose his upper teeth in the casket. Luckily, his wife wasn’t at all averse to pawin’ around next to the departed and he was back in business in no time at all. I was wicked certain we was gonna sail right through the rest of the weekend without a hitch. Shows what I know, I guess. The funeral was awful nice, with Reverend Loal Fibberjack comin’ all the way down from the Northeast Kingdom to honor Pa. The Montgomery Rotary Club Barbershop Quartet did an acapella rendition of The Old Rugged Cross that I swear brought tears to the eyes of everyone, even the wasps circlin’ Old Man Jessbaum’s bald spot.”

“When we got to the cemetery, all hell broke loose. Perfesser, it ain’t like here in the big city where everything’s computerized and just exactly so. No sirree, things back home can get outta hand at the drop of a hat and some son of a bear screwed up big time. First inkling anyone had was when Lem Ferdhoffer’s boys hit somethin’ solid as they was getting’ ready to dig down next to Dad’s first wife. Twenty minutes later, we was starin’ at someone else’s casket laid beside the first missus. I’ll tell ya that threw everyone for a loop. How in tarnation someone else got buried in Dad’s final restin’ place was beyond anyone standin’ around with their faces hangin’ out. Darn good thing my brother Fred’s so fast on his feet. See He’d hired the volunteer fire department to provide a barbecue down at the station following the funeral. All it took to solve our dilemma was a couple sawbucks donated to the air-pack fund and half a dozen bottles of that good cider from down cellar to kill off any lingering inhibitions on the part of them fire boys. Seems they had an extra barbecue pit readied in case of an overflow. Luckily, it was downwind of the rest of the set-up. Two or three honks into the cider and the idea that Dad was getting cremated in a barbecue pit didn’t seem odd at all. Hell After four, the idea was hilarious and we toasted him until the last drop went down the hatch.”

Flora stood, realizing she needed to take the clean load of clothing from the washer in the basement and hang everything on the line out back. “Anyhow Perfesser, by the time anyone was ready to deal with Dad, he was cool enough to be gathered together and stuffed into a couple Prince Albert cans. Nobody could see wastin’ the hard work of Lem’s boys, so we laid Dad on top of whoever in hell was buried beside his first Missus and came home.”
________________________________________________
©Copyright 2009
Sennebec
all rights reserved

Photo courtesy Arla Ruggles and jpgmag.com

The Housekeeper and the Professor

Written by Ken Carman

She sang softly as she dusted off the old phone booth that had been dismantled from its location in England and brought back to the office she was cleaning. Her thoughts were pleasant, casual, although she knew…

“So much to do today. Must not think about it now. Just relax. Ah, this booth is a pain. Professors are so eccentric. A phone booth in an office. How odd. How interesting. But this job would be easier if this booth wasn’t here.”

Dust here. Dust there. She was really good at cleaning. She knew all too well that professors needed things to be spotless so when they come back from class they could mindlessly dump papers to grade on their desks. It annoyed her a bit that well dusted, wiped, ordered papers on the desk, tables, shelves, now immaculate old books, pictures, awards, degrees on the wall would soon be a mess again. Then, next morning, she would once more do her duty and get it ready to be made messy again. Such was the job of being “housekeeper.” A professor can’t be as perfect when it comes to being “clean” as she could be.

Everyone has their place, she knew. Her job now: the housekeeper; and there was a lot to do. This office was more home to a professor than the professor’s actual home. There was even a well-slept on couch in the office and cooking plate.

She remembered long ago, long before she came to this college, she had been a maid, a secretary: even pumped gas as an attendant. She was a student once herself and graduated college. Yet she didn’t mind being the housekeeper, not one bit. Her job now, though some academics might claim it demeaning, gave her great pleasure, despite constantly cleaning up after a messy professor.

“Professors deal in the abstract with metaphors, or complicated formulas. They often don’t have time to appreciate the simple things like just cleaning and bringing order to a professor’s office,” she thought.

So, whistling and humming to herself, she cleaned, and cleaned, cleaned and when she was done she sighed, contented.

“OK, time to put on my super suit.”

She stepped into the old phone booth and changed into her super suit for everyone to see. Then she walked across the quad to her first class…

…as the professor.
___________________________________________________
©Copyright 2009
Ken Carman
All Rights Reserved

The Professor and the Housekeeper

Dark Days Are Coming photo courtesy Taro Taylor

Written by Ken Carman

The days had been growing progressively darker when they arrived that late autumn day at the Professor’s doorstep. Time was short and growing shorter, this… everyone knew. The media had been splattering the reason all over the news and the talk shows, so violence and looting had become ho hum: mundane. Still, a good portion of humanity hoped; according to their belief or lack of belief, that God, or Science, or fate would save them, though the gentle glow of such hope within the hearts of humanity was growing more and more a dying ember with the increasing darkness.

Ring.

Ring.

“He won’t answer,” the patrolman said. “The housekeeper told the University he was sick; caught the new flu they discovered last year that we got from our pets. Kind of like how they say the swine flu jumped; probably because God was punishing us for our sins, or like he did with AIDS for tolerating Homos. Bet God’s still got that thing mutating. Bet he’s even keeping eggheads like the professor from finding a cure. My minister, Brother William, tells me God’s really mad at us. Hope they die first. Eh, I think such eggheads are all sick to begin with. I’ll be raptured soon, so it’s all good. But I think if we just shot them all God might forgive us and bless us again. Or maybe this is the work of Satan, or the government. Same thing. Government should just keep their hands off of everything…”

“Patrolman. That’s enough already.” The Sarge was more than annoyed. Why do cops always think they know everything? Why do so many think killing, beating or jailing was a cure all? Everything’s some “conspiracy.” Why did he always get stuck with the most ignorant ones? And why do they hate everyone smarter than they are? He had to admit though, as a cop himself, he noticed arrogance seemed to be an occupational disease foisted upon them mostly by all they saw, all they went through.

“Well, just remember the University didn’t send us here for any of that. They want to know why he hasn’t shown his face on campus for three weeks. He’s pretty damn important, they think. One of his students came here yesterday and the next time she was seen she was babbling; speaking gibberish, foaming at the mouth. That’s how we got this warrant. Wonder what she saw?”

The patrolman fondled his cross; a necklace he wore everywhere. It really wasn’t up to regs for a patrolman to wear a big cross on the job, but the department didn’t want yet another freedom of religion lawsuit on its hands. Recently all the loons were out, claiming this was the end times and too many of them were cops. So many cops prefer simple answers, he felt, because it helped them deal with the worst of humanity. Some churches provided them those “answers.” The department put up with it because they didn’t want more freedom of religion lawsuits on their hands. Too much to deal with now with all the looting, murder and insanity driven by the darkening days.

“What did she see?” The patrolman didn’t even stop to take a breath to answer his own question. “Probably just him performing sodomy on her, or some sick ritual. These college types are all perverts, atheists or worship Satan. They’re an abomination. If someone does answer the door all you’ll get is his housekeeper. He thinks he’s so damn superior to everyone he won’t come to his own door. He sends her.”

“Yeah, I wonder what the student saw too,” Sarge said out loud. He immediately regretted it.

“Don’t know. Some abomination. These liberal colleges are full of perversion, sick bastard. I say we break in and grill him about her.”

“That really, really is quite enough patrolman. We’re here to find him and see what’s the matter with him. This isn’t an Inquisition. Your religious opinions are noted, but don’t apply to our job here. We’re here to find out what happened, get him back to the college, if we can, and then back to work. Hopefully that flu hasn’t killed him. The last thing we heard from the housekeeper is he seems to be slowly getting better. Probably true. He may be a lucky man to get it this late. Seems less people are getting it now, and when they do it’s not as bad. Probably mutating again. Wonder where it will jump now?”

“Homos,” the patrolman said with a smirk.

Sarge cringed and, to himself, wondered why those like the patrolman who followed a Savior who preached love are usually the most hateful. How do they pass the psyche tests? Was he the last sane person in the department?

He rang again.

“So what does the housekeeper say?”

“Not much. She just says he doesn’t want to be disturbed. Doing sick, twisted evil stuff, probably.”

The Sarge sighed. “Well, you’re right about one thing patrolman. These geniuses are often pretty eccentric. But this guy’s important. I heard he and his students are responsible for a lot of the equations that have helped us in the space program and with energy problems.”

He rang it again.

“The University wants him back. He and the students been working on formulas that will predict the trajectory of the asteroid. That way the military and the scientists know where to aim, what load to use, where to strike.”

He rang it again.

They were silent for a brief moment, though the patrolman was obvious eager to break in. Everyone knew about the asteroid; damn near the size of Rhode Island that was darkening the skies. Sarge knew that time was getting short. He’d have to give the patrolman his wish.

“We have to kick it in, Sarge.”

“Well, you seem so damn eager. Go ahead patrolman. Kick it.”

The patrolman kicked hard, the door caved and then he rushed in: gun drawn.

“Patrolman, don’t do anything rash. Remember we’re here to help him.”

Sarge found the patrolman in the corner of the Professor’s bedroom, gun still in hand, getting very sick. On the bed was the housekeeper. She was shaking. Her very skin seemed to be vibrating. Between spastic emptying the contents of his stomach on the floor, the patrolman moaned, “What in the name of Jesus did he do to his housekeeper?”

“Nothing we know of yet, patrolman.” But the horrific vision before him soon turned ugly and even Sarge felt his stomach lurch.

Snap. Bulge. Skin stretched. Bones broke and reformed into a different, taller, more masculine form. What looked like blood, but wasn’t, splattered where it had obviously splattered before. And slowly, hideously, she transformed into the Professor.

“Oh, God, Christ all mighty, what in the name of Hell…”

“Calm yourself patrolman.” Wise advice he had trouble following himself.

They weren’t ready for the next transformations. Back to housekeeper, back to Professor. Was that… to Christ? Gandhi? on through multiple possibly famous and equally unknown or forgotten people throughout history. The transformations the Professor and the housekeeper were going through were so horrible, terrifying and filled with what seemed like, and yet wasn’t, blood, he finally thought he was going to join the patrolman. But when he turned, before his churning gut could let go… he noticed the patrolman wasn’t there. What he heard next was even worse, more sickening…

“Get behind me Sa…”

Five loud shots made the rest of what the patrolman yelled inaudible. The shots slammed into the Professor. Then the patrolman screamed obscenities and collapsed. The Professor was very still: left half professor, half housekeeper.

Who and what had he, had she, been? Alien? Demon? The last of some species who has been with us all this time and has tried to help us survive our own insanity? Did it matter anymore?

As the midday sky grew darker he swore he could almost hear death approaching from the heavens. His thoughts were filled with Einstein’s equations being used for the bomb, a Memphis shooting so long ago and crucifixion. Who had the Professor been in the past? Had he been the only one of his kind, or the last? Or maybe he was human, just a mutant: able to disguise himself and his unique talent, never able to die because he could keep regenerating… someone who would have been stoned, lynched or locked away; far away, if revealed.

He pondered the last, wondering why the best humanity had to offer always wound up being used for evil, or destroyed by evil masked as faith, religion and good…

And he wondered maybe, just maybe, this time humanity had finally murdered its last Savior.
_________________________________________________
©Copyright 2009
Ken Carman
all rights reserved

The Professor’s Former Housekeeper

Written by Ye Olde Scribe

“I wish my mother hadn’t married this creepy old professor. His office is always so musty, groady and, ewe, gross. Have to hold my nose and…”

Door opened.

“Wow! The old guy really spiffed up! Or did he finally get that housekeeper he kept talkin about? So coooooooolllll! No crumbs on the floor. Everything in order. Even smells good. Like… oh, yuck. What’s that? A fucking roach! That’s the biggest roach I’ve ever seen.”

So he stepped on it.

Looking around he saw a few new pictures of his mother and the professor. Then, just as he noticed another new picture in the corner, behind him he heard a loud gasp…

“What in hell’s name have you done?”

“Nothin, Prof dude. I just came here to give you the sandwich Mom made for you. Hey, are you into ‘kinky’ or something? Don’t worry, I won’t tell Mom.”

“No. The picture was of my housekeeper. That’s how she came in when she was interviewed for the job. Why do you think my office is so clean?”

“Wait. Wait. I don’t know what picture you’re talking about. I’m talking about the one with the roach I just crushed, but wearing a dress. Man, that’s kinda sick, you dressin it up and all.”

“No, my housekeeper was a talking roach. She was educated at the Kafka School for Roaches; very prestigious. It’s like our Harvard only for roaches, for Christ’s sake. But what else would I expect you to do, being who you are?”

“What, an ignorant little twit, like you always say?”

“Well, you are that too, but no, I should have known you would do what you did to her because of who you are.”

“Who is that?”

“My step… son.”
________________________________________________________
©Copyright 2009
Ye Olde Scribe
all rights reserved

Picture courtesy faqs.org

———–Lutin Muse———

The LT Saloon Lutin Muse Literary Journal, November 2009