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Walkaba

Andore Jr.

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No more than ten minutes later our brave protagonist is further endearing himself to all our beefhearts by trading urbane and witty Dyron-esque banter with his truck:

The dreamy Tristan Delecour-chan he's not, but can Jimmy ever charm the birds from the trees with his hateful tirades of filth and abuse. Mihoshi succumbs to his dockside manner and promptly falls in love with him. Soon he's convinced her to smoke like a pro, just in case we were wondering when she'd get to putting things of Jimmy's between her lips. Jim Ohki correctly senses that the story's lagging and takes a swing at some sort of vague, undramatic incident with a flying wrench (oh, the terror) which isn't exactly helped by its being described backwards. As an afterthought Jimmy treats everyone to Sasami's rendition of a less than lucid “American dinner” over which he awes them with his utterly gripping and acute descriptions of the United States:



Wow, what an awesome insight. He wasn't totally taking the piss or anything. And while I'd love to stay and listen to Jim Ohki's anecdotes forever, we reluctantly have to rejoin the plot. Mihoshi needs a lift into town, and she needs it from someone who's not afraid to go under a fey name; a name capable of sustaining mental images of flamboyant prancing. Jim Ohki is only too happy to help out, anything to allow him to exercise his compensational car-mania and disdain for non-American radio. And as Mihoshi endlessly shops the fic into an episode we're let into Jimmy's terrible smoking past. Three years ago it seems he was involved in a relationship-based “nasty incident” but now “happiness (is) upon him.” Let's just hope Mihoshi doesn't turn out to have a dick like that last one did.

Wait, wasn't there supposed to be sex in this? Finally, three years after he first arrived that same night, Jimmy sees some action. But first here's another short delay, let's watch and enjoy. After all, you wouldn't want the wholesale lack of a story running away with itself, would you, Jim Ohki? Mihoshi takes five full minutes to change out of her casual clothes and into “a hot pink teddy.” Kickass Jimmy plays it cool at his girl's complete lack of class, meaning they stand there in silence for another three minutes. So important is the sexy lingerie (pronounced “lyn-gehr-ee-ay”) which took all night to choose that Mihoshi immediately discards it to get to the centrally directed rutting. Under Jim Ohki's direction, sex once again appears an equivalent skill to managing output at an undisclosed number of completely separate nougat factories while two beefy, shirtless guys have loud, powerful brawls in the corridor outside your office. It's frustrating, you see, so Mihoshi gets a flying pillow to the face in order to “scream into it.” And since, again, thinly veiled abuse is what all women are crying out for, it's only logical she then gushes “juices” like a “water slide at an amusement park.” Come, see the cock-flume, don't you ever miss it! Estimated queue time: one hour. For your amusement, loudspeakers will ensure the surrounding area echoes to the “sounds of sex” while you wait. The closer to the front of the line you get the more horrible and viscous the liquid noises become, finally reaching their crescendo as an authoritative disembodied voice warns you “I'm going to cum soon” mere seconds before cages descend and high pressure hoses are employed to give the now screaming crowd a goo-fall of the man-slime.

But enough of Pirates Of The Caribbean...

In the great tradition of masturbating in the third person, Jimmy telegraphs the imminent emptying of “his nuts into her pussy” to everyone within earshot. Only he does it a full five minutes in advance, just in case anyone wants to cover the fish tank or fetch the kids. When the inevitable penis-based death of God does happen, it's disappointingly low key. I can't help but get the feeling Jim Ohki was more interested in making damn sure we knew he can give a girl anywhere between six and seventy five orgasms in a single sitting than attending to the integrity of his work. With his lying business done, he arranges free blackouts for everyone. A page later and it's all over. Somehow, the author manages to care even less than I do at this point, but feels it's important to threaten mankind with the “sixty different fics” he has still to write. I'll assume he uses the same kind of exaggeration here as he does with women and simply conclude that there's a layer of bullshit in this story.

So ends Part One. Upcoming in Part Two: epic tales of The Good and The Beautiful capable of making everything so far seem worthy of being read aloud to your dying mother. You will believe you're being punished for something. You will believe a God can hate.