33: A hard demonic presence in between layers of silken skin and cloth

The pier at Longing Lake was an extended, narrow construction of rickety wood leading out to a wide, round, raised plateau.

Phaorette Muhajerin approached the pier with some trepidation. Walking wasn’t especially her thing, and this pier looked like it demanded a lot of walking. She was also quite put off, to say the least, to have been sent to the common end of Longing Lake, a large body of water with a wide variety of lifestyle and experiential choices.

The wooden boards were not exactly a pleasure to walk on. It was almost as though this whole exercise was designed to deliberately make her look stupid. Six inch heels required floorboards with less that six inch gaps between them. Also, some lake creatures kept flying into her face.

Phaorette: I need some help here. This is not working.

The moon was up. A hovering ball, hanging in the sky with a clear smirk on its countenance, shedding unnecessary light on an unfortunate situation.

The walk was going on forever, with Phaorette taking breaks every minute or so. Leaning on a small rail she would adjust her  tight two-piece outfit, the shiny blue velvet sparkling with moonbeams bounced from the water.

Phaorette: ‘Come alone’, my painted nails. [Looking at her nails which were painted a bold red] This better be worth it.

As she approached the plateau she began to pick up some sound, at first a steady beat of a kettle drum, then some tuba and cello, gradually growing into the completeness of a full orchestra. It was not clear what they were performing, but it definitely seemed as though they were doing so at the end of the pier.

As she grew nearer the plateau she noted that it was large and raised. Suddenly she felt that just maybe this insane scheme may have been worthwhile. Coming to Longing Lake at 3AM may not, in and of itself, have been that unusual, but having to do this walk of the absurd along a maddening bridge created out of matchsticks was truly beyond her pale. However, Phaorette Muharajerin had always been someone that sought the thing that was just beyond the pale.

Phaorette: Hmmmm.

Approaching the plateau now her hand slid down her thigh and into a pocket. Inside she fondled her piece. It felt nice, a hard demonic presence in between layers of silken skin and cloth. She smiled devilishly, wondering if this morning might be the demon’s time.

The music grew louder, and more layered. She could hear flutes now, oboes, perhaps a harp. It was impressive, a work of some majesty. Yet she could not place it.

Now she could see that around the plateau were a series of docks, some with boats attached. Unlike the music, the boats were modest and bobbling under the command of the lake.

Phaorette: Okay then, let’s see…

Coming to the foot of the plateau, she was getting stimulating mentally, which was another way of saying sexually. The music appeared to be building to a climax, rising in both tone and volume and unleashing perhaps the world’s largest chorus of harps.

The plateau she noted was much larger that it had seemed from a distance. She was climbing it as rapidly as maintaining extreme composure allowed, however the steps were seemingly taller than her legs. Also, around that point a small horde of flying creatures attacked her.

Phaorette: [Panting somewhat] I can do without the facebugs.

Finally, with one final heave, she rose upon the upper rim of the top step and, with the music rising to a rather astonishing crescendo, she stood hunched over, bone-still in stupefied amazement.

The orchestra was quieted as the battle of 100 harps struck a sudden and perilous chord that hung in the air like a parachute outside an airplane cargo door.

The plateau was empty, except for a table.

At the table sat Cadbury Fife.

Cadbury: Good morning.

Cadbury stood and motioned at the table.

Cadbury: Welcome to breakfast.

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