THE VIXEN INVASION
By Scotty Rave
Author’s Note: While this is indeed a ‘balloony’ story, it’s going to be a novella (short novel). I’m in the process of writing a real novel and this is just a practise. Nethertheless I’m still going to put acceptable effort into this.
Also on a side-note, my own personal views are expressed in this novella however they do not reflect the views of the United Kingdom as a whole.
If you wish to comment about Vixen Invasion, email me at OptimusJunior@aol.com
Foreword
Analysis of Balloonies
There are many stories out there of how Earth has been or will be invaded by the scum of the universe, ugly, marauding monsters from other worlds who seek to enslave the human race and bleed the planet dry of its resources. However, few or no writers of these science fiction fantasies stop to consider that maybe not all aliens are pulsating blobs covered in pustules and slime.
There may be aliens out there that are incredibly beautiful, perhaps even aliens who make our bizarre, inner fetishes real. If there are, well, whatever supreme deity is truly ruling existence must be poking fun at the deep, sometimes sinister fetishes humans have.
One such fetish is balloons, and by balloons I mean balloons that take on human-like forms down to the smallest detail. There are three ways of going about such a thought:
Those who think it are sick and depraved individuals who find this penultimate form of dominance to be attractive to their grotesque imaginations. These people should be avoided because their sickly minds often affect their social behaviour and they may pounce in a second.
Those who think it are appealing to the more cuddly side of the fetish where the balloons are imaginary friends or magical, interdimensional creatures. I personally apply the word ‘nymph’ to this form, as the nymphs of mythology are known to take on playful, appealing forms.
Those who think it are merely seeking a new type of fantastic adventure. Whether science fiction, romance or even horror, they are merely trying to take a Stephen King-esque view of the fetish. I believe I am one such individual who falls into this category.
In short, ‘balloonies’ are an untouched fantasy, untainted by corrupt organisations and stereotyping ‘What-Not-To’ magazines. They are something that do not apply to specific rules carved in stone and their course in life lies in the imaginations of mankind.
With that said, I will begin my story.
Chapter One
The United Kingdom was a small but significant island in the development of the world. Due to Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher, the UK was now connected to the United States in terms of industry. Unfortunately almost nobody was happy with the decision. Many subjects of the British crown had become annoyed by Thatcher, and later with Blair’s increase in UK-US relations.
To put it blunt, the nation cried out, “We owe them fucking nothing!”
The UK-US relations were not cast in stone yet but when settlers made their way to America and literally tore away the land from the natives, forcing their own laws upon those who had come first, they had already made a bad start.
At this point, I stopped typing to enjoy a walk down the beach not far from my home. As I did so, a pro-American came to me with a film crew and asked, “Do you think the USA is the greatest country in the world?”
My reply was simple, “No.”
I saw the grimace in the questioner’s face. He was obviously a lap-dog to the American senate, kissing their shoes just to show his blind worship rather than live with his own opinions and the fact that despite the size of their land, the US was no better than any other developing country. That was the problem. Too many people were quick to fall victim to government hypnosis.
Was it not George W. Bush who said, “War is a bad place” and then followed up with his supposed pep-talk, “The future will be better tomorrow”? Give them a colourful flag and they think they’re Leonardo DiCaprio, king of the world that is.
After a light supper of take-away fish and chips, I returned to my desk to type these words to you. Normally the heroes of these stories are courageous soldiers or genius scientists, but this one is very different. The saviour of mankind is in fact someone you would never say is ‘hero material’. Without further ado, I would like to introduce Bill Morton.
***
Bill Morton was a somewhat normal 17-year-old boy. He went to college, had friends and of course, had sexual fantasies when he slept. The son of two social rights activists, Bill had no chance of growing up with a rebellious streak. Constantly butting heads with the local law enforcement, he had made a mortal nemesis of Sergeant Axel Toomey.
Bill was of a regular height for a 17-year-old boy albeit he was thinner than average while not actually being skinny. He had a mop of black hair that hung down past his ears and dark circles drawn around his beautiful, blue eyes. He had a silver, spider web-shaped stud in his right ear lobe and another stud pierced through his tongue.
He was always seen wearing black and sporting his signature red tie, which was loose and had a black skull-and-crossbones stitched to it. Despite his dark and depressing image however, Bill’s skin was beautifully clean, untouched by acne or warts.
On this particular fateful night, Bill was sitting in his bedroom, which was just as dark and dreary as his clothes, with an all black-and-silver colour scheme and several posters and memorabilia littering it. The shelves in the corner were crammed with horror books, horror movies and CDs that were a mix of punk rock, gothic rock and post-hardcore.
A black Yamaha home keyboard sat in front of him and his fingers danced across the ivory pieces as Helena blared out of the stereo system. He was alone in the house this evening, his parents out at a party. As the clocks struck midnight, Bill moved his hand away from the keyboard to tuck some loose hair behind his ear before returning to his duties as a fanatical musician.
A knock at the door caused Bill to growl with frustration and knock the keyboard over. He got up off the bed, switched off the stereo and made his way downstairs in just his jeans and socks. He opened the door to find none other than his arch-enemy, Sergeant Toomey, standing there with his arms crossed over his chest impatiently.
Bill glared at the stubble-faced, broad-shouldered Toomey and said quite hatefully, “What is it this time Axel?”
“That’s Sergeant Toomey to you,” Toomey grunted before resting his massive hands on his hips, “The elderly lady next door has been complaining about the noise.”
“The elderly lady next door should keep her voice down then,” Bill sneered, “Windows were closed and the music was only half-way up so unless she’s just got it out for me, that lady must have sonar hearing like a bat.”
“Don’t cheek me boyo,” Toomey said impatiently.
“We’ve been at this little run-around for over a year now Axel,” smirked Bill, “We should be on a casual basis with each other. Now unless you have a warrant to arrest me or any proof against me, bugger off.”
“I…you…” Toomey stuttered, turning red in the face at that little brat’s sharp tongue, “…And…why I…you…!”
Bill batted his eyes at the policeman, blew him a provocative kiss and then slammed the door shut. He immediately went to the living room and picked up his mobile. Best not use a line that could be tapped for this. He dialled in next door’s phone number and waited. Eventually, an impatient, elderly voice spoke, “Hello?”
“Hello, it’s someone you know,” Bill said.
“What?” the elderly lady snapped, “Don’t talk nonsense.”
“Just telling you,” Bill stopped to clear his throat, “That if you report me again for no reason I’m gonna stuff a dead frog down your chimney.”
He hit the button to hang up and set the phone down before returning upstairs to his bedroom and turning the stereo on, once more joining in on his keyboard. He narrowed his eyes slightly and suddenly began to feel the ever looming sensation of tiredness. As the song ended, Bill turned off the stereo again and folded the legs of his keyboard into the base, leaning it against the wall beside his bed. He gave one final look to his posters before undressing. He hung the tie on a hook jutting from the wall and stuffed the rest of his clothes into the laundry chute. Finally, he removed the silver studs from his lobe and tongue and dropped them into a small glass of water mixed with washing up liquid.
Bill climbed into his four-poster bed and pulled the jet black quilt over him up to the shoulders before pulling the tasselled rope, closing the curtains, which he had spray-painted with skulls, crossbones and the infamous circled A that represented anarchy.
His now heavy eyelids slid closed and he let out a small croak before grinning and finally giving in, immediately falling into a deep sleep.
Outside, a blue balloon on a string hovered ominously upwards, drifting forever into the realm of the clouds.
The sleeping boy had no idea that he was in for an adventure unlike any he had ever conceived in his life.
At this point, I would like to remind you, dear reader that this is an erotic fantasy and after this chapter, such content will be seen. If you do not wish to read such diabolical things, please stop here. If by chance you like such delightful things then please continue.