Smokedawg “Tales of the Poisoned World: Between Demons and Angels”

About the Author

J. Jefferson (aka Smokedawg) is a middle-aged editor and journalist manifesting his mid-life crisis with a flurry of fiction writing instead of a sports car and trophy mistress. He write erotica (mostly smoking fetish-related) at his blog “Better With Smoke” (http://betterwithsmoke.wordpress.com) but also writes stories for the Celis T. Rono Writer’s Collective, SmokingStories, Pillow Talk and elsewhere with erotic and non-erotic themes, in smoking and non-smoking forms. You can e-mail him at: pseudojeff@msn.com.

He began his “Poisoned World” stories with the “Venomous Passions” trilogy at: http://betterwithsmoke.wordpress.com/category/venomous-passions-trilogy/

This fictional near-future world also made an appearance in the a “Scenic Saturday” themed story on my blog at: http://betterwithsmoke.wordpress.com/2010/05/29/scenic-saturday-sweets-for-the-sweet/

Other stories in this setting (without smoking fetish overtones) have appeared here at the Celis T. Rono Writers Collaborative as “Tales of the Poisoned World” and you can find those others by clicking on the link to my stories here: http://celisrono.wordpress.com/category/smokedawg/

This is the third “Tales of the Poisoned World” story.

Tales of the Poisoned World:

Between Demons and Angels

Night in the city was never safe, not even behind the walls of a church—in fact, maybe less so some nights.

Having been born and raised in New Philadelphia, Reverend Jason Nguyen-Williams had seen a lot in his 27 years of life—hell, he had experienced his first encounter with a thrill-killer at the age of 6 when he and his mother were caught out on the street later than was wise. His mother had gotten him away from that intact, and the man had been captured soon thereafter, though Jason still had a little silver scar on his left thigh to remind him of the incident.

It still squidged him inside out that when he had gone to see that thrill-killer in prison several years ago as part of his forgiveness colloquium in seminary, the man looked into Jason’s eyes for all of three seconds, smiled, and asked, “So, can you still see your scar? Does it bring you back to your childhood, boy?” Just from looking into his eyes, the thrill-killer had remembered. Chilling, but good preparation for his current duties, which were dangerous simply due to his proximity to the Sprawls, and the hours that he was called upon to work.

Still, when straightening up the sanctuary after dark—alone—right on the border between the Gray Zion sprawlhood and the mid-strata neighborhood of Goldborough, there were some things a man of God just didn’t have preparation for. Things one just didn’t know how to react to.

A tall, nearly naked woman with ruddy reptilian wings and bright red eyes was one of those things.

Once Jason knew that someone had entered the room, his hand had immediately shot to the pocket of his long black preacher’s coat, where he kept a very expensive flechette pistol. A religious man who relied only on God to protect him in this city was a religious man who would be visiting Heaven long before he had earned any gray hairs. Or, in the case of most of the religious men in this particular church, they’d probably end up in Hell, but that was a whole other matter.

When he had turned around, he had guessed the unexpected visitor would be either a SilverScream addict on a rage-frenzy, a rape or robbery victim seeking sanctuary, a pimp looking for a wayward pedwhore, or a police officer asking questions. Those were the top four night-time patrons around here.

Smokedawg “Tales of the Poisoned World: Balance of Power”

About the Author

J. Jefferson (aka Smokedawg) is a middle-aged editor and journalist manifesting his mid-life crisis with a flurry of fiction writing instead of a sports car and trophy mistress. He began work on a sci-fi novel in 2008, then fell into erotica in 2009 by starting his blog ”Better With Smoke” (http://betterwithsmoke.wordpress.com) before branching out to the Smoking Fetish Kingdom, the Celis T. Rono Writer’s Collective, SmokingStories, and elsewhere with smoking and non-smoking erotica, as well as non-erotic fare. You can e-mail him at: pseudojeff@msn.com.

He began his “Poisoned World” stories with the “Venomous Passions” trilogy at: http://betterwithsmoke.wordpress.com/category/venomous-passions-trilogy/

His first stand-alone “Tales of the Poisoned World” story, which precedes this one chronologically, is here on Celis T. Rono’s blog, at: http://celisrono.wordpress.com/2010/01/20/smokedawg-tales-of-the-poisoned-world-expressions-of-power/

Tales of the Poisoned World:

Balance of Power

It was an long-held axiom that the City Administrator always worked hours later than the Executive Mayor did. That axiom was taken to an extreme in Danica’s case; she was forever at the mayoral offices cleaning up some political mess that Oswald K. Drummond IV had left, or dealing with some inane duty that he had foisted on her.

Almost all of it was petty vengeance in the end—for Danica being a woman and thus inferior by the standards of Oswald’s circle of wealthy and highly religious peers; for having been indirectly involved in his failure to bring the Sprawls to heel two years earlier; and for the fact she was gearing up to unseat him in the next set of mayoral elections in another couple years.

She was patient, though. It was a trait that had gotten her on the fast track to her current position; it was one that would carry her into the Executive Mayor position either this election cycle or next—depending on how quickly voters realized what a huge mistake it was to elect someone from the upper stratas instead of the mid-level ones—especially an upper-strata religious zealot. Her skill at patience and handling challenges would likely be enough to keep her in the office for two or three terms at least once she secured it.

That was the theory, at least.

Huang dusk-Chi’s theory. And her own assessment of the city and her capabilities. Also the theory of several artificial intelligence computer models paid for at great expense to Huang’s family.

But theories are just theories until proved to be fact, even ones from cutting-edge AI computers, she reminded herself.

Tired but satisfied that tomorrow would at least begin on the right notes thanks to her efforts tonight, Danica Peters headed for the foyer of the GovSec building on her way to a dinner meeting with Huang about upcoming campaign-related machinations.

She nodded to the security team at the front desk, then paused, looked around briefly, and held out her hands in a gesture of expectation and befuddlement.

“There’s a series of bugs in the Guardian system again, Admin Peters,” the lead guard told her, an expression of apology in his eyes. “Worse than the other week. You’ll have to head out to your car without a gearhead, I’m afraid. Do you need one of us to head out with you instead?”

Leaving this late, a city officer of her stature—or even slightly below it—was pretty much expected to walk out with an automaton companion to guard her at least until she was off premises entirely, so there was no weakness in that. But taking away a human guard from his duties to do the same would look soft, so she shook her head as she extracted one of her Femmeboro Citrons and ignited it with her hotpen, enjoying the flood of citrusy smoke into her lungs. As she pulled the long cigarette from her lips and exhaled, she said, lightly, “It’ll be a nice change of pace not to hear the soft whir of servos next to me for once.”

It was true enough. Going out onto the street alone at night to leave the complex was something she hadn’t done in several years now, so it would be a novel experience.

The air was chill, but fresher than normal. A hard rain had fallen earlier in the day, followed by some firm winds, and so for one of those rare nights, a few stars were hazily visible in the night sky, and the moon was more than just an amorphous, blurry light behind muddy clouds. You could actually make out its craters and basins tonight, even if they seemed slightly out of focus.

She was 100 meters out from the foyer, and almost half again that distance away from the drop-gate for her vehicle, when the elaborate clasp-and-brooch assembly for her cloak suddenly came apart, reconfigured as a tiny hawk on her shoulder, and let out a warble-and-whistle cry.

Danica had trained with the cloak often enough and with its PI system—the pseudo-intelligence computer built into it—to understand the notes. Danger behind. Duck to right and run.

Only twice before had her defcloak warned her of impending attack from behind. Once she had ignored it, and turned to face her potential assailant, because the danger whistle was minor—and that woman had earned a nasty faceful of stunspray, while Danica strode away calmly. The second time, the danger message had only been slightly more intense, and Danica had simply fled to safety.

This time, the danger whistle was very nearly a shriek, and she didn’t hesitate. Because aside from the intensity of the warning—and thus the PI’s appraisal of the threat—she realized that an attack like this, right when the Guardian system was down and she was unescorted, seemed way too coincidental.

Smokedawg “Tales of the Poisoned World: Expressions of Power”

About the Author

J. Jefferson (aka Smokedawg) is a middle-aged editor and journalist manifesting his mid-life crisis with a flurry of fiction writing instead of a sports car and trophy mistress. He began work on a sci-fi novel in 2008, then fell into erotica in 2009 by starting his blog ”Better With Smoke” (http://betterwithsmoke.wordpress.com) before branching out to the Smoking Fetish Kingdom, the Celis T. Rono Writer’s Collective, SmokingStories, and elsewhere with smoking and non-smoking erotica, as well as non-erotic fare. You can e-mail him at: pseudojeff@msn.com.

I began my “Poisoned World” stories with the “Venomous Passions” trilogy at: http://betterwithsmoke.wordpress.com/category/venomous-passions-trilogy/

Tales of the Poisoned World:

Expressions of Power

Noon came dimly in New Philadelphia, as was usually the case—the sun a sepia globe, it’s golden light filtered through the constant dun haze in the sky. Except when it rained hard with droplets that stung the skin, and cleared the air enough for people to remember the sky was supposed to be blue.

Or at least bluish.

Noon on this day was darker than usual, at least in the office of the city’s Executive Mayor, thanks to the mood of the man who had three months earlier won 60% of the vote to claim this office. Oswald K. Drummond IV. The third-richest man in the city and someone who was accustomed to being farther in-city, surrounded by only the rich. Cocooned from the dregs.

The central government building were in a clean part of the city. A safe place. A moneyed city-sector. But still, not the gem that City Center was. Where the upper stratas lived.

But this is where I need to be, to serve God and my fellow leaders of society, Oswald groaned inwardly. I’ll give up a few comforts to do what needs doing.

“Abominations and dangerous criminals,” he muttered.

Smokedawg “Waiting for Her”

About the Author

J. Jefferson (aka Smokedawg) is a middle-aged editor and journalist manifesting his mid-life crisis by finally writing the fiction his schoolmates always thought he would have been writing since graduation (but didn’t). He began work on a sci-fi novel in 2008, then fell into erotica in 2009 by starting his blog ”Better With Smoke” (http://betterwithsmoke.wordpress.com) as a way to explore the smoking fetish in fiction and commentary. He sometimes writes exclusive smoking fetish erotica for the forum “Smoking Fetish Kingdom” and is also regularly contributing general erotica and even some non-erotic fiction for the Celis T. Rono Writer’s Collective. You can e-mail him at: pseudojeff@msn.com.

This particular story is NOT erotica (although there is some inappropriate touching…LOL), which is a rarity for me these days (aside from my in-progress sci-fi novel). I think it’s horror but in the end, maybe it’s a romance. Only you can know for sure.

Waiting for Her

Father and son stood atop the hill. It was a commanding position, had they been in any position to defend their position against an attack.

But as it was—armed with a half-loaded 9mm pistol, a nicked machete, a surgically sharp meat cleaver, a club wrapped in barbed wire and a sawed-off shotgun with just one shell remaining—they weren’t in a position to defend much more than their honor.

No, their position now was just to have a commanding view. The valley before them, stretching for miles. The sea at their back, and Renaldo’s freighter waiting just off the coast for them.

“She’ll come,” the father said.

“What if…” the son began.

Smokedawg “Bound Flesh”

About the Author

J. Jefferson (aka Smokedawg) is a middle-aged editor and journalist manifesting his mid-life crisis by finally writing the fiction his schoolmates always thought he would have been writing since graduation (but didn’t). He began work on a sci-fi novel in 2008, then fell into erotica in 2009 by starting his blog ”Better With Smoke” (http://betterwithsmoke.wordpress.com) as a way to explore the smoking fetish in fiction and commentary. He sometimes writes exclusive smoking fetish erotica for the forum “Smoking Fetish Kingdom” and is also regularly contributing general erotica and even some non-erotic fiction for the Celis T. Rono Writer’s Collective. You can e-mail him at: pseudojeff@msn.com.

Bound Flesh

Life in Chicago post-invasion certainly wasn’t a bore—and exhaustion was par for the course, Audrey considered. Of course, she’d put herself, as had her brother Oliver, into that position when they elected to be part of the resistance three years before. Among the few who hadn’t embraced their new reptilian overlords.

OK, to be fair, only some of them are reptilian, Audrey acknowledged in her mind. Along with amphibians, inverterbrates, avians, mammalians, herbacians, botanoids, arachnoids, insectoids, silicoids, hydrocarbon-based colloidal intelligences, sentient mathematical equations, luminous cohesive thought matrices, and a slew of others.

But reptilian beings did form the largest single bloc of extraterrestrial entities in the Grand Hegemony. And Earth was the newest member, whether it wanted to be or not. It wasn’t as if there had really been much resistance. Hegemon starcruisers had surrounded the Earth, some of them had entered orbit, and others had landed on large areas of open ground or now floated near coastal areas. But there had never been any assault. No bloodshed—at least not by member of the Hegemony.

“Fuck all those sci-fi movies,” Ollie had said to her in the early days they were putting together their Humanity’s Heart organization. “No lasers, no exotic viruses or chemicals to wipe us out. No trying to serve us up for dinner. No mind control devices. No troops. No concentration camps. Just plain old simple strategy of give us what we want, and we’ll roll over.”

Smokedawg “Widow’s Web: Promoting From Within”

About the Author

J. Jefferson (aka Smokedawg) is a middle-aged editor and journalist manifesting his mid-life crisis by finally writing the fiction his schoolmates always thought he would have been writing since graduation (but didn’t). He began work on a sci-fi novel in 2008, then fell into erotica in 2009 by starting his blog ”Better With Smoke” (http://betterwithsmoke.wordpress.com) as a way to explore the smoking fetish in fiction and commentary. He also has begun writing exclusive smoking fetish erotica for the forum “Smoking Fetish Kingdom” and now also writes some non-smoking erotica, exclusively for the Celis T. Rono Writer’s Collective (unless of course by some miracle some publisher wants to pay him to put it in print). You can e-mail him at: pseudojeff@msn.com.

I had originally intended to publish no more smoking fetish fiction here at Celis’ blog, but I want to maintain a regular presence, had no time to write something from scratch right now, and realized that this story had been sitting on my hard drive since the early 2000s. I was surprised to find out how close to completion it was, and found it to be better written than I had expected it to be, since it was during a period I thought I might start writing mind control fiction erotica, then gave up on the idea. I had intended it to be part of a series, obviously, but not sure if I will do that. We’ll see…

Widow’s Web: Promoting From Within

Arriving for her fifth week of work, Cecile was amazed at one thing above all others: She still had a job. Not the best of typists, hardly ever on time, barely able to handle any software application more advanced than the word processing program…not to mention the fact she was working for a fledgling e-venture in a time when dot-coms were continuing to crumble…well, she wasn’t going to question her good fortune.

So, when the human resources director who hired her suddenly showed up at her cubicle, she figured she was done for. When he told Cecile that the CEO wanted to meet with her immediately, she knew she was doomed.

But considering the way the H.R. geek’s eyelids were drooping and way his words seemed…well, not slurred really but somehow flat…she was thinking maybe he’d be next to get fired—for being stoned on the job. Come to think of it, a lot of people had a certain glassy-eyed look around this company. Too many hours in front of computer screens, no doubt.

Her stomach bunched into a knot tight enough to hurt, she followed the bespectacled man (what was name again? Walter?) as he led her to the CEO’s office.

<My God, Cecile thought, what kind of CEO of any company drops the axe personally?>

A few minutes later, their destination reached, Walter nodded to the CEO’s personal assistant and then lazily rapped on the door the head office, where Cecile fully expected to have her head chopped off.

She was amazed that the person inside the office would even have heard Walter’s limp-wristed knock, and even more amazed when she heard a woman’s voice summon them in with a nearly magisterial authority.

<Sydney Prescott, Cecile realized, is a woman. I never even considered it. Of course, I’ve never seen so much as a picture of our CEO, much less witnessed a public appearance in the office. Oh, well, oh hell…There goes any chance of sweet-talking my way out of this and flirting my way into a second chance.

Smokedawg “Dragon’s Breath”

About the Author

J. Jefferson (aka Smokedawg) is a middle-aged editor and journalist manifesting his mid-life crisis by finally writing the fiction his schoolmates always thought he would have been writing since graduation (but didn’t). He began work on a sci-fi novel in 2008, then fell into erotica in 2009 by starting his blog ”Better With Smoke” (http://betterwithsmoke.wordpress.com) as a way to explore the smoking fetish in fiction and commentary. He also has begun writing exclusive smoking fetish erotica for the forum “Smoking Fetish Kingdom” and now also writes some non-smoking erotica, exclusively for the Celis T. Rono Writer’s Collective (unless of course by some miracle some publisher wants to pay him to put it in print). You can e-mail him at: pseudojeff@msn.com.

Incidentally, while the story below isn’t a smoking fetish fiction story as such, it is inspired by a conversational exchange between two characters in a fetish story I wrote for my blog, “Nobody’s Princess,” which Celis re-published here some time back at this link: http://celisrono.wordpress.com/2009/07/21/smokedawg-nobodys-princess/

Dragon’s Breath

By Smokedawg

His armor fairly gleamed, as did his demi-sword, grand-sword, spears and brassig-barbed lances. The oversized shield—wrapped with exotic keuvhrga fronds from far-away Jhuoolha that were said to repel fire—might have made his horse tilt sideward if not for the fact a near-twin of it was on the other side his saddle as well.

He, the warrior who would prove his mettle and win a lordship for himself by revenging the High-King on the dragon who had stolen his daughter.

Or, if she yet lived, a princedom and her hand if he returned her to the king.

Unlikely chance of the latter, he had thought to himself as he rode away with several retainers, but still, a jewel worth consideration, which is why I have weapons to simply harry the monstrosity instead of killing it, should I get the chance to flee with Galiana on horseback.

That was how he had departed the King’s Demesne, at least.

Now, almost a lunar cycle later, his armor was tarnished and dented, though still strong. Two of his three lances had lost the brassig barbs he has been counting on to pierce the dragon’s scaling, lodge there, and poison it just to give him an edge in the battle. His demi-sword was pitted from multiple battles with hungry fauna and vicious brigands. And all who had accompanied him were now gone—either killed or having fled.

Smokedawg “The Fair Folk”

About the Author

J. Jefferson (aka Smokedawg) is a middle-aged editor and journalist manifesting his mid-life crisis by finally writing the fiction his schoolmates always thought he would have been writing since graduation (but didn’t). He began work on a sci-fi novel in 2008, then fell into erotica in 2009 by starting his blog ”Better With Smoke” (http://betterwithsmoke.wordpress.com) as a way to explore the smoking fetish in fiction and commentary. He also has begun writing exclusive smoking fetish erotica for the forum “Smoking Fetish Kingdom” and now also writes some non-smoking erotica, exclusively for the Celis T. Rono Writer’s Collective (unless of course by some miracle some publisher wants to pay him to put it in print). You can e-mail him at: pseudojeff@msn.com

“The Fair Folk”

By Smokedawg

“Once more, Evin. Repeat it back to me,” Haladrin said.

“Maestro Haladrin, I am an adept. I’ve not been an apprentice for many moons. I know the litany.”

“Adept,” Haladrin said with affectionate contempt. “That’s the stage when a young man is most like to start making the stupidest mistakes. Recite it.”

Evin shrugged and sighed. “In the lands of the Fey, when they offer, drink naught or be caught. When they offer, eat naught or be caught. And accept not gift or service either, unless you offer something finer. To fail at these is to invite shame, around one’s neck a silver chain.”

“Remember that well, Adept Evin, in your first journey to the Fey Lands,” the master of the Luministrum told him. “Only one at a time of the Luministrum may walk the Russet Road, and the task falls to you to make the journey this time. Deliver my boon to the Sylvan Duke and return with the scroll he will give you. Tarry not, and return to us whole.”

Evin nodded respectfully, then made a formal half-bow to his maestro, and slipped into the crack the cellar wall—that crack being one of the thin places between the Realms. No one got fat or remained so in the Luministrum if they wanted to become an adept or rise even higher. Because one of the requirements of being an adept was running errands in the Fey Realms at times, and Maestro Haladrin insisted that to make that crack in the wall larger would be to risk the integrity of the magic that allowed them to pass back and forth between the two worlds.

Within moments, Evin was through it, and stepping out of an almost identical crack in a huge, gnarled tree in the Fey Realms. He had expected to feel something, passing between worlds, but there was no sensation—neither physical nor mental nor magical. He might as well have walked through the door of his tiny bedchamber.

The sight that greeted him confirmed that he was in the Fey Realms, though. All the colors were brighter, almost painful to the human eye, and the scents and smells around him almost seemed to be living things themselves.

“Hexen. Hexus. Ignis. Diumarthe,” he intoned, so that he might pass by the Wards that guarded their passage here to and from the Fey Lands. And then he stepped onto the rust-colored, smooth cobbles of the Russet Road and began his long journey.

As he walked, he spied a few worn little tents and hippogriff-drawn wagons along the way. The Fair Folk in them wearily plied their trade, trying to entice him over. Nothing they offered was tempting, neither food nor drink nor baubles. Capturing a mortal would have been great victory for any of them and elevated them to a much higher standard of living, but how many mortals walked this way who were so foolish as that? Instead, Evin realized, they would be forced to eke out a living trading with other Fair Folk who traveled the road.

Smokedawg “Kneeling to the Fallen”

About the Author

J. Jefferson (aka Smokedawg) is a middle-aged editor and journalist manifesting his mid-life crisis by FINALLY writing the fiction his schoolmates always thought he would have been writing since graduation (but didn’t). In addition to beginning work on a science fiction novel in 2008, he fell into erotica in 2009 by starting his blog ”Better With Smoke” (http://betterwithsmoke.wordpress.com) as a way to explore the smoking fetish (independently and in conjunction with other fetishes) in fiction and commentary. He also has begun writing exclusive smoking fetish erotica for the forum “Smoking Fetish Kingdom” and plans to begin producing non-smoking erotica soon as well, exclusively for the Celis T. Rono Writer’s Collective (unless of course by some miracle some publisher wants to pay him to put it in print).

Kneeling to the Fallen

By Smokedawg

Calamity.

Nothing but calamity on this expedition. Illness, injury, loss of supplies, loss of transportation and repeated desertions. And two deaths. And now, Andrea Cochrane realized, she was the last one left. The one who led the team to find the cavern, and the only one who made it all the way. She had no way of knowing whether the ill and injured had made their way back to civilization or not.

And I have no idea if I can find my way back now, she admitted to herself.

It occurred to her that the entire trip had begun to feel cursed early on. That she, as the organizer and mastermind of it, would be the only one to gaze upon this crack in the cliff face spoke to her of influences beyond those of humans.

Given what she was seeking, that wasn’t such a superstitious notion anymore.

What few clues there were in the ancient texts and carvings matched up with the features around her. And most especially the narrow passage through the mountain in front of her. She had no idea why she had continued after Walter was carried away by the river current, over the falls and into the jagged rocks below—with Hannah subsequently leaving her in disgust.

But not without hurling curses and accusations at me, Andrea recalled. Not without telling me I was stupid to continue, and much worse things besides. And, in the end, why am I still walking toward my goal instead of running away from it? No one remains to witness this. No one is here to help me bring back proof if I survive. I’m like Walter now, being carried by a current I cannot resist.

Smokedawg “Night Kiss”

About the Author:

J. Jefferson (aka Smokedawg) is a middle-aged editor and journalist manifesting his mid-life crisis by FINALLY writing the fiction his schoolmates always thought he would have been writing since graduation (but didn’t). In addition to beginning work on a science fiction novel in 2008, he fell into erotica in 2009 by starting his blog ”Better With Smoke” (http://betterwithsmoke.wordpress.com) as a way to explore the smoking fetish (independently and in conjunction with other fetishes) in fiction and commentary. He also has begun writing exclusive smoking fetish erotica for the forum “Smoking Fetish Kingdom” and is now periodically writing some non-smoking erotica exclusively for the Celis T. Rono Writer’s Collective (unless of course by some miracle some publisher wants to pay him to put it in print).

Night Kiss

By Smokedawg

In among the club-goers, Mariah was certainly worth noting, but not someone who inherently stood out. Looking to be in her late 20s, with her shoulder-length hair a barely controlled, thick and silky mass of dark ringlets, her eyes twin cocoa pools and her lips a deep, glossy black on an otherwise pale, gray face. She had precious few piercings—a small jeweled ring through one nostril and two dangly wood and brass totem-like earrings—and no tattoos. But otherwise, she fit the goth scene quite well. Several others in the mixed crowd of college students, artists and alternative sorts sported more lavish goth accoutrements and attire, but Mariah wasn’t there to hang out with people who wished they were vampires or ghouls. They weren’t her type.

Literally.

After all, they were only human.

They might have been a snack on another night. Someone to take a small amount of blood from and leave with fevered dreams, dim memories of an intimate encounter, and a slightly aching neck or thigh. Of course, a fraternity or sorority member out on the town, a construction worker coming home late from a bar, or a socialite at a posh wine bar would suit that need just as well.

But Mariah was searching for something more significant tonight.