Foston Slacks - Time's Flies

20

This Clara, however, was taller. With a big shock of hair, wild make-up that Clara, the real Clara would never, ever wear. And leather trousers. Bigger boobs, too. She was Clara, but with everything dialled up to eleven. And then, laughing at eleven, dialled it up again, just to be certain that it had all become so far beyond ridiculous, that it had skipped around ridiculous and poked a wet finger in ridiculous' ear.

And a gun.

Why would Clara, that Clara, need a gun. The Corridor had, up to a few minutes before, been an idealised, quaint, loveable type of place. The kind of place that, if it had been an animal, would have been loved and cared for its entire life, but been suffocated in hugs and been told "Who's a good boy? You're a good boy!" far too often.

"What the fu ..."

"Funny you should ask." Foston stepped in front of her, holding up his fists in some wild impersonation of protective manliness. "That, would appear to be a version of you, imagined by the author due to our interactions with this place. Just remember, Clara, it's not really real, only sort of real."

"Are these guys bothering you, Babe?" A voice from the side caused everybody's heads to swivel in that direction.

And there, as if the ridiculousness of Über-Clara was not enough by any stretch of the imagination, stood the single most ridiculous thing Clara or even Foston had seen. Around seven feet tall, wearing a biker's jacket, hanging loose showing a furred body that would give sculptors orgasms, and the tightest of leather trousers, leaving nothing to the imagination, carrying a gun, so large, it should really have wheels attached, stood a version of Foston. It, he, had a nose ring, just to make sure that ridiculous had just given up and walked away, shouting "To hell with the lot of you!".

"Babe?" Foston and Clara both said at the same time.

The fake Foston sauntered up to Über-Clara, swaying his hips leaving many of the denizens of the corridor gibbering in sexually satisfied fetal balls. He grabbed her around the waist, pulling her in tight and, with not just a little aggression, they kissed. Passionately. For a long time. A very long time.

"Eew!" Clara and Foston echoed each other.

"Oh, please!" Clara continued. "The author may have been a talentless hack, before, but at least they were an original, talentless hack. Well, apart from the French waiter. This? This is just the cliché of a cliché of a sexually deprived, borderline psychotic, dribbling idiot."

"Oh, no, it's far worse than that! They're turning it into online fiction." Foston bit his knuckles. "Oh, the humanity!"

"How about I blast these inferior copies and we get the hell out of here, Babe? Somewhere we can have sex and lots of it." The fake Foston levelled the huge gun. Anyone would think him overcompensating for something, but those extremely tight leather trousers did not lie. There was an almost lyrical parity to the size of his gun and the size of his 'gun'.

"Now, listen here, Faux-ston! You're the copies, sunshine, not us!" Foston's angry words became lost as the needlessly huge gun began winding up. Foston grabbed Clara's hand. "Clara, run! Run very fast towards that door there. The yellow one. And, you know, pop some zigzags in there for good measure, eh?"

They both ran towards the yellow door, zigzagging. Except Foston zigged as Clara zagged and ended up being pretty much in the same place more often than not. Bumping into each other, apologising, stepping aside, apologising again because they'd both gone the same way, stepping aside again ...

"Blast 'em, lover boy!" Über-Clara shouted in a breathy, lusty voice. Clara didn't even think a 'lusty' voice existed. She'd read romance novels and she still didn't believe it existed, but there Über-Clara was breathing lustily.