Fire At The Cracker Jack Factory

By Mark Moore, San Diego 1999

When the Kernel Kounters and the Heavy Shoes were away in their sinking sofas, and the Cracker Jack factory lay quiescent, the Consultant and his Mystress slipped in through a vent and got into the machines. She was laying down on a teflon conveyer belt, her skirt and blouse flung across valves and levers, and he was pushing glowing buttons on a panel which warmed up the sugar melting systems.

When head-first she entered the mouth of the caramel drizzler, and streams of warm liquid candy poured across her skin, the fear and tension her body contained were exhaled, siphoned through a deep, airy sigh of pleasure. When she emerged and her eyes opened, her candy-coated hair glistened beneath the light of the faintly glowing instrument panel, and she was dripping maple and vanilla, and he caught a breathless glimpse of her just before she entered the next machine.

Four thousand and ninety six minute vibrating tongues in a suspended array danced across her glazed breasts and lips as her body passed through the Tickler, as it was named by the Heavy Shoes, which has the ordinary purpose of separating and tickling the gooey popcorn until cool. But strangely then, as she curled, stretched, and writhed in ecstasy beneath the resonant impulses of the robot, her ankle bracelet caught on the actuator of an interior peraxulator, and a sinewy blue-orange flame reached up and licked the ceiling ducts.

He with one arm, superbly thrust beneath the arch of her back and adroitly swept her away from the crackling burst of fire. They darted out into the night and the light rain rinsed the sticky candy into tiny channels which trickled down her shivering pearly skin. Where, under the red hue of the emergency flood lights, they watched as their fire consumed the Cracker Jack factory. And thus an event in their story came to a natural conclusion.

Fin