An Original Sin, continues, part five...

The Anthropologist: "Right...She refers to him playing caveman..."

Was it in that ancient tale of Pinocchio that someone's nose grew when they told a lie?
The Chronicler: "More random cultural relics."

The Anthropologist: "She's rejecting the identity he's imposing on her with the calling of her Fortune instead of 4-2-N, but no, she's now branded by a new identity... It's all very symbolic."

The Anthropologist: "They're doing things at warp speed, apparantly. Then there is something that makes no sense. Fortune runs down some stairs, cling wrap sensation... WHAT?!"

For one dazzling moment, she forgot everything in the cling wrap sensation of his back and buttocks melded to her breasts and stomach...
The Loinfire Club feels unclean.

The empty spasming of her lower regions reminded her they yearned for some melding too. If only he were a little shorter.
The Chronicler: "Why is he so tall again? I'm sure medieval people were shorter than us and so on..."

He was so darn tall. She wasn't used to looking up to people, literally speaking, of course. It made her feel...
No! It made her feel nothing. Evolving humans had to be physically large and strong to cope with their hostile environments. In an advanced civilization, mental capacity was more important than physical size.
The Balance: "Why does it imply that they've stopped evolving? And more importantly, WHAT?!"

The Anthropologist: "Moving on. The cat's still following them around. It's still Satan. She's accusing him of being a slug... Not just any slug though, it's a pick an animal and a made-up adjective that makes no sense Slug."

The Anthropologist: "And then there's angst over whether or not it's a dream."

"I prefer lighter shades— unobtrusive, restful. In my society, we use our minds to work, and mental stress is tiring. Neutral colors leave me calm and rested."
The Chronicler notes how scary the future is as a place. And how bizarrely imagined.

Even her mother hadn't bothered with hugs, viewing them as unnecessary physical contact.
The Chronicler notes how whilst the future of women are all calm and unviolent, they're not touchy-feely. Which is odd considering how fluffy they all are.

The Anthropologist: "She almost gets run over. She's pressed up against him again."
Lady Miriam: "Swollen pebbles."
The Anthropologist: "He gets lost for a bit. And he helps an old woman carry things. Who may or may not have mistaken him for a gigolo."
Lady Miriam: "That sounds more like a penance."
The Anthropologist: "He has trouble with modern slang. Dough means money... becasue highlanders take everything literally."
Big L: "Like dwarves"
The Balance: "And then Jesus comes to save them. It's actually an inspirational romance."

The singer on the truck's loudspeaker bemoaned his stay at someplace called the Heartbreak Hotel. A sad song about love. No one sang love songs anymore. Without men, what was the use?
The Chronicler is really getting impatient with this vision of a man-less future. Surely they could sing about lesbian love. Or heartbreak from friendships. And the bitchy, bitchy world...

That he'd sacrifice his body for hers was wonderful. Not logical. In her time people accepted the consequences of their own actions.
The Chronicler supposes that in a bitch-future altruism would be out of fashion. (The Chronicler's conjectures about a female future is based on her girls school experiences, of course.)

"Sensitivity's part of my culture, but you make me want to scream and... Must be something in the air. Uncivilized oxygen molecules."
WHAT?!

The Anthropologist: "They meet a taxi driver whose name is Blade. And he's oogling Fortune's chest."
Lady Miriam: "Are we sure she has a chest? We only know of her pebbling nipples so far."

He pictured himself peeling the cloth away from her breasts, exposing the creamy flesh, touching one pink nipple with his tongue, and watching it pucker, become a hard nub.
The Anthropologist: "No, they exist. They're creamy white. She's Caucasian, then."

Yes, he would look forward to paying for his sins. With penance such as this, he would be sorely tempted to raid a score of clergymen.
The Chronicler wonders if he actually understands the concept of penance.

The Anthropologist: "She reasons that everyone in the year two thousand is as ugly as Blade so she should stick with Leith."

Of course, she was probably the most qualified. She knew women's fantasies, listened to them on a daily basis as she took their orders for customized men. She certainly knew men's bodies. No one could do a quality check like she could...
Pillywiggin: "But not a test run."
Big L: "She has an assistant for that."
Lady Miriam: "Postgrads are her bitches."

The Anthropologist: "The slut rival woman has appeared. Very big and strong. Blond..."

Fortune looked up... and up... and up. No human stood on the rickety old porch, but a Valkyrie, come to escort a fallen hero to Valhalla...
The Chronicler could but marvel at the incomprehensible mythology mixup occuring here. Valkyries are from Norse mythology, not Scottish and certainly not 18th Century Scottish.

The Anthropologist: "Oh, it turns out that she's Blade's wife, Lily, World-class knife thrower who always throws knives at his guests for fun."

The Anthropologist: "Right. Satan is back and rants about how plagues are better and easier."
Pillywiggin: "She's like a poor fortune teller who's peering into her crystal ball and trying to describe the horrors of the future to us."

Is Fortune Cookie hot or what? Great babe. I can sure pick 'em.
The Chronicler noticed that sentence when doing the write up. And wants to cry.

"Ye're beautiful, and I willna let anyone take ye from me. Ye make me a man again."
The Anthropologist: "Right. Fortune overhears Leith say something. And thinks that Lily is flirting with Whatsit. She cries and then consoles herself that he's a slut and can repopulate the earth with males better."

Fine. She'd put a positive spin on this. If cosmic forces had decided to repopulate the earth with males, then they'd obviously need a man with a tomcat mentality. They'd probably scoured the time continuum for the most overactive libido they could find.
Sordan: "Everyone's going to be everyone's half sister. That's terrifying."
The Anthropologist: "They've lost genetics along with everything else. After all, they don't trust scientists."
Big L: "If anyone else went back in time, this wouldn't have happened..."

It turns out that Leith was talking to his newly acquired knife.
"Ye dinna understand the relationship between a man and his weapon." He lovingly caressed the smooth wooden handle.
Lady Miriam: "It could happen. Has anyone seen Sweeny Todd? He sings a love song to his razors."
The Anthropologist: "How is to make him a man? Surely he's been circumcised once already."
The Balance: "It could be ritual scarring."

"Researchers had found that tubular-shaped stuffed toys comforted children more than any of our advanced play designs. The discovery sparked a craze for retro-toys. Every child wanted an old-fashioned stuffed toy exactly like her ancestors played with."
The Chronicler questions Nina Bangs' ability to imagine any future.

Fortune angsts about how her mother threw away her toy Skirky. How this fluffy woman-orientated future is also loveless and uncreative in its naming the Chronicler cannot comprehend.

His smile would melt ice on Pluto...
All these stupid, stupid metaphors are getting to the Chronicler...

Leith was confused. They both wore the garments called jeans with shirts and "sneakers."
The Anthropologist: "His tiny highland brain is trying to comprehend. Shirts and shoes."
Pillywiggin: "But they have those things in Scotland, dammit. He should know about them."
The Balance: "But they only wear one at any one time."

...then gave himself permission to continue his journey to the swell of her breasts. Their spectacular peaks reminded him of home....
Lady Miriam: "HOW?"
Big L: "No woman's chest should remind one of the highlands."
Pillywiggin: "It's raining on them? There are deer running up and down them?"

The Anthropologist (still skimming for the rest of us): "Now he's marvelling at money."
Pillywiggin: "For fucks sake! They had a monetary system back then. And complex economics!"

History disks had shown her what men looked like and told her how they'd acted, but not one disk had said a thing about the emotional storms men created.
The Chronicler wonders what the fuck happened to ALL OF LITERATURE that should be telling her that. And she also wonders why women aren't creating emotional storms of their own.

"I'd read about Scotland on history disks, but it was so long ago that—"
" 'Tis gone?" He looked like he'd lost an old friend.
She'd said the wrong thing again. "Sort of. We don't have separate countries, only member states in a world nation, and everyone speaks the same language. No dialects."
The Chronicler: "And that's English?!"

The Anthropologist: "They're having a conversation about how he needs to beat people up and have sex. Because that's what he lives for."

He furrowed his brow. "If ye dinna fight, then ye have only sex for excitement."
Pillywiggin: "What about haggis?"
The Balance: "What about whiskey?"
Big L: "And bagpipes."

"We haven't had men for fifty years, and we've done just fine without sex with real males, thank you very much."
The Chronicler wonders about our sexual history and how most women don't can't orgasm through vagina intercourse alone... Does Nina Bangs know anything about sex?

His excitement reminded her of her own excitement after completing her first man, the thrill when she'd stood back and realized she'd created him with her own hands. The creative experience had remained the only thing in her life to give her that heart-pounding feeling of being able to fly...
The Anthropologist: "Not disparaging the sex toy industry, but I'm really not sure it's like flying."
The Balance: "Depends on whether or not she's testing them..."
The Anthropologist: "But she's not. We've established that."

The Anthropologist: "Anyway, she tries to exert independence. But realises that she doesn't really want to think. And she's confused by curling irons."
The Chronicler: "Why are there no curling irons in the future?"
Pillywiggin: "Because they use drying pods!"
The Anthropologist: "You take a pill and that dries your hair."

The Anthropologist: "And now they're buying clothes.It takes him forever to get his head around sneakers, but he understands lingerie in five."
The Balance: "Lingerie is inherent in human nature."
Lady Miriam: "But red doesn't suit redheads! Because red hair isn't red!"

Now it was her turn to be puzzled. "Penance? What does penance have to with anything?"
His expression cleared, and he smiled. "Ye're right. 'Twill be no penance at all."
The Anthropologist: "Sex with virgins is penance. We've established this already."

"Bras." If he could play games, so could she. "Bras have a force field that's activated by the wearer's body heat. If someone touches me, poof, the toucher disappears." Careful. Violent images were not healthful images.
WHAT?!
The Anthropologist: "That's one way of evading sexual harassment, but I'm not sure it works..."

Stripping off her jeans and shirt, she hung them on a hook, then slid on the red panties. For some reason they made her feel... protected. Protected? Against what?
The Balance: "Against embarassing stains during her period."

"Jupiter's balls! Don't you dare look, Leith Campbell. Get out of here. Close the curtain."
WHAT?!
(Azrael: "Maybe she got confused about what setting she's writing in.")
Pillywiggin: "No modesty rules in Highland Scotland, but lots of them in the all-woman future."

Fortune wondered how well "scat" would work on Leith.
The Chronicler: "I suppose she is acquainted with all sorts of kinks, what with working with fantasies of women..."

The Anthropologist: "Her free will is dissolving..."

"Ye dinna need support. Yer beauty should be free. The red bra will cup ye like a lover's hand. And the sign says the cloth breathes wi' ye."
The Anthropologist: "I actually quite like that line."

The Chronicler marvels that he can read modern English.

Now they're making out in dressing room (like in DarkHunterWolfThing)

Someone has stolen her trousers. She's partially grateful for due to not having sex with him. Leith pulls out the knife and goes after the thief.
There is a fight scene, as the thief tries to punch Leith. He garrots the thief using the red bra. Satan is helping them.
The manager is remarkably unfazed by the fact that Leith has assaulted a guy in their store with their merchandise. He doesn't seem to mind and apologises. Leith is feeling a growing affection for Satan.

"A roach couldn't squeeze through, but he got out somehow. Must be part greased pig."
...He spit on the ground for emphasis. "Give me a dog any day. Dogs are up-front. Cats are sneaky."
Big L: "Is there anyone who isn't into bestiality."

There is a discussion on why neither find it weird the cat is following them around.

Several pages later, she's still giving him grief about punching shoplifter.

Blade suggest eating at McDonalds.

"McDonald's! Ye canna expect me to eat at a place named after my sworn enemies. 'Tis impossible." He glared at both Fortune and Blade in turn.
The joke falls on unlaughing ears. Of course, ears can't laugh.

"In Tibet, this MacDonald family lived next door to the monks. Real slobs— never mowed their lawn, let their dog run loose. You know the kind."
The Anthropologist: "Clearly she has retains little to nothing from these history disks of hers."
The Balance: "Well, if Doctor Who has taught us anything, it's that Scotland is full of Tibetan monks who know kungfu and worship werewolves."

"How do you feel about Burger King, big guy?" Blade sounded weary.
Leith nodded. " 'Tis... OK. I know King William rules England, but what land does the Burger King rule? Burger. 'Tis a land I've ne'er heard of."
Pillywiggin: "Or a merchant. Someone living in a medieval city. The word meaning what he would understand it to mean."

Fortune controlled her irritation. He was taking this "protecting the helpless female" thing too far, but she was too hungry to argue about it now.
The Anthropologist: "She totally has free will and stuff."
Lady Miriam: "Mostly stuff."
The Balance: "She clearly doesn't want to be oppressed by his patriarchy."

Didn't they have anything that didn't involve dead animals? "I can't believe the stuff they serve here. My arteries are clogging just reading the menu. Where's the scientifically formulated imitation beef patty guaranteed to taste like the real thing even though it's made from inorganic material manufactured on Quellum?"
Pillywiggin: "Yum."
The Balance: "An inorganic food product? That's retarded. You can't have... it would have no nutritional value."
(Azrael: "Maybe it's made entirely of salt. That's inorganic.")
Pillywiggin: "This is, in fact, a spoof."
The Balance: "It's supposed to be funny, but the romance is supposed to be real..."

The Anthropologist: "She has angst about eating meat. We shall skip this because it's not very interesting."
"Here's your dead animal, French fries cooked in goo, and cola, which can also take varnish off floors. I've read about the health habits of my ancestors."
The Chronicler can't help but marvel at the stupid things Nina Bangs is letting her know for this jabs against modern life.

The Anthropologist: "Now they're back at Blade's. They're in the sleeping chamber and for some reason they're sharing one."

The Anthropologist: "It's not sexual harassment for him to insist on staring at her whilst she changes... for some known reason."

"I'm not ashamed. I'm..." Embarrassed.
The Anthropologist: "You should feel privileged that I'm sexually harassing you."

Sexual awareness? She'd read about it, and some of her friends had talked about achieving it with the men she sold them, but she'd never...
...She swallowed hard. Think of him as a duty, a man you have an obligation to bring home with you, a humanity-saving sperm machine...

The Anthropologist: "She's trying to decide what to name her sex toy based on him."
...Forget duty. Think of him as a prototype for Creature Comfort's newest, most spectacular line— a man who's fought to survive life's battles and has the scars to prove it. Primitive Paul? Nah. Warrior Wayne? Uh-uh. Doesn't flow. She'd think of a name later. When she could concentrate...
...The scar lent danger to the wicked beauty of his face, a danger that would intrigue women. It made him real...
The Chronicler: "Not with women who find pot-bellies sexy."

Maybe she could implant sound sensors that reacted to a specific voice command...
The Chronicler: "They haven't programmed those in yet?"
Big L: "They're 'tards"

The right one is dimpled, the left one is not.
The Anthropologist: "Perfect imperfections of his cheeks! Angst!"
The Anthropologist: "Sorry, she wasn't looking at his face. She was looking at his ass."
Pillywiggin: "Easy mistake."

The Chronicler: "We have robots that can learn and think..."
Sordan: "Lost all their technology with the death of the men, remember?"

The Anthropologist: "He's thinking about how his head will soon be pillowed between her soft mounds."
Big L: "This woman cannot make breast metaphors."

To be honest, he was curious about how females could live, or would even want to live, in a world without males. If the situation were reversed and there were no females... He grinned. There'd be a great increase in the popularity of sheep.
Lady Miriam: "What just sheep? How about young boys?"
Sordan: "Well, we know all along he likes animals."
Lady Miriam: "Naturephile."
Pillywiggin: "Critterfucker."

She'd said she made men. Now he understood. He pitied the women of her world who had need of such poor substitutes.
The Chronicler: "I'm sure they're better kitchen implements. And vibrate better."

She closed her eyes for a moment. He was right. They'd been dumb, dumb, dumb. She opened her eyes. "There's an old saying: ' Don't mess with Mother Nature.' Long before I was born, even before we'd abandoned our old name system, one of our greatest scientists, Jan Kredski, developed what she believed to be a superior cloning technique. She was wrong. She forgot that for every action there's a reaction. Over the generations, Jan Kredski's mass cloning method reduced our bio diversity, and we became more susceptible to annihilation by a single virus. When it finally happened, it took only the males and any males produced from their sperm. With men extinct, we've been forced to continue the cloning process...
The Loinfire Club explodes in pain.
The Chronicler: "WHAT?! We know today right now that reduced bio diversity is a bad thing? How could they possibly possibly forget?"
The Balance: "Your scientist were fucktards... oh, and this means there need be about five hundred to a thousand genomes left. That's the sort of levels we're talking about. The proportions of cloned people must have been obscene. Retardedly obscene. Maths says no."
The Balance: "Also, you don't need to clone. We have the technology now to breed women. They'd only ever produce female offspring, but we can make new women."
The Chronicler: "Surely if everyone fucked the one person from the past it's going to be reducing biodiverstiy?!"

He didn't pretend to understand everything she'd said, but he'd understood enough to be horrified. "Ye have no father?"
The Anthropologist: "We're back to the Patriarchy winning again. She cries about how she has no father and how her mother didn't really love her."

"I'm an exact duplicate of my mother, only younger. I think that bothers her." She shrugged. "Everyone's expected to have at least one child. I was Mom's token child. Once she'd done her duty, that was that. I was on my own."
Big L: "There's a distressing lack of hot lesbians. And there was so much potential..."

The Anthropologist: "And now they're thinking of eating at McDonalds. Because this is the only two restaurants."
Big L: "It is Texas."
The Balance: "But surely there must be a steak house somewhere!"

Once again, he glared at her with savage anger. "I willna eat there. They are my enemies."
"They are my ancestors," she said softly.
The Anthropologist: "Oh, she is descended from the McDonalds."
Pillywiggin: "Why have they abandoned real names?"
Lady Miriam: "Stop driving double decker buses through the narrative!"
The Chronicler: "How is does she know she's descended from the McDonalds when she doesn't know anything about Scotland?"

The Anthropologist: "She tells him..."
Big L: "Why does she reveal it?"
The Anthropologist: "He's so angry he's about to walk out. Satan blocks his way."
The Anthropologist: "He suspects the cat is Satan."
Big L: "He guessed the plot!"

"We'll get this. It has all the essential vitamins and minerals without a lot of sugar. At home we have morning foods that are manufactured grains made from scientifically formulated—"
The Anthropologist: "She tries to explain to him the concept of vitamins."
"Like a warm woman after a cold day of killing and plundering?"
Pillywiggin: "Murder as foreplay. Sexy."

Sordan complains that we're not going fast enough, so the book passed to Sordan to skim.

Sordan: "They smell of things, pictures, castles, look at me, and now he has part of Glencoe massacre... Satan is stirring up trouble, they're talking baout Elvis, the joys of love, um, Blade..."
The Anthropologist: "Seriously why is he called Blade?"

Sordan: "Sexual tension. More more sexual tension. And more."
Lady Miriam: "Enough to rip a wet tissue yet?"

Sordan: "They're almost getting it on... he's telling her that a machine can't touch her heart."
The Anthropologist: "Ah, but the malfunctioning Laughing Leroy model..."

Sordan: "She's deliberating wounding him in an emotional way, she only wanted him to make a more realisitic sex toy. He's hurt."
The Anthropologist: "And because his motivations were entirely pure."
Pillywiggin: "Penance is pure."

Sordan: "She's having a mother complex as well. She's a textbook case of missing father... Now she's wanting more people to go back to the future."
The Anthropologist: "How?"
Big L: "Maybe Blade has a timemachine."
The Balance: "He's actually Jesus."

Sordan: "She's writing poetry in her mind... They're getting food again..."
Kslajg;lkf;kfdsh
(The Chronicler is really, really sick of this.)

Sordan: "They're catching on the fact that Satan's a cat."
The Anthropologist: "They're being watched by Jesus as well?"
Sordan: "Not incarnate..."

Sordan: "And now Person's husband is sterile. There is comforting. It's all really stupid. All these people are watching her. This is turning out to be a really bad insecurity nightmare."

Sordan: "They're finally having sex. Emotional sex. P.269ish..."
Sordan: "She's suggesting that he go through sensitivity training. And get his teeth fixed. Something that hasn't been mentioned throughout all the kissing scenes."
The Anthropologist: "Now they're in love Satan can send them off to opposite directions and this book can end."

Sordan: "She might be pregnant. Morning sickness... He's cooked her breakfast."
Lady Miriam: "Why can he cook?"
Big L: "That's why he's not eating."

The Anthropologist: "They probably don't give you many safe sex lessons in the future without men. Stands to reason that the super sperm of the man from the past gets her and that this book can't have condoms..."

Sordan: "Now they're looking at random people."
The Anthropologist: "Ah, the famous art of Highlander physiognomy."

Sordan: "Now there's something about Satan... Why is there?! Argh! I hate Satan. He is so ghey! He really, really is."

Sordan: "And now they're on about ancient goddesses..."
She felt like some ancient goddess being honored with the supreme sacrifice. But instead of a sacrificial knife, she'd wield something far more potent.
The Chronicler: "I'm sure he's a Christian several chapters ago when he's not on about Valkyries..."
The Anthropologist: "She's like an ancient goddess in that she can't get naked without people trying to look at her."

As he groaned like a man on the rack, she lifted her arms above her head in a leisurely stretch.
The Chronicler: "The rack?!"
The Anthropologist: "Now she's turned from being spineless to being a whiny sadistic dominatrix?"

"I must cross out the marks I've made."
The Anthropologist: "I've been carving them into your skin..."
He nodded solemnly. "A mark for every time ye've climbed into bed beside me and havena made love wi' me." His gaze turned smoky. "A mark for every night of torture ye've put me through, lass."

Sordan: "More daddy and mummy issues. About how they haven't had parents."
The Anthropologist: "You know, water... that reminds me of the time my parents dying..."

Sordan: "Why are they dancing to Elvis songs?!"
Lady Miriam: "Because it's Texas."

Sordan: "Leith has been kidnapped by Satan."
Lady Miriam: "Texas breathes a sign of relief."

Lady Miriam: "How have they managed to get 300+ pages of this?"
Pillywiggin: "Repeated use of the word pebbled."
Lady Miriam: "Pebble-dashed breasts."
Big L: "Serial pebbler..."

Sordan: "She rescued him. Or rather, he freed himself, because he's manly like that and she finds him."

Sordan: "There is confusion. We don't care. Satan is being really, really ghey..."

Sordan: "His angst is gone, mystically. Because he saved a man from Glencoe, and that man was her ancestor."

Sordan: "Special wind and rain and effects of whatsit. They're in Scotland in the past and there is heather shagging. They're getting married. And they name their kid after Satan, Ganymede..."

Leith grinned. "There are some, of course, who would think Ganymede Campbell a fine Scottish name."
THE END

Afterthoughts:
The Chronicler: "You don't name your son after the sexy pin-up of boy-love!"
The Anthropologist: "I want to know how she she feels about dooming the human race in the future."
Sordan: "I've never seen a more ghey incarnation of Satan."
The Chronicler: "Is this Ghey with an “h”? Just checking?"
Sordan: "Yes!"

The Anthropologist: "They converted Satan by their twu wuv. I can't get over that."
The Balance: "A twu wuv that will last all the ages. And the end of the human race."
Pillywiggin: "Never say the word wuv again! And can we have a ritual burning of these books?"
Lady Miriam: "Give them to a charity shop..."

And so it all ends, in disorganised bickering. For now...