TRIGGER WARNING:
MODE 5
is of course aware of the persistent and ongoing speculation
surrounding the true identity of the erotic authoress Madeleine
Figbough. Many claim that she herself is nothing more than a work of
fiction - a nom de plume of the alleged games journalist Ben Kuchera.
As an ethical news
source we will give no further credence to this idle gossip beyond
repeating the frequently-made observation that Figbough (or the “the
right hand of Ben” as she has become known in literary circles) and
Kuchera have never been sighted together in the same room, despite a
rumoured sexual relationship.
We would like to warn
our readers that the following excerpt from Ms Figbough's latest
bodice-ripping masterpiece contains spoilers relating to its prequel
Count Milo: The Brunch Satyr.
Mindful of the
erotically-charged prose that lies ahead we insist that anyone
planning to venture beyond this preface, first dons seepage-factor
five waterproof undergarments and avoids making direct contact with
expensive upholstery.
MODE 5 can accept no
legal responsibility for any inconvenient erections.
~
Margaret Badgerstroke was
23 years of age. By the social conventions of Lower Gitford – the
quaint rural parish where she had resided since birth - she was
considered an old maid, marked for the barren life of a spinster. At
social gatherings she was a timid almost transparent presence,
inseparable from the wallpaper and furnishings of a room, ostracised
from any surrounding gaiety or social intercourse with a callous yet
formal politeness. In the garden party hierarchy of her insular
community she had been browbeaten into the role of a delicate and
downtrodden flower – one who has obligingly wilted beneath the
glaring expectations of those women who regarded themselves as her
superiors.
It was these contemptuous
beauties, blessed with the good fortune to have married well, who
now, in consideration of Margaret's advancing years, had silently
dictated that she would spend the remainder of her cloistered
existence primly embroidering bible verses onto cushion covers; or
else, busying herself with church floral arrangements, while dusty
beams of sunlight projected like toppled columns through the stained
glass, casting into unforgiving relief the premature ruin of her
womanhood.
Yet in spite of these
dismal forecasts Margaret's heart once again trembled, like a
butterfly that has roused itself from the dormancy of its chrysalis
and is now poised to take flight. The long-denied girlish passions
that she had thought locked away forever once more stirred within her
bosom.
The source of her
reawakening was the return of the Earl of Rochester to his family's country estate following an absence of well over a decade. Margaret's
first sighting of this man of pleasing aspect and obvious means,
occurred mere minutes after his arrival. From the gates of his
property she watched coyly as he supervised the removal of a Japanese
contraption known as the Sony Prefecture 4th
Generation Palace of Entertainment from the roof of his carriage.
In that moment, with a silent yet hardened determination that was
often overlooked by her peers, she resolved to ensnare him as her
husband.
Margaret had of course
heard tales of Earl's rakish pursuits. Her niece, in whom she had
confided her intentions, had earnestly counselled against the
dalliance, insisting that no possible good come from courting a
gentleman who had ardently dedicated himself to the completion of
Paper Mario – a childish amusement contained within a device from
the far east known as Shogun Nintendo's Curious Cabinet of 64
Wonders.
An oft-repeated tale
concerning the Earl's predilection for juvenile amusements had it
that, following a formal dinner at Grindrs Hall, he and the other
gentlemen had retired to the drawing room, with the intent of
engaging in a few vigorous hands of whist. Thereafter they reclined
upon the strewn furnishings, each one surrendering himself to the
coddling embrace of the opium pipe.
The Earl had steadfastly
declined both the pleasures of gambling and narcotic torpor, electing
to remain sober. He had been witnessed later that evening, naked from
the waist down and in an obvious state of arousal, engaged in the
solo campaign of Halo: Combat Evolved which he played on legendary
difficulty setting, though the man who claimed to have laid eyes upon
this spectacle was never able to state with certainty that what he
had seen was not some long buried nightmare dredged from the recesses
of his consciousness, brought to light by the spirited over-consumption of
port and Stilton cheese.
Supplementary to his
reputed skills on the imaginary battlefield, the Earl was no stranger
to the art of real-life combat and frequently found himself a
participant in duels. It was said that he had been spared mortal
injury upon numerous occasions by virtue of the seven proxies that he
wore beneath his waistcoat.
Another rumour claimed
that he was the top musketeer in the all of the king's armed forces
with 300 confirmed kills to his name.
The Earl's pet sea lion
had been the subject of frequent gossip. He had procured the animal
at great expense and dressed it the manner of a gentleman in a top
hat and a ruffled shirt. Thereafter the creature had been trained to
follow enemies of the Earl in close pursuit on both land and sea.
Most troubling of all were
whispers that the Earl had, through his libertine actions, damned his
soul: That his return to Buckinghamshire had been not been entirely
of his choosing but had been impelled by his family after he and his
sister were caught playing a vintage Double Dragon arcade machine in
two-player co-opt mode – a scandal that had shaken polite London
society to its foundations with many calling for his arrest and
trial.
Further to his chequered
past, the Earl exhibited numerous eccentricities which some had taken
as indicators of a mind that has fallen prey to the early stages of
syphilis. He sometimes found himself unable to field small walls that
would have been easily climbable had he chosen to make an attempt,
instead of choosing to jump repeatedly at them only to be deflected.
He had claimed publicly
that he was unable to enter the county of Sussex. The reason given
was that he had “not yet unlocked” this region of England.
He stated that on previous attempts to make use of bridges and roads
that allowed others access to county he had found these thoroughfares
blocked by landslides or other obstacles. He remained insistent that
were he to gain access to Sussex by some clandestine method he would
be vigorously hunted by armed men in carriages.
A long gallery in his home
was dedicated to the display of trophies celebrating his many
achievements. Some of these were fantastical - the slaughter of 500
pigeons on the grounds of his estate during a single day. Others (a
shield commemorating a visit to the pantry at a neighbour's property)
were so absurd as to be scarcely be worthy of mention.
Margaret was tantalized by
the reports of the Earl's colourful life and the many idiosyncrasies
that set him apart from his peers. Yet she remained at heart a callow
womyn and could not bring herself to imagine that anything so
salacious could actually occur behind the sedate ivy-clad façade of
Teagbaggers Hall - the country estate where the Earl had made his
home.
And so it was that one
evening with great trepidation, Margaret, having sent her maid
servant to bed, stole from her parents' home and made her way across
the knotted silhouette of the night-blackened heath in the direction
of Teabaggers Hall, her progress over the scrubby common lit by the
ubiquitous lens flare of the full moon.
Upon arrival she knocked
demurely on the back door. Her timid entreaty was answered a few
moments later by the sickening sound of splintering timbers. The
door, now somewhat the worse for wear, fell open on its hinges
revealing the unmistakable figure of the Earl's manservant 'Freeman'
framed beneath the lintel, a crowbar in one hand and a lantern
dangling down at head height in the other.
“Miss Badgerstroke: The
Earl has been expecting you since Tuesday. If you would be so kind as
to follow me to the gaming cellar.”
Obediently Margaret
followed Freeman through the rambling corridors of the mansion,
pausing only when the lantern's battery was depleted and they were
forced to wait patiently in the darkness until it had recharged.
Finally they reached a
small wooden door that had been embedded into an irregular
triangular-shaped alcove under a back staircase. A small varnished sign above
the portal had been branded with the words: “Rape Cave”.
“Please disregard the
crude attempt at humour,” counseled Freeman. “It is an ironic
reference to the manner in which this room has been characterised by
the Earl's many enemies. I assure you now that while your experiences
within the gaming cellar may transport you beyond what were once
narrow, yet comfortable horizons, the activities in which you partake
will be entirely consensual and you will be free to leave whenever
you choose.”
Margaret stepped back a
few paces back while the manservant repeatedly lashed at the door
with his crowbar. When the last scraps of smashed timber finally fell the floor she could discern in the gloom beyond the portal the
beginnings of a flight of stairs. Freeman stepped formally to one
side allowing her to pass. He remained stationed in the doorway,
holding his lantern aloft, lighting the way ahead and casting
lurching shadows onto the wall as she descended into the semi
darkness alone.
The Earl was sprawled next
to a washer/drier, with his back to the staircase, his recumbent form absorbed into the folds of a
beanbag chair. Initially he seemed
oblivious to Margaret's delicate approach. When she reached the foot
of the steps he appeared to detect movement in the corner of his eye.
Removing a pair of headphones he rose to meet her.
He had evidently dressed
in expectation of polite company. His doughy torso was tightly enveloped in a
slept-in Spiderman T-shirt, the iron-on transfer showing extreme
wear, the armpits gaping holes trailing loose strands of cotton. The
ensemble was completed by a pair of grubby sweat-stained tracksuit
bottoms. He procured from the floor a small, shiny red bag containing
thin triangular edibles and offered it to her.
“A delicacy from the new
world. The call it 'nacho cheese flavour.'”
Margaret tentatively
removed one of the golden triangles from the packet and gingerly
tasted a small corner. Immediately an explosion of flavour gamboled
across her tongue. It seemed that her mouth had become the impromptu
venue for a ball where the guests had thrown off the hindrance of
convention and the regimented formality of the waltz and the minuet,
electing instead to cavort according to their personal whims in a
thoroughly debauched and abandoned manner.
“S,Sir...” she
stammered breathlessly. Her head was a muddle of conflicting
emotions. She recoiled disgusted yet strangely fascinated by her
sudden and unexpected arousal.
“Madam, if I may...”
The Earl took hold of her
pale wrist. Raising her hand to his mouth his skilful tongue darted
across her fingertips deftly removing the orange seasoning from where
it had stained her milk-white skin.
Having removed the last of
the tangy crumbs he withdrew to a nearby coffee table where he poured
her a glass of cloudy water from an open bottle.
“Please drink this salty
fluid. It will restore your body's electrolytes and prepare you for
the experiences that lies ahead.”
While Margaret took
delicate sips from the beaker the Earl busied himself with a device in
the corner of the room.
“Even a sheltered girl
such as yourself must surely be aware of Dr Gate's Patented Box of
Mystery. To fully engage with the many wonders that reside
within, one must first agree to enter into an ongoing written
correspondence with Dr Gates on a subject matter of his choosing.
Should a deadline for a letter be allowed to pass with no
communication having been received, the good doctor will dispatch footmen
to your residence who will lock the box barring any further use,
except perhaps as a small table.
Margaret stared ashen
faced at the device. Within her social circle Dr Gate's contraption was regarded
with disdain; its usage looked-upon as a coarse mannish pursuit of interest only to
those of low breeding.”
“Sir, I do not think it
befitting of a Lady to...”
“Then do think!...”
snarled the duke the passion rising in his voice.
“...But know my lady that
the restorative powers of Dr Gate's miracle device have been proven
effective in the treatment of gout. Perchance exposure to its
contents could address the ill humours that have waxed your
complexion.”
“Then sir I am ashamed,
for in spite of my advanced years, I am a n00b.”
The Earl hauled a game pad
from the ground by its cable. Margaret noted a tone of irritation
visible in the character of his actions. The controller bore, she
thought, a passing similarity to crossed spokes that a puppeteer
might use to guide the movements of a marionette, however any
resemblance ended there - the casing was black and engorged, studded
with buttons and small levers. It trembled in her hands as she took
hold of it.
“Be reassured my lady
that under my skilled tuition you shall become L33t and all will fear your prowess,” said the Earl.
“We shall begin
immediately with your first lesson: See how that by pressing the
green letter A we can compel the Master Chief to jump upon the spot.
Regrettably he suffers from a similar affliction to myself and cannot
clear high walls but must instead find a way around.”
Margaret depressed the
letter A several times as she had been instructed. On a screen in
front of her a knight clad in green armour repeatedly leapt a short distance into the air, each jump a flawless copy of the
one which had proceeded it.
The Earl had taken up
position behind her. She was aware of his body heat permeating
through her thin garments, mingling with her own. His hot breath
caressed the delicate flesh of her bare neck. A pre-coital flush, that
she would forever associate with the Cairo Station chapter of Halo 2,
blossomed across her chest. Her perfume began to peel away from her
skin in layers rising from her body on an up-swell of perspiration.
The Earl's knotted hands
covered her own , his authoritative fingers guiding hers as together
they maneuvered the Master Chief along corridors and up and down staircases.
In the distance some
figure hostile figures had emerged from behind a barricade.
“He's over here,”
cried one of assailants.
“Good sir, they are
doxxing me!” cried Margaret.
“And we shall make them
rue their discourteous actions.”
She felt the Earl guiding
her and surrendered her movements to his will.
The controller shuddered, the tremors reverberating through their entwined
bodies as together they depressed a trigger unleashing an
ejaculation of hot plasma across the screen, causing the Master
Chief's enemies to flee in panic.
From the top of the
basement staircase there came the sound of men's voices. Two male
figures descended into the room.
The Earl relinquished his
gentle embrace.
“Mikey! Jon!” he
bellowed.
“Wan-kah!” shouted one
of the men.
The Earl turned to face
Margaret.
“And now I fear that we
must curtail the lesson. The time has arrived to partake
in multi-player.”
Margaret felt the warm
flush that had cocooned her body evaporate in an instant.
“Mutli-player! but Sir,
such a thing has been forbidden by the bishop McIntosh hymself.”
“Fie on McIntosh and all
the puritanical tenets of the bastard church,” bellowed one of the
men as he applied talcum powder to his palms. “The hour of 7pm was
the previously agreed upon time for multi-player. That hour has duly arrived and all joystick ports must be filled. This night I shall
soundly beat off all comers on the Rainbow Road.”
Margaret felt her her head
began to swim. She swooned backwards not, as she had dearly hoped,
into the reassuring embrace of the Earl, but rather into the folded
arms of a life-size cardboard standee of Batman.
