I Read Trav McGee! Part 5
Sep. 27th, 2010 06:21 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
seriousficOkay, so Trav goes fishing… I know I like a little salmon after I do my raping… and he sees a girl getting dumped off a bridge with cement overshoes. He dives in to save her, and after rescuing her, does some field surgery to get a fishing hook out of her leg. And, hey, she has nice stems!
I got the needlenose pliers, the good wire cutters, and Dr. Meyer to assist me. We had her lie prone on the giant bed, custom built-in equipment on the boast when I had won her, and Meyer folded the robe back, untangling it from the barbs of the other set of gang hooks on the belly of the speckled plug. I swung the big bed lamp over to bear upon the operating area. There are too many trite words for legs like that. Ivory. Gercian marble. I was considerably more accustomed to brown legs. These had a dusky pallor.
Uh, Trav? The girl's in pain? Hooks? Embedded in her flesh? Bleeding?
But pallor did not mean softness. The chills were in cycles. When a chill tightened her up, the long muscles of calf and thigh, dancer's muscles, swelled—changing the elegant curvatures of those legs in repose.
So glad you're getting off on her SUFFERING FROM EXPOSURE.
The back of the thighs and the calves had a fine-grained, flawless, matte finish, and the areas of the backs of her knees were shinier, faint blue veining under the skin.
Maybe she's cold? It could be from being dropped off a bridge into freezing cold waters. But who cares about that, how 'bout dem nipples?
So finally Trav gets the hook out of the anonymous cement-wearer and lets her get some sleep. And from all that, he's about to make some astute observations.
I thought of Vidge. She wouldn't have endured so placidly the pain of removing the fish hooks. She would have been bleating and hooting and thrashing, and she would have been demanding doctors and policemen. When I said Jane Doe's acceptance of our help seemed significant, he beamed at me and said that her muscle tone, the rich trimness of her figure, her acceptance of the situation all seemed to point to some aspect of the entertainment world, probably one of the more sleazy segments of it, a so-called exotic dancer, a hinterland belly dancer, a bunny at one of the more permissive key clubs, a singer on one of the little cut-rate cruise ships. All her symptoms of near-death had been physical, but emotionally she seemed to have an acceptance of it so placid as to be a little eerie. As if she knew the world as a place where sooner or later they heaved you off a bridge.
Yes, like all strippers, Jane Doe was dead inside. It's like a scene cut out of Mad Men for being too sexist. "No," you may imagine Jon Hamm saying, "the audience would never buy this."
I got the needlenose pliers, the good wire cutters, and Dr. Meyer to assist me. We had her lie prone on the giant bed, custom built-in equipment on the boast when I had won her, and Meyer folded the robe back, untangling it from the barbs of the other set of gang hooks on the belly of the speckled plug. I swung the big bed lamp over to bear upon the operating area. There are too many trite words for legs like that. Ivory. Gercian marble. I was considerably more accustomed to brown legs. These had a dusky pallor.
Uh, Trav? The girl's in pain? Hooks? Embedded in her flesh? Bleeding?
But pallor did not mean softness. The chills were in cycles. When a chill tightened her up, the long muscles of calf and thigh, dancer's muscles, swelled—changing the elegant curvatures of those legs in repose.
So glad you're getting off on her SUFFERING FROM EXPOSURE.
The back of the thighs and the calves had a fine-grained, flawless, matte finish, and the areas of the backs of her knees were shinier, faint blue veining under the skin.
Maybe she's cold? It could be from being dropped off a bridge into freezing cold waters. But who cares about that, how 'bout dem nipples?
So finally Trav gets the hook out of the anonymous cement-wearer and lets her get some sleep. And from all that, he's about to make some astute observations.
I thought of Vidge. She wouldn't have endured so placidly the pain of removing the fish hooks. She would have been bleating and hooting and thrashing, and she would have been demanding doctors and policemen. When I said Jane Doe's acceptance of our help seemed significant, he beamed at me and said that her muscle tone, the rich trimness of her figure, her acceptance of the situation all seemed to point to some aspect of the entertainment world, probably one of the more sleazy segments of it, a so-called exotic dancer, a hinterland belly dancer, a bunny at one of the more permissive key clubs, a singer on one of the little cut-rate cruise ships. All her symptoms of near-death had been physical, but emotionally she seemed to have an acceptance of it so placid as to be a little eerie. As if she knew the world as a place where sooner or later they heaved you off a bridge.
Yes, like all strippers, Jane Doe was dead inside. It's like a scene cut out of Mad Men for being too sexist. "No," you may imagine Jon Hamm saying, "the audience would never buy this."
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Date: 2010-09-27 08:17 pm (UTC)http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Darker_than_Amber_%28film%29
The movie starred Rod Taylor as McGee. I rated it "meh," but it got some good reviews and I understand that it's considered to be a bit of a cult classic.
The wikipedia article mentioned something I didn't know. The big fight scene at the end of the movie always looked really un-Hollywood to me. Apparently there's a good reason why. According to the wikipedia article, Taylor and the actor playing the Big Bad lost their tempers and got into a real fight!