Friday, May 5, 2017

What If Jane Austen, Philip K. Dick or Ernest Hemingway Had Written 'Basic Instinct'?

Jane Austen:

A handsome police inspector who is questioning a lady may often find it is the wrong question that is being answered. So discovered Sir Thomas Bertram, squire of Flittylocks Manor, as he cross-examined accused murderess Fanny Coleripple about a lifeless corpse discovered amidst a copse of quails on the grounds of Lower Smalldimples.

"It is quite easy for a horse to be led astray," lectured Sir Thomas. "The question is how many biscuits are required for him to find his way home."

Miss Coleripple raised her brow and giggled delicately. "Sometimes it is best to save one's biscuits for a more reputable mare," she bespoke.

The fetching owner of eight piglets and a tractor glowered. "It is all fine for you to stare at me out of your countenance, but there was an act of violence over a quarter-dollar ago and I am determined to uncover the truth."

The visage of the resident of Titteridge Place adopted a girlish vexation. "It is often discovered when one tries to hover," she pined, "that they uncover something from which they can't recover." She raised a long limb and delicately lowered it across the other.

"I daresay, Miss Coleripple," said the most skilled dancer of Bigstaples County, "I am quite in the dark. Which is something I can't say for a significant portion of your underoos."

There are a million acceptable options for a proper lady's wardrobe but just one truly ghastly choice. Reader, I'm talking about knickers. Because when she returned to the third-smallest thatched-roof ivy-covered cottage in Upper Dashboard Valley for the final time, the prettiest woman to have played a half-round of croquet at Woodcheeks Manor would discover the hand-tatted lace panties she thought she was wearing crumpled upon the settee. Her team of horses raced to meet the last train to Warsaw and, as one can scarcely listen to a thing which does not speak, she was never ever heard from again.


Philip K. Dick:

I piloted my red Hydro Booster X711 down Inter-Steller 405 and stopped at the Police Station that hovered just off the border of Sector A-14. There, a wealthy man's housekeeper was being held, suspected of his murder. I peered through the nano-glass of her extruded cryo-cell. She was beautiful all right -- but she was also a replicant. She might have been well-programmed but even Windows 4763-X(b) had bugs.

I had her trans-portaled to the plasticine Interrogation Capsule and when I entered she was floating in a pool of crocheted neon. I took my seat behind a flickering hologram of a desk.

I couldn't take my eyes off her. I'd rarely seen such excellent work. "It's not looking good for you," I said. "You never should have impaled him with those weaponized titanium geese."

A tear rolled down her cheek. "I -- I didn't do it," she choked.

I tried to give her the benefit of the doubt. I looked into her eyes: a matched pair of Bernlicht R-2000s, fashioned from the finest vinyloid harvested from cloned Japanese cattle and pure latex rubies. Was it possible? Had some sort of virus corrupted her operating system, or did she honestly think she wasn't guilty?

She crossed her legs and exposed her nether regions to me. I looked up her skirt and saw it all: the sleek hair, the sultry lips, the little man in his red space ship. Obviously this was a P386x, a part instantly recognizable to all synth-human developers. This little work of art all by itself cost more than the residents in this quadrant made in their lifetimes. It was the finest vagina money could buy.

She was hoping to unnerve me, but her little trick wasn't going to work. See, I've always been able to control myself. Completely. Every muscle, every fiber, every cell in my body. In fact, ever since I was a little boy, I could --

Oh shit. I AM A REPLICANT TOO!


Ernest Hemingway:

I was asking her about a murder. A murder she probably committed. Her fingerprints were all over the joint, and five miles from the murder site I found a blood-covered lace serape that was exactly her size.

I had to question her but I couldn't. I was the blotchy, bone-shaking, wine-addled son of an itinerant highwayman, and she had flaxen hair, a delicate manner, and porcelain skin that would make everyone in Germany smash their Lladro and scream, "WHAT KIND OF USELESS SHIT IS THIS?"

It was difficult keeping myself together. I tried to confine my wandering thoughts to matadors but the horns of the snorting black beasts kept growing foreskin. Here I was, a big tough guy at the mercy of this unwrinkled wench who couldn't have weighed eighty pounds if she was holding a wheel of cheese and my testicles.

I was at her mercy.

I was starting to say a prayer for myself when she threw one skinny leg over the over and whaddaya know?

Pussy.

2 comments:

Yet Another Steve said...

Further proof that if Roman Hans would get off his butt and WRITE, we wouldn't need any other authors.

RomanHans said...

I have to do my Jane Austen at least once a year. I never really appreciate my friends and family until smart people start yelling at me.

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