I'm still feeling the buzz from the weekend's activities! I think I must've absorbed a hell of a lot of energy, as I'm feeling even more lively than usual. I might have to find a way to spend some of the surplus later...
With the clocks having gone back an hour, it's getting dark really early. I went for a walk last night to the park and found that the gates were locked. I didn't bother to break the chain, as the railing are only about ten feet high, so I just leapt over them from a standing jump.
The builders working on the tea-house are obviously fed-up with having to start again every couple of days, so this time, they've put up a series of metal screens all around the construction site.
I walked up to the temporary wall, placed my hands behind my back and leant forward.The thin aluminium sheet groaned as I pressed into it. When I stood up straight again, there was a perfect, deep imprint of my chest in the metal. Just underneath, I poked my finger right through the wall and dragged it downwards, carving out a vertical channel.
Removing my finger, I stuck it back into the metal near the top of the first line and this time tore a diagonal line. I went on, carving through the wall with my digit until I had cut "I WAS HERE" in large letters underneath the impression of my bust. The "A" had to be in the typical stencil style, but the rest of it looked perfect.
For a finishing touch I put my face close to the wall and stuck out my tongue, using it to scrape out a big fat vertical line at the end of my graffiti. That was to be my exclamation mark. For the dot at the bottom of it. I kissed the wall, breathing in a little until the metal inside the area covered by my lips stretched and finally gave way, tearing out of the sheet.
I chewed up the bit of aluminium in my mouth and spat it at a tree. Of course the chunk flew through my lips like a big bullet. It drilled a hole right through the thick trunk.
No one saw me as I leapt back over the perimeter wall of the park.
Tuesday 2 November 2004 10:34 GMT
So, according to the local paper, police are looking for a "gang of vandals" who used a "powerful, specialist diamond drill" to deface temporary screens in the park. Apparently, the culprit has to be a craftsman as such "high quality" work requires "great skill." How I laughed when I read that!
Yesterday morning I mentioned all that extra energy charging around my body which I absorbed from those big fire-crackers I was playing with at the weekend. Well, I managed to get rid of some of it last night.
I took the last train down to the coast. It was a cloudy night, and no-one would have seen me running across the fields at the top of the cliffs. When I got to the edge, I didn't bother trying to climb down. I just leapt off.
It was lovely feeling the air rsuhing by as I fell the hundred or so feet down to the rocks below. I turned in the air so I was diving head first. My skull smashed a huge boulder to a million fragments when I eventually hit the ground.
Getting to my feet, I spent an hour or so just pounding the cliff face with my fists, reducing a huge section of centuries-old grantite to dust. Then I kicked off my shoes and had some fun kicking large boulders out to sea.
Finally, I pulled off all my clothes and just ground my body into the hard solid rock, carving out a cave-sized hole in the cliff using nothing but my naked chest, stomach and groin. It felt great!
With dawn approaching, I couldn't stay any longer so I put my t-shirt, jeans and shoes back on and began climbing back up to the top. Getting up the side of a hundred foot high, sheer granite cliff is easy when your hands can tear convenient holds in the rock as easily as scooping out half-molten ice cream.
I made it to the station in time for the first morning train back to town, feeling fresh and revitalised after my little work-out.
Now, I need to find something to do with the rest of the day...
Wednesday 3 November 2004 14:14 GMT
Sometimes, out of the blue, an opportunity presents itself that's just far, far too good to turn down. Yesterday was one of those times.
I was just walking down a quiet, local street, not even looking for trouble. There's an old, abandoned and boarded-up pub on the corner. It's been in that state for years and I normally pass it by without even a second thought.
Except yesterday, when my superhuman hearing detected voices coming from inside. Curious to know if someone was planning to buy the place or redevelop it or whatever, I stopped and listened. I soon realised that what was happening inside was no property deal.
A calm, authoritarian male voice was saying "...what you've done with the money."
A croaky response came from another man: "I told you. I don't know what you're talking about. Let me go."
"Now, now, Sam." the first speaker said. "You know I can't do that. I've got a reputation to think of. What would people say?"
There was no answer. After a pause, the previously calm man suddenly shouted "I said what would people say!!"
"Er... er.... I don't know..." The tone of the answer was pure terror.
"You don't know." the first speaker was calm again. "You don't know what people would say. Well, I'll tell you, Sam. They'd say I'd gone soft. We don't want that, do we, Sam?"
"N... n... no."
"That's right. Can't have people thinking that I've gone soft. Ernie!"
"Yes, guv?" a third voice, much deeper than the other two joined the conversation.
"Show my friend Sam here that I haven't gone soft."
"Hehe..." said the deep voice. Then I heard the unmistakeable sound of fists hitting soft flesh and a man wincing in pain.
By this point, I was already looking for a way in. The nature of the conversation amused me and the sounds of the beating taking place inside were simply too inviting.
I walked around the building. The back door had been recently replaced by a steel panel that was obviously locked from the inside. I decided not to try for subtlety. I lifted my left leg and calmly swung it at the door, making a tremendous clang and almost bending the entire slab of metal in half as it ripped free from its fixings.
The bent steel door flew about five yards into the pub before it smashed down to the ground. All other sounds in there stopped instantly. Then the one who had been asking all the questions said "What the f*** was that? Ernie! Go and look."
I stepped through the now open doorway into a corridor. From the sound of the voice, I could tell that the action was taking place in a room at the end of the passage. Before I could get there, however, Ernie arrived.
He was huge. His broad shoulders completely blocked the corridor, his neck was as thick as a tree and his hairy hands, clenched into giant fists, were as big as grapefruit. I smiled at him and he glowered back at my chest. "You must be Ernie." I said, cheerfully.
"Who the f*** are you, bitch?" he demanded.
"That's no way to talk to a lady." I told him. He took a couple of caveman-like steps towards me. I reached for him, grabbing him by the waist-band of his trousers and hoisted him, with one hand, over my head. With my arm stretched up and the huge man hanging either side of it, his rear was touching the ceiling.
There was a lot of grunting and swearing from overhead and his two massive and thick arms were pounding the top of my head, but it was no effort to ignore him as I walked towards the end of the corridor, holding Ernie up in the air all the time. I entered the disused bar with the big man still draped over my hand.
It was like strolling into a scene from a bad film. A man in a very expensive-looking suit and black leather gloves was standing over a chair. Tied with heavy-duty rope to the chair was another, much smaller man. This had to be Sam. His face was badly bruised, eyes swollen, his lip bleeding and his clothes were torn.
I put my free hand on my hip and waited whilst the man in the suit glanced up at the gorilla I was holding over my head, then at my face (which was smiling) then at my chest. His eyes paused there for a while before returning, almost in a double-take, to my stretched arm. "What the f***?" he asked.
"I found this…" (I raised Ernie a little and lowered him again, to show what I was talking about) "…out in the corridor. You really should take better care of your pets."
"F***ing bitch" said Ernie through gritted teeth, renewing his useless struggles to free himself or hurt me or whatever it was he was trying (and failing) to do. The man in the suit said nothing as I sauntered over to the chair, paying to attention to the grunting and thrashing taking place above me.
I took my hand from my hip and waved it casually across the ropes holding Sam in place. My fingernails sliced through the thick binding more efficiently than any sharp, steel knife would have managed. Pieces of cut rope fell to the ground. The skinny man who had been bound rubbed his arms and started to stand. I pushed him back down. "I didn't say you could move." I told him. He looked up at me, confused and fearful. I glared back down at him.
"Who the hell are you and what do you want?" That was the one in the suit.
"I want some fun." I answered, truthfully. I kept Ernie at arm's length overhead the whole time while I used my spare hand to slip off my shoes and jeans. I had to change arms on the huge man to pull off my T-shirt, but I was still holding him in the air only a few seconds later, now stark naked.
"If I'd wanted a stripper, I'd have booked one!" suit-man joked. He was obviously well-practiced at keeping his cool in extreme situations. A real big player. I walked over to him slowly, his hired muscle suspended from my grip high above me as I swung my hips and let my naked chest bounce a little with each step.
I was about two paces away from him when he thrust his hand into his jacket. I had a feeling what he was doing, and could have stopped it easily, but I let him continue anyway. As expected, he pulled out a pistol.
I don't get to see many guns around here, and I must say it was a pleasant surprise to be staring down the barrel of a silencer. I'd been hoping for something good when I kicked in the door but this was more than I could have expected. I stopped mid-stride, putting my unused hand on my hip and striking a sexy, arrogant pose. The effect of that was immediate. The man with the gun's heart beat faster, his breathing became more rapid and his eyes started darting between Ernie and my thrust-out chest.
I was right in my assessment of the guy. He was a complete pro. He got his act together to pull his trigger pretty quickly. I let him do it, mainly so I could have the fun of seeing his reaction afterwards. The first two shots bounced off my face harmlessly enough, and the look of shock it caused in him was wonderful. Then, he lowered his aim.
One bullet rebounded from my right breast and whistled past his ear. The next hit my other mound and pinged right back where it had come from, smacking into his belly, not quite drawing blood but hitting hard enough to make him double over, dropping the gun as he gasped in shock and pain. He was lucky it was a ricochet from the softest part of my perfect body, so most of the force of the shot wasn't returned. If the thing had bounced off my stomach, for instance, it would have killed him there and then.
I closed the gap to the slumped shooter and grabbed his belt, hosting him into the air so that I was holding him next to Ernie, one man dangling from either hand over my head. Turning around, I strolled back to poor Sam. I bent down, bringing my head over the little guy's lap, all the while keeping my arms in the air holding the suit and the gorilla.
I used my teeth to tear through Sam's belt and peeled his trousers and underpants away with my mouth. Then, I stood up straight again and threw a leg over the chair and the confused man sitting on it. Leaning forwards, I brushed my naked chest across his face, knocking his head from side to side a couple of times until he started to bruise. That wasn't the only reaction I caused, of course. He was soon as hard as he could get.
I lowered myself onto him, taking what little he had to offer inside me and started to bounce up and down on his shaft. The two men I was holding were tossed around like soft toys, their arms and legs flying all over the place. Meanwhile, Sam shot his miserable load all too quickly.
I knew I wouldn't get anything worthwhile from him without snapping him in half, so I stood up and told him to get lost. He looked a bit confused, so I shouted "Get out! Now!" He couldn't run at all well, what with the injuries Ernie had given him before I interrupted and the much worse damage I had caused with my brief love-making (not to mention his trousers in shreds around his ankles) but he limped away pretty quick.
I kept the huge man over my head as I brought his boss down and, turning my wrist to bring his whole body around, slammed him down in a sitting position onto the vacant chair. He tried to stand immediately, but I only needed one hand to hold him in place and tear every last stitch of clothing off him.
Maybe he liked strong girls. Or maybe he just liked the way I look naked, but he was already stiff for me. He was much better equipped than Sam, too. Ernie thrashed about hopelessly above us in my single-handed grip as I started to ride his boss, my breasts occasionally knocking the gangster's chin as I started to get into it. Thinking about it, from his perspective, it must've been like having his arms tied behind his back and then going into the ring to face the heavyweight champion of the world, only a little more painful.
Because the bastard had shot me in the head, I didn't make any effort to take it easy on him. I kept going, riding him more and more aggressively until I reached my orgasm. I knew his head had gone limp sometime before I peaked, but I probably would have stopped if I'd known he was dead. I got off him pretty quickly when I realised.
I'd been holding Ernie overhead all the while. He was pretty shaken up by the whole experience but when I lowered my arm and dropped him on the ground he was still just about conscious. He rolled about and tried to get up, but was clearly in no state to stand.
Leaning over him as I quickly got dressed again I told him "You'd better get rid of your ex-boss before he starts to smell. And if I ever see you anywhere again, someone will be getting rid of you. Do you understand."
"Y…Yes.." he said from his position on the floor. His head obviously hurt too much to nod.
"One more thing, Ernie." I said. "You were never here today. You never saw me. Is that clear?"
Again he stammered his acknowledgement.
"So long, then!" I said cheerfully, walking out. "It's been fun."
I wasn't lying.
Thursday 4 November 2004 16:36 GMT
After yesterday's carelessness in the old pub, today's been a day for keeping an extremely low profile.
In fact, I haven't been out at all. There must be police everywhere and the last thing I need is someone pointing me out and saying "I saw her 'round here yesterday". The problem is people usually remember seeing me (especially men.)
So I've been staying in. The only thing that's stopped me getting totally bored was a DVD-Rom Encyclopaedia. It's supposed to be a very good and complete one (I think it costs over a hundred quid, but I wouldn't know because I stole my copy from the shop.) Anyway, it kept me busy for a good four or five hours while I read the entire contents and comitted them to memory.
Now I need to find something to do all evening. I wonder if that jerk upstairs is in...
Friday 5 November 2004 09:34 GMT
He wasn't in upstairs. Must've limped out somewhere on his crutches with his over-sized rugby-playing bodyguard. The other member of that "surveillance and security team" (ha ha!) is still indisposed after his arrest, so the poor bastard's flat was completely vulnerable.
I say completely vulnerable, but the great thick new steel doors front and back and the ultra-extensive alarm system would have deterred most "normal" intruders. Of course, there's nothing "normal" about me.
I ran at his back door at superspeed, not slowing at all as I crashed into it, the metal panel tearing from its hinges and ripping quite a bit of frame (brickwork, plaster and all) away from the wall. The crumpled door flew almost the entire length of the flat before it slammed into a wall, knocking a huge area of paint and plaster free.
I continued moving at ultra-speed so that the complex CCTV system the jerk has installed wouldn't record anything of me (other than the faintest blur). Locating the main fuse-box, I jabbed my fingers into it, tearing through the metal cover as if it wasn't there and mangling the heavy-duty copper contacts inside as easily as I would have moulded a lump of wet clay.
I enjoyed the brief tickle of 400 volts searing through my body before everything shorted out in a shower of sparks that covered my body, even though I didn't feel them. So much for the thousands the guy must have spent on electronics to protect his home!
With the flat's electricity supply destroyed, the CCTV and alarm systems were neutralised. I could then take my time.
I wandered into the kitchen first. His fridge was one of those giant, double-doored things. A foot taller than me and almost too wide for me to get my hands around. In fact I had to squeeze the sides in quite a bit to lift it off the floor, but once I had, depite its bulkiness, it felt as light as a box of matches to me.
Carrying the giant fridge into the living room, I turned it upside down and left it in the middle of the floor. I went back into the kitchen for the freezer which was only slightly smaller. Picking it up, I strolled with it to the bathroom and placed it carefully on top of the toilet seat. It was like moving a newspaper for me, but it'll take three "strong" men to shift it. Until then, the jerk will just have to go in the sink.
I moved quickly to leave the flat so I wouldn't be seen by any human or electronic eye. Back in my own place, I only had to wait a couple of hours before I heard the familiar sounds of crutches on the stairs. It took him a while to get up to his front door, but the string of expletives when he finally saw the inside of his flat was hysterical.
No doubt, I'll be hearing more about it today. Should be fun.
Saturday 6 November 2004 11:57 GMT
Other than the initial burst of swearing, I didn't hear all that much from upstairs last night.
He called the police and they came round and had a look. Then, they knocked on my front door. So much for me keeping a low profile!
A very young, very tall and very skinny copper with blonde hair (not much more than an overgrown schoolboy, really) stood on my doorstep. Next to him was a much shorter, much more solidly-built and considerably older policewoman. They each glanced briefly at my face when I opened the door. Thereafter, both of them addressed all their questions to my chest.
It was hard to tell which one of them was more attracted to me. I pretended not to notice their lustful stares as I answered their enquiries. No, I hadn't heard any unusual sounds from upstairs. Yes, I'd been in all day. No, I hadn't seen anyone strange hanging around. They seemed to believe me so I flashed a smile that made both the boy's and the woman's heartbeat go crazy and shut the door on them.
An hour later, a builder arrived to fit a temporary emergency back door. Then, an electrician turned up. At one point I heard the jerk up there asking the electrician and the builder if they could move the freezer off his lavatory. He can't do it himself of course (he's in plaster and on crutches) and his rugby-playing "friend" can't help because he has a broken bone in his hand (courtesy of me).
"How the f*** did that get there?" the electrician asked.
"Don't ask." said the jerk, wearily. "I think I'm cursed."
I listened. The two tradesmen struggled, grunting and groaning for about ten minutes, but between them they couldn't shift the freezer. The same freezer that had felt as light as a newspaper to me. Men are so pathetic!
Then, this morning there's a frantic banging on my door once again. It's the jerk himself. "Please!" he pants, looking totally desperate. "Can I use your toilet?" Of course I made up some excuse why he couldn't and he went off, slightly more urgently than before, to knock on another door.
I do, actually, have a perfectly functioning lavatory, even if I never need to use it. But it was too much fun to turn the idiot away.
Sunday 7 November 2004 18:39 GMT
I've been so bored, staying in and trying not to get into trouble. Last night, I even watched the regional news on the rolling news channel. If I wasn't superhuman, it would've bored me to sleep. But I don't sleep (ever). I would if I ever felt tired, but that never happens.
So, I was wide awake to see an amusing story from the coast. It seems that geologists had vastly underestimated the speed of coastal erosion. A large chunk of cliff has, the report explained, disappeared in the space of a few months. According to a "top scientist" global warming is to blame for the sea's "extraordinary destructive power".
Interestingly enough, the area where the erosion has taken place is the exact same spot I visited for some light exercise the other day. Could it be that the destruction of the cliffs had nothing to do with the sea but rather my lovely body's "extraordinary destructive power"?
It made me laugh, but it's a bad day when the highlight was a news item on TV. Tonight, I'm raising my low profile a little. I don't fancy any more of this not going out. I'm bored. I need to hurt someone or at least do some damage somewhere. A superpowered body like mine needs to be used.
Monday 8 November 2004
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[On Nov. 8th, Blogger told us how she had frozen the entire body of water in her local reservoir to ice using her superbreath.]
Note by Conceptfan: This entry was accidentally deleted. I'm so sorry, Blogger. Please don't kill me.
Tuesday 9 November 2004 08:46 GMT
The water supply still isn't back to normal this morning. I heard that a team of "engineers" was out on the reservoir with blow-torches all night in a desperate attempt to melt the ice. A team of men, with tools, working for hours on end and they still couldn't reverse what took me five minutes to do on my own with just my breath!
There were two young, ugly-looking guys in suits hanging around outside my building yesterday afternoon. I didn't approach them, but I was able to read some of the papers they were holding and find out that they were estate agents. Who were they meeting? Well, imagine my surprise when a familiar figure on crutches approached them. It seems the poor jerk's had enough of his recent run of "bad luck" and has decided that his flat really is cursed. So, he's trying to get rid of it. I'll keep an eye on the situation.
Meanwhile, the police are appealing to the public for information "regarding the discovery of a man's body in a disused public house". They're obviously completely at a loss on that one which means I'm off the hook for sure. I think I'll celebrate by going out and finding myself a nice man. Or four.
Wednesday 10 November 2004 11:53 GMT
The water in the building came back on properly yesterday afternoon (nearly 48 hours after my visit to the reservoir) just in time, as I needed a bath. I was a little dirty with sweat and other bodily excretions. Not my own, of course, I don't perspire. Left to myself, I always smell lovely. But when I get intimate with men as happened Tuesday, I always pick up some dirt. That's men; filthy, pathetic creatures. At least they're good for one thing. Well, two things really: teasing and screwing.
When the water came back on, a leaflet was pushed under my door. It told me that I could now drink from the cold water taps and flush the lavatory, but it would be another 12 hours before the hot water tank refilled and heated fully. Never one to wait around, I had my bath in stone cold water. I hardly noticed. To be honest, the difference between an icy bath and boiling one is negligible as far as I'm concerned. A little soap and the chilly water washed away all traces of man from my perfect body just fine.
As for how I got so dirty in the first place... Well, I was across town in an area I don't really go to much. Not a lot happens around there, so I tend not to visit. There's a lot of light industry; warehouses, workshops, that kind of thing. There's also a lot of car repair places. And a couple of specialist garages that are equipped to work on bigger vehicles such as vans and trucks.
I never knew about it before, but there's even a place that caters for buses and coaches. I found it by chance, just walking around. As well as the usual dusty offices, they have a massive workshop that takes up about six normal-sized units. The front of that is completely open to the street during working hours, so I could stand across the street, leaning on a brick wall, studying the place and checking out the mechanics. It must've been lunch hour, as there were about six guys all sitting on a low wall, eating sandwiches.
It wasn't long before they started to notice me in return. I could see them nudging each other and nodding in my direction and with my sensitive hearing, I could also eavesdrop on their conversations. So many clichés in such a short space of time!
"Here, check that out." one said to his colleague, indicating me.
"Cor, I'd like to give her a full service."
"Yeah, I'd give her headlamps a really good polish."
"..check her oil with my dipstick."
"..take her for a test-drive once 'round the block". And so on. The usual pathetic male bravado. Although, in truth, there were a couple of them that didn't look too bad, even in their greasy overalls.
Eventually, lunch break was over. Three of the guys, including the two best looking of the bunch, went over to a large removal van that was raised up in one corner of the workshop. Two of them climbed onto those low-trolleys mechanics use for working on the underside of vehicles and disappeared beneath the truck. A third stood by a nearby workbench on which a number of tools were laid out.
Of the remaining three, one headed straight for another bench about ten yards away from his colleague. Standing behind a huge, half-assembled engine, he set about the task of rebuilding it. The last two lunchers left the garage area through a door marked "Private" that no doubt leads to the offices and toilet facilities. As they went through, I couldn't help but notice they passed a small panel on the wall with two large buttons. I had no trouble examining it with my super-vision. The upper button was green and labeled "OPEN", the other was red and bore the legend "CLOSE". Stuck to the brick wall next to the panel was a handwritten sign reading "Main Shutter Control. Authorised Users Only."
Reaching behind me with my left hand, I scooped a tiny bit of brick out of the wall with a fingernail and held it in my hand as I crossed the street. The two under the removal van didn't notice of course, but the others stopped working and stared at me as I sauntered over. I stopped just inside the garage for a moment, my hands hanging by my sides as I treated the two gawping men to an unencumbered view of the well-stretched upper half of my tight T-shirt.
Certain that neither of them was looking at my hand I carefully flicked the tiny chunk of wall I'd been holding in my left hand at the little red "CLOSE" button on the wall some fifteen yards from me. My aim, as ever, was spot-on. I also judged the strength of the flick to perfection, the piece of brick hitting the button just hard enough to press it in without smashing the contacts beneath. Immediately, I heard a whine of electric motors. I didn't have to look round to hear a series of metal shutters lowering behind me, closing the workshop off from the street.
Neither of the two men saw my hand move. They both turned to look first at the control panel and then, when they saw no-one in its vicinity, at each other, perplexed. I undressed at super speed as, from under the truck, one of the men called "Hey! Who's closing the shutters?" By the time he'd posed the question, I was completely naked.
The two standing mechanics did a double- then a triple-take as they noticed me (as far as they were concerned) suddenly naked and then feasted their eyes on the treat I provided. I took advantage of their stunned state to walk over to the truck the other pair were working beneath.
It was being held up on a twin ramp; two narrow steel tracks which sloped down to the ground at one end. Obviously, it had been driven up with its wheels on either side resting on one of the tracks. As a result, the whole thing was raised about eighteen inches off the ground. I only had to bend slightly to get my hand underneath the front of the vehicle.
I could have showed off, lifting the van slowly with that single hand, but I was keen to start indulging my desires so I didn't bother. I just pulled the front of the truck up towards me, its weight as insignificant to me as a piece of rag. Then I twisted my wrist, making the big vehicle turn 90 degrees before tossing it to one side with an effortless flick. The entire truck flew briefly sideways through the air before crashing down on its side about five yards to my right.
I gave the two men on trolleys a couple of seconds to see me standing over them before I just dove on top of the nearest one. He didn't even have time to call out in shock before I landed on him, my lovely chest driving the air from his lungs as it slammed into him. Seeking out his lips, I kissed him gently but passionately, feeling the inevitable response against my groin and reaching down to tear the front of his overalls and his underpants, exposing his growing arousal.
A second later, I had planted my hands on the ground either side of the tiny-wheeled platform he was lying on. My toes touched the ground behind me, my ankles crushing the end of the trolley to sawdust as my toes sought a good purchase. I eased myself onto him and he gasped. Then I began to raise and lower myself, taking care not to crush the man beneath me to paste with every downward thrust.
The other men were running around in confusion, not sure where to stand to get the best view. Very quickly, the one under me reached his orgasm, but as I was no where near ready, I ignored it and kept pumping. I thought he was happy with that when he put his hands on my hips, but, when I saw the look of desperation on his face, I realized he was trying with all his strength to push me off. I kept going.
He tried to call for help, but each time my body came down on his, I squeezed the air from his chest as my breasts impacted. "Guys! Hel-" and "Get her o-" where the most coherent things he managed to say. His upper body was starting to bruise and there were tears (of frustration or pain or ecstasy or all three?) rolling down his cheeks. But I was still far from done with him.
His three friends finally understood his appeal for help. Two of them grabbed my arms (one on either side) and started to make grunting noises as they pulled for all they were worth. Of course their efforts didn't disrupt the fast rhythm of my ride for even a nanosecond. The final mechanic tried to move my legs with the same complete lack of success. After a while, he changed tactics and began pounding my rear.
Of course, that part of my anatomy (as well as perfectly rounded and silky smooth) is a million times tougher than solid steel and there were two shouts of pain from behind me as he damaged first his left then his right hands. But his blows felt great to me. Especially when he gave up to save his fists and started kicking my legs, thighs and hips instead.
The two pulling uselessly on my arms took a cue from the kicking and tried a bit of punching themselves. I heard four separate crunches, each followed by a yell of pain as both of them broke the bones in their hands on my flawless shoulders. They, too, started to kick me, their heavy boots bouncing off my head, my face, even my chest when my body was briefly raised between downward thrusts.
The combination of the series of blows and my constant pumping was lovely but I could see that the man under me was rapidly slipping out of consciousness. I needed a change.
I stood up, the kicks raining in on me making no difference as I pushed the wheeled trolley away with my toes. It careened off until it hit the wall, its passenger now well and truly comatose. I chose one of the three men at random and grabbed him by his collar, using my other hand to tear his clothes to shreds in seconds. As I pushed him down on the ground, the other two ran out of the way, allowing me a clear leap on to him.
Something (probably a rib) cracked as I landed. I ignored it, raising myself up on my arms a little so I could swing my chest gently back and forth, smashing the man's head to one side then the other, making his cheeks bruise then bleed with my softest, most feminine flesh and also making his organ stiffen to show me the respect I demand. As soon as he was ready, I impaled myself on him and began to take him in and out of myself.
The two who had briefly gone returned. To my delight, they'd armed themselves in the meantime. One was brandishing a large adjustable spanner which he slammed down repeatedly on my head. It made a loud clang, but did little else for me. His friend, though, had a big flat-end screwdriver. Crouched by my side, he began stabbing it repeatedly against my flank, jabbing at my hip, my ribs and (most delightfully of all) at the side of my pendant breast.
This extra attention combined with the sensations created by the man inside me brought me to the brink of a very enjoyable orgasm. I lay on top of my latest ride and let the waves of pleasure roll over me. When I just started to edge down off the peak, I noticed that the guy under me was out cold. I must've squeezed the air from him as I shuddered in my ecstasy.
Immediately I stood up. I grabbed the man with the spanner first, holding him by the back of his neck, despite his frantic struggles to get away. Then I took a couple of steps, dragging spanner-man with me, and caught his colleague with my other hand. Still lost in the late ripples of orgasm, I didn't bother trying to get either of them inside me. I just pushed screwdriver-guy down on to his knees and pressed his face lightly against my tingling groin, rubbing his nose on the electrified entrance to my sex.
At the same time, I pulled the other sex toy (or "man" as he probably would rather be called) to my chest. Holding him still, I began to sway, letting his stubbly chin scrape against my smooth breasts as I dragged them back and forth across his face, prolonging the eruption of pleasure within me so that new waves of extreme sexual pleasure continued to fill my mind.
When I finally started to regain control over my senses, I noticed that I was unusually wet between my legs. Glancing down, I saw that this was mostly due to blood from the screwdriver-user's broken nose. I let go of his neck and he collapsed in an unmoving heap at my feet.
His colleague hadn't done much better. His chin and cheeks were a mess of red-raw skin and rapidly blackening bruises. There was also a trickle of blood from one corner of his mouth. Some of that had dripped onto my chest. Looking down at the red spots, I saw a tooth lying trapped in my cleavage. Evidently, it had been knocked out of his gum at some stage. I brushed it away, letting its former owner fall onto his colleague. He lay with his mouth open and I could see that he'd lost several other teeth as well. I spotted a couple of them lying around.
I wiped off the worst of the blood, sweat, saliva and sperm with a torn piece of overall before quickly dressing. I could easily detect four separate heartbeats from the unconscious men, but I still made sure that no-one saw me slip out under the barrier. In fact, I was fifty yards up the street a split-second after I'd pressed the "OPEN" button.
After that I slowed to normal speed to save my shoes from melting and walked all the way home with a pleasant glow in my loins and a big grin on my face.
Thursday 11 November 2004 09:18 GMT
I'm a proud girl this morning! And so I should be. After all, I made the regional news bulletin on TV last night. Well, not me in person, of course, but the aftermath of my little session with the mechanics.
Apparently, one of them was able to talk to police from his hospital bed last night. From what I could gather, he told them that an electrical explosion of some kind had knocked out and wounded him and his colleagues (tearing some of their clothes off in the process) and thrown the removal van onto its side.
Typical man! Too ashamed to say he got beaten up by a girl. Still, his testimony will confuse the police. Especially when the other three finally wake up and give their own accounts of what happened.
Back here, the upstairs flat is definitely for sale. One of the ugly young men in suits turned up late yesterday. I saw him from the window putting up a "FOR SALE" sign outside, making the task look like some kind of physical challenge, the pathetic idiot.
Afterwards he came in and went upstairs. I couldn't help exercising my super-hearing and checking out the conversation between the jerk and the afore-mentioned pathetic idiot. It seems that the idiot thinks the jerk will have no problems selling his flat. In fact, he's got three separate "interested parties" coming for a viewing today, Thursday. Might be an opportunity for some light amusement…
Friday 12 November 2004 10:26 GMT
Yesterday was a little bit of a disappointment, to be honest.
The first flat-viewer came mid-morning. It was a middle-aged man, on his own. I stayed in my flat, walking from room to room, staying underneath the group of three (jerk, estate agent and viewer) as they conducted the grand tour upstairs.
About five or six times, at random intervals, I directed a very, very gentle blast of ultra-cold superbreath at the ceiling beneath their feet. There were icicles and puddles of condensation on my ceiling, but it was worth it to hear the prospective buyer persistently ask about why the heating wasn't working.
The best bit was listening to the jerk trying and failing to hide the fact that he was actually shivering with cold as he tried to explain that the flat is normally warm, and he couldn't understand what the problem might be. The viewer actually left before he'd gotten to see all the rooms. No sale there.
Next up were a young, recently married couple. They never got as far as knocking on the jerk's door. They were on their way up the stairs when I opened my door just as they were going past. I was wearing a very brief pair of white knickers and a matching half-cup bra (not for support, of course, but purely for show). Causally, as I leant on the door, I pouted and asked "Oh, are you going to be moving in upstairs?" The husband stared and his heart started racing as I winked in his direction and seductively traced my finger slowly over the curve of my chest.
The wife looked at him gawping at me for a moment before grabbing his hand and pulling him towards the stairs heading back down. "I really don't like this building." she said. "It's not the kind of place I want to live in."
"Shouldn't we see the flat anyway?" her man asked, his eyes still fixed on me.
"No. There's no point" she told him, dragging him away. Even without super-powers, she was obviously going to get her way. She even made sure that she went down the stairs behind her husband, so that he couldn't turn and steal a glance at me.
The last viewer was an older woman. I let her go up and have a look around, listening to her positive comments as she studied each room in turn. She seemed very impressed with the flat so l I slipped off my shoes and ran down to the street at super-speed. Quick as I could, I chipped a little bit of concrete from the pavement using a fingernail and threw it at one of the jerk's windows. I had run back inside before the first piece of broken glass fell to the ground outside.
I did get to hear the three cries of shock (the woman's, the estate agent's and the jerk's) as the window smashed. Thereafter, she seemed much, much less interested in buying the flat.
I wonder how long I can keep scaring people away like that. I'd like to know if the jerk is really determined to sell. And, if buyers are frightened off for long enough, how low will the price go?
Monday 15 November 2004 09:41 GMT
Oh dear. What can I say this morning? I've let you down readers. Much more importantly (and annoyingly) I've let myself down.
A whole weekend without an update! It would have been worth it, too, if my little scheme had paid off, but it turned out to be a complete waste of time.
To cut a long story short, I'd been thinking about the little adventure I had the other Saturday down in the depths of the Pacific. It's been bugging me, to be honest. I mean, nothing has ever made me feel like that, and between me and all of you, I'd love to do it again.
That's why I spent the entire weekend swimming up and down over the floor of the Pacific Ocean. I didn't find a single lost nuke and I'm as frustrated as I get right now. It's not as if I didn't search thoroughly either. I never even came up for air between Saturday early morning and Sunday evening!
I did find a couple of shipwrecks, one of which, a luxurious nineteenth century liner, must've sunk pretty fast. I found its vault still locked. Ripping apart the two-inch thick iron box with my fingers, I found enough gold inside to ensure it'll be a long time before money becomes a problem for me.
Of course, I couldn't bring all that gold home with me without swimming nearly half-way around the globe, so I've left it somewhere for collecting at my convenience. I should be happy, but I'm not. I want to feel another big bomb going off between my legs. I wish I knew where I could find one.
Tuesday 16 November 2004 09:55 GMT
Monday was another day spent discouraging potential buyers from investing in the flat upstairs. Apparently, while I was busy wasting time under water on Saturday, two interested parties conducted successful (and uninterrupted) tours. One of them, a student accompanied by his obviously wealthy parents, came again yesterday mid-morning.
I've mentioned before that I get to meet a wide range of people. It'll come as no surprise that the adult males among them often give me gifts. I think they seriously believe that a small present will allow them access to the sacred work of art that is my body (the idiots.) Anyway, by setting fire to one of those gifts outside my flat, I managed to scare off the parents, if not their son. Still, as they are the ones with the money, it counts as a no sale. I should say that the thing I set alight (a gift from a young man I'd never seen before who just stopped me in the street the other day) was an eight-inch long, fat marajuana joint.
Drugs don't have any effect on me, but they certainly had a startling affect on the middle-aged couple flat-hunting with their precious boy. I took a big puff right in front of the horrified man and woman and, for good measure, exhaled extra warmly and sensuously right into the son's face, knocking him back half a step and making his trousers bulge as my breath washed over him. They left immediately, the embarrassed boy trying to keep his hands over his groin.
In the afternoon, an oily looking city-businessman type turned up. While he was meeting the jerk upstairs (no doubt the two slime-balls got on very well), I popped downstairs. Taking off my shoes, I poked my toes methodically through the walls of all four tyres on the would-be buyer's car, enjoying the way the thick rubber on each wheel yielded like tissue-paper to my delicate feet before the air pressure within made them pop. Next I tapped my fingertip lightly on the windshield, shattering it instantly to a million pieces.
I waited by the damaged car for its owner's return. When he appeared, I casually asked "Is this your car?" He went into a fit when he saw the state of it. "Must've been kids." I told him. "You can't leave anything 'round here for long." That was enough to convince him he didn't want to make a bid for the flat after all.
Someone else who came to look at the place on Saturday is coming back later this morning. I'll see what I can do there. I'm afraid it's beginning to look like the poor jerk is never going to make a sale.
Wednesday 17 November 2004 09:43 GMT
I'm writing this on a laptop this morning. It's quite a nice little toy. I swiped it from some idiot in a suit as he was coming out of the station yesterday evening. Not a difficult crime to pull off if you're as quick, strong and precise as me. I was probably half-a-mile away before he even realised he wasn't carrying it anymore.
Anyway, I had to get hold of a battery-powered computer because (once again) there's no electricity in the building this morning. No prizes for guessing who's responsible. And no prizes for working out who's been worst affected by it. Yes, things are not exactly going well for the jerk up there.
The second repeat visitor from Saturday, a chubby middle-aged man with thinning, greying hair, turned up at about midday yesterday. Once he was being shown around the flat, I ran down to the basement. There's a little padlock on the electricity distribution cabinet where the power supply comes into the building and is transformed to household voltage before being circulated to each apartment. I broke the lock by stroking it repetitively with my finger until the friction heated the locking-loop glowing red and it just gave way.
Inside the cabinet, I found a row of fuses and switches (so even a "normal" person could have cut the jerk's power with only a press of a finger) but I decided to go one better.
With both hands, I tore a strip of steel from the cabinet door, ripping the metal as easily as a sheet of newspaper. I pushed one end of that strip against the large, heavy-duty contact that handles the high voltage supply into the building and the other end against the much smaller contact that is the main distribution point for the jerk's flat.
Of course, by using my hands to hold my improvised torn-door-cable, I was letting the high-voltage electricity flow through my body, bombarding my nerve endings with enough current to kill a "normal" person several times over. But that was just a pleasant (admittedly quite fun) side-effect. My real interest was in blasting the jerk's flat with hundreds of volts whilst he was trying to sell it.
Even from down in the basement, I heard a few small bangs as equipment up there was destroyed, and I definitely heard the shocked yells of the two men (one of my favourite sounds in the world.)
I covered my tracks by slamming one fist into the electricity cabinet, my delicate-looking knuckles destroying everything in there instantly. By way of a reward, I got covered in lovely, hot pieces of charged metal which felt good, but cooled far too quickly. Then, having made it look as if the whole thing had just spontaneously exploded, I ran from there before anyone saw me.
Later, I eavesdropped on the idiot speaking on the phone, telling how every single light-fitting in his flat had exploded in a shower of sparks, his fridge had caught fire and smoke had began curling from his brand new hi-fi. "Everything smells of burning plastic in here." he moaned, to my delight. As for the fat man, well he practically ran from the building.
Because of the extent of the damage in the basement, it's going to take two days to get the power restored. That means there might be some fun to be had after nightfall. I can't wait.
Thursday 18 November 2004 09:13 GMT
Well, they put out a load of candles throughout the building yesterday afternoon. The electricians and builders worked in the basement by battery-torch light. They'll be back again in an hour or so as the damage is "so severe". That's four men, working for at least two days to repair what I did with an effortless rip and a single, half-hearted punch!
Meanwhile, as it got dark in the evening, some poor idiot had to go round the building lighting all the candles. It created a pleasant, flickering romantic effect up the stairs, but not for long.
I couldn't help myself. Shortly after the workmen had gone, I stood at the base of the staircase, opened my mouth and let out an exaggerated, short, sharp sigh. The brief gust of warm air I expelled rushed up the stairwell, extinguishing every single candle from the ground floor to the top.
After that I stood silently in a corner, invisible to everyone else in the pitch black. Of course, I could see everything perfectly. I watched people slipping and falling, stumbling on the steps, tripping everywhere. I suppressed giggles as they bruised and even cut themselves. People are so fragile!
One guy tried to find his way to his flat with a cigarette lighter. It was hard not to laugh when I blew the softest little breath at his flame, causing it to flicker just enough to set his jacket alight. The guy rolled around on the floor in a panic for a while. When he stood up again, his suit was ruined. He kept rubbing his chest too. I guess his delicate skin was a little burnt. The poor feeble man!
The best moment was when you-know-who tried to make his way upstairs on his crutches. I couldn't resist following him up (silently of course) and every so often knocking one of his sticks away with a finger, making him fall on his face again and again. By the time he got into his flat, he looked like he'd gone four rounds with a heavy weight boxer. I think he was crying.
I had to stifle my laughter until I was in my own apartment. At least my super-eyesight means I don't have to bother with candles or torches. I just spent the completely dark night reading.
Friday 19 November 2004 10:31 GMT
The boys are hard at work in the basement again this morning. They're under a lot of pressure to finish the job by four o'clock this afternoon. Everyone's furious that the job is taking a day longer than originally anticipated. Apparently it was "especially freezing" in the building last night without electric heating, although I can't say I noticed.
The problem is that the builders and electricians hardly got anything done yesterday. I don't know if that was because I kept on finding excuses to walk past them wearing various ultra-tight, very short and extremely low-cut outfits and they, in turn, kept finding excuses to go to the lavatory, stay in there for a minute or two, and walk out slightly bow-legged.
Anyway, I'll leave them alone today to get on with it. I need the electricity supply to my flat restored. Sure, I don't miss the heat or the lights, but I need to recharge the battery on my "new" laptop.
As far as I can gather from what I've picked up with my super-hearing, no-one's coming for a flat-view upstairs today. The jerk sounded really desperate and miserable talking about it on the phone this morning. That cheered me up considerably.
The weather forecast predicts that today will be the coldest day of the year. The advice was to wrap up warm and not spend too long outdoors so I'm packing my bikini into my sports bag and heading off to the station to catch a train to the seaside. Should be lovely.
Saturday 20 November 2004 19:49 GMT
Yesterday was lovely. I was on the beach by mid-morning and, as there was no-one else around, I changed into my bikini out in the open without bothering to use super-speed.
The weather was awful (which explains the deserted beach). In fact, it rained all day and there was a non-stop, biting northerly wind which felt nice against my exposed skin. Of course, cold doesn't bother me in the slightest. I once had a bath in a vat of liquid nitrogen (but that's a story for another day.) A winter's day at the seaside is as comfortable as a warm spring afternoon as far as I'm concerned.
I couldn't sunbathe as there was no sun, but then again, this planet's pathetic sun isn't strong enough to tan my skin at the best of times. Instead, I waded out into the bitter, rough sea until it was deep enough to swim in. The current was strong, but I'm thousands of times stronger. I dived beneath the surface and played about down there for a while until I spotted the hull of a fishing boat in the distance. "Normal" people can't even open their eyes in seawater, but I can see clearly for miles.
The vessel was only about eight hundred yards from me so it took less than sixty seconds of relaxed swimming to close the gap. Once I saw that it was anchored, I knew what I was going to do. I gave a sharp tug on the anchor-chain and, looking up, saw the entire boat leaning to the side. I hadn't even pulled hard! The next tug, however, was quite forceful. The boat nearly rolled completely over. Only the snapping of the thick steel chain in my hand saved a capsize.
Frustrated by the uselessly weak metal, I reached up and punched the vessel's hull. My little fist passed through the two-inch thick metal as effortlessly as it travelled through water. I felt air against my fingers and pulled back my arm to let the brine pour in through the nice hole I'd made.
Two minutes later, a dinghy was tossed over the side of the boat. I waited underwater as four men climbed in. About a minute more passed before the deck of the little ship sank below the waves. I watched, pleased with my handiwork, as the craft made its way to rest on the sea-bed.
That just left the dinghy to play with. Staying out of sight beneath it, I reached up and got a hold of the bottom of the inflatable vessel. I kicked my legs to generate thrust, building up speed with casual movements of my feet, and soon I was dragging the life-craft along at something like the velocity of a speed boat, turning sharply every so often to increase the fun of the ride for the men inside.
Pretty soon, temptation got the better of me and I had to stick my head out of the water by the side of the dinghy just to see the expressions on the faces of the men. It was pretty funny to see a quartet of tough, experienced seafarers all looking quite green with nausea!
Letting go of the little boat I swam about ten yards away and turned around with my head above the surface. "Hello boys!" I called cheerfully. As soon as they were all looking at me (the shock on their seasick faces a delight to behold), I reversed my original greeting: "Goodbye boys!"
I pursed my lips slowly and sensuously and blew a gust of super-breath that actually lifted the dinghy from the water before turning it over and spilling its contents. The craft splashed down (upside down) about twenty yards from the struggling men. I reckon it would have taken them all a good five or six minutes to swim over to the thing, turn it around and haul themselves in. And, being only men, the cold would definitely have been an issue for them.
I didn't stick around to see the fun, however. I was already on my way back to shore. In the end, I made it home in time to scare away a couple more buyers for the flat upstairs and see the workmen in the basement triumphantly announce the restoration of electricity to the building.
This morning, I "accidentally" poked my finger through the telephone cable to the jerk's flat so the agency couldn't call him to arrange any viewings. The poor bastard might never manage to sell his property. Then again, things could change (if he lowered his price far enough...)
Monday 22 November 2004 20:17 GMT
I've been away for a couple of days, so I didn't bother with an update yesterday. If you really want to know, I went to pick up that gold I found the other weekend. I've got the feeling I might need to raise a large amount of cash in the not-too-distant future.
The jerk upstairs has had his phone repaired now. He needs it because someone has stolen his mobile. Well, alright, I stole his mobile. It was Saturday evening. I'd seen him on the stairs, answering a few calls and he always put the thing back in the same pocket, so all I had to do was run past at superspeed and dip my hand in. Naturally, I didn't pass up the chance to trip him up as I did it. By the time he'd picked himself up and rearranged his crutches, I'd already crushed his precious telephone to dust in my fist.
Anyway, I overheard him making his first call with the repaired line. He was talking to the estate agents asking (practically begging to know) why no-one had put in an offer for his flat. With my super-hearing, I could easily make out the voice on the other end reassuring him that these things can take a while.
"But I've already lowered the asking price by twenty-five percent!" he exclaimed, on the verge of tears. "I'm desperate to sell!"
"Why are you desperate?" asked the estate agent, no doubt realising that the jerk was not telling the whole story.
"Er... I have... ah... personal reasons" the jerk replied as I suppressed a chuckle downstairs.
Those "personal reasons" were revealed a few minutes later. He made another call, this time to his mother. "The place is haunted by some kind of evil spirit!" he claimed. "I've never believed in this kind of thing before, but nothing else explains all the stuff that's happened to me. And I keep feeling these sudden bursts of extreme cold coming up from the floor like - Oh God! There's another one now!"
Well, I had to blow him another icy kiss through the ceiling when I heard that. I can see he's starting to get desperate. He's got two viewers coming on Tuesday. I'll deal with them, then give him another big fright. Perhaps after that, he'll be willing to lower his price again. Not by another twenty-five percent, of course, but maybe by another seventy. I shouldn't need to tell you that I'm a very persuasive negotiator.
Tuesday 23 November 2004 19:18 GMT
Despite appearences to the contrary, I don't like causing damage to my own building (it's where I live after all) but sometimes the end justifies the means.
A case in point: an opportunity arises for me to take ownership of the apartment immediately upstairs from my own. I could always do with some convenient extra space. Now, the price being requested for that apartment is well below market value (and falling daily) and I've just come into some money (sunken gold, which I recovered from the bottom of the Pacific Ocean). I have a chance to legally buy the place. So if I have to resort to a little bit of extreme vandalism to ensure that I'm the sole bidder... Well, you'd probably do the same thing if you could. If only you had superpowers like mine.
All I did was wander out of my flat about a quarter of an hour before the first of two prospective buyers was due to be shown around upstairs. I went three-quarters of the way down the steps and, checking that no-one was around, placed my hand on the metal banister. My fingers couldn't quite curl all the way around the thick iron, but I was still able to close my fist, quickly crushing the metal in my delicate palm. It made a squeal, but no-one reacted so I carried on. I gave the banister a tug and with a groan and a crunch of breaking plaster, the entire length of handrail came away from the wall.
I couldn't really manoeuvre the banister as it was too long (around twelve foot) to turn, so I bent it in a right-angle about three foot from one end and another at the other end. When they make these handrails, the usually bend them to order with special equipment. But twisting the metal around with my bare hands was as easy as tying a knot in a piece of string. I tossed the mangled banister onto the floor at the bottom of the stairs. It made the entrance to the building look pretty uninviting, as I intended.
Taking my left hand, I curled my fingers into a fist, leaving only my index digit sticking out. I poked that into the wall, my dainty finger sinking through the thick plaster and deep into the brick behind with as much difficulty as I would have experienced plunging a red hot knife into butter. Then I wiggled my finger around to enlarge the hole I'd made before pulling my hand away.
I repeated the trick about a dozen or so times, pock-marking the wall with inch-wide, four-inch-deep holes, making sure that all the loose debris (plaster dust, chips of brick and so forth) fell onto the stair-carpet. The carpet is dark blue so all the mess showed up clearly on it.
Finally, to complete the effect, I bent down and used a fingernail to slice through the thick floor fabric. Getting three fingers into the slit I made I tore a big strip (about the size of a sheet of A3 paper) out of the "untearable" and "ultra-hard wearing" carpet. I held this chunk out in front of me in my two hands. It was nearly half-an-inch thick and obviously designed to withstand quite a bit of abuse, but I tore it into postage-stamp-sized pieces with utter ease. I let the little chunks fall all around before going back up to my flat.
The first potential buyer arrived five minutes later. I heard him saying out loud "What the f**k happened here?" and, about a moment later, "I'm not wasting my time with this!". He left the building without even trying to negotiate the mangled handrail at the foot of the stairs.
A few more minutes passed before the jerk came limping downstairs on his crutches to see what had become of the person he'd buzzed into the lobby. Eerily, he said exactly the same thing his not-to-be purchaser said ("What the f**k happened here?") It was like there was a delayed echo in the stairwell.
He started trying to brush some of the dust off the stairs and gave up. He started trying to put the pieces of carpet back and gave up. He started trying to move the twisted metal handrail (on his crutches!) and gave up. Finally, he made his weary, slow, way upstairs to his flat. He picked up his 'phone and dialled. I heard him say "Can we cancel the two further viewings planned for today?" After he hung up, he started to weep so softly that it was almost a strain on my hearing powers.
I called the building manager and told him that some kids had managed to get in and had trashed the entrance and that he'd better get it all fixed up nicely because, as a long-term resident, I was getting fed up with all the problems we were having lately. Then I went upstairs to knock on the jerk's door.
He opened up, wiping his face. I asked him (in a slightly accusatory tone) if he had anything to do with the disgusting mess downstairs. He just burst into tears and moved to hug me. I took two quick steps back and he fell on his face at my feet. Instead of offering him a hand and helping him back to his feet, I bent over him and demanded to know what his problem was.
"My life is falling apart!" he sobbed.
"Oh come on," I chided, "you're a grown man. Pull yourself together!"
"I... I can't. Someone... something is out to get me. It's like this place is haunted and it's trying to destroy me. I don't know what to do anymore. I just want to get out - to sell up and go, but this... this... evil spirit is frightening everyone away. I keep lowering the price, but... things keep happening - like downstairs. That wasn't kids or vandals. That was it - you know, the thing."
I burst out laughing. "You're really pathetic, you know." I said.
"Please!" he begged, awkwardly climbing to his feet and taking a crutches-assisted step towards me. "I just need someone to talk to."
"Well, I hope you find someone." I said, turning to leave. Over my shoulder I asked casually, "How much are you asking for the flat?" He hesitated for a moment, before giving my a number quite a bit lower than the figure I'd overheard him mentioning on the phone this morning. I paused for a moment on my way through the door, but without turning fully to face him and said, "Funny thing is I've got nearly half that in the bank and I'm looking for some extra space. Oh well." And with that I walked out, closing his door behind me. I heard the sound of a man crying as I went back to my flat.
Wednesday 24 November 2004 19:48 GMT
I meant what I said yesterday about not being crazy about the idea of causing damage in my own building. However I didn't make clear that this only really applies to communal areas (which I use) and, of course, my own apartment.
Unfortunately, I left a big mess in the entrance yesterday which a couple of builders have been repairing all day. Even more importantly, all the frozen blasts of superbreath I've blown at my ceilings are also starting to take their toll. The plaster is stained and cracked now in several rooms. As the workmen are coming back tomorrow to finish off repairing the wall and the hand-rail downstairs, I'm going to invite them up once they're done and see if they can't put it right. If they do a good job, I might even let them have a special reward...
Outside of communal areas and my own flat, of course, I'm more than happy to do damage. Last night, for example, I went out of the front of the building, round to the fire escape at the back and up the iron steps to the back door of my upstairs neighbour. As it was 3am, I needed to be silent so instead of just pushing in his new thick steel door with a finger, I started rubbing it with my palm. The faster I rubbed, the more friction my palm produced and the hotter the surface of the metal became.
Eventually, I heated the panel so much it started to glow red beneath my hand and I was able to push my hand silently right the way through the soft, almost-molten steel. That part of the door must've been hundreds and hundreds of degrees hot but it takes a lot more than that to burn me.
The paranoid jerk's set up an array of motion detectors in his flat, so all I had to do to set off his alarms was stick my arm through the hole I'd made and wave my hand about inside. Then I ran back downstairs at superspeed and silently went into my own apartment by leaping from the fire-escape stairs through a window I'd left open. The distance from staircase to window was only twenty feet, so it was an effortless jump.
I was standing by the quickly-shut window within two seconds of triggering the alarm. I just listened to the show unfolding upstairs. Highlights included "What the...?", "Oh no, not again!", "What the f**k's that?", "Ow! Jesus, the whole f**king door is burning hot!" and a beautifully wailed "I can't take any more of this!". I also especially enjoyed the repeated refrain (targeted, I believe, at the spirit world) of "Why can't you just leave me alone!"
After a bit, he seemed to calm down a little. I heard the sounds of wardrobes and cupboards being opened, and bags being unzipped and later re-zipped. Then he picked up the phone. He was ringing hotels, looking for a vacancy. When (on the third or fourth attempt) he found one, he called for a taxi. The car pulled up about ten minutes later. The driver buzzed the intercom, and I heard the jerk negotiating with the cabbie (of course, he could take his bags down himself what with being on crutches.) Eventually they struck a deal and, much huffing and puffing later, they were gone.
As soon as nine o'clock rolled around this morning, I called the estate agent to see if the asking price for the flat had been lowered again. It had, but not quite enough. It should only be a matter of time, though. With luck, the place will be mine (at a fraction of its market value) within a week.
Thursday 25 November 2004 18:11 GMT
It's amazing what a bit of plaster and a lick of paint on the ceiling can do! My flat looks lovely now.
As I thought, the two guys working on the entrance were only to happy to do my redecoration for me. And I only had to ask them once. OK, I admit I asked them from the top of the stairs, leaning forwards in a very low-cut T-shirt and pouting (in case they managed to tear their eyes off my exposed cleavage for more than the time needed to blink) but they were very good about it all.
As soon as they'd finished downstairs, they came up. Of course one of them asked the inevitable "how did this happen? It looks like exterior paintwork after a dozen cold winters" question. I brushed it aside, but the other one asked again. They were standing side to side, about two yards in front of me. I put my hands on my hips and told them it was none of their business how the damage had occurred, but the first one insisted on knowing. "I've never seen anything like it before," he excused himself, "I just want to know what happened, that's all."
"Right." I said, angrily with my hands still on my hips, "I'll tell you what happened to the ceiling. I blew on it. Like this." I pushed out my lips and exhaled a steady but gentle stream of air from my lungs through the tiny gap in my "kiss". I didn't make it as cold or as strong as the blasts I'd given the ceiling as that would have killed them both instantly, but I did make sure that I was blowing hard enough to push them both back until they tripped over their feet and were sent rolling into the wall.
My superbreath pushed them back into the wall, pinning them in place. That wasn't the only effect it had on them, either. Being blasted (albeit terribly softly by my standards) by my fragrant breath proved too much for them and they both began trembling as dark stains appeared on the crotches of their jeans.
I didn't stop there though. I increased the strength of my exhalation slightly so that they were being pressed uncomfortably against the wall. Then, tilting my head to one side and raising my eyebrows as if showing a bored and vague curiousity in their plight, I blew harder still, making them cry out as the force of my lungs (well a tiny fraction of it, actually) threatened to crush them against the wall. Through clenched teeth, clearly in considerable pain, their voices fighting to compete with the sound of rushing wind, they begged me to stop. A minute later, when they each seemed on the verge of passing out, I did stop.
Whilst they rolled about, gasping for air and rubbing their new bruises, I smiled. My hands remained fixed resting on my hips as I announced. "Well, boys. Now you know. And that's just a fraction of what I can do! Would you like another demonstration, or would you like to skip that and move straight on to fixing up my ceiling?"
They got to work immediately. I watched them as they toiled, each on a step ladder and they watched me as much as they could, half the time taking obvious advantage of their raised vantage points to peer down my top and half the time looking at my face to see if there was any sign of any displeasure there. Despite all that, they were finished inside two and a half hours.
"Thanks lads." I said, when they starting putting their equipment away, clearly exhausted. "Oh, and you know that if you tell anyone about what I did to you, they'll never believe you. You're better off keeping it to yourselves. I wouldn't..." (I exhaled deeply as I pronounced the next word, making sure that the warmth of my breath hit them hard and briefly scorched their faces) "..breathe a word."
After that, the two builders were in such a hurry to leave, they forgot to ask for any payment for their labour or the supplies they'd used up and I was left alone to enjoy my new ceilings.