Tales of the Parodyverse

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CrazySugarFreakBoy!
Sun Apr 03, 2005 at 06:36:19 am EDT
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Snacks and Sex: A Spin-Off Story to “Hallie and the Selpuchre of Destiny”
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Snacks and Sex: A Spin-Off Story to “Hallie and the Selpuchre of Destiny”

“What do you know about Indians?” Dreamcatcher Kokopelli Foxglove asked Hallie, as he led her to the kitchen in the Lair Legion Mansion.
The team’s former artificial intelligence stumbled through a response to CrazySugarFreakBoy’s! unexpected question. “Well, I have – I mean, I had access to a number of detailed files on aboriginal cultures from around the world – ”
“That ain’t what I asked, is it?” the luminous Impossibilitium-imbued Lair Legionnaire reminded the not-quite-human woman with faded jade skin, as he swung open the door to the enormous refrigerator and rummaged through its freezer. “You know I’m an Indian, right?”
“Yes,” Hallie acknowledged quizzically, wondering where this conversation was headed, as her companion for the evening withdrew a half-dozen or so Frisbee-shaped, aluminum foil-wrapped food items from the back of the frosty shelves. “Your father is Native American, isn’t he?”
Dream nodded as he unwrapped the precooked, golden brown discs of dough. “He was raised on the Rez – heh, that’s, uh, that’s the reservation, for those who didn’t grow up there – and when I was born, he moved back to the Rez, with my mom in tow, to raise me there, too.”
Hallie contemplated this for a moment, as Dream set three of the unfamiliar but oddly appetizing-looking treats onto a paper plate and slid them into the microwave oven to reheat for a couple of minutes. “Even though the engrams of my thoughts are based on the mind a dead human woman, human ethnicity is still a strange and largely alien concept to me.”
Dream smirked as he suppressed a chuckle. “Yeah, ‘cause it makes so much sense to the rest of us, huh? With a white mom and an Indian dad, I’ve never had any shortage of whites or Indians telling me how I’m not enough of either one or the other, since it seems like everyone’s got their own opinions about what color and culture I’m supposed to be.”
“I’d almost welcome that,” Hallie admitted quietly, looking away. “It beats not having an identity at all.”
Dream opened his mouth to comment, but paused and shrugged his shoulders before continuing on. “Well, if you’re gonna be people like us from now on, I’m thinking maybe you should know about some of the things that are different and the same between people. See, there’s some things that are true for all Indians, no matter who they are or where they come from. The one thing is that every Indian belongs to a nation, whether they know which one they come from or not. Me and my dad are Spokane Tribe; our Rez is just east of the Rocky Mountains, in Washington State.”
As the microwave beeped, Dream grinned and fetched out its steaming hot contents, placing the paper plate on the counter, next to the butter and sugar. “Another important thing to know about us Native American peoples is that every Indian loves fried bread.”
“Fried bread?” Hallie almost laughed, as Dream slathered hunks of butter all across the tops of the golden brown discs of dough, before pouring a thick coating of sugar over the almost instantly melting rivers and pools of butter, creating a sweet, yellow, gooey yet granulated confection for the warm homemade treats.
“When people talk about heritage, they mostly mean history, but they forget that even your family history ain’t all about the blood, or even the country, that you’re born into,” Dream explained, carefully handing one of the butter-and-sugar-laden fried breads over to Hallie, as he took one for himself. “It’s also about the traditions that you choose to adopt and pass on. This …” he emphasized, holding up his fried bread before biting into it, wiping the edges of his mouth and licking his fingers as the thick liquid blend of sugar and butter in its nooks and crannies spilled out “… is one of my favorite parts of my Indian heritage.”
“Mm!” Hallie exclaimed in surprise, blinking her suddenly wide eyes as she sampled a tentative taste of her own fried bread. “This is really good! Granted, it’s a little heavy on the sugar, but still … well, I think I might have found a new favorite food. What’s in this, anyway?”
“You’re looking at what’s in it,” Dream beamed proudly, as he unwrapped the remaining three fried breads and popped them in the microwave. “Fried dough, butter and sugar. It doesn’t matter what nation you belong to – if you’re an Indian, then the countless centuries that your family and your peoples spent living off the land are yet another part of your heritage. It’s one of the reasons why tribal cuisine, much like tribal architecture, has traditionally had to focus so much on simplicity and economy. My dad once told me that gourmet cooking never could have been invented out in nature, because anyone with any hope of coexisting with the wilderness has to learn to use every part of the buffalo.”
“Your father made these, didn’t he?” Hallie deduced cannily, casting a curious sidelong glance at Dream, whom she had honestly never suspected of having this much depth.
“Only fried bread worth a damn is made by Indians on the Rez,” Dream assented in a strangely soft voice, applying a final layer of butter and sugar to the third fried bread that still sat on his paper plate. “I get a couple of dozen of these in the mail from him, about every month or so, that him and his old lady, that I guess he shacks up with every once in a while, boil up and seal up for me. I kind of know how to whip up fried bread on my own, but it still doesn’t taste as good as his.”
Hallie arched her eyebrows as she regarded Dream silently for a moment, then shook her head, as if to clear it. “As much as I appreciate this little late-night snack, I can’t imagine that the calories in this are doing any good for my already expanding waistline.”
“Hey, big girls need love, too,” Dream protested. “There ain’t nothin’ in this world that’s wrong with a woman whose … *ahem* feminine attributes are that much more full-bodied. I mean, it’s like … more cushion for the pushin’, know what I’m sayin’?”
“Excuse me?” Hallie nearly shouted, hands on hips.
Dream rolled his eyes and groaned in frustration. “Okay, let me rephrase that. I like women. A lot. Not that you didn’t already know that, but anyway. One of the things I like about women is when they look like women. To me, this means lips, tits and hips. And, if that means they’re packing a little extra, in terms of poundage, then as long as it’s not to the point where we’re talking about them having some sort of Kirstie Alley butt-in-front thing going on, I will take a funny, friendly, cool, cute chick with a fat ass and slightly sagging boobs over some skinny bitch with silicone beachballs on her chest, any damn day of the week.”
Hallie stopped just short of another outburst as she realized that Dream, in his own oddly adolescent way, was seeking to shore up her sense of self-worth. “So, I shouldn’t worry about being a bit overweight?”
“As long as it ain’t a health issue, your ideal figure is whatever you want it to be, just like your heritage is whatever history you choose to make for yourself, from here on in,” Dream elaborated, running a hand agitatedly through his hair. “I don’t give a goddamn whether you were built out of spare parts in some mad scientist’s lab, or created by cosmic-level powers-that-be in response to a quasi-mystical crisis, because you are infinitely more than just the sum of anyone’s expectations of you, including your own. And yes, this does mean that you have permission not to be perfect, no matter how much it might piss you off. After all, that’s literally in the dictionary definition of being human.”
Hallie winced at this insight. “Have I been that obvious?”
“If it makes you feel any better, April had to point it out to me,” Dream conceded, clearing his throat sheepishly while applying characteristically liberal amounts of butter and sugar to the paper plate of fried bread that he’d just removed from the microwave. “Speaking of my girl, she asked me to give you this gift, and explicitly instructed me to excuse myself while you enjoyed it in private. According to her, there’s no other model on the market that’ll help a gal fall asleep faster.”
As Dream carried the paper plate of fried bread back to his room, to treat his girlfriend to some breakfast in bed, albeit well after midnight, Hallie unwrapped her present to discover a fire engine-red, nine-inch-long, dildo-shaped vibrator, contained in a simple white cardboard package, with a clear plastic pane on one side that read: IN CASE OF EMERGENCY, BREAK HYMEN.
Upon seeing this, Hallie almost choked on the remaining piece of fried bread that Dream had left behind for her, but in spite of the hot crimson blush that was rising on her otherwise green cheeks, she nonetheless discreetly tucked the box under her arm and walked briskly back to her room, locking the door behind her.




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