Mind Your Own Business

e sat in front of the computer in a total daze. He was trying to figure out a way of starting the Consumer Behaviour assignment. The assignment was to be a group effort, and he was part of a threesome: Michael Weber, Dean Hughey and himself - Robert Zanetti. Both Weber and Hughey had not even considered putting pen to paper, let along thought to motion, in regard to the assignment - their motivation was about as lax as a sloth on Valium. So there he sat, staring at a blank Microsoft Word document that radiated sullenly from the screen of the computer.

Fuck it! he thought, I'm not going to end up doing most the work myself. I'll wait for Dean and Mike to arrive. Besides, I've got better things to do.

He sure did have better things to do.

Robert Zanetti possessed a special gift. Though no one would think so by the look of him; he was an average twenty-year-old: lewd, daring and a trifle on the narcissistic side. He occupied a small, nimble frame and had hair that was blacker than a shadow on the moon. He supported an even, olive complexion that had been passed down from his Italian parents and his big-featured face was lightly peppered with a two-day stubble.

This gift of his though . . . you couldn't detect it, and it benefited no one but himself. Zanetti was a freak with a supernatural ability . . . He could hear peoples' thoughts!

He had been capable of doing this ever since he has been old enough to figure out why he could hear talking when no one had their mouth open. His superhuman ability evolved and fine-tuned over the years - he had total control of it, and harnessed it like a crazed horseman. Though as a child, no matter how hard he tried, the eerie, echoing voices of other people could not be silenced - they drifted through his mind like malicious ghosts.

He had one helluva traumatised childhood.

Zanetti likes to think of listening to peoples' neural electricity as mind-probing. His rare ability worked like a probe too. He could select someone for intrusive auscultation, and away the mind-probe would go, just like a sub-unit from the mother vessel. He could feel it leave him in the same way you might feel faeces leave your bowels. Once he had made contact, he would then close his eyes and focus, which in turn would enhance the audibility.

At the Gold Coast Institute of TAFE, where he studied Retail Management, Zanetti - wielding his mind-penetration capabilities - was able to have a field day. Everyday. There was more good looking babes at that place than you can poke a stick at.

Zanetti knew that he abused his inhuman gift. Though his type of character simply could not give a hoot.

Sitting (at a modest carrel for one - most are made for two, with two computers) in the Private Study area, he became bored. He looked to his left and saw a lady with steel wool for hair clatter away busily at her keyboard.

Nah, he thought.

He swivelled to his left some more . . . then he saw her. She sat with her back to him, reading her notes. The side of her beautiful face was revealed. He recognised her; he'd seen her walking around the GCIT campus a few times before - she's drop-dead stunning!

'A beautiful girl like that must have a beautiful name,' he muttered.

It's too early to send out his mind-probe - she's yet to notice him. He just stared at the back of her in total rapture, waiting for her to turn around. Her long sandy hair spilled from her crown in lustrous strands, its silk-pure texture glowed resplendently under the radiance of the fluoros. She sat in her chair with faultless posture and typed without taking her eyes off the monitor. Then she pushed out and stood up. Zanetti's tongue almost fell out of his mouth as she smoothed the seat of her pants with her hands. He noted her size: not too short, not too tall . . . perfect.

He watched her walk off toward the printer. She wore navy blue pants, the type that were loose around the ankles and tight around the ass. His gaze honed in to where her clothing fitted the tightest. Her buttocks were so well-muscled and voluptuous; the way they moved when she walked gave Zanetti a real pantsbuster.

An unrecognised voice passed through his mind like a brief ghost of a breeze through a small tunnel: I've never seen a girl whose beauty is so flawless.

He couldn't bring his eyes to blink. As she stood abreast of the printer waiting for tangible copies of her documents, he thought: She must study Office Admin - wow. One day she'll have a job as a secretary and she'll wear short skirts and suit-jackets. Oh God, how could a man keep himself from-

She turned and started to strut back to her area. He snatched a quick glimpse at her chest. She was wearing a white silk blouse that ended just above her navel and her firm breasts were in perfect proportion to the rest of her body. He looked up at her face, it was set in a serious expression that made her look both sexy and lustful. Her eyes were dark brown, matching her eyebrows and the roots of her hair. She looked up from her print-outs.

They made eye contact.

He didn't want to make it too short; that would make him look shy. He also didn't want to stare too long; that would make him out to be a pervert. He ended up making the ideal amount of eye contact with her . . . and she smiled at him. When she smiled her top lip acted like a curtain revealing a grand jewellery display - her teeth had the lustre of pearls.

Robert Zanetti's testosterone began to boil.

He had never seen a woman so gorgeous in all his life: not in the magazines, not in the movies, not anywhere. If Zanetti turned out to be then next Hitler, he would have a model image of how he wanted the Aryan Race to look . . . except he would make them the Race of Dark-Featured and Callipygous Women.

She sat down across from him and he prepared to send out his mind-probe when-

'Hey Rob!' It was Dean Hughey sounding a trifle sarcastic. He lowered his tone. 'Who's the girl man? You were beginning to drool.'

'I wish I knew,' replied Zanetti without shifting his gaze.

Fuck Dean, he thought to himself, your timing is so bad.

As Zanetti turned to face Hughey, Michael Weber appeared.

'Hey guys,' he said and dropped his bag on the bench.

'Hey Mike,' both Zanetti and Hughey said simultaneously.

Zanetti turned back to the computer screen and let out a sigh. 'You guys better contribute to this assignment this time. I'm gettin sick of being the workhorse.'

'Don't flatter yourself,' said Hughey as he sat down behind a computer and thumbed it on.

'I'm up for a game of solitaire!' exclaimed Weber to himself as he followed suit.

This pissed Zanetti off, he wanted to be left alone.

Both Weber and Hughey didn't have the faintest idea that Zanetti could decode their neural impulses; he would never dare tell them that he could. They thought he was an average Joe Bloe like themselves. Zanetti was no Joe Blow. His intrusive power was still maturing and growing stronger with every day that passed. An example of this had happened three weeks ago when he was walking his German shepherd down at the park. The park was almost empty apart from a gorgeous woman and her little Maltese terrier. They both seemed oblivious to the rest of the world playing fetch. Zanetti tried looking cool - so cool that he'd get her attention. It didn't work. He became slightly frustrated, so he probed her to find out whether or not she was ignoring him. It turned out she was. Her thoughts were completely devoted to her activity. Growing a trifle irrational, he tried something new; something that took a lot of concentration on his behalf.

He closed his eyes and focused his thoughts and tried to speak inside her mind.

At first it didn't work

(hey baby, hey baby, hey baby)

and then it happened: HEY BABY! It sounded so loud and sonorous inside the woman's head that it startled him - he couldn't believe it. The way the woman's expression went from bliss and joy to unadulterated shock-horror startled him even further. She turned around and looked at him immediately - she was completely flabbergasted. He stood frozen and the woman's confused eyes did not leave him as she bent down to pick up her dog. She then turned and walked off hastily.

From that day on Zanetti has tried to perform the intervening conscience trick again and again, but to no avail. Maybe it had been a one-off thing, or maybe it just needed more work.

As he sat behind the computer and typed a heading for the Consumer Behaviour assignment, he really wished he could talk inside Dean Hughey's mind. He would know exactly what to say . . . in an altered voice: Deeen, this is your stomach speeeeking; feeeed me. I want some KFC and so does Myyyke.

Though Zanetti wouldn't do such a thing; however, even if he tried, it would probably backfire anyway.

Then, as if in spite of what Zanetti had been thinking, Weber pushed out from under the bench, stood up and said, 'Man I'm hungry. I could eat the ass out of a stampeding wildebeest and then drink from a lubra's loincloth.'

Hughey sprayed out in laughter, but Zanetti only stared at them disbelievingly. I must be developing a divine influence as well, he thought.

Both Weber and Hughey left for lunch, they asked why Zanetti didn't want to come and he told them he had eaten earlier. With Weber and Hughey gone, the Private Study area was empty, except for Zanetti and his new subject.

He let ten minutes pass, then he swivelled around to face her; she had returned to her posture of perfection behind her work. She seemed like the type who were totally engrossed with their studies.

Alright-alright, he thought to himself resolutely, you and me babe, one-on-one.

He eased his mind-probe out of his body and it took three seconds to reach the alluring lass who sat several metres from him. It floated from point A to point B without being detected by anybody. However you had no chance of detecting it, even as it passed through your ear and into your brain, because it was a transparent vapour constructed of molecules that acted like ultramicroscopic electroencephalographs which worked on the inside of the brain. Because this receptive vapour was part of his body, it would transmit information back to his own brain where it could be decoded. There was a part of his brain that was set aside to work like some sort of internal modem.

Once the probe was established, he closed his eyes and started receiving the first load of information. He heard her singing a song to herself. It was MMMBop by Hanson.

Then something happened that Zanetti thought would never . . . She became aware of his presence like he had set off some sort of internal alarm.

He freaked; he didn't know how to react. He tried to withdraw but she had trapped him like a helpless pup in the corner of her mind. Then he felt all the control he had over his body evaporate, like she had sucked it from him using an intercranial tube. She did not move from her chair and Zanetti sat in his as stiffly as a clump of petrified wood with his eyes still shut - he couldn't move a muscle.

Total paralysis.

The blackness of both his mind and hers came together to create a stage. A stage on which the horrific events would play themselves out in a slow frame-by-frame sequence like an old, corrupt film projector cluttering along in a rundown theatre where the ghosts of ushers float around and laugh maliciously.

The laughing seemed to fill the darkness, the laughter of many voices. Then the voices faded away until only one remained; hers. Her laugh seemed to flood in from every direction and it grew louder and louder.

Then it stopped.

Zanetti was completely helpless - powerless. He was trapped in the dark world of a beautiful woman's subconscious where she was at the helm and showing no signs of mercy. For the very first time some of his other senses were beginning to work inside the head of another person. His power was growing more uncontrolled. It was as if a small prot�g� of himself had been transported to her mental hideaway. He felt something tie him up, something wrap itself around him, from his shoulders to his feet. At that moment he found he could open his eyes and move his head. He looked down at himself to find he was well bound by thick rope; completely trussed up. What was more disturbing was the fact he could now see his dark surroundings in the fathomless pit of this madwoman's lair.

He had fallen for it. Somehow she knew about him, and she had baited him with her skin-deep beauty. Zanetti had fallen for it alright - hook, line and sinker. His thoughts returned to him and the first thing that came to his mind was: There's a purpose behind this. Followed by: She's taken me away to this place for a purpose, I can feel it . . . but what?

'TO TEACH SCUM LIKE YOU A LESSON!' her voice bellowed indignantly. The way it came from all directions frightened Zanetti so much he fell backwards. He lay on his back on a black ground that was no blacker than the rest of his tomb-like environment. If it wasn't for the surface he felt under him, he would have thought that he was drifting through a starless version of space.

He lifted his head up and whimpered, 'What do you want from me?'

'I don't want anything from you,' her voice replied. 'I'm here to eradicate your type.'

'But what have I done wrong?' Zanetti pleaded.

'You can't even mind your own business! You posses a divine gift that you could use for good causes, but instead you abuse it because you are a depraved little pleb! I don't even know what someone like you is doing with a power like that anyway.'

'Who are you?' whispered Zanetti.

'Never mind my name. All you have to know is that I'm now your nightmare!'

'Can you please let me go? I promise I won't abuse my-'

'Shuddup!'

Zanetti rolled onto his stomach, put his weight on his head and slowly brought his knees up under his waist. From there he rolled back onto his feet and stood up. He looked around. For all he knew he could be in a huge black void or a small black room. He then saw something in the distance; something glowing. It was growing bigger as it mover towards him. He squinted, closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and squinted at the light again. He made it out to be a human figure with a bright yellow corona encompassing it. It grew closer . . . it was her. She was completely naked.

Oh God, Zanetti thought.

'Your god cannot help you now Robert Zanetti.'

'You can hear my thoughts too?'

'Of course I can. You seem to forget you're in my world now.'

She kept closing in, Zanetti could now see her undraped shape clearly. He thought once more to himself that he had never seen a being so gorgeous, so appealing to the visual sense. Her face was a pristine reincarnation of a Renaissance Madonna and the lines of her body denoted the apotheosis of a woman. Her blonde hair with its dark brown roots flowed over her shoulders and obscured the tops of her breasts. Zanetti found himself looking down at the delta of her sex where a petite patch of pubic hair danced with the shadows from her mystical aureole. His loins began to burn and rise.

She confronted him.

Zanetti's eyes felt dry and pinned open. The bulge in his pants was becoming uncomfortable under the tight grip of the rope. She moved in and licked his cheek sensuously.

'You just couldn't mind your own business could you Robert?' she said as licked his lips and kissed them. 'Though I'm about to teach you a lesson you will never forget . . . that's because you won't be around to remember it.' She proceeded to kiss him passionately and Zanetti suddenly realised how she planned to kill him.

She was going to arouse him to death.

Zanetti kissed her back and thought to himself: If ya gunna go out, you may as well go out in style.

She withdrew her lips off his. 'Oh you'll be going out alright.' She started rubbing his erection and managed to free it up from under the rope. She zipped his fly down and his cock popped out like a jack-in-the-box. She lowed herself and hungrily enveloped it in her mouth. He moaned with pleasure. She worked away at it vigorously then stopped and looked up at him. 'This'll teach you for not being able to mind your own business.'

She bit the knob of his cock savagely, taking off a large chunk of flesh. Blood splashed her face as Zanetti wailed with agony. She stood up and smiled at him; her lips glistening red and her eyes sparkling brown.

Back in the surroundings of GCIT campus, all was mundane. Except for Zanetti who sat frozen in his seat with his eyes shut. He was facing the back of the young lady who held him captive in her mind. Drool ran from his mouth like blood from the wound of a haemophiliac. His captor kept going about her typing as if nothing was wrong. Only seven minutes had passed since he sent out what may very well be his last mind-probe. Fortunately most students were at lunch or out having a smoke, so Zanetti's weird fixed posture went unnoticed.

Back in the expanses of the exquisite cock-eating lady's subconscious Robert Zanetti was still hollering in pain. His penis had shrivelled up and was continuing to bleed.

She gave him a hard slap in the face and he shut up.

'Why did you do that?' he asked. His voice cowardly and wavering.

'I just wanted a taste of you before I dispose of you.'

Blood drained from Zanetti's face as she stared into his eyes and into his soul.

'I knew who you were and what you were all about from the first day I saw you Robert.' She spoke evenly. A female who's powers were obviously greater than his. 'And now you are no more.'

With that she closed her eyes. Her bright yellow corona intensified. She began to telekinetically milk the life out of him. Zanetti could feel his soul oozing from his orifices and there was nothing he could do about it. The girl who he thought would have to be man's greatest desire, began to fade before his very eyes. Thought it was not her who was fading . . . it was he. His heart wound down, beating slower and slower with each pulse. He felt at total peace with himself - warm and comfortable.

The last emotion he felt was that of deep love for the girl who was dragging the very life-blood out of him like a fisherman hauling his catch out of the sea.

One week later he awoke from what he perceived to be a dreamless sleep. In suspended animation you become completely oblivious to how much time really passes. It's just a big void, from the minute you go under, to the minute you emerge.

He came to the brief realisation that he has never felt so snug in his own bed before. He opened his eyes to blackness.

Oh, it must still be night, he thought.

Something was wrong: he could smell varnish very faintly, and beneath that, pinewood. He moved his arm. It bumped into something very soft and padded. It had a pliss� texture. He sniffed in; he couldn't even smell himself, it was as if he'd been washed free of his epidermis. There was a small square pillow under his head - not his usual feather pillow. Then an abrupt sound from the roof so loud and clear he thought he was directly underneath it.

It came again.

Ploomp . . . ploomp . . . ploomp . . . ploomp.

From under that sound he heard soft sobbing.

It then dawned on him: he was lying in his own coffin and being buried alive by spadefuls of soil!

Robert Zanetti opened his mouth and screamed himself mute.

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