Aaron couldn’t keep up. He’d promised Mary Boleyn he’d look after Henry Fitzroy. He’d made an obligation to Caesar Claudius that he’d keep watch on Caligula. Sir Isaac Newton was counting on him to stand under the tree and wait for an apple to fall on his head. And Eleanor of Aquitaine wanted Aaron to lead an invasion of Normandy.
Why did he get himself into these messes? All these famous people, whenever Aaron saw them, all he could do is promise them this, promise them that. But he was a human being, too. He had needs and wants. And how would they feel if, one day when he visited them in that clackety-clack of a time machine, he turned the tables on them?
“Queen Eleanor,” Aaron could hear himself saying. “I’ve decided to wear some of your jewels to the king’s pig roast. Would you be a dear and hang these from my nipples?”
“Sir Isaac,” Aaron would baritone, “I think we need to give that tree a little shake. Go climb up it and jump up and down on that branch. I’m in a hurry. I’ve got an appointment with Socrates.”
“Great Caesar with the stutter,” he said, knowing the old man had a sense of humor, “every time I get near Caligula he turns me around and makes sport with my behind. Would you be a dear and point your flabby little arse at the heathen and service him yourself?”
“Lady Mary,” Aaron said, a velvety tone of appreciation for her round breasts in his voice, “would you stroke me a hundred times just here? That’s right, on that spot.”
But no, he had to be a star fucker and go blubbery every time someone famous asked him a favor.
No comments:
Post a Comment