UTMC

It always starts the same way. I am in the garden airing my terrapin Jetta when he walks past my gate, that mysterious man in black.

'Hello Roy,' I say. 'What are you doing in Dusseldorf?'

'Attending to certain matters,' he replies.

'Ah,' I say.

He apprises Jetta's lines with a keen eye. 'That is a well-groomed terrapin,' he says.

'Her name is Jetta.' I say. 'Perhaps you would like to come inside?'

'Very well.' He says.

Roy Orbison walks inside my house and sits down on my couch. We talk urbanely of various issues of the day. Presently I say, 'Perhaps you would like to see my cling-film?'

'By all means.' I cannot see his eyes through his trademark dark glasses and I have no idea if he is merely being polite or if he genuinely has an interest in cling-film.

I bring it from the kitchen, all the rolls of it. 'I have a surprising amount of clingfilm,' I say with a nervous laugh. Roy merely nods.

'I estimate I must have nearly a kilometre in the kitchen alone.'

'As much as that?' He says in surprise. 'So.'

'Mind you, people do not realize how much is on each roll. I bet that with a single roll alone I could wrap you up entirely.'

Roy Orbison sits impassively like a monochrome Buddha. My palms are sweaty.

'I will take that bet,' says Roy. 'If you succeed I will give you tickets to my new concert. If you fail I will take Jetta, as a lesson to you not to speak boastfully.'

I nod. 'So then. If you will please to stand.'

Roy stands. 'Commence.'

I start at the ankles and work up. I am like a spider binding him in my gossamer web. I do it tight with several layers. Soon Roy Orbison stands before me, completely wrapped in cling-film. The pleasure is unexampled.

'You are completely wrapped in cling-film,' I say.

'You win the bet,' says Roy, muffled. 'Now unwrap me.'

'Not for several hours.'

'Ah.'

I sit and admire my handiwork for a long time. So as not to make the ordeal unpleasant for him we make small talk on topical subjects, Roy somewhat muffled. At some point I must leave him to attend to Jetta's needs. When I return I find he has hopped out of my house, still wrapped in cling-film. The loss leaves me broken and pitiful. He never calls me. He sends no tickets. The police come and reprimand me. Jetta is taken away, although I get her back after a complicated legal process.

There is only one thing that can console me. A certain dream, a certain vision...

It always starts the same way.


© Ulrich Haarbürste (http://www.michaelkelly.fsnet.co.uk/karl.htm)


--Jaeger

It begins innocently enough in the pet-shop. I am seeking worms for Jetta.

'Hello there,' says a vaulting tenor voice behind me. 'We meet again.'

I turn and take in the black clothes and trademark dark glasses. I bow and smile. 'Mr. Roy Orbison, I presume. What brings you to our little emporium?'

'I was passing through town on my way to a rock star conference in Essen when I decided to get some de-worming powder for my dog.'

'Ah! How ironic! Your dog has worms and my Jetta eats worms.' I decide to risk a little joke. 'Perhaps we should bring the two of them together!'

But Roy does not laugh. The eyes behind the dark shades express no mirth. 'What? What are you saying? Are you saying your terrapin should eat worms out of my dog's ass?' he snarls.

It is all going wrong. My palms sweat. I wish to die. I try to wake up.

I blush and mumble apologies. Fortunately just then a distraction arrives.

Two criminals burst in waving shotguns.

'This is a robbery!' they yell. 'You two are hostages.'

'Make them tie each other up,' says the lead robber.

'Ach! I have forgotten the rope,' says his cohort.

'I happen to have a roll of cling-film with me,' I offer diffidently. 'Perhaps that would serve?'

'It will have to. Wrap that man in black in cling-film at once or it will go badly with you.'

'Very well.' Trembling, I take out the cling-film. 'I am sorry Roy, it looks like I have no choice.'

'Do what you have to.'

I start at the feet and work my way up. I wrap him as tenderly as a mother swaddling an infant. I marvel at the play of light on the miraculous translucence. Soon, Roy Orbison is entirely wrapped in cling-film. I thank God that I was born to live this minute.

'He is completely wrapped up in cling-film,' I report.

'Good,' says the bandit. 'Now I want you to wrap the clingfilm around the two of you so that you are wrapped up with him.'

My mouth dry, I stand pressed against Roy, who is wrapped completely in clingfilm. Awkwardly, I pass the film around both of our waists several times, until we are bound together by the miracle substance. My synapses overload with joy.

'We are both wrapped in clingfilm,' I tell the robbers. 'I am not completely wrapped, however, but is there more clingfilm in my briefcase if you would care to finish the job.'

'No, that will do.'

It certainly will!

It is an hour or more before the police come to release us.

'Well,' I say to Roy Orbison, 'it was nice to meet you again.'

'I'm not a philosophical man,' says Roy thoughtfully, 'but it seems like we are bound together in some way.'

'Yes - by cling-film!' I say.

This time Roy does laugh.

Oh, sweet Jebus, I just stumbled over these. Even I am somewhat... shaken...

Oribison-Clingfilm Haiku:

By Shayne Muelling
wearing dark glasses
he approached me without clothes
the cling wrap shone brightly

through the flashing lights
reflected off smooth surface
a glimpse of johnson



By Daniel Nolan

Cling wrap tucked him up.
He was a Pretty Woman,
Androgynous Roy.

Tin foil will not do.
A Traveling Wilbury
deserves cling wrap love.

Fat, fleshy, and pale,
Roy must be wrapped up tightly.
He must not ooze out.

Only the lonely
know how a self-slapped ass stings,
when cling wrap befriends



By Sean Buhrmester

Jetta the turtle?
Stretch wrap man in black?
Only the lonely.

Flowing like a stream
Rivulets on plastic wrap
Someone's been Cryin'

"Please unwrap me now"
Last words. Dump the corpse
On the Blue Bayou.

Seek fetish therapy immediately. And stay the fuck out of my kitchen!