Nowomenklatura

"Comradette," said Sally, and then stopped.  "Sister Comrade," she tried, but Hilary shook her head at that and bit her lower lip until it turned white.  "Comradistina," was her third attempt, but they both winced at that.
"I think Comrade is gender-neutral, actually," said Hilary, but Sally flushed at that, and so she back-pedalled a little.  "But a feminised version would be preferable.  Maybe... maybe... Comrette?"
Sally thought about it, her eyes rolling up into her head as she did so.  Hilary swallowed and tried to pretend that it didn't scare her when Sally did that.  Finally her eyes rolled back down again, and she focused on Hilary.
"Comrette," she said, "I had completed the Nowomenklatura, as you requested."
"The what?"
"The Nowomenklatura.  The list of names."
"Ah!  Right. Which list?"
"Which list?"
Hilary stared at Sally and Sally stared at Hilary, until finally Hilary half-smiled and realised what the problem was.
"Ah right, there are two lists of names.  I asked you to compose one and Ermintheldra to compose the other.  You're doing... the list of people to be dissolved by the state when the revolution has happened?"
"No," said Sally.  "I didn't know that was available.  Why did Ermintheldra get it?"
"I don't know," said Hilary.  "It was just the order the lists came out in I suppose."
"You suppose?  You know that woman doesn't like me!  I'm going to be on that list!"
"Oh no," said Hilary.  "I've already told her twice, no-one from the Party is allowed to be on that list."
"Told her twice?" Sally's voice was hollow and resonant.
"Well yes... oh, I see what you mean.  Look, it wasn't you she kept putting on the list."
"Who was it then?"
"Oh... er..."  Sally glared at her until Hilary began to feel really uncomfortable.  "Oh ok, it was Suki."
"Suki's my girlfriend!  Of seven years!"  Sally actually looked ready to cry, which made Hilary feel even more uncomfortable.
"It's not that," she said, awkwardly.  "It's got nothing to do with you.  It's just... just that Ermintheldra thinks that Suki's a bit... butch, you know?  She thinks she might sympathise with men when the revolution happens.  She's just trying to keep us all safe, you know?"
"No I don't know!  Of course she's butch, she works in a Steelworks!  They're all butch in there, even the kids they illegally employ and the donkeys!  There are little old women in there that are more butch than Ermintheldra and have used less lipstick in their entire lives!"  Sally was shouting now, and little white flecks of spittle spotted her lips.  Hilary tried not to let it distract her; Sally angry was always a little bit erotic.
"I know that Ermintheldra's a little... delicate," said Hilary, but Sally wasn't going to let her finish.
"She's a pussy, and a whipped one at that!  She should be taken out with the men and shot as well for cheapening the cause of the revolution!"
Hilary was silent for several seconds, reflecting that that was exactly the argument that Ermintheldra had put forward for putting Suki on the list in the first place.
"Suki's off the list," she said finally, noting to herself that she'd have to check and make sure that was true.  "How has your list come along?"
"The Nowomenklatura?" said Sally, not really calming down much.  "Yes, it's done.  It's here."
"And which list is this?" asked Hilary, wishing that she'd written down who'd had which list to write.  One of them had her shopping list and she was starting to run out of things and really needed it.
"The list of names.  Those who are entitled," said Sally.
"Entitled to what?"
"Just... entitled," said Sally.  "I didn't think we should worry too much about what we're entitled too until we know what's up for grabs."
"That's not exactly a Marxist philoso–"
"Nor is putting my girlfriend of seven years of the list of undesirables."
Hilary froze for a moment, and then nodded, conceding that she'd lost this point for the moment.
"You're on here as Party Chief," she said, noting a name.  "And I'm... what is this?"
"Stalinissima," said Sally.  "Woman of most steel, steeliest woman, or woman made mostly of steel."
"Why three?"
"The first two are for your first newspaper interviews, until we've settled on the kind of autocrat you want to be," said Sally.  "The third is for when you die and we replace you with a robot."
"And why is Ermintheldra not on the list?"
"She's not entitled," said Sally.  "I ran out of jobs before I got to her."
"And you got as far as 'Janitor for cleaning the party tables after elevenses,'" said Hilary, trying not to sound reproving.  "So you clearly tried.  However, she did write the other list, so perhaps we could put her down as Literati, or somesuch?"
"Somesuch," said Sally taking the list back and annotating it.  "There you go."
Hilary looked it over.  Ermintheldra was now listed as "Litter Box Eater (pp Hilary)."
"Right," she said weakly.  "That's great then.  How's the revolution coming?"
"Dunno," said Sally.  "I gave Juliet Anthrax a couple of weeks ago and haven't seen her since."
"Gave her Anthrax?  Surely you mean 'gave her the vial of Anthrax'?"
The two women stared at each other in mutual disbelief and belated comprehension.

Backstory

"Well," said Playfair, "you should be picking your unconscious sister-in-law up and taking her away so that we can get on with our investigation, shouldn't you?"
Ronald looked down at Melissa and rubbed the tears from his eyes.  "I suppose so, yes," he mumbled, his accent coming back a little.  Miss Flava flicked back through a couple of pages in her notebook, then forward again.  As Ronald bent down to grab one of Melissa's feet, she looked up.
"I still don't understand why you dislike your sister-in-law so much," she said.  "Bad cooking and fancying someone who sleeps around a lot aren't a bad thing–"
"Indicative of poor taste, though," interrupted Playfair.  Miss Flava scowled at him.
"Aren't a bad thing," she repeated.  "But they're not really enough to hate someone the way you seem to hate her."
"I don't hate her," said Ronald, giving her foot a tug.  Her shoe, a cream, strappy thing that made Playfair think of frozen cod fillets, came off in his hand.  "Hate would be a bit much."
"How is she your sister-in-law?" asked Miss Flava, her pen poised over her notebook again.
"She married my sister," said Ronald.  Miss Flava carefully wrote that down before looking up at him, and her face was as neutral as she could manage.
"In this country?" she asked.
"Oh no, they met in Europe and got married somewhere out there," said Ronald.  "It was a little bit of a surprise when they came back together, and Mother had a couple of strokes in quick succession but that was really kind of her own fault... then Father had his little accident and left my sister quite a lot of money in his will, and Melissa kept spending it.  And spending it.  And my sister never seemed to see any benefits from it, which didn't seem quite right really.  Then Mother died, and Anna the nurse died two weeks later, and then my sister drowned herself in the fish-pond.  It really wasn't a good year, to be honest."
"Did your mother have a stroke because your sister was a lesbian?" Miss Flava was looking over Ronald's statement, tapping her pen against her teeth.
"No!  No, like I said, it was really her own fault.  She'd decided to unpack for Felicity – my sister – and found... well, things in there that apparently you can... use... somehow... if you're... if one of doesn't have..."
"And the shock gave her a stroke?" said Miss Flava, seeing him struggle with his embarassment.
"No.  No, it was trying them out for herself that seems to have got her a bit... er... overexcited, you see...."
Playfair burst into laughter, and Ronald stared at him.  His eyes seemed to bulge a little from his face, and his hands, large and pale, twitched spasmodically, trying to clench into fists.  Playfair ignored him, and just laughed more.
"That sounds very tragic," said Miss Flava, making herself heard over Playfair's laughter.  "I'm sure it was a very trying time for you."
"What was your father's accident?" asked Playfair, grinning broadly but no longer laughing.
"Does it really matter?" asked Ronald, stiffly now.  He was holding himself tightly under control, and if looks could kill then Playfair would certainly have been maimed.
"No," said Miss Flava quickly.  "Thank-you, Mr. Verges, you've been very helpful.  We... have your address, and I'm sure we'll be able to find you if we need you further.  Does your sister-in-law live with you?"
Ronald sighed, and nodded, and dropped her shoe on the floor.  He pulled on her foot again, and she slipped a little towards him.
"Come on, Playfair," said Miss Flava, closing her notebook up.  "Let's go and look round the house."

Mary Virgin

"You once dated a girl whose surname was Virgin?" Dave sounded incredulous.  "Why would you date anyone with a name like that?  That tells you what you're getting, up front!  Nothing."
"Well, her mum knew my mum," said Vince between mouthfuls of lager.  "And her mum thought that it was a bit odd that no-one was dating her daughter, and my mum–"
"Thought you were a bit odd."
Vince looked a little hurt and put his pint down on the table.  "No, my mum loved me, Dave.  Don't interrupt.  My mum thought that dating me might help her realise there's plenty of opportunity out there–" Vince waited while Dave's explosion of laughter died away.  Dave rested his head on his arm, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter, and he waved a hand to indicate that Vince should continue his story.  "Yeah, so I dated her.  For nearly a year."
There was a pause while Dave got himself under control and Vince sipped at his lager, looking thoughtful as he remembered the girl from nearly twenty years ago.
"What happened at the end of the year then?" asked Dave carefully, odd little pauses between words indicating where he was trying very hard not to laugh again.
"She told me she was a lesbian," said Vince.  Dave stared at him for a moment, his eyes wide with disbelief, and then he dissolved into giggles.
"Look," said Vince.  "It explained a lot of things, alright?  Like why she'd only let me kiss her breasts, and why she insisted on me shaving right before we had a date and why she owned more suits than me."
"She only let you kiss her breasts?"  Dave's giggles subsided suddenly.  "You spent a year kissing a girl's breasts?  Sweet Jiminy Vince, I don't know how you do it: I spent eighteen months dating Theresa Wilson and took her out to movies every weekend and bought her dinner twice a month and I still never got more than a bit of over-the-sweater action and no-tongue kissing.  You date a frigging lesbian and get more action than me, for a year!"
"Yeah, alright Dave, keep it down a bit," said Vince looking a little bashful.  "I dated a girl called Theresa once too."
"Might have been the same one?"
"Nah doubt it," said Vince.  "Not unless yours is called Terry now and lives in the Midlands with a wife and two kids."
"No...," said Dave.  "No, I think mine died a couple of years ago.  Drug overdose."
"Oh yeah, I hate when that happens.  Especially when the cameras just keep on running."
"...what, Vince?"
Vince drained his lager glass and belched.  "Yeah, it was Carrie, she was working as a porn-star at the time, and she died of a drug overdose at the start of a scene, but they just kept on going without knowing she was dead.  Really put the price of the film up!"
"How did they not notice?  She was dead, right?  A corpse?"
"Yeah, but they said she wasn't doing much active in that scene, it was more about how much they could get in her, if you get my drift.  They said they thought it was odd she wasn't complaining, but that was about it."
"Dear God," said Dave.  "You're a never-ending source of worry, Vince.  I liked it better when you were dating lesbians called Virgin."
"Mary Virgin, Dave.  I think her mother was hoping for a miracle."
"What, like a grandchild?"
"Nah, they've got the kids thing sorted out already.  They got a bunch of sperm donors, mixed all the contributions up together and used that.  That way, no-one knows who the biological father is."
"...sounds disgusting, Vince.  Just what I'd expect from you.  You getting another round in?"
"Yeah right, but not here.  That last one was flat."
"Where do you fancy then?"
"How about the Weeping Nun?"
"Sure thing, Vince.  I wonder why it's called that?"
"Oh, I know this one!  I knew the nun as well, actually...."

Dragonbride

"I won't put it on!  I won't wear it!  Get away from me!"  Smaragd flailed her arms around, slapping maids away from her as she tried to get away from them, and they tried to get her to put her wedding clothes on.  She caught one maid a glancing blow to the cheek-bone and she stumbled back, tripping over her own feet and landing in a crumpled heap on the floor.  Smaragd gave a cheer of triumph, flinging her arms up and knocking another maid's attempt to get a veil on her head to the ground.  Then someone or something, she didn't see what, cannoned into the back of her legs and toppled her as well.  She landed by the first fallen maid, and then ten maids all jumped on her at once.
They hauled her off the floor and tied her hands and feet to the four posts at the corners of the bed, and worked hard and steadily, untying only one limb at a time as they pulled clothes on and pushed them into place, never letting her get free or thrash around enough to damage the clothes.  As her throat finally grew hoarse from her screaming, swearing and shouting and her volume decreased, the Queen appeared in the doorway of her room.
"Not dead then?" she said.  Without waiting for an answer she walked in and sat down on a couch by the window.  The couch was essentially a long bench with a few cushions laid on it for comfort, but other than the bed and the wardrobe was the only furniture in the room.  "With the noise you've been making I'd assumed that your father had sent to down to Cole to see reason."  Cole was the torturer, executioner, and manicurist.  No-one had dared asked him why he provided nail-care as an additional service, though many of the maids took advantage of it.
"I hate you!" said Smaragd, trying to spit despite facing the ceiling and only succeeding in covering her own face in slightly-greenish spittle.
"You appear to hate everybody today," said the Queen.  "Which makes a pleasant change from loathing us, rejecting us, and ignoring us.  We feel privileged."
"You're marrying me to a dragon!  I'm supposed to be grateful?"
"I'm not marrying you to anybody," said the Queen.  "Your father made a rather curious deal regarding your future when you were just a baby, and before you say anything, that's just traditional for royalty.  If it had gone another way you'd be marrying Baron Harald, and he's over seventy."
"At least he's human!"
"That's one way of looking at it," said the Queen.  "Though not a very practical one.  Harald would definitely want a wedding night."
"The dragon might want one too!"
"Really?  Do you honestly believe that dragons want humans for that?  Oh well, if that's what you think...."
"Well, what else would the dragon want me for?"  Smaragd was almost dressed now and was physically exhausted from the struggle.  The maids didn't look much better off.
"Food?" The Queen stared out of the window thoughtfully.  "Decoration?  Perhaps a princess would go well on a hoard of gold.  Barter, maybe?  Going to another human domain and offering up the princess in return for something?"
"Those are all horrible!"
"And sex with dragons isn't?  My, I can see that all this fight is just a pretence then!"
"Is she ready?" The King walked into the chamber and found his daughter sprawled on the bed in her wedding dress, looking tired and red-eyed.  "My, I'm sure the wedding night is still some hours away, darling, mmm, you probably don't have to be, mmm, ready for that quite yet."
"See!  See!  He thinks I'll be having sex with the dragon!"
"No, dear, he just thinks that all young women think of is sex," said the Queen, wishing that her husband were a little more interested in it.  He seemed to prefer telling stories of sex he'd had as a young man to actually trying it out any more.
"The dragon is downstairs," said the King.  "Come along now."
Smaragd had to be forced down the stairs and into the courtyard by all ten maids, with the Queen following behind.  In the courtyard was an enormous blue dragon with a wing span that was easily as long as the banqueting hall and a tail that was longer still.  With her was another, smaller dragon that was turquoise and kept shuffling its feel and curling and uncurling its tail.
"Dragon!" called the King.  "I am keeping my side of the bargain!  Here is my daughter, for your son to marry!"
The dragon tilted her head slightly to one side and squinted at the King.  He stood there feeling nervous, wondering what was coming.
"Son?" The dragon's voice was whispery yet loud, like being caught in an articulate hurricane.  "This is my daughter."
"Oh?" The King thought about this for a few moments, and then said, "But the marriage... the... well, the..."
"The sex?" The dragon pulled its lips back from its huge triangular teeth and blew smoke from its nostrils.  This was, the Queen realised, dragon laughter.  "How would dragons and human have sex?"
"Well, I imagine it's easier if they're both lesbians," said the King, apparently thinking hard about this.  "Much easier than any other way I should imagine.  Do dragons have particularly hot tongues?"
"Dragon marriage is not like human marriage!  It is not some antiquated ritual designed to increase the power of a lazy, unworking caste of mystical layabouts!  Dragon marriage has significance, it bonds souls together.  It is used to form alliances and forge futures."
"Sounds like human marriage to me," said the Queen quietly, unaware that dragon's have excellent hearing.  "Except maybe for the souls bit."
The dragon did its smoke-snorting laugh again.  "Perhaps," it said.  "However, given the size difference  I think we shall forgo the sex part of human marriage and stick to the dragon parts."
"Unlucky, my dear," said the King to Smaragd, who stared at him in utter disbelief.
"You think I'm a lesbian?" she managed, though it was clearly hard for her to speak.
"I wouldn't be surprised if he thought you were a lemon," said the Queen quietly, quite aware of how deaf her husband was.  "Still, looks like you've got your wish: your father can still marry you off to someone human now."
"He thought I was a lesbian?"
"I would expect he still thinks you're a lesbian," said the Queen.  "Expect to be introduced to lots of eligible princesses from now on."

No country for young men

The toilet-seat was so sticky that I had to peel myself off it to stand up when I was finished. Normally I'd be nauseated, but I'd been told that things in lesbian bars weren't the same as anywhere else. I cleaned myself up as best as I could and went back out into the bar where the headteacher of my daughter's school, Ms. Moscow, was drinking Ovaltine cocktails.

Ms. Moscow was in her late forties, had a hairstyle from the forties, a waistline that was probably in the forties and an IQ that -- well, you get the picture. The woman was consistant, and that was a good thing. She also had a slight, brown moustache from the Ovaltine cocktails. As I approached she upended another glass and waved coquettishly as the bargirl.

"You can guarantee me that my daughter will become a lesbian?" I said, sitting on a plush red suggestive couch. "You'll throw her to the gym teachers when you get back to the school?"
"Darling, the gym teachers aren't lesbians!" She sounded shocked. "That's such a terrible cliche. We have deployed our forces far more carefully than that. But yes, I guarantee that your daughter will get useful life-guidance in womanly matters for you."
"Will she be a lesbian by June?" I said, tapping my foot on the floor nervously.
"She'll be a lesbian by June, Marianne and Betty!" giggled Ms. Moscow, flinging her head back. The bargirl, who had been approaching our table with a tray containing a fresh cocktail was taken unaware, and Ms. Moscow's head caught the edge of the tray. The cocktail shot into the air and shattered somewhere in the distance, Ms. Moscow's eyes rolled up into her head and she slumped back onto the couch, and all around I sensed predatory instincts firing into life. I fled.

Back home I called up my procurers, Angie and Val, and had them send a lesbian over. They sent over Hettie, who they referred to behind her back as the dyke bike. When I asked them about this, having been under the impression that lesbians mated for life, I was told that simply wasn't true and I should know better than to believe what bitter gay men had to say. Then Val, waiting till Angie had gone to check out how well I'd vacuumed, had said that Hettie did mate for life, but had many more lives than any normal person. I shrugged; all that mattered to me was that I had a lesbian.

Summoning my poor dead wife was easy with a real lesbian for the channelling. Hettie gurgled like a blocked drain and her face slackened, and then she sat up again, her face twisting to look like my wife's, and I knew I'd got through.

"What in the seven hells have you put me in this time?" she said, sounding revolted. "Just how people are living in this body at all?"
"Angie and Val said she's a dyke bike," I said, "Though I've no idea what they mean by that."
"That's because you've no idea of a how long a normal relationship should last," she said tartly. "Most people manage longer than Hello...Goodbye."
"Bitch."
"Cumdump."
"I spoke to Ms. Moscow today," I said, trying for the higher moral ground. "She says she can guarantee that Helen will be a lesbian by June."
"Do you think we're doing the right thing? It seems slightly wrong to try to force poor Helen to be a lesbian..."
"We've been over this," I said firmly, "in order to bring you back from the dead we need someone similar enough to you. She's your daughter, and the only reason we had a kid in the first place is in case one of us died."
"It would have been easier if you'd died," she said, wistfully.
"Damn right it would," I said, "but you were the one who had to go and find the only lesbian serial killer in London. Anyway, we've talked this through before too. When you come back, it'll pick up all of the imposed lesbianism anyway, and she'll be back to normal."
"Normal?" she said. "How many 'older sisters', and 'concerned mother-figures' have you provided for her over the last eight years?"
"Enough to be looking forward to having you back so I don't have to look after her by myself anymore!"
"I love you too, cumdump."

Hettie chose that moment to recover, so I went to make her a cup of tea. This was all a lot of work, but it would be worth it to have my wife back. Then we could get on with our real plans. We were going to show the world what ruthless really means.