Date: Fri, 18 Feb 2000 08:43:03 -0800
From: cdroff@pacbell.net
Subject: Lost Temple of Hun-Gamin, chapter 3

LOST TEMPLE OF HUN-GAMIN, CHAPTER THREE

The glistening skin of the wrestlers undulated as they strained against
each other.  I moved closer to get a better look, so as to facilitate the
recording of this event for my anthropological field notes.  It was
wrestling season among the Hun-Gamin, and this was the final match.  My old
friend Muscles, one of the first to welcome me to the Hun-Gamin tribe, was
up against a taller and rangier fellow named X.  The nude bodies of the
wrestlers had been liberally annointed with the juice of the lubricanthia
vine, and the early morning sunlight reflected pleasantly from the slippery
pectorals and buttocks.

Wrestling had different rules among the Hun-Gamin than in most other
places.  The object was to be the last contestant to ejaculate.  Other than
that, there were really no other rules, and no holds were barred.

As I leaned forward, anxious to observe every nuance of this practice, X
pinned Muscles' shoulders down, his strong hands gripping Muscles' biceps,
Muscles' legs straining helplessly against X's shoulders.  The crowd gasped
as one as X's exceedingly long and slender erection brushed against
Muscles' thighs.  With a triumphant cry, X aimed and thrust between
Muscles' firm rounded buttocks, sliding all the way in.

Muscles cried out as well, struggling against this sudden invasion.  X
waited a few moments, then slid most of the way out before re-entering,
fucking Muscles with smooth, long, graceful strokes.

Muscles' own erection twitched against his firmly ridged belly.  I knew
from personal experience that he had a fondness for those long graceful
strokes, and if he didn't do something soon, X was likely to bring him off,
thus winning the match.  Precum bubbled from the tip of Muscle's cock, and
sweat mingled with the slippery lubricanthia juice that covered him.
Finally he gave a single mighty thrust with his legs as X was on the
outstroke, forcing him onto his back.  With an enraged bellow Muscles
pounced on X, pinning his arms back.  Muscles got his legs around X's
thighs and bent him backwards.  X's long erection was pointing directly at
me, and I took this opportunity to make a brief sketch for my notes.

Then Muscles got one arm in front of X and wrapped his hand around the
long, supple dick, stroking it with excruciating slowness.  Muscles' own
rod was much shorter and thicker, and he thrust it deep into X, moving with
the same lazy yet forceful movements.  X began to babble requests for
Muscles to fuck him harder and faster, which only had the effect of
encouraging Muscles to go even slower.  I was very glad I'd finally
mastered the Hun-Gamin language and no longer needed the loathesome
Dr. Chamberlain to translate.  This performance just wouldn't be the same
without the dialogue.

"Please fuck me harder," X gasped.  "This is torture.  Can't you feel me
throbbing in your hand?  You've got the match.  I'll come any time you say.
Please, just let me cum, and I'll be your slave."

"You'll cum when I decide you're going to cum," Muscles grunted.

"I love having you inside me," X groaned.  "Oh, this feels so good.  I love
feeling you stretch me open and fill me up, and I love the way your big,
strong chest feels against my back.  Please do that with your hand again?"

"What, this?"  Muscles' thick fingers moved deftly over the engorged head
of X's prick, and X nearly shot his load right then, but Muscles hand moved
lower, encircling the base of the long cock, squeezing and holding very
still.

The wrestling ring was absolutely silent except for the heavy breathing of
the Hun-Gamin watching, yours truly included, and X's tortured moans as
Muscles went all the way up inside him and froze, motionless.

Suddenly a bright flash of color entered the ring.  A large and obscenely
colorful rainforest butterfly fluttered in a wide circle around the
wrestlers.  As we watched from the edges of our seats, the butterfly dipped
lower, toward the glistening, pulsating pillar of flesh jutting straight
out from X's body.  It landed, right on the glans, and perched there,
beating its wings up and down, shifting position slightly.  I tried to
imagine how those delicate insect feet would feel in so personal a
location.

Muscles took his hand away from the base of X's cock.  His hand trailed
slowly up X's torso so as not to startle the butterfly.  He found X's
nipple and gradually squeezed it between his thumb and forefinger.

X threw back his head and let out an agonized scream.  Ropes of white semen
spurted from his long dick, frightening away the butterfly.  Five, six,
seven jets.  And as the weapon was still aimed directly at me, the first
three jets landed on me, one obliterating my notes and sketches, but I
didn't seem to mind at the time.

Muscles waited until the defeated X stopped erupting, then he began fucking
him hard, riding to his own orgasm, which came with a triumphant bellow as
he filled his defeated opponent with large quantities of manjuice.  The
crowd went wild with applause, or at least at least those of us applauded
who still had two unoccupied hands.  My own hands were occupied with both
of my neighbors, so I admittedly didn't applaud, but I did shout
encouragement.

 	Invigorated by the morning's activities, I decided to pay a visit
to Joao, the ex-drug lord.  I hiked through the rainforest with a smile on
my face, a song in my heart and a bulge under my loincloth.  Life was
wonderful.  Dr. Chamberlain had vanished (and good riddance), I lived in a
rainforest paradise and for the first time in my life, I knew the utter
contentment that went along with several consecutive weeks of total sexual
fulfillment.  No longer was I frustrated and shy and inhibited.

	I bounced cheerfully up the steps to Joao's house, knocking at the
door as I opened it.

"Come in," Joao said distractedly, and I entered to find him staring at the
curtain hanging over a small window beside the door and frowning.  He was
wearing nothing but black silk pajama bottoms, his graceful torso tapering
out of them to a smooth chest with delicious large brown nipples, long dark
hair cascading down his back.  He turned, saw me and smiled, taking my face
between his hands and administering a long, passionate kiss.  I pulled him
toward me, showing him exactly how I felt about him.

"Joao," I sighed.

He exclaimed with delight over the flowers, then tossed them aside and
pulled me toward an armchair with very wide arms and shoved my chest so
that I fell into it.  Then he deftly undid my loincloth and tossed it over
a CD rack containing hundreds of recordings of passionate classical guitar
music (some of which was playing in the background as all of this was going
on).  He climbed on top of me, balancing across the arms of the chair,
reaching for the potted lubricanthia vine nearby.  I helped him massage the
fresh lubricanthia pulp over his tight little rosebud, working it deep
inside as he groaned ecstatically.  When he was good and slippery he
carefully lowered himself over me until I was all the way inside.  This
sudden immersion into quivering warm flesh made me quite lightheaded, and
all I could do was sit there helplessly while his full lips explored mine,
and his thumbs toyed with my nipples, and his body moved up and down, and
in a sort of sinuous spiral motion as well.  Until finally I couldn't take
any more, and I wrapped my arms around him and began thrusting in long,
smooth strokes, his chest smooth against mine, his own erection trapped
between the two of us.  When I felt myself ready to ejaculate, I arranged
myself so that I was aimed at Joao's prostate gland, and I spurted my hot
essence directly against this target, a technique I'd learned from the
shaman.  My education served me well, for Joao threw his head back and let
out a long lusty cry as he covered my chest with his own fluid.

After he kissed me several hundred times and expressed assorted flowery
sentiments about how he loved and worshipped and adored me, and after he
had arranged the tropical flowers in a pair of matching black vases, and
after we had a quick shower, he returned to frowning at the curtains.  "I
do not like that flouncy valance," he said in an extremely serious voice.
"I must go into town and find a better curtain.  Would you like to take a
ride with me?"

"I can't go into town dressed like this," I said, retrieving my loincloth
from the CD rack.  When I had first come to the rainforest I had been
dressed in sensible expedition garb, but I had quickly adopted the local
fashion, donating my civilized attire to Dwin-Ge, who had converted them
into his idea of what civilized men should wear, and I must say that
several of his innovations, such as the easy access rear panel, were quite
advanced.  Of course, I had none of these garments with me, so Joao led me
to his giant walk in closet, which was full of snakeskin cowboy boots, and
silk shirts made to be worn unbuttoned, and a different pair of sunglasses
for every day of the year, and other stylish ex-drug lord attire.  It took
us several minutes to get ready due to the fact that every time Joao saw me
dressed in a new outfit he was overcome with lust and insisted on applying
those full lips to various areas of my body, but finally the two of us were
bouncing along in his sports utility vehicle, down barely penetrable jungle
trails and thick forests of lubricanthia, and Joao's own hemp fields.
Finally we reached the nearest town, Los Cojones, which consisted of a
dusty cantina with motorcycles parked outside it, a Walmart and a Club Het
resort with eleven-foot barbed wire electrified fences around it.

"Look at these things," Joao said disapprovingly.  "Our simple way of life
is being compromised by your imperialistic capitalism.  Oooh, I wonder if
the new Antonio Banderas DVD is in yet?"

"I despise Walmart," I said firmly.  "I shall have a drink and wait for
you."

I looked at my choices.  As I glanced at the cantina, a large man wearing a
camouflage t-shirt and oil stained jeans came flying backwards through the
door, landing on a vintage Indian (with matching sidecar) and letting out
an enraged bellow as he landed.  Right.  Club Het, then.

 As I approached the towering perimeter fence and walked along it in search
of a gate, I was shocked to see an unmistakeable hairy torso sprawled out
on a beach chair alongside the pool.  I hadn't seen Dr. Chamberlain in some
time.  So this was where he'd been hanging out.  Several middle aged
females with an aura of desperation around them had surrounded him and were
plying him with margueritas and trying to get him to rub them with cocoa
butter.  I rolled my eyes and proceeded to the gate.

"I'm a guest of Dr. Chamberlain," I informed the guard.

"Ah yes, Mr. Dahl.  We've been expecting you."

Dahl?  I was perplexed, as my own name is Smithfield Smythe.  But I stepped
quickly through the gate, avoiding the vicious guard dogs chained nearby,
and hastened to the bar, where I ordered one of the signature drinks, the
Date Rape, which contained rum, vodka, tangerine liqueur, bourbon, whipped
cream, crme de menthe and Pepsi.  I charged this monstrosity to
Dr. Chamberlain's room and repaired to a dark corner booth, the better to
hide from the unattached females prowling the vicinity in predatory
circles.

I was barely inebriated when Dr. Chamberlain entered the bar accompanied by
a heterosexual couple, sitting down near my booth, unable to see me due to
the subdued lighting, which dimmed even further whenever the bartender
utilized the blender.  As a contingent of unaccompanied females had flocked
to the bar and was ordering various flavors of frozen marguerita, it was
rather difficult to see.

"Ken!  So good to see you again!"  Dr. Chamberlain was addressing a tall,
blond, suntanned man in his forties.  He wore lime green golf slacks,
matching white shoes and belt, and a white shirt with the curious phrase
"Cargospresso!" emblazoned across it.  He was in rather good shape, and the
shirt clung to his gym hardened torso.  His wife was wearing a nondescript
sundress bearing the same logo, with Birkenstocks.  She was staring at the
curvaceous local girl who had come to take their order as though she was
very thirsty.

"It was almost worth the trouble at the gate," Ken replied cheerfully.  "I
certainly hope some local prowler hasn't infiltrated Club Het by
impersonating me."

I choked on my Date Rape.

"Well, you're looking good."  Dr. Chamberlain was almost drooling as he
surveyed Ken Dahl's protruding nipples.

"Roger, you're one of the only people from the old days that I've stayed in
contact with."  Dahl threw an arm around his wife, who nearly reflexively
jabbed her elbow into his gut, then settled against him with an exaggerated
smile.  "Yep, now that I've been through the entire program at the Family
Values Institute for Homosexual Recantation, I've never felt better.  In
fact, that's where I met the little woman.  We're going to be conceiving
some babies any day now."

I noticed that Mrs. Dahl had a curious scar on her shoulder the exact shape
of a double bladed labrys axe, as if there had been some birthmark or
tattoo removed.  Her attention was distracted by the return of the
minimally attired cocktail waitress.  "What's your name?" she whispered.

"Juana."  The waitress licked her lips.

"Yes."  Mrs. Dahl sighed.

I was starting to feel a bit nauseous; whether from the Date Rape or the
company I did not know, but just as I decided to leave the frozen
marguerita contingent departed in a hurry at the news that the lifeguards
had changed shifts.  The blender thus silenced, the lights blazed brighter,
and I judged it unwise to leave just yet.

"So," Dahl said.  "About this deal."

"Yes," Dr. Chamberlain said in a particularly oily voice.  "I think you'll
find the place perfect for your company's needs.  There is a large
settlement of able-bodied workers for the factories and plenty of land to
clear-cut for your coffee farms.  Since I have officially been designated
their legal representative insofar as these sorts of matters, we're ready
to go ahead with the deal."

"The other stockholders in Cargospresso will be here within the week," Dahl
said.  "Our IPO will go ahead at the first of the month, and we should have
plenty of cash at that point to seal the deal."

"What is Cargospresso, again?"  Dr. Chamberlain frowned.

"A global chain of stores selling nothing but cargo pants and specialty
coffees," Dahl said proudly.  "We will build our main garment factory and
coffee bean processing plant here."

Now I was definitely feeling nauseous.  I forced myself to down the rest of
the Date Rape in one swallow, then staggered to my feet and disgorged my
stomach contents all over Dr. Chamberlain, blinding him.

"Oh dear.  I'm so terribly sorry," I apologized, deftly snagging his credit
card from the edge of the table and making a quick exit.

Joao was not in the sports utility vehicle when I emerged from the Club Het
compound; however, the back of it was piled with shopping bags.  I decided
to take a quick glance inside the cantina to see if perhaps he'd gone
inside.

It took my eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom, and when they did, I was
startled to see Joao pinned down on the pool table by several large bikers,
who were preparing to have their way with him.  Fortified by the lingering
aftereffects of the Date Rape, I stepped in front of them.

"Leave this man alone," I ordered.  "He is mine."

The bikers clustered around me cracking their knuckles and rubbing the
straining crotches of their jeans and leathers, I addressed the largest
one, whose skin tight Levis rode low enough on his flat belly to reveal
several inches of the line of hair descending below his navel.  An
impressively fierce black jaguar was tattooed on his chest and visible
beneath his open leather vest, and my pale and nervous face stared back at
me from his mirrored sunglasses.

I had the presence of mind to whip out Dr. Chamberlain's credit card and
extend it between thumb and forefinger.  "Why don't you gentlemen run off
to Walmart and buy yourself some motorcycle accessories with my credit
card?  Perhaps we can meet at the Club Het for a drink afterward.  That
place is swarming with pussy.  Just show the card at the gate and they'll
let you in."

"Pussy."  The lead biker scratched his chin thoughtfully.

"I need a new oil filter," commented one of the bikers.

 "Do they have any Tommy Hilfiger stuff?" another of them inquired.  "I
only cut the sleeves off of this shirt last week and it's already starting
to unravel."

The leader of the bikers grabbed the credit card and set off for Walmart,
the rest of them trailing in his wake.

"You rescued me!"  Joao sobbed.  I gathered him into my arms and kissed the
top of his head tenderly.  To my surprise, he dealt me a sharp elbow to the
sternum.  "They were going to gang bang me on top of this pool table, and
you rescued me!  You idiot!  I've already got a webcam set up in this
place!"

"That's enough."  The bartender had produced a shotgun and was aiming it at
us.  "You not only chased all my customers away, you disrupted the only
live entertainment we're likely to have in this place all week!  Not only
that, but now I probably won't score tonight.  Assholes.  Get out of here."

Chastened, I slunk through the door and out to the sports utility vehicle,
dodging blows from Joao all the way.  He made me drive while he sulked in
the passenger seat, until he remembered he'd just bought a Ricky Martin CD,
and he slipped it into the player while staring in fascination at the
picture on the cover.

I was forced to listen to "Livin' La Vida Loca" forty-seven times before we
finally got to Joao's house, and once there I quickly got back into my
loincloth and fled into the rainforest, the infuriatingly catchy melody
still ringing in my head.

Soon the comforting sounds of drums and flutes from the Lost Temple of
Hun-Gamin filled my ears, chasing away the ghost of Ricky Martin, and I
reached the immense stone building just at sunset, as the men were lighting
the torches that illuminated the centuries-old stone building.  The
delicious aroma of feast reached my nostrils, and as my stomach had
recovered from the Date Rape during the long hike through the rainforest, I
headed in the direction of food.

"There you are!"  Dwin-Ge smiled fetchingly and kissed me on the cheek.  He
was dressed for a formal occasion, his hair tightly braided with small jade
ornaments laced into it, a bold black and white pattern painted on his face
and on his smooth, lean torso, a skintight codpiece decorated with feathers
from colorful rainforest birds his only garment.  "Where've you been all
day?"

	"I went to Los Cojones with Joao," I answered.  Several Hun-Gamin
standing nearby made faces at the mention of Los Cojones.

	"I just hate Los Cojones," Dwin-Ge grimaced.  "We had a contract to
do a weekly song and dance extravaganza at the Club Het there, but for some
reason all the lifeguards insisted on watching every performance, and
somebody drowned during one of them, and there was a big lawsuit, and they
fired us."

	"Speaking of litigation, I've got important news for the Shaman."
I accepted a plate of food from Dwin-Ge and began devouring it hungrily.

	"He was here earlier," Dwin-Ge said.  "He gave us the special
sacred herbs for preparing the feast, then he went off to meditate."

	I had thought the spices in the manioc frittata tasted different
from Dwin-Ge's usual recipe, and indeed I was already starting to feel a
bit euphoric.  Oh well, it was too late to stop now, and I was very hungry,
so I had a second helping.

	"What's the occasion?"  I asked Dwin-Ge.

	"Tonight we select Hun-Gamin's chosen one," Dwin-Ge replied with a
wink, and that's all he would tell me.  So I had another helping of manioc
frittata, and then I settled back peacefully beneath a fifty foot tall
carved stone phallus to enjoy the preliminary hallucinations.

	All of a sudden, I found myself in an exquisite garden.  Fountains
bubbled, statues posed provocatively, a myriad of delicate botanical
fragrances had their way with my willing nostrils.  I stood up and
discovered that I was naked, but this no longer alarmed me as it was a
relatively common occurrence these days.

	I padded barefoot through the garden, finding it was laid out in
the manner of a maze, which delighted me, as I am fond of puzzles.  I
worked my way to the center, which was marked by a five-tiered fountain.
Pleased that I'd solved the puzzle, I sat down on the edge of the fountain
and idly dipped my fingers into its waters, and when I did that, I heard a
low sound, like that of a bullroarer or possibly a didjiri-du.  As an
anthropologist, I am highly trained in these low mysterious sounds, and I
spent some time trying to figure out exactly what it was - perhaps a conch?
- before noticing that I was now standing on a plateau approximately eight
feet square atop a mountain so tall that I could see the curvature of the
horizon.

	Overcome with acute acrophobia, I fell to my knees and clutched at
the ground with both hands.

	"Get up," ordered a stern voice behind me.  Slowly, I turned
around, to behold the most perfect specimen of male homo sapiens sapiens I
have ever seen, and to this day I have never gazed upon so sublime a
representation of the species.  His proportions were (with the exception of
one important area) pure Euclidean, his hair a dazzling fractal mane, his
sun caressed skin was a festivity of refracted warm ultraviolet tones.  His
eyes were the color of Baltic amber, his epidermis a baroque symphony of
tactile temptation, his smoothly sculpted face was to the concept of
handsome what Mendel is to the concept of genetics.  I immediately began
experiencing respiratory and cardiac difficulty, possibly due to the
altitude.

	"Look, dude, will you just get up?"  He tapped his sinuous
pedicured left big toe impatiently.  I focused my gaze upon it and found I
was able to forget all about the height.  I rose slowly to my feet before
letting my eyes travel along the arc of his instep to his firm calf, along
the supple curves of his knee to his graceful thigh, along the aerodynamic
sweep of his hip, his flat belly with its fine calligraphy of pubic hair,
his nut brown nipples balanced on symmetrical pecs, his broad shoulders,
and finally I was able to look him in the face.

	"P-p-p-pardon my awkwardness," I said, blushing furiously.  "My
name is Smithfield Smythe, and I'm very pleased to meet you, and I
apologize for my shyness."

	"S'okay.  I get that all the time."  He shrugged.  "I'm Hun-Gamin."

	My jaw dropped.  "Hun-Gamin himself?"

	He nodded.  "Like, I can choose to appear any way I want to, and in
your case I'm sort of based on the skateboard guy who brought you a pizza
your first week in college and that guy in that .gif file your roommate
e-mailed you during finals sophomore year."

	I turned even redder.  "I'd almost forgotten about that .gif file."

	"I'm like, sort of this nature spirit," he said.  Did I mention
that his voice was the most soothing baritone I've ever heard, almost the
same frequency as a recently tuned Bentley?  "Every time a guy has a
lustful thought for another guy, I grow stronger.  And that, like, pisses
off some of the demons that live around here for some reason.  Go figure.
Anyway, this temple in the rainforest is my sacred spot.  If anything ever
happens to it, I'll be like totally dead."

	"I will do anything within my power to prevent that!"  I did as
good a job of clicking my heels as anybody ever did naked.  "Just tell me
where to start."

	"Dude, chill out," He smiled, showing teeth that would take several
thousand dollars worth of cosmetic dentistry to replicate.  "We'll talk
later."

	And with that, his full, sensuous lips landed on mine, and his
tongue worked its way into my mouth (his breath tasted like Godiva
chocolate, by the way), and his big, firm hands were on me, and I could
feel his massive erection nudging against my breastbone.  The implications
of that were a bit frightening, and my shoulders must have stiffened,
because suddenly he was massaging them.

	"Whoa, dude.  Check this out."

I suddenly felt it shrinking.  It wasn't going soft, it was merely
shrinking, reducing to a more manageable dimension.  As I watched in
astonishment, it became thick and veiny, then smooth and slender, the head
bulging and narrowing.  A foreskin grew over it, then retracted back.
"That's amazing!"  I spluttered.

"It's magic."  He grinned.  "What's your favorite?  I can do them all."

Well, I don't know if we did them all, but we got up to at least variation
three hundred and twenty-four before he reached his orgasm.  I spent a long
and pleasant interlude with my mouth around a short, slender uncut one, my
fingers clutching the smooth hemispheres of his ass and pounding him
against my face, my tongue swirling anticlockwise, my nose buried in his
angelically soft pubic hair, his warm hands stroking my face as rapturously
lustful sounds issued from his throat.

At some point, although I'm not precisely sure about the exact sequence of
events, everything is rather blurry due to sensory overload, he slipped
inside me, becoming quite narrow for the actual moment of penetration, then
swelling until he pressed against all of the best places, making me squirm
against him.  He had brought me to at least ten orgasms by that point, yet
for some reason I never became flaccid.  I merely blacked out and lost
consciousness for several seconds, after which I proved to be good as new.

He lifted his knees up and pulled me onto his lap, wrapping his strong arms
around me, cradling me against his chest, his soft lips kissing my earlobes
and my neck as he slowly pumped into me.  I had become a helpless bundle of
nerves and synapses, existing only for his pleasure.

Then he put his hands at the nape of my neck, stroking slowly down my
spine, and I felt a massive orgasm begin.  My toes curled, every muscle in
my body went rigid and I pressed myself as close to him as I could, feeling
his own tension rise.  Our mouths joined, and I felt him swell inside me,
becoming even larger, just before he erupted, his essence squirting deep
inside me.  And as that happened, I arrived at my own peak, which was much
more intense than anything I've ever experienced before in my life, and I
felt the separation between my mind and his melt like a wet lump of sugar.
I knew what it was like to be Hun-Gamin himself.  I had become a part of
him.  And he was inside me in the most intimate way possible.  He knew my
entire life, every thought in my head, each experience I'd ever endured,
even the ones that make me cringe.  And still he regarded me with complete
acceptance, and love, and affection, and lust.

We cuddled in each other's arms for a very long time.  "I have chosen you,"
he said softly, his deep voice comforting in my ear.  "I will always be a
part of you.  If you ever need me, just call my name."

"I love you, too," I murmured back, struggling to waken the language center
of my brain.

"You have an important mission," he said while kissing my forehead
repeatedly with those marvelous lips.  "You must save my temple.  A
powerful demon is trying to destroy it.  A demon in the form of a man."

"A demon?"  I blinked stupidly.  Well, I suppose if there could be a
rainforest spirit named Hun-Gamin, there might very well be demons.  And I
was inclined to believe anything Hun-Gamin felt like saying, even though he
might have been a completely subjective hallucination.

"Does a hallucination kiss like this?"  He laughed, demonstrating and
making my blood boil.  I throbbed against him, hard again, and he wrapped
his smooth fingers around me, stroking me with excruciating slowness.  "Now
that I have your attention.  One of my demonic enemies has possessed my
former chosen one.  He failed the shaman's initiation, and the demon took
over his mind, and now he is plotting to destroy my temple.  He is in the
body of one called Roger Chamberlin."

Drat that Dr. Chamberlin for intruding upon this moment.  I groaned and
Hun-Gamin stroked me even slower.  "Okay, I'll kill him.  Anything you
want.  Just don't stop what you're doing."

 "No, it's not as easy as killing him," Hun-Gamin whispered.  "Listen
carefully and I will tell you what you must do."

?????

	Dr. Chamberlin signed for the FedEx, using Ken's name.  Well, it
was Ken's corporate account, and it was business related, in a sense.  He
tore open the sturdy packaging and withdrew an expensive, fashionable suit,
along with oxblood wingips, and a white button down shirt, and snowy white
silk boxer shorts, and an expensive tie bearing a faux tribal design.

	He threw back his head and laughed fiendishly.

	Tomorrow, wearing this very suit, he would destroy the Temple of
Hun-Gamin forever.