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Undertow	By : pronker Category: +M through R > Penguins of Madagascar Views: 11341 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I make no profit from this fanfiction set in Dreamworks' Penguins of Madagascar franchise. I do not own its characters, basic premise or settings.

Chapter List
- 1-1/?
- 2-2/?
- 3-3/?
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Three days after the Lantern Festival, Frances prepared alone for the Festival of Awakening Insects From Hibernation. She raided the Fourth Street Food Co-op for Chinese pancakes using her SNAP card, cut them into bite-sized pieces and set them out in two Blue Willow pattern bowls by the entrance to Funkytown. The bowls from Mom's china hutch made her smile; how Mom would have enjoyed the challenge of attracting visitors! A social soul her mom had been. Time for parties, time to part ways, she'd always claimed, and there is no substitute for solitude. Frances inherited the adaptable mindset and was glad of it.
The sun fought a losing battle with scudding clouds and Science predicted rain tonight. Frances ticked off the days in her mind's eye until Moley's return. Hmmm, the 10th of March should work to plan the Howe trip, but not too tightly. She'd allow one week leeway to take pressure off her and him. The 17th, certainly; if he'd not come back then, she'd worry for him. One thing Moley lacked as a friend was a cell phone or the ability to use even a pay phone. If serious events overtook him, how would she know? If he never visited again to flatter her and make her think somebody wants me, her life would be as poor in friendship as it was in dollars. That condition would suck donkey balls, one of Mom's pithy sayings.
Santeria emphasized joy in the moment, and yes, Frances felt joy at the prospect of an uncommon profitable weekday. She perched the porcelain dragon from the hutch beside the bowl and closed the hutch door before covering its glass front with the blue tarp again. Santeria also required sacrifice and she'd not yet sacrificed to Oshosi to thank him for the gift of Dexter and his family. She tucked away the thought of payment until later, but not too much later. Oshosi loved hunting and art and cooked pig and goat, not necessarily in that order. She'd sacrifice a goat, yes that was what she'd do now that her fortunes rose. She ought to get a good one for fifty bucks. She turned at a genteel clearing of the throat.
"Hello," said a dragon. "Can I have a pancake?"
"Suuuure, maaaan."
The dragon for the Festival dance contained two people, sort of appropriate when you thought about it: the Festival also celebrated Fuxi and Nüwa, fraternal twins who created humanity. They were husband and wife in a tale to rival Greek mythology's whackadoo family of Olympians. Bodies of snakes and torsos of humans with a DNA profile that must give fits to scientists, she snickered to herself and then popped a bite of pancake onto the man's tongue through the hole of the dragon's mouth.
"Thanks. I didn't want to take off my head." The dancer smacked his lips behind his mask. "Good stuff, you know, really good job with the nosherei."
Frances reached under the skirt of the dragon to give pancake to the man manipulating the body and tail of the performance dragon. "Yeahhh, gentlemens, we open in ten minutes. Give it all you gots."
The dragon nodded and his voice rang with authority. "We're just getting going in the dragon dance business. Thanks for letting us perform."
"Aaaaanytime, maaaaan, aaaaanytime." Frances indicated the Genderblender. "I know Funkytown aaaain't no temple, but my sculpture is temple-shaped, riiiiight?"
The green head nodded. "It will do in a mini-me pinch for a Taihao Temple Fair, yep." Frances received the impression that these performers could pull off a small yet complete dragon dance to please anyone's aesthetics.
She was proven correct when the first visitor straggled in, looking harried and speaking little English. The visitor chatted up the dragon in Mandarin and seemed pleased with the conversation. She gestured to her tour group waiting on the sidewalk. A dozen traveling souls stepped onto the colorful interlocking rubber mats of Funkytown's pathways in the rainy season, taking photos along the way.
"Haaaaaaa, dragon, you move me, maaan, you do indeed." Frances stepped out, beaming. She welcomed the group with a universal smile and wave. She followed the lead of the tour group guide, smiling at the right spots of the dance, applauding at others. How cleverly the two dancers used the rubber mats to fall upon while supporting the dragon superstructure in their complex routine! Did this imply that a dragon bent to circumstances while never breaking?
Surely Oyá and the Warriors residing in her underground home would not begrudge a visit from courageous neighboring spirits. A religion that syncretized Oshosi with Saint Norbert of Xanten proved as flexible as anyone could want.
IOIOIOIOIO
Two hundred twelve patrons and twenty six hundred and four dollars later, Frances closed up shop. Adrift in a happy, solvent world blessed by owó, she pressed the gift bag of fragrant herbs depending from a string around her neck. From between her breasts, the scent of lavender, cloves and unidentifiable spices rose like aromatherapy. Life was good. She glimpsed her reflection in Moon Rocket's polished exterior curve.
"I'm up for some me-time, Frances, how about you?"
"Yes, Frances, being alone after such a crowd feels dope." Frances closed the hatch to the Moon Rocket behind her, trod down fifteen steps to her cozy home and saluted the orichas by her door lightheartedly. "It's Tuesday and I fed you yesterday, but here's a treat." She crumbled a Maduro cigar equally over the spirits' homes of cauldron and ceramic pots. They remained silent, likely enjoying the tobacco in the spirit world. Tobacco had always calmed her and helped her to think when she smoked Luckies. Funny, she'd outgrown the habit. She kept other habits, however, for their comfort in a home to which she wasn't yet one hundred percent accustomed.
Chinese pancakes filled her gut for lunch, someone gave her prawn eggrolls for dinner and after licking the sweet sour sauce from her fingers, she played Candy Crush Saga for half an hour. No underground reception meant no emails, no voicemails, no spam, just soothing quiet. Ahhhh. Cramped space meant the kitchen abutted the sleeping space, which abutted the bathroom. She prepared for relaxation by drawing the curtains to both ends and secluded the sleeping area from eating and the aftereffects of eating. She changed out of Miss Frances' business casual muumuu into her birthday suit, leaving on the sachet bag of exotic odors but removing her nine copper bracelets and eleke. She reclined on the memory foam. The stores already sold Easter candy so she settled down with a Cadbury orange creme egg.
She plugged her phone into the antenna wire she'd strung from the top of Moon Rocket into her living quarters. Music from her Samsung playlist eased the labor of the day into the sultry atmosphere of a primal cave. Paul Simon and Ladysmith Black Mambazo rendered Diamonds On The Sole Of Her Shoes to the live performance clip on YouTube, complete with shuffling steps by caftaned singers. Oh, yes, Frances, build yourself some comfort. She wadded her shed clothing under each arm, squirming to get into the mood.
Frances flexed her fingers.
Who was to be her partner this time? A movie star? A recording artist? Someone she'd seen at the festival? She pondered. One or two male faces appealed from today, but nobody wowed her fancies. She twirled her tongue in her Cadbury egg filling. How about the dragon men? They had performed, she'd seen them paid from afar by her contact in Chinatown's publicity agency, and yet she'd not glimpsed their faces clearly. Their bodies were another matter; lithe and athletic, they had leaped, rolled and arched to make the dragon live inside its papier-mâché scales and PVC frame. Then they had left for another dancing gig. Yes, they would do nicely.
Frances scrunched around to make a supporting foam roll for her knees and spread her legs. Playing with her curls, she wandered into the land of make believe. She stroked soft as a kitten's purr and then rolfed her lips, which parted accommodatingly. She teased herself, closing her eyes to reality while allowing the cavelike atmosphere of her home to sweep over her like a wave from Hoboken Zoo's cheese fountain. Yellow, creamy and warm, the cheese cloaked her body with a sensuality not generally seen in an cave-aged cheddar. She had to stop before she got to the good part because this was happening too fast. She winked at the handsome dragon dancers who bowed over her bed. Chill, Frances, she thought; think of Jeff.
Jeff. Ugh. All desire fled, as she'd wished. She took the downtime from her fantasy to rearrange her pillow and plump the arm supports again. There, fresh start. The cheese vanished as the 52 degree Fahrenheit chill ruffled her nipples. She dragged a coverlet over her, laughing a little at the mental image she projected. No, tension release via laughter was just fine but not this time. She sobered and stole one hand downward, parting her lips with the other. One finger and then two dipped inside, circling to widen the opening to admit three. Oh, oh yeah. On the right track. The dragon dancers advanced to lie one to either side, observing but not touching her. On a whim, she gave faces to each: Soon Teck-Oh and Burt Kwouk. Their youthful appearances varied from the venerable years of one and the state of being dead of the other, but what else was fantasy for?
The playlist meandered on schedule to Tristan and Isolde's Liebestod, too classic to be cliché. Frances ventured her hand in and out, gaining slickness slowly as the desire grew. The orchestral strings began to change, scaling one level and then the next. Other strings joined in until the crescendo was next.
No, still too fast. She shifted the playlist to replay from the beginning. Artie Shaw led his orchestra to Begin The Beguine and Frances hit her first peak at his clarinet's climax, a mere ripple of pleasure, soon subsiding. Next, Kraftwerk's The Man Machine provided the perfect stasis music to her afterglow as she gathered strength for her ultimate assault on the summit. The dancers moved smoothly into action, rolling one full breast and then the other, avoiding bumping their hands as they supported themselves on crooked elbows. Their lean forms aroused Frances and her flanks felt the evidence of their matching arousal. She whimpered through a romantic Apple Blossom Time from the Andrews Sisters before submitting to the dancers' dual attack on her clit with clever ephemeral fingers. She groaned and broke into a sweat underneath the coverlet before tossing it onto the floor, her back arching. She stilled her own fingers before the big moment could overtake her.
Not yet, she didn't want to come yet. Another break in the rhythm as she readjusted her elbow supports and plumped her pillow. Would she hear the predicted rain through the Moon Rocket? The last rain was technically a light shower and she'd slept through it. She listened and ahah, soft pit pats grew louder as the evening turned into a late spring humid night. What a mindless presence Nature was, just right for reverting to animal activities such as this. She frowned.
Santeria appreciated Nature, so she did, too; actually, she always had, it was just the dirty element of it that proved bothersome because the aesthetics of Nature touched her soul. Nature's raw, primeval life and death entwined in a dragon dance, one leading, one following and then reverse. The animal sacrifices of Santeria portrayed the dynamic as well as anything Frances had observed in the zookeeper phase of her life. Wait, hold on a minute. If a goat sacrifice pleased Oshosi, why wouldn't a penguin? The species was duck-like, after all. Oh right, Godmother Felicity said that sacrifices must stay within farm animal parameters. Huh. Could she push the boundaries of Santeria by positing that somewhere in Antarctica someone raised penguins?
Frances shook her head. Enough obsessing with penguins. The dancers morphed into one dancer, strong and sure as he pushed her knees apart before draping her legs over his shoulders. He settled inside her thighs as he nudged his cock through her folds at her gasp of pleasure. Oh my goodness, he had kept on the mask! Good thing it was not his face that tickled her fancy right now. He pumped in her imagination and she thrust back in reality, plunging shaky fingers inside to feel her trim lips swell to fat, slick ones. She thrashed, climbing towards the mountaintop, closing her eyes to her surroundings and opening them to the fantasy's climax. The dancer bent the mouth of his mask to a nipple, brushing the papier-mâché construction on a crinkled tip before sucking it roughly through the opening. He nibbled.
Frances yowled like a Red Rhodesian slasher and came, arching upwards before slumping back. She panted, massaging her right forearm. The bag around her neck absorbed streaming sweat to bloom its succulent scents throughout her curtained bedchamber, where they blended with her own sexy smell. Heavens to Betsey, that had been what she needed.
A warm shower, or should she succumb to slumber first? She slung her legs to the floor, heading for the spray after removing the bag of spices. Maybe she didn't hate filthy animals as much as two years ago, but she refused to stay dirty in her person when she could fix it.
She yawned and stretched in the shower, thankful beyond words to Moley for installing it. She fingered her shampooey hair, back to its natural blonde until she could decide on a new color for the new month of March. Puce? Strawberry? Brown, a favorite of Oyá's? She asked for a relevant dream from the oricha after yawning again.
Kathump. Screeeeeech. What was that? Was Moley returned so early? "I'm in the shower, hold on. Um, I am naked, close your eyes, would you?" She squeaked open the shower curtain and edged around the toilet, shielding her important bits. "Moley?"
No answer. She strode the six steps to the tiny closet by her bed. Grabbing her slippers before knotting the robe around her, she approached the end of her space that was closed off from the main tunnel by a cycling airlock that irised open at her command. Out of a sense of protection, she clutched her iruke to her chest. "Moley?"
Still no answer. "Moleeeeeeey! If this is a practical joke, it's the first one you've played on me. Moleeeeey!"
Ten minutes later, Frances had traversed thirty cautious steps into the main tunnel and back, closed the airlock, rummaged through closet and kitchen cupboard, ascended the steps into Moon Rocket and danced around the vintage kiddie ride in the darkness and rain. She jigged counterclockwise about the opening to her precious home, squashing some snails on the rubber mat as she whirled the iruke over her head.
She returned to her dwelling to shed her wet clothing and soggy slippers. She paused at her makeshift door. "Warriors, protect my home. Protect me from harm, protect my friend from harm, protect my livelihood from harm. Oyá, grant me kincamaché." No time for a proper invocation beyond a simple, hummed moyugbar; this heartfelt supplication would have to do. She scrubbed at her eyes, feeling sleepy once more after the surge of adrenaline. No noises met her ears, no intruders in view ... likely it was atmospheric changes in humidity that produced metallic creaks and crashes. Yes that was it.
She slept well, considering. Her requested dream said she ought to color her hair deepest brown and shade her temples white.
IOIOIOIOIO
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Undertow