#apologies for so many penises I was compelled to make references

[lokilickedme]

Part 2 of Read By Loki Laufeyson - High Rise

By request

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own in 2016 (no longer available there) 

Rating:  Mature

Archive Warning:  No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:  F/M

Fandom:  Loki - Fandom, High-Rise (2015), Tom Hiddleston - Fandom

Relationship:  Loki/His Book

Character:  Loki (narrator), Robert Laing, Richard Wilder

Additional Tags:  Explicit Language, Loki Has Issues, Spoilers, Loki Does What He Wants, stick to the damn book Loki, lewd passages quoted from the book, references to bestiality and incest (thanks a lot for that, Ballard. You’re a dick)

Series:  Part 2 of Read by Loki Laufeyson

Stats:  Published: 2016-02-21   Words: 1220 (original version)

Part One: Loki Reads Chapter 9 of The Night Manager

  High Rise, Read by Loki Laufeyson 

by lokilickedme 

Summary:  Loki narrates another audiobook.  Apologies to JG Ballard, though not very sincere ones.  In fact I take it back, I’m mad that I ever had to read this.

Notes:  See the end of the work for notes 

  Later, as he sat on his balcony eating the dog... 

Well shit, lets just not waste any time at all getting to the good stuff, shall we?  When a book has the unmitigated balls to start off with a barbequed canine for the first course, you know you're in for an entertaining evening chock full of questionable culinary choices written in dirty grey prose, which we all know is just a gateway to every sort of perversion familiar to man and a handful or two heretofore known only to the Aesir - and I’ll tell you right now they get up to some kinky shit that’d make you want to tie your ballsack to a goat.  That’s not a metaphor, they’re known for literally tying their ballsacks to goats.  Okay, one of them is known for it.  Okay, I’m known for it.  It was me.  So once one has committed to snacking on the family pets, what comes after the appetizer, sex with a budgie?  What sort of sauce is the fellow using?  Did he sautee the dog or is that fucker deep fried?  Or am I missing a particularly rude innuendo here and he's actually giving the beast a blow job?  If that's the case then this might end up being a worthwhile read after all, and I can’t think of a much more romantic place than the balcony if you’re actually going to commit to pleasuring the wife’s poodle.

 ...Dr. Robert Laing reflected on the unusual events that had taken place within this huge apartment building during the previous three months.  Now that everything had returned to normal - 

Hold up.  NOW everything's returned to normal?  You're eating a fucking dog, sir, either that or you're fellating it.  In what twisted realm is either of those scenarios considered normal?  We’re not counting Asgard, by the way.  And I'd rather like to know which part of the beast we're talking about here, I mean if it's the drumstick or the tenderloin then I hope you basted it with some herbs and a bit of olive oil before you slapped it on the hibachi.  If you're committing cunnilingus, then I'm presuming you know which part you're dealing with and I'll leave you to it, though the olive oil could serve dual purpose here.  But it does beg the question - is the beast male or female?  Not making a judgement, just getting the visual.

While we're pondering that, I'm going to do us all a colossal favor and skip ahead a bit.  This book really is difficult, and by difficult I mean I've had torture sessions on asteroids that were less annoying.  The story itself is good, heaven knows I enjoy chaos and mayhem and bestiality as much as the next power mad despot, but word for word this tale reads a bit like Lewis Carroll and Roald Dahl having the slowest orgasm in history during a mutual masturbation session while smoking Edgar Allen Poe’s gym shorts.  I actually think I might be having the slowest orgasm in history.

 'Come whenever you want to.'  Laing put his arm around her shoulders, steadying her in case she lost her balance.  In the past he had always felt physically distanced from Alice by her close resemblance to their mother, but for reasons not entirely sexual this resemblance now aroused him.  He wanted to touch her hips, place his hand over her breast.  As if aware of this, she leaned passively against him. 

And there it is my friends.  All good stories need an element of the forbidden, and it looks like sister-diddling wins the perversion jackpot for this evening.  This Laing fellow has the whoo hoos for big sis.  And you people give me shit over my "alleged" deviant relationship with my brother?  Last I recall adopted siblings were free to black hole it all they want, yet here we have a pair working out a tag-up without the benefit of notarized adoption papers.  Since we seem to be condoning this, lets all remember our hypocrisy the next time I'm catching grief for banging Thor, shall we?  And while we're at it, are we all just ignoring the Oedipus train wreck this man just owned up to driving straight into the wall?  'Big sis you look like mummy, here let me drug you and keep you as a sex slave while this whole place goes to hell around us.'  I may or may not be skipping ahead but I'll save you a little time and drudgery - it goes there, people.

 He pulled the drawers on to the floor, heaved the mattresses off the beds, and urinated into the bath. 

Ah, Wilder.  I do love a good silly mustache-twirling villain with self aggrandizing dreams of conquering worlds several floors above his own social status.  Because in the end we all want more than what we’ve got, don’t we?  Thrones, love, respect, use of the penthouse, a herd of stoned females.  At least he didn't piss on the mattress.  Nobody likes a bedwetter, even in hell.

 His burly figure, trousers open to expose his heavy genitalia, glared at him from the mirrors in the bedroom.  He was about to break the glass, but the sight of his penis calmed him, a white club hanging in the darkness. 

Yes my good man, welcome to the fellowship of the knob, our universal handshake is to sit on the sofa with one hand down the front of our pants.  Our penises calm us all.

 He would have liked to dress it in some way, perhaps with a hair-ribbon tied in a floral bow. 

Huh.  Just when I rather think I like this Wilder fellow and his obvious off kilter mental status, he shows us his wiener.  Which was more than enough in itself, thanks so very much for that.  Elegant move there, dipshit - whip it out and slap a bow on it, for times when you really want to class things up.  I for one can't think of anything more entertaining or intellectually fulfilling on a Friday night than tying a pretty ribbon on my schlong and running about with it hanging out of my trousers while I harass and terrorize feral women in derelict apartment buildings.  Sometimes I like to really mix things up by borrowing a pair of mother's clip-on earrings and dangling them from my testicles.  It makes me feel so fucking manly.  You know, for those times when you really want to bang your sister who looks like your mom and you know you stand a better chance of scoring if you really put in some effort with the self decor.  Or you could go all out impressing the masses by tying your ballsack to a goat, but granted, it’s not for everyone.

 This ultimate role had helped him on one occasion, when a marauding band of women led by Mrs Wilder had entered the apartment.  Seeing Laing being abused, and assuming him to be Eleanor's and Alice's prisoner, they had left.  On the other hand, perhaps they understood all too well what was really taking place. 

Yes, what was really taking place was this fellow Laing got himself a couple of kinky babes who were willing to tie him to a chair and beat him with the hind leg of an Alsatian.  I mean, who doesn't get off on that?  I tip my cap to you, Sir.  Never go fifty shades with one woman when you can go full-on Marquis de Sade with two.  And seeing as this merry band of female visigoths was led by that Wilder chap's wife, one can only assume he pilfered her pretty hair bows one time too many and the poor woman felt compelled to start tucking the ginsu’s into her gingham apron and go on raiding parties with her Wednesday night book club group.  Or perhaps it was the 'heavy genitalia' on display out of the front of his pants that drove her over the edge.  I understand leaving one's trousers open while traversing rapidly declining self-contained bastions of reverse civilization is valid grounds for divorce in some states.

 First she would try to kill him, but failing that give him food and her body, breast-feed him back to a state of childishness and even, perhaps feel affection for him.  Then, the moment he was asleep, cut his throat.  The synopsis of the ideal marriage. 

What - all marriages aren't like that? 

I’m going to stop right here so we can all go take a break, order in some Alsation, chase our sisters and next door neighbors around the room with gardening implements and figure out where we hid our morphine stash - which sounds disconcertingly like a typical Saturday evening in Valhalla to me, quite honestly - and summarize the rest of the book, which goes a little something like this:  Madness, mayhem, perversion, murder, violence, death, and why the fuck don’t these people just walk out of the damn building?  Yes I know, it’s an allegory on class warfare and societal prejudices and the shitty tendency humanity has to turn on each other and finally itself when faced with a breakdown in the decency and polite behavior that tentatively holds people at arm’s length until the shit hits the fan and everyone starts coming at each other with golf clubs.  Humans have a disturbing desire to go all Lord of The Flies the moment order breaks down, and this book casts a bloodshot eye on the fucked up results.  I’m telling you though, it’s nothing a good tug’o war match with a goat couldn’t have fixed.

All in all I would say this book is a challenging read, but worth it in the end if for nothing other than the visual of that guy with the bow on his schnitzel.  Best read while mainlining household cleaners directly into your lungs blindfolded and waterboarding yourself while listening to Raul Julia sing the Ave Maria on 45 rpms.  Trust me, you'll understand once you get to the part where the old ladies in cocktail gowns are brawling over use of the elevator. 

 End Notes 

Passages in italics are the property of J.G. Ballard from the novel HIGH RISE, copyright 1975.  I don’t own them, I didn’t write them, and dear god please don’t ask me about the dog.