Who the Hell is Phrenetic_Ice?

Peter Pan

WHO THE HELL IS PHRENETIC ICE?

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Published by: United Directory Systems UK Bexley, Kent, UK

This first edition (E-Book) published in the USA by World Literature Publishing Ontario, Canada. February 2021

“A man told me that for a woman, I was very opinionated, I said, “For a man, you’re kind of ignorant”

Ann Hathaway

American actress (b.1982)

FOREWORD

This name has been pointed out to me before, supposedly as a thief of some of my stories. The name crops up occasionally on various websites. The fact is, “Phrenetic_Ice” is none other than Peter_Pan. It is a pseudonym I use for some titles that I like to distance from Peter_Pan, either because of their contentious activities or the fact they are not of an erotic nature whatsoever. I have also used it on sites where for some reason, Peter_Pan is not an acceptable user id.

Included in this edition are a few stories that have raised the ire of certain readers. Personally I would have thought it’s a little like garlic – if you don’t like it – don’t eat it!

© Peter_Pan Colorado February 2021

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Funk 5

Babysitting the Babysitter 11

Babysitting the Babysitter 2: Highway to Hell 33

Babysitting the Babysitter 3: Edge of the Precipice 46

One Way Ticket to Hell 54

In His Image 71

Witness to Rape 77

Forgive Me Father For I Have Sinned 84

The Old Man Down the Road 96

Who’s To Say? 107

FUNK

We kick off this collection with a fully straight and wholly unerotic tale

An inevitable confrontation in the mind of the average cynic - a journalist down on his creativity and a well-stocked bar somewhere this side of desperation.

Personally I would have called it a slow-news week, but at the insistence of my editor, who running the numbers under psyche-evaluation mode, famously decreed that I could use a week off, had subsequently checked myself into a hotel, one of those atmospheric and gothic edifices fronting the main highway through Sydney's Blue Mountains. Peace and tranquility had been the order of the day. What I pulled down was nearer The Twilight Zone - a movie-length episode at that!

Just twelve hours earlier, I had been sitting alone in the corner of Kelly's Bar on Devlin Street, a quiet and little known area of Blackheath, an historical and somewhat picturesque little township, similar - rather in atmosphere than architecture - to it's counterpart in South East London and after which it was named in the 1800's. A haven for the seriously romantic, the dreamers, mid-life crisis sufferers and aspiring writers – all of which in retrospect, I laid claim to holding temporary membership. Some half a mile or so from my hotel, I probably would never have stumbled across it had it not been for my nose for a decent scotch - and Kelly's had plenty of that.

Besides, the place suited me, hardly anyone except the locals knew it was there. Even Kelly himself would drift off into his own reverie between serving customers. The room, for there was only the one lounge, was quaint rather than spacious. An attempt most likely by the owner, to resurrect the image of a typically English pub here in the Colonials, one might say with but moderate success. At intervals, from the prolific cedarwood panelling, brass ornaments hung in appealing disorder. The chairs clustered into a flanking pattern around the occasional table, housed to a man, characters, each of which had experienced something more than that which comes from a lifetime's devotion solely to the nine-to-five grind.

I was romancing my third scotch - the tide was definitely receding, when the front door imploded, ushering in not only the dishevelled newcomer, but a blast of sub-arctic air and a few flakes of snow, the first of the season. The bringer of this instant confusion was a young woman somewhere in her late twenties. To describe her condition as hysterical would be kind though inaccurate, screaming as she was and pleading for help of some kind. Beyond this she was incoherent. Kelly, who it would appear had a way with women, seized the initiative and swiftly handled the somewhat delicate situation by seizing the girl by the shoulders and delivering a well-directed slap across her right cheek. A fierce intake of breath could be heard around the bar, but to be sure, the screaming stopped.

"Here Miss, have a sip of brandy," said Kelly, handing her a small glass of the calming liquor. The girl took it with shaking hands, downed a mouthful before spluttering uncontrollably as the spirit temporarily took her breath away.
"Now then, what is it girl?...what's happened?" he asked.
Reduced now to intermittent sobs and violent fits of trembling, the young woman was able to tell how her young son aged eight had not returned from the corner store some three hours earlier. Further questioning revealed that she had spent the intervening time roaming the "Heath," looking for the lad. It should be made clear to the reader that the township does not have there a permanent Police presence. Crime rates lower than stale bread in these mountain outposts and the constabulary are better served in larger populated areas at lower altitudes of the Blue Mountains.

Thus it was decided then and there that the entire patronage of Kelly's Bar, a force of nine (including Kelly), would immediately instigate a search of the area. Kelly first escorted the young lady home, little more than a street away, promising that the young lad would be found and returned, or his name wasn't Kelly! Between us of course, we gave ourselves a couple of hours which if still unsuccessful would mean calling in the appropriate authorities. With that, we set off with high expectations of finding the lad.

The locals, having an unsurpassed knowledge of the area, split the densely wooded sections to the immediate west of the corner-shop between us. The boy it seemed had made it that far, and according to the proprietor, had left for home well over two and a half hours earlier. Myself and two others were accorded the south-western perimeters which bordered upon the sheer cliff faces of Govett's Leap - a near seven hundred foot, ninety degree descent to the valley floor. By day a touristy venue for the amateur photographer - by night, best avoided unless an experienced hang-glider. It was considered highly unlikely that Mike, for such was the lad's name, could have strayed that far, but a search is a search, and must be treated accordingly.

Of concern, the weather was closing in, the snow intensifying and visibility down to yards now given the pockets of thick mist drifting across from the higher reaches of Mount Victoria. With barely an hour before dusk additionally, the element of time was coming prominently into play.

Firstly checking with a few local residents, none had seen the boy although one elderly lady thought she might have seen a youngster resembling his description, crossing the road further up towards "The Castle," a fancifully named rock formation standing silently if not introspectively, beside the eastbound track to Govett's Leap.

Leaving the others to patrol the wooded region to the north of the track, I took to the southside where the trees were few and far between, the buildings mere isolated cabins and the general outlook - bleak, in a word. Calling out intermittently, "Mike......can you hear me?" and similar equally useless phrases that spring to mind when one instinctively realises the inadequacy of the situation. I knew he was not around here and yet, I was impelled to keep going. Perhaps it was fuelled by the image of his distraught mother, maybe I had to placate my own sense of self-importance but as darkness finally descended, my ears were strained for some response......anything!

At length the trees gave way to bushes and the road was left way behind. Ahead I could make out a low fence through the heavy mist. With little or no light to guide me, the moon having but the occasional victory in its quest to penetrate the thick cloud-cover, I stepped over the fence and crunched on to light gravel, the noise quite incongruous in the enveloping silence. Directly ahead, the mist and blackness combined to present anything but a welcoming presence. Suddenly stubbing my toe on an outsize rock, seemingly placed there for that very purpose, I tripped and fell forwards. Lying there momentarily, I realised that my head appeared to be without support. Normally I reasoned, when one falls, the head is either cushioned, bruised or otherwise ill-treated by the ground itself. This not being the case tonight was a definite worry! No support meant no ground, which threw up but one inevitability .....I was right on the cliff edge! This was indeed the case, and it took every ounce of courage I didn't have, to get to my feet.