Categories > TV > Red Dwarf > Ingrid
Rimmer had dealt with many substitutes in his life. JMC - a substitute for the Space Corps. Second Technician - a substitute for Astronavigationist. A brief liaison with Yvonne McGruder while she was concussed - a substitute for a love life. A membership in the Love Celibacy Society - a more long-term substitute for a love life. His mum, dad, and brothers - a substitute for a family. And once they were trapped on Starbug, his belongings pointedly sitting in a separate room from Lister's, Rimmer had adapted to yet another substitute.
As substitutes go, she was not bad. No, not at all. In fact, she was preferable to the original article, in many ways. She was quieter than his former bunkmate, it was true, and that was a bit of a relief. She did not keep him up at odd hours with a horrid screeching noise that no sane person would call 'music.' Once he acquired his hard-light drive, she did not put mayonnaise in his underwear or porridge in his boots. When he did not feel like speaking, she respected his silence. When he did feel like speaking, she listened attentively.
But he could not forget that she was a substitute. She did not follow his movements around the room with her eyes when he did his daily exercises. She did not interject odd comments into his stream of storytelling that, despite the annoyance of the interruption of a most excellent story, would make Rimmer think about - everything. She did not do mind-bogglingly stupid things that, in all of their goited idioticy, were nonetheless attempts to be /nice/. She did not snore hideously at night, long phlegmy snrrrks that kept Rimmer awake and let him know that there was still one human alive in the universe.
Still, though, the one she substituted for would not be so readily yanked on top of Rimmer when he was in the mood, and would doubtless object to being tongued with abandon. He'd likely have some sarcastic commentary to make about Rimmer's preference for cherry-flavored lube, and would laugh over Rimmer's defensive explanation that he simply liked the smell of it. He'd make some disdainful gay remarks regarding Rimmer's preference for slipping a lubed finger - or two, or three - inside of himself just before he came. And if the substitute often made a high-pitched noise that was half-squeak and half-fart as Rimmer rubbed her back in those moments of ecstasy - well, Lister squeaked and farted even in non-intimate moments, didn't he?
No, she was not a bad substitute at all. His hard-light drive did interact with her polyethylene in odd ways, true, leaving her staticky and prone to stick to things - his bunk, the walls, his own back - but no substitute can be perfect. Rimmer was willing to overlook a flaw or two for such a sport. He could live with the substitute, yes - for as long as he had to. He would get the original back, in time.
Wouldn't he?
As substitutes go, she was not bad. No, not at all. In fact, she was preferable to the original article, in many ways. She was quieter than his former bunkmate, it was true, and that was a bit of a relief. She did not keep him up at odd hours with a horrid screeching noise that no sane person would call 'music.' Once he acquired his hard-light drive, she did not put mayonnaise in his underwear or porridge in his boots. When he did not feel like speaking, she respected his silence. When he did feel like speaking, she listened attentively.
But he could not forget that she was a substitute. She did not follow his movements around the room with her eyes when he did his daily exercises. She did not interject odd comments into his stream of storytelling that, despite the annoyance of the interruption of a most excellent story, would make Rimmer think about - everything. She did not do mind-bogglingly stupid things that, in all of their goited idioticy, were nonetheless attempts to be /nice/. She did not snore hideously at night, long phlegmy snrrrks that kept Rimmer awake and let him know that there was still one human alive in the universe.
Still, though, the one she substituted for would not be so readily yanked on top of Rimmer when he was in the mood, and would doubtless object to being tongued with abandon. He'd likely have some sarcastic commentary to make about Rimmer's preference for cherry-flavored lube, and would laugh over Rimmer's defensive explanation that he simply liked the smell of it. He'd make some disdainful gay remarks regarding Rimmer's preference for slipping a lubed finger - or two, or three - inside of himself just before he came. And if the substitute often made a high-pitched noise that was half-squeak and half-fart as Rimmer rubbed her back in those moments of ecstasy - well, Lister squeaked and farted even in non-intimate moments, didn't he?
No, she was not a bad substitute at all. His hard-light drive did interact with her polyethylene in odd ways, true, leaving her staticky and prone to stick to things - his bunk, the walls, his own back - but no substitute can be perfect. Rimmer was willing to overlook a flaw or two for such a sport. He could live with the substitute, yes - for as long as he had to. He would get the original back, in time.
Wouldn't he?
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