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LIKE A RUSTY SQUEEZEBOX (standard:Flash, 14311 words)
Author: Danny ZilAdded: Apr 07 2018Views/Reads: 1260/790Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

I glanced at the fat sweating body on the rocker - the frizzy black
hair, the thick blubber lips, the cheap floral dress. It was Father. 

“Sho is hot,” he muttered, fanning herself. “Minds me o' when I's a
picaninny on Mamma's back, when she pickin cotton down Alybamy way.” 

When our fortunes declined, Mother had sacked the old housekeeper and
the garbage men had taken her away. Father had adopted her role. With 
relish. Now he shuffled round the house in floral dress and cheap wig, 
unconvincingly blacked up and making endless blueberry pies nobody 

In the driveway, carnal coupling completed, coupé couple cleared off. 

“Lawdy Lawd!” intoned Father. “Tings dem wite folks gets up to!” 

Mother shot him a look of contempt. She tossed her hair disdainfully,
caught it and put it back on. 

Effortlessly, the heat turned itself up a degree. Oh how I longed for
the seasons to change and to be down at Grandaddy's for the Fall - 
those cool autumnal breezes wafting in from the coast and the leaves 
turning brown and drifting down from the trees. 

“Mother, can I go down to Grandaddy's for the Fall?” I asked. 

Mother glanced at me sharply....and suddenly I remembered the plan. 

Rich ole Grandaddy in his rich ole house. Just me and him. His shaky
legs. That long stairway. Hiding at the landing near his bedroom till 
he appeared. Creeping up behind him. Then a quick push, a crashing fall 
and him at the bottom of the stairs, arms outstretched - dead.... me at 
the top of the stairs, arms outstretched - guilty. 

After the funeral. The Will. The lawyer in thick glasses and polka dot
bowtie. Mother convincingly grief-stricken in black face-veiled hat. 
Father “Lawdy Lawdin!” in the background. 

The relief. Our fortunes restored. Mother inheriting Grandaddy's money.
Father inheriting his psoriasis. 

Back on the veranda. The satisfied look on Mother's face indicating
she'd seen it all too and approved the plan. She turned and rewarded me 
with a haughty glare. “Of course you're going down to Grandaddy's for 
the fall, you idiot!” she hissed, preparing to swish off. “You're 
pushing him!” 


“If you can't stand the heat, stay away from self-immolation!” I advised
the Buddhist monk but he just smiled serenely and continued to douse 
himself with petrol. 

He produced a light from somewhere, there was a gentle ‘whoosh' and
suddenly he was ablaze. I moved upwind, out of reach of the flames. 

A small crowd gathered to watch and I immediately recognized some of
them. They were rebels from a nearby village and each wore a thin, 
live, black snake as a headband. The rebels had kidnapped the local 
gigolo a few months ago and held him to ransom. Most of the middle-aged 
women in the district panicked and quickly contributed towards the 
ransom and he was released in twelve hours. 

I took out a smoke then searched in my jacket pockets for my lighter.
The monk saw me searching and extended a burning index finger to me. I 
sidled in, lit up and nodded thanks. 

I sidled back to the small crowd and as we watched, the monk continued
to blaze. There was silence apart from the hissing of the flames. 

The silence was broken as we were joined by a fat whiney American kid
and his rather attractive blonde mother. 

“Oh look, Mom – a burnin man!” yelled Whiney Kid. “Just like Pop!” 

I glanced at Attractive Mom and from the brief unguarded look on her
face suddenly saw it all. Back home in New York. The years of abuse 
from the drunken husband. The beatings. The bruises. The black eyes. 
The forced anal sex. 

Then the revenge: waiting till he was passed out drunk...sprinkling
petrol over him...watching him burn. 

Then the verdict: accidental death. 

Then the insurance money: the travel...the luxury...the thirst for more.

“Take a picture of me next to the burnin man!” yelled Whiney Kid. 

The short skirted Attractive Mom produced her expensive camera. “Don't
get too close to the flames, honey,” she cautioned him. ‘Not yet,' I 
heard her thinking, ‘not till your insurance policy fattens up some 

In front of us, the monk blazed on. We all watched awhile, hypnotized by
the scene. 

I glanced over at Attractive Mom and caught her staring at me. That kind
of stare. The prospect of coitus non interruptus beckoned as I stared 
back and I felt some stirrings below decks. 

Again I suddenly saw it all. The hotel bedroom. The fabulous sex. Me
having a last drink then wondering why I felt so woozy and couldn't 
move. Not realising I'd been drugged. Her standing over me, grinning. 
The cold sting of the petrol. The click of the lighter. Waking up in an 
urn. Instantly the below decks stirrings ceased. 

By now, the monk was nearly blazed. 

A black haired albino beggar shuffled round the small crowd, hands
outstretched. I saw people offering him coins but he kept shaking his 
head and moving on. When he reached me, I asked what he was begging 
for. “Forgiveness,” he muttered and shuffled off. 

In front of us the monk spluttered a couple of times then the flames
died. He lay there, blackened and smoking. Spectacle over, the small 
crowd drifted off. 

Attractive Mom hung around, staring over at me, waiting for a decision.
I checked out her firm, tanned body and my cock started creeping from 
due south to due north again. I glanced at the cremated monk, saw 
myself in an urn and reluctantly allowed my cock to retreat south. 

Sensing my decision, Attractive Mom hauled Whiney Kid off. 

A couple of long-haired backpackers strolled up and took in the scene.
They stared at the monk's charred remains. 

“Hey man, that dude must have been seriously stressed,” one of them
remarked, pointing at the monk. “This is the worst case of burn-out 
I've ever seen!” 

The other sniggered and they strolled off. 


It was one of those top floor offices that reeked of money – plush
carpets, expensive furniture, the big windows with superb views. Christ 
it even had a jacuzzi. 

There was the possibility that the Manager was a nice guy....but he hid
it well. He leafed through my CV then looked up at me. “Regardless of 
how this interview goes,” he said, “you haven't got the job.” 

This thrilled me. I was into disappointment. 

“I believe you had to fly down to New York to see me?” he went on. “How
was your flight?” 

“Uncomfortable,” I replied. 

“Bad turbulence?” 

“Yeah, especially when we were entering Earth's atmosphere.” 

He grinned and asked if I wanted a drink. 

“Vodka,” I told him. 

“Take anything in it?” 

“The Pacific Ocean.” 

He laughed and poured the drinks. He asked if I wanted ice but I
explained that a couple of distant relatives had died on the Titanic 
and I hated the damn stuff. 

“That's understandable,” he said, “but I still have to ask you what your
favourite day is?” 

“Tomorrow,” I answered. 

He nodded in approval and sipped his drink. 

I asked if it was okay to smoke and he told me to go ahead so I took out
a cigar pellet, dropped it on the floor and crushed it underfoot. I 
closed my eyes and that mellow cigar aroma wafted me back to my study 
and I was there. Surrounded by my books. The crackling of the log fire. 
Rain against the windows. The creak of my rocking chair. The pleasant 
sounds from the Filipino maid as she sucked my cock. 

The Manager interrupted my reverie by emitting a long and if the truth
be told, beautifully melodic fart. I recognised the tune and started to 
fart along with him then sensed he was about to ask a probing question. 
I pretended to give him my fullest attention. 

“Suppose you were Jesus,” he ventured, “and the night before the
Crucifixion you discover you had grown big breasts. How would you 

“No problem,” I replied. “Jesus was the first cross-dresser.” 

He laughed and raised his glass eye to me. I sensed he was starting to
like himself. 

“This is a forward looking company,” he went on, “so I have to ask you
to try to predict the diseases you may contract in the future.” 

“Is it okay to exaggerate?” I queried. 

“Oh don't be so predictable,” he replied. 

His wife came into the room A beautiful buxom blonde. She was stark
naked apart from her clothes. She looked at me and smiled seductively. 
“Would you like to puck me?” she asked. 

For a few seconds I puzzled over this idea then it dawned on me that the
Manager was a bad ventriloquist. I glanced over at him and he was 
grinning at me. 

His wife strolled over and turned on the jacuzzi. The water began to
bubble and several heads bobbed to the surface. I recognized my 
brother's – he was wearing the eye shadow I'd given him a few days ago. 

I glanced back at the Manager and he had changed into the uniform of a
nineteenth century English Hussars officer. 

“It's 1815, the Battle of Waterloo and you're in the cavalry,” he began.
“I'm your commanding officer.” 

I realised the outcome of the interview hung on the answer to the
question he was about to ask. 

“You glance across the field, see Napoleon's troops lined up and know
you're facing certain death,” he went on then paused and stared at me. 
“What would you do if I said ‘Charge!'?” 

“Make sure to add 10% for Service,” I replied. 

He grinned. “I've changed my mind,” he said. “The job's yours. The
salary's superb. How would five hundred bucks a day sound to you?” 

“Pretty noisy,” I replied. “Especially during the mating season.” 


Salvador Dali drew on his cigarette....which wasn't really necessary as
there were a couple of blank sketch pads on the table beside him. 

Zigo watched. “Always like to be different, eh Salvador?” she remarked.
Zigo was a part-time model and a full-time prostitute. She just adored 
pea and ham soup – as long as it was made with real urine. 

“If snakes can shed their skins,” mused Dali, continuing to sketch on
the cigarette, “why can't rainbows shed theirs?” 

Luis sniggered. Everyone knew he had a glass eye. 

Dali grinned. “I think I'll take the mule shopping!” he announced gaily.
“It's about time she had a new outfit.” 

“Why Salvador,” drawled Luis, “that's no way to talk about your wife.” 

Zigo giggled. 

Dali sighed and shook his head. “You should be more unusual, Luis,” he
advised him. “Don't just have a glass eye – have a stained glass eye.” 

Zigo laughed. Dali twirled....his ego. 

“Oh look, Salvador, he's staring at you from the corner of his eye!”
Zigo told him. 

“A glassy-eyed stare, no doubt,” muttered Dali. 

Luis thumped the table. “One day I shall have my revenge!” he snarled. 

“An eye for an eye, eh Luis?” mocked Zigo. 

Outside in the garden, rain began to fall and the earth rushed to catch
it. Inside Dali's head, a pocket watch began to melt and the 
Crucifixion floated in the air. 

Zigo grew restless. She felt an incredible desire not to have sex. 

Dali finished sketching on the cigarette and presented it to her. Luis
offered her a light but she said she preferred darkness. 

“When I die,” she mused, admiring the sketch, “and am lying in my
coffin, I should like this cigarette placed between my lips.” 

“So your skirt will be raised as usual then,” ventured Luis. 

Zigo hissed at him. “If your cock was made of glass,” she spat, “I'd
shrill like a soprano till it shattered!” 

Dali glanced at her and suddenly realised he was in love....with

Outside in the hedge, a butterfly turned into a caterpillar, just to be
different and nocturnal animals came awake, complaining about daylight. 

Inside, a man knocked on the door and entered the room. His mouth was on
one side of his face, his nose protruded from the other, both ears were 
on the same side of his head and he only had one eye. 

“I see Picasso's model has arrived,” drawled Dali. 


“Do my double chins offend you, love?” Percy Pine asked, beaming at
Mavis and bending his head down a bit so the chins could be viewed to 
full effect. 

“Only when they wobble!” replied Mavis and tittered at the boldness of
her gin-brave joke. 

Percy grinned and impersonated a turkey. He wobbled his chins and made
turkey type gobbling noises. Mavis sniggered. 

Percy puffed out his pot belly and pointed at himself. “This is one
turkey you'll soon be gobbling!” he told Mavis. 

Mavis spluttered into her drink. “Percy! You nearly made me choke!” she

“I will later,” Percy promised her, grabbing his groin, “with this!” 

Mavis threw back her head and laughed. 

Percy strolled over to pour more drinks and eyed Mavis in the mirror.
Christ was she ugly! Ugly but attractive. Attractive in that she was 
almost drunk and almost willing. This drink should do it. Then it would 
be sucky-sucky time. 

Ah, sucky-sucky! Ah, South East Asia! Prior to meeting Mavis, Percy had
liked to pretend he was a disabled Vietnam War veteran. As he had lived 
all his life in a small English coastal town and had never been abroad, 
the locals quite understandably found this difficult to believe. 
Unperturbed, Percy hung around the town in a wheelchair, dressed in 
combat fatigues, with a small monkey on his shoulder, begging. 

Apart from the begging which brought in some cash, Percy found that it
presented an ideal opportunity to sit and lust at any nice looking 
passing women. Not that he had the slightest chance of pulling any of 
them, being a short, fat, balding, ugly bastard. 

One day during a lull in begging an idea slowly crept up on Percy. It
sneaked up on him like a stroke. The idea was this: why not start a 
dating magazine for ugly bastards!? 

The exact opposite kind of dating magazine for the well tanned, well
hung, big titted, beautiful fuckers. They've got it all the bastards - 
the money, the looks, the good jobs, the big houses. How do these cunts 
get bored!? But they do, the ungrateful bastards! Then they advertise 
to fuck each other! 

So Percy came up with this idea: a dating magazine for ugly people like
himself who hardly ever get laid. He would call it, ‘Percy Pine's 
Dating Magazine For Ugly Bastards'. 

“Might work,” mused Percy, as he considered the idea. “It'll make a
change from having a wank if it does.” 

So he started up the magazine and within a month was snowed under with
replies. My God, there were thousands of ugly people out there! All 
dying for a shag! 

Part of the application process was that anyone who wanted to join had
to send in nude photos of themselves so that Percy, as editor, could 
place them in the magazine next to their advert. That way he got to 
lust over or laugh at them first and reply to the best of the worst. 

Mavis was indeed an ugly fucker but had nice lips which Percy, with
little encouragement, could imagine round his cock. 

Her advert had also intrigued him. It ran like this: ‘Can't find my G
spot. Don't expect you will either. Looking for Mr Sandbar. Must have a 
small penis, dandruff, gastric problems. (Christ, he was half-way 
there!) Chain smoker preferred. Alcoholic desired. Your place or mined. 

Percy loved that last mispelled word - mined. How well he had imagined
it in his dreams. Vietnam. The jungle trails that could be mined. The 
sloped huts clustered round the rice fields. Smoke drifting up from 
cooking fires. Villagers talking in a semi-sexy, sing-song language. 
The sweet smell of opium in the air. Falling in lust with a brown 
skinned, black haired, slanty eyed beauty. Her pussy fitting like a 
glove! Her lips fitting like a velvet glove! Ah, sucky-sucky! 
Sucky-sucky! That to him would be South East Asia! Fuck all that 
Buddhist temple crap! 

The thought of sucky-sucky caused Percy to start tenting. 

Emboldened by half a bottle of gin, Mavis reached out and started
stroking his semi-erect organ through his cheap flannels. 

Percy quickly laid down the drinks and collapsed on the sofa beside her
and fumbled out his cock. “Go down on me, Mavis!” he rasped. “Down! 

Mavis delayed the moment. As women do. She held Percy's cock and then
hovered over it, like a hawk hovering over a mouse. Which in relation 
to the size of Percy's cock, was an apt comparison. 

Percy closed his eyes and groaned. “Go down on me!” he muttered
hoarsely, his head sinking back onto the sofa. “Down! Down!” 

There was a hint of a fluttering, rustling sound and Percy glanced up
and his mouth dropped open. For there, before his eyes, Mavis had 
adopted that fine, soft feathered look, so loved by birds. 


I was drivin my taxi one night when I stopped an picked this guy up.
“Where to buddy?” I asked as he slipped into the rear seat. 

“Can you take me back?” he asked. 

“Sure. Back where?” 

He hesitated. “Back in time.” 

I glanced at him in the rear-view. “Well that's no problem,” I said,
“but you realize it's double the usual fare if we leave this century?” 

“That's okay,” he replied. “I know an Alchemist.” 

“An Alchemist!” I scoffed. “All they're good for is makin lead. I don't
take lead.” 

He laughed. “That's just what Jackie Kennedy said.” 

“Hey, I was related to Jackie Kennedy once.” 

“There's no doubt abut that,” he remarked, “I recognize your hairstyle.”

“Yeah I know - blood suits me,” I said dryly. 

He was silent for a couple of minutes, just starin out the window then
he turned an spoke again. “My sister had a kid one time an he couldn't 
do a thing for himself because he was a mongol,” he told me. “They 
called him Genghis Khant.” 

“Too bad,” I sympathized. “Mind if I smoke?” 

“Good idea,” he replied, tossing a zipped leather pouch onto the
passenger seat next to me. “Roll one with mine.” 

I rolled a thick one an we smoked. We sat awhile just smokin an starin
out at the traffic. I noticed a subtle change in the night. Like 
dimensions were slowly alterin. I realized this was good weed. 

“So which century do you want to go back to?” I asked him eventually. 

“Take a wild guess,” he told me an started takin off his overcoat. 

I turned for a look an saw he was wearin the outfit of a Captain in the
SS. He brought out a peaked cap complete with its Death's Head insignia 
an put it on. 

“Berlin. November 1941. Outside the Reichstag,” he instructed. “I have
to pick up a package.” 

“Okay. When we get there should I wait?” I asked. 

“Yeah,” he replied. “Keep the engine runnin. I won't be long.” 

I cruised off, headin to the slip-way for the time travel highway. We
smoked as we drove. I enjoy a smoke when I'm drivin at night. How time 
flies when you're enjoyin yourself. An so it flew. Back the way. Good 
job I was licensed for time travel. 

Berlin. November 1941. Outside the Reichstag. Swastika flags everywhere.
Good natured Nazis prowled the streets, stoppin Jews an tellin them 
jokes an givin them cigarettes. I was goin to get out for a piss then 
remembered I was circumcised - Christ, I hate jokes. 

We parked an the Captain slipped out into the night. 

As I sat there waitin, footsteps approached. They stopped at the car an
I glanced up. A guy in a black overcoat flashed his Gestapo badge at me 
an motioned for me to roll down the window. 

When I did he bent down an conveniently spoke in English. “I suffer from
reverse paranoia,” he informed me. 

“How come?” I asked. 

“I keep thinkin I'm not being followed,” he told me. 

I glanced back in the direction he'd come from - there was no-one

“See what I mean,” he said an strolled off. 

The Captain returned a few minutes later an slipped into the back seat.
He looked relieved. “Home,” he ordered. 

“Did you collect the package?” I asked him. 

He patted his overcoat pocket an nodded. 

I was curious. “What's in it?” 

“Designs for tattoos,” he told me. “Secret tattoos.” 

“How secret?“ I asked. 

“They have to be done on the inside of the skin,” he replied. 

“Makes sense,” I said, noddin. 

Rain started to fall. It was cold an dark. How I loved nights like that.
I rolled another smoke an decided to take the long way home. 


“If you carry on like this,” the Doc said to me, “you'll never see the
year out.” 

I glanced at my watch. It was mid-day on the thirty first of December.
Hey, we were cutting things kinda fine here. 

The Doc studied some medical lookin reports. He tapped his fingers on
his desk. Then he tapped his foot on the floor. Then he tapped a 
cigarette from me and lit it. He peered at me over his full-moon 
glasses. “We've had the results of your tests back,” he said 
eventually, indicating the reports, “and they don't look good.” 

“How come?” I asked. 

“You failed in English, Maths and Science!” he replied and giggled. 

I threw my head back and laughed but it sounded hollow. Like the
soft-nosed slug I heard clicked into a chamber. I glanced back sharply 
and the Doc had a Magnum pointing at me. 

“Hearing seems fine,” he said and laid the revolver down. 

The Nurse came into the room. She had one of those bodies a man would
kill for – flat stomach, great biceps, dark moustache. “There are some 
people in the Waiting Room, Doctor,” she informed him. 

“That's no problem,” he replied, drawing on his cigarette, “I've rented
it out to them for a couple of months.” 

The Nurse looked over at me and smiled but I realised there was
something phoney about it. “It's my gums,” she explained, “they're 

“You can put your clothes back on now,” the Doc told me. 

It was then that I understood how bad his eyesight was – I hadn't taken
them off in the first place. 

An ambulance siren started wailing in the distance, gradually grew
louder as it neared the building then stopped when the ambulance was 

“Just ignore it,” advised the Nurse. “It's only Pierre. He does those
damn siren impressions now and then just to irritate us.” 

The Doc leafed through some medical forms and handed one to her. “We'll
have to run more tests,” he told me, drawing on his smoke. “The Nurse 
will explain what we require.” 

She glanced at the form then strolled over to a cupboard and came back
with a few of those little medical containers. “We'll need some samples 
from you,” she said. “If you follow me, I'll show you into a cubicle.” 

“What kinda samples?” I asked. 

“Well we need a urine sample, a stool sample and a semen sample,” she

“Hell, Nurse,” I drawled, “I'm in kind of a hurry. Mind if I just leave
my shorts?” 


“Will you get off my fucking back!” yelled Quasimodo, staring at himself
in the mirror. 

His hump ignored him. 

Lying on the couch, Fragrant Belle giggled. How she loved Quasi, the
ugly fuck! Snuggled inside her panties, her pussy quivered in the 
safety of knowing it would never be breached by him. 

Fragrant Belle giggled again. This time in anticipation of her next
insult. “Never mind, Quasi,” she said, “at least you'll always have 
something to fall back on!” 

Appreciating her wit and knowing he'd never fuck her, Quasi grinned.
Such a hideous grin. He glanced at himself in the mirror. “Jesus, what 
a horrible looking bastard I am!” he announced. “The twisted eyes, the 
big nose, the hunchback...but the cock! My God, the cock!” He grinned 
and proudly brought it out and displayed it. 

He and Fragrant Belle watched it surface for air, snaking up thick and
proud and demanding attention. 

Fragrant Belle permitted herself not to touch it....but a part of her
longed to stroke the thick, throbbing organ. ‘If only Mr Fragrant Belle 
had a dick like that,' she mused and sighed. 

Fragrant Belle had been a bit of a slut in her day – back then she loved
dick, now she loved dick and money. Mr Fragrant Belle provided the 
latter and currently, the handsome young baker boy provided the former. 

She sniggered and prepared for another barb. “Did you know they've named
a bridge after you, Quasi?” she asked him coyly. 

Quasi tore his attention away from his large member. He found himself
intrigued. “They've named a bridge after me?” he asked. 

Fragrant Belle bit back a snigger. “Yes,” she said, “they've called it
the humpback bridge!” 

Quasi laughed and clapped his hands. “I had a hunch you were going to
say that!” he told her. 

Fragrant Belle giggled deliciously. Inside her panties, her pussy
quivered again and was almost tempted to fuck an ugly guy. But the 
moment passed. 

Quasi ambled round the room, following his erection. “I'm thinking of
going to see a special doctor,” he told Fragrant Belle. 

“Why, whatever for?” she asked, intrigued by the notion. 

Quasi continued ambling round the room, delaying the moment. Finally he
had to tell her. “I'm thinking of having my hump enlarged,” he 

Fragrant Belle found herself taken a-back. No, that was by the handsome
young baker boy, who, if truth be told, took her a-front as well. “Why 
not get two humps?” she suggested, impressed by her imagination. “Then 
you can wear one of my brassieres to show them off!” 

Quasi stroked the moment and his cock as he suddenly realised that you
didn't have to be a woman to wear their clothes. “I would say you 
deserve a pat on the back for that one!” he told her and they both 

Outside, a cold wind howled across the place where the Eiffel Tower
would eventually stand and as he sat writing in his room, Emile Zola 
wondered why he would one day be confused with an Italian football 

Quasi returned to stroking his erect organ. “Christ, I'm so horny!” he
complained. He shook his head. “Well I never thought I'd hear myself 
say it but Quasimodo needs a hump!!” he announced. 

Fragrant Belle watched as he stroked his big cock and was once again
semi-tempted to have a quick fuck. She glanced round. Who would know? 

Inside her panties, her pussy was also temporarily tempted but
considered things and desisted. 

‘Oh Quasi,' thought Fragrant Belle, ‘you're too ugly to fuck....but the
young baker boy is handsome and has a cock like a firm finger roll!' 


I know my Grandmother's lips are sealed because it was me who sewed the
fucking things together! 

“You won't be talking to the Police about me now,” I told her as I
patiently inserted the stitches. “In fact you won't be talking to 
anybody. Not through these lips anyway.” 

Christ it was like trying to sew two thin dead worms together. Still, I
had stopped her from talking. After I had stopped her from breathing. 

“Heart attack,” old Doc Peabody had declared, fumbling with his
stethoscope and trying to hide his bourbon-fumed breath. 

I nodded in agreement. Of course it was a heart attack. I scared the old
bastard to death. 

“Shuppose you'll be takin care o' her yousef?” slurred the Doc,
scribbling the Death Certificate. 

Ah yes, the family business - embalming, dressing and burying dead

“It will be a privilege,” I told him, dabbing at convenient crocodile
tears. A privilege to know my secret's going to the grave with her. 

“Fambly tradition, eh?” muttered the Doc. “Leave her in your capble hans
then,” he slurred on, departing in a bourbon cloud and bumping into the 
wall as he left. 

That was six months ago. Now just fat Uncle Buxton and his grotesque
wife Grace to take care of and the business is mine. And I need it 
badly. Not just for the money but mainly to allow me to pursue my 
‘hobby' which I didn't take up till later in life. 

Isn't it strange what turns a man into a serial killer? In my case it
was the big bouncing breasts of the teenager who lived opposite. 
Naturally a sexy, attractive young woman like her would never be 
interested in a bald, spectacle wearing guy like me. Well, not when she 
was alive anyway. 

She was brought to our funeral parlor late one night after a hit and run
accident broke her neck. I couldn't believe my luck. When everyone 
left, I laid her out on the couch in the morgue. All stark naked. With 
those big firm breasts still jutting up like pink-tipped melons. The 
big firm breasts I had long fantasized about getting my hands on. 

I suspect Grandmother must have heard me ‘getting to know' her. I ‘got
to know' her for quite some time into the night. Until she turned cold 
on me. 

She was never quite the same after that - Grandmother, that is. The
looks started the next day. Then the comments. Then dark mutterings 
about the Police. Then I knew she had to go. 

Which was when bloated Buxton and grotesque Grace arrived. To stay. And
then Grandmother's Will was changed. To them. Which was when I knew 
they all had to go. 

Lazy fat Uncle Buxton. He didn't rise till mid-day then he lay around
stuffing his face and watching TV. His appallingly ugly wife Grace. 
Equally as fat. Equally as repulsive. If ever a woman was 
inappropriately named it was her. 

The two of them constantly bickered at me. Constantly criticized.
Constantly complained. About me who did all the work. How I grew to 
hate the fat bastards. And then the whispers started about replacing 
me. Get the job done cheaper. Rent out my room. Seems they had plans 
for the business which didn't include me. Well I had plans for the 
business which most assuredly didn't include them! 

Which led me, a couple of weeks ago, to start making the hand trap for
Aunt Grace. She had complained of mice in the kitchen and instructed me 
to do something about it. So I decided it was now time to get rid of 
her and Buxton and stop all the complaining. 

Of course Uncle Buxton had mocked me as I patiently constructed the trap
which I told him was for catching mice. He threw back his large head 
and laughed. I could almost see up to his brain. I would. Later. 

“You'll never catch a mouse in that!” he scoffed. 

‘Correct,' I thought. ‘That's because it's not for mice.' 

“In fact you'll never catch anything in it!” 

‘Oh yes I will,' I thought. ‘Your ugly fucking wife!' 

Six o'clock chimed and Uncle Buxton waddled through to the sitting room
to commence his nightly drinking session and poured himself a large 
brandy from the decanter. As I knew he would. As I knew he would not 
taste the Rohypnol. 

Time to lay out the large slice of strawberry cheesecake in the box with
the false bottom for grotesque Grace. With the trap concealed 
underneath it and chained to the heavy kitchen table. She would be down 
soon to stuff her face before joining Buxton for the evening drinking 
session. I know strawberry cheesecake is her favourite and she won't be 
able to resist it. I'll just slip along to the morgue now and collect 
the electric hoist for transporting bloated Buxton. 

When I returned to the sitting room, he was slumped and drooling but
still awake. I hoisted him aloft and grinned at him. 

When I lay him out on the embalming table and begin cutting him open, I
think I'll say to him, “There's something I want to dissect with you, 
Uncle Buxton,” as I slowly and patiently expose his insides to him. 
“Look - here's your stomach. Time to get acquainted with the busiest 
organ in your body!” 

But wait! I hear Aunt Grace coming downstairs and heading for the
kitchen....she sees the cheesecake....she reaches into the box to pick 
it up....and CLUNK! and SCREAM! Ah yes, her hand is well trapped! I've 
caught a mouse! A big fat ugly mouse! I'll come back and deal with her 

When it gets dark, I'll load the two of them into their car and drive to
that dangerous downhill bend that's nearby. They'll go through the 
guardrail and crash to the bottom of the hill. Both will be killed in a 
tragic accident. Both terribly mutilated and burned. 

I'll weep when the news is broken to me. And grin when the business is
handed to me. 

I was relaxing at a café in town a month later having coffee and
watching people go by. And who did I just happen to see? Why that 
bastard who made my life a misery in High School all those years ago 
with his constant bullying. I sipped my coffee and watched as he 
strolled along without a care in the world. 

He doesn't know it yet but oh the plans I have for him. 


The Lawyer was one of those young, keen, earnest types. Nice suit, short
hair, thick glasses. Prob'ly not long qualified. The 
eager-to-pleaseness just oozed outa every pore. Man was I gonna enjoy 
throwin him! 

“So you want me to handle your divorce?” he began brightly. 

“That's correct,” I said. 

“From your wife, naturally?” he asked. 

“No,” I replied. “From reality.” 

There was a coupla heartbeats silence after that. Like I knew there
would be. I couldn't blame the guy – he genuinely thought he'd misheard 
me. I extended the heartbeats by a couple more. Hey, this dude had a 
lot more sweatin to do before I was finished. Throwin him was one of 
the reasons I'd come. 

He glanced at me. I knew what he was gonna ask. “Your wife – her name is
Reality?” he ventured. 

“Nope,” I told him unhelpfully. 

He tapped his fingers on some legal lookin papers. Like I knew he would
do. “Then you actually want to be divorced–“ 

“–from reality,” I finished for him. 

He picked up one of those thin silver pens an rolled it round in his
fingers a little. The way those kinda people do. Throwin this type of 
smart-assed, moneyed, successful young bum – hey, I loved it. It was 
one of the reasons I pulled this kinda gig. 

He leaned back in his leather chair. It creaked expensively. “You really
want me to handle your divorce from reality?” he asked, peerin at me 
through his thick glasses. 

“Sure,” I replied. “Can you do it?” 

He hesitated. “Are you...are you quite certain you've come to the right
place?” he queried. 

“Whadya mean!?” I shot back. 

I knew this would make him uncomfortable. It did. He fiddled with his
tie an tried a joke. A lame one. I won't even tell you what it was. He 
laughed unconvincingly at it then cleared his throat. “I think we'd 
better start from the beginning,” he said. 

I thumped my fist on his desk. Little sports trophies an framed photos
of his family jumped then fell over. I enjoyed that part. “Look, you 
fuckin creep!!” I yelled. “Can you handle this divorce or not!?” 

He turned kinda pale an shot back in his chair at that. I stared at him
coldly for a few seconds then reached forward an helped myself to a 
smoke from an antique-lookin wooden box. I knew what he was gonna say 
next. I nearly felt sorry for him. Nearly. 

He cleared his throat. “Ah, don't you think you'd, ah, be better seeing
a...seeing a...a psychiatrist?” he asked timidly. 

“What the fuck for!?!” I yelled. 

“Well if you, ah, want a divorce from, from, ah, reality,” he mumbled,
“well, ah, you know, ah....,” he trailed off. 

I sneered at him an lit my smoke. His next move was oh so predictable. 

“Tell you what,” he said brightly, “let me call my Secretary in. She'll
probably be able to put you in touch with someone who can help you.” He 
reached forward an pressed a buzzer on his desk. 

This was the second reason I'd come. I knew what she'd be like. One of
them sexy dressed bitches with a great body. The kind that looked down 
their noses at guys like me. The kind I'd never get to fuck. Well this 
whole deal was gonna throw them. Like I'd throw her. Over his desk. 
Yank that skirt up an rip them panties off. Take her from the rear. 
Really pound it up her. 

I heard the door open an settled back in my chair. Already I could sense
her presence. Already I had a soft spot for her – but it would soon be 
growin hard. 

The Lawyer smiled up at her. “This gentleman has a problem,” he told
her, “and I was wondering if you could assist him?” 

Footsteps towards me. Her presence grew stronger. I felt a hand on my
shoulder an grinned to myself. The hand ran slowly along my shoulder 
then suddenly yanked me up by the collar. 

I felt myself lifted effortlessly outa my seat an squinted round to see
this giant guy with muscles bulgin through a black t-shirt. He didn't 
even look at me. I dropped my smoke. 

The Lawyer leaned back in his chair an looked me up an down then sneered
at me. “This fucking asshole thought he could come in here and cause a 
shitload of serious trouble and get away with it,” he told the Giant. 
“Show him the roof exit.” 

The Giant didn't say a word. He just turned an hauled me from the
office. I tried strugglin but he was holdin me casually at arms length 
an I was kickin an punchin air. 

There was no-one around as he carried me along a corridor an up some
stairs. He opened a door an stepped out onto the roof of the buildin. 
He was in no hurry as he strolled across to the edge an dangled me over 
a waist-high wall. Twenty floors below, the traffic looked awful small. 

Then he dropped me. 

The breeze felt cool against my face as I fell. I actually saw the
Lawyer standin at his office window, waitin for me to pass. He grinned 
an waved as I did. 

I had come to teach the little creep a lesson, really throw him an here
I was, hurtlin towards the sidewalk. So much for me throwin him. 

“Bastard threw me!” was the last thing that ran through my mind. 


Atop his four-poster bed in steamy Rangoon, Sir Pewter McGinty groaned
mightily and ejaculated roughly a soupspoonful of aristocratic semen 
into the sweet dark arches of a twenty year old dusky native girl's 

Not being a gentleman of the bedroom, Sir Pewter had neglected to take
his somewhat portly frame on his elbows during copulation and it came 
as a blessed relief to Love You Long Time when the substantial bulk 
grunted, withdrew and began to ease itself starboard. 

Sir Pewter panted and flopped onto the bed beside her, casually crushing
half a dozen mosquitoes which had been feeding unnoticed amidst the 
lattice work of silvery hairs and fornication induced scratches on his 
upper back. 

He had mistakenly thought that the scratches from the long red
fingernails of Love You Long Time had been inflicted through shared 
lust. He was wrong. They had been inflicted through gritted teeth hate. 

On the bedside table the telephone rang. Sir Pewter cursed and fumbled
for it, clumsily knocking over a half-empty whisky glass and a 
half-smoked opium pipe in the process. “Ambassador McGinty,” he rasped. 

It was the Embassy Secretary, Clive Marko. His lisping, effeminate voice
echoed irritatingly round the whisky-sodden, opium-fogged, 
pussy-pleasured caverns of Sir Pewter's head. “Hallo, hallo, ith that 
you, Thir Pewter? Are you there? Are you there?” 

“Marko! What the christing fuck d'you want!?” roared Sir Pewter. 

How he detested the cunt. ‘Arsehole Like A Rickshaw Wheel', he called
him, referring to Clive's predilection for being penetrated by the well 
hung young pearl divers who lived just south of Rangoon. 

“Oh Thir Pewter! I'm tho glad I caught you!” lisped Clive. “You athked
me to call and remind you.” 

“Remind me of what?” Sir Pewter barked. Christ, he could almost smell
the sea off him. 

“Why to remind you of the late function at the Embathy tonight,” Clive
told him. 

“Late function? What late buggering function?” 

“The cheethe and wine party for the vithiting--” 

“Christ on the shitter!” cursed Sir Pewter, suddenly remembering the
function for the visiting Indian Foreign Secretary. The lateness of the 
hour to accommodate the current monsoon season. 

“It thtarth in two hourth,” Clive lithped on. “You will be there, Thir
Pewter, won't you? Everyone ith exthpecting you to--” 

“Course I'll be there!” Sir Pewter yelled. “Now pith, piss off!” 

Damn and blast! A late function. He had forgotten about the buggering
thing, otherwise pleasurably engaged as he was with Love You Long Time. 
He had anticipated a long snooze and then the second course with her. 
Still, the starter course and the first course had been first rate! He 
snorted, his thick moustache twitching towards his nose. 

He propped himself up on some pillows and lit a cigar. “Fraid you'll
have to leave early tonight, old girl,” he told Love You Long Time. 
“Duty calls and all that rot.” 

Accomplished whore that she was, Love You Long Time smiled inwardly but
affected outward disappointment at this early dismissal from the 
cricket pitch. She frowned and pretended mock tears then slipped out of 
bed and began dressing, Sir Pewter enjoying a farewell view of her 
exquisite bare arse. 

With his wife away at Daisy Carmichael's for a weekly overnight outing,
Sir Pewter took the opportunity to have a weekly overnight inning with 
Love You Long Time. 

Long time however was somewhat of a misnomer in Sir Pewter's case, as
his average time from erection to emission was about five minutes. It 
took him longer to smoke a cigar. 

He held out the usual low denomination banknote and Love You Long Time
accepted it, planted a hasty kiss on his forehead and departed in a 
cloud of erotic perfume and bouncing tits. 

Sir Pewter sighed. Bastard function! Still, best get prepared. He rolled
himself out of bed, slipped into his robe and strolled over to the open 
door. “Brambles!” he yelled. 

The elderly white haired Brambles, Sir Pewter's trusted servant,
eventually appeared. Long privy to his master's indiscretions, he had 
been paid to look the other way so often that his head had twisted 
round on its axis several times and was currently back to where it 
started from. 

“Damned late function at the bloody Embassy!” Sir Pewter informed him.
“Bath. Shaving gear. ‘Greeting A Foreign Flunky' outfit,” he 

“Yes sir,” said Brambles. “And take care of the evidence as usual, sir?”
he went on, nodding at the bedroom mess. 

Sir Pewter snorted. “Of course. Of course.” He held out the usual high
denomination banknote and Brambles accepted it then shuffled off to 
organize the bathroom. 

Satisfied everything was in order, Sir Pewter eased himself into a
well-upholstered armchair and poured himself a whisky. 

Ah how the man could drink! Sir Pewter had schooled (and drank) at Eton,
read Law (and drank) at Cambridge and then drank his way steadily 
through a downwardly spiralling alcohol-fogged Foreign Office career 
spanning some forty summers. Until it ended here. As the British 
Ambassador in far-flung Burma. Which was about as far-flung as London 
could throw him. 

Brambles knocked on the door, interrupting his reverie. “I've ran your
bath and laid out your shaving gear, sir,” he announced. 

“Jolly good, Brambles,” responded Sir Pewter, levering himself out of
the armchair. 

“I'll lay out your suit whilst you're bathing.” 

“Good man,” replied Sir Pewter and strolled along to his magnificent
bathing quarters. 

In the warm soapy tub, Sir Pewter lay back and sighed. How a hot soak
refreshed and sobered him. He regarded his surroundings. What luxury 
for steamy Rangoon! Peasants in their leaky bamboo huts and he amidst 

Which was how his father had made his fortune - by importing expensive
marble for bathrooms in the town houses and country homes of the 
English rich. His wife's father too had made a mint fitting the damn 
stuff and supplying first class bathroom décor. Sir Pewter had often 
remarked that his and his wife's union had been a marriage of 

Freshly bathed, next on the agenda was freshly plucked and Sir Pewter
soaped his plump visage and shaved, careful not to venture near his 
lush twirled moustache, permitting himself to wax the ends only, the 
thick central part remaining untouched. He snorted it towards his nose 
and held it there. Ah yes, delightful! Delightful aroma indeed! 

Brambles knocked and entered when commanded. “Suit's ready, sir,” he

“Good show,” responded Sir Pewter. 

“You'll be travelling by rickshaw as usual?” enquired Brambles. 

“Yes, yes.” 

“I'll organize it whilst you're dressing then, sir. Shall I drive?” 

Sir Pewter snorted. “Of course! You're the bloody servant, aren't you?
Expect me to drive you!?” 

“Very good, sir,” Brambles muttered and withdrew. 

Freshly bathed, shaved and dressed and by now fifty percent sober, Sir
Pewter strolled out to the rickshaw. 

Brambles held the small door open for him and he hauled his ample mass
aboard, the rickshaw wobbling alarmingly like a rowing boat in a choppy 
sea. His master safely ensconced, Brambles shuffled along past the 
rickshaw to the Rolls-Royce Silver Phantom and climbed in. 

Ah, crafty Sir Pewter! Cleverly pleasing the natives by travelling by
rickshaw and cleverly pleasing the expatriate aristocracy by having it 
towed by his Rolls-Royce! A quick refuel from his trusty hip flask and 
he signaled Brambles to be off. 

Outside the Embassy, some of the function guests had gathered to watch
Sir Pewter arrive in his ‘Rolls-Rickshaw' as he referred to it. How 
they loved his eccentric habits. 

Sir Pewter waved regally at the guests and dismounted, acknowledging the
applause from the gathered rich and bidding them all ‘Good evening'. 

He strolled into the Embassy and glanced round. Immediately he spotted
the Indian Foreign Secretary across the room, talking to Clive Marko. 
Clive waved to him. 

Sir Pewter nodded to the Indian dignitary but deliberately ignored
Marko. “Pearl divers! Ha! Diving for his arse more like!” Sir Pewter 
muttered towards him as a waiter approached. 

“Glass of wine, Ambassador?” the waiter enquired, proffering him the
tray of glasses. 

The small crowd that had gathered round him waited for Sir Pewter's
response. He didn't disappoint them. “Wine!?” he scoffed. “Bugger off, 
man! Wine's for when you can't get a proper drink. Double gin and 
tonic. Sharpish!” 

The nearby guests tittered. How they adored Sir Pewter and his
aristocratic habits. Like now, when he snorted and twitched his 
moustache towards his nose and held it there. How British! How 
eccentric! How aristocratic! 

Like fuck it was! Sir Pewter frequently twitched his upper lip towards
his nose and held it there for one reason and one secret reason was because he could still smell the erection inducing aroma 
of Love You Long Time's sweet pussy off his thick lush moustache. What 
an exquisite scent it was! What memories it invoked! Ah yes, 
delightful! Delightful aroma indeed! He grinned. By God how he loved 
that marvelous pussy perfume from Sir Pewter's moustache!! 


Yeah okay I'd had a bit too much to drink an yeah a bit too much to
smoke, I'll admit it. I was feelin that pleasant, relaxed, drowsy way 
the combination of nice booze an fine hash makes you feel. I was just 
driftin off to sleep when I caught myself. Good job I did because I was 
drivin a bus full of kids on the mornin run to Primary School. 

Luckily none of the kids noticed me swerve - they were all too busy
playin around an yackin to each other. 

Anyway there was nothin in my appearance to give away what I'd been
drinkin an smokin. That's because I turn myself out real smart for work 
- short hair, clean shaven, white shirt an tie an a neatly pressed 
uniform. Oh an the Clove Oil, the drinkin man's mouthwash. It kills 
toothache but it also kills the smell of booze stone dead. So the story 
is that I get a shit load of toothache but I got a dentist phobia an 
that's why I use Clove Oil all the time. 

The drowsiness passed an I drove to the School an dropped off all the
kids, pattin the little bastards on the head as they left, like I gave 
a fuck about them. 

I drove away from the School, casually crushin a cute stray puppy under
the front wheels of the bus an headed over to Maxy's. 

Maxy had called me the night before to tell me he was gettin a new
delivery of Russian whores an did I want to cast an eye over them. I 

I had a coupla beers an then picked out one of the pretty ones. Late
teens. Innocent lookin. Natalya, she said her name was. We went 
upstairs. Five minutes after I had met her, she was tellin me in broken 
English that she loved me an wanted to marry me an have kids. Five 
minutes after I had banged her up the ass, she had changed her mind. 
When I left she was standin at the window, weepin. Hey, she couldn't 
very well sit down an weep, now could she? Well, not for a while. 

I smoked some weed on the bus then headed back to the School an picked
up the kids then on to the pick-up point and picked up the Moms an took 
them all across for lunch at the Church. The joint was run by this 
kindly black Minister who told me he'd come over from Africa to carry 
out missionary work in the States. 

Apart from free sandwiches an donuts, lunch time gave me a good
opportunity to check out the Moms on two levels - who was ripe for 
bangin an whose apartment was right for turnin over. 

One of the Moms was catchin my eye at present. A sexy little Hispanic
chick. What an ass on her. 

With some casual chattin I then learned which Dads were at work an with
the Moms here for an hour, it gave my cousin Sonny enough time to turn 
over whatever apartment we'd decided on. We did one a month in a 
different area an Sonny changed his entry method each time to avoid 
suspicion. Shit, the bus drivin job didn't pay much an when we split 
the burglary money it added to the monthly paycheck. 

Then it was time to drop off the kids at the School for the afternoon
session an then the Moms back at the pick-up point. That Hispanic chick 
gave me a come-on smile as she left. What a pair on her. Maybe get 
Sonny to do her apartment next week then drop by to comfort her. 

Next I headed over to visit my Mother in hospital. She likes fresh
flowers once a week so I stopped by the cemetery an picked her up a big 
buncha nice roses from a grave. Now you know what old folks are like. 
Mother always insisted on payin for the flowers an I didn't want to 
start an argument an upset her so I took the fifty bucks. I also took 
her lunch which she hadn't touched. It would do for my dinner later. 
Nice bit of steak it was. 

The last run of the day was back to the School to pick up the kids an
take them home. Christ, them kids. Two hours pissin about in the mornin 
an two hours pissin about in the afternoon. They'll prob'ly grow up to 
be Detroit auto workers. 

I parked up the bus back at the station then headed home to catch a
coupla hours sleep before headin out for the evenin. 

I had a quick shower when I woke, followed by dinner then strolled over
to Lenny's for some poker. I had a few whiskeys an then that cousin of 
Lenny's started hangin round me. Bitch just couldn't keep her hands off 
me. Eventually Lenny got pissed off watchin an told me to just take her 
through the back an poker. So I did. 

I went home around eleven, had a nice smoke an was asleep before

I like to get up early in the mornin an take my time gettin ready for
work. I love lyin in the bath with a coupla beers an some music then a 
leisurely shave with a whiskey. After that I roll a big fat joint to 
keep me company when I'm ironin my uniform. 

Hey, I take my appearance serious, you know. A man has to look smart
when he's drivin all them kids around on the freeway, now doesn't he? 


It begins like this.... 

“Could you shut that fucking dog up!!” Mandel roared, sitting up in bed.

Katya, his big breasted girlfriend, complied. She lifted the small dog
and placed him in his basket then bent over and stroked him. 

Watching her short skirt ride higher over smooth silky thighs, Mandel
felt an erection looming. Christ how he wished she'd hurry up and 
complete that sex change. Like, I mean, how can you have a serious 
relationship with a chick, who's got a bigger dick, than you? 

Mandel lay back and lit a smoke. ‘How I wish I was French,' he thought
and dreamily saw it all. Paris. The Seine. The left bank where he would 
draw his sketches. The right bank where he would draw his allowance. 
From Mom and Pops. Back home in Florida. Pops ridiculous in khaki 
shorts and varicose veins. Mom ridiculous in diamonds worth more than a 

“Oh darlink, how I am vontink you!” drawled Katya, disturbing his

Mandel grinned. He knew what was coming next – him. 

Katya removed her top and unhooked her bra, displaying twin triumphs of
breast implant surgery. Her nipples stiffened, as did Mandel's cock. 
They shagged. 

From the safety of its vantage point under a table, a cockroach watched.
Sensing the humans were otherwise engaged (and in the future, probably 
divorced) it took the opportunity to search the room for food. No luck. 

The bed creaked rhythmically and thumped on the floor. Katya groaned and

‘She's not a quiet shag, I'll give her that,' Mandel thought as he
ploughed away. ‘And I'll give her this as well.' He ploughed on. 

In the room downstairs, disturbed once again by the noise from above, a
dwarf was woken from slumber. Enraged, he leapt out of bed, grabbed a 
broom and jumping up and down, tried to bang on the ceiling to 
complain. He failed. In the room below him, disturbed once again by the 
noise from above, a basketball player was woken from slumber. Enraged, 
he leapt out of bed, grabbed an umbrella and banged on the ceiling to 
complain. He succeeded. 

Semen dispersed, Mandel lay back and smoked. Beside him Katya drifted
off to sleep and was soon dreaming of her small village in Russia – the 
dark pine forests, winter snow, drinking hot mulled wine and singing 
folk songs round cosy campfires till somebody stood on an unexploded 
World War Two mine then there was blood and guts everywhere. 

Disturbed, Katya moaned in her sleep. Mandel thought she was awake
because she moaned then as well. 

He blew some smoke rings and watched them drift up to the ceiling then
realised that soon it would be time not to go to work, the last job now 
a distant ripple in the boat's wake. 

“You are a successful failure,” Pops had told him. Pops, a wealthy
banker, had washed his hands of him. Mom, a wealthy socialite, had 
washed her feet of him. 

Mandel sighed and looked round the room – it was as bare as a winter
tree. He considered his future prospects – they wilted faster than his 
recent erection. 

Picking its moment well, the ghost of his future briefly appeared before
him. It grinned and beckoned a bony finger towards a lifetime of soul 
debt repayment. Mandel shuddered and slid under the blanket. 

A thin wind blew in through the thin crack in the window. It drifted
round the room, cold as a dead man's dreams. Huddled under his blanket, 
Mandel Shivers...shivers. 


Man I just loved the view from my fifteenth floor apartment at two in
the mornin. All them warm lights out there in the darkness at other 
windows. All the late nite traffic swishin by on the streets down 
there. An best of all, the ole Brooklyn Bridge. Lit up like a Christmas 
tree it was, with them fancy lights strung out between the tall girders 
hangin like pearl necklaces. 

Yeah, one helluva view. Unless you were sittin on one of the narrow
ledges outside the block like I was with your legs danglin in space an 
the wind whippin at you. Glued by fear to the fuckin spot. With my 
window a car length away. The spot deliberately chosen so there was no 
way back. Only now I wish there was since I've changed my mind about 
jumpin. Movin to Canada seems a better option. At least I'd be landin 
at an airport instead of landin on a sidewalk. 

So why was I sittin there terrified? Simple. Because I owed the biggest
psycho in Brooklyn the modest sum of 40K. Yip, 40K. Forty thousand 
fuckin dollars. All lost on a sure-fire coke deal that fell thru. Just 
like I'm sure-fire gonna fall thru that sidewalk way down there. 

Zybo was Brooklyn's main dealer an he didn't take prisoners. Owe Zybo
20K an the repayment plan was that he took your hand. And not to shake 
it. Which meant I was lookin at two of them artificial ones. 

Alright they're pretty good these days I'll admit. You can pick things
up an even hold a knife an fork with them. So I could get by feedin 
myself an wipin my ass but suppose one of the fuckers jammed up 
unexpected when I was tossin myself off!? Christ I wouldn't need the 
hospital, I'd need the fuckin garage! Yeah I can just see it when I 
pull into Rudy's in the Ford...“Hey Rudy, can you get one of the guys 
to take a look at the starter motor – fuckin thing keeps jammin up. Oh 
an can he take a look at my right hand as well – fuckin thing's jammed 
up too. Around my dick!”...Christ the boys would love that one. 

Just as the small crowd way down there was lovin this one. How they
loved the drama of a jumper. Even if it meant haulin themselves outa 
bed at two in the mornin to watch. Like gettin up to watch a movie they 
really wanted to see. I could see them down there in a semicircle. 
Coats or dressin gowns pulled on over pyjamas. All waitin for tonite's 
movie – me. I can just imagine the wisecracks floatin round. All they 
needed was popcorn an Coke. 

I can see a ripple in the crowd down there as the Cops arrive. Four of
them. See them look up. They have a chat. One of them's gotta come up. 
I see a figure cross the street an enter the block. 

Five minutes later he sticks his head outa my window. Youngish guy. Late
twenties. He grinned. “Hi buddy,” he says. “Mind if I step out?” 

“Be my guest,” I told him. 

First thing I noticed was the rope tied round his waist. The rest coiled
in his hand. Good-lookin strong rope it was. I liked that. He stepped 
out an glanced down then waved to the small crowd. I heard a ragged 
cheer. Christ, is this Spiderman? 

He sat down on the ledge. Very casually. Like he was sittin down in
front of the TV. I liked this guy's confidence. 

“Mind if I get a bit closer?” he asked. 

“Sit on my fuckin lap if you want!” I replied. 

He grinned and shuffled closer. “Scared?” he asked. 

I nodded. 

“Changed your mind?” 

“Pretty much so,” I said. 

He held out the coiled rope towards me. I took it eagerly like he was
handin me a winnin lottery ticket. Eased it round my waist. Tied a good 
secure double knot. Unsurprisingly I kinda felt better after that an 
leaned back against the wall, a bit more relaxed. 

“Smoke?” the Cop asked, holdin out his pack. 

“Brought my own,” I told him. 

We lit up with my Zippo an sat there smokin for a minute. 

“Here's a good one an I know you'll like it,” the Cop said eventually.
“When we arrived on the scene an saw you up here, the Sergeant asked 
for a volunteer to come up an talk to you.” He grinned. “My patrol 
buddy, he's a real joker, he says to the Sarge, ‘Talk to him? You want 
somebody to go up an talk to him? Let me go up there an I'll sing to 

We laughed. I liked this guy. 

“So what brought you out here?” he asked. “Money? A woman? The job?” 

“The first one.” 

He nodded. “Appreciate just how you're feelin. Got big problems myself.”

“Which one?” 

“The second.” 

“Woman trouble?” 

“My wife's leavin. An she's takin the girls.” 

“How old?” 

“Five an three. They're my babes” 

“Shit, that's a tough one. How come she's leavin?” 

He glanced at me an I thought maybe I'd overstepped the mark. Then he
shrugged. “I haven't told anybody else but under the circumstances,” he 
said an glanced down meaningfully. 

“Understood,” I agreed. 

He took a drag on his cigarette before he told me. “Other women,” he
eventually admitted. 

I nodded an drew on my smoke. No big deal there. 

“Yeah, other women,” he said. “Took me a while to work out she was a

No shit! I glanced at him but didn't say anythin. 

“Then there was the forced anal sex,” he went on. 

Christ! This was gettin personal. 

“Still don't know why I let her do it to me.” 

What the fuck!? I turned and had a long look at him then but he just
glanced at me an shrugged. 

“I think that's when I started beatin her,” he continued. 

I looked quickly at him again. Was his voice startin to sound a little

“Yeah I beat her at everythin,” he admitted. “Beat her at poker. Beat
her at tennis. Beat her at fuckin scrabble.” 

I kinda half-smiled at that then took a draw on my smoke. His voice was
definitely slurrin up. I couldn't smell any booze off him but we were 
sittin a little apart out there. 

We finished our smokes an flicked them out into the darkness. I watched
the glowin red butts fall, a little apart, before the wind whipped them 
away. We lit up again immediately. 

“Then there was the necrophilia,” he went on. 

“Jeeze!” I muttered. 

“Christ, one good-lookin stiff! A stripper! One! Does that make me a
fuckin necrophiliac!?” 

I shook my head. “Not in my book, buddy,” I said. Especially not out
here on this ledge. 

I glanced at him again. He was startin to sway a little from side to

“Losin the kids was the last straw,” he slurred on. 

“Christ, that must've been pretty bad,” I said. 

He nodded. “Judge gave her custody. Just cos she's got some land upstate
an they can graze there.” He grinned lopsidedly. “Man, I loved them 
fuckin goats. Two kids each they had.” 

That was when I realised this Cop was fuckin nuts. Then he proved it. 

“Can't take losin everythin,” he slurred, “so I was headin for the
Brooklyn Bridge myself after tonite's shift. Took a shit load of Valium 
earlier,” he drawled. “A shit load. Feel nice an woozy now. Nice an 

He glanced at me. I could now see the nice an woozy look in his eyes.
What I had taken earlier as confidence had been Valium. 

“Man, them blues sure kicked in. Feel all kinda relaxed an rubbery.” He
grinned an drooled. “No point in waitin for the Bridge,” he slurred. 

Then he just rocked forwards and fell off the ledge. I watched him go
then I suddenly remembered. I was fumblin pointlessly at the double 
knot at my waist when the rope tightened an I was hauled off too. 

I tried for a last draw on my smoke but the wind whipped it outa my
hand. The sidewalk was comin up awful fast an I could see the Cop 
headin down, the rope taut between us. 

The small crowd rippled an moved back like a wave headin for the shore.
I could see them all starin up at us. At their late movie. 

“Hey look – we got us a double bill!!” some sick fuck yelled. 

Derisive laughter from the crowd was the last thing I ever heard. 


He he he! Sure put one over on them dumb ass city boys like! How comes?
Cos Ah was a-snorin when they hung'd me! Didn't fuss me none gettin 
hung'd. Didn't hurt me none neithers. Tells you how later. 

Don't know why they made such a botherin anyways. Hell, it was just a
few bodies here an there. All right, maybe ten. A year. Over maybe ten 
years. Hmm, Ah suppose it mounts up now Ah reckons on it. Never done 
that afores. Yep, coulda been a hunnerd now Ah tallies them up. Tell ye 
the truth, Ah don't give a pig's nipple. 

That damn wife was the first t' go. All that bitchin an hollerin. Way
too much fer a backwoods boy like me t' be a-suff'rin. Chopped her up 
in the kitchen like kindlin. Place looked like one of ole Crazy Bob's 
paintins afores Ah cleaned up. 

That's when Ah got the taste. 

Had them meaty thighs o' hers with me down at ma still. Supposed t' be
goin in the river. Then Ah thought Ah might burn one on the still fire, 
likes. Just t' see what happened. 

Looked kinda good a-spittin an a-bubblin in there. Roasted up a treat.
Smelled dee-licious! Damn if it didn't burn ma tongue! Tasted fine 
though. Had the rest o' her with that real nice mustard sauce she made. 
Got me a whole shelf o' the stuff. 

Folks at the shacks knowd Ah had offed her, likes. But nobody talks
round here. Them Po-leece never come t' these backwoods anyhows. Not if 
they ever wants t' leave again that is. 

Took me out a-roamin after that. Stayin away from the shack fer weeks.
Just a-lookin. A-lookin fer city types. Found lots. Type that wants a 
taste o' the woods. Well Ah sure got a taste o' them. 

Like them two plump campin gals. Hell you'd need a mule train t' haul
all that fancy shit they had. They don't need it no mores. Drew the 
veil back on their worst nitemares afores they roasted. Tasted damn 
fine with that mustard sauce. Specially after Ah added ma own stuffin. 

Found me lotsa hobos on ma travels. Dirty sons a bitches. Sprayed 'em
clean with ma twelve gauge. Never ate 'em though. No tellin what shit 
them useless bastards was carryin. 

The years drifted by an so did I. From ma shack into the woods. Lived
off the fat o' the the fat fuckers that wandered in. Suppose 
that's when the numbers started mountin. Wasn't keepin no tally nor 
nothin. Killin an eatin 'em, well Ah suppose it could've gone on fer 
ever. Till the bastards caught me. 

How in the fuck did Ah know she was a Senator's daughter? Bitch kept
screamin she was. Still, Ah reckon folks'll say just about anythin when 
they're starin up them nigger nose holes on a twelve gauge. 

They was just another two city types havin a weekend in the woods. Their
last weekend. Real purty gal an her purty boyfriend. Made her watch 
when Ah reamed him. “Squeal like a pig, boy!” Man, he surely did. 

Took awhiles with her. Like Ah said, real purty she was. Tasted purty as
well. Even without no mustard sauce on accounts it was all long gone by 

Turns out she was tellin the truth ‘bout bein a Senator's daughter.
Wasn't just any ole Senator neithers. Seems him an the Pres'dent was 
jug-drinkin buddies. Sheet! 

Them fuckin backwoods was soon crawlin with Mr Nash'nal Guard. All over
the place they was like fire ants on a bear hide. 

Snucked up on me when Ah was a-crappin. Ma pants an ma guard was down.
Fella said he'd blow ma balls off if Ah so much as farted. Good job Ah 
hadn't eaten no beans. 

They sentenced me t' be hung. Hung'd by the neck. Had me a good run so
Ah don't give no fuck. Man's gotta go sometimes. Ah spit up their ass. 

Judge asked if'n Ah had any regrets. Told him yeah. That Ah regretted
not havin no mustard sauce when Ah ate that last gal. He he he! Helluva 
commotion over that! 

Down in Death Row fer weeks Ah was. Just a-settin there afore they
finally had the balls t' hung me. 'Ventually the Priest came in so Ah 
knew the time was a-nearin. Then ma kin dropped by an Ah knew that was 

Here's a giggle fer ye though. Ma last eatin. Told me Ah could have
anythins. So Ah asked fer steak. Nice fat juicy steak. Right off a fat 
juicy gal's ass! Guards were whoopin an hollerin when they heard that! 
Gave me steak anyhows. Off a fat juicy cow's ass. Still, least Ah had 
me some mustard sauce. 

Well like Ah was sayin earlier, the hungin didn't hurt me none. How
comes? Cos Ah can fall dead asleep in three minutes flat. Lotsa folks 
timed me back at the shacks. Snorin Ah was in three. Bin doin it since 
Ah was a kid. 

So afores they put the hood on me Ah gives the Priest the big sob story.
Real good it was too. That Ah needed five minutes t' talk with the Good 
Lord in private. Explain maself, like. Pray fer ma 'mortal soul. Beg 
His fergiveness. Fergiveness ma ass. 

They fell for it. Guard puts the hood on me an they gives me five
minutes. Three minutes later Ah'm asleep. A-softly snorin an a-snoozin 
like a babe. So Ah was a-snorin when they hung'd me! 

Know what? The sound o' that lever a-crashin an me a-droppin – hell,
didn't even wake me. 


The last time Edna Kak had any kind of sexual experience was when she
was abducted by aliens for three days and gently but thoroughly anally 
probed whilst strapped down on a comfortable examination couch on their 
Ship. How she had loved it! Three days of constant blissful anally 
induced orgasms all brought on by those thick probing alien tentacles. 

Why an obviously very advanced species had travelled from some distant
galaxy to explore an Earthling's asshole as they reportedly did on a 
regular basis never entered Edna's mind. But the pleasure did. Again 
and again and again. 

Three days of dream come true orgasms was a miracle for a seriously ugly
fucker like Edna. Late forties and an already wrinkled flabby hag. 
Missing teeth. A squint. A strong hint of a dark moustache which 
remained loyal despite repeated determined efforts to get rid of it. 

But oh how Edna craved to be fucked. And nobody would. Not since her
half-blind uncle in the tool shed and that was thirty five years ago. 

After they had gone, Edna had hung around the woodlands near her Idaho
home where the aliens had abducted her. Day and nite she prowled the 
woods hoping for a repeat but the bastards never came back. 

Not giving up, she researched alien sightings hotspots across the States
on the Net on her laptop and drew up a list of them. Then she sold her 
house and bought a camper van and hung out at them all, one by one. 
Desperate. Hopeful. But fuck all happened. 

She wandered thru remote woodlands, stark naked but she was so ugly that
flowers wilted in disgust as she passed and hungry bears came up and 
sniffed her then loped off. Then she heard on the camper van radio that 
Arthur Lank, the amateur rapist, had escaped from a secure psychiatric 
hospital in Oregon. Edna drove for two days to get there. 

She downloaded his picture and prowled the streets looking for him.
Prowled the nite tenaciously seeking him. She eventually found Arthur 
in a deserted warehouse lying next to an attractive naked store window 
dummy. Both were smoking. 

The dummy had a dreamy smile on its face but probably it looked that way
before Arthur shafted it. He had poked a hole in its lips for the smoke 
and poked a hole in its hole for the poke. Edna stripped and cavorted 
around but Lank remained limp. 

Edna gave up and decided to try her luck with the horny sailor boys down
at the docks, returning after weeks at sea. She hung around offering 
blow jobs for five bucks. That is, she offered them the five bucks. 
Even toothless weather-beaten old mariners snorted in disgust at her. 

Then the miracle happened. Two handsome Italian sailors chatted her up.
Flashed their white teeth and money. Whispered filthy things into her 
welcoming ears. Edna enthusiastically agreed to them all. 

They returned to the camper van and all three got liquored up. Then Edna
stripped and willingly allowed herself to be tied to a chair. Bondage! 
One of her favourite fantasies! 

It was bondage with a difference though. For two hours, the lusty
Italians fucked the arse off each other while she could only watch. 
Salivating. Bastards never laid a finger on her. They untied her and 
left at dawn. Arm in arm and laughing. 

As an absolute last resort, Edna tried ‘Percy Pine's Dating Magazine For
Ugly Bastards'. She'd seen the advert for it when surfing the Net on 
her laptop. 

Deal was you sent in nude photos and Percy Pine mated you up with an
ugly fucker of the opposite sex. A week later Edna's photos came back 
with ‘Fuck off – too ugly even for us' scrawled over them. 

A weeping Edna decided to end it all. Then thought she'd leave her
carcass, which was unwanted by anyone in life, to someone who might 
want it in death. She decided she'd overdose then leave her body to 
medical research. She sent off for the forms, filled them in and 
returned them. 

At the interview, the handsome young Doctor looked at her then shook his
head and diplomatically declined her offer. Christ, she was even too 
ugly to butcher! 

Edna wrote her suicide note and drove the camper van till she found a
high bridge near a small dusty town. She waddled to the bridge and 
stared over the metal guard rail. It was a long way down to a tangle of 
rocks, boulders and a dried up river bed. 

With difficulty she hauled her flabby carcass over the guard rail and
stood on the narrow ledge. Time to go, Edna. Just as she was about to 
jump, she heard someone approaching and saw an elderly man strolling 
along towards the bridge. White hair, white beard, kindly face. A plug 
of tobacco in his cheek. 

He waved and grinned as he approached then his grin died when he saw her
up close. “Read your note in the camper van,” he drawled. “Y'all fixin 
t' jump?” 

Edna nodded. 

“Here, let me give you a hand over.” 

Edna smiled. An act of kindness just when she needed it most. She let go
the rail and reached out but the old timer ignored her hand and pushed 
her shoulder hard. She flailed the air then fell backwards. 

The old guy leaned over and watched her go. He jetted a stream of black
tobacco juice after her. A few seconds later there was a dull thump as 
her body slammed into the rocks far below. 

“Yep, best thing for it,” the old timer drawled. “Some women are just
way too fuckin ugly t' be alive. Wouldn't have fucked that even if I 
was sittin on Death Row.” 

He turned and strolled on. 


Lookin back on it, I guess not bein liked throughout my entire life
started as a child, when even my imaginary friends wouldn't play with 

Then there was Jack, our dog. Jack was a big friendly labrador who loved
everybody. Except me. He would pick up a golf ball in his mouth an I 
would follow him out to the garden. Jack would roll the ball for me to 
chase an I would run after it. When I turned to bring it back to him, 
Jack was gone. 

Our family were catholic an I helped out at the chapel. Was there for
years. Turns out I was the only altar boy Father McCann didn't abuse. 

As a teenager I had perfect skin – acne refused to visit me. I tried
different drugs – none of them agreed with me. On Proms Night I asked 
the ugliest girl in the school to go – she turned me down. 

When I left home I started work in a bank as a teller. In a week nobody
came to my window an I was fired. 

A hypnotist came to my flat to try an help me. Said he'd put me under an
find out why I was so disliked. We chatted a while then he put me into 
a trance. Half an hour later I came to, lyin on the sofa. The apartment 
door was open an he was gone. 

In desperation I phoned the Samaritans but every time I called they put
me on hold. 

Although I knew the dangers I was so desperate for company I got one of
them Ouija boards just to try an make contact with someone. Set the 
board up an sat there with my finger on an upturned whiskey glass. 
Asked if there was anyone there. The glass started movin right away an 
spelled the name of this notorious evil spirit whom I knew had 
possessed people before. He told me to fuck off. 

I decided to end it all an jump off a high bridge. The cops sent up a
trained counsellor to talk me out of it. He spoke to me for a good 
twenty minutes then he jumped. 

I gave up after that an joined one of those orders where the monks take
a vow of silence. I was only there a couple of days when all the monks 
started talkin to each other. But not to me. They kicked me out. 

Fuck me if I didn't win ten million bucks on the lottery! All over the
TV an the papers I was! I waited an waited an waited but none of my 
family came out the woodwork to ask for a share of the money. 

Got me a brand new computer system and started surfin the Net. I ended
up the only person on Facebook with minus fifty friends. 

Next I bought some expensive equipment an joined a ham radio club.
Started talkin to guys all over the world. Loved it. A week later all 
the bastards changed frequencies. 

Could now afford them high-class expensive hookers. Spent the night with
one and then she accuses me of exposin myself to her. They put me on 
the sex offenders register. A page to myself. 

My big money wasn't helpin so I had another go at endin it all. Took
just enough tablets an dialled 911. Told them what I'd done. Said it 
was a cry for help. Nobody came. 

I decided to become religious an when those guys you can't get rid of
from  Jehovah's Witnesses came knockin I welcomed them in. Two 
clean-cut young men in smart suits. Shiny bibles. After thirty minutes 
chattin they left, despite me pleadin with them to stay. 

As a last resort I decided to get one of them mail order brides. The
ones that are only after your money an your passport. Seems there was a 
postal strike in Russia...then Thailand...then the Philippines. One 
after the other. Or so they said. 

Desperate to be popular I decided to become an impressionist. I picked
someone most folks love. So they'd love me. I chose Elvis. Spent a lot 
on my stage show. Maybe it was the wrong track. Are You Lonesome 
Tonight played as I sat on the toilet in my white jumpsuit, with a 
cheeseburger in my hand, pretendin to have a heart attack. They booed 
me off stage. 

Finally I went to an expensive psychiatrist. After a couple of sessions
he tells me the reason people don't like me is because I'm 
schizophrenic. Told me he could sort me out with some medication. 
Christ, schizophrenia! Dual personality! Somebody else in my head! At 
last I'd have some company! I thanked him an left but didn't take the 
medication he prescribed. 

Guess what. The other guy in my head, the second person - bastard
refuses to talk to me. 


You're brushin your hair in front of the mirror the curves on your body
are makin me shiver. 

You're turnin me on I know that you know it I try to be cool try not to
show it. 

You're only fifteen but act so much bolder so what do I do wait till
you're older? 

My little jail bait little jail bait, my little jail bait little jail

I light up a smoke mouth's gettin dryer you bend down for somethin your
skirt's gettin higher. 

I look at your legs hope you don't see but those come-to-bed eyes glance
over at me. 

Yeah you know what I'm thinkin hey I can hardly disguise the way that
I'm starin with these hard-on eyes. 

I know that you want it know you're on fire you got the body I got the

My little jail bait little jail bait, my little jail bait little jail

I'm out of control you sweet little mover I hold out my hand you smile
an come over. 

You sit on my knee my body is shakin your body is hot for some sweet

I flick out the light hands they start roamin I'm already hard you're
already moanin. 

My little jail bait little jail bait, with the come-to-bed eyes
come-to-bed eyes, warm silky thighs warm silky thighs, my little jail 
bait little jail bait, my little jail bait little jail bait.


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