Chapter 7
"My god, Steve," she panted, "Its leaking like a ruptured fire hose. Don't you ever jackoff, or go to the massage parlor to relive those awful tensions?" she asked.
I gritted my teeth and managed a strained reply.
"Not on working time. Your old man used to though. I sat in the bar, and he'd go for the halfand-half. I saw it once. Terrifying."
Charmane pushed my face out of her tits, and increased her deathgrip on my flailing and flexing central tube. She was curious as to her hubby's habits. Who wouldn't be.
"What's a half-and-half?" she asked, giving me special treatment in the slot of my weenie head with an artful fingernail.
"Oh, its two girls. For a price somewhere in between the cost of hiring them one at a time, you get to be "massaged" by both of them at once. How do you like them apples?" I asked, feeling a tiny, but satisfying wrench of cruelty building up in my system as she expertly massaged the length and height of my manly mast.
"Humph," she said, dropping my dick for a moment to paddle my balls for a while, "Male chauvanist piggery at its height of development, if you ask me. Doesn't it seem like a waste to you too? I mean how many guys do you think can really handle a Woman, a single woman in a satisfactory style? Not many, buddy, believe me. Normally, they squirt once, and that's it, for the night. Very meagre squirts as well, I might add. How are they gonna satisfy two polyorgasmic females at once, eh?" she asked, tweaking the bulb of my flowing fountain.
I didn't want a rehash of her diatribe on the multiple orgasm. The busty vibrator trained beauty was notorious for her cumming ability already. I didn't need to hear more of the same.
"Ever hear of fingers, Charmane? Or tongues?"
"Sure. I've heard all about 'em," she replied, increasing the tempo of her crotchly ministrations in order to seal off my verbal parries, "I've been around a little, Steve. Oh hell yes, I might have been a virgin when I married Nickypooh, but since then, I've had my share. Vacuum cleaner salesmen, clerks at the supermarket, delivery boys from the pharmacy, sailors, lifeguards, you name, I've sampled it. I know what I'm talking about, Steve. I don't have any macho image to support, understand?"
I didn't understand, and of course, I couldn't reply-I was leaking like the hull of the Titanic by now-it was flowing over Charmane's well turned knuckles and down her forearm. All I could manage in the way of a response was a simple grunting. It sufficed. She rapped on.
"You see, Steve," she droned, switching her butt on the couch, and leaning into me, "Nickypooh was and still is a one squirt a night man. To understand what that means to a polyorgasmic pussy like me you have to be able to relate it to your own sickening sexual drives. How 'bout this for example. What if I were to just stop what I'm doing right now and take a nice leisurely yawn, and then go off to the toilet for a few hours? How would you like that action, Steve? How would you like to have me pull that sort of stunt on you, and leave with your plumbing all clogged up with clumps of pressurized cum? That would be awful nasty, wouldn't it?"
She paused, and let go of my twittering dick for a few seconds to let the physical reality seep in it worked like a charm-I started whining like a stuck pig. Mercifully, she gave me a hot chuckle, and replaced her slick fingers on my master control knob and dialed in a nice frequency.
"That is the horrors, isn't it, Stevie? Well, that's exactly what its like for me when Nicky squirts after I've only hit number Two or even number Three. My tubes are clogged, my clit twitches and burns, my flaps are left hanging out to dry and whither, and I feel like an unflushed John. Now you figure it out, deary. You mentioned the use of the tongue and fingers. Fine. Just one problem. It takes a certain amount of skill with those appendages to equal the effect of one average slab of male pork, and most of the fellows I've sampled are far and away mere children when it comes to the fine art of fingers and tongues. There is another approach, however, a very exciting one that often turns the trick without having to resort to the tongue, the vibrator, or the fabled finger."
She grabbed my nose with her free hand, and forced me to stare into her grinning face. I struggled with a reply.
"What might that be?"
"Oh dear," she mocked me, "Must I tell you dirty stories too? Isn't it clear from what I said to Nick when he was interrogating me after the 'attack'?"
"No. Nothing's clear to me Charmane. You're very vague as a matter of plain fact, and I'm get ting a bit tired of it."
Where I mustered the nerve to make such a brash statement I'll never know, but the response it elicited from the broadly grinning and greasy palmed Mrs. Pervis was worth eighteen visits to the Sultan's Helmet.
"Vague, eh?" she said, dropping her greenrouged lids over her blueeyes, "Well, Mr. One Squirt, see how clear I can be when I want to be."
She let go of my arched and thoroughly sopping tool and stood up quickly, popping open her top as she rose, and strutting out to the center of the room, wearing nothing but her heels and her Toreador pants.
"They say on a clear day you can see forever," she laughed, stepping out of the flare-legged Frederick's erection getters, and turning her backside to me. Charmane gave her head a twist, looked over her shoulders at me and winked, and then threw her torso forward, touched her toes, squatted deeply, bringing her hands up to her asscheeks, gave a hard pull, and exposed a polished, gleaming, pink, puckered ring to my sweating eyes.
I bellowed out at the ceiling in primate rectal fixation. Now at last I understood the lack of cooperation we had had from our victims. Now at last I understood why there was never a description of Shitty Dick. I understood why none of the victims ever referred to their "abuser" in hostile terms, how they faked it for him, how they served his purposes when they came into our hands, how they lied for him and protected him.
Charmane ground her butt in an inviting, hypnotic circle, energetically flexing her rectal opening like a great winking pink and brown cow's eye. It seemed to beckon me, calling out for penetration, crying for brutal thrusting, for degrading treatment.
"Look into it, Steve," Charmane whispered, "Isn't it lovely? Doesn't it make you hot looking at it? It's tight, Steve. Christ, you know its got to be tight-it's only been punched one. Once is not enough Steve, not after you've tasted it. What are you waiting for, honey? This is your chance to make your One Squirt do some good. Oh, Christ almighty, get off your ass and lick my butt!"
Commands like that are not easily ignored. Commands on that order are considered carefully, and then instantly obeyed. I hobbled off the couch, tripping over my own slacks, and wound up with my face in Charmane's asshole, nose first.
"Mmmmmmmmmhhh, good eatin'" she whispered, slowly rotating her pink butt, mashing it against my face, slipping the flexing, pinching sphincter over my nose and the pressing back to achieve partial penetration.
I worked with cool instinct. I had been enlightened greatly by her "confession" of anal addiction, and now I had only a single responsibility. The responsibility that I owed to my own shrieking glands and my own hardcore Id-I had the responsibility to spray my wild oats.
The initial repulsion was quickly overcome as Charmane had the presence of mind to keep a clean butt-she had evidently spent many tedious hours in the powder room, polishing, depilitating, deep cleansing, and finally perfuming her exhaust pipe for such treatment. I worked teeth and tongue, wallowing in the nipping, rubbery orifice. It squeaked in freshness against my teeth. I lapped the moist interior of her thighs, and made a trail of hot oral slop all up and down her central cranny, lingering in gourmet heat at the anal aperture, the rosette rectum, the primal pooper-the pinnacle and seat of her arousal.
In one afternoon of sensuous mindlessness, under the brutal ministration of a notorious rapist, Charmane had discovered a whole new erogenous world. Evidently, the wisdom of Shitty Dick was founded upon his choice of unwilling, and highly virginal victims. Their frustrations were heavy cargo for them to carry about with them-when Shitty Dick finally arrived on the scene, it was as if they were liberated and violated in one fell stroke of Chance.
They suffered no guilt-they had not invited him to do his nasty deed-but they did profit grossly from the experience. They had their cake, and ate it too. They were not murdered, only forcefully initiated into novel, sensuous practices-a new zone of zealous titilliation was opened up to them by their encounter with the violent intruder. They profited from the experience by learning a new game that they could use to entice their hubbys and lovers into that Second Effort, that all important Second Squirt.
Great hostility and great hunger motivated me as I worked my tongue up into Charmane's quality intestinal tract. She encouraged me with more verbal hardcore, appealing to the fetishism inherent in my animalistic male soul.
"Deeper, Steve. Pretend its a pussy. Pretend that there's an Oreo cookie in there and you're about two years old and hungry as hell. Get anal Steve. Get into it. Dig for that cookie, baby."
No male needs more than the merest glimmer of verbal stimulus to be turned into a modern model of ancient rape and pillage proficiency at the forced arts. Her words entered my ears, and began to eat away at the civilized sheath of Honky morality that protected the world at large from the Hun within. Images of concentration camps, burning martyrs, fields dessicated by drought, towns immersed in rampaging flood waters filled the area between my ears, and I attacked with renewed zeal.
She enjoyed it. She absolutely was wallowing in the depravity of it all. She called for more brutal, more inventive action.
"Do it, Steve. Do anything you want. I'm on Number Three right now, and they're cumming one right after another. Forget your badge, forget Nick, forget the heat, and forget about Shitty Dick for once."
That was all I needed. A reference to the Source itself-the well spring of Neo-Nazi anality and the Mother of Intestinal Invention. I bit into Charmane's asscheek and drew blood, and then I rose up from the floor and my knees.
I placed my hand on her wet back and gradually trailed upwards, till I had her neck in my grip. I turned her around by the neck, and brought her face a few inches away from my swollen crotch.
"Mmmmmmmm," she moaned, briefly looking up from her cramped posture. God only knows what she saw in my face. Perhaps a gorilla, perhaps an amoeba, perhaps only the merest shadow of the man she had known as the loyal partner of her husband. Whatever she saw, it had a tremendous effect on her appetite, for she immediately set to licking and tonging my sausage like a starved Nazi in a concrete bunker with only his Luger to keep him company.
Charmane was skilled in the oral arts, there's no doubt about that. What puzzled me was why her husband had spent so much time in the massage parlors with such an avid and hungry partner waiting at home. Then it struck me. He had deprived her of her anal arousal. His chickenshit morality prevented him from acting out his Shitty Dick fantasies with her until it was too late, and he had already shortcircuited, probably to the point where he was beyond repair. If only he had known the key to her sensuous nature. Such a waste. I grabbed Charmane's ears, and slipped her eight solid inches, down the gorge, and began to pump furiously.
"Unnnnunghhh" she moaned piteously, enjoying the forced aspects of the pleasant suburban scene nearly as much as myself. I thrashed wildly into her slick throat, loving every minute of it, how she winced and twitched each time the bulbous end of my trained warthog rammed into her vocal chords and caused her to gag and moan again.
I continued to pummel into her head, and when I felt her hands creeping up my butt and beginning, to toy with the fabulously erotic area between my asshole and my dangling eggs, I let go of her ears, and bent slightly to discard the slacks that lay bunched up around my ankles. I used the heel and toe technique to get rid of my shoes, and then, at long last, I was ready for her to return the favor.
I brutally wrenched her off my inflamed pork with my fingers, on her jewel decorated earlobes, and then I spun around, touched my own toes, and screamed at the top of my lungs. "Suck my butt, whore!"
I clamped my eyes shut and waited for the flicking of her tongue across the virulently blistered surface of my prostate. I waited with fingers tearing my own buttcheeks apart for the sweet sensations of her teeth nibbling at my hemorrhoids and lesions. I waited, and I waited, and finally, I heard her giggling like a three year old.
"What the fuck's wrong with you, Charmane?" I asked, "Turnabout's fair play, eh?"
"Are you kidding, Narsky?" she replied, "You think I'm going to touch that Cro-Magnon pit with my dentures? You out of your mind or something?"
I was stunned. I had been at the very height of arousal. I felt like choking her to death, like bawling, like tearing the carpeting up with my teeth.
"What's wrong? I did it for you, now you do it for me."
"Fat chance, Narsky. Once I touch that sick sore of yours with my tongue, everything in your system will squirt out all at once. I'm not wasting my time with a vibrator anymore. I know how to handle you One Squirt cavemen. Jesus Christ, Steve, I can see your fucking prostate from here. It looks like a grapefruit. That's really unhealthy. I don't intend on letting my insides rot like that from frustration. I'm going to have my cums, then you'll have yours."
She was so sure of herself. She was so certain she had the handle on a healthy lifestyle for swinging singles. I'd show her.
I turned around and slapped her across the face with my dick, and liking the sound of wet meat against soft, pink cheek, I grabbed the base of my dick between my fingers and really gave her a going over. She loved it, giggling and laughing, trying to catch my pork in her wide open mouth, lashing out at it with her tongue. It infuriated me. It made me see red. I grabbed for her earlobes again, caught them, and forced her to stand up.
"All right, Ms. Masters and Johnson, turn around and touch your toes. I'm going to drill it up your ass till it pops out of your jaws."
She gave a little snicker of teasing approval, looked at me over her slinky shoulder once again, and bent down, and spread her asscheeks wide as a barn door. I buried myself up to the hilt on the first stroke. It lifted her off the carpets and drove her face into the shag. By the time I was on the first backpeddle, she had a mouth full of shredded carpeting, and was shaking her tail like an exercise machine.
"Deeper, Steve. Touch ground," she called out feebly, relishing the feeling of having her ass stuffed to the brim with spicy warthog flesh. The sight of her and the sound of her moaning approval of my entrance touched off a hailstorm of repressed sensual hatred in my sick system. I began to flail into her rear end with awful, hooking shots to the kidneys. She would remember this anal impalement long after I had gone. She wouldn't be able to flail into her rear end with awful, hooking shots to the kidneys. She wouldn't be able to walk properly for a month if I was to have my way with her.
I placed my palms under her tight belly and lifted her ass higher to get more friction on the backstrokes, and then, when she was adjusted to this position, and was happily rotating in counter motion to my own corkscrewing thrusts, I began to twiddle her dripping clit with both hands. This lit her fire. She went into a true chimpanzee mating frenzy, writhing, umpaled on my ever-swelling snake like a hog on the barbeque rack.
"Ohhhh, fucking Christ, not even He did that! Ohhh, shit, that feels divine, Steve. Rub momma's twat while you ream her asshole. Harder!"
She was again wallowing in it, and I must say, Charnane was the best I'd ever had on the obscene side of life. No one had her imagination, not even the embittered and thoroughly thrashed Wanda at the Sultan's Helmet. Charmane had been brought over the edge of decency by her experience with Shitty Dick, and I had to take my hat off to him, motherfucker that he was.
I cringed deeply at this insight, fully aware that it was this sort of admiration that had ruined Pervis. And now, Christ, I was actually following right in his footsteps, or pricksteps, with his own wife. Shitty Dick had had a powerful effect on the three of us, along with his coundess other victims. It was possible that the man had something going for him, something quite similar to the success some Hollywood producers have in picking and choosing amongst projects to find out Which one strikes the lowest common denominator-the Exorcist Syndrome-the Leukemia Neurosis Syndrome-and the highly profitable Burning Building Syndrome being perfect examples. Shitty Dick preyed upon early toilet training flaws in the community character. Shitty Dick was sharp-he knew the media, and how to use it.
I was in the process of doing my own form of in depth study in media relations-plumbing the wrinkled and contracting matrix of mucus membrances that served as the nutrient bath for my hungry rectal rhino. Just as the fish takes to water, as the bird to the skies, as the Chimpanzee takes to the tallest and most succulent of trees, so I was in my natural, ecological niche-Charmane's twisting rump. It was a place of respite from the contradictions of the working world....
Here there was no shouting, sacrastic Milhaud. Here the scrape racers and the pimpmobiles faded and fragmented into idiot visions of welfare grubbing-cheap wine flowed through the Saturday Night of my mind as my lips thickened, my hair matted and snarled into the primal brillo, and the flavor of warm barbeque sauce wafted up from Charmane's glistening back. The deep, rhythmically syncopated bass notes sounded each time I met with her intestinal tract on my forward passage, and as I slammed into the buried pink cushion of flesh, my niche pinched down cooperatively on the root of my being, and milked away each of my irriating, worldly cares....
It was a kind of wicked epiphany-a unique and bold blending of utter hatred and timeless affection. The semi-forced aspects of our living room antics had more than compensated for Charmane's frustrations-she was beyond counting, beyond the quantitative measure of satisfaction-she let me know it in her subtle verbal style.
"Hose in my asshole, deary. Ohhhhhh, yesss, mmmmmmmmhhhh, sock it to me, flush my butt, spray hot kwats in there, Steve, and put out my fire."
The renewed oral hardcore brought me back out of my hallucination of Negritude and media blitzing, and brought to the surface the ancient, honorable Neanderthal spraying fixation. Charmane wildly rotated her ass, bent over in the football lineman's posture, with left knuckles on the carpet, and right hand free to rip at the opposing tackle. Kindly, instead of flailing her right forearm into the mythical tackle's stubby jaw, she deftly brought her right hand up underneath me, between her legs, and proceeded to twist on my scrotum.
"Shit, fuck, piss, Stevie, they must weigh a good pound and a half. Come on, stud, spray that greasy load!" she commanded, beginning to squeeze and yank on the delicate soft boiled eggs till the pressure in my tubing was unbearable.
The vibration of her skilled fingers on my storehouse of seeds was like the proverbial cold slap in the face. I snarled with depraved meat lust as the gates of my sperm bank slowly parted and the first shock troops began to line up at the rear cargo doors, waiting patiently for their Captain to bellow the fateful command, and the battle cry of the Airborne division-Geronimo.
"Geronimo!" I screamed at the ceiling with eyes clamped shut and teeth bared in primate girl greed, "Geronimo, you slimy sack of shit," I continued, brought to another irrational peak of sensuous imagining by my own lack of inhibition. I planted my feet firmly, wiggled my wet ass, grabbed ahold of Charmane's tight and slippery waist, and then I pulled myself free with one grunting effort.
The popping, slurping noise was music to my ears, music that completely drowned out Charmane's agonized howl of brute frustration.
"Oh, horseshit!" she screamed, with a bitter tear in her voice, "You nauseating, semidysfunctioning asshole. How could you? How could you interrupt such bliss, you chickenshit moron? Stick it back in for God's sake, you sadistic gay lib bastard. I need a hosing so bad I can taste it."
I knew she needed that hosing, but after the One Squirt put downs, after the nearly endless series of castrating innuendos, the sarcastic tirade of polyorgasmic, feminist cliches, I was not about to be told where I should spray. If I have but one squirt to give for my species, I thought, then I alone shall determine which orifice shall receive the blessing.
Accordingly, I took control of the situation in the time-honored fashion, grabbing onto Charmane's reddened earlobes with my dual Monkey Grip, I spun the bad-mouthing bitch over on her back, and then wrenched her partially back up to the kneeling posture. She looked up and gave me big, pleading cow eyes.
"Oh no, Steve," she mumbled, shaking her head as best she could, tossing her blonde locks about in pathetic little quivers of hysteria, "Not that. I can't take it again. It's obscene. It's disgusting. It's the worst kind of macho piggery. I never let Nicky squirt in my face. Please, Steve, think of me as a person, not a sex object...."
I cut her off in midstream with a bellow of laughter. Oh my fucking god, she was begging for a missionary style climax! It would be a great pleasure to deny her the favor. This was to be the ultimate triumph of the one squirt mentality. I snickered and coughed loudly, and began to slap my stained steak across her cheeks as she went into a catatonic babbling.
"Not that Steve. No, anything but the cum shot. I'm not some porno star, willing to take whatever comes up. Not me Steve. I need fulfillment. I need a little tenderness...."
I laughed in her face, and then growing inflamed by her piteous appearance, I pried open her gagging jaws and fed her my drooling helmet. She feebly lapped at it, still shaking her head, trying desperately to pinch off her nostrils with one hand. I was having none of that. I slapped her hand out of the way, and pressed forward, from the knees, snickering as the length of my torpedo sank into her boiler room.
"Narghhphlumph," she gagged as I gyrated my hips and began a teasing, slow withdrawal of the root, fiercely twisting at her earlobes all the time. I reached downward, picked up her limp arm, and stuffed her hand into my crotch. She latched on to my balls with her fingers and began the instinctive squeezing.
The double titillation had a marked effect-my temperature rose another degree or so, and my spray equipment began to boil and bubble in randy readiness. Charmane's unique position allowed her to gauge the closeness of my climax, and she began to secrete bitter tears of hatred and degradation as the tubing stretched out her cheeks and throat. There was nothing she could do now except to speed the inevitable on its course. If I had my druthers, I would have prolonged the agony for hours, forcing her to wolf hot sausage for an interminable length of time, and then finishing her off with both barrels square in the back of the head.
She could surmise my attitude easily enough by the fashion in which I chose to deliver the parting shot. She reacted by planting her free hand in my asscrack, and inserting three full fingers deep into its mysterious and swollen depths-the choice was hers, she opted for the classic rape victim's posture-the best defense is a good offense, let the bastard squirt.
I didn't give a flinging damn anymore. The pressure had built up to the point of complete NeoFascist frenzy. My scrotum felt like twin basketballs in her hot mitt, and the lead Phazer felt like a swollen storm drain buried in her sloshing face. The second her nails began to explore the convoluted surface of my prostate, I let fly, pulling out in mid-contraction to shower her with pints of steaming spinal fluid.
"Nargh," she gasped as the first gusher splattered against her soft pallet and began to recoil and flow out of her flared nostrils and down over her chin. I reveled in the authenticity and grittiness of the classic hardcore tableau. If I had had my presence of mind, and had brought along my SX-70, I could very well have become quite rich and famous from that afternoon. I could have made eightby-ten glossies of the polaroid snaps and sold them under the counter at Adult bookstores the length and breadth of Hollywood Blvd. So classic and terminally debauched was the cum shot that I'm sure each print would have garnered a minimum of ten dollars for me, cash on the barrelhead.
The contractions came one after another, and Charmane soon fell desperately far behind in her ability to wolf the goo down-it flowed down her chin and over her bubbling breasts from out of her mouth and her dribbling nostrils and still it came onward, and out of the end of my uncontrollably pulsing pipe. She was nearly drowning by the time the last curds oozed out of the chewed up end of my sex snout, her hair daintly shimmering with beads of clotted yeech, her hands soaked in it, and her face and torso shimmering with rapidly crusting strings of primeval slop.
I did slow deep knee bends when I was finished, dragging the limp tumor over Charmane's babbling face, allowing her to lap up all of the table scraps she could manage. She wolfed greedily, now pleasantly satisfying the tremendous hunger that had built up in her after the day's exertions. When she was finished, she wiped her chin on the carpet, grabbed one of my socks and scoured inside her nostrils for potentially clogging residues, and then, with a deep sigh, she lay back on the rug and began to twiddle gently at her unused flaps.
I headed straight for the toilet and took a long, very cramped pee, and washed my face. I didn't bother to look in the mirror, deathly afraid of seeing a strange mug staring back at me through a mask of stretched nylon hose. I padded back out into the living room and prepared to dress myself, and head out on the streets in hot pursuit of the anal assailant.
"Why don't you give up, Steve?" Charmane whispered huskily from her posture on the floor, now lying with raised and open flexed legs, one finger making tiny, squirmy noises as it danced upon her grossly distended central nub, "Why don't you just admit it to yourself, that you, Nicky, your boss Milhaud, none of you are any different from Shitty Dick? You're all made out of the same, ass-fucking, baby-raping raw material. Why not just own up to it? Let him go, Steve. He's just acting out all of your sick male fantasies. You need him, Steve, you and the rest of your pathetic, limp pals."
I didn't like the tone of that comment. I should have gotten some wet towels out of the bathroom and tied Charmane up to the lighting fixture on the ceiling and given her a sound thrashing with my belt. I should have, but instead, I snarled, pulled up my slacks, zipped up, and walked over to her barefoot and placed the naked sole of my right foot on her belly and began to press.
"Yeah?" I sneered, "Sez you, baby. I sez Steve Narsky always gets his man. How do you like them apples, baby?" I asked, pressing downward for emphasis.
Charmane gagged, and then giggled.
"You're funny, Steve," she laughed, "Such a blatant hyprocrite. Fucking your best friend's wife. Fucking her up the ass, just like the rapist you're trying to catch, and then, to top it all off, forcing her to suck your slimy cock in the final moment. You're sick, Steve, just as sick and dangerous as that guy who nailed me yesterday. You've got no more right to put him in jail than anyone else. You both belong in an institution. Put him under the classification anal, and put yourself in under the oral pigeonhole. Two peas in a pod, if you ask me.
She winked at me, and made the familiar gesture with forefinger and thumb that implied I should go straight to the toilet and whack off. I didn't need that shit, but I was pretty relaxed after the tremendous relief of built up tensions I had just enjoyed, so I didn't follow through with the kick to the gut she deserved. I just sniggered at her.
"Snart, hargrgh," I growled, turning away after lifting my foot off her tight tummy, "You forget, Charmane, this is a business just like any other that I'm in. If I don't deliver the goods, I don't get that fat bonus at the end of the year. If I deliver the goods too soon, then the Department has to make adjustments, and lay fellow workers off. If that happens, I'm a pariah-they'll never let me back on the force. If s a delicate situation, buddy, and my delicate orbs are hanging in the balance, and I don't intend on hanging them out to dry," I finished, pointing at my crotch with a firm finger.
"Well," she replied with a shrug of the shoulders, "I certainly hope they let you keep your balls, even if you can't find your pal and soul brother out there by Friday. But if they lay you off, feel free to come by any time to cry on my shoulder, Stevie."
I slipped on my jacket and sat down to tie my wingtips. I'd be by again, she had nothing to worry about concerning that, but I wanted to pay my return visit on my own terms, not with hung head and tail between my legs. I wanted to return with pride swelling my soul, with Shitty Dick just a notch on my gun butt. She'd receive the hosing of her life when I had my man safely ensconced in his reserved cell on Death Row....