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dexter vandango


Posted Thu Feb 14th, 2008 9:40am Post subject: What God Said to Larry
From a soon-to-be unpublished novel -A salacious story of joyful degradation.

Forgive the length, but such inventive and lascivious antics require lurid detail.

Chapter 18

Closing time at the Bumble Bee was 7:30 but by 7:10 I had already locked the pumps, noted down how many gallons had been sold from each pump, used the twelve-foot dipstick to check how much gas was left in the main tank, counted up the cash in the cash register, emptied the coins from the Nehi machine, the rubber and comb machine and the pay toilets, and locked the money in the floor safe. Two or three customers drove in between 7:10 and 7:30, and appeared highly annoyed when I told them we were sold out. They all drove away muttering to themselves and glaring at me. I guess I was still a lousy liar at that stage. It took Larry and the United Snakes Army a few more years to teach me how to prevaricate convincingly.

By 7:31 I was already six blocks from the station and racing for home. At one point on 14th street, I was pedaling so fast my front tire kept lifting off the ground and I feared I would do a full wheelie and flip over backwards. As I pedaled the gathering twilight was already bringing bats down out of the hills to whirl after mosquitoes under the street lights above my head. When I got home I drove my bike up over the lawn and dropped it into the flower bed next to the porch, and nearly tearing the screen-door from its hinges, I lunged into the house.

"No dinner for me!" I shouted in the general direction of the kitchen as I bounded up the stairs for the bathroom. Running at the bathroom door at full speed, I turned the handle as I did. Unfortunately the door was locked and I ricocheted off after mashing my nose.

Don't let me have a nose bleed or a fat lip, I begged the cruel jester above, as I stood hopping from foot to foot, and then bellowed at the top of my lungs, "Lemme in for Chris'sake! Puhleeese lemme in!"

Hammering on the door with both fists, I could hear the cologne bottles rattling in the medicine cabinet from the pounding.

"Whatta you want?" came my brother's voice from the other side of the door.

"Let me in!" I shouted. "I'm in a hurry!"

"Screw you," said my brother in his brattiest adenoidal sneer.

"Listen, you little bastard," I said as venomously as I could, "if you don't open that door in two seconds flat I'm telling Ma about those magazines taped to the bottom of your sock drawer."

The bolt drew back and the door slowly opened and my brother walked out with as much dignity as he could muster considering that he had to hold up his pants with one hand and conceal the latest copy of "Volleyball for Sun Worshippers" under his sweater with the other.

"Fink," he said as he waddled by, looking very much like Napoleon returning vanquished and hemorrhoidal from Moscow.

Rushing into the bathroom, I threw off my clothes and took a 28-second shower, dried off, and then tried to shave as fast as possible without slicing the heads off too many pimples. Botching the job and bleeding profusely, I cursed and ran into my bedroom and put on my brown and yellow checked sports jacket and my brown corduroy pants. One of my brown dress shoes was in the closet and after a frenzied search its mate was found floating in the aquarium. Making a mental note to choke my brother for ten or fifteen minutes in the morning, I slipped on the half-soaked shoe and squished and squashed down the hall to the closet. Dragging out the vacuum cleaner I plugged it in and vacuumed my hair of dandruff as I had no time to wash and dry it. Finishing, I threw the machine back in the closet and leaped for the stairs which I took in one bound. When I landed down at the foot of the stairs the wet shoe squirted water straight up my pant leg, almost to my knee.

"Jesus Christ on a pogo-stick!" I yelled.

"Peace be with you, too," said my father from the living room.

Looking at my watch, I groaned. It was three minutes past eight. I lunged out the door, and mounting my bicycle, I tore up twelve yards of sweet peas as I pumped furiously in the direction of the street.

The bats were still whirling and diving after bugs under the street lights and I knew from past observation that their flapping was totally silent, but that night, however, the pound-ing of my heart and my wheezing and gasping for oxygen as I pumped my bicycle, seemed to synchronize with the beating of their wings, giving them a World War I soundtrack, like little Tigermoths and Sopwith Camels chugging through the air, motors backfiring and sputtering.

Hoping that my deodorant would stand the strain, I doubled my speed and turned onto the main drag, leaning far over the handlebars as I pumped. When I got within fifty yards of the gas station I slammed on the brakes, ran a comb through my hair, and dismounted. Taking a deep breath, I started pushing the bike along as if I had the Dowager Empress on my arm. Puckering, I began whistling, "Que sera sera", hoping to approximate the je ne sais quoi of Fred Astaire.

As I approached the gas station I could see the Buick parked in front of the office and my heart leaped with joy. Oh thank you thank you thank you God, I bowed and scraped inwardly. All religions teach that the creator loves it when his creations grovel, and had I been a Catholic I would have genuflected on hot coals.

Continuing on towards the Buick and fixing my eyes on the distant stars, I resumed my whistling. Whatever will be, will be, I blew, wondering will Will or won't Will?

"Ah, it's the man of the hour," she said when she saw me approaching. "You're late," she added flatly.

"Forgive me, wondrous lady," I said, bowing with full arm sweep, Errol Flynn's Essex in the court of Bette Davis' Elizabeth, "but I paused here and there along the way to search the glorious firmament for appropriate metaphors for the exquisite delicacy of your beauty."

"Did you remember to stop by the drugstore?" she asked.

I looked at her blankly. This was a puzzlement. I had no headache, stomach cramp, infirmity of the limbs, water of the knee, wax of the ear, or ossification of the kidney. Nor had I any longer dandruff of the pate or halitosis of the breath, so far as I was aware. Nor, I hoped, had she.

When she got tired of watching me stand there with that intelligent open-mouthed expression that I'm famous for, she shook her head and told me to get in. I quickly recovered my wits and chained my bike to the number two pump before sliding in next to her. She reeked of enticingly cheap perfume and was wearing another off-the-shoulder blouse, this time a pink number, and I put my arm around her shoulder, marveling again at her silky skin.

"We'd better hurry," she said, looking at her watch. "The cartoons should be finishing now and the picture starting soon."

I was about to suggest that we cancel the picture and head for some desolate spot where I could climb all over her, when my head nearly did a back flip into the back seat as she floored the accelerator and tore out of the gas station. After a minute and thirty-eight seconds, and only running three red lights, we were parked in the Night Owl drive-in. Twelve seconds later the screen credits were over and Annette Funicello and Frankie Avalon, two sterling youths of latin extraction and missing about a half a pound of nose between them, were already tossing a beach ball back and forth, and I was getting a delightfully warm, wet, and well experienced tongue shoved half-way down my throat. This is the life, I thought as I caressed her neck as slowly and as gently as I could. I would blow into her ear later at the appropriate time.

I was just settling down to the tongue fencing when I felt a claw slam down on my crotch like one of those metal talons in the penny arcades that you drop into the glass case full of marbles and trinkets to try to snag a cigarette lighter but never succeed. This girl had succeeded, however, and I let out a yelp.

"My, but you're impetuous, my little snap dragon," I said, panting as I tried to pry her fingers open while hoping for a blessed return of circulation to my former privates. She quickly shifted her grip to my neck and pulled my head down to her and started melting my earwax with lingual stabs that felt like a red-hot poker. I'm not in control here, I said to myself. I could get hurt or at least very seriously bruised.

By then she had yanked off my clip-on tie and was pulling out tufts of my chest hair as she dug for my zipper with her other hand, all the while impaling my ear with her tongue. I was definitely not in control. My carefully planned strategy for subtle seduction had jumped eight steps ahead of schedule and it was obvious that I wasn't going to enjoy her hormonal frenzy unless I seized the initiative. I thought quickly.

"Susy ..ouch! Susy, my dove little leprechaun ..ow! ..let go a sec. Have you heard of the Book of the Kama Sutra?"

She relaxed her grip and removed her tongue from my ear with a popping sound that left my eardrum vibrating for a good thirty seconds, and she looked up at me with questioning eyes.

"What are you talking about? You want to talk about books?" she said peevishly.

"Listen carefully, my pigeon," I whispered, as softly and as seductively as I could so that she had to concentrate to hear me. "Over five thousand years of erotic delights are contained within the Kama Sutra. It's a fully illustrated manual of all the sexual wonders developed and perfected by the maharajas of India in order to satisfy the myriads of lusty concubines they had locked in their harems."

"Speak English," she said skeptically.

"Look," I quickly continued, "these maharajas were sexual supermen. They had to be ..otherwise they would have been torn apart by those frustrated women. You've got to remember that even if a maharaja laid four or five concubines a day it might take him three or four months to get around to them all. So he had to be able to satisfy them so much that they could survive the long wait until the next session."

Her pupils had dilated now. If she buys this, I thought, she'll be putty in my hands instead of the other way round.

"You wouldn't happen to have one of those Kama books, would you?" she asked with a mixture of skepticism and hope.

"Not on me," I answered quickly. "But I do have one at home. Luckily I have memorized the essentials of the book and am quite prepared to reveal to you the innermost secrets of the mystic cult."

She brightened noticeably.

"But first, my darling, I must ask you to swear a solemn oath that you will never pass on the sacred knowledge that I am about to confer.. for if the secrets of the Kama Sutra should

come into the possession of the uninitiated, scenes of unbridled carnality could result with unforeseen consequences. Swear, darling. Promise me."

She raised herself up from the seat on one elbow and put two fingers up like a good scout and swore. This is ludicrous, I thought. Two nights hence she'll be perpetrating whatever I dream up tonight on some other pimpled Romeo.

"Tell me," she prompted. "Tell me!"

"Oh, no, my little pea hen. I'm going to show you.

Raising my head, I peered out of the side windows. The couple in the car on our right were busily engaged in trying to smooch, watch Frankie and Annette, and devour a bucket of pop-corn at the same time. The middle-aged couple in the station wagon on our left were spending most of their time swatting their brats in the back seat and fishing up ice cubes from spilled cups of rootbeer. The coast is clear, I thought. This had better be good.

Meanwhile Susy had started vibrating with anticipation and she grabbed my shirt by the collar and ripped it open and down over my shoulders, popping at least four buttons.

"Now," she moaned. "Hurry!"

"Easy, my concubine," I whispered hoarsely as I pushed her back down on the seat. Then lowering myself gently over her I seized both her wrists in one hand above her head.

"We will begin with the classic opening move called the Bite of the Jewelled Tor-toise."

Lowering my head, I began to nibble at one of her delectable earlobes, pausing every few seconds to let the tension mount, and after a minute or two she was panting and bucking under me, her pelvis thrusting lewdly. I used my free hand to punch her forcefully in the stomach.

"None of that," I said severely. "You must allow me to play upon you like a guru tuning his sitar. The music must flow from the musician to his instrument, and tonight.. you are my instrument."

Lowering my head again, I brushed her lips with mine, careful to pull away when her tongue shot out.

"This next perfection is called the Dance of the Perfumed Butterflies. Stop sticking your tongue out," I reprimanded. Obedient, she retracted it, her breath coming in rasping pants. I again brushed her lips with mine before moving along her cheek to blow little whisps into her ear.

"This is called the Sigh of the Westwind," I explained.

"Jesus, Jesus," she moaned, and started to struggle to free her hands again.

"You must not struggle," I growled, "lest you disrupt the meditative state that is descending upon us."

Quickly dropping my head, I ground my lips to hers, forcing her mouth open and thrusting my tongue down her throat. She gasped and moaned and started bucking her hips up again.

"That's just Ogden tongue fucking. Is that what you want?" I hissed.

"Yes.. I mean no, no!" she wailed, tossing her head, her eyes tightly shut in passionate indecision.

"We will now proceed with the Praise of the Sacred Mountains."

Christ, I thought. Where am I getting all this stuff from?

"Grab hold of the door handle with both hands. Don't let go," I ordered sternly. "I must have both my hands free to perform the next exercise."

She clutched the door handle tightly, knuckles white with exertion, her forehead and upper lip beading with sweat. I was starting to overheat alarmingly too, and I slipped out of my jacket and shrugged off the remains of my tattered shirt.

"And now for the Magic Hills!" I intoned.

"Sacred Mountains," she corrected, still clutching the handle.

"Yes, yes, the Sacred Mountains."

Fumbling briefly with the buttons of her blouse I got it quickly undone. The button holes were three times the size of the buttons. Whether she bought her blouses specially made that way for occasions such as this, or the holes had become grossly enlarged by much frenzied groping, I didn't know and wasn't about to ask. When I had gotten her buttons undone and folded back her blouse, I took a deep breath and whistled softly. She was wearing no bra.

"Holy Himalayas!" I whispered. They were lovely. Two beautiful firm mounds with delicious rosy nipples that seemed to point in different directions, erect and pulsating. I was getting walleyed just looking at them. Now it was my turn to groan as I lowered my head once more and blew a soft stream of warm air, first over one lovely bonbon and then the other. My lips had become as dry as sandpaper and I licked them and then trailed my tongue slowly up the valley between the two trembling plums, careful not to come too close to her nipples.

"Oh, Lord!" she wailed, clutching the door handle tighter.

I then turned my full attention to one throbbing rosebud, extending my tongue to its full length and bending down to give it a tantalizing flick. It vibrated slightly from the caress and stood up even straighter.

"Oh, Daddy, Daddy," she puffed, her hips twisting and churning under me, and I fastened my lips to the luscious nipple, thinking that I had better get on to the nitty gritty before her dry humping made me embarrass myself.

I moved my head back and forth between her breasts, biting, sucking and licking, making them wetter and wetter, amazed at how much sex made me salivate. It is a delicious meal, I told myself.

"Sweet Jesus," said Susy, throwing her head from side to side, "Sweet Jesus," her chest heaving up to my ministrations. Finally she could stand it no longer and she tore her hands from the door handle and seized my ears in a frantic grip, pulling my mouth down to surround one burning mountain. I bit and chewed for all I was worth, eliciting rapturous cries and banshee-like wails.

After a minute or so of trying to withstand her writhing contortions, I had to reach up to disengage her hands from my mangled ears, which were sore and more than slightly swollen after being twisted like dish rags. Christ, I thought. I'm going to be the only blockhead in history to get cauliflower ears from foreplay!

"And now, my gazelle," I whispered hoarsely, "we will prepare for the Entrance of the Python to His Lair."

My overheated teen organs were beginning to feel like a pinball machine gone tilt and I reached between us and unzipped my pants. The sound of my zipper sliding down electrified her, and she stiffened and then resumed vibrating like a tuning fork.

"Yes, the Python," she moaned. "The Python! The Python!"

Resting on the seat along side her, I lifted up her skirt and let my hand play from her knees up to her stomach. The insides of her thighs were like velvet and my breath caught as I noticed with delight the few soft golden strands of hair peeking out from the edges of her panties. By then the windows of the Buick were completely fogged up and the magical smell of aroused maiden was beginning to fill the car like a hypnotic perfume. I inhaled deeply, my senses reeling. The passionate odors emanating from this lusty wench were permeating the car, my clothes and my hair, and I breathed deeply once more and hoped that I wouldn't have to burn my clothes when I got home.

"The Python!" she was moaning again. "The Python!"

Slipping my hand under her luscious bottom, I lifted her hips up slightly, and with the other hand peeled her panties down and off her. They were soaking and I tossed them to the floor, licking my fingers afterwards, my head dizzy from the heady smell of musk in the air. Then I spread her legs gently and lowered my head to blow a stream of warm air that parted the curly golden hairs that glistened at the gate of her pink pavilion. I realized then that I was about to know this girl in the Biblical sense - Moses and the Burning Bush! - and I uttered a silent prayer of thanks to the heavenly benefactor who had thought up sex.

Thrusting out my tongue, I searched for her love button and she gasped and said, "Forget that and come up here. I can't wait. Have you put it on?"

"What?" I said, dazed with throbbing agony. I tried to thrust myself between her thighs but she held them locked behind my ears and crossed her ankles.

"The safe," she moaned. "Have you got it on?"

Oh Christ, I thought. I had forgotten about a rubber. Her knees were rubbing the skin off behind my ears now as her hips made liquid circles on the seat, and I thought desperately.

"I.. I dropped it on the floor," I lied. "I don't think I can find it in the dark."

"Never mind," she grunted, frenzied by the delay. "The glove compartment. There might be some in the glove compartment. Hurry! Hurry!"

I reached in back of me and fumbled the glove compartment open and fished around until my fingers found a strip with three condoms. I tore one of them open, squirting jelly on my pants and cursed. Her hands shot up and wrenched the condom from my fingers and then she rose up on one elbow and rolled the rubber down on my painfully engorged erection with one swift motion before collapsing back on the seat and lifting up her legs to brace her feet on the roof of the car.

"Hurry! Hurry!" she begged.

Throwing myself between her legs I slid into her with one smooth plunge. "OOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHH!" we both said.

She wrapped her arms around my head and started planting kisses all over my forehead and cheeks, her hips pumping like jack hammers, and I knew that I was about to explode like a berserk calliope at any second from the fiery contractions of her furnace. Desperate to prolong the ecstasy I started reciting the pledge of allegiance in my head, careful to enunciate as Miss Brownell had taught. I had just gotten to "..for which it stands.." when I heard the click of the back door opening.

"Oh, Shit!" I said, both panic stricken and angry. The door shut softly again and I looked up to see my good friend and compatriot, Larry Chu, staring benignly down at us from the back seat, his chin resting on the back of our seat.

"It's a lousy movie," he said blandly. "I got lonely. My, that looks invigorating."

Susy was oblivious to the interruption, howling and yelping, tossing her head to and fro and nearly unsaddling me with her pelvic thrusts.

"Buzz off, you yellow devil!" I hissed, trying my best to stay in the groove.

"No racial epithets," Larry chided. "You'd better concentrate on what you're doing," he mused. "She's doing the conga and you're doing the polka or something. You're lousing up the beat."

He was right. Susy had shifted into overdrive and I was plugging along like a Model T with three cylinders misfiring.

"Please fuck off," I pleaded, "or I'm going to shove one of your grandmother's prayer horns up your keester. I swear to Buddha I will!"

"Keester.. Keester!" moaned Susy, as she started tearing off upholstery with the fingernails of her right hand while she gouged bloody furrows in my ass with her left.

"Confucious say," said Larry, "that in the co-mingling of porcupines it is usually one thousand pricks against one. I'll see if there's a blood donor among the audience," and he start-ed to open the door.

"One thousand pricks! One thousand pricks!" Susy bleated.

Just then all hell broke loose. Sirens wailed, tires screeched, dogs barked, car doors slammed and slammed again like thunderclaps all around us, and searchlights strafed the night, poking in and out of cars to illuminate their occupants.

Larry rolled down his window and sat back to watch the ruckus, a look of bemused curiosity on his face. "I think it's a raid," he said.

"Holy shit!" I said and tried to pull out, hoping that whatever was happening wouldn't catch me with my pants down around my ankles and a trojan dangling from my flagstaff. But Susy's grip was too strong and she pulled me back down and in like the first great drop on a rollercoaster.

"WHAAAAAAAA.. Daddy! Daddy!" she gurgled.

"What's happened to romance?" I asked myself as I felt my testicles bouncing against each other in my scrotum like maracas being banged together by an amphetamine-crazed Venezuelan. We're coming whether you like it or not, they were signaling. I was just about to let them have their way when a searing light flashed through the window from the driver's side and right into my eyes. I froze in mid stroke, elbows locked, holding myself up with my palms clutching Susy's breasts.

"Oh, Daddy! Daddy!" she continued to moan.

Had I not been blinded by the light there's a small chance that I might have noticed that her left hand was no longer raking my buttocks, but had groped around and found the Buick's cigarette lighter, depressed it, and removed it when it was glowing red.

"Harder, Daddy! Harder!" she implored. I was just about to let myself go with a final plunging thrust when a voice came from behind the light.

"Well, ain't this a pretty scene," it said, sounding like Wallace Berry gargling rusty razor blades.

I choked at the sound and tried to pull out and had just gotten myself free when I backed into Susy's hand zooming down towards my anus like a kama kazi bomber. When that red-hot lighter hit my sphincter my whole body contracted, forcing all the air from my lungs, and my poor tortured balls came harder then they ever had, before or since, and the condom shot off my penis and jetted out the window where it came to rest with a plop on the brim of the stetson of our town sheriff, Hobart "Bulldog" Bascombe.

"OOh Daaaaadddddyy!" groaned Susy as she orgasmed, too, shuddering spasmodically.

The Sheriff smiled benignly and waited for her to finish, and when she flopped back limply on the seat he said pleasantly, "Hello, child."

Susy twisted her head around like a cornered animal and said, "Oh, Daddy!"

"Evenin', daughter," said the Sheriff.

I heard a sizzling sound and saw in horror that a big drop of semen had dripped out of the condom and off the stetson brim and down onto the tip of Sheriff Bascombe's cigar, putting it out. The Sheriff stared crosseyed at the cigar briefly and then spat it out and grinned at me with a terrible grin that said, You and me, little feller, are gonna have some great fun and games this evenin'.

"Yer Ma told me you were headin' for the lib'ary tah do some studyin', girl. Wha'cha got? A biology test comin' up?"

"Oh, Daddy, really!" she said with an exasperated harumph, and began buttoning her blouse, after which she spun around in her seat with her arms folded resolutely across her lovely chest, totally ignoring her limp panties on the floor. The Sheriff noticed them, though, and saying, my my, he removed his stetson and flicked the rubber off. I quickly but gingerly hiked my pants back over my burning rump and smiled weakly.

"Evening, Sheriff," said Larry from the murk of the back seat.

Surprised, the Sheriff jerked his head around and peered in through Larry's window. An evil smile spread across his lips.

"Well, well. What have we got here? A menagerie twah? Or you some kinda drama critic to the evenin's performance?"

"Oh, no, Sheriff," said Larry earnestly. "They only come out for opening nights."

"Whatter you.. a cheeky chinky comedian?" the bulldog growled.

Larry settled back into his seat and began confidently, "Sheriff, I'll try to explain my somewhat unseemly presence here tonight, although your present humor makes it highly doubtful that you'll buy my story."

"Damn straights," grunted the Sheriff as he pushed his stetson back on with the brim low over his eyes. He stared belligerently at Larry, his eyes trying to bore molten holes through him, but his glare seemed to be refracted and neutralized by Larry's glasses and Larry remained undaunted.

"I was sharing a six-pack of Coor's in a friend's car, although I freely admit I'm under age. To that I plead guilty. And after consuming three or four beverages - it is, I'm sure you'll agree, a rather warm evening - I suddenly felt the call of nature and left the car to urinate."

"Watch yer langwidge round mah dawghter!" Sheriff Bascombe bellowed.

"To relieve myself," Larry corrected.

"That's better," said the Sheriff.

"..And when I finished I was attempting to return to my friend's car when I was thrown into confusion by your men's sudden, and may I say, brilliantly executed raid. Blinded by your searchlights I simply entered the wrong vehicle and had only been sitting here for a half dozen seconds before you arrived." Finished, Larry smiled and folded his hands neatly in his lap.

"Bullshit," whispered the Sheriff.

"Well, that's my story and I'm stuck with it," said Larry happily.

"I got me a version that plays a little better. Wanna hear it? It goes like this. My daughter got took out by the both yez. Maybe this jerkoff in the front seat was pitchin' relief after you had yore shot? Maybe after havin' a chink five minutes later yer hongry agin? My daughter probly knows the answer to that one, only I ain't a gonna ask her. Now git outa mah car," he growled and yanked open the doors, and seizing us by our collars, he dragged us towards a waiting paddy wagon that was filled to overflowing with a menagerie composed of members of Ogden's teen population in various states of deshabille. The occupants of the packed wagon were engaged in a cacophony of wailing, shouting, and cursing.

"Shut up, you monkeys," shouted one of the deputies and pounded on the side of the paddy wagon with his night stick.

The Sheriff then pushed us in and closed the door with a metallic thud that sounded like all the gates of hell slamming shut.

"Take em down town, Marty," he said and walked back to the Buick.

"You drive on down and meet us at the station, honey. I want you to see what happens to naughty children that break the laws of man and God."

She scowled up at him, and twisting the ignition she gunned the engine and barreled out of the drive-in and into the night.

Packed into the wagon like sardines, Ogden's delinquents continued their wailing and gnashing of teeth as the motor started with a low rumble. I found a seat and sat down gingerly, my anus still burning. In my black despair I barely noticed the mixture of aromas that wafted up from my fellow arrestees: sweat, lipstick, popcorn, corndogs, chocolate, gin, mustard, and the musty odor of sex. Most of the girls were trying to straighten their hairdos or reapply makeup that had been smeared by passionate necking, and a few obviously had their brassieres on inside out and even upside down. Some of the boys sat guiltily with hands folded across their laps, apparently trying to hide humiliating stains. Two or three of the sons of the richer section of the community were pounding on the walls of the van and cursing and making threats about lawyers and "All the way to the Supreme Court!" and the like. Larry sat back contentedly in his seat with his arms folded behind his head and his eyes closed, whistling softly up to the ceiling.

"Now I've done it," I moaned. I was fond of moaning. Moaning can be of great solace upon occasion, and I resorted to it frequently. Too frequently of late, I thought.

"Now I've done it," I moaned again.

"What do you mean you, white boy?" said Larry, opening his eyes and grinning. "Now we┬┤ve done it!" he laughed. He was almost rubbing his hands together in perverse anticipation of the rest of the evening's novelties and I could have strangled him on the spot.

"We're going to prison, you blockhead," I whimpered pitifully. "Don't you understand that? ..And for tampering with a sheriff's daughter on top of it!"

Larry examined his nails and mused. "I must say I'm rather surprised at your choice for a sparking companion. I would have thought that the flesh and blood of Bulldog Bascombe would have been off limits to even the most randy young knucklehead ..though I must admit she did seem a jolly playmate."

Just thinking about her made my backside burn. "Oh for Christ's sake, can it, Larry. You know damn well I wouldn't have gotten within eight blocks of her if I'd known who she was!" Putting my face back in my hands I tried to work up a good moan.

"Confucious say, 'Many men put their peepees in places where they wouldn't leave their hankies. Next time get the darlings to show you an I.D. first."

"Shall I ask for a pap smear, too?" I said with what little sarcasm I could muster considering my imminent fate and my prospects for a besmirched and benighted future.

"Aw, Jesus.. Now I've really done it," I said and resumed moaning.

Chapter 19

The paddy wagon rocked back and forth as it sped down Main street, accompanied by four police cars, their sirens screaming viciously. Bulldog Bascombe was really giving us the full treatment. I fervently hoped that reporters from the local paper wouldn't be attracted by the noise, as the last thing I wanted was to step out of the van and into flashing cameras. I could just imagine front page photos of two dozen disheveled teens, trying to cover their faces as they emerged from the paddy wagon, my puss towering above theirs.

Twelve long minutes later the van with its escort of squad cars screeched to a halt in back of the jail and we were let out. The back doors to the jail were then thrown open and the deputies prodded us through with their nightsticks, laughing and jeering at us as we scuffled in. I noted with a sigh of relief the absence of reporters. They were probably all covering the flower show at the Moose' hall.

"Up those stairs," motioned one deputy with his club and we crowded into the stair-well, stepping on each other's feet, the ones in the rear pushing against the ones ahead, the deputies jabbing here and there at the crowd. Larry was just ahead of me while one deputy kept up along side me, ramming his billyclub into my right kidney every few steps.

"Ouch! cut that out," I said. "I'm a diabetic."

"I don't give a good god damn what religion you are," he snarled. "Keep moving."

Upstairs Bulldog Bascombe was already waiting for us. I saw him whisper a few words to a deputy when he spotted Larry and me in the line, and the deputy came over and separated us from the others. We were then marched just behind the motley group, through the doors into a large room that looked like a condemned gymnasium enlivened only by prehistoric coffee stains. Inside the room were two long benches at opposite walls and the boys were told to sit on one bench and the girls the other. And as they sat, the two sexes glared at each other, each side blaming the other for the evening's denouement.

The deputy led Larry and me down to the end of the room, past the others, to an office that was separated from the gym by a glass partition. In the office there was a desk, a filing cabinet, and some chairs. Susy Bascombe was sitting on one chair, filing her nails and cracking gum. We sat down next to her but she didn't even look at us.

"Hey!" said the deputy. "Nobody said that you could sit down. Get up."

We rose slowly to our feet and stared at him.

"Okay. Now you can sit down," he said, grinning sourly, and turning he swaggered out of the room. The door was left open and we could see and hear what was going on in the big room as Bulldog Bascombe stalked in from the hallway and went straight over to the girls.

"All right, you floozies, on yore feet," he growled. The girls stood up, glancing to each other in apprehension, a few trembling visibly.

"I'm just gonna say this once. I want all yer names and addresses and then yer free to go. But listen up and listen good. If me or any of mah men catch any of you sluts in the company of members of the opp'sit sex after 8 p.m. on any night of the week, I'm gonna run ya in and have ya charged with solicitin'. Am I makin' mahself clear?" he bellowed, like a bull about to charge.

The girls' eyes widened and some started sobbing and all grabbed at their neighbor's elbow for comfort.

"Now give yer particulars to the deputies in the other room and go on home to yer parents ..though they don't deserve to have hussies like ya'all for daughters. Go on.. skeedaddle outta here!"

The girls rushed for the door like hens being chased by the barnyard dog and we could hear them chattering to each other as they scurried out.

"If my father found out.. it would kill my poor mother.. he's got a lot of nerve.. that nympho of his.."

The boys sitting on their bench had become visibly relieved by the Sheriff's speech. They had apparently expected something much more severe; the thought of incarceration and bail-bondsmen had been weighing heavily on their minds. It still floated around in mine as I sat wringing my hands.

The Sheriff turned on his heels when the last hussy was out the door and he approached the boys.

"Stand up, you perverts!" he roared, shaking the building and sending a lightbulb suspended above his head to swaying ominously. It looked like a hangman's noose twisting slowly slowly in the wind. The boys jumped to their feet, realizing now that they were unlikely to be let off as easily as the girls. A couple of the louts, again probably the rich kids, tried to put on masks of defiance but failed miserably, their chins trembling noticeably.

Once he had gotten their attention, the Sheriff clasped his hands behind his back and began slowly pacing back and forth in front of the benchful of anxious boys.

"Now, gentlemen," the Sheriff began gently, "let it not be said that Hobart Bascombe does not understand the masculine urge. For indeed I do. Indeed I do. Why, I've got four kids m'self, and would have had more if the wife hadn't wanted that hysterical rectomy. But that's neither here nor there. The point is, that normal bodily yearnin's are nothin' to be ashamed of.."

He whirled around suddenly, lifting his right arm above him and squeezing his fingers together in a ham-like fist.

"..If they're controlled with an iron hand!" he bellowed, sending the lightbulb to swaying again.

"Everythin' I said goes double for you jerkoffs. I will have no fornicatin' in mah town. Is that understood?"

The veins were standing out now on the Sheriff's forehead and it appeared quite possible that he was on the verge of apoplexy. "Is that understood?" he screamed again.

"Yes, Sheriff," the boys chorused, voices up two octaves from sheer fright.

The Sheriff came down off his toes, his face and neck muscles relaxing, and he looked back down at the floor and resumed his pacing, murmuring, "That's good, fellas. That's real good. Ya'all can give yer names and addresses to the deputies fer ya skeedaddle off."

The boys exhaled audibly and started to turn towards the deputies with the note pads waiting in the other room.

"Just a sec," said the Sheriff sweetly. The boys froze in place, glancing at each other again, apprehension rising once more.

"It saddens me to see you boys lookin' so glum. Come on back here and sit a spell."

The young romeos looked at one another, and muttering, shuffled back to the bench.

"Sit down. Make yerselves tah home," said the Sheriff politely. "I purely hates tah see so many gloomy pusses. Indeed I do. What ya'all lack is a song in yore hearts. Forgit all this sex stuff. It's music that soothes the savage beast in man's breast. Yes it is."

The Sheriff resumed his pacing, his eyes on the ceiling. "Now, some of you boys may have noticed me out marchin' with the Shriners' band, two three times a year. I just wanna tell ya somthin'. I'm not out there marchin' in that hot sun just for the pleasure of wearin' a fuckin' fez. No siree. Don't you believe it. But I'm gonna tell ya why I'm out there. It's the music, boys, pure and simple. It's the music. I play the glockenspiel and have done so since I was fourteen years of age. Beautiful instrument, the glockenspiel. Very soulful and expressive."

Some of boys now began to snicker and whisper derisive cracks to their neighbors on the bench until the Sheriff shot them an acid glare.

"Now, fellers," said the Sheriff, smiling benignly once more. "If you'd give yore hearts over tah the music and open up with a song oncet in a while, it's sure as I'm standin' here you'd be better off for it."

In spite of their fear of the Sheriff the boys were openly scowling now.

"All right," said the Sheriff. "All right. I can see we got us some skeptics here. What's yer favorite song?" he said, shifting gears.

The boys turned to one another in confusion, uncertain as to how to respond.

"Come on, boys.. what's yer favorite song?"

"Jailhouse Rock," said one of the rich kids sarcastically from the far end of the bench.

Everyone laughed at this, the Sheriff joining in good naturedly, putting the boys a little more at ease.

"I don't believe I know that one, fellers, though I guess I oughta. What's yer favorite that I do know?"

"Rudolph, the Red Nosed Reindeer," shouted a boy, again from the far end of the bench, obviously emboldened by the Sheriff's sudden affability. After all, affability is better than none. Again everyone laughed, with the Sheriff joining in, looking for all the world like the sweetest ol' teddy bear you ever saw. The deputies who were sitting on chairs in the corners of the room, laughed too, but their laughing had a cruel edge to it that alerted a few of the more perceptive boys and sobered them.

"Good song, fellers, real good song. A fahn choice," said the Sheriff. "I'm proud a ya'all fer pickin' a good clean American song.. and a religious one to boot. It just goes tah show that there's hope for you yet."

The Sheriff's face had become lit by the most angelic of smiles and he seemed to fairly glow with the milk of human kindness. Turning away from the boys, he went over to a desk in the corner and removed a black leather box from the bottom drawer and he put the box down on the desk and opened it. Some of the boys twisted in their seats and craned their necks in an effort to see what the Sheriff was doing, but his body blocked their view. When he did turn around, he held a little brass mallet and he was smacking it into the palm of his left hand and smiling most evilly. Indeed he was. Some of the boys went pale when they saw the mallet and the Sheriff's hideous grin. The hair on one boy's head seemed to stand on end as he made gurgling noises in his throat.

"Rudolph, the Red Nosed Reindeer," repeated the Sheriff in an oily leer, continuing to smack his palm with the brass mallet as he walked up and down in front of the benchful of, by now, thoroughly uncomfortable boys.

"Now, fellers," explained the Sheriff soothingly, "This ain't gonna hurt the tiniest bit. If ya'all cooperate, that is." '

He leered once more, his face resembling some kind of Gestapo insignia. Now the boys were looking decidedly anxious. I had a sudden impulse to interfere on their behalf before they could come to any harm such as contusions, abrasions, concussions, and the like, but I quickly stifled it and remained in my seat, transfixed by the unfolding tableau.

"Sit on yer hands," said the Sheriff. The boys seemed not to understand and remained frozen. "Sit on yore hands!" barked the Sheriff and smacked the mallet loudly into his palm for emphasis.

Now the boys made the transition from anxiety to simple terror. A few started blubbering, others wailing, as they lifted up slightly from the bench and put their hands under their butts. The Sheriff went back to the desk and took something from the top drawer. It looked like a little silver wheel. He walked back over to the end of the bench nearest to us and raised the mallet. The boy on the end closed his eyes tightly and gritted his teeth as the hammer descended cleanly, whacking the boy firmly on the crown. The Sheriff blew several notes on the silver wheel. It was a pitch pipe.

"Yore a D. Stay there." He then moved on to the next boy and rapped him. Again the Sheriff blew a few notes on the pitch pipe, rapping him once more before pronouncing him an A. "You move over two seats."

The Sheriff moved on down the line, rapping and blowing. Some of the boys' heads resonated clearly; others responded like unripe melons being thumped.

"You there. Yore a C. Move up three seats."

The boys that had been rapped were rubbing the tops of their heads and had tears in their eyes.

"Get them hands back under!" yelled the Sheriff and moved down the line. After about ten minutes of rapping, blowing and rearranging the seating pattern, the Sheriff ran up the line whacking each boy sharply on the pate. The sound produced was like that of a series of tin oilcans filled to various levels with water.. hardly bell-like but still a scale.

"Dammit all to hell," said the Sheriff, scowling at the human glockenspiel. "I got me two D's and no F sharp. I'd have me a G major scale if I had an F sharp."

The Sheriff pointed at a boy in hornrims and jerked his thumb in the direction of the deputies. "You go on over there. I don't need two D's."

The boy bolted from the bench and shot over to take refuge in a far corner, massaging his scalp as he ran. The Sheriff glanced around the room, his eyes resting for one moment on the craniums of his deputies before passing on, much to their relief.

"I just gotta have me an F sharp," he muttered and then he spotted us in the office.

"Ah, two candidates for the musicale. Mebee three," he said, scowling at his daughter. "You there, Casanova," he said, motioning to me with his mallet. "Come on over here. Let's see if yer head-bone's talented."

I got up reluctantly and saw Larry trying not to bust a gut with merriment.

"What about him?" I asked, perfectly willing to sacrifice a friend to save my skull.

"Naw," said the Sheriff. "Don't want no chinky music. His head looks like a punkin anyway. Get on over here."

I slunk over to the bench and the Sheriff sat me down between the E and the high G.

"That's right. Sit on yore hands. That's a good feller." The Sheriff raised his mallet expectantly and brought it down sharply. I closed my eyes tightly and winced before the impact made my skull vibrate and my ears ring.

"Bingo!" crowed the Sheriff. "An F sharp! Oh, heavenly glockenspiel! We're lucky tonight, eh boys?"

The boys all turned to me and scowled, muttering vicious threats under their breath as they continued to rub their heads. I was rubbing mine, too. It still hurt like hell. It felt like a smallish anvil had been dropped on it from a passing dirigible.

"All right, boys. Get them hands sat on. Let's run it through one time," said the Sheriff as he advanced on us enthusiastically.

One of the boys on my left wailed, "Sheriff Bascombe, Sheriff Bascombe, you can't play Rudolph, the Red Nosed Reindeer in G major without any extra sharps or flats!"

"What'er you? Beethoven or somebody? Shut up," growled the Sheriff, and proceeded to jump back and forth, like an enormous toad on a hotplate, whacking us on our heads and trying to play the song.

"Ouch! Oooch!" we said, gritting our teeth and wincing from the blows.

"Hush up. Quiet!" said the Sheriff and started again from the beginning. His rhythm was off and it sounded all wrong. We obviously needed a few more heads for the semi-tones.

"Sheeit," he drawled. "This is the most unmusical bunch I ever runned across. You and you," he pointed with his mallet, "When we get to 'had a very shiney nose', open yer mouths when I rap you. That should lower the tone by a half. Let's try it again. And this time think musical."

The deputies were now convulsed with laughter and were slapping each other on their backs and pounding on the walls. One short fat one removed his glasses and was dabbing tears away, his gut shaking like jelly from laughter. "Lawdy mama," he kept saying over and over. "Lawdy mama."

The Sheriff ran it through once more, the chorus of thuds and yelps no more musical than before.

"Tarnation!" he snarled and hurled the mallet into a corner. "Damn!"

When we saw the Sheriff throw the mallet in disgust we all yanked our hands free and began massaging our heads. Some of the boys had tears in their eyes. My eyes were dry as I had been hit only twice but my ears were still ringing and I felt my scalp carefully for lacerations and blood. The guy on my left was moaning, "Oh God Oh God," as he rubbed his head. He had a particularly short crewcut and three sizable goose eggs were visible, like a little pink mountain range pushing up through his blonde hair.

The Sheriff walked over to the corner and picked up the mallet and put it back in its box and put the box and the pitch pipe away in the desk. With his back to us he growled disgustedly, "Go'wan, git."

Exploding off the bench, we hurled ourselves at the door, elbowing and shoving, fighting to get out of that municipal torture chamber. After we had mashed through the doorway and were tromping down the stairs in a mad gallop, I heard the Sheriff's voice carry down the stairwell.

"Oh, Casanova?" he crooned. I was tempted to double my speed and beat it out of the jail for the safety of the street, but the sound of his voice paralyzed me and I froze on the steps, my hand clutching the cold metal banister as the others pushed past.

"Oh, Casanova?" he crooned again.

"Shit, piss, and damnation!" I cursed and turned and slowly climbed the stairs to return to meet my fate. When I got to the room, I thrust my head hesitantly through the door-way in an effort to see if the Sheriff had armed himself with any other musical devices that could be used to inflict pain, prepared to flee if that should be the case.

The Sheriff sat with one lard-like buttock perched on the edge of the gun-metal desk, his left foot touching the floor. He was empty handed. He smiled a tired little smile and waved me over.

"I ain't through with you yet, lover boy. Let's go into the office and talk with yer two playmates."

I trailed behind him, feet dragging, ears ringing, asshole burning, scalp throbbing, and heart breaking. He sat down on the top of the desk and I eased down carefully onto the chair next to the junior sadist, scowling at her as I did so. By then she had graduated to buffing her nails, which now sported a hideous shade of scarlet, which reminded me of my clawed and bleeding rump. She ignored me completely.

"The hour is late and I'm through clownin' so I'm gonna give it to ya straight. You birds are looking at three to five fer stachertery rape. My little Susy here is only fifteen."

My blood ran cold. Goodbye, Ma. Goodbye, Pa. Goodbye, Whitehouse. Goodbye, Wall Street. Hello, Sing Sing. Hello, Alcatraz.

"Oh, Daddy. Quit goin' on," said Susy, shaking her finger under her father's nose. "You know perfectly well I'm seventeen, free, white and of age."

"Not on paper, you ain't. When you wuz about twelve thirteen years old, I noticed how frisky and boy crazy you wuz gettin', so I went over tah city hall and made yore Oncle Carl backdate or frontdate ..or whatever you want to call it.. yore birth certificate. It's notarized proof that yer only fifteen. Any one you can screw I can screw better," Sheriff Bascombe chuckled contentedly.

I held my head in my hands and moaned. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, get me out of here. I'll crawl all the way to Jerusalem on my knees. I'll devote my life to polishing candlesticks in the Vatican.

Larry leaned forward and patted me on the shoulder reassuringly.

"Buck up, slick. With good behavior we could be out in eighteen months."

"No, sir, yer not gonna like the state penitencheery," said the Sheriff as he closed his eyes with pleasure. "No, sir. Hardly a'tal. But them cons up there surely might take a fancy to you two chickens. Yes, sir, tender as you is you might end up bein' right pop'ler.. and end up is the right words for it.. if you catch mah drift." The Sheriff leered maniacally at us as we caught his drift.

"Jesus Jesus," I moaned, my face in my hands, large salty tears trickling down my cheeks and into the corners of my mouth where I licked them away. My anus was on fire again, too. Perhaps it had heard the word "penitentiary" and had connected it with the word "penetration", anticipating the indignities yet to come. I squirmed around in my seat in search of relief and continued to whimper. Larry continued smiling inanely at the Sheriff and patting me on the shoulder.

"Daddy," said the teen vampire, looking up from her nails, "you can really be such a meany sometimes."

The Sheriff blinked his eyes innocently at his daughter and brought the back of his hand up to his brow, like Lillian Gish after reading the foreclosure notice, and he said, "Why child, it wounds me sorely to think that any daughter of mine could b'lieve such a thing about her own dear Daddy. Why, I'm just cut to the quick."

"Bullshit," said she.

The Sheriff held his pose but opened one eye and said, "Langwidge, daughter."

Abruptly turning, he dropped his act and sat forward on the desk, his hands resting on the edge, his short legs dangling.

"Believe me, boys, I really don't like sendin' ya'll up the river and roonin' yore entahr lives. It grieves me deeply. I swear it does. But what else am I tah do with two such hardened delinquents such as yerselves?" He spread his arms wide, appealing to a greater power to solve his dilemma.

"Surely you can understand mah problem?"

I really wished that I could have helped him out, but I couldn't think of a solution.

"Now, if you two were servicemen who had transgressed the civil laws of this county and state," he said, scratching his neck, "I'd have to deal with you differently. It would be up to the military to decide how they wanted to discipline you. No, sir, if you wuz enlisted men I couldn't touch you.. and frankly, boys, I don't know that I'd want to. I've sorta always had a soft spot in mah heart for the gallant men that serve our country."

He was looking up at the ceiling now and we followed his gaze to his invisible flag rippling in the wind.

"See, I understand the pressures our fightin' men are under, an' I know they gotta let off steam oncet in a while, so tah speak. Yes, sir, I sympathize with them."

His eyes suddenly lost their reverent look and hardened.

"But you two birds have got no excuse. Get me?"

Larry and I looked at each other, beginning to get more drift. Larry shrugged his shoulders and winked at me and then turned back to the Sheriff.

"What an amazing coincidence! Why, Sheriff, do you know that if we hadn't been hauled in tonight we would have gone down tomorrow morning to enlist? Isn't that right, Will?"

I could only nod numbly.

"We had been planning it all week, hadn't we, Will? Yes, sir, we were going to march right on down to that recruiting station and sign up for a full hitch. Maybe two. Isn't that right, Will?"

Fresh tears blossomed in the corners of my eyes as I nodded once again. Goodbye college. Hello Fort Bragg.

"It's ironic though, Sheriff," said Larry expansively, "that now instead of serving our country we'll be serving time."

"Why, land o'goshen. You hear that, sugar?" said the Sheriff springing to his feet. "We got us two patriots here. I would never have guessed it for the worl'. It just goes tah show ya how badly you can misjudge a man's character. Here I wuz, all set on sendin' them to the big house up the river, while all along they wuz plannin' tah join the armed forces and give their all for ol' glory. Don't that just melt yore heart, girl?"

He turned back to us with a fatherly smile, basking in the charade, and said, "Boys, I'm proud o' you and prawd o' the great city of Ogden that nurtured you. I want you to go right ahead with yer plans. Ogden's loss will be America's gain. You two fine young men have restored my faith in the youth of this country, and in the bounteous future of this great nation."

Slapping us on our backs and pinching our cheeks, he continued, "Tah show ya just how much faith and pride I have in you two," he exclaimed, spreading his arms in a generous gesture, "I'm gonna pick ya up tomahrra mornin' in my own squad car, personally, and escort ya down to the recruitin' station, where I hope ya'll 'low me the great honor of servin' as wit-ness tah yer swearin' in ceremony."

He rubbed his hands together in glee, his voice oozing honey. "Yes, sir, it'll be a red letter day for me. Won't you be prawd o' yore two soldier boys, darlin'?"

"Bullshit," she said and went back to buffing her nails.

"Langwidge, daughter," he gently chided. "Langwidge."

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dexter vandango


Posted Tue Feb 19th, 2008 7:21pm Post subject: What God Said to Larry
Hey folks - no comments? Venomous remarks? Not enough stamina to read thru to the blood curdling crescendo?

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Posted Sat Jan 24th, 2009 10:51pm Post subject: What God Said to Larry
This is hilarious. Explicit, yes, but done in such a way that the reader can't help but laugh out loud. My daughter wanted to know what was so funny, but she's only 15 and we shelter her from protagonists like yours.

This is a book? I'd love to read it. I can't believe no one's commented on this in an entire year. I still have to read Ch. 19, but I will later on today.

Do you mind if I copy and paste this to another document so an Internetless friend can read it? I promise I won't steal it and use it for nefarious purposes.

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Posted Sat Jan 24th, 2009 11:30pm Post subject: What God Said to Larry
Most enjoyable! Is the full version available?

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Posted Sun Jan 25th, 2009 3:48am Post subject: What God Said to Larry
I wonder if it would be a good idea to bump a few of the older stories up so new people will find them. I suppose anyone could hunt through the older pages, but do a lot of people do this? I've seen some deserving writings that have no or few comments. I know that's hard on a writer - many thrive on feedback.

And Jarus, is your avatar a picture of your MP? I thought I saw a guy who looked like that on a youtube video, but I can't remember the name.

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Posted Sun Jan 25th, 2009 5:37pm Post subject: What God Said to Larry
I wonder if it would be a good idea to bump a few of the older stories up so new people will find them. I suppose anyone could hunt through the older pages, but do a lot of people do this? I've seen some deserving writings that have no or few comments. I know that's hard on a writer - many thrive on feedback.

And Jarus, is your avatar a picture of your MP? I thought I saw a guy who looked like that on a youtube video, but I can't remember the name.

It's Boris Johnson the current Mayor of London and yes I agree it's sad that there isn't more feedback on threads like these.

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Posted Sat Feb 14th, 2009 11:05pm Post subject: What God Said to Larry
It's Boris Johnson

I know next to nothing about him, except what Brian Blessed has taught me: (starts at about 1:50)

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dexter vandango


Posted Sun Feb 15th, 2009 12:50am Post subject: What God Said to Larry
I pour out my clogged heart and shriveled soul in two gut-wrenching chapters and all you limey bastards can do is prattle on and on about Boris the Blow-dried!

Why don't you start a Boris website? Or tattoo his pink and bloodless visage on your left bollock?

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Posted Sun Feb 15th, 2009 10:51am Post subject: What God Said to Larry
I pour out my clogged heart and shriveled soul in two gut-wrenching chapters and all you limey bastards can do is prattle on and on about Boris the Blow-dried!

Terribly sorry! You're absolutely right.

Why don't you start a Boris website? Or tattoo his pink and bloodless visage on your left bollock?

Because that would be stupid, painful and possibly invalidating. The last part, at least.

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dexter vandango


Posted Fri Mar 20th, 2009 6:42pm Post subject: What God Said to Larry
To those of you who've written to me recently to ask for a copy of the whole manuscript, I'll try to get it out to you some time next week.

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dexter vandango


Posted Mon Jun 1st, 2009 11:46am Post subject: What God Said to Larry
Thanks to those for their private feedback.

Much appreciated and glad you liked it.

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Posted Sat Jun 6th, 2009 2:12am Post subject: What God Said to Larry
excellent stuff.

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dexter vandango


Posted Thu Jul 9th, 2009 10:30am Post subject: What God Said to Larry
excellent stuff.

Thanks, Elephant..

..just now noticing your kind words..

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