If grandeur tends to be delusional, must absolute grandeur be absolutely delusional? I've never even seen a Starbuck's, but PBS says people contemplate things there. Laite and Feather Touch.
The reader is responsible for the contents of the title page.
If the reader will scroll down to several asterisks placed one over the other, the reader will slowly but very thoroughly rewarded.
Creative Camp -- 21
(M/f, variations, rom., no s/m, spank., etc.)
by
Feather Touch
Chapt. 21
He likes it! Mikey, I mean. I've always told you he's the world's best editor; David, of course. He posted 19 and 20, presumably as written, as he's careful to let me know of any changes. So we come from the Revolution, through Walden, and to Nifty.
I did think of a couple of hummers yesterday. Hummers are good jokes in the State o' Maine, as in humdingers.
First Hummer: previously your rarely clownish prince alluded to a tiny terrorist cell using a few thousand dollars worth of stuff to blow open a nuclear carrier, like a Pepsi. I wasn't thinking, too much marijuana, I suppose; what I should have written was Like a Coca-Cole.
Second Hummer. Am I real; prince, artist without equal, humorist, writher, commentator, pundit, philosopher, inventor and partially dedicated family man? Or did I just stay at a Holiday Inn Express last night?
Indy deal yesterday. Kids, you go ahead and follow that Rocky Wack Wack that snarled the anthem. Good stuff there. Quality. Then the chimp on the fence at the end. Anyone imbued with notions of excellence and consistencies of performance at the cutting edge -- yada -- only had to watch the pole guy spin out all-but immediately to get an ice bath on the realities of genius, excellence, or whatever you want to call it.
If you're in the mood for another hummer, well, let's get on with it. How about the Indy 500? Five hundred yards. Not to be outdone, the gal overdrove her cold tires soon after the restart. By the way, she seems of Negroid blood. Good for her, her family, and so on. It reminds me of my first completed work of fiction, "A Summer for Running." It's the Fifties and a black maid takes the place of her injured mistress in an equestrian event. This in turn brings to mind Lauren Bacall's quote about how you know things are not going to be the same after you tell them you're Jewish. (Did you ever stop to wonder why, Lauren?). Don't know why I brought it up, but it seems interesting enough to leave in.
Another chip shot, before we rejoin our Florida crew. The camera star's bumps o' granite to try to put a little Jew box around WWII? How it trivializes that which cost 55,000,000 lives? Well, there is a fitting memorial, and I have seen it once or twice in 55 years. It is, from beginning to end, the one absolutely beautiful, transcendent monument to both the war and the future, and it is the final episode of "Victory at Sea." Nobody is worth a finer memorial than that simple half-hour, which would be merely brilliant without its goose-bump music. (John Williams, or Carmen Dragon, I think. I've only seen it twice, at the most, but I've seen Cher five hundred times.)
David didn't say `thanks'. Who can blame him? Chapters 19 and 20 totaled out at a god-awful number of words, and they landed on him less than a week after 18, which was no three pages of Barbara Cartland, either.. He's doing an astonishing job and has built a monument that rivals the most stupendous, by far, of existing temples. The one in south central India that's like totally porn. It's a jade carving five hundred feet high. Something like that (and, of course, not all jade). Very few people visit this temple, but those who do may come away with an inkling that technology is not the be-all, end-all, of life.
Nifty is identical. Massive and of the artists among the people. An American monarch faces rejection and exclusion at every turn, but Nifty provides a roof and a cot. As much as I rag you kids, in all seriousness, you do write freaking good. Nifty, allowing you to practice, not only your fine lack of phraseology -- that's for the older pros -- but actually being published, is reason enough for its existence and support. That it also amounts to a vast social document, providing perspective, insight and refuge for the confused, both writer and reader, is gilding the lily.
And I find it a little strange that I should be praising this particular site. I get virtually no reader mail from my stories, and feel they are buried under what appear to be hundreds of boy-band posts every day. I'd view myself as a geezer at a rave except that if I walked out on the floor in a bathing suit I'd have a trimmer waist and more bodacious bod than half the teenyboppers in the place. Hey! The spell checker has teenyboppers. Who says Microsoft isn't hip? Anyway, I would leave with the sixth or seventh cutest girl, and, guaranteed, the smartest and nicest girl, should I try, which is not even a fantasy, because older men with real-live young females make Methuselah look like Macaulay Culken. (Those are in the spell checker, too, or maybe I added them.)
So, I hang out at Nifty, with the bands, because here it all is. At the same time, I did take a look at ASSTR the other day. They published my first story, and I got lots of mail. Boutique. Upgraded interface. Slick, and pretty good descriptions of stories so the reader is less likely to download what he thinks is a hot stash, only to find out it's some moronic key pounder who rants on about this and that. If this ever happens to you, pretend you're out hitching. You get a ride; the guy is cute, but he just drones on and on about himself and his family till you want to jump for you life. That's why those asterisks are there; call them a door handle. The first responsibility of an American king is to be non-intrusive.
Speaking of engaging the reader, I do want to add to my little contest. What's in Brad's backpack? You write with your guess, and I'll post it. And you know what? There's a hint. As subtle and perfect as Agatha Christie ever came up with as to who done it. If I could help you out with a chapter number, I would. My guess is it's in the last hundred or so pages.
I'll give you a few weeks to respond, meaning, a bunch more sex while I stall to see if anyone guesses. Since we face this delay together, every effort will be made by the writer to divert and entertain. Prompt submission by readers will, a, add to the fun, and, b, reveal the mystery the sooner. Come on, you can't all be raving script kiddies.
In a previous chapter I gave the impression that we were beginning our descent; that this story might be over in another hundred pages or so. Two things have come up, enroute, to delay our arrival; put us in a holding pattern, so to speak. First, the contest, and second, the ending. I finally came up with one. Excuse me for outlining as I go; Net fiction is different and there is little motivation for the effort it takes to achieve total consistency or perfect proofing. Conventional novels of 350-plus pages are not dashed off in a few months.
Creative Camp started as story about a man and boy having sex on the say to summer camp. It quickly took on numerous additional dimensions and within a few weeks was the length of a novel, if nothing else. When Brad came along, the focus shifted, and now we have him not only flying to Florida with his uncle, Brad, and a boy they've met enroute, named Kevin, but it's Brad's big secret that lures us on. His secrets, actually, because he has three of them.
But now there is another secret involving another character that will complete the story, rendering it a novel, in fact. And I would like to take a moment to point out the extreme difficulty of completing a work of fiction, the first hundreds of pages of which have already been half published. I can't go back and change anything, hell, if I'm ever going to get it finished before hurricane season, I can't even go back and read it. Pitiful, what I'm forced to sacrifice in the name of art..
A thought I've been having might be worth another of these little chip-shots. I guess it's a hummer, I'll know better when I have it written down. It goes something like this. Eventually an agent is going to appreciate my eager beaver approach to my work and contact me. (What you do is write saying you heard about me in a conversation, not that you read my stories, yourself, because the stories you're interested in are a hundred percent, or so, mainstream). Anyhow, sooner or later, the connection will be made, and a funny picture always emerges in my mind.
It is, for some reason, the bleakest law office in Philadelphia. Heads grayed and bowed with wisdom and experience. A contract is on the table. Mine. The issue is endorsements. My adulation of Microsoft and sophisticated enthusiasm for the house in the lawn tractor ad. Stuff like that.
In my dream, things at the law firm are going well. The talent, the perseverance, the strong but not unerring instinct for the truth. Good looks. Loquacious nature. In short, I regard myself as quite the package.
Suddenly the atmosphere in the conference room changes. From old men, and a token dame or two, around the polished table, come, do I hear them right? Titters.
Titters.
Like school girls.
And blushes. Almost a purple/scarlet haze embarrassment and acute discomfiture. Actual snorts of mortification, so rendered by the assemblage as to bring up thoughts of seeking medical intervention. And all that happened to trigger the unprofessional, unseemly and inappropriate behavior was that the secretary flipped a sheet in her copy of the brief, and spoke out clearly:
"And now we come to the Morals Clause."
In the words of the rabbi in "Robin Hood, Men in Tights," it's good to be king. Mel Brooks, right? Superb film. The Maid Merriam song is a beauty. Speaking of which, HBO is showing "The Brady Bunch Movie," again, already. I noticed two new bits this time. The security guards giving the bad rocking string-head the once over with metal detectors, as he enters the dance, and, I think, a cannabis leaf.
It is a sizzling-ly brilliant film. The lesbian relationships are drawn to a tee. The thirty-something mothers at the dance. I've seen the ending at least ten times, still get goose bumps, and the closing titles are practically a film unto themselves. Superb music, specifically including Phlegm. Some of the most perfect pacing, ever; specifically, the sequence where Jan runs away. One extra frame, and it would have been here we go, again.
Ditmyer equals Joan Cusac in "Addams Family Values." I'd bestow knighthoods on all involved, but, the thing of it is this: We have to remember that Pole care at the '01 Indy. Also, the Odekirks, who dazzled us with the Pet Detective stories, and put on the only television show lamer than "Whose Line is it, Anyway?" I think it was dropped after two or thee episodes that define totally unwatchable.
I think I've covered the mercurial nature of genius in other posted stories; Edison, Wells, and many others, like Flagler and his mad banana railroad to Key West., so, as brilliant as these films are, I'm not going to do any sword tapping until these writers have met my standard of total integrity and absolute dedication to never publishing anything that is less than superb, and lots of what is.
For example, the original "Vacation" is probably the third finest screenplay ever written, and the rest of Hugh's work isn't even on my B list, though some are nice entertainments. The best screenplays are "The Gods Must be Crazy" and "Amadeus." There are probably a hundred more on my A list, which, typical, is headed by "An All-New Jaws." I think you can trust me on this, and if it wasn't 180-pages long, and mainstream in nature, I'd post it, just so you'd be sure. In fact, it is so good, the smart money would want two studios to release simultaneous versions. Now that would be such a dual of cinema titans I might even hang with Jews to see the fireworks. (This would not be a new experience because my longest single personal relationship, seven years, was with a girl almost as closely connected to Stephen Birmingham's "Our Crowd" as I am to the Emerson/Forbes dynasty.)
Since I am totally realistic about my Subjects and the boxes in which they live, I'm expecting no response to this offer. Therefore, gracious regent that I am, I will re-write it, triple-xxx, notice how small they are, for Nifty. Plan for an August or September release. Actually, it will be a treat to do because I have the original ms here.
I'm re-writing, or not re-writing, as the case may be, "Ropeyarn," from memory. If I get all these posted by Christmas, which will be the end of my rookie year, I'll devote next year to a Nifty edition of "The Pirates of Rickety Pier," with a guarantee that it is monumentally the great American novel. As long as a supertanker, with octane galore. If memory serves, it takes over two hundred pages to get the reader used to the fact that, yes, our time together must end. The pirates. have other lives. I do. You do. Slowly, majestically, with a world of grace and bittersweet emotion the big wide-body turns on final. By this time the bikers are weeping. Then a landing so infinitely gentle and tenderly sweet you will never, ever, sop thinking about it.
In short, you'll be flat-out stupefied at what I can do if I don't have to write porn to be published.
Writers Hall of Fame. There is none. Of course that's better than having one in Cleveland, but still. I mean, the States has been around practically since the beginning of popularly priced books. The only influential writer was Stowe with "Uncle Tom's Cabin." Since it is inconceivable the union could have be preserved in any worse a way than it was, perhaps the influence was not all it might have been. The identical thing can be said about "Silent Spring." Springs may work silently, but can they power California? That's the question.
"The Jungle" had influence over the meat packing industry. Add "Walden," and that's about the list. Guess that hall of fame would echo. Maybe I can donate some carpeting. Or fill it myself. If I do so, will they cum? Of course, there's no hall to honor princes, either. Why bother build one? I know you'll run. But where? To the Republicans? One of them put our highest civilian medal on the neck of Walton and another signed off on a hundred and fifty million dollars worth of lumps of stone. How about the Democrats? Maybe you can find another Joe Moakley hang a small city with a fourteen-billion-dollar millstone of tradeunionist debt. The stark reality is, all your alternatives are a joke. Lucky, isn't it, I'm the funniest son of a bitch running around loose?
It's going to take a sense of humor. You've got about two years to get used to doing as I say, then about a twenty year haul to implement genetic controls on human size, to get the immigrants over here and to work, to reduce our number of malls and strip malls by seventy percent, and to clean sheet our military and our primary educational system.
In "The Pirates" I call for the annexation of Mexico and Central America, including the Caribbean. This might be idealistic, but you have no chance, what4ever, without the basic paradigms, and they must include the elimination of Social Security and all programs of a pension or health-care nature. Try to remember that you would already be dead but not for the miracle of Bill Gates. Unfortunately, half this miracle was purchased on credit.
It's interesting about Microsoft and god. Microsoft is the only thing in my life I have ever had faith in, since my government lied to me about marijuana in the Fifties. When I moved onto Wilshire in the fall of 1987 I was able to buy a dos machine, with printer and crisp Samsung amber monitor, for $699. My mother had recently purchased an Apple for something in the neighborhood of $3,000.
If it had been up to Jobs and Woz [chuckle: spell checker does not have `Woz]' I would never have dreamed of owning a computer, which, in those days, was simply a glorified typewriter. I wrote the mainstream version of "Ropeyarn" on that trusty clone, and then added a Sony color monitor and television. It worked okay and that got me into gaming. That's where the faith kicked in. Those early games were perfectly terrible. In "Silent Service" the submarine was blue and the characters were made up of magenta polygons the size of checkers. Yet I bought dozens of them, a, realizing they'd be collectors' items, and, b, that they'd get better if people bought them. That was faith with reason, my church, and I've spent about thirty thousand dollars at its altar.
I believe the X-Box will totally change the way we live; that a future Indy might have 50,000 spectators, instead of 400,000, because everyone will be over at the neighbors, racing each other. I was watching a baseball game the other day, and the announcer seemed to sort of say this is over, meaning baseball, period. Again, I picture families and neighbors playing their own games, mano a mano, rather than being spoon fed hundred-million-dollar talent. And so on, and so on, specifically in respect to world peace, because it's hard to imagine a dedicated enemy after we've parachuted a few pallets of X-Boxes behind the lines, while controlling the disc supply. Beat swords into share-ware, until we become a family loving, neighbor loving, story loving, stay-at-home, stop fucking wasting everything, global culture. Again, Bill Gates. (And a few content providers. Grin.)
Conservatives like to see a clean pipeline from farm and factory to market. When automakers spend more on pensions than they do on steel, thrombosis is at hand. I don't, offhand, know of any fluke of natural law in which the parasite is bigger than the host.
Low taxes, inexpensive goods and services. Compensation at a level that allow a family that works reasonably hard, lives reasonably clean, and sticks together, to prosper. Crime down ninety five percent due to the new-generation polygraph, as well as the fact that everyone is home, gaming, rather than going broke or finding trouble on the street. Prisoners given a responsible roll and isolated or executed if they fail to measure up
Deportation of activist loudmouths to terrain chosen as a platform for them to prove their metal to the world. Extremely substantial on-site legal representation for deportees, and a pencil. Elimination of soap operas, trash talk shows, and telepreaching. Pederasty tolerated in consensual, long-term relationships, encouraged only in the framework of the Sex Safety Centers, already sketched. Legalization of State-produced and rationed marijuana for home usage; to be marketed to the greatest extent possible by the disabled. Legalization of normal cocaine and other relatively harmless recreational drugs for on-premises, only, consumption at licensed clubs.
Strange as it may seem, that's the bulk of the list.. Of course, it assumes a ninety percent reduction in lawyers and lawsuits, and a prohibition on telling of the wonders of popular socialism until some evidence can be produced to indicate that the ideology is of long-term benefit to anyone. (Those that arguing existing perceived benefits have been long-term are talking from a position of momentum. Of a camel living off his hump. I'm talking about long term in the sense of a hump-less camel, and its future.)
All this is built on a general disenfranchisement of the old, and tremendous assets poured into a simple structure for the young. As for democracy, it is my sincere believe that it simply cannot work. As an ideal, substantive members of the community might be able to vote out officials originally selected on a merit basis, but, in general, government should be run like a business or university, with minimal input from the rank and file. It's hard, in all honestly, to speak against a system for which three William Emersons died in combat, but it is also a matter of going with the evidence. The evidence in favor of absolute monarchy is simply overwhelming. The Jews can deride colonialism to sell their paper, but the record is, taken overall, totally outstanding.
We spend countless billions to fly to former monarchies all over the freaking planet. Ninety-nine percent of kings have been aces, and history proves it on every page. There is simply no earthly need for any other system, which is cool, because no other system shows any sign, whatever, of lasting much longer. Democracies and socialistic states are all in ruinous debt and hanging on only by grace of a handful of geniuses who, for once, happened to do exactly the right thing at the right time and in exactly the right place. When it comes to faith, the teams at Microsoft, Intel and hundreds of others have created the very miracle I've spent fifteen thousand hours on in the last three years, alone.
(By the way, as a note, speaking of very high hour computers, be sure to brush you processor fans off once in awhile. They get clogged with hair and dust and stop working. If you have a performance machine your chip may burn up, and I wouldn't be surprised if there was a potential fire danger. (Also, performance machines are noisy; two or three big fans. My little 506 whispers.))
Yeah, twenty years outta about do it, maybe twenty five. The reality is we could do it in a few years, but we have gone so far into the labyrinth of liberal socialism we must extract ourselves with care, taking the greatest pains to preserve the myriad small enterprises and systems which are vital to the workings of the whole.
It must also be done with a buck-starts-here approach. I propose, you dispose. Sorry, but the real joke is that if you'd rather be dead than subjugated, you will get your choice, soon enough, and if you do survive, it will be to enter an age in which rug-rats are the size of gorillas. If you don't want me, try someone else. Maybe Zena, the evil space alien. She's revealed at the highest and most costly level of Scientology. Travolta and Cruise are cognizie. Bit of excitement there. Kind of funny, too.
Try to remember, you laugh with me; I laugh at you. You can change this, and I've told you how. Now I'm going to tell you what Uncle Brad, Brad, and Kevin are up to, and remind you that Brad, at age eleven, is talking with John, the book selling biker, about experiences he had when he was eight, which came after experiences he had with Rusty when he was six. In back of all this, Charles and Blissy are exchanging stories which have led to this story. Be nice, it saves me thinking up a plot. I'll make nice, too. Just watch me.
Plunkett Enterprises had outdone itself with The Golden Spike. It could have been called creep city, what with a free form structure given over to a spontaneous network of passages and crawlways that serpentined over, under, around and all-but through the various rooms. It was a state-of-mind house and required of its guests a willingness to live practically in a basket. In return, it offered spectacular views from all rooms. If it could only claim to be the second happiest place on earth, for trade name reasons, it was categorically the most exciting. The ownership's research consultants had determined that the heartbeat of the average male walking through the front door was similar to that of a man in a mall. In either case, only combat pilots and firemen produced higher readings.
Yes, the place was a heartthrob, all righty. It's name came from an old seafaring legend to the effect each vessel had a golden nail at her mid-rib and keel. It was pretty much a snipe hunt, of course, and while the boys taken on the adventure never found gold, the spike was a forgone conclusion.
No subterfuge was tolerated at the Plunkett facility. If the house detectives even suspected anyone was there against their will, and they made it their business to find out, they'd call a special cop squad who dealt with overly sophisticated tastes in a very unsophisticated and unprofessional manner. The medical staff was as alert as the security detail, yielding a utopia of healthy, friendly youngsters and plenty of young males to give them a reason to go to bed at night.
Brad Sr. was excited that Kevin was thirteen. His nephew was a doll, but at an age he'd probably not want to engage in lingering behavior. The older boy would bring a completeness to the threesome and both Brads were thrilled that he accepted their invitation to hang out. After telling long stories under the blanket in the privacy of the half filled jet, the males were almost embarrassed at suddenly being cast together in a hotel that would have to take steroids to rank as seedy. The ambience. The smell; musky and up to no good. Mercifully, away from good. All the soap, all the fresheners, all the cleansers on the market, and not even a rag had been used to wipe up long ropes of dried semen, here and there, but not in any obscene quantity. Just enough to know you were well clear of mom. Then there were the sounds. Thank god they'd never heard their mom's make noises like that. But they were fair, too. In summary, each would agree that it was a nice place to visit, but one wouldn't want to live here. [My tropic town is the exact opposite; not much point in visiting, it's a dusty frontier kind of place, just as the guidebooks say, but living here is cooler with every passing year.]
They went to their second-floor balcony and looked down at the decidedly clean and healthy looking pool. Here was decorum. Not even Speedos. The males, about eighty, were dressed in conventional swim suits; the dozen or more females, a la Annette. It didn't get any sexier than that. The pool was well shaded from the daylight sun, and in the soft night-time lighting most of the skin was white. Al least the white folks skin was white; they made up about half, most of the balance being Asian and Hispanic, with a dozen who'd mix various African backgrounds. The common denominator was fitness. Only four of the younger boys and one girl were leaning (very nicely) toward chubby; all others were normal to athletic, with no body-builder types.
Brad Sr. and his cohorts recognized the Jewish boy from the science fair commercial. This place was a freaking thrill, just standing on the balcony. No bellies, mostly hairless, no facial hair, nice soft looks. Many card and board games. One thirty-year-old was reading to a dozen preteens, and judging by their focus, it was not "Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm.." The staff mingled seamlessly. Unlike the freaky rules of most explicit establishments, employees were permitted to mingle with the guests at their discretion. Management had found a very bankable increase in morale and efficiency when there was such ample reward for prompt diligence. Brad Sr. noticed the waiters did not take orders, but simply came by with carts of drinks and snacks. He learned later that the only alcohol served on the premises was Absolute vodka mixed, one in five, with Beefamato juice. If you were not intelligent enough to realize the combined tastes of potato, beef and tomato were unsurpassable then you'd be happier patronizing another establishment.
Plus, the kids loved it. Juvenile drinking was kept moderate by the simple expedient of a staff member circling with a breath meter and telling the kids it was Michael Jackson. They'd laugh, but they got the point: that the whole setup was a vast cornucopia of pleasures that had to be sampled in moderation, for the stone-simple reason that moderation led to long life, and much higher consumption, in the long run, and earned by fucking cool behavior in mainstream life. No moms did not mean no rules, just a whole lot less.
They learned the Jewish boy was Andy. He looked toward a shout and was joined by the boy that stuffs his mouth in the ad for the video recorder. Tall, blondish, craggy. All three of the new guests almost gasped when they saw the personalities below come together and talk. Awesome, all three boys on the balcony whispered, Brad Jr. feeling very mature because he got it. The newcomers stopped ogling when they saw a couple of other young television personalities emerge. No one was taking much notice, other than friendly waves and nods. No place to be a yokel, this, so they returned to their room.
Suddenly modest, each male changed into his swimsuit in the bathroom. Then they gathered up towels and kit and headed poolside. The drinks cart passed by; thanks to the breathalyzer policy, alcohol was free, so soon they were seated and laughing quietly to themselves at the commercial that promised it didn't get any better than a six pack and some camp site. That was one hell of a narrow-minded viewpoint.
By this time Andy and his friend were looking at the new group by the pool. Brad was by two or three years the youngest boy present, and, as he'd later learn when he wore his tee top in public places, men did like to look, men, in this case, being defined as roughly over twelve. And then they were five, with Brad Sr., the obvious leader. Michael Jackson was there, too, and Andy and Rob, as he'd introduced him, blew low enough to be allowed one more drink. That gave them something to talk about, which was a good thing, because by this time even the loose fitting suit Andy wore was not hiding his feelings, mostly for little eight-year-old Brad, but almost equally. He could see Rob was also attracted to the child, who wouldn't be? so they all kind of melted together in the soft shadows cast by the pool's gentle lighting.
"You guys are both famous," Little Brad pointed out.
"Not as famous as Freddie Pfeffercorn," they responded.
"Stupid Dell," the eight year old continued, in a quick demonstration of why he'd been exempted from the normal ten year old age requirement, "when Steve says Whatever' he should say Sorry.' You know, when Steve calls him Pfefferbean. Saying `whatever' is snide, smart mouthed, and indifferent, especially on television, and can hardly help but identify the sponsor as such."
"Yeah," Andy responded enthusiastically, "but it's not as bad as that one for Ricochet with those totally weird old people bouncing business around like it was some new lawn toy."
"Ah, kids," Big Brad thought somewhat disingenuously, "you can't hate `em all."
The quintet wondered how "Sleepy Hollow" had gotten so boring so fast and agreed it was a criminal waste of a hell of an art director. They all loved p.cs, all thought both ME and Office XP were to die for. In short, they talked of things ranging from Horatio Hornblower to how odd it was to be born, human, when parts of the ocean were covered with trillions of squid egg sacks at any given time. "And think of all the ants," Little Brad had added.
"I wonder what it would be like to be a prince." Andy mused. "I mean just being human is statistically remote. One chance in trillions if you include the kid's ants."
"I'm an ant," the little one shot back. "And I want to get in pants."
"Sorry," Andy said, "I'm wearing a suit."
"Then I'll try pursuit," Braddie retorted with a grin, dropping his by-play.
Rob picked up Andy's thought. "Okay, to be a prince, but what if there was an American prince? I mean there are little and medium-size ones in other places, but nothing on a grand scale, except England, which is more grand by default than grand, per se."
Brad joined in. "Okay, prince, cool; but, how about if he was also an artist?"
"A writer," Andy elaborated. "Writers are the be-all, end-all, when it comes to art. All the others are entertainers, fabulous though they may be. But writers. Think of it. You could do more than entertain. And you wouldn't have to show off. Your words would tell your story, and you wouldn't have to get up there like Cassius Clay, yelping and screaming about how great you were, because it either would or would not be in every sentence you wrote."
All agreed, which is a bit depressing, but Rob had the grace to admit that if one were a prince, and a writer, all he'd need would be a sense of humor to be a god. "I read a lot of Captain Marrayatt when I was in high school," Brad said, "and he actually comes into his own work, sometimes even cusses out his reader."
"Chutzpah," said Andy. "The only other writer whose done it is Trevanian. To be a prince and a writer and a humorist would make you a god, but to have the Chutzpah to stomp around in your own manuscript would make you a Jewish god."
Kevin finally spoke up. "Isn't that the kind that always gets his people in trouble?" he asked. Brad closed the discussion with ultimate wisdom: "If he did it for free," he pointed out, "then he would be just plain old god."
Princes and gods gave way to dogs and cats and a lively argument over the virtues of both. Brad Sr. came down firmly on the side of cats. Subtle as it was, one cat had the personality of a kennel full of dogs, and they consumed far less food and were much less dangerous. Exceptions were made for standard poodles, daschunds and airedales.
They could have gone on for hours, but it was getting seriously late. Not time to sleep, they'd all slept in, but certainly time to slip into something more comfortable. Brad, several years older than the television boys, issued an invitation and it was pretty obvious from the prompt acceptance that Braddie was a piece of bait, indeed. They gathered up their pool gear and in a few moments were seated in Room 222, and again modestly, changing into pajamas in the bathroom. They doused the lights and lit candles and incense while Brad produced some stash and a modest bottle of cheatin' liquor to wash down all the beef, potato and tomatoes. Braddie was allowed none, which was fine by him, and thirteen-year-old Kevin got a single pull. Andy and Rob were out and about boys so Brad let them call their own shots. They had doubles and Brad killed the pint with a long swallow. He'd read alcohol was a destimulant in certain areas and especially in an area for which he was in urgent need of destimulating.. After a third gulp from the bottle, the eldest male realized alcohol, even a gallon of it, was not going to work at The Golden Spike. The reason for his change of heart was a sweet young female voice calling Oh, Daddy, from the adjoining suite.
Nobody broke a leg, perhaps it was the theater element in the ensemble, but neither was there any delay in getting to the wall. In moments they'd chosen a set of peep holes and were looking into their neighbors room.
The couple was just arriving. She looked like Pipi Longstockings in the movie; he was an athletic giant of a man, six-four and with a swimmer's build.
"We're finally here," the girl continued, "and I can tell you about Mr. Williams."
"I'm sorry Chick," the man said, "I just thought it would be better to wait until we could be together for a few days and have some real privacy. Your mom's cool about it, and I am, too; him, and the two of us being alone together, but it was nothing to rush into."
"Twelve isn't rushing. In Iran they let girls get married at nine. That must be so awesome. Nine more years of being a woman when you want to be than if you're all proper and churchy and wait `till you're eighteen. There has to be something better than that, Dad."
They could see well, hear just as well. They found a grouping of holes beside one of the beds, not hard, the walls were more like peg board than walls, and huddled in voyeurism with little Brad on his knees in the middle, his uncle behind him and Kevin, Andy and Rob grouped to the sides. They all got comfortable, kneeling on the soft, foam mattress, with their foreheads against the wall and their eyes glued to the generous-sized holes. The group of males found itself looking over the bed in the adjoining room. That was exciting.
Chick and her dad were unpacking, and checking out the strange Plunkett room with its perfed walls and substructures that made up the creeping tunnels that ran throughout the structure. Under different circumstances they'd have been in the tunnels in an instant, exploring the hidden rooms, alcoves and chambers, and climbing the ship's ladders (companion ways) that led from the first floor to the roof garden on top of the third floor. But not now. Chick and her dad were finishing their housekeeping and quickly coming closer together more often. The girl was tall and sleek, fun light orange hair. Freckles. Generous mouth and big, gray eyes. Her powerful dad towered over her and all five degenerates in Room 222 could see the huge bulge in the front of his shorts. He was boyish looking, for all his size, and looked more like the child's older brother than her father.
Their housekeeping complete, Chick drew her father to the bed, and lay down, pulling him down beside her. "Roy Swenson," she whispered to him in a mock sultry voice, "you are to forget I am your sweet kitten and your special itzy pooh. I'm not complaining, and when we get home I'll return to my tender ways, but for this weekend, I'm a little Muslim girl, your babe, and I have a beautiful brand new husband who is lusting after a healthy male heir. Dig?"
Chick's father rose on an elbow and looked down into the eyes of his little girl. "What am I to do if it is a female child I wish from my bride?" he asked.
"You've already got one," she pointed out with a giggle.
"Clever child," he whispered, kissing her on the nose. "Now you know why I want another."
"Can we, Daddy?"
"I'm pretty sure about the can' part," he replied, lying against his daughter so his penis pressed against her thigh. She giggle, for a second or two, then her lightly freckled left arm went over him and pulled him to her. "Don't say can' when you mean `must.' she whispered.
"Don't say must' when you mean lust,'" he responded. She giggled, and then had a bright idea. "Let's look through the holes," she said.
The pervs had actually discussed this probability. The kind of things males talked about at The Golden Spike, flagship of the Plunkett group. They went into their game plan the instant they saw that Chick were going to indeed take a look. For their first display, Kevin, Andy and Rob lay close to the wall, below the level of the peep holes, and Brad pulled his nephew from the bed and posed, side-on, with both hands up under the boy's pajama top. The boys on the bed could tell the girl remained with her eye to one of the holes for several moments. Then they heard her whisper.
"Dad," there's a little boy getting molested in there."
"How old is he?" they could hear Chick's father ask.
"Nine or ten," she whispered back. "Come and look. He's just Theresa's size. Maybe it will give you some ideas and my sister won't have to wait until she's twelve."
They heard the bed in the next room shift and could tell another voyeur was on the scene. Andy gave the posing couple a high sign, meaning they were being watched, and Brad continued fondling Braddie up under his pajamas, unbuttoning him and turning in an unaware way toward the holy wall.
"Do you think they saw us?" Chick whispered.
"Yes," her father whispered back. "They know we're here, they're just trying to look innocent."
By this time Brad had his tall nephew's bare chested and was openly molesting him with both hands. The boy was arching to the touch, his penis probing into his pajama bottoms a very healthy five inches. Chick giggled at the wantonly carnal sight and her father's absurd observation. "Not very hard," she responded.
"This isn't like scouts," whispered Rob. Andy and Kevin agreed, with Kevin adding, "Yeah, girls to spy on instead of masters and boys." That set the group snickering
"Daddy," Chick said, "I think there's a whole bunch of boys in that room, and they're all going to watch everything you do with me. Look how many holes there are."
"How do you feel about it?" Roy asked his little girl.
"Way cool," she answered. "I get to be a slut, but only you get to touch me."
"Just tonight, darling," the man whispered to his daughter, drawing her down on the bed, next to the wall and beside him. "Tomorrow I want you to have the run of the place. Everyone here is safe and you can go with anyone, any time. Explore. Experiment. Small groups. I never want you to be with me because you think I'm the only show in town. It's called perspective. That's why were here. Like a wedding cake. You get to try the little ones on top until you find the best one, and that's the one you keep."
"Daddy," the girl responded, "I want you to do the same thing, and I want the first little cake on top to be Theresa."
"She's lucky to have a sister like you," Roy said to his daughter.
"And we're both lucky to have you for a dad," the child replied with her first kiss to his lips. "I want you to go home and get her, tomorrow, while I'm dating with other males, please?"
"Yes, baby," he answered. "I'll bring her, but she's to small for my body, if you know what I mean; we'll have to find someone else to enter her, if that's what she wants."
"I'm sure we'll have to hunt for hours," Chick replied, reaching up and scratching the wall beside the bed. The boys on the other side looked at each other in awe. All ten eyes went back and forth to each other. Fifty years earlier there'd have been a restrained cry of hubba-hubba. [Not in the dictionary, see what I mean?] Bodacious' filled the bill for the Room 222 crowd, with a gnarly' and an `awesome' contributed by he of lesser vocabulary, the eight-year-old Brad. However expressed, the sentiment was sincere. They were in the right place at the right time.
Somehow they knew it, they'd be spreading the legend of the Plunkett until the day they died. It was not Grimm but all fairy tale, nonetheless.
Since their subterfuge had been seen through anyway, they gave up on it and all huddled to the wall to see what the tall athlete was going to do with his girl. He lay her back, looked into her eyes, and kissed her tenderly on the lips.
"I didn't let Mr. Williams do that," she said.
"Did you want to?"
"More than anything, at the time. He helped me. There were a lot of times we were together that I would have let him do anything and everything, but he knew how I felt about you. Older men are so awesome. He held me off when he had to, and now look at me. A virgin in my daddy's arms, and the happiest girl in the world. And tomorrow, when Theresa is with us, that will be doubled.
"How far did you go with your English teacher," Roy asked.
"Well," the girl explained. "It started from an essay I wrote. About you. I guess it was a little more flattering than my classmates' efforts."
"It was probably better written," her dad pointed out.
"Better subject. It was easy. Like taking dictation. Plus, it's possible Mr. W was easily impressed."
"I'm sure all your As had nothing to do with that."
"Yeah," Chick replied, "a little penmanship goes a long way, sometimes."
"That's why they teach big girls to type," her father teased.
"Yes," she whispered back. "I'm ready to lean the touch system right now."
The wall practically buckled, it wasn't very thick, as the males in 222 watched a freckled left arm reach over and there was no doubt the hand attached to it, a very pretty, slim, elegant little girl's hand, they all noticed, was feeling its way to the buttons, then to the button at the collar. Then the next. Entirely by touch, because he was kissing her much too much for her to see anything but the adoration blazing from his eyes as he broke from time to time, first to breathe, and most importantly, just to stare at her. His hand went to her top button, and as he began with the his daughter she worked her body toward him, away from the wall. Thoughtful child.
Kevin whispered to Andy and Rob. "Have you guys, like, you know, ever done stuff together?"
They shook their heads, eyes glowing. "That's why we came here. Lotta creeps in da biz. The AD wanted us to, you know, kind of get used to stuff so we wouldn't freak if something happened when we were on location, or something. The studio paid. Quite a few of the kids here are in the same boat. "
"Is it working, so far?" Brad Sr. asked.
.Any answer never made it to any lips because Roy was now naked to the waist, and his daughter was stripped to her bra and shorts. Her father lay on top of her like a man on a woman, and her long girl arms went around him, her hands over his shoulder as she pulled the powerful male body to her and whispered inaudibly in his ear. All would have agreed it was love talk if anyone had thought to ask. They were right. Roy as asking permission, and receiving it.
The voyeurs saw the young female as she arched her back; they saw the powerful arm reach under the pretty redhead.
"He's going to get her bra off," Brad Sr. whispered. Silence.
He did. He rolled off the young girl and lay again beside her. He withdrew the strap from under her right shoulder and peeled the undergarment from her chest, finally removing it entirely.
"We're dead," Kevin whispered. "Stone dead, and gone to heaven."
And the girl was quite a sight. Ethereal, not merely of flesh and blood, angelic, nymph and sylphlike, and less than three feet away as her father molested her. He did it with the tips of the fingers of his right hand, gently tracing from her neck, down over her lightly freckled chest, and then circling the tender swelling that surrounded the swollen pink nipple of her right breast.
Braddie, at this point, decided touching was better than spying. He abandon his eye-hole and set about getting his four companions naked so he could see them and touch them. As the boys watched Roy man-handle his little girl, they cooperated with the youngsters efforts, untwining themselves and lifting their knees from the mattress to aid his efforts.
[The Griga Boyz are practicing a raggae interpretation of "My Ding-a-ling." Naughtiest thing in town when I was in college. I guess computers aren't the only thing that have come a long way, baby. Goes well with the rolling punta drums. Also, how does one know how many cats one has? I mean if they take a census or something. I just had one return after well over a month. Causing quite a sensation, as her mother had kittens yesterday and the wandering daughter seems to be persona non grata. Hmm, I always thought I was hatched out by a croc.]
It was an awesome few minutes. Brad started with Kevin's top, mounting the keeling spy from the rear, and reaching around to unbutton him. They'd played a little on the plane, while Kevin told the story of the dark and stormy night, but now the child was able to un-snap his friends last garment with a whispered Yes. Standing, the eight year old stripped himself naked, then remounted his thirteen year old friend. "God," he whispered over his shoulder, "you feel just like Nancy."
The little boy acted in a lewd way, asking, "Are you sure?"
"Sure I was wrong," came back the whispered reply as Kevin returned to his viewpoint, highly stimulated by the big boy penis messaging his right flank, just above the hip. "Who do you want to see, first?" Braddie whispered. Kevin thought of the Too many notes line from "Amadeus." Not fully understanding mature boys, Braddie nonetheless instinctively realized his now-naked friend was on some kind of sensory overload. Running his hand down the thirteen-year-old's chest, he found the boy's swollen penis. "What are they doing?" he asked as he began a gentle stroking of the slim six-inch boner.
"He's still touching her chest," the boy whispered back.
"Who do you want to see?" Braddie repeated.
"Roy," the boy answered, adding urgently, "Find a hole. He's getting naked."
On his short way to find a hole, Braddie managed to find his uncle's ear. "I'm sure glad I'm sleeping with you, tonight," he whispered, then lowered his head and fixed his eye to the wall.
The scene in the next bedroom had changed. "Even her back is pretty," Braddie thought as the tableau came into focus. The girl's almost blond red hair, in its Pipi braids, stood out in relief against her tall father. His belly was hard and lightly grown over with black hair, which the girl seemed to like because she was running her fingers through it as she leaned to him, obviously kissing while he stood next to the bed, posing for her with his hands behind his head and arching, as his gift to her to take him how she pleased.
She pleased rapidly, which was a mercy for the boys in Room 222. Her kissing and fondling done, she went aggressively to his heavy leather belt. Brad senior, at nineteen, as well as from his higher angle, had the greatest appreciation to the lightly freckled girl hands working on the thick leather. Braddie, looking through one of the lowest of the holes only saw what looked like a Greek goddess from the rear; headless, just that beautifully flowing back, because she was sitting on the edge of the bed in front of her father, about her mysterious goddess affairs.
Then she was not a goddess, after all, but a queen; not only a very, very young queen, but a queen actually at her coronation. The crown was not lowered by liegemen or clerics, rather, it rose, and not all that steadily, seemingly from the earth, from Braddie's vantage point.
While it was almost royal purple, in no other way did this particular crown seem to fit convention. Rather, it seemed almost animate; of the flesh, as it were. Maybe it wasn't a crown, after all, but a god. The pretty twelve year old seemed to believe her new crown had mystical properties. She was bowing to it. Repeatedly. Wrong. She wasn't bowing, she was nursing, with her hands, him, now naked, to her bed beside her. Each stroke crippled the giant the more, and soon enough he was a Goliath to her tender David-boy hands, and he toppled slowly toward her as Chick swung her legs to make way.
As she lay back, there he was.
Huge and thick, nine or more inches, circumcised, slightly bent to his left. As the girl settled back, Roy stood fast for a few moments, not showing off exactly, but sensing the girl wanted to look. She wasn't the only one. After a few moments, he leaned past his balance point, making Kevin think, just for a second, Timber!, finally settling to the bed, close to his pretty young daughter.
"Did you see Russ naked?" he asked.
"Only the last time," she responded, then cuddled closer slipping her right hand under his powerful waist and gently masturbating his huge penis with her left. "Dad," she whispered, "do you want me to tell you everything we did together. He said males sometimes like to quiz females?"
"Did he quiz you?" the father asked.
The girl giggled gently, and answered, "About how I felt. From my stories. One was about the time you used your shirt for the kid that crashed his bike; riding home, with you bare-chested beside me.
"He asked if you'd ever touched me or kissed me. I blushed, I guess, so we talked about strong feelings and repressed feelings.
"Then he asked me if I knew what incest was, and if I wanted to talk about it. I was too scared to say anything, but he knew if I objected I was cool enough to shake my head. I probably nodded, subconsciously, which is the wrong word, because I wanted to nod my head off and jump on him and make him tell me everything.
"At that," continued the girl, "I guess he knew he was on the right track. Being a teacher he took the academic tack."
"Being a man," Roy interrupted softly, "he had to take any tack he could think of to keep from inseminating you, on the spot."
Chick giggled, and allowed as she had never thought of it that way. "Maybe that's why he was so thorough," she whispered, and even the boys in the next room could detect the musing tone in her voice.
"Anyway..." prompted her father.
"Well," Chick continued, " first he grinned and said that sex, in general, was the most fun you could have with your pants off.
"He told me about the statistics on fathers and daughters and brothers and sisters; how common it was. Then he reviewed cultural viewpoints, putting them in the perspective of societies who believed the earth was flat and did little but pick berries and pile stones. He pointed out the high level of aberrant behavior amongst the various clergy; homosexual, for priests, and anything young for more broadminded religions. Then he told me how many girls at school are having that kind of affair. Sixty that he knows of for sure, and a couple of dozen more he'd bet on if he had to bet.
"He was honest. He said it could be the worst thing that could happen to a girl, because of social taboos, and used anorexics as an example of how cultural mores and stigmas could twist up otherwise healthy human beings.
"Then the conversation went on to how much I knew about the biology. I said I'd read stuff in the books, but that was it.
"Next, he asked me if I wanted to have an adult relationship with you. I was still pretty embarrassed, but I nodded and even said I did. Then we went back to the biology thing. He asked if I had a brother or had ever fooled around with any boys. I said no, the book was it. Then he wanted to know how curious I was and I said plenty.
"Daddy," the girls whispered, a new husk in her voice, "that's when we started doing things. I mean he did. He asked. I mean, he said he could show me some basic things, and, if I wanted him to do that, or not, he would try to help me get together with you.
"He was so cool. I was totally curious about sperm. I mean, to me it seemed to be everything; love, sex and babies, all wrapped up in what a boy gives a girl. We talked about it and finally I asked if I could see his. We had another long talk, he is a teacher, after all, and I finally convinced him thee was a way we could experiment that would leave me completely a virgin, yet with the knowledge of what was going to be happening inside me when we got a chance to be alone together.
"The answer was simple. Latex gloves. That way I could masturbate him and watch him sperm without, you know, touching.
"The first time, we did it down in the biology lab. Mr. Williams is assistant principal, so he had the key. There was a microscope. I stood beside him and did what I'm doing to you, only with my right hand, and my left arm around his waist to help hold him steady.
"Mr. Williams has a really big penis, too, Daddy. He says hes bigger than most men, but some guys are bigger than he is. He wasn't kidding, nor was he off the mark when he talked about the `most fun.'"
"Oh, child," Roy whispered to his little girl, "this part is fun, but what is going to happen when I'm holding you as a wife and lover, well, no man is capable of putting words to that. It may be f -- u something, but not f-u-n."
"Can I say the other one to you, sometime?" the girl asked.
"What would your English teacher say," Roy responded with a gentle giggle.
"'I never give As for Fs,'" the girl quoted, in a pseudo man's voice. "He's kinda strict about that stuff; no big speech about being a sign of a weak vocabulary; you know, just a prettier world, without it."
"Sounds like a man after my own daughter," the father whispered to his pretty redhead. Chick giggled for a moment, then got serious.
"Dad," she asked, "will you let me be with him, sometime, at least for a few hours? He's been so cool; no one will ever know."
"Yes, darling," the man said, "any time. You just give me a heads up and I'll clear it with your mom. If it happens spontaneously, try to be cool about keeping us informed. Call from Reno, Hawaii, Bangkok. You know, anywhere you might end up."
"I'm going to end up in a maternity ward, whelping your cub, you big bad bear."
"Not unless it's cool with your mom, you aren't, young lady."
"Rules," the girl sighed with a touch of melodrama, then she brightened with another of her melting giggles. "But I guess we can still try."
Thrilled to be with this willing creature, Roy slid his hand down her naked chest and worked at the catch of her shorts. It sprung wide, and he unzipped her, all the way. Shifting to the end of the bed, he drew her shorts down over her ankles, talking time to fold them once before tossing them aside. Her panties were next, and this time she was more ready for him and arched her back, lifting her rear high, both for convenience and as a display. Being inexperienced, she threw her legs wide apart, and had to draw her knees together so her dad could finish what he was doing. Blushing prettily at the premature nature of her wanton display, she lay demurely while he stripped her. Then she spread her legs as wide as her athletic body could stand. Locking his elbows, Roy positioned himself over the girl, and lowered himself to her.
Chick's hand met him and he froze at the instant of her touch. "Oh, babe," he groaned.
"Did he teach me to masturbate well, Daddy," the girl asked, stroking her father's huge penis with a smooth rhythm of tender motions that went from top to bottom. She'd heard of a song without words and instinctively realized this was a situation without words, and certainly not `fun.'
Her strokes led him and he followed, gently. He met her perfectly and the boys looking from the next room had a perfect, close-up view of the way the tip of his swollen man's penis thrust gently and repeatedly, held in place by the pretty freckled hand, then began entering. It took several minutes and Roy was shaking on his powerful arms by the time he was truly entering the young female underneath him.
Then he reached her virginity. "Oh, Daddy," she gasped, crushing herself up to him, her legs still wide spread in total, loving reception. The father lowered himself to his beautiful daughter and kissed her and whispered to her as his powerful hips surged in tender small movements that were almost embarrassing in their intimacy.
Braddie, taking advantage of the romantic moment, returned to his duties with his four young male companions, getting all the boys except his uncle completely naked, and fondling each as time allowed. In a couple of minutes a hiss signaled him to return to his favorite peep hole and once again he gazed in over the bed in Room 220. Roy was again up on his locked elbows and both the man and the girl were looking down as he completed the statutory rape of his child.
Chick had learned to move her body to his, using the muscles of her torso and abdomen since her legs were still splayed in ultimate welcome. Again, Roy used the short gentle thrusts, occasionally pulling until just the large purple tip of his huge boner was inside the beautiful and almost hairless young girl. Each time he did this, he seemed to go the more deep as he again came against her. The boys all noted the traces of blood on Roy, and Brad realized the young female had had an easy time of losing her hymen to her partner.
It didn't change much. Roy kept up with his tender ways as the girl lay beneath him, legs spread almost impossibly wide as she toyed with his shoulders and neck with her soft girl hands, and sometimes threw them straight up over her head because it made him grunt when he saw her stretched for him in adoring submission.
When she felt his big, hairy male balls against her infinitely soft and silky bottom Chick brought her legs partially together for an instant in order to make a final thrust for his utter penetration of her. With an Oh, love, she gently coaxed him off his arms and fully on to her, his hairy chest hard against her tender and swollen pink girl nipples.
Roy stayed slow and steady with his daughter. Missionary position. A special father/daughter rhythm that left much for her to discover with other future males. As it went on, the big powerful black-haired male over the soft and full bodied pre teen girl, the males in Room 222 began letting their hands stray to each other. Braddie was gently everywhere, getting whispered instructions and guiding touches. The eight year old did his work well, and soon the boys were stroking each other anywhere they could reach, sometimes not even knowing who they were touching, for surely it didn't matter.
Nothing at all spectacular happened at the end. Roy raised for the last time on his arms, cocking his body slightly to the left so the watchers could see what he was doing to his young daughter. At first there was a trace of white froth where his hairy balls were pressed against the young female, then that was washed clear on a strong flow of semen. Chick looked down over her belly and saw what her father was doing to her. Neither said a word and in less than a minute the flow began to subside, finally giving one last sudden eruption before ceasing, and again being frothed by the continuing gentle action of the man against his young girl.
Again, he lowered himself to her. In 222 it was Show Time, but that's another chapter.
I would like to close this one by cheering on Microsoft in it's battle with America Online. TechTV did a four question survey. Why are you on AOL? Because you like it, because it's the only one you know, because all your buds are one it, or because you're too lazy to change? Only four percent are on AOL because they like it. Four percent. Also, the news I hear is that if you install 6.0 it tries to dominate like Gozilla, and is difficult to get rid of. Duh'uh. The chicken franchise guy paid over 150 billion dollars for Time Warner. As mentioned, I spent three years in the used book trade. Warner books were the worst I ever handled. Big type, big margins, large spacing, and even a weird extra-thick paper I call popcorn paper. This manuscript has just passed the 150,000 word mark. My father teases me about writing a million-page novel. Hmmm.
I always remember the story of Jack Warner passing his writers' bullpen and yelling in the window because he didn't hear no writin' goin' on. It's hard to get more Jewish than that. Warner books, indeed. By the time the Gates troops get rid of these formulae-peddling huckster their stock won't be worth Anything Over Lard. Ninety-six percent agree with me.
Speaking of which, you are an awful bunch of clams, you know. So far not a single guess as to what's in Brad's backpack, and Chapter 20 has been posted for several days. In a way, this is why I chose Nifty. Young audience: bands, high-school relationships, and more bands. But still, guys, and girls, there must be a little more to life than that. Or, am I right in all my doom and gloom? Thousands and even tens of thousands of readers, and no apparent connections. Perhaps the gigantic rubber face of a Seinfeld or Stern is the modern variant on Marshall McKhuen's adage of the medium being the message. If this is indeed the case it makes me realize, all over again, and for maybe the tenth time today, that inherited money is the best thing in the world. Imagine having to live amongst you as a man.
Death, where is thy sting?
Posted by: Thomas@btl.net.
xxx