Date: Mon, 21 May 2001 15:07:36 -0500
From: Tom Emerson <thomas@btl.net>
Subject: Creative Camp - 18

       The reader is responsible for the contents of the title page.

       If you'll scroll down to the stack of asterisks you'll find out why
I put them there.


       Creative Camp - 18

       (M/f, incest.)
       by
       Feather Touch


       Chapt. 18


       And we'll get back to them.  In the meantime, I hear Chapt. 14 is
missing.  Did I forget to write it, or just goof up the numbering?  It's
interesting how mind-sets work.  The other day I searched for 14 and
couldn't fine it, so I thought the search function was flakey.  I mean the
spell checker is, so why wouldn't it be?

       In the army there is k.p., and once on k.p., the grease trap.  At
Microsoft, the grease trap is the grammatical and spelling checkers.  They
are just so odd, idiosyncratic.  If I wasn't far gone in fiction, I would
have saved a list of the strange suggestions from these writers' helpmates.
One I remember is that the spell check file did not have St. Louis, but
does have Farrakhan.  The thesaurus is also spotty.  Mind you, I'm not
complaining.  I don't have even a paperback dictionary in the house, so all
the tools are sensationally helpful, and I've actually come enjoy the
little green lines that often turn a perfectly good sentence into a
grammatical disaster.

       My thought is that you'd better be extremely good at English before
you trust the lettuce lines (well, they are green), and I feel a real pang
of sorrow for anyone who blindly follows Word's frequently comically-wrong
suggestions.  As Lynette Jennings, et al, cause divorces by skewing the
values of home and hearth, so the grammar checker in Word must cause kids
to flunk out of school.  In both cases, the victim is lead down the
primrose path, and, empty headed, doesn't know any better.

       Here's another example, typical of many instances, of the spell
checker in action.  In the next sentence is the word `scenarios.'  It's
underlined in red.  Clicking it, it does not recognize the plural of
scenario, and suggest `scenario's,' or, `scenario us.'  (If I'm wrong on
this, it still serves as an example of dozens of interesting variations on
helping the poor scrivener that occur every day.)  On the other hand, the
dialogue box on XP is very pretty; white, gray and light blue.  The whole
effing package is beautiful.  Sometimes I get a late start at writing just
because I like running my cursor over all the pretty little boxes, watching
then change color, and wondering what they all do.  And something I always
want to mention is how much I like Microsoft's use of Times New Roman and
Ariel.  One has been the standard for well over a century, and Ariel makes
proofing easier because of its stark clarity.  Courier is not a bad third
option; otherwise, by the same principle that there is nothing as ugly as
an ugly boat, there is nothing as ugly as an ugly font.  To me, Apple fonts
have always been globby and unattractive, which is ironic these days when
about all they're selling is translucent packaging and boutique ergonomics.

       Let's see, we just did a big sex chapter.  Anyway, I wrote one.  I
hope I remembered to post it.  So, even though we have a number of
intriguing scenarios in the offing, I think it's high time we got back in
amongst the world's happiest campers, and Charles who is the
not-particularly-well-disguised crown prince of a country in
not-particularly well-disguised trouble.

       The size of future children must be limited through genetically
appropriate artificial insemination, along with strict licensing of
children, in the first place, or in fifty years we are doomed to the most
hideous scenario imaginable.  In one of my other works the formulae is
eight year olds that are six feet tall in thirty years, then, in sixty
years, six year olds that are eight feet tall.  I almost have to write to
that level to exaggerate the problem, and, as I said once before, Stephan
King couldn't capture the horror and misery of two-hundred pound cub
scouts, nor those who must house them, feed them and try to love them.
See, my mandate is not that you like me, nor that you respect me, nor is it
a thing of birth, nor my accomplishments as a writer.  I neither like nor
respect you, so there.  My mandate is simply that there is no possible way
you can survive, without me.

       It might be good here to review Scott and Amundsen.  Scott picked
giants of the earth.  The keg under each arm type.  Amundsen chose wiry,
scrappy builds.  You do not to need to know history to know who returned
from a trip to the South Pole, and who ran out of everything, half way
back.

       Not only do we need rigorous and arbitrary state control over
fertility, we need to be acclimatized, starting very soon, by arbitrary
limits on the size of home computers.  No more than 150 watts, box and
monitor, combined.  The technojoke here is that if this were the standard,
developers would squeeze more out of the 150 watts, year by year, at
exactly the same rate they'll improve software, given unlimited
clock-cycles.  Where the fertility control must be indiscriminate and
absolute, the wattage restriction on personal computers could trigger
luxury taxes for units that exceed the approved norm.  The point is, we've
got to get used to an extreme amount of big-brotherism in our lives, if we
are to survive.  Computers get us used to the chilly slope, then comes
arbitrary size limits on vehicles and homes, finally reaching to excess
consumption in much the same way the state did during WW-II.  Candy, soda
and snack foods should be forbidden by 2009.  Gum by 2003.  Tobacco.  I
don't know, what do you think?  I love my cigarettes, but I pay $1.15 s
pack, where I live.  I have enormous difficulty with imagining myself a
typical family man with a two or three pack a day habit, then the liberal
monsters keep rising the prices.  I honestly believe the expense would be
such a burden and misery, it would cause me to smoke twice as much.  At the
same time, I'm quite sure I would not have enjoyed being raised in a home
with two heavy smokers.  In the end, it may be one of those flip-a-coin
issues; either smoke `em if you got `em, or five years in jail for
possession of tobacco in any form.

        I should note that I was going to cast this chapter in a series of
presentations by various C-Camp boys.  I've decided on a more
straightforward approach, because the end of this chapter is going to so
rattle your cage you'll forget anything that isn't laid out like bricks in
a wall.  If you want, you can spoil your day by skipping ahead, and here
you have an advantage on me.  You're the subjects, and you can read that
for which you have probably been inadequately prepared, while I, your
monarch, cannot, because I haven't yet written it.  If you were having
doubts about a king who was negligent with numbers of entire long chapters,
his inability to do, at all, that which is a quick scroll, for you, might
be bookmarked.  If you think you're being hoodwinked, you get a Dexedrine
high-five for being wide awake.

       So back to the king thing, while I've still got your earlobe pinched
in my fingers.  The country is called Emersonia.  It is named for William
Emerson.  While the pamphleteers were cranking their presses in Boston,
Emerson was walking from church to church, preaching all over New England.
For ten years before the war.  He brought so much gunpowder and ordnance to
Concord, the British marched on the town, starting the war.  He was just as
interested in troops, as he was supplies, and single-handedly organized the
Minute Men.

       One man, one mission, totally documented and cross referenced Even
with his years of ceaseless toil, the Revolution was a close-fought thing.
Without them, it would have been over in a week, for there was no other
group in the colonies dunderheaded enough to take the babble of the
perennial malcontents of roadhouse and tavern out onto the battlefield
where musket balls traveled at seven hundred miles an hour.

       Interestingly, William Emerson's fate was a harbinger of that which
would befall Simon Bolivar.  Bolivar became totally disillusioned over his
South American constitutions; died crushed under his own liberal, populist
heel.  This took years.  William Emerson found the truth of democracy
within months.  He was appointed Chaplain of the Revolution by Washington,
and supervised moving Harvard to his church in Concord, so the troops could
use the Cambridge campus.  Then he joined the march to Ticonderoga.  He
didn't make it half-way.  His parishioners started gambling, cussing,
drinking, and probably partaking of any camp followers they could get their
hands on.  That was his stalwart yeoman and parishioners, cut loose of his
king.  Biff, from the film trilogy.  Reverend Emerson got so angry, he
literally quit and died.  I mean here was a man who walked thousands of
miles a year, suddenly dying of dysentery while traveling with a fast
moving group?  I don't thank it was anything to do with the bowels that
killed him, it was just seeing so quickly, and with his own eyes, how
utterly wrong he was, from soup to nuts.  In any event, die he did, in West
Rutland, and Phoebe never even got a pension, because he'd resigned his
commission.

       So, you democracy hounds, there is the true story of you beginnings.
A lot of drunks, and a man.  He was wrong, The Civil War proves it, if
nothing else, but the experiment was a human imperative; an ideal, so
easily obtainable, if shared, but highly susceptible to any lopsided
interest or the mechanizations of the insidious subversive.  It has
succeeded, in an extremely faulty way, only because it was tried on a
ground overflowing with everything from pine cones to uranium, mountains of
coal and iron, and half an ocean of oil and gas.  The system itself is just
a route to socialism, ever the faster as it gets the more inclusive.
Imagine a ditch digger's vote being the same as mine, and you have the
whole cockamamie thing in a nutshell, with the ditch diggers of Sandhogs 88
licking their chops over the thirty-plus dollars an hour they'll soon be
paid to do a job they claim to love.  Guess who they'll vote for.  He's
fat, his name is Teddy, and but for the miracle of Chappaquiddick, he'd
have brought his heart-throb populism to the very oval office

       Since there is no way on god's green earth you're going to get away
with this nonsense much longer, I fill my sex stories with politics.  The
country is Emersonia and the party is The Projects Party.  The principal
project is importing half a billion immigrants , largely Chinese, few from
Eastern Europe and North Africa, to clean up the mess, bury the power
lines, reclaim land wasted on scrub forest and growing fruit; so on and so
forth, until we've recreated large areas dedicated to various cultures from
the past.  That is project one, and there is a small number of others.

       As to the military, we need. to go back to a plane popularly called
the Spad.  Not from WW-I, but largely of the Korean and Vietnam eras.  I
believe its proper name is the Douglas A1A Skyraider.  It has a 3,000
horsepower reciprocating engine.

       Look what we have now.  Those big dumbo carriers.  A few thousand
dollars worth of scuba gear, electric motors, oil drums, fertilizer and
diesel oil, and all you need is a shotgun shell to open one up like a
Pepsi.  And these planes the media tell you are supersonic?  Sure, if you
give them half an hour and two hundred miles to get up to speed, and the
same to slow back down.  If you have tankers stationed along the route.
And so on.  Essentially, they are weapons of the Tom Cruise variety; lots
of holly, little wood.  Their resilience in a slugfest would be nil.  A
Spad based force would use small carriers, and need fewer of them, in the
first place, because they can be operated off small fields.  In many cases,
for example semi-permanent areas of tension in the Persian Gulf, the
carriers could be made up of cheap barges and towed into place by atomic
powered tugs.  In other cases, hulks could be used.  Older oil tankers and
container ships fitted up with flight decks, very much like the "Essex."

       In the end, the mission is to get lots of platforms in the sky.  And
keep them there.  Jets can't do this under the best of circumstances, and,
in a real war, all the enemy has to do is disable a tanker, and he kills an
entire squadron.  Also, jets are worse than useless when it comes to
dukeing it out with the troops.  Spads aren't useless, they big, tough
angels with eight tons discretionary load that they can transport at up to
four hundred miles an hour, or loiter with for eight hours.

       Some Spads should be flown by enlistees.  Milk runs, routine
missions.  Two reasons.  First, common sense.  You do not need an O-3 to
drop a smart bomb on a bridge, or orbit on a propaganda mission.  At all.
Second, it would be a tremendous motivational force if the soldier knew
that if he did well there is every chance he'd be able to fly for part of
his career.  The Spad, itself, would become the basic military unit, and
the aircraft would be produced in as many as twenty variations for missions
from long-range reconnaissance, to dropping six paratroops, per aircraft,
from under-wing pods.  It would eat armor and wash it down with infantry,
and that is what a weapon does; not pass over leaving romantic trails in
the wild blue yonder.

       Schools.  Care options from six a.m. to eight p.m.  Two hours of
hard ball drill and recitation, per day; otherwise, supervised activities
from sports to book clubs to bathing.  Twenty percent full time, twenty
percent part time, and sixty percent volunteer.  Total use of laptop
computer by each student for bulk of academic drill and repetition, plus
texts, personal files, recreation and so on.  Very small schools, often
using residential housing.  Teachers taking on the roll of coaches,
coaching the kids with their computers.  Strong emphasis on senior students
helping younger ones.  There is no better way to learn something than by
teaching it.

       Mega schools lead to megaocrity and that is not survivable in a
complex society.

       Syllabus should consist of a national lesson plan, a reading list
that begins with The Royal Readers, pre-war English primary school texts
which boast the only writing on earth better than mine.  Loads of drill.
Morse code and semaphore, for example, as well as a high level of drill on
keyboard skills.  The human memory is similar to the human arm; the more it
is exercised, within reason, the stronger it grows.

       The schools today have broken down into a long series of rap
sessions, usually about ethnicity, issues, experiences, culture, and
closure, with sagging amounts of homework.  The kids turned out by these
union shops are well below mediocre, and stand no chance, at all, of
surviving the rigors of a changing and dangerous world.  Their Short
Attention Span Theater will be played out in an arena even the lowest of
Romans would give wide birth.  In fact, if it sticks its present course,
the best America can hope for is all-out thermonuclear war on the premise
at least many would die quickly.  You've let Ralph Nader run things and
he's an utterly ruinous and absolutely and totally insane camera monster.

       See, your garden needs weeding.  Newfoundland.  That's the place.
Under my reign we send Roseanne, Flee Belly, and about 250,000 noisy
subversives to a military camp in Maine.  We give them a week's cursory
training, and parachute them onto Newfoundland with about the same support
and supplies, minus the guns, perhaps, that we gave our boys who
paratrooped into Normandy.  We do not like these people, these spammers and
hackers, these schmoes, empire builders and professional manipulators of a
hundred ugly stripes.  We do not care if the break their legs, or die, any
more than we did with the boys we loved on D-Day.  The mission is too
important.  Rosanne launching a cunt grab after screeching the anthem is
something that kills us.  Jane Fonda.  Hundreds.  Thousands.  At least a
thousand executives from Hollywood and the media, Geronimo!  Thousands of
lawyers.  Thousands who have engaged in spurious litigation.  The auto
fatalities of six or seven years, torn from their homes and hearths, given
a week of training in the Maine woods, then off they go, never to return.
Since there is no conceivable way you have a future with the Ruth Bader
Ginsbergs of the world, you better think as seriously about weeding the
garden of them as they are about killing the entire garden, simply because
they know how.

       The way it's going to play out is this.  The p.c, will become an
appliance.  A standard household item that cost two to three thousand
dollars from the mid eighties to the early ohs, will soon cost a few
hundred dollars.  Specifically, a very powerful, very complete laptop for
three hundred dollars.  This means all those fabulous people who brought us
this great living, breathing miracle will be redundant.  Just a few workers
in a few plants that spit these machines out around the clock in the
endless, endless millions.  The number does go to a billion, or more, but
at the tiniest profit margins.  Ultimately, the whole thing collapses, say
2015, because a used machine is just as good as a new one, and half the
time you can find one in a dumpster.  By that time, the Net will be set and
pat, with broadband reaching the last remote areas.

       In the military all this is known as RIF; reduction in forces.
Yesterday's colonel is today's corporal.  Yesterday's corporal is on civvy
street.  In the American IT sector the numbers are about seven million
jobs, reducing to perhaps half a million to develop new games and perhaps
come up with incremental improvements to what very few people seem to
realize is perfect, now.

       I've been watching pure snake oil the last couple of days.  The big
gaming show.  Internet hookups for your game cubes; nonsense beyond
ridiculous.  But with one noble exception; Microsoft's new Train Simulator.
The girls laughed (TechTV) and I don't think even Louderback really got the
point.  Imagine driving a heavy freight over the Rockies, or on any
challenging piece of track.  Even a steam locomotive, where you have a
variety of moment-to-moment variables, plus you have to be able to plan
miles ahead.  Personally, I can think of no greater thrill than approaching
the crest of the Grapevine with a full mile of bombs for San Pedro, and
then easing that puppy down into Los Angeles.  Why I honestly wonder if I'd
use the brakes, at all.

       Speaking of L.A., as I said I didn't, in the last chapter, two icons
come to mind.  The first is from Larry McMurtry, who describes a taxi ride
in from LAX with "Two stone-silent businessmen."  The second is a moron
swimmer I saw on my first visit to Santa Monica Pier.  The coot was in his
seventies, splashing and frothing up a storm in that cold, gray, ugly
water, and going absolutely nowhere.  Tres L.A.  Last year they had a story
about a suicide that crashed into a construction zone and made the cops
kill him.  They closed the 405 for twelve hours until the police
investigation was complete.  This is what Jews do to you.  A fanatic
obsession with minutia and nitpicking, hairsplitting detail, combined with
a total lack of interest in anything but the cleverness of the argument.
That every shell casing was photographed from eight angles after the cops
killed the guy would be roughly tantamount to six or eight commandments,
while the dozens that died as a result of the horrendous traffic snarl
would just rate a finger; what do they do, whip it sort of against their
noses?  You're in ripping, horrible danger, guys; blind as bats in your
insatiable lust for a bunch of crap that means nothing, even if you can
afford it.  Remember, I grew up with all of it, and I know from a life of
experience that the only good thing you will ever get from a Jew is an
Oscar Myer or Hebrew National frank.  That they do well, as long as there's
a rabbi keeping a close watch on every move in the kitchen, and the USDA
keeping a close eye on the rabbi..

       Crime.  This is shooting fish in a barrel.  In Europe they're beta
testing this kind of a machine.  It is a polygraph on steroids, so to
speak.  It was first developed to see if Alzheimer's disease could be
predicted from algorithms of facial point mapping, posture point mapping,
and voice input.  Ultra sensitive sensors are used by the machine, and the
readouts are compared against a large data base.  Not only was the machine
perfectly accurate in detecting any degree of incipient Alzheimers, it
provided a virtual character readout.  It can, for example, use a few
seconds of video of people meeting in an airport, and accurately
characterize the people involved, and the event, itself.

       After all, we can all do this, to some degree.  Long parted friends
will have an obviously different demeanor than a couple getting together to
discuss routine business, and so on.  This machine just does it to, very
literally, a super-human degree.  It not only cannot be deceived, it will
clearly segregate any such attempt as exactly what it is.  The input media
can be anything from flip-cards to the latest in video.  It works as well
with voice as it does off body-English data, and can use the two, together.
And not only is the machine perfect, it can be used by anyone.  Does it
cost millions?  No, it's a software package.

       As mentioned, these machines were in beta testing a year or so ago.
This story was featured on DWTV out of Berlin, which is no longer on my
system.  My readers are terrific at providing input, and I'd especially
like an update on this concept..

       In out game playing posturing society it is unlikely a machine will
be accepted that will put hundreds of thousands of defense lawyers out of
work.  In Emersonia we face the problem by sending the clever lawyers to
Newfoundland, in hopes one day the vastness of their wisdom and
stalwartness of their character can come back around to us in a way that
makes us very proud.  In the meantime we use the machines, aggressively, to
separate those whose hearts are truly elsewhere, rendering them menials or
deporting them.  Weeding the garden.

       If you don't like it, you don't have a choice.  Your kids are
getting more gigantic by the freaking hour, and the first rounds of layoffs
in Silicone Valley have not well and truly begun.

       I really think the stupidest place is Plano.  Miles and miles of
complicated streets, lanes, cul de sacs and alleys, so beautiful in the
agent's diorama.  But how do you get a pizza delivered?  Give a friend
directions.  Get to the store?  And at the mall you park six hundred feet
from your store, average.

       This why I hit you so hard.  Because you are so dumb.  You pay a
fortune to live in the most sub-human environment ever devised on this
planet.  And the richer you are, the bigger you slice of Plano, which means
less and less kids within a five minute walk of your front door.  Maybe
none.  No one other than rural agrarian laborers have ever lived like that.

       Drop a jar of mayonnaise in Plano.  Company coming, if they can find
you, so you must have more.  Let's say six miles and thirty turns to the
main road leading to the mall.  Most of the time, there will be very heavy
traffic on the road, and it will take ten or fifteen minutes to get the
last mile and park.  Then walk six hundred feet, and six hundred feet back
to the car.  Repeat the ten to twenty minutes to make the first mile home,
and the twenty or thirty turns to find your little corner of heaven.  Hope
you didn't forget the limes.  In fact, the only thing good about living in
Plano I can think of is that it's very unlikely the paramedics would find
you in time, so you might not have to go on living there, or Atlanta or a
long and really deep-shit stupid list of massed warrens of cutesy,
lifestyle empowering layouts be slathered, schmoe to dumb-dumb, all over
the country.

       Oddly, I half grew up in precisely such an environment, but the
thing was, we were rich.  Spent summers at colossal palaces on the Cape;
had boats, extra cars, and more stuff than most.  Still, it was miserable.
Just a few kids to hang out with, none of the read; I ended up envying the
farm kids for their animals and hunting, and the city kids for their ball
games, libraries, and big social pool.

       In all, it's a lifestyle that would confuse the hell out of any
alien, just as it does your king.  You're nuts.  You should be removing all
but essential freeways, using computer enhanced surface streets, and
resettling commercial wastelands.  Shopping and normal human facilities
should be mandated at reasonable distances in residential areas, as well as
supervised hangouts for kids.  Failing to do as instructed will result is
severe punishment befalling you, and your descendents, absolutely
guaranteed by your alpha dude.

       Uh, oh, coconut attack.  On official attack is at least eight kids
after four coconuts.  Bloodless but noisy.  I live on a Caribbean street in
a Caribbean town and suffer grievous losses with all the dignity I can
muster.  But don't cry for me, you've got Shrek.  Sound like a nice Jewish
boy.  Be happy.

       I'm beginning to see why I write about sex.  you're so boring it's
artistically impossible to get interested in you or do anything more than
preach the pedantic two-step.  You don't read, therefore you are nothing
but beasts, capable of eating well enough the rich green alfalfa of the
elysian pasture, but stone cold useless when it comes to anything else.
You allowed Rickover to bully you into building a hundred nuclear subs for
ring-knocking jagoffs that need, themselves, to bully others.  You're still
letting them put spam in the can even in the face of voluminous evidence
that the zero gravity environment is about as safe as standing between
Jesse Jackson and the camera with the little red light.

        Me?  Well, the kids have gone with their coconuts and the Punta
Rebels are back from New York and practicing next door.  It seems pretty
stupid to have free raggae on top of everything else, but I'm one of those
assholes who actually is as smart as he thinks he is, so I've had it for
seven years.  But no coconuts.  Did I mention that a popular local herb
costs $17.50 an ounce, the same as a month of cable, or that my little
house rents for $75.00 a month?  I even brag about not having been shopping
for five years, because I have not been shopping for five years.

       Shrek.  Very ugly monster; green with trumpet ears.  A loud-mouthed
ass.

       Could I do better?  How about "grow Pedro."  A little island kid.
You control his life.  He can go off with a washed up mercenary on a
mission to shoot a drug lord in the buttocks with a gold bullet, he can go
to school, or he can go to the waterfront.  You can guide him into the life
of a syphilitic boy toy, or he can end up the governor of his island.  At
least some school time is mandatory to proceed in the game.  The academic
sequences are not filled with dancing turtles and squirrels that prattle
the same three pages of nonsense, ad nauseum.  It is rather a fast moving,
hard hitting series of drills, aligned to various academic levels, and
thrown at the player as fast as the strike of a snake.  Doing well in the
classroom opens increasingly mature and sophisticated game play; indeed,
representing all the choices open to a modern day kid, wherever he lives.
The game includes a flight simulator.  Not sixty different planes, one
plane.  A J-3 Cub with sixty horses thundering under the cowling.  The only
fun in flying is shoehorning a small plane onto a short strip in bad
condition.  (And yes, I'm sure it's fun to land a wide-body.)

       Excuse me for being smug.  I'm watching a Corona ad about changing
my latitude.  I'd have to go a number of degrees north for a Corona.
That's how I like it.

       Where were we?  On short final for a muddy jungle strip.  How much
air did we let out of the tires before we left?  We'll soon be finding out
if it was enough.  I give every flight sim I've tried a flat F.  They're
jittery nonsense, hardly above shovel wear.  Mine will be one plane,
numerous short fields, muddy fields and hidden field variations, and plenty
of killer scenery.  The sniper sequence in "grow Pedro" depends on making
one perfect shot at a thousand yards, and whether Pedro prospers or not
depends on how he mixes work, school and adventure in the fishing village
where he lives.  The game is geared to any school-age audience, and the
academic interleaf can be changed at will (for example, a workup for the
CPA exam).  Whatever the scholastic discipline, increased performance
brings on higher levels of game play, and the play, in turn, keeps you at
the books by providing periodic relief from them.  It has schoolin', so the
peeps will love it, and it has sex, so the pervs will love it.  It will be
the number one seller for twenty-five years, and will severely damage the
moron factories letting the techies play at writing, which makes exactly as
much sense as letting me tinker with your bios.

       As I've mentioned before, David publishes my stories as he gets
them.  They are building up.  The fan mail is rock solid, and should I
mis-number the chapters, I hear about it.  The readership is high, and
though I'm not even half way through my rookie year; getting higher.
Sooner or later its going to click that the average movie is a big flubbing
dub, and this guy writes different.  Duh'uh, maybe he'd sell.  By happy
coincidence I have a completed screenplay titled "An All-New Jaws."  It has
a plot with twists and turns.  It has full-fledged characters, some of whom
do not like each other.  It doesn't even need a shark, but it has one, just
as these stories have sex.  I also have a completed novel, "The Pirates of
Rickety Pier."  More.  It's kind of what I do.  "grow Pedro" is probably
the biggest deal, simply because it doesn't have a lot of stuff about me
being king and you being a colossally greedy, short-sighted and
self-destructive real pain in the ass subjects.  Who needs that?  After
all, I subtitle my eleven hundred page novel. "The Only Manifesto You Will
Ever Need."  It has about four hundred pages on Emersonia, little which I
would change though it's been fifteen years since I wrote it.  Again, big
plot, big character, and a big sprawling epic of what America could be.
Add the inventions and the reward for Gee and it would almost seem to add
up to enough potential to interest someone.  Then again, if the think box
weren't made of such brittle material I would be writing sweet stories
about my cats, or playing "Deer Hunter II."

       Hey, Spielberg's got a picture coming out with little boys touching
each other around a swimming pool.  It's a bot, but twinkie touching
twinkie is a start.  I'll fatten up my goose so she'll grow more quills.  I
want to be ready for the epiphany.  Meantime, I'll hang out on Nifty where
at the moment I'm getting ready to write the greatest sex scene of all
time.  You guys that skipped ahead already know that, but, as I've already
stated, I'm in the dark.  Was it good for you?  Just remember not to get
carried away.  The writer is from the detested one percent of the richest,
and you know how we skulk in the night and steal the milk from baby's
bottle.  What you should be blaming us for is allowing a system that keeps
you bent in toil over your lathe or keyboard, paying for your lotto and
your credit cards, until you're eighty years old.  In short, what you are
doing so well is allowing us one per-centers full access to every muscle of
your body for every day of you life because you're behaving like a bunch of
lost-valley peasants.  That's how I think of you.  Let the pols hack on and
on about the Amawegwan Pweeble, to me you're a bunch of slack-jawed morons
and village idiots.  You need a monarch precisely as a family needs a
father.  Other options may play in the media, but the long-term results are
a coming disaster.  To a very large number of you, this is a firm grasp of
the obvious.  Oughtta do something about it, lessen it kills ya.



       What did we do with crime?  We got a machine that separates the bad
people and the good people.  Well, what do we do with the bad people?

       Remember the Spad.? The miracle weapon?  We need a hundred thousand
of them, so the prisoners will build them.  Merida has a prison.  That's in
Mexico.  This is how they do it at Merida prison.  The first time a con
causes trouble, they beat him, and the second time, they beat him to death.
Works for me.  Prisoners make about three dollars an hour building the
planes.  If they live up to the mark, they get to spend time at the house
o' sin, which, since it's set up to my specs, is a place of varied
pleasures and great happiness.  The basic means of getting out of prison,
besides having no trace of violence in how you are assessed by everyone, is
gaining ten grand in your savings account.  See, when you get out you've
got a wad of dough, to be spent only under the supervision of your parole
officer, and you can build planes in your sleep.  I do worry about prison
break ins, but we need a lot of those planes, so we'll see.

       For juvenile offenders I believe not only in public whipping, but
that the offender should be strapped naked, frontal view, in front of his
or her peers, and laid into with a bamboo cane, precisely as it's done in
Singapore.  Graffiti, hooliganism, bullying, hacking, vandalism.  Not the
spank, spank, spank of Ed Bangor, but a blistering crack that bounces a
shattering scream off the rafters, repeated three to five times depending
whether you're the ring leader, or a following moron.  In the English navy,
they whipped you around the fleet; five lashes on this vessel, five more,
on the next, and so on.  Might be worth keeping in mind.  My ancestor
traded pulpits to get the Revolution under way in a manner to his liking;
maybe trading gyms for public flogging would be a good idea.  Frank Sinatra
said it the best: "Start spreading the news."

       I think my cats like to get yelled at.  Maybe you do, too.  Maybe
you've been misbehaving for so long because, subconsciously, you need a
beating; you want it.  Masochism seems strange, but there are stories about
it, so I guess it exists.  I don't understand it, but then, I don't have
to.  Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that those who are
crucified actually welcome the last nails; smile at the hammer man.  Is
that your game?  Are you so stretched, psychologically, that you crave the
endomorphiates, or whatever hormones extreme trauma release?  Well, you've
certainly come to the right place.  I'd had years of experience by age six,
so I fairly strut with confidence in my ability to dish it out.  You have
to remember that the American background is made up largely of deported
criminals, ne'er-do-wells and remittance men.  This our obsession with
defendants, rights and privacy.  Thus an extremely abstract and theoretical
point of law, that it is better to release a hundred guilty men than
convict an innocent one, has become a working reality.  How else could it
be with legislatures crammed with attorneys and the Trial Lawyers on the
same influence list as the NEA and the AARP.

       We don't really need another silver bullet against crime, but there
is one.  Detention.  From eight to ten-thirty p.m., seven night a week, 365
days a year.  There you sit, no reading, no talking, no nothing but sitting
watching the clock and reviewing your mode of living so you never repeat
the experience.  Detention is served up in hundred-hour blocks;
shoplifting, dui, repeat traffic offenses, domestic disturbance, and a long
list of nuisance crimes and infractions (for example, not returning your
library books on time.).

       It's the Web, see.  Now you can put fifty or a hundred people in any
reasonable place, normally the bleachers at a local school, and monitor
them from anywhere.  Plus on-site cameras.  Ain't it neat?  And just about
free.  Whipping for the kids, detention for adults.  A world of deterrence
at a fraction of a cent per goody two-shoes.

       I mentioned the house o' sin as a fixture in prisons.  Also, in the
military.  In my army, reveille is sounded at 8:30 a.m., because I am smart
enough to know, having spent many years as a young person, that young
people need lots of sleep.  After reveille, a blistering half hour of p.t.
No more than two hours of training on useful, salient, subjects per day.
The rest of the time is spent at sports or intellectual or cultural
activities, more or less as one chooses.  Twice a year there is a tune-up
week; all that good old Julius Caesar crap of noise and commotion, which
always reminded me of a burning hen house.  Add the strong possibility of
being able to fly a three thousand horsepower airplane, and I think we can
reduce the recruitment budget to a dollar a year.  In all seriousness, the
Emersonian military would turn away many young men simply because their
skills and abilities would be better applied in other fields.  At the same
time, we'd take a few of the best of the very best.

       The house o' sin is where all good soldiers go for about fifteen
hours a week.  Coke, pot, girls, boys, music, chess, arcades, sleeping
cubicles and so on, all to be consumed on premises, only.  You're a
soldier, your king loves you, and, if your corpse he must have, you'll
oblige him by living so happily you'll still be grinning when you're dead.
Gays would not only be accepted, but encouraged.  Man/boy couples would be
widely accepted, with boys as young as ten.  Give me my hundred thousand
Spads and a 250,000-man core cadre and we'll sit back as total king of the
total mountain, able to rule the world with a feather touch that tickles a
million for every time the talons come out to slice and dice.

       The sex safety centers?  I think I covered them in another story.
Anyway, it's a two pronged approach.  The sex safety centers are brothels
where men can have limited contact with boys and girls as young as eight.
There is a vector for permitting semi-permanent relationships.  The other
prong is the sex safety channel on television.  Twenty minutes of each half
hour are devoted to explicit kiddy porn.  The remaining ten minutes are
used to discuss pederasty, which involves twenty percent of girls and
fifteen percent of boys, in general.  Good stories, bad stories; tapes sent
by viewers.  Stories sent by viewers, all with a strong orientation toward
an escape route for anyone caught up in an uncomfortable situation.

       Who owns TechTV?  Paul Allen, but after him, who?  What's with this
ugly Shrek thing, anyway?  They're promoting it like the second freaking
coming.  It has the same glossy/smarmy look as Tron, Ishtar and Yentl.  Do
Jews really not see the ugliness?  That ugliness is actually offensive?  If
one considers Fran Dresser the whole world of Jews and beauty comes into
focus, and Babs goes a long way toward establishing this as a lingering
condition.  Clever as these spawn of whoever are, they've come up with an
icon so fulsome, no camera is needed.  You can hear it down the block,
through a blizzard.  If Fran Dresser's laugh is ugly, well, I can play
ugly, too.  I call Jews schlong schleppers.  Think Buddy Hackett.  That's
pretty ugly

       No Jews at Creative Camp.  For all its ugliness, sometimes plain old
bigotry fit perfectly.  Sweet, bright, friendly Anglos and boys of a dozen
races and cultures.  No Fleishmans befouling Cicely, even though I'm a bit
soft on the guy and respect is dedication to his patients.  But it takes a
gentle touch on the keyboard, indeed, to render a Brooklyn Jew as a human
among us, and even Maggie draws off and nails him, twice, if I recall, for
his pure Jewish disagreeableness.  I would use a firmer touch on "Northern
Exposure," and remind the viewer, from time to time, of how they are
fighting over each square foot in Israel, then point out that Jerusalem has
the largest cemetery in the world.  Such intellectual brittleness has no
more place in the modern world than cast iron does on the space station.
But reverence of the dead is in the lines that make up their
indoctrination, and that's that.  Not for long, schlong, not for long.  You
can play the Anne Frank comedy from now to doomsday, but you can't hide
behind it, because, to someone like me, WW-II was entirely worth it if it
kept a single Andrea Martin out of Hollywood, and Ms. Frank certainly had a
passion to do something with all that face and mouth.

       Speaking of schlongs, let's get back to our bright and sunny, sexy
world, and leave our Jewish friends to stew in the rich gravy of their
infinitely deserved misery.

       Now Alcatel is going to buy Lucent.  I knew this from the first.
>From those first whackily stupid ads, you remember, a whole series of
giant monitor screens with an obnoxiously clicking keyboard and a cloying,
preciously understated narrative about how Lucent is Bell Labs who just
happened to invent the transistor.  My great grand uncle ran Ma Bell for
decades; built the labs, then staffed them.  It's a perfect example of
sleazeballs somehow getting into the system, and now those tacky ads of ten
or twelve years ago are the tomb of exactly what happens when trendyboys
and techies get their fingers on things.

       MIT says they're bright, and they come away with the ludicrous
notion that they're intelligent.  They are unread, ignorant and very often
too stupid to run their won affairs well, much less anyone else's.  I have
dozens of them in my family.  Nine of my first cousins went to Harvard,
several to the medical school.  They are not even vaguely intelligent.
They couldn't sit down and write a single page of anything.  One cousins
got dual 800s on her boards, and she thinks the whole problem with the
American economy is overpaid executives.  She, and a tiny band of her ivy
league cohorts, bent both nuclear and coal energy policies all out of
kilter.  They hired very noisy lawyers with amazing rubber faces, and there
is no guarantee, as we eek it day by day, that their influence was not
mortal.  Rest in peace, tonight, knowing she is just as stacked with misery
and human unhappiness as I asses it is possible for a person to be.  She
once sent me an envelope inside a letter.  She had used her computer skills
to fake a postal cancellation that read "I am not a crook," with a stamp of
President Nixon.  I laughed heartily, but I'm afraid it was at my memory of
her bleeding fingernails as she chewed and chewed, not her droll political
commentary.  I was going to write her back and tell her that crooks were
not in the habit of festooning their offices with microphones, but she's
the one with the dual 800s, and printer ink is costly.

       I am a happy person.  Yesterday I had coconuts stolen.  Right from
under my nose (since my house is on stilts).  I only have two mature palms
on my land, the rest are for the neighbors.  I can ill afford the loss of a
single nut, yet I allowed four to be stolen without comment.  Yes, I'm not
only happy, but I'm old, and I've been happy for years and years and years.
If you get mad and stick me full of holes, you can't take away ten seconds
of living on the vast canvas that is our modern world.

       I know I deserve a lot of credit for Chapter Seventeen, but I'm good
about not overbeating my own horse.  Yet, it was a good gallop.  We've been
hacking the brush, trying to clear out a little deadwood, but it might be
time to finger the reins and point Dobbin's head toward an open meadow
we've carefully checked for animal burrows.  First, you ease the reins,
then you squeeze you calves against the flanks of the beast.  You inch your
feet back from the stirrups, so you're just holding them from flopping with
your toes.  Your heels go way down, to lower your center of gravity a
trifle, and increase the gripping power of your lower legs.  After that, it
depends on the horse.  Some you can talk to a full gallop in seconds;
others, well, put it this way, a king should know how to handle a horse,
and I know how to handle a horse.

       In fact, since I bothered mounting in the first place, I'm pointing
the horse's nose toward an oak tree, standing up from a valley.  But before
we make this little trip, I've got a bone to pick with you Xers, and I'm
going to pick it at my own plodding pace.  The story concerns a game called
"Counter Strike."  First let me say that we pay by the hour for access
here.  So, I heard reference to "Counter Strike" and decided to try a demo.
I perused the title page to see if my system would run it, looked at the
other information, and finally started the 90 meg download; something like
ten hours.  I spent several hours trying to get it to run, taking time from
my readers, and, finally, went back to revisit the web site.  I'd glanced
at the FAQs before starting the download, they'd seemed highly technical so
I'd knocked off after a few pages.  This time, I scrolled page after page
after page to the very, tip-top bottom, where I found this questions: "Will
you ever release a single-player version of "Counter Strike."  Answer: When
hell freezes over.

       For all your technical adroitness, you are a very poor, very
unaware, and very ignorant generation; spawn of hippies.  Your dicking
around with us will prove spectacularly counter-productive.  We're old.
We've seen, it done it, and most of all, lived it, every hour of the way.
We don't give a shit.  You trick us and play high-and-mighty, we'll abandon
you, and that, children, is all it will take.  We turn our back for an
hour, you'll be lost for a month.  We had a vastly more interesting younger
life than you did, you're second rate and subservient.  You music is so
monotonous, you alleviate that great sphere of nothing inside you with
tattoos and tongue piercing.  And will until you're in your freaking
seventies.  We grew up with "The Monster Mash" and Chubby Checkers; simply
could not find it within us to be so sad.

       This is getting better.  Even Dobbins senses something is up under
the tree and he comes to rest on auto-pilot.

       *
       *
       *
       *
       *
       *
       *

       Brad is half yielding, then resisting John with urgent pleas.  The
scene is confusing.  The bike is now cool and silent; the sheet-blanket is
rumpled, but that's natural.

       :"I'm just a little confused, is all," Brad whispered as they lay
together, reduced for the moment to kissing.

       "We haven't eaten a hog since before lunch, we could go hunting and
I could drop you home," John said.

       "You're not going anywhere and neither am I," Brad said firmly.
"It's not the psychological aspects I'm confused about; they're an iron
bar.  It's sort of a sequence.  What I should tell you and what we should
do, and in what order.  It would almost seem technical, but I want to do
everything, all at once, so it's like more personal."

       "Maybe they make a PDA for sex," John whispered.  The boy giggled
and whispered back that he might actually need one.  "But," he said more
seriously, "it's funny how close you came."

       "To what?" John asked.

       "To my invention," Brad said.  "That's the problem.  I've got the
invention in the backpack, and I want to tell you some stuff to make it
more exciting, but, if it gets two exciting, the chance for a proper field
trial is lost."

       "I guess just go in sequence," John suggested, "and hope for the
best."

       "Well," the boy began, "Rusty and I spent a lot of time together the
summer I was six.  Then I went back to school and forgot all about it.
Fickle hearted, I guess, or maybe it's just that youth is wasted on the
young.  Anyhow, when I got near eight year old Uncle Brad started writing
more than usual and we began planning a birthday extravaganza in Florida.
I called Rusty, and he gave me some refresher pointers on the initiation
and desensitization process; suggested I spend a lot of time with him on
the water slide and wear a baggy bathing suit.  He rated our possibilities
as ten-curled-toes, i.e, two thumbs up.  I promised him we'd meet when I
got back.

       "Well, all the excitement did something to the clock and the
calendar, but they didn't quite stop.  Eventually, at the dawn of the end
of time, he was there.  Neither of us could talk, and mom thought that was
cute as hell.  Once in awhile she'd give me a big, goofy wink and hug me
and tell me everything was going to be fine.  Luckily, that part only
lasted a day.  Then we got on the plane and we were by ourselves.  It was
almost funny, because we were trying to feel each other out at the same
time.  Uncle Brad said he knew of a hotel in Orlando that specialized in
mature boys and their older friends, and I started to tell him about Rusty.
He let me go first.


       "The pool was closed for three days for a new pumping system.  When
it reopened, Rusty and I could hardly keep our hands off each other.  Polly
White kept wanting to play with us.  She whispered something to Rusty, and
he told me to be cool and let her play along with us, which I was very
happy to do.  When the other kids left, Rusty made a phone call, and she
stayed to help with the towels.  "Many hands make light work," I think she
put it, and I thought I heard Rusty groan, apparently just at the thought.

       "Anyway, Polly was kind of a strong chested pixie with brown moppet
hair.  She looked like the little sister in the mac and cheese ads, the one
with the invisible friend.  She was very strong and lively for a girl.  She
was so obvious in playing with Rusty and me, all the kids noticed and Rusty
spoke to them and told them that the next day everyone could stay late, and
to think about any questions they might want to ask or experiences they
might want to share.  They giggled themselves out of the place, and, as
always, we worked on diving sprints for half an hour.  Rusty joined us, and
when the time was up, this time it was him that stepped out on the diving
board, naked.

       "The moppet's jaw dropped.  `He's beautiful,' she said to me, `and
he's is big as Billy.  He's my brother.  He's nineteen and I live with him
on the weekends.'

       "She was an honest little thing," Brad went on, "no coyness or
subterfuge with Polly.  As soon as she saw his boner she told me to take
her bra off, and stand behind her so Rusty could watch me do it.  I started
to fumble with the catch, and by the time I got it loose, Rusty was with
us, standing a foot from Polly with his penis almost against her tummy.
`Do it slow,' she whispered as I started pulling the straps apart.  I did
it slowly, and when her chest was bare, Rusty pulled me from behind her so
I could look at her.  `Billy likes to look at me, too,' she whispered.

       "Do you like to look at him?" Rusty asked.
       "Yes," the girl smiled.  "And touch him, too."
       "Do you want to touch Rusty," Brad asked
       "Both of you.  Do you both want to touch me?"
       "Yes", the males replied in soft unison.
       "I'm not old enough to fall in love, is that okay?" Polly asked.
       "Maybe we could be businesslike and incorporate," Rusty responded,
bringing giggles from both the children.

       "No bored meetings," Brad added.

       "Lots of maternity leave," Rusty whispered, making the little girl
blush just a bit, before she shot back with "Lots of nepotism."  Brad
didn't flinch at this, but then again, he'd held forth on Bess Truman as a
good reason for few men to like fewer women, so he was more up to speed
than the average little boy.  Rusty was reminded that a Chinese youngster
his age could read, write, speak and understand Mandarin or Cantonese, or
both, plus do arithmetic in them.  Age was nothing if not mercurial and
there was surprisingly little difference between six and sixty, assuming an
enriched childhood.  There was one sure aspect to the subject, and that was
that there were no arbitrary limits on dorky sixty year olds, nor sensible
six year olds, and while the former were an utter nuisance, the latter were
life's treasure of all treasures.  With a chuckle to himself, Rusty
completed the thought.  Imagine leaving a six-year-old girlfriend for a
younger woman.  Ten years of bliss before she could even drive.

       "Do you boys want to take my panties off?" Polly asked.
       "Do you ask Billy that," Brad whispered
       "So far I haven't had to," Polly giggled.

       They cold see why.  She was no toddler; a long legged female, with a
soft white tummy and a beautiful chest that was impossible to imagine
sprouting the rosebuds she'd be sprouting when she turned nine or ten.  As
a teen she might develop like the movie Jan Brady, her breasts beautifully
of her chest more than actually pointing or hanging.  Rusty let his
thoughts wander to the pool scene in the sequel; a brunette Jan faking her
page, and wondered why he bothered.  Six was a beautiful age for a girl,
he'd make due.

       Rusty abandon the children as he went about his duties.  Brad and
Polly found a nest in a corner of the laundry room and gazed at the
powerful nineteen year old as he worked quickly through his routine, his
big penis jutting from him in a display that was both totally natural and
awesome.

       "Do you want to get me naked, or wait for him?" Polly whispered as
soon as they were settled in their next of clean towels.

       "Let's wait," the boy whispered.

       "Okay," she whispered back.  "He looks so much like Billy, you know,
with that Rick Schroeder body, I feel right at home.  Like Saturday night.
We always do the laundry then.  Deja, and what a view."

       "Isn't anyone allowed to love you," Brad whispered.

       "That's for the cinema.  Makes the shop girls cry.  Opium for the
masses.  Love is having a dozen or so friends you do lots of things with,
all your life.  Love screws that up.  If I was in love with Billy, I
wouldn't be here with you, but I love Rusty so much I want to call him
Billy.  It's meant to be confusing, and it is.  That way, we grow up level
headed and don't go around bad picking because we wonder what his penis
will feel like inside us or whether he can make us climax three times in a
row.  We don't care, because our brothers or fathers can give us that, if
we need it.  It's sophisticated, but it beats the hell out of the years of
totally unnatural frustration most kids have to go through; years that can
easily lead to flameout or suicide, based on unrequited love, pure and
fucking simple.

       "Plus," Polly added, "who knows what I'll look like when I get
older?  This may be the only chance I'll ever have to really be soft and
intimate with boys.  And as if that wasn't enough motivation, how about
weight?  The only way I'm going to get fat with Billy and I living together
is the bun in the oven kind of fat, and we get excited just thinking about
that."

       "How long are you going to wait?" Brad asked.

       "We just want it to happen naturally.  I have an okay body for
whelping, so there should be no big deal even if it happens when I'm ten or
eleven."

       "But you wouldn't want to be a mom at that age?" Brad queried.

       "Not if I had to do it all myself, but mom loves the junk and even
though I used my Barbies to conduct experiments with paint strippers and
oven cleaners, that doesn't mean I'd be totally helpless.  Besides, I've
got a strapping big hunk of a beautiful brother who is not exactly a flake.
He's got a nice place down the block and he's not even twenty."

       "What does he do?" Brad asked.
       "Cobbler," she answered.  "Fixes shoes and he's learning how to make
them."
	"That must be refreshing," Brad commented.

       "Good for you," the girl answered.  "I could share my charms with
three future media personalities and four budding marine biologists in my
row, alone, and there are six more rows.  Come to think of it, there are
two bond traders in the second row, four and five seats to my left, but
everyone says they're gay."

       "Dreary," was all Brad could say.  He couldn't think of anything he
wanted to do, but was glad for a first-grade heads-up on knowing what he
did not want to grow up to be.  All things considered, maybe fireman was
still the best option.  Anything but a lawyer.

       Rusty joined them, having completed his chores.  He stood three feet
away from the cuddling children, looking down at their tender young bodies
as his big man's penis swelled and throbbed with the hormonal excitement of
a young male about to spend an hour or more molesting two willing kids.
For long moments they held their tableau, fascinated by each other and by
the complete lack of strictures governing what they did together.  After
these moments, Rusty nodded slowly to Brad and Polly whispered Yes, now.

       Brad rose to his feet, extending a hand and helping Polly to hers.
He presented her to Rusty, who stood stock still as she slowly approached.

       "Be a good horsy for Little Miss Godiva," she whispered.

       Literate boy that he was, Brad was able to interpret the girl's
request as indicative of her desire to be naked with her two males.

       "Let's ride in the office," Rusty interjected in a whisper, "it'll
be more comfortable."



       Polly, who was settling back to her towel nest, regained her feet
with Rusty's help.  He held her hand and grabbed Brad's as they walked from
the housekeeping area down a long hall to the small, dark room largely
given over to a luxurious black leather sofa that stood on thick wool
carpeting.  As he lit candles and turned out the lights, Rusty explained
the unexpected furnishing as a bequest from a member.  These tasks
accomplished, he took hold of his children's hands and pivoted them so they
were all standing about four feet from a floor-to-ceiling mirror.

       In the candlelight their bodies glowed a soft gold.  With an inward
grunt, Rusty suddenly remembered he'd been celibate for over three days
while the facility had been closed to the public.  And the female child
wanted him to be a horsy while she rode him naked, as the boy watched..
Even without the tactile possibilities of molesting two children, Rusty was
having every difficulty restraining his mad, hot semen.  The boy in his
cargo-style swimsuit, and the little female in her red bikini panties came
hardly higher than his waist; weighed, together, a little over a hundred
pounds.  Polly's big brown eyes looked directly into his, as did those of
little bare-chested Brad.  Both children cuddled tightly to him,
occasionally shifting their gaze in unspoken synchronization from Rusty
eyes, to the reflection of the big boner jutting from under his belly, to
his hot penis probing between them.

       "Is her ladyship ready?" Rusty eventually whispered.
       "Yes," both children chirped, with a giggle for punctuation.

       "Then," suggested Rusty, "I think the young master of the hunt
should ready the mistress of the house for her ride through the village."

       "Goody!" exclaimed Brad.  "I always wanted to be Heathcliff. "

       As Brad reached for the little girl's hand, she grabbed Rusty's
shoulder and shinnied up his flank, her young leg gentle against his
swollen penis.  Reaching his left ear she whispered, "My stallion's name is
Billy."  Then she dropped back to the carpet and let her little boyfriend
lead her to the leather couch, where they sat like two kids waiting in a
dentist's office.  Neat, tidy and nervous.  But it was only a game, after
all, so the little girl brightened in a few moments.  "Would my Billy like
to nibble on something?" she asked.  "How about a yummy red apple?"

       Lying back on the black leather, Polly thrust her hips in the air
making it obvious that her idea of a treat for her horsy was her bright red
panties.  Rusty dropped slowly to his hands and knees and approached within
inches of the proffered morsel.

       "Master of the Hunt, do your duty," the girl whispered to Brad,
"before the villagers become restless."

       Brad played along.  As Rusty, the horse, stared from inches a way,
the boy slowly pulled down her red panties.  "Let him help," Polly
whispered to Brad, "it's good to treat them like people, sometimes.

       "Come, Billy, good fellow.  Help the handsome boy get me ready for
your back."  The girl seemed to know what she wanted, so Rusty leaned the
last inches to her waist and used his teeth to help draw down the lacy wisp
of red fabric.  One thing was for sure and that was that the child would
grow up to be a lady.  She lay, arched and still, while her males examined
her.  She spread her legs for their lust and shared the hot hormones that
pumped through them through their ragged breaths and shaking bodies.

       Polly had played with the real Billy, her brother, enough to feel
comfortable and frisky when he was preparing to mount her in his special
way.  She'd planned to ride her horsy around, naked as her namesake,
ending, after a time, with his forearms, hooves, whatever, up on the couch.
At that point she was going to lean way forward and chastise her mount for
not pacing along, like a good stallion should.  Having delivered herself of
her gentle reprimand, her plan was to enlist Brad's help in making a
careful inspection of her steed to see if he could determine what his
problem was.  As a certain point she intended dismounting, herself, and
joining her little boyfriend in tending her animal.

       Rusty, naked, over her and so close, drove the game from her mind.
She was no longer a kiddo about to play a sexy game with her beloved teen
brother; a game that would end with the gush of his hot boy seed all over
her front and her face. This male was different.  He smelled different.  He
radiated an energy that drove her legs wide apart and humped her to him.

       Polly had started with her brother six months earlier, in the
bathtub.  He'd washed her hair, kneeling on a bathmat.  His molestation had
started with a gentle fondling of her neck and shoulders.  She'd understood
in an instant what he was doing; both instinctively and in relationship to
the child safety course in school.  As his Billy's fingers had toyed down
her throat and onto her chest they approached the area covered by a girl's
bikini.  Inside that was bad touching.  Pausing to give her a chance to
temporize, he had ultimately continued tracing down from her throat and
then from side to side on her naked chest.  As his right hand moved over
her it brushed bubbles away, and she used her little hands to help keep the
billowing clouds at bay, so he could see her..

       In a few minutes he was openly fondling and pinching her nipples and
she was rising to his gentle touch.  He'd retrieved a towel with one hand,
and looked to the side while she stepped from the tub and into its soft
folds.  Once wrapped in it, he'd taken little Polly by the hand and led her
silently to her bedroom at the end of the hall.  He'd finished drying her
in front of the mirror, than had her hold the towel to herself while he
stood behind her and stripped.  Billy has whispered to her that he got very
big when he was excited and did she want to see.  She'd nodded her head and
he'd stepped from behind her.  For a long minute they'd stood facing each
other and holding hands, looking down.  Then he'd pulled the towel off her
shoulders and dropped it to the floor.  She'd let him slowly to her bed and
pulled him down beside her, promising she wouldn't tell anybody.  He'd
cuddled, molested and loved her for two hours, spilling his hot young sperm
on her legs and thighs and all over her bare chest, as well.  She'd learned
how to help with her little hands so they'd been able to go all the way
with each other several times before they had to dress and pick up their
routine.

       That Billy had been tender, gentle, mild and slow.  She'd felt
affection to the depth of love, but her real love was just having him near,
having him as her friend and wonderful, patient teacher.

       This Billy was different.  This one called Rusty.  She could see it
in his eyes.  He was going to fuck her.  Instead of her mounting him in
play he was going to mount her as a stag would a fawn.  Brad was obviously
going to help, and so was she.  Her whole body.  Her body had become wet
when her brother had gently masturbated her as she lay on her bed with her
legs spread wide apart.  She'd become hot and slippery to his touch and his
fondling of her had sent pistol volleys from her widely spread knees to her
belly, and higher.  Now she was soaking.  Totally female wet.  Brad
discovered with his fingers; touching first in awe, then curiosity, then,
as Rusty looped his right arm around his slim waste and slid his hand down
to cup it over the boy's penis the child simultaneously caught the scent of
his girlfriend and was driven by his basest instincts to masturbate her
firmly and steadily.

       Rusty was mounted over the little female with his arms against the
back of the leather sofa.  As Polly looked up she could see the powerful
teen male chest inches from her, and looking down she could see what both
the males were doing to her.  His right hand wet from her, Brad was now
using it on Rusty's erection.  He was coating the stallion with her, and,
guiding him to her.

       The first touch brought a shriek from the child: "Billy!"  Then she
gasped, "Oh, Rusty!  It's you.  I'm sorry."

       The teen just said, "Oh, babe," as Brad brought them together.  The
sensation of the little boy's hard penis against his right thigh as the boy
knelt against him was almost as delicious as the sweet female underneath
his powerful body, and the feeling of Brad's hand as he simultaneously
guided the mature male's penis and masturbated it, was almost the heaven of
the wet young virgin he was so close to freshening.

       Rust had never tried to enter one of his young female swimmers.
With one especially mature girl, he'd allowed a boy to do something like
Brad was doing to him now, but the boy had masturbated him to climax, and,
while he'd ejaculated all his semen into Penny, the chubby little blond, he
had not thrust even an inch of his big teen boner into her tight young
virgin body.  All of those girls had been outright virgins or had just
begun the tangential activities that would eventually lead to open incest
or other illegal connexion.  But Polly was different.  Openly living with a
nineteen year old male.  Spending every weekend night in his bed and always
awakening sticky with the semen he'd repeatedly sprayed off between her
young legs.

       Brad, while enthralled with the powerful male body so hot and alive
under his encircling left arm, was, at the same time, fearful for his
little pool mate.  He pushed gently up on the hard male log in his right
hand, guiding its tip past Polly's belly button.  As Rusty felt the boy
change his position, he maneuvered his right arm so it want around Brad's
waist, allowing the young boy to fall to the cushion with his ear pushed to
his girlfriend's sweet lips.

       "Brad," the girl whispered, for he'd approached at a signal from her
eyes, "after I've been with him, you guys are going to have to beat my
butt."

       "Why?" the boy whispered.

       "Because I'm only six," she whispered softly.  "I'm going to be sore
and I'm going to be walking around stiff-legged for a couple of days.  I
want to say I fell in the shower, and I need some bruises to prove it."

       "To Billy," Brad asked.

       "No," she said.  "I'm going to tell him everything; my mom; maybe my
dad.  The kids at school.  Most of all, Ms. Pritchard.  She got done the
wrong way when she was a kid, now she's always sniffing around the girls.
I mean, it's good, I suppose, but, like the saying goes, different strokes,
and I want a bruise in case she decides to take a little peek at my butt."

       There was a pause as Brad contemplated what Polly had said.  She
waited patiently for an answer, finally prompting him.  "Well?" she
whispered.

       "You have been very bad," Brad finally responded.  "Maybe you could
use a spanking."

       "We'll think of something," Polly replied, pushing Brad back to his
position of kneeling against Rusty's right flank.  Realizing the time for
anything else was over, the boy wetted his hand on the girl, finding her
place in the process, and then boldly brought the male to his female.

       The eyes of the lovers locked onto each other as Rusty raised on his
powerful arms so he could focus on the sweet pixie face beneath him.  Polly
craned her neck and returned his stare as Brad massaged their young bodies
together with his stroking right hand.

       "I want to see what you're doing to me," Polly whispered, and Rusty
understood it as a request to take her eyes from his.  He responded by
looking down between their bodies, and Polly followed.

       Where Billy's big penis was always between their bellies when he was
getting close to his cum, Rusty's was inside her.  Thrust into her between
her spread legs in a phallic splendor that made her grunt and thrust to
him.  His arms locked rigid just above her shoulders, the big boy was
intent on entering her slowly, gently, and very fully.  She played her body
against his; danced herself to him, hugging and scratching, and yet he
remained stoically rooted, flexible and lithe in responding her clutches
and thrusts, while slowly moving on past the little sting of her hymen that
Billy had been so careful of even if he masturbated her an hour at a time
(Saving it for someone special.)

       In a way the sight was obscene.  She could see where the jokes came
from.  But any funny stuff was beaten to a hasty death by the hot waves of
entrance and of his entrance.

       Brad fell again to her ear.  "Are you okay?" he whispered.

       "It's okay," she whispered back.  "Cat's have kittens.  Females are
built for it.  Remember, I'll only be about twice my size now when I start
producing eight-pound babies."  She concluded she was big enough not to
have her hips displaced, and that was all that counted between a normal
male and female.

       They kissed like children, and Brad rose again to thrust his boner
against Rusty's muscular thigh.

       Rusty and Polly took his entrance in stages.  While his motion into
her never stopped or varied, their passion rose and fell in tides of
staring into each other eyes, and her grasping and mewing against him
because he would not stop what he was doing to her, or do it.  The little
girl remembered an adage that went, Relax and enjoy it.  Rusty was too
athletic, too nimble and disciplined to allow her the hot thrusts she tried
repeatedly against his powerful stallion body.  Finally, the girl gave up
and surrendered herself.  Lay back on the soft black leather, laced the
fingers behind her slim little-girl neck, and let her body relax.  She
restrained her excitement to the aesthetic by drawing mind pictures of her
brothers long, hard ejaculations. and transferring the image to what was
going to be happening in her womb before Rusty left her.  Her mind flooded
with the images of a documentary on reproduction where a tiny camera had
clearly showed several spurts of semen deep inside a girl's body.

       Rusty did not take advantage of the now still child underneath him.
He looked down at her closed eyes and pretty face and finally slid at the
rate of a quarter of an inch each few seconds until Brad's fingers moved
aside, letting him penetrate fully.

       Polly felt the infinitely fine stubble of Rusty's shaved groin
against her tender lower tummy and realized it had happened.  "Welcome,
lover," she whispered to Rusty, then she freed her hands and brought his
face doubling down to her neck so she could whisper to him.

       She beckoned Brad and he leaned to hear her, keeping his penis
firmly against the powerful teen who'd taught him so much about sperm three
days previously.  "I want Billy's baby," she said, stroking Rusty's arms
tenderly, "because anything could happen; I could get fat or sick or have
to move somewhere or get hooked on drugs or turn into a birch or this or
that or the other thing.  We're going to live together full-time when I'm
ten.  By that time, he'll have saved enough money for a discrete year off
for me, and our parents will adapt the child, who will be a girl.  He can
start taking baths with her, just like he did with me.

       "It works on several levels.  First, a man with a child bride is
going to stay home every night, so less movies, restaurants, and all that
expensive stuff.  When the first child bride provides a second one, and she
provides a third, the saving really add up, what with dollar cost averaging
and compounding; voila, happy and rich.  No adultery.  So slacking.  No
moving hither and yon in search of money or climate.  No expensive gadgets
or hobbies.  No addictions and no fighting.  Just heaps of books, a dozen
close friends, and two or three new X-Box titles every year and you have
god's very own concept of a perfect life here on planet hearth.  And it's
possible because now they can find DNA defects that might adversely effect
the kids, plus they can make sure it's always a girl baby."

       "Imagine twins," Brad commented, and six eyes glazed over for a few
moments.

       It was now time for the sex lesson to begin.

       All three grew quiet and signaled each other with quick glances from
where Rusty was mounted against Polly.

       Brad took control.  He threw himself on the couch and Rusty knew to
brace himself with his left arm and use his right hand to pull down the
child's swimsuit.  The instant he was naked, the boy regained his stance
against the teen, and Rusty thrilled to the touch of a naked boy penis
against his leg.  With his right arm gripped tightly around Rusty's waist,
Brad reached down with his right hand and fingered his way to the hot, wet
and slippery place where Rusty was joined to Polly.  Acting on instinct and
in response to the trembling surges of the hormone-wracked teenage body,
Brad found Rusty's mannish balls and rubbed and stroked his fingers against
them.  His big penis surged immediately and Polly's eyes popped wide open.
She looked so cute, for a second with the half innocent, half
what's-going-one-here look of the little girl watching the rabbits in the
bank card commercial.  Surprised.  Interested.  Then entirely welcoming.
Brad was also riding his stallion like a circus performing, leaning low to
the right side, so he could peer up between the lovers and see the pretty
face for himself.

       It was the little girl's turn, and Brad found her inner thigh with
his wet fingers.  He squeezed her, masturbating and fondling her for just a
few seconds.  He couldn't see their eyes from his positioned, but they were
surely closed, anyway.  He knew his touch had caused Polly's vagina to
clench by the husky panting grunts Rusty was powerless to held back.  He
was falling in love with the child, and grunting over her seemed a way to
signal his feelings.  Brad's hands once again found Rusty, and squeezed
tenderly.  Again he felt a hot, jabbing spasm, which popped the pixie's
eyes so wide they might have been sprung in freight.  Again, Brad went to
the now wet thigh and again he squeezed.  Polly clenched deep inside,
harder this time, and the responding grunt came quicker and was louder and
closer to her ear.

       It took Brad just a third time with his gentle, slippery fingers to
trigger them.

       Suddenly Rusty didn't need Brand and neither did Polly.  They'd
found each other.  With a last thought as to how it had been over three
days, Rusty abandon himself to the little girl.  Polly squeezed, and felt
the immediate throb; did it again and again, slightly, slightly faster,
each time, until Rusty's hoarse grunts were but seconds apart.  Then, like
a peal of thunder almost on the sofa, itself, they found each others'
natural rhythm and it was over.  To Polly it felt he'd gone completely out
of control.  Perfect cadence but in less than a minute it was spoiled.  The
big penis in her was not responding in a predictable manner, not at all.
It had come totally alive with a hot, fiery willfulness that didn't notice
her strong vaginal loving.  It pulsed hotly and wildly; seeming not to
care.  Polly gave up and used her last ounces of strength just to hold her
buckin' bronc as deeply to her as her strength would allow.  It made no
difference; the utter wildness inside her only got more out of control.

       In a Pretty Polly mood one day, she'd masturbated her brother under
their dad's big office magnifying glass.  She knew that was what was
happening inside her.

       Rusty was being a bull.

       Brad knew, too.  The shaking of the teen as he freshened the little
filly pined under his waist would have signaled a blind person as to what
was happening between the young couple, but, in addition to that, was the
strong flow of sperm flowing and even pulsing from their union.  With an
urgent whisper he got Polly to open her eyes, and the girl immediately
tried to pull herself as upright as possible.  Rusty had just strength to
help, and soon the heavy outpouring of milky white seminal fluid was making
her pant with added excitement.  It was really happening.  Her stroking of
him had worked, thanks to Brad's magical teaching fingers.  She'd made him
cum in her.  He was still cumming in her.  More sperm, and more, and he was
still wild and deep in her.

       Her Pretty Polly brain had an instant thought that it might be a
good idea if she contributed a few cells to the fetus, but it was no time
for comedy.  Not with that hot, pulsing wildness doing what it was to her,
and the stream of hot teem semen that was flowing freely down over the
leather of the expensive couch.

       The stallion couldn't be said to be tiring, rather, he'd reached his
destination, fresh and alert.  Rusty's last spasms into her womb were no
less ferocious than his first, but they were farther apart.  It was
intensely exciting, the moreso, waiting for the next, and next.  It had to
end, and she thought it had, was slowly releasing and freeing her love,
when the most shocking pulse of all raced through him.  Polly felt it
ricochet through his big horse body, and was just beginning to hold him
urgently when it reached Rusty's penis.  For the only time, the lunged
against her, bellowing, as she shrieked and soared like a rocket.  Almost.
Almost.  And then she was shaking like a leaf in his arms, oh, it had been
so close, her cutie hair, lank with the steam of her almost successful
mounting, and her body sliding from so close to an impossible peak.  She
found Rusty's ear and asked him to make her cum.  He whispered back that
that was for Billy.  She sighed in acceptance, loving him as deeply for his
simpatico nature as she now loved Billy for his special gift to her.

       Brad draped himself over the two limp bodies, and Polly made a
sensation sandwich out of the feelings of his little-boy shoulders and the
full-grown male penis now held tenderly in her cervix, with its big spermy
purple head deep in her womb.  As some degree of consciousness returned,
Polly reached for Brand's shoulder and pulled her now naked little
boyfriend to her.  "Billy won't let me put my lips on him so he can get
excited inside my mouth, will you, please."

       "I don't know," Brad said, shyly.

       "You were the best teacher in the whole world," she responded.
"I'll bet most girls never learn to do that, or that it takes them a long,
long time before they get it perfect so they can lie absolutely still and
feel every tiny little things that's happening inside them."

       I know, I know, I'm back, and why would I be back if it weren't to
show off?

       In the first place, this chapter includes Fourteen.  In the second
place, this is but the overture to the grandiosely described greatest
erotic scene ever written.  Finally, I feel I have a bit of a reputation to
protect, and, since it's such a small bit, it behooves me to protect it
well.  My readers know I take ostentatious delight in ending chapters with
a little touch of savior faire A closing graceful note, until we meet
again.

       We have Polly thanking Brad for his sensitive touch in teaching her
to match the pulsing of her stallion.  So, we end with Brad's line in
reply: "I guess you could call it On-the-Throb training."

       Chapt. 19

       What's in the backpack?  What's Brad's inner secret?  Does he have
two of them?  Has someone nuked Creative Camp?  Is the fake chapter really
a cover up?  Where is Charles and what did his characters, John and Brad,
do after Brad's story of Rusty and Polly at the pool?  How about Blissy and
his little friend, Timmy, the eleven year old over from sheep country?  How
about your Prince?  Is he just going to lie around writing porn all day, or
are there liegemen?  Mostly, since this is Nifty, will this, when complete,
be the greatest erotic epic ever written?

       I guess that's why there's a Chapter Nineteen.

       Posted by Thomas@btl.net

       xxx