Author: Arthur Kay Title: The Ass-Pumpin,' Pussy-Thumpin,' Seed-
Dumpin,' Dicker Man Summary: 'The Dicker Man got her!' was what the
townsfolk usually said when a young girl just up and disappeared. Just
look at what had happened to 16 year old Rose Ann Pinkham that summer
. . . Keywords: Mf cons het humor oral ill

WARNING: This story is an act of fiction that contains graphic sexual
descriptions and language. If you are a minor (under 21) or if you are
offended by this kind of material then you should stop reading now.
Any resemblance between this story and a real event is coincidental.
The participants are imaginary; their actions have no negative
consequences other than those portrayed in the story. The story is
intended for entertainment and should not be emulated in the real
world.

The Ass-Pumpin,' Pussy-Thumpin,' Seed-Dumpin,' Dicker Man! 

by Arthur Kay

EVERYBODY in town called him the Dicker Man, but no one could tell you
why. They just did, is all. Hell, even he couldn't tell you why. And
if you just up and asked him why they called him that, he'd just grin
that shit-eating grin of his and simply say, "They just do, is all!"

Most folks, if asked, would quickly tell you that he'd gotten the
moniker years ago, when, in his prime, the Dicker Man, so it was
rumored, " . . . would "dicker" a girl with his long "dicker," which
was as long as this . . . " They would then put their hands out wide,
as if showing you the length of that big fish that got away. 

And the length of this particular fish varied, depending on who was
telling the tale and how expansive they felt in the telling. From a
mere foot long to a whomping yardstick length. And every inch mark in
between. 

"Oh, yeah," you might hear one of locals say. "He dickered that poor,
old gal. Used his big, old dicker on her, he did, which is about this
long, give or take an inch or two. . . !" The sexy tale would then
reveal, in lewd detail, just how the poor, old gal was ruined forever,
spoiled silly, and no normal man could, or would ever satisfy her
again. No sirree, not after the Dicker Man got through with her. So
the yarn went. With various embellishments, as I'm sure you can
imagine.

What was known for sure about the Dicker Man? Well, for starters, he
stood six-foot one and a smidgen and weiged 182 and a smidgen. He had
long brown hair, past his shoulder length, and brown eyes. Big, brown,
puppy dog eyes. Those pitiful puppy dog eyes that made you, all of
sudden, want to take him inside your house, feed him, and give him a
nice warm bed to lie in. Or let him share old Fido's backyard house.
The one with the nice and warm straw bed in it.

His race? Caucasian, for sure, with a mix of something else thrown in.
What the something else was, no one knew for sure, but people loved to
guess. Mulatto, maybe? Could be. A tad american Indian? Could be.
Black? Asian? How about Eskimo? Could be all of them. No one knew and
he wasn't telling. And a shit-eating grin isn't too much help, is it?

His age? He had that taut kind of skin that could fool you and make
you believe he was either in his mid-forties or somewhere over the
line of sixty. With many folks guessing at just about every other age
in between. 

Where did he hail from, this Dicker Man? Fuggedaboudit!

Oh, sure, the cops tried. Even took his fingerprints. And the only
photo of him known to man. Lot good it did them. He didn't exist.
Except in his own skin, that is. Interpol, yeah, that Interpol, had
also never heard of the man, but they did get a big kick out of it
all. The Dicker Man! My word, those damned Yankees! Those stories
about this Dicker Man! Ever since they broke from the Crown . . . add
your own punchline. There were many of them over there, across the big
water.

Go ahead, Mr. Detective, ask the Dicker Man his name. He'll tell you.
It's Percival Oliver Whim. And he'll say it loud and clear, with a
voice so clear you would swear it tinkled. Like temple bells. 

But if you make the silly mistake, Mr. Smarty Pants Detective, and ask
him again an hour later, well, you just might hear an equally loud and
clear, Clarence Merriweather Snap, or perhaps, a nice loud and clear,
Chauncy Stainwell Perk. 

He's used all three here and there and many, many more, if truth is
your game. But don't you go and get riled at him, Mr. Know-It-All
Detective, for the only thing he'll throw back at you is that well-
known shit-eating grin of his. A sure sign he was a-funning with you.
Or didn't know he was a-funning with you. Take your pick.

And, to spice things up a bit, there were the rumors . . . 

* * * * * *

TWO RUMORS, to be exact. Two juicy ones, if you want to classify them.

There was the one about Bertha Ann Withers. She was nine or so when
she just up and got swallowed by the air. And the air wasn't telling
where she was or giving her back. Poor Bertha Ann was just gone, is
all.

In one month, if you had a dollar for every time you heard some one
say, "The Dicker Man got her!" you'd be able to buy that mansion you
always had your heart set on. And a mansion with a four-lane bowling
alley in the basement, too, if you also got a buck each time someone's
fish-width hands shot out to ". . . this wide!"

Of course, the cops heard all this, too. And, still mansionless no
doubt, they rousted old Mr. Percival, Clarence, Chauncy Whatever. Even
dug up the floor of his cabin when some fool said, "The Dicker Man not
only dickered poor Bertha Ann, he killed her and buried the body in
the dirt floor of that smelly old cabin of his!" But the authorities
found nothing. No Bertha Ann. No nothing, not even the bones of an
animal. 

Even dug up half the woods around the old cabin, they did. Again,
nothing. But the woods now had large mounds of earth that would surely
take it a mighty long time to assimilate and swallow up.

Well, they never did find Bertha Ann Withers, alive or dead. But they
did find the next girl to get taken by the air. Rose Ann Pinkham, aged
16.

Rose Ann had been missing for almost three days, when, right out of
the air, it seemed, there was, just walking down main street. Naked
and dazed. But none the worse for the wear. Not a scratch on her. And
old doc Shelby, bless him, hasn't been known to miss a scratch, even a
small one, on a dazed and naked girl in ages, at least not since he
gave up imbibing that mind-numbing, make-you-see-things homemade
'shine Ed Farley sells.

When the cops asked Rose Ann what had happened to her, she couldn't
tell them. She didn't remember a thing. Except some foolishness about
a talking hand! A big talking hand that spoke to her in a voice as
loud and clear as any temple bell could ever hope to muster up.

Old doc Shelby, bless him, quickly determined that Rose Ann, bless
her, was no longer the virginal Rose Ann Pinkham. Someone had, in the
usual manner he said, neatly deflowered the sixteen year old Rose. 

A sixteen year old, virginally plucked Rose that now started doing
some very strange things . . .

* * * * * *

THINGS OF A PROMISCUOUS NATURE. Rose Ann Pinkham was, 
it now seemed, highly oversexed and even downright wild about it, too.
She started screwing any boy she could manage to get alone with her.
No matter what he looked like. Even that overly nerdy, Timothy Figg
had, so he said and his brother Gage backed his story up, his sweetass
turn with her. 

Then there was the football team story. How one warm night and all
sexed up like a coon cat in heat, she took on the entire Crusher High
School football team, all eleven of them. Plus, and depending on who
told you, the coach, Mr. Ferdy, too. The very married Coach Ferdy.

Right out there in the middle of one of Farmer Wells' cow grazing
pastures. They all had her right there, every one of them, right among
the cow plops, the cow pies, the cow patties, those hard covered
things that squoosh cowshit all over your feet should you up and step
on one.

Which had happened more than once that fateful night, so it's said,
judging by the smell of Rose Ann, so it was also said.

If you listened to every young boy, who said he was there that night
and had had a piece of sweet Rose Ann pie, and was even willing to
swear on a stack of bibles, well, now, that football team would have a
team's roster longer than most adult men's arms. Even longer. 

All the way out to here . . . !

And, as any football fan knows real well, that's just way too many men
on the field. Which ain't allowed in the game. Is it, now?

Then the silly girl ups and gets air-swallowed again! Gone! Just like
that. But this time, the quick-thinking cops found her in record time.
She had merely run away from home and was living a thousand miles
away. She was, as one wise-ass cop put it, ". . . probably looking for
some more cow meadows to lie down in!"

Meadow seeking or not, Rose Ann Pinkham had also left the cops, and
the townsfolk, a bit of a mystery. A mysterious tale she had written
down in the diary she had carelessly left behind. It was written in a
story format, a fairy tale one at that . . .

* * * * * * 

JULY 5TH: Dear Diary: There once was a little girl named Rose. She was
a bad girl and wouldn't pay no mind to nobody. Even when they told her
to stay away from the cabin in the woods. The magical cabin. But she
couldn't help herself, no matter what they said. Magical cabins have
their appeal, you know.

She liked to watch the man, the man who lived in the magical cabin.
Watch him as he chopped wood, his naked back all sweaty and glistening
like. His arms all muscled up just like those big men you see at the
muscle beach. Those hunks a girl like Rose found so fascinating to
watch, so delicious to think about, especially at night, just before
drifting off to sleep. Rose would dream about them at times. And, now
that she had seen the man in the woods, she dreamed about him, too.

Oops, Pa's calling me, Dear Diary, that old fool, so I gotta scoot.
See you later.

* * * * * *

JULY 15th: Dear Diary: Rose saw the man again today. From a long ways
off, and as she headed toward the magical cabin. And he saw her, too.
He must have, because he was waving a hand at her, as if saying, "Hi
there, little lady."

Rose, being polite, waved back. He waved back at her again, this time
moving his hand to and fro, from left to right. Back and forth. Over
and over. Back and forth, left to right. Just waving away, he was.

As Rose waved and waved back at him, she noticed she couldn't take her
eyes off the man's big hand as it went from side to side. To and fro.
Fro and to. Over and over. She tried to close her eyes to blot out the
hand, but found it was no use. They had a mind of their own, these
eyes of hers. 

So Rose just keep a-staring at the big hand. Until she felt quite
sleepy and felt her eyes get all droopy like. And weighing way too
much to keep open. So, Rose closed them, expecting the hand to take a
powder.

But that didn't happen. She could, right through her closed eye lids,
still see the hand. Waving at her. To and fro. Back and forth.

Then, the big hand got even bigger. And bigger some more. So big it
now loomed right in front of her. Poor Rose had no idea why she had
walked toward the big hand, or even if she had, but she must have,
ain't that right?

Then Rose got the shock of her life. The hand started talking to her.
Saying something. Right at her. Right there in the woods. And she had
to pay real good attention just to figure out what the big hand had to
say.

"Hello, little girl! How are you this fine day?" the hand said.

"I-I'm just fine, Mr. Hand, how are you?" Rose felt silly talking to
the big hand, but it was a nice sounding hand. It spoke loud and clear
like. Bell like, even.

"Never better, my dear, but you know it's only proper you now pay the
price, don't you?" Did Rose hear tinkling?

"W-what price, Mr. Hand?" Rose knew full well she didn't have any
money on her. Her purse was at home, where it should be. Where I
should be, Rose thought, and I would be if I could run, which I can't
seem to do.

I'm sleepy now, Dear Diary, so I'll continue it tomorrow. 'Nighty-
night.

* * * * * *

JULY 17th: Dear Diary: Sorry about yesterday, but Pa and I had to go
into Smithsville on some errands. We stayed over at Aunt Bessie's
place. 

Now, where was I, Dear Diary? Oh, yes, in the woods with the big
talking hand.

"The price, my dear girl, for spying on me. You're not going to deny
you were spying now, are you?" Rose almost bobbed her head yes, but
she sensed she couldn't fool the big talking hand. So, she shook her
head from side to side, saying no and admitting her guilt at the same
time. 

"Good. We're going to get along just fine, you and me. Just looking at
you, I can see you don't have any money, so I'll have to set a price
on it a different way. A way, you'll soon find out, is well within
your ability to pay." The big hand paused and wiggled its fingers at
her, as if saying everything was just hunky-dory. Rose giggled at the
funny sight. The big hand then went on:

"You know what acting is, don't you?" She nodded. Who didn't?

"Well, for the next hour or so, you're going to pretend you're an
actress. A good one, at that. Playing a part, if you will. And I'll
tell what part to play. And how to play it. Understand so far?" Rose
nodded again. She liked the idea of being an actress. Who wouldn't?
The big hand wiggled once more, as Rose could see quite clearly, even
right through her closed eye lids.

"Here's the scene I want you to play-act at. You are a lonely wife,
whose husband has been away at sea for six months. You miss him
terribly, naturally. You miss his kisses and his touch and, most of
all, you miss the way the two of you made love. Hot and passionate
love. Understand?"

Rose nodded, picturing her husband, a large, muscular muscle beach
type man. Or maybe a muscular man that looked scrumptious when
chopping wood. Take your pick. Both went in and out of her mind, one
after the other. Rose had trouble picturing the love making part, but
had enough of an idea about it all, she thought, to fake it, to play-
act at it. Had the big hand said something else?

" . . . he walks in the door, you're going to listen real well to him
and do everything your sweet, loving husband tells you to do. Without
even the slightest protest. Do you understand? If you do, just say,
yes, I understand and will do everything my husband tells me to do,
without any arguing." 

"Yes, I understand and will do everything my husband tells me to do,
without any arguing." Why not? She thought. He's my husband, after
all, ain't he? Durn tootin.' 

Then, the big hand's voice changed. Instead of being loud and clear,
it went down a notch, lower in tone, and sounded more friendly like.
Just like a long, lost husband might after six months without his
darling, passionate and ardent wife.

Remembering this story now, Dear Diary, has made me have those funny
feelings I have to take care of sometimes. I'll do it, then go to
sleep and get back to you tomorrow, OK" The diary offered no
objections, diaries being what they are and all . . .

* * * * * *

JULY 18TH: Dear Diary: See? I kept my promise this time!!! Where was
I? Oh, yeah, with Rose and her husband man in the woods near the
cabin.

"Now, wife of mine," the big hand said. "Kiss me! I've missed your
burning kisses for so long I've gone just crazy inside." Rose watched,
fascinated, as the big hand turned itself into a man, a handsome
husbandly man, and a muscular one at that. He is, Rose thought, the
most husbandly man I've ever laid my eyes on. He reminds me of
someone, Rose thought. But all she could picture was a funny grin. One
without a face. Much like the Cheshire cat.

Rose stepped forward and threw her arms around the husbandly man's
neck. When their lips met, Rose was amazed to discover that his lips
were even softer than she remembered they were. She thought: He's been
gone to long, is all. Well, I'll see to that! Rose pushed her tongue
into his mouth, remembering the ardent passion they once shared on
that day six months ago.

They kissed this way for some time before Rose managed to slip in some
play-acting on her part. "It's been too long, my husband, way too
long. We've so much to catch up on. I've missed your passionate love
making, too, my darling, so very much. So very, very much." Then Rose
kissed her husband once more, with a passion so vivid and an ardor so
hot, it's a wonder the woods didn't up and catch fire.

"Now, wife of mine," he said. "Why don't we both take off all our
clothes and get real comfy like on our marriage bed here, our big
marriage bed of sweet smelling meadow flowers?" Rose had no argument
in her on that idea. She liked meadow flowers.

Both naked now, Rose looked at her dear, sweet husband man. "My, my,
husband of mind, you're much longer down there than I can remember!
You must have missed me something awful. Why, it must be this long . .
. !" She put both hands out to the sides, estimating the length. " . .
. if it's an inch!" Rose giggled. Her husband man laughed. Their ice
had been broken. The husband man spoke:

"I sure have missed you, darling, so much so I named the big fella
Puck, just to have someone to talk to late at night. Say hello to
Puck."

Puck, Rose thought, just like the impish sprite I've read about in
those English tales of awe and wonderment. What was his other name?
Oh, yes, Robin Goodfellow. "Hello there, Puck! Pleased to make your
acquaintance." She reached out a hand and shook Puck. Twice, as is
proper when meeting someone for the first time. 

Puck showed his impish pleasure by dribbling. One large, blobby
dribble, right there on the very tip of his indented innie-like and
slit-like mouth. Rose took this opportunity to ad-lib with her play-
acting.

"Naughty Puck! Are you so glad to see me you can't control yourself?"
She took the thumb of the hand holding Puck and wiped it across the
blob, erasing it from his slitty mouth, but making her thumb all slick
like in the process.

Then Rose ad-libbed a bit more. She took the slick thumb and stuck it
in her mouth, sucking the blob up and tasting it. She heard the
husband laugh. A laugh that clearly said he was quite pleased by her
acting ability.

"Now, my wife, I want you to show Puck here just how much you missed
him by giving him his first bath in six months." Rose looked
perplexed.

"A saliva bath, dear, just like you used to do. Remember how you would
take old Puck into your warm, wonderful mouth and use your saliva to
get him good and clean?" Rose almost remembered. It was in the back of
her mind somewhere, just floating around. Mouth. Saliva. Saliva bath.
Mouth. Saliva. Puck. Get him good and clean. She remembered now, but
she couldn't quite remember how to get it going, this saliva bath. But
she had help in the matter.XXXXX

"Get on your knees, wife!" the husband voice commanded. What he had
said somehow sounded familiar. She'd heard that before, somewhere. She
knelt down, naked in the meadow, and found that she was now at Puck's
height. He was looking right at her. With a tad more drool on his
mouth, the naughty imp.

"Put your mouth on Puck, wife!" the voice said, as hands urged her
head forward and nearer to Puck. Rose felt a playfulness come over
her, so she decided to ad-lib it up a bit more. 

"Now, Mr. Puck, I'm gonna give you a nice saliva bath and get you all
as clean as rainwater, but I don't wanna hear a peep outta you. So, if
you know what's good for you, Pucky boy, you'll be good and not impish
in your manner. You understanding me, Pucky?" Pucky now wobbled up and
down, signifying he did. "Good Puck!" was all Rose said.

Puck might have kept to his up and down waggling, one can only guess,
if Rose hadn't taken his entire Puckish head into her warm and
wonderful wifey mouth. And, amazingly, as she did, she could see the
long, long length of Mr. Puck, right through her closed eyelids. And
the curly, fur coat Mr. Puck wore around his neck seemed a great
distance away from her eyes. She estimated the distance to be out to
here . . . the length of the fish that got away, depending on the
fisherman telling the story.

Dear Diary: I'm pooped, but, as tired as I feel, I gotta go and do my
"thing" again. Ha ha! See you later . . .

* * * * * * 

JULY 19TH: Dear Diary: I know I haven't entered any of my
usual stuff, about chores and all, but I thought you'd like me to keep
this story in one long piece. OK? Good! Now, where were we? Oh, yes,
Rose had Puck in her mouth and was giving him a good saliva bath.

"Now, wife, that's no way to give Puck a saliva bath, just cleaning
his head and face! Oh, no, you've got to saliva clean his entire body,
right down to his brown furry collar." In a wink, a Puckish wink at
that, and before Rose even had time to think about it, old Puck, with
the big hands holding Rose's neck in place, went right down her
throat, making her rapidly blink, her eyes well up with tears and
wanting to upchuck.

Which, for some reason, she didn't do. Which now amazed her as she
felt the brown furry collar tickle her lips and nose. The big hands
were now pushing her the other way, away from the fur collar. She
could now see, through her still closed eyelids, the Puckish length
she had taken into her mouth and down her throat. Puck, she said to
herself, you're quite the lengthy little devil, now ain't you? And he
was, if you care anything at all about such matters.

Then, when Puck's fat little head was the only thing in her mouth, the
hands pushed her in the direction of the fur collar again. All the way
down to lips-and-nose-tickle time. In one fell swoop, one deliberately
fast fell swoop, or so it seemed to Rose at the time. 

Then the hands did it again. And again. Back. Forward. Back and
forward. Again and again. With Rose's saliva building up to such a
state, old Puck was getting the bath of a lifetime. And from the moans
and groans she heard him say way above her head, magically, as if Puck
had become a great ventriloquist, Puck was really enjoying himself. 

Then Puck totally started her! The little imp started throwing up into
her mouth, and in a most copious manner, at that. Rose tried to pull
her mouth off of him and read him the old riot act, but someone's
hands had her neck held fast in place. She couldn't move even one
inch. 

As she felt Puck's upchuck ooze out around her lips, with a musky odor
to it, she did the only thing she could think of to keep from drowning
on it. She swallowed the whole vile stuff now puddling up and flooding
her tongue and teeth.

But the vile stuff just kept a-coming! So, she swallowed again. And
then had to do the same a third time. Puck, it seemed to her, and
judging from the taste of it, had eaten an awful lot of something that
was very salty and acidic-like. And was most throat-stinging in its
aftertaste. Another quick swallow told her that much. But her bathing
of Puck wasn't yet quite done.

"Suck Puck clean, darling, get him as clean as whistle! Now! Suck!"
And Rose did suck. Until Puck was truly whistle-clean and not spitting
up any more of his spritish upchuck stuff.

The big hands on her neck were removed. One of them was now under her
chin, raising it upward. She found herself looking at her husband's
face. He was smiling warmly at her. "That was wonderul, wife, just
wonderful. You've made me and old Puck mighty happy. Mighty happy!" He
smiled at her, this long, lost hubby of hers. She smiled back. Why
not? If husband was happy and Puck was happy, she must be happy, too.
Who wouldn't be, given the circumstance?

Then the husbandly man took the wifely woman by the hand and led her
to a grass covered clearing. 

"Lie down here, darling, we've got more catching up to do . . .

Gotta run, Dear Diary. Nature calls me again! Ha ha! Reminder to
myself: Buy two new AA batteries.

* * * * * *

JULY 20TH: Dear Diary: I know you're eager to find out what happened
to Rose in the woods that day, but to understand it, Dear Diary, I
have to tell you some things I know you've never heard before. 

What happened next in the story goes by the polite name of
intercourse. Naughty people, real naughty people, call it f - - king!
That's where, Dear Diary, the man puts his thingy, it's called a penis
by nice folk, but a c - - k or p - - - k by the bad ones, into the
woman's thingy, which is called vagina in nice folk parlance, or pussy
by the really naughty people, or worse, c - - t! A word I absolutely
hate! Just hate it. It sounds so short and sharp it hurts my ears just
to hear it said.

Well, anyway, Dear Diary, the handsome husband man put his penis into
the wifey woman's vagina. And they had the intercourse. Just like
that, like any husband and wife would do when on their marriage bed of
sweet smelling meadow flowers.

But, Dear Diary, that husband man's penis wasn't what you might expect
a normal husband to own. Nosirree Bob! It must have been this long! My
hands are about a foot and half apart, Dear Diary. And it was, my dear
Lord A-Mighty, this thick! I'm putting my hand around my wrist, Dear
Diary.

Well, Dear Diary, poor Rose was scared a mite, I should say. She
hadn't remembered it ever being that big before. Puck, Rose figured,
must have magical powers and be able to turn himself into a baseball
bat. A long, thick one with a large, plum-shaped head, to boot. The
little devil.

But the husband man was real nice about it all. He didn't just go a-
charging in the way you might imagine some silly boy might do. Oh, no,
he was real gentle with his Rose. 

Told Rose he was just gonna let her get used to its baseball bat size
by letting old Puck soak himself in what the husband man called her
natural female juices. It was, I reckon, just like he was a-softening
up a hard apple for making some Apple Pandowdy. And, when he finally
put it all the way into Rose, just as far in as it would go, mind you,
there wasn't any pain to it. On the contrary, it felt to her like
something wonderful was taking place.

He then started to ride Rose for all he was worth. Making up for lost
time, I expect. Well, Rose gave him the riding right back, she did.
Soon, both of them were just a-riding away, getting nowhere to be
sure, but neither one of them seemed to care. 

Then, Dear Diary, right in the thick of things, our Rose had what they
call an orgasm. Or-Gaz-Um! That's where the woman feels, well, Dear
Diary, I can't explain it too well. You'll just have to use your
imagination when I tell you it felt like nothing Rose had ever felt in
her entire life. Even when she has fresh batteries in that thing Rose
keeps hidden under her mattress.

And it didn't just happen the once. No, no. It happened over and over
again. Until Rose thought she'd keen pass out from all the bliss. 

Then Puck, the baseball bat Puck, started upchucking again, from all
the banging and excitement, I guess, poor fella. Rose could feel it,
fire-like, as Puck's spit up splashed all over the inner walls of her
vagina. And the way that husbandly man of her's yelled! You would
swear he was a-scalded by the heat of Puck's upchuck, too! 

Then, without understanding why, the husband man was gone and Rose
found herself lying there, just naked, on their honeymoon bed of fresh
meadow blooms. But Rose didn't mind. She knew he'd be back the very
next day. The big hand had whispered that fact to her just before she
had managed to open her eyes for real and could once again use them
for normal seeing. 

Dang, Dear Diary, Pa's at me again! He's nasty when he drinks. I'm
fairly tempted to run away from home, I am. One of these days . . .

* * * * * * 

THAT, to the chagrin of anyone who's read this far, was the last entry
in Rose Ann Pinkham's private little diary.

The first two people, two experienced police detectives, at that, to
have read this far, just looked at each other. One scratched his head.
The other just sat there, shaking his head. 

"You thinking what I'm thinking?" He knew he was.

"The Dicker Man? That old fart? Shit, he probably gave up getting it
up years ago!" He grinned at the other cop, who was now absent-
mindedly thumbing the pages of the diary, riffling them as you would a
deck of playing cards.

Then he noticed a small, pink, triangular shape peeking out from the
inside front cover's diagonal flap. He pressed on the pink shape,
pulled it out and unfolded it. They both saw it was a Post-It Note.
With a scribble across one side. He read it quickly and passed it over
to the other cop.

The other cop read it and looked up.

The two men now just sat there staring at one another . . .

It read, on the pink paper, and in Rose's scrawly handwriting: 

For Diary: 
I am now 
Mrs. Chauncy Puck!!!

The End.