Archive Note: Efforts have been made to remove any errors in the following text caused by the process of creating this E-book. In the interests of authenticity, the remaining misspelled words and ludicrous punctuation--however unlikely though they seem to be--are the author's mistakes or typesetting errors. They were left as found in the original pocketbook.
The Return Of Fanny
Wily Chinese capitalists embarrass the federal government as they set up a private mail service in competition with the U. S. Post Office. Not only does this new company offer faster, more reliable service at cheaper rates, they do it at a profit!
In dire straits, Uncle Sam turns to the greatest private eye in the world, Harvey Hereford, Jr.-who in secret life is that greatest of all folk heroes, Captain Sex! With that invincible combination facing them, the Chinese seemed doomed ... until the dainty dynamite from Stoversville explodes into action with cocked fist and toe ready for kicking. The resultant mixture of merriment, mayhem and sex saves the day ... and proves that a little Fanny goes a long, long way!
CHAPTER ONE
"Darn you, Virgil! Are you going to fuck me or not?", cussed an impatient Fanny Hell with a toss of her golden curls.
The adorable eighteen-year-old nestled naked on her cheeky bottom atop a bed in the Manhattan offices of Dr. Sidney M. Festerboil. With her elbows propped behind her so that her incredibly luscious pink-capped breasts jutted temptingly up and out, she glared at her grotesquely hunchbacked beau, Virgil Higbe, with unbridled animosity. What a spoil-sport he could be sometimes!
The recalcitrant Virgil-likewise completely disrobed-sulked silently at the foot of the bed, stubbornly refusing to climb into it with his milky-breasted mistress. Oh-so-infuriatingly, his sullen gaze darted about the sparsely furnished cubicle in every direction except at the pink-nippled object of what should have been his passionate desire. But, oh no, not old Virgil Higbe, the champion wet blanket of 42nd Street! He wasn't desirous. Not him. Far from responding properly to the glittering display of silk-skinned nudity to which Fanny was treating him, the balky hunchback wasn't even halfway aroused. This was amply evident from her observation that his semi-flaccid penis dangled at a discouraging 45-degree downward angle instead of looming forth in the oak-hard horizontal position which his teenaged tootsie had grown to cherish so much. Shucks, the golden girl mutely fretted as she parted her perfect thighs even wider for her man's unappreciative edification. Was she losing her touch or something?
"I know what the trouble is, Virgil," she prettily pouted, knowing even as she framed her accusation that it was a grossly unfair one. "You don't love me any more, do you? ... Come on, honey, you might as well admit it. You've fallen out of love with your baby, haven't you?"
Virgil's sour response was prefaced bv an exasperated slapping of his well-muscled arms against his flanks. "Sheesh!", he seethed, rolling his eyes heavenward in a god-give-me-strength gesture. "O' course I still love ya, youse kooky little bitch! Dat ain't got nuttin' ta do wit' it!"
"Then why won't you fuck me?", Fanny cutely-if unreasonably-demanded. "If a fellow truly loves his sweetheart, doesn't he like to fuck her once in a while?"
The bulldog-faced hunchback bitterly muttered to himself: "Voigil Higbe, youse oughta have yer head examined fer even gettin' inta dis fruitcake sitchooation in da foist place." Louder, to Fanny, he explained for at least the fourth time: "Look, kid, I just don't dig ballin' when somebody's watchin', dat's all. I like my privacy ... C'mon, let's get dressed an' blow dis jernt.
Stubbornly maintaining her position, Fanny doggedly beamed her precious privates at her still-uninterested beau as she insisted: "Oh, Virgil stop acting like such a big baby! Why do you have to feel we're being watched? We're alone in the room, aren't we?"
Jerking his thumb over his shoulder at the mirrored panel which covered most of the wall to his rear, the Quasimodo of the Great White Way huffily reminded her: "Yeah, but youse know as well as I do dat dat nutty sawbones is watchin' every move we make t'rough dat one-way glass over dere! ... An', fer chrissakes, he's even takin' movin' pitchers yet!"
There was no denying the truth of her lover's claims, the amber-eyed angel knew. Although from their side of the glass it appeared to be an ordinary mirror, Dr. Festerboil had advised them early on in their interview that it was in reality a one-way window. According to their mutually-agreed-upon plan, the good doctor would at this moment indeed be positioned in the adjoining cubicle surveying the bizarrely mated couple through the glass. Waiting to record their carnal joining on cinematic celluloid. Thus, even though Fanny had been accurate in pointing out that they were alone in the room, Virgil was equally correct in his counterclaim that their every move was being spied upon. She'd had no idea that it would bother him so much; for her own part, she had to confess that the knowledge that their nakedness was being observed by a third party actually excited her a little bit. A witness to the scene seemed to add a certain extra spice to what Fanny still hoped was going to be a rousing good roll in the hay with her steady guy. Not that she felt any sexual attraction toward the witness, Dr. Festerboil-far from it. But her awareness that two pairs of eyes-instead of the usual one pair-were examining her glossy vagina and saucy melon breasts heightened the experience for her, adding a titillating variation to the conventional approach to the love-act ... On the other hand, she broadmindedly fancied, maybe her feelings on the matter were a little distorted. In all truth, the majority of people probably would have taken Virgil's side in their current quarrel. Maybe little Fanny Hell was just a jaded wanton, too worldly for her age, conditioned to licentious immodesty by her recent two years' employment as a teenage whore in the swanky upper East Side brothel of Madame Simone Bontriomphe. That sordid interlude would have been enough to mangle the mind and morals of any young girl, mused the honey-blonde hoyden, ashamed that she had ever allowed herself to be sucked into the seamy underworld of professional prostitution. At the same time she thanked her lucky stars for the thousandth time that she had possessed the spiritual backbone to make the break in the end.
"... An' anudder t'ing dat bugs me", Virgil griped on. "Besides not wantin' ta screw in front of a audience, I don't like de idea of some udder guy-any udder guy-takin' a gander at my god's cunt an' boobs! Whaddaya t'ink o' dat?"
"Darling, I think you're being plain silly", Fanny more or less honestly countered. Theoretically she could sympathize with his stand, but: "After all, we are doing this for the advancement of Science."
She had him there, thought the smug sweetie. He certainly couldn't charge that there was anything unwholesome about their activity when it was being performed for such a noble cause as Dr. Festerboil's massive research inquiry into the physiological nature of human sexuality. Golly, think what a boon it was going to be for mankind when the results of the devoted medic's interrogations were published in a year or two. The cuddly captivator could just imagine all the puritanical myths that would be punctured, the veils of shame and prudery that would be lifted, much to the psychic betterment of the whole world, and most especially to the psychic betterment of her own good old U.S. of A. where the life-blighting forces of sexual repression remained rampant even in this supposedly liberated age. Fanny felt deeply honored to be a part of such an exalted enterprise. She had come across Dr. Festerboil's advertisement for volunteers quite by chance the other day while scanning the help-wanted classifieds in the Daily Clarion as part of her latest job hunt. Telephoning the doctor for details, she had been quickly satisfied as to the high-mindedness of his research aims. Subsequently, she had persuaded an even-then-reluctant Virgil to join her in the offbeat gambit of performing sexually for the researcher's cameras and medical machines. An appointment had been made, and here they were in the eminent doctor's 72nd Street offices, ready to give their balling all in the interest of Science. (Or at least she was, amended Fanny, noting, but blocking out, Virgil's continued grumbling from the foot of the bed). And best of all, they were getting paid for it. Dr. Festerboil's advertisement had offered $25 each for volunteer subjects. Predictably, old party-pooper Virgil there had offered to give Fanny the $25 himself if she would cancel their appointment. But in so doing he had missed the point entirely; he had failed to understand what a good thing this was for his angel's pride, to be earning-or helping earn-a piece of money again after so many weeks on the unemployment rolls. As a veteran of many years on the same well-paying job (Virgil was employed as barker at the Zingo Arcade down on 42nd Street) -he didn't realize how defeated a poor girl could get, how down on herself she could become, when she wasn't pulling her own weight in the world of commerce. True, Fanny was hardly in danger of starving. Between her unemployment checks and the monetary generosity of her beloved hunchback, she was getting along about as well as if she'd been holding down a regular job. But it wasn't the income itself that was the important thing, it was the source of it. As a matter of pride and principle, the dainty dazzler longed to make her own way in life by means of her own legitimate labors. Heck, who wanted to spend the rest of her life sponging on state and sweetheart? That was an unbearably demeaning posture for a bright, ambitious girl like herself. Not that the world had as yet accorded much recognition to her brightness and ambitiousness, she wryly reflected. In tha. nine brief months since she had quit peddling her succulent sexual favors for a living, she had already managed to forge smashing failures in no less than six abortive careers; as door-to-door saleswoman, hotel recreation director, political campaign worker, summer resort baby-sitter, Hollywood movie aide, and, most recently, college student. What a series of revolting developments her jobs had amounted to! If her professional fortunes didn't take a turn for the better very soon, the discouraged dumpling believed she just might begin to lose faith in her non-whoring talents. That was why this participation in Dr. Festerboil's research project was so important. It wasn't a steady job, of course, and $25 wasn't all the money in the world, but it represented honest wages that she was generating by her own efforts and she was damned if she was going to let Virgil wiggle out of the deal. Therefore....
"Oh, Virgil!!", she coyly crooned, putting on her most innocent little-girl smile and batting her fluffy lashes. "Come on, sweet baby. Don't be such an old sourpuss. You will give your little Fanny the good screwing she needs so badly, won't you, hmmm? ... Pretty please?"
As Virgil reluctantly raised his grumpy gaze from the floor, the wee wanton supplied electrifying emphasis to her request by throwing her thighs so widely apart that she lay on her back looking like the world's sexiest girl frog. Quickly, lest she lose the seductive advantage revealed by the nicker of interest in her fellow's eyes, she reached down with both hands to seize a bold hold on her most private place. Purposefully, she stroked her downy pubic bush, which grew as golden-yellow as a Kansas wheatfield in August, shining forth as breathtaking proof of the elfin enticer's true blondeness.
Craning her neck upward as she stroked at her curly thatch-alternately pressing the soft buns of her vaginal cheeks together so that they pooched tantalizingly outward-fanny saw that she was getting to Virgil at last, unquestionably dissolving his prudish qualms. The sinewy cripple remained rooted at the foot of the bed, but his grumbling had ceased. He stood mute-transfixed-his eyes riveted to the priceless treasure framed by mischievous Fanny's fingers. True, he hadn't reached full erection yet, but the tip of his impressive prod did appear to have hoisted upward a notch or two since the last time the springy-bosomed siren had glanced at it.
Toward the coveted end of bringing her man's male machinery to a state of completely stiff readiness, the bold baby on the bed now proceeded to comb a part into her flossy blonde bum-bush in order to lay bare the glistening diadem at its roots. To the tune of Virgil's choked gasp of appreciation, she parted the fragrant fronds of her furry mangrove and spread her outer lips for his inspection.
"Oh, my good god in heaven!" was all Virgil managed to croak.
Rather enjoying her seductive sport now that she was getting involved in it, Fanny laid her head back and eagerly played with herself. Not just for Virgil's benefit, either; she had to shamelessly admit that these masturbatory manipulations of her girlish gland were providing her with an increasingly good measure of naughty-nice pleasure. Propping her outer lips apart with the fore and index fingers of one hand, she dipped the other fingertip into the tiny well at the base of her inner lips. The fingertip came out dripping with the ambroisia-scented oil of her want. Loving the feel of what she was doing to herself, brazenly relishing the fact that two sets of male eyes were watching her do it, the nubile nymphet proceeded to lave her surrounding parts with the lubrication dredged from her central well. Dipping repeatedly in for fresh anointment, her fingertip methodically applied coats of gelatinous sexpaint to the lengths of both delicately-scalloped inner lips, inside and out. Fanny could feel the rose petal-shaped lips changing texture as she ministered to them, stiffening from their normal flaccid repose and standing up rubbery-firm and slippery-hot as they were glossed over with her sweet bodily juices. God, they were incredibly smooth! She didn't play with herself often, but now that she was doing so she had to agree that Virgil was surely right in his claim that there was no substance on earth quite so smooth and soft as a well-lubricated vagina. Fanny's, of course, according to her devoted swain, being the smoothest and softest of them all. And not only in the area of the membraneous inner lips, either, but ... (aah!) ... inside the hole as well, she noted as she plunged her finger to the hilt into her quivering quim-the smoothest and softest part of all.
As she brought her drenched fingertip up to rub the precious protuberance of her tiny clit-pearl: "Unnnh!", the golden girl grunted her ecstasy at the super-sensitive contact. Jeepers, she was getting hot! With heedless abandon, she proceeded to make herself even hotter by rolling the wee clitoris back and forth, round and round, until it had quickly reached the love-ready hardness of a steel ball bearing. Wow, was she ever ready to screw! Right now! To heck with any foreplay, full fuck ahead!
Praying that Virgil too would be erotically prepared by this time, the petite pleaser elevated her head once again to inspect his penis. Sighting on him between the milky mounds of her luscious breasts and along the gossamer length of her taut tummy, she was a bit surprised and chagrined to observe that in fact her usually potent playmate hadn't yet attained a full erection. He was almost up though, standing there ogling her scintillating snatch like a starving man gleaming at a chunk of choice, rare filet mignon ... Oh well, give him another minute or so.
In the meantime, spying her reflection in the mock mirror which covered the wall behind Virgil, Fanny left her head upraised so that she might enjoy the added nuance of watching her continuing manual ministrations to herself ... Yes, it was a pretty little pussy, she vainly mused, spreading its juicy folds as wide open as she could in order to get the best possible look. The captivating crevice looked so ... so ... clean and-(amazingly)-unused. So virginally feminine. How charmingly it was glistening under the gazes of her witnesses, all filmed over with the honeyed fuels of her inner fires. And just look at those darling inner lips, standing up so spunky and firm, visibly quivering along their scalloped edges in their puppy-dog eagerness to be loved. How kissable, how lickable, how screwable this fragrant furpie wasl And what luscious color her whole genital complex had, the ravishing rascal smugly appraised, what with those soft golden curls ringing the entrancing slash of shiny pink. Idly, she fancied that the pink of her vagina appeared to be a deeper and redder shade than the pink of her nipples. To check, she reached up and cupped one ripe canteloupe of a breast, screwing the nipple around to face the mirror so that she could make a side-by-side comparison between her upper and lower pinkness. Yes, she saw for sure now, the lower pinkness was the darker of the two. The upper pink-that of her adorable breast button-was seen to be of a more delicate rose hue while that down below might have been labeled a fetching blood-pink, approaching an out-and-out crimson at her entrance tip. Well, she speculated, maybe her pussy-poo was just extra in flamed right now because she was so hot.
Criminentlies was she ever hot, the juicy juvenile harked once more, returning her attention to Virgil's genitalia in order to decide whether or not he was ready to service her yet ... Drat! She frowned upon discovering that he was not. Almost, but, not quite.
"Golly, Virgil honey, aren't you ever going to get it up?" she poutily protested. "Here I've been fiddling with myself, trying to turn you on, and I've gotten to the point where I'm on the verge of coming without you ... I can tell by the way you've been staring at my little zook that you want me, but you're not hard yet ... What's wrong, honey?"
"Aw, christ, kid, I do want yez," Virgil unhappily affirmed. "But, damnit ta hell, I still git of in da back o' my head how dat croaker is watchin' us t'rough dat glass. It's goddamn distractin', damnit!"
In that case, Fanny serenely judged, there was only one remedy left. She would have to apply the one gambit that had never yet failed to make her man's mighty mace pop up like a red-knobbed jack-in-the-box. Smiling impishly, she realized, now that she had thought of it, that it was going to be a kick for her too.
"C'mere, precious," she winningly ordered. "Over here, close to me, beside the bed."
At this, Virgil padded obediently over and stood with his knees braced against the edge of the mattress. Rolling onto her side, Fanny propped herself up on one elbow and began teasing his hairy inner thighs, scratching lightly up and down with her fingernails, pausing now and again to pluck at the brisly follicles growing there. In this juxtaposition-she reclining and the slow-heating hunchback standing-her innocent, rosy-cheeked face lay only two or three inches from the blunt end of his lancing male instrument. What an exciting hunk of flesh this was, she rejoiced, grooving on it with wide amber eyes. What an utterly gorgeous penis her man had. And to think that it was all hers, that the excruciatingly delightful services it was capable of providing were there for her use, and her use only. What a lucky girl she was, to enjoy exclusive possession of such an incomparable organ as this. Virgil might be malformed in other areas of his body, but the same certainly couldn't be said of his scrumptious sex tool. It was such a robust shade of red when it was aroused, like now, with pretty blue veins standing throbbingly out on all sides and an imposingly swollen knob on the end that was capable-as Fanny well knew-of pounding a girl all the way up to the gates of heaven. And how big it was I Long, thick, meaty and hard. The reformed ravisher had had occasion to observe and compare literally hundreds of penises during her late, unlamented whore-days, so she was in a position to know. Virgil's stout stallion was among the five or six hugest joints she had ever seen in her life. Certainly, its ample bulk more than filled up her tight young tippy-tippy-tin. Right up to the bursting point, as a matter-of-fact. Wow, what a gland! Peering at it close up this way, it looked good enough to eat. Therefore....
"Uunnh!", Virgil croaked as his succulent sweetie grabbed him by the testicles, just the way he liked, and slipped her kissable mouth onto his sheathed stalk.
"Glub! Glub!", Fanny hungrily gagged as she strove to orally devour as much of him as possible, pulling him hard toward her by the testicles while at the same time forcing her mouth ever more envelopingly onto his flaming prod.
Ahhh! So good, good! reveled the diminutive doll as she began bobbing her golden head back and forth, in and out, upon his thrilling impalement. Simultaneously licking, sucking, nipping, probing the tiny cleft at his tip for all she was worth, she experienced the immense satisfaction of feeling him come. Nevertheless, huge as Virgil's penis was in this state, a trick she had learned back in her bordello days enabled her to contain fully half his length within the confines of her hot oral cavity on each of her vigorous forward lunges. She was able to accomplish this by pretending she was going to swallow something and then stopping herself in mid-swallow. This seemed to hold her throat open so that she was able to cram his salami-sized delicacy into her mouth to an inordinate depth, well past her epiglotis. It was a simple trick really, she mused, wondering why some of the girls under Madame Simone's tutelage had never been able to master it. But, of course, some of them hadn't even been able to swallow a pill. It must have been all in their minds, really.
"Gleck! Glubl Gargle!", the talented teenager happily gurgled as she treated Virgil to her specialty, jamming him in so deep that only three or four inches of his hempen length remained outside her lips. Not unexpectedly, as she rousingly belabored him, she suddenly felt him swell even bigger with one mighty thump and....
"Gag! Glub! Swallow!", she slurpily rejoiced once again as she drank thirstily of his torridly spurting semen. Digging into his genital roots as she sucked away for dear life, greedily seeking to finish off every last drop of his fluid with all the zest of a parched farmer attacking a ladle of cool spring water, the tawny-eyed tot had no fear that her fellow might have spent himself for the afternoon. She knew Virgil better than that. His present gratifying out gush was merely a signal that even headier delights were to come ... Vavoom! ... Fanny hoped that Dr. Festerboil was switching on his camera right about now because she and her baby gorilla were going to give him one hell of a show!
"Oh, that was so good, Virgil darling! Thank you so much!", she breathlessly expressed her gratitude to the misshapen man when she had finally unplugged his palpitating penis from her mouth.
"Tank me? ... Youse're t'ankin' me? ... I'm da one what oughta be t'ankin' youse, kiddo!", Virgil beamed down at her, his dribbling weapon sticking out as stiff as a ramrod, clearly still ready to go, go, go. His newly jovial expression indicating that he had completely forgotten his earlier discomfort over the presence of a witness behind the one-way glass, he cracked: "But insteada t'ankin' youse in woids, baby doll, I know a much better way o' showin' my appreciation fer what yez just done ... Heh-heh-hehl ... Move over, angel!"
Fanny could not have been more passionately eager to do so. Sharp-witted pussycat that she was, she sensed immediately the thrilling means by which Virgil proposed to thank her. And-much as she loved to have his meat in her mouth-she doted even more on having it shoved between her dainty legs. Accordingly she scooted to the center of the twin-sized bed in a cuddly bundle of creamily bouncing curves, barely able to contain her blissful anticipation that in another moment or two her lover-man's lob would be plumbing to the deepest depths of her cunning crack.
As the silken-skinned teenager nestled onto her back, throwing her legs wide apart in slippery-hot welcome, the hairy hunchback squatted on his haunches in the vee of her thighs and grabbed a pillow which he tamped purposefully beneath her tight little rump.
Not wasting a moment of their valuable time, he pitched forward and....
Splash!
... dived face-first into the sopping quagmire of Fanny's delectable vagina. Instantly, he set up a storm of licking and sucking which brought the dimpled darling to the verge of orgasm in three seconds flat. Oh, what a grand gobbler this groovy guy was, she exulted as she received him with churning hips and bucking bottom. To think that on top of all his other love-making skills, this man she had snared for her very own was also the greatest cunnilingus virtuoso of his generation ... well, the golden girl's racing heart could have burst from its reverent fullness at the thought. How finely honed his technique was, the way he maintained just the right amount of friction between the whisker-bristles on his upper lip and her clit-pearl, the exquisite way he knew how to stick his tongue deep into her tight hole and swivel it about in rapid, mind-blowing circles. Such an artist her Virgil was! A regular Yehudi Menuhin of the vaginal violin!
However, despite the consummate pleasure she was deriving from his ministrations, Fanny abruptly twisted her fingers into her lover's sandy hair and yanked him loose from their electrifying oral-genital connection. "Stop, Virgil ... Stop now, darling", she panted. She had decided that she wanted her first orgasm of the day to explode not upon his tongue but upon the Rock of Gibralter of his mammoth penis while it was buried deep inside her. It had been a long time since she had clamped him deep inside her squishy shaft. Almost twenty four hours now.
Virgil, plainly sensing from long experience the direction in which her need had veered, did not ask for elaboration on his darling's command to desist from his cunnilingual endeavors. Instead, a tender smile lighting his blunt, ugly-beautiful countenance, he quickly scrambled upward over her succulent naked length and positioned the point of his potent pulverizer against the petaled portals of her precious pudendum. Then he pushed.
With a whimper of well-nigh delirious joy, Fanny grasped the trunk of his fleshy oak with both hands and helped him feed its dizzying length into her. All the way. God, what a beautifully tight fit it was, Fanny marveled for the five-hundredth time as Virgil commenced the sure, pumping rhythms that would send them both to paradise. Actually, she was amazed that a girl built as diminutively as she was down there could stretch enough to swallow up a man of this size. But Fanny was able to, and she couldn't have been happier about it. She and Virgil fit as tightly together as two layers of lubricated skin. Another quarter-inch added to his length or circumference and she knew his penis might have caused her real pain. As it was, though, it felt glorious to have him inside her. Just right. No man had ever been able to bring her such complete satisfaction.
In truth, remembered the hot-pussied pet as she met his masterful thrusts with long-practiced lurchings of her cuddly hips, no man had ever been able to bring her to climax-much less complete fulfillment before Virgil had come into her life. Of all the hundreds of Johns she had laid at Simone's high-priced house, not a one had been able to turn her on to the orgasmic trick. Nor had these defaults been due in any way to deficiences in the sizes of their sex organs. In most cases, anyway, they had been perfectly normal-sized male animals....But, aye, there had lain the rub: in the fact that she had regarded her customers as animals. The screwing scamp had regarded all men as animals. Her boozy, whory old mom back in the grubby New England mill town of Stoversville had seen to that. Almost from the time of Fanny's birth-on which historic date her father had deserted his budding family, never to return-Mom had nursed her only child on a steady diet of vindictive comments against the male gender. The old lady's verbal spleen had been copious enough to damn not only Tom Shelley, the AWOL father-(Fanny's given name had been Shelley, the Hell replacing it as a nickname later in life because of her propensity for dishing it out with her fists whenever her famous temper was crossed)-but had spilled over onto virtually every other pants-wearing human being in the world. It had been Mom's contention, blearily repeated to the impressionable child many a time over many a glass of gin, that all men were out to exploit all women, to defile them as sex objects and then discard them like soiled laundry. Now, at eighteen, the elfin enchantress knew better. Or, she knew better intellectually at least, for the emotional scars of her man-hating upbringing had been etched deep and would probably never heal completely. Nonetheless, for a long time, despite her growing independence of thought, her adolescent experiences with males before Virgil had seemed to bear Mom out. As soon as the wee waifs spectacular beauty had begun to blossom with the growing of breasts at age thirteen or so, men had begun molesting her. Neighbors. Strangers in the street or on trolley cars. Local merchants. Teachers at school, even. Leering good-time charleys leaning out of their car windows to offer her candy if she would join them for a spin. The only thing any of them had really desired, of course, was a chance to spew the sewage of their lust into her pretty pussy, and then toss her aside like a broken toy. Just as Mom had warned. The slimy bastards! Even now, writhing rapturously in the arms of her true love, Fanny could feel an echoing pang of her bitter, lifelong hostilities toward the male gender. Predictably enough, her experiences at the whorehouse had really opened up the lid on her can of wormy man-hates. No one had forced her to run away from the protection of her childhood home, nebulous as it had been, and certainly no one had stuck a gun in her ribs to induce her to join the unhallowed staff at Simone's once she had arrived in New York. She had charted her sordid course of her own free will. But the atrocities to which she had submitted at masculine hands in the brothel-in return for her admittedly generous wages-had not only reinforced her loathing of men, they had almost driven her over some kind of a mental brink. Ooooh, the foul obscenities that most of those lousy bastards had sought to perpetrate on a girl's tender young body! By the time the lucky day had arrived when she had fled Simone's bed and board forever, Fanny Hell had become one bitter little bundle of goods indeed. Wandering lonely and broke about the city, it had been all she could do to restrain herself from corning out swinging every time a male passerby so much as glanced sideways at her ... And then Virgil had come upon her scene. Sweet, gentle, precious, wonderful Virgil. Somehow-much to her everlasting happiness-she had been able to see past his gargoyle's exterior and discern the abiding goodness in him. They had become lovers. Now, after many months of his tender loving care, the kitten-eyed cutie believed she had all but conquered her irrational hostilities toward the opposte sex. Maybe not completely, but almost. And her hunchback in shining armor, Virgil Higbe, had been the un-likely personage who had wrought the miraculous cure.
Speaking of Virgil, the moaning moppet's wandering thoughts were brought warmly back to their present activity when he skewered her with a particularly powerful thrust that shot her to the very hp of orgasm. "That's it, darling!", she pantingly praised, digging her fingernails into his heaving back. "Give me all you've got! Give it to me hard!"
As her golden head lolled from side to side in the delirium of her passion, Fanny's fevered glance happened to fall once more upon the mirrored wall toward which her and her lover's straining legs were opened. Craning her neck and squinting her glazing eyes for a better look, she further titillated herself with a detailed examination of the red-hot nitty-gritty of their carnal union. The mirror's reflection revealed it all, in the most vivid detail. Lord, how doubly exciting it was, to feel and watch it at the same time. Virgil's thick rod slid in and out of her like some huge flesh-and-blood piston thrumming away inside a consummately sexy motor. With each outstroke, as virtually all of his pulsing length came into view, the scintillating sex-kitten knew another instant of amazement that her dainty cleft was able to contain such a big chunk of meat. Surely, once disjoined, such a gargantuan cock could never be wedged back in. And yet ... shlump! ... there it went again, sliding all the way inside her precious cunt as easy as apple pie ... Shlump, shlump, shlump, Virgil hammered moistly away as his wee wanton eagerly watched. Jeepers, how exciting this was, seeing her mate's flaming penile surfaces all glossed over with the shiny film of her inner secretions, seeing her own tender organ pulled widely out of shape, stretched from its normal tight pucker into a wide, wet-sucking O. With each instroke, her delicate inner lips-now taking on a bright scarlet hue-disappeared from view, turned inward by the thundering entry of Virgil's bloated battering ram. With each outstroke, the rubbery ridges popped out again, newly anointed and trembling like tiny red leaves in the nearness of the pert pussycat's completion. Then Fanny saw no more. Her vision clouded and blanked as....
"Aaaiieeeee!"
... her orgasm welled up and exploded in the pit of her perky loins with ten-megaton force, shaking her lusciously naked body with a fit of violent, uncontrollable flip-flops. Simultaneously, to the tune of his hoarse cry of release, she felt Virgil detonate deep inside her, felt his semen splashing against the satiny walls of her womb in a series of short, spastic spurts.
Even before the blonde bewitcher had fluttered completely back to earth, her post-climax reverie was shattered by a loud cry of: "Bravo! ... Bravo, Herr Higbel Bravo, Fraulein Hell! ... Zat vas superb, a real virtuoso performance!"
Sitting up as Virgil rolled off her, Fanny observed that Dr. Sidney M. Festerboil, their bespectacled, redheaded host, had entered the spartan cubicle and was standing next to the door applauding as though the curtain had just rung down on a particularly distinguished production of Hamlet. While Virgil moved to retrieve their robes from the coat-tree which was the only other item of furniture in the room besides the bed and a complicated-looking machine in one corner, the juicy-breasted juvenile greeted the doctor with a blushing smile and aningenuous: "Did we really do okay, Doctor Festerboil? Do you think our little ... uh ... scene was a helpful contribution to your research project?"
"It vas indeed, Miss Hel!", the august M.D. emphatically asserted in his clipped Viennese accents as he limped forward. "I vould say zat yours vas an admirable exercise in sheer, unadulterated carnal lust. I am certain zat ze film I took vill be most instructive as I study it frame by frame later on."
Modesty shrouding her sleek frontal nudity with the robe Virgil handed her, the flattered favorite replied: "Well, doc, I certainly hope your findings will straighten out some of the spooky notions the people of this country have about sex. Virgil and I are thrilled to pieces to play even a small role in such a historic undertaking ... Aren't we, Virgil honey?"
The sandy-haired hunchback accorded Fanny's declaration an affirmative-but somewhat curt-nod. Now that his sexual fires had been temporarily slaked, she thought, he was probably experiencing a recurrence of some of his earlier misgivings about screwing in front of an audience. Oh well. Loving lout that he was, he had managed to perform masterfully despite his reservations, a fact that his doting darling deeply appreciated. Turning back to Dr. Festerboil, she conversationally queried: "Have you been in the field of sexual research long, doctor? ... It must be fascinating."
"It is, Miss Hell. Believe me, it is. Utterly fascinating," confirmed the red-haired specialist with what seemed to be a self-satisfied twinkling of his eyes behind his spectacles. Fanny actually couldn't be sure his eyes were twinkling though, because the lenses of his glasses were so thick as to preclude direct visual contact with him. The dedicated doctor certainly was an odd-looking duck, she fancied, what with his bottle-bottom glasses, his spectacularly buck teeth, and his wild mane of long red hair. Sticking out in every direction from his scalp, Dr. Festerboil's unruly, brick-colored mop resembled nothing so much as a circus clown's fright wig. On a person of less stately bearing, a head of hair like that might have been positively laughable. Even as it was, the golden-curled gamin had already discovered that it wasn't always easy to suppress a smile of amusement when regarding their host. A smallish man of about Virgil's age-the late thirties-the Teutonic medic's red hair, freckled cheeks, General Tojo buck teeth, and opaque eyeglasses made him look like a Japanese Irishman.
Whipping a pair of scissors and a roll of adhesive tape from the pocket of his surgical smock, Dr. Festerboil briskly suggested: "Veil zen, shall ve get on vith the next experiment?"
"Next experiment!", Virgil peevishly exclaimed. "Geez, I t'ought we wuz t'rough awready, doc ... Do yez mean youse expect us ta screw again?"
"Vhy yes, Herr Higbe", the myopic medic blandly allowed. "Unless, of course, your virility is already so depleted as to render you physically incapable of con summating ze act."
"Aw, it ain't dat, doc", Virgil hastily countered the implied challenge to his manhood. "It's just dat I t'ought one screw wuz all youse wanted."
For her part, Fanny would have been glad to ball merrily away for the rest of the afternoon. This was the grooviest means of earning a few dollars that she had ever come across. As usual, when Virgil had plumbed her once, the predominant after-effect was that her cuddly kumquat was left quivering for more of the same. Nor did she understand her beau's stated reluctance about a repeat performance. After all, if they hadn't been screwing here in the doctor's office, there was little doubt that they'd have been doing the same thing at home, either at her apartment or his.
"Oh, come on, Virgil honey", she therefore coaxed. "I thought you'd be over your shyness by this time. If the doctor needs the data we can supply him with a second go-around, I think it's the least we can do for such a worthwhile cause."
"Okay, kid. Youse win", Virgil readily, if not enthusiastically, capitulated.
"Should we do it the same as before, doctor? Just a good, old-fashioned, man-on-top bangeroo?", the pert pussycat wanted to know.
"Do it any vay you like, Miss Hel!", the toothy pathologist magnanimously suggested. "Ze position you adopt is unimportant zis time because our purpose vill not be to photograph your genitalia in action ... Herr Higbe, vill you be so kind as to assist me in rolling zis machine over to ze bed?"
With Virgil at his heels, the freckled physician limped over to the large piece of machinery Fanny had noticed sitting in the corner. Encased in a metal box and set on a rolling table, its console was covered with a maze of knobs, dials, and meters. From its top and sides sprouted a number of rubber-covered electrical wires. As the two men wheeled the machine toward the disrobed darling on the bed, Dr. Festerboil anticipated the question she was about to ask by informing them: "Zis, my friends, if I may say so in due modesty, is a device of my own invention. I haff applied for a patent for it under ze name of Dr. Festerboil's Fuckmeter. Via electrodes taped over ze partners' hearts during intercourse, ze machine has ze ability to measure and record simultaneously such physiological phenomena as respiration, pulse, body temperature, violence of muscular activity, length and breadth of ze male's erection at ze moment of climax, and ze number and strength of ze female's uterine contractions ... Qvite a versatile little toy, vouldn't you say?"
Fanny certainly would say. It appeared that the allpurpose Fuckmeter was going to extract even more detailed minutiae regarding her and Virgil's intimacies than the movie camera had done. For her part, she was more than game to go along. Anything for the furtherance of Science.
"I guess you want us to strip again, eh, doc?", she guessed.
"If you vill be so kind, Miss Hell."
Tossing her robe aside while Virgil shucked out of his, the cheeky-bottomed charmer was favorably impressed once again with how un-lecherous, how singlemindedly business-like, Dr. Festerboil's deportment was. Most males-(the slobbering swine!)-would have been flipping their sexual lids right about now, confronted with such incredibly spectacular feminine nudity. But instead of coming in his pants as she had known many men to do at the mere sight of her-even when clothed-Dr. Festerboil was fiddling calmly and dispassionately with the dials of his Fuckmeter. What a perfect, non dirty-minded gentleman he was ... Now, still ignoring the creamy-pink bundle of naked breasts and thighs and buttocks in the bed, he turned to Virgil to affix the first electrode to the left side of the brawny hunchback's chest.
"Are yez sure dis contraption woiks okay, doc? Is it safe?", Fanny's malformed man uneasily asked as the doctor cut off a length of tape and used it to paste the electrode-a flat metal disc about the size of a fifty-cent piece-just over his subject's left nipple.
"Never fear, Herr Higbe", the carrot-topped croaker confidently rejoined, smiling openly at his guest's timidity. Hefting the wire which ran from the electrode to the console of the Fuckmeter, he explained: "Ze various bodily reactions I mentioned earlier vill be picked up by ze electrode, transmitted through zis vire into ze Fuckmeter, and recorded on magnetic tape for study at my later convenience. Essentially, zat is all zhere is to it ... A very simple process, really."
Seemingly mollified-if not put totally at ease-by these assurances, Virgil fell silent as Dr. Festerboil approached Fanny with a second electrode.
Twisting her body around, the seated sugar offered up the mind-blowing morsel of her luscious left breast-the one that covered heringenuous little heart-while the doctor cut another strip of tape. There were damn few male animals in the world whom she'd have allowed to come this close to her pink-nippled pap, she reflected, serenely secure in her knowledge of their host's high-minded intent. However....
Wha ...!? Had it really happened? Et hi, Dr. Festerboil? ... Had it been her imagination or had this dedicated doctor, this exalted man of Science, actually copped himself a quick feel?
For several seconds, the naked nymphet was thrown into a quandary of the confusion and mistrust. It had all happened so quickly that she couldn't be sure, but as the doctor had affixed the electrode to her breast, he had muttered something under his breath and had taken-or had seemed to take-a far-fonder-than-necessary circular swipe at the ripe-round melon as he had drawn his hand away. And as to his muttered exclamation, again the disillusioned dumpling couldn't be sure, but it had sounded suspiciously like: Wow, what a tit!
The spark of her righteous wrath ready to flare into open conflagration, Fanny was moved to seek clarification of this half-heard remark. "What did you say, doctor?", she evenly inquired.
"I said: Now, there's a fit", the fright-wigged physician placidly returned. "I was referring, of course, to the snug fit of the electrode over your heart, Miss Hel!", he further elucidated.
Of course! the enlightened elf now realized, hating herself for her irrational doubts as to the doctor's integrity ... Wow, what a tit. Now, there's a fit ... The phrases closely resembled each other in their basic pronunciation. She simply hadn't heard him right the first time, that was all. What a snotty little snip she had been to have mistrusted this upstanding gentleman even for a moment. As to his jostling of her juicy mammary gimcrack, that had plainly been a simple accident, an inconsequential minor mishap over which she had been silly enough to verge on making a fist-swinging federal case. No wonder friend and foe alike had long since changed her name from Fanny Shelley to Fanny Hell.
At this juncture, the once-more-respected researcher resumed his instructions to his aides. "Ve are ready to begin, mein friends", he said, keeping his gaze impeccably upon Fanny's adorable face, not on her bounteous boobs, as he spoke. "I vill leave you alone vunce again so zat you vill enjoy your privacy as you ... uh ... do your thing, as ze hippies say. All zat remains is to activate ze Fuckmeter so zat it vill begin to record your physiological data."
At this, Dr. Festerboil reached over and flipped a switch on the console of the machine, causing the device to give off a faint but audible electrical buzzing. Stepping toward the door in his limping gait, he bade his listeners: "Adieu, Herr Higbe and Miss Hell. Enchoy yourselfs now. I vill be in ze outer office. Please notify me vhen you are finished."
When the doctor had gone, the fast-heating honey turned her amber eves once more upon her mate's grotesque but exciting nudity to seductively coo: "Are you hot to trot, Virgil darling? Do you want to slide that gorgeous cock or yours inside your Fanny-girl's hot little pussy again?"
"Yeah", Virgil succinctly but eagerly grunted as he stepped up to the bed, his immense penis swelling quickly to a state of complete erection as he did so. "Dese electrodes an' wires might get in da way a little bit, but, yeah kid, I'm awready dyin' ta slip it to yez again. I dig it lots better dis time, knowin' da doc ain't watchin' us t'rhough dat glass."
Nor was there any doubt in the golden girl's mind either, as her sweetheart snuggled into her arms, that the dedicated doctor was no longer spying on them now that the scientific necessity for his doing so was eliminated by the nature of this second experiment. Dr. Festerboil could be positioned behind the one-way glass at this moment, of course, but the springy-bosomed sexkitten, with her redoubled faith in his research, would have bet her last bob that he was not. The clean-minded croaker-such a vast cut above the howling male hordes that were always trying to sexually exploit the tempting teenager-was probably ensconced in his office by now, conscientiously poring through some weighty medical tome while awaiting the completition of his clients' coital coupling.
Lying on their sides atop the sheets, Fanny and Virgil quickly brought each other to the desired level of readiness for love. While the skilled scalawag plied his penis with both hands, tickling and squeezing it, rolling it back and forth like a hunk of dough until it had become fiery red and throbbing, the groaning gargoyle serviced her similarly, mock-fornicating her with two rigid fingers which he slid in and out of her slippery schism at an increasingly fevered cadence ... Oh, how Fanny adored this: the feel of her man's meaty male mace in her dainty hands, the titillating awareness that it would soon be pumping away deep inside her yearning yum-yum, the sense of womanly worth she derived from being able to tear a moan of delight from him every time she used her trim young tummy muscles to clamp her lubrous vaginal walls hard onto his probing digits.
"Take me, darling!", gasped the elfin eighteen-year-old when her female chemistry had bubbled to the thermal temperatures of near-completion. "Take me, lover, and fuck me! Fuck your little Fanny like she's never been fucked before! I want it so bad!"
Hungrily mounting her as bade, Virgil nudged the knob of his pulsing penile pestle amongst Fanny's oil-hot petals.
"Unnnhh!", both lovers cried into each other's ears as he plummeted to her cushy core.
Grappling gloriously away a few moments later, tightly milking her mate on the out strokes and breathing him in like a well-lubricated vacuum cleaner on the instrokes, Fanny suddenly went rigid with terror as....
ZAP!
... a flurry of sparks and a puff of smoke spewed from Virgil's chest.
"Aaaargh!", howled the hurt hunchback, his hair standing stright up on his head as he lurched loose from their intimate fastening and....
CLATTER! CRASH! ... toppled from the bed onto the floor.
"Ye gods! What happened?", yelped the quaking cutie as she scrambled to her hands and knees to look down at her unconscious lover. But, in fact, she knew what had happened. There could be no doubt that Virgil had been felled by a powerful electric charge from the Fuckmeter machine. Fanny herself had been jolted by a milk dose of the vicious voltage, transmitted into her saucy sluice through her partner's body at the moment of the shock. For a split second, she had thought the shock to be the onset of her orgasm. But then, seeing the sparks crackling from the electrode on Virgil's chest, she had quickly kenned the grisly score.
"Virgil! Virgil! Oh, my poor darling Virgil!", she frantically sobbed as she pounced to the floor to rip the still-smoldering electrode from his breast.
Virgil neglected to reply. He lay lifeless on his gnarled back, staring at the ceiling with sightless eyes, an ugly red burn-mark above his nipple where the electrode had been. Trembling with fear and grief, the whimpering waif reached out to touch, his heart. Was he dead!? Oh, please dear god, no!
But no, Virgil wasn't dead. There was life in her loving man yet, the terrified tot discovered as she located the feeble pulse inside his chest. His heart was still beating. But it was so faint!
"Doctor! ... Doctor Festerboil! ... Come quick!", Fanny screeched at the top of her lungs.
The casual reply that came from close behind her beauteously bare back caused her to jump with a new fright. "Zhere is no need to shout, Miss Hel!", Dr. Festerboil nonchalantly insisted. "I am here already."
Swiveling about, the kneeling nymphet's already-unstrung emotional condition was aggravated to the point of hysteria as she gazed aghast at their host's altered sartorial state. "Holy crawling creeps", she gagged.
The eminent Dr. Sidney M. Festerboil stood smugly before the bug-eyed babe, still clad in his surgical smock, but having divested himself of every other stitch of clothing he had earlier worn. With his hands on his hips, he held the lapels of the smock wide open, proudly displaying a red-knobbed erection of the most obscene configuration Fanny had ever seen.
For a long, transfixed moment, the horrified honey gazed at the throbbing penis, revolted by the gross look of it, dismayed by the sinister implications inherent in the smirking sawbones' act of displaying it ... Good grief, that joint was bent like a pretzel! The offending gland was of normal size, but loathesomely malformed, bent to one side about halfway along its length so as to give it almost a fish-hook conformation as it curled to its lopsided, uncircumsised tip.
"Wh-what do you m-mean, coming in here l-like that?", the stammering sweetie at last managed to demand of the crooked-cocked croaker. Then, remembering an even greater cause for alarm, she noisily added: "And what have you done to my Virgil?"
In contrast to Fanny's lathered-up condition, the bucktoothed physician remained cucumber cool as he replied: To answer your second question first, cutie-cunt, I rigged my machine to give your dog-faced boyfriend the shock of his life. But don't worry. He's not going to kick off. I only fed him enough juice to knock him out for a while."
"B-but ... why!?', blubbered the befuddled blonde, noting subliminally that even the double-dealing doctor's Viennese accent had been a phony. He was speaking now in inflections close to those of her own native New England ... Oh, how wrong she had been to trust him! Oh, how right she would have been to have heeded her earlier hunch that the myopic medic was up to no good, just like all the other scheming, sex-mad males in the world! ... Sensing that she was belaboring the obvious, the teary-eyed tot nonetheless sobbed again: "B-but why!? ... Why would you want to injure an innocent man you never laid eyes on before today, and then come traipsing in here with your genitals exposed!?"
"Three guesses, you plump-tittied little pussycat you!", Dr. Festerboil ribaldly rejoined, waggling his crimson erection about not three feet from Fanny's face. "I had to get Lon Chaney there out of the way because I aim for you to give me one hell of a blow job before you walk out that door, sister!"
He wasn't kidding either, Fanny sickly sensed, noting that the jovial smirk had disappeared from his goofy-looking countenance as he had outlined his evil designs, to be replaced by a dead-serious demeanor of twisted lust. For her part, she was just as dead-seriously determined-as a black ball of rage welled up within her to replace her initial stunned fright-that no such filthy act was going to take place. Not now, not ever, no matter what!
Accordingly: "I've got news for you, buster-Doctor Festerboil or whatever your name is! The only way you're going to get that putrid-looking prick of yours into my mouth is by killing me first!"
Uh-oh, gulped the dainty dazzler as the good doctor responded to her challenge by reaching into the side pocket of his smock and drawing forth his scissors, the glinting blades of which he pointed directly at her ripe rounded chest. What now? She certainly hadn't intended him to take that stuff about killing her so literally.
Speaking with vastly greater authority now due to the set of steel blades he brandished in his right hand, the perverted practitioner hissed his atrocious demands anew. "I said you're going to give me a rousing blowjob, you tight-twatted little tramp, and I meant it! Now crawl over here and put my cock into that sweet little mouth of yours and suck your tail off! ... And if you get any notions about biting, I swear to god I'll plant these scissors right between your shoulder blades!"
Squatting disconsolately on her tender haunches, the nubile nude cast desperately about for a course of action. To comply with the demented doctor's demand to suck him off was unthinkable. She almost would rather have died than take such a despicable dong into her mouth ... Should she try to fight her way out of the sticky predicament? Sizing Festerboil up, she figured there was maybe a fifty-fifty chance she could take him in hand-to-hand combat. He wasn't that rough-looking a customer really, having an advantage of only five or six inches in height on her, and outweighing her by no more than fifty pounds or so. On many past occasions, adroit little mauler that she was, Fanny's dainty dukes had cut down male opponents much bigger than Festerboil. But, gee-whil-likers, he had those wicked-looking scissors. Even assuming she turned out to be a better brawler than the sex-crazed specialist, there was always a chance he might skewer her with one lucky swipe of those sharp blades. Then it would be curtains not only for her, but for poor, cold-cocked Virgil as well. Yoickers, what a prickly pickle this was!
For want of a less perilous alternative, the melon-breasted moppet was just on the verge of capitulating to Festerboil's repugnant ultimatum when ... bonk! ... into her mind popped a sly tactical ploy which she instantly decided had every chance of succeeding. Mentally girding herself for the fray, but outwardly seeming to yield, she cunningly shrugged and said: "Oh well, since you insist, doc ... Okay, I'll eat you. I guess maybe it won't be such a terrible thing."
"Now you're talking, you lovely little cock-gobbler you!", leered the licentious lunatic, eagerly meeting Fanny halfway as she scooted forward on her knees to address his loins.
Hunching before her would-be defiler like a creamy-fleshed coiled spring, the honey-blonde heartbreaker gazed at the proffered penis for a long tense moment before-with a here-goes-nothing shrug-she reached forth to seize the bent shaft with both hands.
"Eeeeeek!", shrieked the shocked specialist, the reason being that instead of slipping his warped member between her rose-petal lips the treacherous tyke had yanked back on it with sufficient force to have uprooted a young sapling.
WHIZZZ! ... KLUNKI, went the doctor's flailing body as he pitched forward over Fanny's shoulder, executed a double somersault in midair and came down on his head behind her.
Yippee! It had worked, rejoiced the radiant ravisher, rising as she wheeled about to confront her groggy prey.
More interested right now in confiscating the scissors than in dealing further punishment to the whimpering Festerboil, the golden girl scanned feverishly about to see where they had fallen ... Ah, yes! There they were! They had skidded all the way over into the corner.
Confident now that the brief fracas was all but victoriously concluded, the lissome lovely had taken only two sprinting steps toward retrieving the scissors when, much to her dismayed surprise....
R-R-RIPI ... CRASH! ... Festerboil rose up on his rump and yanked hard on the cord of electrode, which Fanny had neglectfully allowed to remain affixed to her chest. As the electrode came ripping away with a smart twinge to her gossamer breast-ball, the counter-pull against her streaking forward progress was enough to unfoot her and send her crashing to the floor on her tummy.
Lying momentarily debilitated as she gasped for breath, the balked boggier looked helplessly on with un told dismay as Festerboil-his face still contorted with pain and his penis oozing a droplet of blood-made it to his feet and easily beat her to the fumbled scissors.
Picking them up and turning back to wither her with a glare of maniacal hatred, the red-haired rapist spat: "You dirty, sneaking little whore!" Scissoring the scissors open and shut, he hissed: "I'm going to cut your tits off I"
"Yipes!", chirped the pink-nippled pet as she at last found the wind and the strength to stand. To be shorn of her bouncy boobs would be a fate worse than death! The juicy melons quivered in agony at the very thought.
Scampering to the opposite wall, Fanny cowered there next to the coat-tree, her wide amber eyes glazing with terror as Festerboil slowly advanced on her, step by menacing step ... It looked like the end of the line for sure. There appeared to be no avenue of escape. The room was windowless, and the only door lay beyond the creepy quack's flank ... Oh, woe! Even if she should survive the imminent mammary amputation, the trapped tootsie knew in her pitter-pattering heart that life would no longer be worth living. A bosomless Fanny Hell? How ghastly! At this juncture, the heart broken honey could have bitten her tongue for all the times she had cursed her darling breasts because of the unwelcome attention they were always attracting from rapacious males. Right now, the milk diadems seemed the most precious treasures on earth.
Pausing about ten feet in front of her, Festerboil gnashed his buck teeth and malignantly advised: "This is it, blondie! Off come them luscious tits of yours! Snip, snip, snip! ... Hee-hee-hee!" Where upon he lunged forward for the kill, working the scissors wildly, proelling them straight at Fanny's cringing chest cantaoupes.
As the deranged doctor lurched toward her, the shrinking sugar's hand happened to fall upon the coattree at her side. Acting on sheer reflex-her number brain having ceased to function-she grabbed hold of the heavy wooden spire with both hands, tipped it over, and swung it outward in a wide lateral arc that would have done Stan Musial proud at the peak of his batting career.
WHOOSH ... KEE-Rack! "Aaieeeee!", whinnied the clobbered croaker as he went down like a felled oak.
Hurrah! crowed the cuddly captivator, knowing that she really had brought the fray to a successful close this time. It was a cinch that Festerboil would not be rising unaided to his feet for quite some time, since she had been fortunate enough to nail him with a crippling vicious poke in the left side of his torso. At the moment of impact, the cracking of several of his ribs had been loudly audible, sweet music to her mischievous little ears.
As Fanny minced juicily up to him, the downed doctor writhed on his back, barely conscious, vomiting profusely, clutching in abject agony at his fractured ribs. Plainly, here was a beaten man. His repulsive penis, so arrogantly bloated only minutes ago, lolled shrunkenly atop his loins like a shriveled worm. Gazing down at the injured organ, the malicious mite was unable to resist the naughty impulse with which she was suddenly struck.
Stepping into the vee of Festerboil's parted thighs, an impish smile on her kissable lips, the kitten-eyed cutie drew back her dainty foot and....
WHOOMP!
... plunged her twinkle-toes into the helpless medic's scrotum in a brutal kick that instantly turned his already ashen features the color of a carp's underside. All the poor devil seemed able to muster in protest was the feeblest of moans, accompanied by another spasm of gagging and vomiting.
Jeepers, this was fun, chortled the cheeky-bottomed charmer, wishing she had brought along her pretty pink walking shoes, the ones with the steel reinforcements in their pointy toes.
Indulging herself in what she knew was an outrageous fashion, the nubile juvenile raised her right foot once again from the floor. Only this time, instead of kicking Festerboil's groin with her toe, she ground down on the sorely-abused genital sac with her heel. Putting all her weight into the sport, she ground the heel into her prey's testicles until she heard and felt two faint but audible pops of a type reminiscent of the squashing of a pair of ripe muscat grapes.
Withdrawing her foot, aningenuous little-girl giggle bubbled from Fanny's perky chest as she observed the altered conformation of Festerboil's scrotum. No longer was the baggy organ ripe with the delineation of two inner balls. Now it lay there in a pulpy, shapeless, soggy-looking, and-to Fanny-oh-so-comical mess.
The gratified gamin was about to don her clothing and summon the appropriate medical assistance for Virgil when, suddenly and alarmingly....
BAM! BAM! BAM! ... there came a violent knocking at the door, followed by a high-pitched but identifiably male voice angrily shouting: "Open up in there, you dastardly knave! I know you're in there! No evildoer long eludes the toils of the mighty Captain Sex!"
Captain Sex...? What...? Who...? , floundered the flustered favorite. What did this strange-and obviously wrathful-visitation portend? Had the individual beyond that door come to apprehend Festerboil? Or, with a wacked-out monicker like Captain Sex, was he yet another raving rapist bent on further blighting what had already been a trying day for Fanny?
"Oh, so you won't open up, eh!?", came the shrill voice once again. "All right for you then, you machiavellian monster! ... I'm going to blast my way in with my gat!"
Before the muddled moppet could frame any sort of a reply....
BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!
... all hell broke loose in the Festerboil sex-lab as several gunshots rang out and the doorknob literally exploded from the door in a mushroom-cloud of splintered wood.
If Fanny had judged herself flabbergasted to this point, her former perplexity was as nothing compared to that which gripped her at the sight of the bizarre figure who stepped through the door when the shooting had stopped.
Peering nearsightedly about, there stood a short, scrawny youth gotten up in the most outlandish comic book-character costume the golden girl had ever glimpsed. The laughable rig, a farcical parody of the Batman and Superman uniforms, consisted of purple body leotards, black ballet slippers, black cape hung about the spindly neck by a golden rope, purple motorcycle helmet with dark, flipdown goggles, gunbelt and holster. As he paused just inside the threshold, the sickly-looking lad appeared to be having some difficulty returning his bulky 45-calibre revolver to its holster. He stood there wrestling with the heavy weapon, trying with painfully slow success to elevate it high enough on his hip to drop it into its intended receptacle ... Boy, what a weakling he was. Poor little guy.
While waiting for their antic visitor to complete his arduous-for him-reholstering task, Fanny took note of still another interesting detail of his costuming-the large gold letters C.S. sewn to the chest of his leotards-and fancied logically enough that they must stand for Captain Sex, the preposterous appellation he had used when announcing himself. Captain Sex? Ha! In the juicy juvenile's judgment, no name could have been less suitable for this poor twerp, who looked to be one of the least sexy characters she had ever encountered. Those C.S. initials might more appropriately have stood for Constipated Sissy, or Caped Sh'lemiel.
At long last, the comical Captain Sex succeeded in holstering his revolver. With only a cursory glance at Fanny, he addressed himself to the painfully preoccupied Dr. Festerboil. "Aha! Sidney the Sodomist! So we meet in showdown conflict at last, eh!?", he triumphantly chortled. "Trying to deflower yet another innocent young virgin, were you!? ... Well, we'll just see about that, my black-hearted bucko! I say! Keep away from that girl, you viper!"
Fanny looked on in stunned confusion as the boy phantom sang out: "Don't worry, miss, it's Captain Sex to the rescue! ... Gung Ho-o-o!", and came tripping clumsily across the floor to pounce upon the defenseless Festerboil like an emaciated gladiator leaping into the lists.
WHACK! THWAP! SLAP!
Stooping astraddle the ravaged rapist, the namby-pamby knight errant proceeded to buffet him about the head and shoulders with a hail of wishy, open-handed blows. "Take that, you varlet! ... And that! ... And that! ... And that!"
Although it was plain to the amber-eyed onlooker that Festerboil wasn't mounting even the beginnings of a counterattack, the caped crusader insisted on paradoxically baiting his adversary with: "Oh, so you think you can lick Captain Sex, do you? When will you denizens of the underworld ever learn? ... Ha! ... Take that! ... Why don't you just throw in the towel, Sidney the Sodomist!? What's the point of continuing this vendetta!? Even though you're fighting like a wildcat, it must be as plain as the nose on your face that the tide of battle is inexorably turning in favor of the forces of Law and Order, God, Mother, and Country! For god's sake, man, say uncle before I'm forced to really let out all my pugilistic stops! ... Take that, and that, and that!"
SLAM! BAM! SLAP! WHAP!
Good gravy, marveled the stacked stripling. Did this nutty kid really imagine that he was saving a desperate situation, doing real battle with a healthy criminal adversary? ... Whew! ... Despite her understandable enmity toward Festerboil, the adorable adolescent was actually beginning to pity the phony physician his current pained straits.
Finally, when Festerboil's feeble moans had ceased and he had lapsed into a complete coma, the courageous Captain Sex desisted. Standing and brushing his palms together as though he had just conquered the legions of Satan himself, he remarked as virilely as possible under the handicap of his reedy, bird-like voice: "So much for that case. Yet another nemesis of Righteousness has bitten the dust, brought to bay by the indomitable Captain Sex!"
"Well, gee, feller, I'm glad too that Festerboil is out of business, but I don't think it was necessary for you to....", Fanny started to say when the purple phantom cut her off.
"Please, young lady, don't thank me", he modestly demurred, wildly misunderstanding her. "Fighting crime, hounding master criminals to their graves, is all in a day's work for Captain Sex. The only thanks I want or need is the knowledge that Justice has been done. Believe me, ma'am, saving your life was my pleasure."
Gosh, what an eccentric boy this was, mused the provocative pet. His heart seemed basically in the right place, but nonetheless he was easily the most freakedout weirdo she had met in many a moon ... And people said her Times Square street-friends were oddballs!
Drawing a small notepad and a pencil stub from his gunbelt, Captain Sex became all official business as he said: "Now, young lady, let's get the facts straight. How did you happen to fall into the clutches of this rotter?"
"Well, I saw Doctor Festerboil's ad in the newspaper, and....", Fanny cooperatively began before her inquisitor again interrupted her.
"By the way, miss, his name isn't Festerboil, and he's no more a medical doctor than you are", the callow fellow revealed. "His real name is Sidney Rottencrotch, alias Sidney the Sodomist, and he's an escaped mental patient, a homicidal sex-maniac. I shudder to think what atrocities he might have perpetrated on you if I hadn't arrived at precisely the moment I did."
Letting that fanciful remark pass, the petite pleaser asked: "How did you come to be on Sidney the Sodomist's trail?"
"Well, you see, I'm a private detective in my civilian identity", explained Captain Sex. "I accept cases under my real name at my detective agency, and then solve them as Captain Sex. In this instance, I was hired by the Leafy Elms Sanitarium upstate to look into the matter of their missing sex maniac, Sidney Rottencrotch."
What an interesting modus operandi, thought the succulent scamp, rather charmed by the notion of an enterprising-if hopelessly self-deluding-kid going into the detective business and pursuing his cases in the guise of a character straight out of the funny pages. At first glance, Captain Sex looked like the last person who ought to have chosen the rough-and-tumble field of private investigation. He was just so pathetically anemic-looking. But there was no gainsaying his enthusiasm for his career. And although he didn't appear to be the brightest youngster around, he had somehow managed to sniff his way to Sidney the Sodomist's door. So maybe he wasn't a complete boob. However, Fanny winced to think what probably would have happened to him if he actually had engaged Rottencrotch in even-up combat, as he imagined he had in his fantasies. Finding herself instinctively warming to the quixotic young man, whom she judged to be in his middle twenties, the dimpled darling conversationally inquired: "Say, by the way, Captain Sex, what's your real name, the name you operate your detective business under?"
The night-shrouded nemesis-of-evil's sallow face clouded as he soberly intoned: "I'm afraid I can't tell you that, Miss ... Miss ... uh...."
"Hel!", Fanny supplied. "Fanny Hell."
"You see, Miss Hell, my real-life name has to remain a closely guarded secret. As I'm sure you're aware, no authentic crime-fighting hero ever reveals his civilian identity."
"Why not?", the precious pussycat naively wanted to know.
"Well, uh, because, uh ... well, it just isn't done, that's all. Does Batman tell? Does Captain Marvel blab? ... Of course not. The only person who knows who Captain Sex really is, is my dear wife and girl-friday, Lascivia ... Or at least she was my girl-friday until last week when she finally had to quit the job."
"Oh? What happenned?", queried the curious cutie.
"She's ... uh ... she's ... uh ", the sparrow-chested sleuth hemmed and hawed before he finally got it out. "We're ... uh ... expecting."
Fanny had to suppress a titter of amusement at her new acquaintance's florid blush as he disclosed the news of his and his wife's forthcoming blessed event. Apparently, he was an exceedingly shy type, at least about articulating anything with a sexual connotation. How charming. "Congratulations, Captain Sex", she heartily chirped.
"Thank you, Miss Hel!", returned the bashful boy.
Suddenly ... Zap! ... a brilliant idea flowered in the tempting tot's quick little brain. "Say, Captain, if your wife Lascivia is off work because of her pregnancy, that means you're without a girl-friday, doesn't it?"
"Yes, it does."
"Well, well, well. Isn't that interesting? It just happens that Fanny Hell is without a job ... Do you think I might qualify?"
"Hmmm, it's a thought ... Can you take shorthand?"
"Yes, a little."
"Would you have any objection to working odd hours and helping me in dangerous situations sometimes?"
"Nope."
"Why sure, Fanny, we can talk about it. Only ... only....", the caped crime-fighter started before trailing off, hanging his head.
"Only what, Captain?", the scintillating scalawag prodded him.
"Only ... you're so ... so ... n-naked right now", came the explanation of Captain Sex's hesitant deportment.
"Ooops!, harked the bare-bottomed babe. In all the excitement, she'd completely forgotten that her succulent sexual treasures were hanging out all over the place. Now that she thought of it-although she hadn't yet made eye-contact with him because the upper half of his face was shrouded behind his opaque goggles-she'd had the impression from the start of their inter view that the twerpy tyro's glance had been darting in every direction except right at her. NaturallY, her nudity would embarrass a bashful baby boy like this one. How cute.
"Yes, Fanny, I'd like to talk to you about coming to work for me, but since I'm a married man and all, could you ... could you ... put something on?", stammered the backward bloodhound.
"Of course, Captain", Fanny humorously acquiesced. In a cutely teasing tone, she added: "Now you stay right here and promise you'll keep your back turned. I'll be right back."
So saying, the excited ingenue skipped over to the bed where she had deposited her robe, pausing to blow a kiss at Virgil, who appeared to be sleeping more peacefully now.
Retrieving and donning the robe, she padded back up behind her prospective employer, tapped him on his scrawny shoulder and sweetly crooned: "You can look now."
Turning about, a smilingly-relieved Captain Sex stuck out his fragile hand, nipped up his goggles, and squeaked: "Hi, Fanny. Pleased to meet you. I'm Harvey Hereford, Junior, of the Harvey Hereford Junior Detective Agency ... Let me tell you about the first case we'll be crackiag together."
CHAPTER TWO
Fanny skulked in the two a.m. shadows on the corner of Mulberry and Bayard Streets, thrilled to the tips of her tiny toes. To think that after only one day on her new girl-friday job, here she was already up to her neck in an important case, entrusted with assisting her boss in a dangerous cloak-and-dagger caper, the success or failure of which would materially affect the future of the entire Free World. Wow! This private detective business was easily the most exciting of the many professions the flaxen-tressed favorite had essayed and she was grittily determined not to flub it as she had the others.
But what could be keeping Harvey?, wondered the succulent spy, noting from a glance at her dainty wristwatch that her anemic employer was already ten minutes late for their nocturnal rendezvous. It was so lonely and spooky here on this Chinatown street corner at this time of night. Up on Mott Street, a block away, she could still see and hear the comings and goings of the throngs of night-owl revelers as they shuttled among the many bars and restaurants which lined that colorfully cramped avenue. But here at the corner of Bayard and Mulberry, all was as quiet as a tomb. The retail shops along Mulberry had long since closed for the day. The only illumination in the immediate vicinity came from a street lamp situated diagonally opposite the diminutive doll, but the light was having a hard time piercing the darkness because it was a semi-foggy night. In the fifteen minutes Fanny had been waiting, the sole pedestrians to pass her post had been a young Chinese couple, kissing and hugging as they strolled along, and a wizened bum who had apparently staggered away from his natural habitat on the nearby Bowery.
Hmm, Fanny nervously fancied, this would be a great night to get one's self mugged. If she'd been standing alone in the eerie wee-hours' gloom in any neighborhood in the city other than Chinatown, she'd probably have been scared out of her wits at this point. Her comparative serenity derived from her knowledge that Chinatown had far and away the lowest crime rate of any sector of New York City. Superficially, it looked like any other tough, grubby lower east side slum, but the incidence of violence here was as infrequent as in a pastoral village out in the sticks. For some strange sociological reason, Chinese-Americans just didn't indulge in criminal activities.
Fanny's knowledge of this statistical fact was one reason she'd been so surprised when boss Harvey and client Shankblister had outlined the details of their new case to her at the office this morning. It seemed that the suspects-the presumed felons whose offices she and Harvey were about to rifle-were indeed of Chinese extraction.
What a critical case this was, the shapely apprentice sleuth marked in her dead-earnest musings. The Harvey Hereford Junior Detective Agency had been retained by no less august an authority than the U.S. Justice Department to get the goods on a suspected Communist front organization called the Chinatown Postal and Benevolent Association. (Against the wall of whose office building the angelic adolescent was leaning her cheeky rump at this very moment.) Not only was the assignment the greatest honor of what had thus far been Harvey's undistinguished investigatorial career, but Mr. Chauncey Shankblister, the Justice Department bureaucrat who had visited the Hereford offices this morning, had implied that the ultimate win-or-lose outcome of the Cold War against the enslaved Communist nations depended on its effective execution. Although the Chinatown Postal and Benevolent Association-(CPBA, for short)-purported to be strictly a local New York operation, the United States Government was convinced that its insidious activities were controlled directly by Peking.
The history of the problem, as it had been related to the radiant ravisher, was this: The CPBA had been founded some months ago by an old Chinaman named Sing Ling Song, along with a group of fellow Chinese-American shareholders. With Song as its executive head, the firm had been duly incorporated and licensed as a tax-free fund-raising organization with its future net incomes, if any, earmarked toward the support of various Chinese charities in the New York area.
Imagine the government's outraged chagrin then, Mr. Shankblister had expounded, when the first thing the CPBA had done was to set up a first-class mail delivery service in direct competition with the U.S. Post Office. Thus far the mail operation was strictly a local one, limited to pickups and deliveries within the confines of the five boroughs of New York City. But it had caught on with such wildfire success among its patrons that the government feared it would shortly go national, or even international, unless it could be stopped. At the outset, the CPBA service had been patronized only by a relatively few non-English-speaking Chinese oldsters who had always had difficulty transmitting their letters through the regular mails owing to the average postal clerk's being unable to read addresses written in Chinese. But the new service had proven so efficient and inexpensive that it was now being used by a vast and increasing number of New Yorkers, both Oriental and Occidental. By this time, the CPBA had hundreds of drop boxes situated throughout Manhattan, the Bronx, Brooklyn, Queens and Staten Island. Among other attractions, they offered a delivery charge of a penny less per letter than their federal competition, same-day delivery on all pieces of mail posted before ten a.m., and sevendays-a-week service. Not illogically therefore, they were doing a land office business. Fanny herself had frequently mailed her intra-city letters via CPBA.
But that, of course, had been before Mr. Shankblister had enlightened her to the subversive implications of the enterprise this morning. The CPBA, he had explained, was far from what it appeared to be. No in deed, it wasn't just a faster, more efficient purveyor of a needed service than its bureaucratic competitor, a group of charity-minded Chinamen out to do an honest job dedicated toward the betterment of their community. Instead, the incensed Justice Department rep had assured the titillating tot, the whole operation was a sinister Chinese Red plot. Oh, how the Peking warlords must be chuckling at this hour, Mr. Shankblister had speculated. Here, by making monkeys out of the U.S. postal system through providing a better, cheaper mail service, the creeping Commies were successfully undermining one of the most vital pillars of American society, the U.S. mails. If the dreaded day should ever come when the CPBA lured all the first class mail business away from the Post office Department on a nationwide scale, they would have effectively gained control of one of the country's most important communications systems. And what then?
Dull-witted darling that she could sometimes be, Fanny had foolishly asked: "Yes, Mr. Shankblister, what about it? What then?" Her initial erroneous opinion had been that the CPBA operation didn't sound Communistic at all. In fact it had struck her as diametrically opposed to Communist theory. After all, wasn't it a keynote of the Free Enterprise System that if one outfit could provide a service better, quicker, and cheaper than another outfit, the more efficient one was the one that ought to survive? The CPBA was apparently coining a pee-pot full of profits even with lower rates, whereas the U.S. Post Office was running in the red-and having to be subsidized by tax dollars to boot-even though they charged higher prices. Therefore, it had seemed only logical to the wrong-thinking waif at first that it was better for everybody concerned for the CPBA to prosper. They did the job better. Ergo, more power to them. That was what good old American capitalism was all about, wasn't it?
In this case, decidedly not, Mr. Shankblister had blackly insisted. Even though a nationwide takeover of the mails by the CPBA would save the letter-writing public money-both in the form of cheaper stamps and in the form of tax savings derived from no longer having to subsidize the old federally-run system-one had to consider the enormous blow to American prestige when word would spread around the globe that a bunch of Chinese Commies were doing a better job of delivering the U.S. mails than our own government had been able to do. What a publicity coup that would be for the Reds ... But why, Fanny had naively asked, did the CPBA's entry into the postal business necessarily make them a Communist front organization? Maybe they really were what they claimed to be. Just a bunch of enterprising Chinese-Americans out to make a buck on behalf of charity ... To this dumb-cluck thesis, Mr. Shankblister had enlighteningly, and somewhat huffily, replied that anyone who would do anything to make the red-white-and-blue Federal Establishment look bad simply had to be a Communist by definition. At that point, the Lilliputian lovely had realized how out of line her skepticism had been. Maybe she. didn't yet grasp all the nuances of the affair but, in the final analysis, she had recognized that Mr. Shankblister, as an agent of the Justice Department, had to be correct in his representations. Also by definition.. This simply because, as every patriotic American knew, our Federal Government was constitutionally incapable of either lying or erring. Thus, effectively set straight, the flag waving favorite was now champing at the bit to throw herself body and soul into the extermination of the dirty Red rats of the Chinatown Postal and Benevolent Association.
What cunning curs they were!, pondered the provocative playmate, patriotically gnashing her teeth in the darkness. Naturally, the government had sought to thwart the CPBA in the courts right off the bat. But, thus far anyway, the Commie vermin had been able to employ America's democratic processes-the very processes they ultimately sought to destroy in their conspiracy to enslave the world-to block government action against them. Early on in the game, the U.S. Attorney had hauled the CPBA into the Federal District Court, only to have the judge there-possibly owing to the fact that he too happened to be of Chinese extraction-rule in favor of the defendants. Thus, while the government's appeal awaited airing in the Circuit Court of Appeals, the CPBA continued to operate within the letter-if not the spirit-of the law. The cheeky Chinamen had even had the gall to file a counter-suit against the government, claiming that the statutes prohibiting a privately-run first-class mail service were unconstitutional. In the meantime, with the CPBA operating legally until-and if-the Court of Appeals should reverse the District Court, the Feds had been forced to the somewhat embarrassing tactic of contracting with a private detective agency-the obscure, one-man Harvey Hereford Jr. outfit-in a desperate attempt to unearth evidence of subversive activities on the part of the CPBA so as to put them out of business as pronto as possible. Mr. Shankblister had confessed that the whole federal bureaucracy was acutely embarrassed over the ridicule being hurled at it by the nation's press over the way the Chinese group was showing up the U.S. Post Office in New York. The executive and legislative branches of the Establishment-from the President on down-were literally frantic to pin some kind of a felony rap on the CPBA. But to have sicked a federal investigative body such as the FBI on them would have been running the terrible risk of suffering even worse public ridicule should such a move be found out. Surely in such a circumstance the Feds-as long as the CPBA, armed with its favorable District Court decision, was operating within the law-would have been depicted as evil Goliaths harassing a benign David. Therefore, Harvey Hereford Jr. and his ripe-breasted new girl-friday had been singled out and given the investigative nod. Get the goods on the CPBA!
Fired with patriotic fervor, the button-nosed beguiler was keen to commence said critical quest. If only Harvey would show up. The puny private eye was now fifteen minutes late.
Fanny's vigil came to an end then when a doughty little dwarf of an automobile came chugging up the Mulberry Street hill and turned right into the alley driveway a few yards south of her, stopping astraddle the sidewalk. Jiggling hurriedly toward the car-a maroon Volkswagen sedan-the golden-curled gamin knew even before she was able to recognize the driver that her tardy tyro had arrived. Harvey had told her he would be driving a Volkswagen. Further, strapped to the top of the beatle-shaped vehicle she made out the extension ladder he'd said he'd be fetching along. As she drew nigh the car, a final mark of identification became readable: the words COCK WAGON lettered across the door. What an incongruous name for such an asexual little machine, the petite pleaser laughingly thought in passing.
"Is that you, chief?", she stage-whispered to the driver, leaning forward to peer into the interior shadows of the Volks.
"Yes, it's me. Sorry I'm late, Fanny", Harvey apologized, muting his alto voice-tones as he popped his purple-helmeted head though the window to greet his gorgeous girl-friday.
Suppressing a chuckle of amusement at his ludicrous Captain Sex costume, which-being so new on her new job-she still wasn't fully accustomed to, Fanny asked: "What kept you?"
"This blasted ladder kept coming loose from the top of the Cock Wagon", complained the emaciated investigator. "It fell off three times on the way downtown, drat it all. I even got a ticket from some cop for obstructing traffic at the corner of Houston Street and Second Avenue. The big bully. He almost ran me in just because of the way I'm dressed. Claimed he'd never even heard of the famous Captain Sex. Said I looked like some kind of a nutty pervert to him ... Ooooh, I'm so mad I could spit!"
"Never you mind, boss", the springy-breasted sex-kitten sweetly soothed her patently ruffled employer. "You made it here in one piece, and that's all that matters."
"I know, but, doggonit, cops are always either laughing their heads off or threatening to haul me in for investigation when they see me out in public as Captain Sex. What the heck do they think is so funny!? You'd think they'd show a little respect, since I'm a star player on their team, so to speak."
"Right, chief. Those dumb cops just don't have any gratitude, that's al!", Fanny solicitously fibbed toward the end of saving her friend's already-hurt feelings. Poor little guy. He meant so well, but he just wasn't able to recognize that he really did come off as some kind of a lunactic in that grotesque get-up. Naturally any police officer he encountered was bound to look askance at him. She herself had adjudged him a refugee from a looney-bin during the early moments of their first meeting.
"Okay, Fanny, here's the layout", Captain Sex got down to squeaky-voiced business. "The CPBA offices take up the whole third floor of this building on the corner here. If you'll follow me into the alley here, we'll put our ladder up, jimmy one of their windows, and search the place. Check?"
"Check, chief, the alert ingenue briskly responded, slapping her precious forehead in a snappy military salute as Harvey began to inch the car forward.
Trailing her lightweight leader some thirty or forty feet into the darker gloom of the alleyway, Fanny drew up to the Cock Wagon a second time just as Harvey was alighting from it.
"All right, let's get the....", he started to whisper before: SOooops!" ... CLATTER! PLOP! ... he tripped over the threshold of the car-door and went pitching wildly forward to land on his face on the hard cobbles of the alley floor.
"Harvey! Are you all right?", blurted the concerned cutie as she scurried to help the clumsy crusader to his feet.
Gingerly righting himself with his adorable aide's aid, Harvey shakily answered: "I ... I ... guess so. I think I only barked my knees and skinned my nose a little. It's this darned revolver of mine. It's a .45, you know. Weighs a ton. Makes me so top-heavy that I fall down a lot. I'd sure love to get a lighter one, but there's an unwritten rule among us crime-fighting heroes that our rods have to be .45s ... Come on, Fanny, help me untie this ladder from the Cock Wagon."
As Fanny moved to comply with this order, attacking the knotted ladder-cords at one side of the Volkswagen's roof while Captain Sex addressed himself to those on the other side, she couldn't help but entertain freshly pitying reflections about her mousy boss. Even though she was growing fonder and fonder of him, she was realizing more and more what a totally inept individual poor Harvey was. At the moment, for example, he was fumbling at the knot he was trying to solve with a hopeless lack of digital coordination. He just couldn't seem to do anything right. How he had ever managed to survive even these nine short months in the harrowing field of private investigation, the rosy-cheeked ravisher couldn't imagine. He was, so puny he could barely lift his revolver, he was forever dropping things and falling down-as he had a few moments ago-and his general bearing was so sissified that if Fanny hadn't known better she would have sworn he was a flaming faggot. Gayness, however, appeared to be one handicap with which the good-hearted but bumbling boy was not blighted. The golden girl had come to this conclusion from having seen photographs of her employer's wife, Lascivia, who appeared anything but the type of girl who would marry a fairy. From her pictures, Lascivia looked to be a voluptuous, ample-breasted young blonde, almost as breathtakingly beautiful as Fanny herself. How Lascivia-a real knockout-could possibly see a twerp like Harvey as mate material, the nubile juvenile couldn't figure. His attraction for his spouse certainly couldn't be his quasi-homely looks. Nor his nonexistent muscles. Nor his dubiously-charged intellect. For her youthful boss's sake, Fanny certainly hoped the wifely lure wasn't merely his money. She had been given to understand that Harvey was the only child of the once-revered politician-industrialist, Harvey 'Hud' Hereford, Sr., who was now serving a prison term for having masterminded the infamous Red Square pornography racket. As heir to the Hereford millions, Harvey Jr. would one day come into a lavish inheritance. With as many other things as the boy detective had stacked against him, his succulent sidekick prayed that he wasn't also in for the disillusionment of ultimately discovering that his lovely wife, whom he plainly adored, had married him only because he was due to come into a fortune.
Solving the two knotted cords on her side of the car, Fanny observed that Harvey was still fumbling helplessly with the first of his two. Stepping around to his side, she offered: "Here, Harvey, may I help you?"
"Uh, thanks, Fanny. I must have tied them too tight. I guess I, uh, didn't realize my own strength when I was making those knots", the skinny sleuth easily conned himself as he moved aside to let the dainty dazzler take over.
In jig time, Fanny had the bonds undone. At her employer's direction, she then took up a position to the rear of the Cock Wagon while he went to the front preparatory to their lifting the heavy ladder by either end from the roof of the car. However, no sooner had sparrow-chested simpleton and succulent scamp shouldered their load off the Volks than....
"Oops!" ... CRUNCH!...."Eeeeek!", Harvey squealed his shrill-voiced agony at having dropped his end of the ladder squarely onto his right foot.
"Holy mackerel, that hurts!", he cried, near tears as he hopped about on his good foot, clutching the injured one to his crotch. "Drat that shoemaker of mine! I ordered a new pair of slippers with steel-inlaid toes two weeks ago, and he hasn't delivered them yet ... Ooowww!"
Although, naturally, she was sympathetic toward her spindly Sam Spade's affliction, the bouncy-breasted babe was even more concerned for the success of their undercover enterprise on behalf of the U.S. Justice Department. Therefore she fervently shushed: "Harvey, please try to stop howling that way! You're making enough noise to raise the dead!"
"O-Okay, Fanny", choked the callow crime-fighter, successfully repressing his whimpers as his pain apparently subsided.
By a clumsy cooperative effort whose ultimate success the elfin enchantress could only regard as a miracle, Fanny and Harvey finally managed to extend the ladder and prop it upright against the sill of a third-story window of the CPBA offices. At every step of the way, the awkward investigator compulsively gummed up the works, misjudging angles and distances, tangling the extension ropes, dropping things, and generally screwing up with the result that the tempting teen-queen was forced to assume most of the manual labors attendant to erecting their avenue of ascension. At the end, she was panting out loud from her extertions as Harvey proudly announced: "All done! Now just watch old Captain Sex go into action! ... If I do say so myself, I'm getting better at these undercover capers all the time."
Incredulously wagging her curly head at his infinite capacity for deluding himself, Fanny nevertheless listened respectfully as the caped clown instructed: "I'll climb up first and jimmy the window open. Then when I whistle down to you three times-Like this: Tweet-tweet-tweet!-you come up after me, Fanny....Will you hand me the burglar tools out of the Cock Wagon please?"
Obediently, but with a sinking sensation in her heavy little heart that it would be better for the interests of their mission if she were the one who went up the ladder first, the saucy-rumped sweetie retrieved Harvey's bag of tools as bade. Handing the black leather valise over to him, she earnestly prayed-knowing he would need it-"Good luck, feller."
A cocky grin on his sickly countenance, Captain Sex cavalierly chirped: "Remember now: three whistles and up you come", before clumsily commencing his upward ascent.
Fanny held her breath in alarm as he tripped on the third rung of the ladder, teetered dizzily backward, but luckily righted himself to resume his climb. At about the second story level, she lost sight of him in the darkness, but quickly reestablished visual surveillance by moving directly under the ladder so that from her new vantage point his awkwardly progressing figure became silhouetted against the sooty night sky as a spidery blob of flapping cape and uncoordinatedly-working arms and legs.
In another moment or two, the pert pussycat kenned from a new series of sounds penetrating the hush that her hapless hero had reached the top of the ladder. First came a leathery-metallic clump as he set his bag of tools on the windowsill. Then the clicks of the fasteners on the bag as it came open. Then a friction of metal rubbing against wood as he inserted one of the tools-probably a small crowbar-between the window frames near the lock. Then a number of muffled bumps as he taped the point of the crowbar in. And finally, a sharp ping as the catches of the window lock snapped apart.
Several seconds ticked past in silence as Fanny waited, nervously eyeing the shadowy figure at the top of the ladder, her head cocked to one side so as to be sure to pick up the whistled signal which would cue her to join him. It suddenly dawned on the nubile juvenile that she was scared silly, but at the same time she felt strangely exhilarated as they neared the climatic phase of their dangerous mission. What if they were to be caught in the act by the Commie ratfinks who ran the CPBA? ... The awareness that she and Harvey were literally defying death with this breaking-and-entering caper simultaneously terrified and thrilled the golden-haired junior gumshoe.
At long last, Harvey's high-pitched whistling floated down from above. "Tweet! Tweet!", came the first two pipes before another brief pause ensued. Then, as the cloaked form overhead careened out into empty space....
"TweeeeeEEEEEEEEETI"
... Captain Sex's third frantic blast sounded to her b'ke the whine of a descending bomb as he plummeted earthward end over end to slam ... KER-SPLAT!
... into a heap of garbage not three feet from Fanny's spot ... Good grief! He'd killed himself for sure this time!
Heedless of the danger from the shower of burglar tools which clanged to the cobblestones all about her, the brave beguiler pounced to the assistance of her frail friend.
"Harvey! ... Harvey!", she cried as she knelt beside him atop the garbage pile, shaking his scrawny shoulders in a fevered effort to revive him. "Harvey, wake up!"
It took many heart-stopped seconds, during which the panicked pet became increasingly convinced that death had indeed claimed her baby boss, but Harvey did finally awake. Feebly brushing a cabbage leaf from his bruised forehead, he fluttered his lashes open and moaned: "Wh-where am I? ... Wh-what happened?"
"You fell, Harvey", the blonde bewitcher filled him in. "Are you hurt bad? ... How do you feel?"
"O-okay, I guess", came the stricken sleuth's unconvincingly weak reply. "I'm ... I'm sort of numb, but I don't hurt too bad anywhere. I don't think anything's broken."
"Well, if you feel you can stand, let's get you to a doctor right away", asserted the practical-minded precious. "I'll drive the Cock Wagon."
"No!", Harvey contradicted her in his most emphatic squeak. "I'm not going to a doctor or anywhere else until we've completed our assignment. Captain Sex is no quitter, you know!"
Undeniably, Fanny had to admit, this little nitwit did possess a certain amount of warped grit in his make-up. Whether or not he had actually broken any bones, he was clearly one shook-up youngster. If he hadn't happened to have landed atop this cushioning compost heap, there was a good chance he'd have been killed a couple of minutes ago. And yet, despite his narrow brush with death, he was apparently as determined as ever to see his nocturnal crime-fighting caper through to the bitter end. The melon-breasted moppet had to admire him for that, in an oblique kind of way. Thus, although it was against her better judgment, she decided not to quarrel with his wish to stay on the job. "Do you think you can stand, Harvey?", she asked again.
"I don't know. Let's find out ... Help me up, will you?", grunted the tenacious twerp ... Wincing and groaning all the way, he finally made it to his feet with Fanny's tender assistance. Shaking out his various limbs to make sure they remained in working order, he gamely suggested: "Okay, Fanny, let's have another go at it, shall we?"
As Harvey addressed the bottom rung of the ladder once more, his amber-eyed aide arrested him by the arm to urge: "Let me come up right behind you this time, huh, chief? ... That way, in case you lose your footing, maybe I can prop you up."
"I assure you, young lady", Captain Sex somewhat resentfully replied, "that little fall of mine was a once-in-a-lifetime accident. It won't happen again."
For once, the namby-pamby Nero Wolfe proved correct. By dint of extra-special care in his movements under Fanny's watchful eye, he made it to the top of the ladder with his luscious lieutenant close at his heels. Stealthily, he raised the window and clambered into the darkened recesses of the Chinatown Postal and Benevolent Association offices, stumbling only slightly in the process, and righting himself even before he fell to the floor.
By the time the blonde bewitcher had slithered her spectacular curves through the open portal, Harvey had already removed his flashlight from his utility belt and was spraying its rays back and forth over what appeared to be the main room of the CPBA office complex.
As her gaze followed the moving circle of light around the walls, Fanny discerned that it was a spacious room in which they found themselves. At first glance, it appeared to be a conventional business office in every de tail. There was the usual maze of metal desks, filing cabinets, typewriters and steno chairs. To an unenlightened observer, these could have been the premises of an insurance firm, a publishing house, or even a legitimately-run private postal service, instead of the lair of a gang of treacherous Chinese Commie spies the dimpled dumpling knew the place to be.
Leaning close to her caped commander, she whispered: "Do you think it'd be safe to turn on the lights while we search the place, boss?"
Before Harvey could answer, the dismayed darling got her startling reply in the form of a fateful....
Click!
... of the light switch which flooded the room with a bright-and, needless to say, terrifying-fluorescent illumination.
"Yoickers!", cheeped the cheeky-bottomed charmer. For there at the door, glaring their manifest disapproval all over the trespassing twins, stood an ancient Chinese man and a young Chinese girl of about Fanny's age or maybe a bit older. The golden girl's heart clogged in her throat at the sight of the Oriental pair, but not because of their physical appearance. They didn't look menacing at all, in fact, except for the angry frowns which conformed their countenances. The girl was rather pretty and sweet-looking, while the old gent, clad in traditional Chinese garb of skull cap and silk kimono decorated with a dragon design, could have been someone's benevolent gray-haired grandpa. No, the source of the cuddly captivator's dire distress was not to be found in the visible complexion of their surprise accosters. It lay solely in the fact that the old man was holding a snub-nosed automatic leveled straight at her heart.
"You will prease lemain standing plecisely where you are", the venerable Chinaman inscrutably directed, paradoxically accompanying his command with a courtly bow even as he kept his lethal weapon trained on the caught kids. "The porice should be here at any moment. You see, we have been aware of your presence since the moment you praced your radder against our windowsill."
"Curses!", Captain Sex croaked under his breath to his springy-bosomed sidekick. "The cops are coming. You must have made some noise that tipped them off, Fanny." In a louder falsetto, he unauthoritatively demanded of their captors: "Wh-who are you?"
"I was about to ask you the same question, young ferrow", the antique Oriental came coolly back. "But I will be grad to introduce myself first. I am Sing Ling Song. And this is my honorable grand-daughter, the rovery Miss Oy Song."
Songl, harked the heartbroken honey. So this was the ringleader of the Commie gang, the president of the Chinatown Postal and Benevolent Association, about whom Mr. Shankblister had told them at this morning's briefing. The stooped, gentle-looking old codger certainly didn't fit the leering, machete-brandishing image she'd have expected of the top dog of such a vicious band of political brigands. But if this was Song, that's what she was looking at: the sultan of the spies. Nor was Fanny forgetful that the almond-eyed Oy, for all the sweet innocence of her appearance, was likewise involved up to her neck in the insidious conspiracy. Oy, of course, was also employed by the CPBA, as her grand-dad's chief assistant ... So this was what a pair of master spies looked like in real life, eh? Appearances certainly could be deceiving.
"Now, would you be so kind as to identify yourselves, honored guests?", Song courteously requested, not lowering the barrel of his automatic a smidgin despite his verbally cordial manner.
Since Harvey appeared to be choked into speechlessness by his chagrin, the honey-blonde hoyden decided to speak on behalf of their contingent. "My name is Fanny Hell, sir, and this is my employer, Mister ... uh ... Captain Sex." Oops. She had almost let the cat of Harvey's real name out of the bag. Maybe it wouldn't have mattered, though. It was going to be almost impossible to continue to conceal his true identity under the grilling the cops would surely apply upon their arrival ... Shoot! What a fizzle her first foray into undercover detective work had turned out to be. Instead of winding up with the goods on the CPBA, Fanny and her milk-toasty boss were about to wind up in jail.
Their destination was brought a giant step closer at this point by the entrance of two men in blue. The first of the duo of patrolmen which strode into the office?-their service revolvers drawn-was a tall, darklyhandsome Chinese-American. At his heels came a more-typical-of-the-breed Caucasian with 'Son of Erin' written all over his apple-cheeked features.
At the cops' entry, grand-daughter Oy's flawless face lit with a light of happy recognition. She was moved to speak for the first time. "Keung! It's you! What a nice surprise!", she grinned, nuzzling against the shoulder of the Chinese cop, who stood sizing Fanny and Harvey up.
Apparently noting the curious expressions on his captives' countenances at this unexpected display of affection between policeman and client, a twinkle-eyes Sing Ling Song explained: "This officer, I am ploud to reveal, is my future son-in-law-the fiance of my granddaughter-Mister Keung Lee." To Keung he merrily cracked: "Ho, Keung! What a curious quirk of chance that, of all the thousands of policemen in this city, you should be the one to answer our urgent summons."
"Mike and I just happened to be cruising the area when your call came in, Sing, that's al!", answered the strapping Oriental officer. "Now, what the devil is going on here? Are these two your big, bad burglars? Ha! They sure don't look the type. That skinny kid looks like he's dressed up for a costume ball, and the girl looks like she ought to be home baby-sitting with her kid brother."
"I was thinking the same thing, my son", old Song agreed. "Arrow me to plesent Captain Sex and his attlactive associate, Miss Fanny Hell."
"All right you two, out with it. What were you up to?", Keung wanted to know. "What brought you to the CPBA at two o'clock in the morning? ... And don't tell me you wanted to mail a letter."
Fanny was about to make a stab at concocting some far-out fib to cover the real purpose of their intrusion, when Harvey piped up with the reminder that: "Officer, I'm sorry, but it's our constitutional right to remain silent until we've had the advice of counsel. So I hope you won't take any personal offense, sir, but we'd both like to exercise that right ... Right, Fanny?"
"Right, Captain", the tawny-eyed traffic-stopper resolutely backed him up.
"That's okay by me", Keung shrugged. "You can do your talking down at headquarters then ... C'mon, you goofy-looking Jimmy Valentines, let's make tracks."
CHAPTER THREE
At nine o'clock the next morning, a sleepy-eyed but gratefully-free Fanny sat aboard a crowded Second Avenue bus as it threaded its way by fits and starts through the rush-hour traffic jams.
Oh, how the pink-nippled pet cherished her newly-returned freedom. Oh, how lucky she felt to be loose. It struck her that most people never fully appreciated the sheer joy of simply moving about at large until they'd known the claustrophobic trauma of being locked behind bars. As she and Harvey had been for almost three hours last night. Although she'd had only two hours of sleep after returning to her apartment, she felt gloriously alive this morning just to be out of her steel cage.
My, hadn't things looked black for Fanny and her bungling boss when Keung Lee and the other cop had hauled them into the station house? For the life of her, the juicy juvenile hadn't been able to conceive of a way in the world by which they were going to beat their rap, having been caught red-handed in the act of breaking and entering. Harvey had darkly reminded her on the way to the station that they were under solemn oath to Mr. Shankblister not to divulge their connection with the Justice Department. The bureaucratic go-between had already advised Harvey that even if he and his girl-friday were to break the secrecy oath under the duress of being apprehended in some illegal activity, it would avail them nothing. The Justice Department would simply disavow any knowledge of their existence, much less of having hired them to shadow the CPBA. Apparently, that was one of the cardinal rules of the spy game: if an agent got caught by the other side, it was tough titty on him as far as help from his superiors was concerned.
Nevertheless-in this instance anyway-things had turned out peachy-keen in the end for the black-caped and flaxen-curled good guys. They'd been legally sprung before dawn, without even having to reveal Harvey's true identity to the authorities, much less being forced to come up with a lengthy explanation of why they'd been trying to ransack the CPBA offices ... How simple it had all been when all was said and done. So simple that even now, several hours later, the dainty dazzler could still hardly believe it. A series of telephone calls had done it all. First, Harvey had rung up his family's attorney, whom his incarcerated father, Hud, continued to keep on a retainer to oversee his investments and other affairs while the senior Hereford was in jail. Next, the attorney had put in a call to Hud at the state prison, outlining the plight of the millionaire wheeler-dealer's only son. The doting dad, Fanny had later learned, had immediately long-distanced a certain Manhattan Criminal Court judge who owed him a few favors from the old days. Finally, the sleepy magistrate had obediently contacted the station house and ordered the release of Captain Sex and his provocative partner on grounds of 'insufficient evidence', assuring the captain in charge that he would sign the necessary papers in the morning. Within minutes thereafter, Fanny and Harvey had been courteously ushered from the lock-up and sent on their merry homeward ways. Perhaps their release had been accomplished through channels that didn't say much for the ethics of certain segments of the governmental establishment, but at this juncture the liberated lovely wasn't about to look a life-saving gift horse in the mouth. She was alive and free and full of youthful energy and more determined than ever to do her bit in cracking the tough-nut CPBA espionage case.
The accomplishment of this end, in fact, was her reason for being aboard the Second Avenue bus right now. The tempting tot was headed downtown to apply for a job as-of all things-a Good Humor man ... Undaunted by the failure of their attempt at office-breaking last night, the obsessed Captain Sex had enthusiastically advanced a new approach to the case as the sprung youngsters had Cock Wagoned homeward in the wee hours of the morning. What was needed, he had reasoned, was a means of covertly observing the daily activities of the Chinatown Postal and Benevolent Association. If it was too much to hope that a spy might be planted in their very midst, then an outside sentinel might do almost as well. If an agent could be inconspicuously posted in the vicinity of their headquarters at Bayard and Mulberry Streets, then much might be learned from marking the comings and goings of employers and visitors in and out of the Commie-front organization. It would be a tedious job for the assigned individual, Harvey had acknowledged, invovling long hours of idle waiting and watching. But who knew what chance observation or scrap of overheard information might lead to the next big break in the case? It was at least worth a try, the sissified sleuth had decided ... Naturally, Fanny had been given the job of keeping the boring vigil ... As to how to situate her near the CPBA headquarters in such a fashion that she would not be seen and recognized by old Sing or his grand-daughter, Oy, as they came and went, the kitten-eyed cutie herself had come up with the ploy she was now bent on effecting. She had already known from chats up around Times Square with her chum, Gus the Good Humor man, that the famous ice cream firm was always short-handed on personnel in its pushcart sales division. Since pushcart sales was strictly seasonal, summertime employment, it was definitely impossible for Good Humor to acquire and keep long-term personnel in that area. Thus, according to Gus, they invariably had innumerable job openings for peddlers to man the pushcarts. There were tens of thousands of street corners in Manhattan and never enough ice cream hawkers to cover them all. Accordingly, Fanny had suggested to her boss that, should she apply for such a job, there was every reason to anticipate that she would be accepted. The adorable adolescent's idea was that she would be able to park her Good Humor cart outside the CPBA offices every day and stand there right in the open without ever being noticed-as an individual, anyway-by Sing, Oy, or anyone else. What group, after all, was more inconspicious, more anonymous, than the legion of faceless menials which operated curbside vending businesses in New York City in the summertime? Even when transacting a purchase from an ice cream man-or a news vendor or a pretzel peddler or some such-most busy pedestrians never even glanced at the party with whom they were dealing. Usually, they just handed over their coins, snatched up their purchases, and hurried on. Thus, Fanny would be able to stand in the gutter outside the CPBA all day long every day, cloaked in a figurative, but effective, invisibility. To further enhance her anonymity, she would, of course, outfit herself with dark glasses. And to de-emphasize any attention-catching elements inherent in her being a girl in a normally male business, she would play down this spectacularly undeniable fact by tucking her silky-golden curls inside her Good Humor hat and by wearing loose-fitting shirts so as not to attract undue attention to her perky boobs ... Harvey, his limited intellect having been unable to generate a better idea at the moment, had gone along with the plan. And so the golden girl was now on her way to the Good Humor office-plant on East 3rd Street to apply for the job.
Abruptly, Fanny's attention was distracted from the errand at hand by her chance glance through the bus window at the backside of a shabbily-dressed, lard-assed dowager trudging southward along the Second Avenue sidewalk. Why that woman looked just like ... ! No, it couldn't be...! But doggonit, from the rear that old biddy looked just like ... like ... Mom!
As the slow-moving bus overtook the even-slower moving woman, affording the rubbernecking rascal a side view of her face, Fanny predictably discovered that the seedy pedestrian was not in fact her long-estranged mother from back in Stoversville, New England.
Settling back into her seat moments later, the pensive pet could feel her heart still fluttering with the remnants of her start at having thought for a moment that Mom was here in New York. From the back, that old bag on the sidewalk had been a dead ringer for her unmissed maternal parent.
For some strange reason-strange because she seldom thought of her mother at all-Fanny found herself wondering how things were with the old lady these days. Not that she particularly cared, but she was gripped with a mild curiosity as to how the fates might have dealt with boozy, whory old Mom in the two-and-a-half years since her golden-haired daughter had up and run away from home. Fanny hadn't laid eyes on her mother from that day to this. There had been no correspondence other than a couple of letters from Mom requesting small loans, which had finally caught up with the elfin eighteen-year-old in her Manhattan meanderings. But Fanny had not even condescended to answer the letters much less forward the loot. Then, as now, one of her most avid wishes in life had been to completely forget her wretched, poverty-wracked childhood in the grubby New England mill town of her nativity, to obliterate the image of the neglectful, gin-swilling mother, the carping harpy who-despite the passionately professed man-hates with which she had infected her only child-had long maintained a sordid niche in the Stoversville social strata as the Town Whore. (Semi-pro, of course. Mom hadn't been a sufficiently desirable piece of ass to make a fulltime living out of selling her saggy-breasted body.) All of this-the grinding poverty, the ceaseless bickering, the shame of being the town whore's kid, the manifold childhood heartbreaks caused by these things... all this, and more, the nubile juvenile had long striven to erase from her bleak book of memories.
And yet, now, here on the crowded bus, she found herself thinking back, remembering things. Remembering, for instance, the long succession of "uncles" which had shared Mom's bed for varying periods of time, commencing almost from the day Fanny's dad had deserted the family shortly after his daughter's birth. The names-and the smirking faces-of the bogus live-in uncles began to parade before her mind's eye, bringing a melancholy frown to die golden girl's adorable face. Uncle Charley. Uncle Hank. Uncle Dutch. Uncle Osgood. Uncle Fred. Uncle Milt ... Hmmmm. Uncle Milt. Distastefully, but irresistably, the troubled tyke's thoughts centered on her good old "Uncle" Milt. The rotten scum! Yes, she remembered Milt all right. And she remembered that fateful night when....
* * *
Fourteen-year-old Frances Rosebud Shelley's virginal vagina burned with an aching want. Although it was a hot, muggy August night, she lay in the darkness of her bed room in the rundown family home on Stoverville's River Street, shivering as if caught in the throes of a chill. But the budding beauty wasn't cold. She was hot, so hot that she felt almost on fire. On fire not only with the sweltering torridity of the night, but with the raging flames of a longing she only fuzzily comprehended.
With a fretful thrash of her arm, Fanny threw her coverlet aside, baring her naked body to the clammy caress of the oppressive night. Lying sprawled on her back, legs thrown apart, drowsy but wakeful, she contemplated the moist sheen of perspiration which glossed her chest, tummy and thighs. A faint illumination from a nearby street-lamp crept through the window to dust her soft nudity with an eerie-but not unappealing-silver-shiny glow.
Whew, it was hot! Would she ever be able to drop back off to sleep?, wondered the restless child. She'd managed to make it the first time, despite the uncomfortable temperature, but no sooner had she dozed than she had been visited bv her phantom, that cloaked apparition which had harried her dreams for years and which recently had taken to stealing upon her in the darkness with ever-increasing frequency. Oh, what a terrifying specter her phantom was! Oh, how Fanny feared and loathed him! And yet, curiously, paradoxically, he held a hypnotic fascination for her ... The hateful-thrilling ritual of his nocturnal visitations was always the same. As he had tonight, he would suddenly appear at the foot of the slumbering sprite's bed, a giant-sized figure in a black cloak, his arms-(or were they wings?)-outstretched in readiness to seize her in his suffocating embrace. Never so much as one word was spoken. Not once in all these years had the troubled girl heard her phantom utter a sound. Nor had she ever glimpsed his face, which always remained shrouded in darkness. She knew he had eyes though, piercing, hawk-like eyes whose hot gaze she could feel telephatically devouring her as he poised above her. She also sometimes fancied as she lay squinting up at him, paralyzed with fright, that she discerned the silhouettes of satanic horns sprouting from his forehead. But she really couldn't be sure about that detail. It was always so dark when he came. All she knew was that-horns or no horns-her phantom was a singularly devilish figure ... Inevitably, after a protracted pause, during which the terrified tyke would imagine that her pounding heart was going to burst from the suspense, the evil ghost would abruptly swoop down upon her like some giant bat, completely covering her with his smothering cloak and forcing her thighs apart to stab her genitals with his repellant kiss. Mercifully, the appalling contact, which produced the most excruciating pain, was invariably brief, lasting only as long as it took for Fanny to come gasping awake, shuddering as though wracked by a massive electrical shock. However, even after that first jolt of pain had been alleviated by a state of wakefulness-which also caused the instant disappearance of the phantom-her whole genital area would continue to tingle grievously for many minutes, as if in the aftermath of a powerful bee-sting.
Her delicately petaled gland tingled at this moment as the pubescent pet gazed down the length of her ripening nudity, wondering about her phantom, wondering about her sexuality, wondering about the many mysteries of life which remained closed secrets to her.
She wondered, specifically, about sexual intercourse. Most of the girls at school, in their ceaseless locker-room discussions of the subject, calling it fucking. But that was a word that still didn't sit easy with the glossy-fleshed gamin. Having heard it only in the context of her mother's lusty swearing, "fuck" bore ugly and gross connotations that made her favor the textbook phrase "sexual intercourse" even in her private musings on the matter ... What was it like, this activity called, according to one's sensibilities, either fucking or sexual intercourse? Everyone seemed to have different and conflicting slants on the subject. Although, as far as she knew, her girlfriends were all as virginal-and therefore as sexually ignorant-as herself, they characteristically sprouted knowledgeable-sounding aphorisms that almost never dovetailed with each other. The only specific part on which they all agreed was that the basic physical element of the act was the insertion of the male's penis into his female partner's vagina. Beyond that, theoretical discord raged hot and heavy among Fanny's contemporaries. Karen Shively, for instance, claimed that the act of insertion produced acute pain in the woman, whereas her own sister, Cynthia insisted just the opposite, maintaining that the attendant sensations were highly pleasurable. Karen said that intercourse-(or "fucking" as she called it)-was supernaturally divined only for the purpose of making babies, while Cynthia said it should be indulged in just for fun. As to the potential-pregnancy factor, June Barstow asserted that a girl could only catch the preggers during certain limited periods of her menstrual cycle, while Tammy Leonard claimed that one could get into a family way at any hour of the day or month. On the scary issue of venereal disease, Felice Franklin's position was that you could contract it just from kissing a boy, while Ginger Drake swore you could screw all night and still be safe from the ravages of the socially embarrassing virus as long as you douched yourself out with a solution of vinegar and dishwashing detergent immediately afterward. And so it went. All hearsay, of course. The only certainty inherent in the running sex debate among the girls of Stoversville Junior High was that the debaters were utterly enthralled with their subject.
For Fanny's part, she had to admit that she too was becoming increasingly fascinated by the subject of sex. Fascinated and afraid. Longingly fascinated to participate for the first time in an experience that at least some of her colleagues touted as the most moving and joyous turning point in any girl's life. But fearfully afraid that it might instead turn out to be an ordeal corresponding to her mom's-and others'-insistence that all men were rutting brutes whose greatest pleasure was to slice cruelly into a young girl's genital guts, spit out the feces of their lust inside her, and then quickly depart, leaving her impregnated, diseased, and alone. The confused curie's reaction to the sight of the only male penis she had ever viewed in her life had certainly dramatized her current ambivalent feelings regarding sex. It had happened somewhat over a year ago, at just about the time the first ripening of her breasts had become noticeable and the curve of her formerly spindly hips had begun to round into more womanly contours. Fanny had gone to the local bus station to pick up an express package for Mom. A florid-looking man in his forties had approached her at the station and lured her behind a bank of suitcase lockers on the promise of a generous tip in return for running an errand for him. Once inside the secluded nook, however, it had turned out that the only errand he'd had in mind was his own errand of carnally defiling the maturing thirteen-year-old. The man had stunned her into speechlessness by whipping open his fly and allowing his ripe red penile erection to tumble nakedly forth with a lascivious flourish. Naturally, the golden-curled toddler had been horrified, scandalized, and petrified, not to mention scared out of her wits. But she had also been downright spellbound by her first real-life glimpse of an adult male sex organ. How big and meaty and alive it had looked, visibly throbbing before her eyes. For one fantastic moment, Fanny had actually verged on complying with the stranger's urgent request that she reach out and lay hands on the hot-looking shaft. But in the end-her fears and repressions and hostilities counterbalancing her curiosity-she had turned tail and run.
Oh, how maddeningly confusing sex was!, fretted the sleepless sweetie, squirming uncomfortably atop the sheets. What was it all about anyway, this big crazy subject with the little three-letter label: s-e-x? And, in her case, where did her phantom fit into the picture? Was that sex, that agonizing thing he did to her in her dreams? She ardently hoped that wasn't what sex would really be like, if she ever got around to trying it. It hurt like the devil. But surely the phantom's stinging defilement of her genitals couldn't be an approximation of real-life sexual intercourse because she felt nothing-no penis nor anything else-piercing her during his nocturnal assaults. And yet these fantasy attacks must have some connection with sex because of the area of her body involved in them. Further, the tingling in her rose-petaled vagina that always followed the first wave of pain was a sensation not unlike the one she'd felt down there that time she had beheld the stranger's penis at the bus station. It was a sort of a hot, tense, buzz-buzz feeling that hurt a little bit in a way, but paradoxically produced an unfamiliar pleasure at the same time.
But what a crazy idea that was, the rosy-cheeked chick chided herself. How could something possibly hurt and feel good at the same time? Preposterous. And yet, at this very moment, as she sounded her vaginal depths, she could not deny that the tingling jelly-tart beneath her tummy was simultaneously radiating waves of both pleasure and pain throughout her body.
Oh, what a perverse little body this was, she mused, sighting down its gossamer naked length once again. It never used to pose such perplexing problems, this smooth-fleshed corporeal form of hers. How naughty it had become since it had begun to grow up ... It didn't look naughty though, this satin-skinned bundle of round curves and soft valleys. Those just-starting-to-swell breast-buds, in fact, were the very picture of pubescent innocence. So virginally smooth and soft and white they were, each of them topped with a fragile button of chastest shade of pink. And that tender hot-cross bun of a vagina down there, only recently planted with a downy forest of fluffy-golden pubic hair. Despite the disturbing physiological messages it had been transmitting of late, that had to be the prettiest, most precious sector of her anatomy. However, undeniably, her luscious little body was going through changes. Not necessarily losing its innocence-(who knew what the future would bring?)-but most certainly altering in its outer contours and in its inner chemistry. Before long, Fanny knew, her fluffy pubic bush-still sparse enough to be easily penetrated by the naked eye-would thicken out into a full-blown female forest. In truth, she believed she had already noted a pronounced quickening of the golden growth, just since she'd had her first menstrual period a scant three weeks ago. And her breasts. They, assuredly, would grow too. How big would they finally become?, wondered the sex-obsessed stripling. Criminentlies, they wouldn't turn into duplicates of the floppy old meat-bags that hung from Mom's ribcage, would they? Like any normal girl, she hoped to have ample, ripe breasts in her maturity, but not that big. The problem wasn't an immediate one though. At this stage of her development, Fanny's breasts remained undeniably small, mere overturned saucers of creamy girl-flesh. Her nipples, on the other hand, had already undergone a really dramatic transformation from their prior size and shape. Throughout the juicy junior miss's childhood, her tiny nips had remained about the size of a pair of pink dimes glued to her chest. Within the last six months, however, they had miraculously expanded in circumference to a point where a more accurate cash analogy would not have to be twenty-five cent pieces. Moreover, small, rounded points had sprouted from, their centers, perky little pea-sized knobs that quivered visibly whenever their owner was contemplating the mysteries of sex ... Like now.
Suddenly, a faint droning sound that had been there all along insinuated itself into Fanny's consciousness. From the conglomerate of dimly heard night noises-the distant flow of vehicular traffic on Main Street three blocks away, the closer chirps of crickets and katydids out in the yard-her ears were moved to isolate the sound of snoring from the next room. From Mom and Uncle Milt's room.
Cocking her head to one side on the pillow, her awakening adolescent body as taut as a bow string, the flaxen-tressed fourteen-year-old tuned into the snoring ... It was Milt. And he was alone. No question of it. As she often did, Mom was probably staying on until closing time at Clancy's tavern tonight. That was Milt's snoring right enough. By this time, Fanny was more than well enough acquainted with his distinctive somnambulent braying to be able to identify it instantly, as well as to distinguish it from Mom's, which was absent at this point ... Milt ... What was it between him and Mom? This wasn't the first night the mixed-up moppet had lain awake, restlessly wondering about what went on between her mother and their border in that other room as she speculated upon the deep, dark adult secrets to which she was not yet privy.
Sensing even at the outset that she was treading on dangerous mental ground, the luscious lass nevertheless allowed her mind to conjure up an image of Milt lying there in bed. Would he be clothed in pajamas, or would he be naked? Would his body be covered by a sheet or totally exposed? On a hot night like this, she intensely pondered, there was every likelihood that his dozing bulk would be unencumbered by either pajamas or top sheet. Milt would be sprawled in there completely ... naked. He'd be naked, and his ... his ... penis would be hanging out! That scary-thrilling length of hempen flesh-probably very much resembling the one on the man in the bus station-would be lolling right out in the open! And attached to it, at the bottom, would be his balls! Fanny had never seen a man's balls before. (The bus station exhibitionist had kept his inside his trousers.) But she knew males were equipped with balls because she had seen them depicted in diagram form in a how-to-do-it sex manual that Natalie Carson had once shown her. As she recalled, their textbook label had been "testicles".
Appalled at herself for her unseemly ruminations about Uncle Milt's genitalia, the wrought-up rascal briefly attempted to channel her meditations into wholesomer directions. Good grief, why would she be thinking sexy thoughts about Milt, of all people? She positively loathed the man. A self-centered, lazy loafer, Milt had moved in on the seedy Shelly melange close to two years ago, making him by this time the longest-squatting of any of the sundry "uncles" who had successively shared Mom's bed and board since Fanny's earliest infancy. The passage of time, however, had not enhanced his welcome as far as the precocious daughter of the house was concerned. Mom seemed to adore him-at least during those periods separating their frequent drunken brawls-but Fanny had long since sized him up as a good-for-nothing parasite. Of course, maybe by the old lady's downtrodden standards even a heel like Milt had to be considered a catch. At age thirty-five he was, after all, a good decade his mistress's junior and he was not unattractive physically. Further, he seemed to make some modicum of effort to get along with the frequently contrary golden-haired baby of the family. But he worked only sporadically at his machinist's trade in the textile plants dotting the area, and Fanny had reason to suspect that his generally genial manner toward her was only a cover-up for evil machinations working in the inner recesses of his mind. To put it bluntly, she was convinced that Milt was-or would like to be-on the make for her. For a long time, she had acquiescently-if unenthusiastically tolerated his frequent rough-housing of her in the playful spirit in which she had then assumed it was proffered. Milt had been forever drawing her into mock battle, wrestling her about the living room, chasing her through the shabby little house, catching her, swinging her into the air, generally engaging her in that and other types of horseplay. In view of the jovial, teasing fashion in which these tactics had been applied, the previous pet had interpreted them as the innocent excesses of a well-meaning if somewhat rowdy-would-be father figure. Never once had she doubted the blamelessness of the many tooshie-pinchings and breast-brushings her uncle had dealt her. Not until, that was, one day about seven months ago. Mom had been in the kitchen brewing up one of her yechy mulligan stews, and Milt had been ensconced with his newspaper in his easy chair in the living room when Fanny had made to pass by him on her way to her own room. Typically, Milt had suddenly reached out, whacked her on the bottom, and laughingly bet her that she couldn't grapple him loose from his chair so as to retaliate with a similar playful punishment to his own behind. Since she'd happened to be in a rare sunny mood that afternoon, the tempting todder had decided to humor her good old Uncle Milt. Accepting his challenge, she had pounced onto his chair on her knees, her thighs straddling his lap while she had endeavored to unseat him by yanking him forward by the ears. Amidst the ensuing whoops and hollers and high good spirits, the sham struggle had evolved to a point where Fanny had found herself lying backward along her adversary's legs, her own legs parted and her feet planted against the back of the chair on either side of his torso. In this juxtaposition, the still-seated Milt had likewise lain sprawled backward, his extended hands clutching Fanny's wrists against her squealing struggles to free them. Thus he had come to a strategic position wherein the line of his forward vision had almost unavoidably sighted straight up the dimpled dumpling's silken thighs to focus on her crotch. As fate had had it, she had not been wearing any underpanties that afternoon. She had earlier laundered her meagre supply, all of which had become soiled, so that until they would dry she was simply going without such a frilly accoutrement. In the meantime, her only below-the-waist adornment had been a pair of blue denim short-shorts ... With loose-fitting legs ... Milt had looked. Then he had looked again, his eyeballs popping nearly out of his head. All of a sudden, he had seemed to lose interest in the wrestling match. For long moments, he had held his dainty "niece" in a vise-like grip in that frozen position, his jaw trembling and sweat breaking out on his forehead as he peered brokenly at the juicy juncture of her thighs. Naive nymphet that she had been in those days, Fanny hadn't had the slightest suspicion as to what he was up to. She'd recognized that he was staring at her crotch, of course, but she wouldn't have dreamed that his motives for doing so were suspect if Mom had not entered the room at that point...."Milt Liebman!", the bombshell-breasted bag had bellowed from Fanny's flank. Craning her neck about, the amber-eyed adolescent had observed that her mother's mud-ugly face was contorted into a red-nosed mask of sheer outrage. No other discourse had taken place; or rather, none other that Fanny had been allowed to hear. There had been only the wrathful enunciation of Milt's name, spat out as though it were the vilest of curses. That had been enough. Milt had dropped his sauey-rumped prize like a hot potato and had departed worriedly into the kitchen at Mom's heels. For her part, the troubled tyke had proceeded pensively on into her own room. Only later, much later that evening, had she finally put two and two together. Milt's curious contemplation of her crotch. Mom's characteristic but, in this case, unexplained fury. It had all added up to only one thing. Incredible though the concept had struck her, the disturbed darling had been forced to the conclusion that her Uncle Milt, a grown man in his thirties, had been sexually grooving on her, a young girl-child still short of her fourteenth birthday. The idea had frightened and appalled and embarrassed her. But, yes, even then, it had in some small measure and in some perverse way, excited and pleased her.
However, the speck of flattery she'd felt at the discovery of Milt's carnal interest certainly didn't mean that Fanny was ever going to allow him his filthy way with her. Emphatically not ... despite the fact that she was lying here right now conjuring up mental images of his snoozing nudity with heightening fervor. Since that fateful afternoon seven months ago, the cuddly kid had chastely steered clear of any further wrestling matches with her imitation uncle. Nor had Milt again tried to start anything, doubtless under threat of eviction, if not violent death, from the old lady if he did so. He still looked, though. Furtive, longing looks when the old lady's back was turned. When he did so, was he tormenting himself with forbidden images of Fanny's succulent nudity similar to the ones she was naughtily indulging about his nudity right now?
In spite of herself, the sex-curious scamp continued to goad herself with fantasies of the naked male animal sleeping in the next room. Far from having subsided, the prickly tingling in her vaginal regions in the aftermath of her phantom-dream had grown more intense, to the point where she had to stifle an impulse to reach down and touch herself. Actually, she had no certainty that that would do any good, only an intuitive idea that the touch, die pressure, of her own fingers down there might bring some relief from the mounting sensation of choked congestion she was experiencing. She refrained from doing so, however, because the consensus at school was that touching one's genitals was a bad thing. One ran the risk of damaging one's delicate membranes. Some even claimed that it would grow hair on the palms of one's hands.
Regarding it initially as a ridiculously impossible notion, Fanny was suddenly struck with the idea of what a thrilling kick it might be to steal out of bed and tiptoe to Milt's door so as to spy on his slumbering nakedness for a few moments. Specifically, to spy on his penis. Or on his cock, as some of the girls labeled the intriguing organ. His cock and his balls. Just a look, nothing more. She'd do no such thing, of course. It would be a shamefully wicked act. And yet it was a titillating thought, a thought whose tenacious allure was causing her precious pink place to palpably heat up of its own accord. Hmmmm.
Before she fully realized what she was about, the craving cutie found herself slithering noiselessly from the bed. Once on her feet, she began tiptoeing toward the door, her knees trembling with excitement, but still telling herself that all she was going to do was creep past Milt's door and head on down the hall for a glass of water out of die bathroom. If his door happened to be standing ajar, she might permit herself the quickest of peeks in passing, but nothing more. She probably wouldn't be able to see much in the gloom anyway. And if his door were shut, she certainly wouldn't dream of opening it.
Predictably, however, the naked child's naughty actions were doomed to give the lie to the fancied innocence of her intentions. Skulking silently out of her own room and up to her "uncle's" door which she did indeed find tightly shut-her hand went immediately to the knob, drawn there by an overwhelming curiosity she only half comprehended, by a vaguely defined but powerfully-felt yearning she dared not fully acknowledge to herself even now.
With painstaking caution because her fingers were trembling and because she remembered that this doorknob had a tendency to squeak, the breathless babe turned the knob. The catch disengaged with a faint but heart-stopping click ... Milt's steady snoring continued undisturbed ... Her heart leaping into her gullet, Fanny pushed the door ajar and stuck her head into the opening. And then....
There it was! His ... his ... penis!
Fanny stood rooted to his spot, caught up in a cataclysm of incomparable excitement as she squinted into focus on Milt's meat in the semi-darkness. Down below, her virginal honeypot sweeteened stickily and precipitously, quivering with a wild want as she strove to drink in the unaccustomed sight of a real, live penis.
The terrifying but alluring fear of detection, of course, amplified her excitement to a considerable degree.
How big it was!, she noted in awe. Milt's penis was almost as big in its flaccid state as the bus station molester's had been at full erection. Though her sex education was admittedly spotty, the boggled beauty was well aware of the difference between flaccidity and erection in die male organ. She knew that when a man had an erection his penis stood up-or out-straight and hard and perpendicular. Therefore, she could tell that Milt was flaccid at the moment because his penile shaft lay lolling sideways atop his thigh like a length of coiled rubber hose. She also knew-or at least had been told-that when a man had an erection his member swelled to fully two or three times its normal length and thickness. If that were the case-if Milt was capable of getting two or three times bigger than he was right now-then his organ would be absolutely immense in comparison with the only other one she had ever seen ... Wow!
How on earth, wondered the amazed angel, could such a gargantuan bulk as Milt's erection would be, ever fit inside a girl's vagina? Some old whore might be able to handle it, maybe, but could a normal girl? Thinking of her own tight vaginal opening, the lips of which she had naughtily spread apart before the bathroom mirror a time or two, she just couldn't conceive of it being able to stretch far enough to receive the stout cudgel she fancied Milt's penis capable of becoming. The thought of such a human battering ram being shoved into her juicy gimcrack scared her half out of her wits, evoked agonizing images of her slippery membranes being bloodied and ripped to shreds. Ugh! ... And yet, simultaneously, she had to swallow back a gush of salivary yearning at an only slightly different image of her glossy grabber successfully clamped upon that big old thing as it slid in and out of her, propelling her rapturously through the mysterious portals of adult womanhood.
Drat! It was so dark in here, fretted the cock-hungry cutie. All she could see of the flesh object of her ardent curiosity, really, was its general outline. The faintness of the illumination penetrating the window and her distance from Milt's bed made a really thorough examination impossible. Well, there was nothing she could do about the dimness of the light, but ... himmm ... she might conceivably creep nearer the bed for a closer look ... But no, absolutely not. Ye gods, what folly that would be. She was already taking a reckless risk just by standing here at the door from where an undetected withdrawal would be relatively easy should her bogus relative stir. But if Milt were to wake up and find her bending right over his bed ... well, the hesitant honey had to shudder out loud at the two alternative consequences she could envision. Either Milt would rape the bejesus out of her, or Mom would whomp the bejesus out of her after Milt had tattled. "No thanks", was Fanny's regard for either eventuality. Especially to the notion of being raped by nogoodnik Uncle Miltie. On the other hand...? What would it feel like if he were to awake and rape her? Was there any chance in the world that her cunning crevice could contain him and that it would feel good? ... No. Oh, no. Surely it would be awful.
Nevertheless-some subconscious force again suspending the workings of her rational will-the chance-taking charmer proceeded to slip through the door and tiptoe nigh her sleeping hunk. The noise of his snoring sounded deafening to Fanny but she was glad of its rhythmic cadence as she crept up to the side of the bed and bent over, her eyes glinting eagerly in the half-light ... Ooooh!, she sighed, her little lovebox turning instantly to molten jelly as she zeroed in for a close-up inspection of Milt's penis. Gosh, what a grand piece of machinery a penis was! Assuming Milt's organ was more or less typically configured, the awestruck angel could and did know a pang of envy toward the opposite gender. A penis was so much more impressive, so much more ... more ... ballsy than the insignificant little slit with which her own body was equipped at the same spot, however girlishly cute the latter organ might in its own way be.
So moved was the juicy juvenile by the sight of Milt's member-all meaty and knobby-ended and florid even in the gloom, with that groovy, double-balled sac swelling out beneath it-so caught up was she in the throes of her murky, rudimentary need, that it was all she could do to restrain herself from grabbing the limber shaft and squeezing it with all her might. She even had a yechy-passionate urge to cram it deep into her mouth ... But this was madness! How could she even think of such a thing? Even overlooking the fact that she despised the man, it was a lead pipe cinch that he would awaken and blow the whistle on her sinful advances if she were to make so bold as to touch him. Still, despite these prudent ponderings, the palpitating pet found herself in a near-frenzy of yearning to wallow with wild abandon against this thrilling penis, to devour it, to be devoured by it. Words-a flood of naughty words that she seldom if ever employed in conversation-cascaded hysterically through her brain. Cock! Prick! Cunt! Fuck! ... Cock! Cock! Cock! ... Cunt! Cunt! Cunt! ... Cock-Prick-Fuck-Cunt! ... Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
An inner voice of reason warned Fanny that she was really kidding herself this time as she reached with trembling fingers for Milt's penis. But the tiny voice went unheard ... Just a quick touch, that would be all. Just the merest of fleeting strokes along that enchanting sex-sausage. She must.
Aaaah! ... Oh, it felt so good, marked the sexed-up sprite as she cupped her fingers over the lolling flesh hose. So warm and soft and yet filled with a vibrant inner resilience that lent it a springy, rubbery quality ... Although she barely noticed the fact in her feverish preoccupation with her thrilling manual-genital contact, Fanny was doubly delighted to note that Milt had not awakened. Not yet anyway. His snoring continued at the same easy pace as before, although its tonal quality was perhaps a trifle hoarser now. Maybe, if she kept her touch light enough, she could get away with moving her hand upon him ... Oooh, this was nice, she passionately decided as she circled his shaft with her fingers and commenced sliding her hand gently back and forth along its length. His skin here, despite the many uneven ridges formed by a network of protuberant blood vessels, was extremely smooth, almost creamy ... Hey! What was this? He seemed to be swelling up! Good gravy, yes! Milt was getting an erection in his sleep!
Her already avid involvement becoming absolutely rabid, the impassioned ingenue began stropping away in earnest. Lord, how big he was getting, ballooning larger with every stroke in a series of throbbing surges. Fanny wondered excitedly if somewhere along the line he might spurt forth a glob of that gooey stuff that made babies. Holy cow, wouldn't that be a kick to see!?
When the chunk of hot flesh in her hand had swollen to eye-boggling dimensions, when it had become rockhard beneath its stretchy outer skin, when Fanny had already failed for several seconds to notice that Milt's placid snoring had metamorphosed into a succession of choaked grunts and gurgles, her conked-out kinsman stirred at last.
"What...? Who...?", he snorted from his pillow.
Uh-oh! Time to make tracks, harked the imperiled elf ... But alas, all in a flash, before she could withdraw her hand, her wrist was ensnared in a grip the strength of which told her that Milt had no intention of letting go until he found out what the score was.
"Whozzat? ... Zat you, Gert?", the imitation uncle foggily demanded, his tone still sleep-drugged. But a moment later, when he had drawn his cute captive a bit nearer, his next remark burst forth as a wide-awake exclamation of supreme delight. "Fanny! ... You! ... Naked! ... Playing with my cock in the middle of the night!? ... Holy Mary, sweet mother of god, what a fantastic surprise!"
"Let me go, Milt. Please! You're hurting me!", whined one scared scalawag as her obviously overjoyed uncle yanked her into the bed, crushing her against his chest while his free hand roamed the sleek nakedness of her back and buttocks.
"Oh Christ, Fanny, I never dreamed you dug me this way!", Milt hoarsely gloated as he bellied up to the baby blonde and strove to separate her tightly clamped thighs. "Why didn't you say somethin' before, kid? ... Jesus, I been ready to ball you since the day I came into this house!"
"Milt, I didn't mean ... I was just....", floundered the frightened favorite, squirming to no avail to secure her release. "Please let me go, Milt. I don't want to be here with you like this."
"What're you tryin' to hand me?", demanded the flamingly erect star boarder. "You traipse in here balls naked, go to jerkin' me off, and then tell me you don't want to be with me? What the fuck kind of bullshit is that? Maybe you get a kick out of playin' cock-teaser, eh? ... Great! I like my broads with a little fight in 'em."
With fast-sinking heart, the nonplussed nymphet knew that she had just bought herself the biggest peck of trouble of her young life. Every last trace of her sexual desire had vanished from her loins in a poof the instant Milt had grabbed her wrist. Oh, what a fool she'd been! She wasn't ready for this scene. Not here. Not now. Not with this rough, crude, vulgar, suddenly-hideous male animal. But Milt was hell bent on having his way with her. Nor could she gainsay his right to do so. It could hardly be branded rape when she had indeed entered his quarters as naked as a jaybird and, to use his churlish phrase, jerked him off. Oh, woe!
Bounding to his knees, Milt kept a tight grip on her wrist as he waddled around to Fanny's fetally drawn up feet. "C'mon, honey chile, open up them pearly gates for poppa! ... Heh-heh-heh!", he coarsely commanded, moving to assist in the operation by seizing her clamped together knees and attempting to pry them apart. "Christ, I been wantin' for two long years to plant my pecker in that hot little cunt of yours! Bet this'll be your first time, eh, kid? ... Jesus, I don't think I ever had a virgin before. Oh, happy day!"
Well nigh paralyzed with fright, Fanny lay on her back desperately casting about for some way out while Milt inched her resisting bee's-knees apart. In the end, she wretchedly decided that it was no use. If she failed to yield, Milt-blameless of sexual sin-would tattle to Mom about her unsolicited masturbatory visitation to his bed. Then woudn't there be holy hell to pay? At the very least, the trapped tyke would be subjected to the hiding of her life. Accordingly-and so as to spare her knees any more bruises than her defiler had already inflicted-she let her luscious limbs fall limp ... What a rotten way this was for an idealistic young girl to surrender her virginity!
"Holy mackerel, what a fuckin' groove this is gonna be!", Milt croaked as he edged on his knees between the flaxen-tressed fourteen-year-old's wide-spread thighs.
As he loomed above her in the gloom, Fanny had a sudden, jolting hallucination that Milt's identity had magically changed. All in a trice, he wasn't Milt any more. He was ... her phantom! Yes, there were the familiar cloak and devil's horns standing out in clear silhouette! ... At this point, yet another overwhelming hallucination followed close on the heels of the first. Recognizing her attacker as the phantom, she was blowed over by the equally stunning realization that she wanted to be taken!
Her spinning brain a chaotic admixture of love and hate, passion and fear, a first hysterical sob broke from the dazed darling's chest as she screamed: "Yes! Fuck me! Fuck me, you dirty bastard! ... FUCK ME!"
However, only a split second later: "Aaiieeeeee", she screamed again, this time in unalloyed physical agony as Milt skewered her tender maidenhead with all the finesse of a Mack truck slamming through a web of cheesecloth.
All of a sudden, Milt wasn't her dream-phantom any more. He was merely Milt, a hairy, sweaty, slobbering real-life male brute. And he was hurting her? Oh, dear god, how he was hurting her! When he had thundered to the hilt into her puckered pudundum with his first rapacious stroke, the anguished angel had almost palpably felt her delicate vaginal membranes ripping. Now, as he hunched atop her, pumping away for dear life, it felt as though a red-hot poker was being slid in and out of her tortured little crack.
Nigh unto fainting with the hell of it all-both with the physical pain and with the heartbroken disillusionment of such a sordid introduction to sex-Fanny tearfully begged: "Please stop, Milt, for the love of god! ... You're hurting me!"
Milt's only reply was a constricted snicker as he tongued her ear with an impertinent lick and kept right on banging away. .
However, the next request he received urging him to cease his disgraceful exertions made him desist like a shot. With a horrified yelp, Uncle Miltie toppled loose from his pink-nippled prey and didn't stop toppling until he had landed on the floor as the ceiling light snapped on and....
"Wh...! Milt! Fanny! ... What the fuck's going on here!", Mom thundered from the doorway where she stood framed like some bombshell-breasted avenging angel. Clutching the door-jamb for support, obviously as much staggered by her shock at the quasi-incestuous scene she had come upon as by her advanced state of inebriation, she roared: "So! Balling in my own bed were you! My so-called lover and my own daughter! Why, I oughta...!"
"N-Now, now, Gert, don't l-lose your head", Milt tremulously attempted to calm her, crouching on the other side of the bed from their sputtering surprise visitor and peering up over the mattress like a scared rabbit. "It wasn't my f-fault, honest. Fanny came in here while I was asleep, and...."
"Shaddup!", Mom screamed at the top of her lungs while the button-nosed blonde, caught in the crossfire, cowered atop the sheets and contemplated what a yellow-bellied ratfink snitch her "uncle" had just revealed himself to be. She'd have loved nothing better than to wring his neck but she decided to wait a while before doing so because of her hunch that Mom just might do the job for her.
" Please, Gert, I....", Milt whimpered before the malignant mother again cut him off.
"I said shaddup, you miserable excuse for a manl You're just like all the rest of 'em, ain't ya!? The only thing any of you bastards want is to take advantage of us girls! ... Men! ... You're scum, all of ya!"
For once, Fanny could not have concurred more heartily with her florid-faced mom. The male gender would indeed appear to be a wolfpack of scummy bastards. Now that the disappointed doll had come sexually of age, made the appalling discovery at Milt's hateful hands of what sex was really all about, she knew that Mom had been dead right in her denunciations of men all these years. Those of Fanny's contemporaries who had held out the hope that making love to a man could be a beautiful experience had been dead wrong. Sex, and men, were ... disgusting!
Uhappily, just at this moment when the amber-eyed ingenue was feeling spiritually closer to her mom than she ever had in her life, the old lady temporarily diverted the hellfire of her wrath from Milt to project it full-blast upon the naked waif in the bed. "And you, Fanny!", she shrieked. "What the fuck do ya think you were doin'? That big fat cock you were lettin' Milt cram into ya happens to be my private property, sister! ... You whory little bitch!"
Up to this point, Fanny had been feeling properly contrite over her complicity in the shameful coupling with Milt. But Mom's toilet-tongued invective-always so maddening-served to blot out her guilties in a trice, a hot surge of the scrappy sugar's notorious temper replacing them in a rush. "What do you mean, calling me a whory bitch!?", she sassed shrilly back. "Listen, Mother dear, the only whore in this family is you!"
Ulp!, cringed the cuddly captivator in the hushed aftermath of her reckless and malicious charge. That was the first time she had ever called Mom a whore, the first time in fact that she'd ever even articulated the painful concept to herself. Oh, she'd overheard the whispered rumors of Mom's illicit semi-professional activities, of course. But she had always blocked them out, refused to believe them consciously. Now, however, that she had blurted out the dreadful word-whore!-she knew in a flash of insight that it was true. Her mother was a whore! A cheap, vulgar, drunken old whore! ... As Mom swayed in the doorway like a sledge-hammered cow, stunned into silence by her daughter's spiteful impertinence, Fanny knew a moment of wild exhilaration. She was glad she had hurt Mom, glad she had exacted an eye for an eye from this foul-mouthed old floozie who had so often bruised her own tender psyche.
"Yes, Mom, you're a whore!", she hysterically cried again, tears welling up in her expressive amber eyes even as a mocking grin curled her kissable lips. "You're a dirty old whore, Mom! You thought I didn't know, didn't you? But I've known about you and your filthy men for years! ... Ha-ha-ha! ... My mom's a whore! ... Whore, whore, whore!"
Mom got her rubbery sea-legs under her then and started moving, weaving slowly forward like some tipsy zombie, her eyes clouded, her bulbous face flushed with a rage congealed into numb hatred. Nary a word issued from her lips as she loomed above the reclining ravisher in the bed. The only sound in the room was that of her clogged breathing, the only smell the reek of gin.
Suddenly, without warning, moving with amazing alacrity for one in her blotto condition, the boozed-up bimbo whipped her ham-hock arm up behind her head and....
WHAMMO
... brought it down in a jaw-breaking openhanded blow that nailed Fanny squarely against the side of the head.
"Oooowww!", howled the darn-near-kayoed cutie as she went tumbling head over heels backward off the bed to bounce ... OOOMPH!
... into the middle of Milt's back, knocking his hands and knees from under him before she continued rolling to her final destination in a heap of creamy-naked curves up against the wall.
"So I'm a whore, am I!", thundered Mom, regaining her vocal animation at last. "Then what does that make a fourteen-year-old girl who comes into her uncle's bedroom and climbs onto his cock in the middle of the night!? ... You're the whore, Frances Shelley! You're no good, do ya hear!? I curse the day you dropped outta my womb! ... I hate you! ... I wish you was dead!"
If she had had-or had taken-the time to mull over these truly monstrous maternal maledictions, Fanny might have been reduced to a fit of the most heartbroken tears of her heartbreaking young life. Instead, some inner defense mechanism intercepted Mom's bitter message before it could flay her glossy guts and rolled it up into a black ball of vengeance pushing at the insides of her budding chest.
Dry-eyed and wrathful, the pitiless pet pounced to her feet gnashing her pefect teeth and clenching her dainty fists. Through the boiling cauldron of her rage, it flashed across her mind that she-previously an essentially obedient, if sullen, child who had never dreamed of laying a finger on her mother-was quite literally capable of murdering the old round-heels at this demented moment.
Lurching back against the bureau, she grabbed a bottle of Milt's hair tonic from its counter and, with the gutteral screech of a jungle cat....
WHIZZZ ... CRASH! ... TINKLE-TINKLE! ... flung the bottle viciously across the room where it smashed into a million greasy-smelling smithereens against the wall after missing Mom's ear by a hair's breath.
"Oh, so ya think you're big enough to tangle with your old lady, eh?", the old lady venomously spat. "That'll be the day, ya rotten little tramp!"
So saying, the tumultuous town whore careened like a water wing-breasted hippo around to Fanny's side of the intervening bed-(next to which Milt still groveled on his hands and knees)-and took off in a highflying tackle that....
WHOOOMP!...."Eeeeeeeek!" ... THUD!
"... swalled up her dainty daughter and brought her crumpling to the floor helplessly pinned beneath the mother's flabby hulk.
"I'm gonna beat you within an inch o' your life, ya sassy little snip!", trumpted Fanny's formidable opponent, straddling the diminutive girl as she raised her fist to deliver a first punch into the tempting tot's adorable face. "I'll teach ya to call your poor, hard workin' old mom a hooker!"
Yoickers!, flinched the pinned-down pussycat. Here came Mom's fist like a granite boulder toppling off a ledge at Mount Everest!
"Aaiieeee!", she screamed her stunned torment as....
CRACK!
... the blow slammed cruelly into her right temple. "Ooowwfff!", she screamed again as Mom's other fist dive-bombed down to ... POWIEI
... black her limpid left eye.
The first two punches having buffeted her to the very brink of unconsciousness, Fanny was acting on sheer survival instinct as she managed to avert her head in the face of a third plummeting poke.
WHOOSH! ... CRACK!, Mom's clenched knuckles thudded into the floor next to the slippery spitfire's ear with an audible splintering of many tiny bones.
"Aaiieeee!", it was the balked biddy's turn to wail her impassioned anguish.
Seizing alertly upon this fortuitous advantage, the come-back kid abruptly whipped her knee up between Mom's spraddled legs to....
SQUINCH!...."Eeeeeeeeee!'
... ruin the old lady with a cruelly powerful, knobby-jointed jab right in the vagina.
Bawling her unparalleled agony to the rafters, the goosed gussie reared up on her knees, clutching her crotch with her unbroken hand, only to lose her shaky underfooring and pitch sideways against the bureau.
CRASH! SPLINTER!, went the bureau as two of its stout wooden legs broke off under the impact of Mom's burly tonnage.
CLATTER! CRASH! TINKLE! SPLASH!, came the sound of breaking glass as dozens of bottles and vials, as well as hairbrushes, coins, bobby-pins, etc., came spilling down upon the wallowing witch from the crazily tilted bureau.
Now, freed as she was of her wayward parent's hammerlock, it was Fanny's turn to take the offensive. Which the Stoversville Scrapper proceeded to do with a vengeance. Groping frantically about, her soft fingers closed around the first weapon which came to hand. This happened to be the potentially lethal cudgel of one of the disconnected bureau-legs, a plump length of oak about the size and shape of a small leg-of-lamb. Although she dizzily sensed that she might really kill the old lady with such a weapon, the hate-crazed cutie couldn't have cared less as she scrambled to her knees and lit into Mom.
Ker-Whump!, went the bureau-leg against pulpy flesh to the tune of Mom's semi-conscious grunt of protest as Fanny laid it cruelly across her felled opponent's ample belly.
KRAC!, the big bludgeon went again as the remorseless rascal bounced the thick end of it off the bomb-breasted bag's brutalized noggin.
KRACK! KRACK! KRACK!, the elfin ex-virgin hammered happily away....
Good grief, what a hellcat she'd been in those days!, Fanny harked back from her seat there on the crowded Second Avenue bus. It was certainly a good thing for all concerned that she'd learned to control her temper better-if only a teensy-weensy bit better-in the last four years. Why, if Milt hadn't finally managed to make himself useful on that fateful long-ago night by forcibly yanking the vindictive venus off her mother, there was every chance that the former, in her unhinged fury, might actually have murdered the latter ... Ugh!, mused the gorgeous goldilocks with a convulsive little shudder that jiggled her fantastic breasts. She despised Mom to this day, of course, but not that much, not enough to out-and-out do her in ... On another level, though, since the consequences hadn't been fatal-(they had been almost fatal, but not quite)-maybe the brutal licking she'd given Mom that night had been all to the good. One thing was sure: from that hour untill the day Fanny had run away from home two years later, her whory guardian had never again tried to raise a hand to her. This had eliminated a lot of the hassling between them, making the golden girl's last two years in Stoversville somewhat more bearable than the first fourteen had been.
Ah well, shrugged the succulent sugar. What was past was past. No use in rehashing it. The exciting present was the thing to concentrate upon now. She just had to land this job as a pushcart girl with the Good Humor Company. Getting the goods on the Chinatown Postal and Benevolent Association-not to mention the destiny of the entire Free World-depended on it ... Well, she'd discover in a few minutes whether or not she posessed the requisite qualifications to become a pushcart ice cream peddler. Here was her stop coming up.
CHAPTER FOUR
What a charming, friendly place Chinatown was, Fanny pleasurably reflected as she strutted cutely along in her Good Humor uniform beneath a bright mid-morning sun. Here she had stepped within the community's unofficial boundaries only seven or eight minutes ago and she had already made half a dozen new friends, friends she was certain she would retain throughout the duration of her cover-up sales job, however long that might be.
The gang of new pals to which she mentally referred was, of course, the group of sweet little Chinese boys that at this moment was pushing her cart up the steep Mulberry Street hill for her. Fanny was prancing along in their wake, utterly captivated by their guileless friendliness and their enthusiastic eagerness to be of assistance.
The boys-ranging in age from seven to ten-had bumped into her by chance at the corner of Canal Street and the Bowery a few minutes earlier as she'd been wending her way downtown from the Good Humor plant, pushing her heavy cart. Whether attracted to her because of her pretty face or, more likely, because of a natural childhood affinity for ice cream, they had hailed her and drawn her into congenial conversation while she had waited for the traffic light to change. The adorable ice-cream girl, charmed by their forward yet polite (certainly not fresh) approach to her, had responded in kind. Spying the name FANNY lettered on the ID badge affixed to her chest, the boys had immediately put themselves on a first-name basis with her, always, however, prefacing the "Fanny" with a properly respectful "Miss" when any of them used the appellation. Much to her surprise, they had then volunteered to push her cart the last few blocks to her assigned spot at Mulberry and Bayard Streets. When she had eagerly okayed this request, the cute, almond-eyed little rascals had almost bowled her over with their reactions, jumping up and down with many gleeful shouts as though she were doing them a favor.
And so they had promenaded their way through the cramped, colorful streets of New York's Chinatown, Fanny and her merry coterie, down the Bowery, across Pell Street, south again on Mott, right into Park Street, and now up sloping Mulberry Street toward the corner of Mulberry and Bayard, on which the offices of the CPBA were located and on which Fanny would take up her watchful vigil as she hawked her frozen confectionary wares.
"How are we doing, Miss Fanny?", the Chinese nine-year-old named Mak Wee called back over his shoulder as he bent his boyish body to the collective task of rolling the bulky cart up the hill.
"Just fine, Mak Wee", the strolling sweetie smilingly assured him. "I sure do appreciate you boys helping me out this way." Nor was she fibbing in the slightest degree. She'd already been nearly bushed by the time she'd arrived at the corner where the boys had met her. The respite they had provided her from her tedious perambulatory labors had been a welcome one indeed. For their part, though, the Chinese kids seemed to love pushing the cart. To them, patently, it was a game. As they plodded along, friskily jostling each other for pushbar space, they were keeping up a running chatter of laughter and boisterous shouts. What a darling bunch they were, these friendly, yellow-skinned little chipmunks.
Speaking of friendly bunches, thought the nubile knock-out as she flounced along, hadn't her new colleages at the Good Humor branch-plant given her the red carpet treament this morning? Fanny had been hired on the spot as soon as she had walked into the office of the boss, Mr. Clegg, and stated her mission. The genial general manager had then ushered her out into the garage area of the plant, where the pushcarts were kept, and introduced her all around to her co-workers. A group of gaffers mostly up in their sixties, the venerable peddlers had hovered over the precious pussycat and catered to her as though Mr. Clegg had just presented them with a brand new grand-daughter. In a flurry of activity designed to get her ready as quickly as possible for her first day on the streets, everyone had pitched in on the selection and issuing of Fanny's uniform-(white trousers, white shirt, blue military dress belt, and blue cap with visor)-and the stocking of her shiny new pushcart with a well-balanced selection of flavors. In less than an hour after her entrance into the plant, the milky-breasted moppet had wheeled her cart out into the morning sunshine, a full-fledged Good Humor Man ... Now, as she minced up to the corner of Bayard and Mulberry, her coin-changer jingling against her taut turn-turn, she felt as ready as she'd ever be to go to work on her real assignment of shadowing the nefarious activities of the Chinatown Postal and Benevolent Association.
"Just ease the cart in there next to the curb, boys ... That's right", Fanny directed her team of aides as the Chinese kids efficiently parked her rolling ice cream store in a vacant gutter space just east of the southeast corner of the intersection. Glancing furtively upward, she drew a first bead on the windows of the CPBA on the third floor of the brick office edifice which fronted the sidewalk next to her. The front entrance of the building was situated only thirty or forty feet down the block. Yes, this was a perfect observation post...."Well, thanks, kids", she smiled as her helpers completed the cart-parking job. "May I give each of you a nickel for helping me?"
"Oh, no, Miss Fanny", Mak Wee spoke emphatically up on behalf of his cohorts. "We don't want any tips. We helped you because we like you, and because you're so ... pretty."
The slant-eyed tyke's reference to Fanny's physical charms brought a round of bashful but titillated titters from his confreres as the golden girl once again ex pressed her gratitude and told them what nice boys they were.
"Well, we've gotta be going now, Miss Fanny", said the one named Soom. "We'll see you again right after lunch. That's when our mothers let us buy our daily Good Humor bars."
Waving her new chums off down the sidewalk as they skipped away in search of further boyhood adventures on the teeming streets of lower Manhattan, the petite pleaser pondered again what an unusually courteous, well-mannered class of kids these Chinese youngsters were. It occurred to her that in this roughand-tumbled inland city where juvenile crime so often ran rampant, other ethnic groups might well profit from studying the practices the Chinese used in bringing up their children....
"Do yez have tootie-frootie, miss?", came a query from the curb at Fanny's rear. As she turned, the teen venus was in the process of issuing an impersonal, business-like affirmative answer when she realized that the speaker had been....
"Virgil!", she happily squealed, flinging herself into her lover's arms and clinging fondly to his hump as she gave him a big buss on the lips. "Hi, honey! Golly, what a surprise! ... And, holy cow, you've brought the whole gang!"
There indeed, much to the provocative peddler's delight, stood their whole motley, ragamuffin crew of Times Square street chums. Ringed about her on the sidewalk, grinning their affectionate regard for their flaxen-tressed favorite, were Long Arm Mannie, the tall, lanky pickpocket, and Stooge, his ever-present mentally retarded sidekick. Also Tiny Terence, the gentle, twelveyear-old crippled newsboy, propped up on his single crutch. And Petunia Polly, the apple-cheeked old hag of a flower seller. And Floozie Lil, the pear-bottomed two dollar whore. And last but not least, the lovable little panhandler and sometime pool hustler, club-footed Hymie the Gimp.
"Hi Hymie, hi Polly, hi Terence, hi Lil, hi Stooge, hi Mannie ... Hi, gang!", chirped the rosy-cheeked chick. "What on earth brings you all to Chinatown?"
"Well, yez see, hon, I called up da Good Humor plant a little while ago an' found out dat youse wuz accepted fer da job, an' dat dis wuz de corner where youse requested ta be assigned", Virgil explained on behalf of the colorful crew. "So we all t'ought it'd be a fun t'ing ta subway down an' claim de honor o' bein' ye foist customers. Heh-heh-heh!"
"How very sweet!", the gratified gamin sincerely exclaimed, grabbing her beau's shaggy head to give him another kiss, this time on the cheek. As she did so, she whispered a word of caution in his ear. "Don't forget, darling, mum's the word on the real reason I've taken this job. You're the only one who knows besides my boss, Harvey."
As the loving couple drew apart, Virgil nodded his lips-sealed ascent to Fanny's exhortation. Naturally she had told him the truth about why she was applying for the Good Humor position, because the lissome lassie simply didn't keep secrets from her loving man. But since her assignment did after all involve the security of the Free World, she thought it best that details of its nature go no further than her beau and her boss.
"Hey, Fanny goil, where's da frozen goodies!?", Long Arm Mannie boomed goodnaturedly down from his six-foot-four inches of height. "We got da loot if youse got da ice cream!"
As the dainty dazzler, amidst much good-natured levity, dipped efficiently into her cart to serve the first customers of her Good Humor career, she reflected for the thousandth time what a lucky girl she was to be accepted and loved by such a wonderful circle of friends as her Broadway street bunch. These, her dearest pals in life, must surely be the nicest, kindest, biggest-hearted people on earth. Paupers to a man-a tattered collection of panhandlers, pimps, petty thieves and other misfitting strains-they nonetheless knew the art of loving like no other segment of society Fanny had ever encountered. Perhaps they rightly sensed that their only hope for survival in an often hostile straight world was to band together for the common good. In any event, they gladly and freely shared their meagre worldly possessions with each other and they maintained a devout appreciation of the frequently forgotten truths that smiles, kind words, and helping hands don't cost a dime.
Just as she was passing out the last of her friends' orders-a chocolate fudge Super-Humor on the first try-an obnoxiously familiar stench penetrated the tawny-eyed tantalizer's sensitive nostrils. The stench-which she had always reckoned to be an admixture of urine, raw sewage, years-old sweat, and human feces-reminded her that there was after all one semi-human exception to the Times Square folk. For the malignant aroma which was now offending her delicate sensitivities at this moment was unmistakably that of her longtime nemesis, the most hated and hateful figure on the Great White Way, the so-called Rat Man of Times Square, none other than....
"Shivers!", barked the nubile juvenile, peering peevishly about to locate the source of the unmistakable fumes she'd detected. "Come on, Shivers, you might as well show yourself. I know you're here."
At this, the reeking Rat Man in person shuffled out from behind Polly and Lil, where, whether by design or not, he had heretofore skulked in concealment. His oh-so-typical greeting to the offended angel was a nastily-snarled: "Yeah, I'm here, yez dizzy bitch! ... What da fuck's it to yez!?"
Glaring down at the rodent-faced reprobate-a wizened little derelict of about forty who looked to be a syphilitic fifty-the thought came to Fanny that if she should ever hear Shivers utter a civil word she would undoubtedly keel over and croak of a heart attack, so great would be her surprise. Always grumbling and cursing and lashing out at his contemporaries for no reason at all, the grime-caked guttersnipe had to be the hands-down winner of her Skunk of the Century Award. Quite literally, she had never heard a pleasant word issue from his snaggle-toothed mouth. Except in bogus form maybe, when he was up to one of his incessant sneaky tricks and trying to con somebody. How the easy-going Broadway gang managed to tolerate him in their vicinity year in and year out was something the nettled nymphet would never understand. But tolerate him they did. Just out of the sheer goodness of their hearts, she guessed. Because she knew for a fact that the rest of the gang despised him as much as she did.
Ooh, how she hated this quarrelsome little creep, fumed the elfin enchantress, sensing that Shivers's mere presence in her scope of vision was already spoiling her whole day. There he stood, shivering like a mixmaster inside his filth-encrusted overcoat, his beady eyes glowering back at her, looking like a pile of human dung that some diarrhetic vulture had dropped from the skies. How disgusting he was! Beneath his untended mop of greasy gray-black hair, Shivers's cruel, pinched features were actually charcoal-colored, so coated were they with an accumulation of soot which Fanny had never known him to wash away. The charcoal hues were punctuated in many places by dots of reddish-black, these being the scabs which betrayed his sundry venereal disorders. But the most diseased-looking feature of all was his yechy mouth, a sunken, downcurved gash filled with a jagged profusion of broken, yellowed teeth which exuded a brand of halitosis so potent that its lethal fumes had been known to cause instantaneous death to cats and small dogs ... And that overcoat of his! Blee-ach! The festering garment, which Shivers had never doffed, winter or summer, day or night, for nigh onto twenty-five years also did double duty as his sleeping bag, protecting him from the elements when he bedded down in the various gutters and slush puddles he favored for his nightly repose.
Long Arm Mannie, alertly deducing from the glowering match between Shivers and Fanny that the lilliputian lovely might be somewhat perturbed by the putrescent panhandler's inclusion in the visitng party, apologized: Geez, Fanny goil, we feel da same way youse're lookin' right now. We wish da little scumbag woul'n't of come neider. But, shit, he hoid us talkin' about it up on da corner o' Broadway an' Forty-Secont, an' he happent ta have a coupla subway tokens he swiped somewhere, so dere wuzn't no way we could stop him from comin' down on, da train wit' us. Like he said at da time, it's a free country."
"Yez're goddamned right it is, yez stupid-lookin' jackoff!", Shivers snapped, swatting grumpily at the swarm of flies which buzzed about his head as he proceeded to take his customary reckless liberties with the gang's good nature. "I know my rights! I woulda got my lawyer ta sue da whole fuckin' bunch o' yez if yez woulda tried ta keep me from comin' along! ... Youse lousy stumblebums is always tryna pick on me, ain't yez!? ... If I wuzn't such a nice guy, I woul'n't even hang around wit' lowlifes like youse!"
Oooh! The brass-plated gall of this good-for-nothing guttersnipe!, simmered the sorely-tried sweetie. She'd have loved nothing better than to answer Shivers's vindictive diatribe with a looping left hook right into his sneering chops. Instead, nonbelligerent nymphet that she was, she reluctantly moved to maintain the peace. "Shame on you, Shivers!", she scolded, but in far gender fashion than she felt like addressing the sneaky scavenger. "You've got no right or reason to talk to diese nice people that way! ... Now, as long as you're here, nobody's going to bug you, but by the same token we expect you to either talk nice or not say anyddng at all. Is that understood?"
"Grrrrr!", was Shivers's sullen reaction as he hung his lice-infested head and shivered petulantly inside his overcoat.
"Shivers, are you going to behave yourself or not?", the cuddly captivator crossly pressed.
"... Yeah ... I guess so", the beady-eyed bum grudgingly mumbled to the sidewalk. " ... Uh, how 'bout a ice cream bar fer me?"
"Sure, Shivers", the radiant ravisher readily replied, waxing friendlier in her belief that she had subdued her eternal adversary for the moment. "What flavor would you like?"
"Whichever kind don't cost nuttin'."
"I'm sorry, Shivers, but you have to pay just like anyone else", the dimpled dumpling diplomatically countered, masterfully restraining her pique at the vitriolic vagrant's impertinence at having even asked for the hand-out. "If you want an ice cream bar, you'll just have to come up with cash on the barrelhead."
"Yeah, Shivers, youse crummy moocher!", Hymie the Gimp chimed chidingly in. "Whadda yez t'ink dis is, a charity organization? We all paid fer our ice cream!"
"Aw go fuck yerself, yez pat'etic cripple, yez!", the cantankerous carrion shot cruelly back. "I wuz oney askin', so don't gimmme none o' yer lip! ... An' as fer youse, Fanny Hell, youse're a mudder-fuckin' cheapskate! Youse kin take yer shit-coated ice cream bar an' shove it up yer cunt fer all I care!"
With a resigned little sigh, Fanny was making ready to deal with the walking trash-heap in the only way that ever seemed to work-namely with her fistswhen Virgil stepped in to effectively checkmate their common enemy. "Lissen, punk!", the leader of the street people ominously rasped, shaking his fist in Shivers's sniveling face. "One more snotty woid outta youse an' I'm gonna break yer arm! ... An' if I ever hear youse coisin' Fanny again, I'm gonna break bot' yer arms! D'ya hear!?"
"Yeah, sure, Voig ... Yeah, yeah, I gotcha ol' buddy", the cowardly crumb-bum cravenly capitulated, his face going ashen with fear beneath its covering layer of soot. "Heh-heh-heh! I wuz oney kiddin', Voig-baby. You know me, always cuttin' up ... Heh-heh-heh! ... I'll be good from now on, I promise."
"Well, youse just better be!", Virgil warned, lowering his fist to the accompainiment of Shivers's shuddering sigh of relief.
In a well-meaning attempt to divert the conversation into cheerier channels, Petunia Polly Irishly asked: "Well now, an' how does our darlin' gorl like her new job so far, dearie?"
"Just fine, Polly", Fanny conventionally answered, although in fact she hadn't been in the ice cream dodge long enough to have formed an opinion one way or the other. Unbeknownst to Polly of course, was the fact that her real job was that of girl-friday to the intrepid Captain Sex.
"Kin yez make any kinda decent dough in dis racket, kid?", Long Arm Mannie wanted to know.
"It all depends, Mannie. We're paid strictly on commission", explained the adorable adolescent. "So I don't really know yet how much I'll be making. Good Humor seems to be an alert, forward-thinking firm though. They've got all sorts of incentive plans and bonuses for us salesmen. This morning all the fellows were talking about the big sales contest we're having this week."
"Oh? What's da deal on dat, angel?", Virgil interestedly made to draw his darling out.
"It's a very cute idea, really", Fanny went on. "The gimmick is that whichever of us salesmen turns in the highest gross for the week will win a date with Tammy Golden, an all-expenses night on the town. Dinner, drinks, dancing, the whole bit."
"Geez! Tammy Golden! ... Hey, she's a real doll!", Shivers piped up with uncharacteristic enthusiasm.
For once in her life, the stacked stripling had to agree with a Shivers statement. Tammy Golden, of course, was the world-famous movie actress, a breathtakingly beautiful young woman who in recent years had soared to international stardom from beginnings as humble as those of Fanny herself. In fact, some years before the kitten-eyed cutte's arrival on the Times Square scene, Tammy had made her early way in life via a means similar to the one later adopted by Fanny when she had first come to New York. To wit, Tommy had put in a season or two as a teenage streetwalker in the Broadway area. The fact that she had subsequently risen from that squalid estate to become a fabled beauty of the silver screen was a never-ending source of inspiration to Fanny when contemplating her own professional ups and downs.
"Dat's very int'restin', ange!", Virgil appraised his shapely sweetheart's news of the Date-With-TammyGolden Contest. "Dat Tammy wuz a heck of a nice goil, wuzn't she, guys?"
As longtime denizens of the Broadway street world, Fanny knew that all her friends had been personally acquainted with Tammy back in the old days. She herself had met, and liked, the ravishing young actress during her recent adventures out in Hollywood. Thus, she was able to sincerely add her own affirmative nod to those evoked from all sides by Virgil's assertion as to Tammy's niceness.
"Hey, Fanny goil, woul'n't it be a funny t'ing if youse wuz ta win da contest?", Hymie the Gimp grinningly suggested. "I mean, two goils goin' out on a date wid each udder, dat seems sorta goofy, don't it? Heh-hehheh!"
"My boss, Mister Clegg, thought so too, Hymie", revealed the tempting tot. "So he personally offered me an alternative prize in case I do win. Which isn't very likely, of course. But if I do, I'll get a cash bonus of $50 instead of the date."
"Geez, if it wuz me, I'd radder take da date wit' Tammy", Shivers injected his bad-breathed opinion once more, retaining the same uncharacteristically enthusiastic air as before. "Tell yez da troot', I useta sorta go fer her back in de ol' days when she wuz hustlin' around da Square ... I t'ink she had a crush on me too, even dough she wuz too shy ta say so."
The wildly fanciful concept of Shivers in love with someone triggered a round of raucous laughter from his listeners, which in turn brought a glare of hatred to the Rat Man's wizened face. The even wilder concept of someone being in love with Shivers prompted Long Arm Mannie-perhaps with unnecessary cruelty, in Fanny's opinion-to snigger: "Are youse kiddin'!? ... Tammy Golden wit' a crush on youse!? ... Har-harhar! ... Shivers, youse know damn good an' well dat even though she wuz a hooker, she toined youse down a hunnert times when youse tried ta pay her ta ball yez! ... Har-har-har!"
"Dat ain't so! She had hot pants fer me, I tell yez!", yelled the sulking social-reject. "Christ, I wisht I wuz in dis sales contest. I'd prob'ly win da date, and den I'd show yez all! I'd have dat gorgeous little broad lovin' me up like a cat in heat!"
"Haw-haw-haw! ... Har-har-har! ... Hyuk-hyukhyuk!", was the communal reaction to this preposterous thesis as the Broadway gang sagged into each other's arms for support in the convulsions of their mirth. Not finding a pair of arms into which to sag, Stooge actually fell to the pavement where he rolled about giggling like a loon. "Hee-hee-hee! ... Haw-haw-haw!"
Picking up on Shivers's statement that he wished he could compete in the Tammy Golden contest, Fanny managed to stifle her own cute giggles long enough to tauntingly gasp: "Shivers, why don't you go up to the Good Humor plant and apply for a job? ... Tee-heel ... If you got the job and won the contest and wound up getting in Tammy's pants, we'd sure look like prize chumps, wouldn't we? ... Tee-hee-hee! ... Go ahead, Shivers, it's your golden opportunity to show us up!"
"Yeah, Shivers, g'wan an' get da ice cream job!", Mannie laughingly egged their victim on. "Youse're bound ta win! ... Haw-haw-haw!"
Shivers, who had silently borne the hail of ridicule while gritting his yellow fangs in a fury, retorted at last. "Awright, youse laughin' hyenas!", he screeched, his weasel's face apoplectically contorted. "Dat's just what I'm gonna do! I'm gonna get dat job an' I'm gonna win dat contest, an' Tammy Golden is gonna go down on my joint! ... Youse'll see!"
To which Virgil hilariously replied: "Har-har-har! Shivers, if youse do all o' dat, I promise on behalf o' da gang here dat we'll give youse da pleasure o' watchin' every one of us shit in our hats in da middle o' Times Square at high noon! ... Haw-haw-haw!"
"Youse got yerself a deal, yez broke-backed chimpanzee! I'm on my way ta da Good Humor plant right now!", ranted the enraged rodent. Whereupon he wheeled about and stomped away down the sidewalk, his filthy coat-tails dragging the pavement behind him as he turned the Chinatown air blue with a string of the vilest curses Fanny had ever heard.
When the animated dung-pile had disappeared around the corner, Fanny turned to her chums and articulated the earthshaking outcome of their sport. "Holy moley, guys!", she chirped. "Can you believe it!? Shivers is getting a ... job!"
At this outlandishly astounding notion, the Times Square contingent shared another lengthy laugh, Virgil popped for a second round of ice cream, and a rollicking curbside party-time was had by all.
An hour later, as the sun approached its midday zenith, the nubile juvenile found herself alone again, except of course for the teeming thousands of New Yorkers who paraded, bustled, and strolled past her curbside vending post. Happily, a gratifying number of the thousands had paused to buy ice cream. At a rough estimate, Fanny guessed that she had already taken in about fifty dollers, with more than half the work day remaining. Not bad.
However, the springy-bosomed scamp was far from forgetful that her primary mission here in Chinatown was not to hawk ice cream but to help foil the subversive schemes of the CPBA. Even when transacting sales, she had kept a conscientious eye on the front entrance of the CPBA building. Thus far nothing suspicious had occurred. A number of ordinary-looking people, men and women, Chinese and Occidental, had come and gone, but that had been all. There had been no glimpse, for instance, either of Sing Ling Song, the septaguenarian mastermind of the Commie ring, or of his raven-haired grand-daughter, Oy. Presumably, both had come to work prior to Fanny's arrival on the scene and were still inside the building, brewing whatever evil machinations master Commies brewed on bright summer mornings.
Oops, speak of the devil, harked the hoydenish honey. Here came old Song now! And ... yes! That was Mr. Chauncey Shankblister-the Justice Department official who had hired Harvey and Fanny-with him. Well, well, well, this was a thought-provoking development indeed.
As the two men descended the short flight of stone steps to the sidewalk and stepped in her direction, Fanny popped on her sunglasses lest she be identified by Song. There'd have been no harm in Mr. Shankblister recognizing her, of course, but she couldn't reveal herself to one and not the other as long as they were together. Ergo, it was time to go into figurative hiding. If she kept a sharp ear out when they passed her way, maybe she'd be able to latch on to some valuable shred of information to relay to her twerpy boss, Captain Sex. The men were headed right toward her, walking slowly, talking earnestly, Song the wise-eyed Oriental sage in old-country kimono and beard, Mr. Shankblister a pudgy, potato-shaped, bald-headed little man, sweating profusely in his seersucker suit.
As they drew nigh, the spying sex-kitten heard the hyper-tense Shankbliseter whine: "For the last time, Mister Song, won't you even take our offer under advisement with your board of directors? ... You know as well as I do that when our lawsuits against each other reach the higher courts, your side is almost certain to lose."
"Perhaps so, Missah Shankbrister", Song placidly allowed. (By this time the men had stopped on the corner, not ten feet from Fanny's post, so that the pert pussycat didn't even have to strain her cute bug's ears to overhear them.) "However, sir, Confucius reminded us that: It is a wise man who bides his time; only fools harvest their thistles before the season of the Unicorn."
Peering furtively at Shankblister out of the corner of her eye while pretending to examine her price list, Fanny had to suppress a smile at the funny-looking slow burn he was doing. Mopping testily at his sweaty forehead with his handkerchief, the bandy-legged bureaucrat at last snapped: "Song, what the devil does that Chinese gobbledygook have to do with what we're talking about? Thistles, slimistles! The United States government is offering you people one million dollars in cold hard cash to get out of business right now!"
Aha! registered the peeping pet. So the Feds had sunk to the point of having to resort to bribery. What a sad posture in which to catch poor old Uncle Sam.
"Ah so, Missah Shankbristcr. Your offer is a most generous one", Song judiciously agreed. "But why, sir, if the government is so confident of defeating us in a court of raw, why then do they bother to woo us thusry?"
As if sizing up a dangerous opponent, a frowning Shankblister gazed at the ancient Chinaman for a long moment before answering. "Okay, Song, I'll level with you", he finally grunted, kneading his handkerchief between moist palms. "The CPBA is making the U.S. postal system look like a bunch of monkevs. By implication, you're casting a bad light on the whole federal structure. You've already made laughingstocks of us and, frankly, we're afraid the publicity is going to get even worse by the time this thing drags through the courts ... In short-and confidentially this offer comes directly from the White House-it's worth a cool one million smackers to us if you'll get off our backs immediately."
"Tsk, tsk, tsk. For shame, Missah Shankbristcr", Song gently chided his chunky companion. "That docs not strike me as a very ethical way of spending the taxpayers' money. Instead, why not spend the one mirrion dorrars on improvements in the efficiency of the United States Post Office?"
Disregarding this radical suggestion-which struck the listening lovely as quite practical, actually-Shankblister blustered: "For god's sake, Song, what's this crazy talk about improving efficiency? We're concerned with saving face! You can understand that, can't you? I al ways heard that saving face was a big deal with you Chinamen!"
"Indeed it is so, Missah Shankbrister. But I do not think we would be saving face if we abandoned an enterprise that has already earned much revenue for worthy Chinese-American charities, do you?"
"What are you getting at?", demanded the flabby functionary, his annoyance patently mounting. "Are you trying to get us to up the ante? Do you want me to see if I can get you two million? ... For Christ's sake, Song, just name your price and stop harrassing us, will you?"
"It has never been the intention of the CPBA to harrass the federal government, Missah Shankbrister", old Song calmly denied the other man's agitated charges. "Our purpose is, and always has been, to benefit Chinese-American philanthropies while at the same time providing an efficient mail service to the citizens of New York City."
"So you're not harrassing us, eh?", Shankblister demanded, his pasty face reddening dangerously. "You don't call it harrassment when you charge a penny less per letter than we do, when you offer seven-days-a-week service, and when you viciously insist on delivering the mail faster and more efficiently!?"
"No, not harrassment, Missah Shankbrister. We prefer to call it Free Enterprise," Song inscrutably countered. "If a man of my humble station may make so bold, might I suggest that your post office system could operate profitably, and reduce your rates too, if you ceased to frood your mails with advertising pieces that are unwanted by the recipients and which cost the senders onry a fraction of the first crass rate? I berieve this is aptry called junk mail, is it not?"
"Yes, it is, and I'll even go so far as to admit that it's a damned nuisance and that the taxpayers are indirectly paying for it even though they don't like to receive it, but what the hell can we do?", the bulb-nosed bureaucrat huffily reasoned. "If the Congressmen and the Senators were to get together and ban low-priced junk mail, just think of all the bribes they'd be losing out on! These direct-mail advertisers are big spenders when it comes to keeping the postal laws like they are, you know."
This line of reasoning seemed to make as little sense to Song as it did to Fanny. The old fellow merely shrugged, gave his long gray beard a philosophical tug, and lapsed into silence.
"Look here, Song, would two million do the trick?", Shankblister somewhat desperately rejoined the fundamental debate. "If so, just say the word and I'll try my damnedest to get it for you."
"As I have already indicated, honorable sir, it is not a matter of money", Song continued to gently but firmly balk. "But if it were ... no, two minion would not be enough. While the CPBA remains in its very infancy, we berieve that the future is so financially bright that two mirrion dorrars would be onry a tiny fraction of the net worth we hope to achieve ... At present, however, we have captured onry 1% of the total market on intra-city mail flowing within the five boroughs of New York."
"Oh?" Shankblister seemed pleasantly surprised. "Only 1%, eh? That's not as much as I would have thought, from all the stink the top brass is raising over you guys."
"True, Missah Shankbrister, 1% is a small srice of the pie, so to speak. But when you consider that there are over 15,000,000 pieces of first crass mail posted and derivered within the boundaries of New York City every day, well....", Song began before trailing off with a sly twinkle in his eye to leave the rest of the arithmetic to his pasty-faced companion.
"Let's see now, 15,000,000 pieces a day, and you get 1% of them at a nickel a pop....", Shankblister figured, gazing skyward as he drew imaginary numbers in the air with is stubby forefinger. " ... Jesus, that means you're grossing $7,500 a day with a projected gross of ... uh ... holy Christ! ... $2,737,500 a year! On only 1% of the mail business in one city! Wow!"
Song allowed himself a discreet chuckle over the flabby Fed's discomfited discovery before declaring:
"As honorable Confucius said: Small poppy seeds do into mighty lichee nuts grow ... The CPBA is a mere fredgering now, but we humbrv anticipate a bright future since, as you can see, there is so much room in which to grow."
His irascible demeanor quickly regathering, Shankblister griped: "Well, I think it's goddamned criminal, what you smart-assed Chinamen are up to! Imagine raking off almost three million a year for a bunch of dumb charities when the same money could be going into the federal coffers where it'd be spent on really worthwhile things like wars and missile systems and nerve gas and generals' salaries and mineograph machines for printing inter-bureau memos! I warn you, Song, I'm going to report your uncooperative, un-American attitude to my superiors! From here on out, you can really expect the screws to be put to you and your Chinatown Postal and Subversive Association!"
"So be it then, Missah Shankbrister", Song unconcernedly summed up as the irritable official abruptly turned on his heel and waddled off down the Mulberry Street hill without so much as a goodbve-and-go-to-hell.
A moment later, Song also departed the corner, heading west on Bayard, leaving a pensive golden-haired ice cream peddler in his wake ... Not only had the conversation she had just overheard left Fanny in a thoughtful mood, it had frankly confused the heck out of her. Perhaps because of her lusciously deep-seated femaleness, die high-breasted honey was characteristically inclined to make judgments of people and situations on subjective, emotional grounds as opposed to dispassionately rational grounds. That is, she tended to rely more on her heart than on her head when sizing someone or something up. The source of her confusion in this context then, was her burgeoning impulse to peg Sing Ling Song as the good guy, and Chauncev Shankblister as the bad guy, in the conflict she had just witnessed. She knew her thinking must be all cockeyed but, doggonit, on the face of things every point Song had made had sounded so reasoned while every point Shankblister had made had sounded so dopey. This uncontrollable assessment naturally bugged the blonde boggier in view of the fact that the antique Oriental had been speaking on behalf of a notorious Commie front organization and the nasty-nervous bureaucrat had been speaking on behalf of the red-white-and-blue U.S. Government. Therefore, the government position just had to be the right one. As every right-thinking American knew, our high elected and appointed officials, wielding their vested powers wisely and benevolently for the common good, simply didn't make mistakes. And yet, weighing this truth against her own subjective size-up of the CPBA versus USA situation ... well, the confused cutie was as mixed up as she'd ever been in her turbulent young life.
Was it possible ... (golly, the dainty dazzler felt like a traitor for even thinking such thoughts) ... but was it possible that the good old U.S. of A. just might be dead wrong about the culpability of the Chinatown Postal and Benevolent Association?
CHAPTER FIVE
With the passage of twenty-four more hours, Fanny's confusion had multiplied tenfold. She lounged against her pushcart the following noonday, funkily eyeing the eminently harmless-looking facade of the CPBA building and sniffing tentatively after the rat she was sure she smelled somewhere in the case she and Harvey had been assigned. Naturally, she had checked with Harvey via telephone after leaving the Good Humor garage last night. And naturally he had reassured her that all was well, that they were on the right track, when she had lodged her misgivings over the rectitude of the government's position after listening in on the conversation between Song and Shankblister. Her emaciated associate had recited a number of the triuisms-always so comforting to all good Americans-about this country's divine righteousness in any dispute, and for a time the golden girl's qualms had been quelled. But then she had helplessly begun to mull over once more what a nice, harmless, lovable old geezer Song appeared to be, and what a waspish hypocrite Shankblister seemed by contrast, and all her conflicting doubts had flooded back. True, personalities could be deceiving. The dimpled darling realized she shouldn't put undue stock in Song's nice-guyness and Shankblister's rotten-guyness when the really important thing was the issues involved. It wasn't Song versus Shankblister after all, but Godless Communism versus Freedom and Democracy. On the other hand, the fact that Fanny had now spent a full day and a half outside the offices of the CPBA without observing one single suspicious action only served to inflame the personality-based doubts with which she was already beset.
Her confusions gained even greator momentum then as the petite pleaser glanced up to spy Oy Song, die radiantly lovely grand-daughter of Sing Ling Song, and officer Keung Lee, the handsome Chinese cop who had arrested her and Harvey the night before last, coming down the sidewalk in her direction. If any human being in the world looked less unlike a sharp-fanged, shifty-eyed Commie spy, it had to be the soft, feminine, open-visaged Oy Song ... Hey! Oy and Keung were veering right up to Fanny's cart!
The titillating toddler kept her face lowered and averted as Keung addressed her with: "May we have a couple of vanilla Good Humors, miss?"
"Yessir, coming right up", Fanny came snappily back although she still refrained from looking up lest her customers recognize her.
While the shapely sugar rummaged in the refrigerated depths of her cart for the requested flavor, she kept a sharp ear tuned to the attractive young couple's continuing dialogue.
"Like I was saying, Oy honey", Patrolman Lee said to his almond-eyed fiancee, "this mysterious outbreak of opium addiction has the department in a quandary. The chief has us working overtime interviewing the victims-and, god, there've been over 500 reported so far, just in the last month-but we haven't been able to come up with even a sniff of a clue as to what it's all about."
"You say the victims don't even know they've been taking opium until their doctors inform them they're addicted?", Oy incredulously asked. '
"Here you are, officer, two vanillas", Fanny cut into the puzzling conversation to hand Keung his ice cream and mused. An outbreak of opium addiction, eh? Very interesting. It had nothing to do with her own case, of course, but she hoped the young cop and his lover would hang close long enough for her to hear more about it.
Peeling the wrappers from their ice cream bars, the Chinese sweethearts remained standing next to the pushcart as Keung continued: "That's right, Oy. These poor addicts don't even know they're hooked until they start experiencing withdrawal symptoms and go to their doctors to find out what it's all about. Their blood tests show it's opium. In ninety-nine percent of the cases, they're straight people-men, women, kids even-who wouldn't dream of taking dope on their own."
"How does it get into their bodies then?", Oy asked the question Fanny would have asked had she been able to inject herself into the discussion.
"We just don't know. The best bet, obviously, is that it's contained in some food or foods they're eating, or maybe in something they're drinking."
"Is there any chance that it might all be some horrible accident?", Oy speculated. "I mean, maybe some food processer somewhere is putting it into his product without even realizing it. Like, if it was growing wild in a field, beef cattle or sheep might be eating it and passing it on, or it might be getting in with some grain or vegetable product during the harvest."
"Not likely, honey", Keung soberly rejected this thesis. Lowering his voice-but not so low that the sharp-eared sex-kitten was unable to hear-he continued: "Here's something that's not intended for public consumption yet, but the boys in the police lab have identified the strain of opium involved in this epidemic as a very rare kind that grows only one place in the world."
"Where's that?"
"In the Wambam Province of Red China", Keung portentously announced.
"Then that means ... well, it certainly means the epidemic is no accident", Oy exclaimed, her well-modulated voice infected with a note of almost alarmed concern. "I don't see how it could mean anything but a ... a ... Chinese Red plot!"
"Exactly", Keung solemnly agreed. "We don't know yet how this dope is being fed into the victims' bodies, nor how widespread the distribution is going to be. So far, as far as we've been able to determine, it's confined to the New York City area. But the sick fist is growing every day. And every one of these innocent addicts is a potential real addict. The craving they've been infected with doesn't simply disappear overnight, you know. Some of these people have probably already taken to buying uncut opium from pushers, now that they know what it takes to appease their awful hunger. Suppose the Commies who're behind this thing succeeded in spreading the epidemic all over the country? A nadon of helpless junkies would be pretty easy to topple, wouldn't it?"
"Lord, yes", Oy shuddered. So convincing was her show of aversion over the prospect of a Communist takeover of the United States that Fanny all but finally concluded that the Justice Department was definitely barking up the wrong tree in its efforts to nail the CPBA as a Commie front. Since she was unaware that she was being watched, Oy-the CPBA's executive lieutenant-had had no reason to feign her revulsion for Communist aggression just now.
"You know, Keung, I guess it's a selfish thought", the tawny-skinned Oriental girl went on, "but it just occurs to me that the federal establishment would love nothing better than to link us, the CPBA, to this opium plot when they find out that the dope is coming from Red China."
"What makes you say that, precious?", Keung inquired.
"Well, besides their objection to our mail delivery service in and of itself, several of the communiques we've had from various bigwigs in the Justice Department, the Post Office Department, and a few busybody notes from certain members of Congress, have strongly hinted that at least a few some bodies up there in that Great Bureaucracy in the Sky really honest-to-gosh believe there must be some kind of a subersive plot behind what we're doing. Naturally, they haven't been able to pin anything like that on us, because it's simply not true. We're as clean as a whistle ... But now, with this real Red Chinese plot coming to light, I can see where there might be an official effort to link the CPBA to it."
"Oh, come on, Oy", the Oriental officer joshingly poohpoohed his sweetheart's spooky speculation. "How could the government possibly implicate the CPBA?"
"Well, we're Chinese, aren't we? And the opium comes from China, doesn't it? ... That connection alone might be enough to at least start a whispering campaign that could cost us business."
"That's plain goofy, Oy", Keung affectionately chided her. "You sound as paranoid as the right-wing politicians you're worrying about. Sure, a few professional Commiehunters probably suspect the CPBA already, just because you're Chinese. But the main reason the majority of the federal boys are out to get you is simply because your operation shows them up for the inefficient public parasites they are, that's all. Communism has nothing to do with it."
"I sure hope you're right, honey", Oy worriedly rejoined, licking the last bit of ice cream from her stick. "Well, I'd better be getting back to the office now." To Fanny, she said: "Miss, do you have a paper napkin handy?"
"Yes, ma'am", replied the eyes-averted angel, reaching for a napkin from the supply in the carry-all compartment on her cart.
As the square of paper changed hands between golden and raven-tressed lovelies, Oy interestedly remarked: "Say, miss, you look sort of familiar." Then: "Hey! Aren't you the girl who broke into our offices the other night?"
Although the elfin enchantress instinctively attempted to avert her face, she knew the jig was up. Therefore, after only a brief hesitation, she removed her sunglasses and abashedly admitted: "Yes'm, it's me all right ... Uh, I'm awful sorry about what my friend and I did."
Oy's easy chuckle indicated that she couldn't have been less concerned about the bygone incident. "Okay, I'll forgive you if you'll finally tell us what the heck you were up to, breaking in there with that nutty-looking kid in the purple underwear. I've been dying of curiosity about that. And what are you doing here now, peddling ice cream? ... What's your name, by the way?"
Fanny chose to answer the last-and easiest-of the barrage of amiably delivered questions first. "My name's Fanny Hell, Miss Song. And believe me, my friend and I weren't trying to rob your place. He's a private detective ... I'm sorry, I can't reveal his name ... But we were on a case and we broke into the CPBA on what I now realize was nothing but a bum steer."
"But what's this Good Humor gimmick?", Keung broke in. "I've never seen a Good Humor girl before."
"Well, you see, I quit my job with the detective agency after that awful night in jai!", fibbed the precious playmate, hating to lie to nice people like Oy and Keung, but at the same time judging that she ought to keep the wraps on her assignment until the CPBA was exonerated in the eyes of her real employers, as it already was in hers. "So anyway, this Good Humor job just happened to be die first thing that came to hand. I've always favored outdoor work."
"I see", said Keung, his bland expression indicating that he had bought her story. "Well, kid, try and keep your nose clean from now on. You're a lot better off hustling ice cream than breaking into people's offices."
"'Bye now, Fanny", Oy called over her shoulder as the Chinese couple moved away. "Nice to meet you under pleasant circumstances for a change. If you're still here when I leave for work this evening, I'll buy another Good Humor from you ... Save me a chocolate one, will you?"
"I sure will, Oy", promised the waving waif ... Gosh, what a sweet, forgiving girl Oy was, she thought. She certainly hoped that her new friend's company wouldn't be implicated in that mean old opium plot they'd been talking about....
Fanny had just propped her incredibly luscious little rump against the edge of the pushcart and taken up the copy of Playboy Magazine she'd brought along to while away the time between customers-(as well as to reconnoiter the sexual competition)-when her attention was arrested by a loudly bawled expletive from across the narrow street.
"And I say Chiang Kai-Slick is a shithead!", cried a tall, fierce-looking Chinese, withering his smaller companion with a malignant scowl. Nor could Fanny fault the smaller man for his cringing postures before the other. The speaker, a commanding figure snappily if garnishly attired in a black pin-striped suit, black silk shirt with white tie, and flashy gold-and-pearl jewelry on his cuffs, tie-front, and fingers, had a pair of the most chillingly sinister-looking eyes the kissable cude had ever seen. The orbs were actually a glowing yellow color, like those of a leopard, and equally frightening at this moment of apparently intense displeasure on the part of their owner. A Fu Manchu moustache and goatee further etched the man's satanic face into a picture of implacable malevolence. The cheeky bottomed charmer shivered just looking at him. His sinister countenance, combined with his big-time-gangster duds made her see him as an Oriental version of a Chicago mob leader.
"I, uh, I'm sorry, Mister Dung", apologized the other man, likewise a Chinese, a nondescript individual clad in black turtleneck shirt with matching skullcap. "I didn't really mean to say anything nice about Chiang. I only meant...."
"Shut up!", snapped the tall one who had been addressed as Mr. Dung. "Listen, Kwam, if you expect to get along in this organization, you'll learn to speak only when you're spoken to, and you goddamn well won't even mention the name of a bourgeois capitalist pig like Chiang Kai Slick! ... Now, bug off, you sniveling toady! And don't forget, I expect you and Lum to be at the Statue of Liberty at twelve o'clock sharp tonight to take delibery of the goods. Call me at Madame Lun Mee's when you've got the stuff safely back here at the shop!"
That was all there was to it. His briskly barked instructions completed, Mr. Dung wheeled about and strode through the glass-paneled door of the storefront office outside which he and his flunkie had been standing. For his part, the flunkie, Kwam, turned and slunk away down the sidewalk toward Mott Street. The whole interview had consumed less than a minute, but it had made a striking-even staggering-impression on the golden-curled Good Humor girl who stood pondering its implications in its wake. Although she had scarcely begun to fit the jigsaw pieces together, Fanny's racing pulse told her that she was really onto something this time. In the course of his few staccato phrases, Dung had unwittingly dropped several hints that if there was a Commie plot afoot in Chinatown, he-and not grandfatherly old Sing Ling Song-had to be behind it. His dubbing a beloved Free World hero like Chiang Kai Slick a shithead, for instance. Only a person of pronounced Marxist leanings would have done that. And what was this business about taking delivery of "the goods" at midnight tonight at the Statue of Liberty? What goods? And why under cover of darkness on a dot of an island in New York Harbor that would be completely deserted at that hour? Whatever the goods that were scheduled to change hands, the circumstances surrounding their delivery certainly didn't smack of a legitimate business transaction.
Speaking of business, the suspicious sugar was next moved to ascertain just what racket Dung was in, at least for purposes of maintaining a cover on his true activities. This information she easily acquired via the expedient of tilting her dimpled chin back and reading the gold-lettered sign which hung about the windows of his office-store. HOP KEE FORTUNE COOKIE COMPANY, said the sign. Underneath that, in smaller letters, was emblazoned: Mao Tse Dung, proprietor ... Wholesale Only.
So the diabolical Mr. Dung was in the fortune cookie dodge, eh? A likely story, sneered the not-easily-hoodwinked nymphet. Adding everything up-Dung's evil-looking personal appearance, his jibes at the revered ruler of Nationalist China, tonight's projected rendezvous between his henchmen and an unknown supplier at the Statue of Liberty, even the boss's very name, Mao Tse Dung-the perceptive pet came to the unshakeable conclusion that the real Commie conspirators in the woodpile, the real anti-American culprits whom the Justice Department ought to be hounding, were Mao Tse Dung and his fellow travelers of the Hop Kee Fortune Cookie Company.
So convinced was Fanny of this thesis, so excited was she about the discoveries she'd made, that she was on the verge of closing up her portable ice cream shop for the day in order to transmit her news to Harvey. However, she was suddenly diverted from that bent by the appearance of a familiar foul-smelling personage in such ludicrous trappings that she burst out laughing like a baby being tickled on the turn-turn.
"Ha-ha-ha! ... Ho-ho-ho! ... Hee-hee-hee!", cackled the cuddly captivator, sagging against her cart for support in the convulsions of her mirth. For there, plodding down Mulberry from the direction of Canal Street behind his dilapidated pushcart, came ... Shivers the Ice Cream Man!
Oh, lordie, what a hilarious sight he was!, tittered the tawny-eyed traffiic-stopper. Surely, the world had never seen such a grotesquely filth-caked rag picker of an ice cream peddler. Even in his white uniform-and even in this heat-Shivers remained bundled up in his infamous overcoat, its greasy tails sweeping the street as he shuffled along. Atop the shivering shirker's matted gray-black hair sat a soiled white cap of the design effected by ensigns in the World War II Japanese navy. Concomitant with these personal appearance observations, Fanny also noticed that while her old antagonist had indeed made good his vow to enter the ice cream profession, he had not secured employment with Good Humor. Even at a half-block distance, the dimpled darling could see that the dented, wobbly cart the deceitful degenerate was pushing was definitely not up to Good Humor stuff ... Now, as he drew within a quarter-block, she was able to make out the lettering on the side of the swaying conveyance. CHEAPIEWEAPIE ICE CREAM CO., said Shiver's sign.
"Cheapie-Weapie? ... Cheapie-Weap'e?" the tempting teenager jeered aloud, lapsing into a new fit of the giggles. Boy, with a name like that, the skulking sewer rat's new employer must be a heckuva chintzy, hard-up firm. The mere fact that they had hired a repulsive reprobate like Shivers was proof enough of that, never minding their name. Evidently the obnoxious outcast's application had been rejected by Good Humor and he had resorted to the Cheapie-Weapie job out of sheer spite in an effort to avoid at least some of the ridicule he'd have been in for from the Broadway bunch had he secured no employment at all. Wow, what a messed up character he was!
As Shivers maneuvered his beat-up cart into a curbside parking slot on the corner diagonally opposite the springy-bosomed sprite-cursing the weight of it under his breath and wheezing audibly from his labors-Fanny was moved to call mischievously over: "Hi there, Shivers old bean! Is that an ice cream cart you're pushing, or a hunk of scrap iron you dragged out of the city dump?"
"Aw, go fuck yerself, Fanny Hell!", was the diseased derelict's quick and predictable reply, snarled without even the courtesy of a sideways glance at his amber eyed addresser.
Oho, was this ever rich!, the nubile knockout inwardly chortled. Shivers, apparently rebuffed in his application to Good Humor, was now going to attempt to recover some of his lost pride by setting himself up in direct competition with Fanny, hoping to outsell her. There could be no other explanation for his having chosen this particular street corner, of all the thousands in Manhattan, on which to peddle his wares ... Hmmm, maybe he would outsell her at that. Favoring his scheme was the fact that his prices were lower than those of his cute competitor. Squinting her eyes to scan the price list taped to the side of the human jackal's cart, Fanny noted that Cheapie-Weapie's charges were uniformly five cents lower than Good Humor's for similar items. She wasn't too worried though. Although she had never tasted the Cheapie-Weapie product, she was confident that Good Humor's must be of higher quality. Surely quality-conscious New Yorkers would be willing to shell out an extra nickel for a better ice cream bar. Therefore, despite her eagerness to quit the scene and relay to Harvey the news of the mysterious machinations of the Hop Kee Fortune Cookie Co.-Mao Tse Dung, proprietor-the curious cutie decided to hang around for a while to engage Shivers in the sales battle he was so patently eager to join.
Speaking of sales contests, she was reminded of the intracompany Date-With-Tammy-Golden Contest being staged by her firm, that had been the grist of the Rat Man's angry decision to get himself a job in the first place. However, having signed on with Cheapie-Weapie instead of Good Humor, he was of course ineligible to compete for the honor of squiring the gorgeous movie star on a high-flying evening about town. The tawny-eyed teaser decided to chafe her eternal adversary with this fact. "Oh, Shivers darling", she melodically needled. "What's become of your big scheme to win the date with Tammy Golden and get in her pants?"
"Grrrr!", Shivers grumpily and noncommitally answered, turning his back on the eye-boggling blonde as he awaited his first customer of the afternoon. After a moment, however, he spun about to confront her with: "Lissen, youse stupid cunt! Youse ain't as smart as yez t'ink yez are! I din't wanna have no date wit' dat floozie Tammy in da foist place! I wuz oney kiddin' youse creeps about dat! ... Da reason I decided ta iend my soivices ta dis high-class Cheapie-Weapie foim insteada dat dumb Good Humor comp'ny is dat we got twice as good of a sales contest goin' dis week as youse guys do!"
At this, Fanny instinctively scanned the cloudless heavens looking for the lightning bolt she expected to zap down and strike the vitriolic vermin dead. Oh, what a whopper he had just told! Suppressing her sarcastic grin as best she could, she humored him by asking: "Oh? Cheapie-Weapie has an even better contest than our Date-With Tammy deal? ... What might that be, Shivers old pal?"
"Ours is a Date-Wit'-Victoria-Vavoom Contest", Shivers smugly revealed, clouding the intersection with halitosis fumes as his snaggle-toothed mouth twisted upward in a grotesque grimace-grin of triumph.
The dainty dazzler, however, failed to appreciate the source of his smugness ... Victoria Vavoom!, she hilariously reeled, staggering once more against her cart in the throes of her ribald mirth. Victoria Vavoom! That prune-faced old hag! Why, surely even a puddle of mouse-puke like Shivers ought to recoil at the prospect of going out on a date with her! Fanny well knew that the once-lovely star of the silent screen had long since shriveled into a hatchet-faced sexagenarian who constantly had to be told the time of day by others because her merest glance at any timepiece assured her immediate breakdown. Furthermore, Victoria's Septemberyears personality had become about as sweet as distilled vinegar. This fact had been indelibly impressed upon the elfin eighteen-year-old during her brief tenure a few months ago as an employee of the wig and cosmetic firm which bore the ex-star's name. The job had gone up in smoke one memorable day in a brawling catfight between Fanny and her bomb-breasted boss on the floor of Lacy's Department Store. To think that anyone would seriously put forth the idea of a date with that henna-haired old hag as a prize in a contest, something to be coveted ... well, the notion simply boggled Fanny's tickled imagination. The guys who ran the Cheapie-Weapie Ice Cream Company must be off their trolleys.
"Shivers, have you ever seen Victoria Vavoom?", snickered the stacked stripling.
Ignoring her discourteous mirth as he picked complacently at his snotty nose, the odoriferous outcast confidently replied: "Sure. I seen her in da movies plenty o' times. She's a real doll."
"I've got news for you, buster. She hasn't made a movie for twenty-five years. Nowadays, Victoria Vavoom looks like a lard-assed lady orangutan. Her face has so many wrinkles, it looks like a piece of wadded-up newspaper ... Tee-hee!"
His ready irascibility surfacing again, Shivers snapped: "Youse're full o' shit, Fanny Hell! Youse're just tryna hand me dat outta yer sour grapes over my comp'ny havin' a better contest dan yersl ... So what if Miss Vavoom's got a few miles on her speedometer? Dem're da kinda chicks what got de experience ta appreeshate a good ballin'! Not like dat wet-beind-da-ears chippy, Tammy Golden! Miss Vavoom's a classy old goil, an' I'm gonna win dat date wit' her, an' fuck da hell outta her! Youse'll see!"
At this juncture, the blonde bewitcher compassionately decided to let the hallucinating hobo off the hook of her taunting. The poor devil. He was a loser either way. Either his sales for the week would not be sufficient to win the date with Victoria Vavoom, or, even worse, if he won the contest he'd ben in for one of his most unpleasant evenings in a lifetime of unpleasant evenings. Returning to her Playboy Magazine, Fanny whiled away the next hour-interrupted only by the usual quick sales transactions every three or four minutes-engrossed in a short story about a young Piper Club owner who fell into an adulterous love affair with a married woman at Fire Island. When the wife ultimately spurned the youthful aviator, he climbed into his little plane one hot Saturday afternoon and took off armed with 5,000 prints of a photograph he had taken of his ex-mistress during one of their sex sessions. (The intimate shots portrayed the wife sitting naked on a bed, her legs thrown apart while she held open the lips of her vagina with her fingertips.) Circling low over the beach, the pilot spotted his lost enamorata with her hubby, sunning in the sand amongst a packed holiday throng of fellow Fire Islanders. Sliding his cockpit window open, the rejected suitor tossed out all 5,000 of the incriminating 5-by-7 glossies, banked south and headed toward the Caribbean, never to be heard from again ... Although deeply absorbed in the tear-jerking tale of love gone awry, Fanny nevertheless kept subliminally noting out of the corner of her eye that Shivers was doing virtually no business at all. At the end of an hour, whereas she had taken in approximately ten dollars, the infected idler had had occasion to open his freezer box only twice and had made only one sale. The lone sale had been that of a ten cent orange-ice bar to a little street urchin of about seven. Although Shivers had attempted to overcharge the youngster, apparently thinking that the boy could be tricked because of his tender age and probable inexperience at handling money, the street urchin had outfoxed the conniving crumb-bum in the end. His orange-ice firmly in hand, the kid had handed Shivers a quarter. Shivers had deceitfully handed back only a nickel instead of the correct 150. The not-so-easily-gulled toddler had instantly spotted the shortage and demanded his 150, which Shivers had dutifully if grumpily coughed up. The only thing was, the shivering shirker had forgotten to get back the first nickel with which he had tried to shortchange the kid. Only when the street urchin was halfway to Canal Street, running hard, had it dawned on the outraged offal that his attempted sleight-of-hand had backfired, that he had grossed only a nickel on the ten-cent deal. His resultant outburst of salty language had been so foul as to halt all foot traffic in the immediate vicinity and garner him a stern warning from a passing cop. The only other potential customer who had approached the Rat Man's tumble-down cart had been an ancient Chinese man of about eighty-five. No sale had resulted because of Shivers's predictable rudeness over the fact that the old man hadn't been able to speak English. Their brief imbroglio had resembled a bi-lingual Abbot and Costello comedy routine, with the Chinaman attempting to convey his order via sign language and Shivers loudly insisting that he talk plain English. Negotiations had broken down completely with the malicious misfit's spleneticallv screamed: "Get da fuck outta here, yez stupid Chink!", which had hastened die old Chinaman's fist-shaking departure.
Poor Shivers, the watching waif sham-sympathized. The rotten little skunk just didn't seem to have it in him to make a success of anything. There he skulked beside his cart, grinding his decayed teeth together, clearly in a rage over his lack of sales results thus far. Well, at the rate he was going, at least he wouldn't have to endure the evening with Victoria Vavoom which he so erroneously prized.
Hev, what was this? Shivers had just fished a flattened-out cardboard carton from the gutter and, drawing a crayon stub from his overcoat pocket, was busily engaged in writing something on the carton's brown paper surface.
In another few moments the inquisitive adolescent had the answer to the mildly-intriguing riddle. Stumbling around to her side of his cart, the vice-ravaged vagrant propped the approximately two-foot square piece of cardboard against his disreputable vehicle. On it he had crudely lettered: PRISE WAR! ALL PRISES RECUSED! ... His bombshell news bulletin in place, he then remounted the curb, darting Fannv a gloating smirk, and hunched atop a fire hydrant to await the hordes of customers he plainly expected his offer to lure.
Not condescending to let herself be sucked into the profit-shaving conflict, the pink-nippled pussycat stuck to her Good Humor guns, leaving her prices as listed by the company, and did the same steady volume of business as always for the next twenty minutes. On the other corner, the only attention the abominable skunk-man drew from any living creature in the area, in spite of his sign, was the attention of the flies which buzzed about his head.
At the end of the aforementioned twenty minutes, Shivers stomped up to his pasteboard placard once more, cursing audibly under his breath. With his crayon, he angrily crossed out the five cent figure and replaced it with seven cents. Thus, on the average item, he was now offering a sensational 50% discount on his slow-selling line.
It didn't work. By the time another twenty minutes had passed, even Fanny-despising the reeking rodent though she did-was beginning to feel sorry for Shivers. He still hadn't made one single sale! Slumped atop his fireplug, he shivered like a human vibrating machine inside his filthy overcoat, his vein-bursting frustration a pitiable thing to behold. The lilliputian lovely even thought she detected a glint of bitter tears in his red-rimmed, jaundice-yellowed eyes.
Fanny's seldom-felt concern for Shivers's well-being was distracted at this point by a friendly greeting at her shoulder.
"Hi, Miss Fanny! How's business?"
Turning about: "Oh, hi there, Mak Wee", the provocative peddler smiled at the polite Chinese youngster who helped push her cart yesterdav. "My business is fine, thanks ... But I can't say the same for my competitor over there across the street."
"Oh, you mean the Cheapie-Weapie man", said Mak Wee with a cursory glance toward Shivers. "Gee, I'm sorry too that he's not getting any customers. Us kids might patronize him, but we just like Good Humor ice cream better, that's all. Besides, you're so pretty and nice, and that man over there ... well, gosh, mom says we shouldn't say bad things about people, but...."
"It's okay, Mak Wee. Go ahead."
"Well, that new Cheapie-Weapie man ... to tell the truth, he looks sorta dirty if you know what I mean."
"Yes, I know what you mean, dear", Fanny allowed, putting it mildly. "What can I do for you, Mak Wee? Would you like some ice cream?"
"I sure would. Do you have a strawberry sundae?"
"I think so. Let's see", said the golden girl, opening the lid of her refrigerated cart. However, a quick inspection of the partially filled interior showed her that she had run out of the requested flavor. In view of this, and in view of her genuine pity for Shivers's plight, she generously suggested: "Look, Mak Wee, I'm out of strawberry sundaes, so why don't you go over there and make your purchase from the Cheapie-Weapie man? I'll admit he is sort of dirty-looking, but the poor fellow hasn't made a sale all day. Besides, he probably has the flavor you want."
"Well ... okay", Mak Wee reluctantly agreed, obviously more as a courtesy to his golden-curled friend than out of any strong desire to sample the Rat Man's wares. "See you later, Miss Fanny", he signed off, skipping across the small intersection.
Peering after him from her post, Fanny watched and listened as the yellow-skinned ten-year-old approached Shivers and inquired: "May I have a strawberry sundae, sir?"
"Yeah, sure, kid", the toxic tramp croaked almost pleasantly, his beady eyes glittering with evil pleasure at making a sale at last. Rummaging around inside his battered cart, he emerged with a plastic-encased dish of ice cream which he handed to Mak Wee. "Dat'll be twenty-five cents", he wheezed.
"Don't you mean eighteen cents, sir?", the Chinese boy alertly came back. "Twenty-five is the regular price, but your sign says there's a seven cent discount on everything."
"Oh, uh, about dat sign", the soot-coated scavenger commenced to hedge, his hideous attempt at aningratiating smile almost causing the spying Fanny to retch. "Well, uh, yez see kid, dat sale wuz awready over a couple minutes ago. I just fergot ta take da sign down ... Heh-heh-heh! ... Dat'll be twenty-five cents."
"Aw ... okay", capitulated a disappointed but cooperative Mak Wee, passing Shivers a quarter. Across the street, a juicy-breasted Good Humor girl fumed at the shifty-eyed sewer rat's lack of ethics in going back on his advertised word. On the other hand, she thought, maybe she shouldn't judge him so harshly. Twenty-five cents, after all, was the going price for strawberry sundaes. At least he wasn't overcharging Mak Wee.
As he peeled the lid from his sundae, the slant-eyed tyke had occasion to lodge still another complaint about the purchase he had just made. "Hey, mister, this is a chocolate sundae. I ordered strawberry", he justifiably but politely griped.
"Yeah? ... So what?", Shivers huffily returned, as though he were the one who ought to be offended. "So I happent ta grab da wrong flavor, dat's all. What's da big deal? ... Eat da choklit an' shut up yer bellyachin', yez little punk."
"But gee, mister, I don't like chocolate. Can't I exchange this sundae for...."
"I said shut yer mout', vez vella-assed little Chink!", blustered the bad-tempered bum. Giving the bilked lad's shoulder a rude shove, he ordered: 'Now get da hell outta here an' stop bodderin' me!"
Respectfully but doggedly, the pint-sized patron held his ground. Extending the opened but unhandled sundae to Shivers, he beseeched: "Please, mister, take this one back and give me a strawberry one, will you? ... See? I haven't touched it yet."
"No? ... Well, yez've touched it now, yez smartassed son of a coolie!", snarled the snaggle-toothed swindler. Whereupon, he snatched the syrupy sundae from Mak Wee's hand and....
SHLUMP! mashed it goeey-side-first squarely into the youngster's face, rubbing it cruellv around and about like a syphilitic James Cagney doing his grapefruit routine.
Even before Shivers had released Mak Wee-the latter stumbling backward to sob his frightened dismay as he pawed at the sloppy mess which covered his face-Fanny had sprung into infuriated action, sprinting like golden-haired greased lightning across the intersection toward the scene of the atrocity.
As the enraged eighteen-year-old barreled up behind him-blood in her eye and dainty fists cocked at the ready-an unawares Rat Man of Times Square had just enough time to cackle: "Har-har-har! ... Boy, kid, do youse ever look silly wit' dat gunk all over yer puss! ... Haw-haw-haw! ... I guess dat'll teach yez ta show respeck ta yer elders an' yer betters, eh? ... Hee-hee-hee!"
The overweening smugness abruptly left his tone however, as....
WHAM!...."Eeeeeeek!" ... CRASH! CLATTER! ... an amber-eyed avenging angel nailed him in the small of the back with a rib-cracking body block that sent him pitching head-first to the sidewalk where he skidded on his face for a distance of six feet before he thudded to a stop against the front wall of Luigi Wong's Chinese Pizza Parlor.
Like a cantaloupe-breasted cougar, Fanny was atop the prone pervert in a flash, straddling his midsection as she flailed away with both fists, boxing his ears, his eyes, his nose, and his stubby jaws with a flurry of stinging jabs and chops.
"Eeeeeeee!", screamed the beleaguered bum. "Fer da luwa god, have moicy!"
WHAM! BAM! SLAM, replied the vindictive Venus.
Even though she was enjoying her fighting sport, an even more amusing form of retribution for Shivers popped into the dimpled dumpling's demonic little mind as she hammered merrily away. Never missing a punch, she called over her shoulder: "Mak Wee, are you still there? ... Start passing me the ice cream out of Shivers's cart, will you? It doesn't matter which kind. Bring it all!"
A moment later, the still-sniffling Mak Wee obediently deposited a first arm-load of ice cream bars on the sidewalk at Fanny's side. Grabbing up a chocolate coated vanilla while her young friend went for more, the vengeance-minded vixen quickly unwrapped the bar, pried Shivers's jaw open with one hand and....
GLUMPI...."Glub! Gleckl Gag!"
... rammed the frozen dessert in its icy entirety down her victim's throat. Next, uncapping a butterscotch sundae....
PLOP!
... she flung it full in the downed derelict's cadaverous face, rubbing it well in and around as he himself had done to Mak Wee.
And so the exhilarating game went, Mak Wee running a one-man bucket brigade to and from Shivers's cart while Fanny enthusiastically if sloppily applied the cart's creamy contents to the good-for-nothing guttersnipe's hair, face, neck, and shoulders like a vast array of refrigerated cosmetics. When the human rodent's entire upper torso had been plastered four inches thick with the melting mess, when his bony body had come to resemble the stick in a giant ice cream bar of basic vanilla streaked with assorted browns, reds, and pinks, Mak Wee announced: "That's all, Miss Fanny. There's no more ice cream. The only thing left in his cart is the dry ice."
Oh-oh, thought the scrappy sex-kitten. Her Chinese chum really shouldn't have mentioned the dry ice. For, despite herself, it gave her the naughtiest idea she'd had all day. A really cruel idea, but one too tempting to resist. Accordingly: "Get me a big chunk of the dry ice, will you, Mak Wee dear?", she prettily petitioned. "And here, take my hankie to hold it in. Odierwise that stuff will burn the skin right off your fingers."
While the helpful Oriental tyke stepped away on his errand, Fanny scrambled off the immobilized, barely-conscious Shivers. Kneeling beside him, she undid die fly of his trousers-which had been fastened only by a pair of safety pins-to expose his scab-covered genitals.
"Here's the dry ice, Miss Fanny", said Mak Wee, coming up behind her.
"Thanks, honey", chirped the sweet-smiling scalawag, gingerly grasping the smoking hunk of frozen carbon dioxide by its handkerchief wrapping so as not to scorch her tender skin. Without further ado....
PLUNK! SIZZLE!...."Aaiieeeeee!"
... she deposited the dry ice atop the ruined Rat Man's crotch, planting it well into his scrotum before pinning his fly shut again. Too battered to move, Shivers merely lay whimpering his agony as the petite pleaser arose, dusted off her hands, and pranced away singing: "Ta-ta, Shivers darling! ... 'Bye, Mak Wee. Thanks for your help."
Scampering back across the intersection to retrieve her pushcart, Fanny was sincerely glad that her little set-to with her longtime nemesis had come to such a speedy conclusion, even though it had been a barrel of fun. She really mustn't waste any more time in getting back uptown to compare notes with Harvey on the mysterious matter of Mao Tse Dung and the Hop Kee Fortune Cookie Company.
CHAPTER SIX
Abruptly terminating her preoccupied pacing, Madame Lun Mee pirouetted about, pointed her finger at Fanny and cried: "Ah sol I have it! We shall call you Pomegranate Pip!" Of the two shapely young Chinese girls who kneeled at semi-attention on either side of the dainty dazzler, she confidently queried: "What say you, ladies? Is she to be our little Pomegranate Pip? Does the name suit her?"
"Oh yes, Madame, it suits her beautifully", Passion Flower and Lotus Blossom chorused in enthusiastic unison, cocking their heads and batting the lashes of their wide almond eyes in admiration of their employer's acumen.
"Pomegranate Pip it is then!", Madame Lun Mee decreed with proud finality. "What did you say your real name was? Miss ... uh...."
"Anna May Fong", Fanny lied in her pearly teeth ... Apparently, however, neither her genteel-looking hostess nor her two new colleagues suspected a thing. She must have done a really superb job on her disguise. They were buying her as a young Chinese girl who'd just hit town from San Francisco, hook, fine, and sinker.
"Well, Miss Fong, from now on-on these premises, at least-you are Pomegranate Pip", instructed the Madame, a stately, middle-aged Chinese who could have been a twin sister to Mme. Chiang Kai Slick, with her high cheek bones, upswept coiffeur, and elegant Occidental-Oriental sheath frock. "I trust our association will be a long and profitable one. I must return to my office now. Lotus Blossom and Passion Flower will supply you with any necessary procedural details as you await your client."
So saying, and with a warm parting smile, Madame Lun Mee ducked through the door of the tiny cubicle and was gone. In her wake, the kneeling nymphet glanced curiously about the bamboo-walled enclosure, wondering what was in store for her. She was about to turn her first trick as a Chinese whore!
What a wild, hectic day this had been, pondered the kimono-clad cutie, her overworked brain tripping back across the events which had brought her to her present situation. The first thing she had done after cashing in at the Good Humor plant had been to put through an urgent phone call to boss Harvey, to acquaint him with the startling discoveries-or potential discoveries-she'd made about Mao Tse Dung and the Hop Kee Cookie Company. Much to her chagrin, although not necessarily to her surprise, the twerpy tyro had pooh-poohed every single revelation she had made about Dung's Commie-oriented remarks to his underlinings. The projected pick-up of a quantity of unknown goods at midnight tonight at the Statue of Liberty. Dung's proposed visit to a mysterious-sounding place called Madame Lun Mee's. The possibility that all this might have some connection with the opium plot Keung and Oy had discussed. Not a bit of it had sounded in the least suspicious to old head-in-the mud Harvey. His one-track mind had dictated that they stick strictly to the status quo in their handling of the case. How, after all, could Mr. Shankblister and the U.S. Justice Department be wrong? The true and only Commie villains afoot were the operators of the Chinatown Postal and Benevolent Association. That blatantly clear fact had been established at the very outset. Ergo, Fanny's was not to reason why, but simply to do or die. Which was to say: to continue her surveillance of the CPBA building in the guise of a Good Humor girl until further notice.
It had been a deeply discouraged golden girl who had rung off from the frustrating conversation with her employer. Within minutes, however, as she had trudged along 14th Street toward the uptown subway her innate pluckiness had begun to reassert itself. Hmmmm, she had reasoned, if Captain Sex and their bureaucratic clients were unable to perceive down from up, was that any reason she should hesitate to take matters into her own hands? After all, the very survival of the Free World was at stake. Almost at once, a master plan had begun to take shape in Fanny's nimble little brain, its details clicking into place faster than the clicking wheels of the subway train which had whisked her up to Times Square.
Emerging onto the street at her destination, the succulent spy-smasher had encountered the very pair she spot on the corner of 42nd Street and Seventh Avenue. There had stood Long Arm Mannie, the beanpole pickpocket, and his slobbering sidekick, Stooge, lounging against the news vendor's shack, ready and eager to assist in the adventurous plot she had in mind. When Fanny had told the Dickensian duo about the mysterious goods to be picked up on Liberty Island tonight by the Hop Kee Fortune Cookie henchmen, Mannie had readily assented to the nubile juvenile's request that he and Stooge conceal themselves on the island just before midnight so as to observe the transfer of goods in an effort to learn just what the commodity in question was. Although the Statue of Liberty ferry line did not run at night, Fanny had not even mentioned to her friends the detail of their mode of transportation to the island. She known Mannie would be able to acquire a boat somewhere. Picking pockets wasn't the only form of thievery at which he was adroit.
Hurrying home to her tiny apartment at the Paramount Arms Hotel on 47th Street, the cheeky-bottomed charmer had gotten busy on the telephone. Her first call had been to Oy Song at the CPBA, who, luckily, had been working late. Fanny's pregnant inquiry had been met by Oy's cooperative promise to call right back with the requested information, if available. Sure enough, the Lun Mee ducked through the door of the tiny cubicle and was gone. In her wake, the kneeling nymphet glanced curiously about the bamboo-walled enclosure, wondering fearfully what the evening might hold in store for her. She was about to turn her first trick as a Chinese whore!
What a wild, hectic day this had been, pondered the kimono-clad cutie, her overworked brain tripping back across the events which had brought her to her present situation. The first thing she had done after cashing in at the Good Humor plant had been to put through an urgent phone call to boss Harvey, to acquaint him with the startling discoveries-or potential discoveries-she'd made about Mao Tse Dung and the Hop Kee Fortune Cookie Company. Much to her chagrin, although not necessarily to her surprise, the twerpy tyro had pooh-poohed every single revelation she had made about Dung's Commie-oriented remarks to his underlinings. The projected pick-up of a quantity of unknown goods at midnight tonight at the Statue of Liberty. Dung's proposed visit to a mysterious-sounding place called Madame Lun Mee's. The possibility that all this might have some connection with the opium plot Keung and Oy had discussed. Not a bit of it had sounded in the least suspicious to old head-in-the mud Harvey. His one-track mind had dictated that they stick strictly to the status quo in their handling of the case. How, after all, could Mr. Shankblister and the U.S. Justice Department be wrong? The true and only Commie villains afoot were the operators of the Chinatown Postal and Benevolent Association. That blatantly clear fact had been established at the very outset. Ergo, Fanny's was not to reason why, but simply to do or die. Which was to say: to continue her surveillance of the CPBA building in the guise of a Good Humor girl until further notice.
It had been a deeply discouraged golden girl who had rung off from the frustrating conversation with her employer. Within minutes, however, as she had trudged along 14th Street toward the uptown subway, her innate pluckiness had begun to reassert itself. Hmmmm, she had reasoned, if Captain Sex and their bureaucratic clients were unable to perceive down from up, was that any reason she should hesitate to take matters into her own hands? After all, the very survival of the Free World was at stake. Almost at once, a master plan had begun to take shape in Fanny's nimble little brain, its details clicking into place faster than the clicking wheels of the subway train which had whisked her up to Times Square.
Emerging onto the street at her destination, the succulent spy-smasher had encountered the very pair she had hoped to encounter, loitering at their customary spot on the corner of 42nd Street and Seventh Avenue. There had stood Long Arm Mannie, the beanpole pickpocket, and his slobbering sidekick, Stooge, lounging against the news vendor's shack, ready and eager to assist in the adventurous plot she had in mind. When Fanny had told the Dickensian duo about the mysterious goods to be picked up on Liberty Island tonight by the Hop Kee Fortune Cookie henchmen, Mannie had readily assented to the nubile juvenile's request that he and Stooge conceal themselves on the island just before midnight so as to observe the transfer of goods in an effort to learn just what the commodity in question was. Although the Statue of Liberty ferry line did not run at night, Fanny had not even mentioned to her friends the detail of their mode of transportation to the island. She known Mannie would be able to acquire a boat somewhere. Picking pockets wasn't the only form of thievery at which he was adroit.
Hurrying home to her tiny apartment at the Paramount Arms Hotel on 47th Street, the cheeky-bottomed charmer had gotten busy on the telephone. Her first call had been to Oy Song at the CPBA, who, luckily, had been working late. Fanny's pregnant inquiry had been met by Oy's cooperative promise to call right back with the requested information, if available. Sure enough, the Oriental beauty had been on the line again in under five minutes with the verification-gotten from officer Keung Lee, of all sources-that Madame Lun Mee's was a high-class house of prostitution. In the back of her mind, the springy-bosomed assistant sleuth had suspected as much all along. Jotting down the Mott Street address of the establishment, she had thanked Oy and returned the receiver to its cradle only to retrieve it immediately and dial Floozie Lil's number. As her burgeoning good luck had had it, Petunia Polly had happened to be visiting Lil's digs at the time, so that both the two-dollar hooker and the apple-cheeked old flower peddler had been available to skeedaddle over to Fanny's place to assist with the application of her disguise. Yes, the bold beguiler had already decided to camouflage herself as a Chinese charmer and seek prostitutional employment at Madame Lun Mee's. Her purpose, of course, was to get close to Mao Tse Dung, whom she knew was planning a bit of illicit dalliance there this evening while his flunkies made the mysterious pickup at Liberty Island. Try as she might, the tantalizing toddler hadn't been able to think of a better way of catching a master spy with his pants down than to do just that: to literally catch him with his pants down.
Now, as she kneeled between her two lemon-skinned co-workers in the geisha-style bedroom, goose-pimply naked beneath her loose-fitting white kimono and sporting a black wig, brown contact lenses, and slanted eyes acquired by taping back the skin of her temples under the wig, Fanny was excitedly convinced that she was about to accomplish the most dramatic breakthrough in the case thus far. She was also scared to death. Mao Tse Dung was due at any moment. What an imposingly evil figure of a man he was, with those glowing yellow eyes, that sinister moustache and beard, that implacable scowl. Br-r-r!
Hey!, the ripe-breasted ravisher suddenly hollered inside, banging her fist against her forehead. It had suddenly dawned on her that if she intended to stay on this scene long enough to hope to worm any meaningful information out of Mao, she was going to have to ... to ... fuck him! Weirdly enough, while busily formulating the myriad details of her plan, she had managed to completely block this brutal bedrock factor from her mind ... Oh, she supposed she'd known right enough all along to what end her course of action was leading, but she had somehow subverted the certainty that she would wind up locked in Dung's creepy carnal embrace. Now, as she necessarily came face to face with said slimy reality, the idea appalled her so much that she would have bolted and fled at that very instant had it not been for her knowledge that she was doing what must be done to save her country from The Conspiracy. Oh, the sacrifices a girl sometimes had to make for the sake of that Grand Old Flag. Knock-knock-knock!
Fanny's heart leaped into her throat as Passion Flower answered the vigorous rapping at their bamboo door with a dulcet: "Enter, sire."
The golden girl's touring cardiac next plummeted to the pit of her tummy as the sinister Mao Tse Dung entered, looking like a sumo wrestler minus the gut in his rope-belted kimono, hunching forward to accommodate his massive height to the low ceiling, his panther's eyes already aflicker with lust as he inspected his trio of soft-fleshed love slaves.
"Ah so!", the evil Oriental articulated his resonant-voiced approval-(although the fierce scowl never left his face)-as his attention focused on Fanny, who kept her head humbly bowed in emulation of her sisters-for-the night. "I see the good Madame Mee did not exaggerate when she informed me that an especially succulent new addition to her cast awaited my pleasure this evening ... What is your name, little one?"
"Pomegranate Pip, sir", murmured the milky-breasted moppet, unable to meet their caller's piercing, lustful gaze.
"Pomegranate Pip? ... That's lovely", approved the greasy-haired Chinaman. "Well then, my beauties, as the imperialistic American dogs are fond of saying, shall we get down to brass tacks?"
Aha, another anti-American crack!, noted the saucy-rumped rascal as Dung spread his arms wide while Lotus Blossom and Passion Flower arose to approach him, apparently in accordance with a frequently-practiced ritual. After an unpatriotic remark like that, Fanny now knew that she'd had the right peg on this treacherous devil from the start. Now all that remained was to unearth some concrete evidence against him.
As Passion Flower untied the rope-belt at Dung's waist and Lotus Blossom whisked his kimono off his burly shoulders so that he stood before them completely naked, Fanny's abiding fright was assuaged to some extent. Gazing up at his loins from her supplicating posture, she observed that Dung was equipped with a perfectly ordinary, run-of-the-mill penis, no larger than average and certainly smaller than dozens she'd had to deal with in her time. She didn't know what she'd expected, exactly, but the sinister Chinaman's member certainly wasn't a tenth as alarming as his satanic face or his bully-boy's physique. The only difference she could detect between his organ and any other John's was that Dung's was a little yellower than most she'd known.
"Lotus Blossom! Haven't you forgotten something?", the hulking whoremonger unctuously but commandingly asserted as the indicated hooker stepped away with his kimono. "What about my cigarette, Lotus Blossom?"
As Lotus Blossom turned back to face her accoster, Fanny noted that her colleague's dark eyes were shimmering with a strange light that might have been either carnal lust or naked terror. "Oh, uh, yes sire, of course. Your cigarette", muttered the chow-mein chippie, breathing hard.
While a mystified Fanny looked intently on, Lotus Blossom pulled open the bodice of her kimono to bare her left breast. The naked mammary which peeped into the open was a rather smallish one, the elfin enchantress rather vaingloriously marked, unable to resist comparing it-unfavorably, of course-with her own sappy melons ... Well, Lotus Blossom's boobie wasn't exactly unattractive, she supposed. It appeared to be a palatable enough little bun crowned with a well-defined dark brown nipple, but-like Dung's dong-it sure wasn't anything to write home about.
Fanny knew she would remember what happened next in her nightmares for the rest of her days. Stepping nigh their cruel-visaged client, Lotus Blossom stood there proffering her naked breast, trembling visibly, while Dung raised to his lips the lit cigarette he'd held in his fingers since entering. Taking a last, luxuriant drag, his callous countenance transformed by a diabolical grin, he then calmly proceeded to....
SSSSSST...."Aaaooooooo!"
... crush the smoldering ash of his filter-tip square into the center of Lotus Blossom's nipple to the tune of her strangled outcry of unbearable torment!
Watching the grisly tableau as Dung extinguished the glowing ember against Lotus Blossom's agonized breast knob, Fanny was filled with a horrified revulsion the like of which she had experienced very few times in her life. Her blonde hackles prickling palpably beneath her wig, it was all she could do to restrain herself from leaping up and ripping out Dung's cock by its roots! The despicable, sadistic swine! ... And Lotus Blossom! How on earth could that poor girl stand there and allow herself to be so brutally tortured! Well, there could be only one answer. In the reverse way, she must be as sick as Dung. Her masochism had to be as deep-seated as the cruel cookie-maker's sadism. Yech!
With the sickening smell of burnt flesh permeating the air, Lotus Blossom stumbled to a far corner where she knelt, laving her hurt breast with an oily fluid from a bowl which had apparently been placed there for that explicit purpose. Fanny almost toppled from her knees when, a few moments later, the black-haired bimbo stood up and turned to face the group with a grateful smile on her face! "Thank you, sire", she said to Dung, apparently in all sincerity, as she made a demure bow. "That was very good."
"I enjoyed it too, Lotus Blossom", Dung contentedly returned. The dirty Red rat!, Fanny bristled. If he tried anything like that on her, he really was going to get his cock ripped out by the roots, no matter what the consequences to the non-Communist world!
At this juncture, Passion Flower and Lotus Blossom wordlessly cued the petite pleaser as to the group's next move by slithering naked from their kimonos. With a sigh of resignation, the nubile novitiate moved to do likewise. As she flicked the silken garment away and stood in all her incomparable naked glory before their client....
BOING-G-G! ... went Dung's penis, springing in a split second from limp flaccidity to full, naming life like a Chinese jack-in-the-box.
"Sweet mother of Confucius!", he croaked, his leopard's eyes nearly spilling from their sockets as he visually devoured the blonde bewitcher's flawless nudity, focusing simultaneously on the juicy, coral-capped balls of her breasts and on the golden-downed, pink-slashed crack of her luscious vagina. "In all my cunt-hounding days, I've never seen the like of this! Come on, girls, let's get cracking! Pomegranate's crack, of course! I want her in the helm position!"
As Dung dived for the straw-filled mat which dominated the tiny cubicle from the center of the floor, Fanny darted a quizzical glance at Passion Flower, seeking interpretation of the phrase 'helm position'. If it meant something sado-masochistic, she was damned if she was going to do it! However....
"It means you climb on his cock, Pomegranate Pip", Passion Flower whispered as the trio of naked beauties converged around the reclining Dung, who lay on his back on the mat, his throbbing erection spiking straight up in the air.
Well, that wasn't so bad-climbing on his cock-decided the tawny-eyed teen-queen. Naturally she didn't relish the idea, but she'd done worse during her whoredays back at Simone's, and this was for a far worthier cause. She wondered what the other two girls, Lotus Blossom and Passion Flower, would be doing in the meantime, while she was vaginally riding their creepy caller's rod.
The answer to this question was immediately forthcoming as Passion Flower went eagerly to her knees astraddle Dung's face, her black-thatched vagina hovering only an inch or so above his smirking lips. At the same time, Lotus Blossom lay down on her back in diagonal juxtaposition to their lucky customer, drawing her knees up and spreading her thighs so that her glistening pink vagina lay wide open within Dung's easy reach.
"All right, Pomegranate Pip", Lotus Blossom pedantically began, "what you do is...."
"All right already. I know, I know", Fanny somewhat peevishly cut her off, mildly miffed at being talked to like a rank amateur even though her extensive professional experience at this sort of thing was something she wasn't too proud of. With a here-goes-nothing shrug, she moved to join the offbeat sexual happening. Positioning herself astride Dung's loins, she went gracefully to her knees behind Passion Flower, placing her delicious vagina in the same hovering attitude above his penis that Passion Flower's vagina had assumed above his mouth. "I'm set when you are", she resolutely announced to one and all, reaching between her legs to grasp Dung's dingus and prop it in at the ready signal.
"All right, girls", Lotus Blossom intoned from her back on the floor, cradling Dung's hand in her palms as she straightened out his fore and index fingers. "And a-one, and a-two, and a...."
"Aaaaaaah!", came a communal sigh of pleasure from every member of the group save the honey-blonde heartbreaker as squishy-deep contact was made on all fronts. Lotus Blossom had plunged their shared lover's two rigid digits to the last knuckle deep into her yawning crack. Passion Flower had exuberantly plopped her wide-open vaginal lips over the bottom half of Dung's face with an audible shlump, like some pink-membraned sink stopper, from which likely beginning she was now grinding herself slipperily back and forth, round and around, with abandoned gusto. Lastly but not leastly, Fanny had reluctantly but gamely allowed gravity to take its natural course, spilling her saucily-padded pelvic complex to tightly-locked genital impalement upon their pleasured patron's penetrating prod ... Hmmph!, she disparagingly snorted as she commenced the juicy-hot up-and-down movements upon his stalk that she hoped would bring Dung to the quickest possible climax. For such a big fellow, he sure didn't have much of a prick on him. Not that it was abnormality small, but it was small enough that she knew she'd have no trouble refraining from having an orgasm, which was something she certainly didn't want to share with this Commie creep.
Almost bored as she slithered up and down-keeping her firm young vaginal muscles tightly clamped on Dung's mediocre meat so as to draw forth his vile juices at the earliest possible moment and thus end the degrading ordeal-the melon-breasted minx decided to glanced about to see how her co-workers were doing ... Passion Flower, up in front, was obviously having as much of a ball as their client, who lay gurgling his bliss as he tongued greedily away at the Chinese floozie's urgently grinding twat. Fannv noticed discernible waves rippling upward from Passion Flower's lower regions through the smooth flesh of her back as she neared her cunnilingual climax. Over to the right, the spread-eagled Lotus Blossom seemed to be enjoying her digital fornication equally as well. She lay on her back supplying the motor power with her own hands as she worked Dung's bunched fingers-three of them now-zestfully in and out of her dripping carnal crevice. Her clitoris, swollen and glistening like a pink pearl set in a socket of marinated abalone meat, throbbed visibly with the keenness of her arousal. Only Fanny remained sexually unmoved, engaged in what to her was nothing but a hard night's work for Uncle Sam. She had to smile though, as she peered at Lotus Blossom's inflamed privates. At long last she had discovered for sure that the old saw about Oriental women's vaginas running crossways was indeed a myth.
From Passion Flower's sopping crotch, even as he continued to tongue devoutly away, Dung hoarsely suggested: "Say, girls ... (slurp!) ... what say we have a little funny-smokee ... (glub!) ... after we get through, eh?"
Good grief!, recoiled the rocked ravisher. Funny smokee? Was he talking about taking Hope!? Taking care not to miss a copulatory stroke as she leaned forward, she whispered to Lotus Blossom: "Is he suggesting we smoke opium, Lotus Blossom?"
"Ha-ha-ha! ... (gag!)", Dung choked and chuckled from below, plainly having overheard her hushed query. "Ha-ha! Not opium, Pomegranate Pip. I was talking about pot. Grass. Marijuana ... (gleck!) ... It's a good, harmless high ... (swallow!) ... Only a fool would take opium. That stuff really is dope! ... (lick!) ... The only sons of pigs I want to see on opium are these stupid Americans ... (slurp!) ... these poor chumps who're buying Hop Kee brand fortune cookies like hotcakes at stores throughout the metropolitan area ... (glub!) ... I guess I can confide in you chicks that for the last two months ... (swallow!) ... we've been lacing our cookies with oodles of opium ... (gleck!) ... direct from the Motherland ... Hee-hee-hee!"
So staggered was the screwing scamp by this forthright revelation that she very nearly toppled off her penile skewer. Well ... zappo! ... that clinched it. By his own admission then, Mao Tse Dung and the Hop Kee Fortune Cookie Company were the Red ratfinks behind the insidious Commie plot to bring America to her knees, her citizens transformed into a horde of howling dope fiends! Wait'll Harvey got a load of this!
As she felt Dung explode inside her, sliming her sweet sexual innards with his subversive semen, the blonde bewitcher glanced nervously at her wristwatch. Hmmm.
A quarter to twelve. Now that it had been confirmed by clear implication that the midnight delivery at the Statue of Liberty was indeed to be a shipment of opium from Red China, she was gravely concerned for the safety of the two chums who had gallantly volunteered to spy on the drop. These Commies were a ruthless bunch ... Jeepers, she hoped Mannie and Stooge weren't headed for any kind of trouble.
CHAPTER SEVEN
"Goddamnit, Stooge! Can't youse never do nuttin' right!?", barked Long Arm Mannie, pausing in his rowing long enough to box his retarded sidekick's ears with a quick flurry of open-handed blows. "Stop rattlin' dat oar, I said!"
"Gsst! Bllx! Mmmf!", Stooge agreeably if un-eloquently replied before heaving ho on his oar in the same spectacularly uncoordinated, noisy-rattly fashion as before.
Sheesh, what a shump he'd been to get suckered into this fix, Mannie chided himself as he pulled fatalistically on his oar. Here he sat in a stolen rowboat in the middle of New York Harbor,-probably lost-on a night so overcast that the Manhattan skyline was barely discernible from half a mile out, headed for a destination fraught with a peril that was potentially fatal. If they ever got to Liberty Island in the first place, that was. There were plenty of other things to worry about in the meantime, even before facing the problem of how to get away with spying on the Chinese Commies' nocturnal transaction. Like for instance, what if a police patrol launch should come cruising up right now? Wouldn't he and Stooge have a hell of a time explaining how they happened to be out for a spin in a rowboat swiped from the Coast Guard compound at Battery Park? ... And what if a big finer or a freighter should happen to bisect their path in the dark? Why, the tiny craft would be sliced in half like a straight razor cutting warm butter. The lanky pickpocket's anxiety as he contemplated this possibility was compounded, naturally enough, by the fact that he had never learned to swim ... And what if they were to lose their way and be swept out to the open sea? They'd struck out in what Mannie had known to be the general direction of Liberty Island, but in the overcast, and lacking any naviga tional aids whatever, it would be very easy indeed to go groping right past Miss Liberty's postage-stamp archipelago. However....
Eureka!, Mannie almost cried aloud as he glanced over his shoulder and spotted the silhouette of the world-renowned statue standing out hazily but unmistakably in the gloom only a quarter of a mile off their bow on the port side. There she was, the Statue of Liberty! Amazingly, their haphazardous course had proven pinpoint accurate.
Tapping his cretinous crony on the shoulder, Mannie pointed out: "Dere's da island, Stooge. Dat's where we gotta go ta take care o' dis errand fer Fanny. Yez dig? ... Now keep da noise down an' row straight fer dat big lady wit' da crown on her head an' da torch in her hand, unnerstand?"
Even as he vigorously nodded his slobbery comprehension, Stooge leaned into his oar with a series of such overzealous pulls that he would quickly have altered their course by at least ninety degrees had his horse-faced guardian not indicated-with a smart shot in the arm that nearly toppled him from the boat-that he should desist.
"Goddamn youse ta hell, Stooge!", grated the sorelytried cutpurse, his pique as genuine as his abiding affection for the handicapped youth whose care fate had entrusted to his hands. "Youse're gonna get us caught or killed, or maybe bot'! ... Now, row wit' me insteada against me! ... Okay, togedder now...."
Although it turned out that it was Mannie who was forced to match his strokes to Stooge's helplessly uncoordinated ones, instead of vice versa, the rag-tag pair did finally reach the rocky shore of Liberty Island. Ten zig-zagging minutes later, the prow of their open craft nosed in amongst the granite rubble which formed the shore, coming to a stop with a solid bump. Hopping out of the boat, Mannie was in the act of peering about in search of a satisfactory boulder to which to secure the mooring line when, from behind, he heard; 'Fzzx! Eeeek!"
SPLASH!
It had had to happen, slow-burned the harrassed leader of the motley duo, knowing even before he turned that Stooge had-quite inevitably-tripped while debarking and pitched into the drink.
Scrambling down among the rocks, Mannie managed to grab ahold of his floundering friend's wrist and pull him from the shallows alive, if thoroughly soaked.
"Krrm! Bxxs! Dffb!", Stooge babbled his thanks to his rescuer, grinning lopsidely as though his watery close-call had been a carefree frolic.
After tying the mooring line to a nearby rock: "Now here's da pitcher, Stooge", Mannie rasped in hushed tones as he gingerly led his glassy-eyed chum up the short, rockbound incline of the shore. "Since we don't know what direction eider o' dese Commie gangs is comin' from, we might as well wait right here ... Dere, sit yer ass down on dis big rock here ... Okay, now keep yer eyes open an' yer mout' shut. Dese Red rats is a desp'rit bunch. Dey're liable ta slit our t'roats if dey catch us spyin' on 'em ... It's oncy five minutes ta midnight, so dey oughta be here any minute."
Seating himself on the granite boulder beside his vacant-visaged charge-the proud presence of Miss Liberty looming high into the night sky at their backs-Mannie managed to eschew the cigarette he was dying for as he settled down to his patriotic vigil. In an effort to keep his mind off the very real perils they were about to face, he forced his thoughts backward in time to the curious encounter he and Stooge had made just before hopping the downtown IRT to Battery Park a couple of hours ago. Just outside the subway station at 42nd and Broadway, who had the colorful pahspotted but their old antagonist, Shivers peddling ice cream bars out of a Good Humor cart. And doing a land-office business with the throngs of summer-evening strollers to boot. At first glance, the Rat Man's very presence there, not to mention his hawking of the Good Humor product, had struck Mannie as exceedingly strange because Fanny had earlier informed him that Shivers had secured employment not with Good Humor but with some off-brand company, and that, in any event, even that job had probably been vacated because of the injuries sustained by the human rodent during his Chinatown clash with the golden girl this afternoon. And yet, at ten o'clock tonight, there Shivers had been, parked at the curb of America's Crossroads, selling Good Humors as fast as he could fish them out of his cart. Or rather, as it had turned out, he had appeared to be selling Good Humors. A closer inspection of Shivers's suspiciously rickety cart had revealed that the famous Good Humor trademarks on its sides had been newly painted on cardboard panels and scotch-taped to the vehicle. With this discovery, the bad-tempered bum's whole sneaky plot had come through to Mannie loud and clear. Obviously, Shivers was palming himself off to the public as a Good Humor man in order to win his real employer's sales contest, the Date-With-Victoria-Vavoom deal which Fanny had also mentioned earlier. By selling his off-brand wares as Good Humor ice cream, Shivers would not only generate more unit sales due to the popularity of the heavily-advertised brand, he would also garner an artificially inflated gross by charging the nickle-higher Good Humor prices. How diabolically cunning, Mannie had thought at the time, his swagman's heart instinctively admiring the ploy even though he detested Shivers personally. The walking dung-heap certainly was outdoing himself in his dogged determination to save face with the Broadway bunch. Impressed with his gameness as well as with the slickness of his knavery, Mannie half hoped he would succeed.
Uh-oh, the contemplative cutpurse abruptly harked back to the present as he slid from their rock and noiselessly bade Stooge to do the same. Here came a motor launch!
Squinting into the gloom as he and Stooge crouched behind their boulder, Mannie perceived that die incoming launch was indeed headed for a mooring on Liberty Island, at a point only a hundred feet or so down shore from the stolen Coast Guard rowboat.
Shushing the unpredictable Stooge with a scowling finger-to-lips gesture, the flap-armed filcher peered furtively over the top of the rock to await and watch for developments. Nor were said unfoldings of the night shrouded mystery long in transpiring.
No sooner had two shadowy figures hopped ashore from the launch than ... blink-blink! ... two quick flashes from a spotlight out on the water pierced the darkness. Ah yes, kenned the doubled-over dip, that would be a signal from the boat bearing the contraband that was to change hands. The first arrivals-the two men in the launch-would be emissaries of the Hop Kee Fortune Cookie Company, the insidious agency scheduled to take delivery of the unknown goods in question.
After only a brief pause, the water bound light flashes were answered by two similar blinks from the shore, from a flashlight wielded by one of the Hop Kee henchmen who, at this distance Mannie was able to make out only in black silhouette.
What happened next was sufficiently scarifying to bring the spying sharper to the brink of heart seizure. At the precise moment that a thin ray of moonlight pierced the clouds, adding an improved modicum of eerie fighting to the scene, a real five submarine slid noiselessly forward out of the night and nosed against the shore ... A submarine!? ... A further terrifying detail that did not escape the staggered street-denizen's notice was the fact that the sub-actually a mini-sub, measuring no more than thirty feet from bow to stern-was flying the hated red and yellow flag of ... of ... Communist China! Holy buck-toothed buddhas! The Hop Kee hooligans were rendezvousing with a contingent of Red agents dispatched direct from Peking itself! This just had to be something big!
In the brighter illumination created by the partial scattering of the clouds, and at the shorter distance created by the sub's having landed at a point closer to his hiding place than the motor launch had tied up, Mannie was able to delineate the objects of his scrutiny rather well now as the sub's hatch flew open and a wiry yellow man in a naval officer's uniform climbed out.
Striding briskly forward along the deck, the slant-eyed officer stood on his vessel's bow to hail the two Hop Kee men who came trotting up the shore to join him. "Ah sol Comrades Kwam and Lum!", oozed the Commie captain. "Rong time no see, gentlemen!"
"It's good to see you too, Captain Choo", one of the black-turtle-necked Hop Kee operatives saluted from the shore, keeping his voice low, but not so low that Mannie was unable to hear ... Jeez!, registered the boggled Broadwayite behind the boulder. Wait'll Fanny and the authorities heard about this! A Chinese Commie sub docking right in New York Harbor! It went without saying that Mannie was mindful of certain immediate physical dangers, but at the same time he knew a sense of wild exhilaration at the very thought that the risks he and Stooge were taking might very well lead to the exposure of a Communist conspiracy that threatened the very foundations of the U.S.A. A glance at Stooge, however, revealed that the retarded youth was sharing no such patriotic heart-stirrings. Not even observing the sinister goings-on over by the sub, the slack-jawed simpleton simply squatted on his haunches staring peacefully and glassily at the face of the boulder three inches from his eyes.
"You have brought the shipment of opium as agreed, Captain ChooP", one of the Hop Kee men checked from the bank.
"Naturarry", Captain Choo complacently returned, clapping his hands together. At this, three coolie-type Chinese sailors popped one by one from the hatch behind him and scurried along the deck like a trio of yellow mice, each toting a large wooden crate on his shoulder.
Opium! ... Jesus H. Christ, was this plot ever thickening!, reeled a shocked Long Arm Mannie as he com mitred every evil word and acdon at the sub to memory for future reference ... Opium!
As the crate-toting Oriental tars jumped rrom deck of the sub and slogged ashore with their pernicious burdens, Mannie turned to Stooge to whisper: "Stooge, do youse know what dem boxes is full of? ... Dey're full o' opiuml Dat's a kind o' dope!"
'Swx? ... Svvx?", queried the happy halfwit at a dangerously amplified volume, his pale face brightening hungrily as he wildly misunderstood his partner's words. In translation, Mannie knew, Stooge's garbled expledve indicated that he had understood the older man to say that the crates were full of licrorice ropes (a favorite confection of the mush-mouthed moron)-rather than 'a kind of dope'. Before Mannie was able to quietly correct this unfortunate misunderstanding, Stooge leaped to his feet and cried pleading over to the group at the submarine: "Swx? ... Svvx? ... Bllm swx!", with which he clumped out from behind the rock and lurched in the direction of the startled Commie gang.
Acting instinctively, if hopelessly, Mannie charged after his incautious ally, bleating: "Not licorish ropes, youse mudderjumpin' blockhead! ... I said dope, not licorish ropes!"
Halfway across the clearing, the despairing dip managed to halt Stooge's careening forward progress toward certain annihilation, hauling him to the ground with a flying tackle. However-obviously-it was too late. Rolling off the rash retardee, Mannie landed on his back, from which vulnerable posture he looked up into a veritable inverted forest of machete and bayonet blades, not to mention rifle and revolver barrels, manned by the leering yellow Reds who had jogged up to ring the spot.
"Damn!", said Mannie, blackly.
"Sex?", asked Stooge, hopefully.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"Harvey! ... Over here!", Fanny cried, pouncing from the shadows of the doorway in which she'd been lurking as die welcome sight of Captain Sex's Cock Wagon came whirring out of Mott Street and into Bayard, rounding the corner on two wheels.
Scampering right out into the street lest her myopic employer fail to spot her and go barreling on by, the dimpled dumpling hailed the speeding Volks, waving it to a tire-screeching halt. Yanking open the door, the tempting toddler clambered in next to Harvey-who was gotten up in his full Captain Sex regalia for the occasion-greeting him with the breathless announcement that: "Dung is still inside his office ... See? It's that storefront three doors down with the sign that says Hop Kee Fortune Cookie Company ... Let's pull into the curb while we wait."
However, before the goggled gumshoe was able to re-engage his gears, much less articulate a response to his gorgeous girl-friday's agitated greeting, a tall, black-suited figure emerged from the fortune cookie company. Striding rapidly across the deserted sidewalk, Dung slid behind the wheel of a big black Cadillac sedan, nipped on the headlights, revved the engine, and roared away from the curb.
Inside the Cock wagon, Fanny trilled: "That's him! ... After him, Harvey!"
Rrr-rrr-RRR!, went the tiny Volkswagen as Harvey gunned its mixmaster motor and took off in hot pursuit of the master Commie spy.
"Now remember, don't get too close to him yet", the golden girl excitedly instructed the purple crusader as Dung's car and then the Cock Wagon turned north into Mulberry Street. "We don't want him to know we're following him until he makes contact with Agent VAT-69. Then we can move in for the capture."
Agent VAT-69, of course, was the as-yet-unidentified fellow conspirator with whom Dung had talked on the telephone forty-five minutes ago back at Madame Lun Mee's while Fanny had listened in. Dung, Fanny, Lotus Blossom, and Passion Flower had just completed their three-on-one sexual workout, and Dung had been preparing to roll some marijuana joints, when one of the serving boys had entered their cubicle with a portable telephone saying there was an urgent call for the fortune cookie king. During the brief conversation which had ensued, Dung had addressed his caller only as Agent VAT-69. So he might have been anyone. But the use of a code name in itself, plus the deference in Dung's normally gruff tone as he had talked, had convinced the dainty dazzler that the mysterious caller must be a functionary of at least equal status to Dung in the conspiracy complex. Hence her fervent wish to expose and apprehend both Dung and Agent VAT-69 at one fell swoop if possible.
At the completion of the portentous conversation between the two spies, Fanny had abruptly complained of a headache to her co-workers and their client. Sensing that the crisis-point of the whole case was imminent, she'd just had to get away to make contact with her baby boss. Leaving Dung, Lotus Blossom, and Passion Flower to enjoy their post-tryst smoke, the succulent sleuth had donned her street clothes and scurried to the nearest pay phone to call Harvey. Fortunately in view of the fact that there'd been no time to waste, the puny private eye had reversed his earlier stand and immediately accepted the validity of her evidence against Dung. So overwhelmingly incriminating had been the data Fanny had reported that even old hollow-head Harvey had not been able to gainsay it ... Remembering Dung's statement to Vat-69 that he would join him at die hitter's apartment after leaving the whorehouse and stopping by the fortune cookie company to pick up "the papers", the rosy-cheeked ravisuer had directed her boss to pick her up outside the Hop Kee offices. Which-with commendable promptness-he had just done.
Now, as the two-car caravan wheeled uptown amidst the light post-midnight traffic on Third Avenue, Fanny wondered with racing heart what their destination might be. They were heading for VAT-69's apartment, of course, but where was it, and, more important, who would the unknown agent turn out to be? She was also wondering, more than a little worriedly, about the fates of Long Arm Mannie and Stooge. Golly but that had been a dangerous mission she'd sent them on. If any disaster had befallen her true-blue pals, the solicitous sprite knew she would never forgive herself. She'd half expected to run into them down on Bayard Street just now, still trailing the Hop Kee henchmen who were to bring the shipment of opium back to the firm's offices. But during the few minutes she had skulked in the shadows waiting for Harvey, the only person who had come or gone from the Hop Kee premises had been Dung himself. Well, probably the flunkie-Commies just hadn't had enough time yet to haul their subersive swag all the way back to Chinatown from the Statue of Liberty.
Suddenly, while the Cock Wagon sat idling behind Dung's shiny black charger at a red light on the corner of Third Avenue and 42nd Street: "Look, Harvey, he's trying to shake us!", squealed the springy-bosomed sex kitten.
"By god, you're right! He must have spotted us tailing him!", Harvey just as agitatedly piped. For Dung had just floored his accelerator, zoomed past the red light through a narrow break in the cross-flowing traffic, and was careening into an illegal left turn westward onto 42nd Street.
"Don't let him give us the slip, Harvey!", yelled the yellow-haired youngster.
"I won't, don't worry! ... Out of the way, everybody! Make way for Captain Sex! ... Gung-Ho-o-o!", shrilled the sickly sleuth, jamming his frail gas-pedal foot all the way to the floorboards.
Rrr-rrr-RRR...."Eeeeek!", screamed Fanny as the Cock Wagon, taking off like a beetle from a hot tin roof, scudded across the path of a lumbering tractor-trailer truck, dodging a fatal collision therewith only by the thickness of a coat of paint.
Once the turn into 42nd Street had been effected, the paralyzed pet regained her wits sufficiently to note and restlessly comment that: "Dung's got almost a whole block's lead on us! ... Give 'er all she's got, boss. The future of the Free World depends on it!"
Rrr-rrr-RRR!, roared the racing Cock Wagon, holding its own with the Commie Caddie up ahead as the two cars shot along 42nd Street, past Lexington Avenue (another red light), under the Grand Central Station overpass, and up to the intersection of 42nd and Madison.
Screeee!, went Dung's tires as he spun into a twowheeled turn north into Madison ... Screeee!, echoed Captain Sex's tires-albeit at a more effeminate tenoras he too took the turn on two wheels.
Zooming up Madison Avenue, Fanny had occasion to scream her alarm a second time as the speeding caravan approached the 59th Street crossing. Dung was barreling up to the intersection with his throttle set full speed-ahead even though a solid row of cars and taxis, idling side by side at the red light, had the avenue blocked from crub to curb...."Eeeeek!", shrieked the scared scamp. "Harvey, he's going to crash!"
However, her dire forecast proved substantially incorrect as....
CRASH! CLATTER! RRRRRR!
... the Caddie swerved to the left, shot up onto the sidewalk, and ultimately leveled nothing more substantial than a wire trash basket as it roared ahead, regaining the street on the far side of the lined-up motorists before continuing its pell-mell progress up Madison Avenue.
"Yipes! Now we're going to crash!", bleated the blonde boggier, clapping her hands over her eyes as Harvey gunned the Cock Wagon full-blast up to the same vehicular barrier Dung had successfully bypassed. Once more, however....
WHOOSH!!
... her premonition of doom proved inaccurate as the mini motorcar knifed safely through a just-wideenough slot between a Chrysler and a Ford ... Whew, what a close call that had been! As nearsighted as Harvey was, Fanny would never know how he had managed to thread the Cock Wagon through such a narrow opening at such high speed. Nor, she guessed, would he.
Vroom-vroom-vrooooom!, went the speeding chariots, still just under a block apart as they rocketed past 65th Street. At 66th Street ... screeee! ... Dung turned left.
As the Volkswagen rounded the same corner a moment later: "Look, he's stopping in front of that big apartment building up there on the right!", the kitten-eyed cutie pointed out.
Even as Fanny and Harvey came to the same screaming halt two seconds later, Dung had already debarked from his car and was seen to be sprinting past a startled doorman into the lobby of the plush high-rise.
"Quick, boss, maybe we can corner him inside!", chirped the button-nosed beauty as she catapulted her curvaceous little body from the Cock Wagon.
"Right behind you!", Captain Sex squeakily assured his golden-haired girl-friday as he flung open the door on his side ... However, as it turned out, he wasn't rigjit behind her. A short delay developed as he tripped over his cape upon alighting from the car and....
WHIZZZ! KLUNK! "Ooooof!"
... somersaulted thrice in mid-air before landing on his head on the pavement.
Luckily only slightly dazed, the boy blunderer was soon on his feet again, clomping across the sidewalk and into the chrome-and-leather lobby of the apartment house at Fanny's heels. Unluckily on the other hand
-and much to the petite pleaser's chagrin-the previous seconds Harvey's fall had cost them had enabled Dung to reach the elevator first. The door was sliding shut just as the callow crimefighters thundered up to it. Adding to the flaxen-tressed favorite's frustration was the fact that an instant before the elevator door closed, the malignantly grinning Commie chieftan had the gall to ... give them the finger.
Stamping her dainty foot in her impotent pique, the melon-breasted moppet was on the verge of unleashing the harsh words she had for her emaciated employer as she joined him in helplessly watching the numbered lights overhead record Dung's ascent. (19 ... 20 ... 21 ... ) But a ray of hope that they might yet bring the case to a successful conclusion burst open in her nimble brain as she animatedly exclaimed: "Hey, look Harvey, he's stopped on the 22nd floor! Maybe in all the excitement, he forgot we could see which floor he got off! I notice number 22 is the top floor of the building! C'mon, let's get that elevator back down here! Maybe we can go up and corner him."
In due time, the elevator returned and the youthful sleuths clambered aboard, Fanny punching impatiently and repeatedly at the button marked 22 as they began their ascent, as though doing so would accelerate the upward speed of the formica-paneled cage.
At the 22nd floor, blonde boggier and bumbling bloodhound spilled forth into the hallway, heads swiveling in all directions as they sought to detect the path of Dung's continuing flight. The caty-eyed Commie was nowhere in sight but....
"Hey, there's the stairway leading to the roof, down there at the end of the hall!", halloeed the heavenly honey. "Maybe Dung ...!? Let's check it out, little boss! Hurry!"
With Harvey falling to the carpeted floor only twice in the process even though he was reeling under the taxing burden of his drawn revolver, the twin tyros made it in jig time to the short flight of stairs leading up to the roof. Clambering up the steps, Fanny in the lead, they burst through the steel-plated door, which stood ajar, to find....
"Hee-hee ... Greetings, luckless little friends! ... Hee-hee-hee!"
... to find themselves staring straight down the barrel of the maniacally giggling Mao Tse Dung's goldplated Luger automatic.
"Yoickers!", gagged the gorgeous gamin, her bee's knees knocking together with fright as the hulking Chinaman confidently menaced them with his wicked weapon.
"You! ... Mister C.S.", Dung smirkily addressed Harvey. "Mister Caped Spook, or Cock Sucker, or whatever those ridiculous initials on your pathetically sunken chest stand for ... Would you be so kind, please, as to drop that dangerous toy you're holding?"
Fanny had to give her namby-pamby boss his due. Before capitulating to Dung's demand, Harvey bravely attempted to elevate his own weapon into shoot-out juxtaposition with the Chinaman's. It was no use, however. As the revolver barrel wavered laboriously up to a 45-degree angle-Dung's Luger trained steadily on the junior G-man all the while-even a dumb cluck like Captain Sex plainly perceived that their situation was hopeless.
Rattle-clatter!, went the heavy roscoe as the purple crusader allowed it to drop to the tar-and-gravel floor of the roof.
Lounging complacently against the concrete cornice opposite the covered kids, Dung smiled his fanged smile and said: "All right, which one of your imperialist puppies wants to go first? I don't know why you were following me, but it's obvious you know too much. Therefore...."
"What are you planning to do with us?", the scared sex-kitten worriedly injected into their captor's pregnant pause.
"Why, kill you, of course", Dung matter-of-factly revealed. "For obvious reasons, I'd rather make it look like suicide, if possible. I'm quite prepared to blast you both in the guts, but that's such a slow, painful way to die. All in all, it would be better for everyone concerned if you two would just step over here to the edge of the roof ... and jump off."
GleepI, quaked the doomed dazzler. This looked like Bitter-Endsville for sure! It was as plain as the brutal beak on Dung's face that he meant every fatal word he said. Not a glimmer of mercy shone in his glinting leopard's eyes. Oh, woe! To think that life's grand and glorious adventure was to be foreshortened for Fanny even before she attained her legal majority! And poor Harvey too! The youthful expectant parent would be leaving a lovely wife and soon-to-be-born bairn that would never lay eyes on its father. Boo-hoo!
Tears, not only of grief but of reverence for a consummately courageous action, welled up in the lilliputian lovely's eyes as Harvey threw out his scrawny chest and stepped forward to reedily announce: "I'll go first, Dung. And if you'll spare Miss Hell's life, I swear she'll leave you alone and never try to have you apprehended."
"Haw-haw-haw!", cackled the callous Commie chieftain. "Who do you think you're trying to kid? ... Nice try, little man, but she goes over the edge right after you ... Now, get over here, Creepy Sissy or whatever your name is!"
As Harvey marched nigh to Dung's position at the edge of the roof, treading stiff and erect like a sickly but brave little soldier, he turned back to utter his last farewells to the petrified pet in the doorway. "Goodbye, Fanny", he stoically squeaked, raising his fragile hand in a final salute to his adorable aide. "It's been nice knowing you. Maybe we'll meet again somewhere up in that vast Valhalla in the...."
Ker-POWIE!
"Good show, Harvey!", cried the amber-eyed adolescent as her baby boss cunningly converted his farewell salute into a sneak punch square into the unsuspecting Dung's grinning shops.
Sad to say, however, the potential advantage was short-lived. As Harvey's powder-puff blow lanced harmlessly off his chin, Dung grabbed the puny private eye by the wrist, spinning him about so that he ended up helplessly pinned with his pipe-stem arm twisted cruelly behind his back. "Okay, punk!", snarled the abruptly enraged Chinaman. "This is the end of the line for you!" So saying, he slipped his gat into his coat pocket and hoisted the squirming sleuth high into the air with both arms, holding him suspended above his head as he turned with the patent intention of tossing his victim twenty-two stories to a squishy-splattery death on the pavement below.
However, the murderous Oriental failed to reckon with the quick reflexes and relentless derring-do of the dimpled dumpling who stood to his rear. As Dung Harvey's doom, Fanny pounced desperately for the revolver-her anemic employer had earlier discarded. Springing up again in a blur of swirling golden curls and jouncing juicy breasts, she aimed the first firearm she had ever held in her hands in her life toward the deadly pantomine being performed at the edge of the roof, and....
BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! ... squeezed off three thunderous shots with her eyes tightly shut.
Nigh unto fainting with the magnitude of her deed, the shaken sugar fluttered her fluffy lashes open to observe....
LUNK
... Harvey's harmless fall to the floor from Dung's talons, while the slant-eyed Commie remained standing like a zombie at the hp of the roof. As he swam around to face her, Fanny noted with appropriate pleasure but also with a decidedly queasy sensation in the pit of her trim turn-turn, that Dung's corporeal form had been newly ventilated with a trio of jagged bullet holes, each gushing a sickening crimson blood-font. One of the icky apertures was located squarely between his brutal yellow eyes, a second just to the right of his Adam's apple, and the third in the left lapel of his pin-striped suit, right over the heart.
While the lethal lovely looked hypnotically on, torn between joy and revulsion at the deadly wonders she had wrought, Dung abruptly departed their scene without so much as a wave bye-bye. All he said as he toppled backward into empty space was : "Long live Mao-o-oo-o!", the last syllable drawn lengthily and shrilly out as he plummeted earthward.
With the distant splat of meat thudding into concrete echoing in her ears, Fanny wondered just which Mao Dung had been referring to in his parting toast. If it was the one who had just swan-dived twenty-two stories to the sidewalk on East 66th Street, his best wishes for a long life had clearly been futile. Oh well.
Shakily regaining his feet, a grateful Captain Sex panted: "Gosh, thanks, Fanny. I thought I was a goner for sure."
"It was nothing, boss", the provocative pussycat cutely assured him. "Saving lives is all in a day's work in the detective dodge, right?"
"Speaking of our day's work", Harvely alertly harked, "it's getting awfully late at night, but we'd better report this breakthrough in the case to Mister Shankblister right away. The Justice Department won't want to lose a minute in rounding up Dung's slimy associates."
"I guess you're right ... Okay, let's call Mister S. as soon as we get back down to the street."
"Hey, wait a minute, Fanny. What was the address of this apartment house again?"
"East 66th Street. Number seven, I think ... Why?"
"Wow, isn't that a wild coincidence!? Mister Shankblister lives right in this building! ... Let's go and tell him our good news in person!"
CHAPTER NINE
BZZZZ! BZZZZ! BZZZZ!
"Golly, Harvey, maybe he's not home", Fanny speculated in the hallway outside the door of apartment 5-F at the East 66th Street domicile of U.S. Justice Department bureaucrat Chauncey Shankblister. Caped crime-fighter Captain Sex had already buzzed Shankblister's buzzer several times.
"Let's give him a few more seconds", Harvey suggested. "If he's home, he figures to be in the sack at this hour, so he's bound to take a while answering."
BZZZZ! BZZZZ! BZZZZ!
At long last, a muffled, sleep-drugged voice came from behind the door. "Who's there?"
"It's Captain Sex, Mister Shankblister. I'm Harvey Hereford's associate. Miss Hell and I have important news about the case!"
After another brief pause, the bolt of the lock clicked open and the door swung ajar to reveal a puffy-eyed Shankblister clad in a garish red silk robe over yellow pajamas. "My god!", he exclaimed, rubbing his eyes at the sight of Harvey's costume. "Captain Sex? ... What the hell kind of a weirdo is a Captain Sex? Am I still dreaming, or what?"
"I assure you I'm not any kind of a weirdo, sir", Harvey evenly but hurtly answered the insult to his bizarre attire. "I'm a bon a fide associate of your agent, Harvey Hereford Junior ... You recognize Miss Hell, of course?"
"Oh, yes. Hello there, Miss Hell", the still-drowsy government official blearily returned. With a toothy yawn that quivered his cherub-pink jowls, he added: "Well, since you've got me up, you might as well come in and spill your big news, whatever it is."
Padding barefooted into his expensively appointed parlor, Shankblister switched on a lamp and bade Harvey and Fanny to seat themselves on the sofa while he slouched into a leather arm chair facing them across a teakwood coffee table. "Okay", he said, running his fingers through the fringe of sandy hair which ringed his glistening bald pate. "So what's the big deal that made you pull me out of bed in the middle of the night?"
"This'll probably bowl you over, Mister Shankblister, but we've discovered that the Chinatown Postal and Benevolent Association isn't the real Commie front organization after al!", Harvey launched animatedly into his tale. Seated demurely by his side, Fanny noted without really minding that by his use of the phrase "we discovered", he was muscling in on the credit for a coup she had made all by her little lonesome. Oh well, it was a man's world.
"But that's not all, sir", Harvey briskly continued, his already high-pitched voice rising a few notes in his excitement. "By dint of some very clever undercover work, we've found out that the real Commies are a gang of crooks operating as the Hop Kee Fortune Cookie Company. They've been baking opium into their fortune cookies so that the people who eat them are unwittingly becoming dope addicts."
"You don't say!", exclaimed the potato-shaped federal man, seeming to come fully awake for the first time. Studying his pasty face, Fanny wondered why he didn't look happier about the big breakthrough Harvey had just announced. Shankblister's full, self-indulgent lips curved down into a frown at their corners, while his shifty eyes seemed to be focused inward, as though the news he had just received held implications for him that he wasn't revealing. Hmmm.
"Finally, Mister Shankblister", Harvey went eagerly on, "we've already nailed the biggest of the Hop Kee cut-throats. All the Justice Department will have to do now is round up the underlings because Miss Hell and I just knocked off their leader, Mao Tse Dung."
"You ... what?", blurted Shankblister, suddenly rising from his chair, his face going red as though he wanted to strike Harvey instead of laud him for the detective duo's patriotic action. "You killed Mao Tse Dung?"
"Y-yessir", Harvey nervously re-confirmed. (His golden-curled girl-friday could see that he was as nonplussed as she was over Shankblister's patent disapproval of what they'd done). "We, uh, did the right thing, didn't we, sir? ... It was self defense, of course."
Shankblister seemed about to say something else before catching himself and muttering only:" Oh, yes, you did the right thing." Stepping toward an oaken sideboard on the other side of the room, he advised over his shoulder: "Excuse me a minute, will you? I think I need a drink."
However, when their pot-bellied host had opened the top drawer of the sideboard, he drew forth not an ice crusher or a cocktail strainer, but a....
"Yipes! He's got a gun!", trilled the titillating tyke, her eyes going wide with fright as Shankblister wheeled about to menance them with a big black .45 automatic.
"Mister Shankblister, sir, what's the meaning of this?", squeaked Fanny's equally startled sidekick, Harvey.
"I'll tell you the meaning of it, you bungling brats!", spat the livid law-and-order official. "The man you just bumped off-Mao Tse Dung-was my partner! ... Christ, when I hired that pipsqueak Hereford, I never dreamed things would come to this!"
"But, sir, we're supposed to rub out Commie conspirators, aren't we?", Harvey timorously reasoned. "Why are you so mad at us?"
"Because I didn't want you to catch the real Commies at all!", Shankblister nastily divulged, waggling his pistol back and forth between his two frightened guests. "Because I'm one of the Commies myself, that's why! ... Goddamnit, when my superiors at Justice assigned me to hire a private detective for this case, I did all kinds of painstaking research looking for the dumbest dick in town, the one I thought least likely to come up with a solution. That's how come your pal Hereford got the job. Jesus, is he dumb! Naturally, I knew all along that the CPBA was innocent. I was only conning Hereford when I said otherwise. I was laying a smokescreen that I hoped not only he but my associates at Justice would fall for. And now ... shit! ... look what it's all come to! You two snot-nosed snoopers have ruined everything!"
So Shankblister was in on the Commie plot too! My, my, but their cranky client was in a tizzy, Fanny fearfully observed. Shankblister stood there stamping his feet and gnashing his teeth like a spoiled child who's just had his favorite toy taken away from him. Only in this case, the toy he retained-that lethal-looking automatic-held the capacity for far more disastrous reprisal than might be expected from a second-grader. Harking back to the bald bureaucrat's remark that the late Mao Tse Dung had been his partner, and sensing that the longer they could keep him talking the less likely he was to start shooting, the elfin enchantress speculated: "Say, Mister Shankblister, you must be the mysterious Agent VAT-69 that Dung talked to on the phone tonight, huh?"
"You're damn right I am!", Shankblister readily if sullenly confirmed. "At least VAT-69 is my name in Peking-oriented circles. Dung and I were in cahoots on this opium plot. But my real name is Georgi Metkovitch, and my real loyalty is to the true motherland, the Soviet Union!"
"Holy cloak-and-daggers!", piped the pink-nippled pet. "Do you mean to say that you're...?"
"Exactly, Miss Hell. I'm what is known in the trade as a triple agent", Shankblister cut her off, his tone betraying a certain degree of pompous pride although his countenance retained its ominous scowl. "I work for all three of the Big Powers. Or at least I accept remuneration from all of them. As I said, my heart of hearts belongs to Mother Russia. I was going to kill Dung myself, but not until later on, when he'd outlived his usefulness, when the whole U.S.A. was hooked on opium. Our plan was that us Russkys were going to take over America at that point, and then go on from there to knock off those mother-jumping Chinks. But now you two ... do you realize what you've done!? You've very likely fucked up the future history of the whole damned world unless we can keep this opium plot going without Dung!"
"Wh-what do you plan to do with us, Mister Shankblister?", stammered the stacked sweetie, not really wanting to hear the answer to her question. "Y-you don't really have to kill us, d-do you?"
"I dunno. I'll think about it", Shankblister replied as nonchalantly as though he were considering the fates of a couple of June bugs. "For the moment, we're all going to sit tight and wait until we hear from Dung's henchmen. Two of them were supposed to pick up a shipment of opium at the Statue of Liberty tonight. When Dung fails to rendezvous with them back at the Hop Kee office, it's a cinch they'll either call me or come by here. We'll see what develops from there ... In the meantime, take off your clothes!"
At first, Fanny was certain she must have heard wrong. "Wh-what did you say. Mister Shankblister?", she gagged.
"I said take off your clothes ... Both of you", the chubby-cheeked spy repeated as casually as before.
The dainty dazzler could still hardly believe her ears. What a night this had been. A bizarre three-on-one sex coupling at Madame Lun Mee's, a wild auto chase through the streets of Manhattan, a fatal confrontation on the roof of a skyscraper climaxed by the first killing she had ever witnessed, much less executed. And now a self-confessed triple espionage agent directing her and Harvy to disrobe. Surely her nerves must be cracking. Surely Shankblister hadn't actually ordered them to strip. Nevertheless, just to check the matter out: "Did you say you wanted us to take off our clothes, Mister Shankblister?", she incredulously queried. At their host's bland affirmative nod, she added: "B-but ... why?"
"Because I want you two to fuck each other, that's why", the gun-toting government man stated his insane design in the most reasonable-sounding voice.
"But why would you want us to, uh, fuck, as you put it?", Fanny mystifiedly pressed.
"Because in addition to being the most notorious triple agent in the spy biz, I'm also a raging sex pervert" Shankblister unashamedly revealed. "I'm a voyeur. I get my jollies out of watching other people screw." Whereupon, throwing open the folds of his robe, he burrowed into the fly of his pajamas and drew out his scarlet-knobbed, already semi-erect penis, and reiterated in a more demanding tone: "Now, strip! Both of you!"
At this point, Harvey spoke up for the first time in several minutes. His cheeks flushing angrily below his dark goggles, he shrilled at Shankblister: "See here, sir! You may not realize it, but you're talking to a married man!"
"Yeah? ... So what?", Shankblister wanted to know.
"I took a sacred vow that I would never fornicate with anyone except my beloved wife Lascivia as long as I live! A team of wild horses couldn't make me break that vow!"
"Look, Caped Shithead!", the dead-set departmental man implacably shot back, pointing his automatic straight at Captain Sex's heart. "Your only choice is to fuck Miss Hell or get your head blown off Maybe wild horses couldn't make you break your marriage vows, but how about a bullet between the eyes!? ... Do you get the point, Captain Shlemiel?"
"Uh ... y-yessir", Harvey hastily replied, his trembling fingers already working at the buckle of his utility belt.
While Shankblister re-seated himself in the leather armchair, his gun cradled in one hand, the inflamed shaft of his penis clutched in the other, Harvey continued his disrobing operations. Rising from the sofa, he bent to peel his leotard pants down his spindly legs, whispering to the amber-eyed associate: "Isn't this awful, Fanny? I'd almost rather get shot, wouldn't you?"
Hmmph!, thought the cuddly captivator. Well if that wasn't a fine how-do-you-do! Despite the strained circumstances of their impending union, she was still female enough to be miffed at such an insult to her spectacular charms as Harvey had just delivered, however unwittingly. Almost rather be shot indeed! ... For her part, totally aside from her corresponding desire to remain faithful to her mate, she wasn't exactly thrilled about the idea of balling Harvey either. What a drag it was going to be to make it with a sexless little pipsqueak like him. But she certainly wasn't about to hurt his feelings the way he had just hurt hers, by making her true thoughts known. Accordingly, all she muttered was: "I guess we'll just have to grin and bear it, little boss. At least it buys us some time to try and figure a way out of this mess."
So saying, Fanny commenced her own denuding process, intending to go as slowly as possible but speeding up a bit on the buttons of her cute yellow minidress when Shankblister barked: "Hurry it up, Miss Hell! I'm dying to get a look at those luscious tits and that juicy young cunt of yours!"
The nubile juvenile had gotten down to just her lacy black bra and frilly matching underpanties when she was constrained to pause, her knees almost buckling beneath her at an astounding sight which unfolded before her boggled eyes. Standing next to her, Harvey nervously completed his sickly nudity by dropping his underpants to bare ... holy redwood logs! ... the longest, thickest, hugest, most elephantine penis Fanny had ever seen!
So astounding, dumfounding, and electrifying was the revelation of such a gargantuan cock on such a scrawny boy that the dazed darling, unable to stand, sank helplessly back onto the sofa to recover from her shock ... Ye gods! That hawser hanging between Harvey's legs had to be a good twelve inches long already, and it was still completely flaccid! It was as thick as the hitting end of Joe Dimaggio's baseball bat, with a knob fully as big as those selfsame baseballs die Yankee Clipper had once propelled into the Stadium bleachers! Spying an organ of this size on a fair-sized plow-horse would have mildly startled Fanny, but discovering it affixed to a ninety-seven pound weakling like Harvey ... well, she was absolutely stupefied!
"Harvey, your penis! It's so ... big!", the awed angel was unable to resist pointing out, feeling she was making the understatement of the century. All of a sudden, the ordeal of balling her twerpy boss didn't seem like such an ordeal any more. Providing her delicate vaginal membranes proved to have the stretching power to contain him, that was. Well, she guessed, if Lascivia's pussy could do it, hers could too. It now became crystal clear how a noodnick like Harvey had been able to woo, win and retain a sharp chick like Lascivia. That fantastic prick of his was enough to kindle joy in the heart of any red-blooded woman on earth. Not that Fanny had any intention of trying to muscle in on Lascivia's carnal territory. Not only would that have gone against the grain of her romantic ethics, but her heart belonged-and always would-to her precious Virgil, no mean sexual pile-driver in his own right. Nonetheless, as long as Mr. Shankblister was making them do it, she saw no reason not to relax and enjoy the titillating tryst with her elephant-cocked employer.
"Miss Hell, will you please stop sitting there with your jaw hanging open, and finish undressing?", Shankblister impatiently coached from the sidelines, apparently already well into his masturbatory fantasia as he stropped rhythmically away on his penis with one hand while manning his automatic with the other.
Reaching behind her back for her bra snap, Fanny noted that while Harvey had taken everything else off, his head remained shrouded in his purple motorcycle helmet and goggles, apparently so as to keep Shankblister in the dark as to his true identity right up to the bitter end. What a funny figure he cut, standing there with his skinny body completely undraped except for the helmet and goggles, and that colossal prick hanging almost to his knees.
Pop, went the golden girl's lacy black bra. As the twin-cupped garment sprang away from the rubbery jewels it had confined, the sight of Fanny's pink-capped breasts shimmering nakedly into view was greeted by the expected whimper of appreciation from Shankblister but, perplexingly, only by an eyes-averted hang-dog-posturing from Harvey ... Well!
When the silken-skinned sweetheart had stepped daintily and totally nude from her precious underpanties, Shankblister once again made his obeisance with a strangled gurgle of approbation from the armchair. But, as before, Harvey barely even glanced at the creamy bundle of naked, exquisitely-molded girl-flesh which stood before his eyes. Noting with mounting dismay that her boss hadn't even begun to get an erection, Fanny wondered if she might be losing her seductive touch.
"What's the matter, Harvey?", she gently inquired. "Don't you find me attractive?"
"Aw gee, Fanny, it's not that. It's just....", the bashful boy hemmed and hawed, blushing a bright crimson. "I mean, sure you're pretty and sexy, almost as much so as Lascivia, but...."
"I think you're pretty too, Harvey", purred the pert pussycat. "Your ... penis ... is very pretty I wish we could get it hard, don't you?"
Brightening a bit at her praise of his oversized organ, Harvey looked his succulent sidekick in the eye for the first time since they had undressed, to ask: "Do you really like my penis, Fanny? ... Funny thing, Lascivia says she likes it too. You and her are the only two girls who've ever seen it, you know. I always used to think I was deformed and that no girl would ever want to make love with me because back in school whenever we'd get stripped for gym class all the guys would look at me like I was some kind of a freak. They looked at my penis almost like it was making them mad ... Lascivia says it was just because they were jealous, but still I've never quite gotten over the notion that I'm built wrong.
It makes me feel good to hear you say that you like my penis too."
"Indeed I do, little boss. Indeed I do", the cheeky-bottomed charmer sincerely assured him. "But I'd like it even more if it would stand up hard like it's supposed to."
"Gosh, Fanny, I'm just so ... embarrassed", murmured the shy sleuth. "I'm not sure if I can get an erection or not."
"Look, fella, the first thing you have to do is relax", suggested the experienced ingenue, taking competent charge of the situation. "We're not cheating on either of our mates because Shankblister is forcing us to do this, right? So there's no reason to feel guilty. Second ... look at me, Harvey."
As the troubled tyro obediently if reluctantly did so, Fanny brought her hands purposefully up over her flawless smoothness of her tummy to heft the underswells of her juicy white breasts. Cupping their rounded bulks from below, she squeezed them upward and together for Harvey's edification, as if offering up two succulent melons. "Look at my breasts, Harvey", she throatily instructed. "See how naked and pretty they are ... Look at their skin. Have you ever seen anything so smooth and white? And when I press them harder together-like this-see how the blue veins stand out just under the surface? Isn't that pretty? ... And look at the nipples, Harvey. So pink, almost reddish, and soft all around the edges with those chewy little points in their centers. Wouldn't you like to suck on them, Harvey?"
Rather to her surprise, the juicy junior-miss found that she was beginning to get sexed up just by talking about her own bare boobies. She sure hoped she'd be successful! in likewise arousing Harvey. Otherwise assuming they survived their current perilous predicament-she was going to be left hanging on the horns of a prickly longing that was growing more acute by the second.
With a look of resignation on the visible half of his face, Harvey stepped nigh to give it a go. Leaning close....
Slurp!
... he sucked the cherry-hued point of the wee waifs left nipple into his mouth and began tonguing dutifully away.
Jeepers, this felt good, the naughty knock-out was thinking when ... Aha!, she rejoiced, peering around the side of her emaciated employer's head to catch a glimpse of his cock. Under the influence of the mammary-labial contact, the hempen organ had just given a little throb and was now jutting outward at a 45-degree angle. It still pointed basically downward instead of straight out, but he was on his way, she was getting to him at last.
When Fanny reached down and boldly seized the plump penis, squeezing it in the middle like a supersized weenie-balloon, she experienced the exhilarating kick of feeling it fill up with lust-blood as quickly as though someone had turned on a hot water faucet in Harvey's shrunken loins. In a matter of moments, in a series of pulsating throbs under her stroking palm, the monster member had leaped to rock-hard readiness for the enforced festivities at hand. Wow!, marked the milky-breasted moppet, gazing agog at its lancing length. There was a whopping 14-incher or her name wasn't Frances Rosebud Shelley!
"Okay, you two! That's enough of the farting around!", Shankblister cut rudely into Fanny's hot-pussied preoccupation with Harvey's impressive implement. "Let's see some real fucking for a change."
Are you ready, Harvey dear?", the tempting tot solicitously asked as she forcibly unfastened her greedy suckling pig from her incomparable breast.
"Yeah, I think so", Harvey archly allowed, obviously in a much more free-wheeling mood than before. "Matter of fact, I kinda diink I might enjoy this. After all, since we've got a gun at out backs, it's no sin, right? ... Heh-heh-heh!"
"That's the spirit, sweetie-pie!", cheered the blonde bewitcher. "Do you want the top or the bottom position?"
"Well, uh, usually with Lascivia I take the top."
"That's jake by me, monkey-balls!", Fanny cheekily agreed ... God, was she ever dying to feel that incredible cock of his inside her! So much so that she had all but forgotten for the moment the dire implicadons of Shankblister's pistol-packing presence close at hand. Well, they could worry about that later.
Nestling mouth-wateringly on her back on the sofa to the slap-slap-slapping tune of Shankblister's continuing self-pollution off to the side, the nude nymphet threw her perfect thighs wide apart in readiness to be gloriously ravished. This time, much to the gratification of her easily-bruised little ego, Shankblister's constricted moan at the sight of her glossy-pink, golden-furred vagina was accompanied by a corresponding tribute from Harvey.
As Harvey crawled to the appropriate pre-entry position between her legs, Fanny glanced down and knew a moment of panicky doubt as to whether or not she'd be able to coitally handle him after all. That gigantic flesh-torpedo nudging nigh her precious pudendum looked perfectly capable of splitting a girl in two. Nor were her fears pacified to any great extent when she took hold of the yawing boom and discovered that she was unable to join her fingertips around its mammoth circumference. On the other hand: nothing ventured, nothing gained. This was either going to be the most chock-full-of-cock fuck of her life, or she was going to wind up in the gynecology hospital.
Tamping Harvey's bulging penile dp in amongst her fragrantly lubricated vaginal petals, she yipped: "Okay, little boss ... Shove!", and held her breath.
"Ooooh! ... Aaaah!", were the next two grunted and sighed ululations which escaped Fanny's kissable lips as her anemic employer gained deep-plunging entry to her juicy sexual depths. The first grunted whimper was one of sheer physical pain at the sudden stretching of her tender membranes. However, this was quickly followed by a sigh of the most profound pleasure as the membranes did indeed decide to stretch, allowing her a sense of carnal fulfillment she had never before experienced.
Peering down between their bodies as Harvey pulled back before thundering in for his second stroke, the flaxen-tressed favorite could hardly believe her eyes, but she was really taking all of him in, all fourteen enormous inchesl It must be a miracle! As the surprisingly virile scarecrow began banging steadily away, she fancied that she could feel his tip way the heck up against her epiglotis on the in-strokes. Wow Fanny felt like a piglet on a roasting spit, but she was loving it!
In a matter of moments, her consummately feminine body began to quake with the first tremors of approaching orgasm. Oh, how fine this wasl "How're you making it, Harvey?", she rapturously shuddered.
"I'm almost there, Fanny!", the hard-breathing, sparrow-chested detective admitted in her ear.
"Me too, lover! ... Lay on the coals! ... Go! Go Go!"
"Aaaaah!", sighed the supremely satisfied sweetheart a moment later as her climax hit her in a series of convulsive grabs on the flesh-and-blood battering ram imbedded deep in her delectable cunt. Simultaneously, she felt Harvey's semen-a whole bucket-full, it felt like-spurting hotly against the walls of her adorable womb. Nor was she unaware of a third orgasmic looping of the loops in their immediate vicinity. Over in his armchair, Shankblister was to be heard gurgling his sick joy that he too had popped off.
When the sex-transported trio had recovered their respective breaths, Shankblister said: "That was real goods, kiddies. Best mother-fucking fuck I've watched in a coon's age. Thanks."
Rolling off Fanny to towel his deflating member with his leotard tops, Harvey seized upon this opening to hopefully suggest:"
"Maybe since we gave you such a good show, Mister Shankblister, maybe you'll be a nice guy and let us go, eh?"
"Haw-haw-haw! ... You gotta be kidding, Mighty Mouse!", the cackling Commie contemptuously replied. "Listen kid, when I said I'd think about not bumping you off, it was pure bullshit! I've meant to kill you all along! In a couple of minutes, as soon as I'm strong enough to stand up, I'm going to blast both of you full of holes! ... Har-har-har!"
Fanny had had only a split second to chew on this distressing revelation, when....
BZZZZ! BZZZZ! BZZZZ!
... the door-buzzer stunded, causing Shankblister to spring from his chair sooner than he had planned.
"All right, you two. Sit right where you are and keep your mouths shut", he hissed as he headed for the door. Once there, he called: "Who's there?"
"It is I, Kwam, Missah Shankbrister, and a few of our fellow comrades", came the muffled response from outside.
At this, Shankblister alacritously unlocked the door to admit no fewer than seven of his slant-eyed co-conspirators, all identically clad in black: black trousers, black turtleneck shirts, and black skull-caps. As the sinister-looking crew stepped into the center of the room, Fanny recognized the one in the lead as Kwam, the groveling flunkie whom Dung had browbeaten on the street yesterday. Kwam was not groveling this evening, however. In fact, he proceeded to act as spokesman for the new arrivals. With hardly a glance-and certainly not the logical leer-at the naked teen-Venus and her puny partner on the sofa, he said: "I see you have company, Missah Shankbrister. May we speak freery in flont of these two?"
"Of course, Kwam old pa!", Shankblister congenially advised. "They're just a pair of snoopers I'm getting ready to eliminate. It doesn't matter what they hear."
"Very well ... We come in search of our exalted reader, Mao Tse Dung. He failed to join us at our Chinatown headquarters when Lum and I returned from the Statue of Puberty with the shipment of opium ... By the way, we too apprehended a pair of snoopers; a tall, horse-faced man with his associate, who appears to be mentarry letarded. They lemain tied up back at our office, rikewise scheduled for speedy execution ... In any event, Missah Shankbrister, can you enrighten us as to the whereabouts of Chairman Dung?"
Sheesh! So poor Mannie and Stooge had been captured too, the diminutive doll sadly registered as Shankblister put on his longest face before answering Kwam's question. "It's my painful duty to inform you, Kwam", intoned the warped wheeler-dealer, his sneaky eyes downcast in the phoniest display of grief Fanny had seen in many a moon, "that your glorious leader is no longer with us. Mao Tse Dung was done in this eveningcold-bloodedly murdered-by those imperialist scoundrels over there on the sofa."
Not unexpectedly, this announcement was greeted by expressions of unanimous shock and dismay from the Hop Kee gang. Amidst many sharp suckings in of breath and angry widenings of Oriental eyes, Kwam spat: "What!? ... The great Mao! Dead!"
"I'm afraid so, Kwam", Shankblister funerealy confirmed. "Believe me, old chum, I feel his loss as acutely as you do. Good old Mao. He was like a brother to me."
Ooh, what a fibberl, Fanny silently disapproved, remembering the flabby Fed's earlier statement that he himself had planned to kill Dung in due time.
"... But let's not allow our sorrow to divert us from the noble socialist crusade at hand, comrades", Shankblister went bravely on, a tearful catch in his voice. "In Mao's memory, we've got to keep that old opium-cookie assembly line rolling. I propose that we carry on the operation with yours truly in command, and with you as my first lieutenant. Kwam ... What do you say?"
As much to the dainty dazzler's shocked surprise as it obviously was to Shankblister's, what Kwam had to say was a wrathfully shouted: "I say that's a rot of shit, Missah Shankbrister! ... Who you trying to con!?"
"Yeah!", the one called Lum chimed in from the rear. "You speak with forked tongue, you fat-assed phony!"
"Wh-what are you t-talking about, comrades?", Shankblister placatingly tried, the whites of his eyes bulging out in naked fear. "I was only suggesting a way to keep the opium plot going, that's all. After all, we're all on the same ball team."
"Burr-sheeyit!", Kwam contrarily countered. "Listen, Missah Big-Shot-Triple-Agent, we had your number for a rong time already! We will indeed keep the opium prot going, fatso, but not with you in charge! Our canny reader, Mao Tse Dung, has known all arong that you're really a Russian agent! He reft standing instructions that if anything should ever happen to him, the first thing we should do is pump you full of read!" Turning to his inscrutable allies, he snapped: "Ready, comrades!?"
"Wait! ... Can't we talk this over, comrades!?", bleated Shankblister, his voice gone a gelded soprano as he backed away, shaking like a leaf in his terminal terror.
The merciless answer to his plea was the drawing of many pistols of assorted calibres and makes from many pockets, belts, and holsters. "Go fuck yourself with a Chinese chopstick, you rousy Russian rat!", was Kwam's damning pronouncement. Wherewith....
BLAMI BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!
... seven pistols blazed away, rocking the room with a sound explosion of such thunderous dimensions that Fanny thought her eardrums were punctured.
Despite her deep-seated dislike for Shankblister, the elfin eighteen-year-old was appalled-not to say profoundly sickened-to witness his gruesome fate. As the fusillade of slugs slammed into him, the punctured pervert's pulpy body twitched and jerked like a puppet on its strings, gushing blood at every pore. Fanny nearly vomited as one whistling bullet tore away the top right quarter of Shankblister's skull and sent it splattering against the wall behind him, a hideous red-andpink mural of brains and blood and slivered bone and sandy hair.
At last, after what seemed a hellish eternity, but was probably only a second or two ... KLUNKI
... Shankblister toppled to the floor in an ever-widening pool of ghastly crimson blood.
His feebly moaned signification that he was not quite dead yet garnered him only....
BLAMI BLAM I BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BAM I
... a second torrential hail of fire as the Commies' bullets smeared the remains of his shredded carcass across the floor like a blood-soaked rag doll.
"Kaff-kaff-kaff!", coughed the kitten-eyed curie, fanning at the acrid gunsmoke which filled the room and fouled her precious lungs as the shooting ceased.
Nor did she even need to inquire after their intentions as the evilly grinning Commie gang now turned their weapons on her and Harvey ... Shucks! This was the third time this evening that they'd been menanced with the prospect of execution by firing squad. A third reprieve would be just too much to hope for. Goodbye cruel world! However....
BLAM! BLAM! BLAMI
... came the noise not of gunfire but of several burly shoulders butting against the outside of the apartment door. In another instant....
CLATTER! CRASH!
... the door exploded from its hinges and a veritable flood of blue-coated New York City policemen came pouring into the room, revolvers drawn, to surround the disgruntled Oriental executioners. In their vanguard was none other than officer Keung Lee, the handsome Chinese cop who had arrested Fanny at the CPBA offices, but who had later befriended her. "'All right, you men!", Keung virilely demanded of the unhappy Hop Kees. "Drop those guns! We've got you covered!"
"Yippee! We're saved!", rejoiced the radiant ravisher, clutching her mini-dress to her springy bosom in order not to distract the officers as they relieved the Chinamen of their weapons. Also included in the rescue party, Fanny now noticed as they came traipsing in after the last of the men in blue, were...."Mannie! Stooge ... You're saved tool ... Hooray!" So thrilled was the pink-nippled pet to see her ragtag chums alive and well that she forgot to keep her dress draped over the front of her body as she went to greet them. Scampering stark and succulently naked across the room-a gamboling pink-and-white mass of bouncy bare bottoms and jiggling juicy breasts-she flung herself first into Mannie's arms and then into Stooge's in happy reunion embrace. "Golly, guys, I was so worried about you. We heard you were captured too!", she excitedly began before breaking off in grinning confusion with: "But how ... who ... what...? '
"Jeez, youse'll never guess what happent, Fanny goil", an equally widely grinning Mannie launched into his tale of the events leading up to the dramatic last-minute rescue. "Foist of all, dose rotten-bastid Commies nabbed us at da Statue o' Liberty when we wuz tryna spy on dem. Dey tied us up an' brought us back ta dat Hop Kee Fortune Cookie place down on Bayard. Dey just t'rew us on da floor in da back o' da joint, an' den dey hung aroun' fer a long time, waitin' fer dis Mao guy ta show up. But he din't show ... So fin'lly, one o' da Chinks-dere wuz seven of 'em dere by dis time-ups an' says he t'inks he knows where Mao mighta gone ... Me an' Stooge are watchin' while he looks up an address from a book on da desk up front. He says: 'Come on, comrades, let's make tracks,' an' da whole bunch blows da joint, leavin'm ean' Stooge tied up dere in da back wit' da lights toined out ... But here wuz da lucky t'ing. When dey took off, dey fergot ta lock da front door! Pretty soon dis cop car comes cruisin' down da street, an' da cops see dat da door is standin' ajar. One of 'em-Officer Lee over dere-gets otta da car an' comes over ta check. Natcherly, me an' Stooge yells our head off when we see him come up ta da door.
Anyways, da cops untie us an' we all take a gander at de address book dat dose stupid Chinks left lyin' open on top o' da desk. De address on da open page says Chauncey Shankblister, seven East Sixty-Sixt' Street. So we hightailed it up here ta catch da Commie bad guys. We sure din't expect ta find you an' dat goofy-lookin' naked guy wit' da helmet an' goggles, dough."
"Tee-heel ... It's a good thing you did find us. In another couple of seconds Captain Sex and I would have been riddled with more holes than a pair of Swiss cheeses!", the juicy juvenile jovially reckoned. Glancing about at the efficient cleanup operations-the cops covering Shankblister's carcass with a blanket and herding the Hop Kee gang out through the door-another delightful realization came into clear focus in her mind for the first time. "Hey, Harvey!", the scintillating sprite called over to her sickly sidekick. "It just dawned on me ... We've solved our ease!"
CHAPTER TEN
"Harvey! Stop that!", Lascivia Hereford teasingly scolded. "If you touch me there again, I'll never finish getting ready for our dinner date with Fanny and Virgil."
The fetchingly pregnant young wife stood brushing her luxuriant blonde tresses before the full-length minor in the Hereford bedroom, partially clad in white silk blouse and frilly pink maternity panties. From behind, her mischievous mite of a husband disregarded her coy command and boldly touched her "there" once again.
"I'm warning you, Harvey", Lascivia smilingly scolded a second time, clamping her thighs tightly shut on his intimately probing fingers. However, this time as her hand darted to the rear of her cheeky crotch she neglected to slap her hubby's impudent fingers away. Instead, she clutched them tightly in her own, holding them in place against her most private sector for a long, titillating moment.
Then, turning to face Harvey and giving his wrist a sharp twist in the process, the voluptuous spouse brought his hand up to her magnificent bosom. Pressing his frail palm to the jutting, milk-filled swell inside her blouse, she said with mock exasperation: "Oh, Harvey, Harvey, whatever am I going to do with you? You know we're going to be late for our date if we keep on like this, don't you?"
"Yep ... So?", Harvey cockily replied, a licentiously loving grin spreading across his wan features as he looked levelly into her blue eyes, looking levelly because he was no taller than she.
Lascivia sighed, but not at all unhappily. "Well, husband, I see I'm just going to have to do something to calm you down. You haven't taken your grubby little paws off me since you got home from work. I sure hope it's not because you're getting turned on by Fanny. I know you two must not have much to do around the office since you cracked the Hop Kee case last week ... Come on. Let's go into the living room."
Leading her myopic mate unresistingly by the hand, Lascivia proceeded into the main room of their posh upper east side apartment knowing from the depths of her contentment that Harvey wasn't really being turned on by Fanny or anyone else other than herself. He was hers all the way, and he patently loved being so ... Let's see, she tried to decide. Would the sofa or the bear-skin rug be the better setting for the naughty game of husband-pacification she had in mind? Actually, it hardly mattered. Sex with this fine little man she'd hooked up with was a groove in any context. Oh, how happy he had made her during this first year of their marriage! He wasn't long on technique, sexually speaking, having been a twenty-seven-year-old virgin at the time of their wedding. But that 14-inch cock of his! Good god, had there ever in the world existed a more wondrous source of lasting pleasure for a lusty young girl? Knowing that most people judged Harvey a sexless vegetable owing to his unimposing physique, Lascivia smugly regarded herself as the keeper or a heavenly secret, knowing as she did what an incomparable male treasure lay inside his pants. And it was hers, all hersl Oh, happy day!
As her sweeping gaze happened to fall upon the fragile, straight-backed antique chair her mother had sent them from California as a wedding gift, a delightfully erotic idea stabbed at Lascivia's brain, not to mention her quickening loins. Oh yes, this would be new and different and good. A most gratifying gimmick. "Take your clothes off, Harvey precious", she ordered with sweet succintness, like a lush-breasted mother directing an agreeable child. Smiling happily, Harvey moved to comply.
As he disrobed, Lascivia fetched the flimsy antique chair from its spot by the wall out to the center of the floor.
"What's that for?", Harvey wanted to know.
"You'll see, little feller", his spectacularly endowed wife seductively promised ... As Harvey stepped naked from his undershorts, Lascivia, as always, emitted an uncontrollable little gasp of joy at the sight of his incredible male gland. Surely, this immense, eminently lovely sex-sausage would put to shame anything the Hebrew-National Company had ever turned out. Lord, look how it lanced horizontally outward from his wasted little form, huge and firm and streamlined, the cock of an elephant on the body of a bantam rooster. Screwing wasn't the only point of compatibility between the Herefords of course, but at blissful moments like this the ecstatic young bride felt her whole universe filled up with her hubby's gargantuan sex, just as it would momentarily be filling her yearning vagina to the prodding point.
Now Lascivia began to undrape her own magnificent body. Shucking her lowcut blouse off over the top of her head, she shook her golden tresses back into place as Harvey stepped behind her to help unclasp her heavily burdened brassiere. As the skinny sleuth undid the snap, causing her lavish mammary mounds to loll forward in release, his pleasured partner felt his hands cupping and squeezing them even before she could shrug the bra off onto the floor.
Dear, sweet, eager little puppydog, she thought, gladly allowing him his way with her swollen breasts. Oooh, how good that felt, she registered, luxuriating in the heat of her mounting arousal as Harvey thumbed enthusiastically away at her mocha-colored nipples.
"Oh, Harvey, that's nice ... So nice", she throatily purred, leaning back into him as she looked down to enjoy watching his busy fingers at work upon her milky upper nudity ... Yes, it was so nice. In an amazingly short period of time, Harvey had learned just how to touch her there. Look how deftly he manipulated the hardening chocolate points with his thumbs and forefingers. A hot, sticky sensation in her vagina told Lascivia that she was rapidly building toward the point where she would need to have her hubby's fat prick deep inside her. Back and forth Harvey rolled the quivering nips under her appreciative inspection. Watching with almost narcissistic interest, Lascivia saw their dusky rims draw inward, puckering prettily as the central points hardened and swelled and thrust outward "Mmmm, so nice, Harvey."
"Yeah. It is sort of nice, isn't it? To tell you the truth, Lascivia dear, I get one heck of a kick out of this myself', Harvey heartily agreed, jabbing his tongue into her ear. "I sure hope Fanny and Virgil won't be too mad at us for showing up late at the restaurant."
"Yes, it's a shame we're going to be late", breathed his preoccupied helpmate, only half concentrating on what she was saying. Sucking in her tummy as much as possible under the pregnant circumstances, she directed 4-Star General Sex's wandering fingers down inside the front of her panties. "Maybe we should call the restaurant and leave a message for them."
"Mmm-hmm. Maybe", Harvey dreamily agreed, his reedy voice husky and close to her ear. "Maybe ... later."
"Oooo!", gasped Lascivia as her bold baby's fingers, inside the panties, connected wetly with her sopping carnal crack. Although wincing as if in pain at his passionate digital delvings among her well-lubricated vaginal petals, she nevertheless pushed her panties down around her hips to allow him greater freedom of movement.
Spreading her legs apart, Lascivia leaned against Harvey's chest as she reached under and through the vee of her thighs, waggling her hand about behind her bare bottom, searching impatiently. "Where are you, lover man? You're back here somewhere, aren't you? ... Ah yes, there you are!", she smiled wantonly as Harvey laid his salami-sized penis in her hand. Her grasping fingers drew the adored organ back via the same route they had traveled in search of it. Pulling the meaty shaft forward through her crotch, Lascivia sighed down through the soft valley of her creamy breasts, craning to see over the swell of her swelling tummy, to observe delightedly that her mate's meat was fully erect, a ripe tomato-red color signifying that he was ready for love. Alternately stroking and squeezing the mammoth flesh tube, she gloried in the excited throbbing she detected inside it. Oh, how she loved to feel him pulsing in her hand this wayl God, what a great feel-job he was! His manual activities upon her were simultaneously becoming more demanding now, more clutching, in accordance with the manner in which she was goading him. With one hand, Harvey belabored her naked breasts in turn, while with the other he dallied furiously with her spice-scented cunt, spreading the lubrous lips, laving their inflamed insides, thumbing her throbbing clitoris, effectively driving her mad with want. As her hips began to squirm compulsively, her thighs tightening juicily on her partners's fingers, Lascivia knew that she was as ready to go as she'd ever been in her young life.
Breaking away, the heavy-breathing mother-to-be stopped to push her panties down around her ankles. Stepping completely and radiantly nude from the filmy garment, she whispered huskily: "Let's go sit down, Harvey love." As Harvey willingly turned to head for the sofa, she arrested him with: "No, dearest. Here, on the little antique chair mother sent us from California."
A puzzled expression came to Harvey's face as he contemplated the fragile stick of furniture his wife had set in the middle of the floor. "What do you mean, sexy girl?", he asked. "There's hardly room for one of us to sit on that little stool, much less both of us."
"Are you sure of that, little feller?", teased Lascivia, her blue eyes glinting wickedly as she lewdly waggled her hot pink tongue at him. "Go ahead. Sit down. You'll it see.
Her naked bridegroom, apparently sensing from her manner that she did indeed have some worthy plan in mind, assumed the proffered seat, sitting stiffly, uncomfortably on the straight backed contrivance.
"Yee-ouch!", he was then moved to yelp as Lascivia suddenly grabbed ahold of his rigid penis and yanked him painfully forward by it. "What the heck are you trying to do, angel? Don't you know you can injure a fellow permantly that way?"
"Oh, I'm so sorry, my baby", the wanton wife purringly soothed him. "You weren't sitting right. I was just trying to get you to scoot forward and lean back a little ... There. That's right."
As Lascivia assumed a spread-legged stance before him and proceeded to inch forward above and around his knees, rolling her hips pelvically forward so that her delicious young vagina splayed open before his eyes, Harvey seemed at last to read the score. His annoyed expression altered in a trice. He grinned widely. Well, thought his sexed-up spouse. It sure had taken him a long time to catch on. He was a tremendous little sexual power-pack, but she was forced to lovingly conclude that he nevertheless didn't have all the erotic imagination in the world.
"Ahhh. I get it now", grinned the titan-cocked twerp. "I've got to hand it to you, darling. You're some fine sexer indeed."
"Thank you, Harvey love", the hot-cunted honey demurely accepted her husband's praise. "I try my best."
She was straddling Harvey's chair now, her thighs spread out directly above his slouched torso, her smooth curvaceous legs tapering to the floor on either side of him, her glistening, blonde-fringed vagina opened mere inches from his face.
"Harvey? Will you tickle me?", she winsomely cooed.
"Tickle you where, lover mine?", Harvey ingenuously asked, getting in some teasing licks of his own.
"Oh, you silly goose. You know where", Lascivia coyly returned, tightening her ripe buttocks so that the indicated area spread even more widely open before his face.
"I guess you mean here, huh?", Harvey guessed, promptly plunging three bunched fingers deep into her luscious vaginal morass, looking for all the world like a greedy Jack Horner bobbing for more than his share of juicy pie-plums. "Am I tickling you in the right place?"
"Yesss!", Lascivia raptly hissed, her affirmative reply emerging as a constricted moan in response to his bold probings. "Oh god yes, Harvey! ... Unnh! ... Exactly there!"
Her hips writhed and jerked as if trying to escape her husband's intimate explorations. But no, escape was not her desired end, Lascivia rapturously knew. Far from it. She positively adored what Harvey's fingers were doing to her. In just a moment or two now, in fact, she would want even deeper probing, and not by his bony digits either. Skilled as Harvey had become with his hands, there was no substitute on earth for the feel of that heavenly prick of his sliding to the hilt into her hungry hole! ... When Harvey's whole arm had become dripping wet with love juice all the way down to his elbow, Lascivia knew she was ready. Dizzily and excruciatingly ready. Ergo....
"Stop, Harvey!", she gasped from the throes of her near-completion. "That's ... that's enough." Unplugging his fingers from her succulent socket, Harvey sat still, obediently awaiting her next move.
Gazing glassily into her husband's eyes, Lascivia seized his spindly neck for support and took her aim. Without further warning, she lurched forward in a spread-eagled downward plunge.
"Aaah!", she squealed her ecstasy at having landed right on target as the rigid thickness of his cock seared into her ... Down, down, she continued to plummet, sucking in more and more of his mile-long member until their hips collided with an even-louder-than-usual....
CRASH!
Oops!, Lascivia registered, realizing in a quick blur even as she continued falling that her mother's antique chair had buckled under the impact of their union.
CLATTER!...."Ooof!"
The doting lovebirds, their genitals still deeply interlocked, went tumbling to the floor amidst the shattered splinters of the demolished chair.
"Oh my god, Harvey! We've broken mother's chair!", the ripe-breasted wife distressedly pointed out from beneath her hubby's hunching body as she glanced about at the smashed debris scattered all over the floor.
"Yes? ... So?", grunted an otherwise-occupied Harvey, not even bothering to survey the wreckage. He lay atop Lascivia, skewering her with his mighty cock, while at the same time absorbed in trying to suck her spiking tan nipple between his lips.
"But Harvey darling", fretted his domestically-oriented darling, momentarily distracted from their erotic purpose. 'That was an expensive chair. Mother will have a fit when she comes to visit us next month and finds out we broke it."
"No ... No she won't, ange!", Harvey huskily soothed her, his hips pumping as he shoved all fourteen inches deep into his wife's slippery-hot slit. "We'll tell her the cat did it. We'll tell her he jumped up and landed too hard on the chair, okay? She might give old Tom a licking, but, heck, he probably did something to deserve it anyway."
"The cat? Blame the cat?", purred Lascivia, feeling her body respond anew to Harvey's rhythmic filling of her honied vagina despite the recent distraction. "Do you think mother will believe a story like that, Harvey love."
"Ooh! ... Sure ... Aah!"
"Okay then, we'll blame it on the cat", Lascivia dreamily agreed, her eyes glazing over as she clamped her oily-hot twat hard upon her spouse's fast-pumping love-pistol. "Bad ... bad ... pussy!"
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"Golly, I wonder what's keeping Harvey and Lascivia", fretted a fetchingly coiffed and pink-satin-gowned Fanny. Glancing at her dainty gold wristwatch, she noted: "They were supposed to be here at eight o'clock, and it's almost eight-thirty."
"Give 'em time, angel. We ain't in no hurry", Virgil placidly advised from her side. "Dey prob'ly got stuck in traffic. Or ... (wink!) ... maybe dey got hung up doin' da same t'ing we wuz doin' before we got dressed ta go out."
The grotesquely mated but spiffiily attired couple-Virgil decked out in his new red-and-black checked sport jacket, custom tailored to accommodate his humpsat side by side on plush leather stools at the bar in the Chez Royale, a fashionable and expensive supper club in midtown Manhattan.
"It sure is generous of you to bring me to dinner at such a classy place, Virgil honey", said the stacked stripling, glancing admiringly about at their elegant surroundings.
"T'ink nuttin' of it, precious", Virgil modestly demured. "I knew youse wuz plannin' ta treat me to a big night on da town if youse woulda won dat fifty bucks in da Good Humor contest last week, so I figure fair's fair ... Youse prob'ly woulda won da contest too, if youse woulda finished out da week wit' da comp'ny. But o' course dere wuzn't no need o' dat oncet youse an' Harvey solved da spy case."
"Well, sweetheart, all I know is that you're a perfect darling for bringing me here", Fanny gratefully asserted, leaning over to plant a sweet smack of a kiss on her beaming beau's ruddy cheek.
"Say, kid, speakin' o' yer career", Virgil changed the small-talk subject, "have yez made any new plans yet?"
"No, not yet", admitted the dimpled darling, frowning in passing that she would soon be hitting the job hunting trail once more. "Of course, I've still got some time to go on my job with the Harvey Hereford Junior Detective Agency. After their baby is born, Lascivia will be returning to replace me, but that won't be for six or seven weeks yet."
"Well ... heh-heh! ... youse could awways go back ta peddlin' ice cream", joshed the tawny-eyed tot's grossly malformed boyfriend.
"No thanks", she smiled, knowing he wasn't really serious. "Hawking ice cream is hot, hard work, definitely a man's job. I didn't mind doing it for a couple of days in connection with the case, but as a steady thing, unh-uh." Thinking back on some of her adventures during her brief tenure with the Good Humor Company, the lissome lassie was moved to speculate: "I wonder how Shivers ever came out with his sales contest at Cheapie-Weepie, that ridiculous Date-With-Victoria Vavoom thing. Lord, he was so hot to show all of us up by winning the contest that I heard he even took to palming off his Cheapie-Weepie ice cream as Good Humor, hoping to beef up his gross ... I wonder how he did in the end."
"I dunno", shrugged the heedless hunchback. "I ain't seen da little shit-pot aroun' fer two, tree days now ... How 'bout anudder brandy alexander, kiddo?"
"No thanks, darling. I'm fine."
While Virgil negotiated with the black-tied bartender for a refill of his Scotch tumbler, the button-nosed beguiler resumed her idle inspection of Chez Royale's posh chrome-and-leather climes. My, what a snazzy place this was. Through the intervening lattice-work, her gaze roamed the dining area, a sea of linen-draped tables peopled by clusters of well-dressed ladies and gentlemen partaking of the finest vintage wines and fancy edibles, served mostly under glass. Fanny was thrilled to the tips of her tiny toes to be rubbing el bows with such hoi-polloi. What a grand feast they were going to enjoy as soon as Harvey and Lascivia arrived!
At this juncture, as her glance happened to wander over to the front entrance, the golden girl's expression of pleased expectancy abruptly altered to one of revolted disbelief ... Oh, no! It couldn't be!
And yet, even after she had given her amber-colored eyeballs a brisk rub with the heels of her hands, there he still was ... the reekingly repugnant Rat Man of Times Square ... Shivers!
While the unbelieving adolescent looked slack-jawed on after nudging Virgil to do the same, the walking dung-heap came strutting through the swinging glass doors in the company of no less a celebrity than ex-movie queen Victoria Vavoom. Rounding out the fantastic entourage was a bespectacled, slenderly built youth-he looked to Fanny to be about seventeen or eighteen-toting a camera.
"Good grief! This must mean Shivers won his sales contest!", the pert pussycat whispered in a highly amused aside to her beau, never taking her eyes from the comically mixed trio milling in the entrance area. "Oh, brother! This I've gotta see!"
After a moment of puzzlement, Fanny realized that the neatly dressed youth with the camera must be acting in the capacity of publicity photographer, sent along by the Cheapie-Weepie Company to record highlights of Shivers's and prune-faced Victoria's gala night on the town. However, judging from the pinched caste of Victoria's once-beautiful but now horribly wrinkled picklepuss, the basketball-breasted dowager was in anything but a gala mood. The chubby old bag stood there dripping diamonds and furs-(for, as Fanny knew, she was still doing okay financially, as president of the Victoria Vavoom Wig and Cosmetic Company)-glaring down at her contaminated companion as though contemplating a pile of donkey feces which someone had inconsiderately placed beside her. Indeed, the tickled tyke over at the bar-more or less shielded from the newcomers' notice by the lattice-work which stood between them-could not blame Miss Vavoom for the yechy expression on her sour visage. Even at this distance, Shivers's distinctive stench was clearly and unpalatably discernible.
For his part, the diseased derelict appeared to be infected with the high good spirits intended by the sponsors of the occasion. As his beady eyes roamed the elegant dining room, his scab-covered lips curled upward in a hideous, broken-toothed grimace which the spying sex-kitten knew to be Shivers's version of a happy grin. And, wonder of wonders, he had even dressed for the occasion! Although the major portion of the syphilitic scavenger's costume-dominated by the ragged, filthcaked overcoat which hung to his sockless ankles-remained the same as always, someone had placed a brand-new black silk bow-tie around his scraggly neck. No shirt, just the tie, standing out in such farcical contrast to the rest of his infamous attire that the elfin eye-full was hard pressed to keep from falling off her stool in the throes of the giggle-fit which suddenly gripped her.
Cocking her golden head, Fanny watched as Shivers dug a grimy fingernail deep in his left nostril, and listened as-expansively wiping his nose-pickings onto the front of his coat-he complacently croaked: "Dis is a pretty high-class joint, don't yez t'ink, Victoria my sweet? ... O' course, it ain't no Twenty-One or Pavilion, which are da places I us'lly hang out, but it's ... quaint. Bein' dat da eats are on da house tanight, I guess it'll do, eh? ... Heh-heh-heh! ... Ah, here comes da maiter dee!"
At this point, a distinguished-looking, gray-templed maitre d' hotel did indeed skate forward to greet the new party. "Miss Vavoom! How nice to see you! We have your table ready", he suavely oozed. Then, his unctuous smile fading as he regarded Shivers for the first time, he turned palpably green around the gills as he asked in stricken tones: "Is this your ... (gag!) ... your date?"
"I'm afraid he is, Harold", the bomb-breasted business woman dourly confessed. "What a chump I was to make that contest contract with the Cheapie-Weepie Company. I figured I'd get some free publicity for my own firm out of it. Naturally, I wasn't expecting my escort to be any Rudolph Valentino, but ... this! Yech!"
"Hyuk-hyuk-hyuk!", was Shiver's surprisingly convivial reaction to his henna-haired date's insult. "Youse're some kidder, Vickie baby! I like dat in a goil....Haw-hawhaw!" Aside, to the scandalized maitre d', he snapped in a more characteristically surly manner: "So what're yez waitin' for, stupid? . ... Escort me an' my goilfriend to our table!"
To Fanny's delight, the table which had been reserved for Shivers and Miss Vavoom turned out to be situated just beyond the lattice partition between bar area and dining room, close enough to her perch that she would be able to spy on the outlandish couple's further dialogue, and yet distant and cut off enough that she herself was un-likely to be spotted unless the rat-faced reprobate chanced to essay a close review of the troops at the bar ... This ought to be good, reckoned the ravishing rascal.
As Harold, the harried maitre d', seated the former film star and the festering ferret, passing them their menus, the mousy-looking boy photographer-whom Miss Vavoom had addressed as Morris on their way to the table-stepped back aways and requested: "How about a couple of big smiles in this direction, Mister Shivers and Miss Vavoom?"
The grotesque grimaces which the mismatched pair plastered across their faces as Morris sighted on them with his camera might have been enough to literally turn the petite pleaser's stomach had she not been so highly amused by the whole situation. Viewed from the side, Shivers's cadaverous grin looked like that of a moldering skull exhumed from the grave, while Miss Vavoom's pained smirk put the craning cutie in mind of a shark getting ready to chomp into a chunk of floating garbage.
Click!, went Morris's shutter. Immediately afterward, Miss Vavoom's rouge-caked mug relaxed into its normal saggy-puffy frown. Shivers on the other hand retained much of his rotten-toothed conviviality as he confidently wheezed: "Yeah, Victoria, my little sweet patootie, I t'ink youse an' me is gonna hit it off just great. From now on, dey're gonna be callin' us da crown prince an' princess o' Noo York society. How 'bout a little ki...."
At this juncture, they were interrupted by a starchy, white-coated waiter who approached to take their cocktail orders, accompanied by a busboy who proceeded to lay out the bread, butter, and ice water. "What'll yez have, Vickie baby? Just name it. Nuttin's too good fer my goi!", the preening panhandler mock-debonairly offered. (His pitiable attempt to assume sophisticated airs reminded Fanny of a scruffy weasel trying to make out in a society of pampered Siamese cats.) "What would yez like ta drink, lover mine? A hooker o' Alsatian champagne? A belt o' Peruvian pernod? ... Order whatever youse want, empress o' my heart, 'cuz when yez travels wit' Shivers, youse travels foist class all da way."
In the end, Miss Vavoom settled for a triple Scotchno ice-while, after ascertaining that Chez Royale did not serve Sterno, Shivers ordered a beer.
After the waiter had departed to fetch their drinks, Miss Vavoom turned pleadingly to Morris the boy photographer, to whisper in her froggy voice: "Morris, can't you do something to get me out of this? Do you think Cheapie-Weepie would bitch if we just took a couple more pictures right now, and then I took off? ... I swear to god, kid, this guy is so dirty I'm afraid I'm gonna catch nine different diseases just sitting next to him. I think I can already feel his fleas crawling up my legs toward my twat. Christ, if I have to sit here and watch him eat too, I think I'll puke!"
Recapturing his dumpy date's attention by means of tugging at the sleeve of her white satin frock-(and leaving a filthy black finger smudge on the sleeve in the process)-Shivers leaned close to scratchily croon: "Lissen baby, youse sorta go fer me, don't yez? ... C'mon now, don't be bashful. Admit it. A man o' de woild like me kin awways tell."
The only response this suggestion evoked from the time-ravaged ex-queen of the silver screen was a vigorous shudder which shook her bulbous body from head to toe. Apparently mistaking her silence for acquiescence to his advances, the human jackal-with Fanny barely able to control her mirth over at the bar-plunged boldly ahead to his lewd point. "Anyways, dear ol' goil, seein' as how I sorta dig youse too, I wuz t'inkin' dat maybe we could go back ta yer pad after dinner an' do what comes natcherly ... What I'm tryna say is: how 'bout lettin' me t'row a fast fuck inta yez tanight, baby?"
"My dear sir! How dare you!", the big-tittied battle ax burst angrily out. "In the first place, would you please lean back!? Your halitosis is withering my corsage! ... And in the second place, I'd rather have a dead snake shoved up my cunt than ball a shit-stinking creep like you! Of all the nerve! ... Aw, shit! I just can't take any more of this! I'm getting out of here!"
"But Vickie baby, dis is Shivers, yer knight in shinin' armor! Don't go!", the grime-coated butter snipe pleadingly whined. However, his placating tone altered in a trice as the bugged biddy demonstrated the seriousness of her intention to leave by pushing back her chair and bolting to her feet. "Oh, so yer really splittin', eh?", he malevolently sneered. "Dat's fine by me! Where da fuck d'ya t'ink youse get off anyway, yez broke-down plowhorse! I woul'n't care ta fuck youse neider! I wuz oney sayin' dat ta make yez feel good! I bet de inside o' yer worn-out ol' cunt looks like a sewer pipe lined wit' sandpaper!"
"Oh yeah!", Miss Vavoom shot loudly back. The bickering couple not only had Fanny's rapt attention now, but that of every diner and drinker in the establishment. "Never mind my cunt! I'll bet your prick looks like an inch-worm with an advanced case of leprosy!"
"Oh, is dat sol? Youse got a lot o' nofVe, youse washedup ol' nag. I ain't takin' dat kind o' shit from youse nor nobody else!", shrieked the venomous vagrant, illustrating his point by sweeping up his beer mug and....
SPLASH!
... dousing the entire upper half of his date's body with a deluge of suds so vigorously applied that her red wig was knocked askew, revealing the thinning gray strands beneath.
Although the sputtering silent-film star looked as though she herself was on the verge of violent retaliation, it was boy photographer Morris who first stepped into the breach. "That'll be enough of that, Mister Shivers!", squeaked the spindly youth, stepping bravely between the cursing carrion and his beer-soaked victim. "If you lay another finger on Miss Vavoom, sir, I'll be forced to give you a good thrashing!"
"Oh, yeah!?", sneered the vindictive vermin. "Maybe youse'd like some o' da same, youse fresh little punk!"
So screaming, Shivers snatched up the loaf of Italian bread which the busboy had placed on the table, and....
WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!
... began pummeling the gallant but outmatched lad about the head and shoulders with the doughy bludgeon.
At the bar, as she unbuttoned her cuffs and began rolling her sleeves up her precious arms, Fanny turned to Virgil and sighed: "Excuse me a minute, will you, darling? ... He may not realize it yet, but Shivers is calling me."
