Original Post Date: Mon, 5 Feb 2001
Disclaimer
This is piece of fiction. Any imagined resemblance to
people living or deceased is either the result of dementia
on the reader's part or that the reader is, in fact, a
character of this story. It is assumed that readers of
this story have the permission of the state, mom, dad, and
pastor and are able to tell the difference between real and
make-believe. Furthermore, the writer is fully aware that
he is bound for hell, but welcomes both praise or/and well
thought out, humourous insults on his writing skill. Note:
he already knows he cannot spell 'warth shet'.
The events and descriptions of this story are the sole
property of Kenny N Gamera and should not be recorded,
reposted, or profited from in anyway without express written
permission of the person hiding behind that pen name.
Reposting and free archiving will be tolerated given the
writer's name and address remains attached. Archiving by
Deja.Com and ASSTR/ASSM is assumed and encouraged.
Thank You and Good Day,
Kenny N Gamera
turtlemeat69@hotmail.com
ftp://ftp.asstr.org/pub/Authors/Gamera
One Morning at 214 Clitlick Street
by
Kenny N Gamera
After the appropriate sound of a ringing doorbell, a rather
matronly looking woman entered a rather matronly looking
foyer. The foyer looked matronly by having walls covered in
a print wallpaper with columns of cute, farmyard geese. Thin
stripes coloured like slightly tarnished copper separated
each column from the other. Here and there, a knick knack
shelf with a ceramic figure of another goose would assist
the single framed mirror with three 'never to be used so
don't even try' coat rungs, in breaking the monotony of the
walls.
The woman wore a print dress several decades out of style
and a simple white apron she used to wipe her hands. The
door rang a second time as she reached at. She soon after
open the door to a short man with a overly thick mustache
with streaks of gray. He looked over his round wire framed
glasses, the type once called Granny glasses before John
Lennon began to wear them.
The woman looked at the man for a moment before realizing
that he was waiting for her.
"Good afternoon, sir?"
"Right. Good day, mum," said the man with a snap to the
brim of his hat. He glanced down to the clipboard he
carried. "Is this two-sixteen Clitlick Street?"
"No. This is two-fourteen Clitlick Street."
"Very good, mum. That's the address I'm looking for." To
man glanced again to his clipboard. "And are you Mrs. Mabel
Swampwater of two-fourteen Clitlick Street?"
"Yes, I'm Mrs. Swampwater."
"Right, mum. I have a gang rape for you." The delivery man
pointed at his clipboard with a ball point pen. "Could you
sign here, mum?"
"I didn't order a gang rape," said the bewildered Mrs.
Swampwater.
"I'd think not, mum," answered the delivery man. With the
ease of a well practiced delivery man, he flipped through
the sheets of his clipboard. "Says here that your husband
ordered it for you, mum.
"Could you sign here, please mum?" He repeated as he
offered the clipboard and pen back to Mrs. Swampwater.
She held her palm to her breast. "My husband?"
"Yes." He flipped back through his sheets. "All it says
under reason is `tuna casserole.' Could you sign here,
please?"
"But I don't want a gang rape," Mrs. Swampwater burst out at
last in frustration.
"I wouldn't think so, mum. Wouldn't be a proper gang rape
if you had wanted it now would it? It would be more of a
gang bang. And your husband specifically ordered and paid
for a gang rape.
"Sign here, please."
"But..." interjected Mrs. Swampwater.
"Mrs. Swampwater," interrupted the delivery man in a stern
voice, quite unlike the polite, indulgent delivery man voice
he had used to that point. "I still have another gang rape,
two homicidal maniacs, and a rabid dog to deliver this
afternoon. I would like a chance to get home and watch
telly tonight."
"Telly?" Sputtered the confused woman.
"Yes. There's a Kojak festival tonight." He handed her the
clipboard and returned to the polite, indulgent delivery man
voice. "Sign here, please mum."
As Mrs. Swampwater signed, the delivery man waved in two men
carrying video equipment. They squeezed past both of the
people in the doorway. Each gave the harried haus frau a
tip of the hat and a very cheerful "good day."
"Who are they and why do they have cameras," queried Mrs.
Swampwater as she returned the clipboard.
"Oh mum. They are the video set up team."
"Video setup?"
"Yes, mum." The delivery man flipped through some more
sheets and handed the clipboard back to the woman. "If you
could initial here, mum. Yes, video, mum. A man would
hardly pay could money to see his wife gang raped and not
expect to actually see his wife gang raped, now would he,
mum. Initial here if you would, please."
Mrs. Swampwater initialed the sheet. After returning the
clipboard, she watched as the delivery man went through a
few more pages.
"Hmmm?" Said the delivery man. "I see that he didn't take
the maim and disfigure option." He looked up at the woman
before him. "Not that he would really need to.
"And if you will initial next to the mixed race baby option,
mum, I will leave you to your gang rape."
"Mixed race baby?"
"Yes, our mixed race baby option is quite popular. We will
return until one of our specially trained black rapists
impregnate you with a little half black babe of your very own.
Initial here, please mum."
Stunned, Mrs. Swampwater placed her initials at the
indicated spot. The delivery man then called to the video
setup team that it was time to leave for the next delivery.
Mrs. Swampwater...
We interrupt this gang rape with a message from our sponsor,
Sadisco.
Hello, we at Sadisco are proud to now offer to our loyal
customers a new service. Yes, you can now give that special
lady in your life what every woman dreams of, her very own
gang rape (we didn't say they were good dreams). We offer a
number of options for every occasion. Whether bikers or
dykes, we have all your gang rape needs covered. And for
the limited introductory period of this service, we will
include at no additional charge a rabid dog (Mexican
hairless no longer available, sorry).
Yes, Sadisco, we bring bad things to life.
Offer void in Alabama, Alaska, Alberta,...well, really, all
of the states and provinces, and damn near all of the
commonwealth. Use of this product may result in jailtime
and severe loss of freedom.
...Mrs. Swampwater ran streaking through her living room,
attempting to keep the various pieces of overturned
furniture between her and the five large, strong, young men
with whom the delivery man had left her. Only the video
equipment had remained undamaged during the period of intense
activity since the arrival of the rapists. As she ran, a
motion detector and motor kept the camera on her and the
various rapists.
"Help!" shouted Mrs. Swampwater.
"Oh, we will, lady," answered one of the rapists, an
enormous black man, "Just stay still and we will help you
reach the heights of..."
"Can't Amal," interjected a large, Italian looking stud,
"She doesn't get the 'humiliation of enjoying it' package.
Her cheap-ass husband didn't pay for it."
"That dick!"
"Please, don't do this to me," pleaded Mrs. Swampwater.
"Sorry, ma'am." answered Amal. "We have a job to do here
and we really got to get started. We are supposed to be
done before your husband gets home."
Sensing that there was more to this young man than rape, she
cried, "Why are you doing this?"
"Well, I am paying my why through college as is Pat and
Carl...," the appropriate rapists bowed there heads, "Al is
paying off student loans while he is taking his bar
exam...," the second of the black rapists shyly raised his
hand, then Amal points at the Italian, "...and Don is an
opera singer.
"Now, if you will just quit running...
<You've got mail>
From: Susan J Mothra <cacoonmaker@sol.con>
To: Kenny N Gamera <turtlemeat69@hotmail.com>
Subject: Re: {ASSM} One Morning at 214 Clitlick Street
Date: Sunday, February 04, 2001 13:41 AM
Not so dear Mr. Gamera,
There is nothing funny about gang rape, though the bits
about the delivery agent did cause a giggle or two. But in
any case, stop this at once.
Yours not so truly,
Susan Mothra
From: the Gangrap'r <gangrapr@webvd.con>
To: Susan J Mothra <cacoonmaker@sol.con>
Subject: Re: {ASSM} One Morning at 214 Clitlick Street
Date: Sunday, February 04, 2001 13:41 AM
Yo, Mothra,
I was at a gang rape recently and I laughed my arse off.
Would do it again, too. In fact, if you want, bitch, you
could be guest...
Wait! What's that? Why's the house shaking? Oh my God,
NOOOO!
The late Gangap'r
From: Susan J Mothra <cacoonmaker@sol.con>
To: Kenny N Gamera <turtlemeat69@hotmail.com>
Subject: Re: Gangrap'r
Date: Sunday, February 04, 2001 13:41 AM
Burp!
<More Mail>
From: Mabel Swampwater <owwie@sol.con>
To: Sadisco Marketing Department <Marketing@sadisco.con>
Subject: Re: Dail-a-rape
Date: Sunday, February 04, 2001 13:41 AM
Dear Sadisco,
I was so pleased with the gang rape that my husband got me,
I ordered one for that bitch Mrs. Spermbreath across the
street.
Mrs. Mabel Swampwater
From: Mrs. Gangrap'r <nowbikerwhore@yeehaw.con>
To: Mabel Swampwater <owwie@sol.con >
Subject: Re: Dail-a-rape
Date: Sunday, February 04, 2001 13:41 AM
Bitch? Who you calling bitch, `ho!
Widow Gangrap'r
Formlery Mrs. Martha Spermbreath
...Mrs. Swampwater stood in the corner holding off her
attackers with a broom. The huge tear down the front of her
dress exposed the vast white wasteland that was her plain
playtex-style bra. She fidgeted and fought against the
distraction of her wet panties, which were unsurprisingly
soaked from when she had slipped in the toppled aquarium.
The big rapist lunged at her and grapped hold of the broom
with his large hand. The very big rapist then lunged out at
her while the extremely big rapist started laughing at her
troubles.
Don attacked her at her right flank as she used her left hand
slap at her one attacker and struggled with the right to pull
the broom from the other. He wrapped his meaty arm around her
waist and pulled her to him. She tried in vain to wiggle from
his grasp.
"You asshole!" she shouted at his face after he had forced her
around to look at him.
The swarthy Italian looked deep into her eyes and answered
the insult, "of course, I'm an asshole; I am a tenor." Then
he brought his mouth against hers in a forced...
The writer (i.e., me) is interrupted as he (i.e.. I) writes
by a knock at the door. We (i.e. you and I) now join this
interruption already in progress.
I go to the door cautiously as cats number one and two go
running to the closet. The extra cat sits in the hall
pointed at the closet but watching the door in the off
chance that she won't hide. I check the peephole.
I see no nude babes, no beer, no pork rinds. I only see a
delivery man with a clipboard waiting in front of the door. I
open it slowly after releasing the security chain. While the
extra cat chooses this moment to hid, he looks at me with an
expectant face covered by an overly thick mustache and John
Lennon glasses.
"Can I help you?"
"Right. Good day, sir," says the man with a snap to the
brim of his hat. He glances down to the clipboard he
carries. "Is this seven thirty-five Hardwood Street
apartment twenty-three eleven?"
"No. This is five thirty-seven Hardwood Street apartment
eleven twenty-three."
"Very good, sir. That's the address I'm looking for." To
man glanced again to his clipboard. "And are you Mr. Kenny
N Gamera of five thirty-seven Hardwood Street apartment
eleven twenty-three?"
"Yes, I'm Mr. Gamera."
"Right, sir. I have a gang rape for you." The delivery man
pointed at his clipboard with a ball point pen. "Could you
sign here, sir?"
"I didn't order a gang rape," I say.
"I'd think not, sir," answers the delivery man. With the
ease of a well practiced delivery man, he flips through the
sheets of his clipboard. "Says here that a Mr. Slot ordered
it for you, sir.
"Could you sign here, please sir?" He repeats as he offers
the clipboard and pen back to me.
I hold my palm to my breast. "Mr. Slot?"
"Yes." He flips back through his sheets. "All it says
under reason is `silly bastard.' Could you sign here,
please?"
"But I don't want a gang rape," I burst out at last in
frustration.
"I wouldn't think so, sir. Wouldn't be a proper gang rape
if you had wanted it now would it? It would be more of a
gang bang. And Mr. Slot specifically ordered and paid for a
gang rape.
"Sign here, please."
"But..." I interject.
"Mr. Gamera," interrupts the delivery man in a stern voice,
quite unlike the polite, indulgent delivery man voice he had
used to that point. "I still have two homicidal maniacs to
deliver this afternoon. I would like a chance to get home
and watch telly tonight."
"Telly?" I sputter.
"Yes. There's a Kojak festival tonight." He hands me the
clipboard and returns to the polite, indulgent delivery man
voice. "Sign here, please sir."
As I sign, the delivery man waves in two men carrying video
equipment. They squeeze past both of the people in the
doorway. Each give me a tip of the hat and a very cheerful
"good day."
"Who are they and why do they have cameras," I queried as I
return the clipboard.
"Oh sir. They are the internet video set up team."
"Video setup?"
"Yes, sir." The delivery man flips through some more sheets
and hands the clipboard back to me. "If you could initial
here, sir. Yes, video, sir. A man would hardly pay could
money to see you gang raped and not expect to actually see
you gang raped, now would he, sir. Initial here if you
would, please."
I place my initials at the indicated spot. The delivery
man and the video setup team leave for the next delivery.
As they exit, Hecate, KatieMcN, and AleciaD walk into my
apartment dressed to dominate. I begin to compose a thank
you note to Mr. Slot as the women begin to inspect my room.
The delivery man tips his hat to all three and says, "I just
leave the rabid dog chained to the railing of the stairs. If
you could just let it in when you are done?"
"Certainly," answers Hecate.
"Uh, hello ladies," I say after the door closes, "How are the
three of you?"
Hecate looks at me. "There are four of us, Kenny."
Feeling a bit like Florida, I take a recount and answer,
"Well, I see you and Katie and Lexi, but who is the..."
"Slottie sent over another friend, Kenny," adds Hecate.
"I'm sure you remember her from his story the `Prisoner?'"
"You don't mean...?"
"Yes," she pulls a huge dildo from behind her back. "Say
hello to Big Bertha, Kenny."
"Nooooooo!"
Katie and Hecate advance on me each grabbing a flailing arm
and lead me to the futon. I feel myself being pushed down as
Hecate says, "Lexi, hit the send button."
_________________________________________________________________
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reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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