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Archive name: ourtown3.txt (Mm/f, rom, ped)
Authors name: Lor Oldmann (jamwad@hotmail.com)
Story title : Our Town - 3
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This work is copyrighted to the author © 2002. Please
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Our Town - 3 (Mm/f, rom, ped)
by Lor Oldmann (jamwad@hotmail.com)
***
Small-town America is the perfect place to make your
first million dollars. Look at the track record: the gold
strikes in California, the first whore houses in
Virginia, the first American automobiles, the Wright
brothers, the first commercial radio stations, all our
great authors, poets and artists, computers, the internet
and designer drugs. Even Hollywood started in small town
America. It could be said that a fortune is made in the
small town and lost in the city!
I made my first million when I was still seventeen. It
snuck up on me and I truly felt that I had done little to
deserve it. However, it insisted, and I was stuck with
it! To be perfectly honest, it started as a joke. I
composed a spoof agony aunt column complete with cartoon
characters for the junior high school paper. It was an
instant success and was carried over into the senior
high. The only trouble was that some kids took it
seriously and started to submit problems for real, some
of which were dream material for blackmailers, and it was
something more than mother- or sister-love/hate
relationships. It was at that point realization dawned:
there was more to life than life in the small town.
The town weekly newspaper copied the column and paid the
school! I huffed and refused to do any more. The school
offered to pay me for the work and I got a percentage of
what they received from the town weekly. And that is how
it all started.
The column had been running for about a year when the
state daily newspaper offered me $100 per week for
exclusive rights to the material. Being a highly
principled kind of animal, I thought, "Fuck the school
and the town weekly!" And took the money! As a sort of
act of penance I did a series of illustrated articles
interspersed with a strip cartoon for the school on "The
Almost Factual History of the United States as it ought
to have been..." which proved an instant success.
Then the roulette wheel spun again into the same old
routine: first the town weekly, then the state daily,
then a national newspaper bought the series. And I was
earning nearly $1000 a week by my seventeenth birthday.
Think about it: seventeen, and earning nearly fifty grand
after the tax vultures grabbed their share! Actually, I
was as frightened as I was enamoured by this situation.
The fourteenth of August. I'll always remember that date.
My parents had initiated divorce proceedings and had gone
their separate ways; dad was living in his office in
Ulysses, presumably with the teen-age secretary he was
knocking up, and mom had moved in with Dr. Winsonleigh in
Richfield. As the story unfolded and recriminations were
made, it was seen that the one was as bad as the other;
they had been apart for more than six months when mom
discovered she was severely pregnant.
"Fuck her!" exclaimed my kid sister when she heard the
news.
"Her boss already has," I replied.
The Vernes had got bogged down in California where the
trial of their son on a murder one rap was still going
on; they phoned once a week to ask how their imbecile
daughter was getting on, but what had been intended as a
'few days stay-over for Shirley' had expanded to nearly a
year.
Back to the fourteenth of August. Jed and Deri, as usual,
were giving each other serious tongue on the swinging
garden lounger. My kid sister, although she had nothing
more on her mind than how to get Jed to lay her, had
slightly more on her chest for him to fondle. I had
dressed Shirley Verne in the two-piece bikini we bought
from a mail order catalog and she looked good enough to
eat, and I intended to do precisely that at the first
opportunity. We were playing some simple tickling game on
a beach towel on the lawn. Several times my hand had
found its way under her bikini top - her breasts seemed
to have doubled in size in the past year - and between
her legs.
Deri was obviously in one of her sexy highs and Jed had
risen to the occasion and the outcome was patently
obvious - Jed would be staying the night! Again!
Shirley's bathing suit was wet in all the right places,
and, caution to the four winds, I was reasonably
confident of scoring a direct hit for the first time. I
was working out how I could get her into my bed without
it being too obvious to the other two. When into this
scenario walked Destiny. No, I really mean it; that was
his name: Horatio Huron Destiny!
It was late afternoon. He appeared, as if from the
scented air, in the garden. He asked for me by name, then
looked apologetic at having interrupted some pretty heavy
petting. Jed, for once in his life, appeared shame-faced,
and Deri giggled. Shirley grinned foolishly and drooled.
I stood. "Who wants to know?"
He introduced himself; he even offered a business card
which described him, in gold-lettered cursive script, as
a representative of an international publishing
syndicate. His eyes flitted; it was obvious that he was
attempting to take in the entire situation - possibly to
his own advantage.
The merest ghost of a smile flitted across his lips as he
appraised the pair on the swinging lounger. His gaze
lingered longer on Shirley, and there was puzzlement, as
well as lust, in his eyes. He explained his mission: to
get me to sign an exclusive contract for the agony column
and the history spoof; interest had already been shown in
the material, he said, in Australia, Europe and in South-
east Asia.
"Christ Greg!" yelled Jed. "You're fucking famous man!"
He nudged my kid sister and they both laughed
uproariously, thinking they were sharing in a great joke
again at my expense.
The fact that the state newspaper already had the
exclusive rights to the agony column did not interest him
in the least; it was a mere flea bite on the black belly
of a back-alley cat. The immediate outcome was an advance
payment of $100,000 for a weekly cartoon strip of the
history and an illustrated agony column. That silenced
the laughter from the pair on the garden lounger.
Deri repeated the sum on money in an awed voice. Her arms
fell away from her boyfriend, who exclaimed, "Jesus
Christ Greg, you're rich, man!" They gaped open-mouthed
at Destiny as he wrote out a check right there and then
in the middle of our garden on the fourteenth of August.
Deri was staring at me with a look on her face I had
never seen before. It seemed almost an eternity before
she shifted her gaze to the man Destiny had brought to
our back garden. I could read her like a book: she was as
intrigued by the apparent ease with which this man
dispensed large sums of money as she was with the
capacity of Jed to give her sexual satisfaction at the
drop of a hat. I could see the rapacious little wheels
turning inside her head. I came to the conclusion that
dad, with his little popsicle of a secretary, and mom,
knocking it up with Dr. Winsonleigh, were not the only
capricious members of our family!
Jed, as things turned out, did not stay the night after
all. We were preparing to go for a celebratory eat-out -
Destiny's treat - when Fate stuck in his ugly nose. Cruz,
the foreman at the animal feed plant owned by Jed's dad,
appeared on the doorstep. Cruz was a half-cast Mexican
Indian, who still had difficulty expressing himself in
English, even after having been in Kansas for the better
part of thirty years. Everyone in town knew him simply as
Cruz, but no-one knew for certain whether that was a
first or last name or whether he had any other. He drank
beer at old Mrs. Chessip's diner. Other than that, he
kept himself very much to himself. As he himself
declared: "Any bad trouble in town, they look at Cruz.
Little farm girl get laid, they blame Cruz. Anything
stolen, they came first to Cruz."
It was true, of course, for when Judy Isherwood was found
murdered, everyone in town turned their thinking toward
the Mexican half-cast, but he was already in the slammer
and had been for over two weeks on suspicion of armed
robbery in a neighboring small town. So, now he stood on
the doorstep and beat his chest. "It your padre," he
shouted excitedly at Jed. "He drop down. Bad heart. They
take him in ambulance to hospital." It was as if there
was a power of evil at work, as well as good fortune. Jed
did not exactly fly to his father's bedside, but he
eventually left, and although he doesn't exactly drop out
of the story at this point, that was the last we saw of
him for some time.
My dad was a committee member at the Country Club. This
entitled the entire family (and their invited friends) to
use the facilities there, and one of the better
facilities, albeit hellishly expensive, is their
restaurant. I dressed Shirley respectably and insisted on
the same from Deri, and we set out in Destiny's sleek
European automobile. Deri took the passenger seat beside
the driver, I sat with Shirley in the rear.
In the restaurant, Deri played shameless flirt and
footsie with the man. They danced together, and sat
closer than good taste required as they watched the
cabaret. I drove home with Shirley, encased in a safety
harness in front and Deri and her new boyfriend, now
pleasantly and amusingly drunk, in the back seats. He
murmured sweet nonsense in a stage whisper and used his
hands expressively. I smiled at the thought of how Jed
would react if he knew what was going on; I was sure Deri
would not confess, and as sure as hell I was not going to
say anything - after all, this character in the back seat
was about to make me a millionaire!
We reached home safely in spite of my driving. We got
Destiny, now all but unconscious, laid to rest in dad's
old bed. Deri insisted on sleeping with me, because, she
said, she was afraid of the man waking in the night and
coming in search of sex with her. And Shirley as usual
slept alone, and wet the bed!
Horatio Huron Destiny (he insisted after the dinner at
the Country Club that we call him Hu) called again a few
days later. There was a corporate lawyer with him - a sex
chicken who was almost certainly the model for subsequent
glamorous female lawyers in television dramas. Unlike her
counterpart on television, this chic was cold and aloof
to the point of rudeness, and treated Destiny as if he
had left something on the sidewalk in the manner of a
stray dog.
It was like a marble statue of Abraham Lincoln delivering
the Gettysburg Address as she explained in intricate
detail, the terms and conditions of the contract, which
was for the natural life of the author/artist, who was
me. She recommended that I don't sign the contract, and
return the advance payment immediately if there were any
doubts in my mind about supplying a double assignment,
that was, a strip cartoon history and an illustrated
spoof agony column, every week for the next ten years or
so.
There was no humour in her eyes when she insisted that I
could do no other work unless it was first vetted by the
syndicate and they had first option to purchase; I could
not even do work for any church, school or charity
without their permission. As if I would!
The outcome was that I signed the contract and became an
instant millionaire. And that concluded the business.
Until Shirley came into the picture. The lady lawyer had
caught sight of her in the garden when she first arrived.
It was a brief view, for we went indoors to talk money,
but it was odd how her eyes lingered on the imbecile.
Shirley was swinging on our garden gate when we were
making polite departure noises. The woman stared at
Shirley again for almost a minute before getting into her
flaming red sporting Ferrari. She did not drive off.
Instead, she thrust her long silk-clad legs back out from
the driving seat and stood looking at the girl before
demanding of me, "Tell me about her!"
We returned to the house, that is, the woman and I
returned to the house. Destiny was summarily dismissed.
"If she is an imbecile," she declared after I had
explained why Shirley was in the house in the first
place, "I'm pregnant, and I have been using
contraceptives since I started college." She seemed far
more interested in Shirley than she had been in my
contract. She was looking from our living room window
where she could get a good view of the girl. Suddenly,
she swung round and threw the question accusingly at me.
"Are you fucking her?"
It was a sucker punch, and several seconds were to elapse
before I could reply. "No!" I spluttered. "Hell, no!" I
knew I was pink-faced. "Of course not!"
It was obvious she retained doubts. "I have a kid sister
who was like that." She returned to the window and
pointed. "We all thought she was mentally defective and
treated her as a retard until she was ten or eleven years
old." She crossed the room and sat on our massive studio
couch and displayed her long legs to advantage, so that I
could scarcely take my eyes from them. She encouraged me.
She drew her skirt another inch or so along her thigh and
widened the gap between her knees. "My parents were
seriously discussing institutionalizing her."
She stopped talking; she stared at the ceiling instead
for a long time, until I really believed the conversation
had ended. The silence was prolonged to the point of
embarrassment. Then she stared at me aggressively; she
must have been imagining herself conducting a cross-
examination in a court of law, for she repeated the
question with greater emphasis, "Are you perfectly sure
you are not fucking her?" Again I denied the allegation,
but I felt like a criminal in the witness box. I was
worried lest she change the question to, "Have you ever
thought about fucking her?"
"My boyfriend at the time was a neuro-surgeon who
specialized in that sort of thing. As soon as he saw her,
he maintained that we had been wrong all the time. My kid
sister was not an imbecile. She had a kind of autism that
could be corrected by quite simple brain surgery."
She fell silent again. She crossed her legs and I had an
instant erection. She stared at the ceiling again before
shifting her eyes to my crotch. She remained silent,
until I felt that I had to take the initiative. "A kind
of autism?" I asked from pure embarrassment. "What's
that?"
"It's too complicated," she snapped. "In brief, if I'm
correct, and I'd stake my professional judgement on it,
then that girl swinging on your garden gate is a replica
of my kid sister. She is almost certainly not an
imbecile. Her mind is not a blank. It's more like a
computer bank."
I had heard of computers, of course, but had no idea how
Shirley was to be compared with one. My ignorance showed.
"Things are going into her head and being stored there,"
the woman explained. "Like a data bank, just lying there
dormant until it is tapped. It is not that she can't take
things in; it is simply that she can't let things out!"
"You're saying she can be cured?"
"Exactly!" The woman uncrossed her long legs, smoothed
down her skirt and stood up. "But if and when she is,"
she said, "you and everyone associated with her had
better stand back. Because it will all come out, all the
dirty laundry, all the abuse.." Her voice trailed to
silence. "My father was fucking my kid sister," she
continued quietly. "He thought no-one would ever find
out. But my kid sister remembered!" She afforded me
another sidelong glance. "All hell was let loose and my
father went to jail for eight years, and got what he
deserved - up the butt every night from a two hundred
pound black cellmate."
For the next six weeks I was particularly nice to Shirley
and fed her with the very best from the larder and with
data that would have made an egocentric megalomaniac
blush with shame. It was not all self-interest. There
were a few molecules of real pity for the kid and genuine
remorse for the way Jed and I had treated her. Nor could
I forget her image when Jed jacked me off.
"Do what you have to," said her mother. The woman sounded
harassed. It was understandable. The jury were out
deciding whether her son was to live or die. But this was
major brain surgery for her only (as far as anyone knew)
daughter we were discussing.
"It will cost between fifteen and twenty thousand
dollars." There was a long silence on the telephone. I
felt as sorry for the woman as any seventeen year old boy
can. But for some inexplicable reason I felt responsible
for Shirley. I surprised myself by stating, "I can raise
half of the money!"
True to her word, the sexy lawyer and her ex-boyfriend
neuro-surgeon were back in town within the week. He
agreed with the woman's judgement, and agreed to treat
Shirley. It would mean hospitalization for the girl for
nearly a month. But parental consent was absolutely
vital, and Shirley was rapidly approaching the critical
time in her life after which there would be no guarantee
of success from the operation.
There was a muffled sob from the telephone. A distant and
tiny voice said, "I'll have to get back to you on this
one, Greg." She repeated, "You do what you have to!"
There was muffled sobbing and she hung up.
The subsequent experience made me revise my value of
American small-town life. The community chest for
Theodore Webb's funeral was a one-of, not-to-be-repeated
phenomenon. I made the approach, in the first place, to
Albert Carson who owned the filling station. He
harrumphed several times, and cleared his throat as often
and coughed a lot; he refused to look me in the eye when
he finally answered.
"I don't know, Greg. Really, I don't know!" he exclaimed
at least half a dozen times. "I mean, that son of theirs!
He's on trial for murder one! He could buy and sell me a
hundred times. Why should I help pay for his sister?"
Word seemed to have spread instantly around town and the
neighboring farms, for folks were otherwise occupied,
away for the day, not available or simply not interested.
The net result of my appeal was plain zilch. One person I
approached demanded, "How much are you contributing to
it?" The reply, "Five thousand dollars!" took him off-
balance for a few seconds before he growled, "Then you
are a soft cream jerk!" which was tantamount in Western
Kansas to saying that I was in a worse condition than
Shirley.
At the conclusion of my collecting campaign I had the
grand total of thirty five dollars, fifteen of which had
been contributed by old Mrs. Chessip, and five from the
Webbs. The rest of the town had come up with fifteen
dollars.
When I got home I held Shirley Verne in my arms and cried
with sheer frustration. And shockingly realised that I
was in love with the poor stupid bitch.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life in
anyway shape or form.
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Kristen's collection - Directory 19