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Subject: {ASSM} RP:  A*F*T*S {Hoisington} (Mf f-solo pett nosex humor)
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Date: Fri, 02 Mar 2012 19:10:01 -0500
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3,448 words
Posted 05/05/04

BLURB:
In this humorous attempt at deliberate bad writing your beloved author 
faces down an irate father
while armed only with blazing wit and wet underwear.  Or maybe just wet 
underwear.


     A*F*T*S
     Edweird Lytwer-Bulton
     (Sometimes knows as Russell Hoisington)



If this is not the worst story I've ever written, it's not from lack of 
effort on my part.  I wrote it as
an exercise in bad similes, metaphors, and other big grammatical words 
most people don't learn
in High School English, just in case the ASSM Bulwer-Lytton Festival 
came to fruition.  It
didn't, but I decided to inflict it upon the world anyway.  If you 
aren't familiar with Edward
Bulwer-Lytton and his (in)famous novel Paul Clifford, or at least with 
Snoopy's attempt to be an
author in "Peanuts," then the first paragraph (and everything after it) 
will have little meaning for
you.  People looking for a "stroker" will be joining you at the exit.

My sincerest thanks to Billy Forrest, DB_Story, Denny Wheeler, the Dirty 
Old Man in North
Carolina, and Uncle Sky, without whose help this story might 
accidentally have been in far better
taste.



BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!

It was a bright and shiny day; my wood-frame house shook like a 
stressed-out crack junkie in the
pangs of withdrawal as I stumbled from between the rumpled sheets of my 
comfortably
lukewarm waterbed, grabbed freshly laundered jockey shorts from the 
clean-laundry basket, and,
staggering with drowsiness, got them properly oriented the second time I 
pulled them on, before
finally reaching for my comfortably shabby, knee-length, plaid, flannel 
robe, the one I normally
wore only inside the house out of sight of the general public because it 
had more variegated
stains defiling it than has a whorehouse mattress, but I had no other 
choice since it was the only
robe handy, and I had to get to the front door before the pounding sent 
the neutral beige Sears
Best Easy Living interior latex paint on the gypsum board walls 
fluttering to the floor in small
chips, like a bland snow storm of mediocrity.

BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!

Grumbling like a frustrated spinster with bad false teeth I jerked open 
the front door and beheld
the entire defensive line of the Broncos on steroids-to include the 
developmental squad.  I
blinked and they coalesced into one beefy, red-faced man sporting 
shoulders as wide as the flight
deck of the Nimitz.  It was the incredible Hulk's bigger and far meaner 
brother.  Menace swirled
around him as thick as electrons about a uranium atom.  He was drawing 
back either a small
Celebes ox with a bad complexion or a well-battered fist.

"Hey!" I said, jumping backward and slipping on one or two dropped 
sports sections of the
Rocky Mountain News, but managing to remain as upright as a Baptist 
preacher thinks he is-
and in the path of imminent danger.

Okay, so "Hey!" wasn't a grandiloquent speech, and you'd expect better 
from a famous author.
Or from an infamous one (I always get those two words mixed up).  I 
didn't have time to
reinvent Hamlet's soliloquy, okay?  Let's see how inventive you are when 
you're life's about to
go the way of buggy whips, Edsels, and eight-track tape players.  But he 
lowered the fist to his
side, though he kept it clenched tighter than Great Grandpa Macleod 
squeezing a buffalo nickel
when the collection plate passed.

The man-I reasonably assumed from the narrow, ratty beard that crawled 
around its jaw line
like an unpressed caterpillar, the Schwarzeneggeresque physique, and the 
seventeen tattoos on
each of its upper arms that it was male-was a gall-swollen redwood 
growing out of my front
porch.  Try to imagine a redwood topped by leaves the color of recently 
tarnished brass and
possessing a face like a rabid buffalo with its balls caught in a bear 
trap and you'll be close.
"Your name Hoistigon?" he snarled, displaying half-dissolved sugar cubes 
in a cup of cold
French roast Folger's as his concept of teeth.

"No."  I decided I would show the fearsome brute no fear, even though he 
was tougher than a
Welsh spelling bee.  He obviously was the type of thug who, even as an 
adult, roasted ants in the
noonday sun with an eight-inch magnifying glass just to watch them 
explode.  But I instinctively
knew that he would respect someone standing up to him.  Okay, I was 
silently and fervently
praying to every major and minor deity I could name that he would show 
me that respect because
I knew that slamming and locking the door would offer me as much 
protection as a starched
kleenex in a Tokyo tsunami.

I crossed my arms across my chest to hold my robe closed, and to pin my 
heart between my ribs
lest it burst forth like the Alien.  I hoped he wouldn't realize that a 
wet, yellow patch now stained
my formerly-clean, white, cotton underwear the way gangbang semen 
stained the virtue of a
Catholic girls' school Honor Student.

He blinked.  Slowly.  Like someone who routinely has to blink via 
conscious thought.  A
primitive frown of puzzlement sprang to life on his blood-red face and 
slowly evolved into abject
confusion.  "I thought this was the Hoistigon place," he rumbled, and I 
suddenly knew how
Roman marble statues tumbling in the drum of a runaway cement truck with 
a defective power
take-off would sound.

"The Hoistigons live about three counties over that-a-way."  I started 
to point, but I was afraid
my quaking hand would imply that I was either terrified or offering to 
jack him off.  Neither
indication promised less than a trip to the emergency room-more likely 
to the city morgue-for
me.  I nodded vaguely past the escarpment that was his left shoulder, 
and I wasn't surprised
when he twisted to look. With the shifting of his weight the boards of 
the porch groaned like
oarsmen on a slave galley learning the Captain wanted to go water 
skiing.  "My name's
Hoisington."

He turned slowly back to me, as inexorably as a continental glacier 
scraping Canada off the map.
"Close enough."

I was afraid it would be.  The man was as pissy as a twelfth-hour diaper 
and certainly no more
pleasant.  Keeping my courage from scattering like children at recess 
took more effort than was
required to lift the turret from a tank, or to hurl a space shuttle into 
orbit, or to keep a priest off
an altar boy.  "And what brings you here, Mister...?"

"Collucci.  I'm looking for my daughter, Nykki."  He gave me the kind of 
look most frequently
used by policemen when a man wearing a mask and holding a gun and a 
overstuffed bag runs out
of a bank and into their midst.  "You just get out of bed?"

I stroked my unshaven chin with a thumb-and-forefinger pinch and looked 
down past a recent
pizza sauce stain on my robe to bare legs and feet scarred by multiple 
accidents while playing
mumbletypeg as a teenager.  My breath was worse than an armadillo that 
had lost a game of
chicken with a Peterbuilt outside Del Rio in August.  Although I'm over 
six feet tall, he could
easily look down at my tangled hair that was indistinguishable from a 
nest built of cheap grey
yarn by a schizophrenic rat in a government drug research lab.  Clearly 
I was in a battle of wits
and had the superior weaponry with my intellectual howitzer versus his 
BB gun.  But was I
sufficiently awake to aim?

"As a matter of fact, I did."  That was Plan A: confuse him with facts 
until I was coherent
enough to think of Plan B.

One bloodshot eye, its sclera displaying a map of the interstate system 
in red, closed a little more
and began twitching erratically, as if telegraphing his alleged thoughts 
in Chinese Morse code.
"Whadda ya doin' in bed this time of day?"

I shrugged and tried to pinch off another dribble of urine through 
conscious effort while
maintaining a face as calm as the corpse I could easily become.  "I work 
nights.  I have to sleep
sometime."

The twitching became a flutter, not unlike the wings of a hyperactive 
butterfly with its feet
caught in an Okefenokee swamp sundew.  Suspicion dripped from his voice 
with the annoying
predictability of a leaking faucet at three in the morning.  "On a 
Saturday?"

I subtracted another five points from my already low estimate of his 
IQ.  "Last night was Friday.
I got off work three hours ago.  Why are you looking for your daughter 
here?"

As if he had finally made the Friday-Saturday connection he grunted, a 
drawn-out occasion
accompanied by malodorous breath still saturated with last night's 
garlic and beer.  "I figure
she's been foolin' around lately.  You know-by the way she'd been 
actin'.  All moonstruck
eyes 'n' giggles?  I found where she hid her diary under her mattress.  
It says she's been doin'
some guy named Hoistigon."

"Oh, well, then that's not me.  They live about three counties over 
that-a-way," I said with a
directional nod and an unsuccessfully restricted milliliter of urine.

He turned like a sorghum molasses tornado in a Siberian winter to look 
over his right shoulder
and then twisted back, one Jimmy Dean Sausage thumb emerging from a fist 
the size of a 1996
four-door Buick Century to point over his left.  "You said they lived 
over that-a-way."

Ulp!  "Until you told me about your daughter I thought you meant the 
southern branch of their
family.  Couldn't be them, though.  They're Celibate Baptists.  Haven't 
had a single stroke of sex
for over three generations."

"Oh," he said with a slow, contemplative nod of his head.  Clearly each 
of his thoughts, small
though they were, threatened to overflow the banks of the mental stream 
in his cranium like the
Han River in monsoon season, so I subtracted five more points. "Billy 
seen her coming up your
sidewalk."

I was as clueless as an Amish bride on her wedding night-unless Billy 
Forrest had traveled
seven thousand miles just to give that message to Collucci as revenge 
for my mentioning his
name in the author's comments, which wasn't all that unlikely.  "Billy?"

"Yeah."   To him that was self-explanatory.  It couldn't have been more 
final if it were a
speeding ticket in West Point, Kentucky on Easter Sunday.

I just wanted to return to bed with my teeth in my mouth instead of my 
hand and my blood in my
veins instead of on the porch.  And to get away from Mount Vesuvius 
Collucci before he erupted
on Pompeii Hoisington.  "Mr. Collucci, is you daughter an intelligent girl?"

His head nodded like that of an arthritic bobble-head doll in the rear 
window of a '64 Chrysler
with bad shocks crossing railroad tracks.  "Smart as a whip."

I have many startling and wonderful talents.  Controlling my tongue is 
not among them.  "Takes
after her mother, eh?"

He frowned and leaned down to fisheye me with that reddened interstate 
map. The stale beer and
garlic was joined by a faint whiff of Old Spice, a combination that 
promised death as certain as
the combination of a smart bomb's whistle and a laser designator's 
glowing spot on your chest.
"You sayin' Renee's been fuckin' around, too?"

For an instant I thought I had dodged a calamity, but reality suddenly 
slapped me in the face like
Ginger McFall when she caught me looking down her blouse in tenth 
grade.  "No, I.... Uh, what
does she look like?"

He looked even more confused, which as an accomplishment ranks at least 
even with the Red
Sox winning the World Series.  "Renee?"

Minus another five points.  "No, your daughter."

 From the look on his dinnerplate face you'd have thought I'd asked him 
to explain the Theory of
Relativity in Swahili.  "Why?"

"I have an idea."  In truth I had only its shipping invoice.  With any 
luck it would arrive while I
still had thirty-two teeth in my mouth.

"Hmmm."  While he blinked with the speed of a snail on tranquilizers and 
pondered that, my
cerebral UPS van delivered.  I pressed the wrinkles out of the details 
while he said, "Nykki's
seventeen, 'bout five and a quarter.  Got real bright red hair and green 
eyes.  Been kinda skinny-
like, but she's startin' t'fill out like Renee."

I nodded slowly, pursed my lips in feigned thought, and looked left and 
right.  I leaned forward
to whisper so he would know I wanted to avoid being overheard by those 
guys in trench coats
overhead in their black stealth helicopters.  "I think I understand 
what's going on here."

He clouded up like the skies of hurricane Isabel and thundered,  "What's 
goin' on here is I'm
gonna beat your ass into a pulp if you're humpin' my daughter."

The wet yellow stain grew a little larger.  We were dangerously close to 
having a brown stain
enjoin it in a territorial dispute.

He sniffed like a Lewellyn setter seeking a covey of quail in 
sagebrush.  "You pissin' in your
pants?"

"I can't.  I'm not wearing pants."  I spared another nod to indicate the 
side of the porch.  "One of
the neighbors' cats uses those petunias as a litter box."

The head slowly turned to look at the hanging basket.  His face couldn't 
have looked more
awestruck if the top five NASCAR drivers had walked up and addressed him 
by name.  "He gets
all the way up there?  Somebody oughta put him on stupid pet tricks."  
He hummed in alleged
thought, sounding like a dying model airplane engine.  "Wonder how much 
they pay for that?"

Another five points.  "Look, I'm a psychologist," I said as he oozed 
back to me.

His face again darkened like the Seattle skies in the rainy season.  
"What kinda psychologist
works nights?"

I added back those last five points.  Apparently someone did live inside 
that intellectual
tenement.  "I treat work-related stress problems in overnight-delivery 
loading crews at the
airport."

His brassy eyebrows slowly rose into twin arches resembling nothing so 
much as a hamburger
chain's patina-stained sign.  "Oh!" he said in almost reverent tones.

He bought that?  Maybe I was hasty restoring those points.  "Mister 
Collucci, I think you have
two distinct problems here."

I swear the man grew fangs that would have given a smilodon canine 
envy.  "You fuckin' both
my daughter and my wife?"

"NO!  Your daughter...."

His fist slowly drew back like a battering ram at the gates of a 
besieged castle.  I had no doubt it
could do at least as much damage to me.  "So you are doin' Nykki!"

"ThatsnotwhatIsaid!" I screeched, felt my control weaken, and wondered 
how much more my
underwear could hold before the urine started dripping.  The fist 
paused, cocked and ready to
fire, held back by a hair-trigger with the sensitivity of a hemorrhoid 
infected with jock itch.
Keeping my voice as steady as a jackhammer on overdrive I said, "Your 
daughter has two
problems: a schoolgirl crush and AFTS."

Acronyms:  your friend indeed when you're in need.  The Sisyphean task 
of birthing a thought
appropriated all of his mental processes, including the ones necessary 
to keep his fist aloft and
cocked. Eventually that thought, like Athena, sprang to fully-formed 
life in the desolate, rocky
cavern of his head and announced its birth with a resounding, "Huh?"

"Her description sounds like somebody I've seen around here a few 
times.  Look:  your daughter
obviously has developed a schoolgirl crush on me for some reason.  Maybe 
I remind her of
someone she can't have, a movie star, or a rock performer perhaps, or 
maybe there's some
feature of mine she fixated on.  I mean, who knows why women do 
anything, right?"  Obviously
one Mister Collucci didn't understand women any more than he understood 
differential calculus,
celestial mechanics, or two plus two without using your fingers.  
"Anyway, for some strange
reason she's fixated on me.  With me so far?"

"Ummm..."  I waited for his cogwheel train of thought to climb Pike's 
Peak to the station.
"Yeah?"

"Excellent!  I knew a man of your vast intellectual depletion would 
understand.  Now: she's
fixated on me for some reason, but she can't do anything about it.  I 
suspect she hangs around
here hoping to catch a glimpse of me, and that's why Billy saw her 
coming up my sidewalk.
Maybe she was going to peep in one of the windows."  I lifted one hand 
from my crossed arms
enough to snap my fingers but not enough to display my mostly-yellow 
with white jockeys.  "I'll
bet she's the one who scared the cat out of the petunias on Thursday of 
last week."

The storm clouds darkened further, and his eyes crackled lightning while 
he again lifted the
battered Buick for a high-speed drive into the bridge abutment of my 
charming face.  "Then
why's her diary say she's doin' you?"

"Aha!  That's the AFTS: affectionate feelings transferral syndrome, a 
concept probed in Erie
depth by Sigmoid Fraud and the subject of two broken treatises 
concerning Cherry Kay and Sue
and without the usual Apache reservations, but let's not dwell on those 
Indian details because it's
your daughter who has the problem."

If he had been attempting to assemble a thought, that drivel should have 
scattered the parts and
shredded the instruction manual as effectively as a four-year-old on 
Christmas morning.

"She's found somebody else who has whatever trait attracted her to me, 
and she's having sex
with him.  But in her mind, she's pretending it's me.  Then when she 
writes about it in her diary,
she says that it's me for two reasons.  One, she's protecting him, but 
primarily she's pretending
that it's me to bolster her AFTS fantasy."

He waited three breaths and then said, "You said there was two reasons."

Minus another five.  We were rapidly approaching negative numbers here.  
"That was two."

A spark of understanding slowly grew visible in the darkness of his 
eyes.  I wondered if it would
die of loneliness.  Perhaps, but the Buick unclenched and lowered.

"In her diary she said somethin' about your eyes."  He leaned down again 
and peered into each
one, again blessing me with the sacrament of garlic, stale beer, and Old 
Spice and a ritual frown.
"They are kinda weird colored."

"There you go!  No doubt she's found someone with the same color eyes, 
and she's having sex
with him, but writing in her diary that he's me."

The calm eye of the hurricane passed.  Cumulonimbus clouds reappeared, 
but not to rain blows
upon my parade.  He snarled and thundered, "Billy!  That's where I seen 
them eyes before."  He
turned and stomped away, the one-bys of the porch threatening to break 
as they sank and heaved
and popped loose more green chips of Sears Exterior Weatherbeater 
paint.  He paused on the
creaking wooden steps to look back at me and growl,  "Thanks.  Sorry to 
disturb you."

"That's okay," I said, hoping I was speaking normally instead of 
squeaking like an asthmatic
hamster sucking helium.  "Glad I could help."  I closed and locked the 
door, fully aware that he
could just come through the wall if he changed his mind.  But maybe the 
lock would keep out the
transient riff-raff.  I heaved a deep sigh out of my path and returned 
to the bedroom.

While I removed my robe and wet underwear I watched a slender middle 
finger slowly stroking
the hot, wet slit dividing a bush that resembled steel wool in the jet 
of a propane torch, only
redder and much, much hotter.  Her diddle-dew made it glisten like nose 
hair after a sneeze.  An
undeniable surge of desire went through me like a dose of Milk of 
Magnesia with a prune juice
chaser.

"I thought I'd warm it up for you," she said with her own desire rampant 
in the mosh pit of her
emerald eyes.  "What was that about?"

Even though she had just awakened, she looked as snappy as a wet towel 
in a boy's locker room,
and I felt the boom of my sexual derrick slowly extend.  I crawled in 
beside her and stroked my
hand up one firm, smooth thigh as luxurious as the finest French velvet, 
stopping at the top to
displace her oscillating finger with my own trembling digit.  I plunged 
it into her, causing her to
groan like the hull of a diesel sub at a hundred fathoms, and found her 
wet with her own
secretions and my two-hour-old semen.  She needed a fresh injection of 
Hoisington Happy-Juice,
and Doctor Russ was the only one in a three county radius who could fill 
that prescription.

As my erection hardened like the heart of an under-quota tax collector, 
I tongued her ear and
whispered,  "Your father said you need to find a new hiding place for 
your diary.  You want to
scoot over this way a little more so we don't wake up your mother?"

(c) Russell Hoisington 2004

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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