*Ok--ok--I think I've got this fingered out; how to post stories to this site. I'm just a writer and that's all I like to do; reading instructions is not a part of my job description.  But I think I've got it fingered out at last--so my apologies for the previous postings.  I hope you enjoy these sick-twisted-demented bizarre stories inasmuch as I enjoyed writing them!  I would like feedback so please feel free to contact me at simplerecipes@msn.com  Enjoy the reading!  Bootscooter*                      

                       August Moone-Timing is Everything
                                    Chapter One

	The Beginning…
	In everything there is a beginning; the beginning of the universe, the beginning of the world, the beginning of an orgasm.  There’s an ending, too; but we’re no where near there yet.  There’s a middle, too; but that’s not yet to cum.  For August Moone there was a beginning, it was fuzzy and he only had bits & pieces of it, but it was a beginning.
	He had toured a great deal of the southwestern states, archeological digs of this nature and that.  Studying the ancient Indians who were no more--specifically the Anasazi.  Deciphering where exactly his “beginning” began became increasingly difficult to pin down.
	Until he rolled into familiar territory:  Flagstaff.  A summer rain had come, his dirty windshield only made matters worse as the dirt and grime from the desert smeared to and fro.  Flagstaff.  The go-between of I-40; northward was the Painted Desert; south lay wondrous burgs catering to those not so inclined to be in the masses of those admiring a big (albeit famous) hole in the ground.  
	August had spent some time here, operating a tow truck for Mr. Peters at Peter’s Wrecking Yard Emporium.  Fresh out of a four year hitch in the Army, August with no family whatsoever sought to make his way in the world.  His dislike of school brought him to the only job that didn’t require higher learning.  
	At first he merely worked in the yard while training to work the wrecker.  Mr. Peter’s was a genuine class A “Asshole.”  but he given the young man man a job and a trailer to stay in on-site.  It wasn’t long before August found that while going out on runs to distressed roadside motorists, a brief romp out in the neighboring desert brought interesting finds.  Finds that with a little work garnered him some scratch ($$).
	Old relics taken out into the badlands and left for various reasons August didn’t care.  With the wrecker he hooked up the old abandoned cars and pickups of bygone eras and hauled them back (although not letting Mr. Peter’s get wise.)
	August smiled as he fondly recalled those days.  He pulled over to a McDonald’s parking lot and stopped.  A woman in a Navajo blanket darted out through the lot making her way to the nearby bus stop.  He froze near solid when she stopped and turned before entering the bus there and looked his way.  A sudden rash of visions filled him, some were somewhat disturbing.  Others were simply horrifying.  Why had he returned to Flagstaff?  He had no clear idea, after a recent experience at a Dude Ranch he had just been driving around, finding himself.
	Flagstaff was a beginning.  That much he came to understand.  His descent into the perilous unknown.  An unthinkable unimaginable roller coaster ride into the very depths of depravity--and beyond.  He placed his hand reassured on the fanny pack beside him, feeling the bulge of the item concealed therein he sighed.  The Navajo-blanket wrapped woman entered the bus and the bus roared off into the rain.

				*****

	“Hey boy, you out there whackin’ off or snoozin’!” 
	“I’m on Seventeen north, just came out of Oak Canyon with a service call.”
	“Well, git it done and git yer hide up 89 the monument turn-ff, got a new Chevy Blazer with California plates needs our help.”
	“Ten-four.”  August placed the mike back into it’s holder on the dash and zoomed off for another call.  He’d have to ditch the ‘57 Chevy Nomad he had found abandoned and do as pesky-assed Mr. Peter’s demanded.  Priorities.  He sighed and paid little attention to the posted speed signs.
	He wasn’t sure how the conversation had begun but the stranded motorist from California also like old era cars, he mostly was into those from the ‘30s and ‘40s.  “Those fixed up can make you some money, serious money.”  August was all for that.  He listened as the man told him about a 1934 Ford he had found out in the desert north of Mexican Hat.  He invested $4,000 and turned it around to sell it to a fella in Las Vegas for five times as much!
	August was gassed.  The man went on to fill August with info that all around the Blanding and Mexican Hat area there were abandoned cars, some up into the ‘50s and ‘60s.  With just a little scratch they could be fixed up descent enough to turn a nice profit.
	August was all for that.
	So, with the notion of earning more scratch than he was as a yard jockey August began scooting further and further out into the desert, taking risky day trips out of radio range of Mr. Peter’s.  He mostly tried on his days off so as he could have more time.  Those days when he couldn’t and got out of radio range and Mr. Peter’s blood pressure was as near high as Flagstaff’s elevation--August calmly told the tight wadded old coot that the truck needed a new radio.
	For the time being as long as August made a feeble attempt to please Mr. P in every way, he was able to scathe through and prowl forbidden treks.
	On one of his treks he encountered an old goat.  An abandoned shell of a ‘54 Chevy panel August came onto, it was high desert noon time and time to be scurrying back to familiar territory of home when suddenly waltzing thru a dry wash August had to hit the brakes hard--lest he smack into the old goat not paying attention.
	“Don’t want to be tooting around out ‘ere in these wahshees, boy,” the grizzled old man said, “them clouds up thar (pointing to the nearby mountains) can send a wall of water that’d bury you and this ‘ere truck in nuttin’ flat.”
	The old had kerosene for breath, his skin was withered and aged by the sun.  He wore an old funky hat and his hazel blue eyes (almost gray) had seen more than anyone had.  He wasn’t too well dressed for the traipsing and August offered him a ride to wherever he was going.  The old man accepted graciously and gave his name as Charlie.  Charlie “Dugout.”
	The old man giggled and told August the story--back in the 50s it seemed as though Charlie was a ball player, played for minor leagues and only occasionally came up to the majors, and most of the time occupied the “dugout” anyways.
	“What the hell were you doing out here?” August wanted to know.
	The old man suddenly clamed up and didn’t speak a word for several twists and turns of the dry wash.  When the old wrecker got bogged down in some deep sand August used chicken wire and board planks to get out of it, Charlie got talkative again and told August about some canyons in the area… “So damn deep you have to look twice to see the bottom!”
	August didn’t know for sure, the old codger was about half tanked.
	“You know about them Anasazi?” Charlie asked casually.
	“The cliff dwellers?  Yeah, sort of, kind of, why?”
	Charlie once more clamed up and didn’t speak until back in Mexican Hat.  Charlie had a small trailer tucked in behind a roadside eatery.  After a brief respite and a fresh cold brew, August was about to leave.
	“I was looking for a door.” spoke up Charlie.
	“A door?” quipped August.  He knew the old fart was off his rocker.  He was a washed up ball player as well as a prospector.  August had gotten that much out of him, in between sips of Old Grandad whiskey.  August had to buy a bottle at the store to keep the old man yapping, most of what he yapped didn’t make sense no ways.  But he was entertaining regardless.
	“Yessir, a door.” he continued to proclaim.  “That’s where them cliff dwellers all disappeared to!”  August rolled his eyes, it was time to hit the road, he’d get back to the yard about the time Mr. P would be blowin’ his stack, “Where you be, boy, you off a-whackin’ or a-sleepin’!?”
	“Yessir, a door, it’s out there somewhere.” the old man continued to rattle.  August swigged his last of the brew, mopped his brow and began making his way to the truck.  They had been sitting out under an old funky tree older than the dirt it grew from.  It provided sufficient shade but it was still hotter than the blazes out.  The old man went off to his equally old twenty foot trailer, “Come ‘ere, boy.” said the man over his shoulder and waving his arm in a half-assed gesture.
	August moaned, checked his watch, “Shit.”  it was three o’clock, it was going to take him about three hours to get to the yard.  Mr. P was going to be PISSED!  He looked for a phone to call and give his boss some lame excuse; the truck broke down, he had a service call he was doing, something when he was tapped on the shoulder.
	Charlie Dugout stood there with a big pussy eatin’ grin etched on his withered grizzled old face.  He had a closed hand he held out for August to see.  The old man opened it and there in his grimy palm was a coin.  
	August stared at the coin and then picked it up.  It was cold.  It wasn’t minted, just sort of formed with small minute etching, no face or any “statements”.
	“Yessir,” grinned the toothless old fart, “it’s gold.”  August surmised that.  “Where’d you get it?” he asked.
	The old man grinned even wider exposing his blood red gums, “Told ya, door!”
                                                      *****

	The rain pattered on the roof.  His mind wandered faintly, eyes closed, Charlie Dugout’s face embedded into his memory.  “Door.”  Looking out towards Painted Desert August casually wondered, how many more of those “Doors” were there?  Down in the canyons, up along the cliffs, just aimlessly here and there out in the desert along the desert canals?
	The thought of traipsing out there again slowly krept into his mind.  It was a notion, nothing more.  Was that why he had returned to his old stomping grounds?  From Flagstaff it was up Route 89 50 some odd miles to the Tuba City R-160.  Then it was 115 miles northeast to the state line, a few miles more to Mexican Hat, Utah.
	His stomach growled as he contemplated.  A portion of him thought, “Why not?” while another portion dramatically spoke right up, “Are you crazy!?”
	He had been lucky the first few times traipsing into the bizarre unknown with a deranged ex-ballplayer.  There was the one time on his own that was forever buried in his mind and the last time (traipsing into the unknown) whereupon he had barely escaped with his life.  To even venture a notion to try it again was a sure sign of lunacy.
	He had no intention.  Furthermore he had no cause, no reason to tempt fate.  He had what he wanted, albeit he didn’t hardly know thing fucking one how to use it, but he had it and that’s what counted.  He sat back and patted the inanimate object in the green rucksack fanny pack.  He realized the potential, sure, Mind Control--pure and fucking simple.  With something like that--why, the sky was the limit.  He could live the life of luxury, own anything and live anywhere.
	But he realized, too, that there were other aspects to such grandeur.  Unforseen aspects that could unhinge at any moment without notice.  And that would be bad.
	He had deemed long ago to take it slow and easy and not risk it.  There was plenty of time to figure out the device--no hurry.
	The Device.  GI Item 0110.  General Issue, government issue.  A strange set of circumstances had come to August and in the end he had come away with an amazing find.  More so than discovering what had happened to the Anasazi, strange disappearances of peoples and things, weird unexplainable happenings, and gold.
	Quickly he scurried across the parking lot to the fast food eatery and paused inside, scanning the patrons and staff (paranoia, it’s a good thing) before saddling up to the counter.  He couldn’t help but notice the younger counter person--lily white skin, no more than 20 or so, slender, polite, cheerful.  The dorky blasé uniform didn’t do her justice at all.  Pure white teeth, great skin, five foot five with appropriate weight.
	She took his order and money, August caught a whiff of her strawberry shampooed hair.  His cock noticed, too.  Lordy lordy--
	She brought his order to him, smiled and walked away.  August lingered after her, feasting his eyes not on his burger but her delicious butt.  Tight black uniform knit slacks.  His balls surged and cock became quiet hard.  The smell of food, though, re-directed his attention and he noshed.
	After fulfilling one need--he sought to fulfill another.
	After emptying his tray he sighted the young Subject delivering a tray to some folks in the side room.  August saw his chance and quickly got into position by the side bathroom door.  Here before the Subject could leave the area he zapped her.
	He zapped her with the use of the hidden-concealed Device.  An object about the size of an over zealous remote controller functioning several electronic objects in a variety of ways.  It was light gray, hard plastic shell casing and having bells and whistles, LCD screens, view screens, and functionalities that would make an MIT geek drool.
	No one in the small side room was the wiser, too busy noshing and mind their own business.  August checked the main screen of his unique Device and smiled inwardly to himself, the Subject’s  “brainwave” pattern had been established and “captured.”  She was paused at the end of the side room by the trash can receptacle.
	A press of a button brought up in a side LCD screen a list of “Commands.”  With the small finger sized trac ball he selected the “command” desired and watched with satisfaction the Subject turn and make for him.
	From the bathrooms there was a second door leading out, you could go out this door but not in.  didn’t make sense but August didn’t care.  He guided his new Subject out and sheltered her from the rain with his oversized trench coat.  His ‘51 juniper green panel truck was park just out of video camera angle.  He hoped.  The girl was still sheltered and he whisked her in thru the driver’s side which was facing the street.
	He waited a moment, then a moment more, slowly peeling off the trench coat and concealing the blitzed-zombiefied 20 year old laid out between the seats.  After another moment he fired up the panel and eased out into traffic.  “Debra” lay still in a zombiefied manner and knew nothing of her (impending) dilemma.
	He wanted to dart by the Yard, just because, but had other pressing business first.  He darted down to familiar streets he had been to before and parked.  His “passenger” still was under his control.  That was a good thing.  Carefully he eased her into the back of the customized panel truck, it was super comfy and super secure.  He closed the dark green curtain for the added security then opened the top vent in the roof for air circulation and light.  A small overhead light was switched on and then…
	He peeled out of his clothes.
	Debra’s shoes he removed and rubbed her feet.  (no he did not have a foot fetish)  His hands went diligently up her long legs, pausing at her belly.  The girl with eyes wide open stared up to the ceiling.  The goofy brown uniform shirt he removed and began a five minute serious fondle of her young adult breasts.  She was small busted and August didn’t mind.  He actually preferred young small breasts and not into huge mammoth hooters.
	The bra he removed and checked the girl’s reaction.  There was none.  Securing the Device Item 0110 he began making adjustments; adjustments that would give the young woman the ability to move about some, have her wits about her, and react but not to the degree that she would be “out of hand.”  and if she DID get out of hand, well, August had something for her for that--a legally obtainable tazer/stun gun.
	Debra began to move, moan, and be quite confused.  As she should be.  August moved down her body, hooked her black knit uniform slacks and pulled them down.  Then moved in and began noshing on her poon, eating her pussy thru her panties.  The young woman began to move more and more, freaking out as the realization of what was happening to her struck her.
	August noshed, engulfing the panty and sucking for all he could muster.  His cock stuck up between his legs with his ass up, his balls swinging away as he thrashed about gnawing on the twenty year old’s poon pie.
	The panties came down in his teeth, Debra’s legs flailing about, fingers digging into the shag carpeting, body arching.  She was still no threat so August let her be.  Up between her legs he came, gliding his erection against her swollen tantalized cunny.  She had evidence of being a non-virgin but August further determined that she was at least not a slut.
	For an instant Debra froze solid, back arched, tits pooching upwards, eyes wide as several inches of rock hard fuck stick entered her pussy.  “Oh … God!” she murmured.  Her face was of fright, fear, some anguish, and lots of distress.  The emotions changed subsequently as every inch of his manhood slid into her, filled her, fucked her, satisfied her.
	Her fingers clutched the carpet and mid way thru the assault she began “pumping” back into his sex.  August nipped her nipples and drove his bone into her; her pussy muscles tightened up tight, pleasing his fuck stick with enormous pleasure.	
	The young woman’s pussy was well lubricated, the cunt muscles gripped his shaft and gave him intense pleasure, they got into a serious fuck and strive as he might August could not contain the flood of his juices--his cock exploded forthwith.  His eyes fluttered and he could no longer see.  His toes curled, his body went taut and natural fuck-like-a-rabid-dog took over.  He pounded Debra’s pussy until he could pound no more.
	Debra wept some, continued to move about as much as she could.  August watched her labored breathing, her body a-wash in a sheen layer of sex sweat.  Jiz juice oozed out of his aching schlong, he caressed his balls and rested, relaxing.  Debra did nothing more than clutched at the carpet and stare up to the ceiling.  Checking the Device August found that all was still okay, she was still his.
	Lightly his mind drifted back (again).  

                                                             ******
	
	The strange gold piece had August’s attention, but Charlie Dugout claimed it came from a place “not of this place.”  August didn’t know if it was the booze talking or the old geezer was senile.  (or a little from column “A”…   )
	As August got closer to the Yard he made a few frantic calls to his boss.  There was no answer.  This was not good.  August drempt up all sorts of things; mainly Mr. P was out looking for him.  The gold coin weighed heavy on his mind and he couldn’t shake it.  August had pretty much convinced himself by he rolled into the wrecking yard that Charlie had probably found some old Spanish treasure.  August had understood that Spanairds sometimes made enduring treks into the badlands to hide their gold.
	Settlers and prospectors, too, fell into the mix.  But a Doorway, to another world?  August couldn’t go that.
	August found that Mr. P had gone down to Phoenix on business and he (August) was on his own until he returned.  August mopped his brow and entered into his dingy cruddy abode--the trailer.  It had been a long drive getting back.  He was tired.  He ditched taking a shower and laid out on his bed and stared up to the ceiling.  The gold coin danced in his mind, Charlie claimed he knew a spot where a handful could be gotten.
	A handful.
	Was Charlie clear on that or leading him on?
	August didn’t know.  He didn’t know a lot of things.  How much was gold these days?  A handful, huh?  That’d be nice.  Real nice.  He went off to pleasant dreamland with thoughts of gold Rolls Royces and mansions.

	His sleep was disturbed roughly and rudely, “Git yer ass UP, boy!” shouted a muffled voice.  August struggled to find himself.  Bright sunlight streamed in through the dirty pane window.  Mr. P’s head was there, chomping on a cigar and barking.  August rolled out of the grimey bed and opened the trailer door.
	“You gotta git out to Williams, right thar at that Deer Park thar’s a a customer waitin’.”  August grumbled something incoherent as Mr. P lumbered off back to his office.  “Time’s wastin’, boy,” he mouthed over his shoulder, “I wanna see that damn truck movin’ outta the yard in five minutes!”
	August grunted and made business in the bathroom, looked at his scroungy face and headed for the truck.  He would spend the day fetching stranded cars here and there, making car part runs and being a general slave.
	He did manage to get in a lunch break and snag the day’s paper.
	“Three hundred twenty-five dollars!” he said out loud.  His eyes blinked excessively as he stared at the figures.  Gold was selling $325 an ounce.  The gold coin of Charlie Dugout was about an ounce, at least.  ‘And I know’s a place where’s I can git a HANDFUL of ‘em!’
	With a handful of quarters in his hand, August was hard pressed not to take a run back up to see ole Charlie Dugout.  But for now he had to settle with doing Mr. P’s bidding.

	It wasn’t until a couple of days later that August got his chance.  Mr. P was making another Phoenix run.  August made the determination that Mr. P had a “honey” down there, he was cheating on his wife.  It was no sweat off of August’s balls.  He did a couple of things around the yard, helped a couple of customers, then boogied northward to Mexican Hat.