The Hobo Threat

The hobos were restless. Frank Popplefratter had seen it all before. The elder of the old desert town of Mulberry, Frank was the lone survivor left from the Great Hobo Wars. As he contemplated the situation from his pine rocking chair, he could almost feel the tension building.

Frank knew he had to warn the townsfolk and do it fast. "People, my people!" Frank cried from his porch overlooking main street, "People, the hobos are fast approachin'! They'll kill us all!"

But it seemed that Frank's message had fallen upon deaf ears. None of the younger folks had lived through the terror that was the Great Hobo Wars, and Frank knew it would take all of his might to convince the people of Mulberry to prepare for the great hobo plague about to befall them. Lifting his old, tired body from his chair, Frank yelled across the street with all of his might, "People, my people! You've got to get ready! The storm that is the hobos is about to swallow Mulberry whole!"

Still, none heeded his dire warnings. As evening turned into night, Frank finally retired into his bedroom, crestfallen that he was ignored. Perhaps, he thought, the hobos were not actually coming. As he faded into a restless sleep, he was comforted by that thought.

But later that evening, as the wind played across the curtains, a bump in the night awoke Frank. It's nothing, he thought, just the wind. He closed his eyes again, but just as he did a grimy hand wrapped itself across his wrinkled neck. Toothless Tom jumped out from behind Frank's headrest, armed with his banjo and a urine-encrusted pillow. With a jab, a thrust, and a hallowing scream in the night, Frank was finished off.

"C'mon, you hobo bags o' bones," Toothless Tom whispered, "it's time to pillage this village".

With those words, Toothless Tom led his army of dirty vagabonds out and headed into the cold, black night.

Confessions of a Father

Everyone down at the old bar knew Bob’s story. A hallow shell of a man, Bob had once had it all. A mansion in the suburbs, a brand new sports car, and a high paying executive job, all of which he shared with his pin-up wife and handsome young son. But things were not as they seemed, for as time went on, Bob’s life had slowly spun out of control.

It had started with the birth of their son, whom Bob named (against the wishes of both his wife and his family) Herb Wounded Knee Hitler Johnson. He also arranged his son’s marriage to Sacagawea and would urinate in the boy’s crib every night before he went to sleep.

When the boy was eight, Bob constructed a bondage sex dungeon in the house’s basement, where he employed an Asian dominatrix he called Mistress Woo. Whenever Herb misbehaved or Bob had an erection, Bob would yell, “To the Dungeon!” where he allowed Mistress Woo to have her way with his weeping young son as he dangled from a leather sex swing Bob had purchased from his local Home Depot.

Fellow bar goers, very well acquainted with Bob’s heart breaking tale, know that it wasn’t until little Herb was sixteen that things may have gotten out of hand for Papa Bob. It was at Herb’s first big high school dance and he had asked out the prettiest girl in the entire school, Cindy. If everything goes right, Herb thought, it might be my sexual experience without a diseased ball gag. Little did Herb know how right that night would go. Actually, it would go wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong.

As Herb and Cindy entered the school gymnasium, a sight befell their eyes that nothing in their health classes could have ever prepared them for. In the midst of the dance decorations stood Bob, completely naked and covered in pig’s blood, having just successfully carved a likeness of his son’s own flaccid manhood into his pubic hair. He then proceeded to have sexual intercourse with the Pocket Pussy sex toy, which he had also purchased from Home Depot.

Needless to say, Herb’s night was ruined. And so was Bob, but for unrelated financial matters.

A Miner Problem

"No, no! You can't arrest me! It was all a misunderstanding!"

Despite my impassioned pleas for help, they fell upon deaf ears and kevlar helmets. I was led away by the police; away from my family, my friends, my life.

It had all started by over-hearing a hushed conversation in the basement of the country club.

"Yeah, you can do it all in West Virginia. The pickings, my friend, are ripe indeed".

The conversation then took a course (and me along with it) into details of hedonistic debauchary and the deepest, darkest corners of the libertine. Oh yes, dear reader, though it may be a crime against the law and against God himself, my most sadistic of sexual fantasies seemed, according to my unknowing partners, very much a possibility in that little slice of Heaven known as West Virginia.

The next day, I arranged a meeting with an underground agency who specialized in this type of endeavor, and who would arrange my trip not only into Appalachia, but into unadulterated passion.

When we arrived in West Virginia, our van drove down on of the avenues known for its "willing selection". We picked up a big, gruff one (just as I fantasized) and we drove on.

Finally, my smugglers dropped us off at a shady motel near a coal processing plant. They warned of midnight police raids, but I wasn't listening. As soon as they left, the fun truly began. We ravaged each other for hours, making love like there was no tomorrow. But what seemed like an eternity later, all hell broke loose.

The lights went out as a huge black boot kicked in the door to the room. Four SWAT cops, armed with an expansive array of nightsticks, came charging through the door. As my world went black, the last noise I remember hearing was the sheriff yelling,

"Get him boys! He's having sex with a miner!"