by Jack Kilborn
But Poop was faster. He pulled out his 9mm and shot the small boy four times in the chest.
Winchester Probin fell to the ground with a sucking chest wound. His belly looked like hamburger.
Finally, after puking up a lot of blood and part of his intestinal tract, Winchester Probin died.
Poop stopped playing with himself and turned his attention to Bunny.
“Would you like me to let you go, Bunny?” Poop asked.
Bunny nodded, his big eyes wet with tears.
Poop spent the next hour sodomizing Bunny.
When Poop was finished, he poked Bunny repeatedly with a very sharp stick.
After Bunny died, Poop raped his eye socket, and then he continued on his journey to Jiglet’s house.
He was halfway there when he ran into his dealer, Trigger. As usual, Trigger was bouncing up and down on his tail.
“Hallo, Trigger!” said Poop.
“Hallo, Poop!” answered Trigger. “Need some meth? That’s why Trigger’s are so bouncy, don’t you know.”
And Trigger began to sing his song:
The wonderful thing about Triggers!
Is they love to smoke dat rock!
I’m so goddamned bouncy!
I just bounced on my cock!
Poop waited patiently while Trigger sang his song about eight thousand fucking times, jumping up and down like he’d been given a caffeine enema.
Finally, Poop had had enough. He pulled out his 9mm and blew off Trigger’s tail.
“Take your Ritalin, you ADHD freak,” said Poop.
“My bounce!” Trigger cried, picking up his bloody tail.
“Hurry the fuck up with that crack,” chided Poop. “Or I’m killing your parents.”
Trigger dug out some crack vials, and Poop threw a twenty at him.
“You had better see a doctor, Trigger, and get that looked at,” said Poop.
Then Poop continued on his way to Jiglet’s house.
He was almost there when he saw Rooga the kangaroo standing next to the trail.
“Bitch, where’s my money?” Poop asked.
He slapped Rooga in the face.
“I’ll get it, Mack Ninnie,” said Rooga . “It’s been slow! I swear to Christ!”
Poop grabbed one of Rooga’s tiny arms. He stared at the track marks.
“Don’t lie to me, ho! You’ve been shooting smack again!”
Poop kicked her in the pouch.
“I’ll make some cheddar, Ninnie! I promise!”
“Damn straight you will!” Poop forced Rooga to her knees. “Now nibble on this furry bear hotdog.”
Rooga made a face. “Poop—it smells like Bunny shit.”
“Suck the poop off the Poop. Get to it, or I’ll pimp stick you up the stank.”
So Rooga got to it.
When she finished swallowing, Poop gave her a friendly slap across the face.
“You know I love you, bitch,” cooed Poop. “Now get that sweet marsupial ass back on the street and make Daddy some money. And tell the same to your bratty kid. If he don’t earn, the child will burn. Dig?”
Then Poop once again continued on his journey to Jiglet’s house. But being a Bear of Very Little Intelligence, Poop got lost again.
“Oh, bother,” said Poop.
Poop logged onto the Internet with his iPhone and tried to use MapQuest.com. He followed the directions closely, but came to a dead end.
MapQuest had fucked him, like it had so many others.
“Cock sucking monkey fucker,” said Poop.
Poop finally arrived at his destination by pure luck, several hours later.
“It’s about fucking time,” Poop thought.
He knocked on the door.
“Hallo, Jiglet!” Poop yelled. “Are you home?”
“I’m taking a shit! Fuck off!” Jiglet yelled back.
Poop picked the lock and let himself in.
Jiglet appeared behind the corner. He was naked, brandishing a stiff six-shooter. He also had a gun.
“Oh, Poop! It’s only you!”
Jiglet put down the gun and leaned against the counter, leaving a brown smear because he didn’t wipe his ass.
“Who were you expecting, Jiglet?” Poop asked.
“My bookie, Guido. He told me he’d hammer my nuts flat if I didn’t pay him.”
Poop squinted. “He wouldn’t need a very large hammer.”
Jiglet farted.
“Fuck you, Poop. What the fuck do you want, you fat fuck?”
Poop smacked his lips. “I was wondering, perchance, did you have a smackeral of honey?”
Jiglet sat down, leaving another brown smear.
“Sorry, you freeloading fat ass. I don’t have a thing to eat.”
Poop took out his gun. “Maybe I’ll just eat you instead.”
Jiglet tried to get up, but his sticky poo-butt was stuck to the chair.
“You don’t want to eat me, Poop! I’m just a little animal, small and stringy!”
But Poop wasn’t listening. He was thinking about pork chops and bacon strips.
Poop preheated the oven to 350 degrees.
“Poop, please!” pleaded Jiglet. “We’re friends! Friends don’t eat each other!”
“We aren’t eating each other,” said Poop. “I’m eating you.”
Poop yanked Jiglet out of the chair and shoved him into the hot oven. While Jiglet screamed and screamed, Poop sang this song to himself:
I’m cooking my best friend!
I’m cooking my best friend!
See what happens when
You don’t wipe your rear end!
Then Poop pulled out his crack pipe and lit up a rock.
Unfortunately for Poop, he was careless with his Zippo, and accidentally set himself on fire. Within seconds, the fur had burned off of his arms.
Poop tried to beat out the flames, but soon his whole body was ablaze.
“Oh bother,” said Poop, as his face burned away. “I really fucked up this time.”
The end.
To start the Amish adventure over, click here.
To return to the previous section, click here.
“Excuse me,” I said, putting a hand over my mouth and rushing past Haknort. But before I could even get out of my chair, I bazooka-vomited all over the elderly man.
“Blah! I got some in my mouth!” complained Haknort.
I hurled again, and let me tell you, it tasted even worse coming out.
“Damn you, General Tsao!” I cursed. “Damn you and your funky, spoiled chicken!”
Then I threw up my lungs through my nose, and died.
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Andrew Mayhem is really dead.
Unless Strand gets uppity and wants to sue. If so, this section was all just a dream.
To start over, click here.
Author’s Note: This is the very first Harry McGlade story. It began at my friend Jim Coursey’s house, when we both were fifteen years old. We wrote the first few pages on his Apple IIe, parodying private eye fiction, giggling like fools at the dumb puns and crude sexual references. I wound up finishing it three years later, and naïvely sent the story to Playboy Magazine to see if they’d publish it. Playboy wisely declined, sending me my very first rejection letter. But I eventually wrote several dozen Harry McGlade stories, similar to this one, and eventually used a toned-down version of him in Whiskey Sour over fifteen years later.
Besides a few decent jokes, this story isn’t good. Harry is too much of a jerk, the parody is too unreal and over-the-top, and a lot of the lines sound like they came from the movie Airplane!
But I can say this is the first thing I ever wrote that I was proud of, and it was the start of my love affair with the written word. I’ve included this story here as a bonus, with minimal changes. Feel free to skip it—you won’t be missing much. This is for completists only. Since Banana Hammock is basically a �
�Harry McGlade Greatest Hits’ collection, I thought it would be fun to show people how he got started, way back in 1985, when I was a naïve teenager thinking about someday writing for a living…
The Case of the Husband Who Wasn’t There Because He Was Missing
Chapter 1
It was a misty Saturday night. Misty like a dame who just lost her line of credit at Macy’s. I was sitting at my desk in my simulated-leather swivel chair, crumpling up bills and tossing them into the wastepaper basket on the other side of my office. Then there was a knock at the door. Silhouetted through the frosted glass window was the profile of a woman with really big boobs.
“Can I come in?”
“I don’t know if there’s room.”
“What?”
“Come in, please.”
She opened the door and stepped in.
Wow.
If beauty were stock, she could have cornered the market. Painted on her over-abundant body was a low-cut black sequined dress, and I sat up in my chair and strained my neck to try to get a glimpse of her tatas. Incredibly high-heeled pumps hugged her feet, and a pair of black nylons licked at her calves. She had a nice ass, too.
The black mascara around her emerald eyes was smeared, meaning she either had been crying, or didn’t know how to put on mascara. She forced a smile. I wanted to bring her back to my apartment, take off all of her clothes, and wear them myself.
“Are you Harry McGlade?” she asked.
“That’s what it says on the door, lady.”
“I need your help.”
“Can’t get out of that dress, huh? Hold on, I’ve got some scissors in my desk.”
“No, that’s not it. I’m looking for my husband.”
“Have you checked your cleavage?”
She turned her head to the side and started to cry. I felt like a jerk, but that’s okay, because I am a jerk.
“Hey, lady, I’m sorry. Just because you got huge jumblies doesn’t mean I should make fun of you.”
She sniffled. “It’s just that I’m always being treated like a sex object instead of a person.”
I zipped my fly back up. “Please have a seat.”
She sat down in the chair across from my desk. I opened my top drawer to see if I had any Kleenex, but only found a pair of boxer shorts, stained from my last trip to the peep show. I offered them to her, and she dabbed her eyes lightly. Then she pulled a small photograph out of her handbag and handed it to me.
“This is my husband.”
The picture was of an old, fat, balding man who resembled Pugsly from “The Addams Family.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Don’t be, he’s got money coming out of his asshole.”
I love a dame who’s got a way with words. “So, what’s the problem?”
“I want you to find him.”
“He’s missing then?”
“You’re quick.”
“It’s my job, babe.”
I grinned nonchalantly. She was obviously impressed.
“Can you do it?”
“Huh? I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Can you find my husband?”
“Honey, I can find a plumber on a Sunday.”
Her eyes widened. “Really?”
“I wouldn’t dick you around, babe.”
“Oh,” she said disappointedly.
I stood up, for no real reason besides the dramatic implication of the scene. “I get two hundred dollars a day plus free reign over my client’s estate and personal assets. Any questions?”
“How long is your penis?”
“Let’s just say I scare female elephants. Anything else?”
“No, that’s all I need to know. You’ll take the case then?”
“Yes, now if you’ll excuse me.”
“You’re starting already?”
“No, I just farted.”
She walked out before I realized I knew nothing about her husband.
Chapter 2
I went over to “Fred’s Place” to find my informant, Sneaky Earl. Sneaky was at the bar, drowning his sorrows in a watered down pint of Jack Daniels. He was obviously happy to see me, because when I walked in he got so excited he jumped through the window and started running down the alley. Too bad it was a dead end. Sneaky Earl never did have much luck.
I found him trying to get into a half-open apartment window by standing on a Dumpster.
“How you doin’, Earl?”
“Leave me alone, Harry. I don’t want nothing to do with you.”
“You’re not still upset about the bomb, are you Earl? I tell you, I didn’t know it was armed.”
“Go away, Harry. Just go away.”
I grabbed him by the leg and pulled him down, just as he got his upper body in the window.
“I said I was sorry, Earl. C’mon, give a guy a break. The scars are healed. Now I need your help.”
“Whenever I help you I always get in trouble, Harry.”
“Don’t worry, Earl. This one’s real easy.”
I went for my pocket to get the picture and Sneaky took off down the alley again. I pulled my .44 Magnum from its nest inside my trench coat and fired, hitting Sneaky Earl in the back of the head, painting a garbage can with his face. I’ve got such lousy aim. I only wanted to fire a warning shot.
I reholstered my heater and exited the alley. My horoscope said I shouldn’t have gone out today.
Chapter 3
I dusted myself off and walked over to my ’67 Mustang, which was parked in front of a fire hydrant. I decided my next move was to go home and drink until I passed out. I live in a thirty-first floor apartment two blocks away from my office. It’s in the high rent district. I’m just mentioning that because I like to flaunt it in front of people’s faces.
As I drove, I couldn’t stop thinking about Mrs. Tatas, and how stupid I was not to ask for her name. But I soon realized it didn’t matter, because as I parked my car there she was, standing in front of my building, gyrating her hips. She had a saxophone with her. She was obviously horny.
I got out of my Stang and walked over to her. What I needed was a really great line to impress the hell out of this dame. Something that would make her melt like butter in the microwave.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi,” she said.
We were off to a good start.
“Were you just in the neighborhood?” I asked.
“No. I purposely stopped by because I wanted to sleep with you.”
I love a girl who doesn’t beat around the bush. Especially one with tatas like Volkswagons. She wrapped her lips around the mouthpiece of the saxophone and coyly blew “Alexander’s Ragtime Band.”
I hoped she could blow other things better. She was terrible. She should have read “Dr. Ruth’s Guide to Good Sax.” I was expecting a water buffalo to come running down the street and jump her. Luckily, I had a grapefruit, so I shoved it in the instrument.
“Listen lady, I usually make it a rule not to get involved with my clients. But in your case, I’ll make an exception.”
I couldn’t name all the dames I’ve fed that line to. But she ate it up just like the rest of them. She was practically taking off her clothes right there when a black Buick came careening around the corner, spraying bullets. I pushed the broad out of the way and drew my gun, emptying the clip as the car flew past. I missed it completely, and killed seven Japanese tourists across the street. Then I heard the wailing of a police siren in the distance and knew I would have to spend the night talking to some stupid cop who has trouble wiping his own ass as opposed to having an intimate and tender night of hide the salami.
I thought about giving the dame the gun, then running away, but I knew each one of the Japanese tourists had a Nikon chocked full of photographic evidence proving yours truly was to blame. At times like this, I wished I had listened to my mother and become a male stripper.
Chapter 4
So there I was, talking to Fitzmoron, Detective ni
nth class, explaining what had happened for the sixth time while he tried to type it up at three words a minute.
“And then you fired your weapon?”
“Yes. Then I fired my weapon. At the same time I fired it the other six times you asked me. Were you born incompetent or is it something you work at? No, don’t write that down.”
Fitzmoron pulled the paper out of the typewriter and crumpled it up. This guy was stupid enough to be twins. He inserted a new piece and began again.
“Name?”
“The same name as before, dumbo. I thought finishing junior high was mandatory to become a cop.”
In the meantime, Fitzmoron was retrieving the old statement from the garbage to try and figure out my name. Every second the mental giant here wasted was a second I wasn’t joined in coital bliss with Mrs. Tatas. Then the Captain walked in.
“How are we doing?” he asked.
Fitzmoron spoke. “He’s highly uncooperative, Captain.”
“McGlade is always uncooperative. It’s part of his irresistible charm. Right, McGlade?”
“Blow it out your ass.”
He did. It was gross.
Chapter 5
I got out of the station at six in the morning. Captain Krunch finally came to the conclusion it was self-defense. That, coupled with the fact that the good Captain hates Japanese tourists was enough to get me off. I drove back to my apartment and wasn’t surprised to find that Mrs. Tatas was gone. The dizzy broad didn’t even know the danger she was in. Great tatas, though.
I parked and walked up to my room while thinking about my situation. What I needed was a shot of whiskey and a good night’s sleep. I also needed a new blender. I broke the old one mixing concrete. But I couldn’t worry about that now.
I had to find Mrs. Tatas before somebody knocked her off. Or up.
I opened my door and walked into my humble abode, inhaling deeply the smell of a messy lifestyle. Which, coincidentally, smelled very much like moldy socks. I tried to turn on a light but all my bulbs were burned out. As I walked through the apartment in the dark, I bumped into my aquarium, and saw the fish were all dead. I must have forgotten to feed them a couple of times. In fact, I don’t ever remember feeding them at all. Thinking about food made me hungry, so I went to the kitchen to eat.